USA to N. Korea: sorry, Kim, no I-Pods allowed
Ripped from today's headlines:
"Not so fast, Kim Jong Il! You bastard, there's
no I-Pods for you or your measly country--get used to it! That's right, you heard us: we're the US of A, and we say
no importing I-Pods and just for good measure, no importing plasma TVs, either. OK? You're OWNED, you pudknocker! Who's your daddy?"
The North Korean reaction to this? Predictable. Kim could care less.
 | Defying the ban (as usual): here's a rare photo sequence of the Dear Leader and his now-illegal I-Pod. At left, Kim uses the jog wheel to locate his favorite song: Britney Spears "I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman". At right, Kim's reaction when he hears the song start. His joy is clearly uncontrollable. |  |
Winter is good: no bloody gardening
One good thing about
winter is that you don't have to garden. There's nothing remotely fun or entertaining about being on your hands and knees, joints aching, back throbbing, dirt everywhere, stinking fricking hot,
rooting around in worm shit, desperately trying not to kill the plants and flowers and other flora as you pull weeds and trim dead leaves.
Gardening bites the flaming pole of manhood.
Plus you have to put up with embarrassing crapola, like fronting up with the girlfriend to the local
Home Goddamm Depot ("You can do it, we can help"--like fun, you bastards; I
can't do it and you
won't help, so STFU!) and, standing right next to you, she asks the gardening geek on duty:
"Got anything that grows to about 7" that I could put in a wet place?"Charmant, n'est ce pas?
I actually like what they do in Scotland. Drive around any of the city suburbs and you'll find homes with the
front yard totally paved over! They use colored concrete, mind you--to create that "outdoorsy" feeling. Example at right.
If it were me, and I was charged with setting up a survey about gardening, I'd ask the following:
What is your opinion about digging in the garden? ______It sucks ______It blowsDisagree?
Well, dig this: you can buff my scrotum!
House guests can buff my scrotum
Comes now Annette Watkins, of the
Four Seasons Hotel chain. Annette has helpful, handy hints if you're planning on having
overnight guests in your home. Here are her
required (not optional, mind you) accoutrements for your guest room:
- Bottled water and snacks, such as chocolates or truffles.
- Potpourri or scented drawer liners. Room smells nice that way.
- Local magazines and newspapers.
- Inexpensive house slippers that "they can take home with them as a memento."
- A television and CD player with DVDs and CDs they can listen to.
- A menu for breakfast.
Let me address Annette's list, one item at a time:
~
Bottled water and snacks: Guests at Chez Nigel choose from three lovely sorta clean bathroom taps. Hands are used to form "cups". As for the
truffles,
sure, I'll get my pet pig on that for ya. He'll root around out there and we can dig 'em up. Aren't I nice?
~
Potpourri or
scented drawer liners: room smells like ass; hasn't been cleaned in a while, if you don't like it there's a goddamm Motel 6 up the street and they've left the light on for you, just like the radio ad says.
~
Magazines and Newspapers: well thumbed, dog-eared copies of "Health and Efficiency Monthly" ok with you? Nudge nudge, wink wink?
~
House slippers as "mementos": You have got to be
completely fucking joking. Sorry, I have no further comment.
~
Television and cd player, stocked: Look, I don't want them hanging around. I want them gone. And the last thing I want them doing is watching my porn collection at 3am with the sound up.
~
A breakfast menu: riiiiiiiigght. Gee, um, they're at the printers just now, so patience, please, so sorry....
I suppose Annette would like
me to wipe my guest's bottom, too?
To sum up,
Annette Watkins (who got a
nice little mention here while front desk manager of the
Four Season's George V Paris) can buff my scrotum. And if I ever stay in a Four Seasons Hotel, by God I'm gonna hold them accountable. Because if this is their list for
home stays, their hotel, at
$931 a night for a basic room, better organize a threesome for me, including a taint wax before bed,
nightly, and with vim and vigor! I'm just sayin'.
They're all nuts
Yesterday a 68 year old grandmother became one of the
latest lunatic Arabs blowing themselves up in the name of Allah or Jihad or Hizbollah or Felafel or Kibbi or just because she could. This was in Israel. And now, just now, moving across the wires, is this, from Iraq: "
Shiites burn six Sunni worshippers alive" .We've all had a pantload. These completely insane people should all be left to
kill each other off. I'm sick of the entire lot of them. They can take their
wiping-their-ass-with-their-hand-trilling-at-the-top-of-their-lungs "culture" and pound sand. Here's the solution: withdraw everyone with a brain from all Arab countries. That'll leave only the Arabs. Next, encourage the sectarian violence so they kill each other, all of them. Finally,
flatten the place. You're not missing much: civilization stopped progressing there 1000 years ago. What's left? Desert, and oil.
Makes me miss ol' Saddam; he knew a thing or two about keeping order, to say nothing of maintaining geopolitical balance by keeping the Iraqi Shiite majority in line (look what's happened now: Iran's influence is now way more enhanced, and so we'll end up with a pan-Shiite bloc stretching from the Syrian and Jordanian border all the way to Afghanistan--lucky us, hmmm?).
What exactly was Geo. Bush thinking?
Let's interview the idiots in line!
Tomorrow's the day when
TV station News Directors send out their third string reporters to do stand-ups at
5am outside the local Crazy Mike's Furniture and Electronics store. Forced to interview the overweight unwashed whack jobs who camped out overnight in hopeful anticipation of early morning bargains, they ask these same dorky people the same dorky questions and get the same dorky answers every fricking year.
Just once, I'd like to see one of these blow-dried unfortunate reporters (you think they
want to be out there at 5am interviewing
mouth-breathing slagheaps who, because their IQ can be measured on the Richter scale, haven't yet figured out you can
get what you want on the Internet cheaper and faster and with less hassle and no need to stand in line?)--just once, I'd like them to actually ask someone the question I've always wanted to know about these idiots, which is:
"When are you going to do us all a gigantic favor and blow your head off with a shotgun?"I'd tune in for that.
Thanksgiving justifies escort services
Well, it's holiday time here at Chez Nigel. The carving commences this afternoon and I'm so excited, my nipples are rock hard. I just love spending time with "family" and "friends"--don't you??
Breast or thigh, white meat or dark meat? The choices:
|
 | .....or.... |  |
Me, I opt for the left choice. Why? Less hassle, no nagging, no whingeing, no complaining, no pouting, no head games. And no arguing about who's sleeping on the wet spot.
Then again, if I'm paying for it, I could enjoy the breast and thigh on the right and avoid all that hassle, too--right?
Who knew that Thanksgiving was a good argument for legalizing prostitution?
Enjoy your day and buff my scrotum.
|
Awww....(sniff)....I'm thankful.....really, I am....
I don't celebrate Thanksgiving. Despite this, co-workers are always on me: "Nigel, what are you thankful for?" The answer is: mostly being left alone and not having to answer your stupid questions, asshole. However, because I'm feeling almost altruistic today (an exceedingly rare occurrence), and in the spirit of the holiday, here's a
loosely aggregated list of things I think are pretty good, and specifically why I'm thankful for them:
- Music
- Lou Reed "Metal Machine Music". Loud incomprehensible dissonant cacophanistic discordance, designed to piss people off.
- Ornette Coleman. Atonal, non-melodic sax screeching, perfect when pulling up next to some gang-banging rap-listening bass-pounding pimped out noise wagon--pisses 'em off.
- Franz Liszt. Clears the bar at closing time, allowing "in the know" regulars some frigging peace and quiet after the hoi polloi have scarpered. Pisses people off.
- Food
- Marmite. The meat extract from hell. Pisses everyone off, except Brits.
- Vegemite. The yeast extract from hell. Pisses Americans off.
- Boiled Okra. Disgusting, slimy gag-a-maggot Southern bullshit. Pisses ME off.
- Odds & Sods
- Airline Seat Belt Extenders. For fat disgusting ugly grotesque horrifying fucks like me. Pisses off the person I'm sitting next to.
- Fox and Friends Weekend. Hideous "news" show; one redeeming factor is Kiran Chetry resulting in regular Nigel Saturday morning lounge room wankathon. Pisses me off (because of the shame, the shame).
- You, you shlubbie you. Reading this drivel, wasting your time: doesn't it piss you off?
The traditional Thanksgiving turkey pre-oven prep
I think there'll be enough breast for everyone, don't you?
Michael Richards heroin overdose
Michael Richards of Seinfeld fame
is an idiot. Below, the official scrip from
Dr. Nigel at Scrotum Buffers General Hospital.
Hang up and drive or die and if you do I make money
Driving in our town is bad enough, what with the gigantic "my dick is too small so I'm compensating" SUVs and Hummers and other boulevard behemoths taking up the bulk of the highway. Add to this what I noticed today--every fetus-eater out there driving around with their
goddamm mobile glued to their ear--and you've got a mega recipe for disaster.
I was heading across town and I swear every single goddamm pickup and wagon and mini-van and sedan and whatever: the
driver was busy yakking it up. And not paying attention to the road.
What is it with having to talk to people all the dooh-dah day? What's the matter with, say, sitting in your car, blasting the latest Deftones cd, whilst
fantasizing about the new hottie they just hired back in casket receiving? Hmmm? Just what the HELL is there to TALK ABOUT so much? If I'm busy imagining potential carnal activity with the new chick at the funeral home, lemme tell ya, my right hand is way too busy to be dialing numbers.
KnowwhudImean?
On second thought, if they crash and fucking die while on their car phone, it's more business for me. One time, though, I'd like to
prep a body with their goddamm mobile stuck to their ear--at the wake, you pay your respects, approach the box, and there's Johnny. On the phone!
Why I self-medicate
 |
| Sure. I'll write to get help with my illiteracy. |
 |
| Morons run the world |
Do you like the wine? Have another glaaaaaasssss.
Sorry for the big old hole in the posts, boyos and girlos: I've been busy sticking needles in my eyes. Or at least it's felt that way all week. It's getting
harder to nurse the hangovers, ya know? You think I'd have learned that by now but noooooooooooooooooooooo.
I was
talking to the toilet last night about 3am when it crossed my mind: maybe I shouldn't be doing this to myself?
And then I said:
nah, don't be bloody stupid! Have another drink.So I did.
Indian call centers: hotbeds of promiscuity. Who knew?
So apparently that little
Calcutta cutie you get connected to when you want to complain about your cable service or to make a hotel reservation is deep into hideous illicit grotesque and disgusting
sexual relations whilst on the job. These Indian call center nymphos can't control their
primitive urges.
Off come the saris and turbans and on go the
Trojans and they're just a-goin' at it, a-hummana hummana hummana hummana. Read sordid details courtesy of
Reuters.
I've always felt that Indian girls and Iranian girls are all just mouth-wateringly gorgeous till they get to be about 30, and then
all their teeth fall out. Why is that?
I'm gunna puke: "World Kindness Day" is Monday
Here's something to make you sick: Monday, November 13th is
World Kindness Day.
Apparently there are these "kindness" people who want this mealy-mouthed,
"We Are The World" day to be observed by you and me and everyone else. From their idiotic website comes this
stomach-churning quote:
As our kind acts and deeds bring greater kindness to the world, the barriers of separation will begin to crumble, bringing a rainbow of understanding and happiness to the people of the world.I say: fuck 'em. If anyone wants me to be kind to other people, or is somehow kind to me, well, I'm just gunna
belt 'em in the mouth.Have a nice weekend.
Walken Watch Up The Ass award recipient
The joke goes: "Hey, what's the last thing the redneck said before he died? Answer:
Hey, y'all, watch this!!" This story is vaguely similar.
The photo shows what happens when you
insert a Blackcat Thunderbolt rocket up your rear end and someone's using their mobile camera to record the event. Here's the Times of London account, quoting a witness:
"There were around 40 of us at a bonfire on Dundas Road. After the fire had finished we were hanging around setting off fireworks. The lad was saying, 'This is boring, what can we do?' He then decided to put a rocket up his backside and set it off. Everyone was just laughing and didn't believe he would do it but he pulled his trousers down, placed the firework and someone lit it.The guy, who btw was a soldier in the British Army (!) almost died--severe burns, major internal injuries, etc. The part of the story I think is hilarious is the "'
This is boring, what can we do?' He then decided to put a rocket up his backside and set it off."
Sure. I know that whenever
I'm bored, the next thing that pops into my head is hey, why not insert explosives into my anus?
This guy must have come from the shallow-bird-bath portion of the gene pool. His life is more proof that God wants you to masturbate instead of procreate. But for his efforts, he receives the coveted "Buff My Scrotum"
Walken Watch Up The Ass award.
Hey, Britney: u r a c--t
Normally it's a gigantic gift from moi--a
large, hairy, rats ass, that's what I give--when it comes to caring about
celebrity b.s. But this is too good to overlook.
Seems that when Britney Spears (
at left) wanted to let hubby Kevin Federline know she was
filing for divorce, she did so via text message.
Britney text-messaged the poor dumb bastard! Wow.
I found out my first ex-wife was spreading the love (and her legs) back in 1990 by investigating an order for flowers that showed up on my VISA bill. Hmmm, what's this? So, when I visited the florist, he produced the order, which had been placed by my wife over the phone. Now, when you phone in an order, the message you want on the card is written on the order--and so your
Nigel, aka Columbo, was able to read all about my wife's undying "love" for this guy Kory and about how she couldn't wait to get rid of me (Nigel) to be with him, Kory, forever.
A shiver and a sigh; how romantic, eh? Now I can understand why she'd want to get rid of me; I mean, I am ME, after all, so who can blame her? But she could have given it a bit of time, right? Just for appearances sake.
See, we'd been
married just 30 days!
Nancy Pelosi, bathing beauty
Yes, you're right! That sure appears to be the next
Speaker Of The House, Nancy Pelosi, scanned in to the "Buff My Scrotum" blog by yours truly. Amazing. I found this on the cover of the June 1952 edition of "Natural Outdoors Monthly". You should see the pictures
from inside the magazine--hubba hubba! Who knew?
Then again, I've had a secret thing for our Nancy for quite awhile, now. As regular readers know, she
puts the "grand" in "grandma" for your humble Nigel.
You may be wondering just what in the hell exactly I'm doing looking at old issues of "Natural Outdoors Monthly"? It's for the
volleyball pictures. And the team
badminton photos. And the, um,
sunbathing shots.I'm sick. I know....I know....
My family photo album
Went through some
old family photos and found one to share with you. At left, it's my
Scottish Auntie Chrissie, she of the "awae ta fuck" fame (
see earlier post). This is how I remember her best, all
animated and fun-loving. This shot was taken probably about 1962. Bottle in hand, she'd cuff me around the ears before threatening to bash my head with whatever unbreakable item she had within reach.
Weekend on Neptune Beach
It's like this, see.
First Street, Neptune Beach, Florida, decent but not great weather, many many people doing the
roller-blading thingy. A few worth looking at i.e at right. Walk on the beach, vain attempt at exercise and being "healthy", even just for a few minutes. Decided: screw that noise. So then,
Pete's Bar,
serving alcoholics like me since 1933. Cash only, no tabs run, no credit cards taken. Bombay Saphire chilled.
Rinse, repeat. Often. Lottsa drinking but not as much perving as hoped. Still, a fun weekend: how about you?
Perving in Florida, plus a drink or two, too.
I'm
going to Florida for the weekend. Plans include
drinking, perving babes in bikinis, more drinking, more perving, drink some more, perv then drink. Perv, perv, drink, drink, drink. Perv. Drink. Perv drink perv drink perv drink. Perv.
Plus there'll be drinking. I expect a hangover as big as British Columbia.
Come Monday, I will regale you with reports of me being ignored and sneered at by all the bikini babes who suffered my ogling and staring (when it comes to womens' reaction to me, there's NEVER a doubt: one look at Nigel, and
it's all they can do not to sing lunch.)
The remote control from heaven, male version
I don't wanna be the Groom of the Stool
I'm thinking about switching careers, but I don't know what I'm qualified for. Basically, I want a job that will pay me
beaucoups shekels, offer lots of free time, plenty of fringe benefits, and with no nagging boss hanging around.
What I just described is the
life being led by both my ex-wives, courtesy of me and court-ordered alimony.
As I'm thinking about this job change it occurs to me: why would anyone
voluntarily become a proctologist? 12 years of medical school and then one day you go: "I want to be around assholes, up close, all my professional life." (Hey--this amazingly fits the description of every job going at the Fox News Channel. Excluding of course having to work around
Kiran Chetry or
Harris Faulkner. Grrrrrrrrrr.)
Back to the assholes, which puts me in mind of this.: the
absolute, inarguable, total worst job ever, in all of history. "Groom of the Stool." A real position that real people really did, back in the English Tudor period, 1485--1603. Job description as follows--
Groom Of The Stool
The primary duty of the groom is to see "the house of easement be sweet and clear" or, more plainly, to wipe the royal rear end. Using your hands.
I'm not shitting you. Then again, when old Henry VIII did (shit, that is), he needed someone back there, um, back side cleaning. Believe it or not, this was a coveted job, because of the amount of time the groom got to spend with the King in private. It was just the 2 of them, post-Kingly #2.
A charming addition to anyone's CV, what?
Hillary reacts to Kerry flap
We asked Senator Clinton for her reaction to John Kerry's latest hoo-hah. While she offered no opinion on the controversy, she did say the following:
Here are photos of both Gwynne and Kerry, for Hillary and other like-minded women to enjoy:
