Gwyneth Paltrow thinks she's African
Gwyneth Paltrow declares "I am African" in a new advertisement for a charity working in Africa. There she is at left dressed up as a combination Zulu warrior princess/Pocahontas with the trendy "I Am African" thingy underneath.
See, now, well,
no, Gwyneth, actually, you're not. You're a pretty California blonde; well-meaning and all, and I wouldn't half mind giving you a go if you popped round for a quick one...you're a lot of things, sweetheart, but
definitely not African.
When it comes to
attractive blondes who really are African, shlubbies, I give you:
Charlize Theron. Approximately 6'9" tall, this bilingual Amazon speaks English in addition to her native
Afrikaans. And thank God for that.
Afrikaans sounds like a
Dutch/German mix spoken by someone suffering from both
uvula cancer and muscular dystrophy. It's hard on the ear. I was once on a South African Airlines flight from New York to Johannesburg, surrounded by numerous white people grunting and expectorating (it's what this Afrikaans sounds like, really).
It's the only time in my life I truly wished I had Marlee Matlin's disability.Gwyneth, darling: you can buff my scrotum (in Afrikaans, "
pools mi gedeeltes").
Where I opine on the TV fare awarded Emmys
Shlubbies, the
piss has been taken relative to your humble servant's previous posting about not watching the
Emmy nominated TV shows.Fair enough. Some musings about some of the winners:
24, starring Kiefer Sutherland, at left. Apparently this show has something to do with terrifying, non-stop action inducing, gut-wrenching things, all occurring on the same day, hence the clever title (hey, if I named something "24", you can be damned sure the plot would center around a case of beer. I'm just sayin'...), and this Sutherland person runs around stopping it all from happening. Aside: who would name their child "Kiefer", anyway? A communist Canadian actor, that's who. Greetings, Comrade Donald. Driven any Volvos lately?- The Office. Is this an American show or an English show? Who knows? Allegedly a comedy, it features all manner of rape and incest and sodomy in the workplace. Since I can get all that at home, without the TV being turned on, well, I've never watched this show either. But I promise I will.
Monk. Another one that won something or other. Could be about animals. Could be about music (the Monkees?). Also, heads up, there's a guy named Shalhoub who works on this show (a photo, right), which in and of itself is enough for me to report the entire goddamm enterprise to Homeland Security.
- Law and Order, SUV. Apparently about a Chevy Tahoe. Why would I watch a show about a police truck? There's someone named Hargitay on this whose mother was the decapitated big-titted movie star Jayne Mansfield. She lost her head in a car wreck--or was it a truck wreck? So, is she driving the truck? I don't get it.
- The New Adventures of Old Christine. This one stars Julia Louis-Dreyfus, who last we heard had been falsely accused by the French government of treason. A clear case of anti-Semitism, the frickin' Frogs took this poor Dreyfus and ruined his career. He died, penniless and forgotten, in 1935. You can goddamm look it up! Why the fuck I'd watch a show about this is beyond my comprehension.
Well, that concludes my Emmy summary. Better luck in 2007, particularly to
Barbara Eden, who should've won last year for "I Dream Of Jeannie". Parenthetical aside: you're a single guy who rubs a bottle and
out pops this gorgeous almost nude half-dressed blonde who calls you "master" and will, willingly, do anything you want, and I mean
anything. What took Larry Hagman so long to hit it? Huh? WHAT TOOK SO GODDAMM LONG, LARRY? You homo, Larry. You homo.
Katrina, plus 365
Been thinking about
New Orleans, mostly whilst engaged in
scat-leaving, which, baby, is apropos; perched there on the
American Standard P 31059A (
"Ultra Shit rated") and straining hard, I quite naturally start wondering about all those who chose to return to the
Crescent City. What exactly did they expect to find?
Everything "back to normal"? Nothing further to worry about? All participants fully vested in the gigantic FEMA and other agency cash splurge, ready at the trough, tongues hanging out, wanting more more more more more?
Here's some
non-PC opinion, from your humble Nigel, and are you really surprised? When it comes to New Orleans, I say:
- Eff it
- Ray Nagin, especially: bite the (chocolate) big one
- Others awaiting more "help": we're fed up with your whining; how about some DIY, you lazy bastards;
- Basically the whole disgusting place: slide straight to hell for all I care.
- And: get a job
- Plus, don't forget: buff my scrotum
Any questions, shlubbies?
Emmys tomorrow night. Who cares?
Sitting around today, eating a slab of apple pan dowdy while picking my nose, ruminating: hey, isn't it time for
ol' stretcheroo face Joan Rivers (at left, gag me, gag me) to stand where she stands, red-carpet wise, making fun of celebrity clothing choices?
Indeed. Joan will be in full glory once again, as the
Emmy Awards are tomorrow night. And I don't give a good goddamm, mostly because
I've never seen any of the shows or actors nominated for anything in any category.
I don't watch TV, really. Home at the end of another rousing day and ensconced safely in the living room Barcolounger,
double Absolut Citron and Fresca on the rocks clutched tightly 'twixt thumb and digits, I cruise the Trinitron's news channels. I wear out the remote, because nothing's on and everything disappoints. I generally stop my round-robin cable TV tour only to
blow raspberries at and give the finger to Fox News' "great American" Sean Hannity (what a completely irritating dope; he may have won the sperm Olympics in the looks department, but my left hemmorhoid has more cranial activity than this fuckwit's actual brain).
So: after a mostly satisfying release of
poisonous vitriol in the general Hannity direction, it's off to bed (always, always alone)--I kick
Lump, my irritating rat terrier, off the comforter, clamber into the Craftmatic adjustable, have my way with myself, and before I know it it's 2am and I'm wide awake again. Nigel, poster child for insomnia.
Digressing again, so sorry.
Where was I? Oh yes:
TV sucks the pus-oozing hose, so as far as the Emmys go I have one thing to say:
buff my scrotum.
J-Lo preggers, Pampers XXXXL rushed into production
Jennifer Lopez, she of the titanic turd twister, is apparently with child. This news comes courtesy of a radio interview with one of her recent film co-stars, who
accidentally spilled the beans about her having an ankle-biter on the way. At left, J-Lo's depicted in this famous
Degris oil, from the
Museum of Modern Art's "Horrifyingly Huge Hollywood Heinies" collection.
So, what would her child look like? Perhaps as she did, when she was four years old. Above right, the
young J-Lo on the beach in Ocean City, Maryland, August 1974.
Voir, ma liste d'i-Pod!
Other drivers: one chromosome too many...
Pissed down all bloody day yesterday.
Power out all over the metro, people acting like fools behind the wheel as a result.
Stoplights buggerized. Where I live, the law says if the stoplights are
flashing amber, that means it's ok to proceed
without stopping--with care, just take yourself on through the intersection and go on your merry way. When flashing
red,
ya gotta stop. And if they're out completely, you treat the intersection like a
4-way stop.
Shlubbies, I swear I will
shoot, with my large, trusty, and extensive-damage-causing
Sig Sauer P229R Crimson Trace, the next retard I'm tailgating who stops at a flashing amber. Since they can't follow the rules of the road and obviously
got their driving license off the back of a Corn Flakes packet, they don't deserve the road-access privileges afforded those of us with
IQs higher than what can be measured on the
Richter Scale. Agreed?
OK, mums and dads: drive carefully now!
Yo yo, Bentley Continental Flying Spur...now with rims!
*Sob*
I saw this yesterday. Forget the goddamm towel heads and murdering Muslim mullahs, the hell with all that. Here's something that
really pissed me off.Whether or not it was some idiotic
18 year old mega millionaire rap star (which we have lots of around here), or an inbred neckless and toothless white
cracker NFL draftee from the hills of Tennerrrrseeee, yee hah, pissing away his entire signing bonus, I don't know, but whoever/however, listen up, asshole, here's a newsflash just for you:
If you have
enough money to buy a 2006 Bentley Continental Flying Spur, you've already made your "statement"...we get it. You've got scratch, you've got game, yo yo what it is ma brutha. But look, word to the not-so-wise (obviously):
don't go over-doing the tired, boring, trite, and classless blingy pimped out angle by adding--I couldn't believe it when I saw it---
spinning rims to the wheels of what is arguably one of the prettiest automobiles in the world.
What--the Bentley didn't look good enough for you sitting on the showroom floor?
$170,000 plus options wasn't sufficient? Hey.....I know, here's an idea, don't want
none of yo' peeps dissin' you, muthafucka. Let's be adding some
spinning rims! Cuz
da ho's be lovin' it!
Douchebag.
You're either a redneck or a gangsta, I don't care which. But when I saw what you'd done to your car, I thought to myself:
you can buff my scrotum.Oh, yeah, almost forgot: peace out.
Today show all this week: literacy.
They're concentrating on
adult literacy this week, early mornings, on
NBC's Today Show. Considering the average adult can barely read a comic book, that's a big undertaking.
Wednesday's guest host will be the
dyslexic Henry Winkler, who's really going out of his way to do the show this early in the day (Q: "Henry, what's your favorite time of day?"
A: "Noon"). He'll be relying on Matt and Ann, and if he needs help he'll give them a big
SOS.
Henry has the following features on tap:
- Interview with the female members of Abba;
- Dyslexia expert and famed scientist Otto Kanak;
- A review of Manhattan's hot new restaurant "1221";
- Advertising expert Pip Ono will talk about the new TV ad campaign taking the automotive world by storm, "A Toyota's A Toyota".
- Plus a special feature: Star comedy by Democrats!
Be watching, won't you? I yam, fun 'nuf....may I?
My future ex-wife #3
I ate dinner out tonight. Sat at the bar of a
local steak place, solo as per the norm, and had
medium well formerly live cow along with processed potato products,
mmmmmmm good. Complementing my fine dining choice was a
variety of libations. Let's see--a series of 25 oz. beers, perhaps 4?...(hey, that's 100 ounces of beer,
nearly a gallon, goddammit, and where's my ribbon and trophy?) and also a variety of in-the-snifter chasers designed to cleanse the palate. Grand Marnier, Sambuca Romana, and probably a Tennessee Malt Whisky or two. The bill was over
$100, which is cheap by big city standards but here in the butt-sniffing town I live in, it's considered
high rolling, ya see.
Anyhow,
working behind the bar was my latest soon-to-be ex-wife. Serving oh-so-sexily, I met the lovely
Alicia. She sort of looked like a
pretty version of the lesbian comedian
Sandra Bernhard (at right)--hard to imagine, I know, but go with me on this,ok ? Great lips, nice overall presentation, plus she likes
sports and the world's greatest rock band, AC-DC. Bingo! In other completely corrupted ways, she's just right for me, too: she already has
2 kids by 2 separate guys, never been married,
drinks like a fish, loose morals, has a degree in accounting so she's
not completely retarded....what else? Oh, yes,
she's moving away soon.
Perfect!Instead of getting married, tonight I suggested that we simply slide right on through to the thing where
I give her a house and a car and pay her $3000 a month for the rest of her life. She
responded pretty well to this though she was put off by me, physically. This is standard procedure and completely understandable, but once I told her that I'm impotent and
sex is impossible for me, she relaxed a bit. But not completely: mysteriously, she was still a but... suspicious. I wonder why.
Regardless,
I hope to be on the hook for more cash outflow within a couple of weeks, and I can't wait...
"God doesn't create junk"--tell that to Jerry Springer...
"God doesn't create junk"....yeah, sure, well, how 'bout
you buff my scrotum? Of
course he does. What utter nonsense. Just look around--there's enough
feces walking and talking to supply all the
merde needed at the Sean Hannity family dinner table for at least a year.
Most people are average, by definition. Ergo, there are lottsa folks who score sub-par, and without being judgemental
I say: eff 'em. The lower end of whatever the curve is that you're curving, generates pretty low end curve hangers-on. Right?
Sic inquam: God might love 'em, but I don't have to. I own a
Sig Arms Blaser R 93 LRS2 .338 "blow the snot out of everything" shotgun that says
I don't have to love anybody. Et je ne fais pas.
Oh: two parenthetical but most important notes:
Sig Arms is the best company in the history of the Universe, dedicated to putting gaping, bleeding holes in things I don't like,
and I enjoy spending lottsa time on my own.Can you tell?
All psychics can buff my scrotum
At left,
idiotic too much snow up the ass Canadian "psychics" who advertise.
Now, normally I
love advertising. Totally love it. The more the goddamm merrier. Tell me all your nonsense, wrap it up in tinsel and bunting, make me wanna buy,
BABY, I'm there. It makes my
t'aint tingle. Normally.
But wait, see, here we have
psychics who advertise.Just
stop and think about that. What kind of mealy-mouthed douchebag psychic
advertises?
Don't they already know who's coming to visit them?
Can't they predict the goddamm future? So
what's with the display ad on yesiamanidiot.com?
It's like the hucksters who advertise
"systems" on the radio, late at night, to help you
beat the stock market. Look, bucko, if it takes me to tell ya, lemme lay it on ya: why in all the name of what's good and holy would I
reveal my system, proven to work, mind you, that will
beat Wall Street? If it
worked so fecking well, then wouldn't I just keep
pummelling the
goddamm market about the ears and nose, on my own? Why would I reveal anything, except perhaps my income whilst hiding evidence of my tiny, skinny, hollow penis, to the
Halle Berry look-a-like (at right--is it live, or is it Memorex?) who's standing at the bar, awaiting the hit-on from some rich (albeit ugly, fat, disgusting, horrifying, grotesque)
piece of drek sorry excuse for a human sonofabitch?
Hey, that's me!
Jon-Benet killer caught, music world stunned
News of the capture of Jon-Benet Ramsay's alleged killer reverberated throughout the music world yesterday. A spokesman for
Peter Gabriel (left) categorically denied that the singer-songwriter is or ever has posed as accused killer
John Mark Karr (right) or used as his name as an alias
. Additionally, Gabriel's spokesman said: "Peter's never even been to Boulder, Colorado, and knows nothing about this tragic case."
Authorities are investigating.
Airport profiling and Jessica Alba
News now they're doing the
profiling thing in the UK. This is where you find people who look like the people you think are the people who you think are thinking about thinking they might want to do whatever it is you're thinking that they're thinking, and then you
line them up against a wall and shoot 'em...ok, see,
really what you do is you pull them aside and
wand them and
search them, and if (Allah be praised) they look like
Jessica Alba; she's half Lebanese or
Spanish or
Mexican, some
dark skin thing going on there, so she counts, see...if they look like Jessica Alba, well then: you get to do a thorough,
deep, probing, strip search.
The photo above illustrates the sorry state of things as they are now, in the USA.
Without profiling, you've got a three-week old, hands in the air, surrendering, or maybe he just needs to go pooh pooh. But with profiling, you get to
frisk Jessica Alba, pictured at right.I vote for profiling.
Fidel Castro, man of action
He's
just turned 80 and has had a bit of a health scare--but so what?
Hugh Hefner's that old, too, and he has four hot little blonde 24 year old girlfriends who
love him because of his personality and stuff. So what's all the hoo-hah about El-Jeffe,
El Gran Fidelito? Just because he's in hospital and the government has released photos of him that look, um, suspiciously doctored. See here: so...he
looks a little stiff in the hospital bed. So what? Haven't you ever woken up and looked like your head has been pasted on to someone else's body?
I know I have!
But have a gander at these, from the photo file they haven't released yet...first, there's this at right, from two days ago:
Fidel on the shores of Lake Che Guevara, just west of Habana, giving the babes on the beach the "thumbs-up!" Fidel is a
water-skiing fool, and has been the
Cuban trick-team captain for 43 years in a row. An amazing run, don't you think?
And then there's my favorite, "Flying Fidel", at left. Taken just yesterday, it's the supreme leader sky-diving high above the Caribbean, surveying his beloved campesinos. Wow, to be that active when you're 80! It must be all those Cuban cigars , eh? Or maybe it's hanging dissidents by their thumbs, or slowly dipping them in vats of acid, or hooking their cojones up to electrical wires, or shooting their kneecaps off, or breaking their eye sockets with baseball bats.
Up yours, Senor Castro, and hopefully this will be your last birthday. You're such a complete scumbag slagheap smegma-sucking oily piece of shit, I hope you're in pain in hospital, I hope it hurts badly, I hope you're in agony. Asshole. And the same goes for your compadre Hugo Chavez.
Buff my scrotum and get bent, both of ya.
The National A-ay-u-e-i-a-n-na-thummmmm
There's a
special place in hell for singers intent on demonstrating their "skill" with
melisma. Primarily used by
black women, this NAACP approved protest method is utilized perhaps in an attempt to pay the rest of us back for whatever injustices these ladies perceive themselves to have suffered:
•
Aretha Franklin: fat and demanding diva•
Whitney Houston: drugs, previously gorgeous, currently hideous
•
Mariah Carey (she's half black): insane, but with extra nice boobies•
Beyonce Knowles: truly lovely, but has butt as big as a Peterbilt....and the list goes on and on, presumably including the very attractive NFL cheerleader (again, and not coincidentally: black) who, apparently due to her outstanding Junior High
glee club attendance record, was selected from among thousands of other metropolitan area bad singers to completely
mangle the national anthem at a pre-season football game I attended last night.
Here's how to
stop this nonsense:
- Melismatic caterwauling up and down the treble clef ensues during anthem
- Crowd votes thumbs up or down (like the Romans used to)
- Majority thumbs down equals a 15 yard penalty for the home team on the first posession of the game
- Singer is forcibly removed and air-lifted via military transport to Guantanamo Bay terrorist holding facility; "persuaded" by the CIA to "sing" Israeli folk songs at top volume over extra-tinny loudspeaker. ACLU, Amnesty International, U.N. Bedwetting Society are all simultaneously told to buff my scrotum and piss off when mass suicide of detainees results.
See? Every clou-i-y-a-ed-u-e-e-e-e-a-u-i-u-d has a silver lining, when you
let your Nigel have a crack at it!
I suffer, and therefore expect compensation. Dammit.
Hi, my name is Nigel, and I have a disease. It's
Cenosillicaphobia, and it has plagued me most of my adult life. This thing has:
- affected my personal life--I now have none.
- It's affected my financial situation--the money is all gone.
- It's affected my friendships--friends? Got zero.
- It's affected everything, really.
- I've tried lottsa stuff to fight it:
- Sexual abstinence, for the last 10 years.
- Medical treatment (fucking psychiatrists and therapists bite the flaming pole of manhood--honest, they're worthless, they blow dead Hippos).
- Religion (well, not really, I'm bullshitting here, but go with the bit, ok?)
So, powerless, I humbly confess that:
Cenosillicaphobia owns me
Cenosillicaphobia has overtaken everything
Managing Cenosillicaphobia is all that's on my mind....
What's Cenosillicaphobia?
"Fear of an empty glass." You can look it up.
Have a good weekend, and also numerous cocktails, shlubbies. Ya know I WILL!!!
Protect your head as it goes up your ass...
Kids!
Ever tell anyone "hey, you, why don't you just stick your head up your ass?" Why,
SURE you have! But how to protect even your worst enemies from sickening fecal-borne disease when they (hopefully) take you up on your suggestion? We've got the answer! Ronco proudly presents the amazing new
"Full Head Bag"!®
Now you can tell people to
stick it up their butt without having to worry about them contracting some disgusting and
potentially fatal sickness, which could make you
vulnerable to unreasonable lawsuits.
And who needs those, eh?Just give your victim a shrink-wrapped Full Head Bag®, complete with
easy to follow instructions--then,
let fly with the vitriol! Perfect for the playground! Wonderful around the water-cooler, at work! Even easy to use when you're flipping off that son of a bitch in the Ford Futura in Lane 2--comes complete with
slingshot launcher, for those "hard to reach" bastards!
Order now--call 1-800-Buff Me Tenderly.
Get yours today!
Murdoch to Lieberman: "It's takedown time, baby!"
Fox News Corp. Chairman
Rupert Murdoch (left), angered by what he said was
Joe Lieberman's "weak and faggy" performance in yesterday's Connecticut Democratic Party Senate run-off, has threatened to "beat the shit out of the sonuvabitch the next time I see him." Murdoch made the comments at a press conference in Manhattan this morning. "I live in Connecticut, I voted for the fucker, and he completely wimped out.
He'll get this fist right up his ass."
Contacted outside his New Haven post-campaign hotel room for comment,
Senator Lieberman (right), said: "He said what?
He can blow me! He thinks he can punch me? Tell that shitheel I'll punch him in his ugly face and he'll fall right to the floor. Who the hell does he think he is, that robber-baron piece of shit? Bring him on, right now."
Fox News has already secured the rights to the forthcoming fight.
Lose weight now, ask me how!
I weigh about
310 pounds; I'm rattus el gordo,
Captain Rotundo, and plenty proud of it. I've worked hard to end up looking like a Brunswick bowling ball. Now, some would say: "Nigel, you need to eat less." My response is always: "I agree.
I shall instead, drink more." (see personal motto above profile holder, upper right).
How to turn this excess lard to my advantage? Shlubbies, I like to
dispense dieting advice to the general public.
My method: I
drive around, window down, chomping on an unlit El Producto and fistfuls of Fritos, the in-dash Alpine blaring
Wagner's Gotterdammerung.
My classic restored '59 Impala, pictured above, features hand-lettered signs on each side, to wit:
LOSE WEIGHT NOW,
Ask Me How!
I get some funny looks, particularly when stopped at red lights.
Huckelberry Hound double-takes. But what's
really great is when fat women (it's always fat women) come up to me while I'm parked, asking me how I've lost "all that weight." After checking to see if they're blind--I mean, c'mon, I'm about as big as a battleship--I tell them about my
patented beer and wanking diet. Involving Budweiser ingestion and simultaneous "like clockwork" every-four-hours masturbation while staring at pictures of
Bea Arthur, this weight loss plan is mostly met with expressions of dismay, disgust, sneering, vocal derision, even outright horror. That's exactly the kind of
response I like; it conjures up
childhood memories of my late mother and her typical reaction to me--and thus satisfied, I'm off to do more damage around our lovely little shire.
Keep your bowels open and your chin up, stay away from those in law enforcement, and have a charming day!
"...the fire engine guy..."
Damn it all to flaming bloody hell, it happened again! I've previously
documented my misheard lyrics adventure re: "What A Fool Believes" by the Doobie Brothers (
read the drivel here) and, sufficiently embarrassed by my own stupidity and overall lack of pop culture awareness, I decided never again to sing anything out loud. But wouldn't you know it--this evening I'm sitting in this dumpy dive where these morons are "performing", and I use that term loosely,
this karaoke. Where drunk losers and their significant others stand up and emit grunts and wheezes approximating a "tune", at least in their mind. I could fart along to the song, even off-beat for God's sakes, and sound better than most of these
Peter Lemongello wannabees.
What a
sizzling slice of merde on a platter, this whole dinner spoiling experience, I gotta say.
But the main discovery tonight was this song, circa high school, by
Deep Purple, from their album "Machine Head" (cover, left). It's the story of how
Frank Zappa lit some
fire, I don't know. This particular tune, selected at the bar by an inebriated Indian-American (as in, "and sir, would you like the lottery ticket and pre-packed curry sandwich with your purchase of our fine Centex premium petrol tonight, yes, very good?"--
ed. note: their gods have way too many arms and legs, don't you think?)...anyhow, this Paki-hating Punjabi dot-head gets up and starts singing.
Now, the
real lyrics to this song, at least according to the karaoke monitor posted overhead, include the following basic and oft-repeated line:
"Smoke on the water...A fire in the sky"Your humble Nigel had always thought it was this:
"Slow motion WalterThe fire engine guy"I like my version better, it's more evocative of flames and shit, they can go fuck themselves if they don't agree, bastards, I'm red as a beet, but
buff my scrotum anyway. Plus I think it's time
to get my hearing checked.
Condi Rice give me the horn
Condi Rice doesn't half give me an
aching knob. I was thinking about this as I watched the U.S. SecState give her press conference this morning from Crawford, Texas. There she was, all perky and pouty. Hair perfectly in place, intelligently proferring pronouncements whilst parrying press queries. And it crossed my mind:
Condi, girl, you need some of
what old Nigel has.
Besides a whirlwind of
Cialis-induced hot grunting monkey love, here's what I can offer:
• a
double-wide fibro trailer on 1/4 hectare with a mostly clean front yard (you'll feel like you're right back home in Alabama);
• a
1959 Impala; restored! See photo here.•
$186 a month in Social Security disability--this you can't touch, but I promise to use most of it to buy stuff we need like
beef jerky and Copenhagen triple mint snuff.
And you'll be glad to know--the
dimensions of my severely undersized male equipment apparently suits your preference (see photo at right, where you're responding to a question from
Fox News Radio's Rich Johnson, vis: "Madame Secretary, we know you're
Afro-American and all, but truly,
how big do you like 'em?"). Based on your response, things should work out perfectly in the coital in-out-in-out arena, if you know what I mean.
So, Condi, you dirty girl:
joda diminuto Nigel is awaiting. I want some of that "shuttle diplomacy", baby...don't make me beg...please please please...
Computer makers everywhere: buff my scrotum!
This morning I spent hours
installing software in a new computer. Loading discs here, accepting terms and conditions there. All done, head home, and I've just now been sitting on the throne, devoting time to my afternoon
ablutions (and producing an exquisite, copious, and well-formed evacuation, I might add)....whilst purging myself, it occurred to me: why the fuck is it that when you
start a computer, it takes for-fricking-ever for the goddamm thing to actually....start? What's with all the preliminaries?
The bullshit
copyright notices or six screens of
warnings and announcements or worse, bloody endless
roll of credits, for God's sake. I don't care that the machine is checking my goddamm personal profile:
just start the computer, dammit. And software: it doesn't move my
give a shit meter one bit that, for example, this version of Photoshop involved the hard work of thirty six dweeby nerds, all of whom are named:
just start the software, dammit.
Why can't it just be like my television, which goes like this--yiz turns it on, yiz gets "Alien Autopsy" (aka Hannity and Colmes)?
Imagine if the TV was like your computer--you're merged with the Barcolounger, grapefruit juice and pork rinds at the ready. Reaching for the remote, you hit the "on" button. At this point, you've got a right to expect that the old Philco would fire up, yes? But no: here come the screens letting you know that the first off, we're copyright 2006....and that this particular electrical wonder was invented by
Philo Farnsworth and John Baird...more little start up messages and warnings and finally, yes, we're
checking now,
aren't we the helpful ones, just to make sure that it wasn't turned off incorrectly last time it was used.
What is that all about? Turned off incorrectly? Last thing I know that was turned off incorrectly
was the last little piece of strumpet Nigel was trying to pull. Just last night, I had the opportunity and the means and the motive, but instead of killing the little darling I tried to get her to go home with me. Yes, she got turned off, and quickly, and who can blame the poor tart, because after all, I am me.
Buff my scrotum. To computer manufacturers, software developers, and snooty girls who can't appreciate what a fat, bald guy with blackheads, bad teeth, and inarguably repulsive personal hygiene could do for them.
I've been on a rant, sorry
Wow! I just re-read my last three posts and realized I've become a one-note Johnny! And the subjects and topics are really.....
dreary. Fucking Arabs/Muslims got me off my game. Dammit. Dear shlubbies, 'twas not my plan, please accept my apology.
Truly, I won't lie to ya: despite it being short and skinny and hollow, your
Nigel is still pre-occupied by all issues surrounding good old perfectly pointed Percy, the wife's best friend, the leg lizard, my
pants python. Be reassured that I'm perving per the norm, and will get right back to
my standard, crotch-related drivel as soon as I can. Or as soon as the
Cialis kicks in, one of the two (I'm hoping for an "
erection that lasts longer than 4 hours" so I can proudly troop to the Emergency Room, pants tented out. I wanna beat a pretty nurse to death with it. I'm wanking as I'm typing, really, truly, I'm trying to get back to normal, focus focus focus...)
Muslim fun day! Bring the kids!
Alton Towers, a Brit amusement park, sort of "6 Flags meets Disneyworld", has cancelled what would have been the very first
"Muslim Fun Day". Scheduled to occur September 17, the "fun day" would have banned music, gambling and alcohol, and theme park rides such as "Ripsaw," "Corkscrew" and "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" were all going to be segregated by sex. With all this fun planned, you may well ask:
why the cancellation?Lack of interest. No ticket sales. Apparently the Brit Burkha Brigade couldn't muster up enough people who wanted to have this kind of "fun".
See, unlike normal people, it's not fun, having heaps of rides and games and
roller coasters and kids laughing and carnival junk food to eat.
What Muslims want for "fun" is: beheadings, infidel limb amputations, stonings (see photo at right--yes, that's EXACTLY what they're preparing for here, for real), hangings, eyes being gouged out, family honour killings, the
list goes on and on.
I say this with authority because this is what we see and what we hear and what we read. Those of us who haven't had Mohammed's blathering peed in our ear yet (and thus proudly remain infidels) are forever being told how this Islam is a "
peaceful" religion, yet day after day see
evidence of the exact opposite. So enough excuses, and here's my idea: you, all you Muslims, take your mosques, your 72 virgins, your 5 times a day prayer schedule, your black and white turbans, and your endless and subservient bowing and scraping to Mecca, and
stick the whole disgusting bullshit load back up where it came from, right up your stinking, unwashed backsides. Sideways. Then, take yourselves away from us.
We don't want you around us, ever, anymore. Go somewhere hot and nasty and brutish and horrible; you'll feel right at home.
Got it?
Nigel's tolerance is.....waning. Can ya tell, shlubbies?
Israel and Broomhilda, my first ex-wife
This whole
Middle East mishegos is starting to feel like my first marriage, which mostly involved me doing the big old hairy mea-culpa dance, for everything, in-fucking-advance. I'd wake up, look over at
Broomhilda (who was conveniently named after her preferred method of transportation), and say sweetly: "Look, you, I'm now conscious and as such acknowledge my blame for everything that will occur in the next 24 hours. For this, I humbly beseech your forgiveness, forebearance, patience, and overall general
non-twatty reaction for events yet to come."
Now, in
Israel's case, world opinion, fed by the BBC and Agence-France Presse and CNN and Reuters, takes the place of my wife. Apologize, so sorry, it's all on us, our bad, we know, we're terrible, what do you expect, we're Jews, we're
guilty guilty guilty.Back to Broomhilda. Her reaction to my daily pre-emptive apology was dismissive and she could get away with it: she was a
slutty whore cheating bitch, but damn she looked good. A former model, she was an "aeroplane blonde"--blonde on top, but with a black box--I'd still do her even today, albeit with
two condoms on plus a
muzzle over her mouth. And just like Israel, my number one goal with ol' Broomie was to accomplish my own daily
"incursion into Lebanon". As often as possible, enter the strange country. Insert forces deep into enemy territory. Shower it with lottsa warheads. Then, take a break: R&R once every 28 days or so.
In the words of the great Max Kaufman: "I never knew what real happiness was until I got married. And by then it was too late."
Go, IDF. Kick their rageddy sand-eating asses.
Gwyneth Paltrow declares "I am African" in a new advertisement for a charity working in Africa. There she is at left dressed up as a combination Zulu warrior princess/Pocahontas with the trendy "I Am African" thingy underneath.
When it comes to attractive blondes who really are African, shlubbies, I give you: Charlize Theron. Approximately 6'9" tall, this bilingual Amazon speaks English in addition to her native Afrikaans. And thank God for that. Afrikaans sounds like a Dutch/German mix spoken by someone suffering from both uvula cancer and muscular dystrophy. It's hard on the ear. I was once on a South African Airlines flight from New York to Johannesburg, surrounded by numerous white people grunting and expectorating (it's what this Afrikaans sounds like, really). It's the only time in my life I truly wished I had Marlee Matlin's disability.
