Nigel's birthday will be Super!
Here it comes:
my birthday. Sunday, February 1. I'm celebrating by watching the Super Bowl while
eating beef jerky and cheeze-whizz (I've always been a little suspicious of any food that contains "wizz" as part of its name...but God know, that's offset in this case by the sheer joy of being able to shoot cheese out of the can, just by pressing a button).
So Sunday.
I'm 51.Birthday presents -- receiving them, that is -- are always a large pain for me. It's not that I have many people asking me what I want, but when I do, I literally have no idea. Should I be honest and say something like "a two week vacation in Hawaii?" No. I always opt for the "I have everything I need, really, don't bother, really, thanks but no thanks, really." Meantime, I'm
scrounging for underwear and socks without holes in 'em, and sure, an i-Pod
would be nice, actually. But it's just not in my nature to ask, I guess.
Now, according to one of those
online real-age tests (you know, where you enter in details about your weight, lifestyle, medical history, family medical history, etc.), I've got about 11 years left.
My "real age" at this point is apparently 62, so add 11 and I'm 73 and dead. Based on my alleged "real age", per the internet testing thingy, for my birthday presents I'm thinking
instead of underwear and socks, how about a case of Depends and maybe some support hose?
Che, Guac, and moi
So
Benicio Del
Toro, Oscar winner and all around brooding looking heavy lidded star of "Che", the new movie about Socialist revolutionary
Che Guevara, is apparently unhappy answering questions about the movie and its politics.
I, personally, could give a hairy rats ass about Che or Benicio or any of that...but let me share with you one item from the news account of him leaving the press conference: apparently our boy was sitting in front of a
"plate of guacamole" when he got up to leave.
A plate of guacamole? What kind of disgusting
green oily nastiness communist Exorcist movie-th
row-up-scene idiot doesn't get that guacamole, being part of the avacado plant, is in itself disgusting and evil?
There are not many things in life ai despise as much as guacamole. I'm thinking: Adolf Hitler. Joseph Stalin. The Dish Network. Just, on the whole, bad guys doing bad things, and they're on a par with the evil green quivering shit that is: guacamole.
Next time you throw up, shlubbies, understand this: what's in the toilet bowl looks exactly like the guac. And probably tastes about the same, too. Just ask our buddie Linda Blair, of the movie fame, who had to spew a plate of that nasty shit all over the set...ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
To think about loss....how?
Seems to me that there are different ways to
think about loss. As in, you lose something--then, how do you react? I weigh in:
- Lose my car keys. Momentary inconvenience punctuated by mucho swearing and gnashing of teeth. On the loss scale, I'd say about a 4, mostly because you're ready to move on to the next destination and this bump in the road slows ya down.
- Lose my job. Unfortunately, the thing many people are experiencing right now. In 99% of publicly traded companies, this is driven by you and me; shareholders, who as douchebags do, demand returns inaccessible by the average capitalist these days, and so force the layoffs. We, the smegmatic butt-munchers out here, are to blame.
- Lose my teeth. I live in the South, shlubbies; this is to be expected over time. Jimmy Carter, our ex-President and current idiot-savant, doesn't have a tooth in his mouth he was born with. Enough said.
- Lose my best friend. Incalculable, particularly as I love talking to the person involved, and love being around her. She just...gets me. Inconsolable result, and I miss her more than I can say.
Here, shlubbies, is my essay du jour. Buf my scrotum if you don't like it.
Caroline Kennedy can buff my dead brother's scrotum
I see where the New York Governor is now
dissing Caroline Kennedy as part of the fall-out to her non-selection as Hillary Clinton's replacement in the Senate. In today's New York Daily News, there are a couple of stories about things he's said about her that reflect his view that she is a total cypher; vapid, with no firmly held views on anything, and having been
brought up so spoiled and in such a bubble that she has absolutely
zero ability to relate to normal people.None of this surprises your Nigel. 'Cause, see, what may surprise you is: I had
two very smart brothers (now just one--I'm the oldest, and the middle brother passed away in 2004). The one still alive, the youngest, went to Northwestern and is now a high up corporate VP. The one who died was a
brilliant scholar and athlete, and graduated with honors from Harvard, spoke fluent Japanese, and went on to a career as an entrepreneur in the food business. And he's the reason for my perspective on Princess Caroline.
He was a contemporary of hers at Harvard, and ran into her often, and reported at the time that she was a total slack rich bitch with no manners. Nothing nice about her; this was apparently well known on campus. One time he even
got into it with her; he'd held the door for her as they walked into a building and she passed on by without acknowledging him in any way. So he muttered under his breath, "you're welcome" and she turned and challenged him on it with a "what did you say?" Bro didn't back down, saying something like "typically when someone holds the door for you, you thank them" and she called him a "fucking loser" (he remembered that
exactly); that set him off and they
ended up screaming at each other.
I would have paid money to have heard the exchange because my now-dead brother was regularly even
more caustic than lil' ol' me. He remembered something about calling her an "ugly hook-nosed commie twat with no class" and a "Park Avenue cunt" which of course went down oh so smoothly. I guaran-damn-tee no one had ever spoken to little miss princess like that before, to her face. Ha!
So, now this
Governor has discovered much the same as what my brother dealt with nearly 30 years ago in Cambridge. How about that?
Nigel, pizza-faced teenager
Shaving this morning, and I
scraped the Gillette Mac 3 across a small zit. Charming, I know, but you can't always handle the pimples easily while shaving. Typical stuff ensued; a wad of toilet paper stuck to my face driving in, and eventually no harm done.
When I was a teen, I had
possibly the worst pizza face history has ever known. La visage du Nigel was one ol' big bumpy red mess, endless, non-stop,
always changing but always there, with
pus-filled disgusting whiteheads complemented by huge boils on my cheeks and nose. And nothing was done about it till it was too late. My parents, particularly my mother, were dead set against me having any kind of social life in high school --
almost no dating, no nothing to do with girls -- so my already disgusting face, being marred further by a case of acne so aggressive as to receive medals in wartime...well, you can understand why they never took action to help me clear it up. Till it was way too late, psychologically, I mean.
Remedies? I tried them all. Scraping together whatever was left over from working part-time at Sears selling paint, I bought me
buckets of Clearasil.
Endless bottles of Oxy 5 (remember the radio ad? "What would you rather have...a few less cents, or a few less zits?"). When they failed, I resorted to scrubbing with fucking
Scotchbrite pads. Nothing helped.
The one time I attempted and was allowed to go out--my only date in high school-- was as a sophomore, and I front up to pick up the then secret love of my life (one Trixie Luther--Trixie, darling, where are you now?) with a gigantic, honking, huge, angry,
red one-inch in diameter pimple right square on the middle of my nose. Needless to say, nothing happened with Trixie.
Eventually (after I tried to kill myself in 12th grade), the parents relented and took me to
see a specialist, who dubbed my case "extraordinary" and begged me for subsequent visits, holding out the promise of residuals and future stardom, because I would be front and center in upcoming National Geographic specials and TV infomercials.
Anyhow, this dermatologist took one look at Nigel the pepperoni kid, and after about 20 seconds of hmmm-ing, prescribed something that immediately and completely cleared everything up.
Right away.Bitter, me? As in, if I'd visited said dermatologist say, two years previously, all that heartache and self-hatred could have been avoided?
Nah.
Isn't the point that she DOESN'T wanna be a mom?
Nigel, your Presidential expert
Sorry for the dearth of posts lately, my fellow scrotum buffers. I've been amazingly busy, what with the busted garbage disposal and also the nasty scratch (and leak) in my Carmen Electra blow-up doll. Between the plumber and the perv patrol, it's been non-stop for your Nigel.
Well. Today, the
Inauguration of our new President. First thoughts:
- Laura Bush. Class.
Dick Cheney. Douchebag shows up today in a wheelchair! At right, Dick's specially designed "fuck you, Muslims" chair. Up yours, Dick, you neo-conservative naive stupid turd on a stick, thinking that the fucking Arabs would "embrace" us after about 4 weeks of combat and ultimate capitulation. Dick, for 10 points: what's the difference between a Sunni and a Shiite? Yeah, didn't think you'd know, even now. Asshole.
- GW is a poor old sad sack who'll eventually be judged better than he is now. Think, Harry Truman. I thought Iraq was a massive mistake from Day 1, but you know, he sure as hell didn't deserve the boo-ing he got on the reviewing stand.
- Aretha Franklin. Somewhere there's a pineapple bowl missing its headpiece. What in the name of all that's good, holy, and also the Chiquita Banana Lady, was she wearing on her head?
Plus, hey, fat ass, learn to fucking sing on key, ok? "My Country Tis Of Thee", as performed by you, you lard butt, sounded just like Bob Dylan gargling with razor blades. Nice work. Above right, the view from Space taken at the moment Aretha warbled her song. The circled area is Aretha's girth, all 1700 pounds of it. Fattie. - Justice Roberts. You might be the Chief Justice of the US Supreme C
ourt, but I gotta tell ya, you suck when it comes to memorizing basic shit. The oath is what--4 lines? And you screwed up immediately? This was your FIRST swearing-in, and you couldn't get it right! Then our new Prez tried to follow along, and he fucked it up, too, 'cause he was taking your lead. Johnno, just how hard IS your fucking job? Sitting around all day, opining on shit; you're just like some blogging asshole who has opinions, like....me...except you get to have hot interns like fucking Megyn Kelly working for you in mini-skirts reaching way the fuck high for old books in the library. Nice thought, actually, but I digress. Look, Jack, it was your fault this ended up comin
g across like a bad game of "telephone" on world-wide TV. Idiot. - The Obama girls (at right) seem lovely and sweet and very well behaved and they deserve an award for sitting through that fucking interminable parade, which just now ended, 8 hours after it started. Jeez. Poor kids.
- Obama and the toilet. Seriously, when you gotta take a break vis a vis setting some prisoners free in the pool, and you're stuck looking at the 814th marching band from bumfuck, Idaho, strutting by the goddamm reviewing stand...whaddya do? You can't LEAVE! The bloody parade continues for hours; how would it look if you took a fucking
bathroom break and dissed the Schmeklemberger County High School Glee Club And Group Sex Marching Band? If you weren't there to smile and wave? So, I think our new President just...shit his pants. At right, ou Prez, freeing Nelson Mandela. Know what? I think NASA outfitted him with them there specially designed astronaut drawers. The kind that allow your bowels to give the gift that keeps on giving, while you keep on with the smiling and waving. Yes we can...indeed!
Well, shlubbies, that's it for me on the Inauguration. Here's the best to the newest and also mud in yer eye, etc.
Work
Work, work, work--hours of it.
But in this economic climate, I'm grateful for it.
Question of the Day
As I was sitting on the roof deck at work today, a thought occurred to me.
Which was:
what's it like to be a Bee Gee in 2009?
Does Barry Gibb wake up every day humming "How Deep Is Your Love?" from that Saturday Night fever movie? Does he stand in front of the bathroom mirror combing what's left of his hair and, staring at his image, say things like "thank God, I could be Leo Sayer?"
Above left, Barry quite hairy, and above right, Barry today. Scary, huh?
And how about the ugly one--Robin Gibb? What's his life like today? Tooling around Miami with the windows down, blasting the radio,
cupping his ear with his hand while hoping someone will notice him and maybe give him a job? There he is at left...either on the phone, or trying like hell to figure out the harmony to "Massachusetts".
And while we're at it, what happened to all their old bell-bottomed, sequined clothes? I have an image of some skinny homeless guy somewhere, wandering around looking like Elvis circa 1977, because he picked up one of the late Maurice Gibbs' jumpsuit spandex thingies at the Goodwill.
I worry about the Bee Gees. Really, I do.
Political correctness run amok!
Facebook can buff my scrotum
I'm irritated as hell with this Facebook. What big balls these bastards possess! They're in my face about my lack of interpersonal relationships!!! I mean, how would they know the following, which is a direct goddamm screen shot right from my goddamm profile:
I circled the part that pissed me off. OK, I admit I don't really have any friends; see, I'm not Mr. Socialite, possibly because of
my persnickety nature, but why rub my considerably larger-than-it-needs-to-be nose in it? Smarty-pants assholes.
Fuck 'em,
I'm joining MySpace.
Just wanted you all to know...
Officially, as of about 2:00 this afternoon:
The Bachelor: a review
Insight, I got. And boy, was the desperation ever on display, too.
Last night on ABC was this show,
The Bachelor. This is where a guy gets to choose, cafeteria style, from a
smorgasbord of 25 women (some of whom were obviously chosen by the producers because they are
complete lunatics and mental cases). Then the guy, through a series of religious rites involving the bestowal of roses, ends up with one of them. And
marries her.
The insight I got: are all women like this when men aren't around? Apparently so. Squealing, continual use of the word "cute", back-stabbing, snotty. And weird, too: there was one who apparently pictures positive things and then,
just like a kidnapper would, cuts out headlines and letters from a newspaper and pastes them on paper. In her case, it wasn't a ransom note -- it's what she called a "vision board", and for her it results in all good things coming true! Listen, this particular dearie didn't need a vision board so much as a
psychiatric evaluation board. You know, a team of doctors who'd quickly come to the conclusion that she should be warehoused for future medical experiments.
None of them were really that hot. There really wasn't one that I'd have given the time of day to if I was picking up chicks, Nigel-style, in a bar. One girl from Alabama had apparently gone under the knife as often as Joan Rivers; her smile ended somewhere around the back of her head. Not a good look.
And: every one of them was
desperate to marry this guy (who also seemed a bit plastic and rehearsed to me). WTF is so great about marriage? That's the grand prize? Pfffft--should be what the
loser walks away with.
Anyhow, on the Nigel scale of
"this show blows dead hippos", I give it an 8 out of 10. I'll watch it again, mainly to point and giggle. And by the by, you can nominate me, Nigel, as the next bachelor by using their handy dandy 1-800 number. Oh, boy, imagine the fun I'd have on that first screening call with the producers!
I love me hot lesbo women!
To penetrate or not to penetrate--that is the question. Although it's not Shakespeare, it's pretty damn close, and it fully describes
the conundrum that is: lesbianism.I love me some lesbians. I'm one, albeit trapped in a man's body--meaning,
I love women. Love, love, love, love women. Want them, bad, all the doo-dah day. But I've always wondered about the phenomenon I see vis:
lesbians who like muscle-bound, dyke-ey looking "chicks" who'd rather kick your ass than give you the time of day.
If I were a lesbian, I'd want the
most sexy looking, feminine, gorgeous possible in every way girl to surrender the carpet to me. Makes sense, right? 'Cause if my deal is, I like women--then it stands to reason that I'd like good looking, sexy, hot women. Yes? If the woman
I'm with looks like a dorky biker guy--
what's the fucking point? So, if I were a lesbian, I'd wanna fuck the ever loving shit out of someone just like Sports Illustrated cover girl
Marissa Miller (photo, left),who's ungodly gorgeous and smoking hot and looks
ready for some girly lovin'--or someone who looks just like her.
Imagine her, with someone equally hot...oh, shit, um.....boing? Can you in your mind picture two hotties looking like this going at it? Right, guys? The two of them together--jeez, it's Captain Onan time, a-wakka-wakka-wakka-wakka, lemme tell ya! Or maybe Angelina Jolie. Or Anne Hathaway. Or similar. But c'mon, Rosie O'Donnell, not so much. Agreed?
So, lipstick lesbians. That's what they call
hot girls who
go for the tongue licking and not the dick sticking. I love 'em, 'cause they're feminine, and gorgeous, and lovely, and oh so fucking hot when they're going at it.
But I digress.
What's the point of this post? There isn't one, except for lil' ol' Nigel to put the official "buff my scrotum" seal of approval on lesbian activity. So long as both women involved are gorgeous and so long as they're panting, just a little bit, while they're exploring each other's bodies with their hands and mouths.
I'll be in the bathroom....
Hard Again--great album!
Hard Again is a 1977 Chicago-style electric blues album by Muddy Waters. It was recorded by its producer, Johnny Winter, in a rough, bare-bones style. After several lackluster records, this was Waters's comeback album.
The album won a Grammy Award in 1977 for "Best Ethnic or Traditional Recording".[1]
Nigel's gone soft
Last night I was thinking to myself: dammit,
Nigel, you're getting soft and wimpy in your old age. This is depressing, shlubbies, depressing I say. Just a little tiny bit.
Now, I don't want to be weird or anything, but I've gotta face the truth. I used to steel myself when an opportunity came up for me, but it seems that's changed. Over the last year, when faced with an opening, no matter how attractive and desirable, I just
couldn't seem to tackle things firmly and unbending, like I used to. These days I feel limp and flabby, going back and forth, back and forth, unsure of myself. It's a downer. Ultimately, sure, I realize I have to take matters into my own hands, but that's not as satisfying as if I'd dealt with things solidly in the first place.
For 2009, I want to be better. And let me be clear here, with no doubts or double entendres! See, I want to exercise concrete logic that leads to penetrating insights, and then, with stiff resolve, take care of business. I want to be unyielding, rigid, sure of myself. I want to be rock solid in my analysis of my problems, and then push through, coming to the right conclusion -- then and only then can I lay back, relaxed, knowing full well I'm up for whatever challenge unfolds before me. Give it the shaft!
I'm gonna allow myself exactly 30 days, beginning now--and so this time next month, I'm looking forward to a solidly improved Nigel!
It won't be hard, will it?
2008 Headline of the Year
"...they can put their legs straight up"
The all new Nigel: now, improved for 2009!
How was your
Christmas? How was your
New Year's? Blah blah blah; endless questions from people you run into, and they're never quite prepared for the response I provide, which is:
"they were both...charming".Yes, shlubbies, I'm
turning over a new leaf. Since all the leaves I see looking out my kitchen window are dead and brown and crinkly, why not reflect that in my refreshing new attitude? Just kidding; I'm really serious about my new outlook, which can be summed up thusly -- every day, in every way, I'm getting better and better. With a little help from pharmaceuticals, I admit, but hey, you gotta start somewhere.
So, I resolve the following:
- I'll be positive, not negative. Negative people suck, and since I'm not gay, I herewith renounce negativity and will embrace a sunny, "Up With People" outlook. From now on, everything's just jake.
- I'll smile more. It takes something like 4 muscles to smile and 7,582 to frown; if anything, I have the best-in-shape face in the history of humanity as a result. One unintended consequence is that I'll have to make up the defecit with some other kind of facial exercise.
- Depression is nothing more than anger internalized. So I resolve to be outwardly angry, but in a positive, smiling way (see points 1 and 2 above). That way, I won't be eating away my insides with nasty thoughts about how everything sucks (except me, because remember, I'm not gay. See point 1 for clarification on this).
- I'll celebrate the little things. Like my penis.
- I'll take more time for family and friends. On the family side, this will mean hand-writing my alimony checks as opposed to having the online bank print the suckers out. And I'll include all kinds of nice little touches, like using hearts over the letter "i" in my signature, instead of a dot. On the friends side, taking more time will just mean saving a bit more money so as to afford the increased expense associated with the escort services' hourly rates.
- I hereby resolve to love all holidays and to communicate my love for those holidays whenever and however appropriate. Like, for Arbor Day, my plans include public peeing-on-trees to show my joy and happiness.
- Finally, I will work hard to treat my fellow man with kindness and generosity. While those who know me well are throwing up in their mouths a little bit reading this, my response to them is: "fuck you. Eat a slice of dingleberry pie if you can't handle the new, sweet me."
Remember, dear reader, a smile is just a frown turned upside down, happiness is a habit, and you get more with honey than you do with oozing pig innards.
Happy New Year!
Here it comes: my birthday. Sunday, February 1. I'm celebrating by watching the Super Bowl while eating beef jerky and cheeze-whizz (I've always been a little suspicious of any food that contains "wizz" as part of its name...but God know, that's offset in this case by the sheer joy of being able to shoot cheese out of the can, just by pressing a button).
Now, according to one of those online real-age tests (you know, where you enter in details about your weight, lifestyle, medical history, family medical history, etc.), I've got about 11 years left. My "real age" at this point is apparently 62, so add 11 and I'm 73 and dead. Based on my alleged "real age", per the internet testing thingy, for my birthday presents I'm thinking instead of underwear and socks, how about a case of Depends and maybe some support hose?
