I fought the law, and I won. Goddammit.
As you know, I am an asshole. But I am, more importantly, a
law abiding asshole:
- Good news from the legal eagles at Dewey, Cheatham, & Howe: charges are dropped so long as I pay for Broomhilda's ER visit and agree to leave her alone forever. Both of these: no problemo. So I'm off the hook..
Speaking of legal stuff, the lawyer I hired was the least dynamic person in the history of jurisprudence. Talking to the guy, you thought he was dead. I kept waiting for William Petersen, Marge Helgenberger, and the other cast members of CSI to come bursting out of his office closet and draw his outline in chalk.- Lawyering. What a terrible way to make a living. Tom Hanks once said that he would never want to be a lawyer, because it would be like doing homework for a living. I thought my job sucked occasionally, but after spending a few hours there, I was ready to turn my Sig P229 on myself and splatter the oh-so-hushed hallways of the law firm with Nigel brains. Jeez.
- I'm off to celebrate! Well, not too much, because of the stroke and all, but I am allowing myself to have three shots of Sambuca and a slice of pumpkin pie.
Have a fabtabulous weekend, shlubbies.
And now: toilet rules from Taiwan
Gotta "go" in Nationalist China?
Gotta follow these rules:
The wheels of justice, falling off
Now
I've gotta get a lawyer. I've called the local
Dewey, Cheatham, & Howe firm here in Batfart, where I live, and asked for the most
aggressive, Italian, tall, Jewish, stocky, African-American, gay lawyer they've got on staff. I want the most intimidating guy around--but also sensitive, and allergic to shellfish, and
quick with the witty repartee and one-liners. A cross between Johnny Cochran, Woody Allen, Tony Soprano, Chris Rock, and Perry Mason.
Plus, I want to wear a
stocking cap and try on gloves that don't fit. In front of a shitty judge like Lance Ito.
Please, shlubbies, can you help? In comments, maybe provide a zingy rhyming thing that I can use in court, sort of like "if the gloves don't fit, you must acquit"?
Wherein I take action, goddammit!
Am I sorry? No. Not really. Well maybe, just a bit. A tiny amount. Sorry.
My nurse sticks it to me
I keep telling
Broomhilda that
she's doing it wrong, but she insists this is the way she learned to administer prescribed stuff via injection to the buttocks. She dips the darts in the meds vial and
tosses them into my fat rear end. I don't know what
college she graduated from--
clown, or barber?--but she really sucks as a health care provider. Plus, and I bet you can tell by looking, this
really bloody hurts. Time for me to file that complaint with the
American Society of Specialists, Homecare Operators, and Legal Experts (A.S.S.H.O.L.E).
Best banner ad in Internet history
....and,
here it is (don't click on it...it goes nowhere...it's the graphic that I like!):
Fond childhood memories
Family and childhood memories...it's that time of year, plus since I almost died recently, I'm getting just a bit more *sniff* sentimental than usual.
I''m recovering from my stroke, and eating the swill Nurse Ratched prepares for me puts me in mind of my childhood visits to
Franco's Fish on Mona Vale Road (below left). Franco himself would greet me at the door
by immediately yelling "
Donna toucha da feesh, you-a young boyo, bastardo!" and after I'd bought the day's cod and had the chips wrapped up in newspaper, he'd yell some more: "You-a! Yes, you-a!
GETTA DA BUGGERY OUTTA DA SHOP! Tua madre si da per niente!" (the Italian phrase translates roughly as "your mother gives it away") and I'd yell back:
"Vaffanculo a Lei, la sua moglie, e' la sua madre. Lei e' un cafone stronzo. Io non mangio in questo merdaio! Vada via in culo!", which translates thusly: "You, sir, go fuck yourself--and your wife and your mother. You are a common turd! I'm not going to eat in this shithouse. Fuck you!"
Then Franco would chase me out onto the street, and I'd yell over my shoulder at him: "
Caccati in mano e prenditi a schiaffi!" ("take a shit on your hands and then hit yourself!"). I'd cross the street, take little Nigel out from his tighty-whitey hammock, and wave it at Franco. Then I'd run home.
When you're just 10 years old, this was a fun way to kill an hour or so on a Saturday afternoon. 'Twas a simpler, more innocent time.
English soccer: "my penis is a mountain"
England's soccer team was eliminated by Croatia Wednesday night during the preliminaries for the 2008 European Championship. The loss
caused mass panic and inadvertent, unplanned teeth brushing and flossing all across the U.K. But that's not the best part of the story.
Opera singing Brit Tony Henry has become a Croatian hero for
mispronouncing a line in the
country's national anthem as he sung it before the game.
Instead of singing
Mila kuda si planina - "You know my dear how we love your mountains" - Henry thundered
Mila kura si planina, or "My dear,
my penis is a mountain".This evidently delighted Croatian players Vedran Corluka and Luka Modric, who were seen "grinning at each other" at the gaffe, and fans claim the slip helped relax the team before its 3-2 victory.
Goo Goo not good good. Suck suck, actually
Did anyone else see
today's halftime during Fox's Thanksgiving featured game, Green Bay vs. Detroit?
Goo Goo Dolls, who are about as hip and hot as last week's lettuce and are led by someone whose last name has altogether
too many consonants 
(how
do you pronounce
Rzeznik?...there he is at left), were prancing around mid-field on a "left over from Paul McCartney at the Super Bowl" stage singing
unknown songs off-key whilst
girls dressed as blue faeries flitted around them. Also featured: a number of
fatty African-American guys in the back row, doing their
en pointe relevés and échappés. If I wanted to watch
Bobby Valentino toe-dancing, by God, the NFL on Fox isn't the first place I'd think to look.
The crowd was obviously as confused as l'il ol' moi. When the announcer asked for applause at the end, it was tepid, and I could distinctly hear the sound of Jimmy Johnson unscrewing the top to his in-studio hip flask and muttering,
"what the fuck was that?"Hey, Fox, instead of trying to shove pop culture mixed with bad ballet up our ass, here's an idea:
can we just watch football highlights during halftime? Or maybe
whats-her-name with the weather, spilling out of her mini-skirt while Terry Bradshaw slobbers at the desk? Is it too goddamm much to ask? Hmmmmmmmmmmmm?
Broomhilda the Nazi Nurse
Here she is.
My nurse, whose real name isn't Broomhilda but I call her that anyway. Aren't I the lucky one? Having to deal with her, four hours a day, taxes
my blushingly sweet disposition to its utmost limits. And you can see just how well the
nursing agency matched my modest list of requirements vis a vis Broomy's appearance, to wit:
- female
(...allegedly) - young
(...maybe as measured in dog years) - nubile (...I'm throwing up in my mouth a little)
- great legs (...for a kitchen table, or maybe Hillary Clinton)
- wearing a short short white nurse's outfit (...NO! My eyes!)
Nothing ever goes the way I want it to.
Ever. Happy Goddamm Thanksgiving.
I wish I'd thought of that...
Broomhilda the German nurse won't let me take any pictures of her. Yet. She's a
goddamm Nazi, on so many levels.
On to today's topic, which is:
products I wish I'd thought of so I could stay at home all day instead of having to mess around with bodies at the funeral home, Part I:
Glen Campbell & The Nazi Nurse
I am a lineman for the county and I drive the main road
Searchin' in the sun for another overload
I hear you singin' in the wire, I can hear you through the whine
And the Wichita Lineman is still on the lineHang up and drive, dipweed.Also, who would write a
song about a telephone lineman? What would have inspired Jimmy Webb to write this particular song? And what would've made Glen Campbell record it?
Someone had pictures of someone with a donkey, maybe?
This is the kind of
silly shit you wonder about when you're in bed, flat on your back, awaiting Broomhilda the Nazi Nurse.
More about her in the next thrilling installment of "
Buff My Scrotum: The Nigel Had A Stroke Chronicles".
Where your Nigel hires a girly nurse...
It's me,
your old Smegmaster! At your service, shitstains! I must be
feeling better because all my natural bile and gristle is bubbling back to the surface.
A story from the hospital files: my
second ex-wife actually visited me whilst I was on my death bed, mostly I think to reassure herself that the endless goddamm spigot of cash flowing her way would continue to overflow her goddamm mailbox on a monthly basis.
When I heard she was coming
I tried to warn Tim, the gay male nurse, thusly: "Tim, you homo, and not that there's anything wrong with that, look up in the sky and
check for buzzards! Madame Twatface is on her way! If you don't see the birds, you'll know by the obscene olfactory offering hitting your brain moments before she rounds the ward corridor corner.
She smells like ass, Tim, ass, I tell you!!!!"But see,
Tim being a turd burglar (and there's nothing wrong with that); he must
like the smell of ass. That's the only way I can explain the warm welcome laid on for the Wicked Witch of The West when she arrived. Dammit. Tim is a rump ranger, a flagman from the tubesteak cavalry, and need I say it pretty
damn good at washing wee willy winky during bed baths. Tim, I miss you.
Anyhow. Enough retarded rambling for now. I have contracted with a private nursing company to
provide pulchritudinous nursing attention my way, 24-7, until the short term disability runs out. I will try to regale you, my loyal shlubbies, with cleavage-centered photos of whoever they send over. I specifically requested
female, young, nubile, great legs, and wearing a short short white nurse's outfit. The assholes at the agency told me to fuck off and that I should "call craigslist because you are obviously a pervert", and after I acknowledged this ("and...what's wrong with that?") I managed to talk them into at least trying to find someone, er....appropriate.
Photo above right is what I emailed them as a friendly guide to the selection of someone who fits the bill.
My head hurts. My balls are ok, though
An update
I'm not in a position where I can do anything with images, etc., posting from my PDA while lying with what's left of my head firmly encased up my gigantic arse.
I had a stroke, relatively minor, according to the quacks who are working on me; I can still mumble ok and walk and move about. What happened was: I fell to the floor (ironic as hell when you consider my life's motto,
"Ego mos imbibo bierra tunc cado ut solum" -- see upper right, just above my ugly picture)
and had trouble seeing and talking, so I 911-d myself and the ambulance came eventually and here I am, bed bound and mucho grumpyelo.
Allegedly I will also be able to continue wanking myself silly, which is the only sex life I have. Until then it's up to my lovely nurse. His name is Tim. Yeas, you bastards have got to laugh, they have assigned me a MALE nurse. So instead of getting my John Thomas delicately lifted, laved, and loved by some pretty young F. Nightingale candy striper during my every-other-day bed bath, it gets manhandled (literally) by fucking Tim. Goddamit. I know you're laughing. I would too if I were you.
Charming, n'est ce pas?
I get out of here tomorrow and supposedly can get back to work as early as next week. Plus, according to the doctors, I
have to lose 160 pounds. Jenny Craig, you bitch, here I come, and you better have the welcome mat out or you'll be in for the biggest bloody hiding of your life.
In hospital
Details to come. Film at 11.
My brain, still hurts. Buff my scrotum.
Still here,
head still hurts like hell.
See, if I was going to actually have to endure this kind of headache, at least
I could've drunk my way there. Goddammit. How come I've got this piercing piece of fucking shit headache and am completely fucking oily heap of shit sober, dammit? What's the frigging deal? Every time I breathe, my head hurts--normally I fucking
earn that kind of pain dammit, via consumption of mass quantities of Galliano, straight up.
Life's not fair.
They're measuring me for the catafalque, there at my favorite bar, already. Don't know what
catafalque means? Yeah, well, in addition to being a fat drunk, I kick ass at crosswords. Buff me if you don't like it.
Love ya, babe.
The doctor, again
Back to the doctor yesterday for
follow up on my impending death and things haven't improved. My
weight has increased to 342 pounds, my blood pressure reads like a cricket score, cholesterol off the charts, and I have a headache that won't go away.
Amazingly, my liver is functioning normally!
Look, if for some reason the posts here stop, suddenly, then you'll know it's because I keeled over, suddenly. If that happens, let me just say right now it's been lovely knowing you and best of luck for the future.
Assumptions kill
As far as motivational posters go, I like it. It makes you think. Agree?
Hooray for Lowe's
My
fridge failed Friday. Fuck!
Quick, into emergency mode as the beer and vodka and gin and white wine and tequila and Jameson's and other essentials started to go all warm on me. It's off to
Lowe's Saturday to buy a new fridge!
Now, I
refuse to buy anything at Home Depot because you can't get anyone to wait on you (all the orange apron people are so very busy talking to each other; they don't have time to deal with us annoying customers). That plus their irritating, lying ad campaign "you can do it we can help" which is patent b.s. on the face of it. I can't do it and they won't help. So there.
Anyhow, Lowe's. I'm waited on by somebody who
looked exactly like Hunter S. Thompson. I mean,
exactly. Since Hunter S. Thompson is long dead, having ventilated his cranium courtesy of Colt back in 2005, this was a bit unnerving. Nevertheless, within 20 minutes I'd secured a
Whirlpool (at popular prices!) and arranged delivery for Sunday.
They showed up on time, no fuss, no muss, and my new double door stainless thingamabob is working all charming, like. And the
vodka is chilling back down as we speak.
Success. Buy Lowe's stock. Screw Home Depot.
What Scientology does to you over time
This disturbing image was e-mailed to me by someone yesterday. That's Tom and Katie...together...as you've never seen them before! Can I get a collective "eewwwww...." out of ya?
Absolut truth. Really.
In a response to yesterday's spew, the lovely
Molly asked if I was still
not drinking. In the interest of full disclosure, I provide you now an illustration which should leave
no doubt as to the current state of my sobriety:
