Monthly Archives: July 2011

Hostage Crisis

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Dear Officer Policeman!

Hey there, mister. I like your hat. I would like to take this opportunity to first thank you and the other fellows in blue for all the hard work you’re doing keeping our streets safe out there. I haven’t gotten rough housed by gang bangers in a coon’s age. I owe that to you guys. So, now that that’s out of the way…I don’t want to get all awkward or whatever but I feel like there is an elephant in the room.  And I don’t mean the Chief’s dumpy assed, brisket and bread lovin’ wife….No, it’s just that….well, there’s no easy way around this….I’m not too proud to admit that I have trapped everyone inside of this here Outback Steakhouse with a deer rifle, 2 packs of Pop Pop Snappers (you know, those little white tadpoles that make for classic outdoor fun), and a clean bomb. In case you didn’t know, a clean bomb is like a dirty bomb except it is made with hand sanitizer instead of radioactive material.

Just a quick role call of who all is in here before I start Pop Pop Snappin’ up in this motherfucker- we got my waitress, Jenny (suckered me into ordering the seared Ahi Tuna with the Baked Potato Walkabout Soup- no regrets! it’s D-vine), three nuns (the sweetest!), The Davises (it’s Jordan’s birthday and they ordered the Chocolate Thunder from Down Under and the staff sang a traditional Ausie birthday song, hate to tell him but the dessert’s name doesn’t come from when you eat it, it comes from the dookiepie splatter bomb that arrives 30 minutes later), we got Trisha “The Cunter” Hunter and the black dude she is cheating on her husband with (Just so you know, I specified that he was black for descriptive purposes. I’m trying to paint a picture. It’s not like I disapprove of their interracial relationship or anything. That’s fine. No problemo, Senor. There is nothing more beautiful than a well-toned African-American man, with his dark skin glistening in the flickering candle light, his dark mahogony flesh beaded with sweat, the pink palms of his hand around her throat as he rapes a white woman. No, it’s not the interracial thing that bothers me. It’s more the fact that ever since Trisha’s husband went into that coma after that Ski-Doo accident, Trish has been getting on more black cocks than AIDs.) We also have Dan in here, who Jenny and I have nicknamed “Fat Bill Paxton” (but don’t tell him I said that because I know he is self-conscious about his weight. I can tell because he ordered the Queensland Salad and a diet Fanta. I mean, he’s not like FAT fat. I mean sure, he could stand to lose like 50 or 60 lbs, but he’s really just got those classic Paxtonian looks so he still does alright for himself, I mean shit, have you seen Spy Kids 2: Island of Lost Dreams?).

Anywho, I’ve prepared a small list of demands if ya’ll get a free moment.

1. I’ve got like $500 in Blockbuster late fees. Jim Varney is partially to blame for this excessive debt. If they honestly expect people to return movies on time, they should think twice about offering the Ernest series. Ernest Goes to Camp. Ernest in the Army. Ernest Scared Stupid. Ernest Goes to Jail for Cooking Meth. Ernest Goes to Jail for Allegedly Raping a 7-year Old Boy. Ernest Goes to Jail for soliciting his longwanger on Craigslist. He. is. too. funny. The way he always gets himself in those classic goof-ups is priceless. PRICELESS. Although, if you were to attribute a price, it would probably be around $500- which is how much they’re charging me. Do you think there is any way you could possibly take care of that for me? Thanks.

2. I want an upskirt photo of Harriet Tubman while she be doing yard work.

3. Three Snickers Ice Cream Bars and a Citrus Cooler Gatorade. Fucking delish! Snacksville, U.S.A.

4. The third season of According to Jim on Blu-Ray.

5. A Blu-Ray player.

6. Go to my house and shut off my mother’s oxygen tank and make it look like a accident so I can inherit her porcelain doll collection.

7. Snatch up a midget and rip his clothes off. Super glue a bunch of Googly Eyes onto his body and a feed him ecstacy. Wait for me to fall asleep and put him in bed next to me. When he is secure, turn on a flashing disco ball and put on the new Rihanna album. Then get the fuck out.

8. I haven’t been fishing in forever! Do you think this weekend or next we could go up to your lake house and cast in a few lines? I could really use a nice weekend fishing trip to just let down my hair- especially after this little soiree. Do you remember the last time we went to the lake? With Sharon and her European boyfriend? It’s like, uuuuuuugh get circumcised already! Aside from that- SO FUN. Ok, so I am officially excited about this weekend!

Thanks so much for everything. Could you try to get everything done in the next 45 minutes? because the new Real World season premier comes on at 9 and the first episode is really important because that’s when you get to meet the whole cast and see clips of their audition tapes! So cool. If I miss that premier I swear to god I will paint the walls of this Outback Steakhouse red with the blood of the every single one of these fuckers. TTYL.

If I Were Stranded on a Dessert Island…

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Seriously? I’m diabetic. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Is Diabetes a joke to you or something? Are my blood sugar levels funny?

You know what? Mom was right about you. You are an instigator and a shit-monger. She says it’s because your parents got divorced and your mom is a trashy dumpster slut with labia that flap like the wings of a manta ray, who spends her nights eating ecstacy and sucking the cream filling out of chocolate eclairs.

She says you can’t come over to our house anymore.

If I Were Stranded on a Desert Island…

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There are only 3 things I need to survive on a desert island: Gatorade Citrus Cooler, unlimited supply of Duracell AAs, and my fleshlight. Period.

Obviously the Citrus Cooler would provide all of the essential vitamins, minerals, and electrolytes needed to live a long and healthy life. Maybe after a couple of years I might get tired of C-Cooler. In which case I could also suck some of that silky milky out of a coconut for a little diversity in my diet. NOT. Why the fuck would I ever want to drink that nasty shit when I could drink a Gatorade? Why would you even consider that you dummy?

Obviously the AAs are for my fleshlight and the fleshlight is for my penis. There’s not a lot to do on desert islands so this is how I will pass the time until I die of old age. I will name my fleshlight and give it a personality just like Tom Hanks does to his volleyball, Wilson in “Splash!” I will probably name my fleshlight Karen, after my great grandmother, Karen. Maybe after a couple of years, me and Karen the Younger will be going through a rough patch and I’ll look for a little diversity in my love life. In that case, I will drill a hole in a coconut, name it Jodeci and have sex with it so hard it’s going to wake up the next day and make an appointment with the coconut gynecologist because “my vaginer broke and sandy” (my coconut mistress will be country as shit). NOT. Why the fuck would I have sex with a coconut when I got a nice warm fleshlight with a fresh pair of AAs loaded up and ready to go?! God. You’ve obviously never been on a desert island before you fucking dummy.

Hypothetically, if I were to choose a fourth thing, just to make life a bit easier I would choose a nice beige, corduroy blazer just in case shit gets formal. I mean, I can’t very well go to Vanessa’s big island pool party in my clothes made out of old Gatorade bottles with nothing but a fleshlight covering my big ole fat cockatiel. Vanessa’s party is like THE party of the century. Everybody is going to be there: Zander, Bailey, Chadwick, Piper, and Clementine. And her dad hires like the top China-man for a Sushi Bar. SUSHI BAR. DO I HAVE TO SPELL IT OUT FOR YOU?!?! If I’m lucky and my C-Roy Blazer looks blazzzzin’, I’ll be getting up to 2 fingers in Clementine behind the Mediterranean Fan Palm (Chamaerops humilis) before they have a chance to break out de Limbo stick, mon.

And if I had to choose a fifth thing (because I feel like everything I’ve chosen so far is pretty compact and could be fit into a single duffle bag, I should be entitled to bring something a little bigger. Technically I guess the duffle bag would have to count as my fifth thing, so if I had to choose a sixth thing…) it would be a high quality woman’s wig. Long flowing blonde locks. Or dark bouncy curls. Either will work. See, the wig is for the giggle factor. A man dressing up like a lady always has the potential for maximum yuks- Tootsie, Mrs. Doubtfire, Tyler Perry shit, Big Momma’s House, Big Momma’s House II, Serena & Venus Williams. It’s got to be of the highest quality so that it will keep it’s volume and shine for the amount of time I am stranded and so that I can successfully pass for a woman. If I have a fucking birds nest on my head everybody will know I’m a man and it won’t be funny. Funny is clutch. It’s like Matthew said to Paul in 2nd Corinthians “Being on a desert island is all about the F to the U to the N. It’s important to keep laughing or else you will go fucking Gary Busey out there.”

What I Look for in a Woman

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My analyst, Dr. Werner Lipschwitz, says that I find faults in all my relationships with women because I am afraid to really open up and let them see my innards. My gutty works.  My heart.  My soul.  He says that maybe if I stopped jerking off to anime porn for two seconds and made a list of the things that I am looking for in a woman, that I might be able to find a healthy relationship where I’m boning on the daily. Carson Daily. He (Lipschwitz, not Carson) is a doctor after all, so he knows what the fuck he is talking about. They don’t just throw out titles like Doctor or Miss America to stupid cunts who wouldn’t know a sinus infection from a cum-filled French bagguete. So, without further adieu (french)…

Vajenga- Might as well get this one out of the way right off the bat. I definitely want my lady to have some chunky New England C-Chowder brewing down in her pantaloons. And it’s not just because I’m all about the humpty hump. There’s so much more to vajengas than just humping. I mean yeah, gettin’ two-inches deep into a steamy bowl of New England’s finest is great and all- it’s the greatest- but there’s more to it than that. For instance, one day I would like to have 2.5 children: Cornelius, Champagne, and half of little Jackie Chan Jr. I don’t care which half. He’s got feet of fury AND a cute little punnam that’s absolutely perfect for Chris Tucker to scream at. I love it when he’s like “Do you understand the words I’m making with my mouf!”  See, I’m a family man, that’s the honest-to-goodness. And the fact of the matter is, you really should probably have a puzzy-wuzzy stink pot if you are planning on pooping out some babes any time soon. You know what, on second thought, maybe I’m being a little too nit-picky here.  Nobody’s perfect. At the very least my dream girl needs to have a good, solid butthole. A big ole downtown brown round ain’t hurtin’ nobody. I’ll settle for a couple butt babies if I have to.

Braces- Teeth braces, leg braces, back braces, what the fuck ever. Nothing gets the blood pumping in my private part like a vulnerable, delicate lady with metal strapped to her body to correct her scoliosis or overbite or bowlegs. You ever gotten a toothy beej from a woman (or man I guess, but really? gross) who had braces? Fuckin’ fuggetabowdit. And don’t even mention fucking Invisalign. Invisalign is bullshit.

Fear yet respect for Magneto- I’m talking X-men here, people. My lady needs to understand that Magneto is a dangerous, powerful man who is willing to destroy lives to get what he wants. At the same time, she needs to be sympathetic to why he has such a violent agenda. It’s because he has faced oppression at every turn in his life. His parents were killed in the Holocaust, for Christ’s sake! Haven’t you seen X-Men: 1st Class? Summer Box Office hit of the Summer?! Life as a mutant is hard and a man can only take so much before he fights back. It’s like, Magneto is the Malcom X of X-Man Land and Dr. Xavier is the MLK Jr. Malcolm vs. MLK. Black Power vs. Being a Pussy Ass Bitch. It’s just like that.

Birdie Style- Some people like it doggie style. Some people like it cowgirl style.  Some people like it Julia Style. I prefer it birdie style. In case you’ve been living in a nunnery the last 3 months, doing The Bird is when you get butt-ass nukkuh and Elmer’s glue feathers (from Hobby Lobby AKA Hob-Lob AKA The Lob AKA Lisa Loeb) all over your body. Then the other person, the ”momma bird” in this instance, eats some French fries and regurgitates them down my throat hole- just like real birds do! If you can be my early bird, you’ll get this man’s worm everytime. BaCAW!

That’s about it.

I’m Not Going To Bed

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I don’t wanna go to bed and she can’t make me. Not in this century or in any other century. Fuckin’ Mom, I said no. I’m not even tired. What does she not understand about that? That old bag of dust can suck my dick. 9pm! 9pm is a bullshit bedtime. Do you have any idea what 9pm means?! It means I can’t stay up to watch George Lopez on Nick@Nite and I damn sure can’t stay up and watch Lopez Tonight. She’s a real piece of work, that woman. It’s like she finds the one thing in the world that I truly, madly, deeply love (George Lopez) and gets off on withholding it from me. And Dad. Lying there drunk on the floor with one sock on and his cock sticking out of his boxers like a little mole peeking out of his mole hole. Now I know why the old man drinks like he does. Who the fuck does she think she is? SHE can go to bed. If bedtime is so important, let her do it. She can sleep the night away on her Swedish designed tempur-pedic mattress. But as for me…me? I’m watching George Lopez. I’m not going to bed.