apocalypto

Groom and Kennel Expo Feb 12-15, 2009 in Pasadena. Lets do it.















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groomer to groomer covers

Tonight we sail...

Tonight we sail! Ohhh, the Dutchbag has been landlubbing too long, it's time we stood tall and beat upon our sails with the winds of a thousand bean burritos!

Oh yes, in fact, I did go there.

I apologize, the fumes of a day spent inhaling various thinners has left me in a mood stranger than most. "Mr. DB, I thought I asked you not to put glaze on that chair!" "Did you say that? Guess it's time to visit my friend Mr. Thinner and ask him for an impartial opinion..."

This reminds me of a funny story regarding an island, a beach chair, and 3 different colored solid T's (as advertised in that week's Mervyn's ad).

You see, I was on an island, and I was having a great time, stumbling to and fro while my circulatory system tried to make sense of the various liquids contained in coconuts covered with increasingly more realistic human chest hair. "Dr. Mureau?" I asked, pulling the chest hair off of my coconut and stuffing it down my shirt. I mistook a palm tree for a very tall woman and seductively unbuttoned my hawaiian shirt to show her how much more of a man I was now compared with a couple of hours back. Then I mistook a very tall woman for a palm tree and tried to sneak out a bit of urine while the rest of the island was distracted by Rum-inspired singing.

Fortunately, this tall woman was more distracted than most and didn't notice when my urine began to soak her socks. in fact, i'm pretty sure that she may have shrugged a "what the hell" up to god and added in to the fiesta at hand. I can surely bear no witness to her actually using a proper restroom receptacle in my moments of interaction with or without her.

As I stumbled away, I realized what a cliche i was, the drunk american in the hawaiian shirt, and so I stumbled and stumbled and unbuttoned the hawaiian shirt until it was floating away on a moon reflecting undertow. "The moon!" i cried, accidentally kicking a coconut. I felt so bad that I spent several minutes cradling it telling it that I loved it, that I loved all coconuts, that people make mistakes sometimes and you just have to forgive me, trust me, no i can't expect you to trust me but at least please believe me when I tell you i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm so sorry! While I was saying this cradling that I stuck a straw there where the sun don't shine on fallen coconuts, and I sucked out all that I could until I was thrown into the dark and stormy shadows of beginning sobriety. I'm pretty sure the opening chords sound a little bit like the Darth Vader theme song, except without violating any copyright laws because that's just coco-nuts.

I found myself alone, shirtless, cradling a ball of chest hair, and I understood my mission well: secure the mervyn's bag sitting motionless behind the stained wooden bars of the outside bar. I crawled along until I was against the wall beneath the bag, and I sat there motionless until I was sure that I hadn't been spotted. Then, carefully, I pulled the bag through the bars, held it against my bare chest, and ran away screaming. The couple in there new position of ownership based only on 10% of the law stood, shocked, and went running after me. But before they could reach me I hid, i hid like the devil knows how, I hid behind a tall woman with urine in her socks and I dumped the contents of the bag out on the ground to find 3 different colored solid T's on the ground before me. I put on the green one, then the red, and then the blue. Then I ran.

I collapsed about 15 feet away, kissing softly at the shapely feet of a palm tree, when a shadow cast itself upon me, taken from the bright lights of a nearby stage where people danced the same way 7 times each day. The shadow moved darker and revealed itself to be attached to a couple with 3 shirts less than an hour ago.

I stood. It was a sudden movement that left me lightheaded, so I repeated it a few times, then sat.

"We saw what you did to that coconut earlier," said the woman part of the couple. Or perhaps she demanded her shirts back, I'm a tad hazy on this point. The man said the same thing, which is unlikely now that I think about it. They probably both wanted their shirts back.

"These shirts are the only thing that keeps me from being an American cliche," I said, completely forgetting the accent mark (another american cliche I was guilty of). "Here I am, drunk as a South Carolina skunk, unawares of who I am or what I do for a living, beating up coconuts by accident in a hawaiian shirt, and an opportunity comes along for redemption so I took it. Do either of you by chance believe in gob-GLOB-glorbbb." I left my sentence unfinished and let a shower of vomited coconut insides finish my thought for me. I took off the top 2 shirts and held them out for the couple, who exchanged glances, then walked away arguing angrily. "I told you to put the handle of that bag around your ankle!"

I quit. I quit my job as an american cliche trying not to be an american cliche and I went and found a beach chair and slept until the sun came and cleaned up all my rain.

The End.

guy smiley, this is your life!

We spent the whole night in her cigarette stained apartment, dragging the edges of scissors across ribbon, curling them then taping them to her pubic region to hide her premature balding. This way the men she slept with might think she was just being festive.

"What do you think?" she asked, leaning back against the couch.

It looked sort of horrid. "I'd lick you," I said. I really meant it.

"Of course you would."

"That is why I asked you to marry me."

"Maybe a thicker tongue would have convinced me to say yes." She propped a mirror up against a cushion. "It'll be like mardi gras for pussy eaters," she said.

I finished another glass of red wine. Maybe I should get out of here. Was I really expecting her to let me go down there and sniff around, like a dog licking the frosting off of a birthday present that toppled into the cake? I tapped at my pants, but nothing much was really going on down there anyway. I guess when you're friends with an aging stripper you get bored of masturbation pretty quick. I decided to wander the city for a bit. Maybe I could meet somebody new. Someone daring. Someone that would let me be daring. Maybe I could meet the daring me! I twisted the edges of my moustache to make them pointy. I checked my reflection in the mirror on the way out, fast enough to see the points without getting the image of my face etched into my mind, like the ghost of patheticness pickled or marinated for 39 years. I tapped at my pants again.

"Knock knock."

"Nobody home."

Downstairs, everything was grey with early morning, an entire world living in the shade. "Nighttime is the shadows, twilight is the shade. Daytime, the sun." I said it again with a french accent, but it didn't sound any more sexy.

I heard the voice of an angel behind me. "Good morning, sir!" She bumped into me, but I had the wallet out and held at arm's length before her tiny fingers reached my pocket.

"Nice try," I said.

"I'll never figure this out!" she said, and ran around the corner where I could hear her crying. I didn't care! I was emboldened by the wine. Was this daring? I stooped down to her with my pointy moustache and said "little girl get lost!" Why I chose the french accent, I don't know, but that's probably why she started laughing. I stood back up. Wonderful, I thought, I just cheered up a thief. Nothing doing, mr. officer, just wandering the city cheering up the little girl who tried to rob me while the woman I'm in love with makes herself more festive for the men she lures in. I tried to picture myself happy, 30 years older, with her at my side. Instead, I saw my fingers cut, scraps of bright colors strewn about while some hideous voice called from the other room "make sure you get more toilet paper you pathetic mess, and tell that bagboy to come on by with his penis of his to put inside me!" It dawned on me, amazingly for the first time: I didn't love this beast. I wasn't even sure how she'd become my best friend, if she was my best friend. We spent more time together than people naturally do, but I think I'd become more of a pet than anything. Yes, this is it! A moment of truth. Oh, thank you wine, thank you pathetic crying girl. I would hug you, but I'm still angry.

I started back towards her apartment, then hesitated. Mine was too far for all the wine I'd been drinking. The girl peeked around the corner and giggled. Damn her! I lurched forward with a kick, but missed. She giggled again! How dare her! I kicked again, hit the wall, my wallet fell down, she grabbed my wallet and ran to a figure standing nearby.

"Damnit!" I cried. "Well, the joke is on you, I'm afraid! I have rigged my wallet with an explosive device that will spray blue ink all over you and all the money!"

"Sir," said a woman, "we know that you are local, we're just trying to run little practice runs for when we go into the city." As she spoke, I quietly pushed buttons on the cell phone in my pocket.

"We had no intentions of taking your money or your wall-"

The wallet exploded, covering them both over with blue.

"Little man wins!" I cried, and ran back into her apartment building. When I got upstairs she was lying in the bathtub watching the curled ribbon float about in little currents she pushed around.

"I wish I had thought of this when I was still stripping. When I still had the body for it." She sighed. "Why don't you go open another bottle of wine, and then maybe you can give it a try and tell me what you think." She looked up at me for a second, and I nodded somberly, using all my energy to hide my excitement. Tap tap? Come back later, something is cooking.

A Video Game script written by the character that the game is about

Int. of my car, a humble 1988 honda that I drive because I’d rather spend the money I make (from jumping on enemies) to help the little orphans or the victims of the bad guys I have to jump on top of. Or wait, a prius. How far back do those go? Fuck it, a ferrari.

Me: If I can just mutliply this figure into this one, in my head. (shot of a notebook with very detailed mathy shit – we’ll hire some nerd to draw it). And jot this down here… wait a second, this reminds me of something I calculated on page 103… (shot of me flipping back through the notebook to reveal every page has just as complicated mathy shit on it. We’ll pay the nerds in calculators, they’ll love that). Ahhh, just as I suspected, world domination! I knew he was up to something!

Ext. of my car (ferrari, don’t forget) peeling away.

Ext. of mansion (mine) with ferrari pulling up. An older man hurries off the porch to meet the ferrari.

Cougar: Dogman, I came as soon as I got your txt message! Let’s commence.

Me: Let’s roll. (camera shot of me with sunglasses, and a bad-ass guitar riff plays. Fade to black)

Int. of large evil looking castle. A man with a big moustache stands grandiosely overlooking us all.

Kid Wizard: I am Kid Wizard! I shall rule the world!

Me: Not if I can stop it! I’m the best they’ve got.

Kid Wizard: It’ll take more than that!

Cougar: He’s right, Dogman.

Me: I’ve got a plan.

I make a heroic dive for a weapon, but as I do so Kid Wizard pulls back a curtain to show my girlfriend who is totally hot in chains. Make that my wife. No, girlfriend. No no no, girlfriendS. 3 of them. All hotter than the next (wrap your minds around that one, MC Escher!). So I see the 3 girlfriends. 4? No, 3 is fine. 4 wouldn’t fit in my ferrari. So, there’s the 3 girlfriends and I put my head down sadly, like “what am I going to do now?” Then Cougar puts his hand on my shoulder and I know he has a plan, he always does.

Int. my mansion. Me and Cougar are going over blueprints and papers.

Cougar: and then if we just wait a day or so…

Me: No dice, Coug. We don’t have a day, OR so…

Cougar: What are you going to do?

Me: What I do every time, Cougar… Kick some ass.

Movies of our lives

Since I've got nothing else to contribute, I'll add this to the pile.

uncle touch me

Uncle Touch-Me sits at home watching sports. He rewinds and rewatches an outfielder make a diving catch a dozen times, then turns off the TV and takes a nap.

When he wakes up it's 3pm. The mailman has come and gone, and Uncle Touch-Me feels sad momentarily that he wasn't there to say hi, to offer some lemonade. He's very proud of his homemade lemonade. Last weekend one of the neighbor kids set up a table to sell lemonade, 1 cup for 75 cents. Uncle Touch-Me set his up for 50 cents with slightly larger cups. He saw the kid point, send his brother inside. A few minutes later the brother came out with their father. The father came over, asked Uncle Touch-Me what the big idea was.

Uncle Touch-Me laughed. Like he was going to reveal the big idea! "Give me a break. This is business," he said. "Look at my cups. Look at my prices. Take a taste."

The man took a taste and was immediately impressed at the quality of UTM's lemonade. But he was dad here, and had to make a point of standing up for his son. "I'm just trying to teach him some basic business principles," he said. "We're not trying to dominate the neighborhood lemonade business or anything. I mean, the wife and I are losing money on the whole thing, it was just something fun for him to try. Look at him over there." Uncle Touch-Me looked. The father felt a little queasy about having this giant 45 year old balding mammoth of a man looking at his son, but he hid it and went on. "He's just a kid. Slathered with sunscreen, bored out of his little mind, sitting there and pretending. His only business so far has been his stuffed animals, and they've just been running up tabs that they'll never be able to pay off. So..." The father glanced over, surprised that UTM hadn't laughed at his joke. He sighed. "Can't you play something else?" he asked. "Or at least pick a different day to do this?"

Uncle Touch-Me poured himself a glass of lemonade. He chose a tree in the distance to look at and began his reply. "Competition is the root of all business, Mr. Neighbor sir," he said. "If you want to teach your son a thing or two about business, about becoming a man, then i think the best route would be to let me sell my lemonade, as I have been doing, at a better quality, larger quantity, cheaper price, and encourage your son to adapt. This is a lesson in not counting your eggs before they hatch. This is a lesson in the real world, in the real limitations that exist out there. When McDonald's started selling hamburgers, they didn't cry to their daddies when Burger King popped up out of nowhere. They went over and investigated, researched prices, tasted the burgers, and figured out ways to cut prices, improve their own flavors, and keep on keeping on. I am the burger king to your son's mcDonald's, Mr... " he waited for the neighbor to tell him his name, and after a few seconds of awkward silence passed, he went on. "Tell him that I will be happy to purchase his business when he is ready to claim bankruptcy."

The neighbor nodded, shrugged his shoulders, said "well, you make a good point," and started back to his own yard. About halfway across the street, he heard Uncle Touch-Me yell over to his son, "You're Going Down you little rascallious lemonade vender!! Uncle Touch-Me for life!!" When he turned around, he saw UTM pounding his chest like king kong. This was too much. The neighbor went over there and knocked UTM's table over, spilling his lemonade over everything.

"Hey!" said Uncle Touch-Me. The neighbor put his finger into Uncle Touch-Me's face, tried to find something to say, gave up and walked home. An hour later Uncle Touch-Me was set up again, same as before, except now with his little ragged pet dog leashed to the table. There was a sign in front that said "back in business after repairs." Another sign a little closer to the street said "Neighbor kid lemonade in cahoots with the mob! Protest! Revolt!" He shouted to the kid, "tell your dad that the insurance company paid for all of the damage he did and then some!! You tell him that!"

The neighbor kid packed up his stuff and went inside. Uncle Touch-Me had won.

He puts the TV on and Oprah's worried face appears behind a small black microphone. Uncle Touch-Me pulls out his notebook. By the end of the show he has several new diet options to try, a couple of books to read, and a new sad story to cry himself to sleep to tonight. He turns off the TV, heaves himself off the couch, and slips on some shoes so he can go to the drive-thru for chili cheese dogs. In his notebook full of Oprah suggestions are circles and X's. The circles go around any of the diets, books, etc that he actually tries. The X's go through the ideas that he revisits and decides not to follow after all. Everything else sits untouched. As of this afternoon, there are 3 circles, 29 X's, and several hundred untouched. He smiles to himself as the taste of chili cheese dogs in his imagination gives him a sneak preview.

"Today is going to be great," he decides.

work diaries 17APR: I drive out of hatred of driving

In the past driving to work was all about how fast I could get there. Speed around the slow cars, do anything to get around the car in front of you... even if... that meant... being one car ahead of the next car.

Now I don't hate my job, it's fun. I get to be creative but it has it's issues like working 3 days straight etc. Most people hate to go to work. Most people can't wait to get out of work. I find myself more and more wanting to get out of work.

What I can't understand now, is driving fast to get to work. I realized after doing this, that a ticket for speeding to get to a place where I'm trying to make money makes no sense. I also realized that no matter how fast I got to work, the e-mails, desk, people in the office and parking spaces will always be there. They aren't going to magically go away if I get in early or just because I got in to handle things faster doesn't mean they will stop coming. The next day I have more e-mails like those people didn't know I got into work early the day before.

What the hell, I do these things to have a relaxing Friday in khaki shorts and a golf shirt. I do this so you don't email me with issues and actual work to do after 5pm. How hard is that to understand? Stop emailing me when I drive 90 mph to get to work on a residential street cutting off moron's who are enjoying their new CD's in their car. I'm still staying in the office till 10pm every night writing e-mails to try and make myself sound smart to everyone around me. Everyone sends an e-mail and puts in their own words the same damn thing that everyone else is saying so you can pretty much expect a laundry list of replies that basically say the same damn thing. "I feel that this is not going to be good for our company cause it costs alot..." "the cost of this issue I feel will be detrimental and put us over our budget..." "I don't think this cost is justifiable within the parameters of the margin..." Come on people, throw in your favorite Fraggle Rock episode and why you like it to help break up the monotony.

SUV SUV SUV SUV SUV SUV SUV
parking lot, wave of SUV's, sales event on PCH so many cars with no people in them SUV's for sale in the middle of the road, on $05 freeway, stop and you can't go again so many SUV's with AC on, little girls that can't see over the steering wheel, you want a Suburban? test drive one right now, just get out of your little HOnda and hope in. It's right there next to you on the $01 freeway heading North.

The higher off the ground you are the more of a man you can be. The higher your throne above the other cars the more power you instill with your manliness, lion maneliness on your throne of porcelain, are those 30 meter rims you got spinnin on your tonka truck? man, man, I am a man I can shake my fist at someone that can't see me from my aztec style truck that looks like Voltron's foot and towers above your puny little car.

is today over yet?

married to the MOB

this is a modern action thriller about a man married to a mail order bride.

In other news, the bigger the truck the bigger the ego.

Three things not to eat today: poison, poison, and more poison!

What are we listening to? the sound of my failing heart.

Falling in love is like Killing 2 Birds with one stone: both idioms.

Trowsers is a more refined way of saying pants, but Knickers takes all.

until next time!

Yul Be Sorry!

Riddle Times 3

What word can be written forward,
backward or upside down, and can
still be read from left to right?

here's a hint: it begins with "N" and ends with "oon"

this is AM

This morning I went running, but I hadn't fully awakened yet so I couldn't really see out of my left eye, which is why when one of my neighbors backed out in a bright yellow SUV that was brighter than anything, I ran straight into the corner of it. In slow motion I spun around and in a deep voice a long drawn out "noooooooooooooooooooooo" spun around me, as I spun inside, like the earth inside the moon, and i came to a clumsy fall on both hands, rolled onto my right shoulder, somersaulted back around and up to my feet, and as I was finding my footing I looked over with my right eye and saw Mary-Anne, that cute ginger down the way that I was saving up my courage for, I saw her coming out twirling keys around one finger looking down at the items she was carrying, and she looked up just as I was staggering back to balance, and I spat down through gritted teeth "feet don't fail me now", and I kept on, left foot, right foot, arm forward, arm forward, left foot, right foot, and I had it again, it's just running it's not very hard, and I smiled and waved and she stood there staring, and said,

"oh my god, you're bleeding!"

She was looking at my forehead, so I reached up and touched it, and it was blood mixed with oil and dirt, and in the brilliance of thought that always comes when I'm dizzy, in pain, exhausted, hungry, and horny (it happens more often than you'd know), I blurted out "I always sweat blood when I'm on my third FOURTH! mile of running, as I obviously am now", and she just stared looking a little bit confused, and back a few houses the bright yellow SUV was stopped and a curly gray-haired professor was watching me run away, and she hollered over to Mary-Anne, "is he OK?", and Mary-Anne sort of shrugged, and they both watched me jog off.

I reached the end of the street with every step increasing the intensity of the pulsating pain coming from my right temple, and instead of turning right and going for my usual 3 block path I decided to turn around, thinking the whole time about smarter things I could have said to that lovely ginger that's lived so long down Gilligan ave with her old orange Saab plastered with bumper stickers of bands that I would happily paste all over my purple Hyundai. It was a long block so both yellow suv and orange saab had plenty of time to pull out and start their days, and so I plodded along, feeling my heart beat and the pain continue to increase, rubbing my left eye to get the blurryness away, and as I reached Mary-Anne's house I realized that honesty would have probably been better, who would want to date some loser douche-bag that won't even admit to falling down during a morning jog anyway? Which is the last thought that went through my mind before I ran full on into the side of Mary-Anne's orange saab and howled out in pain, and I fell backward onto the pavement and heard her emergency brake crank, and she came running out and said "Skip! are you okay?"

My head was aching in the front, pulsating on the right, my right shoulder felt dislocated and I still couldn't see out of my left eye, so I did the most sensible thing I could imagine: i turned my head away from her voice and vomited. Then I put my head back down and looked up with my right eye through the branches of a green tree at the blue sky above, and I said "I'm sorry I hurt myself on your car."

She laughed, and I swear her laughter moved the leaves above and brightened the sky, but it turns out it was just my concussion. When I regained consciousness I was on her lawn and she was putting a wet rag on my forehead. Her orange saab was running, with it's little "See The City!" sign plastered on the side, and she said "listen, I have to go pick up these tourists and give them a 3 hour tour, but when I come back I'll check on you. Can you walk home?"

i nodded, which hurt more than anything, and then I climbed to my feet and started to walk home. when I checked the time on my cell phone it was only a few minutes later than when I ran into her car, but it felt like hours had passed. She drove alongside me with her window down and handed me a piece of paper. "This is my phone number, if you need anything let me know." I said thank you and waved goodbye. I smiled, which hurt almost as much as when I nodded. I did need something, I thought. Her good loving. I smiled again. Then I stumbled to the gutter and threw up.

Is coca-cola making america fat?

In an effort to make myself seem smart while simultaneously turning myself famous, I decided to perform a simple experiment using myself as the guinea pig. The question: Is coca-cola making america fat? The answer: YES.

Hi, my name is Clancy Robinson, and my goal with this blog is to show you, america, that something you hold close and dear to your hearts is actually damaging your health, costing orphans their soup, pissing asparagus green in the gutters of urban landscapes, and making everybody's lunch more delicious. My goal is also to be hated by extremist republicans and loved by everyone else, until eventually I'm hated by everyone except for a few radical armpit hair lesbians at Santa Cruz and Berkeley. This is my goal.

The first thing I did to find out what the health effects of coca-cola is on a human being is to confront congress with a megaphone shouting out various things like "why are you not revealing the secrets of coke experiment zero you jerks!! What are you hiding from?" Then I knocked on Clint Eastwood's front door and offered him a coke, which he declined, and then I went for my megaphone, which unfortunately I'd left in the car, so I put my foot in the door as he slammed it, which hurt immensely, and I said "why don't you want a sip of america's favorite cola?", to which he replied "because you're not wearing any clothes", which was a semi-valid point, keyword here "SEMI" repeat after me, "SEMI-valid", america, let's move on.

In preparation for my experiment, I cancelled my water and power, bought a stock of candles and lard, and put my exercise equipment into the rust-o-tron 3000. Then I hired a camera crew to film me doing everyday things like plunging my head into a 5-gallon bucket full of coke, doing coke-bongs, eating lard with my bear hands, and vomiting for hours. By the time the experiment was set to begin I was a sicky, yellow, smelly human being with a full crew of cameramen that never went anywhere without their trusty barf bags. We were practically family.

Day 1: 100 pounds.
The vomiting from the lard had caused me to lose an immense amount of body weight. But over time my body had grown accustomed to the lard, so I was quickly climbing back up. 2 days previously I was at 89 pounds, so I had gained 11 pounds just from lard and COCA-COLA.

Day2: 138 pounds.
I was almost back up to my average body weight. Harold from the camera crew posted a video of me singing "I will Survive" on youtube. So far, 17 views, but I'm sure this number will rise exponentially very soon. Is "bigger than Oprah" a valid value, science?

Day 3: 176 pounds.
I have been in and out of consciousness all day today. Earlier one of the camera crew asked me if I wanted an ambulance and I think I said no. I meant to say yes. I lost consciousness before I had a chance to correct myself. When I woke up a few minutes ago i noticed that the camera crew had left. There was a note that said "if you are not dead, please send payment here." They were a sweet bunch, practically family. Where is my TV?


Day 7: 97 pounds.
The doctors say I have finally stabilized. Apparently, a diet of pure lard and COCA-COLA is not
healthy, they say. I sent payment to the camera crew and they'll be releasing the videos soon, so look for it in your local indie theaters. I'll be there to introduce them in Santa Cruz and Berkeley, so ladies leave your boyfriends at home.

-Clancy

March Sadness

Every year around this time, all the men in the world gather around their televisions, radios and arenas to watch the spectacle known as "March Madness".
But what they don't know is that every woman in their lives call this same time of year "March Sadness".
Whether they're making plans to make more babies. Planning one of their famous last week and a half of March-vacations or just totally PMSing, these ladies are left at home to cry. All of them.
Sure, they have the full and loving attention of their male counterparts the rest of the year, but that doesn't matter.
I often walk by the women's restroom at my local place of employment and hear the weeping.
Mascara everywhere. The jarring horn-like sound of noses being blown. Red eyes for days.
It's all there, fellas.
So, while you're enjoying your favorite time of the year, take a second to think about your wife. Or your daughter. Or your mother. Or your friend's wife. Or your future daughters.
And when you get home, be sure to pick a daisy from the neighbor's garden, dust off the soil and hand it to your wife as she tries to make you out from behind her swollen and blurry eyes.
Then get right back to drinking an ice cold Bud Light.

And tell her she can take a swig if she's down for it.

new theories fresh out of the farmer's alamac's bible

theory 1:

Mary Christ wasn't very attractive in high school, none of the boys would have anything to do with her, so the nickname "Virgin Mary" was stamped, stuck, and the saddest part is she found a husband, grew out of her acne scars, filled out properly, yet the nickname never went away. And when she squeezed out Jesus, the nickname didn't bug her any more, she found it sort of funny that she could go her whole life with this nickname, but she had no idea how sort of funny it could actually be. Because, you see, when she gave birth to Jesus, she was giving birth to the son of god. And the people who could write, which wasn't very many because she lived in a 3rd world country, they were way into this birth, and they wrote all about it, put it in a book called the bible, New York Times gave it raving reviews, and her nickname was immortalized. Even now, 2000 years later, people still call her the virgin mary. Fuck Jesus' return, imagine HER return when she's like, "oh hi, i'm Mary Christ", and these fuckers are like "oh holy Jesus, it's the Virgin Mary!" and then she's like, "God Christ damnit! We were all virgins once! I'll fuck you right now. Come on, let's go. i'll show you who the virgin is!!"

This is based on a true story from the future.

theory 2:

When Joseph Christ came to town and met Mary for the first time he was truly in love. Her shirt hung a bit low, you could see the glistening sweat on her cleavage, she had this really cute sweet smile, and she had a Pavement patch on her dress. So he asked the nearest guy about her, asked if she was the marrying type, who her parents were, what the story was basically. The guy said she was looking for a man to marry, her parents were poor but nice, she was a great cook, some other shit. Joseph asked if she was a virgin. The man laughed. Then he saw that this Joseph guy was serious, so he took a serious expression and said sarcastically, "yeah, she's a virgin, the virgin mary is what we call her. All of our unmarried women are virgins. In fact, i'm sure that is true for the entire flat piece of flatness that we call the world. Yes, the flat world is full of unmarried virgins."

Joseph didn't realized that the guy was being sarcastic, had no idea even that the world wasn't flat. Actually, most people thought it was flat, though it was weird that the stars and sun and moon all moved the same way every day, like they reached some point then hit reset. But regardless, Joseph took the guys words literally, and he went up to Mary and said he'd like to Mary her. But Mary thought the guy was square, smiled politely, told him she wasn't interested, went back to her work. Joseph took a room nearby and tried to think of some way to convince her to marry him. He started writing a book called The Bible.

Meanwhile, God Almighty in the sky was on an Earth -0001 tour, and when he came to Mary's town she put on her sluttiest outfit and screamed the whole show, then went backstage and fucked the shit out of him afterwards. She woke up 3 days later from all the drugs and fucking and realized she was pregnant. She didn't know what to tell her parents. So she wandered, and as she wandered she saw Joseph Christ behind an open door talking to himself as he wrote in his Bible. She thought it was actually kind of cute and endearing, and in her current situation it was exactly what she needed. So she went inside and accepted his previous offer, and let him call her virgin mary in his silly book, and they married, and when people found out that the son of god's stepdad wrote this book about it they went crazy and everybody bought like 1000 copies and the world tore itself a new one with happiness, and mary's sarcastic nickname became immortalized like Michael Jackson.

pennies

pennies are pretty worthless, until you have so many of them that your swimming pool is overflowing with pennies, and you're dragging buckets of them to the nearest coinstar machine then spending the money they give you on hot dogs and Archie comics. And you can do this every day, and that's all you have to do, because you know why? You have so many pennies that you never have to work again.

what do you think about that?

this is dedicated to all the penny haters out there.

in passing...

Ken: Man, if I won sixty thousand dollars, I would buy a mansion.
Mike: Yeah...

narrator: The year is 2006. These kids have no concept of money.

Mike: I would buy a jet!
Ken: I would buy 11 candy bars and eat them one day each week! I would save the candy bars, not eat too much each day. I want my money to last me!
Mike: I would buy 2 bicycles!

narrator: These kids think that 11 candy bars are just as valuable as a mansion.

Riddle Times 2

Man walks over a bridge,
Man walks under a bridge.
In time of war he burns a bridge.

What is it?

can I get a...

Jason and Jimi think they're so cool because they're so tall, and their names both start with J. Well fine, you go and have your secret "tall and j club" meetings while I sit at home with a rainbow feeling like a leprechaun. kind of like this:



By the way, this is what Rock Band looks like when you set the difficulty to "sucks":




In other news, my trip up to mammoth was a success, meaning that I didn't break my neck snowboarding or anything (here's my secret: I went inner tubing instead). I spent most of the time doing a puzzle, or sitting in the hot tub, or doing a puzzle in the hot tub (which ruined the puzzle, so I came home).

I guess blogs like this should be written in a diary tucked under your mattress. It's like that guy in the elevator that tries to tell you about the sandwich he made for himself during lunch. It's exciting for him, but you could really care less. Couldn't care less. Please move on to a more interesting entry below.

Napkin Pants

I had idea strike me this afternoon while out at the local eatery. Whilst downing a double cheeseburger my eyes caught my Son wiping his hands on his pants as he was wrist deep in ketchup. A parent gets exhausted of asking their child to stop wiping his/her hands on his/her pants. As I was rearing back with my hand at full thrust I brought it forward and snatched up a napkin to hand it to him and once again say for what I believe has to be the 26,453rd time, "WIPE YOUR HANDS ON A NAPKIN!"...but then like Einstein came up with the invention of nuclear power and the atomic bomb. I also discovered the most amazing idea, NAPKIN PANTS.

That's right for boys and girls ages 4 to 24, Napkin Pants can be used for those sloppy joe nights, restaurant night, pizza night and Passover. What better joy for child and parent then a pair of pants made entirely out of napkin. The school yards, the playgrounds, and the malls would be full of this hip new raiment I call Napkin Pants. Sadly I have no will power to continue on with this idea or this article.

knight rider

sometimes you turn 21 at some bar downtown and some drunken girl you meet in a drunken haze finally smiles the 8th time you tell her it's your birthday, and she buys you another beer, shares it with you, ends up drinking more of it than you. You end up sleeping on her living room floor without blankets or pillows, too drunk to stay awake after making out for 20 minutes or so, hands wandering, eyes rolling back, one shoe on, one shoe hanging from her doorknob, and half filled bottles of booze corked or capped resting just as splayed and out-of-place as you, drool running down neck down pooling on her favorite My Bloody Valentine CD.

and that's the start, and it's one of those relationships that are fun, wild, unpredictable, and you see each other everyday even though you tell your friends that you know it's stupid, and she does things that piss you off, and really you're 21 now, you should be trying to find the one, there's no way she's the one, but when you're lying with her watching Twin Peaks at 4am on bottle 3 of some cheap merlot you don't think you could ever love anyone more.

And when the relationship ends, you know it's right to end, and you feel sad, you remember some of the old times, but the more time that passes the more you know it's right to be over. And when you end up getting back together 5 years later on some long mistake of a night out and about, it's even worse than before, and it's missing a lot of the things you found charming the first time around, and when you get back together again another while later, it's even worse than you could have imagined, and you both sort of fake smiles and make excuses to go separate ways, and maybe you go home and look at a picture of you and her from that first night, 21 and drunk, and you smile one last happy thought about her, then tear the picture in half and let it rest at the bottom of the kitchen trash.

Anyway, this post is about knight rider. and this is the 4th time. Time to tear that picture in half, hollywood.

Riddle Times 1

As I was going to remove my chives
I met a man with seven knives
His seven knives he held with seven gloves
His seven gloves he wore them snug

chives, knives and gloves how many were going to St. Ives?

1up-Me2

1up-Me2, yeah you know the guy. The guy who comes around at work, school and parties and jumps in on the conversation and says things like "Me too!" or "I've done that." How does he know what we're talking about? How does he know? ...because he's 1up-Me2! The guy who claims he has just one more then you. The guy who knows it all. Take for example; you get to work, your buddy comes over and explains about his new PC he just ordered is so awesome. Your Buddy tells you he just ordered the new Dell XPS with 8 gigabytes with dual process... when all of a sudden from out of no where, "I just got the new 12 gigabytes Dell double X-PS, with triple processors."



He did it again, 1uped you, you pathetic median grade owner of all products not worthy by his standards. Majority of the time you'd love to strangle him or even call him out on it, "Oh yeah, TOM! Where's this Double X-PS with triple processors? Where is it TOM! just as I thought"...but you don't because you are embarrassed for him. That's right, in the long run you know and everyone else knows that this guy is just embarrassing the shit out of himself. With his wild tales of how he spent 1 more week then you in Hawaii, or the time he broke both his legs to your one, or when he scaled K2 twice, once without a canteen because he forgot his canteen back at base camp, or the time he got in a sword fight with Antonio Banderas on the set of Shrek 2, or when he claims to be an ancestor of Pontius Pilate.



Yeah, that 1up-Me2 guy is a character for sure and in a way we need him. He helps bring the colleagues, classmates and friends together for a good ole "wtf moment". If you have read this and don't get it, maybe that's because you made a novel of this or perhaps you wrote this yesterday before I did, or maybe even you read it before I hit the submit button. Clever you are 1up-Me2.

Television at its greatest?

I can't decide on whether I like "The New Adventures of Old Christine" or "The Bill Engvall Show" better. Let's break it down...

New Adventures:
-A divorced 50something woman sadly stumbles through life
-Wanda Sykes as a hilarious best friend
-Julia Louis-Dreyfus somehow making us forget about her role on a different television show (that good?) (yes)
-An effeminate 7 year-old son you won't forget
-An ex-husband who adds laughter as well as brings out the baggage of the 50something star
-A younger brother that lives with our star and her 7 year-old effeminate son
-Writers That you might have thought were always on strike (sorry WGA, that joke's mine)
-The previously mentioned "younger brother" is something like 17 years her junior
-The previously mentioned "ex-husband" is about 10 years her junior
-Laugh track
-Blue States (?)

Engvall:
-Bill Engvall in a groundbreaking family sitcom role
-He plays a therapist
-He may have gotten noticed on the Blue Collar Comedy Tour, but he's left those guys in the dust
-I'm assuming Larry the Cable Guy and Jeff Foxworthy do occaisionally guest on the show
-Nancy Travis resurrects her career as "the wife"
-Some kids play their children (I think there's 3 of them)
-Only the Superstation TBS has the smarts to put this on prime time
-Fills the void left when Tim Allen left US high and dry by getting his show canceled
-Red States

That probably sums both shows up very well.
Now that I've made it easy,
Why don't you cast your vote, America?

Hitler

The problem with Hitler freezing himself to be thawed out in the future is that he didn't establish any damage control. People fucking hate Hitler. If he set up the machine to thaw 65 years forward, 2010, he'd pop out, then he'd be murdered by anybody who realized what was going on. I'd like to see a comedy about a frozen hitler in the basement of some german museum that gets mistakenly transferred to malibu, CA, and ends up thawed out in the california sun and makes friends with a group of surfers who think he's just some square old surfer dude. He smokes weed, listens to the beach boys, talks about lost love around the campfire at night. Then eventually they figure out who he is, and they have to decide whether to turn him in or keep him as a tubular new friend. In the end, US authorities start to take him away, but then one surfer stands up and says something like, "he is my friend." Then another stands up and says the same thing. Then another. Before long, all of them say it. Close up shot of one of the government authorities in black sunglasses, one tear running down his left cheek. he lets go and Hitler runs back to his friends and they all have a group hug while "California Dreamin" plays in the background. And there will be a scene at some point in the movie where some neo-nazi dude comes to see hitler and say how much he admires him, and this is the scene where the writers are trying to get the audience to like hitler, he says something like "no way, man, we were wrong, what we did was wrong. You go home and you change. Choose love, not hate. I mean, look at yourself. You haven't talked to your black daughter in years." and the neo-nazi cries, and he changes, and hitler surfs and smokes some pot. It could be called something like "What I did Over Mein Summer Vacation."


But in reality (uhhhh... based on the "reality" of somebody successfully unfreezing themselves and going on to live), he's probably unfreeze, be disoriented, try to figure out what was going on, probably bolt around like some mad-eyed schizophrenic, sleep on the streets like a bum, murder some bums, and at some point somebody's gonna discover the cryogenic machine, scientist's will discover that it was hitler, front page shits across everything, track down hitler, hold him to trial or something, somebody would probably murder him like they done Lee Harvey Oswalt.

Anyway, just a thought.

Jam Bands

I might be wrong, but I think jam bands need to stop making music and start doing other things, like ceasing to exist. And people who see jam bands perform need to stop telling me about how great it was, and start doing other things, like ceasing to exist, or showering the thick scent of old marijuana off of their Phish t-shirts. And bumper stickers on paint-faded volvos need to stop telling how great Dave Matthews Band and Dancing Grateful Dead Bears are, and start doing other things, like ceasing to exist, or encouraging the grateful dead to actually be grateful that they're dead, the way the rest of us are.


This is a public service announcement.