My bum, jeez, enough already
This
makes me happy, because it justifies the pain I feel whilst
freeing Nelson Mandela. Backing the
big brown Caddy outta the garage. Letting the
slaves go. Cooking up
ass kabobs. Dropping off
visitors at the pool. Scrunching the toffee toufee. Scooping
chocolate ice cream into the shake. Etcetera, etcetera.
Everything hurts.
God, am I confused
I may have a face like a dropped pie...but I don't think I'm stupid. So I need a hand here: this
"Beta testing"? I want to know: who is this Beta, and what exactly is he testing, and why does it take the sumbitch so long to do it? Like that
Martin guy who kept doing stuff to my dry cleaning: who was that bastard, and was he the reason it cost so much to get blood out of a shirt?
Now the Blogger people are saying that "we're out of beta"...what gives? Maybe it's like soap powder, and you've gotta run to the Safeway for more? Can you get 2-for-1?
Is it on sale? Is there a coupon?
A little help, please, because I'm, like, really puzzled (
that's me, above left, in my "what the fuck is going on?" yoga lotus position).
Then again,
it could be all the formaldehyde I breathe in daily. Working with stiffs is bad for your health, now? Time to complain to OSHA, maybe?
Breaking news: Anna Nicole still dead
I was sitting in the San Antonio airport bar yesterday, downing schnapps and Bud, and watching the "news" channels. Both CNN and the Fox News were doing live coverage of the
Anna Nicole "where do you bury the body" hearing. Amazingly, all the other drunks in the bar were captivated by it. They were staring at the TVs. Some were even discussing it, gravely, seriously.
That's the part I have the hardest time getting. People are
really into this. The news when she first died was that her fans on the blogosphere were talking conspiracy. Excuse me, but:
her fans? What "fans"? What exactly did she do, except blow up her boobs to the size of the Hindenburg and marry a 200 year old dead guy and appear nude in Playboy and apparently screw Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband and....wait a minute. That's some interesting stuff, there, eh? NOW we're talking!
Blair says "buff me" to Baghdad...and the rest of Iraq
So now the
English are pulling out of Iraq. Seems that the last of their Commonwealth country clients have had enough, so that would've left the Brits in the rare (for them) position of being right there, on the front lines, actually having to fight on their own. See, once the Aussies (and the Canadians and the South Africans and Indians and Kiwis and the rest) have been sent in, sacrificed, and are all gone, why by God the Pommies have to actually
put down their cups of tea and, believe it or not.....fight.That's not the way they've done it in the past.
Don't believe me? Check yer histoire, mon ami. I give you as just one example:
Gallipoli.Winston fucking Churchill, that oily heap of shit, may he burn in hell forever, planned this Gallipoli disaster (photo of twat-lips at left). This is the same bastard who, nearly 30 years later. was willing to cede the bulk of the Australian continent to the
Japs, hey hey, pip pip, cheerio. It was only because of the
American genius and overall great guy General Douglas Macarthur , peace be upon him, that this was avoided (hero photo, right). Macarthur said: "fuck, no", and was the only goddamm reason that Japanese tourists enter Australia and New Zealand today as tourists, and not as citizens.
I say:
onya Doug, and buff me England. Plus, you
suck the bag at cricket, which as all civilized people know is the only real measure of a country's worth.
Da plane! Da Plane!
I'm flying yesterday,
body transport. Once I make sure the coffin is in the plane (ya gotta watch them load it on the tarmac), why then, it's onto the 767 and into
seat 26F for your Nigel. This is that one
magical seat that's by itself, on the Exit row, with no bloody ass widget sales guy from Toledo sitting next to you jawing your ear off about whatever it is he's flogging.
What's fun, though, is when I
am stuck next to someone and they ask me
what I do for a living. If they've provided all kinds of boring info about their stupid job, well by gum I do exactly the same thing. They turn pretty green pretty fast, because I spare no detail and am
really, really, really graphic about all the fluids and muck and organs and stuff.
I'm a fun guy to sit next to on the plane.
By the by, what happened to all the good looking flight attendants? Where are they working now--Hooters? My flight attendant looked like Eleanor Roosevelt on a bad hair day. Remember
Braniff "air hostesses"? By God, I do, and so does what's left of my small and hollow manhood.
Finally, about planes:
Tattoo, on Fantasy Island--how come the smallest guy on the island was always the first one to see the plane?
Run Mitt Run!
Mitt Romney is running for President. I don't know about this, now. First off, he looks like a game show host. Second is this name: "Mitt". Third, he's a practicing Mormon.
Let's deal with these issues one at a time, shall we?
- Looks like a game show host. Or maybe a TV newsman. He's got a square, craggy jaw, and a full head of hair. Do we need Brad Pitt's dad in the White House? Me, I think not. Presidents should be ugly, disgusting looking people whose looks don't distract you from the issues at hand. They need to be physically...gross. I give you: Hilary Clinton.
- "Mitt". I don't know. What the hell kind of name is that? Did daddy Romney like baseball? Why not "Bat" or "Jockstrap"? People with nicknames make me nervous.
- The Mormon thing. They believe all kinds of mondo-bizzaro crapola, including that we're all gods and that you can baptize dead people and that they have to wear special underwear. Promising to wear this sanctified underwear the rest of your LDS life is supposedly a covenant you make with God--but I say, how then to reconcile the inevitable skidmarks? There you are, backing the big brown Caddy out of the garage, but unfortunately you don't get all of it all the way out. So, there are....leavings...all right there in your Mormon shorts. Must be some kind of sign from hell, when you check out your holy underwear and see ass kabob streaks.
All kidding aside, I say that anyone who doesn't like Hanes or Jockeys or Depends...well, I have serious doubts about their ability to lead the most powerful country on the face of the earth.
Plus, get this,
they really believe in marriage. Shudder. Double shudder. That's enough for me, right there: Mitt ain't gettin' shit from your Nigel, votewise.
Oh, and another thing....
You know who else
sucks the puss oozing hose? The
Red Hot Chili Peppers. That's who.
Actually, I too could be the father, really. I could.
I've been holding off on commenting about this....business...because, among other things, I almost pissed myself laughing when I heard on the radio that
Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband,
Prince Matchabelli (or whatever his fucking name is, aged 107 or thereabouts), claimed that
he could be the f
ather of Anna Nicole's poor little girl born 5 months ago. 'Twas so funny that if submitted as part of a fictional script, it would have been rejected as "too hard to believe".
And I say "poor little girl" because Anna Nicole herself was living proof that
money doesn't buy happiness.So now here comes news that the
developer of her mansion in the Bahamas is also claiming that
he could be the father...apparently they
shtupped a few times (isn't that what all women do with contractors who come to their house? At least in the pornos I rent)....
That makes 4 guys (and counting) who apparently partook of Anna Nicole's favors.
Not to speak ill of the dead--but did
Anna Nicole just, um, spread 'em for everyone? Someone needs to talk to the Domino's Pizza delivery guy, and the cable man, and the postman, and the rest of 'em, and see if any of those dudes could be the daddy. And if she did offer it up willy-nilly, then where the hell was your pal Nigel's willy while all this nilly was going on?
I'll tell you.
It was being wanked, solo, in my goddamm bathtub.
My Valentine's Day gift guide
Here's
your pal Nigel's fabulous Valentine's Gift Guide For Lovers--you know who you are, you shlubbie you. Any one of the gifts below are guaranteed to get you an interesting Valentine's Day night--know whuddimean, nudge nudge, say no more?
"All About Scabs", by Genichiro Yagyu. The same romantic devils who produced "Everyone Poops" have turned their attention to scabs. Perfect airplane reading, or for lolling in the hammock on the beach. She'll love you for it!
"Fart Proudly!" It's inventor, Founding Father, and all around fun guy Benjamin Franklin, with a collection of writings you've never seen before. Among the topics: farting (obviously), the erotic secrets of Betsy Ross, and how to clean your backside with a corn cob efficiently. Great at parties, lots of fun. She'll love you for it!
"The Cellulite Secret: Why You Have It & How To Lose It", by Shonagh Walker. Helpful handy hints for the one you love. If you'd like her to get rid of all that goddamm cottage cheese on the back of her legs so maybe she can look a bit more like Rebecca Lord (out of the corner of your eye and if you sorta squint), well then...she'll love you for it!
Wolf Urine Lure. Indispensable for shooing away all the irritating little four-legged buggers who congregate around your musty, dusty, and mildewed garbage cans. Or maybe you just want to occasionally get a whiff of that skat yourself? Either way: she'll love you for it!
Well, there you go, boyos. Your Nigel comes through with simply perfect selections for you last minute horn-dog shoppers. Romance, a shiver, and a sigh. Aren't I good to you people? I mean, really!
A valentine to wife #2, may she rot in hell
Back when I was
first married to my second wife (who was shall we say challenged in the ta-tas department), she comes out of the shower one day staring at her chest. Conversation goes like this:
Wife: My
tits are too small. I want them to be bigger. Can you pay for implants?
Me: No way. But I heard of a home-made way to make 'em bigger.
Wife, suspiciously: Oh yeah? How?
Me: Take
two pieces of toilet paper, wad 'em up, and rub them up and down your cleavage, between your breasts.She looks at me like I've lost my mind.
Me: Really. It was in Scientific American!
Wife: Well....I'll try.
So she does. Up down, up down.
Wife:
How long do I have to do this?Me: According to the article, it takes some time.
Years. But keep at it; they'll grow.
Wife: You really think that rubbing toilet paper between my boobs for a period of years is going to
make everything bigger?Me:
Why not? It worked for your rear end.
Valentine's Day bites the labonzo
Piss in the wind.
Valentine's Day is coming up. I don't get it and never will: apparently if you're a guy, you're supposed to donate your heart to some girl, and they subsequently gleefully perform their
gender specialty, to wit:
stomping the shit out of it.
The hell with that. No bint gets my heart this year, nuh-uh. Tell the truth, no bint has for years. Then again, I'm voluntarily retired from the bint-baiting business.
Here's my
Valentine's love poem. Feel free to swipe it:
Valentine's Day is almost hereSo I'll celebrate by drinking beer!I have bad habits--you don't like 'em?Eat my shorts and buff my scrotum.
Nookie in space
So
the story as fast as I can tell it: apparently there's this
NASA chick (left) who's been performing the old
intersecting parabola with this
NASA guy (right). Some
badger scratchin' a goin' on, dontcha know. But the
guy has another lady stashed somewhere. So the
NASA babe gets pissed when she finds out about this and basically
kidnaps the other rigazza, pepper sprays her face, weird story,
gets arrested does this bint, and now she's in mega-shmega trouble. She's being charged with attempted first-degree murder.
But because I'm the way I am, I'm thinking this:
what's that like? Sex between two astronauts? Here, then, from the forthcoming Lifetime Channel production of
"Astro-Naughty" starring
Chaz Palmintieri as Major Tom, NASA hero, and
Heather Locklear as Commander Coochie, NASA vixen:
- Coochie: "Are those your pants being pressurized or are you just happy to see me?"
- Tom: "Ooo yeah, my command module is ready to launch. You know my favorite part of space sex is that "re-entry" with you, baby."
- Coochie: "Leave your helmet on and do the Darth Vader voice--it makes me crazy. And now I'm ready for your complex docking maneuver, big boy."
- Tom: "Rear hatch entry? Whoo boy! Come to think of it, my mission is to boldly go where no man has gone before."
- Coochie: "Omigod, omigod, I'm blasting off, I'm blasting off, I'm blasting off!"
The End. A Quinn Martin Production.
Happy birthday to moi
Been gone 'cause I
had a birthday and I over-celebrated for much of the last 10 days. Happy to report that I am just now beginning to feel like a person, instead of someone who's been
licking pool tables for two weeks.
Dontcha know, there are
just so many interesting ways you can serve
Jagermeister, and isn't it great, it comes all neatly packaged in those handy, easy to pour green bottles?
I realized I'd gone too far when I couldn't even get my car keys into my pocket one morning. It was like
playing Pick-Up-Stix with my butt cheeks.My liver has notified me that it will be filing a complaint with the
Center for Disease Control. I'm defenseless, I really am, and will throw myself, including my fat rear end and gigantic hideous belly, upon the mercy of
Dr. Julie Gerberding.
Please, Dr. G, please, I'm a-beggin' you: don't
send me to the 'lectric chair.