Buff my scrotum: September 2008

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

3 way mouth to mouth from Nigel

So I'm rethinking my resignation from el blog du Nigel, because new stuff has happened, and I'm wanting to share. Aren't I nice?

I have begun volunteer work with those who may be described as "differently abled"--note the PC nature of the description, which yields points for lil' ol' moi, I know, especially from you liberal fucks who read this drivel and spew. Yay for Obama, btw, and here's to communism for all of us, and not soon enough if he has his way. But I digress.

Last night I drove the group to a showing of a movie: "3 Way", starring Gina Gershon. The film plot was incomprehensible to me, and I have an IQ of at least 110, so whatever the group was thinking, I have no clue. The average IQ amongst our little clan is measurable on the Richter Scale...1 to 9. So, there you go.

During one of the sex scenes, between the lead actor and this amazingly hot black girl named Joy Bryant (Nigel soiled his underwear watching this, true confession time), the guy sitting next to me, from our group of mental defectives, started convulsing. Badly. What to do, what to do?

Answer: CPR, of course! When in doubt, pound the shit out of the victim's chest whilst simultaneously delivering mouth-to-mouth. Now, I have no gay predilictions, but that being said I am happy to stick my tongue where it normally wouldn't go, homo-wise, so long as it yields the
Saving Private Ryan result. Besides, our victim looked a bit like Brad Pitt, but with a really big forehead. So you can understand my willingness to chuck my sexuality, just for a moment...maybe?

Wiping away the foam, I went at it. And wouldn't you know, our boy starts recovering, albeit with one extra element unforeseen: he's got a hard on the size of Idaho. Now, I have a little tiny weener, as you all know, so seeing this humungous tented pants thing took me by surprise. Sure, I'd been rolling my tongue around his larynx just a bit, but not enough to cause el-woodrow, if you know what I mean. So your Nigel was a bit taken aback.

Still and all, as our victim was recovering, I took a break from my mouth-to-mouth to survey the damage. Victim: retard. Check. Condition: improved. Check. Current concern: what to do with his obvious porn-star proportion priapism. Check. Solution: have one of the mentally defective girls get a-bobbin' and a-slurpin'. Check. All taken care of.

Your Nigel comes through with flying colors, yet again! The one bad thing was that Gina Gershon, gratuitous nearly nude photo at left, does NOT in ANY way get naked in this movie, "3 Way", so the fucking title is misleading to say the least, and the rest of the movie sucked.

The plot blew, the actors sucked, and Gina didn't show us her tits, which she'd previously done in the absolute masterpiece called "Bound", which when viewed resulted in me making a gigantic mess all over myself. Dammit.

Oh, and btw: it's good to be back to my old self.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Bye

I'm done here, so I will be bailing. I am out of material, and really just no longer care...I can't continue to be angry about everything and then figure out a way to make it funny. If I was able to do that, I'd be working for David Letterman.

Anyhow, thanks to those who bothered coming by over the years. See ya. This blog will be deleted in a week.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Pffft...

Being honest gets you nowhere; at least, not where you want to be.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Mary, Mary...you ugly, nasty bitch!

Ugh.

Just got the word that my least favorite relative, my cousin Mary, is coming across the pond for Thanksgiving.

She's English, so what she has to be thankful for, I don't know. But that's not the point: this woman is to humanity as lung cancer is to breathing. You couldn't find a less appealing person if you tried. Even her friends hate her guts; she does these little "sausage and wine" parties in her hometown of Leeds, and no one shows up, cause she's such a total bitch.

Let me set the scene for you. Imagine a fat, obese, blousey, ragged out housewife, with really bad hair, and her legs on upside down. Forget imagining, there she is at right--from her last year's Christmas card (I blacked out the worst of it). A total whiner. Personality of a soapdish. Complaining all the time. Pus-ridden, awful skin--boils, carbuncles, bunions, plantars warts--the whole bit. She breaks into tears at a moment's notice and then blames you for it. Nasty and evil to children. Yiz gits da picture?

Example: last year, on her last trip over, she pulled my sister Shantilla aside to announce that she was suffering from vaginal warts. Who the hell tells people this shit? My ugly disgusting cousin Mary, that's who. First of all, the idea that anyone would WANT to get close to that part of her anatomy is astounding. Talk about unappealing: she's so grotesque, her face looks like she's been in a dryer full of rocks. Gag reflex set to 100: when she moved into her house, all her neighbors chipped in for curtains. Her dipshit manipulating whorebag husband even let on that she is so hideous, he'd fuck her in any position and no matter what, it would still be doggy style.

So I have to deal with this total shithead in about 6 weeks, and what's worse, this "woman" who looks like she got hit with a hot sack of nickels is demanding to camp out, chez Nigel, for about a week! What to do, what to do?

So, my loving shlubbies, please provide me some kind of excuse I can use so Mary the ugly nasty disgusting twat won't insist on staying at my house longer than, say, the three hours it takes to do Thanksgiving dinner! Any suggestions?

David Blaine can buff my scrotum

I see where that street magician and all around irritating "personality" David Blaine (photo at right, trying to look frightening) is hanging upside down in New York. Apparently, he wants to set a world's record for dangling by his feet.

This last idiotic stunt could kill him, according to doctors--at the very least, maybe make him blind for life, because of all the blood rushing to what little remains of the brain he was born with. Plus, where's the dignity in having to pee through a catheter, upside down? Wouldn't it all kinda...run back down your chest? And who do you have sex with while you're upside down--Batgirl?

Now I admit, I kinda enjoyed some of those earlier street magic specials he did--until that other world class putz, Chriss Angel, came on with his "here's how we do that" series of shows, where he revealed the secrets of some of Blaine's tricks. After that, I lost all respect for Blaine, and magicians, and clowns, and especially mimes. Street performers can buff my scrotum.

Blaine--what a douchenozzle. Look, if I want blood rushing to my head, I perv photos of Salma Hayek--now there's an instant blood pressure hit, lemme tell ya! But Blaine, who has way too much time on his hands and apparently very little remaining imagination, is now encamped (albeit vertically challenged) from some guy wires over the Wollmann Ice Rink, trying to prove his point.

The thing that strikes me as silly, over and above everything else, is that this Blaine doesn't seem to make anything happen after pulling off one of these stunts, financial-wise. Where are the sponsorships? Is he doing Wheaties ads? After this upside down thing, he'd at least be in demand for bungee jumping companies--don't you think?

He's not like that Phelps kid from the Olympics, that's for sure.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

The shock, the awe: the men's room in Hooters...

College football gameday yesterday, so last night I put on my best cheerleader's outfit and headed to Jack's Seafood to pound prawns and PBRs and watch Georgia/ASU and LSU/Auburn, simultaneously, on their two wide screen TVs.

At least, I thought I was going to Jack's. My friend G came to pick me up in his Chevy Tahoe, and once down the driveway surprised me with the announcement that instead, we were going to the Hooters in Conyers, Georgia. Conyers is an exurb on the east side of Atlanta, about 30 miles out but a whole world away. It's the hometown of the actress Holly Hunter, and that's about all it's known for, really.

Except for this Hooters, which at one time held the distinction of having the finest looking female servers in the deep, long, storied history that is Hooters legacy. Times have changed, now, though, and it's not much of a stretch to say that if you put the tight shirt and orange shorts on your humble Nigel, I'd-a-bin the best looking girl there. And I wouldn't have even had to shave my legs to claim that distinction.

One thing Hooters is well known for, besides the nubility and pulchritude allegedly on parade, is their extraordinary gastronomical delicacies. Yes, the minimum wage (but legal!) Mexican immigrants prowling the kitchen really are captains of culinary comfort, and have the ability to turn out a squashed, dried up hamburger and cold curly fries in about 45 minutes. That's 45 minutes, see, timed perfectly to the approximate length of a quarter of televised gridiron. So, you may be hungry when the game starts, but your belly will be full by about halfway through the second quarter.

Uncomfortable intestinal rumbling accompanied by odd noises--your stomach starts to sound like a fax machine--commences about the beginning of the third quarter, and you miss the entire fourth quarter because you're squatting, sumo-like, on the one throne they have in men's room. And of course, you can be assured of said throne's anti-bacterial cleanliness, as there's only 750 horny guys in the restaurant and we all know how good men are lifting the seat and all.

Georgia won, and LSU kicked Auburn's tiger ass butt in the last second or so.

Now, because of the toilet thingy, on the way home I asked my friend to stop in the Emergency Room so I could get tetanus shots. And since my buddy is an Auburn alum, while I got my shots in the ER, he was treated for hyperventilation and high blood pressure. Takes his college football pretty seriously, you see.

After that, it was home...then, more ancillary visits to my own bathroom in a vain attempt to void the remainder of the "meal". All in all, a fun-filled evening.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Hamburger Helper!

Well, my shlubbies (and shlubbettes!), I must tell you about last night's gastronomical and telephonic adventure. Readers of this drivel and spew will recall yesterday's post regarding my wary view of the hamburger grilling-out capabilities of yours truly. My concerns lived up to my concerns, and here's the story:

My guest for dinner was my friend Ze'ev Ionis, who truth be told is one muddled up poor old guy. Ze'ev lives in Alabama, just outside of Talladega, and has spent the last three years in a futile attempt (futile, in my opinion, at least) to establish Talladega County's very first Hebrew shul. For those of you unversed in Zion lingo, that's a school--ok? Undeterred by the complete lack of any Jews at all within, say 150 miles (most having been lynched and/or run out of town during the infamous Speedway Semitism wars of the late 1940's), Ze'ev daily plods along Main Street in a vain attempt to raise money and awareness for this all important venture. Bemused locals, who invariably greet him thus: "Hey, Jewboy", tolerate Ze'ev because he's the only person in their town who can provide spiritual guidance to NASCAR's only Jewish driver, Jon Denning.

But I digress. Ze'ev came to the house all decked out in his serious, Orthodox attire, complete with the black hat and the curly little sideburn thingies that stick down from his ears. Photo at left: that's Ze'ev, examining the decomposing fruit he found in my fridge. Ze'ev had walked here, cause it's the Sabbath. Good thing, too, as I hate having guests, and since it was the Sabbath Ze'ev needed to be home and behind closed doors by the time the sun went down. Meaning, this would be a short visit: chow on some Kosher burgers, mumble something or other in Hebrew (him), make the sign of the cross (me), argue about who killed Jesus--and then it'd be time for Ze'ev to go.

So, hamburgers on the grill for me and Ze'ev. Trouble started with the cooking pretty much from the get-go; I tried a flanking maneuver on the Weber, attacking it from the side, but it was prepared for my gambit and that was the end of that. Plan B. This involved getting on the Internet and googling "help with hamburgers".

Up popped this site with a helpful, handy 1-800 number and I rang it up, hoping to find someone there who could provide advice and a shoulder to cry on. Call goes something like this:

OPERATOR: Hamburger helper help line, may we help you?
ME: Yes, I need help with my hamburgers please.
O: What variety of hamburger helper are you using?
M: Plain hamburger, you know, from Kroger.
O: No sir, look at the box--what flavor does it say?
M: What the fuck are you talking about? What box?
O: There's no need to be rude sir! Let me connect you to a supervisor.

An interminable wait....but then the supervisor came on, and we talked, and she was helpful, and she had this low, throaty voice (from too many Diet Cokes and Camel Lights, I bet), and soon we were chatting back and forth, and laughing, and finishing each other's sentences, sorta like Rosalind Russell and Cary Grant in "His Girl Friday", and pretty soon the conversation had turned, and before you knew it we were having phone sex!

Ze'ev had long before left in a huff, yelling at me: "YOU, boyo, you think I walk here from Talladega, oy vey gevalt, just so to listen to you and this shiksa make the shtup on the phone, what, I should worry, oy oy oy?

Fuck Ze'ev, I was in rapture.

There's always a danger with phone sex and the unknown person on the other end of the line. What do they look like?

Some kind of one-legged troll, the kind of gal you'd need to prop up with phone books on her legless side if you were taking her from behind? That's my biggest fear. But no worries mate, Trixie (that was her name) sent me some photos of her and when they arrived on my mobile, well, hell, that was the end of me! Lonnnnnggggg legs, long hair, dazzling smile, beautiful girl, sexy shoes even! One of the photos is at left--amazing, eh, that this lovely girl had been on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and now was helping people out with their hamburger problems? I, for one, am impressed!

So, the remainder of the night was spent with me and Trixie whispering sweet nothings into each other's ear, telephonically, while my right hand was busy sending semaphore to Admiral Onan. But because of my masturbatory diversions, I forgot to turn the gas grill off, though, and when the fire department arrived at 3am there was hell to pay.

But that's another story for another time.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Friday fun: grilling out!

Tonight I once again take my life into my own hands and set forth, trepidatiously, with much forethought and caution, and being fully dressed in combat gear will carefully head out onto the pool deck and thence to confront my gas grill. That's me, right, in a photo taken last year just before I attempted to grill some shrimp and scallops for Passover Seder. As you can see, I'm fully protected and ready to attack the fucking thing.

It's no surprise to you, my loyal shlubbies, to learn that my Weber Gasomatic and I just don't get along.

I bought it on e-Bay last year, cheap; the listing said something about how it had been successfully used during Gitmo torture sessions. Allegedly. Supposedly. So it's...understandable why it's never worked right, not from day one, and I don't believe the problem is me. Nothing turns out right using this bloody thing, lemme tell ya. Much weeping and gnashing of teeth occurs--and that's mostly from my dinner guests. Me, I resort to my standard fallback, which involves liberal use of colorful swear words and invective. *Sigh*.

Nevertheless, it's onward and upward. Tonight's adventure involves previously live cow, ground, and turned into something called a "hamburger". I've consulted the Food Network to learn what I can about not destroying this food while cooking. I even emailed with offers of bribes to Rachel Ray, but have heard nothing back yet.

Here are the steps I've adopted, from a very helpful pamphlet called "Grilling Hamburgers For Dummies: The Retard's Guide To Charring Red Meat."

Step 1: Buy hamburger
Step 2: Form it into patties
Step 3: Turn on the grill
Step 4: Grill the hamburgers
Step 5: View results with disdain and disgust
Step 6: Throw the whole mess away and head to the In-'N-Out Burgers drive through instead.

We don't have In-'N-Out burgers here in Atlanta--dammit--so I'm back to step 1. Looks like I'm gonna have to go through this torture after all....

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Sarah Palin causes problems with demand elasticity!

You know what gives me a little bit of a tingle, right where it counts? Bea Arthur--for sure (gratuitous photo at left). But today, I want to talk about that dismal science that makes me jump for joy: Economics. Specifically, demand elasticity. There's something special about looking at demand curves based on the nature of goods and services. I know I can't be the only one who sees this:

(Q1 – Q2) / (Q1 + Q2)
(P1 – P2) / (P1 + P2)

and pants tightening occurs. Can I?

Some economic questions and answers:

Oil prices are dropping as fast as my underwear when I see a photo of Megan Fox (gratuitous photo at right). Yet, the price of gas is rising. Who's to blame? Answer: Sarah Palin and the Mainstream Conservative Media.
The price of beer is holding steady, yet I get more and more drunk every day. So, demand is up, and theoretically, price should be up to. Who gets the credit? Answer: certainly NOT Sarah Palin and the Mainstream Conservative Media.
And then there's THIS, goddammit,and who's to blame?:

Answer: Sarah Palin and the Mainstream Conservative Media.
My price of my web subscription to www.fattiesinjello.com is going up, yet I find myself using it less (my new wanking fave is www.lardassesinicecream.com)--so, theoretically, the price should be going down. Who's to blame? The answer, of course: Sarah Palin and the Mainstream Conservative Media.

Bloody mainstream conservative media. And that Sarah Palin? She's causing all these problems, really, and needs a really good spanking. A really good one. Good. One.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Funniest real license plate...

...that I've ever seen. From Virginia:

Monday, September 15, 2008

Lawyer needs a lawyer, and fast

So see where Atlanta NFL Falcons safety Lawyer Milloy, photo, left, got hit with a DUI last night.

Here's what springs to mind upon reading this story in the world famous oh-so-high-quality journalistic exemplar that is the Atlanta Journal Constitution: who the fuck names their kid "Lawyer", and what was the impetus for said fucking naming stupidity?

Seriously, Mrs. Milloy couldn't handle a normal name, based on the time honored tradition of twenty five years ago, when she and her brothers Rufus and Calvin were watching Roots--a name like "Tanaqueshiquamableya"? Something good and African? No, it had to be a name based on a profession. Lawyer. Why not "Doctor", or "Dentist"? That'd be good: "Dentist Malloy". Extractor of yardage. Driller of defense. You know?

I long for the days when mamas name their kids the way they ought to be named, using normal names, like Arthur or George. Where are the George's in the goddamm NFL? Nowhere, I say, and more's the pity.

OK, enough rant--let's throw it back to the studio and my co-host, the lovely Latrinachlorine, whose got a booty on which you could prop an entire tray of margaritas. She's there, on the left, just stylin' and profilin'. Take it away, you gigantic assed baby. You make me grrrrr, in an HR reporting kinda way....

OK, back to reality....

God, yesterday's post....man, when I drink....hahahaha!!! Anyhow, back to normal now, with my ongoing anti-marriage theme rearing its ugly head today:

Sunday, September 14, 2008

My confession....

OK, so this worries me.

Over the last few weeks, I've received "feedback" from a few of my loyal shlubbies, who, being regular readers of my drivel and spew, have decided that lately, le postes du Nigel have lacked the certain bite and nastiness they're all so used to experiencing. For this I apologize, but then again: fuck you. That's the main thing.

Here's what's been happening in the Nigel household, and this alone has caused me to alter the tone and tenor of my posts: I have decided to come out of the closet. I am a flaming fucking queer, boys and girls (mostly, boys), a mega shmega dick smoking rump ranging weenie washing turd burgling homo faggott (fa-GOH, in French), , and am thoroughly enamoured with the new-to-me gay lifestyle: buying Cher records, listening to Wham surreptitiously, agreeing that there's nothing really wrong with Barry Manilow, being worried about things like how the curtains look in my boudoir. Etcetera. I am such a girl, and can't wait to meet someone like, say, JFK Jr., who while deceased, was smoking fucking hot when he was breathing and all.

Yes, darlings, I am a dick smoker. I'm out of the fucking closet and am proud of me being a catcher in the pitcher of life. So I can't wait for you comments; I'm bent over and ready to fucking take then, and will ooh and aah appropriately, especially if you look like Andy Garcia. And if you can't handle it, buff my scrotum!!

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Batman,the homo

Hello my shlubbies and all the ships at sea,

Sorry for the dearth of intelligent intercourse over the last few days. Then again, you could argue that this isn't the place you'd find that, anyway. Intelligent intercourse, that is.

I've been busy lately, with the early part of the week devoted to serious wanking, and the latter part of the week devoted to political analysis. See, your loyal Nigel can time shift from one to the other, knowing full well the responsibilities involved, and manage to keep it all together, sort of.

As I write, I am most disturbed by an apparent production problem at DC Comics which has resulted in the display of numerous nasty words in the speech bubbles contained therein. This issue, documented extensively in various blogs you don't read, like this one, has apparently resulted in the Batman getting his wee-wee spanked, and by Robin, of all people.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, here you go, adopting a young, teenage boy, and it's important you intitiate him into the ways of the world--wearing body-hugging costumes, being anonymous, and living in a mansion that has a cave (don't they all?). I know that I'd have loved that kind of life when I was 13, to say nothing of the apparently expected quid pro quo fellatio involved. Sign me up.

I always thought that Batman was a rump ranger--now we know for sure.

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Wherein you Nigel assays clean thinking and talking

Welcome, dearest friends and funseekers! I am going to try something today that's new and different. Ready?

I have a friend who's some kind of conjurer...I dunno, maybe a Buddhist mystic? Which is hard to be here in suburban Atlanta. What's to be mystical about? The traffic? But there's real power here, with this woman: some chanting, magic spells, potions, and lo and behold for the first time in over a year, I've slept two nights in a row straight through until it was time to get up. Normally, I get about 4 hours of sleep a night and am exhausted all the time. But, apparently, courtesy of this female version of David Copperfield and her long distance hocus pocus, I can slip into the arms of Morpheus and STAY THERE!

Anyhow, she is disturbed by my continual swearing, both in person, and on this blog. Something about "karma", which I believe is a brand of laundry soap? I'm so confused. Nevertheless, and based on her continual expressions of concern, I am endeavoring to go straight vis a vis the cursing, and especially vis a vis the blasphemy. At least for today. I will break the habit. For 24 hours. Maybe.

This is difficult for me, as there are two things I am famous for: swearing, and pretty much non-stop continual wanking. Polishing the helmet on my German soldier. Talking on the clone phone. Frightening Uncle Fester. Field stripping my M-16. Squashing Stonehenge. You get the picture?

I'm so horny, the crack of dawn better watch out. I mean, a stiff breeze comes a long and blamo, I'm at it, a humpin' and a pumpin'. So long as I don't have to stop doing THAT, well, then, I'll give this clean talking nonsense a shot.

Pray for me, shlubbies. I'm irredeemable, I'm afraid. But if I succeed, I'll be the first to celebrate with a toast: champagne for my real friends, and real pain for my sham friends!! Amen.

Sunday, September 07, 2008

Check engine light: buff my scrotum

So, after my fetus-eating experience in Ala-goddamm-bama, with my "check engine" light flashing and pulsating all the way home, and being justly scared of the goddamm government car inspection gestapo, I hied me and my AMC Pacer to the auto shop to get some "service".

Inspection done, I was told in no uncertain terms that a) I suck in terms of my taste in cars and b) I needed some ridiculous adjustment that would cost $1,600. So I told Mr. Big Shit, who owns Big Shit Motors in Stone Mountain, Georgia, to buff my fucking scrotum; the car isn't worth $1,600 to start with as it is, and I could give a large ass fairy floss fuck if it did or did not pass the communist government EPA mandated slagheap emissions inspection, and what the fuck are you gonna do about it?

Predictably, the police were called.

I have more run-ins with the law than did Humphrey Bogart in "The Big Sleep". If you

remember that movie, every time he turned around, the coppers were there, sneering at him. That's my story, too. I even keep a Krispy Kreme Donuts coupon book in the glove compartment so I can bribe 'em; I figure that hey, a free glazed original or two might just keep me out of the hoosegow.

Much arguing, finger pointing, and nasty insinuations later--and I was on my way, minus the $1,600 fix, and with my "check engine" light still brightly lit. So, it's on to plan B, whatever that's gonna be...

Speaking of asshole auto dealers, here's a video of the greatest car dealer commercial of all time. Please, watch it--you'll pee your pants. It's called: Fuck You, Baltimore!

Yesterday, in hell. Er, I mean, Tuscaloosa

"Oh, oh Alabama...the devil fools with the best laid plans".

The opening lines from Neil Young's "Alabama", which of course is the song referenced in Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama"; these lyrics never rang more true than for your humble Nigel, who spent yesterday fucking around like an idiot in Tuscaloosa. All...bloody...day.

Why was I in Tuscaloosa, you may ask? My elderly mother's new elderly husband is an Alabama Crimson Tide alum and also a for-real war hero, and he was to be honored in pre-game festivities that were to include a reception at the University president's home followed by some mid-field hoopla climaxing in a combined Mustang P51 and F-16 formation flyover (he was a fighter pilot in WW 2, Korea, and Vietnam, among other amazing accomplishments, and has to wear rocks in his right suit coat pocket to counter-balance all the medals he wears on the left when dressed for these sorts of occasions--one day I'll post a separate, serious thing about him. His resume is scary, and includes stints with NASA, the CIA, and as a White House pentagon liaison. And he's a super nice guy, fully in his head at the age of 84, with a killer sense of humor).

But enough of the niceness--this is ME, here, so naturally I was pissed and full of vitriol by the time the day was done.

Starting with picking up Nigel Jr. at his house, we set off on the interminable drive taking us past the mobile home parks and Cracker Barrel Restaurant billboards that constitute a tour through the Georgia countryside. Crossing the Alabama state line, we gained an hour moving into the Central Time zone while simultaneously losing all semblance of what passes for the 21st century in these here parts.

Mercifully, we were able to bypass Birmingham. Birmingham, once famous for nasty ol' sheriff Bull Connor (he of the firehoses and German Shepherds), has now settled into its current role as the birthplace and now avid promoter of childhood diseases, such as whooping cough. You bring your kid here if you want them to get sick and die. But since I love Nigel Jr. with all my heart, and not coincidentally since I don't as yet have a life insurance policy on the kid, we skirted the "city" and hied our way forthwith to the booming metropolis that is Tuscaloosa.

Breathless with excitement, we arrived at the lunch my mother and husband had planned. Tuscaloosa, being famous for its seafood (who the fuck knew that?) -- our intrepid elders had of course chosen a fish place. Real conversation with the waitress: my mother asked her what the "fish of the day" was and the waitress said that she didn't know, she'd have to check to see what was "left over from Thursday". This, my loyal shlubbies, was an omen. An omen, I say.

Tuscaloosa is to seafood as, say, New York is to grits and black eyed peas.

So I'm sitting next to some Tuscaloosa native at the table who's a friend of my step-dads. I spent the next 90 minutes being regaled by tales of storied 'Bama football heroes, coaches, cheerleaders, the history of the practice field, the practice squads, the team uniforms, their national championships, some stupid tower that somebody named Bear Bryant used to stand on, and what an asshole somebody named Ray Perkins was for tearing it down, blah blah blah. Ad infinitum. Realizing I needed something drastic to shut up ol' Cletus, and at about a point where he finally stopped and took a breath about 87 minutes into this diatribe, I turned to him and told him that:

I didn't like football; I much preferred ballet
I was a homo
I liked to take it up the ass from well-hung black guys

The black guys comment was what did it, thankfully, and we were able to leave to "go to the hotel" where my parents were going to "change and get ready" for the festivities to come.

I have previously posted about the Hampton Inn chain, so I won't bother repeating my bile and spew relative to that here. Let's just say that spending three hours sitting around a Hampton Inn room in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, could be the single greatest experience of my life. When I die, and everything I've done flashes before my eyes, I just know that this one moment will stick out. Stick out, as in one of those 4 hour erections the Cialis ads warn you about: seek immediate medical attention. Because by this point, I needed a psychiatrist, really.

The real dilemma attending a 'Bama football game is parking your car, anywhere, somewhere, relatively close to Bryant Denny stadium. Worried about this, and completely underwhelmed by the diversions of the Hampton Inn, about four hours before gametime Nigel Jr. and I skipped the hotel and began the Lewis and Clark expedition that

would hopefully result in a place to leave the car within close walking distance of the stadium. See, I was only there to see the pre-game stuff, and could care less about this game--so the plan was, get seated, watch the festivities and the fly-by, maybe take in the first quarter, and then head back to the car. But there's no shuttle buses once the game starts, so being close by was important. The parking map I used, pictured above left, was as helpful as sandpaper at a Peparation H sales demonstration.

Lemme tell ya, these rednecks like to plant themselves and their fat, pimple laden 'Bama butts EARLY near the stadium. There wasn't a single open public parking space anywhere within 3 miles, and we're talking four hours before the kickoff. Not one. So, 90 minutes of fruitless searching and me mumbling under my breath later, here comes Nigel Jr. from the backseat: "Dad, if you don't fucking quit with the goddamm swearing, I'm gonna tell mom, and she won't let me come visit your sorry ass anymore. So, shut the fuck up, will you, and can we just call it a day and go fucking home?" Nigel is 11.

Suitably chastised, I agreed, and throwing the tickets out the window, we turned our backs on Tuscaloosa and jumped on the freeway to head back to Georgia. So we never made it to the stadium, never saw the flyover, never got our seats, nothing. Oh, but there was a silver lining to all this. On the way home, about 160 miles out, my "check engine" light came on.

"...What are you doing Alabama? You got the rest of the union, to help you along....what's going wrong?"

Friday, September 05, 2008

Dolphin sex

Did you know that in the animal world, only two species have sex for fun? The two are humans (of course) and dolphins.

Who knew that dolphins enjoy getting the wild thing going on, and do it for recreation? Not me. But given that, here's my interpretation of hot, dolphin sex, complete with original dolphin dirty talk and the associated English translation:

Flipper: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (I'd love to manipulate your padilera, right now!)
Flippee: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (Ooh, baby, is that your dorsal fin, or are you just happy to see me?)
Flipper: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (My retia mirabilia is hard for you, baby!)
Flippee: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (Ooh, yes, my urogenital opening is ready!)
Flipper: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (AAAAHH! Here it comes, right in the cetacian rostrum....)
Flippee: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (Look at my blowhole! Look at it!)
Flipper: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (My blubber is quivering!)
Flippee: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (Neptune! Neptune! You make me want to eat sardines....now, call me your little Sea World trick-performing bitch!)
Flipper: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (You're my dirty little Sea World trick-performing bitch!)

***much churning in the water***

Flipper: "eh-oh, eh-oh, eh-oh" (Mmmm, that was good! Next time, let's have an interracial threesome...there's a hot little porpoise I know from over in the next bay...whaddya say?)

THE END. A Quinn Martin production.

Oh, btw. Dolphins have also been observed engaging in homexexual dolphin activity. So, they apparently also get into the rump ranging, turd burgling, weenie washing, colon crawling endeavors. Not that there's anything wrong with that!

p.s. For those of you playing along at home, this is but the third in a series featured from time to time here on Buff my Scrotum. Quinn Martin productions all: Spider Sex, and Amish Erotica

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Singalong with Omar

So TMStudios in Dallas, purveyor of radio jingles, has announced they've created a new, custom package to debut in Dubai--Ramadan jingles.

Ramadan is the Islam holiday of purification and fasting. Observant Muslims spend all day praying, reading the Quran, and not thinking about sex (that's forbidden, there, Omar, so get your mind out of the gutter). Then after sundown they get to eat like pigs. Well, lousy analogy, because pork is forbidden, but you get the idea!

This provides a nice family-style month-long rest, where our burkha buddies get to take a break from planning the beheading and disemboweling of infidels, and also from blowing each other up (along with everyone else in the region) using bombs and explosive devices.

The first Ramadan jingle goes like this (sung to the tune of that famous Arabic song, "I've Been Working On The Railroad" -- all together, now:

We've been planning for the jihad
All the live long day
When we get to do the jihad
We'll bomb Israel away!

Can you hear the loud explosions?
There's body parts everywhere!
We've been planning for the jihad
The Zionists will be scared!!

They'll be playing this one right before the news, in heavy rotation.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

Cheating: it's all in the genes....er, the jeans...whatever

See this crapola, from the Washington Post yesterday? Men are more likely to be devoted and loyal husbands when they lack a particular variant of a gene that influences brain activity, researchers announced yesterday -- the first time that science has shown a direct link between a man's genes and his aptitude for monogamy.

"Aptitude for monogamy"? What is this, the SAT entrance test for that august, distinguished institute of higher learning, Fuck U? (Killer sororities there, by the way--I hear Tri-Delts are the easiest. A cute little bird told me, and who the hell am I to argue with cuteosity?)

But I digress.

What this is saying is that screwing around on your wife is in your genes. No, I say it's what's in your jeans that causes you to screw around on your wife. You know, thinking with the little head instead of the big one.

We've learned that alcoholism is genetic--being a fat slug like me, that's genetic, too. Now this? Serial adultery is genetic?

Is nobody responsible for their own behavior anymore? Can we just blame everything on DNA? If that's the case, then the criminal justice system gets turned on its head (turning on your head--that ability is genetic, too).

People need to control themselves, irrespective of what their genetic makeup propensities.

'Cause I'll tell ya: based on my genes, I want the following things to occur, quick smart like:

Bring me a double cheese pizza, double anchovies. The fishier, the better.
Bring me a bunch of beer, asap! ASAP, I say! Preferably PBR, or something equally hideous.
And how about this Friday night, I get brought some serious lovin' by a gorgeous, sexy, fun woman with killer legs, wearing a short skirt and a low cut blouse, and who I've somehow managed to hypnotize into thinking that I'm a love god? Genetically speaking, I mean. Yeah, that's what I want--to be a love god.

On second thought, this genetic stuff sounds pretty good to me....

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

The saddest song I know...

Because of my radio background, people occasionally ask me about music--all kinds of questions, like did I like the songs I played, etc.

Last night, I was challenged as to what would be the saddest song I know about. Without question, bar none, it's the song called "Martha", by Tom Waits. It brings immediate tears to me, right away, when he starts singing. I'm a total wreck with this one. It's the story of a 40+ year unrequited love. Here are the lyrics:

Operator, number, please: it's been so many years
Will she remember my old voice while I fight the tears?
Hello, hello there, is this Martha? This is old Tom Frost,
And I am calling long distance, don't worry 'bout the cost.
'Cause it's been forty years or more, now Martha please recall,
Meet me out for coffee, where we'll talk about it all.

And those were days of roses, poetry and proses
Martha all I had was you and all you had was me.
There was no tomorrows, we'd packed away our sorrows
And we saved them for a rainy day.

And I feel so much older now, and you're much older too,
How's your husband? And how's the kids? You know that I got married too?
Lucky that you found someone to make you feel secure,
'Cause we were all so young and foolish, now we are mature.

And those were days of roses, poetry and proses
Martha all I had was you and all you had was me.
There was no tomorrows, we'd packed away our sorrows
And we saved them for a rainy day.

And I was always so impulsive, I guess that I still am,
And all that really mattered then was that I was a man.
I guess that our being together was never meant to be.
And Martha, Martha, I love you can't you see?

And those were days of roses, poetry and proses
Martha all I had was you and all you had was me.
There was no tomorrows, we'd packed away our sorrows
And we saved them for a rainy day.

And I remember quiet evenings trembling close to you...

Monday, September 01, 2008

Too many bananas, not enough time

Yesterday, when I was dropping Nigel Jr. off with his mother, she actually spoke to me.

Note the date, because this is a rare occurrence indeed. The ex-Mrs. Howell-Raines isn't garrulous around your humble reporter; no, she tends to communicate with me using a

combination of grunts, wheezes, and hand signals. It's a little bit like talking with Washoe, that famous lab chimpanzee who could understand English and form sentences using his huge arms and gigantic flapping lips. At right, a picture of Washoe (not, this is NOT the ex-wife, though there are some similarities.)

The witty Washoe reference isn't a bad analogy, actually, because here's what she asked me: "Hey, do you like bananas?"

Do I like bananas? Well, sure, I guess. I'm a potassium whore from way back, and the best way to mega-dose is to down a 'nana or two. Now, because I'm such a lousy ex-husband and provider, she receives free food shipments, and this time she'd somehow managed to score a treasure trove of bananas. So when I said, sure, I'll scarfamonge a banana or two, she happily turned over a huge box of the things to me.

So now I've got like, 785 bananas sitting on my kitchen floor. My whole house smells like the Dole plantation in Hawaii. What to do with all the bananas?

And then it hit me, like the fist of an angry God! I got all excited, like a retard at a pudding convention!

The answer: daiquiris! I could throw the bastards into my trusty Waring blender, and create alcohol heaven for days on end. Yay! So, my loyal shlubbies, I'm at it right now, at 5:31am on Labor Day, a-laborin' away with the mixers and the rum and the sugar and the lemon and lime juice and the 785 bananas.

Come on over to chez Nigel for cocktails, my dears. I'll be waiting!

Light and hearty observations from a fat and ugly guy. Home of hackneyed drivel and ersatz-existentialist effluence. Choleric biliousness a specialty, since 1958.