Cats, and Nigel joins a dating service
In a probably vain attempt to ease my lack of companionship, I am tomorrow
acquiring a new pet. A cat. But because of my allergies and also lack of regular housecleaning, I need to get one that
doesn't have a lot of hair. One of those baldy cats you see in National Geographic. That way, I won't be scraping up dander off the couch in the middle of a sneezing fit. I'll let you know how my
search for my hairless pussy goes, though with my luck I'll get one that looks like the lovely creature above left.
Meanwhile, I've decided to
try one of those online dating services. Not that goddamm e-Harmony, no way, the hell with that. Mainly because their TV ads frighten the shit out of me. Everyone who hooks up on e-Harmony apparently ends up married, and that's the last bloody thing I need. No, your Nigel is simply looking for
a few laughs followed up with athletic bouts of mindless boinkaroo. That's my plan, anyway.
So, here's my
proposed personal ad, complete with Photoshopped picture (I made me better looking than in real life, but everyone on these bloody things does that, right?)...lemme know what you think:
Only you can save me from joining e-Harmony! Tall-ish, wide-ish 50-ish pleasingly plump balding guy with glasses, straight from the Damaged Goods department, with lots of emotional baggage, two ex-wives and alimony payments up the ass, looking for a female who 
appears to be sexy and gorgeous with the right backlighting. If you have legs that even remotely look like Heidi Klum's, well then, I'm already masturbating thinkin' about ya! Looking for fun times only, beeyotch: I'm not in the market for the three ring circus (engagement ring, wedding ring, suffering). 'Cause love is like a sweet dream, and marriage is the loud alarm clock. But if you deliver the goods, humour-wise and contortion-wise, I'll jump on Oprah's couch for ya, promise! I bathe daily and all my shots are current. Being older than the average lying jerkoff on this site, I'm a lot like a pile of shit--the older I get, the easier I am to pick up. So you won't have to work too hard. Discretion assured, as I am willing to lie about how we met.I'm betting I'll meet Ms. Right with my fun and mostly honest approach, don't you think?
I'm my Uncle Bill
Many years ago, my parents would take me and my two brothers for
long summertime trips to Australia, where we have lots of family. During those trips,
mum and dad would drop us off at Grandma's house and then disappear for as long as 10 weeks. Us little kids, we didn't care--what's not to like, staying at Grandma's? Who cares where the parents buggered off to?
Also living in the house were my
Uncle Bill and Aunt Mary. Bill would get progressively grumpier the longer we stayed, to the point that he was ready to kill us about the time we'd leave. He'd grunt and grizzle and moan and sigh and roll his eyes, all the time yelling at us to
"shut the flaming bloody hell up, ya little bloody bastards!" But we'd just laugh.
Fast forward now some 40 years, and
I'm now Uncle Bill, and jeez, do I ever understand him better. Because I've just endured a week (note, just one week--not 10, like poor old Bill) of close-knit family togetherness, right here at chez Nigel. For Thanksgiving, I hosted my brother and his family.
I hate fucking family togetherness. Add to that, the
forced, fake frivolity of the "holidays", and I couldn't begin drinking fast enough. I was pretty much blotto by 10am daily, and kept the buzz going throughout the 6 days of sheer hell and misery experienced during that time. Plus, it's the goddamm holidays, right, and previous readers of my drivel and spew just know
how much I love this time of year.Uncle Bill died of cancer back in 1983-cancer undoubtedly brought on by having to endure these yearly visits from us little assholes. Poor old Bill.
RIP, mate, and I'm so, so sorry for fucking up your entire life.
"Australia": oh, jeez, don't bother...
So off we all trooped to see the latest blockbuster wanna-be,
"Australia", starring Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman.The movie, which is almost as long as the flight from L.A. to Sydney, can be summed up using a single word:
ponderous. Another word:
suckwad. Two words: bites it. More than two words: blows dead hippos.
A cross between "Gone With The Wind" and the
worst episode of Oprah you ever saw, this waste of celluloid has one thing going for it: it's got some grand-ass scenery. It's been described as a
"sweeping epic"...see, though, that also describes my once-every-six-months housecleaning. And the results are identical; with both this movie and my housecleaning, you end up with a lot of garbage.
Women will like one scene early in the film, where
Hugh Jackman is shirtless and bathing in the Outback. Muscles rippling, abs taut and firm, there he is in slow motion, laving up and rinsing down.
Jackman, who early in his career and for obvious reasons had to change his last name from the original "Jorgan" (say it out loud to get the effect..."Hugh Jorgan", and you'll understand), brings a certain
je ne sais quoi to his role as The Drover.
Nice job, Hugh.
Nicole Kidman is alternately prissy ice queen and sex bomb as Lady Ashley
Whateverthehell. One weird thing was that because I was so bored watching the film, I started looking for things in the scenery that weren't necessarily camera-center...and I noticed that dear
Nic's breasts changed sizes in various scenes. Who knew they had Wonder Bras back in 1939 remote Outback Australia? Regardless, this provided a little diversion from the rest of the
vomitus on screen, let me tell you.
Plus,
something's happened to
Nic's face. It's now all angular and
botoxed. She looks like a porcelain doll, a bit, which isn't really appealing to your Nigel. Having previously
perved on
Nic in marvelous movies like Dead Calm (where she gets naked as hell, big time, and has one or two great sex scenes), I gotta say that the way she looks now is....
disappointing. That's just my opinion, though.Back to the movie: there's Bryan Brown and a really cute little Aboriginal kid who steals the film and Japanese bombing Darwin and sand storms and
kangaroos jumping up and down. One kangaroo gets shot early in the film. This little episode I classify as a mercy killing, allowing the poor kangaroo's soul to avoid further involvement in the following 4 hours of cinematic
drek.
I came away from my "Australia" experience with a sore butt from sitting for so long, and a renewed appreciation for any director who has the guts to edit out what doesn't matter to the story. "Australia" needed more than crisper editing, it needed someone early in the game to take director
Baz Luhrmann by the ears and shake him, hard; the resulting brain concussion may very well have stopped the
movie from ever having been made at all.Don't bother going,
shlubbies. Trust me on this. Really.
Happy Thanksgiving
The
traditional holiday breast basting has already begun, chez Nigel! Looks like there'll be plenty to go around...Happy Thanksgiving, shlubbies!
I get the French letters.
Mail, mail, I love getting the mail!
One of my favorite things is
waiting for the mailman. I sit, nose pressed to the living room window, awaiting that little USPS van--and then, like clockwork, here he comes!
And he unloads all this shit right in my box, and I run and get it, and I am oh so happy!
I particularly like receiving mail from Europe. I correspond pretty regularly with people who, through no fault of their own, find themselves in prison. Completely and totally without regard to their innocence, those fucking Interpol bastards lock 'em up and throw away the key.
The injustice of it all!My favorite to get are
French letters. From time to time, they come in the mail...different sizes and colors, but always making me feel protected. It's so nice
watching them come in the mail--there they are, all French and Gallic and
smelling of snails and red wine. I love it.
I bet you'd love getting the French letters, too. There's a feeling of
safety and surety associated with them, lemme tell ya. And they come in so many different varieties, really, there's a lot to enjoy just from that standpoint alone.
Peace out.
I see into the past....
I see where
the Vatican has "forgiven" John Lennon for his "we're more popular than Jesus" comment, circa 1966; they've also written a review of the 1968 White Album that praises its merits. This review happened
yesterday!
Nice, but a bit late, maybe? Most album reviews occur relatively soon post-release, but this one is 40 years late. Talk about having the luxury of time to "get it right"! Herewith, your Nigel's
reviews of a variety of shit from ages ago. And I know I'm right, in addition to smart and good looking, just like my younger brother:
Casablanca: a nice little movie full of actors who do a decent job with the thespian walking and talking and moving about. In general, it's a keeper, and one I'd recommend. This guy Bogart has a future, so long as he doesn't kick off from esophageal cancer sometime in 1957. 5 of 5 "Buff My Scrotum" stars.
The Mary Tyler Moore Show: Mary plays Mary, and she's pretty good, as is the actor who plays her boss, someone name of "Lou Grant". And this Rhoda woman, well, hell, I'm all there, despite the silly headgear wrapping thing she tends to wear. Only downside: set in Minneapolis, which is shit for shinola as a place you'd want to be, especially come winter. A good bet for many Emmys, but they'll be frozen. It's Minne-fucking-sota after all...
The Vietnam War: will play well in the Midwest. My guess as to casualties: 58,159 U.S soldiers killed. I think I'll be right and exact with this casualty count,l though I reserve the right to double check with the Vatican 40 years after all is said and done.
The Clinton Administration: a boon for dry cleaners everywhere, what with the dress stains and all. President Clinton has shitty taste in women. What's with his wife and her pipe-fitter ankles? And this Paula Jones woman? And Monica Lewinsky (at left)? Seriously, if I'm the charismatic leader of the free world and could choose among many possible sex partners, I'd start with someone, um,
good looking. Wouldn't you? He'll go down in flames, trust me.
Barack Obama: what the fuck? Seems like a nice guy and all, but people from Illinois wanna elect him State Senator? Are they on drugs or something?
There you have it, shlubbies: the Nigel crystal ball! And I know I'm right!
A visit to Medieval Times....
Family in town right now and my house is over-run with the pitter-pat, pitter-pat of young feet. Young, juvenile delinquent feet. Yes, the nephews are in town, and what with your Nigel being their favorite uncle and all,
expectations are high for fun and frivolity all provided by your truly. I love these kids but they steal shit from me every time they visit, so the house is in valuables lock-down mode right now. I'm working hard on handling the pressure.
Last night,
we all trooped off to "Medieval Times". This theme restaurant features
knights in shining armour swinging swords at each other while bemused patrons sit in stadium-like array, screaming and yelling for their section's "knight" to kill all the others and thus
win the hand of the princess. Horses galloping around, jousting, and fake English accents. Serfs running behind the horses, shoveling up horse leavings from the sand pit. Lots of dry ice providing the faux-Merlin chracter suitable atmosphere in which to cast his spells.
Errol Flynn lookalikes with hair extensions, astride their saddles and bedecked in colorful middle-ages regalia,
tossing roses to hot chicks in the audience
(old drunk Errol left, and old drunk Errol with hair extensions gone bad, right). All this while patrons tear apart chicken legs and ribs with their bare hands. It's all very showy and exciting and well choreographed and fake.
To get a flavour of the experience, think:
Harry Potter meets McDonald's, with a touch of World Wrestling Federation thrown in.
The
princess was the funniest of the lot. Fair, she was not. She was more...partly cloudy. Looking not unlike the Carmen Diaz character in Shrek, she'd point at the various knights from on high and yell encouragement.
"Yea, noble knight, I beseech thee; slay your opponent and felllatio will be yours!" And then she'd do the tongue in the side of her mouth thing while miming a hand job. Pretty convincing, I gotta say. Despite her blatant ugliness, I got turned on, just a wee bit.
Our knight got killed, and the night ended, and the waiter wants to get tipped, so he's up in our faces (me, my brother's), and we pay, and we leave. Returning to the reality of the 21st Century in the parking lot, I was reminded of
this joke from the Middle Ages:Michael the Dragon Master was an official in King Arthur's court. He had a long-standing obsession to nuzzle the beautiful Queen's voluptuous breasts. But he knew the penalty for this would be death. One day he revealed his secret desire to his colleague, Horatio, who was the King's chief physician. Horatio said, "I can arrange it, but I will need 1,000 gold coins to pay bribes". Michael the Dragon Master readily agreed.
The next day Horatio made up a batch of itching lotion and poured a little of it into the Queens brassiere while she was taking a bath. Soon after she dressed the itching commenced and grew in intensity. Upon being called to the royal chambers, Horatio told the King that only a special saliva, if applied for four hours, would cure this type of itch, and that tests had shown such a saliva was only to be found in Michael the Dragon Master's mouth.
King Arthur summoned Michael the Dragon Master. Michael the Dragon Master slipped the antidote to the itching lotion, which Horatio had given him, into his mouth and for the next four hours worked passionately on the Queen's magnificent breasts.
Satisfied, he returned to his chamber and found Horatio demanding payment. However, with his obsession now satisfied, he refused to pay Horatio anything and shooed him away, knowing that Horatio could never report this matter to the King.
The next day, Horatio slipped a massive dose of the same itching lotion onto King Arthur's loincloth. King Arthur summoned Michael the Dragon Master.....
My balls aren't bouncing...
I've had the
most amazing experience recently which has provided me all kinds of sympathetic reactions to those
who are REALLY handicapped, to wit: I have recently experienced negative physical reactions to previously undertaken
ball surgery. Testicular treatment. Yes, this lovely predicament dates back to when I was 15 years old, and I had the oh-so-unusual
"testicular cancer" diagnosis (rare for 15 year olds) and since the "cut em up shut em up", I am basically feeling-free where it comes to the nerve reaction that make the sex thingy work. Cause they apparently
cut all them there nerves during the surgery, and they never regenerated.
This creates problems for your Nigel vis a vis getting it off, and also finishing up. Takes me a loooonnnngggg time. I feel very little, especially when the occasional oral is offered up (this typically costs about $35...but I feel...nothing).
Regardless of my inability to experience much "down there", I have had lately some disturbing symptoms that have resulted in
me spending some time in a wheelchair.
So,
practical question? What to do when it comes to tennis practice? Seriously! I love me some tennis, and with that in mind need to find someone capable and comfortable teaching for your loyal Nigel regarding what's required in order to kick ass and win, tennis wise. I follow the
Polish model, which is: play, kill, destroy. End of story. Need me a Polish coach. Them there polacks are the
fucking greatest at everyt
hing: they were mega-shmega in confronting the Nazis, they didn't fuck around when it came to the resistance, and when it came to immigrating to the US, well, fuck, they went to Michigan, but almost as soon as possible (because they're smart) said: "Hey, wait a minute! It's cold as hell here! Let's move down South." As a result, we here in Atlanta are effectively over-run by
tall, gorgeous, sexy Polish-American women, who are good tennis players, and who also provide high quality wanking imagery plus the good coaching to those of us who are occasionally differently-abled.
So, I have me a
Polish-American tennis coach, who regularly berates my handicapped-ass, and
makes me feel small (in more ways than one). But I truly love her, because among other thing she is smoking hot and provides endless fantasies for your Nigel...plus of course all the fun things she can do for me, as far as the wheelchair tennis goes. So, I am a happy boy. Peace out.'
Real Housewives Of Atlanta
Real Housewives Of Atlanta...a review, from the perspective of someone who would know. Now, I live in Atlanta, but I've never met women like this. So, totally helpless, I ask you to welcome my friend good buddy
Travis, who inspects trailer homes for a living. Now, we're not talking about any trailer homes here...we're talking the
upscale, double wides, here. We're all about class at buffmyscrotum.com. So, I give you: Travis, who's hip, hep, and white as can be (at least, to look at).
Yo yo, motherfuckas! Travis in da house, ready cause my main man Nigel axed me to be eyein' on this TV show! First off, these beeyotches, they be ugly and shit! I expecting beeyotches be off the hinges, but these are ass out, for real, instead of that butt be badonkadonk, they nothin' but fuckin' chickenheads.
Now, I am mysti-fucking-fied, real, is bad, and not bad good, but bad, bad, no frontin' now. A total clock suck, man, I coulda been out on the street, you know what I'm sayin', doin' the do and conjurin' benjamins, the cheese, yo, you know? Stead I am here.
This show is ugly, man, ugly, like my first wife Evelyn, she be all of 18 now, a jobber, that ho, yo, and she be thinking she got the pimp juice, yo, but no. And the men be jockin' my style, muggin' on me, damn! You know what I'm sayin'? So I say, fuck this shit, I be back now, listenin' to Toby Keith and Brooks and Dunn, hangin' with my classy whodi in the trailer park, man, this show blows. Peace out, Travis is on the rollout.Thanks, Travis. Good God, I HAVE to watch the next episode of this show if it's as good as Travis says!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!
Animal trivia
Commenter Seeeeeeeeeee?
is bugging me for animal trivia. Here goes, complete with requisite cynical, snotty commentary from yours truly (btw, all the trivia cited here is true and documented):
POLAR BEARS are the only mammal with hair on the soles of their feet. It helps them to get a good grip on icy surfaces, and also acts as a heat insulator. Nigel comment: the reason given is crap. The real reason is, the bears wank themselves with their feet. Thus, the hair.
The left leg of a CHICKEN is tenderer than the right one, which it uses most, therefore increasing muscle development. Nigel comment: sorta along the same lines as our first trivia thing. By this definition, my left arm is
way more tender than my right arm, which I also use the most--about three times a day, to be honest. Nudge nudge, wink wink.
ELEPHANTS have been found swimming miles from shore in the Indian Ocean. Nigel comment: it's also true that elephants are the only mammals that can't jump. Which is too bad, because if they can swim, but also could jump, that'd make for a helluva belly-flop competition in the backyard pool, eh?
When two DOGS approach each other, the dog which wags its tail very slowly - showing anger - is in charge. Nigel comment: I've had this happen to me in bars. I only get the ugly chicks hitting on me, and one time, two were doing it at once...the resulting catfight was hell to behold.
MICE are highly promiscuous and need particularly large testes to keep up with demand. Nigel comment: imagine the pick up lines. "Hey, Minnie, come over to my place and I'll show you my cheese collection."
HONEYBEES have hairs on their eyes to help them collect pollen. Nigel comment: again, like our first trivia entry, the reason given is pure bullshit. The real reason, of course, is that honeybees watch way too much porn. It's the same result as the wanking polar bears.
More human deaths have been attributed to FLEAS than all the wars ever fought. Nigel comment (sorta obscure, I admit): this is why I don't own any Red Hot Chili Peppers records.
That's it, school's out, time for recess!
Nigel is getting pussy
It's true.
It'll
make me feel great. Oh so nice, oh so comforting, oh so blood-pressure reducing. Every night when I come home, I'll have
something to look forward to. Waiting for me, all curled up on
my nice big warm bed, anxious to see me...crawl all over me.
I can't wait.
I'm talking about a
cat. A kitten, to be precise, with a little help from a close friend...we'll head to either the humane society or some pet store somewhere in a couple of weeks, where she'll make the decision as to which fine feline we find, and then I'll deal with the aftermath (kitty litter, clawed up furniture, etc.)
What were you thinking I was talking about? Hmmmmmm?
Get your minds out of the gutter, perverts.
Enjoy your weekend, I know I will!
Nigel comes to the rescue yet again
Another question submitted to tax
what's left of both Nigel's brain and his patience:
How would you suggest to avoid the flu this year especially with a house full of kids that bring home every germ imaginable? Is there any hope for me to avoid this year's plague?
This one's simple: spray the kids with
shitloads of Windex, head to toe. Do it assembly-line style, and make sure to get under their arms and everything, 'cause that's where the heat builds up and spores of nastiness flourish. Not only will the Windex kill the bugs, it'll make the kids squeeky clean at the same time, so you're "going green" here by saving water -- not needing to bathe the little buggers.
And one other tip:
ixnay on tongue kissing your pets. Animals' mouths are disgusting cesspools of bacteria, so frenching Fifi the poodle is a serious no-no. I realize it's a habit you've got, and it'll be hard to break, and of course Fifi loves it and all -- but seriously, man,
control your urges in order to get through the season halfway healthy.
Dear Nigel...two more problems to solve
I've got my Dear Abby bra on, boys and girls, and am trying oh so hard to
provide the advice that makes a diff. Here we go with the latest:
How do I put up with a fucking computer geek who lives for blogs? I don't know what to do with him. I wake up naked (and I am not too bad-lookin' in that sitsy-a-shon) and the dork is on the fuckin' Internet doin' the blog thing. HELP!!!BTW - loving annie - I'd go for Angelina Jolie before Lindsay Lohan...Dear darling reader:'Tis a conundrum.
But first, where the fuck were YOU when MY second wife left me? Shit.
Back to your problem: there you are, naked as a jaybird and apparently willing to
surrender the pink (am I wrong about that? reading too much between the lines?), and yet you're dealing with a man who's more interested in blogging than banging.
I say:
disappointing. And then, my advice is: make the sonofabitch jealous. And I have the perfefct plan.
Get yizzself a website, and call it something nasty and provocative, something that would attract lots of men. Something like: fuckinggreathomecooking.com. It'll be irresistable, because men all blow dead hippos at the culinary skills, and will kill for a real, home cooked meal.
Second:
post you some almost nudey photos on that there site, cooking up the victuals. Nothing too dramatic--but enough to water the eyes, and also lubricate other parts, of the men who partake of the visual excellence contained therein.
Third:
share all the nasty and disgusting propositions made your way, including but not limited to the invitations for dastardly anal invasion. After all, we're trying to get the object of your desire to get...desirous...right? And nothing quite says desire like jailhouse amorousness, I'm telling you.
Fourth:
evaluate the reaction of desired object, and quickly make a determination as to the efficacy of continued effort. I say, if you look as hot as you claim, baby, come on over to chez Nigel, and one thing will lead to another, yes yes yes?
If all else fails,
there's always the pills, or perhaps the HK 47 snub nose. But I doubt it will get that bad, as your self-proclaimed hotness will count for something among the great unwashed shallow douchebags who read this drivel and spew, and so you'll find someone else to torture moving forward.
Oh, personal observation: even straight women can apparently "get it up" for Angelina Jolie, but I gotta admit that Ms. Lohan is looking pretty good, too, lately, since she cleaned herself up and admitted her carpet munching tendencies.
If she and I were in an all-womens prison, she'd be my girl. Gay women shlubbies: weigh in, please?
-----
A perverted reader writes:
How might you, skilled 'gina master that you are, advise we (men as a community) get Lindsay and Loving Annie together? Further, how might we talk them into "scissoring" for the camera?
My
disgust for you is immeasurable. That you would, for even one minute, consider this as a potential reality...my god, man, the
depths of depravity to which you have sunk! Have you no shame?
Seriously, though, if you could get the photos and the video,
we could make some major goddamm cash. Ya think? You in?
Dear Nigel....the first two sob stories....
Hey ho! It's my first shot at counseling and assistance (see yesterday's post for an explanation).
Putting on the Dear Abby bra, I warm up the IBM Selectric and get cracking on my first two problems to solve, sent in by my shlubbies:
One of my lovely readers writes:Dearest Nigel, Why is it that a luscious single babe such as myself, who showers meticulously from head to toe, bikini waxes, uses deodorant, brushes her teeth, and has a clean bill of physical and mental health cannot get laid on a regular basis by a studly hot single cop who wants nothing more than to skillfully and sweetly ravish me every time he gets off duty ? Everyone else on the planet seems to be having orgasms as often as they drink starbucks in the mornings. Please render some appropriate and wise perspective before my special place becomes filled with cobwebs from lack of use.Nigel says:Dearest shlubbie, well,
that sucks the flaming pole of manhood. I wish I had some wisdom but I'm shit out right now, having been up all night drinking Sambuca while watching Audie Murphy in "To Hell And Back."
That Audie, wow, what a
baby-faced little guy. See what I mean, in the photo at left? Look, this movie was filmed in 1955, and he looked all of 16 in the film...since he was playing himself as a war hero, that means he must have been, like, a fucking
infant when he was killing the Jerries ten years before, in WW2.
This movie had the least-realistic battle scenes in celluloid history. They all looked like
the kind of gunplay you'd see while watching an episode of Hogan's Heroes. I kept waiting for
General Burkhalter to show up. But at least the Germans actually speak German in the film, as opposed to English with a German accent.
Oh, where was I? Your problem. Let's see: you could go gay, like Lindsey Lohan? Would that work, at least temporarily? Failing that, I'd suggest broadening your horizons, and going after
married cops. Or, how do you feel about single firefighters? I mean, they have a uniform, too!
I hope that helps.
Let me know how it works out for you, kay?
----
Another poor lost soul writes Nigel, the expert:
Dear Nigel, Why is it that we can't create a sport or reality show where one hunts their ex until their dead? I have anxieties about not being able to do this...The short answer is: in this age of youtube.com, there's
nothing stopping you from producing your own "spec" show, or pilot, and then shopping that sucker around to all the greedy TV execs out there. You lazy slagheap! Let's make a plan, shall we?
First, you've got to ensure production values are tip-top. That means, you need a host. I'd suggest has-been actor
Steve Guttenberg, he of the "Police Academy" movies--photo at left. I mean, we already know he knows how to handle a gun, from his previous movie work, and I bet he'd work for peanuts.
Next, which network to go after? Because we know that Mr. Obama is gonna reinstate the
Fairness Doctrine, I'd suggest approaching a network not typically known for shows about murdering your ex-wife. They'll be looking for programming to balance out their point of view once that law gets back into place. So,
what about the "O" network? Oprah's thing? They air, almost non-stop, heart-rendin
g stories of women who've overcome breast cancer or ingrown toenails or halitosis or whatever, so they might be a good candidate. I bet she'd love to see your tape in a pitch meeting.
Her reaction at first may be something similar to what's pictured at right, but goddammit, persevere! She'll come around!
Finally,
you'll need a sponsor. Since they've got a lot of money, and it's retail, and
they advertise a lot on TV, and your show has something to do with women (sorta),
I'd go after the shopping chain...Target. Just think of all the neat positioning/slug lines you could come up with!
"You've got your ex-wife in your sights...while she's in the crosshairs, don't forget to target real savings, at Target!" That kinda thing.
"Dear Nigel...."
My bloggin' brutha and best friend I've yet to meet, Carlos, suggests that your humble Nigel produce a "Dear Nigel" column, ala Dear Abby. It'd be great, full of fun filled advice and how-to's, from your expert: moi!
So, darling shlubbies, I am open to suggestion and happy to help with the goddamm fucking advice. Fire away, via comments--and I will copy and paste the worst of them, and respond, fortwith! And fifthwith, too, you bastards!
And remember: I put the "um" in "scrotum". So you can count on me to not only be solid, but confidential, too. (Riiiigggghhhhhtttt........)
With age, comes....age!
"Age doesn't always bring wisdom. Sometimes, age shows up all by itself."
That's about right! As I got older, I thought I'd get smarter, that the mysteries of life would clear. Instead, things are murkier than ever. But even so, there are a few little gems floating around that have crystallized for me.
So, as I ponder the nature of existence, here are
some things I realize now to be true:- If marriage were outlawed, only outlaws would have in-laws.
- Brain cells come and brain cells go, but fat cells live forever.
- In just two days, tomorrow will be yesterday.
- Love is grand; divorce is a hundred grand.
- Never be afraid to try something new. Remember, amateurs built the Ark. Professionals built the Titanic.
That last one, that's a good one. And with the economy in the shitter and the job situation more precarious every day, I've decided to open a new business:
online massage therapy.I should make a million, dontcha think?
Fantasy Football is for fools....
I am surrounded by fools who participate in this
"Fantasy Football" thing.
Now, I don't know about you, but any fantasy from the mind of your Nigel typically involves
Angelina Jolie, a buggy whip, chloroform, a feather-duster, and 6 jars of strawberry jam. See? There she is at left, biting on a strawberry! Must be the pre-Nigel warm up!
Pervy digressions aside: what to make of Fantasy Football, and the
neckless lizards who participate therein?
- Stats, which is what drives the whole thing, have nothing to do with the game. The sheer enjoyment of play, the back-and-forth of the team momentum, the noise of the crowd, the tailgating and beer drinking and booster camaraderie...fuck all that, here's a better idea, whatsay we sit in a dark basement and watch nfl.com for the latest "who's on waivers now" news, and then let's "trade" players, and then let's sit around jerking each other off when our "team" beats our "opponents". Sounds like fun, yes?
- The guys (and it's nearly all guys who have "teams") have way too much time on their hands. To wit:
- A wise man once said that talking about sports is like dancing about architecture. It's meaningless; not one tiny opinion, even well expressed, nothing we as fans and laymen contribute has anything to do with the reality of the outcome. Fantasy Football is like that, too. It proves nothing, it's mind numbing and time consuming, and it involves way too much effort working spreadsheets. Who wants to do homework on a Sunday night? Answer: the dolts who have to update their fantasy team point counts by digging through the day's statistic results, that's who.
Still, I suppose there are some fantasies involving football games that are worth the time and effort. I was at the
Falcons/Saints game yesterday in the Georgia Dome, and my mind got to wandering...not about Drew Brees or Matt Ryan, no no no. Mostly about
this one Falcons' cheerleader I spotted down below, shimmying and shaking:
"Miss Cheerleader, please meet Miss Jolie. Can I offer you both some strawberry jam? But before that, please take a whiff of this handkerchief--does this smell like chloroform to you?"
Byrd to Inouye: a generational transition
As part of the
Oba-famalastic revolution underway, the Dems are re-evaluating everything, including their committee chairmanships.
Comes now 91 year old
ex-KKK-er Democrat Robert Byrd of West Va., (at left) who never met a pork-barrel spending bill he didn't like, especially if his name was on all the resulting largesse spewed over his state as a result (you've got the Robert Byrd hospitals, Byrd Jr. High schools, probably even a Byrd bird sanctuary) -- anyhow, he's decided to
relinquish his chairmanship of the un-Godly powerful Senate Appropriations Commitee, in order to let someone from the
"younger generation" take over.Younger generation. OK? In the spirit of Barackcitement....I get that.
So,
replacing old Klansman Byrd, who again is 91--will be
Daniel Inouye of Hawaii, who's....wait for it.....84. There is old Dan, at right, who's a WW2 vet and hero, and who lost an arm in combat way back then, when the world was still all in black and white. Color wasn't invented till about 1954, I believe.
This is funny. Inouye was old enough to be around when King Kamehameha was still, um, king of Hawaii. 84 is the new "younger generation?"
That's sort of like talking about
Lauren Bacall, (pictured in her smoking hot days, back before there was indoor plumbing) today. "Lauren Bacall--is she really 85? She doesn't look it! She looks about 79!"
Nice move, Demos!
My religious heritage is a mixed bag
I've noted some media yakking about
President-elect Obama's mixed racial heritage. Mom was white, dad was black -- there you have it -- our next
Prez!!
I, too, am of mixed racial heritage. My mother's family are all Jewish, and my father's family are all Neanderthal.
Just kidding.
Actually, dad's family were all
Scottish coal miners. These people were so
Protestant, they believed that
Catholics had tails..so you can imagine the reaction the first time daddy showed up at home bright eyed, bushy tailed, and probably pretty horny, with this lovely young lady of the
Hebrew persuasion.
Oy,
gevalt!
They were so pissed off, it continued well past the wedding up to and including my birth. How pissed off? They
picketed my circumcision, that's how much.
As I grew, I was
raised a Protestant believer, but
we also celebrated Passover. This caused a weird amalgamation of rituals. For example, we wanted the Angel of Death to pass by our house, but instead of using lamb's blood on the door as a sign, we went to Sherwin Williams for a gallon of "Country Club Red" latex. As for the
seder itself, in our family, the 4 questions of
Pesach had some bizarre answers, sort of a mixed bag of stuff. Like, question #1, about why we eat only matzoh at Passover? Answer: because the butcher ran out of haggis. What the hell kind of response is that?
No wonder I'm a confused person.Still, I take solace in this: Jesus was a Jew, and if he can forgive me for my sins, including everything on this blog, well, I figure I'm on my way to heaven. If not, maybe I can find someone down here who'd sell me a ticket...but I'm not paying retail!
What, you want I should pay retail?
Aftermath
So I was close on the electoral college prediction.
Classy speeches from all concerned, including George Bush.
We'll see.
Obama to win, I hope...
At this point, I'm hoping for an Obama blowout.
I have a very good friend, a small business owner who along with his partner grossed about 1.2 million bucks last year. They employ eight people, and he makes a comfortable living--now working just four days a week in rotation with his partner. He built this business from the ground up, with nothing provided in advance, no special treatment, just hard work and guts and chutzpah.
Oh, did I mention: he's African American?
My friend, who I'll call Kevin, is one of the nicest guys around. We get together and share beers and talk business...rarely, politics, or anything racial. But the other day I asked Kevin how he was feeling about the election.
He's torn, really torn. For reasons I completely understand, he wants to vote for Obama. But he also knows that a vote for Obama will result in his taxes going up, contraction of work, and the likelihood of his company having to lay off at least two of their full time employees. And that kills him.
So he's not sure which direction he's going, but I think he's leaning Obama.
Setting that aside, he said something really disturbing to me the other day, which was that if there's ANY whiff of 2000 election-type hanging chad stuff, there'll be blood in the streets. And he meant it.
This is him talking now, not me. He said to watch out, that if McCain wins, the "community" will feel like the whole thing was a sham, stolen out from under them, and the resulting violence will make the riots after Dr. King was assassinated look like midget professional wrestling. He actually told me to stay home Tuesday night and all day Wednesday, just in case.
Now, Kevin is no whack job lunatic. He's a responsible, tax-paying professional entrepreneur who lives in a beautiful home and drives a 2008 stunning black-on-black 'Vette, tricked out. He's a really thoughtful guy, and one of my closest friends to boot.
But, know what? I think Kevin's right. The media, having anointed Obama months ago, have played his election end game as so invevitable as to be undenied. So, can you imagine what will happen if McCain somehow pulls this off and wins--even by just a few electoral votes?
What I'm hoping for, then, is a total blowout: Obama 355, McCain something under 200. A mandate. And I hope the Congress goes Democrat, and the Senate, too, with 60+ seats for the Dems. That way they can really enact all the shit they've been talking about, and we'll see where the chips fall. If they suck at it, they'll only have themselves to blame, because they'll have an invincible majority.
It's a classic "put your money where your mouth is" situation, and I truly, at this point, hope they get to try. 'Cause I'm tired of all this bullshit.
That, plus no blood in the streets...and me and my friend Kevin can get back to drinking together.
In a probably vain attempt to ease my lack of companionship, I am tomorrow acquiring a new pet. A cat. But because of my allergies and also lack of regular housecleaning, I need to get one that doesn't have a lot of hair. One of those baldy cats you see in National Geographic. That way, I won't be scraping up dander off the couch in the middle of a sneezing fit. I'll let you know how my search for my hairless pussy goes, though with my luck I'll get one that looks like the lovely creature above left.
Meanwhile, I've decided to try one of those online dating services. Not that goddamm e-Harmony, no way, the hell with that. Mainly because their TV ads frighten the shit out of me. Everyone who hooks up on e-Harmony apparently ends up married, and that's the last bloody thing I need. No, your Nigel is simply looking for a few laughs followed up with athletic bouts of mindless boinkaroo. That's my plan, anyway.
appears to be sexy and gorgeous with the right backlighting. If you have legs that even remotely look like Heidi Klum's, well then, I'm already masturbating thinkin' about ya! Looking for fun times only, beeyotch: I'm not in the market for the three ring circus (engagement ring, wedding ring, suffering). 'Cause love is like a sweet dream, and marriage is the loud alarm clock. But if you deliver the goods, humour-wise and contortion-wise, I'll jump on Oprah's couch for ya, promise! I bathe daily and all my shots are current. Being older than the average lying jerkoff on this site, I'm a lot like a pile of shit--the older I get, the easier I am to pick up. So you won't have to work too hard. Discretion assured, as I am willing to lie about how we met.
