Survey stolen from a girl named Courtney who dropped me on Facebook

1.) When you walk in your front door, which room do you enter?
The front room, where we keep the front door, of course

2.)Do you have a dishwasher?
Yes, me. And sometimes they get extra help from a machine under the kitchen counter that sprays them with hot water and soap after I'm done.

3.) Is your living room carpeted or does it have hardwood floors?
There's this shiny plastic shit that looks a whole lot like wood, except that it's way shiny and it echoes like hell and also it doesn't sound like wood when you walk on it. Anyway, that's what we have. It doesn't scratch easily and it's easy to clean, so we're happy with it.

4.) Do you keep your kitchen knives on the counter or in a drawer?
The knives in the drawer aren't balanced well for throwing, which is why they're in the drawer. I keep the throwable ones on the counter just in case you piss me off.

5.) House, apartment, duplex or trailer?
I'll take 'House' for $1000, Alex

6.) How many bedrooms is it?
How many bedrooms is what? Maybe a better question would be, how many assistants does Dr. House have now, and do you think the hot girl, Thirteen, will stay on the show permanently?

7.) Gas stove or electric?
I believe the Jews were killed with gas, but I've forgotten most of my Nazi history. American cops use hand-held electric, aka The Taser.

8.) Do you have a yard?
Big, big yard with lots of stupid plants the previous owners planted and I intend to yank up and burn when My Wife isn't looking. Actually, we've already yanked and burned a lot of them. Somewhere along the way we accidentally planted some pumpkin seeds and now we have a full-on pumpkin vine with pumpkins growing in the back corner of our yard and we're not quite sure what the hell to do with it.

9.) What size TV is in the living room?
32 inch maybe? 34? Something like that. It was the biggest set that would fit in the entertainment center. Yes, I know. You're all so very disappointed that I don't have a 50 inch plasma. Well, I have an 11 inch ... nevermind.

10.) Are your plates in the same cupboard as your cups?
No, they don't get along so we had to separate them.

11.) Is there a coffee maker sitting on your kitchen counter?
No, there is a coffee making sitting on the counter at work, so I don't need one at home. Who needs coffee at home? I'm wide awake when I'm at home. It's when I get to work and am forced to attend meetings that my brain requires drugs like caffeine in order to feign interest.

13.) What room is your computer in?
I have a computer in every room. I live in a space ship.

14.) Are there pictures hanging in your living room?
Yes, a giant Farrah Fawcett poster is hanging on the north wall to remind me of what hot women in the '70s looked like. I have another room with a hot woman from the '80s and upstairs in the bonus room is a poster of a hot woman from the '90s. In the bedroom is a calendar with a big picture of Marisa Miller, a hot woman from the 21st century.

15.) Are there any themes found in your home?
Yes, we went with the Flying Windows theme which came with the box.

16.) What kind of laundry detergent do you use?
The kind you put in the washer to clean dirt out of your clothes.

17.) Do you use dryer sheets?
Only if I am drying the cat. They hate that static cling.

18.) Do you have any curtains in your home?
No, we are nudists. We waltz around with our kibbles and bits hanging out and the windows wide open. All the neighbors are super excited.

19.) What color is your fridge?
White like Pat Boone.

20.) Is your house clean?
Chaos, I tell you, total chaos.

21.) What room is the most neglected?
The 4th bedroom. It's always complaining that we don't love it.

22.) Are the dishes in your sink/dishwasher clean or dirty?
Well hell, if the dishes are in the sink, they are dirty. If the dishwasher is full, they are clean by now. If not, they are dirty until we get a full load.

23.) How long have you lived in your home?
2 years, with time off for good behavior.

24.) Where did you live before?
Redneckville, TN, east of Snootyville which is east of Memphis proper. All are in Shelby County, the kingdom of King Willie the Wimp and his band of cronies.

25.) Do you have one of those fluffy toilet lid covers on your toilet?
No, those things were made by feminists to cause the lid to slam on boys' pee pees. And that is exactly what they do.

26.) Do you have a scale anywhere in your house?
Yes, but it doesn't appear to be working since we moved there. Thanks 2 Men and a Truck, for breaking so much of our shit.

27.) How many mirrors are in your house?
I can only think of 3, one in each bathroom. If we are ever attacked by vampires we'll run to the bathroom because everyone knows vampires are scared of mirrors. And farts. They hate smelly farts.

28.) Look up. What do you see?
Ceiling. What did you expect me to see, Marilyn Monroe's cooter?

29.) Do you have a garage?
Yes, 3 car garage, currently with 3 cars in it, as it should be, plus lots of storage space. It is going to be one hell of a hard time finding another house like this one, dammit.

And now for something sooo wrong ...

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Bad Luck Always Comes in Threes

What the hell is going on here in the United States these past few days? I mean, good God almighty!

Ed McMahon

Tuesday, June 23rd, just after midnight, Mr. Tonight Show sidekick and Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes king Ed McMahon died in the hospital, basically of old age and health problems including bone cancer and pneumonia. The past few years there have been all sorts of rumors about him marrying some hot gold digger who cleaned him out and left him virtually homeless. Who knows if there's any truth to it? Still, he seemed like a nice enough guy. I hate to see him go. It was a sad day.

But the sad was only just getting started.

Farrah Fawcett

Today, at 9:28 am in a hospital in Santa Monica, California, Charlie's Angels icon and queen of the most famous pin-up poster in modern history, Farrah Fawcett, died after a 3 year long, knock-down, drag out battle with anal cancer.

Whoever even heard of anal cancer before she got it? And yet they say it's pretty common. It's just that until someone beautiful gets it, no one wants to talk about it. Then a hot sexy movie star from Corpus Christi, Texas gets it and suddenly the world is paying attention.

Just this past May, Farrah did a 2 hour special showing the ugly and painful struggle she had been going through. And you could pretty well guess that she wasn't going to make it. It was so very sad.

Michael Jackson

Almost exactly 3 hours after Farrah Fawcett died, at 12:21 in the afternoon, Michael Jackson, the king of pop, crotch grabbing and really tacky '80s jackets, collapsed and had to be rushed to the hospital. 2 hours later, at 2:26 pm, he was officially pronounced dead. They said he had a heart attack. Oh sure, there's going to be an autopsy. Maybe it was something more than a heart attack. Maybe it was drugs. Or diet pills. Or stress from bankruptcy. Or Billy Mays screaming over the TV and scaring the living shit out of him. Who knows? It's still a huge shock.

I guess it's just a reminder, you know, that we're all going to die. I didn't really need the reminder. Passive/aggressive cunts in traffic have been reminding me on a daily basis. But I guess God wanted to make sure we're all paying attention. This is a short ride. We'll be getting off soon. Throw your hands in the air and scream while you can. Before you know it the cars will be coming to a stop and they'll be telling you to get out so the next generation can take a turn. Here's hoping you had fun and nobody puked on you.

Off into the sunset, to a better place

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Loonies On the Path - XLVII - We're Having A Heat Wave

It's fucking hot here in the tropical Southern States of America. We usually don't have our real heat wave until July and August, but this year we're starting early. We're already dealing with a heat index of around 105. And not surprisingly, this is having an effect on jackasses in traffic.

The most common effect here in the Passive Aggressive Capital of the United States, is to cause drivers to suddenly swerve in front of faster drivers and then, for no reason at all, hit their brakes. It's called the "I want to fucking kill you for no reason other than that I'm a cunt" manuever and it is very effective at raising the blood pressure of the victims in the target vehicle.

I'm a cunt, but my car is very clean and shiny

Just today I had a total pussy in a dark blue (very conservative) Toyota luxury car cut over 3 lanes to hit his brakes in front of me, not once, but 3 times in a row, as he looked at me in his rearview mirror. I gestured to him with a "what the fuck" throwing up of the hands and then he changed lanes once again, always without signaling, and got into the actual lane he was aiming for so that he could turn. I briefly considered following him into the parking lot and pinning his car in somewhere, but I needed to get to the gym.

Not finding the person I was looking for at the gym, I left and headed home. As I approached an intersection where I needed to get into the left-hand turn lane to turn left, a redneck in a beat-up filthy old Jeep wagoneer, seeing me coming up behind him, about to go past him on the left into the turn lane, hit his brakes in an obvious attempt to cause me to hit him from behind for no reason other than, say it with me, he's a cunt.

Luv my Jeep, Yeeee HA!

I briefly glanced at his rear bumper and concluded that he wouldn't really notice the damage from a good ramming considering how torn up it already was (clearly he does this shit a lot) before I wedged myself perfectly between him and the shoulder as I slipped past him without missing a beat. A major victory for me!

As I sat in the intersection waiting to cross and go my way, I heard him honking at me. I looked in my rearview mirror to see that he was a filthy redneck with all his windows down. He slipped his Jeep into neutral there in the passing lane as he was barely crawling down the highway, and he revved his engine at me.


It sounded like someone was revving their lawn mower. It was a huge piece of shit.

I turned to see if I could possibly be seeing and hearing what I thought I was, only to see him waving his arm out the window at me. I couldn't tell if he was flicking me off or just waving as if to say "you beat me. I'm a total loser. You win." Either way, his Jeep was pathetic and so was he.

This is how it's been here the past few days, as the heat has come to stay awhile and we are all going insane moving from the blazing sun into the blasting air conditioning, giving us the runs and making our heads hurt. The level of crazy is at it's annual high and everyone is on edge. Perhaps we'll get lucky and I might witness a traffic shooting? If I get the chance, I'll take pictures so you can enjoy it, too.

I do it because I care. I'm a nice guy like that. You're welcome.

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Time Sucking Waste

What eats up your time during the day?

What would you say is the biggest time-waster in your daily life?

Is it Blogging?

Is it MySpace?

Maybe it's Twitter?

Is it Facebook?

What about your cellphone and all those text messages you send and receive all day?

We were told that the computer age was a time of phenomenal leaps in human productivity, but recently the experts say we have reached a new plateau. Increased productivity at this point, barring new technological advances, is unlikely.

I say we can't move forward because we're bleeding time all day as a consequence of some of this new technology. Granted, I'm not arguing that removing all these things I just mentioned would have a giant effect on an entire nation's ability to be productive. But on a personal level, how much more would you get done if you turned off your cell phone and couldn't access any social websites? Can you imagine if no one outside of work could contact you all day long? Imagine if the only time anyone bothered you while you were working was if it was for something that actually related to what you were already working on? Wouldn't that be amazing?

Boring as hell, yes, but also amazing in a certain way.

I never give out my work email address to people outside of work. I can't stand to have emails in my work inbox that aren't related to my projects. I don't know why exactly. I have access to my internet email accounts and I check them from time-to-time. But I can't stand the idea of those emails being in my work inbox instead. I just don't want them there. They don't belong there and would simply annoy me.

I've heard that many corporations are joining a new trend in which they encourage their employees to use sites like Twitter or Facebook to improve workplace productivity and communication.

I can't imagine this helping. The only way it could work for me would be if I created a special account and never added any friends or followed anyone that wasn't a coworker. Can you imagine getting poked, or superpoked, or receiving a bumper sticker, or having flair sent to you all day at work? Do you really want to know when the guy in the office next to you is going to take a poop because he's posted it to his status?

Yes, when I Twitter I post that I'm pooping. That's what Twitter is for, stupid things like that.

Yeah, I know that a bunch of HR people have turned Twitter into a giant networking tool. I'm sure they've already proven me wrong. But I'm not in HR. I'm in IT. Our idea of networking is to join a Microsoft User's Group and talk about the latest .NET Framework updates and crap like that. We aren't a big networky kind of group unless you want to talk about the latest Star Trek movie or something.

Anyway, I'm just curious. What do you consider your biggest time-waster on a daily basis? What sucks the hours out of your day so that before you know it everyone is going home and you're saying to yourself "what happened? Where did the day go?"

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All access to is completely blocked where I work. I wasn't spending all day there, to be sure, and I apologize for not spending more time on everyone's blogs. But now the entire thing is blocked. I can't read yours or mine. I can't post to mine. I can't respond to comments on mine or leave comments on yours.

I didn't want anyone to wonder if I just didn't care to read their blogs anymore. I do. I'm just limited now to commenting in the hours between eating supper and going to bed.

So, I don't suppose any of you would care to move over to Wordpress, eh? Ah well, they'll probably block that soon, too.
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Dammit Gym, I'm a Doctor not a Brazilian bikini wax inspector!

So, I went to the gym tonight. I've gone to this gym a few times. Not many. The first time I ever went there I stepped onto a treadmill behind a cute blonde college girl. Next to her was a guy her age. Beside me was a fat, freaky-looking dude with big glasses and a goofy face. The moment I stepped onto the treadmill the goofy-looking guy turned to me and started talking. "Blah bleargh arroooooo," he said to me. It took me a moment to run this by all the various foreign languages I speak in my brain before I realized it was utter gibberish.

"What the fuck" I politely replied. Then I noticed he had crumbs of some sort all over his face.

He looked at me and I looked back at my treadmill and ignored him. No sense wasting time on a man who can't speak English. At this he grew angry and stepped off his treadmill, walking away still talking in his gibberish language, slowly disappearing around the corner towards the front doors. I glanced over at his still running treadmill and noticed that he had left his TV set on (every treadmill has its own TV). And also, he had left a half-eaten cookie on the treadmill where your iPod and car keys go. Hmm, half-eaten cookie and a treadmill. So, basically this guy, who is clearly retarded, likes to walk on the treadmill behind pretty young girls, watch TV, eat cookies, and annoy strangers with babbling. Lovely.

Anyway, that was 3 weeks ago. Tonight when I arrived at the gym I was relieved to see that he was nowhere around. I got on my usual treadmill and began to run. I noticed there was some sort of karate class going on in the aerobics room behind me, but I mostly just ignored it.

I ran 3 miles on the treadmill, picking up speed as I went, searching for the fastest pace that I could maintain without having to stop or slow down. Meanwhile, a hot blonde woman in a tank top and sweat pants walked past me. I, of course, didn't even notice her. I don't know how I was even able to tell you that she was there since I didn't look at her walking all the way across the room to the waterfountain where she may or may not have taken a drink before going into the women's lockeroom.

A few minutes later another women, also blonde, wearing a skin tight half-tank top and short-shorts came down the stairs from the free weight area. She was clearly a serious weight lifter, judging from the shape of her, which I did not even pay attention to at all. I also did not notice a small tattoo she had which was so very sexy. She was so rippled with muscles that her chest stood permanently up and out like some military man standing at attention. Not that I noticed, of course. She also went into the women's locker room, presumably to have sweaty lesbian sex with the other hot blonde woman. Shortly after, the first woman came out and left. Then the second woman did the same. I didn't notice any of this, though, because I don't gawk while running mindlessly on the damn boring treadmill. No, not me. I have my TV set, which I flipped over to Ultimate Fighting in order to distract myself from the fact that I was very nearly running fast enough to make myself throw up.


I finally completed my 3 miles in a blistering time of somewhere less than 30 minutes. Awesome! I could probably qualify for the Olympics. Then I went upstairs to get some water before I passed out onto the floor. And then I headed over the to free weights. In the process of wandering from treadmill to water fountain to free weights I kept passing this girl, she was slim, but with all the desired parts and curves, wearing skin tight shorts and a tank top, and a scarf on her head. I don't know what the scarf was about, but passing her repeatedly seemed to trigger a realization in my brain.

Every single other time I have come to this gym to work out, there has not been one single attractive female person there since that very first day when I ran behind the pretty girl on the treadmill only to be accosted by the retarded Cookie Monster. In fact, since that first day, excluding today, there has not been any women at all. And then tonight I realize that I have seen at least three, two of whom were blonde and hot and sweaty and may have engaged in a porno-style lesbian sex scene in the locker room. Or perhaps I imagined that. I ran pretty hard on the treadmill and my mind got a little overheated. It's hard to know what was real and what was just a memory of bad '80s porn on VHS cassettes that my dad's VCR ate and I had to pay for.

"At last" I thought to myself, "I have found the Dream Gym, where hot women in nearly no clothing at all come to exercise while sweaty men gawk at them."

Gym Bunny
Please towel off the equipment after using it

Up in the free weight area, where I noticed the lone remaining reasonably attractive female was doing serious ab work, I shoved my way in amongs the sea of pumped up, sweaty, smelly men and grabbed some dumbbells.

It was then that I realized I had no fucking clue what I intended to do with them. I had no weight lifting plan for the night. I only came to run. Having done that, I was now just winging it.

I looked around, hoping none of the other guys had noticed the empty lost look of cluelessness in my eyes. Then I cooly grabbed a bench and started doing some Arnold-presses. Hey, if this exercise is good enough for Mr. Schwarzenegger, it's good enough for me.

As I was pumping along, frantically trying to compose a workout plan in my head before The Guys noticed that I was wandering aimlessly like some newby who didn't really belong, I noticed that one of the guys lifting weights there was a guy I had gone to high school with.

"What the fuck?" I thought to myself, pleased that the Obama White House hadn't yet figured out a way to censor our private thoughts and thus I was able to say 'fuck' in my own head without the FBI raping me with a Taser and throwing me into Gitmo or Guantanamo Bay. It was ... it was ... Stewart. That was his name. How the hell did I know him? I remember talking to him. I remember we weren't exactly friends. But where? We didn't have a class together. He knew someone, someone that I also knew. We only talked because of a mutual friend.

Another thing I remember about Stewart was that he used to be a lot smaller. He was never a tiny guy, by any means, but he wasn't any giant. But now, fucking A, Stewart was HUGE. Clearly he had been living in this gym for the past many years and doing nothing other than lifting weights since I last saw him. Either that or he's taking some serious steroids.

Steroids! That's where I knew him from! He was friends with a workout partner I once had who took steroids.

big arms
Dude, let's do some more curls

Not that I'm suggesting that Stewart has been taking steroids. After all these years it's entirely possible that he got this huge purely through hard work, good diet, and better fucking DNA than I've got.

And fuck him for having better DNA than me, DAMMIT!

No, I don't mean that. Lots of people have better DNA than I do. My DNA is shit. When God created my DNA I'm pretty sure he was in a bad mood. I might even say this in regard to my entire family, but purely out of the vain hope that someone unusually good-looking, athletic, intelligent, and successful might one day arise from the ashes that is my family, I shall limit this theory to myself. God took a steaming dump, and from out of that pile came my DNA.

This would explain why I was so good at running all those years ago. God must have had the runs.

I briefly considered walking over to Stewart and saying "Hi, do you remember me?" But I realized that after all these years it's unlikely that he does, and even worse, he might confuse me with someone else, such as an FBI agent who might be trying to bust him for illegal steroids and thus he could feel compelled to kill me and flee. As I was more than a little fatigued after running on that damn treadmill I decided against this option. I said nothing to Stewart and continued my makeshift - let's call it "freestyle" - workout.

I was also concerned that, what with President Obama declaring June to be National Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transexual Porno Pride Month, I couldn't recall Stewart having ever had a girlfriend back in school. What if he was gay? What if he was huge and strong and gay and decided he liked me? I have a sweet, sweet ass, I won't lie to you. My ass is my best, er, asset. This would be bad. This would be very, very bad. My legs were all run out from the treadmill and even though I have a vicious and whiplike front snap kick and once had a spinning back kick that could completely crush the fender of a maroon 1975 Buick Skylark with one "KIYAAAA", I still feel more comfortable with unpleasant violent confrontations when my running option remains wide open. As my legs were now nothing more than rubber, this was not the case.

ugly naked gym
Naked Gym Day - The women pretty much never show up

So I went over to a corner of the gym where several machines I needed were, where Stewart wasn't, and I pumped up my chest and lats until I thought my arms were going to fall off. In the good old days, this kind of pump was very impressive. I would pump these muscles and look like a Greek god carved out of marble. These days, though, my pump is more of a puff. I pump and I pump and when I look in the mirror I just look, er, puffy. It's considerably less impressive than the Greek god statues of old.

After puffing, er, pumping up some beach muscles, I headed over to the, um, thingamajig where the ab straps were hanging. I climbed up, looped my arms into the straps, hung like a gymnast, a sad tired puffy gymnast, and I did some ab work. It turned out to be a mistake to do my lats before doing this exercise, because hanging with my arms through the straps required that my lats remain tensed throughout, and the sad fact is, they were shot. Of course, I have abs of plastic, so they don't take long to run out of gas. But I usually prefer to work them until they ARE out of gas before I quit. This time it was the rest of me that ran out of gas.

You see, lately when I work out I get this feeling, it's only happened to me over the past 4 years or so, but my body tells me loud and clear when it is utterly and completely out of fuel. It says, "how 'bout we lie down and vomit?" And if I ignore it and try to 'push through' then I just end up sprawled out in the floor with some buff twenty-something guy and his uber-hot girlfriend telling me "elevate your feet up over your head. Here, put them up on this bench" while they both look at me with grave concern. This is not good for my self-image, so I try to avoid it as much as possible.

So, that unmistakable feeling began to hit me. It was time to go. I was running on fumes. And I was puffy enough for one night. And all the hot chicks had long ago left. And I think maybe Stewart was checking out my ass.

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Mug Shot Theme

The following are actual police mug shots. See if you notice a common theme here.

click to enlarge

There MUST be a message here, but I can't quite grasp it, or possibly I'm simply just afraid to.

And now for something COMPLETELY different ....

Why is it called a 'Uro Club'?
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It's my day to write for Burt's Stache, so if you're bored, please come read my shit and then leave comments saying I'm great.

And if you don't think I'm great, just say you think I am anyway. Consider it a marketing exercise.
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Loonies On The Path XLVI - Asshole of the Month - May

Asshole of the Month : May

One 18-wheeler, a red light, and an old asshole on a long and tiring day. The 18-wheeler stops for the red light. He's in the right-hand lane. Behind him is the old asshole in his minitruck. I'm coming up to the intersection in my 4x4, in the left-hand lane. Just as I approach, the minitruck in the left lane cuts in front of me without so much as a glance or a blinker and rolls forward towards the intersection next to the 18-wheeler and a white van in front of that. I'm now standing on my brakes trying to keep from killing the fucking asshole, skidding flat spots on all 4 of my tires thanks to the old shithead.

When he finally bothers to look in his rearview mirror and sees me skidding behind him, he intentionally stops short, trying even harder to make me hit him. My 4x4 weighs 4600 pounds. His minitruck weights 2800 pounds. I've been rear-ended in a minitruck before. It was the only auto accident in which I have ever been hurt. He and his elderly wife, sitting like a lump next to him, would have spent the rest of their lives using those stupid aluminum 'walkers' to get around if I hadn't managed to skid to a halt in time, no thanks to him.

Then he sat there at the light, glaring at me in his mirror, as if I were the asshole.

Seeing his bloodshot eyes peering at me with seething aggression in his mirror, I did what I always do for these passive/aggressive fuckwits. I took his picture.

Once he saw me taking his photo, suddenly Fuckwit felt like playing nice. He even rediscovered his blinkers and promptly used them after the light turned green to signal to me and the 18-wheeler that he was getting over and out of my way. How very nice of him, eh?

Along with his photo, I also have his license plate number. I'm thinking that in this instance I'm going to go ahead and look up his address so that I might print out an official "Asshole of the Month" award and mail it to him along with his photo. Maybe he'll frame it and hang it over his mantle?

Asshole of the Month: May
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