Here are my previous blog posts from a few years ago from an account that I since lost the password to and no longer have the email address to get it.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Somewhere in China, a butterfly flaps its wings, catching the attention of a small child. The child chases after the butterfly and trips over a rock and falls on his face, letting out a scream that alerts his mother. The mother, who is cooking for a large lunch crowd at a restaurant, runs out to aid the child, leaving the soup that was not yet fully cooked. The waitress, thinking that it was done, serves the soup to the hungry crowd which includes an airline pilot. During his flight back to California, the pilot suddenly jumps up and runs to the bathroom with a nasty case of diarrhea. Having just missed the toilette, he showers the walls and floor of the bathroom in shit, which a stewardess now has to clean up. Okay, I’m sorry, “Flight Attendant”. Because I’m sure that if you had to clean shit off a wall you would care what they called you too. So now the, ahem, “flight attendant” starts violently vomiting all over the bathroom while trying to clean the shit off the wall. Now nobody can use this thing. I mean this is nasty, you would not want to go in there. Have you ever been in a carnival Port-O-Potty? Yeah, it’s that bad. Now it’s still four hours until they land, and nobody can use the bathroom. When the plane finally lands and the doors open, hundreds of people come rushing off the plane, partly because it smells like vomit and shit, but mostly because they all have to take a piss. While the crowd is rushing through the terminal, a ladder is knocked over, and red paint is showered down on the people. A passerby, who is on his way to Las Vegas, sees the red painted people and the red footsteps everywhere and takes it as a sign. When he gets to the casino, the first thing he does is bet everything he has on red on the roulette wheel.
After this astonishing win, he gets really drunk and winds up marrying a stripper. (Because that’s what drunken men in Vegas do apparently, TV don’t lie, people!) They decide to go to Niagara Falls for their honeymoon, because they watch TV too, I guess. While there, they ask a family who is on vacation for directions to the nearest pharmacy. The stripper says that her crabs are getting “real itchy”, pointing downward. Afterwards, the little boy asks his father why that nice lady kept her crabs in her pants. Stunned by this question, he responds “She was keeping them there so she can eat them later.”
Fast forward a couple months, the same father and son are on the beach in New Jersey. The little boy sees a crab crawling around in the sand. Remembering what his father had told him, he picks it up and puts it in his bathing suit.
Later on, at the hospital, the cops show up with family services. Apparently the stupid little shit told the doctor that his father had told him to put the crab in his pants. Well, of course this gives the mother, who is now divorcing the father, all the ammunition she needs to win custody of the stupid little shit in court. After paying his lawyer fees, child support, and medical bills for the, gulp, “reattachment”, he has nothing left to live on and is forced to take on a second job. While working the night shift in the McDonalds drive thru in Philadelphia, he serves a customer who has just placed a large order. After the car pulls out of the parking lot, the passenger of the car realizes that the “asshole in the window” forgot her Chicken McNuggets, forcing the driver to make a u-turn. In the middle of the u-turn, a dog runs out into the street and gets hit by the car. Both the driver and passenger jump out of the car to see if the dog is okay. So now you got two people standing in the street over a dead dog, in front of a double parked car with people who can’t mind their own damn business driving real slow and gawking at the carnage…and I miss the fucking green light.
This is why I fucking hate butterflies
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Drivers of the world unite! Stand up and shout to the masses that we will no longer stop singing merely because we have come to a red light!
Tell the world that that light may stop our cars, but it will Never stop the song in our hearts!
If a straight man wants to sit at a railroad crossing singing “It’s Raining Men”, then I say Hallelujah! It’s raining men!
If you want to sit in a traffic jam singing along to Right Said Fred, then I say that you indeed are too sexy for your cat, poor pussy, poor pussy cat!
If I choose to sing along to Gloria Gaynor , when I reach that red light, I will hold my head up high, oh yes… I will survive!
If an eighty year old woman wants to sing “I Touch Myself”, I say let her run red lights.
For too long we have been held down, our music and voices muted by society and its traffic control devices.
Brothers and sisters stand firm. Tell the world that no matter the song, no matter the lyrics, we will sing them loud and proud from the red lights to the stop signs…from the traffic jams to the railroad crossings…from the toll booths to the McDonalds drive thru.
And no, we will not mumble! No, we will not hum! We will sing that song the way it is meant to be sung! Can I get an AMEN!
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
With your chicken and pickles and such
Your Spicy chicken sandwich
Spicy, but not too much
Your waffle fries
Always lacking salt
I know its those fuckin’ health nuts
It’s not your fault
I love how you bring me my order when it’s done
But I hate how the pickles dissolve my bun
How you make fun of cows
Who don’t know how to spell
But really seem to hate chickens
What the hell?
I mean seriously, what the hell? Why they gotta throw the chickens under the bus? They could be espousing vegetarianism, but no, they’re actively trying to get us to eat those poor little bastard chickens. If you saw a sign in a store that read “Rob more banks”, would you extrapolate “…and less stores” from that, or would you think “Damn, this guy must really hate banks!” And besides, I could eat more “chikin”, and less pork but just as much if not more beef. I hope I never need a cow for anything, those mother fuckers would sell me out in a minute!
Whenever I’m in it
Simply the best lemonade
That I have ever tasted
Your free refill policy
On me is never wasted
How you claim to be the first
To put chicken to bread
Congratulations to you
Your balls are bigger than my head
The days I eat at Chick-Fil-A
Are often the most fun days
But you get a big fuck you
For closing on Sundays.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Oh how I loved you
How I wish you were here
For you, Wendy’s Super Salad Bar
I’ve shed many a tear
For just three ninety-nine
I could have all that I can eat
Jell-O... pudding... pasta
Tacos with extra meat
Imitation bacon bits
Abound in great supply
Those shelled sunflower seeds I love so much
I think I may cry
Your sneeze guard of glass
Protecting you with care
Yes it looked disgusting
But imagine if bare
Oh why oh why did you leave me
Why did they take you away
If only I could see you again
Oh the words that I would say
Why, Wendy’s Founder Dave Thomas
Did you play with my heart
And that red headed daughter of yours
That slutty little tart
Every time I drive past
I see her evil little grin
As if to say, “She’s gone forever...
That’s right Mother fucker...
Monday, January 30, 2012
“Last night I had a dream that I was eating a giant marshmallow. When I woke up, my pillow was gone!”
Okay, so today, of all the topics that I could go on about, I’m going to dissect the logic of this old, lame, and corny joke.
First off, if you could indeed finish off an entire pillow as you slept, you surely wouldn’t be able to do it in one bite. Agreed? Good.
So now we have established that you are ripping this sucker apart like the Tazmanian Devil with a roast turkey. I would venture to say that not long after beginning this novel meal, you would be working on the inside of this once marshmallow-like pillow. At this point you should be dreaming that you’re at the carnival eating a giant bag of cotton candy or going down on Daisy Duck (me-ow, err, I mean ka-wack!), depending on what your pillow is filled with.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. “But what about those new fangled memory foam pillows, they seem marshmallowy and they would stay in one piece as you ate it.”
To which I respond: Who the fuck says “fangled” anymore? My spell check doesn’t even recognize that as a word. I would be shocked and amazed if anyone old enough to use that word could even find the power button on a computer let alone get on the internet without calling their 6 year old great grandchildren for help. Oh, and they weren’t invented (or at least not in wide usage, but I don’t feel like looking it up.) when the joke was written, so bite me.
Now let’s look at the line “When I woke up, my pillow was gone!”
Really? That would be the first thing you noticed when you woke up? That your pillow was gone?
Your bedroom would look like somebody beat, raped, and strangled a goose. But the first thing out of your mouth would be, “Hey, where’s my pillow?” Is that normal for you? Do you live on a poultry farm or something? Okay, maybe you do. I’m sure somebody does, so why not. But why are the feathers in your bedroom? You know what, never mind, I don’t even want to know. I’ll just give you that point, okay?
Lastly, I’m sure that after you ate this pillow, you would probably be in need of some sort of medical attention. Stomach pump, perhaps. Maybe even a full-blown operation to remove the offending material. Or at the very least just be feeling sick as hell.
I would find it pretty incredible that you would be out and about to be making jokes about it so soon after eating your pillow “Last night”. Maybe if you said last month, or even last week, I could at least entertain the notion, but I’m just going to have to call bullshit on that one.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
I would like to offer my sincerest apologies for my previous blog entry. After posting, I decided to actually Google how many hairs are on a fly’s anus, as I had erroneously claimed I had already done. To my dismay, I found no pages discussing this subject whatsoever. The closest thing I got was “How many hairs are on a fly’s eye?”
Seriously. Who the hell cares about that stupid ass shit? I want to know about fly anuses dammit!
I don’t know, maybe flies don’t have hairs on their anuses. But you’d think I could at least get a “Zero” or something. Though I should probably mention that I did not look past the first page of search results. But really, does anybody look past the first page for anything? You Google “Three-way”, and on the first page you get everything you need. Two women, one guy – Two guys, one woman – Three women – Three…Never mind. Just… never mind. A woman, a donkey, and a goose. Anyway, the point being that you go to page two, and you get shit like “Sir Thomas Threeway” or “Three Wayans Brothers movies everyone should see”.
So you start out searching for some hot lesbian action, and you wind up with “Don’t be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood”. Gee…thanks Google.
And no, I did not confirm any of this. Who the hell do you think I am… Tom Brokaw?
Saturday, January 28, 2012
I like to play a game with Google sometimes. I come up with some random topic off the top of my head and see what are the fewest amount of letters it takes for it to come up in the automatic suggestions. I’m not sure yet on how to determine the winner though, except in cases where I type in something like “Ho-“ and in the suggestion box, the question “How many hairs are on a fly’s anus?” pops up. At which point I unplug the computer, cut off all the power to the house, cut the phone line and hide under the bed. Because nobody’s that good. NOBODY!
You see, this is the type of shit that makes people start wrapping themselves in aluminum foil to block the brain scans from the CIA satellites. And as insane as that is, how could you argue with them? I mean, how else would Google be getting this information? What legitimate response could you give a crazy person that would make any sense even to a sane person? That within the last week or so, an overwhelming majority of people in the world decided to get interested in the study of insect ass hairs? But I’m sure the answer to that would be “Then that means that they’re not reading our minds...they’re implanting thoughts!” And really, what other explanation could there be? So why does Google want us thinking about hairy fly anuses? They’re freaks, that’s why.
Friday, January 27, 2012
I hate that you can't tell if your Facebook friend request has been accepted or denied.
I mean really, if a person's feelings would get that hurt over a rejected friend request, then they aren't that stable to begin with, and keeping them hanging on and checking their friends list every 10 minutes probably isn't the wisest move considering their fragile mental state.
Tell me to screw off so I can say “fuck you too” and get on with my life.
Most times it isn't even an issue, I usually forget who I friended anyway. But when you see a person you haven't seen in 20 years and you're curious if they even remember you, you friend them without sending a message because you don't want to give it away, and they don't accept it, the dilemma begins.
So now my assumption was that she wouldn't remember me, and would be forced to message me to ask who I am, and I would pretty much know my status after that. Well I failed to consider two other possibilities: She would remember me and still not want to be my friend, or she wouldn't remember me and still not care, therefore no message and no way of knowing if she even saw the request.
So what do you do? Do you message them a week later and tell them who you are, as if to say:
(For best results: The following should be read in a condescending tone with a quasi British accent)
“Oh dear girl, I do believe that some sort of error has occured. You see, I'm that dashing fellow that you met thrice 20 years ago, surely you intended to friend me of all people. Remember, “Accept” means that you WANT to be a person's friend. But not to worry, I know that it must get confusing for you sometimes. If you need any assistance with using the basic controls of Facebook, I would be more than happy to lend a helping hand as it were...”
To which the response would probably be “Ya, I remember you, that's why I rejected it”
And there's the other angle, that I look like I'm trying to harass her into friending me and that I'm a pathetic loser that can't take no for an answer while she wonders why a casual acquaintance from so long ago even remembers her, let alone wants to be her friend so badly.
I know the right answer of course is to let it go and get on with my life, which I'll do. But it's the not knowing that gets you. Next time I'll be sure to send a message with the request, but would a “Fuck Off” button really be so bad?