Monday, February 27, 2006


Inspired by Avatar, who has me thinking that branding your asses might actually be a viable early warning system for potential mates.

Of course, you wouldn't want them anywhere too obvious, lest an accidental wardrobe malfunction enlighten the entire workplace that you do, indeed, enjoy anal fisting. No, I think they belong somewhere visible without getting nekkid, but not readily noticeable without the brand-ee's permission.

Not that I'm suggesting anyone would be forcibly tattooed. Think of it as a voluntary thing, like a background check or a resume. No...?

Just think, a quick peek behind the ears (like a greyhound's tattoos - you don't want them to be located anywhere too personal or else you may be to worked up to heed the warnings and bring the proceedings to a screeching halt) and you have the majority of the info you need to decide whether your potential partner is worth even scrumping.

But in order to prevent fakery, I'm thinking there needs to be a branch of government created just to deal with this. Oooh! How very anti-Handmaid's Tale. There would have to be a lot of certification, research, and licensing. I'm up for it...how 'bout you? Hell, maybe I'd even want to work there. My title: Bullshit Detector.

Anyway, here are my contributions to Avatar's ingenious early warning system for ass:


Good night and good luck-!


Sunday, February 26, 2006


There was absolutely nothing on TV the other night. We actually had to resort to watching the Winter Olympics.

PISSER: What's curling...?
CRANKY: They have to get their thing into the circle, and another guy can knock it out.
PISSER: Sounds like sex.
CRANKY: It is, if you're Canadian.

I thought that was hockey.


Thursday, February 23, 2006


With your host, Ma Pisser.

Some people's mothers wouldn't want to discuss this sort of thing. Not mine.

MA: I don't mean to get too personal, but what are you doing for birth control?
ME: Uh...that is too personal.
MA: Oh.

Mine is no shrinking violet about matters of the hea...er, pants. Sometimes I wish she was a bit more...private.

ME: Watching Margaret "Unnecessary Head" Cho performance, during which she is graphically describing some lesbian midget fisting a normal-sized woman, with accompanying hand motion.
MA: That is disgusting. [Which does not seem to keep her from coming in out of the kitchen, anyway, to watch.]
ME: Watching Margaret rant about how she can't find her G-spot, but if someone could show her to it, she would follow them in her car.
MA: I don't know what's wrong with that woman. Mine was always there.

What can I say? She came of age in the 60's. And she has opinions about your junk:

ME: Watching Seinfeld, where Elaine has to hire the snip-snip dude for a bris.
MA: He's called a mohel.
ME: I could never do that to my child.
MA: ?!! Have you ever seen an uncircumcised...have you seen one?
ME: uh...
ME: Still somewhat speechless I...figure God put it there for a reason.

And yet, even she has limits:

ME: What are you and Grandma doing?
MA: Going to the PX to buy panties.
ME: She needs panties?
MA: Yes, grandmas need panties too.
ME: Granny panties.
MA: ...?!
ME: Well, you know how you call my thong underwear...
MA: Slingshots.
ME: Yeah, pretty much anything other than that is granny panties.
MA: Well, it's better than having that thing up your butt.
ME: I know...just today I yanked 'em down too fast and I think I accidentally gave myself a free asswax.
MA: ...ew.

Yeah, right. Like now she's a nun or something.


Tuesday, February 21, 2006


No need to drop acid, just read these excuses for not coming to work (not that some of those things haven't happened to me - remember the time I couldn't get out my front door because there was a homeless person on my stoop? - so I'm pretty sure they aren't all lies).

I hate people most of the time, but gotta love them for just being so fucking stupid and bizarre.

What other species fabricates this sort of shit, wears the pelt of a deceased badger on its head and thinks it looks good, lies to its spouse and leaves her for a stripper named Cherry Pie (who has had two overfilled Baggies surgically implanted dangerously close to her vital organs) and procreates with her even though she cannot distinguish a baby from a crack pipe; stuffs itself on one-molecule-away-from-plastic crap even ants won't eat because they can tell it's bad for them, and then loses its mind, buys a Ferrari, and then decides it's Jesus...? And speaking of that invisible man who lives in the sky (and supposedly talks to some, but not all, of us - unless we have a pointy head, or are wearing a pointy hat), not to mention the only slightly more evolved ape in the White House who even at this very moment, between flinging turds of legislation, is formulating a plan in his prostate-sized alcohol-bloated pea-brain which will probably result in all of us either baking to death, freezing, or get us all blown to Kingdom Come by a bunch of professional suicide bombers (great job, good benes, if you aren't very good at it)...and tell me, what kind of "dumb" animal would knowingly do that shit...?

None, that's what kind.

OK, so maybe squirrels.


Saturday, February 18, 2006


Is it just me, or does this remind you of this...? (No, I'm not gonna pull that off...!)

(Please note the Cheezy Bite in lower left-hand corner is spoOging and/or retching violently, most likely in response to Jessica Simpson.) Also, it is good to know you can get a LARGE one for $11.99. Dang. (But I'd prefer my pizza crust smeg-free, thanks...I'm still getting over the one they made with the layer of Laughing Cow spoO in the middle.)

Oh dear Lord Sweet Jesus and Calgon, take me away.

Also, is it just me, or do movie posters, the cover of Rolling Stone, etc. seem to be a little bit pube-heavy these days...? I know, the 70's came back in about 10 years ago and never left, but c'mon. How many people get all hot and bothered over even celebrity short and curlies?! (Are they even allowed to have any...? Or are those stunt pubes?)

I mean, is it really necessary to show that much of the mons pubis, or in men, just...pubes?

Waiter, there's a (curly) hair in my soup...and my bread...and my pizza.



Thursday, February 16, 2006


Other grandma, not the widow of recently deceased Grandpa F., R.I.P.Ha. F. Rip. I'm immature.

Within the first five minutes of my visit:

GRANDMA: Can I ask, do you ever run a comb through your hair...?
ME: shakes head in perplexity, looking at her head, which resembles nothing so much as a cockeyed Brillo pad with wings ??!!
GRANDMA: ...or is that against the rules?

No 'sorry about your grandpa', no 'thank you for schlepping all the way down to Outer Buttfuck,' just a commentary on my crap appearance, which has been the last thing on my mind.

Another gem:

GRANDMA: Your hair...is that the style 'out there'...?
ME: Heavy sigh. What 'style'?
GRANDMA: Unkempt?

Good gravy, Grandma.
Pot, kettle. It's all the same vat 'o genetic ooze. Where does she think I got this lovely half-Jewfro, anyway...?


Tuesday, February 07, 2006


Here is the space where I maybe should be posting the "Grandpa F. 1919-2006" picture, but I would have to crop out my ass first as it is distracting, plus he's looking at me like "WHO ARE YOU?!", plus there's some nice wadded-up Kleenex in the photo and etc.

Long story short, I couldn't get a flight out last night, my mom didn't think he'd make it another 2 days, then a day, then another 2 hrs., then she was right. I didn't even make it onto the airport shuttle. She called me about 45 mins. later, as I was arguing on the phone with the airline/boss/security seat-asswarmer. Then I was told I couldn't change my flight over the phone without having to pay for an upgrade (huh?!), so I had to do it online, which I don't have at home, so I pole-vaulted in to boot the security ass/seatwarmer out of my chair and he rose, stink lines 'a wigglin', just in the nick of time for me to change my flight (which online, for some reason, cost $10 less) in time for the memorial service on Fri. Making me wish I'd just stuck to my original plan of flying out on Fri.


You may ask what I'm doing at work.

There is no good answer to that question and I'm not about to answer as the answer just pisses me off.

So, instead:

Like, being dead, 'n stuff.

It really sucks.

It is quieter than here.

Shit on your body turns blue.

Some people, whose names I will not mention (Aunt Fluffy) will try to make it all their drama.

Others (Aunt Sniffy) will just fly in and piss everyone else off (sibling Seagull Management).

Just because someone is dead does not mean that the airline reservation agent is necessarily going to be nice to you.

Cremation takes 24-36 hrs. It is "a process."

People who get cremated do not always get to live in a nice urn on the mantel. We, for example, do not even have a mantel. Plus my mom's sisters would probably fight over who gets the ashes because not all of them have mantels.

Some people get cremated and then they bury the ashes. Huh?!

I guess this is called an "interment".

The "interment" may be on an entirely different day (month, even) as the "memorial service."

At the "memorial service," some people who did not even know him will talk and say a bunch of sh*t.

Probably about The Jesus.

For some reason, we are getting a priest and a nun, even though our family is mixed religions (i.e. some of his daughters "converted from nothing"). All of the sudden, we are Catholic. I don't get it.

On the brighter side, sometimes, people who are cremated talk their wives into having them made into something, such as art, decorative pot(s), or a birdbath.

If your loved one was a military, say, a colonel in Guadalcanal, some guys in uniforms may come to your ceremony and do a flag-foldy thingy and/or a bugely thingy.
HOWEVER: the bugely thing may actually be only a guy with a crappy boombox instead of an actual bugler (?), and when he presses PLAY, it doesn't work.

Also, Blowhard Uncle Scott is a douchebag.

I don't think my grandparents wanted anything other than a graveside service, but if Blowhard Uncle Scott, who is currently living proof that the military will take ANYBODY, gets involved, they may have:
-flag-foldy dealie
-bugler/malfunctioning boombox
-21-gun salute, AT A FUNERAL HOME, which alarms or possibly gives some of its visitors a heart attack.


My mom says she's just relieved that no one has talked my grandma into having him made into a birdbath.


Monday, February 06, 2006


Kind of blue. Not so much cornflower blue. More Midnight Blue. Ohhhhhhhh.

It's looking like Grandpa F's days are numbered (but aren't they all?) He's in a hospice. I'm already hunkered down for a funeral, but on the off chance he survives, hoping for the best. Whatever that means.

In the meanwhile, I'm having some awfully odd reactions to this news. I know we all grieve differently, but this is ridiculous:


And I'm 31. Cripes. Something to be said for dumb luck.

-Feeling very Irish-wakish: pathetically grateful he's had a long and mostly happy life and isn't in any pain, just basically propped up at this point
-Getting drunk and calling people
-Doing karaoke, except replacing most of the words with "something, something, words...awww, fACK."
-Getting Shipoopi! from THE MUSIC MAN stuck in head, which I hate
-Feeling like leaping up in air and clicking heels together like a freaking leprechaun while singing same
-Sitting on a park bench (how heavy is that shit?)
-Feeling like a dead duck
-Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come
-Wondering why mourning involves so many weirdo song lyrics
-Buying unnecessary lip gloss
-Buying more unnecessary lip gloss
-All things in excess! WoO!!
-Getting hair done so don't look like sh*t at funeral; then being happy no one has noticed damn $100 rat's nest (though this, in my book, is the mark of a good haircut.)
-Getting...other stuff
-The Raging Horn
-Having Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey, except about my grandpa.

(And I thought my ex was strange, when his father died, for getting a freaking TATTOO and wanting to...nevermind.)

So if I should disappear suddenly, you're probably safe to assume it's either a) funeral, or b) all of the above.

Thank you, drive through, and God bless America.



Thursday, February 02, 2006


To Maine, on his something-thecond birthday: a pitcher of my piss.*

*urine shown is not my actual urine.
**I think what he actually wanted was a pitcher of my puss.
*** Sorry. It's not what you think. Perv.

So I have looked further into that article sent to me by linkless wonder, Alexander Supertramp, and this whole trucker bomb situation is a lot more serious than I thought.

Selected quotes:

Embarrassment causes most truckers to toss their bombs onto the side of the road instead of placing them where they belong..."are you really going to walk into a gas station with a giant yellowish gallon of milk so you can dispose of it properly?"

Uh, yes. That would be ideal. In fact, I would like to dispose of it properly by NOT WHIPPING MY SCHLONG [which I do not have] OUT AND INSERTING IT INTO A MILK JUG IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I shudder to think of what they do for waste of the brown variety, or, if they don't even stop to pee, what else they don't do. Like SHOWER.

Plus there's the fact that some hookers work exclusively out of truck stops. I pity the poor gals. P.U.

BUT WAIT, there's MORE!:

Filling up bottles is not the only disposal method in use by some truckers. Hoses that run from the driver's seat to the outside of the truck are in use by some, Millis said.

Some truckers even make mini-bombs they use to even the score with pesky automobiles, Millis said.

"I have heard of some truckers filling up Ziploc®**** bags and tossing them at cars that speed or cut us off."

ATTENTION, ALL DRIVERS: DO NOT BE PISSING OFF DE TRUCKERS, or you may get pissed on. Also, do not drive around them, beside them, or even look at them, or we'll call you "Mellow Yellow," quite rightly.

At least there's hope:

Wyoming this year increased the maximum penalty for littering bodily fluid to nine months in jail and a $1,000 fine.

No spooging out the window, either. Not even if Maine swears it's Drive-By Bukkake Day. Noooo. That sh*t is harder to get off than bird fuck.

People, using chemical weaponry made out of your own personal ick isn't just inconsiderate, it's against the law. Even if it is really, really funny:

"Some truckers throw these 'trucker bombs' out the window and lawn mowers sometimes run over them."

Oh, now isn't that poetic? I feel a song writing session coming on. Or a "mowers 'hit them, they explode'" haiku:

O, lovely pee bomb
Roadside resplendent amber
[Mowers] Hit them, they explode

"The [lawn mower] operator ends up wearing this stuff," Randy Dobyns told state senators.

My official response: ew.

Some states have gone so far as to appeal to truckers themselves, but Warfield recalls how that backfired on a colleague in Arizona. "He did not get a warm reception," she says.

Okay, I think they're taking this pee analogy a bit too far...

JOURNALISTS OF AMERICA: please do not use the words "warm" or "backfired" in an article about pee, or I will pee-bomb you. Godawful puns are BAD.

To the rest of you, I say: give a hoot - don't pee-lute.

*WHACK* *pow!* *SPLOOSH*!

****I wonder how the dairy industry and SC Johnson: "A Family Company" feels about this...? Perhaps they should start a new line of opaque "trucker milk" cartons and PeeBags: Explode on Their Windshields, Not in Your Hands!™ lines, respectively.


Wednesday, February 01, 2006


I tried to watch this last night. Really, I tried.

Normally, I would say, hey. Like it or not, the guy is our Commander in Chief, duly elected by the majority of people in our nation today who read at a third-grade level, and even though he stole that first election, the will of the citizenry and blah blah blah. Hell. I can even summon a certain fondness for the deceased President Reagan, I mean, yeah, turning all those criminally insane folks loose on Los Angeles wasn't too keen, but he looked and sounded so damned spiffy. I mean, presidential. I can even say that of Bush I, "The One-Terminator". Sadly, the poop-flinging whippersnapper, Bush II "Oh, Sh*t" is still loose in our Oval Orifice.

This character...I'm convinced that a zoo somewhere is missing its monkey. Aww, cripes. I believe in evolution and all, but c'mon. This is ridiculous.

As you've probably guessed, I didn't do too well. Mostly, I came up with this list:


Instead of watching the State of the Union Address.

-Sigh heavily.
-Groom self and cat ass. Pick non-existent fleas off same.
-Contemplate my navel. Navels are kind of gross.
-Look around for stuff to clean.
-See Bonzo pay lip service to environmental causes. Ha. Funny.
-Bonzo bad. No banana.
-Break stuff.
-Roll eyes.
-Simultaneously pat head and rub tummy.
-Dig Sen. Barack "Where's the Beef?" Obama. Enjoy repeating "Barack Obama" to self.
-Entertain girl-on-girl fantasy about Natalie Maines.
-Switch to PBS; watch documentary on why terrorists are all so pissed off all the time.
-Ponder our country's real problems (courtesy of A. Supertramp)
-Wonder why Prez Bush's flag lapel pin is semi-erect, but Cheney's is flaccid.
-Take a big, hot, steaming dump.



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