Buff my scrotum

Ahmadinejad supporters would fit in fine right here...

I was watching this HBO documentary called "Giving Ahmadinejad A Blowjob" (not really--something called "Letters to the President", about how the average Persian could fire off a missive to their President and he'd answer, personally, and solve all their problems) and I was struck by one thing, and that is:

"Chromosomal challenged idiocy crosses international boundaries".

Reason I'm thinking this is, here again we have "man in the street" interviews with Iranians. mostly hajib-wearing women, a-wailing and a-trilling about how Ahmadinejad is gonna "pay their bills" and "give them a job" and "get them a house" and "give them an interest free loan" and "help cure their husband who has cancer" and they just know it don't you know, because after all he loves the poor and stands for "change".

Sound familiar, shlubbies?

Btw, in watching this documentary, I am again struck by how stunningly beautiful Iranian women are...till they turn about 30, when all their teeth fall out. At left, Iranian women contestants for the Miss Tehran pageant.

I have undeleted my blog

I am back after much soul searching.

Soul searching, just like a National Geographic Explorer employee, who, on the country's dime (i.e., taxpayer stimulus funding), is out there navel-gazing at his very own navel, and asking soul-searching questions, to wit: what the fuck am I doing? And who the fuck cares? And, also, can I maybe make a buck at this, 'cause I'm a nihilist bastard who hates everything?

Answer: buff my scrotum.

Where was I? Masturbating to Jennifer Anniston Twitter posts, that's where. Months and months of squashing stonehenge in the hopes that our Jen would turn her attention away from scumbags like John Mayer and Vince Vaughn, and engage with scumbags like me. No luck.

So, I rejoin the land of the living dead i.e., blogger, where no one cares and where activity has long ago been eclipsed by Twitter. Twitter--what the fuck is that, anyway? Hmmm? "I'm going to the bathroom now." "I'm eating last night's leftovers." "I'm wanking away to Jennifer Anniston." Who cares? I know I don't.

Oh, and just to prove I'm BACK, some vintage Nigel negativity: today's Air France crash was undoubtedly caused by simultaneous farts from the 232 passengers post-bad-Frech-cheese ingestion.

*Sigh*.

So this snake slithers into a bar...

News from the subcontinent of India, a place full of people whose gods have way too many arms and legs: apparently snake charmers are holding protests about a twenty year old law banning the use of real snakes in the snake charmers shows. The cops are ticketing these guys who squat on the sidewalk with their flutes and baskets full of venomous reptilian shudder-inducing slimy death dealers, and the charmers are pissed.

When I was a kid I lived in Singapore. Visit there now, it's like Geneva. Clean and spotless. But, back in the mid-60's, it still retained much of its old colonial charm, and that included snake charmers. There was this one guy who used to stake out a place outside our church, and when we'd arrive for Sunday School he'd be there, luring this gigantic cobra out of his basket by swaying back and forth as he played the flute (the swaying is what does it...snakes can't hear). Scary but fascinating stuff.

I hate me some snakes. But in honor of the snake charmers protest, here now, some pathetic snake jokes for your perusal and amusement:

--"So glad to meet you" said the Hindu politely. "Charmed I'm sure" replied the snake.
--Q: What kind of snake is good at math? A: An adder
--Q: Whaddya give a snake for its headache? A: Asp-irin

Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the veal. Don't forget to tip your waitress...

Global warming trumps Islamic assholes

Sorry, shlubbies, been busy, um. Yes, I found an extraordinarily lovely long-legged gorgeous woman who deigned to provide little old me with favours vis. what you get when you get what you get, and I got what I got, and I got to do what I looooooooove to do, and so, my jaw and tongue both got a work out, and consequently, I am convalescing.

You can figure it out.

Anyhow, this morning, I'm perusing the paper, as I'm wont to do, and here comes the story about Hitlery Clinton, a-winging her way to points East as our new Secretary of State, where she described her priorities in talking with China, Japan, Indonesia, and others thusly and in this order: global warming, climate change, and nuclear proliferation.

What priorities have been wrought by the new administration! Glad to hear that all is well on the Al-Queda, Taliban, douchebag Muslim kill the Christians and the Jews front all of a sudden, and now we can focus on what really matters, which is off course worrying about how our Kelvinator fridges, cumulatively, are emitting so much shit that in 180 years, there may be an inch or two of ice shaved off of the Arctic shelf. Or then again, maybe not.

Listen, lovelies: since 1998, the world has been cooling. This is inarguable and scientifically backed, but then again, who cares?

What matters is that we ensure that private companies and the nasty capitalistic system they embrace are destroyed, asap. That's the real agenda of all this shit, but if you can't figure out the value of the capitalistic system, I have three words for ya: buff my scrotum.

Here's the deal. If there was a REAL demand for all this fucking green shit, don't you think that entrepreneurs world-wide would be falling all over each other, coming up with the best products and most efficient ways to make a TON of money putting it in front of us? But noooooooooo--we have the government here, jumping in, not getting it at all, thinking that the way to make it happen is by legislating the sonuvabitch.

Idiots. Welcome to the USSR, circa 1951.

US Air--right into the Hudson

Choose your seat, shlubbies!

First class or coach? Or would you like to choose the drowning option, maybe?

Below, a photo of the actual cabin of the actual US Air 1549 that went into the Hudson. The seats are still wet.

Onya, Sully! (Australian for: good on ya, Sully!)

The fucking weather, dammit!

Unsure about the forecast this weekend? Want an unbiased view of the potential climactic conditions? By all means, check this out: the Fucking Weather, dot com. For here, you get the unvarnished truth. By way of example, consider this, for Atlanta zip code 30324:

Edy's Fruit Bars....oh, yes.

Know what I love? I mean, really love?

Edy's fruit bars. Now, I don't know about you, but the taste, the texture, the feeling of an Edy's Fruit Bar is nonparaleil. As in, you can't compare it. I love them, and wanna roll around with them nightly.

There's something special about Edy's. The pure sensuality of licking the ice; tastes great and mmmmmmmmmm, you immediately anticipate the rest of the experience. And then you bite, gently, and the flavor of the lemon explodes in your mouth.

It's so much more than you thought it could be. Wrestling the tastes in your mouth, a combination of sweet and sour...oh, yes. And it doesn't stop there. When you finish, there's a complete sense of satisfaction, Yummy and lovely and oh so good, with the taste of the fruit rolling around your mouth....it's just heaven when you're done.

Get yourself a box and enjoy.

I wanna feel Jerry Springer

So today's UK Telegraph is reporting that televisions could be fitted into contact lenses within ten years. The sets would be powered by the viewer's body heat. That's weird enough, but how about this: "emotional viewing" could be another development in television technology, which would involve something called a "digital tattoo" fitted to the viewer. It would pick up on the feelings of characters on screen and create impulses causing the viewer to feel the same way.

Now, I know what you're thinking. The average perv (like me) immediately jumps to the porno possibilities here, right? There you'd be, legs akimbo, a-wanking away as you "participate" in the carnal festivities unfolding literally in front of your very eyes--and you're "feeling" it where it counts, too.

Not bad.

But I take this a step further. What I'd like would be to sample an episode of that treasure trove of trailer trash tumult: the Jerry Springer Show. Wearing these contacts and activating my digital tattoo, I'd be able to truly experience the feelings of whatever fat inbred cross-dressing incestuous toothless redneck who happened to be Jerry's victim of the day. What fun!

Imagine the emotional gamut you'd run: what it's like to marry your sister, how it feels to chaw on Red Man, the exhilaration experienced when you shoot, gut, and ultimately eat squirrels.

I say, forget the porn, and instead bring on the decline and fall of everything that's good and holy: Jerry Springer.

Idaho potatoes blow dead hippos

So now we have fitness expert Denise Austin endorsing Idaho potatoes. Potatos? How DO you spell that? I know--let's ask Dan Quayle, shall we?

Anyhow, this state, Idaho blows dead hippos. Boise is the big city there, I think, and it's full of douchebag Mormons and ex-Nazi white supremacists. What to make of state whose name is, when you pronounce it, perfect for a streetwalker? I-Da-Ho. Yeah, I say: fuck Idaho. And Denise Austin, too.

My brother, Kent

It hit me hard this morning, right after I finished up the ironing and was trundling young Nigel Jr. off to see his Nanna. In the car, we're talking about family and goofy stuff, including Nigel Jr.'s late uncle Kent, and as we were talking I went what's today? and Nigel Jr. told me...turns out that today is the 5th anniversary of his uncle's (my brother's) death. Not only to the date, but to the day.

So that all came flooding back to me. Five years ago today, Sunday, it was sunny and cold in D.C., where I'd gone to help my brother move. He was selling his Capitol Hill townhouse and was moving in with me, in Atlanta. The night before, the Saturday, he'd sounded really strange on the phone, complaining about how he felt like he had the flu and that he "couldn't feel his legs." So I decided I was gonna fly up to D.C. and help with the move, given that he was sick and all. I called him back Saturday night but no answer; never mind, I thought I'd surprise him by showing up. Landing on the Sunday morning and calling: no answer. Arrive at his home. No answer. Banging on the door. Dogs barking inside; his car parked outside...he had to be there...running around the back to see if there's a way in. Nothing. Finally, break the door down. Kent is dead on the floor, apparently had been for many hours, dogs barking at me, the police come, the D.C. forensic people (who joke and laugh while processing the body for removal, hey, thanks, guys)...I identify him officially by looking at a Polaroid of his dead face, mouth and eyes wide open, yes, that's my little brother...and then it's just me and there's him lying on the floor, waiting for the D.C. mortuary van. They came and went and then it was an empty house and me.

What a fun day. And to make matters worse, they could never determine the exact cause of death. "Natural causes"--whatever the hell that means.

Here's the thing to understand about my brother. He was amazingly smart. His IQ was off the charts; straight A's all through High School and then on to Harvard. He was an athlete, too, swimming and soccer, captain of both teams in high school, and for swimming, was heavily recruited by Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Columbia, the whole Ivy League thing. He spoke fluent idiomatic Japanese. Business acumen: at a glance he could figure out why a supermarket or food service business wasn't succeeding (this ended up being his specialty), and he made his career this one thing.

Most importantly he was a sweet, nice man who wouldn't harm a fly, and who had a sense of humor so crazed that, as an example: he used to call me on my 40 minute ride home, haranguing me in Japanese as if he was a samurai. You know, that thing they do in Akira Kurosawa movies, where no matter what they're talking about, they're yelling at each other, really guttural? Funny as hell. 40 minutes, straight, and not a word in English.

What he couldn't handle was that his wife left him for another...woman. He never got over that, couldn't reconcile it, and it ultimately I believe is what killed him. Died of a broken heart at age 44.

So please tonight, if you can, raise a glass for my dead brother Kent, who I miss completely and wish every day was around to call me in Japanese. Thanks.

Now I'm REALLY famous!

Lookee here, shlubbies! I made thesmokinggun.com! Wow! Talk about national publicity! With this, I can springboard my way to fame and fortune. Now, I don't wanna be weird or anything, but this could really be the break I've been looking for. After I make bail, that is. (Click on the image to make it larger...this is exciting stuff, eh?)

I'm NOT the sickest bastard on the Internet

Just so you know that I'm NOT the sickest bastard on the Internet...not by a long shot...I give you a comment submission from an entry on Fark.com yesterday.

This was in response to a UPI story about the first First Lady, Martha Washington. Seems they've uncovered evidence that Martha was pretty damn good looking back in the day, versus the general perception (based on paintings made when she was old and fat) that Ms. Washington was a puke inducing troll.

OK. So the discussion thread was about which First Lady was actually the hottest. The comments were hysterical, for the most part. As you'd expect, Jackie Kennedy yielded a number of mentions, including quite a few naming her "Hottest FL ever" (FL being "First Lady"). And then I ran across this, in response to a posting from someone named "Royale With Cheese" referencing Jackie O. The commenter is a charmer named "we_hates" (appropriately named I think).

The sickest bastard on the Internet? Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.

My birthday lunch

People have asked: how was your birthday Sunday? Answer: just fine, thanks. Nice and quiet. Without much in the way of plans, and solo, I hied myself in search of the perfect birthday lunch. And I found the perfect place.

I treated myself at my new favorite restaurant here in Atlanta: The Heart Attack Grill. This magnificent establishment advertises itself as the "Home of the Double By-Pass Burger" and it's positioning statement is "Taste worth dying for!"...so, it's perfect for li'l ol' me.

Instead of the Double By-Pass Burger, I opted for their "Bad Cholesterol Elevator" daily special. This consisted of 3 greasy, yummy, 1/2 pound each patties smothered in four kinds of cheese and then baked,

with french fries included in what amounted to a huge pile of goo, in a casserole dish. Add four Guinness Stouts and voila! It's off the to ER for some open heart massage and an extended stay in critical care.

What a great birthday! Wish you could have joined me!

Nigel's birthday will be Super!

Here it comes: my birthday. Sunday, February 1. I'm celebrating by watching the Super Bowl while eating beef jerky and cheeze-whizz (I've always been a little suspicious of any food that contains "wizz" as part of its name...but God know, that's offset in this case by the sheer joy of being able to shoot cheese out of the can, just by pressing a button).

So Sunday. I'm 51.

Birthday presents -- receiving them, that is -- are always a large pain for me. It's not that I have many people asking me what I want, but when I do, I literally have no idea. Should I be honest and say something like "a two week vacation in Hawaii?" No. I always opt for the "I have everything I need, really, don't bother, really, thanks but no thanks, really." Meantime, I'm scrounging for underwear and socks without holes in 'em, and sure, an i-Pod would be nice, actually. But it's just not in my nature to ask, I guess.

Now, according to one of those online real-age tests (you know, where you enter in details about your weight, lifestyle, medical history, family medical history, etc.), I've got about 11 years left. My "real age" at this point is apparently 62, so add 11 and I'm 73 and dead. Based on my alleged "real age", per the internet testing thingy, for my birthday presents I'm thinking instead of underwear and socks, how about a case of Depends and maybe some support hose?

Che, Guac, and moi

So Benicio Del Toro, Oscar winner and all around brooding looking heavy lidded star of "Che", the new movie about Socialist revolutionary Che Guevara, is apparently unhappy answering questions about the movie and its politics.

I, personally, could give a hairy rats ass about Che or Benicio or any of that...but let me share with you one item from the news account of him leaving the press conference: apparently our boy was sitting in front of a "plate of guacamole" when he got up to leave.

A plate of guacamole? What kind of disgusting green oily nastiness communist Exorcist movie-th

row-up-scene idiot doesn't get that guacamole, being part of the avacado plant, is in itself disgusting and evil?

There are not many things in life ai despise as much as guacamole. I'm thinking: Adolf Hitler. Joseph Stalin. The Dish Network. Just, on the whole, bad guys doing bad things, and they're on a par with the evil green quivering shit that is: guacamole.

Next time you throw up, shlubbies, understand this: what's in the toilet bowl looks exactly like the guac. And probably tastes about the same, too. Just ask our buddie Linda Blair, of the movie fame, who had to spew a plate of that nasty shit all over the set...ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

To think about loss....how?

Seems to me that there are different ways to think about loss. As in, you lose something--then, how do you react? I weigh in:

Lose my car keys. Momentary inconvenience punctuated by mucho swearing and gnashing of teeth. On the loss scale, I'd say about a 4, mostly because you're ready to move on to the next destination and this bump in the road slows ya down.
Lose my job. Unfortunately, the thing many people are experiencing right now. In 99% of publicly traded companies, this is driven by you and me; shareholders, who as douchebags do, demand returns inaccessible by the average capitalist these days, and so force the layoffs. We, the smegmatic butt-munchers out here, are to blame.
Lose my teeth. I live in the South, shlubbies; this is to be expected over time. Jimmy Carter, our ex-President and current idiot-savant, doesn't have a tooth in his mouth he was born with. Enough said.
Lose my best friend. Incalculable, particularly as I love talking to the person involved, and love being around her. She just...gets me. Inconsolable result, and I miss her more than I can say.

Here, shlubbies, is my essay du jour. Buf my scrotum if you don't like it.

Caroline Kennedy can buff my dead brother's scrotum

I see where the New York Governor is now dissing Caroline Kennedy as part of the fall-out to her non-selection as Hillary Clinton's replacement in the Senate. In today's New York Daily News, there are a couple of stories about things he's said about her that reflect his view that she is a total cypher; vapid, with no firmly held views on anything, and having been brought up so spoiled and in such a bubble that she has absolutely zero ability to relate to normal people.

None of this surprises your Nigel. 'Cause, see, what may surprise you is: I had two very smart brothers (now just one--I'm the oldest, and the middle brother passed away in 2004). The one still alive, the youngest, went to Northwestern and is now a high up corporate VP. The one who died was a brilliant scholar and athlete, and graduated with honors from Harvard, spoke fluent Japanese, and went on to a career as an entrepreneur in the food business. And he's the reason for my perspective on Princess Caroline.

He was a contemporary of hers at Harvard, and ran into her often, and reported at the time that she was a total slack rich bitch with no manners. Nothing nice about her; this was apparently well known on campus. One time he even got into it with her; he'd held the door for her as they walked into a building and she passed on by without acknowledging him in any way. So he muttered under his breath, "you're welcome" and she turned and challenged him on it with a "what did you say?" Bro didn't back down, saying something like "typically when someone holds the door for you, you thank them" and she called him a "fucking loser" (he remembered that exactly); that set him off and they ended up screaming at each other.

I would have paid money to have heard the exchange because my now-dead brother was regularly even more caustic than lil' ol' me. He remembered something about calling her an "ugly hook-nosed commie twat with no class" and a "Park Avenue cunt" which of course went down oh so smoothly. I guaran-damn-tee no one had ever spoken to little miss princess like that before, to her face. Ha!

So, now this Governor has discovered much the same as what my brother dealt with nearly 30 years ago in Cambridge. How about that?

Nigel, pizza-faced teenager

Shaving this morning, and I scraped the Gillette Mac 3 across a small zit. Charming, I know, but you can't always handle the pimples easily while shaving. Typical stuff ensued; a wad of toilet paper stuck to my face driving in, and eventually no harm done.

When I was a teen, I had possibly the worst pizza face history has ever known. La visage du Nigel was one ol' big bumpy red mess, endless, non-stop,

always changing but always there, with pus-filled disgusting whiteheads complemented by huge boils on my cheeks and nose. And nothing was done about it till it was too late. My parents, particularly my mother, were dead set against me having any kind of social life in high school -- almost no dating, no nothing to do with girls -- so my already disgusting face, being marred further by a case of acne so aggressive as to receive medals in wartime...well, you can understand why they never took action to help me clear it up. Till it was way too late, psychologically, I mean.

Remedies? I tried them all. Scraping together whatever was left over from working part-time at Sears selling paint, I bought me

buckets of Clearasil. Endless bottles of Oxy 5 (remember the radio ad? "What would you rather have...a few less cents, or a few less zits?"). When they failed, I resorted to scrubbing with fucking Scotchbrite pads. Nothing helped.

The one time I attempted and was allowed to go out--my only date in high school-- was as a sophomore, and I front up to pick up the then secret love of my life (one Trixie Luther--Trixie, darling, where are you now?) with a gigantic, honking, huge, angry, red one-inch in diameter pimple right square on the middle of my nose. Needless to say, nothing happened with Trixie.

Eventually (after I tried to kill myself in 12th grade), the parents relented and took me to see a specialist, who dubbed my case "extraordinary" and begged me for subsequent visits, holding out the promise of residuals and future stardom, because I would be front and center in upcoming National Geographic specials and TV infomercials.

Anyhow, this dermatologist took one look at Nigel the pepperoni kid, and after about 20 seconds of hmmm-ing, prescribed something that immediately and completely cleared everything up. Right away.

Bitter, me? As in, if I'd visited said dermatologist say, two years previously, all that heartache and self-hatred could have been avoided?

Nah.

Isn't the point that she DOESN'T wanna be a mom?

Nigel, your Presidential expert

Sorry for the dearth of posts lately, my fellow scrotum buffers. I've been amazingly busy, what with the busted garbage disposal and also the nasty scratch (and leak) in my Carmen Electra blow-up doll. Between the plumber and the perv patrol, it's been non-stop for your Nigel.

Well. Today, the Inauguration of our new President. First thoughts:

Laura Bush. Class.
Dick Cheney. Douchebag shows up today in a wheelchair! At right, Dick's specially designed "fuck you, Muslims" chair. Up yours, Dick, you neo-conservative naive stupid turd on a stick, thinking that the fucking Arabs would "embrace" us after about 4 weeks of combat and ultimate capitulation. Dick, for 10 points: what's the difference between a Sunni and a Shiite? Yeah, didn't think you'd know, even now. Asshole.
GW is a poor old sad sack who'll eventually be judged better than he is now. Think, Harry Truman. I thought Iraq was a massive mistake from Day 1, but you know, he sure as hell didn't deserve the boo-ing he got on the reviewing stand.
Aretha Franklin. Somewhere there's a pineapple bowl missing its headpiece. What in the name of all that's good, holy, and also the Chiquita Banana Lady, was she wearing on her head? Plus, hey, fat ass, learn to fucking sing on key, ok? "My Country Tis Of Thee", as performed by you, you lard butt, sounded just like Bob Dylan gargling with razor blades. Nice work. Above right, the view from Space taken at the moment Aretha warbled her song. The circled area is Aretha's girth, all 1700 pounds of it. Fattie.
Justice Roberts. You might be the Chief Justice of the US Supreme Court, but I gotta tell ya, you suck when it comes to memorizing basic shit. The oath is what--4 lines? And you screwed up immediately? This was your FIRST swearing-in, and you couldn't get it right! Then our new Prez tried to follow along, and he fucked it up, too, 'cause he was taking your lead. Johnno, just how hard IS your fucking job? Sitting around all day, opining on shit; you're just like some blogging asshole who has opinions, like....me...except you get to have hot interns like fucking Megyn Kelly working for you in mini-skirts reaching way the fuck high for old books in the library. Nice thought, actually, but I digress. Look, Jack, it was your fault this ended up coming across like a bad game of "telephone" on world-wide TV. Idiot.
The Obama girls (at right) seem lovely and sweet and very well behaved and they deserve an award for sitting through that fucking interminable parade, which just now ended, 8 hours after it started. Jeez. Poor kids.
Obama and the toilet. Seriously, when you gotta take a break vis a vis setting some prisoners free in the pool, and you're stuck looking at the 814th marching band from bumfuck, Idaho, strutting by the goddamm reviewing stand...whaddya do? You can't LEAVE! The bloody parade continues for hours; how would it look if you took a fucking bathroom break and dissed the Schmeklemberger County High School Glee Club And Group Sex Marching Band? If you weren't there to smile and wave? So, I think our new President just...shit his pants. At right, ou Prez, freeing Nelson Mandela. Know what? I think NASA outfitted him with them there specially designed astronaut drawers. The kind that allow your bowels to give the gift that keeps on giving, while you keep on with the smiling and waving. Yes we can...indeed!

Well, shlubbies, that's it for me on the Inauguration. Here's the best to the newest and also mud in yer eye, etc.

Work

Work, work, work--hours of it.

But in this economic climate, I'm grateful for it.

Question of the Day

As I was sitting on the roof deck at work today, a thought occurred to me.

Which was: what's it like to be a Bee Gee in 2009?

Does Barry Gibb wake up every day humming "How Deep Is Your Love?" from that Saturday Night fever movie? Does he stand in front of the bathroom mirror combing what's left of his hair and, staring at his image, say things like "thank God, I could be Leo Sayer?" Above left, Barry quite hairy, and above right, Barry today. Scary, huh?

And how about the ugly one--Robin Gibb? What's his life like today? Tooling around Miami with the windows down, blasting the radio, cupping his ear with his hand while hoping someone will notice him and maybe give him a job? There he is at left...either on the phone, or trying like hell to figure out the harmony to "Massachusetts".

And while we're at it, what happened to all their old bell-bottomed, sequined clothes? I have an image of some skinny homeless guy somewhere, wandering around looking like Elvis circa 1977, because he picked up one of the late Maurice Gibbs' jumpsuit spandex thingies at the Goodwill.

I worry about the Bee Gees. Really, I do.

Political correctness run amok!

Facebook can buff my scrotum

I'm irritated as hell with this Facebook. What big balls these bastards possess! They're in my face about my lack of interpersonal relationships!!! I mean, how would they know the following, which is a direct goddamm screen shot right from my goddamm profile:

I circled the part that pissed me off. OK, I admit I don't really have any friends; see, I'm not Mr. Socialite, possibly because of my persnickety nature, but why rub my considerably larger-than-it-needs-to-be nose in it? Smarty-pants assholes.

Fuck 'em, I'm joining MySpace.

Just wanted you all to know...

Officially, as of about 2:00 this afternoon:

The Bachelor: a review

Insight, I got. And boy, was the desperation ever on display, too.

Last night on ABC was this show, The Bachelor. This is where a guy gets to choose, cafeteria style, from a smorgasbord of 25 women (some of whom were obviously chosen by the producers because they are complete lunatics and mental cases). Then the guy, through a series of religious rites involving the bestowal of roses, ends up with one of them. And marries her.

The insight I got: are all women like this when men aren't around? Apparently so. Squealing, continual use of the word "cute", back-stabbing, snotty. And weird, too: there was one who apparently pictures positive things and then, just like a kidnapper would, cuts out headlines and letters from a newspaper and pastes them on paper. In her case, it wasn't a ransom note -- it's what she called a "vision board", and for her it results in all good things coming true! Listen, this particular dearie didn't need a vision board so much as a psychiatric evaluation board. You know, a team of doctors who'd quickly come to the conclusion that she should be warehoused for future medical experiments.

None of them were really that hot. There really wasn't one that I'd have given the time of day to if I was picking up chicks, Nigel-style, in a bar. One girl from Alabama had apparently gone under the knife as often as Joan Rivers; her smile ended somewhere around the back of her head. Not a good look.

And: every one of them was desperate to marry this guy (who also seemed a bit plastic and rehearsed to me). WTF is so great about marriage? That's the grand prize? Pfffft--should be what the loser walks away with.

Anyhow, on the Nigel scale of "this show blows dead hippos", I give it an 8 out of 10. I'll watch it again, mainly to point and giggle. And by the by, you can nominate me, Nigel, as the next bachelor by using their handy dandy 1-800 number. Oh, boy, imagine the fun I'd have on that first screening call with the producers!

I love me hot lesbo women!

To penetrate or not to penetrate--that is the question. Although it's not Shakespeare, it's pretty damn close, and it fully describes the conundrum that is: lesbianism.

I love me some lesbians. I'm one, albeit trapped in a man's body--meaning, I love women. Love, love, love, love women. Want them, bad, all the doo-dah day. But I've always wondered about the phenomenon I see vis: lesbians who like muscle-bound, dyke-ey looking "chicks" who'd rather kick your ass than give you the time of day.

If I were a lesbian, I'd want the most sexy looking, feminine, gorgeous possible in every way girl to surrender the carpet to me. Makes sense, right? 'Cause if my deal is, I like women--then it stands to reason that I'd like good looking, sexy, hot women. Yes? If the woman

I'm with looks like a dorky biker guy--what's the fucking point? So, if I were a lesbian, I'd wanna fuck the ever loving shit out of someone just like Sports Illustrated cover girl Marissa Miller (photo, left),who's ungodly gorgeous and smoking hot and looks ready for some girly lovin'--or someone who looks just like her. Imagine her, with someone equally hot...oh, shit, um.....boing? Can you in your mind picture two hotties looking like this going at it? Right, guys? The two of them together--jeez, it's Captain Onan time, a-wakka-wakka-wakka-wakka, lemme tell ya! Or maybe Angelina Jolie. Or Anne Hathaway. Or similar. But c'mon, Rosie O'Donnell, not so much. Agreed?

So, lipstick lesbians. That's what they call hot girls who go for the tongue licking and not the dick sticking. I love 'em, 'cause they're feminine, and gorgeous, and lovely, and oh so fucking hot when they're going at it.

But I digress.

What's the point of this post? There isn't one, except for lil' ol' Nigel to put the official "buff my scrotum" seal of approval on lesbian activity. So long as both women involved are gorgeous and so long as they're panting, just a little bit, while they're exploring each other's bodies with their hands and mouths.

I'll be in the bathroom....

Hard Again--great album!

Hard Again

Studio album by Muddy Waters

Released

May 1977

Recorded

1977

Genre

Electric blues

Length

49:39

Professional reviews

Rolling Stone (favorable) link

Muddy Waters chronology

Live at Jazz Jamboree '76
1976

Hard Again
1977

I'm Ready
1978

Hard Again is a 1977 Chicago-style electric blues album by Muddy Waters. It was recorded by its producer, Johnny Winter, in a rough, bare-bones style. After several lackluster records, this was Waters's comeback album.

The album won a Grammy Award in 1977 for "Best Ethnic or Traditional Recording".^[1]

Nigel's gone soft

Last night I was thinking to myself: dammit, Nigel, you're getting soft and wimpy in your old age. This is depressing, shlubbies, depressing I say. Just a little tiny bit.

Now, I don't want to be weird or anything, but I've gotta face the truth. I used to steel myself when an opportunity came up for me, but it seems that's changed. Over the last year, when faced with an opening, no matter how attractive and desirable, I just couldn't seem to tackle things firmly and unbending, like I used to. These days I feel limp and flabby, going back and forth, back and forth, unsure of myself. It's a downer. Ultimately, sure, I realize I have to take matters into my own hands, but that's not as satisfying as if I'd dealt with things solidly in the first place.

For 2009, I want to be better. And let me be clear here, with no doubts or double entendres! See, I want to exercise concrete logic that leads to penetrating insights, and then, with stiff resolve, take care of business. I want to be unyielding, rigid, sure of myself. I want to be rock solid in my analysis of my problems, and then push through, coming to the right conclusion -- then and only then can I lay back, relaxed, knowing full well I'm up for whatever challenge unfolds before me. Give it the shaft!

I'm gonna allow myself exactly 30 days, beginning now--and so this time next month, I'm looking forward to a solidly improved Nigel! It won't be hard, will it?

2008 Headline of the Year

"...they can put their legs straight up"

The all new Nigel: now, improved for 2009!

How was your Christmas? How was your New Year's? Blah blah blah; endless questions from people you run into, and they're never quite prepared for the response I provide, which is: "they were both...charming".

Yes, shlubbies, I'm turning over a new leaf. Since all the leaves I see looking out my kitchen window are dead and brown and crinkly, why not reflect that in my refreshing new attitude? Just kidding; I'm really serious about my new outlook, which can be summed up thusly -- every day, in every way, I'm getting better and better. With a little help from pharmaceuticals, I admit, but hey, you gotta start somewhere.

So, I resolve the following:

I'll be positive, not negative. Negative people suck, and since I'm not gay, I herewith renounce negativity and will embrace a sunny, "Up With People" outlook. From now on, everything's just jake.
I'll smile more. It takes something like 4 muscles to smile and 7,582 to frown; if anything, I have the best-in-shape face in the history of humanity as a result. One unintended consequence is that I'll have to make up the defecit with some other kind of facial exercise.
Depression is nothing more than anger internalized. So I resolve to be outwardly angry, but in a positive, smiling way (see points 1 and 2 above). That way, I won't be eating away my insides with nasty thoughts about how everything sucks (except me, because remember, I'm not gay. See point 1 for clarification on this).
I'll celebrate the little things. Like my penis.
I'll take more time for family and friends. On the family side, this will mean hand-writing my alimony checks as opposed to having the online bank print the suckers out. And I'll include all kinds of nice little touches, like using hearts over the letter "i" in my signature, instead of a dot. On the friends side, taking more time will just mean saving a bit more money so as to afford the increased expense associated with the escort services' hourly rates.
I hereby resolve to love all holidays and to communicate my love for those holidays whenever and however appropriate. Like, for Arbor Day, my plans include public peeing-on-trees to show my joy and happiness.
Finally, I will work hard to treat my fellow man with kindness and generosity. While those who know me well are throwing up in their mouths a little bit reading this, my response to them is: "fuck you. Eat a slice of dingleberry pie if you can't handle the new, sweet me."

Remember, dear reader, a smile is just a frown turned upside down, happiness is a habit, and you get more with honey than you do with oozing pig innards. Happy New Year!

Happy almost New Year, pal

Tomorrow night is New Year's Eve, and we're all celebrating -- right?

Me, I'll be at a friend's house, flying solo. but

I won't be chasing women at this party. I'm not planning on kissing anyone or anything there. And I'm not alone: a study released yesterday reveals the following New Year's info nugget, that 1 in 5 people have "no one to kiss" when midnight strikes. The study also shows that more people will kiss their pets than they will kiss other people.

Kissing pets? WTF is up with that?!? But these study results make sense when you realize the news source for the story, which is a website called "Arkansas Matters".

In Arkansas, frenching with animals is considered normal, I guess, so that explains it.

"You are a pack of arseholes"

Here's one that teachers will secretly like, perhaps a little tiny bit.

Comes now a story out of Australia about an un-named teacher who's been cleared to continue teaching despite numerous complaints filed against him by students and parents. Apparently this guy was pretty, um, forceful with his 5th grade class; allowing his kids to chase each other around the room with a baseball bat, plus liberal use of the "F" word (as in, ""Why the fuck are you behaving this way in my class and not other people's classes?"and "Don't fucking swear at me") along with this classic, directed at the kids: "You are a pack of arseholes" -- all this resulted in our hero being cited and brought up on charges.

Somehow he manages to maintain his certification and is still working at this time.

But you've gotta love it -- at least I do -- that this guy actually got to tell students what he really thought of them. See, in my experience, most 5th graders are arseholes. To be able to let fly in the room, right in front of them, must have been liberating and freeing and oh so fun.

His lawyer will probably come back with some lame excuse, like he has Tourette's Syndrome, or something similar, and ultimately the result will be fully-paid long-term disability for this teacher, who will then age gracefully and end up like Clint Eastwood's characted in his new movie, Gran Torino. He'll be the first out the door with a shotgun growling things like "get off my lawn" whenever the neighborhood kids tromp by.

I'm so jealous.

My Christmas gift

You could barely contain my excitement yesterday when I eagerly unwrapped the one gift found for me under the tree at my ex-wife's house (I had to go there, see, 'cause Nigel Jr. lives with that person). Tearing apart the paper in breathless anticipation, I opened the box and found this:

Yes, it's the "Historic Victory" commemorative plate celebrating the election of our new President, Barethemus Hexographer O'Shaughnessy. As seen on TV! Well! How special! Carefully, I mounted it on its collectors item 24k faux gold stand, and placed it in the takanoma ("place of honor" in traditional Japanese households). Once there and safe, I continually turned to it as I was chewing mouthfuls of previously live turkey and pig, and smiled at it. Just like in the TV ad. I was most drawn to his "confident smile and kind eyes".

The crowning thingy with this was the official "Certificate of Authenticity" which assures me and all my impressed visitors that this, indeed, is the real goddamm deal, and that I being smart wasn't fooled by cheap imitations.

I'll be ordering more President O'Shaughnessy crapola in the future, so if you're aware of anything I can use around the house that celebrates him, including his confident smile and kind eyes...lemme know.

Finally, done

Whew.

The silly season is over, at least for 2008. Sunset on Christmas Day, for me, marks the wrapping up of the "holidays", and it's never more welcome than right now. This annual turd-fest is the most depressing, forced, fake bunch of shit I have to endure annually, and I'm so glad it's coming to an end.

Now I can return to being my usual cheery self.

But I can't let it go by without re-gifting a photo used in a post last year. This sums up my attitude about this time of year, pretty bloody well.

Here's to getting back to work, and also to being left alone, without the intervention of "family" or "friends".

In trouble at Victoria's Secret

So, being that it's Christmas and all, and me being me -- classic procrastinator -- time then to hit the shopping mall and begin my gift shopping. How to combine this painful experience with some fun? Simple: buy everything at Victoria's Secret.

I've been in there when nubility and pulchritude, losing their collective minds amongst all the frilly delicates, have actually tried things on outside the dressing rooms. Score! There's nothing better than standing quietly in the corner of Vicky's (that's what I affectionately call the place) while women like Marrisa Miller (at left) pop in and out of bustierres and thongs, all the while squealing to their friends "does this make me look fat"? Answer: um, no, Marissa, you're not looking fat. Even hot straight girls wanna do you, you little myx, you. And I wanna watch, btw.

Once again, though, I'm veering from my story.

Big question of the night: what to buy my mother? Now, some people would think shopping for mummy's gifts at Victoria's Secret is a little....pervy....but I'm not some people. Plus, mother just got married again, and given her advanced age I figure whatever I can do to spice up the bedroom for her and the new hubby is a good thing. There's only so much "heat" you can generate when the decor de boudoir is courtesy of American Discount Home Medical Equipment.

So a quick trip to Vicky's for dear old mum. Trouble is, she's off in Branson with hubby right now, taking in the sights plus the odd Osmond Brothers show. So I couldn't be sure that what I bought would be the right size, and stuff. What to do, what to do?

Solution! There, shopping alongside her great-granddaughter, was a lady of a certain age. Eyeing her, I thought: shit, she's about mother's size. So, nicely and politely and all, and not trying to be weird or anything, I approached her:

Nigel: Excuse me madam, merry Christmas and all that, could I impose on you for a favour?
Lady: Certainly, young man.
N: My mum's in Missouri and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind trying on some things for me, like a mega-shmega thong and bra set, in the spirit of the holidays? You could go back and forth, back and forth between the floor and the dressing room, and sorta show me how things look, and then I'd be able to get her the gifts. What do you say?

After the police came, things got a little hectic, but on the way out I managed a few choice words directed particularly at the store manager--I yelled at her that I wouldn't be shopping at Vicky's anymore no matter what and that also Marissa Miller is a lesbian ..which, come to think of it...hmmm....I still wanna watch. Perv that I am. Just a tiny bit.

Vegemite, my lobe!

It became clear to me that tonight, I'd had no dinner. It was about 9:30pm, and I'd just finished IM'ing with the single most important person in my life, and I was like: hey, haven't eaten, but let's see what's in the fridge and get to it, shall we?

What was in the fridge was Vegemite. This extraordinary black, salty paste, used primarily as a toast/sandwich spread, is incomprehensible to anyone other than those among us who've been blessed to have spent at least some of our collective childhood in Australia. For there, you see, Vegemite is as important as breathing. It's like...peanut butter...but with religious overtones.

So, the Vegemite. Toast made, butter liberally spread, Vegemite ladled atop, and all is well with your Nigel.

I love Vegemite. I want to continue to eat it till I die. I have eaten Vegemite since I was a little, tiny boy, and nothing makes me feel as good as chomping on a Vegemite sandwich or Vegemite on toast or whatever. I have little in my life that provides me as much pleasure. And I don't care what others amongst us might think of it.

I am loyal, and steadfast, and also not a fool. When I find something wonderful, and joyful, and personally important, and really, really tasty, and something that can give me supreme sublime happiness, well...and I don't mean to be weird here...I stick with it.

btw, and for those who need further illumination: my Vegemite story, while true, is but an allegory, shlubbies.

Manhood intact despite "Mamma Mia"

After last night's festivities, I pleasured myself to visions of Meryl Streep in tight spandex bell bottoms, all the while doing a mental check-off as I jerked off: had to make sure to rid my mind of the gayness that lurked within, post TV viewing. But I'm getting ahead of my story.

See, my regular Friday night nefarious plan involves attempting to woo a certain Chiquitita over to my home where I ply her with home-made victuals and alcohol-free beverages--then, we retire to the TV room where I make vain attempts at pushing her buttons. So to speak. This of course with the ultimate goal of concluding carnal congress. To help out last night, I grilled up a particularly rare filet mignon for my guest; the thinking being that really red meat gets the juices flowing, and so on and so forth, and so long as I get her juices flowing, well then! The inner lion in your Nigel was roaring last night, lemme tell ya!

So as we're getting comfortable after dinner she goes: "Let's watch a movie!" And I'm thinking, perhaps something that would set the mood. "9 1/2 Weeks"..."Red Shoe Diaries"...maybe "National Lampoon's European Vacation"? No, she wanted to watch a musical called "Mamma Mia".

I'm not much for musicals. I liked the Rocky Horror Picture Show but that was mainly because Susan Sarandon, who's about 84 years old now, was all of 23 or so back then, and spent the bulk of the film jiggling around in her underwear (photo at left). And as a rule I'm certainly not much for a musical built around the songs of the Swedish group Abba. But this particular woman lying prone on my couch is especially fine and lovely, so I figured I had much to gain and nothing much to lose by agreeing to watch this picture at her request.

So, "Mamma Mia"--it's a filmic adaptation of the mega-homo Broadway show that featured about 8,000 songs from Abba. You've got Meryl Streep and Colin Firth and Pierce Brosnan and Christine Baransky and Stellan Skaarsgaaaaard (how does he spell his name?) flitting around this Greek island, and all of a sudden interrupting the rather weak plot with Abba tunes like "The Winner Takes It All".

Watching this, I discovered two things: first, Pierce Brosnan, who obviously won the sperm Olympics when he was born in Istanbul and who thus looks sorta like a Greek God -- Pierce Brosnan has the singing voice of, oh...Ernest Borgnine. Boy can't sing. Second, and much to my horror: I knew ALL THE WORDS TO ALL THE ABBA SONGS IN THE FILM! There I was, singing along to "Dancing Queen" and "S.O.S" and I couldn't believe it. Must have been because I'd had to play all those songs on the radio back in my disc jockey days...but I'd long suppressed the memory of this.

About half-way through the film, I touched myself. Just to make sure I still had a penis, and that somehow it hadn't been cut off or had fallen off or had befallen some other nasty fate. Abba can have that effect on a man, you know. I'm not fucking kidding.

My would-be conquest spent the bulk of the night laughing at me, and she left as per the norm with me being left to, um, handle things on my own...which I did. With visions of Meryl in shiny bell bottom spandex dancing through my head, I went at it, fully conscious the whole time that if Brosnan entered the fantasy, it'd be time to take the pills.

I'm happy to report no such trouble; my manhood remains intact. And I never want to see this "Mamma Mia" film, ever again.

Pulling files with four hands...and more!

Seeeeeee? Here's a news story about someone who managed to make lemonade out of lemons! There's always hope, even if you're born "differently-abled". It'll be interesting to see how this guy's appeal turns out.

World Wanking Championships disqualification controversy

(AP Photo) Martin Schorrozo of Lichtenstein reacts to news of his disqualification from the final round of the World Wanking Championships currently underway in Banjas, Brazil. Judges took the disqualification decision after an official complaint was filed by Italy's "Piacere Di Auto Della Squadra" (tran: "Self-Pleasure Team") Thursday. The complaint alleged "lack of fair play" and specifically cited Schorrozo's "unusual physical ability".

Schorrozo, who was born with four arms, has had success in other masturbation meets by using his unique and theatrical four-handed approach. His two favourite routines, "Pulling Office Files" and "Squashing Stonehenge" (set to the tune of the Divinyls hit, "I Touch Myself"), are regular top-ten search result items on youtube.com. One of the most popular competitors on the circuit, Schorrozo has received four "I'M THE SPUNKIEST!" congeniality awards in previous contests.

An appeal has been filed by Lichtenstein and is currently under review. The World Wanking Championships are scheduled to conclude tomorrow with the awarding of the coveted "Onan One!" trophy.

I'm now an official pussy inspector!

Because of holiday pressures and lack of overall time in general, I haven't as yet acquired my new cat--I hope to do so soon. However, in order to be fully qualified as a new kitty owner, I contacted the University of Phoenix and took their amazingly quick (though expensive) certification course. Now I'm credentialed, and they sent me this handsome badge I can use when adoption takes place. It'll give the shelter much more confidence in my ability, don't you think?

The retirement home activities calendar

I was a little disturbed when I found this lying on my mother's living room coffee table. They do some whacky crap over there at the old folks home, eh? Just check this calendar out!

We've got fun activities at Sunset Acres Retirement Community! Here's just a sample!

Join us for "Mercy Killing Mondays", which is where geriatrics on the verge of death hobble out to the parking lot and end it all with a quick shot to the head. Mondays, 7:30pm.

And here we have Extreme Wheelchair action which takes place in the hall just in front of the bingo room. Nightly, after you've gummed dinner.

Re-live the excitement of the past with one of our most attended activities, "Group Sex Night". Fridays, 8:00pm, in the infirmary. Defibrillators provided courtesy of your medical staff--the evening is sponsored by Viagra!

We look forward to your participation in these and other great times!

Rinse. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat....

It's come to my attention that I am one repetitive bastard. I repeat myself. I say the same stuff over and over. This was helpfully pointed out to me by a friend who told me: "Nigel, you're one repetitive bastard. You repeat yourself. You say the same stuff over and over."

I want to stop this. Stop it, I say! What would help is if I also could stop being predictable, using the same catch phrases. Catch phrases like:

"I liiiiikke it!"
"I don't want to sound weird or anything..."
"I knoooooooooooow."
"Irrespective of that..."
"back and forth, back and forth"
"Supposedly..."
"Allegedly..."

There are plenty more. In non-polite company, I tend to say these things a lot:

"I don't give a hairy rats ass."
"Flaming fairy-floss fisting fuckwad."
"Oily heap of shit."
"Bite the flaming pole of manhood."
"....magnolia candy-ass fetus eater...."

....and the always pleasant: "Eat a warm, slurpy bowl of fuck."

I'm working on breaking the habit. What phrases do YOU say a lot, without realizing you're yammering on? Comment away, shlubbies!

Asian tattoo smoking chicks are easy

What all us men know to be true: if you meet a hot chick with a tattoo, and also who smokes: golden time. It means that you WILL get laid.

Typical tattoo, as seen on caucasian girls, at right. Here, then, is someone you know you're gonna score with, especially if she pulls out the pack of Camel Lights. Factor those things in together, and boyo, it's orgasm city, minus the worry or concern, 'cause she'll be so drunk, she won't remember anything anyway.

But wait. What about Asian girls? It would stand to reason that they wouldn't have the tattoos with their own language on them? What would be the point? Here, then, the best tattoo, in English, on easy Asian chicks, the ones who will spread the pink and indulge without forethought. And keep in mind, they smoke, too:

The Dalai Lama can buff my scrotum

The Dalai Lama has a quote about pursuing happiness, which is something I'd like to quote as it regards me the way things are right now, to wit:

Worrying about everything means worrying about nothing. For it is clear that the man who tries to make the one thing he wishes to happen in reality is forsaken. The truth is in the pie: it is a mix of things, without regard to religion or belief.

Hey, Dalai--should we call you "D", or "Lama"? One thing: go fuck yourself. I know the one thing I'd like to happen in my life, and it won't, dammit, that's the way it is, and no fucking mystical crap is gonna make it happen because, newsflash: I am ugly, fat, old, disgusting looking, and have 36 pack abs...so bugger you and your mystical bullshit, and btw also to hell with Tibet and all your whining crapola besides.

Buddy, before China, your "country" had a life expectancy of about 42 for the average man, plus no sewers or paved roads plus of course total illiteracy. Yeah, your magnolia candy ass fetus eating "country" really had it goin' on, hey? Better to assume things would improve post-death, vis-a-vis reincarnation and all that other idiocy you believe in, than to actually work daily to improve the lives of your "people"? And why not? You're being jetted around the fucking world on Gulfstream G5's, first class hotels, etc, to show up and give speeches...must be tough.

Meanwhile, those old nasty Chinese actually get to work improving things, and then you get all Richard Gere on them, you asshole, go fuck yourself, and you wonder why they have a claim on your disgusting turd-like little land? Again, boobola, fuck you. The Chicoms come in, teach you illiterate fucks how to read, pave the roads, provide basic services, clean water, allowing you to shit in peace and without worry of being attacked up the asshole by some nasty desert creature lurking in your outhouse...and now you get pissed off?

You and that fucking asshole Boddhisatva or yours can buff my scrotum.

Dyslexia...the hrroro, the roorrh

So, this made its way to my email last night. Celebrate the hodilays!

Assault, Japanese style

When I was a kid, I lived in a bunch of places, including Japan.

Tokyo, to be specific, and I was aged 11--14 when I was there. 1968--1971. I loved it, because it was perfect in every way. See, Tokyo is so safe that my parents had no trouble with me disappearing for hours at a time, wandering the streets, checking it all out. So that's what I'd do, alone, enjoying it hugely.

A typical Saturday morning: I'd leave the house and just...walk. Komaba, Shibuya, Shinjuku, Roppongi...just wandering and checking it all out. I loved the solitude and the loud business, all simultaneous. I loved the narrow streets and the noodle shops and the pachinko parlours and the noise of the motorbikes whipping by. I loved the smells of the restaurants opening up. I just loved it, and when I had an opportunity to go back, courtesy of my radio work and Delta Airlines offering me a free slot (along with my late brother Kent, who spoke fluent Japanese) on their inaugural direct Atlanta to Tokyo flight back in 1988--well, I had to take it, and damned if all the things I loved weren't exactly the same.

One time, though, reality hit me hard. My younger brothers and I were returning from a weekend morning skating session at some ice rink and having taken the train, we were walking through the main street of the little village where we lived inside Tokyo proper, back up the long hill to our house. All the people knew us. We shopped there. And as we were walking, my brother was viciously attacked by some nutty woman who couldn't stop screaming at us. Beating on his back. Spitting at him.

My brother, Kent, was smart enough (he was about 9 years old, now) to yell at me "don't hit her back, don't stop her" as she literally beat the shit out of him. He somehow knew that if I retaliated, it would escalate badly. This was on the main street. Passers-by stopped, horrified, but no one helped Kent. Yet somehow he broke away and together me, Kent, and my youngest brother Scott (who was maybe 7 years old at the time) ran into a store where we were regular patrons. The store owner quickly ushered us to the back door--nothing special, just a wooden door--and as we stood there waiting to get out a huge knife came through the middle of the thing. This lady was out there and serious.

The rest is somewhat of a blur. Somehow, we ran home, the police were called, and because Kent was the only one who could really speak the language he was the one who had to tell the cops what had happened. But he was injured, hurting, the poor kid, but he did his best.

Fast forward. The police knew this woman: her brother had been killed by the Allies in WW2 and she'd lost her mind because of it. Her deal was: she hated foreigners. White people. Because of the war. But, someone had to go and identify her; that was me, being the oldest. So there I am in a Japanese squad car, being driven to this lady's house. The Japanese cops had me hide behind a wall--they rang the doorbell, everything was fine, until they ushered me around the corner.

Crazy lady went berserk as soon as she saw me, screaming, frothing at the mouth, had to be held back by the police. She was taken away, and I was taken home. I didn't sleep for weeks.

Japan. I love that country.

Ta Ta, Polaroid

Q: What do you call a Polish mongoloid who has only one leg?
A: A Polaroid One Step.

If you're under the age of, say, 31, this joke will mean absolutely nothing to you. Older than that? You'll remember the product, I bet. The Polaroid One Step. There it is, at right. This simple to use point-and-click camera dominated the world of instant photography back before the digital age.

Yesterday, the Polaroid Corporation (they're still around?) announced they'd cease making instant film and basically close up shop. This month, December 2008, is the last month of production. Another relic of a by-gone era goes the way of the buffalo.

The One Step and its cousin, the SX-70, were ubiquitous in American homes back in the day, primarily for one big reason: they provided Joe and Jane Sixpack the ability to quickly and privately shoot filthy photos of their private parts, whether singular or "joined", and review those photos at their leisure, without having pesky Wal Mart part-time one hour photo employees glom onto them...or, worse, report them to the police.

For grins, I went back through my collection of old girlfriend Polaroids...and here are some of the "clean" ones:

That last one there--her name was Clamydia--man, oh man. This particular photo, if I remember right, was her disgusted reaction the instant I took my pants off. Hot stuff, I'm telling you. It took like, 5 minutes to score with her, and despite the follow-up doctor visits, she meant a lot to me...really.

Goose farts at the retirement home!

I've been hangin' with my peeps at the ol' folks' crib, yo.

Now THAT would have been funny--last night, I'm talking about. If instead of a generally raucus but also out-of-tune Christmas song pageant, we'd had happy holiday hip-hop. 90 years olds dressed in gang banger clobber, up there on stage hittin' the beats...but sadly, instead, it was all pretty milquetoast. The standard yuletide singing, complete with audience participation.

And that's where yours truly fell flat. See, I have a pretty deep speaking voice. Years of being on the radio combined with excessive alcohol and tobacco consumption have made me sound pretty much like Darth Vadar. I actually scare telephone operators at places like Pizza Hut when I call in an order, just by opening my mouth.

So speaking-voice wise, all that resonance and rumbling worked fine for radio and TV, but definitely does NOT and never has extended to singing. When I sing, my voice takes on a unique and almost indescribable tone.

My singing voice sounds like goose farts on a foggy day.

So last night, during the audience participation part, I'm singing along to "White Christmas" and my companion, my friend, someone I've come to rely on and really trust (and who, btw, has fucking fabulous tits)...well, she turns to me and whispers: "Nigel, if you don't stop singing immediately, if you don't shut the fuck up, we're going to have to leave. Because you're scaring the old people around us."

Suitable chastised, I quit, and stood there silently while everyone else continued with their holly jolly mood. But I say, fuck singing anyway, at least for me; I never liked it and always thought it was kind of....homo. I'm reminded of the old joke:

Q: How does a young man become a member of a high school chorus? A: On the first day of school he turns into the wrong classroom.

Nigel is tobacco free!

I quit smoking Saturday night, and so far, so good. No relapse or problems or even urges. I'll be clear of all of it by tomorrow, and officially will become an ex-smoker at that time!

When you start to smoke, you think it's cool, right? What with the smell and the ashtray breath and huddling in the freezing outdoor smoking areas, what could be cooler? The answer, of course, is Humphrey Bogart, who made everything look cool, including smoking. That is until you find out what it did to him...and even after the cancer took out his entire esophagus, Bogie kept smoking (albeit filtered smokes--before the surgery he was a Chesterfield straights guy).

I don't want to die of esophageal cancer. I'd like to die in a somewhat more dignified and meaningful way. I've decided that I want to be smothered to death by: boobs.

Not just any old boobs, either. They've gotta be perky, and bouncy, and attached to someone hot, who preferably has really long legs and looks mui caliente in a Catholic school girl's outfit. Sorta like what's at right, but with darker hair. She could come to my house each Friday night where I'd make her dinner and get to know her better. Twenty weeks or so would go by; by then, she'd be putty in my hands. Putty, I say! And at that point I could talk her into allowing the boob smothering to happen when the time came for me to shuffle off the mortal coil. And she'd agree, because of my natural charm and wit.

And also maybe because of that certain thing I can do with my tongue.

The musical at the retirement facility

Where to begin? Oh, yes, let's put it this way: at one point I was really glad I was wearing brown pants.

Because I was shitting myself laughing! But I had to laugh secretly, to myself, without being heard by the 250 senior citizen geezers and wheezers surrounding me.

The deal was: last night, at the old folks home where my mother and her husband reside, they put on a broadway revue, and mummy was in it. Show tunes, with little bits of commentary courtesy of the MC: the one person in the place who can still a) stand up and b) read from a script without resorting to tri-focals. It was a command performance, as in mother "commanded" me to be there. So, naturally, I went prepared to hate every fucking minute.

On they came, first song: "Our Favorite Things". And they were LIP-SYNCHING! To the bloody official broadway recording! This wasn't how mummy had described it to me in advance; I thought they were really gonna sing! But noooooooooo!

Picture in your mind: a makeshift stage, garishly spotlighted, the crowded room hot and muggy, the sound punctuated by the sharp electronic intake/outtake of various respirators. And there, on stage, 25 Medicare recipients all dressed in costume...and being Milli Vanilli. Not singing. Just mouthing the words. It was all mis-timed and hilarious: one guy doing a solo version of "The Impossible Dream" kept his mouth open in a big "O" shape 5 full seconds after the vocalist on the recording had stopped singing.

It went on and on and on and on, lasting nearly two hours. Two hours, I kid you not.

The first "nearly crapped my pants laughing" moment occurred 9 songs in, when t

he stage, dimly lit, was taken by an 87 year old woman dressed head to toe in a cat suit, complete with whiskers. There, posing next to a "streetlight", she attempted to mime the words to "Memory". She couldn't walk so well, so stood stock still the entire time, just throwing her arms up and down, mouth movements not exactly timed perfectly to the song. And at this point, I lost it.

Have you ever tried to laugh just to yourself? I completely bit off the entire inside of my lower lip. Tears were streaming out of my eyes as I giggled silently, my shoulders shaking. But at the end of this one song, the audience went berserk (as only old people can)....some of them even took out their teeth and rattled them together in applause. Think: lighters held aloft at a concert. Here, it was dentures snapping together at a disaster.

It got better. They did like, five songs from Oliver. Oliver was a 92 year

old midget woman, with a hearing aid and a bad case of osteoporosis. Cast obviously because she was height challenged and so was at least the same size as a little kid, she, too, had problems remaining both upright and with the lip synching. Maybe her hearing aid wasn't turned up loud enough to take in the recording. I don't know.

All this was pulled together by a resident with theatre experience. He was 85

years old, very "flourishy", and he had the stones about 5 songs before it ended to take a little interlude on the mike where he thanked everyone and then demanded a standing ovation at the end from the audience! I thought this was particularly ballsy given how many in attendance had obviously lost the use of their legs many years before.

There's more, but you get the idea. Finally and blessedly over, came then the attempt to leave the building. Egress was hampered by all the bloody wheelchairs and walkers. I only knocked down one old lady in the stampede to the door, so I don't feel so bad.

Nigel blows it, again

So the instruction manual for my love life reads as follows:

1. Locate foot (a)
2. Place in mouth (b)
3. Feel like a fool (c)

Last night I'd managed to lure a young woman to chez Nigel, using my normal method (offering her drugs and money...that's really all that works for me now). Trying to impress this nymph, I generously made dinner. Over plates piled high with corn dogs, beef jerky, and raspberry jello, I began the seduction which ultimately led us walking down the hall and thence into the deep, dark, and semi-creepy environs that constitute my boudoir.

And there on the Craftmatic adjustable we went at it. Well, I did. Well, ok, I tried to go at it. We were maneuvering into what the Karma Sutra calls the "Veyda Opposites" position, which consists of the man trying to grope while saying "yes, yes, yes", and the woman squirming away while saying "no, no, no."

But despite her protestations (I know she really was just kidding, see), I got a hold of her fun bags and whispered in her ear: "I'll pay you more money if I can just see these lovely titties." Smooth, suave, and debonair; that's my MO -- so Cary Grant of me, don't you think? But she absolutely refused to take off her top, depriving me of the joyful exploration of the largesse of her mams.

So me being me, I think: I'm at fault here. So I asked her if I repulsed her, and she said "yes", and then

I thought hmmmm....maybe I have greasy hands and that's what's holding her back. So I asked her: "Is it my greasy hands? Is that what it is--the hand grease and fingernail dirt, so you don't want me to touch your bare skin? 'Cause if it is, I can go wash, I think there's some soap there in the bathroom somewhere...and then will you take your top off for me?" And she said: "Sure!"

So I skipped off the bed and rushed into the lav.

Closing the door, I got to a-scrubbing and a-washing. Five minutes later and clean, I triumphantly re-entered the chamber of love that is my bedroom...and she was gone. Vamoosed. Scramdillyoso. Plus my wallet was cleaned out.

For the future, I think I need to work on my technique. Plus wear a bag over my head with David Beckham's face cut out from a magazine and taped to it. Oh, and also a Michael Phelps body suit. I think I'd end up looking like what you see at right. Plus, of course, I'll plan on washing my hands before things get all hot and interesting.

Ice chewing inhibits my satisfaction, dammit!

I've been chewing ice for awhile, and now it's coming back to haunt me.

Dentists suck. They have this amazingly high suicide rate, to say nothing of their daily digging directly into your mouth...what with all the phlegm and bad breath, it's amazing they don't off themselves right there in front of you.

So at my most recent check up, I'm asked by Dr. Josef Mengele, my dentist: Nigel, are you chewing the ice? And I'm like, yes, you Nazi fuck, and do you have a problem with that?

T

urns out that, based on experiments Dr. Mengele performed back in the 40's, ice chewing is a sign of "sexual frustration".

Me? Sexually frustrated? Just because I haven't had pussy in 12 years? Wonder why?

Dr. Mengele, ever so helpful, prescribes the following for little old me: find a girl, and then, fuck her brains out.

Now, I have trouble with this. First, there's no tongue involvement, and me, I like the tongue involvement. One thing I'm good at is the, um, cunnilingus. I have developed this skill from necessity, as it distracts my partner from my obvious and disgusting fat rolls, plus my tiny little wiener, Percy, whose ability and effect can be summed up thusly: zero.

Most of my recent attempts at achieving coitus have resulted in: noitus. As in, nothing. So, vainly, I continue with my tongue exercises at the gym...in, out, in, out, in, out....damn! Even my tongue is short! So I have to work extra hard at keeping up with the average shlemiel. Shit.

So, to compensate, I eat the ice. I have an ice sculpture of the Titanic in my living room, slowly melting, but hey, I'm chomping away daily....frustrated....needing to bury Percy somewhere, somehow...but still there's your Nigel, trying to maintain positivity throughout. I shall persevere!

Best Christmas card I've received to date

This is my favorite, so far. It's so...sentimental, and everything. Sigh. I love the holidays!

Time to get motivated!

See, now, sometimes this shit just writes itself.

Seems that one of the companies that specializes in consulting, incentive plans, and rewards trips--plus, that provides those irritating "Motivation" posters you sometimes see hanging up in offices--has laid off 34 of its workers. Excellence in Motivation, Inc., is downsizing along with the rest of the world.

Delicious irony.

Anyhow, I thought I'd post one of my all time favorite motivational posters. Lemme know what you think.

No choking or pissing in the toilet! Me love you long time!

There's so much going on with this sign. Apparently, blowjobs aren't allowed for fear of choking...but neither is stand up urinating! Look, us guys LOVE to piss outside. It's a sport we refined when we were little kids. But...it's cold out there right now, and pissing outside would result in little Percy shrinking even more below its already miniscule size. So, I'll piss inside, thanks very much.

Cats, and Nigel joins a dating service

In a probably vain attempt to ease my lack of companionship, I am tomorrow acquiring a new pet. A cat. But because of my allergies and also lack of regular housecleaning, I need to get one that doesn't have a lot of hair. One of those baldy cats you see in National Geographic. That way, I won't be scraping up dander off the couch in the middle of a sneezing fit. I'll let you know how my search for my hairless pussy goes, though with my luck I'll get one that looks like the lovely creature above left.

Meanwhile, I've decided to try one of those online dating services. Not that goddamm e-Harmony, no way, the hell with that. Mainly because their TV ads frighten the shit out of me. Everyone who hooks up on e-Harmony apparently ends up married, and that's the last bloody thing I need. No, your Nigel is simply looking for a few laughs followed up with athletic bouts of mindless boinkaroo. That's my plan, anyway.

So, here's my proposed personal ad, complete with Photoshopped picture (I made me better looking than in real life, but everyone on these bloody things does that, right?)...lemme know what you think:

Only you can save me from joining e-Harmony! Tall-ish, wide-ish 50-ish pleasingly plump balding guy with glasses, straight from the Damaged Goods department, with lots of emotional baggage, two ex-wives and alimony payments up the ass, looking for a female who

appears to be sexy and gorgeous with the right backlighting. If you have legs that even remotely look like Heidi Klum's, well then, I'm already masturbating thinkin' about ya! Looking for fun times only, beeyotch: I'm not in the market for the three ring circus (engagement ring, wedding ring, suffering). 'Cause love is like a sweet dream, and marriage is the loud alarm clock. But if you deliver the goods, humour-wise and contortion-wise, I'll jump on Oprah's couch for ya, promise! I bathe daily and all my shots are current. Being older than the average lying jerkoff on this site, I'm a lot like a pile of shit--the older I get, the easier I am to pick up. So you won't have to work too hard. Discretion assured, as I am willing to lie about how we met.

I'm betting I'll meet Ms. Right with my fun and mostly honest approach, don't you think?

I'm my Uncle Bill

Many years ago, my parents would take me and my two brothers for long summertime trips to Australia, where we have lots of family. During those trips, mum and dad would drop us off at Grandma's house and then disappear for as long as 10 weeks. Us little kids, we didn't care--what's not to like, staying at Grandma's? Who cares where the parents buggered off to?

Also living in the house were my Uncle Bill and Aunt Mary. Bill would get progressively grumpier the longer we stayed, to the point that he was ready to kill us about the time we'd leave. He'd grunt and grizzle and moan and sigh and roll his eyes, all the time yelling at us to "shut the flaming bloody hell up, ya little bloody bastards!" But we'd just laugh.

Fast forward now some 40 years, and I'm now Uncle Bill, and jeez, do I ever understand him better. Because I've just endured a week (note, just one week--not 10, like poor old Bill) of close-knit family togetherness, right here at chez Nigel. For Thanksgiving, I hosted my brother and his family.

I hate fucking family togetherness. Add to that, the forced, fake frivolity of the "holidays", and I couldn't begin drinking fast enough. I was pretty much blotto by 10am daily, and kept the buzz going throughout the 6 days of sheer hell and misery experienced during that time. Plus, it's the goddamm holidays, right, and previous readers of my drivel and spew just know how much I love this time of year.

Uncle Bill died of cancer back in 1983-cancer undoubtedly brought on by having to endure these yearly visits from us little assholes. Poor old Bill. RIP, mate, and I'm so, so sorry for fucking up your entire life.

"Australia": oh, jeez, don't bother...

So off we all trooped to see the latest blockbuster wanna-be, "Australia", starring Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman.

The movie, which is almost as long as the flight from L.A. to Sydney, can be summed up using a single word: ponderous. Another word: suckwad. Two words: bites it. More than two words: blows dead hippos.

A cross between "Gone With The Wind" and the worst episode of Oprah you ever saw, this waste of celluloid has one thing going for it: it's got some grand-ass scenery. It's been described as a "sweeping epic"...see, though, that also describes my once-every-six-months housecleaning. And the results are identical; with both this movie and my housecleaning, you end up with a lot of garbage.

Women will like one scene early in the film, where Hugh Jackman is shirtless and bathing in the Outback. Muscles rippling, abs taut and firm, there he is in slow motion, laving up and rinsing down. Jackman, who early in his career and for obvious reasons had to change his last name from the original "Jorgan" (say it out loud to get the effect..."Hugh Jorgan", and you'll understand), brings a certain je ne sais quoi to his role as The Drover. Nice job, Hugh.

Nicole Kidman is alternately prissy ice queen and sex bomb as Lady Ashley Whateverthehell. One weird thing was that because I was so bored watching the film, I started looking for things in the scenery that weren't necessarily camera-center...and I noticed that dear Nic's breasts changed sizes in various scenes. Who knew they had Wonder Bras back in 1939 remote Outback Australia? Regardless, this provided a little diversion from the rest of the vomitus on screen, let me tell you.

Plus, something's happened to Nic's face. It's now all angular and botoxed. She looks like a porcelain doll, a bit, which isn't really appealing to your Nigel. Having previously perved on Nic in marvelous movies like Dead Calm (where she gets naked as hell, big time, and has one or two great sex scenes), I gotta say that the way she looks now is....disappointing. That's just my opinion, though.

Back to the movie: there's Bryan Brown and a really cute little Aboriginal kid who steals the film and Japanese bombing Darwin and sand storms and kangaroos jumping up and down. One kangaroo gets shot early in the film. This little episode I classify as a mercy killing, allowing the poor kangaroo's soul to avoid further involvement in the following 4 hours of cinematic drek.

I came away from my "Australia" experience with a sore butt from sitting for so long, and a renewed appreciation for any director who has the guts to edit out what doesn't matter to the story. "Australia" needed more than crisper editing, it needed someone early in the game to take director Baz Luhrmann by the ears and shake him, hard; the resulting brain concussion may very well have stopped the movie from ever having been made at all.

Don't bother going, shlubbies. Trust me on this. Really.

Happy Thanksgiving

The traditional holiday breast basting has already begun, chez Nigel! Looks like there'll be plenty to go around...Happy Thanksgiving, shlubbies!

I get the French letters.

Mail, mail, I love getting the mail!

One of my favorite things is waiting for the mailman. I sit, nose pressed to the living room window, awaiting that little USPS van--and then, like clockwork, here he comes! And he unloads all this shit right in my box, and I run and get it, and I am oh so happy!

I particularly like receiving mail from Europe. I correspond pretty regularly with people who, through no fault of their own, find themselves in prison. Completely and totally without regard to their innocence, those fucking Interpol bastards lock 'em up and throw away the key. The injustice of it all!

My favorite to get are French letters. From time to time, they come in the mail...different sizes and colors, but always making me feel protected. It's so nice watching them come in the mail--there they are, all French and Gallic and smelling of snails and red wine. I love it.

I bet you'd love getting the French letters, too. There's a feeling of safety and surety associated with them, lemme tell ya. And they come in so many different varieties, really, there's a lot to enjoy just from that standpoint alone.

Peace out.

I see into the past....

I see where the Vatican has "forgiven" John Lennon for his "we're more popular than Jesus" comment, circa 1966; they've also written a review of the 1968 White Album that praises its merits. This review happened yesterday!

Nice, but a bit late, maybe? Most album reviews occur relatively soon post-release, but this one is 40 years late. Talk about having the luxury of time to "get it right"! Herewith, your Nigel's reviews of a variety of shit from ages ago. And I know I'm right, in addition to smart and good looking, just like my younger brother:

Casablanca: a nice little movie full of actors who do a decent job with the thespian walking and talking and moving about. In general, it's a keeper, and one I'd recommend. This guy Bogart has a future, so long as he doesn't kick off from esophageal cancer sometime in 1957. 5 of 5 "Buff My Scrotum" stars.

The Mary Tyler Moore Show: Mary plays Mary, and she's pretty good, as is the actor who plays her boss, someone name of "Lou Grant". And this Rhoda woman, well, hell, I'm all there, despite the silly headgear wrapping thing she tends to wear. Only downside: set in Minneapolis, which is shit for shinola as a place you'd want to be, especially come winter. A good bet for many Emmys, but they'll be frozen. It's Minne-fucking-sota after all...

The Vietnam War: will play well in the Midwest. My guess as to casualties: 58,159 U.S soldiers killed. I think I'll be right and exact with this casualty count,l though I reserve the right to double check with the Vatican 40 years after all is said and done.

The Clinton Administration: a boon for dry cleaners everywhere, what with the dress stains and all. President Clinton has shitty taste in women. What's with his wife and her pipe-fitter ankles? And this Paula Jones woman? And Monica Lewinsky (at left)? Seriously, if I'm the charismatic leader of the free world and could choose among many possible sex partners, I'd start with someone, um, good looking. Wouldn't you? He'll go down in flames, trust me.

Barack Obama: what the fuck? Seems like a nice guy and all, but people from Illinois wanna elect him State Senator? Are they on drugs or something?

There you have it, shlubbies: the Nigel crystal ball! And I know I'm right!

A visit to Medieval Times....

Family in town right now and my house is over-run with the pitter-pat, pitter-pat of young feet. Young, juvenile delinquent feet. Yes, the nephews are in town, and what with your Nigel being their favorite uncle and all, expectations are high for fun and frivolity all provided by your truly. I love these kids but they steal shit from me every time they visit, so the house is in valuables lock-down mode right now. I'm working hard on handling the pressure.

Last night, we all trooped off to "Medieval Times". This theme restaurant features knights in shining armour swinging swords at each other while bemused patrons sit in stadium-like array, screaming and yelling for their section's "knight" to kill all the others and thus win the hand of the princess. Horses galloping around, jousting, and fake English accents. Serfs running behind the horses, shoveling up horse leavings from the sand pit. Lots of dry ice providing the faux-Merlin chracter suitable atmosphere in which to cast his spells. Errol Flynn lookalikes with hair extensions, astride their saddles and bedecked in colorful middle-ages regalia,

tossing roses to hot chicks in the audience (old drunk Errol left, and old drunk Errol with hair extensions gone bad, right). All this while patrons tear apart chicken legs and ribs with their bare hands. It's all very showy and exciting and well choreographed and fake.

To get a flavour of the experience, think: Harry Potter meets McDonald's, with a touch of World Wrestling Federation thrown in.

The princess was the funniest of the lot. Fair, she was not. She was more...partly cloudy. Looking not unlike the Carmen Diaz character in Shrek, she'd point at the various knights from on high and yell encouragement. "Yea, noble knight, I beseech thee; slay your opponent and felllatio will be yours!" And then she'd do the tongue in the side of her mouth thing while miming a hand job. Pretty convincing, I gotta say. Despite her blatant ugliness, I got turned on, just a wee bit.

Our knight got killed, and the night ended, and the waiter wants to get tipped, so he's up in our faces (me, my brother's), and we pay, and we leave. Returning to the reality of the 21st Century in the parking lot, I was reminded of this joke from the Middle Ages:

Michael the Dragon Master was an official in King Arthur's court. He had a long-standing obsession to nuzzle the beautiful Queen's voluptuous breasts. But he knew the penalty for this would be death. One day he revealed his secret desire to his colleague, Horatio, who was the King's chief physician. Horatio said, "I can arrange it, but I will need 1,000 gold coins to pay bribes". Michael the Dragon Master readily agreed.

The next day Horatio made up a batch of itching lotion and poured a little of it into the Queens brassiere while she was taking a bath. Soon after she dressed the itching commenced and grew in intensity. Upon being called to the royal chambers, Horatio told the King that only a special saliva, if applied for four hours, would cure this type of itch, and that tests had shown such a saliva was only to be found in Michael the Dragon Master's mouth.

King Arthur summoned Michael the Dragon Master. Michael the Dragon Master slipped the antidote to the itching lotion, which Horatio had given him, into his mouth and for the next four hours worked passionately on the Queen's magnificent breasts.

Satisfied, he returned to his chamber and found Horatio demanding payment. However, with his obsession now satisfied, he refused to pay Horatio anything and shooed him away, knowing that Horatio could never report this matter to the King.

The next day, Horatio slipped a massive dose of the same itching lotion onto King Arthur's loincloth. King Arthur summoned Michael the Dragon Master.....

My balls aren't bouncing...

I've had the most amazing experience recently which has provided me all kinds of sympathetic reactions to those who are REALLY handicapped, to wit: I have recently experienced negative physical reactions to previously undertaken ball surgery. Testicular treatment. Yes, this lovely predicament dates back to when I was 15 years old, and I had the oh-so-unusual "testicular cancer" diagnosis (rare for 15 year olds) and since the "cut em up shut em up", I am basically feeling-free where it comes to the nerve reaction that make the sex thingy work. Cause they apparently cut all them there nerves during the surgery, and they never regenerated.

This creates problems for your Nigel vis a vis getting it off, and also finishing up. Takes me a loooonnnngggg time. I feel very little, especially when the occasional oral is offered up (this typically costs about $35...but I feel...nothing).

Regardless of my inability to experience much "down there", I have had lately some disturbing symptoms that have resulted in me spending some time in a wheelchair.

So, practical question? What to do when it comes to tennis practice? Seriously! I love me some tennis, and with that in mind need to find someone capable and comfortable teaching for your loyal Nigel regarding what's required in order to kick ass and win, tennis wise. I follow the Polish model, which is: play, kill, destroy. End of story. Need me a Polish coach. Them there polacks are the fucking greatest at everyt

hing: they were mega-shmega in confronting the Nazis, they didn't fuck around when it came to the resistance, and when it came to immigrating to the US, well, fuck, they went to Michigan, but almost as soon as possible (because they're smart) said: "Hey, wait a minute! It's cold as hell here! Let's move down South." As a result, we here in Atlanta are effectively over-run by tall, gorgeous, sexy Polish-American women, who are good tennis players, and who also provide high quality wanking imagery plus the good coaching to those of us who are occasionally differently-abled.

So, I have me a Polish-American tennis coach, who regularly berates my handicapped-ass, and makes me feel small (in more ways than one). But I truly love her, because among other thing she is smoking hot and provides endless fantasies for your Nigel...plus of course all the fun things she can do for me, as far as the wheelchair tennis goes. So, I am a happy boy. Peace out.'

Real Housewives Of Atlanta

Real Housewives Of Atlanta...a review, from the perspective of someone who would know. Now, I live in Atlanta, but I've never met women like this. So, totally helpless, I ask you to welcome my friend good buddy Travis, who inspects trailer homes for a living. Now, we're not talking about any trailer homes here...we're talking the upscale, double wides, here. We're all about class at buffmyscrotum.com. So, I give you: Travis, who's hip, hep, and white as can be (at least, to look at).

Yo yo, motherfuckas! Travis in da house, ready cause my main man Nigel axed me to be eyein' on this TV show! First off, these beeyotches, they be ugly and shit! I expecting beeyotches be off the hinges, but these are ass out, for real, instead of that butt be badonkadonk, they nothin' but fuckin' chickenheads.

Now, I am mysti-fucking-fied, real, is bad, and not bad good, but bad, bad, no frontin' now. A total clock suck, man, I coulda been out on the street, you know what I'm sayin', doin' the do and conjurin' benjamins, the cheese, yo, you know? Stead I am here.

This show is ugly, man, ugly, like my first wife Evelyn, she be all of 18 now, a jobber, that ho, yo, and she be thinking she got the pimp juice, yo, but no. And the men be jockin' my style, muggin' on me, damn! You know what I'm sayin'? So I say, fuck this shit, I be back now, listenin' to Toby Keith and Brooks and Dunn, hangin' with my classy whodi in the trailer park, man, this show blows. Peace out, Travis is on the rollout.

Thanks, Travis. Good God, I HAVE to watch the next episode of this show if it's as good as Travis says!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!

Animal trivia

Commenter Seeeeeeeeeee? is bugging me for animal trivia. Here goes, complete with requisite cynical, snotty commentary from yours truly (btw, all the trivia cited here is true and documented):

POLAR BEARS are the only mammal with hair on the soles of their feet. It helps them to get a good grip on icy surfaces, and also acts as a heat insulator. Nigel comment: the reason given is crap. The real reason is, the bears wank themselves with their feet. Thus, the hair.

The left leg of a CHICKEN is tenderer than the right one, which it uses most, therefore increasing muscle development. Nigel comment: sorta along the same lines as our first trivia thing. By this definition, my left arm is way more tender than my right arm, which I also use the most--about three times a day, to be honest. Nudge nudge, wink wink.

ELEPHANTS have been found swimming miles from shore in the Indian Ocean. Nigel comment: it's also true that elephants are the only mammals that can't jump. Which is too bad, because if they can swim, but also could jump, that'd make for a helluva belly-flop competition in the backyard pool, eh?

When two DOGS approach each other, the dog which wags its tail very slowly - showing anger - is in charge. Nigel comment: I've had this happen to me in bars. I only get the ugly chicks hitting on me, and one time, two were doing it at once...the resulting catfight was hell to behold.

MICE are highly promiscuous and need particularly large testes to keep up with demand. Nigel comment: imagine the pick up lines. "Hey, Minnie, come over to my place and I'll show you my cheese collection."

HONEYBEES have hairs on their eyes to help them collect pollen. Nigel comment: again, like our first trivia entry, the reason given is pure bullshit. The real reason, of course, is that honeybees watch way too much porn. It's the same result as the wanking polar bears.

More human deaths have been attributed to FLEAS than all the wars ever fought. Nigel comment (sorta obscure, I admit): this is why I don't own any Red Hot Chili Peppers records.

That's it, school's out, time for recess!

Nigel is getting pussy

It's true.

It'll make me feel great. Oh so nice, oh so comforting, oh so blood-pressure reducing. Every night when I come home, I'll have something to look forward to. Waiting for me, all curled up on my nice big warm bed, anxious to see me...crawl all over me.

I can't wait.

I'm talking about a cat. A kitten, to be precise, with a little help from a close friend...we'll head to either the humane society or some pet store somewhere in a couple of weeks, where she'll make the decision as to which fine feline we find, and then I'll deal with the aftermath (kitty litter, clawed up furniture, etc.)

What were you thinking I was talking about? Hmmmmmm? Get your minds out of the gutter, perverts.

Enjoy your weekend, I know I will!

Nigel comes to the rescue yet again

Another question submitted to tax what's left of both Nigel's brain and his patience:

How would you suggest to avoid the flu this year especially with a house full of kids that bring home every germ imaginable? Is there any hope for me to avoid this year's plague?

This one's simple: spray the kids with shitloads of Windex, head to toe. Do it assembly-line style, and make sure to get under their arms and everything, 'cause that's where the heat builds up and spores of nastiness flourish. Not only will the Windex kill the bugs, it'll make the kids squeeky clean at the same time, so you're "going green" here by saving water -- not needing to bathe the little buggers.

And one other tip: ixnay on tongue kissing your pets. Animals' mouths are disgusting cesspools of bacteria, so frenching Fifi the poodle is a serious no-no. I realize it's a habit you've got, and it'll be hard to break, and of course Fifi loves it and all -- but seriously, man, control your urges in order to get through the season halfway healthy.

Dear Nigel...two more problems to solve

I've got my Dear Abby bra on, boys and girls, and am trying oh so hard to provide the advice that makes a diff. Here we go with the latest:

How do I put up with a fucking computer geek who lives for blogs? I don't know what to do with him. I wake up naked (and I am not too bad-lookin' in that sitsy-a-shon) and the dork is on the fuckin' Internet doin' the blog thing. HELP!!!

BTW - loving annie - I'd go for Angelina Jolie before Lindsay Lohan...

Dear darling reader:

'Tis a conundrum.

But first, where the fuck were YOU when MY second wife left me? Shit.

Back to your problem: there you are, naked as a jaybird and apparently willing to surrender the pink (am I wrong about that? reading too much between the lines?), and yet you're dealing with a man who's more interested in blogging than banging.

I say: disappointing. And then, my advice is: make the sonofabitch jealous. And I have the perfefct plan.

Get yizzself a website, and call it something nasty and provocative, something that would attract lots of men. Something like: fuckinggreathomecooking.com. It'll be irresistable, because men all blow dead hippos at the culinary skills, and will kill for a real, home cooked meal.

Second: post you some almost nudey photos on that there site, cooking up the victuals. Nothing too dramatic--but enough to water the eyes, and also lubricate other parts, of the men who partake of the visual excellence contained therein.

Third: share all the nasty and disgusting propositions made your way, including but not limited to the invitations for dastardly anal invasion. After all, we're trying to get the object of your desire to get...desirous...right? And nothing quite says desire like jailhouse amorousness, I'm telling you.

Fourth: evaluate the reaction of desired object, and quickly make a determination as to the efficacy of continued effort. I say, if you look as hot as you claim, baby, come on over to chez Nigel, and one thing will lead to another, yes yes yes?

If all else fails, there's always the pills, or perhaps the HK 47 snub nose. But I doubt it will get that bad, as your self-proclaimed hotness will count for something among the great unwashed shallow douchebags who read this drivel and spew, and so you'll find someone else to torture moving forward.

Oh, personal observation: even straight women can apparently "get it up" for Angelina Jolie, but I gotta admit that Ms. Lohan is looking pretty good, too, lately, since she cleaned herself up and admitted her carpet munching tendencies. If she and I were in an all-womens prison, she'd be my girl. Gay women shlubbies: weigh in, please?

-----

A perverted reader writes:

How might you, skilled 'gina master that you are, advise we (men as a community) get Lindsay and Loving Annie together? Further, how might we talk them into "scissoring" for the camera?

My disgust for you is immeasurable. That you would, for even one minute, consider this as a potential reality...my god, man, the depths of depravity to which you have sunk! Have you no shame?

Seriously, though, if you could get the photos and the video, we could make some major goddamm cash. Ya think? You in?

Dear Nigel....the first two sob stories....

Hey ho! It's my first shot at counseling and assistance (see yesterday's post for an explanation). Putting on the Dear Abby bra, I warm up the IBM Selectric and get cracking on my first two problems to solve, sent in by my shlubbies:

One of my lovely readers writes:

Dearest Nigel, Why is it that a luscious single babe such as myself, who showers meticulously from head to toe, bikini waxes, uses deodorant, brushes her teeth, and has a clean bill of physical and mental health cannot get laid on a regular basis by a studly hot single cop who wants nothing more than to skillfully and sweetly ravish me every time he gets off duty ? Everyone else on the planet seems to be having orgasms as often as they drink starbucks in the mornings. Please render some appropriate and wise perspective before my special place becomes filled with cobwebs from lack of use.

Nigel says:

Dearest shlubbie, well, that sucks the flaming pole of manhood. I wish I had some wisdom but I'm shit out right now, having been up all night drinking Sambuca while watching Audie Murphy in "To Hell And Back."

That Audie, wow, what a baby-faced little guy. See what I mean, in the photo at left? Look, this movie was filmed in 1955, and he looked all of 16 in the film...since he was playing himself as a war hero, that means he must have been, like, a fucking infant when he was killing the Jerries ten years before, in WW2.

This movie had the least-realistic battle scenes in celluloid history. They all looked like the kind of gunplay you'd see while watching an episode of Hogan's Heroes. I kept waiting for General Burkhalter to show up. But at least the Germans actually speak German in the film, as opposed to English with a German accent.

Oh, where was I? Your problem. Let's see: you could go gay, like Lindsey Lohan? Would that work, at least temporarily? Failing that, I'd suggest broadening your horizons, and going after married cops. Or, how do you feel about single firefighters? I mean, they have a uniform, too!

I hope that helps. Let me know how it works out for you, kay?
----

Another poor lost soul writes Nigel, the expert:

Dear Nigel, Why is it that we can't create a sport or reality show where one hunts their ex until their dead? I have anxieties about not being able to do this...

The short answer is: in this age of youtube.com, there's nothing stopping you from producing your own "spec" show, or pilot, and then shopping that sucker around to all the greedy TV execs out there. You lazy slagheap! Let's make a plan, shall we?

First, you've got to ensure production values are tip-top. That means, you need a host. I'd suggest has-been actor Steve Guttenberg, he of the "Police Academy" movies--photo at left. I mean, we already know he knows how to handle a gun, from his previous movie work, and I bet he'd work for peanuts.

Next, which network to go after? Because we know that Mr. Obama is gonna reinstate the Fairness Doctrine, I'd suggest approaching a network not typically known for shows about murdering your ex-wife. They'll be looking for programming to balance out their point of view once that law gets back into place. So, what about the "O" network? Oprah's thing? They air, almost non-stop, heart-rendin

g stories of women who've overcome breast cancer or ingrown toenails or halitosis or whatever, so they might be a good candidate. I bet she'd love to see your tape in a pitch meeting. Her reaction at first may be something similar to what's pictured at right, but goddammit, persevere! She'll come around!

Finally, you'll need a sponsor. Since they've got a lot of money, and it's retail, and

they advertise a lot on TV, and your show has something to do with women (sorta), I'd go after the shopping chain...Target. Just think of all the neat positioning/slug lines you could come up with! "You've got your ex-wife in your sights...while she's in the crosshairs, don't forget to target real savings, at Target!" That kinda thing.

"Dear Nigel...."

My bloggin' brutha and best friend I've yet to meet, Carlos, suggests that your humble Nigel produce a "Dear Nigel" column, ala Dear Abby. It'd be great, full of fun filled advice and how-to's, from your expert: moi!

So, darling shlubbies, I am open to suggestion and happy to help with the goddamm fucking advice. Fire away, via comments--and I will copy and paste the worst of them, and respond, fortwith! And fifthwith, too, you bastards!

And remember: I put the "um" in "scrotum". So you can count on me to not only be solid, but confidential, too. (Riiiigggghhhhhtttt........)

With age, comes....age!

"Age doesn't always bring wisdom. Sometimes, age shows up all by itself."

That's about right! As I got older, I thought I'd get smarter, that the mysteries of life would clear. Instead, things are murkier than ever. But even so, there are a few little gems floating around that have crystallized for me.

So, as I ponder the nature of existence, here are some things I realize now to be true:

If marriage were outlawed, only outlaws would have in-laws.
Brain cells come and brain cells go, but fat cells live forever.
In just two days, tomorrow will be yesterday.
Love is grand; divorce is a hundred grand.
Never be afraid to try something new. Remember, amateurs built the Ark. Professionals built the Titanic.

That last one, that's a good one. And with the economy in the shitter and the job situation more precarious every day, I've decided to open a new business: online massage therapy.

I should make a million, dontcha think?

Fantasy Football is for fools....

I am surrounded by fools who participate in this "Fantasy Football" thing.

Now, I don't know about you, but any fantasy from the mind of your Nigel typically involves Angelina Jolie, a buggy whip, chloroform, a feather-duster, and 6 jars of strawberry jam. See? There she is at left, biting on a strawberry! Must be the pre-Nigel warm up!

Pervy digressions aside: what to make of Fantasy Football, and the neckless lizards who participate therein?

Stats, which is what drives the whole thing, have nothing to do with the game. The sheer enjoyment of play, the back-and-forth of the team momentum, the noise of the crowd, the tailgating and beer drinking and booster camaraderie...fuck all that, here's a better idea, whatsay we sit in a dark basement and watch nfl.com for the latest "who's on waivers now" news, and then let's "trade" players, and then let's sit around jerking each other off when our "team" beats our "opponents". Sounds like fun, yes?
The guys (and it's nearly all guys who have "teams") have way too much time on their hands. To wit:
A wise man once said that talking about sports is like dancing about architecture. It's meaningless; not one tiny opinion, even well expressed, nothing we as fans and laymen contribute has anything to do with the reality of the outcome. Fantasy Football is like that, too. It proves nothing, it's mind numbing and time consuming, and it involves way too much effort working spreadsheets. Who wants to do homework on a Sunday night? Answer: the dolts who have to update their fantasy team point counts by digging through the day's statistic results, that's who.

Still, I suppose there are some fantasies involving football games that are worth the time and effort. I was at the Falcons/Saints game yesterday in the Georgia Dome, and my mind got to wandering...not about Drew Brees or Matt Ryan, no no no. Mostly about this one Falcons' cheerleader I spotted down below, shimmying and shaking: "Miss Cheerleader, please meet Miss Jolie. Can I offer you both some strawberry jam? But before that, please take a whiff of this handkerchief--does this smell like chloroform to you?"

Byrd to Inouye: a generational transition

As part of the Oba-famalastic revolution underway, the Dems are re-evaluating everything, including their committee chairmanships.

Comes now 91 year old ex-KKK-er Democrat Robert Byrd of West Va., (at left) who never met a pork-barrel spending bill he didn't like, especially if his name was on all the resulting largesse spewed over his state as a result (you've got the Robert Byrd hospitals, Byrd Jr. High schools, probably even a Byrd bird sanctuary) -- anyhow, he's decided to relinquish his chairmanship of the un-Godly powerful Senate Appropriations Commitee, in order to let someone from the "younger generation" take over.

Younger generation. OK? In the spirit of Barackcitement....I get that.

So, replacing old Klansman Byrd, who again is 91--will be Daniel Inouye of Hawaii, who's....wait for it.....84. There is old Dan, at right, who's a WW2 vet and hero, and who lost an arm in combat way back then, when the world was still all in black and white. Color wasn't invented till about 1954, I believe.

This is funny. Inouye was old enough to be around when King Kamehameha was still, um, king of Hawaii. 84 is the new "younger generation?"

That's sort of like talking about Lauren Bacall, (pictured in her smoking hot days, back before there was indoor plumbing) today. "Lauren Bacall--is she really 85? She doesn't look it! She looks about 79!"

Nice move, Demos!

My religious heritage is a mixed bag

I've noted some media yakking about President-elect Obama's mixed racial heritage. Mom was white, dad was black -- there you have it -- our next Prez!!

I, too, am of mixed racial heritage. My mother's family are all Jewish, and my father's family are all Neanderthal.

Just kidding.

Actually, dad's family were all Scottish coal miners. These people were so Protestant, they believed that Catholics had tails..so you can imagine the reaction the first time daddy showed up at home bright eyed, bushy tailed, and probably pretty horny, with this lovely young lady of the Hebrew persuasion. Oy, gevalt!

They were so pissed off, it continued well past the wedding up to and including my birth. How pissed off? They picketed my circumcision, that's how much.

As I grew, I was raised a Protestant believer, but we also celebrated Passover. This caused a weird amalgamation of rituals. For example, we wanted the Angel of Death to pass by our house, but instead of using lamb's blood on the door as a sign, we went to Sherwin Williams for a gallon of "Country Club Red" latex. As for the seder itself, in our family, the 4 questions of Pesach had some bizarre answers, sort of a mixed bag of stuff. Like, question #1, about why we eat only matzoh at Passover? Answer: because the butcher ran out of haggis. What the hell kind of response is that?

No wonder I'm a confused person.

Still, I take solace in this: Jesus was a Jew, and if he can forgive me for my sins, including everything on this blog, well, I figure I'm on my way to heaven. If not, maybe I can find someone down here who'd sell me a ticket...but I'm not paying retail! What, you want I should pay retail?

Aftermath

So I was close on the electoral college prediction.

Classy speeches from all concerned, including George Bush.

We'll see.

Obama to win, I hope...

At this point, I'm hoping for an Obama blowout.

I have a very good friend, a small business owner who along with his partner grossed about 1.2 million bucks last year. They employ eight people, and he makes a comfortable living--now working just four days a week in rotation with his partner. He built this business from the ground up, with nothing provided in advance, no special treatment, just hard work and guts and chutzpah.

Oh, did I mention: he's African American?

My friend, who I'll call Kevin, is one of the nicest guys around. We get together and share beers and talk business...rarely, politics, or anything racial. But the other day I asked Kevin how he was feeling about the election.

He's torn, really torn. For reasons I completely understand, he wants to vote for Obama. But he also knows that a vote for Obama will result in his taxes going up, contraction of work, and the likelihood of his company having to lay off at least two of their full time employees. And that kills him.

So he's not sure which direction he's going, but I think he's leaning Obama.

Setting that aside, he said something really disturbing to me the other day, which was that if there's ANY whiff of 2000 election-type hanging chad stuff, there'll be blood in the streets. And he meant it.

This is him talking now, not me. He said to watch out, that if McCain wins, the "community" will feel like the whole thing was a sham, stolen out from under them, and the resulting violence will make the riots after Dr. King was assassinated look like midget professional wrestling. He actually told me to stay home Tuesday night and all day Wednesday, just in case.

Now, Kevin is no whack job lunatic. He's a responsible, tax-paying professional entrepreneur who lives in a beautiful home and drives a 2008 stunning black-on-black 'Vette, tricked out. He's a really thoughtful guy, and one of my closest friends to boot.

But, know what? I think Kevin's right. The media, having anointed Obama months ago, have played his election end game as so invevitable as to be undenied. So, can you imagine what will happen if McCain somehow pulls this off and wins--even by just a few electoral votes?

What I'm hoping for, then, is a total blowout: Obama 355, McCain something under 200. A mandate. And I hope the Congress goes Democrat, and the Senate, too, with 60+ seats for the Dems. That way they can really enact all the shit they've been talking about, and we'll see where the chips fall. If they suck at it, they'll only have themselves to blame, because they'll have an invincible majority.

It's a classic "put your money where your mouth is" situation, and I truly, at this point, hope they get to try. 'Cause I'm tired of all this bullshit.

That, plus no blood in the streets...and me and my friend Kevin can get back to drinking together.

My heart attack, I can't wait

I can't take anymore, or at least much more, of this. My job is killing me.

It's to the point where I'm looking forward to my heart attack. Some something or other, and then I end up in hospital, where I get to rest for a few days.

And get bitched at by doctors.

Can't wait.

A really hot wedding!

A funny story today, about a Japanese bridegroom who set fire to the hotel where the wedding was scheduled...figuring that if the hotel went up in flames, he wouldn't have to get married.

I think it was Henny Youngman who first said this: "I didn't realize how happy I was until I got married...but by then, it was too late." I agree, completely.

My first wife bugged out about 30 days after the ceremony, having met some other guy. Found out that she was tripping on acid during the wedding, too -- that was some kind of sign, I guess, but I didn't know this till after she was gone.

Second wife threw me out as soon as she got pregnant, which was 6 weeks after our wedding. I have a son as a result of our holy union, and that's the only good thing. The rest is an unholy mess.

So, if setting fire to the hotel got the guy out of his marriage, I say more power to him. He'll probably spend a few years in jail as a result, but that's way better than a lifetime in hell.

3:45am and all is well....

Nigel Jr. is fast asleep, it's cold outside, the heat is on, and something called "Knocked Up" which features the inexplicable

'talents' of a person named Seth Rogen (this guy is a movie star?) is on HBO. It's the standard 3:45 am early wake-up for yours truly, which occurs for me even on weekends. Without an alarm clock.

Whipping around the TV channels this hour of the morning is a trip. Between all the paid programming for useless crap, re-runs of "One Day At A Time", and talking heads yapping about the election--why, it's a veritable panoply of mind-bending nonsense, right at the time your mind needs not so much the bending, but very much the coffee.

Useless crap: this guy with the beard who screams at us about cleaning products, this Billy Mays--what is the deal with this guy? He must have the dirtiest, most broken down house in America, what with all the new crap he's constantly trying and demonstrating and harping about. There's Mighty Mendit and Kaboom Never Scrub and the Steam Buddy and something called Zorbeez, too. Plus about nine million others. Hey, Billy, some advice: hire a maid service and also maybe a handy man, and leave us alone. Please.
"One Day At A Time": at the time this show was actually aired, it never occurred to me just how much Valerie Bertinelli and Eddie Van Halen looked alike. Now, watching the re-runs, it's immediately apparent. At right, a shot from their wedding--who's who? How weird would it be to marry someone who looked just like you? For me, that would require getting hitched to someone who looked like Anne Ramsey--you know, the old lady who terrorized Danny DeVito in the movie "Throw Momma From The Train."
Election: give it to Obama, already, so we can go back to watching Billy Mays ads and re-runs of "One Day At A Time". Or, at worst, something else starring my new favorite actor, Seth Rogen.

Oh, no, the holidays are upon us!

Happy almost Halloween, shlubbies!

At left, what happens when you've had one too many at one too many Halloween parties.

Enjoy! HAHAHAHA!

Wherein your Nigel is tested, goddammit!

I see where there's some folderol relative to the two Presidential candidates' experience, as in, "having been tested." This, because of a comment made by VP contender Joe Biden the other day. Ol' Joe said something about how within the first six months of an Obama presidency, the Messiah (that'd be Obama) will be "tested" by some big international incident....McCain, in response, jumped on this, claiming that he, McCain, had already been "tested" and was ready to take on presidential responsibilities from day one.

Whatever.

But it got me thinking: I, too, have been tested. Proof? Here goes:

Driving test. Despite what that fucking little cockney gecko rants and raves about on TV (for those assholes at Geico), I'm proud to report that I've taken four different driving tests in four states, and have passed most of them. Since I failed geometry in high school, that goddamm parallel parking got me twice. I went perpendicular instead, and blew the test. Who knew you needed to be able to do math in order to drive a fucking car?
Breathalizer/DUI test. Big FAIL for your Nigel, despite having chewed three whole sticks of Juicy Fruit and gargled with absinthe prior to hitting the road. Maybe the absinthe did it? The cop wasn't very friendly, either.
AIDS test. In anticipation of someday perhaps actually having sex with a real woman again, I went for it. Passed with flying colors. All that remains now is to get the blow up doll tested, and we can go at it, bareback. Can't wait!
IQ test. Recently performed at the request of my family doctor, who's concerned about me losing brain cells daily. Something to do with my alcohol intake. I'm happy to report that I'm way high on one scale of measurement here: the Richter Scale. Yes, my IQ is "9.5". Proud, I am, of this, and I have one question: are you ready to ruuuuuummmmmblllllle?

Tested, and ready. That's me, your loyal Nigel. Ready, from day one.

Football is no place for girls...huh?

Aww, c'mon.

Story: a 14 year old girl named Kacy Stuart loves to play football--as a kicker. She plays for the New Creation Center Crusaders, in Spaulding County, Georgia, which is a team apparently in some sort of loosely defined Christian school/Christian home school league.

Comes then the East Atlanta Mustangs, who refused to play Kacy's team, because they have a girl on the roster. These in-bred home school retards actually had the sack to use Bible verses from the New Testament Book of Romans as part of their argument against playing Kacy's team.

Who knew that Jesus had such a problem with girls on the gridiron?

I imagine the verses they cited went something like this (hey, I went looking, but couldn't find anything in there about football--then again, I'm no Biblical scholar or anything...):

v.14 "For it is written: the woman is unclean who toucheth the pigskin using the feet of her limbs. Behold! For such a woman is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, and also in the eyes of the NFL commissioner Roger Goodell."

v15. "For what shall it benefit a man who taketh the retard home school football championship unto his bosom, yet having winneth this by consorting with such a harlot? It is of no value, and he will be made to suffer the consequences of his transgression."

v16. "And it is known throughout all of Israel, the Lord is generous and loves his children, but for those who are shameless and line up in field goal formation where the work is that of this woman, yea, I say unto thee, it is the work of Satan and the Lord will smite these men from their heavenly reward."

v17. "Verily verily I say unto thee, the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. And lo, the Spaulding County winner's trophy is but an empty shell and will be disawardeth should any man not heed the warnings in this book."

Or some other such silliness. How's that for King James Version prophecy?

E-mail from an angry customer

Last night I wrapped up work about 9pm--this after having started the day at 4am! The last email of the night went out to a customer who had fired off a snotty little missive about some software not performing properly; it was worded in such a way as to raise ol' Nigel's hackles just a wee bit, which we all know is risky for those on the receiving end of said raised hackles. The last line of the email he sent tells the tale: "So I get this damn message from you idiots: For assistance, contact your network support team. Okay , you assholes on the network support team..consider yourself contacted."

I ask you, is this any way to ask people for help? The very people who hold your future ability to perform your job in their nicotine-stained fingers?

So I fire back:

"Dear K---, first, I'm glad to see you're not letting your education get in the way of your ignorance. So, I do indeed consider myself contacted. Now, you can consider yourself fucked. While I'm busy not trying to assist you (because of the tone of your email), here are some suggestions as to how you might spend the next 24 hours. After all, you're gonna be dead in the water, work-wise, given that I'll be taking my sweet time diagnosing and fixing your problem:

Carefully straddle and then lower your testicles into a Waring blender. Select "chop". Better yet, "grate". Let me know how that works out for you.
When asked by your boss why the software isn't working tomorrow, save your breath. You'll need it to blow up your date tomorrow night.
Finally, spend some time trying to do this exercise: grasp your ears firmly, and then remove your head from your ass.

Sincerely, your buddy Nigel (who's going to bed now, instead of working to fix your problem)."

Whaddya think, shlubbies? Diplomacy was never my long suit, but in this case I think I did pretty well--don't you?

If I win the lottery....

...my plan is to get as far away from everyone as possible. With that in mind, below is a picture of my dream house, to be acquired when the Mega Millions fairy waves her magic wand over me and my lottery ticket!

The food meme

From Annie's new blog, Travel Treasures, comes this meme.

Here are the instructions:

1. Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2. Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3. Put in red any items that you would never consider eating.
4. Optional extra: Post a comment here linking to your results.

The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

Yeah, well...

whatever....

British handshakes....eeeewwwww!

No matter who wins the election, they'd better think twice before shaking hands with visiting British politicians. Turns out that people in Britain are dirty buggers.

A bunch of scientists studying toilet hygiene spent time swabbing the hands of 409 commuters waiting at bus stops outside railway stations in five cities in Britain, testing for...shit. No shit.

Example of the nastiness discovered: 44 per cent of those surveyed at Newcastle Central Station had crap bacteria living on their fingers! Charming, eh? So now we know that not only do Brits have bad teeth, they also have an apparent shortage of hand soap in their loos.

Now, as many of you know, my fat disgusting English cousin Mary is coming over for Thanksgiving. This Mary is a piece of work, lemme tell you. She's wider than she is tall, so I'm not sure how she accomplishes the, um, finishing up once done athwart the throne (how does she reach all the way back there? 'Tis a mystery).

At left, Mary's husband Fergus, who's Scottish. He's just as bad. The photo is one of him taken doing his business in their outdoor, open-air shithouse. If anyone ever needed a certified psychologist/counselor, it's Fergus--not only for marrying Mary, but because of how happy he seems here, photographed unabashedly whilst releasing chocolate hostages.

But after hearing about this shitty hands business, I will make the both of them wear surgical gloves the entire time they're in the house.

No TV for li'l ol' me!

I am TV-less, for the first time in many years.

My trusty Toshiba, purchased in 1980 and repaired once, back in 1988, has finally given up the ghost. Wherever TVs go to die; well, it's there. I like to think of it now, up there "In Living Color", playing back re-runs of the good stuff...you know, like the old Dick Van Dyke show, and Hogan's Heroes, and the first Bob Newhart show (the one where Bob was married to Suzanne Pleshette, who as his wife Emily caused simultaneous laughter and pants tightening for your humble Nigel.) Gratuitous photo of Suzanne in her prime, at left. Unfortunately, she's doing the great celestial dirt nap now herself, having left us in January...maybe she's up there watching my Toshiba? It's a nice thought.

Anyhow, everything took on weird colors, and then it all got fuzzy and blurry, and then it all went black. Oh, wait, that was how my last drunken binge went. Seriously, the TV: the tube started acting funny, and I had to leave the damn thing on for like, two hours, before the picture would pop in. Finally, death.

This has turned out to be a strangely mixed blessing. I'm forced to drop my politics habit, wherein I alternately scream and throw things at Sean Hannity and Barack Obama (I'm an equal opportunity asshole, shlubbies).

Now I'm back to reading books! Who knew? So, right now, I'm perusing the pages of the biography of Johnny Carson...also on the living room coffee table, "TV's Greatest Tasteless Stories", which is full of lurid details about things like "what were the girls really wearing when they were in the tub at the beginning of Petticoat Junction?"

Enquiring minds want to know!

How to find this blog

You people are sick, and I love it.

Here's a compilation of some of the most recent keywords used to access this blog, courtesy of the metrics tracker thingy I use. Ready?

www.google.fr torture videos of tearing off testicles
www.google.com nancy pelosi is hot
www.google.com benoit balls
www.google.com "poop competition"
www.google.com spanking sarah palin
www.google.co.uk im thinking of shaving my scrotum
www.google.com scrotum oiling
www.google.com 30 year old fatties
www.google.com.au mortuary hoists
www.google.com SEW MY scrotum
www.google.co.uk suck my scrotum
www.google.com steve irwin scrotum
www.google.com nancy pelosi's busty
www.google.ca goo on my thong
www.google.com so many sheep so little time
www.google.com scrotum ramen

Comments:

The number one search term used to find this site includes the words "Nancy Pelosi" and references her as either "hot" or "busty". There are apparently quite a few sickos who enjoy perving on the House Speaker. I know I do.
What "scrotum ramen" is, I don't know. I mean, I used to live in Japan and they eat lottsa ramen there...but nothing scrotum flavored, I don't think.
Finally, it's a sad commentary about me that you sick bastards land on my site with these perverted, twisted search terms. Says a lot about the content here, huh? Keep up the good work, shlubbies!

Daddy takes Nigel Jr. to an air show

This Sunday, I'll be bundling up Nigel Jr. and heading south in the AMC Pacer. Destination? An air show.

We'll be accompanied by my new

step-father war hero/ex-fighter/bomber pilot who will be providing Nigel Jr. personalized commentary regarding all the planes we see. He's flown them all, including the P-51 Mustang WW 2 fighter (photo, left), the B-29 Superfortress (WW 2, Korea), and the Republic F-105 Thunderchief and F4 Phantom II (Vietnam--photo, right).

At the show, they'll climb in and out of the various cockpits while "Colonel Mac" regales Nigel Jr. with stories of death and destruction he personally caused in three wars. He's not in any way ashamed of that, by the way, and quite happily recounts the results of his various aerial combat dogfights and gigantic blow-em-all-to-hell bombing missions. He was shot down twice and survived four separate plane crashes, so he has a rather whimsical view of the whole process. Refreshing.

This should be interesting, though. The last air show Nigel Jr. attended wasn't a show, per se--

instead, it was a practice session for the Navy's Blue Angel precision flying team. This was maybe six years ago, while vacationing near Pensacola, Florida. Practice sessions are free and open to the public at the Naval Air Station, so off we went. I was excited because the Blue Angels are baddasses; the testosterone was flowing, lemme tell ya.

We lasted all of maybe 5 minutes. The public viewing bleachers are amazingly close to the runway used by the jets, and the noise is beyond belief. The take-offs and touch and go landings were one thing--but what had us leave in a hurry was a precision move performed maybe 500 yards in front of us. Three of the planes, in formation, turned sideways about 200 feet off the ground and roared right in front of us--they came out of nowhere--you could literally see the air rippling around the jets as they swooped by at about 400 miles an hour.

Poor little Nigel Jr., who was 5 at the time, freaked out. He lost it--screaming, crying, shaking. The combination of the noise and the scary closeness of these jets did the kid in. I mean, I myself was scared--so imagine what it was like for him! So: we left, despite me stomping my feet and whining like the child I can be when I don't get my way. Dammit! Disappointing, to say the least, at least for me.

We'll see how he handles things this Sunday...

Drunk e-mailing...now, a thing of the past!

Google released a useful new Gmail feature yesterday which could help prevent drunks like me from sending embarrassing late-night emails that inevitably are regretted the following morning.

When activated, the program (called "Mail Goggles") makes a user solve a series of math problems before allowing any message to be sent. Image at left; apparently you've gotta get the problems done within a time frame or you won't be able to send your email.

The service is set by default to kick in only on weekend nights, but you can change the settings to apply whenever. So if you're a serial alky like your beloved Nigel, it's a 7 day a week dealybob. Fo' sho!

Now I need me something to handle the drunk texting....while I'm looking around, you wouldn't happen to have a drink handy?

I wanted to be a spaceman...

Comes now this story, in today's NY Times, about how the USA will have to rely on Russia to ferry astronauts into space between 2010 and 2015.

Seems there's a 5 year gap in our ability to shoot off, launch-wise, between the space shuttle, and whatever the next orbital thingy is gonna be that'll send USA spacies into the heavens. So for 5 years, we're gonna have to pay the Russkies to get our boys and girls up there, perform their astronautical duties, and then return safely to the earth.

As someone who remembers the space race, and who fucking reveled in all the Apollo shit, from #9 up to and including #17, which featured astronaut Deke Slayton actually masturbating in the lunar lander...well, hell, I'm pissed.

Now we're relying on the commies to get us up there? WTF is going on? Didn't we beat their lardy, pasty, godless vodka-ridden asses 40 years ago? First swinging dick on the moon Neil Armstrong (looking old and decrepit now, at right), wasn't Neil Armstrongovich, lemme tell ya, but he may as well have been, based on this latest development.

And what benefits did we get from all the NASA sponsored stuff? Hmmm..lessee... remember "Tang"--the orange flavoured stuff you'd mix with water, just like the astronauts did? That was a major fucking accomplishment, as was bringing back moon rocks you can now rub with your finger whilst visiting Washington D.C's Air & Space Museum. Oh, the joy.

Here's something that tells you the difference between us and the potato based alcoholshoviks: back in the day, NASA spent millions of dollars developing a pen that would allow our astronauts to write upside down in weightless space. Something about a pump that would continually push the ink to the nib, irrespective of position or gravity conditions. Millions of dollars.

The fucking commie bastard Russians? They used a pencil.

Who's smarter?

My dream....

Up early this morning, and so decided to go out for breakfast. Across the southeast US, where I live, there are two competing diner chains--Waffle House, and Huddle House. These places are virtually indistinguishable from each other, soul-less, plain restaurants where one can choke down breakfast 24/7--or even a T-bone steak (though why anyone would order a T-bone from either of these places is beyond my understanding). Picture above left, though this is a stock shot--the one near me has no plants and no red booths--just plain wooden booths and torn up counter stools.

So I'm the only one in the Huddle House around the corner from my home, sitting at the counter, awaiting my breakfast of soft poached eggs over wheat toast with grits and coffee. As is my wont, I'm scanning the walls, checking the little posters and notes and junk they put up, including the health department rating of 43 out of 100 (FAIL!).

There, on the wall, framed, is one of these certificate thingys little kids fill out in elementary school. This one had a bolded first line that read: I have a dream, and my dream is to....and below that, a blank space for the child to write in the one thing they wanted to do with their life. Below that, bolded: What I will do to make my dream come true...and it also contained space for the child to write in action steps designed to ensure success in achieving their dream.

The one in the frame was from some poor little deluded African American kid named Andrew, who filled in the "what my dream is" portion with the following: "My dream is to work at Huddle House." I thought, this must be a joke: look, there's nothing wrong with working in a place like that; it's honest work. But this is your dream? What ever happened to wanting to be an astronaut? A doctor? President of the USA? Even a gay porn star? I mean, really!

If the biggest dream you've got is slinging hash and sliding around a greasy cook pit for minimum wage while listening to a jukebox endlessly repeating redneck noise courtesy of "singers" like Willie Nelson....I mean, jeez...Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. must be turning over in his grave right now...

Tonight's debate

Am sitting here breathless, awaiting the great VP debate. Here's my take, advance of the activity--you may well disagree, and that's fine, but buff my scrotum regardless:

Sarah Palin. Look, I know more about just about everything that she's gonna be asked, and without the need for prepping, preening, and practice. It's simple: Pakistan--fuck 'em. India figured these Mohammedites years ago, and to their credit, have been able to keep 'em down, irrespective of Kashmir and the curry they slurp up endlessly. Their gods have way too many arms and legs, and they burp and wipe their butts with their hands. Enough said. Next: Afghanistan--fuck them, too. They can't figure out electricity. I say, wipe them all off the face of the earth, quick-like, and let's be done with them. Plus their president, Karzai, can't figure out how to wear a fucking overcoat: earth to Karzai, the arms go IN the arms of the coat. You're not Robert Mitchum, so there's no point wearing the damn thing over your shoulders. OK? The economy--who knows?

Plus, Sarah is way better looking than Joe, and that has to count for something.

Joe Biden. Experience, combined with hair plugs. A killer combination. I say, Joe, open up with some rousing speech delivered previously by someone else. How about: "We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be,we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender..." ok, maybe not, considering that was Winston Churchill's thingy about the fucking Germans back in 1942, but since you have a history of ripping off others word-for-word, let's make it good, ok?

Seriously, Joe needs to not be nasty or condescending, and just let Sarah swill in her own shit, which based on the Katie Couric interview of this week, she'll have no problem doing.

Should be fun, boyos and girlos. Can't wait to recap for you, Nigel style, which I shall do as soon as the debate be done!

3 way mouth to mouth from Nigel

So I'm rethinking my resignation from el blog du Nigel, because new stuff has happened, and I'm wanting to share. Aren't I nice?

I have begun volunteer work with those who may be described as "differently abled"--note the PC nature of the description, which yields points for lil' ol' moi, I know, especially from you liberal fucks who read this drivel and spew. Yay for Obama, btw, and here's to communism for all of us, and not soon enough if he has his way. But I digress.

Last night I drove the group to a showing of a movie: "3 Way", starring Gina Gershon. The film plot was incomprehensible to me, and I have an IQ of at least 110, so whatever the group was thinking, I have no clue. The average IQ amongst our little clan is measurable on the Richter Scale...1 to 9. So, there you go.

During one of the sex scenes, between the lead actor and this amazingly hot black girl named Joy Bryant (Nigel soiled his underwear watching this, true confession time), the guy sitting next to me, from our group of mental defectives, started convulsing. Badly. What to do, what to do?

Answer: CPR, of course! When in doubt, pound the shit out of the victim's chest whilst simultaneously delivering mouth-to-mouth. Now, I have no gay predilictions, but that being said I am happy to stick my tongue where it normally wouldn't go, homo-wise, so long as it yields the
Saving Private Ryan result. Besides, our victim looked a bit like Brad Pitt, but with a really big forehead. So you can understand my willingness to chuck my sexuality, just for a moment...maybe?

Wiping away the foam, I went at it. And wouldn't you know, our boy starts recovering, albeit with one extra element unforeseen: he's got a hard on the size of Idaho. Now, I have a little tiny weener, as you all know, so seeing this humungous tented pants thing took me by surprise. Sure, I'd been rolling my tongue around his larynx just a bit, but not enough to cause el-woodrow, if you know what I mean. So your Nigel was a bit taken aback.

Still and all, as our victim was recovering, I took a break from my mouth-to-mouth to survey the damage. Victim: retard. Check. Condition: improved. Check. Current concern: what to do with his obvious porn-star proportion priapism. Check. Solution: have one of the mentally defective girls get a-bobbin' and a-slurpin'. Check. All taken care of.

Your Nigel comes through with flying colors, yet again! The one bad thing was that Gina Gershon, gratuitous nearly nude photo at left, does NOT in ANY way get naked in this movie, "3 Way", so the fucking title is misleading to say the least, and the rest of the movie sucked.

The plot blew, the actors sucked, and Gina didn't show us her tits, which she'd previously done in the absolute masterpiece called "Bound", which when viewed resulted in me making a gigantic mess all over myself. Dammit.

Oh, and btw: it's good to be back to my old self.

Bye

I'm done here, so I will be bailing. I am out of material, and really just no longer care...I can't continue to be angry about everything and then figure out a way to make it funny. If I was able to do that, I'd be working for David Letterman.

Anyhow, thanks to those who bothered coming by over the years. See ya. This blog will be deleted in a week.

Pffft...

Being honest gets you nowhere; at least, not where you want to be.

Mary, Mary...you ugly, nasty bitch!

Ugh.

Just got the word that my least favorite relative, my cousin Mary, is coming across the pond for Thanksgiving.

She's English, so what she has to be thankful for, I don't know. But that's not the point: this woman is to humanity as lung cancer is to breathing. You couldn't find a less appealing person if you tried. Even her friends hate her guts; she does these little "sausage and wine" parties in her hometown of Leeds, and no one shows up, cause she's such a total bitch.

Let me set the scene for you. Imagine a fat, obese, blousey, ragged out housewife, with really bad hair, and her legs on upside down. Forget imagining, there she is at right--from her last year's Christmas card (I blacked out the worst of it). A total whiner. Personality of a soapdish. Complaining all the time. Pus-ridden, awful skin--boils, carbuncles, bunions, plantars warts--the whole bit. She breaks into tears at a moment's notice and then blames you for it. Nasty and evil to children. Yiz gits da picture?

Example: last year, on her last trip over, she pulled my sister Shantilla aside to announce that she was suffering from vaginal warts. Who the hell tells people this shit? My ugly disgusting cousin Mary, that's who. First of all, the idea that anyone would WANT to get close to that part of her anatomy is astounding. Talk about unappealing: she's so grotesque, her face looks like she's been in a dryer full of rocks. Gag reflex set to 100: when she moved into her house, all her neighbors chipped in for curtains. Her dipshit manipulating whorebag husband even let on that she is so hideous, he'd fuck her in any position and no matter what, it would still be doggy style.

So I have to deal with this total shithead in about 6 weeks, and what's worse, this "woman" who looks like she got hit with a hot sack of nickels is demanding to camp out, chez Nigel, for about a week! What to do, what to do?

So, my loving shlubbies, please provide me some kind of excuse I can use so Mary the ugly nasty disgusting twat won't insist on staying at my house longer than, say, the three hours it takes to do Thanksgiving dinner! Any suggestions?

Light and hearty observations from a fat and ugly guy. Home of hackneyed drivel and ersatz-existentialist effluence. Choleric biliousness a specialty, since 1958.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Ahmadinejad supporters would fit in fine right here...

Monday, June 01, 2009

I have undeleted my blog

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

So this snake slithers into a bar...

Monday, February 16, 2009

Global warming trumps Islamic assholes

Thursday, February 12, 2009

US Air--right into the Hudson

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

The fucking weather, dammit!

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Edy's Fruit Bars....oh, yes.

I wanna feel Jerry Springer

Monday, February 09, 2009

Idaho potatoes blow dead hippos

Sunday, February 08, 2009

My brother, Kent

Thursday, February 05, 2009

Now I'm REALLY famous!

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

I'm NOT the sickest bastard on the Internet

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

My birthday lunch

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Nigel's birthday will be Super!

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Che, Guac, and moi

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

To think about loss....how?

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Caroline Kennedy can buff my dead brother's scrotum

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Nigel, pizza-faced teenager

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Isn't the point that she DOESN'T wanna be a mom?

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Nigel, your Presidential expert

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Work

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Question of the Day

Friday, January 09, 2009

Political correctness run amok!

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Facebook can buff my scrotum

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Just wanted you all to know...

The Bachelor: a review

Sunday, January 04, 2009

I love me hot lesbo women!

Hard Again--great album!

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Nigel's gone soft

2008 Headline of the Year

Friday, January 02, 2009

"...they can put their legs straight up"

Thursday, January 01, 2009

The all new Nigel: now, improved for 2009!

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Happy almost New Year, pal

Monday, December 29, 2008

"You are a pack of arseholes"

Friday, December 26, 2008

My Christmas gift

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Finally, done

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

In trouble at Victoria's Secret

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Vegemite, my lobe!

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Manhood intact despite "Mamma Mia"

Friday, December 19, 2008

Pulling files with four hands...and more!

Thursday, December 18, 2008

I'm now an official pussy inspector!

Wednesday, December 17, 2008