A war like no other....
For Immediate Release: The Tampa Bay Chapter of the UNA-USA is holding its largest charitable fund raising event to date Saturday, August 19th: a triple wine and cheese tasting. Come support your chapter and bring along as many guests as possible. All proceeds from the $35 per person entrance fee to this (pay at the door, no reservations required) event will go towards the Chapter’s 2006 UN Day Fund Drive supporting Afghanistan.
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Daahhhhling, so
very good to see you. Did you get your
invitation to the soiree on Beach Drive on the 19th? Not yet? Well, I'm just
sure you're on the list. Fabulous, isn't it? A
wine-tasting to benefit those Muslims in Afghanistan. It's our very own
war fund-raiser! All the best people will be there, and with
simply marvelous wine and cheese and do you know, darling, I've heard there will be
door prizes, too! How quaint.
I just
thank God this
isn't like the old dreadful, nasty wars.
Food and gas rationing, and
no silk stockings, and there was even that
simply awful draft. All that...
sacrifice, honestly, it's just unimaginable now, hmmmmm?
Of course, now, with this marvelous new kind of war, we can keep doing
wonderful things every day, without a care or worry. And meanwhile, nice
National Guard people are taking care of the nastiness over there, with all those...
Arabians, aren't they? And isn't it delicious--Mitzy told me that all the men over there look like
Omar Sharif. My word, it's enough to give one the vapors!
Well, darling, can't stay, kiss kiss, I'm off to the club. See you on the 19th!
Koi-de-neuf.com, mais en Anglais!
Ran across
this site--
koi-de-neuf.com--it's created (and makes sense) in French, but allows you to view it in alternate languages via the babelfish.altavista site translator tool. The English results are unintentionally hilarious, mainly because the blogger's posting porn clips with little descriptions and commentary next to them. They get mangled, thusly:
- "The continuation of the video of Grease or beautiful Kate...returns nutcase to me... I must retain myself before I do not explode..." (ed.note: "I must retain myself before I do not explode" and "returns nutcase to me" are just perfect phrases. They will enter my daily lexicon, immediatement!)
- "Here the last clip of Jessica Simpson with his girlfriend Eva Longoria or I know of them more one which would be completely goat in front of these young ladies." (ed.note: Jessica Simpson is a he, apparently, and this goat thing in front of the girls sounds interesting....I volunteer!)
- "This woman is completely torn and to give the clear ideas to him, nothing is worth a good pair of legs in the air." (ed.note: Nothing is worth a good pair of legs in the air? I beg to bloody differ, Pierre!)
- Then again, there's this: "Who would refuse such a good fellatio on behalf of a small sexy blonde with feather beds on the head..." (ed.note: certainly not me!)
- "I do not know what you think of this photograph, but me I find that separately the place where it was taken, this girl has a superb bottom to which I well would say to him hello." (ed.note: prior to undertaking doggie-style activity, get polite, yessiree!)
- "Here a new way of playing the balls, this charming young woman will make you the demonstration of it." (ed.note: by all means, demonstrate away!)
Check it out. Great at parties, hours of fun for kids of all ages!
Fat chicks leaving Singapore
E-mail,
I get e-mail, most of it condescending and snide. I love it. Like today, when I was challenged by...I don't know,
The Fat Disgusting Women Traveler's Association? Yesterday's post about traveling
Singapore Airlines and always enplaning encamped next to
Shamu, The Killer Whale, apparently set off alarm bells at TFDWTA.
Mais, moi, j'ai la preuve,
above right. This photo from the
Straits Times archive shows the
fatty hippo lard-belly darlings doing the pre-departure nude perp walk at Changi airport. In order to
clear required outbound immigration, these el-gordo corpulent greasepack porkers are escorted to a special area in the bowels of the airport, thence to an
examination room, fully nude God help us, where
their fat rolls are lifted up and out so as to be sure no
heroin, cocaine, or even donuts are leaving lovely Majulah Singapura. Illegally. Once they clear, they can leave forthwith, and naturally and invariably end up squatting
next to me on the bloody plane.I have to say, though: that old benevolent dictator
Lee Kuan Yew doesn't screw around. Here's the country's pledge:
We, the citizens of Singapore, pledge ourselves as one united people, regardless of race, language or religion, to build a democratic society based on justice and equality so as to achieve happiness, prosperity and progress for our nation.
Also, to make goddamm sure that
no disgusting fat obese foreign twats
leave our lovely country
without first having their
fat rolls lifted up, out, and examined.
Amen.
I love Guyanese Democrat lawyers
"The Hill" is this newspaper for D.C. area politico geeks. They've just published their annual
"50 Most Beautiful People On Capitol Hill" edition, and the woman at left is ranked #1. She is
Michelle Persaud, she's 27 (ok so far), of Guyanese descent (oooh! exotic!), she's a lawyer (damn, strike 1), she's a Democrat (acckk, strike 2)....and
she wants me........to leave her alone.
Assuming people who work on Capitol Hill have to
start their political life somewhere, and often that somewhere is
High School--one question:
where the
bloody hell were girls who looked like this when I was on Student Goddamm Council? Most of the girls with whom I shared committee duty looked like
Miss Jane from the Beverly Hillbillies (at right).
And it's the same thing when I fly; I
never end up on the Airbus A300 sitting next to that one hot, comely wench I always seem to see (there's always at least one), lolling about the Singapore Airlines Departure Lounge. No, it's always
Shamu, The Killer Whale, seat-belt extender in hand, huffing and puffing and drooling and belching and smelling
that certain way, forcing her flab to fit over her side of the armrest, her stretch capris working really really hard to contain it all.
Yiz hopes for Cameron Diaz and yiz gets Camryn Manheim.
Gettin' harder to find a decent drinking dive after work....
As a rule, I like to have four or five
Captain Morgan and Tabs before I get back on the freeway and battle the boneheads driving home. There's my swiggin' sailor pal, the Captain, at left.
But, twern't my day today: I found myself in a new, trendy place, which isn't my cup of tea at-bloody-all. My regular
favorite kind of bar has toothless unshaven drunks heads-down on the counter by 4pm.
I made up my mind to grin and bear it, though, so I spent my time
leering at the slash on offer as it wandered around the joint. Talent on parade but none for Nigel. Luckless (unusual for me!), I plonked down at the bar to settle in with a
Balkan Sobranie. Damned if at that moment, I caught ear of the line being laid on by the male portion of the couple next to me. They were crowding me, goddammit, so it was impossible to miss, and Lothario was
working Miss TightSkirt pretty frickin' hard:Her: what's your favorite color?
Him: beautiful.
Her: beautiful's not a color.
Him: yes it is, it's the color of your eyes.
That did it. You've made a mess when you've laughed, right; you can relate. When my expensive double-rum
libation came out of my nose it made a big old smelly splotch all over the guy's Men's Wearhouse blazer. Then he had the stones to complain to me! Complain! To me!
Magnolia fetus-eating candy ass slurp a warm bowl of wet-spot that he was, I told him off but good. He was a beaten little yuppie turd by the time the wrath of Nigel rained down on him (to say nothing of the rum raining down on him, too). And then, just for good measure and also because they looked so perky, I leaned in for a quick, tasteful,
payback squeeze of Miss Garterbelts left
booboola.
And you can bet that I told the manager as he escorted me out that I wouldn't be back, goddamm it, never once, that they'd lost me as a customer and I'd NEVER use my Discover Card in there ever again, never. And also, that they could
buff my scrotum.
"It's shite being Scottish!"
Scotland. A land full of coal-streaked grungy gritty urban neighborhoods populated by people who fancy themselves
speakers of English...of course, we know they're
really all just gargling with marbles as they yabber on incomprehensively.
I'm half Scots myself--my father being the only one in his dour, dismal immediate family NOT born in Scotland--and per Ewan McGregor's great line in "Trainspotting", I can say definitively that
"it's shite being Scottish!"
Speaking of Scottish shite, their
National Health Service have put out a booklet. It contains helpful
handy hints on how to take care of things when, you know, the pressure builds and you've got one in the departure lounge, ready to fly. So to speak.
Called
"Good Defecation Dynamics" and paid for by Scottish taxpayers (the poor bastards), it has
all kinds of instructions on how to release a chocolate hostage:
"Keep your mouth open as you bulge and widen" is typical.
I didn't know this was as much a problem as it apparently is for many of those who wear the tartan, but I am "awfy" glad that it's been addressed. Absent the NHS pamphlet, there'd be no good defecation dynamics, goddammit, which would lead to massive
shite explosions occurring daily throughout the country....rivers of the
stuff running down the streets, downhill, down, down, down,
all the way down....to England. Now, some would argue that would be a general improvement on the situation for both Scotland and England.
Mais, pas moi! Actually....I guess this would be mostly fine with me, so long as it
didn't interfere with the London Sun's ability to publish
Page 3 Girls happy snaps.
Dispute clouds Miss Universe Pageant result
Last night's
Miss Universe Pageant victory for Zuleyka Rivera Mendoza,
Miss Puerto Rico, has been sharply
criticized by one of the other contestants. Sknvasv Vlknbdl,
Miss Star System X-598, claims the results were unfair and that the pageant discriminates. She is threatening a lawsuit.
Miss Vlknbdl, pictured left, said: "This fucking thing is always the same.
Always some twat from Earth. Never anyone else. The rest of us never have a chance.
Why do they even call it "Miss Universe"? It's rigged, it's bullshit. This sucks Uranus dick."
The newly crowned Miss Universe responded to the complaints: "Jódale,
extranjero, yo soy el ganador!" which translates loosely from Spanish into English as "
Fuck you, alien, I'm the winner!" Pictured gesturing to Miss Vlknbd at right, a
defiant Miss Mendoza added: "Usted lo puede atascar en uno de sus nueve hoyos de ano usted ramera. ¡Chupe en esto. ..you es mi ramera!" which translates loosely as: "You can
stick it up one of your nine assholes, bitch. Suck on this....you're my bitch!"
Pageant officials had no comment.
Lake Balaton update: I'll take the one on the right
Hooooold your goddamm horses! I'm thinking to myself the
Balaton business related in the post below--the women "on offer", so to speak--would be mostly ex-Bolshevik crones with faces like boxes of frogs, right? But, courtesy of a late night GIS, check out these
very real Lake Balaton girls pictured here. Well!
Soooooo, shlubbies, up next for your humble Nigel--a
roundtrip ticket to Lake Balaton, Hungary, where if I can get them to stomach how I look, talk, act, and smell, I too
will find myself with one of these babes, preferably the one on the right, her
legs pointed skyward per the promise of their very own government's ad (see that post below and click the link there; I'm not making this crap up, dammit).
Hungary: "Welcome, tourists; our girls will do you!"
We're focusing on this Hungarian resort called
Lake Balaton. Previously a playground for Commie apparatchiks (you know--boychiks and their girlchiks), it's fallen out of favor as Hungarians with cash take their vacations out of the country. What to do, what to do?
After all kinds of research, the local Magyar tourist authority, the officially sanctioned guys, decided their number one potential market for Lake Balaton tourism was
married, horny men from Budapest who, given to adultery and when confronted with the opportunity, would
ball the frigging brains out of a willing, nubile
boobelicious Balaton babe. On a boat, on their lake. They even made a cartoon about it, with taxpayer money. Really! A screenshot, left, from the cartoon,
which you may view in its entirety here. Her legs in the air, everywhere!
True confessions time--I've never rubbed one out at government expense before, and normally cartoons don't do it for me (Jessica Rabbit excluded). Nevertheless, my official wankometer rating: I give the cartoon 1.5 Kleenexes out of 5. Buff my scrotum if you disagree.
Lighting fires to meet the strange--who'da thunk it?
Comes now a certain
Matthew Damsky (his "Jodi Foster Needs Me Society" award above, courtesy of John Hinckley, Jr., who's pictured at right). Damsky, a student at the University of Central Florida, cops to
setting fire to the Academic Village dormitory where he resided
. So you're asking: just why did our Matt become an arsonist?
He told police: so he could meet chicks as they evacuated. I've heard of lottsa schemes to do a little Eve-teasing, but me be just
a skosh unsure about our boy Matthew's style, here.
Ya wanna meet the bints, ya gotta go where the experts play: he could've used some
lessons, goddammit, from no less a personage than me, Nigel St.John Regina Smegmatica Howle-Raines! I've pulled birds from
Toledo to Tokyo, most of whom still had all their teeth, so I know what the goddamm hell I'm doing. Just call me:
Nigel the Nookynator.It's easy when you rely on my expertise. For example, he could've simply shambled over to his potential paramour and, pre-soaked handkerchief in hand, asked all doey-eyed and such:
"Excuse me, does this smell like ether to you?"
This has worked wonderfully for me in the past. Mostly. OK, well, in the interest of full disclosure, there was this
one time, but since the Delaware statute of limitations hasn't passed on it yet, your inquiring little minds will get
NO details until 2009. Can you wait that long?
If not, you may simply buff my scrotum.
Just am letting you know, ya see...
I feel pain. My breasts are sagging.
But on the whole, I'm still a huge monkey load of laughs, despite all this. Dontcha agree?
Note to Hezbollah fans who are apparently upset about their perception of my alleged "pro-Israeli bias", and who've contacted me via camel courier: no, I'm not anti-Arab. Not possible. Gotta love all Abraham's issue, right, gotta, yes? Isaac, Ishmael, yeah baby, all from the same ol' marvelous dude.
Specifically, now, see, what I object to is you and your current family and all your friends and their families and yours and their descendants and basically, everyone you know. Also, your propensity to blow people up with bombs and wipe your ass with your hands and then turn around and eat frigging dates for dinner. Does that narrow it down for ya, you goddamm towel head sand washing piece of khara?
But other than that, I love you. Don't ever change, don't ever shave.
We already know you don't ever bathe.
...and starring Ehud Olmert as The Terminator!
Israel will beat the felafel out of Hezbollah.Seriously, it'll be nothing but
hummus and kibee balls all over the tent floor by the time
my IDF boys and girls get done with these goddamm sand-wipers. And there will be a movie made,
Academy Award time, mazeltov! Titled "
Mohammed Gets Boned", it'll feature
Natalie Portman as
Miriam, the righteously pissed off babe from Haifa who takes up an Uzi in search of justice, and
Shlomit Riger as her beautiful but conflicted hottie cousin,
Azalia, who inexplicably but luckily lusts after this certain fat, hideous, disgusting, grotesque, horrifying, yet deceptively sweet and sensitive old bald guy...Azalia just wants it all to end so she can get back
in her bikini and loll about Tel Aviv's Ge'ula beach (oh God, just the mmm mmm mmm thought of it,
look at her picture, shlubbies, grrrrr....excuse me, I'll be right back in 15 minutes....)
I'm hot for ya, baby!
This stuff just writes itself
See here. You'll find details on an amazing study, sponsored by Macquarie University in Australia.
13 mothers
sniffed soiled diapers belonging to both their own child and others from an unrelated baby. The women consistently ranked the
smell of their own child's feces as less revolting than that of other babies.
Now, what occurs to me is:
- It must have been funny at the first pitch meeting, when this professor at Macquarie University went to his faculty board, and explained what it is he wanted to do.
- What in God's name could the recruiting calls for the study have been like? They had to recruit people to participate somehow; much of that had to happen on the phone:
"G'day, I'm Trevor from Macquarie University, 'ow ya goin'? Got a tic? [pause] Beauty! Nah, I'm not selling nothing. [pause] Wouldn't bloody lie to ya! Look, I'm ringing to see if ya wanna be in on a bit of fun. [pause] It's a bloody gigantic flippin' huge flaming important research study! [pause] Bloody oath! All ya gotta do is smell a pile of nappies filled with baby shit. [pause] Too bloody right! Ya stick ya beak in the bloody thing, give it a good ol' check for pong, see what ya think! Whaddya reckon, fun, eh, ya in? [pause] Well, yer own littlie would need to shit in one of 'em, too. Reckon ya could organize that? [pause] Woddya mean, "what do I mean?" Gotta have ya kid take a stroll to the gravy bowl. Strangle ol' brownie. Leave an offering at the porcelain bog. Give birth to yer twin. Release the chocolate hostage. Free Nelson Mandela. Got it? [pause] Yer in? Yer a bloody star! Thanks heaps, we'll sign ya up then!
And you people think that
I'm sick. Sheesh.
Bathing beauty tourists: welcome to Saudi Arabia
Arabs. It's not enough that they hate you and want to kill you, what with you being an infidel and all. No, now, on top of that, they want your tourist dollars.
At a recent tourism exhibition in Dubai, Prince Sultan bin Salman bin Abdel Aziz, secretary-general of the Saudi tourism commission,
announced that
henceforth the kingdom would welcome those who wish to scuba dive. Oh yes, that means women, too. But there are
bin conditions from Sultan bin Salman bin Abdel.
Any woman under 40 must be accompanied by a male relative--and women are to be covered from head to toe. No bathing suits, no skin, is forbidden! We will cut your bin-infidel bin-arms off! Only is allowed good clean Koran approved fun.
What to make of this? Apparently the only possible, accepted, mullah-thumbsup/imam-sanctioned diving for women will take place in the hard to find but oh so very Saudi-stylish Burkha Beauty ™ Scuba Suit.
Here, then: the Koran-OK'd getup that gets the go-ahead from the Saudis. Now, just how hard do you think it'll be to swim in a burkha? Here are your choices:
• bin-unlikely
• bin-you must be joking
• bin-up yours, ragheads, I'm going to Eilat instead.
Albert Einstein, chick magnet
Comes word now that
Albert Einstein loved the poon, had babes all over him, and was fighting them off like flies throughout his life. A
stash of letters released today reveal our Al had at least a
dozen lovers--married two of them--and maintained a regular and ongoing extramarital "exercise program" pretty much till the day he died.
My new hero.
It just proves that
you can look like Dr. Relativity (charmingly pictured here), and still somehow someway
attract the pink. This
gives me, with a face like a pail of writhing maggots, a 53" waist, and man-boobs,
hope. Not in the conventional sense i.e. "there's a woman out there somewhere who'll
love me and want me." I don't believe there's such a thing as "love", plus,
in my case no such person exists. At least one who'd want me without me having to pay for the privilege.
My "hope" is related to that: hope that the
escort service to which I gave my phone and credit card numbers will get back to me, like they promised.
How this came up, so to speak: I was watching a re-run of
Saved By The Bell with that little minx, that rigazza bint,
Tiffany Thiessen (grrrrrrr....), and things got a little, um, rugged down there, you know. It happens. So, determined to take action, I went a-thumbing through the Yellow Pages and found the
AAAAAAA-AA1AAAAAAA1 Escort Service.They were the very
first listing! Which means they have to be the best.
When I called, they simply over-flowed with European efficiency. I got the
escort service's phone answering service, long distance, somewhere in Kazakhstan of Uzkebistan?
One of those "stan" countries, I don't know. They suggested we'd save time if I filled in a little profile in advance of
my future 20 seconds of shame and embarrassment, and they were happy to take the information by phone. So I dived right in.
They didn't want much. Just my name (exactly as it appeared on the credit card), credit card billing address....then, they had me repeat my
credit card number and
expiration date and even asked for that little
verifcation number thingy above the credit card number--you know? Finally, they promised they'd get right back to me with information about an appropriate girl from my own city, someone befitting my taste and requirements.
My "taste and requirements"? That she's breathing.
Anyhow, I'm sure they'll call back today.
A couple couplets
OK, based on requests I've received,
here's some "love" poetry. This ought to prove my literary versatility. Brings a tear to my eye, a shiver and a sigh (hey, that rhymes, too!):
To My Ex-WivesMy thoughts of you no words can tell,
Except for maybe "go to hell"
None but you could be my wives,
You're experts at destroying lives.
"Love" is all just bunk and hokum
So on your knees to buff my scrotum
The "Dear Leader" needs Hair Club For Men
 | His hair! That's the problem! All this missile nonsense is just a cover-up for the fact that our boy, well, needs a new cover-up. Enter Hair Club For Men. |  |
They sure could help. I sent them this idea (at right) for ol' J.I. --not only new, non Don King hair, but cool new kill-the-Japs fighter pilot shades, too! I'm surprised I haven't as yet heard back from Hair Club. I'm bald as hell but haven't availed myself of their products; however, if this is indicative of their customer service, I'll forego the niceties and my next move will be an angry "buff my scrotum" letter. That'll learn 'em.
Just think, though: if we could get him going in this direction, Mr. Kim, instead of blowing up the bomb, would be looking like the bomb, baby. And he'd be axin' hisself: "Where be the white women?" Peace, out. Literally.
Oh, and Condi, if you need help with Iran, I've got ideas for them, too, sweetheart. |
Math. The horror, the horror.
I'd put a bunch of stuff under padlock in the attic years ago--
you can't trust anyone, you know, especially family--and the other day I was going through it and found an old
Nigel math test from 4th grade. See the excerpt at left; this was a pretty typical result for me.
Why? I have the
math aptitude of a soapdish. I never got it, never, never;
that part of my brain just doesn't work. I cannot and never have balanced a checkbook. I cannot and never have figured out basic geometry or algebra or any of that. And this part of my
damaged cortex is one of the contributing factors in my
inability to perform even the most mundane mechanical or maintenance tasks, like fixing a broken appliance. Bugger that. Clearing out a clogged drain. Screw it. Installing...anything. Fugeddaboutit. Helpful handy goddam instructions don't help, either: I cannot picture 3-D items on a 2-D rendering, so they are completely and totally useless.
Here's something, though: while I hate math, I do like numbers. I even have favorites. Yes--my
favorite numbers are: 36-24-32, in that order. And you can
buff my scrotum if you can't figure out what I mean by that.
Helen, Georgia -- it's better than Berchtesgaden!
Was ist dies?
Helen, Georgia is this strange little hamlet deep in the Appalachian mountains that, in order to increase tourism, remade itself in 1969 into a
Bavarian village.
Residents who up to that point wore mostly overalls while playing the banjo started wearing leiderhosen while playing the tuba. All the buildings and houses got new Germanic facades (see photo, left); all the stores started selling pigs feet and strong beer, Leni Reifenstahl movies ran in continuous loop in the town's
filmpalast. And then, of course,
die Juden...well, there was one family, but they moved on up the road a piece, into Clark County, dontcha know. Y'all don't come back now, ya hear?
This bewildering attempt to Nazify the place has reaped real benefits: for a town populated by these obviously confused rednecks, Helen now accounts for much of the tourism dollars influx to the region.
Kann Sie ficken glaubt es?Which raises a question.
Suppose there's a small town in Germany somewhere, in the mountains, with no tourists and a failing economy. What if they
created their own little Georgia mountain town?Imagine: you're in the car, fahn-fahn-fahning auf der Autobahn, and you pull off into our imaginary
stadt. First, you encounter
boiled peanuts stands. Point the BMW further, and y
ou start to see
pickups on blocks by the side of mobile homes.
Old, rusty Kelvinators on the front porch. Toothless women. Men chawing away and spitting Copenhagen juice indiscriminately, all over
die burgersteige. Then, ultimately, you
encounter the Holy Grail, the Pied Piper, the Siren Call heeded willingly and unquestionably by Southerners everywhere:
a Waffle House-enzie next to a Wal Mart-enzie.Willkommen zum Süden, Bruder!
The bikini turns 60 today
60 years ago today, July 5, 1946, this French pervert (are there any other kind?) made some poor girl get up in front of people, half-naked on the cat-walk, and tried to pass off what she was wearing as "fashion". Thus,
the bikini was born. On behalf of men everywhere, I offer
loud and enthusiastic applause. Can you hear me clap as I type?
A
cautionary note, though, kiddies. These
bikini things are dangerous, and should be used only by qualified and trained personnel.
On the left, a qualified and trained person; on the right, an unqualified, untrained person:When introducing these weapons to tyros, please show some supervisory cojones and allow their display and usage only where and when it's safe, and only by those who know what the hell they're doing! To repeat: the person on the left is certified. The one on the right clearly isn't.
Any questions?
What's for lunch?
Among my many disorders, make sure to include "eating" whilst enumerating, won't you?
I wake up and
I'm...just...not...hungry. At all. I'll barely eat breakfast, maybe; it's really all I can do to choke a few nibbles down--then I'll have a light lunch, something small, again if at all.
Some days I don't eat till I get back home and log in with my case worker. She scolds me all the time: "Nigel, the reason you're a fat miserable bastard is because you're such a complete asshole and no one likes you." Hmmmm. What this has to do with eating is anyone's guess, but I hear it from her a lot and I do put some stock in her state-licensed opinion. She has the
credibility, to say nothing of the
handcuff keys.
Digressing again. Pardon.
Here's
when I get hungry: at night, sitting on my gigantic pimple and wrinkle laden arse, watching Jimmy Swaggart on TBN. As I'm switching back and forth between the Rev. Jim and Comcast PPV channels 401--410 (the hard core stuff is on 408, btw), the
urge to gorge groceries accumulates. Ultimately I give in, and right around 10pm I can generally be found tucking in to an
extra large Digorno ("it's not delivery, it's Digorno") triple extra cheese, all washed down with two or three refreshing sugar-free
Frescas.
That's some lip-smackin' good eatin', and right before bed. Convenient, hey?
Well.
Would you just LOOK at the time? Gotta have them re-attach my electronic ankle bracelet and get to work. Have a good day, won't you?
I love the girls of the IDF
I love Israel.Because they're surrounded on all sides by cracker-pot cake-sniffing despotic excrement munchers, why,
in Israel, everyone goes all-in--they've got to, to survive. They regularly deal with
lunatic Arab towelheads who wash themselves in sand and who go around blowing up innocent civilians in buses and shopping centers. So in Israel, there's
vigilance and sacrifice and single focus purpose, with none of this "we're at war but you can still drive your SUV and pay $3.50 for coffee at Starbucks" crap mentality we have here. It's life and death, all the time; the
Israel Defense Force (IDF) is on the job non-stop.
Not only do I love Israel,
I really love Israeli girls. Actually, I've love to love a few of them more, and more often, if you know what I mean. Like
Bar here, and
Morit here, and especially
Shlomit here. And a guy just gets all jiggly-woogly when he sees a gal in uniform, dontcha know: when I was a kid living in Asia and attending an International School in Japan, one of the graduating
high school girls was a junior officer in the IDF and had seen action in the '67 war before moving to Japan.
See, in Israel, all the girls gotta serve in the military. It's mandatory, no exceptions.
40-plus years on now, and and me being the sick old horn-dog I am, I'm thinking that means there's gotta be some
pretty good-looking honeys on patrol on the Golan, marching around with
Uzis, ready to send a
rocket or two up Abdullah's ass. Damned if I'm not right, as usual:
check this photo gallery out, whence originates the thumbnail to the left. Just about any of these sweethearts could frisk me at a checkpoint and then hold me for questioning anytime, even torture me some, and I wouldn't complain much.
Shalom, bubbelah, and buff my scrotum.
NASA, foam, and Farrah Fawcett
I'm having a real hard time with this
foam falling off business, which has plagued the shuttle program and has caused yet more
delays and
finger-pointing and consternation and other assorted
bureaucratic butt covering.Can someone explain the problem at Cape Canaveral? Let's get a goddamm move on here!
I mean, what's stopping them from calling up someone from
Gillette or Schick and getting some bloody
experts on the bloody case? Even
Farrah Fawcett used to do TV ads for "
Foamy"; hell, she probably knows more about foam than these NASA doofi ("doofi": Latin for multiple doofuses).
By the way, do you rememember the TV ad? It was from around 1971 or 1972, and good God. No one knew who the hell she was--this was way pre-Charlie's Angels. But she was a
show-stopper, for sure. This commercial was actually a pretty good predictor of your future homo/butt-slamming tendencies: if you were say, a 12 or 13 year old boy, and you could watch
Farrah...quivering....onscreen as she extolled the virtues of Foamy, if you could watch it and if for more than one second you were actually thinking about shaving with this stuff, instead of what you'd actually like to do with and to
Farrah while both of you were covered in it, well, hell, you were well on your way to being a
certified fag.
Case closed. And not that there's anything wrong with that.
I went looking for the Foamy ad on the web; couldn't find it anywhere. It's in the
Pole Pulling Hall of Fame somewhere. But you'll get a vague idea of the
power of Farrah circa early 70's by watching
this, for Mercury. When you watch the ad, see if you don't agree: there's way too much time spent on the cat and not enough on the pussy, IMHO.
I DO declare!
With
July 4th now just days away, I thought some historical perspective would be helpful.
- The real American Independence Day is July 2nd. This was the date the Continental Congress adopted a resolution telling King George to buff their collective scrotums, thus severing ties with Great Britain. They didn't get around to the official Declaration of Independence till July 4th, but by then the toothpaste was out of the tube. On top of that, most of the delegates didn't get around to signing on until August 2, 1776.
- The signers of the Declaration suffered tremendously post-signing; here are come sad-but-true stories:
- Button Gwinnett had hemmorhoids and couldn't ride horses for years as a result--his legacy is an eponymously-named county in the state of Georgia overrun by illegal aliens;
- New England's Josiah Bartlett was mocked, mocked, and mocked some more. Afterwards, there was more mocking. The lame-ass TV show West Wing almost used his name for the New England Presidential character played by Martin Sheen, but because of the weight of historical mocking they decided to use "Jedediah" (not Josiah) Bartlett instead;
- John Hancock was forced by church elders and embarrassed family members to change his name--to John Hanwee-wee;
- William Williams of Connecticut was plagued by warts. He had them before signing the Declaration, but no one gave two turds about him up to that point...after signing, he became famous in his native Connecticut, and his medical problems were public knowledge. "Warty Willy Williams" died penniless and surrounded by his menagerie of pet frogs;
- Thomas Jefferson's sweaty dalliances with slave babe Sally Hemmings came to light; thereafter he was known behind his back as "Tom Change Your Luck". This infuriated him no end, and till the day he died Jefferson privately cursed his uncontrollable drive to sample at the jungle fever buffet.
Happy Independence Day, scrotum-buffers. And count your lucky stars you live in a country where drivel like this blog can be printed.
