Wednesday, August 25, 2010

"Inception" is Fucking Bad Ass. Period.

"Inception" is ball-rattlingly good. This is not an opinion and there is no counter-argument to this 100% certifiable fact. It is fucking awesome and that is the end of the chat. To any dudes out there that are still sticking to their lame guns and saying that "Leonardo DiCaprio is a fag", well guess what, you're fags. That guy gets more hot ass than a toilet seat in the changing room of a Victoria's Secret fashion show. Like try and remember the hottest chick you ever banged in your life. The hammered drunk one with daddy issues and low self-esteem. Leonardo would have none of that shit. He'd piss on her and walk out of the room.

If you like cool people, explosions, gun fights, fights, cool architectural post-apocalyptic looking shit, dreams inside of dreams inside of dreams, Tom Berenger, Ellen Page's wispy form and her "I can't tell if she is hot or not" face, and shooting automatic weapons while snow skiing, then go see this movie. If you don't like those things, then go fuck yourself.

This New Movie About the Creation of Facebook Sucks, and I haven't Even Seen it

When is the fucking glorification and empowering of nerds going to end? I've had enough. I know and have accepted as fact that the golden age of the nerd is upon us. I wax nostalgic about days of yore when nerds were glorified only in parody, as in the masterpiece of cinema "Revenge of the Nerds". It seems that many today do not remember such pieces of artistic mastery and factual information. In modern times we are fed false tales of glorified nerd activity such as "21" or "Social Network". The past few decades have been the perfect storm for nerds. The communication and computer revolution have ushered in a new world order where for the moment, nerds are seemingly on top. Because they have chosen to spend their youth not in the ball fields or gaming halls, but rather in their bedrooms, curtains drawn and huddled over their PC, suddenly they find themselves with the high-paying jobs. But really that is where the story ends, or should end. This isn't getting nerds laid. This isn't getting nerds invited to hot parties. This isn't getting nerds to the front of the line for opening night at the new club. But Hollywood wants you to believe it is. In Hollywood hackers look like Hugh Jackman and have Hally Berry sweating their cock. No one is buying it...yet. But keep misleading people with nerd fluff pieces such as these and who knows what might happen? Suddenly you open your door one morning and the sky is yellow, the sun is blue, and it is raining straight up from the ground.

It may well be time for a counter-nerd revolution. Meat heads and cool people alike taking to the streets, bouncing nerd heads off of curbs and mashing them into toilets for a fresh flush. These nerds need to be reminded that while you may be able to somehow CTRL + ALT + DELETE a way to kill a deer, men with fists and clubs can at any moment arrive and steal that deer away from you, and women will fuck them for it.
Enjoy your day in the sun nerds. A day of reckoning is coming, and my man Ogre awaits.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Fantasy Football Draft this Saturday Bitches!!!

You had all better be staying the fuck in on Friday night, because Saturday is going to be off the mutherfucking chain, son! This is going to be the most bad-ass fantasy football draft we've ever had. Just when you thought that a group of grown men, many with families and multiple responsibilities, pretending to be in some league where they essentially trade baseball cards around until someone yells "Stop!" and the person holding the cards with the highest tally of stats is declared the winner couldn't get any were dead-assed wrong. You put me in charge of this year's draft and now I am putting the NASTY in Fanasty, bitches. The part where we pretend to be sports owners and have our own league that doesn't really exist is just fantasy, but this draft day soiree I put together...this shit is real. Where is it going to be you ask? Hooters, mutherfucker. Who served us shitty wings last year and lukewarm Miller Lite in a garage while it poured down rain outside? Danny's busted-ass pregnant fucking wife Cheryl, who didn't even have the common decency to wear a low-cut top while she did it. By the way Danny, congratulations on your new daughter Tina, she's beautiful. Who is serving the kick-ass hot wings and ice-cold Miller Lite this year? Marginally attractive white-trash chicks with cesarean section scars, that's the fuck who. Titties will be poppin' and they sure as shit won't refuse to serve wings in the 4th round of the draft because their mom came over to plan a baby shower, nor will they cut J-Bomb off for being too drunk to drive home. My cousin Larry, who is an unemployed disc jockey that lives in my aunt and uncle's basement, is going to be on a portable karaoke machine announcing all our picks to the crowd just like we're in MSG. Not like last year when Tyler was announcing all the picks on Danny's son's bull horn and making a fart noise after all the picks. It is time we institute a little professionalism into this fantasy thing guys. Not only will we have the picks on the sound system, but we've also got a little something special for the actual draft board. Mike has done a solid job the past couple of years keeping everything organized in his graph-paper lined notebook, but that amateur-night bullshit is over. I brought Sanjay on board for the draft this year. For those of you that work with me, you'll know Sanjay. He is the balding Indian guy from our IT department. He always has on the pleated khaki pants and the monogrammed short-sleeve button-up shirt. Wears the black "Tupac: Thug Life" tee shirt on casual Fridays. You know who the fuck I'm talking about. Anyway Sanjay put together this bad-ass Excel Macro that will keep our entire draft sorted out AND we can display this on a projector screen on the wall at Hooters. They are going to move the giant framed poster of Bob Hope getting kissed on both cheeks by Hooters girls off the back wall so we can project the Excel draft there. It will be fucking awesome and this way any random people who happen to be at Hooters eating lunch on a random Saturday in August with no major sporting events on TV will be able to see how fucking badass we are.

For those of you who keep asking which night we're going to get together during the season: You're all fucking retards. Ummmm, which weeknight, other than Monday, does the NFL regularly televise football games and Applebee's offer $2.00 Miller Lite 20oz'ers? Oh, only Monday you say? Well then I guess its still Monday night that we're getting together to crush wings, pound beers, and watch football, dipshits. I'm fed up to my fucking tits with all the bitching from some of you guys about conflicts of interest on Monday nights. Guess what, we all have to make sacrifices in order to fulfill the obligations that matter most to us. And if getting together at a local chain restaurant on the side of the freeway to chug coldies and watch two teams that we don't even root for play football isn't at the top of your priority pyramid, then maybe you need to get your fucking life together. People are bitching about work, lawns, ballet lessons....yes, BALLET LESSONS! (Sorry Steve, your daughter is cute but lets face reality: She isn't going to be invited to join the Bolshoi Ballet anytime soon. I know your wife has had a MS flare-up and is in a wheel chair, but I'll tell you the same thing I told you on your wedding day: You have to make sure she pulls her own fucking weight for this to ever work out.). My son Justin has a soccer game every Monday night this fall. I told him right up front, I'll drop you off for every game, but I'm not watching one minute of it. And I will be too drunk to drive after the game, let alone pick you up. Besides, Oliver's dad can give you a ride home. He is one of those douche bags that goes to all his kids' games--sober--and pretends like he gives a shit and cheers and stuff. Its embarrassing. Its become apparent that my daughter has a serious learning disability. The only night the licensed tutor for this disability is available to work with her is Monday night. Apparently she gets paid shit and has to work a second job in the evenings Tuesday through Friday. Well guess what Ms. Liberal Whiny Bitch....if you want our $10/hour to tutor Sylvia then fucking act like it. So as you can see I'm sacrificing pointless shit in order to hit up MNF, which means you assholes can do the same. Besides, as you all know, if we want to reserve the "PLAYAZ" section at Applebee's on Mondays, we have to have a minimum of 12 guys there.

My next point regards money. We are gambling on individual fantasy games, with cash money. Anybody who doesn't like it can take their broke, busted ass back to some other bar and just watch football. I have no idea what the point of watching football is if you can't have an alternate, make-believe universe of statistical competition overlapping the real football that live, tangible men are playing, but whatever floats your pansy-assed boat I guess. The cool guys are going to be gambling on the fake life dream league that we are in, deal with it. This is FANTASY FOOTBALL, not romper room. I've taken a serious tax penalty to cash in my kid's college fund that I set up before either of them were born and am wallowing in cash for this season, so be ready to fantasy gamble or fucking go home.

From 10:30 a.m. until Who:Fucking:Knows this Saturday, Hooters is ours boys. Steve, if you wear those jean shorts with the Tazmanian Devil stitched on the back pocket again this year, you are fucking not getting one pick in the first round. All y'all mutherfuckers know I'm getting Peyton Manning anyway and am going to rain down fantasy beat-downs on your ass all season long, so you may as well put down as many Miller Lites as you can on Saturday before it begins.

Peace out bitches.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

I'm Extremely Impressed with BP

I cannot get over how awesome of a company BP is. They are all over the Gulf of Mexico right now cleaning up oil. They are doing it pro bono, totally for humanitarian purposes. BRAVO! I will be filling up my automobiles with BP gas for the rest of my life. They saw an ecological disaster strike in an area of the world where they aren't even from, and they stepped up to the plate and did what no one else wanted to do. Listen, no one-BP included-has any idea who caused this heinous disaster of epic proportions. It materialized out of thin air as if triggered by God himself. BP took it upon themselves as citizens of planet earth to clean up their world and make it a better place for everyone. The residents of the Gulf should be down on their knees felating the good people at BP for rescuing them from the unknown assailants that flooder their beloved homeland in light sweet crude. If more corporations would act as selflessly as BP our environment and our world in general would be a much better place. One of these days we're going to find the bastards that caused this calamity and fine their asses into oblivion. Until that time its comforting to know there are truly good people in this world like BP that are there to clean up other people's messes, even if they don't have to.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

So Now Girls are Dying from Autoerotic Asphyxiation?

I thought only dudes tried to choke themselves out to maximize orgasm? I guess I was wrong. Numerous girls just in the past week. I'm certainly not sexist when it comes to the topic of masturbation. Women have just as much right to it as men, possibly more given the fact that their success rate during sexual intercourse is less than 100%, while for men it is 104%. I just thought that shit was reserved for the lead singer of INXS, David Carradine and other weirdos who aren't satisfied with orgasms unless they include an oxygen-less brain. Apparently that group now includes split-tails as well. Who knew?

Sunday, August 15, 2010

The Cream of Society Rises to the Top at the Chicago Air & Water Show

It looks like a Nascar race, an episode of Biggest Loser, a WWF Wrestlemania and an episode of Jerry Springer simultaneously broke off at the Chicago lakefront. If that sounds good to you, then throw on a pair of jean shorts and run on down. I'm not sure what it is about a 95 degree humid day that makes overweight people reach for the denim before heading outside for 8 hours, but it works. I actually love the Air & Water Show, but if you think I'm wading through that contaminated ocean of humanity to see it, you're nuts.

Nothing Says "I Will Never Have an Office Job" Quite as Loudly as Neck or Forearm Tattoos

We get it, you aren't planning to work in no fuckin' office man, not now, not fuckin' never. Just in case one day you lose your fucking marbles and decide you want some loco shit like health insurance or transferable computer skills, you've made certain that part of your brain can't win. And who gives a shit anyway, you've left yourself wide open to succeed in neck/forearm tat friendly careers such as rock star, NBA player, and pirate. If the manager of Corporation X doesn't understand why you got "Daekwann 4EVA" etarnally inked on the side of your neck, that's his fucking problem.

Your "Gifted" Child is Probably Just Showing Early Signs of Being Gay

You can quit getting all excited and telling everyone about his or her reading comprehension level, or their amazing singing voice. Your kid isn't 20 years away from a Nobel Prize in Literature or the next Frank Sinatra, I promise you. What they are probably 20 years away from is drinking 7 glasses of wine at Thanksgiving dinner so they can work up the courage to tell their overbearing, hovering asshat parents that they are gay. Then dad can yell at mom that "This is why I said I didn't want him going to that liberal arts college, they turn kids gay!" and mom responds in typical denial "He's just being theatrical, he's always been a showman!". Meanwhile Grandpa takes another long pull on his scotch and scotch and says to no one in particular "I didn't liberate the fuckin Kuwaitis for this bullshit" as the sister who has always known the truth in her heart hugs him and says "Just move in with me in Manhattan, you'll fit in there".

That is really fantastic that little Billy is reading at a 3rd grade level, in the 1st grade. Guess what? Outside of you, and maybe your parents, no one gives a flying fuck. He's in the 99th percentile for math?!?! So was I, and I went on to fucking fail Calculus. Just because Suzy rakes a bow across a violin and makes music that sounds like an elephant being put down with a razor blade does not make her the next Yo-Yo Ma. And you know what, that's okay. So put your copy of Outliers down and chill the fuck out. Everyone, me included, would be much more impressed if you told us your kid has fun playing wiffle ball in the back yard with neighborhood kids, or that you found a Penthouse next to a bottle of lotion and box of Kleenex under their bed. You running your fucking mouth to anyone unlucky enough to have to listen isn't going to get your kid into Juilliard or earn them a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford. But do you know what it is going to do? Its going to make all of your friends and family cringe, and I mean like they just saw a femur bone break through someone's thigh muscle fucking cringe, every time you open your goddamned mouth and start a story with "Well Michael's teacher told me last week....." or "I walked into the den and Michael was reading.....". Its going to cause your kid to start believing the hype you cram up his or her ass 24/7 and they will believe that they are truly better than their peers. They'll behave accordingly and pretty soon everyone will hate them. Then you'll end up with a social misfit who will be double-fucked once everyone else catches up to their reading level or you figure out that to be a true piano virtuoso you need freakishly long fingers.
During the Bataan Death March to greatness you force them on they are going to miss out on a lot of life. Parties, getting laid, farts to the face, beating up dorks like them, movies, hand jobs, sports, recreational drug use, bribing drunks to buy them beer at 7/11, etc. All to feed the illusion that mommy and daddy's DNA hit the genetic lottery. When Einstein was a young child he invented his own language. Then he invented his own religion. After that he wrote hymns in the language he invented. And then he conducted masses in his own religion in the language he invented. So call me when your little prodigy reenacts the Battle of Gettysburg with armies that he whittled out of his own feces, and until then just please shut the fuck up.

Chicago is Currently Registering a 9.3 on the Swamp-Ass Richter Scale

Chicago has the greatest, most moderate weather in the country. You've got two choices: 1) Dick-numbingly cold or 2) Hotter than 10 fat people in a Volkswagen. That's it. There is no spring and about 2 weeks of fall. The rest is either Antarctica or Kinshasa. You can't walk 1 block right now without having to stop and conduct a sport wipe. My dog was so hot today he had no idea what to do, so he just fucking puked. I don't blame him, I might take a dump in the street I'm so confused. Does anyone know where you can buy manpons?

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Testimony from the Front Lines of America's Battle with Obesity

A dear colleague of mine from University recently told me the below story. To protect the innocent I will identify him only as "Aaron". It is easy sometimes to cast your lot with those on one side of an argument, or the other. More often than not it those arguing who have never actually experienced what they argue over. Aaron has suffered mightily yet come out clean on the other side. I present the story verbatim so that readers may understand what it is like to walk a mile in the moccasins of the afflicted:

"Obesity is a DISEASE" Argument

As a formally fat and despicable person who has reformed himself, I would like to give my own opinion on the matter of Obesity being a disease or not. Please understand that I am not foolish enough to believe that my situation encapsulates all obese people, nor do I want to convey that my situation is all encompassing. I simply would like to comment on what made me obese and what finally "cured" me.
The year is 1988. I am a relatively "normal" child in terms of weight and body size. Daddy and mommy get divorced and life seems to be different. In an effort to feel good I delve into a world of binge eating and video games. This lifestyle continues for a few years and is somehow tolerated by my mother. As one of the fattest people in my grade I would commonly be ridiculed and bullied. Instead of fixing myself I get worse. I would commonly eat bags of Orea Cookies in 5-10 minutes. I would eat the 5 for 5 at Arby's without pause. I ate so much string cheese at my grandmothers one time I could not shit for 3 days. I once ate a loaf of Italian Bread right after my mom purchased it by eating 11 bologna sandwiches in a 20 minute span. I went trick or treating also until 7th grade.The point of the matter is that I used food to make myself feel better. But that is not the whole story.
What allowed the pounds to stick was the second games. It was very common for me to play from the time I would wake up until the time I would go to bed. I have solved over 35 games for nintendo, 7 for sega, 4 for super nintendo and I guarantee I am still the most formidable player in Street Fighter II for super Nintendo. In an attempt to be "social" I would go to the arcade in the mall and eat pizza and play games. I still have yet to meet a person who beat Terminator 2 Judgment Day in Arcade Form. Before I would go to the arcade I wouls stop at Mr. Bulky's Food which sold candy in bulk. I would get a pound of gummy worms or snow caps and eat them while I was awful.
Then, thankfully, my father was back in my life a little more and he told me that I was an embarrassment. I remember him getting so mad at me that I was fat. He would go on tirades about how much I ate and he stopped the video game addiction. He soon pushed me towards weightlifting and other activity. Soon, after I stopped making bad choices, I began to shed the weight. After a year or so I was clearly had the best body in my grade. So, in retrospect, I can only call my obesity a form of controllable weakness. It was not a disease in any way. I was a cowardly fat person who would rather have instantaneous gratification and be lazy. I was disgusting, sickening, shameful, bad, lazy, selfish, fat, sickening and fat. This is why I hate all fat people. Even the ones I am nice to I really hate. I find that I can't stand to be around them and secretly wish that someone with a gun would sneak up on them and force them to exercise until they changed or died. As a formally obese person I ask that you respect my opinion as I have walked in "their shoes" and can say that only hatred towards me and my lifestyle eventually forced me to quit being selfish and put food first.
In closing, I would like you to consider this. I ate 17 or 18 donuts one morning at my aunts house after she went out to get them for everyone for breakfast. Why did I do it? Because fat people are the most selfish people and I wanted them all for myself. Even the maple cream donuts which I hate. Fat people are selfish. They will shorten their lives and thus shorten the time they have with loved ones all so that they can feel good in the moment.

I have Searched High, and I have Searched Low, for Evidence of the Existence of God. I Finally Found it Tuesday on the Side of a Highway in Iowa.

I was driving in Iowa, approximately 30 miles east of Des Moines. The central part of the state is currently suffering some of the worst flooding in their history. Both sides of the highway, as far as the eye could see, was a giant lake where before there was no lake. It seemed all was a loss. And then on the horizon mine eyes beheld a shimmering beacon of dryness. An oasis or island of land and a building stood on that island. It seemed that one sacred place had been saved from the ravages of flood. As I drew nearer I beheld what I always knew in my own heart to be true......God loves porn. Yes, the business that was saved when all others in the area had been destroyed, was the Lion's Den Adult Superstore. The zealots and the chaste have no more argument when their church and their school are destroyed, yet God chose to save the smut. The giver of life hath spaketh, my children, and the message is clear: Go forth and masturbate furiously without danger of having to use your own imagination.

Now I am still puzzled as to why God chooses to "save" people or things from the disasters he himself creates. Like instead of saving the Lion's Den from the flood and trashing everything else around it, why not just skip the flood altogether? Why this duality of being where you need to create situations of great misery, suffering and death so that you can then rescue one soul from the abyss and then hail yourself as a savior? I guess I never jump on the bandwagon of hailing God for saving the one German boy on the crashed flight, because I am too caught up in wondering why he crashed the fucking plane in the first place, thus necessitating the rescue of the one kid. Kind of a dick move if you ask me. I guess I'm just not that bright, because the whole "infinite wisdom" thing I cannot grasp for the life of me. If you can cradle the child in twisted steel and keep him from harm (which is a pretty fucking cool trick if you ask me), then certainly you can prevent seagulls from flying into the engine, right? It would be like Michael Jordan being able to dunk from the free-throw line, but not being able to throw a bounce-pass. Anyhoo, they're running 50% off deal on once-used dildos at the Lion's Den, so make your way to Iowa post-haste. And if you encounter standing water on the road on the way there, don't try to drive through it.

I Fucked Up

It is with an extremely heavy heart and with much shame that I regret to inform that I fucked up royally. In a previous post regarding Out For Justice, and the overall awesomeness of Steven Seagal, I referred to the antagonist as "Richie Apriel". This is unacceptable and both my fact-checker and editor have been sacked with great vengeance. Obviously Richie's last name is Modano. I considered committing hara-kiri, but I am going to swallow this loss and move on. I also was very irresponsible to have neglected mentioning Gina Gershon's DSL's, which are truly big-league.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Who the Fuck is Clint van Zandt and why does the Media Sweat his Nuts?

Nice moustache dickhole. Who is this fuckin guy anyway? Every single time the network gossip shows get tired of speculating about what may or may not have happened to cute little white kid #467 or cut up and buried in the backyard house wife #352, with no proof or concrete evidence of any kind, they cue up this asshat to wildly speculate for them. He isn't involved in any of the investigations. He sits in front of bookshelves and makes guesses that any of us at home could make ourselves after 14 beers at the bowling alley. I think he chased the Unibomber or something. Nice work on that one asshole, about 25 hands were blown to fuck before you closed it. The networks can call me on these cases and I'll give the same answers, for half the money and no moustache. Unless the moustache is a prerequisite, in which case I'll grow one, pronto-tonto.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Dudes who Look at 8-Month Pregnant Women on the Bus and don't Let them Have their Seat are Living Life on their Own Terms

"Ummmm, do you think you could maybe move your giant stomach away from me so I can fully open my newspaper? You see, standing there because you have no seat, is causing your baby-filled gut to encroach upon my newspaper reading space, which really sucks for me because then I can't extend my arms fully, and then the paper kind of kinks in the middle, and it just isn't as enjoyable to read that way. So if you could try and press into the crowd on either side of you, or at minimum turn around so that your stomach isn't right in front of me, that would be great. Thing is I was out kind of late last night, and I like to read the paper on the bus when that happens, takes my mind off my discomfort. And you're sort of, well not really sort of but more like completely ruining that for me. So if you would be so kind as to take your pregnant ass and move it away from me I would really appreciate that. I mean its okay if you are pregnant, but it is a bit rude that you stand here on the bus carrying two separate bags and just get in my way while I'm sitting down and trying to read the synopsis in the Red Eye of Bristol Palin's baby-daddy problems. And while we're at it, why do you keep looking at me with that sad assed face? Just smile. And quit sweating. That is pretty gross too. If everything sucks this bad, maybe you should have just used a condom, you know? How about this: Just move over and stand in front of this elderly lady sitting next to me. She isn't reading anything. Although I wish she'd just stand up altogether, because I can't stretch my arms out sideways either."

Thursday, August 5, 2010

"Out For Justice" was on AMC Tonight, and I Realized that I had Totally Forgotten how FUCKING AWESOME Steven Seagal Is!

Listen the fuck up Richie Modano: You think you're gonna whack Bobby Lupo at a produce stand in the middle of Bed Sty and NOT get Gino right up your fat, mustachioed ass? Think again bitch. Gino is coming for you and your whole pack of Guido assholes, and he's comin in HOT. He doesn't give a fuck what the NYPD think, he doesn't give a fuck what the mafia thinks, and he sure as goddamn shit doesn't care what your pussy-assed sentimental dad tried to plead on your behalf. So you snort that coke and you snort that coke well Richie, because your days without badly broken bones at incredibly unlikely angles are numbered, dick.

Seriously, just tell me an intersection in the history of Fuck Yeah where a badder mutherfucker than Steven Seagal hangs out. Just a tank-topped, muscle toneless, ponytailed, fringe martial artist, unidentifiable ethnic heritage ball of pure testosteroned badassery. If you watch Out For Justice and the scene comes on where he is driving around Brooklyn trying to smoke Richie out while "No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn" by the Beasties comes on, and you do NOT have a raging hard-on....well it is time to have The Talk with your doctor about Viagra my friend, because your dick is BROKE.

Fuckin-A, there is just no way I'm falling asleep tonight. I'm going to put on a beret and walk around punching 2x4's until sun-up.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The Chicago Transit Authority has Me by the Balls

I am bent over in the basement of a pawn shop, pants around my ankles, hands cuffed behind my back, rubber ball shoved in my mouth, with the President of the CTA pounding away from behind while the CTA Vice President sweats and says "Yeah, fuck him". Only in my case, Bruce Willis is not creeping down the stairs with a samurai sword anytime soon. CTA makes the US Postal Service look deadly efficient. There is positively nothing you can do to avoid being fucked. Tardiness. Overcrowding. Broken heating/cooling. Heater running full blast on a 93 degree August day. Rampant obesity. No bus or train for 40 minutes, then 3 in a row. Dudes rubbing ragers into the backs of unsuspecting chicks. Its a complete and total clusterfuck. Every day I take CTA it looks like 8 monkeys trying to fuck a football. But what are you going to do, drive and pay $400 per month just for the parking? So thank you sir, may I have another?

HOLY SHIT! My "How Can I Meaningfully Support Our Troops" Conundrum Has Been Solved!!!

All this time the answer was right in front of my fucking nose and I didn't even see it: Put a yellow ribbon sticker on the back of my SUV!!! It was that goddamned easy. Who cares if the troops are in harm's way in order to steal the very oil that my gas-guzzling SUV so desperately needs. Slapping the yellow ribbon on the back totally negates all harm and in fact supports those troops. If you put 2+ stickers on the back, well you have basically flown to Iraq, grabbed a gun and single-handedly obliterated a swarm of "insurgents" that had one of our platoons caught in a hopeless crossfire. This can't be any easier: Yellow Ribbon Sticker + Your Car = Happy, Smiling, Living Troops. The proof is right on the sticker: "Support our Troops". I can't even believe all of the meaningless, valueless strategies I've employed recently to support the troops, all a complete and utter waste. First of all I only voted for candidates I thought were going to actually remove the troops from harm's way (I know, joke's on me. But the theory seemed to make sense.). I'm such a dumbfuck. Secondly, I make an effort to only drive my car when completely necessary-such as occasions when I have to retrieve large quantities of groceries-in order to limit the amount of gas I consume. Just a class 1AA dipshit. My teeth hurt when I think of how much time I've wasted on that useless bullshit. I could have been 1 million times more effective by simply going to my local WalMart, buying 2 yellow ribbon stickers, sticking those sons of bitches prominently to the back of my SUV, and driving like a complete fucking asshole. Once you've got the yellow ribbons on the back of your car, you have to drive everywhere. If you continue to walk or ride your bike, then no one will know that you are supporting the troops, thus nullifying the vital ribbon support. So keep filling that pig up with gas and drive everywhere so you can maximize your support of the troops. If you leave the car with the yellow ribbon stickers parked at home, then you don't use the very gas which keeps the troops at war, and you don't support shit. In fact, if you aren't going to drive the car with the ribbon support, then you may as well catch a flight to Baghdad and stuff C-4 and rusty nails up the ass of dead dogs and detonate them as troop convoys pass, because that is exactly what you are doing by not flaunting your yellow ribbons. So in summary the only real patriots out there are those that vote for war-mongers, drive everywhere, and have yellow ribbon stickers on the back of their cars. They are voting for the continuance of war with their dollars and at the ballot, all the while supporting the shit out of the troops. The rest of you can change your fucking name to Mohammad and go blow up a school bus full of attractive children.

I just can't believe how duped I was. Why waste so much time and money on sending fresh socks, food stuffs, letters of encouragement, porn mags, alcohol, or tobacco to the troops? Why vote for douchebags committed to ending conflict? Just buy a goddamned ribbon already, would ya. Oh, and pray. Praying produces huge results as well.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Morbidly Obese People on Public Transit Fucking Rock

Especially when the hot humid air of summer arrives. I love the feeling of warm, moist sow-flesh encroaching on me while I read and try to pretend you don't fucking stink. Although reading can be difficult when the land manatee next to you sounds like Darth Vader with faulty helmet wiring. How is it that we both paid the same fee to board this bus/train? I weigh something in the normal range. You have to be weighed on the side of a highway, just after a Kenworth and just prior to a Peterbilt. I take up only the standard-issue seat width. You take up 1.5 seats, sometimes two, and also part of the aisle. I sit or stand silently reading or daydreaming that I am Wolverine or maybe Peter North, always breathing normally. You sweat profusely from your harrowing static-stand at the bus/train stop, sound like a NYC Fireman who has just completed his 4th trip into the World Trade Center carrying people down stairs, while shooting menacing glares at anyone who might request that you shift your girth to facilitate exiting. Seems fair that we pay equally.

While you try and catch your breath from that 1-rep 9-inch step-up from the curb to bus, I have a few questions. Just friendly, non-intrusive questions:

1. What do your genitals look like? Do you have any idea? Have you seen them in the past decade?

2. What sort of equipment is required to wipe your ass? That can't be easy, right? Do you just deal with it in the shower?

3. Since the only redeeming quality of morbid obesity is to be really, really funny, and you clearly have no sense of humor, how do you compensate socially (I mean besides snacky cakes and soda)?

4. Do you have to apply deodorant/antiperspirant to non-armpit areas such as under your side tits, back fat, over-knee hang, between FUPA and actual Pussy Area?

5. Do you secretly wish for a super virus that would freeze and shatter all mirrors globally?

6. You are able to wake up, get dressed, get on this bus/train, and arrive at work on time each day, presumably on time. So why can't you put the cheeseburger down? It requires much less discipline.

7. Do you wish you could buy cool clothes?

I'm proposing a fat tax. Where do I propose this? How do you propose something? Can I nail it to the door of the largest cathedral in my area, like Martin Luther? Is that how you do it? If you would rather have your foot sawed off than quit eating Burger King, then you should foot (double entendre, anyone?) the bill for the entire operation.

My Favorite Time to Field Difficult Questions at Work is when I First Walk in, Before Sitting Down or Even Turning my Computer Monitors on

I leave the elevator and walk briskly to my desk every morning, carrying hot liquid and my personal effects, hoping beyond hope that someone will start firing away questions about a dicey issue before I have a chance to even sit down. It literally makes my fucking day.

"What should we be telling clients in regards to the overnight system error we experienced? Is there a resolution yet?"

"Hmmmm, based on the door man at our building asking me 2 minutes ago how I'm swinging my clubs this summer, even though this is 27th time I've told him I don't golf and positively despise the game, I'm going to say that I don't have a single solitary fucking clue what system error you're speaking of, and I sure as fucking shit don't have any idea when the glitch I was completely unaware of will be fixed. I do have a couple of very abstract ideas for people you could ask. Now try and keep an open mind because this is going to require a non-linear, exploratory mind-set to think through this:

1. Any number of people who arrived today prior to me. There are plenty of them. You know that, because you are one of them. They have been addressing the same issues as you. It has been this way for some time, possibly years.

2. Our European office. They've been here for 5 hours prior to your arrival, minimum. They've primarily been addressing this issue because it began on their watch. They've been there since the inception of the organization. You're fully aware of this.

3. Our manager. I know this is a stretch, but since this person is in charge of managing these problems, maybe that person is a good resource.

4. The Polish lady that works for building services. At least she was here cleaning overnight, which makes her more current on the situation than I am."

But please, hover over my desk while I set the coffee down. Then my bag. Then stare impatiently while I turn on my monitors and go through the process of logging into all the systems. Look increasingly more nervous about the person you've got on hold as I research the same memos and notices you were sent. I thrive on this shit so you're actually doing me a favor.

My Air Conditioning Might be Broken, but Thankfully the Weather isn't Warm

Oh wait, its 90 fucking degrees every day. My dog, with his extraordinarily thick and curly coat, seems to be enjoying it. He looks like one of those African children you see on the commercials lying around listlessly. I'm constantly shooing flies from his eyeballs. If PETA happens by here this week, we're fucking hating it.

If the air conditioning doesn't work for a couple of weeks or a month, we'll just die, right? Air conditioning has been around since before humans, so to go a while without it spells certain death I assume. This is the leading hypothesis for the Lost Colony of Roanoke in the late 1580's: Their air conditioning broke down, and they died. If you see a news report about a couple in Chicago and their goldendoodle found dead of heatstroke, bodies already swelling from rapid decomposition in the extreme, air conditioning-less temperatures, pour a little of your 40oz on the curb for us, will you?

*UPDATE*: Maintenance guy on the roof right now checking it, talking shit about "We can't do the electrical checks on this unit on the roof due to the pouring down rain and lightnight right now". What the fuck is your death compared to my marginal comfort? This is the bullshit of all bullshits.