Searching the final frontier

Once again, it's time for Fantastic Searches That Somehow Led People To My Site jolly anger candy - I just liked this typo. It made me laugh. what is a man servant? - Ask Scott, and you will have your answer. status of leprosy in sulu - I didn't know that Sulu even had leprosy. Well let's take a look: Actually, I think I do see something. Oh, wait -- my mistake. That's not leprosy. I think that's just a little spot of man-nip. 

dangling and swollen nodes on labia - Just a crazy thought, but if your clitoris is over five inches long, maybe you're a dude. thigh butthole - This could be kind of a handy thing to have, actually. No more sitting down in the bathroom, for starters. And it would be much easier to surreptitiously scratch....so I'm thinking there would be many benefits to having that thing closer to the front. Maybe some geneticists could get on that. Give mother nature a little boost in the evolution department. dark patches on inner thighs of overweight people - wait just a second...could it be? Are fat people the evolutionary vanguard of the human race? what does a country look like when it is in shambles? what are shambles? - A shambles is the state in which you left your grade school education. is hydrogen poisonous, or helpful? - Well that all depends. Are you combining it with oxygen, or a couple of European guys name of Teller & Ulam? It makes a difference. why do testicles turn brown? - My advice is to get your brown nuts to a doctor as soon as possible, because as a general rule, testicles do not turn brown on their own. That is a key point, actually -- On their own. There are many things that could quite possibly make them turn brown, however there is usually some dipping or other direct involvement on the part of the testicle owner.

Procylon vs. Enzyte: Smackdown!

OK, so it appears that Enzyte has some stiff competition these days. I was listening to the radio on the way home from Boston, and I heard no less than ten commercials for this herbal supplement called Procylon, which has all the standard longer, fuller, firmer claims that Enzyte makes.

The reason I thought this commercial was hilarious is because they toss another claim in there that I've never heard before:

"Longer, fuller, firmer, more frequent erections!"

I can only speak for myself here, but the marketing department seems to be missing the mark a little bit. If I were having erectile dysfunction issues, the one thing I wouldn't care so much about is frequency.

I just want it to work when I need it to -- I don't necessarily need more of them.

I don't want to be walking through the international foods aisle at the supermarket, minding my own business, and suddenly --- THWACK! -- knock a box of Ortega taco shells off the shelf.

I'd be thinking, "Son of a bitch! Not another one! That's like my 13th today! You'd think once or twice I'd actually be in a position to use the damn thing when it happens, but no."

What if I happened to be looking at the Apolo Ohno Wheaties Box at the time, or even worse, at Captain Crunch or Frankenberry? That shit could scar you for life, not to mention the fact that if anyone saw you, they would probably call the police.

So listen up, Procylon marketing department -- stop trying to pitch me on frequency, ok? Unless your pill can get me more frequent opportunities for sex along with more frequent erections, we have nothing to talk about.

Smenita is pissing me off.

I can't seem to comment on anyone's blog tonight -- I keep getting the same verification word, even after clearing my cache, and the effing blogger program won't take it. I guess Smenita wins this round. Russian bitch.

I am currently sitting in a hotel on the outskirts of Boston because I have been at a training session this week. It's a smallish classroom with about 10 workstations, and they're all full. I was early, so I had my pick of seats. I decided to grab the aisle seat in the back row. Pretty good placement, I thought.

Turns out, there's a 450 pound guy who decided he needed to sit in the same row all the way against the far wall. I don't know why.

I do know that the only way this guy can fit between the back wall and my chair is if I'm not actually sitting in it. The first day, he tried to get by without asking me to move, and I am pretty sure my torso almost got sucked into his fat roll. From then on, I just listened for the shrieking chair, which meant he was heading to the bathroom, and I used that as my signal to get a serious move on. Then I have to wait for him to come back, and go through the same exercise.

The instructor is a big guy too, and unfortunately he smells like ass pickles. I am not really sure what an ass pickle actually is, but it's the only way I can accurately describe his particular stench. It's like dill pickles, only with a solid base of vintage ass. He has brown teeth with an 1/4" gap between each one. When he smiles he looks like he's going to eat your head. Friendly, but a little weird.

I was all happy because for once I was going somewhere I didn't have to fly to, and it turns out I get to spend three days in aisle-hell instead of three hours.

Having a great time. Wish you were here. Not with me -- instead of me. Just wanted to make that clear.

Wrong turn.

I'm currently listening to the unabridged audio book of "Memoirs of a Geisha" and I decided to look up some terms to get a better understanding of their history.

Here's a little search tip for you all:

Although they may sound similar, Kabuki and Bukkake are two very, very different things.

I cannot stress that enough.

Things I really don't need to know about my co-workers.

Since everyone at work but me seems to have a fast connection at their houses, there are a fair number of people who decide to work from home on any given day. There's an automated notification that goes around every morning, and it has a little (WFH) next to their names. I always mis-read that as WTF but that's my problem.

The upshot of all this "working from home" stuff is that you could be attending a teleconference and suddenly you'll hear a dog bark or a kid scream. Then someone will generally say, "I'm sorry about that. I'm working from home today," or some such. (Side note to that person: We have already figured that you're not in the office. So unless the blood-curdling scream we just heard was you killing a drifter, don't feel you need to inform us.)

That's all fine, as far as it goes. However, today I read this, which states that "One in eight male teleworkers and one in 14 female teleworkers say they do their jobs in the nude, according to a new survey on the habits of remote and mobile workers worldwide."

It's safe to say that I didn't need to know that there's a one in eight chance that the guy I'm conversing with could quite possibly be nutsack to leather as we speak. As for the women, I really don't want to be forced to envision some project manager's enormous, flopping breasts spread out on the desk in front of her keyboard like some sort of fleshy wrist rest.

I would rather not think about these things, but now I can't help it.

Apparently, the study also found that "88% acknowledge storing passwords in unsafe spots."

They're working from home. How unsafe could the spot really be unless they are rolling their password lists into a tight little cylinders and sticking them up their asses? On second thought, that would be pretty safe from a security perspective. I think I will put that one in the suggestion box.

The other thing I found funny was that "18% of men find time to do household tasks while on the clock."

I would have said that maybe 5% of men actually do household tasks on a regular basis anyway, so the only conclusion I can draw from this statistic is that for most men, doing housework naked is more than 3 times as enticing as actually doing what you're being paid to do.

Dammit, I can't wait to get broadband.

There will be some nicely polished leather furniture in the house, I can guarantee you that.

Yes, Virginia...there is a Bumpass.

So I was browsing ebay tonight looking for some cheap music gear, and I saw one seller was from Bumpass, Virginia. I had no idea there was such a place, nor would I ever have admitted being from there in a public forum like ebay. I would have lied and said I was from a neighboring town like Rattlecock or Flicktitty or something.

In unrelated news, unless you count the possible cow shit overlap in both locations, Japanese scientists managed to squeeze both gasoline and vanilla scent out of cow shit last week. You know, if they can do this with cow shit, just think about what they could accomplish if we gave them an actual raw material to work with. Or maybe we can just keep throwing more crap at them and see what else happens.

I wonder how long it would take them to extract T-bone steaks from disposable diapers?

Because that would be awesome.

In the meantime....

Today I bring you the obligatory filler post while I'm working on something better, because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's an uncomfortable silence.

So off the top of my head, here's a few random thoughts that have been ping-ponging around in there lately:

Why do the same women who have no problem parading around the beach in a tiny bikini cover themselves and scream "GET OUT!" when you catch them in their underwear -- when it actually covers more?

Why do old people drive so slow? You'd think they'd be in more of a hurry to get everywhere since they don't have much time left.

Why do feet sweat? Does anything good ever come of it? And how the hell can they sweat and be cold at the same time?

Why do people with bad breath always have the habit of sighing?

Why does nobody stop by your desk when you're working your ass off, but the second you take a bite out of your sandwich and open "The Onion" website, your phone rings, your IM starts blinking, and people are practically hanging off the rafters over your cube?

Who created the chart that decides the relative vulgarity level of particular words? For instance, who decided that the word "shit" is more vulgar than "crap" and "crap" is more vulgar than "poop?" And why does society decide to enforce this chart? Same thing with fuck and screw and boink. They're all just sounds if you think about it.

And lastly, why does the Victoria's Secret IPEX bra commercial make me want to empty my savings account directly into their cash register? Wait, I know that one. I'm pretty sure Gisele could sell me anything.

Belinda Carlisle vs. The Wendigo

I was waiting for House to come on and I saw two things that disturbed me.

One: My first year in college, there was a band called The Go-Go's that was just breaking out with a song called "We Got the Beat." They played my college gym and there were about 50 people there. I literally stood a foot from Jane Weidlin, taking pictures. I'm sure she remembers me because as I was rotating my camera for a portrait shot, my elbow slammed into the boom on her microphone, which caused the microphone to make a noise like *POOMP* as it bounced off her teeth. At any rate, my budding photography career was cut short by a giant bouncer with a missing neck, and The Go-Go's went on to become quite famous, whereas I did not.

So what does that have to do with what disturbed me tonight? It is simply this: As I was sitting in front of the television lacing up my sneakers, I discovered that one of their songs has been gang-raped by Papa John's Pizza. Apparently everyone in Papa John's entire pizza-making organization goes around singing "We got the Meat" at the top of their lungs. First, I wouldn't recommend going around singing that to anyone, let alone complete strangers, and second, it made me very sad for a few reasons. (a) I hate when I am obviously a target market (b) Belinda Carlisle must need cash, and (c) I can't stand unoriginal ad agencies whose best and brightest shot is reworked lyrics on an old, classic song. They should be castrated with jagged pieces of broken 45rpm records.

The other thing that disturbed me: There's a big black chick on Idol with a pretty damn fine voice. The only thing is, her name is Mandisa. What the hell kind of name is that? Mandisa? It sounds like some sort of evil Indian Death spirit that you talk about in hushed tones around a fire while grooving on Peyote buttons.

"hear me speak, my son...when the wind howls from the east and the moon is full, do not venture beyond the light of the sacred fire...for on those nights, The Mandisa hunts...and comes for you."

Or maybe something that fights Mothra in one of those old black and white Godzilla films.



I dunno. It also could be that it's a little too close to "Vin Diesel." I keep picturing him standing in the shower singing Chaka Kahn songs.

Aw jeez. Now I'm gonna have nightmares.

Searching for Oscar

I'm sitting here half listening to the Oscars, and reviewing my favorite searches for this week. Neither seems to be very captivating or funny, but it could just be me. I guess we'll see.

Once again, it's time for:

Fantastic Google Searches That Somehow Led People To My Site

I often get an erection when drive wheels start to spin, why? -- Because drive wheels are incredibly sexy, and most men can't resist them when they start to spin. So your reaction is perfectly normal. No, I'm kidding. The actual answer is "because you are fucked up, that's why."

sportsman's hernia - I'm not exactly sure how this differs from a normal hernia, unless it has something to do with the activity that caused it. I'm figuring that if you get one moving the fridge to reach the dead chipmunk that wasn't completely dead when your cat dragged it in but is now, that's just a hernia. If you're hauling 500 lbs of grizzly bear meat out of the woods after killing it with your knife, and part of your small intestine is hanging out because the bear got a lucky swipe in just as you were finishing him off, that's a sportsman's hernia.

what do naked women look like? - Welcome, innocent child, to the internet. A wondrous world awaits you, and is in fact only a single click away. Before you click that mouse, however, I have some very important information to share. Here's a little tip from your uncle Johnny - You will not go blind, and you will not grow hair on your palms. Oh yes, and girls do it too. You can thank me later.

what is the scientific reason that mayonaisse gets gum out of hair? - It's quite interesting, actually. While in the same chemical family as mayonnaise, mayonaisse is much more caustic, and can easily and quickly break down the synthetic latex that is the major component of chewing gum. In fact, until it was pulled from the market by the FDA, mayonaisse was the cause of many horrific and unnecessary deaths in the 20's and 30's because people were spreading it on their sandwiches by mistake. That's why I always go with the mustard. You never know when a typo could do you in.

what's bugging gilbert grape? - The fact that you fucked up the title of his movie, that's what. Actually this is the lesser known, straight-to-video version starring Barbara Streisand as Leo Dicaprio, and Bob Saget as Johnny Depp.

monistat 3-day, WHEN to RESUME oral sex - If you mean giving, then you're good to go. If you mean getting, then the only possible answer is day four, or whenever the infect -- GAH! The answer is NEVER, EVER AGAIN AS LONG AS YOU AND YOUR RANK, DOUGH-INFESTED CROTCH ARE ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH. Wait, maybe that was too harsh.

I'll admit that I was too afraid to fold my body into a box, ring your doorbell, and let the words "Take ME" spill from my lungs because everything else were really just ideas I wished -- Your problems here are many, not the least of which is your complete lack of knowledge regarding how to use a search engine. As to your other problem - First, you can't expect to fold your body into a box, and THEN ring the doorbell, because you won't be able to reach it. What you have to do is ring the doorbell and then quickly fold your body into a box. I have to say that I have serious doubts about this whole strategy, regardless of the order performed. If I answered my door and there was a box there and someone inside was screaming "Take ME!" I would wonder if the person inside meant "to the post office," or "out of the box," or "to your leader." Regardless, you're probably getting kicked off the porch.

instructions how to suck a penis and swallow - Now I'm no expert, never having actually done this, but I did a little research on the internet and the basic instructions seem to be:

(1) Suck penis.
(2) Swallow.

Fly by night away from here

By request, here's the story about the weirdest boss I ever had. I would say "the weirdest boss I ever had in my professional career," but I don't really have much of a "career" per se, and I'm nothing if not unprofessional.

Once upon a time, I got a new boss. I knew something was up the first day we were introduced. He seemed like an OK guy. He had a good work history and a pretty impressive resume, so everyone figured he'd be good. But he introduced himself using his first name, middle name, Last name and then added a "Junior" for good measure. OK, I thought. That was a little weird.

I introduced myself as Johnny, and we were off. Little did I know how weird things would ultimately get.

It didn’t take me long to realize that every time he answered the phone, he gave the full boat - "FirstnameMiddlenameLastnameJunior - how can I help you?"

He even requested his e-mail address be changed the same way. It had to be the longest e-mail address in the history of the company. In addition to the annoying name fetish, he would end every e-mail and every phone conversation with the phrase "Keep Smilin'!" and we didn't know what to make of that either. We weren't sure if it was a command, a request, or simply a reminder to himself. Maybe it was all three.

At any rate, the whole name thing was the first indication of the serious amount of crazy that lay just below his thin veneer of normalcy. I asked him about it, and he told me that your full, proper name was your legacy and it was the most important part of your identity. You had to let people know your exact, full name, so that no identity theft could occur. I was pretty sure this theory had some crazylegs, but I never got a chance to discuss its finer points with him.

The more you got to know him, the more freak flag you saw flying. As he started to feel more comfortable around you, he loosened up a bit, and let more things slip than he probably should have. You began to see an alarming amount of nutbeam shining through the slats of the closed blinds.

Let me give you some examples of the awesome crazy:

Early on during his tenure, I walked into his office, and he was sitting at his desk with expensive looking headphones on. "OK," I think to myself, "The man is serious about his music."

But that was not the case.

As it turns out, the man was serious about his silence.

He saw me eyeing the headphones.

"Noise cancellation," he said. He gestured toward the drop ceiling. "You hear that white noise generator up there?" he asked, referring to the sound I always thought was just the heating/cooling system. "Drives me insane," he said. "I can't stand it -- it's all I can hear. They put those up there to block voices, but it makes it hard for me to think. With these on, I just hear the voices."

I hoped he was referring to the voices of the other employees, but I wasn't completely sure.

He looked thoughtful for a second, then said, “I wonder how these things would work with louder noises, like gunshots.”

I told him I thought they only worked on constant noise, since it was just reversing the waveform and playing it into your ear and he agreed that was probably the case. I excused myself and went back to my desk and planned multiple escape routes, just for fun.

The other odd thing that came to light during his first week or so was this: When you were talking to him, he would periodically just stop talking, get up and stand by the window, then about 30 seconds later, he would come back and sit down, continuing the conversation like nothing at all freaky had just happened. I had no idea what was up with that, until about a month or so in.

One day I was talking to him and he just stopped in the middle of a sentence and his eyes did this weird "snapping window shade" thing in their sockets and then started oscillating from left to right like he was trying to watch the world's fastest ping pong tournament on the inside of his own forehead. Then he reached up and pinched his thumb and forefinger together like he was holding a fly by its wing and started humming.

A second later, he was fine.

In this case, by "fine" I don't mean "fine" in the conventional sense of the word. In this case, I mean "fine" as in "no longer acting like he just got cut off from the Borg collective," which is not really the same thing.

I think he must have noticed the odd look on my face because he said, "I have small seizures some times. They're nothing to worry about. I know they’re coming about 15 seconds before I have one, and pressing my fingers together and humming helps me recover from them quicker."

I wasn't sure what to say to that, so I said, "Um, Do you know what’s causing them?" which was a pretty stupid question, really. If the guy was short circuiting 10 times a day, you have to figure he'd make some time to go get his melon looked at. But maybe not. Maybe he just grabbed imaginary flies and hummed.

He said, "Yeah, I have a benign brain tumor."

"You getting it taken out?" I asked. I'm not very tactful in awkward situations.

He replied, "No way. I don't want them messing around in there. Messing around with my brain. It changes your personality, like flouride toothpaste."

I nodded knowingly, as if in full understanding. He continued.

"You know that flouride is rat poison, don't you? They add it to your toothpaste and your water to make you dumb, and make it harder for you to think. A dumbed-down populace is easier to control. That's why I only use natural toothpaste, and bottled water. No flouride."

"Interesting," I said, nodding some more. "What about all that preventing cavities stuff?"

"It's all bullshit. You don't need flouride. I've never had a single cavity," he replied.

I absorbed this little tidbit, then explored a theory and asked him if he had ever been to the dentist. He said yes, of course, but he never let them take x-rays because he didn't want to “aggravate the tumor.” (Until that precise moment, I had no idea that x-rays could piss off tumors.)

Then he said, “Besides, the dentist just fills your mouth with toxic heavy metals that slowly leach into your body and poison your internal organs over time.”

I had heard there might actually be something to that whole mercury thing, but before I could say anything the second half of the ping pong tournament started and I got the hell out of dodge.

One day soon after that, we got into a discussion about how he didn't want to register a car in New York because it cost too much, and they made you pay taxes on the car when you registered. This evolved into a discussion about how registration is nothing more than the first step on the road to governmental control and the loss of personal freedom, which evolved into a discussion about income taxes, and how they were unconstitutional, and how -- yep, you guessed it -- he had never paid them. Ever. He had gotten all sorts of warnings and fines and summons to appear in court, and he had ignored them all.

He had no credit cards, and at the time we could still get our paychecks as something other than direct deposit, so he had no bank accounts either.

He was basically a fugitive from justice.

After this little conversation, I had no doubt whatsoever that he had an up-to-date manifesto tucked away in a desk drawer somewhere, and it was probably even more detailed than mine.

Also in the course of this same discussion, the following Ripley’s-Believe-It-Or-Not facts came to light:

(a) He was currently driving an unregistered car, with out-of-state plates that he had "found."

(b) He did not have a valid driver's license.

(c) He had absolutely zero insurance coverage.

Remember to add to this list the fact that he had multiple small seizures every day, each of which gave him about a 15 second warning that he had to pull over before his eyes rolled up in his head and he started humming like a studded snow tire. How this man never ended up on the six o’clock news mystifies me to this day. He was truly a traffic fatality statistic waiting to happen.

All this is nothing...NOTHING...compared to what happened next. Everything you've read so far is just filler to set the groundwork so you know that what follows is not something I am making up.

One day I was sitting at my desk and I heard this weird ACHCHACHACHACH noise.

I didn’t think too much about it, because people are always playing little media files on their computers, and sometime they have their speakers up too loud by mistake. A few minutes later, I heard it again.

It was coming from his cube.

I walked over to say good morning -- and more to the point, to see what the hell was up with that weird-ass noise.

I saw nothing out of the ordinary, really. Well, there was one thing. He had something that looked like a sock tacked to his bulletin board, and there was something in it. The something in it was thrashing around madly like a miniature tasmanian devil trapped in a burlap bag. As I watched, that horrendous noise happened again, and this time there was no questioning the source. It was the thing in the bag.

"What the hell is that?" I asked, pointing to the thrashing sock.

"It's my new joey," he replied. "He hasn't bonded with me yet, and they're nocturnal. When you bother them during the day, they get mad. He's just crabbing."

"Yeah, it sounds really crabby," I said.

"No, no," he said. "Crabbing. A verb. As in 'to crab.' It's the name for that sound they make when they're mad."

"Uh huh." I replied, staring at the bag tacked to the board. The thing inside had settled down.

"You want to meet him?" he asked.

"Who, Joey?" I asked.

He laughed. "No, his name isn't joey. A Joey is what he is. It's what they call baby male marsupials."

I knew what a marsupial was, cuz I ain't completely stoopid, but that little bag of his didn't look big enough to hold a kangaroo or koala bear. Not even a baby one. I was intrigued.

He reached up to the bag and grabbed it, and the thing inside let loose with the chattering again. He shushed the bag, then opened it up and this fucking thing crawled out:



It blinked its eyes in the light, made a hissing noise and then skittered up his arm and disappeared into his front shirt pocket, where it promptly took a big piss.

As the stain on his shirt grew, he fished the thing out and sat it in his hand.

“What IS it?” I asked, leaning closer.

“It’s a sugar glider,” he replied. “They’re small marsupials, very similar to a flying squirrel. This one is still a baby. They’re very social animals and I didn’t want to leave him home. I have a female already, and I just got this one to keep her company, but he’s still a little wild.” He dabbed at the pee with a paper towel.

I couldn’t believe it. He actually brought this thing to work. In a professional office. With hundreds of other employees. He put it up on top of his file cabinet and then walked a few feet away. The thing took one look at him, gauged the distance and then did this:



I yelled “HOLY SHIT!" and took a quick step back. This thing was not “very similar to a flying squirrel” – it WAS a flying squirrel.

It landed neatly on his arm and then crawled around behind his collar and hid. I could tell it wanted to get back to the pee-hole, but it was too scared to make a run for it.

He asked me not to say anything about it, and I didn’t. Even so, it didn’t take long for other people to hear the noise and stick their heads in his cube to see what the deal was. Over the course of a few days, almost everyone had seen it, petted it and had either been pissed upon or shat upon by it.

Even though it was weird beyond belief for him to actually pack this thing up and bring it to the office everyday, it was still kinda cool, because none of us had ever seen anything like it before.

Eventually though, word got around to upper management and there was a little sit-down and joey didn’t come to work anymore. It was fun while it lasted.

A short time after that, it was mutually decided that he didn’t quite fit in at the old home office, and he was either asked to leave or resigned depending on who you talk to. After he left, he continued to send me e-mail once in a while whenever he posted something worth reading on a privacy-rights discussion board or saw a good article on fluoride mind control, but after a while the e-mail correspondence slowed down and finally stopped. I found out later that he had moved back West and was supposedly doing some consulting work.

A few years later, his name cropped up again. I heard through the grapevine that he had passed away -- from his "benign" brain tumor.

Go figure.

He was as crazy as a shithouse rat and a really strange guy, there’s no denying that. He wasn’t a bad guy though, and I have to say I actually liked him. I wasn’t thrilled about working for him, but I liked him.

FMLJ, you crazy bastard...you were more honestly alive than most people I know, and you certainly made it hard to forget you. Rest in peace, man.

And wherever you are, don’t drink the water -- I hear it’s got a shit load of fluoride in it.

The stuff I learn from my own blog

Sometimes I seriously question the ads that google decides to toss up on the side of my blog. I mean, I can see why they would stick weird shit up there given the stuff I normally post about, but still.

Mostly I don't even pay attention to them. However, my buddy Yort apparently does. The other day, he said, "What's up with all the testicles in your google ads?" I had no idea what he was talking about, so I went and checked it out. Sure enough, the first ad was titled "Undescended Testicle" and another for "The Castrator." Even as I type this, there's a generic one over there that says "Scrotum - Huge selection of posters & albums. Search for Scrotum now!" First off, they're probably not my kind of band, second, I'd be scared to see the poster and third, I'm not currently searching for scrotum, now or at any other time in the future, thank you very much.

Anyway, I couldn't just leave the ads sitting over there doing nothing, so I clicked on them. From the first one, I learned that apparently the right herbs can fix the problem, and that another word for it was "empty scrotum" which I guess stands to reason. I'm not sure why, but for some reason that just sounds way more depressing to me. Like if you call them "undescended" at least you know they're in there somewhere. "Empty" just sounds like your scrotum would be all drafty have an echo or something.

I also learned there is something called "retractile testes" which means that sometimes they're there and sometimes they're not. They can retract themselves into the abdomen. On the one hand, it would really suck if you went looking for them and they were off getting a pizza, but on the other hand, as someone who has gotten my fair share of inadvertent and extremely painful nut whacks growing up, this could be amazingly useful. Just think of the possibilities.

Biker dude: "WTF are YOU lookin' at? I'm gonna kick your ass!"
Me: "TESTES UP! TESTES UP!"

On the second ad (which I noticed is no longer there) I learned that there is such a thing as an "EZCastrator." If you're curious, just head on over. This is technically called a "bloodless castator" and there is a reason for that. I will note that in no instance do they refer to it as "painless castrator" and there is a reason for that, too. It consists of claw-like mechanism that allows you to place a very thick, very strong, very small rubber band around an animal's testicles. This cuts off the circulation until the testicles turn black and fall off by themselves. My first thought was, "I wonder what they do with all the shriveled black scrotums littering the yard?"

I know what it feels like to get them kicked, but dammit, this has to be worse -- at least at first. Maybe after they get a little black it's not so bad. They even have a demonstration on the website that uses a brown leather bag full of marbles or something. Even just watching that was uncomfortable.

I know all the guys reading this are squirming right now, and all the girls are thinking "I wonder how much one of those things costs? Are the bands extra? Are they reusable? If I buy two, is the shipping free?"

I'm a crappy salesman, so if you don't yet believe this thing is the greatest, I will now share some actual customer testimonials* from the website. Keep in mind that I am not making these up:

"Wanted to let you know I got the Castrator Thursday. I used it over the weekend and it works great, just what I was looking for. Thanks for the prompt delivery." -- Jimmy Watts

"We received the new castrator today. My, your service is prompt! My husband is already rubbing his hands gleefully, wanting to use it tonight. But, since it is 9:30 at night and -10° F, I think he'll wait until morning. Thanks Again." -- Allison Bohn, 3 Smokes Ranch

Maybe I'm wrong, but I think Allison's husband and ol' Jimmy Watts would really hit it off, although I wouldn't want to be around when they got to drinkin'.




*or teste-monials if you prefer.

This week, on Seriously Lost

Things are slowing down in the old Sitemeter department, I think. I keep getting googled for "one toe over the line" and also for some strange reason, there seems to be a rash of people worried about what to do in case of a gorilla attack. Is this a serious problem that I am currently unaware of? If so, I had no idea. So besides those two, here are my favorites this week:

Fantastic Google searches that somehow led people to my site:

instruction how to still break pad civic car - For full effect, you have to read that aloud using the Russian accent of super-spy Boris Badenov. Without a doubt, this is the mechanic I want working on my vehicle. Especially if my civic car has break pad that won't stay still.

how to get a guy to ask you for your number in a minute - There are lots of different ways, but unfortunately most of them only work if you're pretty hot. If you are extremely hot, you will probably have to look annoyed and say "wait a minute, pinhead" otherwise you'll get asked right away. If you aren't so hot, but only just ok, your options to beat the 60-second deadline are more limited -- which brings us to:

minute-long free porn - which would probably be one pretty effective way.

CHRISTINA BIG BOOB SLAP CHEESE GIRL - I'm at a loss. I got nothin. Suggestions?

The rope witches were wearing thongs they walked in the 15 year old house they took rope and started to wrap him up in it he screamed so they put a gag in his mouth than they a lot more things to him sexy and crule. -- Again, I have very little to add here. I am unfamilar with the crule, sexy, thong-wearing rope witches. And I hope to christ that when I die, I am still able to make that claim.

used tampons deer lure - You just know there's someone out there jumping up and down screaming "Finally! A practical use for all those used tampons I've collected over the years. I will sell them to hunters on ebay! I'll be rich! RICH, I tells ya!"

What are bucks balls look like? - Well, let me tell you. buck balls are look exactly like this:



(Hint: You needed to search on "Deer Testicles." When using Google, and especially when it comes to all things testicle, it always pays to be accurate. )

what do a boys crotch look like? - Yeah. I'm not typing that in to any search engine anywhere. Besides, I'm guessing it looks just like mine, only bigger.

trouble swallowing white meat? - If you're asking me about chicken or turkey, then no. If you're asking me about anything else, then hell yeah. This sounds like the punchline to an asian hooker joke.

sniffing diesel fumes, bad or good? - what do you think, Einstein? Here's a little experiment for you: Drinking lacquer thinner, bad or good? Give it a shot and report back.

questions not to ask the boss at lunch - I am guessing that any of the above four should probably be on the list if you would like to keep your job.

washer smells funny. how to get the smell out - again you are in luck because I am a washer and dryer repair expert. I am assuming you have one of those new front-load models. These often have a problem with a urine-like odor. Open your washer carefully, and let me know if you see anything like this:



If you do, we have found the source of your problem. These particular types of washers are known to attract the seldom-seen Giant Water Hamster. They are notoriously hard to get rid of, but I can help. OK, here's what you do: Go get a used tampon....

Electricity. What a concept.

Living in the sticks, we have a well. The well has a pump. For the purposes of this discussion we will call him Mr. Pump. Normally, Mr. Pump is extremely happy to feel useful and needed by bringing water from 350 feet down in the ground and placing it directly behind the valves of all my faucets. But Mr. Pump needs his friend, Mr. Power, to accomplish this seemingly simple task. The bad news is, Mr. Power has decided to just say eff it, and take a week-long vacation.

As a result, Mr. Pump has nothing to do all day but sit there sulking, playing solitaire and smoking unfiltered camels.

Due to the freaky windstorm we had, there are currently about 80,000 people in this area with no power. As you have accurately deduced, we are included in that number. We just got our phones back, so at least I have two hours of battery life on the old laptop, which is how I'm writing this right now.

It took me almost two hours to actually get to my house on Friday, and I felt like a bug trying to get away from a sadistic kid. Every street I turned down, eventually I would get to a fire truck or National Grid truck blocking traffic because some wire or tree was down. I never saw so many snapped off telephone poles, wires all over the street and downed trees in my life. It was like an obstacle course just to get home. After the fourth time I got shut down a few miles from my street, I just sat there and started laughing. Laugh or cry. Those were the choices. I was an inch away from just abandoning my car on a back road and walking home.

Anyway, I would just like to say to National Grid that moving electrons are the tits, and I would like to have some moving in my direction again very soon if it's all the same to you. They are now saying it's looking like Wednesday. Apparently, they have over 700 trucks from as far away as Mass and Canada coming in to fix this mess up.

Here are the two major things that suck about having no power:

1. Washing yourself in a bucket.
2. Flushing toilets.

At first glance, number one might seem to be simple, but really there's a lot of thought that needs to go into the process. You need to know the correct order to wash things in, for instance. First, you heat the water on the stove (luckily, we have propane to cook with) Then you wash your face, then you wash your hair, then the major body surfaces, and then the rest of the dangly bits, finishing off with your feet. You might want to reverse the last two -- I haven't worked out the "best practices" on that yet. If my feet start to smell like ass, a correction may be in order. Although the reverse of that probably isn't good for anyone either.

Since no power means no water, number two on the list becomes a giant pain in the ass. We have a 55 gallon drum of water in the basement with a hand pump on it. This is supposed to be for drinking water, but we've been using it to flush toilets, since the only alternative is to walk a few hundred feet outside in the below zero weather carrying a bucket and get water from the hand pump on the other well. An average toilet flush is about 3 gallons. So that means you spend a lot of time either running up and down the basement stairs with pans and buckets, or freezing your ass off hauling water from the outside well. So between the water and the firewood, I feel like I'm training for the olympics or something.

I have also come to a few other conclusions, one of which is that we humans are not happy unless we are fighting the natural order of things.

Consider this: It's 2 below zero outside, and I have a freezer full of food inside that is slowly thawing. I also have a 500 gallon hot tub outside that is slowly freezing. I'm not sure what's wrong with that picture, but something definitely is.

Also, my new electronic drum set has sounded like real shit for the last few days.

OK, I'm off to try to figure out how to McGuyver up some coffee.

I want the real story, dammit!

After reading all the news stories, and listening to all the snide comments made by the liberal dems I work with, I still can't find out the answer to the question that's been bugging me for the last couple of days. I'm hoping one of you has an inside source.

So tell me -- Did Cheney get the damn quail, or what?

I wonder if he gets the Sportsman's Guide catalog as many times a week as I do? He should pick up one of these:



I'm not sure I would be completely comfortable wearing a Croatian-lined jacket, but all ethics aside - for the price you really can't go wrong. I heard their skin is like Goretex.

OK, I'm off to eat chocolate covered strawberries and then.......you know....do absolutely nothing because my wife is still full of surgery holes. Happy Ballantines day!

You might think it's funny but it'snot.

Thanks to Sarah, I now have a name to put with what I witnessed today. I was in the men's room, just about to wash my hands, when a darker-skinned gentleman of middle-eastern descent came out of the stall. He immediately walked over to the sink next to mine and did some sort of elaborate hand washing exercise that looked like this, except for the feet part. He dipped each hand multiple times, all while mumbling something.

I can only assume that he was some sort of Muslim, and this was his thing.

That's fine. (Although as an aside, this particular dude might want to throw an armpit or two into the mix as well -- I'm just sayin'.) Anyway, I have no problem with any of that. He can strip naked, climb in the urinal and take a leisurely bath and I wouldn't give a shit.

My problem is with what he did next.

The next thing he did, (which, incidentally, I noticed was definitely not on the above diagram,) was exactly this:

He blew his nose into the sink.

He did this by plugging his left nostril with his left index finger, and blowing hard from his right nostril, and then doing the same thing on the other side.

I actually saw snot spray out of his nose. In fact, I heard it hit the porcelain.

Yep. Your basic snot-rocket, as Sarah informed me. I was so stunned I said, "What the FUCK?" before I realized I was actually talking out loud. He just glanced over at me, and then cupped some water in his hand and splashed it on the sink snot as if to say, "Happy now?"

Then he turned and left. He just walked out. No paper towels, no nothing. I'm 100% sure his snotty remnants are still on the door handle as I type this.

To all the Muslims that read my blog, let me reiterate my question: WTF?

In fact, I'll open it up to everyone, since I probably don't have that many Muslim readers.

Is this just an incidence of "disgusting slob with no clue" or is there something in the Koran that prohibits using toilet paper or paper towels to blow your nose? If this is indeed the case, please let me know.

I stood there pondering his actions for a moment or two, then washed my own hands. I opened the door with a giant wad of paper towels.

Don't worry. I'm pretty sure I got away snot-free.

Man-servant endures Everyday Insanity

So my wife had her gallbladder out Tuesday, and aside from the fact that her stomach looks like a really white version of 50 Cent's after he got shot up, she's doing OK. I took the week off to play man-servant, and all I can say is, I wish our house didn't have stairs.

I also wish there was no such thing as cooking shows, because the food network is all that has been on the upstairs TV for the last week. It's gotten so bad, I'm having nightmares about Giada De Laurentiis. In my dream, she looks like this:



Hmmm. Actually, even out of my dream she pretty much looks like that.

I keep dreaming that I'm a piece of sentient "MOOT-za-RELL-a" and she is going to dip her giant bobble-head down to the counter and take a gigantic bite out of me with her two rows of 149 perfectly white, razor-sharp teeth. Every time she smiles, she looks like she's checking her teeth for poppy seeds in the bathroom mirror.

I don't know if it's just her humongous insane-person grin that bugs me, or the fact that the cameraman sees fit to show us a close up of her uvula every time she speaks, but I can't take this show for very long. Every time she fellat--, er, tastes something she made I expect her to shuck her clothes, jump on the counter and roll around in it while screaming out the names of random italian foods using a fake, over-the-top italian accent.

Here's some other people I've learned to hate over the last week:

Sandra Lee - I forget the name of her show, but I call her Sandra Low because every single time I see her I wonder if her boobs could get any lower without having to be tucked into her pants. Seriously, who dresses this woman? Yank a little harder on those winches, will ya?

Some grey-haired southern butterball - This woman must have solid butter in her arteries, based on some of the recipes I've seen. Don't know her name, or the name of her show. I just know that she bugs the shit out of me, y'all.

Rachel Ray - Despite the fact that she's almost cute in a Miss-Piggy-meets-The-Joker sort of way and she seems to be the most genuine of the bunch, her voice sounds like it belongs to a 50 year old ex-hooker waitress working the nightshift at a truckstop. I can listen to it for about three minutes, tops.

Staying home for the week wasn't all bad though. I did learn how to make home-made chicken soup, using nothing but my own two hands and the instructions that periodically came out of the magic walkie-talkie. Oh, and I used some chicken and stuff. I didn't actually make soup out of my hands. I'm sure it would be tasty and flavorful, but it would make it really hard to type.

Another "feel good" Disney moment. Like when Bambi's mother died.

There's a new Disney movie out about dog sledding, and I've been seeing the previews lately on television. The movie looks really Disney-ish and sappy, except for one thing, and that thing is this:



What the hell IS that?? I am pretty sure it could eat an entire dog sled team in a single, flesh-rending bite. It doesn't look very fast, but I have to believe it would catch me easily because I would be frozen to the ice by my own pee.

Superbowl X-tra Large

I was talking to a buddy of mine the other day about the fact that most of our friends have no interest in watching football in general, or the superbowl in particular. I said I didn't even know who was in it this year, and he told me this funny story.

A few days ago, he was having a very similar conversation with another friend of ours, and he told her he didn't know who was playing. She said, "Oh wait -- I just saw the commercial. I think it's the Steelers vs. the Bangles."



The sad thing is, I know a lot more about Susanna Hoffs than I do about football.

More "too much of a good thing"

I just saw this little number on TV:



I don't know what kind of geyser this thing is supposed to put an end to, but I am pretty sure I could drain 5 quarts of dirty motor oil into it during my next oil change and not mess up the garage floor.

When will the marketing madness end? Just look at it. This thing's wings have wings. If the wings were any bigger, it would be a diaper. At least they didn't magically fold it into a little tiny lounge chair like that other commercial. This one was much classier. They had a steel ball bearing ricocheting around inside of it like it was a pinball machine.

And is it just me, or are all these things starting to look like Nike Air insoles?

Yeah. I know. It's just me.

Too much of a good and bad thing

A few miscellaneous things that occurred to me lately:

Has anyone else noticed that automobile manufacturers are going a little overboard with the safety features? The other day I saw a commercial for a car that had seven airbags. Seven! I can't even imagine where they would put the damn things. You had better hope you don't get into an accident, because seven airbags going off inside your car would squirt you out of the sunroof like a giant watermelon seed.

Now they have cars where all four wheels turn. That might sound good on paper, and it probably works great on snow, but to me it just sounds like something really hard to fix. That's if you actually survived the malfunction. Something about hitting an off-ramp at 60mph and suddenly realizing that my front tires are turning right and my rear tires are turning left doesn't really appeal to me. Although if it broke just right, your car would be like a two-ton version of the Krazy Kar I had when I was a kid, and that was always a fun ride.

Now they have headlights that turn too. You start to turn left, and the headlights turn left as well, to illuminate where you are thinking of going. What if I just swerved to avoid a pot hole? Suddenly my lights are pointing directly into someone's living room window instead of actually illuminating the road in front of me. It might be fun to play with though. The night-time joggers would probably get a kick out of it if you just gave the wheel a quick nudge to the left when you were coming up on them. They love that.

This would also be a maintenance issue, I'm sure. Just explaining it to the mechanic would be bad enough. "Hello? Yes, I need to get my car serviced. What's wrong with it? Well, first it went cross-eyed, and now all it does is spin in circles. Yes. I can have it towed in on Thursday. That will give me time to get the home equity loan squared away."

I can't even imagine how much stuff like this would cost to fix.

*******************************

In other news, a University of Arizona study identified prime common areas harboring cold and flu-causing germs and the bacteria count per square inch:

· Kitchen sink sponges and dishcloths, 7 billion;
· Kitchen faucets -- 229,000;
· Office phones -- 25,000;
· Desktops -- 21,000 and;
· Office toilet seats -- 49.

Do asses have some sort of inherent anti-bacterial properties that I am unaware of?

Anyway, I'll be eating my lunch in the handicapper stall from now on. (As an aside, I wish they'd move the giant toilet paper dispenser to above the rail. I'm not even handicapped and I can't get toilet paper out of that piece of shit without throwing my back out.)

I thought it was all good, because I had my trusty bottle of Purell. Then I saw on the bottle that it "Kills 99.99% of germs!" I only have second-grade math skills, but even I can tell you this:

.01% of SEVEN BILLION is still a shitload.

State of the Island Address

I didn't get a chance to actually watch the state of the union address, so today I read the transcript. I was following along quite nicely when suddenly, I read this:

"Tonight I ask you to pass legislation to prohibit the most egregious abuses of medical research -- …creating human-animal hybrids … "

I realize this is a huge concern for the entire population. If they outlaw it, it'll just mean only the rich will be able to get it done. In fact, just today I was telling a co-worker that I was having a bitch of a time trying to find someone to graft a rhino horn to my forehead. I found one guy in Mexico, but he doesn't guarantee his work.

I had my eye on that horse-penis upgrade too, but my wife gave the old thumbs-down to that idea. Truthfully, I'm a little surprised she went for the horn. I didn't really expect that.

Anyway, I just thought I'd bring this up and see what you all thought. I am, after all, what they call a "single-issue voter," and I gotta say: I think human-animal hybrids is my issue.

Also, I heard that Cheney was trying to get G to flip-flop on his whole anti-hybrid stance and just go for that bitchin' cheetah mod. He said Putin would shit his pants.

I AM NOT AN ANIMAL!

So this is new.

I had just finished eating my lunch yesterday -- the same exact type of sandwich I eat most every day -- when my jaw felt a little funny. I reached up to touch it and I hit beard a full inch and a half before I expected to.

"Hmmmm," I thought to myself. "I certainly don't remember having a goiter."

But suddenly I did. The entire left side of my jaw and part of my neck was swollen and strangely numb. My jaw felt funny when I closed it, like my teeth didn't line up correctly any more. I wasn't having any trouble swallowing, and I've never been allergic to a thing in my entire life.

Other possibilities ran through my mind: Was I a late-blooming shape shifter? Was my recessive lycanthrope gene rearing its ugly head again? I had no idea. I grabbed a mirror to see what sort of transformation was occurring, and I was not disappointed. I immediately saw that the left side of my face was looking extremely Leno-esque.

I called my GP, and said "I ate lunth and my fathe swelled up." Then I realized I sounded exactly like Edgar Stiles on 24, so I added "Mithster Buchanan, Jack Bauer ith on the phone."

They said, "Um, yeah. You'd better go to the emergency room."

I hung up and decided to wait a bit to see if it got better.

While I was waiting, I drove my ass to the drugstore and choked down a few handfuls of Benedryl while standing in the cold and flu aisle. The first box I picked up was the chewable version, and since my teeth didn't line up anymore, I had to hunt around for something else. I had no idea there were so many different kinds. All of them are as dry as desert dust, by the way.

I approached the register with the open box, and I must have scared the clerk with the proto-Leno look I had going on, because he said, "Are you all right?" I tried to cough up the Benedryl that was jammed sideways in my esophogus, then said, "Yeth, I think thoe. Juth need to pay." He backed up like I had Ebola or something. I am not sure, but I may or may not have been drooling.

I got back to the office, and an hour later, everything was back to normal.

WTF? Can faces spontaneously inflate? Just half of them?

Apparently the answer to that question is, "Yes, Johnny. Yes, they can."

Lust and found

Ladies and gents, I present you with this week's edition of:

Fantastic searches that somehow led people to my site

Are sharks attracted to dogs? - You know, I've often wondered this myself. If the dog was smokin' hot, and also an excellent swimmer, I could maybe see a quick roll in the hay, but a lasting relationship? I really can't see it working. The shark would have to keep moving all the time, the dog would get fed up with not being able to keep the kids in one school...It would end badly for everyone involved. But I won't rule it out completely, because we all know that opposites attack, er, attract.

Twisted Village - I had no idea they were even back together. At any rate, I would suggest just picking up this one CD and calling it a day:



It has all their very best stuff on it anyway.


Should you curl into a ball during a shark attack? - I guess the answer to this question depends on who you ask. If you ask the shark, the shark would say that yes - Sharks, as a group, generally appreciate ball-curling on the humans' part. Basically, it puts the crunchy shell on the outside, like an m&m. They love that.

How a wolfman would speak - I 'm not a wolfman, so I don't really knowoooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Jeez. I have no idea where that came from.

Dog shit attractant - I've had pretty good luck with these:



Shit smells. -- Clearly, this search was performed by a scientist researching a theory. The first step is to make an observation, e.g. "shit smells." The second step is to verify that the observation is not an anomaly and is totally repeatable, e.g. "yup, shit still smells." Obviously, the third and final step is to search the internet to see if anyone else has independently researched and published information similar to your discovery. Sadly, even though the clues were right in front of me, stuck to my shoe, I never put two and two together. I simply could not figure out where the smell was coming from, until it was too late. No scientific journal publication credit for me, I guess.

Anus leaching -- Oh Jesus save me. Leaching what? LEACHING WHAT? Oh. They meant BLEACHING. Yeah. That's much better.

How to get rid of an earwig's lodge in your ear -- I would call the building inspector. I'd bet good money that those bastards didn't even have a building permit. Also, I am pretty sure that a lot of it is probably not built to code. It will take a while, but you can get the structure condemned and then start eviction proceedings. I would do it soon, because I've heard rumors that they are looking for someone to burn it down for the insurance money.

Scrotum interrogation -- I'm really at a loss here, because I've never had to go to the police station to bail out my scrotum. Luckily, it has never been implicated in a drive-by shooting or any other violent crime, so I'm not really up to speed on the the latest and greatest scrotum interrogation techniques. I imagine it involves bright lights, small propane torches and some sort of nutcracker.

What to do to get your asshole ready for anal sex -- Here's another search that I really can't help with. However, I'm never one to hold off on advice even when I have no idea what I'm talking about, so I would suggest starting with maybe a really snappy bleaching. Make that sucker so white it glows in the dark. Make it hard to miss, in other words. An interrogation probably wouldn't hurt either -- failing that, I would at least have someone give it a stern talking to.

Good size for a ho train platform -- Another tough one. My feeling is that you're going to need a pretty big platform if you're going to start up a working ho train. I would suggest something at least three times the normal platform size and comfortably soft, since people will most likely be lying down rather than standing up. I would also suggest something that is easily hosed off. I am leaning towards vinyl padding, but I'll let you know which way I go once the project comes together and I make my first cross country run. You'll be able to get pre-sale tickets and investment information at www.hotrain.com when I finally get it up. I'm talking about the website. Get your mind out of the gutter, people.

It's over between us.

Courage. Commitment. Trust. All good things in a relationship, although sometimes tough to come by. Such was the case yesterday. I would like to briefly address these topics with the anonymous woman driving in front of me on the way home last night, since she seems to be in need of a little refresher.

Courage -- It was very commendable of you to decide that when the light turned yellow, you were going for it. This type of courage is not normally seen in women drivers. It warmed my heart to see you grab the bull by the horns, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching your car accelerate quickly away from mine. I smiled, because I could see that you were going to have plenty of time. So much time, in fact, that I quickly calculated that I would also have time to make the light, given your current rate of acceleration.

You were thinking of both of us, and I sincerely appreciate that. I suppose that could be mere wishful thinking on my part, and I realize now that it was probably more of an "every man for himself" kind of thing, but still. There had to be something there, or you could have tried to time it so that only you got through, but you didn't stoop to that level. Because of that, I honestly thought you cared.

Commitment -- Sadly my love, this is where we part ways. While I was committed to our relationship, apparently you were not. When you glanced to your left a moment after you gunned your engine and saw the cop sitting at the red light, your bravery and commitment evaporated instantly, and you slammed on your brakes. I would be the first one to forgive you for your sudden lack of courage and commitment, were I privy to your impending change of heart.

I tell you this to save you some heartache in future relationships: Going forward, it is imperative for you to understand that it is not permissible to change your mind mid-stomp and decide that you want to stop for the yellow after all. This is a Very Bad Thing, and causes the other person in the relationship to scream and yell and tightly pucker their nether-orifice as they swerve from side to side trying desperately to not plow your field. I only mention this so you know next time: A police officer will generally not give you a ticket for running a yellow light.

Trust -- I am normally a good judge of driving ability, and up until that moment, you seemed like you were the Master of your Vehicle. You were consistently 7-10 mph over the speed limit, you lined the curves, you didn't ride your brakes. You were decisive and confident. You handled that little foreign job like the true professional I believed you to be. You were everything I wanted.

I admit this to you, now that it's over.

I was falling in love with you.

That all changed in an instant, as it so often does. You betrayed my trust in you. You looked like you had it all together, but unfortunately for both of us, I was gravely mistaken. The sight of a single police car caused you to abandon your feelings for me, and go running to him.

I lost all respect for you. I don't think I'll be able to look at you the same way any longer.

In fact, I.....I don't think I can drive behind you anymore.

I'm sorry it had to end like this.

i-Rock

I know I've been neglecting my blogging duties, but I have a good reason.

I think I finally found the ultimate accessory for my iPod:



Right. I just got these bad boys, and I cannot TELL you how good it feels to have drumsticks in my hands again. I played in a rock band all through high school and most of college, and I missed playing a lot. When I moved into my first apartment, I traded the acoustics for an electronic set, but the technology wasn't quite there yet. I ended up selling them a short time later to buy a flatscreen monitor.

Not exactly the same as trading the Bluesmobile for a microphone, but close.

Anyway, these things are pretty amazing, and the feel is very natural. In fact, with your eyes closed, they don't feel like rubber at all. They have just the right bounce, and once you get used to them, they're easy to use. They could stand to be a bit bigger, but for the cheapest decent set available, they're pretty damn fine.

I realize that sounds like I'm describing my wife's new boob-job, but I'm not. I will say, however, that you would have to have some pretty spectacular knockers for me to be drawn away from this drum set any time soon.

I am still mulling over the answers to the war-pig test. I'll get back to you soon with the winners and the prizes.

I know. You can hardly wait.

War Pigs

Take a look at this.



Study it closely, because there's going to be a test. There are no incorrect answers. Basically, I'm looking for an answer from you guys, because nothing I can come up with explains this.

Let's go over a few things.

First, let's look at the product name: MURA: Military Pigs

That name seems to tie in nicely with the graphic, if those melon-headed, teardrop-eyed, rosy-cheeked little nightmare creatures can be considered pigs. They are clearly military somethings. One only needs to observe the bazooka-like weapon, the GI helmets and the gear belts in order to come to this conclusion.

Counter-balancing that, however, is (1) The complete lack of both clothes and genitalia, (2) The fact they they appear to be effortlessly standing on their hind legs, and (3) The fact that it appears to be snowing out. Not that it's entirely out of the question for extremely coordinated Military Pigs to conduct naked warfare in the snow -- but still.

So.

What would you expect to be inside this package? Ammunition? Bazooka operating instructions? Bacon-flavored pork-jerky?

Well, I can tell you that it's none of the above. What is inside happens to be exactly this:

Lightly scented facial tissues.

So here's your test. It's entirely essay based (I know, you guys hate that, but no multiple-choice for finals - only midterms), and you can place your answers in my comments section. The person who receives the highest grade will get a prize.

Question One: Pigs, while generally naked, do not normally engage in warfare with hand-held weapons, or, in fact, any weapons. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure they rarely engage in warfare at all. In 50 words or less, explain what these pigs are fighting for.

Question Two: In 50 words or less, give me your best explanation as to how these pigs lost all their clothes, but managed to hang on to their helmets and belts.

Question Three: In 50 words or less, Explain what was going through the mind of the package designer when he/she/it decided that a good graphic for a small package of Kleenex would consist of naked, bi-pedal pigs holding a bazooka.

OK, pick up your pencils and begin.

I know too much. I'm probably a dead man.

So I get in the elevator to ride up to the fifth floor and a large woman I have never seen before gets on with me.

To me, the extent of conversation in an elevator with a person you don't know should be, at most, "What floor?" followed by a response consisting of a monosyllabic word, preferably a number, and then a button push on my part.

But no.

The split-second the doors close, she starts talking.

Here is the conversation, as it happened:

Me: "4th?"

Her: "Yes. please. Oh my God, I hope I can function today. I only got one hour's sleep last night. My daughter called as soon as I went to bed, and I ended up at the hospital because she was having contractions. I told her they were just going to send her home but no, she had to go anyway. They kept her there almost the entire night."

She pauses, then leans toward me a little bit, and gives me the conspiratorial whisper "She was scared, because last week she had some spotting."

Luckily, the elevator responded to my silent prayer of "ohjesuspleasegofasterpleasegofastergofaster" and the doors opened on the 4th floor and she got out.

I'm still dazed.

Finding Mr. Virgil

It's time for your weekly dose of....

Fantastic Searches That Somehow Pointed People To My Site

difference between exuding confidence and being annoying - In reality, these are generally one and the same. People who exude confidence are intrisically annoying. There is fine line between arrogance and awareness of self-worth, and the confidence-exuder walks this line. There is only one thing more annoying than a confidence-exuder, and that is an arrogant asshole. And the only thing worse than an arrogant asshole is an arrogant asshole who exudes unwarranted confidence.

rapid clacking noise on my washer - You are in luck, because I am an expert at fixing washers and dryers. OK, here's what you do. Look very closely at your washing machine. Tell me if it looks anything like this:



If it does, you have found the source of your problem. Do not get too close -- those things can be very dangerous. Immediately get a big stick and pound the shit out of it until your washer is covered in tiny, red and white slivers of plastic. The clacking should have stopped. Your washer is now fixed.

Washing machine won't go into rise cycle - Ugh. Magicians. They have no idea what to do when their appliances break down.

flaming doe scent - I've burned hair off my arm while grilling steaks, and lemme tell ya -- that shit stinks bad. You cannot get rid of that smell. I can only imagine how bad an entire flaming doe smells. It can't be good. I have no idea why you would even want to smell it.

How many hours should you space between breakfast and lunch? - I recommend spacing for at least an hour. What I like to do is grab some breakfast around 8, head back to my desk around ten thirty, then space for an hour or so until lunch. By then it's all downhill and almost time to leave.

Jolly Ranger candies - I'm not sure why, but this candy sounds much gayer than the Jolly Rancher version.

WGY CANT WE LOOK ET THE SUN - BECUASZ WE WIL GO BLINED AND NPOT BE ABL TO CEE THE KLEYBOARD REELG OOD.

wedgie instructions - OK, here you go: Grab the underwear firmly, using both hands if possible. (The single-handed wedgie is beyond the scope of this text, and will be covered next semester.) To avoid thumb injury, the proper form is very important. Hook the elastic waistband with four fingers of each hand. Ideally, you want all fingers on the inside of the elastic, and the thumbs on the outside. The thumbs should be almost touching, but be sure to leave a bit of slack to allow for the upward motion to follow. Once you have properly grabbed the underwear, jerk the underwear up quickly, using your shoulders and upper back. Do not lean forward too much or you will risk injuring your lower back. However, there is a caveat: Do not pull up too quickly. It is possible to completely rip the underwear if you are too over-exuberant, which immediately nullifies the worthiness of the wedgie. This botched wedgie only results in momentary pain. The best wedgie will result in a 4x increase in underwear length, and the pain will be continuous until the offending garments are extricated via out-patient surgery. You will know you have executed the perfect, text-book wedgie if both leg holes extend past the waistband by at least 3 inches, and the underwear has still not ripped.

Scrotum grabbing - I have no instructions here. Scratching, yes. Grabbing, not so much. My only advice for you would be not to go around doing it, unless asked.

How do you handle a lying bastard? - I'm not completely sure, but I'd put good money on the answer "Firmly, by the scrotum."

tell some real tip on how to be a good smart not scared model and funny model - Clearly, you've got your mastery of the english language down, (good enough to be a model, anyway) so I would suggest concentrating on being 5' 11" and really hot.

File under: Lies, Direct vs. Indirect

So I was watching 24 last night and trying not to have a heart attack and/or shit myself, when I saw another commercial on TV for the memory foam mattress. I have a problem with that commercial, and I'm going to tell you what it is.

Comfortable? I'm sure it is. That's probably not a lie. But the omissions are what get to me. I always want to ask the announcer some pointed questions.

"Mr. Announcer, after you're laying on this thing for 30 minutes, does it or does it not act like a giant foam insulator, causing you to sweat like John Goodman does when he eats?"

or perhaps:

"Mr. Announcer, you state that Mrs. Jones can get out of bed without disturbing Mr. Jones. Do these people not use covers? I don't know about you, but it generally isn't the bed bouncing that wakes me up when my wife gets up to pee 6 times a night. It's all the damn freezing cold air coming in under the covers, or -- on most nights - the actual sensation of the covers completely leaving my body. Can your insanely expensive foam bed fix that?"

I think not.

The only thing so far that has increased my comfort level while sleeping is to sleep on the couch.

Then there's always the one for Enzyte. I have a problem with that one too -- not because they didn't ship my free trial quickly enough, but because of all the unsubstantiated claims they make. Also, there is something deeply, seriously wrong with that Bob guy and it's probably caused by those little pills he's been popping. Anything that makes you walk around with a rictus-like, Joker-Gas grin on your face can't be good for you.

So my questions would be:

"Mr. Announcer, How is it that this stuff hasn't been taken off the market, and the company sued for false advertising claims? And what the eff is up with Bob?"

My theory is that the men who bought this shit are either a) embarrassed to admit that it didn't work, or b) embarrassed that they bought it to begin with. They don't want to call up the Better Business Bureau and complain to the nice lady that they didn't get a "firmer and fuller-feeling erection." But that's just a guess.

I would have to say that if my choices were between walking around looking like this,



or living with my average, white-boy package size, I'd stick with my un-enhanced parts thank-you-very-much. Plus, the last thing I need is Batman on my ass.

Besides if you look at the ingredients list for this stuff, there's nothing in it that you can't buy for a lot less at the drug-store. Also, I think I've figured out the active ingredient:



So my suggestion is to just make a beeline for the active ingredient, and stock up here.

Wow. I almost missed it.

I just realized that exactly a year ago today, I started this here blog.

I did it on a dare from the weenjammer , Big Tool, and Sarah, and I thought it wouldn't last two weeks. I figured either nobody would read it, I would run out of things to write about, or both. Luckily, neither of those things happened. It's a good thing too, since I'm still having fun with it.

The cool thing to me is that somewhere along the line, people started thinking my blog was funny. I never tried writing anything funny before, so that was a welcome surprise.

Then these same people started stopping by on a regular basis, and leaving me comments. That was also pretty cool. So to those regulars that happen to see this, thanks for continuing to stop by and check out the insanity inside my head. It's always good to know I'm not alone. Insanity loves company, I think the saying goes, and you magnificent bastards are great company.