This Is The Title, Ya Know What I’m Sayin’?

Something annoyed me today. I bet you can’t guess where I was when it annoyed me! I’ll give you a hint:

I WAS ON THE FUCKING BUS!

AGAIN!

Why do I keep doing this shit to myself?! Why the don’t I just become an agoraphobe and never leave my house. Every time I get in that damn tin can of despair known as public transportation, something happens that makes me lose even more faith in humanity. I started out with no faith. I now have a negative million and six faith units of faith, a unit of measurement I invented just to give you a tangible figure for my plight. That’s a lot of faith units lost thanks to a bunch of poor fucks on wheels.

And what happens on buses to drop my humanity-faith stock value even lower? Cell phones. Cell phones, as I understand it, are a physical representation of Satan’s COCK! When you grip one in your hand, he ejaculates evil all over your face. A hell-sent money shot of pure, unadulterated fucktardedness. You are just a whore in the eyes of the underworld, and thou shalt taketh it all, bitch!

So, I hear it all take place in the seat directly behind me, because… why would it be far away? It has to be close to me. It has to be right there, in the back of my head, like the barrel of a hate-gun ready to blow hot anger directly into my gray-matter.

*ring* (not an actual ring, one of those annoying-ass cell phone ring tones that make you want to murder children when you hear them)

“Wud up!”

That was when I knew things were about to go awry. “Wud up”. If I were to translate that into a literal language, it would mean “The following conversation is going to make you wish you were deaf”.

“Wud up!”

And away we fuckin’ go!

The conversation that followed was pretty timid. It wasn’t the subject matter that bothered me this time. No, no, it was one simple little thing. Ya know what I’m sayin’?

Do you? Do you know what it is that I am currently speaking of? “Ya know what I’m sayin’?” Now, in and of itself, it’s harmless. Quite a few people say it every once and awhile. No, no, not this guy. It might as well have been a form of punctuation to this cock for brains. Like a comma. Repeating, over and over, as if he himself was curious what he was saying.

Now, I’ve heard offenders of this speech crime before, but never to this extent. It was as if he had “Ya know what I’m sayin’?” tourettes. A nervous tic that comes out as an inquiry to the nature of the person on the receiving end’s listening and comprehension skills. Ya know what I’m sayin’?

Over and over. How could it possible get worse?!

And why does that kind of question always lead to an answer in the form of a harsh reality that it can get worse. I heard something that, up until now, I figured to be impossible. Something that baffles my fragile mind even now.

“Ya know what I’m sayin’… ya know what I’m sayin’?”

Oh shit. Did he just say it twice in a row?! I quit. I retire. I’m done. Bye. This wasn’t even a “repeating the same question because the person didn’t hear it” kind of repeating. This was a dumbfounding reasonless repeating.

It reminded me of those multiple stabbings you hear about in the news. “So and so was found dead today with 326 stab wounds…”. And there you are, sitting there, thinking to yourself: “…well, that’s a bit excessive, ain’t it?” And excessive it was.

So, as my sanity was repeatedly stabbed for no apparent reason, I began to wonder how this phenomenon came into existence. What was the origin of “Ya know what I’m sayin’?” I would assume at some point in time, people had to check to make sure other people understood shit. That’s the only explanation I can find. There was a time during the development of human speech, when other people just flat-out didn’t get anything.

“So, it turned out it was a double donger…”

“…I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying…”

“You know, a double donger… it’s got a dickhead on both sides, so two people can enjoy it. Or one person if you bend it in a C shape…”

“Oh, right! Thanks for taking the time to explain that! Now I completely understand the message you were trying to convey to me about your girlfriend’s choice in sexual enjoyment equipment!”

Well, this kind of thing continued for too long, so someone decided: “Why don’t I just check to make sure the listener understands!”

“So, it turned out the vibrating egg wasn’t supposed to go ALL the way into your ass, do you understand what I’m talking about?”

“More than you can imagine, dear friend, more than you can imagine…”

And over time, as is the case with just about every useful statement, it was stripped down, turned into a nearly unintelligible manglement (Well, that’s a word NOW fuckers!) of its original self. It became more habitual than useful. It became a pile of verbal feces. Warm and steamy.

That brings us back to our friend, our splurge-rag for Satan. “Ya know what I’m sayin’?”‘s flying every which way. I had to find a way to turn what he was doing to me, the equivalent of violently and repeatedly raping my mental well-being, into a form of mild entertainment. So I closed my eyes, and let the twisted imagination-machine in my mind churn out some home-spun enter-sane-ment.

I began to apply his disorder to historical speeches. I wanted to see just HOW much damage the misuse of “ya know what I’m sayin’” could do to once spectacular achievements in vocalization.

Let’s begin with Martin Luther King Jr., shall we?

“I have a dream, ya know what I’m sayin’? That one day this nation, ya know what I’m sayin’?, Will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed, ya know what I’m sayin’?: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’ …ya know what I’m sayin’?”

How about a little FDR?

“So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself, ya know what I’m sayin’? Nameless, ya know what I’m sayin’? Unreasoning, ya know what I’m sayin’? Unjustified, ya know what I’m sayin? Terror which paralyzes, ya know what I’m sayin’? Needed efforts to convert retreat into advance, ya know what I’m sayin’? Ya know… what I’m sayin’?”

It hurts, doesn’t it. Like salting a paper cut on your testy sack. Every “ya know what I’m sayin’?” a slap in the face of evolution itself. As if we’ve de-evolved to a point where we actually no longer understand our own speech patterns. We’ve lost verbal communication, and pretty soon our opposable thumbs! Then, it’s just a matter of time before we’re shitting in our palms and whipping it at each other. And to be totally honest… that sounds a fuckload better than this.

Ya know what I’m sayin’?

Now Where Is The Exit… (aka Consumerism Serenade)

“Alright, remember where we parked!”

Those are the innocent words that begin the most horrible experience of your life. No, I’m not talking about the back-alley abortion you avoid mentioning. I’m talking about a trip into the Mall of America.

For those of you who don’t know what that is, count your lucky stars ’cause you still have a soul. I’m lucky enough to live very close to it. What is “it”? It is a mall, obviously. A very fucking big mall. You can go over to their website and check it out for yourself if you’d like.

Four levels. Four. Five if you count the giant walk-through aquarium underneath. That’s right. They house a FUCKING OCEAN FULL OF FISH UNDERNEATH THE MALL! It’s called “Underwater World”, and is in no way a shitty movie with Kevin Costner. Which is about it’s only redeeming quality.

As you can see, they keep the wannabe baseball players turned mediocre actors right next to the sting rays. Please do not feed Kevin Costner, he gets gassy.

Four floors. There are four floors of shit. On the fourth floor: Movie theater. MOVIE THEATER. Full-sized fucking THEATER! ON TOP of the biggest mall, ON TOP of the fuckin’ full-sized walk-through aquarium. Now they’re just fucking with us. What else could they squeeze in? How about a full-sized amusement park in the middle? Naw, that’d be… oh, there is a full-sized amusement park in the middle? Oh… if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go drink lead paint until my brain melts out of my eyes.

That’s right, there is a Nickolodeon-themed (formerly Peanuts and Snoopy themed) amusement park right there inside the mall. Rollercoasters whip past your head as you sit and cringe at really fat girls buying stuff at Victoria’s Secret (“Honey, you’re not fittin’ in them panties without the jaws of life and a prayer!”). And the log ride? As it goes up to it’s largest peak towards the end, off in the horizon: Hooters. I shit you not. The Hooters on the fourth floor overlooks the children’s funland! And as you ascend the final log drop, there it is. Right there. As if it was reaching out to you, and much like most women, it suddenly vanishes from sight as you plummet to your doom. A cruel trick, but what are you going to do? And now you really want shitty chicken wings! And let’s not even try to talk about how many obvious penis jokes there are there. Log ride? Final climax? Drooping at the end? Alright, so we can talk about the obvious penis jokes a little…

Now that we’ve located the amusement park, the aquarium, the movie theater, and the boobies, it’s time to do some shopping. That is, if you can FIND ANYTHING! The mall is roughly the size of Rhode Island, so finding the Foot Locker is almost as difficult as finding Jesus. Luckily, they have maps. Hand out maps, map terminals. Maps. Lots of maps. As if you’re going on an expedition to find the Cinnabon. Lewis And Clark were great explorers, but even they couldn’t handle the journey to the Baby Gap. And they don’t have the stroller with the three kids in it like crazy-Mom does.

The thing that kills me, is there is just about two of every store. It throws you off.

“Where is the Games By James store?”

“North side, floor one… no wait… south side, floor three… wait… what?! What is happening right now?! Did we enter another dimension where it’s necessary to have two of the same store. Is one better? OH GOD WHAT IF WE DON’T CHOOSE THE GOOD ONE! I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE!”

*bang*

“…Tom? Tom?! OH GOD, Tom sp… hey, is that an Oxygen Bar!”

Yes, that is an oxygen bar. They sell AIR at the MoA, mother fucker. That’s hardcore! The balls it must take to open an oxygen bar. How do you even get that past the small-business loan people.

“So, here’s the plan, we’re going to open a place where people suck air through tubes”

“Air?”

“Yes.”

“…you’re going to sell them… oxygen?”

“Yup. We even have flavored air!”

“…sounds like a good use of thousands of dollars to me! APPROVED!”

What other shit do they have? Mini-golf course? Check. Butterfly house? Check. Flight simulators? Check. NASCAR simulators? Check (weeeeee, I can drive around in circles only not really?! That’s exciting as shit! And totally worth substantial amounts of cash money!). A giant house dedicated to Legos? OH HELL YES, CHECK!

Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Lego Land:

Admit it, it makes you horny just looking at it, doesn’t it? Do you see the lego dinosaurs? Oh yeah, they’re real. And they’re epic. And someone got paid more than you do at your job just to build them. Welcome to America, bitches!

Where does all this fit? How is it all in one building? It isn’t. When you enter the parking structure (which is just slightly smaller than the planet Mars) everything seems normal. Then you step into the “building”, and you’re sucked through a wormhole into an alternate timespace. One where all this stuff fits in one building. A place void of any logic and reasoning (including your own once you enter: How else to you explain eating at that Cinnabon I mentioned earlier?). A place where it just doesn’t make sense.

Why is this here? Why do we need to buy everything on Earth in one place? Can’t we go to seperate stores? How much money can I get onto my credit card before they take my first born?

All questions that pass through your head. But let’s focus on the first one: “Why is this here?”

The first answer is just: ’cause we can, assholes. Why NOT build the world’s largest mall and stuff tons of shit into it? Sure, we could probably build an entire neighborhood’s worth of houses for poor people, but can you put a lego land in a poor house? Nope! So fuck you poor people, let’s build a giant mall!

The other answer, is just one word: “Consumerism”. Sure, the thing brings in tourists from around the world, but it’s just a great way of showing off American Consumerism, ultimately. We love to buy. We can’t AFFORD to buy. But we love to buy. Is it shiny? PURCHASE. Does it make noise? PURCHASE. Can I use it to hold other stuff I’ve bought? PURCHASE. Can I eat it? PURCHASE. Can I put it in my anus? PURCHASE. Do I need it? No? Well… PURCHASE!

It’s reached a point where we just have too much shit we can buy, and not enough money to spend on it. I mean, considering the economic state of this country, do we really have the money to spend two grand on a giant beanbag chair? They’re called LoveSacs, and yes, yes you can afford that because they’re sent from the planet HolyFuckThisIsComfortable and they’re here to make your life uncraptastical.

Seriously, it’s like seeing the face of Jesus. Oh, and it requires a fuckin’ dumptruck to get it to your house. The thing is seriously as big as a Hummer H3.

So much shit to buy. I don’t even think it’s possible now to buy everything in one lifetime. Back in the day, like Old West times and such, there were only like… four things you could buy. Food. Clothing. Weapons. And Sex. Now we can buy just about anything! Except for sex, interestingly enough… (well, not legally anyway…)

So what DO you buy? You know what you buy? Pills. Because if a mall this large sounds like a good idea to you, you need to be medicated heavily and locked away for your own safety. It’s dangerous to think this is a good idea, because it leads to it growing. The MoA is an entity that feeds off your consumerism. It eats your money and grows like an alien blob. Eventually, it’ll take over the entire world. That is, after it’s epic fight to the death with Wal-Mart which is basically doing the same thing with red necks and white trash.

The sad thing is, I kinda like the mall. Since most of the world is there at any given time, it’s great people watching. It’s also the perfect summary of everything. If it was possible to define this country as a whole, it’d be the Mall of America. It shows people at their worst (Again: CINNABON!), it shows people at their best (There is a book store in there somewhere… I think…), and it shows people at their most bizarre (there is a store that just sells clocks. Clocks. Clock store. CLOCK STORE!). It’s expensive, it’s crowded, it’s impossible to find anything, but all the consumerism pumping through my blood makes me enjoy it anyway. I never buy anything, I just walk around. You have to save your money to hire the trained guide to help you find your car!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to play at Lego Land somemore, then sit in the LoveSacs (not buy any, just sit in them with all the stoners who hang out at the mall), then I’m going to go eat a Cinnabon, and then I’ll curl in the fetal position and die. I love America!

The Rise And Fall Of Whitey

Crack open a history book, any history book. You know what’s in it? Stories of white people doing terrible shit. In fact, if you look in the dictionary, the definition of “history” reads like this:

History: A documentation of white people committing atrocities in the past. (See Also: Hockey)

It’s hard to even be white anymore, you know? Walking down the streets carrying the burden of a thousand horrible events on your shoulders. Wishing you could undo all the awful stuff that has come out of white people. Like Celine Dion. Yeah, we’re really sorry about that one…

However, at one point in history, being white used to carry with it a ton of pride! In fact, the more white you were, the more respected you were. Being pale used to be a sign of nobility. If that was the case now, I’d be the most respected mother fucker on the planet. Except maybe Albino’s, they must have REALLY been respected back in the day. Or burned for being demons.

But at some point, mostly throughout the 20th century, white people went too far. I’m not talking about things like Nazi’s and the Holocaust, as pretty messed up as that was, it just doesn’t seem to be as evil as some of the things I’m about to list. That’s right, today I’m going to cover the Fall of Whitey.

The following document some of the worst shit that white people have ever done. Remember, while reading this, I am in no way associated with these white people. I’m the good kind of white. I keep all my nigger jokes in my head.

All of the apologies that follow are directed towards non-white people. White people, if these other white people wronged you, you can un-do all of it by apologizing to a black dude. Or maybe helping that Mexican illegal at work get a Green Card. Make up for the horrors I’m about to list.

1) Vanilla Ice

Ice Ice Baby. If you heard that song, white people owe you an apology. Please find your nearest Caucasian and simply say “I heard Vanilla Ice today”. They’ll promptly drop to their knees and beg for your forgiveness. Vanilla Ice is the sum of all White Music Failures. You see, black music was really cool, and white people decided to get in on that action. Of course, white people suck at black music. You don’t believe me? Go listen to a Kenny G album. Jazz my ass!

2) Wes Anderson

Ah, who doesn’t love a good Wes Anderson film. Nothing wrong with the movies, however, their existence leads to some major hardcore White People Arrogance. For some reason, if a white person has seen or owns more than two Wes Anderson films, they think they’re Demi-Gods. If you’ve been stuck in a conversation about how “I loved The Royal Tenenbaums, but The Darjeeling Limited wasn’t his best work.”, Wes Anderson is legally required to compensate you with a million dollars.

3) Hulk Hogan

Professional wrestling may not have existed for much longer had it not been for Honkey McSurferDude making it so damn popular. Not only is it watched by a ton of really awful white people, but it’s taken a lot of black atheletes away from sports and dressed them up in goofy costumes. You are allowed to hit one wrestling fan in the head with a steel chair a week. You can hit them with an entire kitchen set if they actually think “Booker T Washington” is the real name of the wrestler Booker T.

4) Maury Povich

Black people especially deserve an apology for this guy. Sure, he embarasses white people, but he also embarasses a lot of other races. In fact, he may be the origin of the term “Baby Daddy”. And for that, I’m really quite sorry.

5) Rosie O’Donnell

We‘re sorry that…no, you know what, just fuck her. Seriously. This one’s just for me. Someone owes me an apology for this obnoxious unfunny piece of crap taking up space that could be otherwise occupied by something more important to the world, like a vending machine.

Of course, for every specific person, there are also groups of people that demonstrate what has caused white people to fall from grace. If you come across a member of this group, consider them a representative of the group as a whole, and proceed to punch them in the kidney.

1) Extreme Sports Enthusiasts

Not only do they use the term “enthusiasts” which you all know I hate, but they are primarily, if not entirely, white. And they’re really fuckin’ annoying white people too. Doesn’t matter what it is, be it skateboarding, surfing, or jumping off a damn building, these people are a pain in the ass. They are the ones that morphed the already-stupid term “Bro” into “Bra”. I’m more than certain that this was the group that brought the term “Douchebag” into use. It was either them or…

2) People That Shop At Abercrombie & Fitch

Holy Jesus Fucking Shitballs McDammit Christ! These people are dreadful wastes of atomic matter! Not only are they all dumb as rocks, but they have FAKE TANS! THEY TAN! THEY FUCKING TAN! And dye their hair. And wear… and it hurts me to even say this… socks with… no, I can’t. …socks with… sandals! THE HORROR! FUCK YOU WHITE PEOPLE!

3) Contemporary Artists

Again, another pretty white group of people. And they are the only people who will act even MORE haughty than the Wes Anderson fans. If you find a Contemporary Artist that IS a Wes Anderson fan, the smugness may actually melt your skin off when they talk. You have been warned. Contemporary Artists think they’re cutting-edge and unique because they do stuff that other people flat-out don’t get. However, they are really just idiots with no real artistic talent. But unfortunately, other white people don’t want to look like they don’t get it, so they’ll pretend they understand contemporary art. And then more will be made. It’s a vicious cycle. And it’s all in the hands of white people. Sorry about that painting made of fecal matter, that’s on us.

4) Car Salesmen

I know, you just want to buy a used car, but you have to deal with Captain Smiley I. M. Whiteasfuck to get it. And boy is he a pain in the ass. Never in your life have you heard someone talk so much about a beat up ’86 Oldsmobile Cutless Ceria. He’s trying to tell you that four hubcaps are necessary and that door-rust adds character. And he’s doing it all while wearing Polyester. Pretty sure that merit’s a Nationwide Apology.

5) “Cowboys”

Not REAL Cowboys, just people that wear cowboy outfits as regular clothing. I’d also like to expand this to Country singers. Did you know that in 47 states, it’s actually legal for a minority to kill any member of Rascal Flatts? Of course not, ‘cause if people knew that they’d all be dead by now. A man can dream though.

There are lots more, but this is just the ones I can think of off the top of my head. I’m sure I’m missing important ones. People like Pat Robertson, groups of people like people that watch the television show Lost. They’re all dreadful white people, but I just can’t list them all.

All I can do is say: Sorry. Sorry white people have become monsters capable of evil things like Justin Beiber or white people who like Lil’ Wayne. Words can’t express how sorry I am.

Fuck Whitey!

Work Saftey (aka Banned From The Cubicle)

I got in trouble at work for visiting my own site on the internet. I was pulled aside by my manager, and told that a site I visit is not work appropriate. That it’s full of vulgar language and themes that are not alright by corporate standards. The IT department may even need to ban the site.

…HOW FUCKING AWESOME IS THAT?!

Seriously, if I had to set a goal for my blog, it’d be that someday it would be the site that gets fuckin’ banned. I want to be the one protested, threatened, blocked. Hell, I’d love if someone took my blog out back and burned it like Christian’s do with Harry Potter books! That’s be fuckin’ fantastic! Perhaps, if I’m lucky, I’ll get you fired from your job for reading me bitch about stuff! Your unemployment would be my biggest victory!

I am going to take this time to present to you the NSFW logo. A logo I wear like a badge of honor. It’s like a big middle-finger to P.C. culture. Both kinds of PC culture, really.

Let it be known that when I Google Image Searched “NSFW” to find that logo, it turned up a bunch of porn. Some of it very weird. Some of it… VERY weird. None of it safe for work. Hell, half of it wasn’t even safe for masturbation.

The real beauty is the fact that I have to stop and think of what it was that pushed them over the edge. I’ve been visiting, and writing, most of these blogs there since the beginning. “Teh Co-Worker” often visits the site while at work as well. So, at some point, I wrote a blog that triggered the IT departments cache of “no-no’s”, forcing them to spring to work!

Was it the blog about a child-rape video game? Or maybe blog number two about Hitler? I suppose the over-use of the word “cunt” doesn’t help matters any. Maybe my site hit their “Cunt-Limit”? Or perhaps it was… no, you don’t think?! Maybe it was the… VEGEMITE?!

I mean, let’s face it. What terrible offensive thing haven’t I covered yet? Seriously, what? I need ideas for future blogs! Let’s make a list of all the things I’ve talked about that may have set off the censors:

-Rape
-Abortion
-Homosexuality
-Cunts (that makes three in this blog alone… a new FiS record!)
-Hitler
-Murder/Genocide/fuckin’ Omnicide!
-Child Abuse
-Various Disgusting Sexual Acts
-Miscarriages
-Pedophilia
-Beastality
-Racism
-Muskrats
-Spousal Abuse

That’s a pretty handsome list, if you ask me. Which you didn’t. But I’m telling you anyway, because that’s how this blog works.

But that does beg the question: Where do I go from here? Sure, I’m nowhere near out of creative obscenities. Nor do I think I’ll ever get tired of taking shots at things I shouldn’t make fun of. I’m sure I have at least four or five more blogs about hitting children with blunt objects in me. And I know I can talk all day about weird sex acts. In fact, I’ll have to tell you some other time about the website I found dedicated to women fucking squash.

Well, ok. I can talk about it now. Since you’re so interested, and just can’t wait. You see, I once stumbled upon a website for women fucking squash. You know, like the vegetable. The stuff you heat up in the oven with brown sugar? Yeah, jamming them in their crotches. Various other things like that too. Now look, I’m a pretty perverted guy and I dig the ladies and all, but somehow Gourd Fucking just doesn’t do it for me. And it ruined Thanksgiving!

“Bob, could you pass the squash”

“…you’re not going to fuck it, are you?”

And that, friends, is why every Thanksgiving I now have to eat in the Garage. False story!

Oh, and I suppose I haven’t talked to you about Necrophilia yet, have I? You know, I’m actually quite against necrophilia. And not for the obvious reason which is: “EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!”. No, I’m against it because I don’t like to know that there are dead people out their getting fucked more than me! That’s just not alright…

I actually told that necrophilia joke on stage once! In front of my mom! I’m such a classy dude. I’m NSFM. Not Safe For Mom’s. Unless your mom likes dick jokes and abortion material. In which case… is she seeing anyone?

What else is there? Incest? Don’t fuck your family members, that’s just not alright. They deserve a better lay than you! Seriously! If you absolutely MUST fuck a family member, make sure it’s a really young family member. Like your 7 year old cousin. That way, they won’t KNOW you’re a terrible lay, because they have nothing to compare it to! If you’re going to be incestual, be smart about it!

I’d apologize for the horrible crudeness of that incest joke, but at this point the apology for going too far is implied as soon as words start coming out of me. I’m actually quite proud of that.

Ultimately, you all know I’m joking. I don’t advocate child molestation. I don’t think we should all go out and start killing niggers. And don’t even get me started about how wrong it is to jam your penis inside a Giraffe. Seriously, I could go on for hours about how that’s just not fuckin’ alright. Not even when you’re drunk!

Now I’m starting to wonder what the point of this blog was? It was a reason for me to be even more vulgar than usually while recapping all the fun times I’ve already had with hell-sent thoughts.

Right, right, I was talking about how it was NSFW. And if it wasn’t before, it probably is now just for that bit about fucking your 7 year old cousin. Sorry about that. You’ll just have to read this in the comfort of your own home now, where you can read it without pants on. The way it’s meant to be read.

Anyway, I have no way of ending this, so I’ll just end it by saying:

Mohammed… Muhammad… however the fuck you spell it… was a child-molesting, giraffe-fucking fat bastard with man tits! He also had the smallest penis in all of the Muslim world.

…how about now? Can I get my death-threats from Muslim Extremists now? Please? Fuck…

420 Reasons For Me To Hate You

High everyone!

It’s 4/20. And if food stores were smart, they’d have sales on snack food. And make a fuckin’ fortune!

Since it’s 4/20, Did you all bust out your bongs and smoke a bowl today? Did you “wake and bake”? Did you “roll a fat one”? Did you “puff, puff, pass”? No? Neither did I. Because I’m not a fucking doucheweed (all insulting made up vulgar words will be pot-related in today’s blog).

Now, I’ve written a blog about marijuana before. However, this one is going to actually cover the subculture that this drug has created.

It’s 4/20 today, which means pot smokers everywhere are smoking pot… which is what they do every other day. The only difference is, this time… um… well, no, no fucking difference at all. I guess the main difference is now they get to think they’re even MORE cool for doing something they already think they’re cool for doing. Of course, they’re not cool for doing it. Not even a little.

Look, smoke all you like, I’m not against it. I’ve even said legalize it. However, do the world a huge favor: shut your fucking yaps about it, please. Stoners, I love ya and all, but smoking pot is just like various other things: It is to be done, not to be discussed. I put pot-smoking on the list with some items such as these:

-Talking about your children

-Explaining your bowel movements

-Telling me about your car, truck, or motorcycle

-Fishing stories

-Success stories that make me feel like a failure

That’s just a sample of a pretty fuckin’ large list. Basically, if it only applies to you, and is totally uninteresting to anyone who ISN’T a part of it, please don’t tell me about it. If you want to tell me a story about how you found a way to trick the IRS into giving you a million dollars, or you want to strike up a conversation about the time you watched a girl fuck a car muffler, I may lend you an ear. If you want to tell me about Smokie McPott’s Adventures In Boringness, I’m going to have to start shin-kicking.

You know what I mean. THOSE stories. Pot stories. Stories about people on pot. HOLY FUCK. Stop that. Never in my life have I heard more boring shit spewed out of someones mouth. I’d rather watch CSPAN. C-FUCKING-SPAN! Not only do I have issues with what is being said, but how it’s being said bothers me too.

It may come as a surprise to all of you, but stoners are terrible at telling stories. If you want to know what a stoner’s story is like, read War And Peace. But imagine that instead of a plot and beautifully crafted sentences, it’s just “Yeah, dude… and… uh… shit man… then… uh, hah, this is great…da, um…”

Let me give you a great example, for those of you who still can’t imagine it.

“Oh man, dude, check this shit… so, this one time… we were at Johnny’s place, just… you know, like… chillin’ in his basement and, like, smokin’ pot and stuff, and I was all like ‘YO’ Johnny, man… dude, we need like… munchies!’ and Johnny said that he had those like… um… pop tarts upstairs. So, like, we went to get some and uh, hah, shit, they were gone and stuff, man… so we like… um… uh… went to the store, you know to like… buy new ones and shit, and, hahahaha oh man, this is hilarious man, so… yeah, we wanted the strawberry WITH the icing, but… dude, get this… they were OUT of the ones with the icing, and yeah… so we like… totally got the ones without the icing and then, um… yeah we went back to Johnny’s and… ate them and stuff, yeah dude, it was crazy… oh, yeah, but the funny part was Johnny wasn’t wearing pants…”

I think I got to “chillin’ in his basement” before I was attempting to stab myself in the ears with my own fingertips. Your pot stories are boring. Pot is not a drug you take and do cool shit on. Pot is a drug you take, and then you sit around and listen to Pink Floyd and laugh at fart noises all afternoon. Not a bad time, but not an enthralling tale either.

However, if you do a drug like LSD, please feel free to tell me everything. I’ll knock old ladies over to move closer to you so I can hear the story of how on one bad trip you broke three knuckles fighting a car that turned into a giant dragon spewing rainbows. That shit is fucking fascinating!

If they aren’t telling you a story, they’re telling you about their great idea. Which is anything but great. And usually not much of an idea. Bonus points goes to the stoner that invents something that has already been invented.

“Dude, man… what if they like… made this thing. No, seriously, this is huge… like… ok, so, you take like… you know, bread and stuff… that you want… warm, yeah. So you take it, and you put it in this thing, and it like… warms up the bread so it’s like… nice and toasty and shit! Oh man! Warm bread! That would be so awesome!”

“Toaster. You mean like a toaster?”

“Yeah dude, except… like… it WARMS the bread…”

“WHOA! You mean a Toast WARMER?!”

“YEAH DUDE!!!”

“Yeah, I basically hate you right now”

And if it isn’t that, then you get the conspiracy theory stoner. The one who just solved the biggest cover-up in the world’s history. 93% of the time, it’s something to do with John F. Kennedy. The other 7% of the time, it has to do with some totally mundane household object that is usually within eyesight at that moment.

The worst part is, these are usually profound thoughts! That’s the scary part. They’re total bullshit, but they’re said in that way that makes sense for some reason. Like how “Lather, Rinse, Repeat” is just a ploy by the shampoo companies to make you use more of their product than you need to, hence making you buy more.

Now, at first you go “Well, that’s a fucking retarded thing to say”, but in a few hours, you’ll be taking a shower. Holding that bottle. Looking down and yelling “THOSE MOTHER FUCKERS!”.

Can I back track a second and restate something. This does not apply to EVERYONE that smokes pot. Some just smoke pot and chill in their house for awhile, leaving the rest of us out of it. And not every stoner over-uses the word “Dude”. But, I bet most of you know at least ONE stoner, if not many, that fit this profile exactly.

I bet they have horrible hair too, huh? Jesus, pot smokers, while you’re in the shower for two hours figuring out that damn Suave Plot, why don’t you go ahead and pour some of that controlling substance on your fucking scalp? You smell like Cat Stevens’ wardrobe.

Now tell me that that doesn’t look like it stinks to high hell? And why the fuck is he sitting like that?!

You know what else bothers me about the stoner culture? Bongs. Not bongs themselves, but homemade bongs. Stoners are perhaps the most genius engineers on the planet. When it comes to bongs. They can MacGyver themselves a bong out of just about everything. Apples. Pop Cans. Dildos (I’ve seen it. I’ve FUCKING SEEN IT!). I’m pretty sure that if we legalize Marijuana, they’ll actually make the Statue of Liberty into a huge water bong. Which, actually, would be kinda cool…

Alright, so let me make it clear. I don’t care if you smoke. Go ahead. In fact, I hope you have a joint in your mouth as you’re reading this (which would make that picture of Cat Stevens funny as hell, I’d imagine). But, do the world a favor: keep that shit to yourself. Don’t be that guy. No one likes that guy.

And if this offended all of you stoners out there… well… you’ll just forget about it all anyway.

LEGALIZE IT!

Baby Got Back (Her Taxes)

Tax Season.

Two words that either make you shiver with disgust and hatred, or with glee and hopefulness. It’s either the worst couple months of your life, or the moment you’ve waited for all year. Basically, you’re either going to get fist-fucked by the IRS or walk away with thousands of dollars in your pocket. I’ll let you decide which one sounds like the GOOD result.

I already got my tax return. Months ago. And as such, like any good American, I spent it immediately. Hell, I don’t want to risk that money being taken back, or worse: SAVED! Could you imagine?! Being an adult and putting that money in a savings account and keeping it for an emergency?! Ugh, being mature, who needs that shit, I HAVE A THOUSAND DOLLARS! Eh, well… HAD a thousand dollars…

I love watching all the people deal with the tax season. You can watch the true diversity in this country simply by how people handle their taxes. For those who handle it well, to those that completely collapse, the best and worst of human condition is brought out by the thought of taxes.

Take, for example, Miss Deductions. The person who will stop at nothing to suck every last drop of juice from the Government Teet. These are the annoying ones you’re exposed to all year, because they spend most of their time saying things like: “I wonder if this is a tax write-off?”

It’s a grapefruit. That you bought at a deli. It’s not a fuckin’ tax write-off, I assure you.

Line 26b of your Tax Form: Did you buy any citrus this year?

Well, son of a bitch…

These are also the people that I’m almost positive have kids simply for the tax breaks. I know it’s a financial burden, and ultimately sucks up more money than the return could give you anyway, but some people don’t think that far ahead. But hey, all the more power to you. That’s right, you go out and shake the deductions bein’ a momma gave ya!

The same applies to charity work. I hate that. “Hey, you wanna go get a tax write-off…eh… I mean help retarded children?”

Is that all charity is these days, a way to stick it to the man? I think charity is an admirable thing, I do. However, does it really need to be written off as a money scheme too? It all seems dirty to me. Like we’re taking those poor retarded children and using them to get money. Exploitation. And I don’t know about you, but I am NOT OK with exploiting retarded people for money. That’s why I refuse to watch reality television shows.

Then you get the “business” people. Not actual people that own their own business, that actually requires a lot of tax work. I’m talking about people who have to find everything they do that is related to business, and attempt to write it off.

“Well, I’m TECHNICALLY driving to work on a weekend. So that means… I can deduct the 3 and a quarter miles it took to drive. How much gas is that? Like… 35 cents?”

These are the people who’s tax return ends up looking like a scientist’s blackboard. Just numbers and lines and letters all over the fucking place, and no sense to be found. They’d be better off trying to figure out Pi to the 7 thousandth decimal. When your tax sheets start to resemble NASA calculations, you’ve gone too far. And you’ll only get about 4 dollars more in return. Not even enough to buy that gun you keep asking for while you’re doing the math!

The next tax-person we get is the “Ha ha, I get to claim zero” bastards. I get to claim zero, but I don’t act like it makes me a better person. Some people do. You know what I call them? That’s right: Zeroes! Because they’re losers. Just because no one on this green planet of ours wants to bear the fruit of your loins or sign a legal binding contract saying they’re past the point of being betrothed to you, doesn’t make you any more or less an idiot than those claiming 2.

Next up we get the people that attempt to do it themselves. And suck total ass at it. These are the ones with the TurboTax box and “Idiot’s Guide To Fucking Up And Getting Audited… Again” book spread out on their kitchen table for about six months every year. They want to be financially intelligent and do it themselves. Why over-pay someone when you can do it yourself? Probably because one slip up lands you in prison. Even rape isnt punished as harsh as putting down the wrong numbers on a tax sheet. And rape is FUCKING RAPE!

Then you get the people that DO go to H & R Block or some other tax “professional”. I’ve never been, but I can imagine it’s a sad trip.

“Hi, welcome to H & R Block, please kill me, how can we help you today?”

“Yeah, I need to… did you just say ‘please kill me’?”

“Of course not! So you need your taxes done, that’s quite easy, oh dear God end the pain now, if you could just come over here and take a seat by my desk…”

“…o…k.”

“So, the first thing we’re going to need is for you to stab this pen into my neck and end my eternal suffering, also, could you fill out this form?”

“…I think I’m going to to go Jackson Hewlett…”

I can only imagine how much it would suck to have to do taxes for a living. You know why all tax professionals seem so young? Because by the time they reach 35, they’ve thrown themselves off a high rise and became pancakes wearing cheap ties.

Then we reach the “guy who knows a guy”. The second guy is usually refered to as “My tax guy”. The first guy is known as “Lucky Bastard”.

“You mean… you get your taxes done… for free… by someone else…?!”

“Yup. I also have a blah-blah guy and a blah-blah guy and a blah-blah guy!”

Seriously, these people have more “guys” than a mafia kingpin. And they’re not afraid to tell you about it. I bet they even have a guy who’s job it is to keep track of all their other guys. Quite the operation you’re running just to avoid having to take responsibility for your own life there, chief.

The last tax person I’d like to talk about today is the “OH FUCK IT’S APRIL ALREADY?!” guy. They got their W-2 in January, but you know… sorta just slipped their mind. For three months. Guess they had more important things to do. Like inventory their junk drawer, or play online poker. For three months.

And then the race begins. They frantically throw together their forms and cram them in the mailbox. And then spend the next few weeks with a giant vein sticking out of their head as panic sets in.

“Oh fuck, I know I did it wrong. I’m going to get audited, oh God. If anyone needs me I’m going to be drinking a lot of booze and praying.”

But don’t fret, because soon after comes the good part. The return, mother fucker. Or at least for most of us. Some people *sigh* end up OWING money.

“Wow… that just simply blows, buddy. Well, if you need me I have over a thousand dollars of spending cash to spend! PEACE OUT BROKEY McPOORSTER!”

And spend it we do. I guess this is what is known as “stimulating the economy” or something like that. I consider it “spending my government whore money”.

It’s insane how fast that thing goes, isn’t it? Who would have thought that spending your entire tax return on a new sex swing ’cause the last one broke during that Nazi themed orgy you had last month was a BAD way to spend money.

But more importantly… is that sex swing tax deductable?

Date a Cougar NOW!

Demanding, aren’t you sidebar ads! Jesus, fine. I’ll go looking for a Cougar to date.

That’s what greeted me this morning when I logged onto the ol’ Facial Tome. Since I have “single” listed as my relationship status, FT has apparently taken it upon itself to find me a mate. “Bob, seriously… you need to get laid…”  Go fuck yourself, Facial Tome.

However, these side bar ads are at least a source of constant amusement. So I, being Curious Bob, decided to take a little gander. The link took me to the wonderous world of Cougar Life! It’s a web site for those of you who are looking for women who are “a little more experienced”. “A Little More Experienced” of course meaning: Has had more cocks in her than a chicken coop.

Right there on the front page, I’m greeted with a wonderful summary of what a Cougar and, get this, a “Cub” are:

“Cougars are women in their PRIME: independent, sexy and wildly successful. They enjoy men who are youthful, fit with the same zest for life. Cougars are classy, confident women that already possess many of the finer things in life – but now want the young, hot guy to go with it.”

If you please direct your attention to underneath your seat, you will find a convenient little barf bag. You’re welcome. Anyway, let’s analyze this epic failure of a paragraph, shall we? We’ll begin with “Wildly Successful”.

What does that mean? I know what “Wildly” means. I know what “Successful” means. But for some reason, these two words don’t seem to click when pushed together. It’s the same response I get when I see someone write “Dane Cook is Funny”. The two just seem to not work at all together. I’m concerned that I’m missing something.

Wildly to me seems to imply a lack of control. A wild animal is that which is free and without control. It’s something that could go loco at any moment and tear you into pieces. Success seems to be something that needs a deep grasp of control of ones life. You need to be in control of yourself, and everything you do, in order to become successful. So, one can only assume that it is their SUCCESS which is wild. Their success is beyond their control and could rip this planet a new one. You know who else was “wildly successful”? Hitler.

And unfortunately, not even that odd combo of words was enough to distract me from the use of the word “zest”. That pretty much lands on the top 25 Dumb-Fuck Words list. It’s right under “Synergy” and “Enthusiast”. Words that no human being should let stumble out of their mouths, else be raped by badgers in punishment. Yes, you heard me correct: badgers, plural. A whole pack of them.

“I am a boating enthusiast, I enjoy sailing the ocean with a zest that is only rivaled by my profession of trying to make office places work with a true synerg… OOOOOWWWW A BADGER JUST STUCK IT’S COCK IN MY ASS?!”

Until I gain the powers to control an army of badgers, you are safe. But someday… oh someday…

Anyway, let’s return to our regularly scheduled rant. When we last left the Counter Culture Clown, he was glancing down, below the Cougar explanation, and reading about this new term: Cub.

“To snare a true cougar a man needs to be youthful, fit, unintimidated, and of course sexually driven! These men can range from athletes to intellectuals, and from technologists to entrepreneurs and all points in-between; they can come in all shapes and sizes, but one thing they have in common is the desire to possess a sexually charged older woman.”

And I thought the cougar explanation was bad. Let’s start with “a true cougar.”. None of those fake cougars! Really, are there old women out there PRETENDING to be cougars? I’m pretty sure the only true cougar, is this lovely right here:

Dude, she’s totally winking at you!

Just a side note, athletes aren’t interested in old women trying to relive their youth. An athlete becomes an athlete basically for one reason. No, not the heart of competition or any of that crap, I’m talking about 18 year old big-breasted bimbos who’ll give blowjobs to whoever throws the winning touchdown. Just ask Tony Romo.

Also, I’d like to call bullshit on a particular passage of that explanation: “They come in all shapes and sizes”. No, they don’t. You already said they have to be fit, so I’m pretty sure a 22 year old, 325-pound guy who wears a Star Trek t-shirt, smells like Funions, and lives in his parents basement probably isn’t getting in your seasoned panties. And guess what: A lot of those very people are “technologists”. If you count being Guild Leader in World of Warcraft as “technologist”.

It says on the bottom of the site that you have the chance to join the “#1 Dating site of it’s kind!” Oh crap, that means there are more than one?! They’re spreading! Much like the legs of these 40-somethings looking for one last beef injection before the tanning beds give them face cancer and the hair dyes cause them to look like Danny Devito.

Luckily, the site provides us skeptics with a whole slew of informational links to check into things a bit more. Like the information on the CEO & Founder of the site.

Meet Claudia Opdenkelder. A proud cougar and the creator of this site. I have her to thank for introducing me to the prospect of dating someone that’ll die when I’m only in my 40s.

“So what are you waiting for? You don’t have to be Demi Moore or Madonna to land a cute cub (young man).”

Yes. You do have to be Demi Moore or Madonna. They have money. And plastic surgeons on call 24/7. Oh, and they’re FUCKING DEMI MOORE AND MADONNA! And let’s face it, Demi Moore is fucking Ashton Kutcher, that isn’t exactly a win for ol’ Demi-Goddess.

It gets worse though:

“Whether you’re recently divorced, never married or just one yummy mummy; I promise you will find what you’re looking for at CougarLife.com – your personal playground where you can lose your inhibitions, play the field or even find someone special. “

If you are down south right now, you probably have a gun pretty close at hand. Please pick it up, and get on the next plane my way. I require your services. You see, my brain has gone rabid, and we need to put it down.

YUMMY MUMMY?! I wish I didn’t speak English, and couldn’t understand what I just read. But alas, I can speak English, and I did understand. Fuckin’ hell. I’m all for single mothers looking for mates, but calling yourself a “Yummy Mummy” is epic gag-worthy. It sounds like a fuckin’ Halloween-themed Ben & Jerry’s flavor for shit-sake.

The site is a playground. A playground. A place that used to be all fun and games and innocent. Not a place where you can “lose your inhibitions”. You know losing your inhibitions at a playground is? Using the fireman’s pole as a stripper pole. Which I’m assuming is something these chicks would be into. Plenty of strapping young lads at the playground.

I love that it ends with “or even find someone special”. So this site’s LAST priority is to actually find you a meaningful relationship. Go figure.

Uh, I have some questions for Cougar Life. Luckily, they provide a nice FAQ for those of us who have a few more inquiries. Do you think “WTF?!” is covered in the FAQ?

Alright, look. I have no real problem with people dating people younger or older or whatever. You love who you love, but this site makes it all a little creepy. A cougar is a wild animal that would probably take a cub and tear it into shreds and eat it’s guts for sustenance. That’s really not what I’m looking for in a woman. If I was, I’d go to a vampire dating site or something.

I wonder if they have “Cougar Vampires” looking for “Young Blood” sites? If they don’t, I may have found my way to make millions! I too could be a young, unintimidated entrepreneur who could attract a woman my mom’s age! Or I could not do that, and use the money to buy a gun so I don’t have to rely on you southern peeps to blow my gray-matter out of my skull every time I trip and fall into one of these sites.

Either way, I think we may be on to something here… quick, we need a spokesperson. Who’s the oldest vampire woman you know?!

Um… maybe I better go back to the drawing board…

The Out Of Context Collective

Let’s play around with my blog a bit, shall we? Today, I am going to go through every blog I’ve done so far, and take one line or piece of every one of them that I consider funny. I’m going to just put them here, in a list, with no context. We’ll see if things are more funny, or less, with nothing else to go on.

This also makes up for my lack of wanting to do a real blog today. Here we go.

How many times has the world ended in my lifetime now… five… six?

My Liberal Arts degree will no longer be impossible to achieve.

Keepin’ JIZZ OUT OF YOU!

Then just look at them with meat-juices pouring down my face, and smile.

But when a grown man talks about how one time he “ripped a big one while we were in the elevator, and it brought tears to his eyes”… I have a tendency to quiver a little bit.

He lines the halls of his mansions with your douche-baggety pictures of you pulling your shirt up and showing your abs.

I am no less a man because of the fact I can play my rib cage like a Xylophone.

So your baby was born without a head, your sister has a 300-pound tumor growing out of her 400-pound tumor, and your war-veteran brother-in-law has a piece of shrapnel in his left testicle that looks oddly like Ned Beatty.

A bus is a giant metal device filled with assholes, idiots, weirdos, cripples, old people, cheap businessmen, hippie college students, and a lot of guys named “Stewart”.

How in the name of Fuckity F. U. Fuckworth are those supposed to pierce the necks of unsuspecting villagers in the middle of the night?

I’m all for women’s rights, African American rights, Latina rights, Minority Female rights, Gay rights, Czech Transexuals rights, Half-Woman/Half-Echidna rights, hell, I’ll even support Invisible Skinned Peoples Rights!

That’s a potato with a ton of nails sticking out of is!

Not to mention the fact that I could finally use the little horsey ride outside of Wal-Mart without waiting in line!

If we drained just Rosie O’Donnell we could run a 747 to Europe.

A Hamburger with some 2-week old Seasame Chicken on top, and some of what we BELIEVE was that cassarole from last March. Tuna, perhaps?

Like hideous footwear, and things to stab into our faces to end the pain.

I have to be CAREFUL while removing the film, or else the trapped souls will escape.

It’s a human appendage going up your poop chute like some twisted Jim Henson porn video.

You want to be covered in I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and have twenty six midgets in little dominatrix outfits lick it off?

Then you introduced me to mental stimuli and erections, and things got awkward for awhile.

And can that little guy stop peeing on things already?

And of course Space Hookers… er… I mean “Space Escorts”

OH man… I would FUCK that toaster, turn that bitch all the way to DARK.

The Hoff, is clearly displaying his man-nipples.

All that is left is to actually cover the thing in fatback and lard and call it a day.

You are delicious and nutritious, but more dangerous to eat than a cheap hooker.

Of course, the Pot-Fairy may go to prison for it, and you’ve seen Oz, you know what they do to fairies in prison!

This is going straight to Admiral No-Shit.

Ghandi was a trend-setter.

Sorry sir, we’ve discussed this with Anal Sphincter, and he see’s no way we can contain the blast.

Don’t use innocent Snicker’s bars for your evil half-assed schemes!

Sexy Professional Bowler.

Skip the cream cheese, and add some crack!

Please send me more pictures of your fuckin’ chicken.

I’d give my whole paycheck to watch a gang of lil’ 14 year old kids bring that dude to the ground!

And you spelt “Cuntface” with a K, you dumb ass.

Don’t tell me the Detroit Roman Catholics condone eating HIM

Now why don’t you get on your knees and let me put these scissors in your face.

I’m sleeping with your publicity stunt sheep

So here, from the bottom of my heart, I have given to you a Stuffed Squirrel Torso.

It’s as if they carved a statue of your face, then beat you with it repeatadle until shards of your own face stuck in your face.

Maybe I’m wrong, maybe that’s what the Queen of England calls her breasts.

So now I’m sticking charcoal in my pants?

You see, they are forced to trudge forever through a vile pile of their own fecal matter.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go light one of my makeup artists on fire for warmth.

The thought of something so beautiful and delicious like cream cheese being mixed with something that closely resembles the black pus that came out of the victims of the Bubonic Plague sends me into a dark place.

Then they have to spend the rest of the “ride” butt-scooting the way down while a fat kid leaps in and kicks them square in the back.

Giant mounds of butts on every corner, on every street.

I’m shocked we haven’t just started BOMBING the homeless.

I.O.U. one mentally-crippling fact that’ll leave you weeping like that did to me.

In fact, if a dude mouths off on his 18th birthday, feel free to kick him straight in the spine.

I saw Mommy doing something to Santa that involved beads and two of his reindeer

Perhaps they have their guts ripped out for eternity while wearing silly hats?

Just once I’d like to see a vasectomy on the sidewalk.

It wasn’t a picture of someone going up inside a girl with a coat hanger and repeatedly stabbing it in the head and tearing it out like a dead squirrel in a rain gutter.

Even Mr. Christ would have to kiss his Holy ass goodbye if a nuke came his way.

Unless it went something like “Hallelujah…. TORPEDO!”

I better get out of the bottom of the ocean or I’ll miss Ugly Betty

It ranks just under “having a pickle shoved in my anus”

Eat my frozen ass with a spoon you wimp!

Sometimes it’s just a giant purple foot sticking out of a toilet.

Toasters are better technology than the human brain.

I’m really surprised it wasn’t a Nazi Condom.

You’d never guess he was the type to invent a robot sex slave, would you?

It’s supposed to be like ExLax for your crotch

She is here today, wearing a vagina emblem on her helmet as a special homeage to her mother and her disorder.

I do not want Green Eggs & Ham, I do not want them Sam I Am. I’d rather have fried chicken and watermelon because I’m a negro, I am I am.

NO LIGHTBULBS FOR YOU!

I think I speak on behalf of handicapped ducks everywhere when I say that you are less useful than a duck that is lame, so it’s a little late for that.

I have this boil on my vagina that is shaped like President Hoover.

I thought maybe he was talking about that one time I ate some bad Mexican food, and I “went Green” for like a week, if you know what I mean.

Squirrels being swallowed up by a black hole is the definition of hillarious.

Well, out of context that all makes me sound like a psychopath. In context… it makes me sound like a psychopath. So, is this stuff more funny or less funny without anything else? And what the hell is your favorite? Not that I care, just askin’ to be nice. Now piss off.

Bob’s Strategy Guide For Small Talk

Greetings, fellow, well, angry bitter anti-social bastard (and bitches!). Today, I present to you my official strategy guide for day-to-day small talk. You know the type, when someone you don’t know/don’t like/don’t want to be caught dead in public with comes up to you and starts “THAT” kind of conversation. The kind of conversation that feels as if your voice box is taking a shit every time you talk.

We’ll begin with the first type of small talk: People you don’t know.

Sometimes, you find yourself stuck in a position where you must talk to a complete stranger. Perhaps you’re at the grocery store. Maybe they’re in a rubber raft with you after your cruise ship is destroyed by Somalian pirates. Either way, they are there, so you should probably say something.

There are two types of these situations.

1) The “You’re doing me a service, so I must acknowledge you’re breathing” stranger conversation

Here’s the scenario: You’re in a gas station buying some Diet Dr. Pepper (which in no way tastes like regular Dr. Pepper, you fuckin’ liars!) and some Mentos (the fresh maker… whatever that means) , the fruity ones. You reach the check-out line, and the girl behind the counter is about to ring up your items. Time for us to make small talk!

Unfortunately, you, an upstanding worthwhile human being, has nothing in common with this person. She’s some white-trash high school drop out reaching her early twenties on a wave of drugs and Red Bull. But you have one minute of time-space to fill up with talking to this waste of flesh. So, here are your options:

-Go for the ol’ weather standby - This works for all human beings, everywhere. Well, except maybe agoraphobics. They give less than a fuck if it’s raining outside. And they’re probably too busy freaked the hell out that you’re in their house to begin with.

-Discuss cigarettes. Even if you don’t smoke, just say “Hey, that Cigarette tax is bullshit”. She smokes, believe me, and she can’t afford the tax, so this is an instant win. She’ll proceed to give you a five minute schpeal about how she has to switch to Lights because of the tax, and because she has to buy food for her little Gas-Station-Attendant-In-Training. Or at least on her weekends with the little shit.

That’s it. Those are your only choices. Cigarettes and weather. Unfortunately, these people hate your very existence, so starting up conversation with them is kind of like trying to cuddle a very angry puma – Someone’s going to lose a limb.

Now, on to the second Complete Stranger conversation.

2) The “Help, I’m trapped in a confined space with someone who makes me uncomfortable” stranger conversation

Be it bus or elevator, you’ll occasionally have to suffer upwards to 34 seconds of conversation with complete strangers without any form of exit. There are four types of people that this can happen with:

-Hot People - Highly unlikely. They’ll usually ignore your existence like you’re a leper. So you’ll very rarely ever have to say anything to them. However, it is highly advised you take a few moments to stare at them, bass-mouthed and wide eyed until they get rather uncomfortable. Drool if necessary.

- Crazy People – Highly likely. If you’re on a bus, this is almost a certainty. And let me tell you, “crazy” is a vast understatement.

You’d think the best way to avoid crazy people is to avoid eye contact and ignore them completely. However, this leads to much more uncomfortable moments. They have a tendency to begin touching you. Grabbing your shoulder. Poking you in the face. Pulling out their penis and slapping you on the knee with it. Things like that. An empathic “you know what I mean?!” or “WAFFLES!” tends to accompany their physical contact. Believe me, these are moments you’re better off avoiding.

So, instead, I suggest you act MORE crazy. If there is one thing crazy people don’t like – it’s crazy people. Haven’t you ever heard a crazy person arguing with themselves? Now you know why. I’ll give you an example conversation to demonstrate the “Act Like A Bigger Whackoala” theory at work.

“ ’ey man, check out my invisible watch. It can tell time in thirty four different chicken tenders! I bet you wish you could fly like an Eskimo!”

“…BASEBALL BAT SALAD SHOOTER CLAM CHOWDER NAZI’S ARE HAVING SEX WITH MY SPLEEN!”

“…ok then, I’m going to go over here and talk to this used paper towel now… freak.”

Let’s go right on to person type number three:

-Boring People – And boy do they love to talk. The person is usually wearing one of two types of outfits. A business suit, or something very hippy-y.

The business suit fucker will usually mention a news story. Or Barrack Obama. The latter is mentioned just to remind you that even though they’re a rich white business man, they are not a racist republican rich white business man. Well, they are, but they want to make sure you don’t THINK they are. At this rate, rich white business men who want to avoid looking like they’re racist are about the only people that actually like Obama anymore. The best way to deal with them is to throw a five dollar bill over their head and jump out the window. Or, if that’s not an option, tell them that it’s cool that they think that. It makes them feel like they’re still connected with the people. The younger you are, the happier they’ll feel about this. It’s a total falsehood, but at least they have a smile on their face when they go back to screwing minorities of money and fucking up our economy.

The hippy is even more uninteresting. They’ll usually tell you about a Wes Anderson film, or a co-op grocery store, or about their new hemp backpack which is now 40% less totally disgusting smelling. Your best bet is to start quoting Death Cab For Cutie lyrics until they swoon themselves to death. Then burn their body and get high off the fumes.

And finally, we move on to the fourth type of stranger.

-Over-Zealous Friendly Black People – While annoying, they are the easiest to deal with. They never breath, ever. Therefore, they don’t ever stop talking. Which means: You never have to do more than smile and look interested, and occasionally do a quick one-grunt laugh and head nod to let them know you “get what they’re saying”. You don’t. No one does. But you can make-pretend they’re saying something that is in an actual realm of worthwhilehood.

Now, the next type of conversation overlaps with the first one on some occasions. I’m talking about those moments when you’re stuck in conversation with someone you do not like. The chance of this being a co-worker or family member is pretty high.

Co-Workers are the biggest source of shitty small talk on this planet. They don’t talk about anything you like to talk about. Not ever. Not even if you bring it up! You could bring up something you want to talk about, and within 13 milliseconds you’ll notice the conversation somehow shifted into something not-that.

However, they will bring up the following stuff ad nauseam:

-Work – Which is, without a shadow of a doubt, the LAST thing you want to talk about/think about while at work.

-Sports – Or even worse: FANTASY sports.

And easily the worst of all:

-THEIR CHILDREN?! – OH DEAR SWEET MERCIFUL MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT YOUR STUPID CHILDREN!

The first one is easy to fight through. Just talk about how your boss is a douche bag. Everyone’s boss is a douche bag. What’s that? Your boss is cool? Probably ‘cause you’re a douche bag too. Every co-worker on the planet is willing to discuss how much their boss sucks total scrotum.

The second one, a LITTLE harder to avoid if you don’t know anything about sports. However, the best way to shut them up is to say “I don’t actually watch sports”. They’ll look at you like you just stuck one of your fingers in their rectum, and then proceed to change to one of the other standbys. I’m also a big fan of talking about how much I love the Yankees. That makes any sports fan never talk to you again.

‘cause FUCK THE YANKEES.

Anyway, the third one is the hardest to get out of. It’s sorta like stopping pissing half way through. Once children story urine starts coming out of their tongue-bladders, it’s impossible to stop until they’ve documented every second of the child’s mundane and uninteresting life. At this point, you may need to pull the nearest fire alarm.

But perhaps the hardest people to small talk with if you don’t like them, members of your own family tree. They’re related to you by blood, so you can’t sneak crack into their desk drawer and get them fired to avoid it like you can co-workers.

Most likely, these conversations will come up at family gatherings. Holiday dinners, funerals, family reunions, parole hearings, that kind of thing.

These conversations vary depending on the family member. The older the family member, the more likely it’ll be about health problems.

“I have this boil on my vagina that is shaped like President Hoover. I met President Hoover once, before he was President. He was a lovely guy. Anyway, what we ended up doing is installing an artificial skull to replace my old one…”

The other variant in annoying family member conversation comes in the form of how successful they are compared to you. If they are doing more with their life than you, they will proceed to talk about things that are too expensive for you to own. They’ll talk about their new twelve-story home. Or their prized fern.

They also talk about kids. How their kids have 4.0 grade point averages in their private Preschool. Or how little Johnny is the captain of the football… cheerleading squad. Or how Susie-Ashley-Brittany-Frank isn’t pregnant at 15. Sure, brag brag brag. I hope your kids get AIDs.

They’ll also tell you about their lovely vacations. To places you can’t locate on a map, let alone afford to fly to. Brazil. France. Outer ‘fuckin’ SPACE!

They’ll go on and on and make you feel less important to the world than Welsh people. Your self-esteem and pride will actually nullify itself. You’ll eventually just burst into flames and burn away into a pile of failure ashes.

But, this is a guide to offer solutions. So I will tell you how to deal with Captain Overachiever. Successful people hate when you talk about failures. So, time to dive right into the “My Life Blows” box and fish out a real depressing, possibly disgusting story.

“Yeah? Your kid is an honor student? Mine accidentally blew out his knee running away from bullies after Chess class last week. Yeah, we have to drain the puss out with a straw and a bobby pin because we’re too poor to afford the medical tools necessary. You know, not having insurance is hard. The puss is fuckin’ GREEN. It’s kinda cool… smells a lot like those mixed nuts you’re eating…”

This, of course, makes you into that other type of family member: The black sheep. The one no one likes, but shows up to the get-togethers anyway. If they start talking to you, be prepared for the most awkward stories ever. Usually involving metal plates in their head or their dog eating something it shouldn’t. Poor people always have dogs, And they always eat something weird.

“Mr. Spike Earnhardt Jr. accidentally ate one of the lug nuts off the back wheel of our half-wide trailer last week. The grease on it caused his shit to be oily. I actually lit it on fire and heated the kids bedroom/the kitchen for a week. The dog is an oil factory!”

Might as well just pull out your keys and use them to slit your wrists. You’ve probably lost all faith in humanity and will to live during this conversation. Because don’t forget: These people vote.

Well, there you have it. A beginners guide to awkward small talk. Hopefully this’ll help you get out of some of the rather unsettling conversations you may accidentally have on a day to day basis. By the way, if you’re one of the people providing these conversations: I hope you get hit by a flying turd today.

That is all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to break into an agoraphobics house and start up a conversation while they scream and cower in the corner.

Well, He Did Say Let There Be Light…

“I have come as light into the world, so that everyone who believes in Me will not remain in the darkness” – John 12:46

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why in the great name of FUCK is Bob quoting the Bible? Is such thing even physically possible? Wouldn’t his fingers just fall off as he began typing? Wouldn’t his common sense cause him to explode into rage while processing the words? Apparently not, as long as it’s in the name of comedy.

So, why? Oh yes, why indeed. What could possibly happen that would cause me, a hardcore atheist, to quote scripture? A calendar happened, that’s what.

Oh sure, that makes plenty of sense, right? No? Want it to make even less sense? It’s a calendar poster sent to us from a lighting company. Voss Lighting to be exact.

I can see the cogs turning in your head now. You’re trying to put these pieces together.

God + Calendars + Lightbulbs = ???

We’ll attempt to balance this equation later, but let me explain what it is that brought this idea to my mind. That’s right, imagine if you will a tiny lightbulb appear above my head. It’s only appropriate. And imagine Jesus is holding that bulb above my head. While… telling me what day my birthday is on.

It’s a calendar poster, sitting above one of the work stations here at work. It just appeared there today, as if sent from above. Not from God, I mean from the loading dock.

It’s got a giant map that shows where all the Voss Lighting locations are. It had a calendar at the bottom. And in the very middle, a giant Voss Lighting logo. And right under that. Those beautifully written words from the Holy Book. It’s apparently their slogan or something.

You done saying “WHAT THE FUCK?!” yet? ’cause I’m not. I’m still repeating it over and over under my breath. Even my genius brain can’t quite wrap around this. Why the fuck is that there?! I’m about 80% positive that when the rich white people seeking control wrote the Bible, light bulbs weren’t even around yet. That passage has zero to do with providing low-cost lighting for office buildings.

So, the only assumption I can make, is that much like Skillet is a Christian Rock Band, Voss Lighting is a Christian Lighting Company. A thought, that before now, would never have appeared in my brain. Ever. Even as a joke. I’d think a company was a Midgit-Only Lighting Company before I’d think of a Christian Lighting Company. By the way, you get extra points for laughing at “Midgit-Only Lighting Company”.

Religious bigotry in Lighting. That’s what it boils down to. How tragic is that? The First Amendment apparently doesn’t cover lighting. I call Shenanigans! This is an outrage worthy of protest! And I am just the guy to lead the fight against Lighting-Bigotry!

I can picture it now, a young Mr. Voss. With his shiny, super-expensive gold Crusifix (expensive kinda goes against what the Bible teaches about riches, doesn’t it?). He has an idea for a business.

“We shall sell Lightbulbs. To offices. Provide them with ample lighting so that they can do God’s work.”

“…can they do other work, too?”

“I suppose. As long as they are followers of the Lord Jesus Christ”

“…what do you mean? So, a Jewish person couldn’t buy lightbulbs from you?”

“NO DIRTY SAVIOR-KILLING KIKES ARE ALLOWED TO BUY LIGHTBULBS FROM US! THEY WOULD USE THEM FOR HEATHENISTIC THINGS!”

“…you’re a fucking idiot…”

Mr. Voss began his career as a tiny shop. Selling light bulbs to whoever came in with a Bible and a prayer in their heart.

“Yes, can I order about three hundred bulbs for my office, please?”

“Do you believe in God?”

“…what?”

“Do you believe in the Lord Almighty?”

“What does that… yes? I guess so, yes?”

“…do you believe in the Christian God?”

“No, I’m a Muslim, I believe in Allah”

“NO LIGHTBULBS FOR YOU!”

Apparently, in this scenario, Mr. Voss starts out much like the Soup Nazi in that classic Seinfeld episode. Funny how “Nazi” and “Christian” are paralleled A LOT.

I’m sorry, I just cannot accept religious intolerance in office-supply sales. For those of you who don’t know me that well, you don’t know that I am an active member of the group PABOS. That is People Against Buddhist Only Staplers.

Obviously, that isn’t what this REALLY is. This isn’t a Christian-Only Lightbulb company. But it still strikes me as really odd that they can get away with putting a Bible quote as their slogan. You’d figure in today’s PC culture, we’d not allow that. We are, after all, talking about a country (America) that forced people in department stores to switch from “Merry Christmas” to “Happy Holidays” in order to not offend people.

I think it goes to prove one thing: Christianity is never looked at as NOT ok. It’s almost the ONLY group of people that can get away with spreading the word on ANYTHING and not have it be considered offensive by anyone who isn’t a Christian.

I, as an atheist, COULD very well claim that mentioning the Bible in the workplace is offensive to me. But, because atheists are more logical than everyone else, I don’t. But the point still remains: I could. And because I could, it should still be looked at as Not-PC.

If I can’t talk about sex, you can’t talk about God. It’s that simple. Or, perhaps we do it the other way. If you CAN talk about God, then I can talk about sex. So I am starting my own lighting company.

Bob Lighting
“With this great of lighting, you can practically SEE her orgasm as you fist-fuck her in the supply closet!”

So, eh… God + Calendars + Lightbulbs = Business Genius?

I’m really confused as to why it’s there. Maybe it’s a sales ploy? I hadn’t thought of that before. Maybe they figured out that Christians are a pretty large group of people (big enough to control American law making), and thought they could cash in on this. If we put a Bible quote, Christians will flock to our company instead of the competition. It’s genius from the sales side of things. From the practical, non-douchemerchant side of things, not so much.

But, considering it’s an interesting sales move. I thought I’d attempt to apply religion to some other companies, you know: To help. So, I will end this blog with a few of my own advertisment slogans for other companies.

Pizza Hut
“…and on the seventh day, God rested. And enjoyed FREE CHEESY BREAD!”

Boones Farm
“Even Jesus couldn’t make water into wine this good!”

Sprint
“We don’t drop your calls, because they are carried on the wings of ANGELS!”

Toyota
“God forgave us for all the recalls, so isn’t it about time YOU did?”

RU486
“Fetuses LOVE Heaven!”

Pepsi
“What do you think they drank at the Last Supper? Coke? Pshhhh, as if!”

And perhaps the most important:

America
“God bless America. Oh, and everyone else if he has the time…”

Amen. Or something.