Dolphin dies, Tony Stewart goes berserk again
Sad news from Orlando:
A dolphin at SeaWorld's Discovery Cove died after it
collided with another dolphin while performing a trick in front of spectators. Officials said the dolphin, called Sharky, hit the other dolphin during a Sunday show at Discovery Cove.
Reacting angrily to the accident trackside in a post-race interview with Fox Sports,
NASCAR's 
Tony Stewart lambasted the dolphin that caused the smashup. Said Stewart: "Accident? It was no goddamm
accident! I'm sick of this bump and run shit. The next goddamm dolphin that gets hit, I'll hit back. This crap is bad for our sport and bad for the drivers, anf if NASCAR doesn't start policing this, we will take matters into our own hands."
NASCAR officials were unavailable for comment.**ed note: if you don't watch NASCAR, this post will mean absolutely nothing to you. Apologies to those not in the know.
Did they mean gesticulating? Pontificating? Obfuscating?
Getting married? Wear your helmet!
"You're not going to get married wearing your helmets, are you?"- A line from the edited-out Star Wars marriage scene between Luke and Princess Leah?
- Something overheard at the super-secret "I've got your balls" gay NFL players club?
None of the above. See, I about peed my pants laughing when my Australian cousin, the mother of the
groom getting married in Vegas today, challenged him with that line last night while sitting in the hotel bar. Out of context, I found it hysterical. In context, it makes sense: the loving couple are
tying the knot whilst astride 700 pounds of noisy Harley Davidson.It's a
biker's drive through wedding, today, 3pm Pacific time, just off the Vegas strip. The small gaggle of guests from all parts of the world (the U.S., Australia, New Zealand, South Africa) will stand inside a circle while the motorcycle curves around us and stops at a drive through window. Vows exchanged, helmets put back on, and off they roar into a lifetime of wedded bliss.
At least I hope so.
But for the rest of my life, I'll laugh thinking about how weird that line must've sounded to the people sitting next to us at the bar. We got some funny looks.
"You're not going to get married wearing your helmets, are you?" Priceless.
I still hate Vegas
No, it's not difficult for me to pinpoint
the reasons why I hate Las Vegas as much as I used to. And still do. This place remains my least favorite location on the face of the earth. Reasons:
- Loud. Everything loud. No matter where you go or what you do, you're literally assaulted with sound. I like quiet, empty bars, with a few toothless drunks minding their own business. Maybe their heads are down, on the bar. So what? I want a place where you can assess your life retrospectively, absent music videos from Bruce Bloody Overrated Springsteen or slot machine noises, non-stop. Best of luck finding that in Vegas. I haven't.
- Fat, disgusting tourists. Yeah, I'm not exactly the prime example myself, but it's amazing to me looking around just how completely out of shape everyone in this country is. Are all the people in Nebraska like this? It sure seems that way here.
- Gambling in general. What a stupid way to spend your time. To say nothing of your money.
- The "shows". Look, I wouldn't spend money to see Barry Manilow in my hometown, so what makes me wanna do it here? Fuggeddabouddit.
- It's goddamm expensive. Really. $32 for a 5 mile cab ride to the hotel? Hey, Vegas Visitors Bureau--buff my elongated scrotum!
Two more days to go.
Moobs, splinters, the pool, and $1,000
I'm getting the
deck above my pool refinished. For about $1,000, I've been assured by the contractor (who's a personal friend, so I know I'm not gonna take it up the flutter on this one) that it'll come up looking brand, spanking new.
The spanking part kinda turned me on. If you were with me here at chez blogorama last summer, you know that I actually succeeded in
coaxing a real, live girl to come to my house, partially disrobe, and jump in the pool
avec moi. Plus, she was a redhead, and that alone was enough to
make tiny Percy wake up and try to take a look around. If you know what I mean.
Luring this lass to the pool was, for me, an accomplishment the magnitude of, say, man landing on the moon.
Problems began almost immediately. First, there's the displacement issue. Because I'm, um, hefty, me jumping in the pool causes an immediate raising of the water
level. This was noticeable to my guest, who pointed and laughed right at me. Then again, maybe she was amused by my moobs ("moobs"--man boobs). And then, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get her to come over to my side of the pool. So it sort of was
like an eighth grade dance; boys lining the wall on one side, girls on the other. Staying on her side of the pool, she'd swim and stop and toss her red mane. Smile at me *sob*.
She was driving me insane with her
little green thong bikini, and she knew it. The tease. The hussy. The mynx. The vixen. The trollop. The rigazza. The bint.
So, plan B. Over drinks on the deck I started to make some progress. My
suave and debonair ways were certainly having their effect. That, plus her drinking
6 shots of Patron. Just as I was going to make my final move, the one that always works (this is where I walk up to the girl with a pre-loaded handkerchief and say "excuse me,
does this smell like chloroform to you?"), she stands up and immediately gets a splinter in her foot. From my needing-to-be-refinished deck.
Well, shit. I offered to suck it out. She was having none of that, because I'd previously revealed to her my foot fetish. Eventually we got it out courtesy of a sewing needle, but
the mood was lost. My moment had passed. Unsteadily, she hobbled out to her mini-van. I'm trotting after her,
moobs bouncing, begging her to stay. "You haven't smelled the handkerchief yet!", I cried. "Please, please, don't go! Let's have sex! I'll pay you! How much for 30 minutes?"
No luck. As I watched the
Toyota Sienna back down the driveway and cruise out of my life forever, tears rolled down my fat, chipmunk-like cheeks. And I swore to myself that I'd get the deck fixed so there'd never be any splinters again.
Unfortunately, it also appears there'll
never be any girls again, either.
In search of a happy ending
I'm looking for a
happy ending.
But one that's meaningful. These days the one happy ending I have is that satisfied feeling you get post-Number 2. You know what I mean?
Maintaining a healthy bowel is important to me. But I need more in the way of happy endings than walking away from the porcelain throne, saying to myself: "Well, THAT went well."
No, I need one where I can sit back, belch, and sigh with contentment. Something in my
personal life. Oh, right, I forgot: I don't have one of those. Could be that's the problem?
On a completely unrelated note, a
friend of mine dropped dead yesterday. Massive heart attack. You know him from his songs: it's
Paul Davis. He had a number of big hit records, mostly in the late 70's/early 80's:
"Cool Night", "I Go Crazy", "Sweet Life", "'65 Love Affair"? Here's a
link to a song sample page--refresh your memory if you've forgotten. Anyhow, back in my radio days, he was one of my favorite people.
He couldn't have been nicer, friendlier...completely unlike nearly all the other musicians I know. He was soft-spoken. Loved golf. Loved fishing. Tolerant and thoughtful. He even put up with
me getting totally trashed one night at his house. I mean legless in every way. I have a vague memory of making out with some girl at the foot of his piano while he was serenading us with song. I think I threw up but I believe it was outside his house. At least I hope so.
RIP Paul. You were a good bloke.
Nigel loves Earth Day
"Earth Day" can buff my scrotum.I say: fuck the earth. Here's a song:
Earth! Whoo!!
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing!
(say it again, well)
Earth! Whoo!!
(Good God, Y'all)
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing!
Whaddya think? Could go to number 1!!
From your loving and loyal Nigel, a message to all the plants and beasts of the earth, including (but not limited to) the flora, fauna, fowl, and all the fish of the sea. In particular, I say:
fuck the whales. They're useless gigantic tubs of blubber who perform no useful function but to appear in stupid TV ads for Pacific Life breaking wind (breaking waves? breaking glass?). They are completely oblivious to
our needs, goddammit. They don't care. Where were the bloody whales during my first divorce? Did I hear from those fat bastards, even once, with a "hey, we're down here sucking fucking plankton, but we're thinking about you?" And I'm supposed to give a hairy rat's ass about these
huge pieces of smelly almost-fish? Besides which, the stupid big bastards can't even breathe. Slagheaps. Idiots. I say: fuck 'em.
And cougars and lions and tigers, here's a
goddamm message for you, though you don't speak English, you dumb bastards:
eat me. Not literally. Figuratively. You all can use your gigantic rough but also in a funny way oh-so-tender tongues to lovingly buff my scrotum. A big old crotch lave is what I crave from you--then, back to your dens and caves. And also your watery deep-sea habitats (that's specifically directed at bloody porpoises and dolphins, you oily heaps of shit--fish oil, I know, it's good for me, but stay away anyway) .
But I digress.
Fuck the
trees and the grass and the clouds and the sky. I want
more use of toxic chemicals, more nuclear power plants, more hydrocarbons coursing throughout what's left of my decrepit body. I want to be a living science experiment. Chemistry in action.
Up Exxon Mobil! Way to go, Chernobyl! Three Mile Island--the hell with that! I say: Four Mile Island.I've been drinking. Can you tell? :)
The wrong word describing my Viagra prescription
I saw this in my Outlook e-mail preview pane yesterday. Despite the complete lack of action in my life, horizontal-wise, I normally delete these kinds of e-mails immediately. But
this particular one caught my eye:
Do Not Been Abling To Please Your Partner? Win the lady with Soft Viagra. 100% satisfaction guaranteed!Um, excuse me, but
if I'm taking Viagra, the last word I want associated with anything would be
"soft". I can hear the TV ad now: "Get immediate medical attention for erections lasting longer than...oh...never mind."
Running out of inspiration, so sorry
My blog buddy Carlos comments: "dude, put down the penis and start blogging."
Um, well,
I haven't exactly been "squashing Stonehenge" lately. Trouble is, I can't really find the little bastard, what with
all my rolls of belly fat and everything. Just can't conjure up the "oomph" to post. I"ve been feeling pretty down, to be honest, and that always saps whatever creative juices I've got. Seems I've been that way a lot lately. Sorry about that. But enough of that shit.
This week,
I'm going to the West Coast. Vegas and L.A. -- though the L.A portion of the trip is still up in the air. I'm allegedly going there to see an old girlfriend of mine,
who's an actress, as is everyone in fucking L.A. Though she's actually been on TV and in a few movies, bit part stuff. Her time has mostly come and gone. She was really beautiful when younger and I've seen her on the screen lately and while time has been very, very kind to her,
she's no longer 19. Which was the age I was when I last saw her.
Now I'm 50, and disgusting looking. I'd be best suited for the ugly alien extra in the back row of the latest Dr. Who episode.
She won't recognize me at LAX, but she's married and the intent is for me to hang with her and her husband for a day. So, no pressure, except for dealing with the inevitable "what the hell happened to YOU" questions. I get them all the time from old acquaintances I haven't seen in years.
The Vegas part is: I have relatives coming over from Australia
for a wedding. This will involve much consumption of amber fluid. So, with that in mind, I've contact Lloyd's of London about liver insurance, and they told me to buff THEIR scrotum.
Anyhow, I shall endeavor to be a
bit more prolific regarding the blog. But while I'm going through my mid-life crisis, it's hard to be cynical about anything other than what appears to be my own bleak prospects. It's
downhill to death from here, for your loyal Nigel.
Well, ok, if you insist...
Cat crap coffee craze can cuff cy crotum
More proof that the
world is coming to an end:
a report in today's London Daily Mail about the world's most expensive cup of coffee.
$100 a cup. And it's made from cat shit. Indonesian civet cats, to be specific. English retards with too much money are just lapping it up; oh-so-fashionable salonistas from Mayfair to Park Lane are
simply all over it, daaahhhling.
You may well ask: why Indonesian cats? The answer, dear reader, is that when one is brewing shit coffee, one must use only the finest shit. And
everyone knows that Indonesian cat shit is the absolute aces toppermost of the poppermost!
But just wait till you drink their urine! Shlubbies, it's positively sublime, with hints of
oak and a rich, buttery characteristic that's often sweet and cloying. There's a slight nuance of hazelnut that provides a sexy back note, all supported by crisp acidity that gives the cat pee a bright, juicy snap. It's full-bodied, with mild ammonia intensity at the finish. A great match for foods like spicy paella (so long as you make the paella from Indonesian dog shit).
This stuff just writes itself
A thought for the day...
Hey, Coors: vent this!
Coors has to be the silliest beer company around.
First comes the idiotic business with the can turning blue. This alerts you that your beer is cold. Apparently leaving it in the fridge isn't enough...you have to wait for that color change; then you're okey-dokey to guzzle.
Now I'm hearing a Coors ad on the radio touting their latest lightning bolt of an idea:
can venting. This is something "new", a feature where they've made the pop-top hole in the can, whence the beer is dispensed...bigger. This allows air to rush into the can around your mouth and so ensures, as they claim, a "smooth pour every time".
Since when is this a problem? Did they do focus groups with beer-bellied rednecks who somehow, tilting the old, non-vented can up to their lips, had trouble getting the beer into their mouths? I know I've complained about this for years: "you know, Frank, I'd really like this beer much better and would buy exponentially and incrementally more of it if they could only figure out how to get air around my lips as I'm sucking the amber fluid down. As you know, this would guarantee me a smooth pour, every time."
Coors can buff my scrotum.
Striking out on a cruise ship in 1973
Yesterday's post about Spring Break reminded me of something.
Now, regular readers of this drivel and spew are aware that I've been
fortunate to live in a variety of countries growing up. This wasn't due to family wealth; rather, it was because of my dad's work. My parents were cool about trying to expose me and my brothers to different
experiences during our travels, so sometimes this included
alternate methods of getting from one place to another. Occasionally that meant long trips on ocean liners.
Back in 1973, we spent
3 weeks meandering across the Pacific Ocean. Australia to New Caledonia to Samoa to Tahiti to L.A., San Francisco, and finally disembarking in Vancouver. Back then, the ships weren't resorts on the water the way they are today. This was well before the TV show "Love Boat" changed the face of cruises. Back then, it was very posh, dontya know, and really designed almost exclusively for well-heeled adults with sticks up their asses.
So I'm 16 and hanging around on this ship. My parents were in the casino or library or by the pool; my brothers were doing whatever. I had the run of the place, and it was mostly ok though kinda lonely and sometimes even a bit boring.
Until we got to Tahiti.
Up the gangplank in Papeete comes this family--mother, father, daughter. Your humble Nigel goes totally slack-jawed at the
sight of the daughter. Me, and all 137 of the P&O cruise line British crew. Staring, hanging over the railings, tongues hanging out like the dogs we all were. This...
vision...was 17 and French. And she looked
exactly like Brigitte Bardot, circa 1956 , around the time of
"And God Created Woman". A photo of Bardot at her best is at right, and I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that this 17 year old girl could have been her twin sister.
A number of thoughts went through my mind at the time.
First, I
had to speak to her somehow.
Second, I needed to do that as soon as possible because we only had 7 days til arriving in Los Angeles and if I was gonna get my mojo working I needed to get it going immediately.
Third, what to do about my acne problem, and quick smart like? And
fourth, how to do all this and get through the next 7 days while trying to hide the extremely obvious tent-like lump in my pants. Ho-ho! The game was on! My
chance came the second day on the Lido deck. She's standing there by herself, looking out to sea. No one else around.
I screwed up my courage and walked up to her and started talking to her in
what I thought was French. After all, I'd taken four years of the fucking language in school, and I'd progressed to the point well beyond "la plume de ma tante est sur la table".
Her name, she told me, was Muriele Chiche (can you believe I can remember that
35 years later?), from Paris, and from what I could discern she and her parents were traveling to Montreal. Speaking "French", I apparently
regaled her with the following things: my name was Nigel and that I was from outer space and I lived under a freeway culvert in Pago Pago with my pet toothbrush and speaking of my teeth, they all had names, every one of them! And that my hobbies included sucking on plastics and look, Muriele, I'd really like to see you again to introduce you to my thermo-nuclear device and so whaddya say?
At least, that's how it must have sounded, translated, to her. My fumbling attempt at speaking French resulted in a baffled look on her face--then she started laughing. Couldn't stop. Walked away, left me standing on the deck alone, and
never spoke to me again. And ended up immediately hooking up with some 23 year old blond California beach-bum type also on the cruise but who could speak no French at all.
Apparently, though, they could speak the language of love pretty well to each other. The two of them spent the 7 days a-humpin' and a-gruntin'. Me, I'm in my cabin alone, furtively, quietly,
desperately "squashing Stonehenge" as I fantasized about what could have been.
*Sigh*.
Merde.
Spring Break and Black Sabbath can buff my scrotum
I got to drive to the airport today--6am on a Saturday, dropping off my mom and her new husband as they hie their way to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. And the drive was through non-stop drenching rain, and the freeway was PACKED.
Everyone's on their way to Florida for Spring Break. They have to get there fast, apparently, because drinking and meaningless sport fucking can't occur until they cross the state line. I went to Spring Break once in Ft. Lauderdale, back in 1975, and it sucked the gigantic labonzo. No fun, no women, no nothing. We drove from Minnesota to Florida with your Nigel stuck in the backseat of a Ford Pinto while being forced to listen to Black Sabbath for 27 hours at top volume (to keep the driver awake, see).
Once we got to Ft. Lauderdale, the condo was nowhere near the goddamm beach, and besides that, any women we met were interested only in Ohio State University football players with oversized equipment. We, on the other hand, were University of Minnesota non-football players with tiny, hollow dicks, sunken chests, and holdover acne problems from high school. We were so cool. At left, what we DIDN'T see at Spring Break, 1975.
This misery lasted for a full week. A fun trip all the way around, particularly the non-stop drive back to Minnesota, which featured 27 hours of top-volume Black Sabbath alternate album cuts.
Ozzy Osbourne can buff my scrotum.
Introducing cow man
According to a
newspaper in London, scientists there have successfully fused the embryo of a cow with that of a human. Note that this was announced yesterday (April 1), so I'm calling shenanigans on this one.
However, 'tis a wonder if true. Could be that soon there'll be people wandering around who've got the ability to pee milk.
Yo, yo, what the name of the President is!
Stop the presses! Alert the media! MTV is reporting that rapper 50 Cent (photo, left) is now "unsure" about who'll be getting his vote in the Presidential election. According to the
breathless account at MTV news, "Just weeks ago,
America knew where 50 Cent stood in this year's presidential race: solidly in
Camp Hillary." The story goes on, relating how Mr. Cent then changed his mind in favor of
Barack Obama, apparently inspired by his speech on race relations. But now? Mr. Cent isn't sure anymore.
What America once knew is apparently up for grabs. Mr. Cent may be toying with our emotions!
Perhaps the reason Mr. Cent was for Hillary in the first place was her support of universal healthcare. After all,
the government should be responsible for curing that
nasty affliction, "Hip Hop Hands", which when seen is so reminiscent of deformities caused by
Thalidomide back in the 1950s. Don't you agree? Are you gettin' jiggy wid dat? Below, some photos showing the extent of the damage caused by Hip Hop Hands:
...and below,
possibly the worst, the saddest case known to medical experts:
Sad news from Orlando: A dolphin at SeaWorld's Discovery Cove died after it collided with another dolphin while performing a trick in front of spectators. Officials said the dolphin, called Sharky, hit the other dolphin during a Sunday show at Discovery Cove.
Tony Stewart lambasted the dolphin that caused the smashup. Said Stewart: "Accident? It was no goddamm accident! I'm sick of this bump and run shit. The next goddamm dolphin that gets hit, I'll hit back. This crap is bad for our sport and bad for the drivers, anf if NASCAR doesn't start policing this, we will take matters into our own hands."
