Gravy is a beverage at Gate A. Clear!

I’ve recently been thinking of making a trip back to Denver to visit some friends and while I was looking at the price of plane tickets today (they are freakin’ ridiculous) I was reminded of the Denver airport. The Denver airport isn’t actually in Denver, it’s about 30 miles in the middle of nowhere but it’s very nice.
When my friends and I arrived at the Denver airport we were starving. Now, I don’t know much about the restaurant business but I would think that some important elements to success would be location, luck, and – assuming the chaos theory is correct – a spastic butterfly somewhere south of the equator.

As I was looking at eatery choices I noticed on my left was a restaurant that served whatever is the opposite of heart-healthy cuisine. I think the name of the restaurant was something along the lines of “Dead Cows and Fried Stuff.” Or at least it should have been. Normally, this would be an excellent business concept in the perfect location. In some places gravy is a beverage. It would take a lot of bad luck to keep this business from succeeding.

Then I noticed the bad luck.

I assume that when the owners of the restaurant negotiated their lease, they didn’t ask about the location of the emergency heart defibrillator. It was tragically mounted on the wall next to the Dead Cows and Fried Stuff eatery. I have to believe that was bad luck, and – in all likelihood – bad for business. Across from them was a Subway sandwich place. Subway is most famous for promoting their low-calorie menu options. Ouch.

You might think that no one would make an eating decision based on the location of the emergency heart defibrillator. But as soon as you read “heart defibrillator,” you imagine your own enlarged, blood-starved heart, and hear the paramedics yelling, “Clear!” And that’s if you’re lucky enough to collapse when a trained paramedic is around.
Otherwise, the cashier from Dead Cows and Fried Stuff is going to be the first one on the scene. He’ll have one paddle on your forehead and one on your crotch. It might restart your heart, but you’ll wish it hadn’t.

So where did my friends and I eat? Well, Dead Cows and Fried Stuff of course.

What the poop??

Ok, I know there is something wrong with me because I enjoy reading stories about frozen waste from airplane bathrooms that falls to Earth and almost kills people. Seriously, it happened in Calgary. A bag of frozen poop from an airliner came hurling through a lady’s roof and nearly killed her.

When I think of the ways I could die, almost all of them are better than being killed by flying poop. That’s the sort of thing that could erase a lifetime of accomplishment. I would instantly stop being as “me” and forever be known as the dude whose head was crushed by a turd. If I die from frozen restroom waste, my friends and family would have trouble stifling a laugh. And who could blame them, really?
“How did he die?” someone might ask. “I guess you could say he got pissed off,” one of my ex-friends would reply, before laughing heartily.

It seems unlikely I would be killed by airplane waste, but it seems just as unlikely we would have had a woman, and black dude, and a Mormon in the running for president and that happened. I don’t rule anything out. From now on when I hear jet sounds, I’m standing under a doorway.

I recently went to see The Foo Fighters. I can imagine standing in line and the guy next to me getting knocked the fuck out by a bag of frozen poop. When telling the story later, would I be able to resist saying “The shit hit the fan”?
I think not. And that is why I probably deserve to be killed by frozen poop.

Dead butterflies killed my keyboard

I recently had to babysit some contractors at work which meant I had the miserable joy of sitting around for 12hrs. In this time I got on blogspot and just clicked away. Blog after blog.
I knew that there were a gazillion blogs out there but I didn’t realize how many stupid ones there are. And by stupid I mean, REAL FUCKING stupid.(even more stupid than this one)

Do you have ANY idea how many people have dedicated a blog to the daily activities of their dog? Their fish? What they knit? The children they don’t even HAVE?? WTF??

One lady has a blog in which she actually shows DAILY “growth” pictures of a plant.
A PLANT.
Pictures of it.
Every. Fucking. Day.

There are also a hundred million women at home alone that simply blog about how unhappy they are in their lives.
And still MORE that are more than happy to post photos of their entire family (complete with first and last names), pictures of their home (complete with street address) and tell everyone when they will be home or on vacation and the hotel they will be staying at.
I didn’t find the one that posted their social security number and mother's maiden name but I’m sure it’s out there. (if you find it, please forward the link)

I also discovered that everyone in China has a blog and all of them post pictures of food.
Every. Damn. One.
Another thing I noticed about the one billion Chinese blogs is that apparently it is mandatory you put the following phrase in your profile:
“I like care very much for those I have care for.”
The Fuck??? What does that even mean?

I think that in the morning I’m going to come into work and start speaking Chinese…only in English.
It’ll be awesome.

I didn’t know that there were so many women in the world that are “totally in love with Jesus and have a totally hot husband.”
I saw that line on no less than 300,000 profiles and for some reason that phrase creeps me out. Totally.

Some of the catch phrases after blog titles that made me burp dead butterflies were:
“We are but sojourners on this earth”
“I search for my soul but maybe find yours”
“My life is a tulip in your hands”

And my favorite “dead butterfly burping blog catch phrase” IS…..waaaait for it…….
“I am but a lily in your field of daffodils.”

Oh. Please. Make it stop.
And all this time I thought the internet was just for music, silliness, porn and the occasional Goggle Map thingy.

After about 10hrs of clicking “next blog” and being quite disgusted with the majority of them, I clicked “next blog” one more time and there it was.
My OWN fucking blog.

I threw up.
Now my keyboard doesn’t work rrrrrigghh%//////////@t.

Why yaks like climbing mountains.

The best kind of personal defects are the ones that other people notice but you can’t. It’s bad enough to have a defect in the first place; there’s no point in having to think about it all the time. It’s bad for your self-esteem.

For example, I envy the people who don’t know that other people hate spending time with them. I see these defective people all the time, endlessly jabbering at trapped victims. The defective people think they are having a great personal encounter. The victim feels like he has an SUV parked on his chest. Other people can identify this sort of tragedy by the fact that one person is smiling and doing all of the talking and the other person is squeezing his own thigh to cut off blood to his brain.

I’m the opposite. I assume other people want me to go away as soon as I show up. It’s probably not always true, but I like to play it safe. A little bit of me goes a long way. That’s why I try to leave before I use up my welcome. It’s a tight window.
Dude: “Hi, Brian.”
Me: “Gotta go.”

Some one once told me it was “poofing” and I don’t necessarily disagree but I viewed it as giving people a break and minimizing my chances of getting told to go pound sand and hump ferrets.
Another personal defect I’ve noticed, in other people of course, are close talkers. Usually those are the people with the worst breath too. If I don’t know you, you can be rest assured I have a personal space bubble of at least 3 feet. Even if I do know you that doesn’t imply I want to smell your teeth so back off zippy. Trust me; you will know if I’m interested in smelling you.

How about the “One Uppers”? These are the people that, should you tell them you climbed Mt. Everest for example, well…they climbed it backwards, naked, with an amorous yak tide to their ass.

How about the “But any ways”? These individuals have no clue what you are saying. You could tell them that the moon is going to crash into the earth and annihilate all life on the planet and they would go right back into their mundane story, “Uhhhhh, yeah. BUT ANY WAY so there I was in Wal Mart…..”

Or, how about the “Stupid Bloggers”? These damn people…uhhhhhh, wait a minute.
*poof*

Colosso isn't gay. But he IS a Homo.

Apparently they once discovered these little hobbit like creatures in Indonesia. They referred to them as “H. Erectus” instead of the full name Homo Erectus. I figure this is to prevent jokes about why we don’t see any of them around these days.

I’m crossing my fingers that someday scientists will discover one of these hobbit dudes encased in amber or whatever-the-hell would allow us to snatch some DNA and clone them. Since they aren’t human, I think cloning would be legal.
And although they had heads the size of grapefruits, scientists believe they were smart enough to use tools and hunt tiny elephants. That spells one thing: Hobbit slaves!!

I think it would be cool to order a hobbit slave and have it show up in a box with air holes. My hobbit slave would always wear a tiny tuxedo, mostly for the coolness. I’d call him Colosso, because of the irony factor.


Colosso wouldn’t be bright enough to purchase .99 cent tacos on Sunday, or big enough to drive a car, so his use would be limited. But he’d be perfect for playing ring toss. I’d have him stand at the other side of the room and train him to yell funny things when I got a ring over him.
“You are the best ring tosser of all time, you magnificent, gigantic bastard!”


When Halloween came around I’d get Colosso a winged monkey costume and I’d go ahead and dress up as the Wicked Witch. You can’t tell me that wouldn’t win some sort of prize.

Colosso could ride my dog Ian lika a horse! When I wanted some green tea from the fridge, Colosso jump on Ian and ride him to the kitchen and get it. Would I ever get tired of that? Not likely.


Hey! I’d never have to find the remote control again, because I would use Velcro to attach it to Colosso’s head. When I wanted to watch TV, I would just whistle and he’d run over and face the TV.
I’m sure there are more uses for a hobbit slave, but none come to mind. What would YOU do with a three-foot tall Homo?

Nostradumbass knows what Alice did with the butcher.

Behold…ME!

In light of a recent revelation I shall hence fourth be known as…Nostradumbass.
For I can predict the past and vague things that shall never pass.
I…am…Nostradumbass.

Here are but a few of my Quintrains:

1) One day some things will happen
These things will affect things
And things will begin to do things
One thing affecting the other thing
Yet therefore…and some other stuff


B) There will be a bovinescatologist born in the 14th century
He shall say things that bringeth many baffoons together
They shall begat
And when the baffoons disperse
They will Google


4) A small but mighty power in Europe shall lose its quest to win the Second World War
Its leader will commit suicide along side his dying whore
His people will forever be embarrassed
Not for their loss
But for his mustache


L) There will be a lovely lady
Who shall bring up three very lovely girls
All of them shall have hair of gold
Like their REAL dad
And the maid shall fuck a butcher



Hark! Hear my words! For I…am Nostradumbass

Why the "creator" has hairy palms.

This is going to scare some of you. Still others may shrivel in denial and disgust.
I suppose in some circles that may be enough to stop me. Naaaaaaah………
It may help to understand that I’m an agnostic and that this is simply a humorous alternative point of view. Even ________ has a sense of humor.

How many times have you heard, “God made man in his own image.”? This has been the mantra of the more fundamentalist Christian for eons. Usually I would jump up and down and pounce on the ridiculously sexist comment. But then it dawned on me…it may be more interesting to nod in agreement and then follow through with a logical conclusion.
In order to do that we must take the comment “God made man in his own image” and line up its premises.
These are:
God is male (he made man in his own image)
God is perfect (because if he is not, why do you follow “him”)
God is unique (because if he is not, why the rift with other religions)

If these are agreed on the rest is simple logic.

To be male one must have a penis. So God, being male, must have a penis of divine proportions.
To be perfect, a being would suffer no waste. God then would have no wasteful organs. Having said that we can deduce that since God is male and has a penis He must use it. But use it for what?

The penis only serves two functions. The elimination of waste and sexual reproduction.
If a perfect being would no more produce waste than have wasted organs the possible uses of God’s penis is reduced to those of a sexual nature.

This brings us to our third premise. God is unique.
If God is unique then there is and will never be another like Him so sexual reproduction is out of the question.
Now if this divine penis is not used to eliminate waste (because there is none), nor is it use for sexual reproduction (he is unique), then what does He use it for?
There is only one option left.
Ready?

God masturbates.

That’s right – problem solved.
God is male.
All males have a penis.
God is perfect.
A perfect being has no useless attributes.
God has a penis therefore he must use his penis.
God is a unique being.
A unique being has no others like him.
A penis is used for waste removal or reproduction.
God must use His penis but not for waste removal or reproduction.
Therefore God must masturbate.

I’m certain that at this point one might believe I will burst into flames at any moment but I submit this; God gave me this thought process and my sense of humor…as it is.
Given that, let me take this one step further.

Christianity does not merely assert that God is only perfect and unique part of the time. On the contrary, Christianity tells us that God is always perfect and always unique.
Ok, if that is to be understood as fact let me add this additional deduction:
God must masturbate if He is male, perfect, and unique.
God is always male, perfect, and unique therefore God is always masturbating.

There ya have it. It’s not all bad though. If one thinks very hard about it, through these deductions, we have serendipitously answered another theological question: Philosophers and skeptics have often asked, “How can such an all powerful being tolerate so much evil in the world?”
The answer is clear. He’s too busy with cosmic self pleasure to worry about earthly affairs.
Looks like we are on our own – God or no God.

You're welcome. :)

It's ok...'prolly a bus full of mistakes anyway.

Are school bus drivers everywhere certifiably insane or is it just around here?
I’ve noticed that they commandeer the only vehicles not abiding the speed limit in a school zone and, for that matter; they seem to pay no attention to any speed limit anywhere.
Hauling ass seems to be the MO for these people. Whether it be screeching out of the parking lot right in front of you or throwing gravel in the face of the poor kids that live within walking distance, these wild eyed maniacs have apparently one thing in mind:
1) Load the little bastards up
2) Drop the little bastards off (there is a 3rd step but we’ll cover that later)

As annoying as it is to see these busses bending around corners, rolling through stop signs and stop lights, and coming to abrupt and unannounced stops; it’s always interesting to see the looks on the little faces inside as they bounce off the seats and windows in complete terror. Sometimes you can actually see them hanging out the window screaming.
Even as you see these frightened little scholars hanging out the windows screaming and hoping for an escape the expression on the pilots face never changes: “Drop the little bastards off. Drop the little bastards off.”
It’s not their fault we force them to ride in death traps driven by a transient with a Marlboro and no apparent understanding of traffic flow. We could at least see to it that our future drive through cashiers are taken to our under funded and inadequate public schools in a safe manner and in something that doesn’t look like The Partridge Family tour bus.

What are the requirements for “school bus driver” anyway?
Convicted of no more than 3 felonies?
Not on any current sex offender list?
Have not “lived in a van down by the river” for more than 6 consecutive months?

From what I can gather it’s as easy as 1-2-3:
1) Pick the little bastards up
2) Drop the little bastards off
3) Do it again – in due haste

I’m going to the river to investigate further.

A farting pole and a redneck lunch box.

I have no idea why but the other day I sent a text message to several friends that asked this strange question:
Should a farting contest have some sort of “farting post” you approach and hold onto or something?

None of the people I sent the question to were aware that there were others on the list and yet, 50% of the people responded with:
“Yes, it provides more leverage.”

The other 50% responded with such answers as:
“I would suggest one.”
“I hurt myself on one.”
“It’s a POLE…as in farting POLE!”

I have weird wonderful friends.

It has also just occurred to me, if you’re in such a contest, should you wear farting mitts?”


Today I overheard a comment I think you could only hear in south Arkansas. I don’t want to be stereotypical but, well…you tell me…….
“So when I left the trailer I grabbed the lunch box with the dirty dishes in it.”

Wouldn't work. Vaginas don't blink.

Mice keep yanking my chain. Today was a perfect example. I read an article that said scientists produced mouse stem cells from mouse skin cells. This could be a huge breakthrough, both ethically and medically. The only problem is that the method used on the mice would cause cancer in humans. Fuck you, mice. Give me something I can use!

My disappointment could have been worse. It’s not clear I’ll ever need that particular medical breakthrough anyway. The stories that really chafe my neusters are the ones that sound like this:
“Researchers announced a breakthrough in gene therapy. This new technique gave mice an IQ of 700, grew hair in bald patches, made them sexier than John Reznick, and made them immortal. The mice also showed signs of telekinesis, unlimited male orgasms, and x-ray vision. In lab tests, the mice beat leopards in paw-to-paw combat.”

This makes me all excited because I think, “Heeeeey….I could use a few of those things!!” Then I read the rest of the story and it says something like “The researchers cautioned that this sort of gene therapy in humans would make their eyes turn into vaginas.”

It’s bad enough that I live in a country that ranks 37th in health care. The thing that really pisses me off is that I have worse health care than mice. If I were a mouse, I would start smoking, drinking, overeating and having unsafe sex, because those tiny bastards can be cured of anything with a goddamned aspirin and a shot of their own skin cells.

It makes me wonder if mice are easily cured because of the placebo effect. Mice don’t know anything about science, so they think whatever the scientist is doing must be helping. For example, if a lab mouse sees the janitor pleasuring himself with a test tube, the mouse thinks “Hey, my tumor is shrinking!” And then it does. You can’t underestimate the power of positive mouse thinking.
Just once I would like to see a headline that said, “SCIENTISTS DISCOVER A CURE FOR HUMAN DIABETES,” followed by details that say, “Scientists caution that this treatment in mice would give them inverted erections and make them hump themselves to death.”
Well, I can dream.

Why toenail flavored mittens help the economy! Or..A Monkey with a Leaf.

Think about all the people working and earning paychecks from companies that will ultimately fail. It’s a lot of people. But until those companies fail, the employees are getting paid, buying goods, and contributing to the economy. After the failure, those employees hop over to another sinking ship, and so on.

Within successful companies, a huge portion of resources are dedicated to projects and products that will ultimately fail. But in the meantime, everyone is getting paid and propping up the economy.

I understand the math of capitalism, and how the few successes are so large they pay for all the failures and then some. But at any given moment, the majority of resources in a capitalist system are being pushed over a cliff by morons. This fascinates me. And it’s clearly the reason that humans rule the earth. We found a system to harness the power of stupid.

In the rest of the animal kingdom, being a moron is nothing but bad. A moron lion, for example, who can’t catch anything to eat, is adding nothing to the lion economy. But a moron human who starts a business selling toe nail flavored mittens is stimulating the economy right up until the point of going out of business and opening a business selling pizza flavored ear muffs, in Phoenix. On so on and so on.

My point is that I hope the monkeys that already know how to use sticks for tools don’t start using leaves for money. If that happens, we’re screwed.

How my sucide bomber date lost her teeth.

Wacked out, fundamentalist, bitch ass, Islamic ass clowns are apparently now becoming more tolerant of women. They are beginning to accept them as human beings by letting them blow themselves up. Reports around the world state that women are being accepted in the Muslim/Islamic world to be trained as suicide bombers. However, it is not clear to me if they get 70 virgins when they get to paradise. Maybe they just get their clits back. Who knows?

Actually I’m less concerned about that than I am the possibility of these women infiltrating our society. Let’s face it; Americans are all about getting laid so it’s quite possible some clean cut, harmless, innocent, all American kid can get mixed up with one of these bitches on a first date. With that in mind I’d like to submit a few helpful steps to out these crazy ass bitches on a date.

1. While ordering dinner, try to make concrete plans to watch "American Idol" on TV the following week. If she backs out or claims she doesn't watch American television, she's probably planning a suicide operation. Immediately drive a thorazine-filled syringe into her eyeball and check her for explosives. If you find some; kick her in the teeth and call the authorities. If you don’t find explosives act as if you are performing CPR when she comes to and claim you just saved her life.

2. When you are enjoying live music at the local club, casually whisper to her there are Infidels present and ask her how she would like to proceed. If she suddenly walks toward her handbag, tackle her immediately and kick her in the teeth.

3. When you are getting romantic, give her a little casual sniff when she isn't looking. If she smells like fertilizer or rocket fuel, hog-tie her and then call the authorities but don’t forget to kick her in the teeth. If she smells like anything else, it's totally your call.

4. Show her your brand new video camera and ask her if she would like to say any last words to her family. After she begins her speech in Arabic, hit her with a conveniently-placed hammer and then send the tape to authorities for translation. Also kick her in the teeth.

5. After dinner, initiate a playful game of "peek-a-boo" with her. Show her your belly and then insist she show you hers. If she hesitates or declines, she's probably hiding an explosive belt. Immediately drive your dinner fork into her sternum and diffuse bomb with a pair conveniently placed wire cutters. And of course kick her in the teeth and as an added bonus remind her that the majority of American women enjoy sex and are encouraged to have it….all the time….as much as possible…any way they want…when ever they want…like now….Uhhhhh, sorry – I digress.
I’m certain these steps will help and thanks for being on the look out for ignorant ass Islamic bitches.

Why you're weird.

Late last night I was reading something I wrote a little over a year ago. I’m not going to post it here but it speaks of how things can become mottled and discolored right before our eyes, and yet, basically unnoticed. It moves on to explain that, through understanding, we should not judge ourselves or others on our past works.
Honestly I think it’s one of the best things I’ve ever written. Or at least I appreciate it the most because it has so much meaning.

I’m not sure why, but after I read it I was reminded of the Heisenberg uncertainty principle. I know…that’s weird.
The principle is applied to physics and its premise is that the more precisely you locate the position of something, the less you know about its path.

That’s a hard enough concept to grasp and since I’m damn sure no physicist I began to think how this principle could apply to people, personalities, situations, relationships and the like.

I think that there is no thought, intention or ideal that can be precisely established.
In other words, nothing is certain. There is risk in everything.

We all feel compelled to move in a certain direction and I applaud that but there are many times I have followed that compulsion in which I failed to measure the potential cost of my direction. The cost was revealed later. I am not saying one should blatantly question a given path but we should all consider: Is what we move towards more valuable than what we have?
Then again, nothing is certain. But by that logic, why would we move at all?

I think I just gave myself a headache.

Boy George and Holy Wilford.

I had a dream the other night where I killed an abortion protestor. It was OK, because I was just doing the Lord’s work. If I didn’t kill the abortion protestors, they would eventually kill abortion doctors. Thus, I saved lives by stopping murderers from murdering... by being a murderer.

Oh sure, I was dragged into dream court, but it didn’t matter to me. I told the Judge that the only verdict that mattered to me was God’s verdict. He had spoken to me and I did his bidding. Nonetheless, the jury found me guilty and sent me to dream prison. There, I was immediately killed by my fellow inmates because my shrill proselytizing annoyed them.

Then, with great anticipation, I arrived at Heaven’s Gate and was met by the Lord Himself. Imagine my shock when the Almighty Father read me the riot act for killing people. Here I was expecting to be rewarded and praised but it turns out that whole, “Thou shalt not kill, violence begets violence, vengeance is mine and mine alone” stuff, applied to me, too. God looked me in the face and said I was a raging moron for even thinking He had spoken to me, let alone hired me as a hit man. When God said He wished people would quit thinking they were getting messages from Him, I felt really, really, stupid.

Then God, who looked a lot like Wilford Brimley, personally escorted me to the gates of Hell. Taking me inside, the Devil, who looked a lot like Larry King, laughed as he showed me where the rest of the religious kook-killers sat. Culture Club was playing and I began to panic. That’s when I woke up. Thank Wilford!

Explain 'dem bones, holy homey

Here’s a question for any Christians who believe everything in the Bible is true (I’d call them “fundamentalists”, which was what they used to call themselves, I believe, but the word has a negative association these days):

What about Neanderthals?

If you believe in the Bible, including Genesis, you believe in Creationism, and that means that such a thing as “cavemen” could never have existed; the first men in the Bible, both in Eden (Adam and Eve) and shortly after (Seth, Cain, Noah and so on) are described as civilized, having a society, building cities, and so on.

So, according to Bible-based Creationism, there never was such a thing as Neanderthals living in caves, being more advanced than apes yet less than men. Not to mention that they are supposed to have lived millions of years ago… hey, isn’t the universe just 6000 years old?

But… where do all these fossils come from?

Logically, a Christian would have to accept one of the following:
1. The fossils are all fakes, created by scientists and other “enemies of faith”, to discredit Creationism.
2. God created the fossils to “test our faith”, making them appear much older than they really are, to all scientific tests - not to mention the fact that they are from beings that never actually existed.
3. Genesis is, at least in part, a fictional book.

So… which is it?

The diarrhea band has hairy palms...I bet.

I find it interesting that people are more apt to talk about diarrhea than masturbation. Just saying the words in public will get you completely different reactions. Go ahead. The next couple times you’re standing in line at the store with a friend calmly discuss one of the topics and compare the different reactions you get.

They even have commercials on TV and radio that include diarrhea bands singing songs about diarrhea!
I’m not saying we need commercials about masturbation. I’m just amused at the willingness to discuss, and even write songs and sing about, what comes flying out of our ass before any discussion on the act of self pleasure.
We all know what KY Jelly is used for but you never here on the commercials, “It’s great for masturbation too!” It’s just billed as a “personal lubricant.”
Frankly that sounds creepy to me.

We also have the picture ad in the back of nearly any magazine of the girl with the phallic “neck massager” that she is holding on her neck.



Yeah right, she was massaging her neck. Maybe someone could explain her chipped tooth in the next issue.

I’m no more “pro-masturbation” than I am “anti-diarrhea”. It’s just the subtle “PC” rules of society that I find interesting.

But seriously, which one would you rather deal with?

In the news, a building contractor was caught seducing a shop vacuum. The vacuum has two large cartoon eyes and a hose that represents its nose. The model is called a Henry Hoover.




This story raises many questions. Was this a spontaneous act, or did the contractor see Henry Hoover on day one and think “I’d hit that”?
What disturbs me most is that little Henry’s hose was involved in the sex act. That’s his NOSE, damn it! How is Henry supposed to enjoy nasal sex? That contractor is a selfish lover, and I can’t forgive that.

The contractor’s alibi is that he was using Henry to vacuum his underpants, which he says is common practice back in Poland. I’m thinking maybe you should practice your alibi before getting caught and not say the first thing that springs to mind. “Uhhhhh…..yeeeeah, we do this back home all the time!”

If I were that contractor, I would have claimed I was a member of a cult and I mistakenly thought Henry Hoover was my god. I’d say I cast off all of my possessions and knelt before him to receive his “blessing”. I’d tell the security guard “If you don’t like how Lord Hoover bestows his blessings, perhaps you should be less of a bigot.” I’d probably take the offensive and say something like “You probably kneel in front of a priest and get a cracker. How’s this any different?”

It pays to be prepared.

You forgot your air freshener smells like Stephen Hawking.

I’ve read that as you age you begin to lose your memory and that children learn faster than adults. I don’t think you lose your memory as you age. I believe you just have so much more crap to remember that it’s harder to keep up with. Your brain gets filled up and you lose space to keep stuff.
All the experts agree that kids can learn new languages faster than adults. I’m not impressed with that. If I had as few problems as a 9 year old I could learn Chinese over the weekend too. Let kids start worrying about bills, mortgage and car payments, Iran’s nuclear program and our own government ripping all of us off and let’s see who can conjugate faster.

In order for adults to manage their memory I think we should begin to eliminate unnecessary categories for our memories. For instance, I plan to eliminate the “who wore what” category. From now on if I see you at the club wearing a full chicken outfit I will remember that as: “saw them at the club.”
Recently I started to read Stephen Hawking’s “A Brief History of Time” again and I thought, “I don’t have room for this.” I think I made it to page 12. I’d love to read that book again but it might make me forget to pay my electric bill or take some videos back. And it’s not like I haven’t already done that in the past week.

Speaking of Stephen Hawking, I plan to eventually release all complicated explanations for time, space and the world. Evolution has to go. It’s too complicated and takes up too much space. It’s either evolution or “remember to zip up pants.” The choice is clear…unless of course I’m trying to make some friends.
I’m also going to start lumping things together in my mind based on similarities in order to save space. From now on stem cells are babies and Iranians are Arabs. And they all live in North Korea with Osama and OJ.

There was something else I was going to add but I forgot what it was. Maybe that’s because I just remembered to put a new air freshener in my car.

Shakespeare gotta get paid son!

I’m not a big “gamer” but I thought of some ideas for new video games. Frankly I’m surprised these aren’t already out there.

“Pimp!” – It could feature the voice of Ice-T and you could “recruit” runaways. Kill other pimps. Slap some bitches for “street ‘cred points” and advance in the game by getting ho’s addicted to crack. Awesome.

“Dead Celebrity” – This would be huge! You could recreate or avoid the death of such people as Jim Morrison, JFK, Sonny Bono, James Brown, John Lennon…the list goes on. Of course; if you choose to avoid the death scenario you have to deal with whatever situation fate hands you at that point. Fun, fun fun!



But wait! If you order now you’ll get this handy orange peeler! Wooo Hooo!

*'s are totally hot

It’s possible that the most obscene letter in the alphabet is the asterisk.
Think about it. It appears in almost every naughty word you see in print, from f*ck to p*ssy to c*ck. You can’t even pronounce the word “asterisk” without saying *ss.

That smutty little character is attracted to obscenity like flies to sh*t.
I guess the asterisk protects you from seeing naked cuss words that would otherwise blind you but when you cover a naughty word’s genitalia with an asterisk, no one knows what the f*ck you’re trying to say.

That’s why it’s totally safe!
Some folks reading this blog might wonder how the asterisk protects them, since theoretically you could do your own research and discover that sh*thead does not mean asking a guy named Thead to be quiet. But that’s a lot of work and no one gives a f*ck.

Let me explain it this way: It’s completely safe to THINK naughty words. And it’s safe to cause other people to think naughty words.
But if you spell those naughty words without the asterisk loin cloth to protect your victims, you’re a danger to society.
I know this to be true because I heard it from lots of people who have sh*t-for-brains.

Well that, and it was published in the New England Urinal of Mufficine.

Lady Ga-Ga did it with Homer Simpson

A list of my favorite songs in the past 10 years would include thelikes of Foo Fighters “The Best of You”, “ Audio Slave, “Show Me How to Live”, Gavin DeGraw “I Don’t Wanna Be”, Maroon 5, “She Will Be Loved”.
I could go on, but the point is that my tastes have grown alarmingly mainstream.

The question is this: why did I feel compelled to use "alarmingly" in that last sentence? So a lot of people like the same music as me--so what? What's the big deal? Doesn't this mean I have good taste?
Of course it doesn't. To the vast majority of humanity, my mainstream tastes make me an unhip schmuck. Which is rather aparadox, I think. I mean, mainstream by definition means that lots and lots of people like it. So why, when I look around me in my little neck of the woods, do I find no sign whatsoever of Hootie fans or "Desperate Housewives” watchers?

I'm not just talking about my immediate circle of totally hipper than hip friends here. I'm talking about the girls behind the counter at the quick stop changing the station whenever a Joan Osborne songcomes on. I'm talking about the guy pumping gas telling me he finally watched an episode of "ER" to see what all the fuss is about and it was the biggest load of crap he'd ever seen.

Hatred of anything mainstream is endemic to our society.
Growing up, of course, everyone goes through a phase of the “if-it's-popular-it-must-suck” mentality. This is why all the bands on the college radio charts have names like Pap Smear and Homer's Other Tonsil and why film societies hold regular screenings of Fassbinder and Jarmusch as opposed to, say, Schwarzenegger andSimpson/Bruckheimer.
I went through this phase just like everyone else, though as far as I'm concerned, all distinctions between underground and mainstream became meaningless as soon as the Fox Network decided to give Matt Groening a prime time show. Don’t get me wrong, I love “The Simpson’s” but Homer on prime time? Gimme a break. Even the creator of the show can’t believe it’s still at the top after all these years.

When it comes to music, however, two things have conspired to make the mainstream loathsome and detestable to the teeming millions without making a sizable dent in sales.
One was the advent of "alternative," a concept which allows everyone to sneer at the mainstream while proudly slapping down that multi-platinum CD at the checkout counter because, hey, MY musical tastes are cool and "with-it" and, therefore, alternative, never mind if every teenager in America can identify each song by name in two D-tuned, reverb-laden power chords or less.

The other, more nefarious movement, was the trend towards playing popular music EVERYWHERE. To the point where you can hardly set foot on commercial property without being bombarded by ClassicRock, Top Forty, Adult Album Alternative, and every variation within.
Remember Muzak? Remember, better yet, silence? No, of course, no one remembers silence any more, but with Muzak we didn't know we had it so good.
All Muzak did was play the most innocuous, disposable classical music of all time, or take innocuous, disposable pop tunes and transform them into barely recognizable, instrumental laxatives that shot out your ass the moment they entered your ears.
It was annoying, sure, but you could forget about it the minute the automatic slidingdoors closed behind you.
I suppose Muzak still exists somewhere, but in my neighborhood, even Wal Mart plays R.E.M. now. The originals, mind you, muttered vocals, fuzz-tone guitars, and all. No clarinets standing in for Michael Stipe here. And now that I think about it, that would probably be an improvement. I’m so sick of Stipe and Bono and their “I hurt for you” bullshit that I’m ready to take a hostage…but I digress.

So… there's no escaping it. Any hit song, no matter how excellent, is pummeled into bland monotony as you hear it twenty times a day on the radio, in the store, on TV and blaring out the stereo of a passing car or even in your own car.
The result is backlash. Even those who went out and bought The new U2 album now flip the dial whenever that fucking “Uno,dos” song comes on again. The album sits at home gathering dust as they wait till they actually feel like playing the damn thing because they finally made it through a day when it wasn't forced on them by the Great Hype Machine and its determination to stamp out silence in all its insidious, revolution-fermenting forms.
Another song I can think of that underwent this form of reduction-thru-repetition is Green Day’s “American Idiot”. The first time I heard it, I probably liked it. Now, it has about the same impact on me as acommercial jingle about feminine itching.
I can only hope it doesn’t attain the same level of saturation as “The Macarena”.

The thing is, why have media saturation at all? There's enough good music in the world to go around, as anyone who has even the most vaguely eclectic taste can tell you. There's also plenty of opportunities for silence. Personally, I've found that "Just the Way You Are" does not help me pick out a better brand of toothpaste. And sorry, Ford and Chevy, but no amount of Bob Seger or Foghat can make me want to buy a truck.

Legend has it that some fraternities had a unique way of hazing their pledges. They would lock the poor kid in an empty room for 12 hours and pipe in some annoying pop ditty over and over again. Apparently their preferred tools of torture were songs like "Oh Mickey You're So Fine" and "Karma Chameleon," which would drive even the most patient quite insane but the point is that ANY song, played over and over again for a long enough period, begins to resemble the sound of one thousand dump trucks backing up.
Or, for me…ONE freaking Lady Ga-Ga song. Jeeezus H. Cracker! Make it stop!

Radio programmers, store managers, and canned music purveyors of every stripe would do well to remember this.