Built for comfort, not for speed
By gum. With
a belly the size of three or four basketballs and a prostate the size of an Idaho potato, I'm coasting nicely towards at least a couple of nights in the hospital. And I'm looking forward to it. It's a nice routine, up every two hours to
siphon the python, drain the lizard, shake hands with the wife's best friend, point Percy at the porcelain. Then, hop back into the
Craftmatic Adjustable and wait for the inevitable return of the urge to purge, er, bladder-wise. Rinse and repeat.
Fun!
Last time I was in, I'd (yet again) broken my arm. They gave me some kind of really
enjoyable pain killer, and I took advantage of it by saying lots of rude things, repeatedly, to the nurse who was attempting to set the busted bones. She was good looking, in that shes-the-only-woman-in-a-Georgia-small-town-so-what-are-you-gonna-do kinda way. Sort of like Ellen Corby, but not as attractive. Like Janet Reno, but without the charisma. Like Bea Arthur, but without the sexy hip wiggle when she walked.
Get the picture?
So there I am, fat, drugged up, and
not caring too much about much of muchness. And I think that I....propositioned the old bat. I can't be sure, because of the drugs, but I think that's what happened, because of her reaction. See, she started laughing.
Explanation: undoubtedly, her reaction was because I have a
face like a pail of writhing maggots. See my complete profile for details.
Voila, me mangent, and buff my scrotum.
Turn out the lights, the party's over
Yes, fellow celebrants, it's time to face facts:
Christmas is over. With that realization comes certain obligations. I'm talking to you--yes, you--you who felt compelled to compete in the annual
neighborhood "how festively in their face can we be with the Christmas lights?" contest.
Take the damn things down, now. Like, tonight, Christmas Day night. It's over already, stick a fork in it cause it's done, no more, expired, fini, absoluti omega. Thank God.
But, having said that--there's always the
one guy who for some unfathomable reason leaves the lights up wayyyyyy longer than he should. Listen, you lazy and thoughtless so and so: you
have to make a conscious decision to drag out the ladder and unstring the icicle lights and tree lights and all the other lights that mean so much to religious people hereabouts. They absolutely will not jump off the gutters and eaves and branches themselves. Now get out there and get to work!
 |  |
| Out of frigging control | Back to bloody normal |
Which brings up an interesting thought, one I've never seen or heard discussed by anyone. About the "conscious decision" to take down what one has previously put up: sometime in the middle of 2002, along freeways and highways and side roads everywhere, all the flag fluttering patriotic bumper sticker displaying soapy back windows with "we will never forget" scrawled on them vehicles--remember these--the cars and trucks whose owners took it upon themselves to scream their anger about 9-11? Remember? Suddenly, they were all gone. All of a sudden, the owners cleaned them up and returned them to their original upright position. They
took all that stuff down!
Why? Were they
no longer pissed at Al Queda? No longer feeling
patriotic? No longer thinking it
important to shout our soidarity from the comforts of their leather-lined SUV driver's seat?
I wonder.
Anyhow--back to the lights. Get them down, asap, or you'll be forced to eat a warm bowl of something disgusting, after which you may
buff my scrotum.
Doctor, is that a thermometer in his pants, or is he just happy to us?
There they are
on the tube: middle aged man, slightly younger but still very good looking middle aged woman....holding hands, frolicking through the woods, sharing a mud bath, staring into each other's eyes while picking lice out of each other's hair like orangatans...whatever.
Anyway, the guy in the
TV ad says: "When the right moment comes up, will you be ready?" Damn right, you say! I'm
popping Cialis daily, I'm frickin' ready, bloody oath, effin' A.
Then he says: "Erections lasting 4 or more hours can be serious and require medical attention." Whoa. Hold the phone.
Erections lasting 4 or more hours?
So I'm thinking: this happens to you. Next,
imagine the scene at the local General Mercy Shepherd's Regional St. Mary's-Jude's-Fred's
Emergency Room near you. In you walk, all tented out likesay, making your way through and among the foaming-at-the-mouth drug overdose/arms-ripped-off-in-chainsaw accidents/luckless-pedestrians-mangled-in-car wrecks/popped-out-knee- socket-football injuries people--in other words, unfortunates with
real reason to be there.....and you, you horny old goat, you schlub, there you are with your
Dockers perpendicular to your zipper line, and the ER nurse says to you, loudly, so everyone can hear:
"what's the emergency?".
At that very moment your problem might go away, because all the
blood in your body would rush to your face.
Santa knows who's been naughty and nice...
Here is the official
"buff me" blog Christmas gift wish list:
For Mahmoud Abbas: cojone growth injections enabling resistance to Hamas and Fatah douchebags determined to undermine anything resembling a reasonable agreement allowing Israel's security and Palestine's statehood.
For Donald Rumsfeld: 500 "Buff my scrotum" stickers, good for distribution to the news nabobs who, barnacle-like, have attached themselves to his every move in the hopes of tripping him up.
For Bernard Kerik: a lifetime supply of Trojans. 'Cause of the wife and two mistresses thingy....
For Michael Moore: a steaming heaping helping of STFU. Living proof that excrement can walk and talk, here's a guy who fashions his facts to suit his own idiotic political agenda.
For Kofi Anan: ......wait a minute. He doesn't need any Christmas presents. He's already on every "Corrupt Regime Giftlist" there is, isn't he? What more, possibly, can he need or want that isn't already being provided in cash, under the table, by some Third World junta-heading military bigwig?
Oh, and here's just one last Christmas wish:
For Salma Hayek: me. Alternatively, Annabella Sciorra would work just fine, in a pinch, and I wouldn't be overly upset. Too much. Sort of. Well, maybe just a little bit.
It's Christmas, you scrotum-buffers!
It won't surprise you that I'm not one for
public displays of piety, particularly this time of year. You know what I mean: crosses, creches, nativity scenes, lambs and other barnyard animals, assorted bric-a-brac festooned with lights, and all manner of other Biblical action figures brightly spotlit and lined up on the front lawn, arrayed just so--perfect for
those driving by who may be in doubt as to the strongly held
religious beliefs of the home owner.
'Snot for me.
Despite my gut reaction to such, er......artistic expression......this lump-of-coal-cranky-old-slagheap has some
out of character thoughts relative to Christmas 2004.
You want to
dandy up your front yard, mobile-home style for the holidays? Under the current circumstances, I say: knock thyself out, for verily, it is good to
reinforce that this is indeed
Christmas (note, fellow pilgrims: emphasis firmly placed on the C-H-R-I-S-T at the beginning of the word).
There are quite a few
examples of
anti-Christian activity this year--seems more than usual, and I don't know why. From communities large and small--from Denver Colorado to Maplewood New Jersey and points between--comes the
pitter patter of little ACLU lawyers, frothing and raging about the inequity of Christmas displays.
Look--
you don't see Christians getting all huffy about wanting to
insert themselves into Ramadan or
Passover or whatever it is that the
Bahais celebrate. And don't even get me started about,
Kwanzaa, which is pure
pfft, and if you don't like it:
ngiyaxolisa (those anxious to exert their African-Americanness can begin by looking that Zulu phrase up).
In sum, then, the message from here is: back off.
You guys have your celebrations--we want ours.
And in the
spirit of giving, sharing, family, and yes--love--to all I send this heartiest of wishes:
buff my scrotum.
Randomosity....
...I
can't stop thinking about my own pancreas.
...The
fat girls know, but the
skinny girls understand.
...That
UPS slogan, "What can Brown do for you?". It makes me
laugh while forcing
advanced intestinal rumbling--all at the same time.
...Whenever I see an
ambulance go by, I wish it would crash, so I can
get a whiff of that oxygen.
...A lady I know insists on using
condiments at the dinner table. She particularly
likes the ribbed kind, with the little reservoir tips.
...When
toasting Pop-Tarts, you MUST do it
vertically and get them out of there when
just warmish, all quick-smart like.
...The
theme music to Fox TV's NFL games sounds way too much like the Christmas song
"Sleigh Ride". Giddyap giddyap giddyap let's go.
...Whenever I
click on "next blog" it's always in
Portuguese. In appreciation of
Brazilian women in thongs everywhere, I therefore say:
Lustre meu scrotum
Frank Flickster, hero of box office personnel everywhere
How
proud must be the
parents of full-time movie theatre box office personnel.
Like the guy running the
Regal Cinemas front end last week. I'd pre-purchased Imax 3D tickets for Polar Express via fandango.com, and silly me, I went and stood at their
designated pick up window. No one there--but
three registers down is our hero (who we'll call Frank Flickster). He's the only one there, waiting on a long line of people. Looks over at me--returns to what he's doing. I wait another 30 seconds, and then realize I'll need to stand in line, too, despite having pre-purchased the tickets.
Time goes by. It's a long line.
My turn now, and Frank immediately (as in, before I open my mouth): "Sorry you had to wait in line but you didn't need to--you could've used the kiosk at the side there". I look for this "kiosk" but have no idea what he's talking about. Huh? Says Frank: "The machine, right there". I look again. All I see is the
sign above the pick up window that says "Fandango.com Ticket Pick Up". I stress, not unkindly, that the
only sign is the one above the window and wouldn't it be
helpful if there was a sign pointing one in the general direction of these supposed machines? Not responding, Frank gravely hands over the tickets, which are all on one big perforated roll (this was for a birthday party group of 8). I ask Frank to confirm that I indeed had tickets good for 2 adults and 6 children. Says Frank: "I don't know what you've got, I just printed out whatever you ordered."
Well! Was I ever put in my place!!
Hey Frank at the Regal Imax at Mall of Georgia:
buff my scrotum!
Bernie Kerik, human tripod
| So balding, sour-faced ex-NY cop and now Department of Homeland Security ex-nominee Bernard Kerik: |  |
| ....was shtupping this woman, publisher Judith Regan: |  |
while at the same time having
another affair with a second woman, a certain Jeanette Pinero.
At the same time all this
Bury-Bernie's-Bratwurst was taking place, he
remained married to his dental hygienist Hala Matli. Add it up. 3 women at the same time.
'Splain it to me, Luceeee.
Kerik has a face sort of like if Lurch was short and put on some weight and grew a mustache. Apparently that look
works (at least it did
with Judith Regan, who most men agree is a certifiable hottie). You know, I should try it. Because me, see,
I can't even get strippers to give me a second look. Even when I've got money out, flushed and ready to dip into their teeny little stringy things.
So
this Kerik story gives hope to all those, like me, who have
faces like boxes of frogs.
Still, for goodness sake,
simultaneously, with three women. He must have been sore most of the time, don't you think? I mean: how do you walk?
Drummin' on Rummy in Iraq
So
Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld goes to Iraq to
show face and wave flag with our fighters on the ground. Morale building and all that. While there,
he does a little Q&A with US troops, and ends up facing tough questions from a couple of soldiers.
Two thoughts occur to me about two of those questions:- As to the issue of poorly armored or lack of armored Humvees--this is shameful and ridiculous and whichever bureaucrat is responsible for procurement in this regard should be forced to do his or her procuring whilst inside a poorly-armored Humvee on active patrol in Fallujah or Mosul or Baghdad.
That'll fix the problem, quick-smart.
- As to the issue of extended deployments: a big old puffy buff my scrotum to the whiners. Yiz gets what yiz signed up for, to wit: you bought into the advertising, and got excited about the free money for college and free medical and specialized training offers to become a Special Ops nuclear physicist jet fighter pilot secret agent. Fair enough, I've considered it, too, as I peer over my spectacles and across my ever-expanding beer belly to the TV set whence all this marvelousness originates. But you've now found out that "being all you can be" isn't just a weekend-once-every-month deal. That they weren't kidding during basic training about the hardships involved. Check the fine print on the deal you signed, and you'll find that, guess what: they've got the right to hold you over pretty much as long as they need to. We appreciate what you're doing, and we know it sucks, but: Suck it up.
That is all.
Two words about holiday shopping--"buff me"
My morning commute typically includes a stop at
Super Wal-Mart to pick up breakfast and lunch. This morning, I thought I'd
kill my Christmas list in one go, and combine buying groceries with all the under-the-tree-loot needed to
ensure smiles on Santa day.
What I learned is that Wal-Mart's advertising is spectacular. I actually
believed that I could find a caring, thoughtful employee who'd be kind enough to, oh, I dunno....maybe take the time to
wait on me? See, dumb me, I believed this
because of the ads. Should've known better.
After numerous attempts at trying to engage someone,
I gave up and headed in to work, where I snapped on the computer and began my day.
Hey, Wal-Mart, I just this minute spent
$202 on line with Amazon.com.
Buff my scrotum, and Merry Christmas.
Rydziviahl Sverenbisjilimkja, you're no Sylvio Dante--or are you?
An idea, from the previous post: it's
Steven Van Zandt, musician from the E Street Band and actor from the Sopranos, and
Rydziviahl Sverenbisjilimkja, former beauty queen from Zdrobvodia, Croatia.
The lovely Rydziviahl gives Little Steven an idea of how he's going to look in, say, 15 years.
 | VS. |  |
Emmanuelle Beart or some Old Fart? Choisissez!
So I see this movie
Searching for Debra Winger: a documentary created by song-inspiring ("Rosanna" by Toto), rock-star-dating (Peter Gabriel) actress
Rosanna Arquette. In the film, Arquette talks to talented actresses, women of a certain age, who variously muse, complain, explain, whinge, and/or pontificate about the
lack of parts in movies for women over 40...due to, um, sexism, objectification of women, obsessiveness with breast size and youth, blah blah blah.
These
yentas gab on and on, so earnest and serious and
completely blithe to the real issue which is: studio movies have but one purpose, and that's to make money. Studio films are demographically targeted young, because older people
don't go to movies much. And younger audiences, particularly guys, generally like to look at younger women. Ya think?
Here's a
test: which of these two faces
would you prefer to look at during the course of a 2 1/2 hour movie?
Think hard. If you need to take an extra minute to make up your mind--by all means, do so:
 | OR | |
Thought so.
In fact, the real issue here is that
the "Winger" actresses are spoilt goods. Their prior Hollywood experience
got them used to all the trappings associated with high-dollar movie making: the make-up/hair assistants and the trailer and the catering and the limos and the premieres and on and on ad nauseum. The
whining is really because all that is no longer being laid at their doorstep.
Ladies, ever hear of "
independent films"? Interesting scripts, great characters, freedom from sexist producers and studios obsessed with breast size. Here now,
my modest suggestion: get off your formerly perfect but now, with age, slightly enlarged and sagging rear ends, and make a frigging
movie on your own! If you wanted, you could even make an independent film featuring lots of
really old actresses. You know:
using "Depends", taking out their teeth, playing bingo, breaking their hip, smelling of that "grandmother smell"...the sky's the limit, because (and here's the risky bit, sweethearts, the "put your money where your mouth is" part)--
you control the content, but you also bear the responsibility for the success or failure of the picture.
Oh, and btw, Rosanna? If
Emmanuelle Beart (who for some inexplicable reason is in your film, and is the lovely creature pictured above at left) would like
a personal, deep, probing consultation relative to this topic, I will happily oblige.
Have her peeps call me--I'm in the book.
Otherwise, you know what you can do--
buff my scrotum.
Hey, mullahs, mull this--buff my scrotum!
Here's a
sweet young Iranian thing all prepped, fresh, wrapped, and ready to go.
Go where, you ask? Why, to blow up Israelis, dontcha know!
The
Islamafascistas are all psyched up. Seems they held a
little rally in Teheran yesterday, sponsored by the
Headquarters for Commemorating Martyrs of the Global Islamic Movement. 200 volunteers fronted up, ready to
"tnt their intestines" for the glory of Allah. They're
targeting not only Israelis, but
Americans, too.
Now, I
understand sort of maybe why a young, horny Muslim guy might volunteer for this. After all, the mullahs tell them that killing infidels results in the
72 female virgins in Paradise business we've all been told of.
But: I don't get why women would. Unless they're lesbian. Right?
But: hold the phone!
Christoph Luxenberg is an acknowledged expert in Middle East/Near East and Semetic languages who claims (convincingly) that much of the
imagery in the Koran is the work of one Ephrem the Syrian, who spoke and wrote
in Syriac, not Arabic. Turns out that the
word "hur" (which in Arabic in the Koranic context leads to the 72 virgins thingy)
means "white raisins" in the Syriac! Not only that, the remainder of the contextual interpretation makes it clear that it's
food and drink being offered in Paradise--
not unlimited nookie with nubile Arab babes.
All this, for what, then? A big feed! A gobble-fest! A chow down--featuring, apparently,
unlimited Raisinettes!
Frigging idiots.
Hey, mullahs:
buff my scrotum!
Bwaah! I'm a teacher and I'm underpaid!
None of my teachers ever looked like this...uh, except in 9th grade, Miss Azer, student teacher. Wonder whatever happened to her?
She'd be about 73 years old now. It should be illegal to hire teachers looking like this, and expect that 9th grade boys would be able to concentrate on schoolwork....
But I digress.
What's the deal with teachers complaining about their
paychecks? Last I checked:
- No one held a gun to their head when they chose their profession--they knew going in what the pay was. Get over it, or get a new gig!
- They work only 9 months out of 12--they're paid for those 9 months, whereas normal humans work all 12! Do the math: ya gotta extrapolate the numbers, adding 33% of their current paycheck to get what their actual annual (12 month) salary would be in the real world!
- They get a gagillion holidays off throughout the year.
- The workday is from, say, 7:30am till 2pm Monday--Friday--with lunch thrown in there, too. That's a short workday by anyone's standards, boys and girls.
- They can supplement their income two ways if needed: add extracurricular supervision i.e., become a coach or drama advisor, and take on summer or holiday jobs if they want.
Hey, I'll take that deal! So, to all you teachers moaning and groaning, I say: buff my scrotum. (Excluding the teacher in the photo. If I could get her moaning and groaning, life would be great, and this post would belong on a different kind of blog).
See ya, Tom (or, maybe not)
A big ice cold can of
STFU today going out to all those moaning about
Tom Brokaw's last newscast. It's tonight--if anyone cares.
I don't.
I used to be a network news addict. No longer. It's not the bias so much as the fetus-eating
stupidity that gets me down. The
simplistic winnowing down of "facts", the tiresome and
cliche ridden "buttons" used by the correspondents to wrap up their pieces (the ultra-grave and very thoughtful insertions at the very end of the story, before they get to say their names), the predictable and smarmy
human interest sludge we're forced to endure prior to the end of the newscast. The
endless ads for
incontinence and erectile dysfunction and congestive heart failure and crone's disease and leprosy. All sickening, all maddening, all
old and tired and done.
If "that's the way it is", then you can
buff my scrotum.
