Old milk and cigarettes. Over One Billion Served!

So I pull up to the golden arches. You know the ones.
Where, for some reason, there is always a garden hose stretched from the building to the dumpster and some borderline transient is showering the area. Pushing the mystery sludge to the “toxic waste area” (either TO or FROM…it’s hard to tell which because the lovely smell of old milk and yesterdays McMuffins is always wafting through the air).
Anyway, I pull up to the inaudible speaker (which now has a tendency to actually feed back and I find that hilarious) and I order the usual from the artery-hardening menu.

Scccccchreeeeeeeehhhhhhh crrrrrooowwwww aaaaaagggghhhhhhh ggggurrrrsssshhhh
Translation – “Welcome to McDonalds. What can we make for you today?”

“I’ll have a #4 with a coke. Supersize. That’s all please.”
I’m quick to say, “That’s all please”, because I’m well aware of the apple pie sales pitch that is soon to follow and I’m trying to head it off.

Gggggggggghhhhassssshhhh Cuuuuullllllllwwweeeeeeitttttzzzz Meeeeerrrrrrrrrrr
Translation – “We don’t be Supersizin’ no ‘mo.”

“What? You don’t’ Supersize? Why?”

Sssssssssswwweeeeedddrrrnnnasssssh Ooooouuuuuuutttttttissssss
Translation – We be’s out.

“Ok (but I’m not buying it for a second) I’ll have the #4 with a coke. Large. That’s all please.”

Wooooouuuuuuugggrrrrrssshhh Caaaaaaattttttiiiiillllaaaaaazzzzh?
Translation – “Would you like an apple pie with that?”

(damnit! I thought I had ‘em) "NO! I don’t want an apple pie!"

While I’m waiting in line, which is a least 10 minutes because the moron in front of me just ordered a burger without a damn pickle on it and some dumbass inside is on the phone to the main office wondering what to do, I begin to wonder WHY I can’t have Supersize fries.
Then I remember. It’s the little fat ass kids. Apparently McD’s, with the most dangerous menu on the planet, has decided to try and be socially aware of my health because some parents complained that their kids were too freakin’ fat from all the Supersize fries they ingested. Sure as hell couldn’t have been the double quarter pounders or the freakin’ Big Macs now could it?
So there ya have it. Because some parent decided it was more comfy to feed their problem child massive amounts of fries rather than deal with the little bastards problems; I can’t Supersize my damn fries!
What lobbyist organization pulled THIS off? The Organization for the Betterment of Fat Ass Little Bastards with No Friends?

Maybe we should have an age restriction on fries. No that wouldn’t work, and I’ll tell ya why.

So I go into the local Walgreen’s. You know the one. Where every time you go in there, no matter what day or what time, it’s the SAME people working in there. That scares me.
Anyway, I go in there to buy some cough syrup and some cigarettes ( yeah, I know, I know… but that’s a whole other rant). When I get to the counter the sweet little ‘ol lady, the one that’s back there EVERY SINGLE TIME says,

“Are you forty?”

“No.”

“Are you OVER forty?”

“Yes...Why?”

She explained that she had to ask because I was buying cigarettes.
I’m afraid to even think what Phillip Morris is thinking behind this brilliant ploy.
I guess you can be any age to buy the cough syrup that is loaded with enough drugs and alcohol to get Timothy Leary to come to your party but you have to be forty to buy cigarettes.

So this is what it has come to:
Any kid can buy all the alcohol they want if it says “Vicks” on the label but there is no way in HELL you can Supersize your fries and you have to be forty to buy a pack of cigarettes. WTF?!
And here’s the kicker…you only have to be 18 to go to Iraq and get your ass shot off or vote for the nimrods that came up with all this shit.
I understand perfectly.

Where banana seats came from. Or, why coffee tables wink.

There is a guy from Scotland that was arrested for having sex with his bike.
It’s really true so I’ll let that soak in a minute…..tap, tap, whistle, whistle, tap, tap…..

This story disturbs me on many levels but I can only imagine the police interview after his arrest:

Detective: Do you confess to having sex with a bicycle?

Bike Humper: Yes.

Detective: Was it a woman’s bicycle or a man’s bicycle?

Bike Humper: Dude, I’m not gay.

Detective: The fuck????!!!

I have to wonder if this freakazoid is exclusively attracted to bicycles, or are other inanimate objects just as sexy? If so, I envy him on some level. There would be no such thing as a boring night at home. “ Well, helllllooooo…Lamp! Wadaya doin’ later?”

He probably has his own set of private jokes he uses around the house:
“Well, there’s nothing on TV tonight,” …pause for humorous effect…”except ME!”

I’m thinking he might have done a unicycle but his mom told him it would make him blind.

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?