Herpes for all!

I just saw an ad on TV that said 70% of blah blah blah genital herpes. What was said during all the blah-blah-blahs? I don't know. And frankly, I don't care.

Look, when will we get over the herpes issue? At some point we're all gonna get 'em no matter how hard we try to avoid 'em. Why not just give in?

There're medications for outbreaks, and the commercials tell me I can have a normal life. So bring on the herpes-ridden chicks.

Wait... can you get herpes on your tongue? Bah. Who cares? Like my great-grandmother used to say, "Herpes is herpes." Meaning, it doesn't matter what kind or where they are. Genital herpes, eye herpes, brain herpes... they're all the same.

I just don't want to get space herpes.
(this footage is the best I could do on short notice. skip to minute 4 and ride it out to minute 7.)

Race issues resolved

Pat Buchanan (seen here, third from the right) truly is a leader on race issues. As long as the race we're talking about is non-nonwhites.

In his latest piece, Pat pulls no punches on Obama's race speech. He tells it like it is. Blacks in America have had it too good for too long. They're lucky to be here, as he so eloquently proves in this passage:

First, America has been the best country on earth for black folks. It was here that 600,000 black people, brought from Africa in slave ships, grew into a community of 40 million, were introduced to Christian salvation, and reached the greatest levels of freedom and prosperity blacks have ever known.

You're welcome, black people! We white folk had your best interests at heart when we kidnapped, sold, bought, tortured and murdered your ancestors. We also gave you a religion that forces you to turn the other cheek and forgive us. (Nice loophole, my white forefathers!)

Now will everyone just shut up about race? Wise, old Pat has set everything right. Hey, blacks! We'll take our reparations in Thank You notes.

Silence would be golden if there were ever any fucking silence

"Hi, I'm Robin."
I said my name.
"Z---, who?"
That alone rubbed me the wrong way. But I told her anyway.
"You don't look like him."
I was getting pissed off. But it was my uncle's birthday party, and I didn't know how this chick came to be invited so I wasn't quite ready to spoil everyone's evening with my boiling rage.
"Actually, yes, I do."
"I've met you before. You were very quiet. You need to smile more. Liven up."
I hope no one was standing on either side of me because steam shot from my ears.

Later, she came up to me after I had whiskey in me.
"You just don't look like you're having a good time."
"Sorry."
"You don't like me, do you?"
"Not really, no."
"God, you don't have to be like that. I want us to be friends."
I walked off.

Still later, she came up again. What the fuck? I thought I'd moved beyond hints to the explicit. But she felt the need to speak.
"What's your problem?"
"Excuse me?"
"What's your problem? Why don't you like me?"
Good fucking god.
"Listen, lady, I've had enough of this shit."
As I walked off, she tried her version of offending me.
"You're not very nice."
"I know."
"You're being a jerk."
I kept walking.
"You're an asshole."
I turned partially.
"Yeah, I get it."

One more time later... why won't the freakshow go home?
"You really hurt my feelings earlier."
"Yep. That sounds like me."

That pretty much ended it. But it reinforced my personal philosophy:
I. Fucking. Hate. People.

East bound and down, loaded up and truckin'

I had a long way to go and a short time to get there. I was on the horn to Guitar Man when the Christmas lights kicked on.

"Hey, Guitar Man, you got your ears on, good buddy? You know who that is? That's Mr. Evil Knievel. He snuck in my back door, son, when I wasn't lookin'. You better flip-flop back here and gimme' a hand, son, or we gonna be in a heap of trouble. Please roger that transmission!"

"Roger that, Outlaw. I just passed another Kojak with a Kodak. This place is crawling with bears, where the hell are you?"

"Ten miles from Nowhere, Texas."

"I'll be right there."

And all of that happened except that I pulled over and took my ticket so obsequiously it probably had Burt Reynolds spinning in his grave.

An Easter message from me and Zombie Jesus

What??? I haven't posted since Tuesday??!! I thought once I jumpstarted this goddamn blog, it would write itself. Whose idea was it to create it anyway?

Well, Zod, if that is your real name, all things are created by God. The same God whose name you just invoked to damn the blog. That will be five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers and thank you, come again.

How about I just give you a Christ on a Crutch, and we'll call it even?

Thou shalt not take my name, the Lord's name, in--

Fuck you.



And... SCENE!
Happy Easter, everybody!

A forgotten hero

Somehow this item completely slipped through my brain's fingers for the past several years. I have a vague recollection of making a mental note to remember it, but as they say, I forgot to remember to forget. Except that I forgot to remember to remember to remember. Or whatever.

On April 7, the world will observe the seventh anniversary of the death of actor David Graf. Perhaps you know him as Tackleberry in the classic Police Academy septology (each one an improvement on the previous, culminating in a flawless film set in post-Cold War Russia featuring a plot both topical and gripping).

As I recall, America was only entering the sixth month of mourning the loss of this great thespian before our focus shifted to the tragic events of 9-11. And while no individual as great as David Graf died in that attack, I would argue that all of those people added together come close to equaling the value of Mr. Graf and thus deserved every bit of attention they received on the news. I won't listen to anyone who would argue otherwise. So all of you America-haters can cram it back down your throats.

So by my calculations, we owe Mr. Graf another seven months of recognition. To drag it out as long as possible, I propose that we honor him one month each year over the next seven years. I'm leaning toward February because that month ain't being used for nothing now anyway.

Until I get this pushed through Congress or my local police academy or whoever owns the rights to David Graf's corpse and memories, enjoy this scene that I call the most spectacular combination of acting and action ever witnessed on the big screen.

Do I blame St. Patrick's Day or do I blame douchebags?

So I pull into my apartment parking lot after work today (Monday) and pull in near the mailboxes so I can grab my all-important junkmail before I go inside to ingest an 18-pack of Lone Star, watch my new Muppet Show DVDs and pass out face-down in my bathroom as a forgotten pot of water boils down to nothing on the stove. Typical Monday. I'm a creature of habit.




But just as I start to get out of my car, I notice a jackass with a green-striped stovepipe hat standing near the mailboxes, like some kind of busybody cat in the hat.


I think, this can't be good. I glare at him through my windshield as I gather some CDs to take inside. Then I notice he has a clipboard, and all bets are off. Fuck that guy. Fuck him with a handful of porcupine babies. Ain't nobody gonna ruin my evening by talking to me.



I abandon the mail for tonight. But if he's still there after my first 6 beers, I'm gonna go down there, pull his hat over his face and beat him mercilessly. And then sodomize him with porcupine babies.

Music is none of my business

When was the last time a new genre of music was created? Seriously, I don't know. But I can only assume it was in the 80s with the advent of sports-team dance-rap (see Chicago Bears, L.A. Dodgers, etc.).

The truth is, the prospect of new and interesting music died when Darren "Buffy, The Human Beat Box" Robinson of The Fat Boys dropped from a heart attack in 1995.

People have tried again and again, but everything they've come up with so far has thoroughly and enthusiastically sucked horse privates. So I'm calling on all real and wannabe musicians to dig deep and come up with something fresh, innovative and totally unprecedented. Like gangsta gospel. Or Appalachian techno. I don't know, I'm just spitballing here.

I don't like to toss around the word "crisis" lightly. But this, people, is the worst fucking crisis the world has ever faced. I'm counting on all of you to come through. Meanwhile, I'll be watching "Scott Baio is 46... And Pregnant."

I'm a good soldier

This may be the best office-wide email I've ever received at a job:

I am collecting empty wine bottles for a project at home and would like to encourage you to drink as much wine as you can in the next few months to help me complete my project, and bring your empties to work.


Not sure who this lady is, but I assume she's above me in the hierarchy and thus could be considered my boss. I shall obey.

Friends are like the TV show "Friends": awful

In an update email from Shelfari, which is like Facebook for the intelligentsia such as myself, I was hit with this advice:
Your friends weren't active this week. Find more friends.

I felt like I had just opened the wisest fortune cookie ever. Much better than the one I got that said, "Your kindness is your greatest asset." That goddamn cookie didn't know me at all! My greatest asset is my DVD of "Kentucky Fried Movie" with a close second place going to my tattoo of Jesus that resembles an enchilada.

But for reals, I'm dumping all my current friends and finding new, more active ones. Or at least friends I don't hate. If you want to apply or audition to be my new friend, you first need to answer the following questions:

1. Are you male of female? ____ Why or why not?

2. Choose your age group: young/beautiful or old/ridiculous

3. Do you have a nickname? If no, you shall be called Peckerhead. If yes, what is it? _________ That name sucks. You shall be called Peckerhead.

4. Philanthropy is a hobby of mine. Will you help me break that habit?

5. Have you ever set your genitals on fire with a magnifying glass? (There's no wrong answer.)

6. Will you pass the salt?

7. Now the pepper?

8. Have you ever invaded a country based on cherrypicked intelligence? Then brother, you haven't lived.

9. In what state would you find the gentlest prison rapists?

10. Have you stopped beating your wife?

BONUS RIDDLE: He is I and I am him. Slim with the tilted brim. What's my motherfuckin' name?

Of presidents and prostitutes

By my primitive counting techniques (seen right), Clinton has to win the remaining states by some seriously significant margins to take the delegate lead from Obamamamama.




So if he's got a slight lead in delegates when the primaries are over, will the superdelegates all side with him? Or, drunk on their own power and promises from the Clintons, will they turn to the dark side?




And even if Obama pulls it out, will we find out that he "pulls it out" too often, like a certain fellow Democrat, New York Governor Eliot Spitzer, who has a taste for high-dollar hookers?




What we need is a president who will actually get off his ass and take the fight to the purveyors of evil and corruption. Someone who knows the backstreets of this country and can root out crime where it festers. Someone who practices what he preaches. Someone who can bring real hope and inspiration through action rather than speeches. I can think of only one candidate who I'd be proud to call Mr. President. And he's already defeated most of the major heads of global terror:

Always read your Evites

Based on a true story.

Here, take this shovel and start digging over there away from that tree so you don't hit the thicker part of the roots.

Uhhh... OK.

While you're doing that, I'll wrap the body in the tarp and grab another shovel.

Wait. What? What's going on?

What do you mean?

What the fuck is going on here?

I explained it in the Evite.

In the Evite? I didn't really read the whole thing. I thought it was for a party.

Well, I called it a burial party. But I was fairly explicit on what we're doing here.

This is getting weird. I think I'd better leave. I don't want to know more than what you've told me.

We're burying my wife.

Goddamn it, I said I don't... ahhhh... shit.

Look, man, you already responded 'yes' to the Evite, so that makes you an accomplice.

But I didn't--

No wonder you were the only one out of 50 who accepted the invitation.

Oh my god. All of those people know about this. I've got to call the cops.

Really? Do you think I won't kill you too? Don't you watch movies? After the initial killing, subsequent murders just get easier, especially when you're trying to cover up the first one. That's not a threat. Don't take it as a threat. You and I are cool. I'm just saying it's an inevitability. Nothing personal.

If you come near me, I'll beat you all to hell with this shovel. Now I'm going back to my car, and I'm reporting you to the authorities.

What if I help you bury your wife after this?

...

...

Yeah, OK. Dig over there, you said?

The Three-Word Miracle

So passed the morning tinkering in my laboratory, as I usually do on Saturdays. I've spent months trying to find a cure for the general malaise afflicting the country, like my name was Jimmy Carter. Except "history's greatest monster" thought government could fix everything.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big-government liberal. I believe government should micromanage our lives and tell us how to think, for the most part. As the old saying goes, the law is like bad weather. Sometimes you just have to relax and enjoy it. Wait, that's rape. Rape is like the weather. Sometimes I get my Texasisms mixed up.

Anyway, I realized this morning that all the tools and chemicals in my lab are useless against the dour mood Americans are wallowing in. Wallowing like pigs in their own filth and sick.

So I looked out my window, and the answer appeared like a beacon of light from a light beacon. Living in suburbia, the answer was waddling in front of me all along. As a patriot, I offer this to my country with no need for compensation or recognition. The pride of a seeing the U.S. return to the glory of whatever decade was the most glorious will be enough for me. Besides, my miracle cure isn't really a miracle at all. It's right out your window, on your sidewalks, in your malls, at your office... Shit, it's everywhere. You just didn't appreciate before. But I think you will now.

It can be summed up in three words:




Let Dallas's own Freddie say it another way:



All this talk about beacon and malaise is making me hungry for a BLT for some reason.

snow blog post: early draft

Snowflakes fell like giant white unstained bedsheets. Quickly, I grabbed my digital camera and snapped some shots.
[attach empty boxes with white backgrounds to make the rubes who read this shit think that either the snow was really thick or that you fucked up the attachments. either way, you get the last laugh at these assholes!]

The heartless corporation I work for received a heart transplant after some dude's fatal car crash in the icy slush, so they let us out early. The drive home was precarious, but I got a few pics of the traffic.
[look up something mildly amusing on the Internet to use as traffic shot. Flinstones cars maybe? don't think too hard. save the best joke for the last paragraph.]

I got home just in time to vomit up the bad shellfish I had at lunch. [try to photoshop an unattractive celebrity coming out of your mouth as you heave into toilet. if necessary, take weekend photoshop tutorial.]

I learned to make a hot toddy with household products, MacGyver style.
[dig up corpse of Richard Dean Anderson and pose body with household items. on the off chance that he's still alive and working in Hollywood, change reference to Mr. Wizard, who is most definitely dead.]

All in all, it was a good day. And I hope that work is canceled tomorrow so I can spend some time on my favorite hobbies.
[link to sites on woodworking, fishing, stamp-collecting, juggling, tossing salads (food), tossing salads (non-food)]

[return to traffic paragraph and come up with better joke pic due to weak last paragraph.]

If they're not careful, we'll leave Bono stranded in Africa

The Irish are on thin ice. But haven't they always been?

First St. Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland and into American zoos and snake farms, where they continue to creep me out. Then they let about a quarter of their population die during the The Irish Potato Famine just because they didn't want to eat their burgers without fries, which led to the tragic shuttering of hundreds of McDonald's and Carl's Juniors.

Now a pub in New York is banning the song "Danny Boy" this month because it's "depressing," it's not "sung in Ireland on St. Patrick's Day," and it wasn't even written by an "Irishman."

So fucking what? Get over yourselves, Irish. If an Irishman had written the song, the rest of us wouldn't be able to understand it. It takes an English songwriter to write a song in English, as the old adage goes.

And who cares what goes on in Ireland on St. Patrick's Day? America is the country that dyes its rivers green and serves green beer and fights in the streets and vomits in our car floorboards on the way home from the bars and parades on this holiday. Whereas, the Irish that every day. And if you ask me, that's a problem, not a cause for celebration.

So I'm standing by the song "Danny Boy" and demanding that it be sung on St. Patrick's Day. If you don't know the words, you can learn them here:

The one story you want to hear

I have a million stories from my European vacation, and they will all be included on this blog in overlong, mindnumbing detail, like a Dave Eggers book.

But I know you are only interested in one story. You think it's the story of how I was literally within testicles-kicking distance of Robert "Does Anybody Remember Laughter?" Plant. But it's not (even though I was, and I've got the out-of-focus, "that could be anyone" pictures to prove it).

The story you want to hear is how I enraged a whole village of Bavarians by starting a small riot while dancing on stage. As you all know, I'm not a fighter. But more than that, I'm not a dancer in a classical sense. I'm more of a bumper and grinder, per se. More of a get down on the ground and fuck the floor kind of dancer.

The fight was all just a slight misunderstanding. I got called onto the stage to participate in a traditional dance at a schnitzel-and-beer festival. Just as I started to figure out the moves, I thought one of the other dancers got a little rough with me. I still feel I was right to be pissed, but I may have overreacted. It all went downhill from there.

You be the judge.

the anti-climactic thrill of voting

I was in line at 6:45 a.m. this morning, making me the 5th person to vote at the polling location and 1st in my precinct. And just like that it was over, with no assurance that my candidate would win. Democratic presidential candidate, that is. Because the good lord knows I wasn't prepared for the other offices on the ballot. So for everyone else I just voted for ethnic-sounding names and women. If that doesn't get me laid...

My choice for top gun is Barack Obama, who I've been calling Balack Obama much to the chagrin of liberals everywhere. But I feel like if we take the mockery focus away from his middle and last names, we can get past the whole murderous dictator and Muslim terrorist thing and get back to old-fashioned American racism.

Meanwhile, my proudest moment of being a Texas Democrat came this morning when I stood behind a 50-year-old man with an AC/DC "Highway to Hell" beanie. It was a nod to the fact that no matter who we vote for, we're riding this political experiment called America all the way to Satan's doorstep. But we'll rock the whole way down.

howdy

this is a personal blog that will include everything from my favorite obscenities (see if you can spot the fuckers!) to who i'm sleeping with (hint: she's "full of hot air"... and plastic) to where i've been over the last 2+ weeks (Gitmo?) to favorite recipes (add 1 cup of milk to 1.5 cups of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and voilà!) to detailed play-by-play of my many, many victorious barroom brawls to political opinions that actually matter (mine).

i hope you enjoy the entries, comment on them, learn from them, are washed free of sin by them, and, most importantly, ignore the typos in them.

p.s. i will sometimes repost things i've already written on myspace for the sake of those who don't do myspace. and because i'm a lazy, lazy man-child.