Monday, October 31, 2005


I cannot describe to you how much I loathe K.F.C. commercials (fuck you chicken abusers if you think you can lure me in with your narsty "flavor station" spooge and your free apple pie), but this recent one they're running to death is the worst.

First of all, they obviously hired the director's girlfriend, or similar, to play the mom. She does not look like a mom. Okay, well, maybe in Arkansas. But anyway, she doesn't exactly look like she's been consuming fried chicken by the bucketful in between birthin' them babies.

Which is not to say I think she is hot, either. Also, she could not act her way out of a used, discarded Kleenex box full of wet hair.

I hate everything about this commercial. Nothing appeals to me. Especially this so-called mom, who I find intensely irritating.

Is it her overplucked eyebrows? The cutesy little ro sham bo motion she makes with her wrists holding the felt-tipped markers? Her stoopid ponytail? The way she fakes eating the fried chicken while looking warily around at her three fake "children", her creepy Karen Carpenter eyes just begging for the take to be over so she can yak into the spit bucket...? Oh yes. It is all of these things, plus something else I can't quite put my finger-lickin' (gross) finger on.

And then, her scary, Aryan Nation, Heather O' Rourke (R.I.P.) in Poltergeist but creepier "child" reacts to "...get it? Blue? Bluebirds? Dur...?" with "Mom, what color is dinner?!" (in a smart alecky tone that would have gotten me slapped six shades of purple when I was her age), her freaky, blue-bluebirds-blue eyes riveted to The Pro-Animal Cruelty Refrigerator Magnet of Cancer-Ridden Death. Oh, how I abhor them all.

And then, with the theme song. Oh, god no. Not the theme song. If I ever even liked "Sweet Home Alabama" pre-Bo Bice, it is so, so very dead to me now. Plus, Len-nerd Skin-nerd is probably rolling over in their respective graves - they have ironed out the rock-ness into a bland, commercial ditty, save for some bizarre chicken-death-rattle type noise, and the rollicking piano part, which only serves to make me want to kill, Kill, KILL...!

I have, like, dog ears for that shit. Maybe it is supposed to make you hungry for chicken, but personally, it makes me bloodthirsty for human flesh. Like the bland, pliant, yielding, maddeningly juicy skin of that bad TV mother. (Funny...tastes like Church's!)

Yes, I want her poultry-consuming, khaki chinos-wearing ass dead. Deader than those poor abused KFC chickens they use as basketballs. Stone. Cold. D.E.D.

Thank you, and Happy Halloween.
-Psycho Chicken Commercial Killer.


Friday, October 28, 2005


Sorry I've been away. I've been pervving on the dogcam.

One of my friend's dogs went to doggie daycare and I've been captivated by their playground webcam.

Here, we see Rod checkin' out the laydeez.

You can also see some indoor views of schnauzers being shaved, etc...which has got to be some perv's dream. But the little dogs are too hyper (and also, I suspect, "overly aggressive tire biters" - the owner), so sometimes they just look like little blurs:

Personally, I prefer the intense, pack-like dynamic of the big dog's playground:

Which is to say, a lot of peeing.

Then, the pooper scooper would come through.

No, I did not get a picture of the pooper scooper. You people think I have all day for this horseshit...?!


Rod was bad so he had to go to jail:

Then, to add insult to injury, one dog would come and lift his leg on his door, then another one...then of course they all had to do it. Poor Rod...

...while the other dogs were romping and playing, and hey -NO HUMPING-! But I guess he behaved himself, because later he was set free...NAKED! The End.

I think Rodney had a fun time at camp. However, if I had my druthers, I'd go here. They have a doggie Zen Den and aromatherapy massage-!

Maybe, if I convinced them I'm an Afghan hound, I'd even get a haircut for cheap.


Wednesday, October 26, 2005


I've been like Lollybloggin' Schmee of late. Don't know where my mind is.

Possibly up my a**.

Or somebody else's.

How are you? I am fine.

My cat scratched an Indian head nickel-sized area off his rump. My other one has bad dandruff. Can you wash a cat with Head & Shoulders? I shall find out now-!

...hrm. Don't see it in their FAQ. But it says here that dandruff is generally caused by:

Malassezia, believed to be the leading cause of dandruff, is a naturally occurring fungus on the skin and is very difficult, if not impossible, to completely eliminate. However, consistent use of Head & Shoulders shampoo can help prevent and control the fungus and its flaky by-products.

"...flaky by-products"...?!

I think I just threw up.

Personally, I think it's caused by lack of scrïtchy.

Er...also? On their Hungarian site, you can enjoy the following:

1) What appears to be a graphic of a man with giant dandruff flakes flying off his head, and
2) Play "The Dandruff Game." I am just guessing this is what it's called because I don't sprik Hungarian.
3) I think I just threw up again.

Only trouble is, I can't find a program to translate the instructions for play. I've figured out how to use the arrow keys to aim and the space bar to fire, but the dandruff buggers and gross, frowny flakes ("Mr. Korpa") just seem to keep multiplying...oh no! How will I gonosz my gombat?! Now my korpát will never be megesemmisítetted...!

If you are a passing Hungarian, please to translate. Until then, I remain,

One Sad, Flakey Közülük.


P.S. On the up(-chuck)shot, since I can't understand it, there is much less throwing up-! :)


Monday, October 24, 2005


After reading of Anne and Sergei's recent comic mishaps, I just had to add my own link to this flying dingleberry chain of events.

It happened the other week, while I was working out. I know, that's what I get for even thinking about becoming physically fit.

My girlfriend and I were with this cyborg/trainer type behind her apartment building. We put all our girly goop down on this pic-i-nic table for the duration of our torture session.

Just as I opened my mouth to bitch that the guy on a lower balcony was smoking in my airspace, it started to rain, warm droplets sprinkling innocently down on our upturned faces. Or so we thought. And time, for the next half-minute or so, slowed way the fuck down, to match my molasses-like thought process:

First, I noticed that the rain cloud seemed rather confined to the area directly above the pic-i-nic table, and more specifically, on my girlfriend's satchel.

Then, I noticed that the rain "cloud" only seemed interested in the third floor balcony.

Then, I noticed that the "cloud" had a penis.

Then, I noticed that the body attached to the penis looked rather like a dog's.

Then, I noticed that the dog-schlong cloud's leg was lifted.

Then, I noticed that said rain was not purple, but yellow, as the late afternoon sunlight was captured in the glow of the sudden unsolicited golden doggie shower. It was cinematic, baby.

At which point someone had the wherewithal to say, "IT'S A DOG-!" and we chuckled helplessly, watching his horse-like bladder finish doing its duty on our stuff for the next three minutes and 30 seconds. It was clear that this überdog of sorts had not been outside all day.

Then, my friend debated trying to salvage her bag, and the smoking guy tossed us a roll of paper towels while admitting he'd always wondered why his balcony ledge was sticky...

So remember, kids. If you're a bored, resentful indoor dog, learning to lift your leg off the 3rd floor balcony = fun for the whole family.

But not so much for the guy who lives below you.

Also, it would be nice if every grey satchel had a silver rubber lining.

The End.


Saturday, October 22, 2005


I just read an online article that, while hilarious, hits a little too close to the home. I can only hope it is intended as a parody, like The Onion or Poopycaca.com, but somehow, I suspect it's not too far from the truth. People are just that stupid. (Oh, wait...it says "Right Wing News" - this explains everything!)


Let me explain myself.

1) Someone at work compared me to a Tasmanian Devil, I suspect because he wants to drag me into a burrow, kicking and screaming, by the scruff of my neck, where he intends to mate with me for hours at a time, for three days, thrusting his sperm into me every 20 mins. until I give birth to 20 or 30 embryos which will follow a trail of Reese's Pieces into my pouch...ahem.

How nice-!

2) I used to work for a wildlife refuge, where we dealt with rescues from asshole exotic animal owners all the time (including Baylor University, which unceremoniously - and with no supporting donation - dumps a new beer-swilling bear every time their "mascot" gets too large/ferocious/alcoholic/old; and some insanely evil prick who thought it would be "cute" to have a jaguar cub to go with his Jaguar car, until she, being a wild (translation: WILD) animal, decided to tear up his interior leather seating. At which point, he hit her over the head with a lead pipe, crushing her sinus cavities, and deposited her with us to live out her sad, very un-wild life with severe breathing difficulties.

So I think we've established THAT I HATE THESE FUCKING ASSHOLES who keep wild animals as pets in some twisted quest to transform their failing, withered egos & sex organs into jungle beasts. I suspect they do this because these wild and wondrous creatures make them feel "special" by proxy when in reality THERE IS NOTHING SPECIAL ABOUT THEM AT ALL. This never ends well. Plus I will fucking kill them. Someday...sigh.

In the meantime, please enjoy John T. Hawkin's (hopefully mostly fictitious) article on Tasmanian Devils. Like myself, they are apparently the IDEAL pets-! Except for the following:

*they can bite through steel "if startled" and "have jaws so powerful, they could crush an elephant's skull like a coconut in a vise"
*they will leave a slimy, greasy green trail of "ooklaboocha" all over everything
*they hate water and baths
*they will go into a psychotic, Gremlin-like rage if exposed to water, bright light, or fed after midnight
*if they do get wet, they break out in "huge, festering green rashes" that "take months to heal"
*They may become "confused" and run in circles endlessly and smash into walls at full speed
*They will eat garbage (good)
*They will eat corpses (bad)
*They will eat your brat sister (good) and also your grandmother (bad) and your cat, dog, iguana, elephant, unborn child, etc.
*They may be "startled" by anything such as "turning on a tv, flipping on a light switch, talking, standing up, children's laughter, or looking at them."

You fucking exotic "pet" owners all deserve what you have coming to you. I mean, how many squirrels do you have to have chewing off the buttons on your remote control before you finally see the light?! George Bush, Jr. sure left ooklaboocha all over everything, and you people still love him-! DO YOU IGNORANT DUMBFUCKS NEVER LEARN?! Apparently not-!

I hope you all die horrific, mangled deaths, covered in ooklaboocha. But please, do not take these beautiful, innocent creatures with you out of your warped sense of wonderment.

YOU DIE NOW. Ooklaboocha. I mean it-! Don't make me take off my belt.


Thursday, October 20, 2005


Poor Cranky...today:

1) He's 44
2) He got not one, but two parking tickets
3) He is sitting on a grapefruit
4) We got rear-ended just now.

This is the second time I've been rear-ended when someone was giving me a ride.

If you would like to be rear-ended, you may take me for a ride in your car.

Birthdays suck. If you go out on your birthday, you should do so in a bubble.


Tuesday, October 18, 2005


It still amazes me...the variety of oddball and sometimes inflammatory items I receive in the mail. AT WORK. Somehow, even in the orifice, this stuff finds its pervvy way to me. And yet the packages I send never seem to arrive at their destination. Go figure.

Yesterday, for instance, I received this "free gift":

Hey, thanks, Herb Wesson. I actually needed a potholder.
This is almost as good as the late, great Jake Pickle's squeeky pickle handouts.

Thanks for all your work with Planned Parenthood, too. You definitely have my vote, providing no drag queens or Anna Nicole Smith are in the running.

Then, there's this:

I find the pricing of this seminar rather ironic.

And last, but not least...

The recipient of this glossy brochure would like to remain anonymous. I think the face here says it all:

Er...I will just say that I am now having difficulty in passing my male co-workers without thinking about the size of their prostates ("did you know that the prostate is the power switch that turns the penis on and off?! Well?! DID YOU?! BUY!!! THE MOST POWERFUL RELIEF for men since Adam took his first pee-! PROTECT THIS FAMILY JEWEL! DID YOU KNOW?! there's a spot on your prostate gland that triggers an instantaneous erection when your partner tickles it? All she needs to do is find a tiny area located just below your testicles...and that's just one example of how a healthy prostate POWERS YOUR PENIS!!!" Uhh...yeah.

I'm wondering if I can sue this brochure for sexual harassment in the workplace. Or perhaps this potholder...er...prostate holder?

Squeeky, squeeky.


Monday, October 17, 2005


I've always been fascinated by food stylists. Used to live with one.

However, I did not mean to stumble upon this "recipe".

We've all heard that to simulate puke for television & film, vegetable soup works fine. Preferably Campbell's Extra Chunky.

However, in order to make it smell like 3 day-old puke in a college frathouse (for atmospheric realism, or just plain evil), do the following:

1.) Concoct a bowl of papier-mâché.
2.) Make a giant donut out of the poo, an inner tube, and some chicken wire.
3.) Step 2 is totally unnecessary, but this is what he did.
4.) Conveniently forget the bowl in the back of your habitation, on top of the dryer, for one week.
5.) Then, ask your girlfriend, "what smells like puke?"

I'm just sayin'.

Anyway, we cannot be held responsible for any foul (har) play which stems from the use of this vile formula.



Friday, October 14, 2005


Is this the puss of a cold-blooded killer...?

...no. Too stoOpid.

But what about this sketchwad?

Possibly...also too stoOpid. But...


You do the crime...

...you gotta do the time.



Thursday, October 13, 2005


One of my highly skilled, heavily compensated responsibilities here at the H'wood (that's Hollywood, for short) Insane Asylum for Entertainment Types Who Have Snapped is putting out the dailies. The dailies are Industry speak for little rags like Variety and The Hollywood Reporter which detail who was hired for what project and who is funding what flim (yes, I said FLIM, that's drunk-editor-at-4-a.m. speak for film), like the Wall St. Journal of entertainment, except with better pictures.

They also report on how various FLIMS are doing at the box office, or B.O. for short, because there's only so much column space available, you see. And also because it sounds like gangsta rap. Chill.

Here are some examples of the headlines about the B.O. (does your 'wood have o'seas B.O.? Thas' yo' problem.):

Big B reigns at the BO! I wouldn't be so proud of that, if I were him.
BOFFO AT THE B.O. I thought Socko had the B.O.
Heads roll at the B.O. That bad, huh.
Weekend B.O. Apparently, a lot of people don't wash on the weekend.
Titanic's B.O. grosses...me out?
The good and bad about the B.O. There's good B.O.? This is news to me.
Binge And Purge at the B.O. Well, that's one way of doing it...personally, I purge after smelling dog business.
"Torrente 3: The Protector" broke Spanish B.O. records - if only Torrente The Protector were an underarm deodorant...
$80 million, that is still fairly low considering the BO...for $80 mil, who cares about the B.O.?
A Less Than Heavenly Weekend at the B.O. Well, I should think so.
Gigli's failure at the B.O. That J.Lo bitch can't even stank right.
Matrix didn't do so well at the B.O. One would think this would be a good thing, but no.
Why isn't The Hulk doing well at the B.O. Surprising. I always thought that green, sweaty dude would stink up the place. Why is he green, anyway? Is there a slime mold growing on his junk or what...?
B.O. heating up for Wallace That's what happens when Wallace wears those hairy sweaters.
Greeks unleashed at the B.O. Bad idea. Everyone knows Greeks are notoriously smelly, and should be kept on leashes.
OH GOD NO!: Kangaroo Jack is #1 at the B.O. Kangaroos: also smelly.
'Van Helsing' makes a killing at the B.O. Vampires are even smellier. Undead B.O. is the worst.

I hope you all have a good weekend in your box. Er. O.


Tuesday, October 11, 2005


They have done it again.

Citizens of the Earth, the crotch products people will not rest until all menstruating women are frolicking through the fields bouncing upon happy cotton ponies of estrogen-laced disposable bleached hygienic products.

I could hardly believe my eyes last night - I could only wish I hadn't seen it. The offending commercial is not on their site yet. Hopefully it will be pulled before that happens...but the grinning maxi pad one apparently wasn't bad enough.

always, lookit. Maxi pads do not smile. They may have wings, but they cannot fly (or at least, they shouldn't).

A maxi pad is not a sofa. They do not pop out and fold into lawn chairs. Not even if you are having a really heavy period, and perhaps need bedsheet-sized maxis. That is just gross.


No, you do not have to "sit on it all day." (You wish, always.) Deal with it. For crissake, wear a tampon or change the nasty thing every coupla hours. Do you, always, have to bring this up during dinnertime-?

If you, always, really want women to "have a happy period", you should lace your products with happy hormones or morphine or make them vibrate or some shit.

Don't think they haven't thought of it. I'M WATCHING YOU, always.

Who still wears pads, anyway. Yucccch.

*unless you are my uncle, who needed some surgical drainage pads, but my grandma said those were too expensive so she almost bought him maxis, instead. Not too emasculating.


Monday, October 10, 2005


Something happened on Friday which caused me to question both my sanity and that of my (now former) friend.

They weirded me out so bad that I swear, I could see the depths of Hell, or at least Middle Earth, or maybe Sodom and/or Gomorrah - and the worms crawling in, and the worms crawling out of their eyeholes, and shaking it all about; doing the Hokey Pokey, and turning themselves around - that's what it's all about. Clap, clap.

Then, Sonny, (that bird who skarks I'M CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS!) kept popping in and out of their nostrils like a Salvador Dali painting of a melting cuckoo clock.

And there weren't even any drugs involved. At least, not on my part. Yet it took me most of the weekend to get the freak flies off of me. GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OOOOOF-!!!

Don't you hate that? Being creeped out by someone who ain't even worth your time...and like other medical conditions such as the cooties or the creeping crud, it takes too damn long for the ickyness to go away.

I was heebie-jeebied out so bad, folks, I actually decided to be normal.

It lasted about a quarter of a day. Right up until this morning. By noon, I had done the following:

-described, in great detail, the perfectly pretzel-shaped turd I saw at the dog park to a superior and executive (Cranky said it must have been a Bavarian pretzel hound.)

-told off someone in HR

-gagged and bondaged (?) my co-worker's stuffed Bullwinkle w/ Scotch tape & rubber bands

So things are back to normal. Er. As it were.


Friday, October 07, 2005


Meme because 1) my back hurts, and 2) I'm just about to take a muscle relaxer that renders me almost as intelligent as a dead Boston fern. Last time I took one, my co-workers enjoyed watching me on the security cams as I bounced off of the walls like that square, white blip in PONG.

Enjoy, motherfuckers.

Everyone needs something...
I (meaning whoever sent this to me) love these. Here's what you do: go to google.com and type "(your name) needs" Then pick the 5 funniest ones there.

(If your name is Douchebag, you would put this into the search engine: "Douchebag needs"...you get the idea.)

Then copy and paste this into a new bulletin (comment, tattoo, whatever) with your answers filled in.

1. Pisser needs a your prayers!!!!! [sic]
2. Pisser needs needs £5000 yes, yes!
3. Pisser needs a patient family that will be able to provide her with unconditional love, structure, guidance and security. (Pisser is a Special Olympian, too. Good name for one.)
4. Pisser needs to put on the safety mittens before she's allowed to brush her own teeth
5. Pisser needs an escort *snort* Escort service, more like.

Actually, I'd settle for the £5000 and a lemon bundt cake.

What do you greedy bastids need...?


Thursday, October 06, 2005


I was looking up a restaurant for our clients and I found this review:

(one star) bad food, bad element
Cons: bad service, unsafe

This place was nice at first, but then the help was horrible, there's nothing but thugs up and down the place. I was robbed and the management wouldn't even help with the police investigation.

Ha, ha! Sounds like your typical Hollywood dining experience.

Pros: pros.
Cons: ex-cons.


Wednesday, October 05, 2005


I got all excited about getting a response to an article I submitted via e-mail because I've done this before, to the same rag, and got no reply - not even an automated one. So I figured the news could only be good.

Not the case.

Oh, well. I have grown to loathe them, anyway. What kind of self-respecting female reads women's magazines? They make us want to buy things we don't need. They make me feel like an aging, smelly, unhip narwhal who needs an emergency fluke lift, blubber Botox, and forcible exfoliation with painfully overpriced Lancôme products. I only riffle through theirs because it comes free to my work and nobody else reads it.

I yak on their trashy publication. My cats use it to line their shitbox; even Zippy's geriatric diarrhea drippings are too good for the likes of them.

They are so self-involved, just like real women I hate. They run articles about themselves all the time. Who the fuck cares that their fat editor got engaged? Not I, said the brown cow.

Even worse are the articles they run about celebutantes. Why do I need to see a picture of Jessica Alba looking down her petite hog-nose at me, looking smug? Do I really need to hear a 21 year-old expound about life? I think not. I would rather pick up Modern Maturity, and read about people who've had full, interesting lives, and some real wisdom, for crissakes. Also, they've had a buttload more sex than young Hog Nose. What does she know, anyway? Not a whole lot.

Sorry, just a little bitter today. I wonder if they rejected me on the basis of my age alone...? Why else would they ask for your age to be included in the subject line? I think they don't run anything by anyone over 30. I'll bet you cheese.

Oh, and if happen to be the proud owner of an elderly penis experiencing its first semi-flaccid twitchings of mid-life crisis, please stop sending me pictures of your 22 yr. old girlfriend. This isn't helping.

Pisser, Hellaoldassedcrapwriters, Anonymous


Tuesday, October 04, 2005


So here I am, sitting in my midget chair, since the rather large security guard decided to break mine's forward/back thing and the up/down thing doesn't seem to be working on this one. I think I'll just wait for someone to notice it is barely tall enough for me to peer over the edge of the desk. If that doesn't work, I'll try whining, as asking nicely for a half-decent place to put my ass doesn't seem to be working.

I feel like a dog down here on the floor. I wish I were a dog right now, because there are some things I need to get off my chest.

If I were a pissy pooch, I would hunt down and maim or kill the following:
-weed whackers before 9 a.m.
-leaf blowers all the time
-bright-eyed, bushy-tailed morning people
-spoiled, bratty kids
-Burbank Hilton
-smokers (my hero!)
-abusive bosses and other corporate dicks
-city buses that made me late for work
-Republican rump roast

Yeah, I would be a very short-lived dog, but it'd be totally worth it.

Speaking of small animals, I was staring at this woman on the bus this morning because it really, really looked like she was wearing a chinchilla on her head. Guess it was just one big dreadlock, though.

You know you're (totally) in L.A. when:
-you seriously have to ask yourself if someone's hairdo is an exotic rodent
-you overhear two models discuss drinking their own pee as a cleansing fast
-you open the door one morning and step in a crime scene
-gunshots no longer alarm you
-you see a tranny in a wheelchair, fully decked out in high heel platform acrylic see-through stripper shoes, which he/she is using to propel him/herself instead of his/her arms; you narrowly miss running over him/her on more than one occasion, but you are not in the least bit surprised. In fact, you don't even bother to mutter, "damn wheelchair-bound transvestite strippers" under your breath anymore.

Oh yeah, and if I were a dog, I would chase their attention-whoring asses, too.

Maine will be providing the explanations for this post. Good luck.


Monday, October 03, 2005


Do you believe people are still posting stupid memes?

Like I really care what kind of My Little Pony you would be if you were a small, slightly malodorous plastic quadruped named Princess Glitterbutt.

But nah, it's all in good fun. For you, anyway.

Me, I'm not normal. I was wondering this morning about what I'd screech if I were a budgerigar. NO! A mynah bird. NO! A small, green, annoying parrot.

Probably I'd skark POLLY WANTS A BURRITO! and then my owner would either a) attempt to cram a tortilla-wrapped bean and cheese greasefest through the bars of my cage, or b) tell me to cram my craw and maybe toss me some dry-ass millet (if I was lucky).

I'm thinking with my shit-for-luck the most likely scenario would be b).

So if you were a demented, shrieking avian, what kind would YOU be...? What would YOU shriek?!

If you think this is estoopid, then you are right. I'm trying to prove a point, you multiple-choice loving memelicker(s).


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