Thursday Things To Think About - Floating Titties

It's Thursday. Aren't you glad you came by my blog today? How else would you know what day it is? Yeah, this is a service I provide, out of the goodness of my heart. Another service I provide relates to a T-shirt slogan a certain Ex-Hooters girl is famous for, but that's another topic for another day.

Every day, as I'm checking my email, at least once per day, the following photo advertisement pops up on my screen, totally erasing my brain and causing me to lose my train of thought. What? Where am I? What was I doing? Who am I?


I tend to be a bit hard on marketing campaigns, especially when they're really, truly lame-assed shit. But this one, I must admit, is pure genius. It doesn't matter how many times a day I see it, I can't not look at it. It's been running for months and yet I still stare at it every time it pops up. I mean, who can look away from a sight like this? For God's sake, it's floating titties! Genius, I tell you, pure marketing genius! I love this ad, whatever the hell it's for.

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And now, Things To Think About, from people who are supposedly wiser than me, as is evidenced by the fact that they are quoted all over the internet and I am not.

Success isn't permanent, and failure isn't fatal.
Mike Ditka - former head coach of "da Bears"


I sometimes think that the saving grace of America lies in the fact that the overwhelming majority of Americans are possessed of two great qualities - a sense of humor and a sense of proportion.
Franklin Roosevelt - 1st U.S. President known to have married a lesbian

Excuse me for a moment, I can't quit laughing at this last quote. Clearly this was written a long-assed time ago. I mean, today that quote applies more accurately to Australia than any Western nation I know of. It sure as hell doesn't fit America anymore. Sorry, let me catch my breath here. Oh, so fucking funny ...


You always pass failure on the way to success
Mickey Rooney - famous actor who screwed Ava Gardner and considered that to be his greatest achievement, as did most of the other men who screwed her


Face your deficiences and acknowledge them. But do not let them master you.
Helen Keller - woman on the Alabama quarter

We tend to elect our deficiences to high office. I don't know why. It's just a bad habit, one which we're probably going to repeat at this same time next year.


You have to expect things of yourself before you can do them
Michael Jordan - famous underwear model who used to play basketball

If I expect Carmen Electra, can I do her?


Deep doubts, deep wisdom; small doubts, little wisdom
Ancient Chinese proverb

This explains why the Chinese are so nervous all the time, I guess. And the missiles they've built from the technology Clinton illegally sold to them in the 1990s explains why we're so nervous over here, too.


You don't have to be the biggest to beat the biggest.
Ross Perot - short man with giant ears

Despite what he says, it's a lot easier being the biggest than it is beating the biggest.


OK, so that's all the deep thoughts I have for today. I mean, I have more, but I left them at home. So sue me. No wait, I didn't mean that literally.

There is interesting crap going on in the news today. I'd comment on it, but I'm ignoring it, so I can't. Deep thoughts and memes that I've been tagged for are as meaningful as I'm getting right now.

I've just returned from the post office, where I picked up the neccessary forms to get my passport. I can sense all the Aussie women immediately getting nervous as they're reading this. They all thought I was only kidding about coming over there. Steph, especially, must be sweating bullets, as she once offered to let me sleep on her couch, only to have me casually comment that once I land on that continent, I never plan to leave. "Oh nooos" she probably thought to herself, "a smelly American squatter!"

They're forcing us to convert to Microsoft Office 2007 today. I don't want to. I don't want to upgrade to Microsoft Vista and I don't want to convert to Office 2007. Why can't they just leave us all alone for awhile? I mean, force everyone else to convert, fine, because I still have stock in Microsoft which I really need to sell. But leave me alone with my comfort zone and familiar applications.

Why can't we just stop and breath for awhile? Why do we have to upgrade every damned thing we own every damned year? What if I don't want a new HD TV? What if I like my car radio pulling old-fashioned FM stations from the old-fashioned airwaves? What if I don't want crumple zones and fucking air bags? What if I think it's totally fucking gay that giant SUVs drop half their front end in the street every time they bump into a shopping cart or deer in the road?

Have you seen all those plastic 'bumpers' lying alongside the roads the past several years? Those are from so-called 'trucks'. They bump something and just fall apart. I don't care why they do it. It's still shitty. I would think the environmental terrorists would be all over that. Talk about shitting up the roadsides! Which is worse, a tiny bag of half-eaten McDonald's, or a giant fucking plastic bumper and grille from some gangsta pimp-daddy's Cadillac Escalade?

I like my big, old, heavy, steel cars and trucks. I like spinning my tires and kicking my posi-traction ass sideways when I feel the urge. I like a rumbling V8 engine that sucks so much air when I hit the gas pedal that the hood flexes downward towards the carburetor.

Yes, I said fucking carburetor, bitches!

I like the fact that I once saw an America where kids rode their fucking bikes without helmets on, and any kid who did wear a helmet was pelted with rocks and called 'fag'. I like the memory of a country where we biked and skated on concrete without wearing a suit of plastic armor for just in case we fell down and hurted our wittle selves.

It's Thursday, by God, and I don't feel like wearing a helmet when I bike! I don't feel that it's any of my government's concern whether I wear a seatbelt or not. I don't think the government knows better how to raise anyone's kids than the parents do themselves and I think the childseat laws are a big, fucking racket.

I enjoyed riding in the back of a pickup truck as a kid! I loved sliding around in the back of Mom's giant, steel stationwagon without a seatbelt, helmet, or stupid plastic prison-seat.

I'm pretty sure that my parents' toys when they were kids had more lead in them than anything coming out of China today, and in fact, I seem to recall that in the past, some toys were made ENTIRELY of lead. And yet still somehow the human race has managed to survive. Amazing!

How did we ever make it this far without a big, neurotic motherly government to legislate away every tiny aspect of our days in those dark years long past? Thank God we've traded our freedom for the promise of security and a giant safety net that requires strict political correctness and total conformity by one and all. I'm so glad.

Now, I need to go home and fill out that passport paperwork as fast as I possibly can.

Booya!

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Tagged for a Meme - Class List

Tiggerlane has tagged me to write a class list for self-improvement. Because she's a hottie, and because my beautiful Australian e-wife has just dumped me for growing a beard and showing it to another woman, I am going to give in like a drunk girl on prom night and do it.

Rules: Devise a list of 5-10 courses you would take to fix your life. It's more fun to be in classes with friends, so include one class from the person who tagged you that you'd also like to take. Tag five.

Drive Women Wild (SXY490) - I recently grew a beard. And then, because I am insecure, and also because I work in a field where I see how bad the fashion sense of most of us genius types is, I emailed a photo of my bearded face to my e-wife in Australia to ask her if she approves. Unfortunately, Australia is on a vastly different time-zone from America and she was apparently asleep. So she didn't respond. But just then another lovely Australian woman commented on my blog. It must have been like 3 a.m. over there, but she was up. And I was thinking she was in my friends list on MySpace or Facebook and had already seen my face anyway, so I emailed it to her and asked for her opinion, too. She said she liked it a lot. Ooh, my ego felt good! And also I was relieved. I also emailed a long-time friend in Alabama and asked her the same question. She, too, said she liked it. Ooh, I was on a roll! And then I emailed a transplanted Texas hottie who now lives in an igloo amongst glaciers in the frozen north. She said she did NOT like it and also that I have a lousy haircut and need to get my hair cut like Brad Pitt in "The 300" in order to look more manly and less loserly. I take her advice seriously, as she is generally straight with me and knows what she's talking about, so I started to email the other women whom I had asked the beard opinion of. Just then I heard back from my Australian e-wife. She liked the beard, too, she said. But then she emailed me again and called me a "man whore" for emailing my photo to the other women and said she is e-divorcing me. So now I am a broken-hearted, bearded computer geek with a bad haircut, and all those good feelings from the positive feedback I initially received are completely gone. I need a makeover, apparently. And I need professional hottie women to make sure I don't fuck it up. I need a class taught by a team of Victoria's Secret Supermodels to teach us tech guys how not to look like the losers we truly are. This would improve my life dramatically. Or maybe just my ego. But it would be a good start, anyway.

Traffic Building 505 - this graduate level class is stolen from Tiggerlane, who stole it from Bond. "How DO some bloggers get a ton of hits, after posting about NOTHING? Is the blogosphere akin to Seinfeld episodes?" Tigger and I would like to take a class to teach us how to get 100 hits a day, like a certain Australian woman who broke my heart does without half trying. I suspect that it might help if I were female, had big boobs, and some sort of social life, preferably involving alcohol, bikinis, and drunken hijinks. A few wild sexcapes wouldn't hurt any, either.

Stop Being Such a Loser 410 - taught by profs James and Jongeward - Winners do not dedicate their lives to a concept of what they imagine they should be. Rather, they are themselves and as such do not use their energy putting on a performance, maintaining pretence, and manipulating others. Winners can reveal themselves instead of projecting images that please, provoke, or entice others. They are aware that there is a difference between being loving and acting loving, between being stupid and acting stupid, between being knowledgeable and acting knowledgeable. Winners do not need to hide behind a mask. They throw off unrealistic self-images of inferiority or superiority. Autonomy does not frighten winners. Although people are born to win, they are also born helpless and totally dependent on their environment. Winners successfully make the transition from total helplessness to independence, and then to interdependence. Losers do not. Somewhere along the line losers begin to avoid becoming responsible for their own lives. A lack of response to dependency needs, poor nutrition, brutality, unhappy relationships, disease, continuing disappointments, inadequate physical care, and traumatic events are among the many experiences that contribute to making people losers. Such experiences interrupt, deter, or prevent the normal progress toward autonomy and self-actualization.

Personal Law 101 - How To Avoid Being Tasered in the Nuts - Everyone makes mistakes, and sometimes those mistakes involve breaking the law. Every day in America, some unfortunate man is pulled over for not wearing a seatbelt or not having his child in a government mandated plastic cage or other minor infraction. Somewhere along the way from being pulled over to receiving a ticket, this man will get shot in the genitals with a hand-held torture device designed by Taser International to spear the male genitalia and fry a man's testicles with 50,000 volts. This class will teach you the dos and don'ts of dealing with a Taser-equipped police officer and help you to avoid being the latest statistic in the War On Males. If you have a penis or testicles, or love someone who does, you NEED this class.

Start You Own Business 240 - Anyone who plans to start their own business needs to know a number of important things. Does the business have to be built from scratch or can someone else's existing business be bought, and where would a person find this information? How much will building the new business cost? Where to get the financing? Is the intended market suitable for the intended business? How probable is business success and how long should the new business owner expect to go before breaking even or achieving profitability? All this and more is essential to know in order to avoid being the next failed business bankruptcy in the competitive world of business ownership.

OK, so now I get to tag five suck .. I mean, tag five lucky bloggers. I tag:

Bottle Blonde
Prunella Jones
OneHungMan
Kitty
Moi

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Girl Reaction - part II

I went to the gym during lunch today. I haven't been in awhile because of all the strain of moving from one house to another. And because I'm damned lazy.

I did a fast workout with high reps and low weight. I didn't have much time and I needed to go fast. I pumped and pumped as I glanced at the posters on the walls featuring Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime. Yeah, I look nothing like that.


When I was done, I went into the locker room and took a shower. When I got out of the shower and began to get dressed I had the unfortunate experience of seeing my full nude profile in the mirror.

Ugh.

I stood there looking in horror. This is the guy that flirts with gorgeous women on the internet? This guy? THIS guy?! Oh Lord, what if they ever emailed and said "hey, I'm coming to Memphis to see you, you big stud, you!"

I would shit. I mean, oh my God, I look like ASS.


I thought maybe it was just an off day, you know, where my imagination was getting the worst of me. So I stepped on the scale.

WTF?

Oh, damn, this isn't making me feel any better. Maybe the scale is off? Maybe it's just gas and after a good fart I'll be back to normal? You know, I haven't farted all day. Maybe that's all it is?

Damn Thanksgiving holiday!

I hopped in my new Memphismobile and drove to the sandwich place that I always go to to grab some lunch.

As I stood in line waiting for my sandwich, a beautiful blonde girl came in and stood in line next to me. It was the very same blonde girl I had noticed checking me out one month ago in this very same restaurant.

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. Was she checking me out? What was her reaction?


Her arms were crossed across her chest and she was looking away from me, avoiding any eye contact.

As I looked in her direction, trying not to be obvious, she crossed her legs, too.


She was standing up, and still managed to cross both her arms and legs in response to me.

Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh damn fucking hell!

I'm not having a good day.


Rejected

* On a side note, did you know that whenever you comment out anything in your HTML code on Blogger now, it fucking deletes it? I was editing this post and commented out half of it to come back and work on later. I didn't delete it. But Blogger, having been written by fucking retarded monkeys, automatically deleted every single line of it, much as it inserts fucking carriage returns two and three times into posts that I didn't want fucking carriage returns inserted into. Someone needs to find the retarded monkeys who run Blogger and shoot them.

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Chelsea Clinton visits The South

Chelsea Clinton was visiting the South and remarked to a gentleman,

"I find it so strange that Democrats do so poorly in the South. Do you know why that is?"

The old boy replied, "Well, miss, it comes down to three things: Osama, Obama and yo' mama."


Osama

Obama

Queen Narcissist



* Sent to me in an email by Holly

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Mom's Favorite

How to tell you're Mom's favorite
* photo sent to me by TiggerLane

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So, tomorrow I will be in The Rocket City, also known as Rocketown, for a family get-together and to celebrate Thanksgiving. This tradition normally involves football on TV featuring the Dallas Cowboys playing the Washington Redskins, but apparently they played last weekend and I missed it. It was a close game, judging from the score.

I'm not looking forward to making that long drive, especially since it's expected to rain all day and night today and I will be alone. Then again, when I have a long drive to make and I am all alone, I usually end up singing (screaming) along with the radio just for the fun of it. I'm glad that I can't hear myself because I know it's awful and I don't really try not to be. Sometimes, such as when I don't like the song I'm singing along with, doing it badly is actually more fun than doing it well. As if I could do it well anyway. I'm almost as bad a singer as I am a dancer.

Yes, I am aware that women consider a man's inability to dance well to be an indication of his inabilities in the bedroom, too, but honestly, how many of you are planning to come and sleep with me any time soon? Maybe I'll take dance lessons. Better still, I can always just get really, really drunk. I'm a GREAT dancer when I'm blitzed. And a great singer, too. By God, I'm great at just about everything when I'm drunk off my ass. I'm absolutely sure of this, despite what the police say. I was never a big Stewart Copeland fan anyway, and what does he know about it?

Sorry, '80s joke. If OneHungMan were here, he'd get it.

I'm curious, because it feels awfully tomblike around here lately, but how many of you are reading me through Google Reader or subscribing through the other thing I put up on my page and thus not leaving comments? Yes, I realize you can't answer me if you are doing this, unless you actually come over and tell me, which you aren't going to do because it's so much trouble. It's just that I'm thinking I'm not a big fan of this. Maybe it's just Thanksgiving, or maybe I'm just sucking, or maybe because I haven't had much time to keep up with everyone's blogs lately due to a project I'm way behind on, but it feels like I'm fading away here. What I really need is a sex change, big boobs, blonde hair, and a great sex life. This tends to bring in the commenters like nothing else.

I say this, but then there are plenty of blogs by brunettes who are married and have children (TKW) who, while quite hot and sexy, aren't writing very often about their sex lives. And they get plenty of comments. And guys who don't ever write about their sex lives, like Lightning Bug's Butt, and yet are so funny or interesting that they have an army of women commenting every day.

I think my funk and my stress from this project are affecting my blog in ways I don't realize, but everyone else does. Add to this the fact that I've moved and now rarely have to deal with the insane traffic in Crazy Cordova and thus have few wild traffic stories to tell, and no sex stories at all, and the fact that I've been a lazy fucker and skipped the gym, and when I go the gym is mostly deserted anyway, and really, what do I have to blog about?

I suppose I should be impressed with myself that I manage to squeeze so much material out of my daily poops and farting and poor fashion sense, but I'm not. Everyone else seems to have such fun and interesting lives (ADW) and I envy you all so much. I'd stop writing entirely and just read about your lives, but I know I can't shut the fuck up for more than a few days. After that, it's as if there's a volcano in my head and if I don't pound it out on the keyboard I will go berzerk and become one of those creepy people at the grocery store who just start talking to you out of shear desperation for human interaction and you can't get away from them except by throwing boxes of Cheerios at them before fleeing in panic to your car out in the parking lot. Or, sometimes, fleeing next door to the video game store where they have the newest XBox360 games.

Not that I ever do this, mind you. It's just something I COULD do if I wanted to.

Why are all comic book/video game/Dungeons and Dragons store owners just basically the same guy? He's a loser with a big peanut M&Ms gut, balding head with unwashed hair, scraggly beard, dirty old T-shirt with a slogan on it that might have been funny 20 years ago but is now just a lame testament to how old he is, and body odor that is guaranteed to repel any women within 50 yards. And he only knows how to relate to people through extreme saracasm, like no matter what anyone says to him he responds with some smart-assed insult, "I know you are but what am I."


This is a guy who likes to try to impress 14-year-olds with his astonishing intellect by throwing around big, pretentious words that he heard on a rerun of Xena: Princess Warrior. It's always 14-year-olds that he's trying to impress, because no one else wants anything to do with him.


He's insulting and nasty and not making much money despite the popularity of the products he sells, yet instead of trying to increase sales by improving his customer relation skills, he chooses to simply become even more insulting.


He drives a beat up old Chevy from 1985 with most of the paint peeling off of it. The car was recalled due to the paint flaw, and whomever the original owner was had every opportunity to have it repainted at GM's expense, but they asked their worthless son to do it and he never did. And now that he has inherited the car, he's really sorry he did that.

And the reason he owns the video game store? It isn't that he has any education in business and wanted to build an empire. Oh no, no MBA for this genius. No, it's simply that he's too smelly and nasty to work for anyone else, and so he has been forced to start his own business in order to make a living. And even with that, his character flaws turn a potentially profitable enterprise into a tiny struggling store located in a strip mall next to the Indian deli, where the stench of Middle Eastern mystery meat wafts over each and every day. And he only was able to afford that spot because no one else would rent it.

So anyway, I don't want to be that guy. I don't even really want to know that guy or hang out in his store, even when avoiding the desperately lonely person in the grocery store who wants to talk to me about her grandkids or her aching hip which has to be replaced or any of that crap. And I don't want to be that desperately lonely person in the grocery, either. That person needs to get a blog or something.

But then, who would read it?

Getting back to the point of this whole post, I'm leaving town tonight and won't be around to blog for a day or two. Don't think that I don't love you while I'm gone. You know I still do. I'm here in spirit. But in body I'll be in Alabama eating too much food, talking to my family about ... only God knows what ... and mostly being really bored. Happy Thanksgiving!!!

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Nympho Convention

Dan boarded an airplane and took his seat. As he settled in, he glanced up and saw a beautiful woman boarding the plane. As fate would have it, she took the seat right beside his.

Eager to strike up a conversation he blurted out, "Business trip or pleasure?"

She smiled and said, "Business. I'm going to the Annual Nymphomaniacs of America Convention in Boston."

He swallowed hard. Here was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen sitting next to him, and she was going to a meeting of nymphomaniacs.

Struggling to maintain his composure, he calmly asked, "What's your business role at this convention?"

"Lecturer," she responded. "I use information that I have learned from my personal experiences to debunk some of the popular myths about sexuality."

"Really?" he said. "And what kind of myths are there?"

"Well," she explained, "one popular myth is that African-American men are the most well-endowed of all men, when in fact it is the Native American Indian who is most likely to possess that trait.

Another popular myth is that Frenchmen are the best lovers when actually it is men of Jewish descent who are the best.

I have also discovered that the lover with the most stamina is the Southern Redneck."

Suddenly the woman blushed "I'm sorry," she said, "I shdn't really be discussing all of this with you. I don't even know your name."

"Tonto," the man said, "Tonto Goldstein, but my friends call me Bubba."

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Tuesday Titties, Pole Dancing, Animal Attacks and Assorted Crap

So it's Tuesday and as usual, nothing dramatic or exciting has happened to me. I did not take a whole bottle of Viagra in order to have sex with a hot brunette Australian girl named Kylie, I did not get hit by an Ex-Hooters Girl who was excited over Ohio State beating the stink out of Michigan, and I did not get a call from the Governor of Tennessee to tell me that he has decided to uphold the rule of law and submit a bill relating to criminalizing the use of the Taser for sexual torture or sexual assault in the state of Tennessee.



What I did do, as it happens, was to wear totally mismatched clothes to work today. Apparently there is a good reason that I like to pick out my clothes the night before work, rather than waiting until the early morning when the sun sits low in the sky, colors all run together, and I am barely more conscious or alert than a drug addict in a meth lab. My Wife does not grasp this, though, and harassed me last night as I was beginning to pick out those clothes. So I never finished. The result was that this morning when I arrived at work I noticed that women were looking at me funny, and not in a good way. The men, of course, didn't even notice, nor did they care. Either way, I drove home and changed because, being a genius, I already have the odds of GQ fashion stacked against me and can't afford to make matters worse by wearing colors that clearly don't go together at all.



There is absolutely no reason for the photos I've included here, other than that they gave me a big old boner and so I decided to share the wealth with you all. The photos, that is, not the boner. I mean, not that I wouldn't share the boner. It's just that most of you are so far away, especially those of you who are abusing the Viagra or who have a friend who is abusing it, and not a single one of you is particularly close by. Even the hot woman, who asked me to regrow the shaggy beard, which I had just long enough to take a single photo (that now appears over on Facebook), is 5 hours away. And most aggravating of all is the fact that right after I grew the damned thing, she disappeared into thin air. I haven't heard a word since Thursday.

What's up with that?



I don't think My Wife has even noticed all this new hair on my face. Or if she has, she hasn't mentioned it. Is that odd or is it just me? Then again, she's been battling an attack of poison oak that our lovely cat has apparently brought in to her. It's an annual gift, like FTD or something, and this cat seems to bring it to her with great love and affection on a regular basis. It's kind of a problem, though, because My Wife is deathly allergic to it and has a very bad reaction. Having a wife covered in poison oak makes sex virtually impossible, much like late night TV. Although there are times when even late night TV doesn't stop me. But it does make for some odd fantasies at that critical moment, if you know what I mean. You don't get to choose who is on the screen and it definitely does affect the old concentration. One time I found myself thinking about Adrian Monk's blonde assistant, Natalie, mostly because I was banging my face up against the TV screen and she was on there the entire time. A few weeks later she was clearly pregnant and I worried that it might be mine.



I'm not a big fan of wearing facial hair. I especially don't like doing it because it is such a cliche for a man in my field. It's like a geek's way of saying, "oh fuck it, I'm a total loser anyway so why bother." I'm going to have to find someone nearby, someone I trust, someone female, someone hot, to ask if this is the good thing that the woman who asked for it says it is, or if it just makes me look lazy and pathetic.

Anyway, I once had a college professor who was my advisor for a short time, who had this mangy beard and mustache, and he was a smelly, nasty loser of a man. I don't ever want to be him.

And then there was the geek in the strip club the night of my bachelor party who would wave a dollar bill in front of a girl like it was made of gold, then look her body up and down, as she waited for him to put it in her G-string, as if she were a new car or an animal at the zoo, all the while not smiling or looking her in the eye even once, before finally placing it in her panties with no more enthusiasm than a man paying a library fine. He was clearly a dickhead and wanted all the girls to know it, but that image of him and his beard making even the strippers want to jump down and beat his ass has stuck with me all these years. I don't want to be like him, either.

In short, this beard is on shaky ground. Unless some hot woman says she likes it real hard, it won't be here long.

That's about it, really. I'm working on reports that should have been completed a month ago, it's cold in my office, but warm outside, and my clothes match much better now than they did early this morning. Yay me!

You *MIGHT* Survive an Animal Attack!
	If you were attacked by a Killer Moth, aka Mothra ... you would win, but would also need to go to the hospital.
'Would You Survive an Animal Attack?' at QuizGalaxy.com

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Grinning Monkey Monday

This message brought to you by the U.S. Department of Justice
and Taser International

Taser International has killed more men over the weekend. They are throwing a big old party to celebrate their status as the only company in America more deadly than either Smith & Wesson or Mattel, and yet less accountable than Hillary Clinton. Thanks to Taser International, cops are being instructed to torture American males in ways that guards from Abu Ghraib aren't even allowed to do, and we're all getting to watch it on YouTube before 'someone' quickly yanks it down, only to have a new one pop up by the next day.

Meanwhile, Taser International's lawyers maintain the official position that their high voltage sexual torture device is nothing more than a big electric fluffy pillow, safe for sorority girls to use while wearing lingerie and making porn videos.

So anyway, same ole same ole. Nothing will be done about any of this, except when Taser's engineers can come up with yet another way to package it and increase it's deadliness, at which point a new marketing campaign will commence, almost certainly to be colored pink and aimed exclusively at women.

"Not happy with your boyfriend's Christmas present to you? You can fry his genitals from 100 feet away and videotape it at the same time with the new Pink GrrlPower Electric Rifle from Taser International! Small enough to fit in your purse, yet big enough to torture a full grown man's genitals for a whopping 30 seconds - long enough to stop his heart and drown him in his own vomit for YOUR ENTERTAINMENT!"

So enough about that. Men are dying. Same as every other day. The difference with Taser is simply that the men are dying screaming while people stand around videoing the whole thing. It's sort of like the Roman arenas, only we're all watching it from our homes instead of gathered together in large crowds where other people can see us and possibly make us feel bad.



Holy Flying Shingles, Batman!
The damned weather has blown half the roof off of my workshop at my brand new house. And by brand new, I mean brand new to me. The damned shop is 2 stories tall and I only have a 6 foot step ladder. This means borrowing a coworker's 32 foot ladder, which I have done, and then using it to climb up and see how many of the shingles are still up there, but not nailed down anymore.

I found all but one of the errant shingles, and mostly nailed them back down. Some nails were missing, you see, and there is NO HARDWARE STORE OF ANY KIND in The Boondocks. Yes, I discovered this when I needed roofing nails and a shingle to finish the job. The nearest Home Depot or Lowes is about 30 miles away.

So, while I was in Lowes, I decided to price this ladder I've borrowed so that I can buy one of my very own for the next time this happens.

It's $300 - DAY-UM!

By the time I got home, it was dark outside. So, I have the supplies, but the job isn't finished.



New Memphismobile
On Sunday, I had to drive all the way to Middle Tennessee to see My Middle Sister. I bought her big-assed truck and drove it back to my home in The Boondocks, just outside of Memphrica. Now I have a new Memphismobile, complete with big shiny brush guard, fog lights, four-wheel-drive, and the distinct odor of dog inside.

My Wife's reaction? "How soon are you getting rid of the Bananawagon?"

As if to answer her question, I hit 'PLAY' on the answering machine and found a message from a guy who wants to buy the Bananawagon. The timing was amazing.



New Zealand is the Place You Oughta Be
While I was visiting my Middle Sister, I casually mentioned something to her husband about my desire to move to Australia. Interestingly, he responded that he had been contemplating the same thing, and had on occasion discussed it with other men at work. One of his former coworkers had done extensive research on the subject, and concluded that New Zealand was perhaps an even better destination than Australia. And so, he sold everything he had, packed up, and moved there.

So there you have it - members of my own family are telling me to move to New Zealand and become a big old All Blacks fan. I used to know a beautiful Australian girl who lived in Kansas City, worked for the Kansas City Chiefs, and quit her job there to move to New Zealand and work for the All Blacks. I wonder if she likes it there? I've completely lost touch with her (she's dumped me like a bad habit).


Kentucky Fried Sicken
On the trip out to see My Sister, we stopped at a Kentucky Fried Chicken, somewhere just past Kingdom Come. It was an interesting place, to say the least. First, when I went into the men's bathroom to pee, I practically skated in on their slick floor. It was so slick, while I was standing in front of the toilet peeing, I slid from the toilet over towards the sink. This happened several times, as I stoped mid-stream and shuffled myself back to the toilet. I finally decided that if the workers at KFC didn't care about their health rating enough to even clean their floors, then I didn't care either. The next time I skated, I'm ashamed to say, I didn't stop peeing. So, I strung a stream of piss from the toilet to the sink, as I had grown tired of the interruption. The floor was so nasty that you couldn't even tell my pee was there. Seriously.

And yet, we ordered food and ate there anyway.

And I got sick.

Who didn't see this coming? I mean, besides me, obviously.

So, by the time we arrived at My Sister's place (50 acres of horses, and some cows for tax purposes), I had an immediate need to use her toilet. And this time I needed to sit down, which I did, before filling that place with a stink that could peel the paint off a John Deere tractor and melt the tires, too. I think I was in that bathroom releasing Kentucky Fried Toxins for a solid 30 minutes. I shit you not.

While I was at My Sister's house, My Mom called me on my cell phone.

Mom: Steven? (Mom always calls me by my fictitious blogger name)
Me: Yeah, hi Mom. Wuzzup? (I like to talk ghetto to her. She always wanted me to be a rapper.)
Mom: Is there something wrong with your phone? I called your home number and nothing happened. Is this your cell phone or was that the other number? Do I not dial a '1' before dialing your cell phone? I tried it without the '1', but I got a recording telling me to please dial a '1'.
Me: This is my cell phone. I don't know what's wrong that you didn't reach my answering machine at home. You have to dial a '1' if you want to call me unless you plan to move to Memphis (and I hope to God not!)
Mom: Oh OK. (long pause) Steven ...
Me: Um, yeah, it's still me.
Mom: Are you coming for Thanksgiving, because I don't know.
Me: Yes, I was planning on it. Is that OK or is Evil Sister demanding that no one be allowed to see you for yet another holiday like she did last Christmas (I believe this is a long post I left in draft and never let anyone read, but I'm not sure)?
Mom: No, she's going to North Carolina to see her in-laws for Thanksgiving. She won't be here, so it's all clear. Everyone is coming over. Are you coming?
Me: Yes, but My Wife isn't coming with me. It'll just be me.
Mom: Oh, well how are you going to buy Middle Sister's truck and get it home then? Are you leaving the Bananawagon with them?

At this point I was in trouble. I was actually at Middle Sister's house, about an hour north of Mom's house, but she wasn't supposed to know I was in town because I didn't have time to stop in and see anyone. For her to mention it meant that she knew I was there somehow.

Me: Um ... I'm taking care of that now (no point lying if she already knew where I am.)
Mom: Oh. So you'll be here on Wednesday night or Thursday morning?
Me: I don't actually know yet. Everything is kinda chaotic right now. I'll try to let you know. And you said Evil Sister has fled the house? She's not going to be around when I arrive?
Mom: No, she's already gone. She won't be back until Friday night. She wanted to know if you were going to be here.
Me: Oh, I'll just bet she did. Well, in that case, I think I will. (insert evil laughter here.)
Mom: Oh good.

With that, we said 'goodbye' and the world's very first conversation involving both My Mom and a cell phone was over.

Getting back to Middle Sister and her Husband, they had a cat that was mighty happy to see us, especially the lap part of us. He was part Main Coone, like my cat who died earlier this year. And just like my cat used to do before I 'cured him', this cat would dig his claws into my blue jeans and tug. Since he wasn't my cat, I decided not to whack his ass for doing that, but I did toss him into the floor. Unphased, he walked over to My Wife and jumped on her lap. I later saw her toss him into the floor after a similar pant-raking. Apparently she didn't appreciate it either.


I'd love to be able to tell you about my wild weekend partying with hot chicks on a boat, or farting in the gym while squatting next to some female bodybuilder, or going to Hooters with my hot, blonde best friend, or really just anything involving hotness, but unfortunately this was pretty much the extent of my weekend. And this is about as exciting as it gets most weeks.

Later this week is Thanksgiving for those of us here in the United States of Taserica, so I will be gone, only to return later and talk shit about my family. No, I probably won't talk shit about my family. But maybe. Who knows? We'll see.

What did you do this past weekend? Something more exciting than this, I hope.

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Hillbilly Saviors

Two hillbillies
Two hillbillies walk into a bar. While having a shot of whisky, they talk about their moonshine operation.


*cough*
Suddenly, a woman at a nearby table, who is eating a sandwich, begins to cough. And, after a minute or so, it becomes apparent that she is in real distress.


*choke*
One of the hillbillies looks at her and says, "Kin ya swallar?"

The woman shakes her head no.

Then he asks, "Kin ya breathe?"

The woman begins to turn blue and shakes her head no.

The hillbilly walks over to the woman, lifts up her dress, yanks down her drawers and quickly gives her right butt cheek a lick with his tongue.

The woman is so shocked that she has a violent spasm and the obstruction flies out of her mouth.


Saved!
As she begins to breathe again, the Hillbilly walks slowly back to the bar.

His friend says, "Ya know, I'd heerd of that there 'Hind Lick Maneuver' but I ain't niver seed nobody do it!"

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Santa Offensive to Australian Women?

Santas warned 'ho ho ho' offensive to women
Wed Nov 14, 11:04 PM ET

SYDNEY (AFP) - Santas in Australia's largest city have been told not to use Father Christmas's traditional "ho ho ho" greeting because it may be offensive to women, it was reported Thursday, and is thus a sin and blasphemy against feminism.

Sydney's Santa Clauses have instead been instructed to say "ha ha ha" instead, the Daily Telegraph reported.

One disgruntled Santa told the newspaper a recruitment firm warned him not to use "ho ho ho" because it could frighten children and was too close to "ho", a US slang term for prostitute, feminist, or Rutgers basketball player.

"Gimme a break," said Julie Gale, who runs the campaign against sexualising children called Kids Free 2B Kids.

"We are talking about little kids who do not understand that "ho, ho, ho" has any other connotation and nor should they," she told the Telegraph.

"Leave Santa alone."

A local spokesman for the US-based Westaff recruitment firm said it was "misleading" to say the company had banned Santa's traditional greeting and it was being left up to the discretion of the individual Santa himself, although each individual Santa had been warned that he'd be fired if he says "ho ho ho".

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Priceless

The photo above has absolutely nothing to do with anything I have to say today. I just thought it was freaky.

This morning as I was getting ready for work, my neighbor came outside in her driveway, pulling her trash can to the curb. She was wearing a tight, sleeveless top and brown sweatpants.

This woman had her fourth baby just one month ago. Her FOURTH.

I was standing there, frozen, as I watched her walk down to the road, drop off the garbage can, and walk back to her house. She didn't look like she'd just had a baby. In fact, she didn't look like she'd EVER had a baby, not a single one. She looked great.

I stood there looking at her, then glancing at myself in the mirror, and then looking back at her again, wondering how in the hell she did that. She looks awesome. And me? Not so much.


It's nasty outside, warm and wet, and I need to either go to the gym at lunch or go running. I probably should do the running, but if it remains this nasty all morning then that would be one sticky run. I already sweat like Niagra Falls when I work out. I don't need 95 percent humidity to help me out with that.

BottleBlonde had commented that she was impressed that I was a runner. I used to be a runner. I'm more of a jogger now. Or really, more accurately, I'm a stumble-alonger. I stumble along for several miles until I reach the end. Then I stop. Not very impressive, really. I don't need to measure my times in minutes and seconds. I can just measure it in quarter hours.

Yeah, this run? Somewhere less than 15 minutes. And this other one, less than half an hour. I'll be back before "House" comes on. I guess I could measure my speed by TV shows, really. If I can leave the house when "Bones" is just starting and get back before "House", that might be about 6 miles, especially if I don't stop to talk to the neighbor who just had a baby and yet looks tighter than your average personal trainer.

So far, at our new house, I have met and talked to only 3 of my neighbors - the woman who just had a baby and looks totally baby-free, her husband, and the guy next door to my driveway who likes to go hunting. I saw his wife and waved to her, even joking once that it looked like she might need for me to come over and jump up and down in her trash can so she could shove more trash in there. But I haven't technically met her, with the "hello" and the handshake and all that.

The couple on the west side of our house, I've seen sitting and drinking beer on their back porch, but never spoken to. Our houses are so far apart that I can't just say "hi" to them without shouting, which would seem odd. So I just waved once. They waved back.

Oh, and on Halloween I met the woman who lives way down at the very end of the street, but even when she told me her name I couldn't quite understand her, so I don't know what it is. I don't recall how many kids were hers, because apparently in my neighborhood the mothers bunch their kids into gangs and send them out with one mother. And I didn't meet her husband, nor do I recall if she told me his name. But at least we met and she was nice.

The guy who lives behind me, across the street from the house with the wolves, he has a ladder that I need to borrow. But he once cut down 3 trees at the end of our yard which at the time belonged to the previous owner of our house. But they told us he'd done that and it made us mad, somehow. I got over it as soon as I saw that he had a ladder I need to use, but My Wife is still feeling violated, keeping a careful eye on our precious trees which shield us from the entire neighborhood behind us and allow us the illusion of being completely alone on our back porch. Anyway, I have yet to meet him. There's a small forest between us that makes it somewhat difficult and potentially hazardous to try to cross over and introduce myself. I need to clear out a path in there.

Also, our cat appears to have brought home some lovely poison ivy, which is now on My Wife, so there is an immediate need for me to get in there and root around until I find that shit so I can yank it up.

I don't know if "root around" means anything other than having sex in Australia or the UK, but here in the States it just means I need to go stomping through the brush.

Kate Beckinsale is in town filming a movie. It's called "Nothing But The Truth." An actress friend sent me an email about parts for extras. She got a role in it, which makes me both excited and jealous as hell. I hastily threw together an application, not having much idea what I was doing, and sent it in. I got no calls, though. My friend has been in some small independent films recently and so has both experience and an agent. She got hired to play a prisoner.


The only experience I have is a horrific karate movie I made in college, where I played a stick-fighting janitor who beat up two men using toilet plungers. The fight scene using toilet plungers was the whole motivation behind making the movie, actually.

And I have no agent. Why would I? I haven't acted in anything since I was in college.

Also, my friend is a 22-year-old part-time nude model, while I am ... not. There is always a role in every movie for a 22-year old female hottie. Not so much for me, though. Still, knowing that Kate Beckinsale is in town and my friend is working with her, while I could possibly meet her if only I had listened to my friend back when she was telling me about acting classes and agents and stuff, makes me crazy. I mean, how cool would it be to not only meet Kate Beckinsale, but to be in a movie with her?

Mighty cool indeed.

Federal agents have arrested another Memphis legislator for corruption. Meanwhile, Mary Winkler's right-hand-man, Leslie Ballin, is already in the news again handling another exciting case. If a single week goes by without him on the news defending some guilty-as-hell fucker, it's a miracle. Still, with publicity like that, the man doesn't need to pay for advertising. You'll never see a commercial for him during Wheel of Fortune. Anyone who might need his services already knows his name. He's better than Johnny Cochran.

So anyway, it's been rather comment-free here this week, so I wonder just how many people are around? If you're out there, give me a shout-out. And by shout-out, I mean comment so I know you're still alive.

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Philadephia Policewoman Tasers Handcuffed Man in Testicles

Sexual assault of handcuffed man using Taser


Bitch withdrawing the Taser


Man bends over and screams

CBS in Philadelphia is running a story about how Taser International is marketing their Tasers specifically to women. In the story, they casually mention that this feminized version of the Taser tortures the target not for the 5 seconds that a police Taser typically does, but for a whopping and heart frying 30 horrific seconds of electrified screaming.

They also casually ran a video in which a Philadelphia policewoman is shown Tasering a handcuffed prisoner in the testicles, in violation of Federal and International laws banning the use of sexual torture, including specifically the application of any electrical device to the genitals.

I personally have tried to complain to my legislators, including Tennessee Governor Phil Bredesen, about the fact that, while U.S. soldiers are currently serving time in a military prison for treating terrorists this exact same way, many of our own cops are apparently routinely sexually torturing average U.S. citizens as the courts and our legislators turn a blind eye.

In fact, it appears that in many police departments, such as in Oregon, they are training their officers specifically to use sexual abuse and torture as their first and primary approach to dealing with male American citizens.

But my legislators don't care, adopting the "it won't happen to me 'cause I have a special government license plate" attitude. And they have made it clear that they have no intention of lifting a finger to deal with this despite what the law says or how many times I show up in their office and pee in their coffee *cough* vodka.

Tennessee's own Governor Bredesen pretended he didn't have any idea what I was talking about, stuffing his fingers in his ears and chanting "LA LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU" before he tried to push me off onto the local Boondocks police department, claiming that each police department in this state follows it's very own unique and highly secretive laws and isn't affected by any laws he might write for the entire state.

I had to ask, "then what the fuck do you do here?"

But he LA LA LA'd me again and I never got an answer.

The full video story is here. While no mention of the sexual torture of this man's testicles by the policewoman was made, the news editor clearly found it interesting and entertaining enough to include in the 3 videos of citizens being Tasered by police, showing just enough to make it clear what just happened to the poor handcuffed bastard.

I have nothing against cops specifically, especially blonde C-cup cops named Ginni whose breasts are real and who gave me the ride of my life once back in Alabama. In fact, I nearly became a cop myself, back in college, when two of my friends entered the local adacemy and invited me to go with them. But when sexual torture is permitted to be used by the police, or anyone for that matter, then there is no longer any difference between good guys and bad guys, because no one is good anymore. There are no terrorists because there is no one who isn't a terrorist. And our Bill of Rights is nothing more than a useless shred of paper, because the clearly stated prohibition against the use of cruel and unusual punishment is being completely and viciously ignored.

Anyone who has observed the steady increase in the casual use of sexual violence in this country and doesn't feel alarmed is either high on drugs or a former KGB agent who longs for the good old days back in Moscow. Now that we have reached a point where many of our police are doing things to handcuffed men that only a serial killer or mafia hitman would do just 10 or 20 years ago, and no one seems to care, what will the next generation of criminals do? What will they NOT do? If anything goes, then what do we still have police for, and who are we going to turn to for protection from them?

If ever there were anything that could cause me to wad up my American flag and move to Australia for good, and not just because of all the hot babes who live there, this would be it. In the words of Australia's reigning crown princess Stephanie, "you American fuckers is KUH-RAY-ZEEEE!"

OK, rant over. But you know as this continues to get worse, there will be more to come. If you see me on the news chasing the governor of the state of Tennessee down the streets of Nashville, you'll know that I haven't given up on this. He's pretty old and can't run very fast, like most politicians, and I'm sick of this. If we truly are "slouching towards Gomorrah", as some people say, I for one am not going down without a fight.

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Redneck Firewood

"Hello, is this the Sheriff's Office?"



"What can I do for you?"



"I'm calling to report 'bout my neighbor Virgil Smith....He's hidin' marijuana inside his firewood! Don't quite know how he gets it inside them logs, but he's hidin' it there."



"Thank you very much for the call, sir."


The next day, the Sheriff's Deputies descend on Virgil's house.


They search the shed where the firewood is kept.


Using axes, they bust open every piece of wood, but find no marijuana.


They sneer at Virgil and leave.


Shortly thereafter, the phone rings at Virgil's house.



"Hey, Virgil! This here's Floyd....did the Sheriff come?"



"Yeah!"



"Did they chop your firewood?"



"Yep!"



"Happy Birthday, buddy!"



YeeeHAW!

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