Happy almost New Year, pal
Tomorrow night is
New Year's Eve, and we're all celebrating -- right?
Me, I'll be at a friend's house, flying solo. but
I won't be chasing women at this party.
I'm not planning on kissing anyone or anything there. And I'm not alone: a study released yesterday reveals the following New Year's info nugget, that
1 in 5 people have "no one to kiss" when midnight strikes. The study also shows that
more people will kiss their pets than they will kiss other people.
Kissing pets? WTF is up with that?!? But these study results make sense when you realize the news source for the story, which is a website called "
Arkansas Matters".
In
Arkansas, frenching with animals is considered normal, I guess, so that explains it.
"You are a pack of arseholes"
Here's one that teachers will secretly like, perhaps a little tiny bit.
Comes now a
story out of Australia about an un-named teacher who's been cleared to continue teaching despite numerous complaints filed against him by students and parents. Apparently this guy was pretty, um, forceful with his 5th grade class; allowing his kids to chase each other around the room with a baseball bat, plus
liberal use of the "F" word (as in, ""Why the fuck are you behaving this way in my class and not other people's classes?"and "Don't fucking swear at me") along with this classic, directed at the kids:
"You are a pack of arseholes" -- all this resulted in our hero being cited and brought up on charges.
Somehow he manages to maintain his certification and is still working at this time.
But you've gotta love it -- at least I do -- that this guy actually got to
tell students what he really thought of them. See, in my experience, most 5th graders
are arseholes. To be able to let fly in the room, right in front of them, must have been liberating and freeing and oh so fun.
His lawyer will probably come back with some lame excuse, like he has
Tourette's Syndrome, or something similar, and ultimately the result will be fully-paid long-term disability for this teacher, who will then age gracefully and end up like
Clint Eastwood's characted in his new movie, Gran Torino. He'll be the first out the door with a shotgun growling things like "get off my lawn" whenever the neighborhood kids tromp by.
I'm so jealous.
My Christmas gift
You could barely contain my excitement yesterday when I eagerly unwrapped
the one gift found for me under the tree at my ex-wife's house (I had to go there, see, 'cause Nigel Jr. lives with that person). Tearing apart the paper in breathless anticipation, I opened the box and found this:
Yes, it's the
"Historic Victory" commemorative plate celebrating the election of our new President, Barethemus Hexographer O'Shaughnessy. As seen on TV! Well! How special! Carefully, I mounted it on its collectors item 24k faux gold stand, and placed it in the
takanoma ("place of honor" in traditional Japanese households). Once there and safe, I continually turned to it as I was chewing mouthfuls of previously live turkey and pig, and smiled at it.
Just like in the TV ad. I was most drawn to his "confident smile and kind eyes".
The crowning thingy with this was the official
"Certificate of Authenticity" which assures me and all my impressed visitors that this, indeed, is the real goddamm deal, and that
I being smart wasn't fooled by cheap imitations.I'll be ordering more President O'Shaughnessy crapola in the future, so if you're aware of anything I can use around the house that celebrates him, including his confident smile and kind eyes...lemme know.
Finally, done
Whew.
The
silly season is over, at least for 2008. Sunset on Christmas Day, for me, marks the wrapping up of the "holidays", and it's never more welcome than right now.
This annual turd-fest is the most depressing, forced, fake bunch of shit I have to endure annually, and I'm so glad it's coming to an end.
Now I can return to being my usual cheery self.
But I can't let it go by without
re-gifting a photo used in a post last year. This
sums up my attitude about this time of year, pretty bloody well.
Here's to getting back to work, and also to being left alone, without the intervention of "family" or "friends".
In trouble at Victoria's Secret
So, being that it's
Christmas and all, and me being me -- classic procrastinator -- time then to
hit the shopping mall and begin my gift shopping. How to combine this painful experience with some fun? Simple:
buy everything at Victoria's Secret.
I've been in there when nubility and pulchritude, losing their collective minds amongst all the frilly delicates, have actually
tried things on outside the dressing rooms. Score! There's nothing better than standing quietly in the corner of Vicky's (that's what I affectionately call the place) while women like
Marrisa Miller (at left) pop in and out of bustierres and thongs, all the while squealing to their friends "does this make me look fat"? Answer: um, no, Marissa, you're not looking fat.
Even hot straight girls wanna do you, you little myx, you. And I wanna watch, btw.
Once again, though, I'm veering from my story.
Big question of the night:
what to buy my mother? Now, some people would think shopping for mummy's gifts at Victoria's Secret is a little....pervy....but I'm not some people. Plus, mother just got married again, and given her advanced age I figure whatever I can do to spice up the bedroom for her and the new hubby is a good thing. There's only so much "heat" you can generate when the
decor de boudoir is courtesy of American Discount Home Medical Equipment.So a quick trip to Vicky's for dear old mum. Trouble is, she's off in Branson with hubby right now, taking in the sights plus the odd Osmond Brothers show. So I couldn't be sure that what I bought would be the right size, and stuff. What to do, what to do?
Solution! There, shopping alongside her great-granddaughter, was a
lady of a certain age. Eyeing her, I thought: shit, she's about mother's size. So, nicely and politely and all, and
not trying to be weird or anything, I approached her:
Nigel: Excuse me madam, merry Christmas and all that, could I impose on you for a favour?
Lady: Certainly, young man.
N: My mum's in Missouri and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind trying on some things for me, like a mega-shmega thong and bra set, in the spirit of the holidays? You could go back and forth, back and forth between the floor and the dressing room, and sorta show me how things look, and then I'd be able to get her the gifts. What do you say?
After the police came, things got a little hectic, but on the way out I managed a few choice words directed particularly at the store manager--I yelled at her that I wouldn't be shopping at Vicky's anymore no matter what and that also
Marissa Miller is a lesbian ..which, come to think of it...hmmm....I
still wanna watch. Perv that I am. Just a tiny bit.
Vegemite, my lobe!
It became clear to me that tonight, I'd had no dinner. It was about 9:30pm, and I'd just finished
IM'ing with the single most important person in my life, and I was like: hey, haven't eaten, but let's see what's in the fridge and get to it, shall we?
What was in the fridge was
Vegemite. This extraordinary black, salty paste, used primarily as a toast/sandwich spread, is incomprehensible to anyone other than those among us who've been blessed to have spent at least some of our collective childhood
in Australia. For there, you see, Vegemite is as important as breathing. It's like...peanut butter...but with religious overtones.
So, the Vegemite. Toast made, butter liberally spread, Vegemite ladled atop, and
all is well with your Nigel.I love Vegemite. I want to continue to eat it till I die. I have eaten Vegemite since I was a little, tiny boy, and
nothing makes me feel as good as chomping on a Vegemite sandwich or Vegemite on toast or whatever. I have little in my life that provides me as much pleasure. And I don't care what others amongst us might think of it.
I am
loyal, and steadfast, and also not a fool. When I find something wonderful, and joyful, and personally important, and really, really tasty, and something that can give me supreme sublime happiness, well...and I don't mean to be weird here...I stick with it.
btw, and for those who need further illumination: my Vegemite story, while true, is but an allegory, shlubbies.
Manhood intact despite "Mamma Mia"
After last night's festivities, I pleasured myself to visions of Meryl Streep in tight spandex bell bottoms, all the while doing a mental check-off as I jerked off: had to make sure to rid my mind of the gayness that lurked within, post TV viewing.
But I'm getting ahead of my story.
See, my regular
Friday night nefarious plan involves attempting to woo a certain
Chiquitita over to my home where I ply her with home-made victuals and alcohol-free beverages--then, we retire to the TV room where I make vain attempts at
pushing her buttons. So to speak. This of course with the ultimate goal of concluding carnal congress. To help out last night, I grilled up a particularly rare filet mignon for my guest; the thinking being that really red meat gets the juices flowing, and so on and so forth, and so long as I get her juices flowing, well then!
The inner lion in your Nigel was roaring last night, lemme tell ya!So as we're getting comfortable after dinner she goes: "Let's watch a movie!" And I'm thinking, perhaps something that would set the mood. "9 1/2 Weeks"..."Red Shoe Diaries"...maybe "National Lampoon's European Vacation"?
No, she wanted to watch a musical called "Mamma Mia".
I'm not much for musicals. I liked the Rocky Horror Picture Show but that was mainly because
Susan Sarandon, who's about 84 years old now, was all of 23 or so back then, and spent the bulk of the film jiggling around in her underwear (photo at left). And as a rule I'm certainly not much for a musical built around the songs of the
Swedish group Abba. But this particular woman lying prone on my couch is especially fine and lovely, so I figured I had much to gain and nothing much to lose by agreeing to watch this picture at her request.
So,
"Mamma Mia"--it's a filmic adaptation of the mega-homo Broadway show that featured about 8,000 songs from Abba. You've got Meryl Streep and Colin Firth and Pierce Brosnan and Christine Baransky and Stellan Skaarsgaaaaard (how does he spell his name?) flitting around this Greek island, and all of a sudden interrupting the rather weak plot with
Abba tunes like "The Winner Takes It All".Watching this, I discovered two things: first, Pierce Brosnan, who obviously won the sperm Olympics when he was born in Istanbul and who thus looks sorta like a Greek God -- Pierce Brosnan has the singing voice of, oh...Ernest Borgnine. Boy can't sing. Second, and much to my horror:
I knew ALL THE WORDS TO ALL THE ABBA SONGS IN THE FILM! There I was, singing along to "Dancing Queen" and "S.O.S" and I couldn't believe it. Must have been because I'd had to play all those songs on the radio back in my disc jockey days...but I'd long suppressed the memory of this.
About half-way through the film, I touched myself.
Just to make sure I still had a penis, and that somehow it hadn't been cut off or had fallen off or had befallen some other nasty fate. Abba can have that effect on a man, you know. I'm not fucking kidding.
My would-be conquest spent the bulk of the night laughing at me, and she left as per the norm with me being left to, um,
handle things on my own...which I did. With visions of Meryl in shiny bell bottom spandex dancing through my head, I went at it, fully conscious the whole time that if Brosnan entered the fantasy, it'd be time to take the pills.
I'm happy to report no such trouble;
my manhood remains intact. And I never want to see this "Mamma Mia" film, ever again.
Pulling files with four hands...and more!
Seeeeeee? Here's a news story about someone who managed to make lemonade out of lemons! There's always hope, even if you're
born "differently-abled". It'll be interesting to see how this guy's appeal turns out.
World Wanking Championships disqualification controversy
(AP Photo) Martin Schorrozo of Lichtenstein reacts to news of his disqualification from the final round of the World Wanking Championships currently underway in Banjas, Brazil. Judges took the disqualification decision after an official complaint was filed by Italy's "Piacere Di Auto Della Squadra" (tran: "Self-Pleasure Team") Thursday. The complaint alleged "lack of fair play" and specifically cited Schorrozo's "unusual physical ability".
Schorrozo, who was born with four arms, has had success in other masturbation meets by using his unique and theatrical four-handed approach. His two favourite routines, "Pulling Office Files" and "Squashing Stonehenge" (set to the tune of the Divinyls hit, "I Touch Myself"), are regular top-ten search result items on youtube.com. One of the most popular competitors on the circuit, Schorrozo has received four "I'M THE SPUNKIEST!" congeniality awards in previous contests.
An appeal has been filed by Lichtenstein and is currently under review. The World Wanking Championships are scheduled to conclude tomorrow with the awarding of the coveted "Onan One!" trophy.
I'm now an official pussy inspector!
Because of holiday pressures and lack of overall time in general, I haven't as yet acquired my new cat--
I hope to do so soon. However, in order to be fully qualified as a new kitty owner, I contacted the
University of Phoenix and took their amazingly quick (though expensive) certification course.
Now I'm credentialed, and they sent me this handsome badge I can use when adoption takes place. It'll give the shelter much more confidence in my ability, don't you think?
The retirement home activities calendar
I was a little disturbed when I found this lying on my mother's living room coffee table. They do some whacky crap over there at the old folks home, eh? Just check this calendar out!
We've got fun activities at Sunset Acres Retirement Community! Here's just a sample!
Join us for "Mercy Killing Mondays", which is where geriatrics on the verge of death hobble out to the parking lot and end it all with a quick shot to the head. Mondays, 7:30pm.
And here we have Extreme Wheelchair action which takes place in the hall just in front of the bingo room. Nightly, after you've gummed dinner.
Re-live the excitement of the past with one of our most attended activities, "Group Sex Night". Fridays, 8:00pm, in the infirmary. Defibrillators provided courtesy of your medical staff--the evening is sponsored by Viagra!
We look forward to your participation in these and other great times!
Rinse. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat....
It's come to my attention that
I am one repetitive bastard. I repeat myself. I say the same stuff over and over. This was helpfully pointed out to me by a friend who told me: "Nigel,
you're one repetitive bastard. You repeat yourself. You say the same stuff over and over."
I want to
stop this. Stop it, I say! What would help is if I also could stop being predictable, using the same catch phrases. Catch phrases like:
- "I liiiiikke it!"
- "I don't want to sound weird or anything..."
- "I knoooooooooooow."
- "Irrespective of that..."
- "back and forth, back and forth"
- "Supposedly..."
- "Allegedly..."
There are plenty more. In non-polite company, I tend to say these things a lot:
- "I don't give a hairy rats ass."
- "Flaming fairy-floss fisting fuckwad."
- "Oily heap of shit."
- "Bite the flaming pole of manhood."
- "....magnolia candy-ass fetus eater...."
....and the always pleasant: "Eat a warm, slurpy bowl of fuck."
I'm working on breaking the habit.
What phrases do YOU say a lot, without realizing you're yammering on? Comment away, shlubbies!
Asian tattoo smoking chicks are easy
What all us men know to be true: if you meet a
hot chick with a tattoo, and also
who smokes: golden time. It means that you
WILL get laid.Typical tattoo, as seen on
caucasian girls, at right. Here, then, is someone you know you're gonna score with, especially if she pulls out the
pack of Camel Lights. Factor those things in together, and
boyo, it's orgasm city, minus the worry or concern, 'cause she'll be so drunk, she won't remember anything anyway.
But wait.
What about Asian girls? It would stand to reason that they wouldn't have the
tattoos with their own language on them? What would be the point? Here, then, the best tattoo, in English, on easy Asian chicks, the ones who will spread the pink and indulge without forethought. And
keep in mind, they smoke, too:
The Dalai Lama can buff my scrotum
The
Dalai Lama has a quote about pursuing happiness, which is something I'd like to quote as it regards me the way things are right now, to wit:
Worrying about everything means worrying about nothing. For it is clear that the man who tries to make the one thing he wishes to happen in reality is forsaken. The truth is in the pie: it is a mix of things, without regard to religion or belief.Hey, Dalai--should we call you "D", or "Lama"? One thing: go fuck yourself. I know the one thing I'd like to happen in my life, and it won't, dammit, that's the way it is, and no fucking mystical crap is gonna make it happen because, newsflash: I am ugly, fat, old, disgusting looking, and have 36 pack abs...so bugger you and your mystical bullshit, and btw also
to hell with Tibet and all your whining crapola besides.
Buddy, before China, your "country" had a life expectancy of about 42 for the average man, plus no sewers or paved roads plus of course total illiteracy. Yeah, your magnolia candy ass fetus eating "country" really had it goin' on, hey? Better to assume things would improve post-death, vis-a-vis reincarnation and all that other idiocy you believe in, than to actually work daily to improve the lives of your "people"? And why not? You're being jetted around the fucking world on Gulfstream G5's, first class hotels, etc, to show up and give speeches...must be tough.
Meanwhile, those old nasty Chinese actually get to work improving things, and then
you get all Richard Gere on them, you asshole, go fuck yourself, and you wonder why they have a claim on your disgusting turd-like little land? Again, boobola, fuck you. The Chicoms come in, teach you illiterate fucks how to read, pave the roads, provide basic services, clean water, allowing you to shit in peace and without worry of being attacked up the asshole by some nasty desert creature lurking in your outhouse...and
now you get pissed off?
You and that fucking asshole Boddhisatva or yours can buff my scrotum.
Dyslexia...the hrroro, the roorrh
So, this made its way to my email last night.
Celebrate the hodilays!
Assault, Japanese style
When I was a kid, I lived in a bunch of places, including
Japan.Tokyo, to be specific, and I was aged 11--14 when I was there. 1968--1971. I loved it, because it was perfect in every way. See,
Tokyo is so safe that my parents had no trouble with me disappearing for hours at a time, wandering the streets, checking it all out. So that's what I'd do, alone, enjoying it hugely.
A typical Saturday morning: I'd leave the house and just...walk. Komaba, Shibuya, Shinjuku, Roppongi...just wandering and checking it all out.
I loved the solitude and the loud business, all simultaneous. I loved the narrow streets and the noodle shops and the pachinko parlours and the noise of the motorbikes whipping by. I loved the smells of the restaurants opening up. I just loved it, and when I had an opportunity to go back, courtesy of my radio work and Delta Airlines offering me a free slot (along with my late brother Kent, who spoke fluent Japanese) on their inaugural direct Atlanta to Tokyo flight back in 1988--well, I had to take it, and damned if all the things I loved weren't exactly the same.
One time, though, reality hit me hard. My younger brothers and I were returning from a weekend morning skating session at some ice rink and having taken the train, we were walking through the main street of the little village where we lived inside Tokyo proper, back up the long hill to our house.
All the people knew us. We shopped there. And as we were walking, my brother was
viciously attacked by some nutty woman who couldn't stop screaming at us. Beating on his back. Spitting at him.
My brother, Kent, was smart enough (he was about 9 years old, now) to yell at me "don't hit her back, don't stop her" as she
literally beat the shit out of him. He somehow knew that if I retaliated, it would escalate badly. This was on the main street. Passers-by stopped, horrified, but
no one helped Kent. Yet somehow he broke away and together me, Kent, and my youngest brother Scott (who was maybe 7 years old at the time) ran into a store where we were regular patrons. The store owner quickly ushered us to
the back door--nothing special, just a wooden door--and as we stood there waiting to get out a
huge knife came through the middle of the thing. This lady was out there and serious.
The rest is somewhat of a blur. Somehow, we ran home, the
police were called, and because Kent was the only one who could really speak the language he was the one who had to tell the cops what had happened. But he was injured, hurting, the poor kid, but he did his best.
Fast forward. The police knew this woman:
her brother had been killed by the Allies in WW2 and she'd lost her mind because of it. Her deal was: she hated foreigners. White people. Because of the war. But, someone had to go and identify her; that was me, being the oldest. So there I am in a Japanese squad car, being driven to this lady's house. The Japanese cops had me hide behind a wall--they rang the doorbell, everything was fine, until they ushered me around the corner.
Crazy lady went berserk as soon as she saw me, screaming, frothing at the mouth, had to be held back by the police. She was taken away, and I was taken home. I didn't sleep for weeks.
Japan. I love that country.
Ta Ta, Polaroid
Q: What do you call a Polish mongoloid who has only one leg?A: A Polaroid One Step.
If you're under the age of, say, 31, this joke will mean absolutely nothing to you. Older than that? You'll remember the product, I bet.
The Polaroid One Step. There it is, at right. This simple to use point-and-click camera dominated the world of instant photography back before the digital age.
Yesterday, the Polaroid Corporation (they're still around?) announced they'd
cease making instant film and basically close up shop. This month, December 2008, is
the last month of production. Another relic of a by-gone era goes the way of the buffalo.
The One Step and its cousin, the SX-70, were ubiquitous in American homes back in the day, primarily for one big reason: they provided Joe and Jane Sixpack the ability to
quickly and privately shoot filthy photos of their private parts, whether singular or "joined", and review those photos at their leisure, without having pesky Wal Mart part-time one hour photo employees glom onto them...or, worse, report them to the police.
For grins, I went back through
my collection of old girlfriend Polaroids...and here are some of the "clean" ones:
That last one there--
her name was Clamydia--man, oh man. This particular photo, if I remember right, was her disgusted reaction the instant I took my pants off. Hot stuff, I'm telling you. It took like, 5 minutes to score with her, and
despite the follow-up doctor visits, she meant a lot to me...really.
Goose farts at the retirement home!
I've been hangin' with my peeps at the ol' folks' crib, yo.
Now THAT would have been funny--
last night, I'm talking about. If instead of a generally raucus but also out-of-tune
Christmas song pageant, we'd had happy holiday hip-hop. 90 years olds dressed in gang banger clobber, up there on stage hittin' the beats...but sadly, instead, it was all pretty milquetoast.
The standard yuletide singing, complete with audience participation.
And that's where
yours truly fell flat. See, I have a pretty deep speaking voice. Years of being on the radio combined with excessive alcohol and tobacco consumption have made me sound pretty much like Darth Vadar. I actually scare telephone operators at places like Pizza Hut when I call in an order, just by opening my mouth.
So speaking-voice wise, all that
resonance and rumbling worked fine for radio and TV, but definitely does NOT and never has extended to singing. When I sing, my voice takes on a unique and almost indescribable tone.
My singing voice sounds like goose farts on a foggy day.So last night, during the audience participation part, I'm singing along to "White Christmas" and my companion, my friend, someone I've come to rely on and really trust (and who, btw, has fucking fabulous tits)...well, she turns to me and whispers: "
Nigel, if you don't stop singing immediately, if you don't shut the fuck up, we're going to have to leave. Because you're scaring the old people around us."
Suitable chastised, I quit, and stood there silently while everyone else continued with their holly jolly mood. But I say, fuck singing anyway, at least for me; I never liked it and always thought it was kind of....homo. I'm reminded of the old joke:
Q: How does a young man become a member of a high school chorus? A: On the first day of school he turns into the wrong classroom.
Nigel is tobacco free!
I quit smoking Saturday night, and so far, so good. No relapse or problems or even urges. I'll be clear of all of it by tomorrow, and officially will become an ex-smoker at that time!
When you start to smoke,
you think it's cool, right? What with the smell and the ashtray breath and huddling in the freezing outdoor smoking areas, what could be cooler? The answer, of course, is
Humphrey Bogart, who made everything look cool, including smoking. That is until you find out what it did to him...and
even after the cancer took out his entire esophagus, Bogie kept smoking (albeit filtered smokes--before the surgery he was a Chesterfield straights guy).
I don't want to die of
esophageal cancer. I'd like to die in a somewhat more dignified and meaningful way. I've decided that I want to be
smothered to death by: boobs.
Not just any old boobs, either. They've gotta be perky, and bouncy, and attached to someone hot, who preferably has really long legs and looks
mui caliente in a Catholic school girl's outfit. Sorta like what's at right, but with darker hair. She could come to my house each Friday night where
I'd make her dinner and get to know her better. Twenty weeks or so would go by; by then, she'd be putty in my hands.
Putty, I say! And at that point I could talk her into allowing the boob smothering to happen when the time came for me to
shuffle off the mortal coil. And she'd agree, because of my natural charm and wit.
And also maybe because of that certain thing I can do with my tongue.
The musical at the retirement facility
Where to begin? Oh, yes, let's put it this way: at one point I was really glad I was wearing brown pants.
Because I was
shitting myself laughing! But I had to laugh secretly, to myself, without being heard by the 250 senior citizen geezers and
wheezers surrounding me.
The deal was: last night, at the old folks home where my mother and her husband reside, they put on a
broadway revue, and mummy was in it. Show tunes, with little bits of commentary courtesy of the MC: the one person in the place who can still a) stand up and b) read from a script without resorting to
tri-
focals. It was a command performance, as in mother "commanded" me to be there. So, naturally,
I went prepared to hate every fucking minute.On they came, first song: "Our Favorite Things". And
they were LIP-SYNCHING! To the bloody official
broadway recording! This wasn't how mummy had described it to me in advance; I
thought they were really gonna sing! But noooooooooo!
Picture in your mind: a makeshift stage, garishly spotlighted, the crowded room hot and muggy, the sound punctuated by the sharp electronic intake/outtake of various respirators. And there,
on stage, 25 Medicare recipients all dressed in costume...and being Milli
Vanilli. Not singing. Just mouthing the words. It was all
mis-timed and hilarious: one guy doing a solo version of "The Impossible Dream" kept his mouth open in a big "O" shape 5 full seconds after the vocalist on the recording had stopped singing.
It went on and on and on and on, lasting nearly two hours.
Two hours, I kid you not.
The first "nearly crapped my pants laughing" moment occurred 9 songs in, when t
he stage, dimly lit, was taken by an
87 year old woman dressed head to toe in a cat suit, complete with whiskers. There, posing next to a "streetlight", she attempted to mime the words to "Memory". She couldn't walk so well, so stood stock still the entire time, just throwing her arms up and down, mouth movements not exactly timed perfectly to the song. And at this point, I lost it.
Have you ever
tried to laugh just to yourself? I completely bit off the entire inside of my lower lip. Tears were streaming out of my eyes as
I giggled silently, my shoulders shaking. But at the end of this one song, the audience went berserk (as only old people can)....some of them even took out their teeth and rattled them together in applause.
Think: lighters held aloft at a concert. Here, it was dentures snapping together at a disaster.It got better. They did like, five songs from Oliver.
Oliver was a 92 year 
old midget woman, with a hearing aid and a bad case of
osteoporosis. Cast obviously because she was height challenged and so was at least the same size as a little kid, she, too, had problems remaining both upright and with the lip
synching. Maybe her hearing aid wasn't turned up loud enough to take in the recording. I don't know.
All this was pulled together by a resident with theatre experience. He was 85
years old, very "
flourishy", and he had the stones about 5 songs before it ended to take a little interlude on the mike where he thanked everyone and then
demanded a standing ovation at the end from the audience! I thought this was particularly ballsy given how many in attendance had obviously lost the use of their legs many years before.
There's more, but you get the idea. Finally and blessedly over, came then the attempt to leave the building. Egress was hampered by
all the bloody wheelchairs and walkers. I only knocked down one old lady in the stampede to the door, so I don't feel so bad.
Nigel blows it, again
So the
instruction manual for my love life reads as follows:
1. Locate foot (a)
2. Place in mouth (b)
3. Feel like a fool (c)
Last night I'd managed to lure a young woman to chez Nigel, using my normal method (offering her drugs and money...that's really all that works for me now). Trying to impress this nymph, I generously made dinner. Over plates piled high with corn dogs, beef jerky, and raspberry jello, I began the seduction which ultimately led us walking down the hall and thence into the deep, dark, and
semi-creepy environs that constitute my boudoir.And there on the Craftmatic adjustable we went at it. Well, I did. Well, ok, I
tried to go at it. We were maneuvering into what the Karma Sutra calls the
"Veyda Opposites" position, which consists of the man trying to grope while saying "yes, yes, yes", and the woman squirming away while saying "no, no, no."
But despite her protestations (I know she really was just kidding, see), I got a hold of her
fun bags and whispered in her ear: "I'll pay you more money if I can just see these lovely titties." Smooth, suave, and debonair; that's my MO -- so
Cary Grant of me, don't you think? But she absolutely refused to take off her top, depriving me of the joyful exploration of the largesse of her mams.
So me being me, I think:
I'm at fault here. So I asked her if I repulsed her, and she said "yes", and then
I thought hmmmm....maybe I have greasy hands and that's what's holding her back.
So I asked her: "Is it my greasy hands? Is that what it is--the hand grease and fingernail dirt, so you don't want me to touch your bare skin? 'Cause if it is, I can go wash, I think there's some soap there in the bathroom somewhere...and then will you take your top off for me?" And she said: "Sure!"
So I skipped off the bed and rushed into the lav.
Closing the door, I got to a-scrubbing and a-washing. Five minutes later and clean, I triumphantly re-entered the chamber of love that is my bedroom...and she was gone.
Vamoosed. Scramdillyoso. Plus my wallet was cleaned out.
For the future, I think I need to work on my technique. Plus wear a bag over my head with
David Beckham's face cut out from a magazine and taped to it. Oh, and also a
Michael Phelps body suit. I think I'd end up looking like what you see at right. Plus, of course, I'll plan on washing my hands
before things get all hot and interesting.
Ice chewing inhibits my satisfaction, dammit!
I've been
chewing ice for awhile, and now it's coming back to haunt me.
Dentists suck. They have this amazingly high suicide rate, to say nothing of their daily digging directly into your mouth...what with all the phlegm and bad breath, it's amazing they don't off themselves right there in front of you.
So at my most recent check up, I'm asked by
Dr. Josef Mengele, my dentist: Nigel, are you chewing the ice? And I'm like, yes, you Nazi fuck, and do you have a problem with that?
T
urns out that, based on experiments Dr. Mengele performed back in the 40's, ice chewing is a sign of
"sexual frustration".Me? Sexually frustrated? Just because
I haven't had pussy in 12 years? Wonder why?
Dr. Mengele, ever so helpful, prescribes the following for little old me:
find a girl, and then, fuck her brains out.Now, I have trouble with this. First, there's
no tongue involvement, and me, I like the tongue involvement. One thing I'm good at is the, um, cunnilingus. I have developed this skill from necessity, as it distracts my partner from my obvious and disgusting fat rolls, plus
my tiny little wiener, Percy, whose ability and effect can be summed up thusly:
zero.Most of my recent attempts at
achieving coitus have resulted in: noitus. As in, nothing. So, vainly, I continue with my tongue exercises at the gym...in, out, in, out, in, out....damn! Even my tongue is short! So I have to work extra hard at keeping up with the average shlemiel. Shit.
So, to compensate, I eat the ice. I have an ice sculpture of the Titanic in my living room, slowly melting, but hey, I'm chomping away daily....frustrated....needing to bury Percy somewhere, somehow...but still there's your Nigel, trying to maintain positivity throughout. I shall persevere!
Best Christmas card I've received to date
This is
my favorite, so far. It's so...sentimental, and everything. Sigh. I love the holidays!
Time to get motivated!
See, now, sometimes this shit just writes itself.
Seems that one of the companies that specializes in consulting, incentive plans, and rewards trips--plus, that provides those irritating "Motivation" posters you sometimes see hanging up in offices--has laid off 34 of its workers.
Excellence in Motivation, Inc., is downsizing along with the rest of the world.
Delicious irony.Anyhow, I thought I'd post one of my all time favorite motivational posters. Lemme know what you think.
No choking or pissing in the toilet! Me love you long time!
There's
so much going on with this sign. Apparently,
blowjobs aren't allowed for fear of choking...but neither is
stand up urinating! Look, us guys LOVE to piss outside. It's a
sport we refined when we were little kids. But...it's cold out there right now, and pissing outside would result in little Percy shrinking even more below its already miniscule size. So, I'll piss
inside, thanks very much.
I won't be chasing women at this party. I'm not planning on kissing anyone or anything there. And I'm not alone: a study released yesterday reveals the following New Year's info nugget, that 1 in 5 people have "no one to kiss" when midnight strikes. The study also shows that more people will kiss their pets than they will kiss other people.
