Medical Update
Well, shlubs, being that it is what it is, here now is my latest and greatest:
-
I have a vision of heaven. It's Lindsey Lohan crying while Mel Gibson
screams at her. Loads of fun at parties.
- Doctors suck
- Doctors really suck
-
Doctors suck dead hippos, though nurses are okey-doke with me, mostly due to
the sponge-baths.
- Don't smoke.
The end, shlubs.
A big reason why Nigel is not around so much
Hello once again, ye scrotum buffers and taint lickers.
Actually, taint lickin' ain't Nigel's thing. Just a gentle stroke, here and there--that'll do it.
Where have I been? Lessee, medical stuff, plus, new responsibilities and all that shit. As in, more employees reporting to ME! Seriously, could you even for a minute imagine ME, moi, as your boss? I'd be all like: let's knock off at 2:45, I've had enough, and by the bye, who's got the fucking Sambuca?
Digressement, moi, je recompense, moi, j'ai tres disturbe pour mon actione negatif, et j'ai requip tres morte de la fixe reponse, ce la? Or, in German: Sorry the fuckenzie, ja, ein am sickenzie dien un sadenzie that ein mustenzie to cut offenzie your testiclesenzie, ja? In Italian, it's even easier: Sorryo foro my Tony Soprano actionio and I beggo your forgivenesso. Now let's eat rigatoni.
Works for me.
Anyhow, here I am, but I can't promise anything in terms of this drivel, spew, and nonsense being updated. Because, I have lung cancer now, and time is short.
Oh I'm not kidding.
Buff my scrotum, shlubbies! Ein en zie!!
Indian, Iranian girls: gulp
Bunda-giddly, you bastards!
btw, that: bundagiddly -- is Tamil (an Indian dialect) for "hello" or "welcome" or something. I dunno. When I was a kid, living in Singapore, there was only one TV station, and they alternated programming in each of the 4 national languages: English, Tamil, Mandarin, and Malay. And the Indian programming, which consisted of musicals featuring gods that have way too many arms and legs, was always led with "bundagiddly".
I love me some Indian women. The saris, the lack of teeth--perfect. That being said, when Indian women were Indian
girls -- my God, talk about some beautiful women. When Indian girls are like 18, 19, 20--total breathtakingly gorgeous. But when they're 30, all their teeth fall out, and they disintegrate, badly. They end up looking like me.
Iranian women are much the same. There is no more beautiful "race" of people in the world than Iranian teenage/young women. Hell, I'll include the MEN, who all look like Omar Sharif. Not that I'm gay or anything, and not that there's anything wrong with that.
But Iranian women are amazingly gorgeous. When I was in college (barber, or clown--guess which college?) there was an Iranian-English girl named Desiree. Oh, I desired Desiree. Pants tightening occcurred each time I saw Desiree. Stunning, sexy, long silky black hair, unbelievably gorgeous. Then came the Iranian revolution courtesy of Ayatollah Komeini, and lo and behold,
all the Iranian students disappeared from the campus, immediately. Weird.
Anyhow, your Nigel has never forgotten his forbidden inter-racial thingy, and if some Indian or Iranian late-teenage (and legal, let me say) girl would like to sample the forbidden fruit that is encompassed by all things Nigelosity, I'm up for that.
In more ways than one.
Old laundry, recycled
I'm angling for the Al Gore award of the year, and am all about going "green", but the "green" part shouldn't extend to the skidmarks in my Hanes. Agreed?
I'm tired of wearing the same dirty shit, day in and day out.
Too drunk to set up the flaming washer/dryer thing, I simply re-wear old stuff.
It's amazing how you can get away with wearing the same underwear and socks for like, three days. A quick whiff of Febreze, and all that shit-smelling stuff is good as new.
Almost.
Today, in the work elevator, I was accosted by a fellow up-traveller who apparently was olfactory-offended by my retread clothing.
I told him I worked in a funeral home and the bastard shut up.
What to do tomorrow? Laundry? Fuck that shit, I'll just dig deeper in the pile of worn clothes I have in my closet.
Death in Omaha, Vice President style
I have a new job. And a new girlfriend. Both are amazing to me, and to you, shlubbies, your surprise reaction, especially to the second thing, is noted and appreciated.
To
the job. I now am working with funeral homes across the entire country, including Honolulu. Did you know that when people shuffle off the mortal coil in Hawaii, they have to, by law, freeze their dead asses? Something to do with the oppressive heat. Cuts down on the smell.
So at my job, there's another guy who has a "Vice President" title. He's Vice President of Strategic Planning. Shlubs,
what's strategic about DYING? I wonder. And he's always galivanting off to conventions and meetings. Most recent was the National Association of Funeral Home Directors annual "Biz Dev When You're Dead" convention in Omaha.
Do they have strip clubs in Omaha? I like going to strip clubs when I'm at conventions. But, Omaha? The average strip club there would feature...cattle, naked. Horses, unclothed. Or similar. And what would you talk about? "Hi, Trixie, before you show me your titties, let's be clear about my role here in Omaha today--I'm at the Funeral guy's convention, where we talk about how to make money from dead bodies."
Thoughts, shlubbies?
Fuck the polar bears, and Al Gore
Hello, twat lips and smegma eaters.
Are you cold enough? We're experiencing Al Gore like frigidity here in Atlanta--you know, similar to the kind that Al experiences from Tipper nightly.
It's cold here in Atlanta, due mostly to the fact that it's FUCKING WINTER and despite what the global warming douchebags have to say, the world goes round and round, and to every season there's a something or other, from Deuteronomy, and God isn't kidding, and therefore we're rotating on our axis as expected, ergo comes the cold.
Right?
Polar bears? I say, fuck 'em. Where where they when we were fighting Al Qeuda? Did one polar bear step up and say "no worries, mate, I'll bite the head off the next towelhead I see threatening the United States?" Fuck no. They're such bastards, these polar bears, they can't even live off ice floes. And where were they when Obama delicately and subtly indicated his vague concern about terrorism moving forward? Confused, is where they were.
I say fuck the polar bears.
Attention lesbians who have girlfriends!
Attention lesbos with gfs:
I am not trying to
steal away your girlfriend, who because she's my friend, and you're her love interest--guess what, she happens to be a friend of mine. OK? As in yesterday. I have friends who are lesbian women, and I know their proclivities, and they know mine. They love women. So do I.
I am a lesbian, trapped in a man's body.
Notwithstanding your general hostility, here's a newsflash:
I am a straight man, but that doesn't mean that I'm after your woman, and that's ok, which means you
don't need to be hostile when introduced to me. OK? Mostly, because your taste isn'
t the same as mine: I like lesbians who are HOT in the male-female sense, like maybe a girl who resembles
Marisa Miller (at left...pant, pant, pant). OK? If you introduced me to Marisa Miller and said Hi Nigel, here's my girlfriend Marisa--well, I'd probably be jealous. But if you said Hi Nigel, here's my girlfriend, Marisa, and she looked like "Mark", instead of Marisa--I'd not be, um, interested.
And, btw, honey, here's another newsflash:
I'll go toe-to-toe with you on the ability to satisfy any woman--fingers, tongue, you name it--and
I'll win. So bag your negativity. OK?
You're never too young for a Scientology audit
Here's an
outtake from the Jerry Maguire movie. Note the book Tom Cruise is reading to the kid -- shameless, isn't he, trying to brainwash the child at such an early age?
Yupper, shlubbies, it's me....
Hello mums and dads,
I realize your patience with me is at an end, but
I beg your indulgence, shlubbies, as I endeavor to explain away my absence from el-bloggeroo Buff My Scrotum.
In a nutshell,
I burned out posting stuff. But now think maybe I can gird my loins, and other body parts, to muster up the vim, vigor, verve, vitality, and vodka needed to make it all happen again. At least, for my personal enjoyment. If you find yourself liking the drivel contained herein, well, that's a lovely side benefit.
What have I learned about myself, your loving Nigel, during my Tiger-Woods style "break from golf" (ok, it's not golf, but yiz gets the picture)? Here now, the top 3 personal observations:
- I fart after sex. Actually, during. After many years of conjugal drought, your Nigel re-discovered the "purpose du penis", and lo and behold have actually used the goddamm
tiny, hollow thing occasionally. And, may I report and to your understandable astonishment, no money changed hands! Yes, shlubbies, Nigel found L-o-o-o-o-v-v-v-v-e. Surprised? Me too. But what I learned, much to my horror and my paramour's amusement, is that I let fly with a complete colonic symphony quite quickly post-coitus. Followed shortly by a visit to the bog, when the release of copious amounts of terrifying intestinal sculpture occurs. Embarrassed? Moi? Well, a little. Just a bit. It beings a whole new meaning to post-sex "afterglow" (in my case, my butthole is glowing. Nice.)... 
Fat gets fatter after fifty. According to news reports, I do have feet. I personally must rely on the BBC for this info, 'cause I can't see the fucking things. With this revelation comes some interesting implications i.e., toe-nail clipping is really HARD when you can't a) cross your legs and lift your feet and b) um, well...see your feet. But, lemons into lemonade, my shlubbies: my toes are now registered with the TSA as lethal weapons, and had I been on that Christmas Day Northwest flight with Nigerian Abdullah bin-Sheeathhead Douchebagaarism, I, moi, Nigel would have been the hero who slashed his ass, as opposed to that bloody Dutch guy who couldn't stop saying the word "shit" when CNN interviewed him about the experience.- I'm newly concerned about world hunger, global warming, homelessness, and other shit. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Got ya!
Well, my lovies, I'm back, and will try to post much more regularly in my attempt to offend everyone before I fucking die. See you in the funny papers.
Where have I been?
Where have I been? Mostly, up your ass.
Love y'all, buff me tenderly, and if I post here again, it'll be as it was early on, which was: for my own amusement. If you dragged your arse along, so be it. Thanks for your thoughtfulness across, the board.
Ahmadinejad supporters would fit in fine right here...
I was watching this
HBO documentary called "Giving Ahmadinejad
A Blowjob" (not really--something called "Letters to the President", about how the average Persian could fire off a missive to their President and he'd answer, personally, and solve all their problems) and I was struck by one thing, and that is:
"
Chromosomal challenged idiocy crosses international boundaries".
Reason I'm thinking this is, here again we have "man in the street" interviews with Iranians. mostly hajib-wearing women, a-wailing and a-trilling about how Ahmadinejad is gonna "pay their bills" and "give them a job" and "get them a house" and "give them an interest free loan" and "help cure their husband who has cancer" and they just
know it don't you know, because after all
he loves the poor and stands for "change".
Sound familiar, shlubbies?
Btw, in watching this documentary, I am again struck by how stunningly beautiful Iranian women are...till they turn about 30, when
all their teeth fall out. At left, Iranian women contestants for the Miss Tehran pageant.
I have undeleted my blog
I am back after much soul searching.
Soul searching, just like a National Geographic Explorer employee, who, on the country's dime (i.e., taxpayer stimulus funding), is out there navel-gazing at his very own navel, and asking soul-searching questions, to wit: what the fuck am I doing? And who the fuck cares? And, also, can I maybe make a buck at this, 'cause I'm a nihilist bastard who hates everything?
Answer: buff my scrotum.
Where was I? Masturbating to Jennifer Anniston Twitter posts, that's where. Months and months of squashing stonehenge in the hopes that our Jen would turn her attention away from scumbags like John Mayer and Vince Vaughn, and engage with scumbags like me. No luck.
So, I rejoin the land of the living dead i.e., blogger, where no one cares and where activity has long ago been eclipsed by Twitter. Twitter--what the fuck is that, anyway? Hmmm? "I'm going to the bathroom now." "I'm eating last night's leftovers." "I'm wanking away to Jennifer Anniston." Who cares? I know I don't.
Oh, and just to prove I'm BACK, some vintage Nigel negativity: today's Air France crash was undoubtedly caused by simultaneous farts from the 232 passengers post-bad-Frech-cheese ingestion.
*Sigh*.
So this snake slithers into a bar...
News from the subcontinent of India, a place full of people whose
gods have way too many arms and legs: apparently
snake charmers are holding protests about a twenty year old law
banning the use of real snakes in the snake charmers shows. The cops are ticketing these guys who squat on the sidewalk with their flutes and baskets full of venomous reptilian shudder-inducing slimy death dealers,
and the charmers are pissed.
When I was a kid I lived in
Singapore. Visit there now, it's like Geneva. Clean and spotless. But, back in the mid-60's, it still retained much of its old colonial charm, and that included snake charmers. There was this one guy who used to stake out a place outside our church, and when we'd arrive for Sunday School
he'd be there, luring this gigantic cobra out of his basket by swaying back and forth as he played the flute (the swaying is what does it...snakes can't hear). Scary but fascinating stuff.
I hate me some snakes. But in honor of the snake charmers protest, here now, some pathetic snake jokes for your perusal and amusement:
--"So glad to meet you" said the Hindu politely. "Charmed I'm sure" replied the snake.
--Q: What kind of snake is good at math? A: An adder
--Q: Whaddya give a snake for its headache? A: Asp-irin
Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the veal. Don't forget to tip your waitress...
Global warming trumps Islamic assholes
Sorry, shlubbies, been busy, um. Yes, I found an extraordinarily lovely long-legged gorgeous woman who deigned to provide little old me with favours vis. what you get when you get what you get, and I got what I got, and
I got to do what I looooooooove to do, and so, my jaw and tongue both got a work out, and consequently, I am convalescing.
You can figure it out.
Anyhow, this morning, I'm perusing the paper, as I'm wont to do, and here comes the story about
Hitlery Clinton, a-winging her way to points East as our new Secretary of State, where she described her priorities in talking with China, Japan, Indonesia, and others thusly and in this order:
global warming, climate change, and nuclear proliferation.
What priorities have been wrought by the new administration! Glad to hear that all is well on the Al-Queda, Taliban, douchebag
Muslim kill the Christians and the Jews front all of a sudden, and now we can focus on what really matters, which is off course worrying about how our Kelvinator fridges, cumulatively, are emitting so much shit that in 180 years, there may be an inch or two of ice shaved off of the Arctic shelf. Or then again, maybe not.
Listen, lovelies:
since 1998, the world has been cooling. This is inarguable and
scientifically backed, but then again, who cares?
What matters is that we ensure that
private companies and the nasty capitalistic system they embrace are destroyed, asap. That's the real agenda of all this shit, but if you can't figure out the value of the capitalistic system, I have three words for ya:
buff my scrotum.
Here's the deal. If there was a
REAL demand for all this fucking green shit, don't you think that entrepreneurs world-wide would be falling all over each other, coming up with the best products and most efficient ways to make a TON of money putting it in front of us? But noooooooooo--we have the government here, jumping in, not getting it at all, thinking that the way to make it happen is by
legislating the sonuvabitch.Idiots.
Welcome to the USSR, circa 1951.
US Air--right into the Hudson
Choose your seat, shlubbies!
First class or coach? Or would you like to choose the drowning option, maybe?
Below, a photo of the actual cabin of the actual US Air 1549 that went into the Hudson. The seats are still wet.
Onya, Sully! (Australian for: good on ya, Sully!)
The fucking weather, dammit!
Unsure about the
forecast this weekend? Want an
unbiased view of the potential climactic conditions? By all means, check this out: the
Fucking Weather, dot com. For here, you get the
unvarnished truth. By way of example, consider this, for Atlanta zip code 30324:
Edy's Fruit Bars....oh, yes.
Know what I love? I mean, really love?
Edy's fruit bars. Now, I don't know about you, but the taste, the texture, the feeling of an Edy's Fruit Bar is nonparaleil. As in, you can't compare it. I love them, and wanna roll around with them nightly.
There's something special about Edy's. The pure sensuality of licking the ice; tastes great and mmmmmmmmmm, you immediately anticipate the rest of the experience. And then you bite, gently, and the flavor of the lemon explodes in your mouth.
It's so much more than you thought it could be. Wrestling the tastes in your mouth, a combination of sweet and sour...oh, yes. And it doesn't stop there. When you finish, there's a complete sense of satisfaction, Yummy and lovely and oh so good, with the taste of the fruit rolling around your mouth....it's just heaven when you're done.
Get yourself a box and enjoy.
I wanna feel Jerry Springer
So today's UK Telegraph is reporting that
televisions could be fitted into contact lenses within ten years. The sets would be powered by the viewer's body heat. That's weird enough, but how about this:
"emotional viewing" could be another development in television technology, which would involve something called a
"digital tattoo" fitted to the viewer. It would
pick up on the feelings of characters on screen and create impulses causing the viewer to feel the same way.Now, I know what you're thinking. The average perv (like me) immediately jumps to the
porno possibilities here, right? There you'd be, legs akimbo, a-wanking away as you "participate" in the carnal festivities unfolding literally in front of your very eyes--and you're "feeling" it where it counts, too.
Not bad.
But I take this a step further. What I'd like would be to sample an episode of that
treasure trove of trailer trash tumult: the Jerry Springer Show. Wearing these contacts and activating my digital tattoo, I'd be able to truly experience the feelings of whatever fat inbred cross-dressing incestuous toothless redneck who happened to be Jerry's victim of the day. What fun!
Imagine the
emotional gamut you'd run: what it's like to marry your sister, how it feels to chaw on Red Man, the exhilaration experienced when you shoot, gut, and ultimately eat squirrels.
I say, forget the porn, and instead bring on the decline and fall of everything that's good and holy: Jerry Springer.
Idaho potatoes blow dead hippos
So now we have fitness expert Denise Austin endorsing Idaho potatoes. Potatos? How DO you spell that? I know--let's ask Dan Quayle, shall we?
Anyhow, this state, Idaho blows dead hippos. Boise is the big city there, I think, and it's full of douchebag Mormons and ex-Nazi white supremacists. What to make of state whose name is, when you pronounce it, perfect for a streetwalker? I-Da-Ho. Yeah, I say: fuck Idaho. And Denise Austin, too.
My brother, Kent
It
hit me hard this morning, right after I finished up the ironing and was trundling young Nigel Jr. off to see his
Nanna. In the car, we're talking about family and goofy stuff, including Nigel Jr.'s late uncle Kent, and as we were talking I went what's today? and Nigel Jr. told me...turns out that today is the
5th anniversary of his uncle's (my brother's) death. Not only to the date, but to the day.
So that all came flooding back to me.
Five years ago today, Sunday, it was sunny and cold in D.C., where I'd gone to help my brother move. He was selling his Capitol Hill townhouse and was moving in with me, in Atlanta.
The night before, the Saturday, he'd sounded really strange on the phone, complaining about how he felt like he had the flu and that he "couldn't feel his legs." So I decided I was gonna fly up to D.C. and help with the move, given that he was sick and all. I called him back Saturday night but no answer; never mind, I thought I'd surprise him by showing up. Landing on the Sunday morning and calling: no answer. Arrive at his home. No answer.
Banging on the door. Dogs barking inside; his car parked outside...he had to be there...running around the back to see if there's a way in. Nothing.
Finally, break the door down. Kent is dead on the floor, apparently had been for many hours, dogs barking at me, the police come, the D.C. forensic people (who joke and laugh while processing the body for removal, hey, thanks, guys)...I identify him officially by looking at a Polaroid of his dead face, mouth and eyes wide open, yes, that's my little brother...and then it's just me and there's him lying on the floor, waiting for the D.C. mortuary van. They came and went and then it was an empty house and me.
What a fun day. And to make matters worse,
they could never determine the exact cause of death. "Natural causes"--whatever the hell that means.
Here's the thing to understand about my brother.
He was amazingly smart. His IQ was off the charts; straight A's all through High School and then on to Harvard. He was an athlete, too, swimming and soccer, captain of both teams in high school, and for swimming, was heavily recruited by Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Columbia, the whole Ivy League thing. He
spoke fluent idiomatic Japanese. Business acumen: at a glance he could figure out why a supermarket or food service business wasn't succeeding (this ended up being his specialty), and he made his career this one thing.
Most importantly he was a
sweet, nice man who wouldn't harm a fly, and who had a sense of humor so crazed that, as an example: he used to call me on my 40 minute ride home,
haranguing me in Japanese as if he was a samurai. You know, that thing they do in
Akira Kurosawa movies, where no matter what they're talking about, they're yelling at each other, really
guttural?
Funny as hell. 40 minutes, straight, and not a word in English.
What he couldn't handle was that his wife left him for another...woman. He never got over that, couldn't reconcile it, and it ultimately I believe is what killed him. Died of a broken heart at age 44.
So please tonight, if you can,
raise a glass for my dead brother Kent, who I miss completely and wish every day was around to call me in Japanese. Thanks.
Now I'm REALLY famous!
Lookee here, shlubbies!
I made thesmokinggun.com! Wow! Talk about
national publicity! With this, I can springboard my way to fame and fortune. Now, I don't wanna be weird or anything, but
this could really be the break I've been looking for. After I make bail, that is. (Click on the image to make it larger...this is exciting stuff, eh?)
I'm NOT the sickest bastard on the Internet
Just so you know that
I'm NOT the sickest bastard on the Internet...not by a long shot...I give you a
comment submission from an entry on
Fark.com yesterday.
This was in response to a UPI story about the first First Lady, Martha Washington. Seems they've uncovered evidence that Martha was pretty damn good looking back in the day, versus the general perception (based on paintings made when she was old and fat) that Ms. Washington was a puke inducing troll.
OK. So the discussion thread was about
which First Lady was actually the hottest. The comments were hysterical, for the most part. As you'd expect, Jackie Kennedy yielded a number of mentions, including quite a few naming her "Hottest FL ever" (FL being "First Lady"). And then I ran across this,
in response to a posting from someone named "Royale With Cheese"
referencing Jackie O. The commenter is a charmer named "we_hates" (appropriately named I think).
The sickest bastard on the Internet? Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
My birthday lunch
People have asked: how was your birthday Sunday? Answer: just fine, thanks. Nice and quiet. Without much in the way of plans, and solo, I hied myself in search of the perfect birthday lunch. And I found the perfect place.
I treated myself at my new favorite restaurant here in Atlanta:
The Heart Attack Grill. This magnificent establishment advertises itself as the "Home of the Double By-Pass Burger" and it's positioning statement is "Taste worth dying for!"...so, it's perfect for li'l ol' me.
Instead of the Double By-Pass Burger, I opted for their
"Bad Cholesterol Elevator" daily special. This consisted of 3 greasy, yummy, 1/2 pound each
patties smothered in four kinds of cheese and then baked,
with
french fries included in what amounted to a
huge pile of goo, in a casserole dish. Add four
Guinness Stouts and voila! It's off the to ER for some open heart massage and an extended stay in critical care.
What a great birthday! Wish you could have joined me!
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!
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.
t the same as mine: I like lesbians who are HOT in the male-female sense, like maybe a girl who resembles Marisa Miller (at left...pant, pant, pant). OK? If you introduced me to Marisa Miller and said Hi Nigel, here's my girlfriend Marisa--well, I'd probably be jealous. But if you said Hi Nigel, here's my girlfriend, Marisa, and she looked like "Mark", instead of Marisa--I'd not be, um, interested.
tiny, hollow thing occasionally. And, may I report and to your understandable astonishment, no money changed hands! Yes, shlubbies, Nigel found L-o-o-o-o-v-v-v-v-e. Surprised? Me too. But what I learned, much to my horror and my paramour's amusement, is that I let fly with a complete colonic symphony quite quickly post-coitus. Followed shortly by a visit to the bog, when the release of copious amounts of terrifying intestinal sculpture occurs. Embarrassed? Moi? Well, a little. Just a bit. It beings a whole new meaning to post-sex "afterglow" (in my case, my butthole is glowing. Nice.)...
Fat gets fatter after fifty. According to news reports, I do have feet. I personally must rely on the BBC for this info, 'cause I can't see the fucking things. With this revelation comes some interesting implications i.e., toe-nail clipping is really HARD when you can't a) cross your legs and lift your feet and b) um, well...see your feet. But, lemons into lemonade, my shlubbies: my toes are now registered with the TSA as lethal weapons, and had I been on that Christmas Day Northwest flight with Nigerian Abdullah bin-Sheeathhead Douchebagaarism, I, moi, Nigel would have been the hero who slashed his ass, as opposed to that bloody Dutch guy who couldn't stop saying the word "shit" when CNN interviewed him about the experience.
Btw, in watching this documentary, I am again struck by how stunningly beautiful Iranian women are...till they turn about 30, when all their teeth fall out. At left, Iranian women contestants for the Miss Tehran pageant.
News from the subcontinent of India, a place full of people whose gods have way too many arms and legs: apparently snake charmers are holding protests about a twenty year old law banning the use of real snakes in the snake charmers shows. The cops are ticketing these guys who squat on the sidewalk with their flutes and baskets full of venomous reptilian shudder-inducing slimy death dealers, and the charmers are pissed.
When I was a kid I lived in Singapore. Visit there now, it's like Geneva. Clean and spotless. But, back in the mid-60's, it still retained much of its old colonial charm, and that included snake charmers. There was this one guy who used to stake out a place outside our church, and when we'd arrive for Sunday School he'd be there, luring this gigantic cobra out of his basket by swaying back and forth as he played the flute (the swaying is what does it...snakes can't hear). Scary but fascinating stuff.
Anyhow, this morning, I'm perusing the paper, as I'm wont to do, and here comes the story about Hitlery Clinton, a-winging her way to points East as our new Secretary of State, where she described her priorities in talking with China, Japan, Indonesia, and others thusly and in this order: global warming, climate change, and nuclear proliferation.
Here's the deal. If there was a REAL demand for all this fucking green shit, don't you think that entrepreneurs world-wide would be falling all over each other, coming up with the best products and most efficient ways to make a TON of money putting it in front of us? But noooooooooo--we have the government here, jumping in, not getting it at all, thinking that the way to make it happen is by legislating the sonuvabitch.
Know what I love? I mean, really love?
But I take this a step further. What I'd like would be to sample an episode of that treasure trove of trailer trash tumult: the Jerry Springer Show. Wearing these contacts and activating my digital tattoo, I'd be able to truly experience the feelings of whatever fat inbred cross-dressing incestuous toothless redneck who happened to be Jerry's victim of the day. What fun!
The sickest bastard on the Internet? Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
People have asked: how was your birthday Sunday? Answer: just fine, thanks. Nice and quiet. Without much in the way of plans, and solo, I hied myself in search of the perfect birthday lunch. And I found the perfect place.
Instead of the Double By-Pass Burger, I opted for their "Bad Cholesterol Elevator" daily special. This consisted of 3 greasy, yummy, 1/2 pound each patties smothered in four kinds of cheese and then baked, 
with french fries included in what amounted to a huge pile of goo, in a casserole dish. Add four Guinness Stouts and voila! It's off the to ER for some open heart massage and an extended stay in critical care.
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?
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.
row-up-scene idiot doesn't get that guacamole, being part of the avacado plant, is in itself disgusting and evil?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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".
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.
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.
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.
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'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?
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.
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".
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.
