Breaker 1-9, Break.

I'm driving home today after work, and I am sitting at a traffic light next to a giant tanker truck full of propane. There's a sticker on the truck that says I can make $50,000 a year and be home most weekends if I have experience driving the big rigs. All I have to do is call the 800 number.

Now, if it had been a truck full of stereos and I was supposed to be delivering them to Best Buy stores across the country, that might not be a bad gig. But this truck was full of propane. So essentially, they're saying "We're looking for suckers to drive this rolling bomb, and (if you live to collect it) make 50K a year."

As I was checking out the rig, I noticed a white cylinder about the size of a small fire extinguisher fastened to the back of the cab. Turns out the reason it was about the size of a small fire extinguisher was because that's exactly what it was.

So to sum up: Not only are you driving a rolling bomb, you are expected to put it out if it suddenly catches fire.

I am fairly certain that a career change to propane trucking wouldn't really be a good move for me. To illustrate this point, I drew a picture of me, bravely battling the flames of my burning propane truck:


As hard as it is to believe...

I am watching this movie right now:

I shit you not.


The name makes me laugh. The thought that this movie actually got funded makes me laugh. The fact that it was made LAST YEAR and not in 1977 makes me laugh some more.

But I cannot not look away.

I am going to watch until the Mansquito shows up. Or at least until the first something-squito makes an appearance. Womansquito, Boysquito, even Homosquito - I don't care. The acting is beyond horrendous. If the Mansquito sucks as much as what I've seen so far, he's going to be one ravenous, blood-sucking bastard.

[insert ten minutes of ridiculously stupid dialogue read directly off cue-cards by attractive people with 3rd grade reading skills here. The leading man used to be on an old Fox sitcom. Apparently, Parker Lewis CAN lose, and badly.]

Ladies and gentlemen -- we have us a Mansquito. Oddly enough, it is the female scientist that goes first. Maybe they should have called the movie Ms. Quito. Scientifically, it stands to reason I guess, since I think it's only the female mosquitos that actually bite.

Here is the gripping transformation from human to blood-sucking monster, as pasted from my closed-captioning system:

[we need some backup in here!]

I am pretty sure I've seen that closed-captioning word-for-word on the Adult film channel, except the shots at the end were slightly different.

Watch this movie. I dare you.


They lost me.

OK, it's time for a little rant.

I've been looking forward to the 2-hour season finale of LOST. Not because it's ending, but because it looked to be an awesome episode from the previews.

I don't get roped into that many TV shows, but I've been watching this one since it first aired, and while it's been entertaining, I still have no fucking idea what is going on. Not only that, I am pretty sure the writers have no idea either. It's starting to annoy me, and I think that right now the only thing that will bring me back next season is if Evangeline Lilly gets naked. Otherwise, I think I'm done.

Another reason I am through with this show -- This is just a guess on my part, but apparently there is a huge population of American Idol fans who, after all this time, have decided that they don't actually care which shitty singer wins, and they desperately need to catch up on what's been happening on LOST.

I am also pretty sure that they have to pass a written and oral test tomorrow morning with no mistakes, or the executives at ABC will force them to kill a kitten for every question they get wrong.

That is the only possible reason** that I should be forced to once again sit through an hour's worth of recycled, voiced-over, bullshit clips from previous episodes.

So, to all you people who have just crawled out from under your rock tonight to watch your very first -- and my very last -- episode of LOST, I'm tired of paying for your lack of commitment with my time. Let me know how it ends.

On second thought, scratch that. Just let me know if Evangeline gets naked.*

*or if you hear that she stopped dating that Hobbit. Because I don't think she'd be happy in the Shire.

**actually, there is one more reason -- and that reason is Dish Network sucks and their guide sucks and its ability to actually record something correctly sucks. So yeah, it was 2 hours -- and I don't think it actually recorded from 9-11. This POS recorded from 8-10. Awesome.


I've become a stall man.

Yes, it's true. I can't take it any more.

I always thought stall guys were kind of weird, and all sorts of things ran through my head when I encountered one. Maybe they were homophobic, I thought, or had some sort of catheter bag to empty. Maybe they had stage fright, or were embarrassed by their tiny weenie. Perhaps it was just the opposite, and they were embarrased by their freakishly large one. I really had no idea.

Today, I am here to tell you that I've joined their ranks. I have converted, and not because of any of the aforementioned reasons. The reason I converted is simply this:

That is a top down view of every urinal at every place I've ever worked.

Usually, they look like this by about 9am, and get progressively worse as the day goes on. It starts out at 8am as a spray mist, turns into a small puddle by 9, then turns into a sticky puddle from noon on. After that, you could probably scrape it up with a putty knife.

I simply refuse to stand in it any longer.

So I've become a stall man. I don't know which particular set of slobs is doing this to every urinal station, but I am pretty sure that there are only a few ways it could happen:

1. Gross obesity and absolutely zero control over where your urethra is currently pointing, or

2. Intentionally spraying piss like a horny alley cat marking his territory.

The problem in the first case is twofold - one, being too fat to actually see your own member and two, the ballistics of the thing, which determines how much piss lands on the floor. I suck at math and can't seem to actually generate a working peequation, so if there are any mathematicians reading this, feel free to help me out:

As far as I can tell, the variables are as follows:

Let R=relative stream strength (condition of prostate+bladder level+amount of coffee and/or mountain dew consumed)

Let X=dribble/shake

Let Z=distance from urinal

Let P= well, Pee

Somewhere therein lies the answer. But many math problems can be solved with geometry as well, and a diagram often works wonders. Being more visually oriented, I feel the peequation can be illustrated more clearly with a simple drawing:

So that takes care of possibility number one. As for possibility number two, (i.e., the alley cat theory) the only other conceivable way this amount of piss could end up on the floor is if he put his thumb over the end like he's spraying something with a garden hose. I have yet to actually witness that, but give it time. I've seen just about everything else.

So long story short, I now piss in the stall where it's dry and I don't stick to the floor. I'm sure there are some people who think I'm ashamed of my tiny weenie (that's besides the point), but at least I no longer feel compelled to burn my shoes.

Goddammit people. AIM for chrissakes. It's not that difficult. And if you're too fat to get close enough, dangle your dongle in a coffee cup and then dump it or something. Jesus.


Google me wrinkly.

Without further ado, and also without something better to post, I present:

Fantastic Google Searches That Somehow Led People To My Site.

Im looking for a cake that look like male private body part - Come on. Just type it. We all know which body part you're talking about. So think about this, Mr. or Ms. Bashful: If you are successful in your search, you will, at some point in the very near future, actually be eating penis cake -- so you might as well get used to the word rolling around on your tongue.

what foot doctor can remove toe knuckles? - I am almost positive that the vast majority of them have the medical training and ability, however, you may have difficulty finding one willing to actually do it. Well, unless your toe knuckles are really effed up. I think if you are serious about wanting your toe knuckles removed, you will either have to do it yourself with a pair of bolt cutters and a bottle of cheap whiskey, or find a crackhead vet who does a lot of cat declawing. Maybe he can throw you a neuter while he's at it.

shoes or no shoes witch is faster - Through rigorous scientific testing, and the cooperation of the Mayor, I have determined without a shadow of a doubt that a good witch is faster with shoes. A bad witch is faster without them. I hope that helps.

husband castrators - I am not sure about this one. Either this woman is looking for an actual product or tool to accomplish said castration, or some sort of castration service she can call to get the deed done. Either way - Run, Logan, Run!

what does it mean when you put cereal box in the fridge by accident - I think it means that you really should track down the milk asap.

enzyte red and swollen arms - I have never actually tried it, but I am pretty sure it's not your arms that are supposed to be red and swollen.

I want to retract my testes - I've occasionally wanted to do this same exact thing. Well, except it was with an e-mail, which I guess is probably not really quite the same thing after all. As handy as this magical alternative could be, I've never queried Google for the proper technique, so you're on your own.

remove odor of dead grasshopper - I knew it would happen. Master Po finally had enough of Kwai Chang Caine trying to grab that little pebble out of his hand.

Problem with wrinkled scrotum - After all this time, I had no idea. I thought they were supposed to be that way. Great. Just what I need. Another thing to iron in the morning. Although as my friend pointed out, it would probably be much easier if I could retract my testes.

And on a completely different topic: What piece of shit, lame-ass ad agency came up with the tagline "It's the only Soquid you eat with a Fpoon?" If I ever meet one of the douchbags responsible for this abomination of marketing, I will personally pump an entire tank of Wendy's Frosty up his ass with a high-pressure firehose.


Jarts, anyone?

Hmmm. Until I just wrote that last post, I hadn't thought of Lawn Darts in years. Now I feel compelled to write about them.

I wonder what genius thought that one up? We had a set when we were kids -- I think they were actually called "Jarts."

For those of you who aren't familar with this old toy, it was pretty much just two sets of giant darts. They had a weighted, sharpened metal spike on one end, and fins and a grip on the other end. You would set a plastic ring at each end of your lawn, and each team would try to put their darts into the ring on the far side of the yard for points. It was basically just an extremely dangerous game of horse shoes.

I think the rules were you played until 10 points were scored or someone was impaled.

I can't remember how long these things were actually on the market -- but I do remember that the alarming number of people showing up at the hospital with giant darts sticking out of their heads caused the company to pull them from the shelves.

Regardless, you haven't lived until you've had to dive out of the way of a blue death missle coming directly at your head from across the yard. I can still hear the THWOCK! sound it made when it barely missed you and drilled itself into the ground 30 feet from anything remotely resembling a plastic ring.

I'll bet there weren't any lawsuits against the company back then. That's because people used to take responsibility for their actions. If you somehow ended up with a jart jammed into your thigh, you didn't blame the toy company -- You blamed yourself, or your dumbass brother and his shitty aim.

I think we were playing it wrong.


I'll trade you a claw hammer for your sunshine bear.

I was driving home in the pouring rain yesterday, and as usual, I had some idiot riding my ass. Finally, I changed lanes to let him pass, and it turned out that him was a her. An old her. This grey-haired old lady was sure in a hurry to get somewhere -- maybe her Milk of Magnesia kicked in early or something, I don't know. At any rate, she was pissing me off, so I moved over. She passed me, and then locked up her brakes because the guy in front of me was going pretty slow too, but she hadn't noticed. She swerved side to side, and then pulled into MY lane, about an inch from the front of my car.

I flashed her my high beams, and was about to flip her off when I saw that she had roughly 35,567 stuffed animals on the rear window deck. So many, in fact, that there was no way in hell she would ever be able to see past these things to my angry, agitated finger. There was literally a two-inch gap at the top, and that was the extent of her rear-visibility.

I have no idea what posesses people to stack this kind of shit on their rear deck. Stuffed animals, bobble-head dolls, I've even seen cats and dogs (real ones) up there for the ride.

I saw an episode of myth-busters one time where they tested out whether or not stuff stored up there could actually injure you in an accident. Turns out, it can. If you rear-end someone, that stuff can come flying forward at 60mph and hit you right in the back of the head. Granted, not much of a problem with stuffed animals, but I will have to do some research to see if anyone was ever injured by a high velocity persian cat or a Lou Gehrig bobble-head to the base of the skull.

It was too bad I couldn't follow her home, wait for the middle of Wheel of Fortune, then sneak into her car and replace the stuffed animals with a pile of rusty kitchen knives, a bucket of claw hammers and an old set of lawn darts. Cover this up with a thin layer of stuffed animals and she's good to go.


Don't drop the soap, lightbulb head.

Just some random things today. Nothing of real import. Let's start with this oddness. This morning I decided it would be a good day to spill coffee on my shirt, so I was standing in the men's room trying to get the coffee stain out, and some guy walks in and takes a stall. Normally, you can tell a few things about someone when they do this. There are two types of stall people -- the kind that cover the seat with TP, and the kind that just sit down on whatever and let'er rip.

I know there can be mitigating circumstances, and this behavior can vary depending upon what sort of spicy burrito was consumed for lunch, however this dude was clearly of the first type, and was spending an inordinate amount of time on initial seat prep. For the entire 2 or 3 minutes I was standing there removing coffee from my shirt, I could hear the toilet paper roll going like mad, and it just didn't stop. Roll, tear, roll, tear, roll, tear. This guy was at that roll like he was building some sort of nest in there. At any rate, I got the hell out of the room before his feet disappeared.

In keeping with the toilet theme, I snapped this on the way home today:

That my friends, is a shining example of stellar marketing. Seriously, how could you pass that up? Just because it's covered in a solid layer of E. Coli and people you don't know have been crapping into it until recently doesn't detract from its outstanding value. C'mon. It's free and it works good. What more could you possibly want? Of course, they could be lying and you would have no way of knowing, because they certainly aren't going to hook it up again for a test drive. Even if it didn't work at all, they aren't going to write that. They are having a problem getting rid of it as it is -- if it didn't work and they actually told you that, they might as well just fill it with dirt and plant flowers in it. All I'm saying is that when a free radio doesn't work good, you might only get one or two stations. When your free roadside toilet doesn't work good, you have poop floating through a room. There's a world of diference there.

Speaking of piles of shit, I'm thinking that since Zacharias Moussaoui is getting life in prison, it won't be too long before he's someone's bitch. I took the liberty of mocking up some possible hot new looks for him since instead of getting 72 virgins, he's going to actually be one. At least for a little while.

Oh yes. One more thing. Taylor Hicks dances like he's trying to shake a dried corncob out of his ass.


Hick Humor

I drive by this house sometimes:

You probably can't read the sign on top, but it says "Air Mail."

Somehow, the same guy who has had no front steps for the last 5 years managed to find the time to dig a giant hole and sink a 25 foot long 4x4 in concrete just for the sake of this joke.

I'm not sure whether I want to slap him silly or buy him a beer.


How many MPB* does it get?

I was on my way to work this morning and I was waiting at a red light next to another car. The car happened to have a "For Sale" sign in the window. It was a pretty nice looking car, so I started checking it out. I don't need a car, it's just something I do. Don't judge me. No rust, no dents, not bad for the asking price.

I looked up at the driver just in time to see him nose-mine a good-sized booger and wipe it on the pillar between the side window and the windshield. I was going to roll down my window and ask him if he was going to throw in the whole collection at no extra cost, but I figured that was a given.

This got me thinking, which, as you all know, isn't always a good thing. I've purchased my share of used cars, and I got to wondering how many ounces of other people I've actually owned over the years. All the bitten-off cuticles and fingernails, the dandruff, the lost hair....everything you can think of stuck between the seats and ground into the rug. You name it, and it's probably there somewhere.

Luckily, I bought my last car new, so I don't have to wonder how many of someone else's farts the front seat has absorbed before I got it. Probably a max of three or four would be my guess -- just from the test drives, I would think.

I've also had my share of piece-of-shit cars over the years, and I promised Sarah that I would mention some of them. In fact, in talking with her today, I remembered quite a few details I otherwise probably wouldn't have. So let me tell you about my first junker, and my last junker and maybe one or two in between:

An orange 1975 subaru two-door coupe - This is the car that I learned to drive on. I failed my driving test the first time because this orange piece of crap overheated in the middle of an intersection. My father bought this car for 200 bucks, and the only thing that was really wrong with it, (other than the fact that the paint was so chalky that the orange had faded to the color of wet baby aspirin) was that the support member across the motor was rusted out, which meant the fenders were falling in toward each other. If you opened the hood, you would never get it closed again without a guy on either side pulling on the fenders. I learned this the hard way the first time, and ended up driving home doing 15 mph with a torn strip of t-shirt holding the hood closed. A little creative welding, however, and it was good to go.

It had an aftermarket cassette player in it -- and I am not talking about an in-dash. This thing was the size of a small suitcase and it hung down under the dash on two sharp brackets, just far enough to guarantee that you would bang your knee on it at least once every time you drove it. On the plus side, the motor on the cassette ran slow, so it was really easy to hit the high notes in the REO speedwagon and Triumph songs. The stereo system also had a separate component amp, and the genius who had the car before me had wired it wrong so it was always on. In addition to the gigantic ear-splitting POOMP! sound that happened every time you turned the radio on, if you didn't disconnect the amp at night your battery would be dead in the morning. Eventually, I got tired of forgetting to do this and I fixed the issue permanently by tearing the piece of shit out from under the dash and leaving it in the dumpster at Star Market.

The other shitty thing about this car was that it only weighed about a thousand pounds. Having both an easily identifiable orange car that weighs considerably less than Rosie O'Donnell, and friends that like to fuck around with you at every possible opportunity is not a good combination.

I would stop at the convenience store for a soda, or come out to the parking lot after work, and my car would invariably be in a different location. It wouldn't have been so bad if that location wasn't (a) on the sidewalk, (b) up against the side of the building with the driver's side door about an inch from the wall, or (c) nestled sideways between two other parked cars. I can't count the number of times I had to climb in through the trunk and pop the back seat because I didn't have room to open either door, or wait for one of the owners of the other cars to come out so I could actually move.

The day the car died, I was driving along minding my own business when suddenly it felt like I hit the mother of all potholes. I slowed down and pulled over, but didn't see anything obviously wrong. I opened the trunk, thinking maybe the spare tire had shifted. Indeed, it had. It was being pushed up by something coming through the floor of the trunk that looked suspiciously like the rear spring and shock absorber of the passenger side rear tire. I didn't know much about cars, but I was almost positive that what I was looking at was supposed to stay underneath the car at all times. A little more creative body work, and it was ready to hit the classifieds.

I sold the car to a guy who wanted it to make a single run to North Carolina or something. I expected the bondo'd up trunk spring to give way first, but he returned the next day and wanted his money back because the engine exploded about 2 minutes after he got it on the highway. It had an aluminum block, and he actually brought pieces of the engine back to show me. My dad felt bad and gave him half his money back. $25 bucks, I think it was.

1969 Impala - The first car I actually owned free and clear. I got it in 1981. This was my dad's old junker before it became mine, and he offered me a choice as my high school graduation present: The car, or $300. I figured the car was worth at least $400, so I took it. I bought aluminum mag wheels for it, and when they wouldn't fit, I cut the wheel wells out with a saw. When the exhaust fell off, I put on headers and had side pipes welded on. It got 8 miles to a gallon, and blew dense, white smoke for the first 10 minutes after you started it up. It was so bad that it looked like they were fogging the neighborhood for insects. The car was primer grey and blue, and had orange Rolling Stones tongue logos stenciled on every surface, and across the back of the trunk, written in black sharpie, were these immortal words:

Life is Just a Cocktail Party On The Street

My parents were so proud.

Eventually, I did some body work on it, glued blue shag material to the front and rear dash, installed a siren, and painted it refrigerator white. It was pretty reliable for the most part, and even though it stunk like an oil refinery fire, it only gave me trouble once. I was at a bar not far from home, and when I came out, the transmission wouldn't go into Drive. It would only go into Reverse.

After fiddling with it a bit, I did the logical thing. I bummed a ride home from a friend. No, I didn't, because that would be stupid. Instead, I did what any normal teen would do after a night of drinking -- I drove it home backwards.

1986 toyota tercel - My last piece of shit car was one that my brother gave me when he moved to Boston. I wanted to use it as a winter car so I could take my miata off the road. The car ran great, but had a host of problems. The most immediately noticable: It had no carpet and no headliner in it.

The radio worked, but only on AM, and it made a sound like a buzz saw when you hit a bump. It was an in-dash model, but it wasn't completely in the dash. It was just placed in there. Not fastened to anything -- so if you took off too fast, it would come shooting out of the dashboard into your lap. The cassette player in the radio would eat 90 minute tapes for breakfast. You could tell when it was dining because the song would get faster and faster until the singer sounded like Alvin the chipmunk.

The driver's side window was permanently up, and the inside of the door was in the backseat. This was from a below zero repair attempt to address the fact that the driver's side window was permanently down.

The entire thing smelled like cat pee when it rained.

I found out later that it was actually mouse pee, and the little bastards had made a nest that looked like an inside-out futon under the hood of the car. By the time I had discovered it, it was huge. It's amazing that the engine could get enough air to the carb to actually run, let alone avoid instantly bursting into flames. I evicted about 14 of them, but the smell never went away. I have often wondered if they looked forward to their daily commute.

As an added bonus, the car was a stick shift, and since it had no carpet, you could actually see road through the rusted out console. I used to stuff the crack with old McDonald's bags when it rained to keep the water from splashing on my leg from underneath.

Toward the end, it started beeping the horn randomly when turning right.

This was awesome if you happened to be be stuck in traffic on an off ramp behind a group of Harley bikers, because as a rule I have found that they are very helpful people and they will come back to your car and ask you if you have a problem with your sexual performance. They are really caring that way.

Anyway, when I had enough (in other words, when my wife said that either it went or I did) I gave it to a friend of mine for nothing.

He drove it for another year before something bad happened in the front end and it would only turn right.

He made right turns for 2 more months, then got rid of it.

It still ran like a sewing machine, and it had over 200K on it.

Try that shit with a chevy.

*miles per booger


Oops. My bad.

I passed a hand-lettered sign on someone's front lawn this morning. It said:

Please return it.

OK, for starters, it wasn't that nice of a desk. I saw it the other day. It wasn't a roll-top oak heirloom or anything. It was a particle board and vinyl woodgrain computer desk.

Also, if a desk is within 4 feet of the curb on garbage day, it is garbage. That is an unwritten, but totally inviolate law.

In fact, anything that close to the curb on garbage day is garbage.

A bike, a desk, a stained mattress, your drunk 18 year old teenage daughter on a stained mattress, it doesn't matter. If it's within 4 feet of the curb on garbage day and not fastened to a post in the ground, it is up for grabs.

Basically what I'm saying here is that I'm keeping it.