What the fuck is a Cantata?  Is it a fruit?  Is it the fruit they extract all the taste out of to make that tasteless, calorie-less, almost-generic-orange-like-carbonated-beverage in the non-swill swill isle at your local grocer’s locally owned and overpriced emporium?

Ding Dong Kim Jong IL II is Dead!  That was about as hard to see coming as watching Peter North finish off a facial with a pair of Bausch & Lomb Astronomical Field 4.2 11 x 80 binoculars from two pearls of a necklace away.  KJII had already been proclaiming he wasn’t dead for years.  And, his third name is IL.  And it wasn’t an abbreviation for the home state of his favorite professional sports team.  More so than everyone else, this dude was destined to die.  I’ll tell you what I found really creepy about him.  KJII was always dressed liked the crazy dictator who just finished a segment showing Letterman some animals from the Pyongyang Zoo.  I get that it was supposed to be some kind of military motif, but the vibe was far less authoritative than it was “I got this shit on sale after I toppled the government of the Bananna Republic!”  Actually, upon further review, review, review, review, review…….. which is being caused by this seizure inducing cycle of repeated clips of KJII, it appears his chosen attire seemed to be a cross between a Bass Pro-Shop Jumpsuit and something Trekkish.  Functional.  It allows you to carry some of the tools necessary to keep oppressing millions of your people, while simultaneously fucking with several other world governments thereby affecting global diplomacy.  Nerdy.  You get a kick out of the hidden pockets, velcro, extra zippers, snaps and places to hide the type of shit you would have to kill yet another member of the would-be free press if they found out and tried to report it.

A thing about the Holocaust just came on the History Channel.  Before it started, it warned there would be pictures, videos and frank discussions.  It’s the fucking Holocaust!  It’s not like you can talk about that shit with pie charts, sock puppets with cocks, and Power Point demonstrations with cartoon characters.

The only real difference between an assailant and essayist is that the former physically takes out his aggression on someone, and the latter takes theirs out on a piece of paper.  The majority of the time, they both leave someone hurting, pissed off and wishing they could either kick their ass or write a complete sentence with correctly spelled words to convey just how they felt.

Christopher Hitchens gave up believing in breathing this week.  I wonder what the first drink he ordered at the first bar he found was wherever he ended up.  My next question is, who did he piss off 1st?

“The Presidential Suite” at the Broadway location of Embassy Suites in Nashville, Tennessee is quite the value for a mere $229.00 American.  You get a large living area that is adjacent to both sleeping quarters.  It’s got a table to do business of whatever flavor on it.  You can set up your laptop, break out your brief, chop up some lines and call some hoes.  The tables big enough and the motherfucker is sturdy.  The couch is a decent size.  It’s upholstered in a fabric that doesn’t immediately irritate the skin.  The 42 Flat Screen t.v. is nice.  The remote control has been dumbed back down into the late 80′s for some reason.  It is not too far off from needing a fucking wire attached to it.  It has channel and volume buttons.  There are individual button numbers which I was told have been known to confuse the less presidential by making them futiltly attempt to take advantage of free long distance dialing while all the long really only skipping between the History Channel, HGTV and ESPN.  The bathroom is a little weird.  You could barely shit one president in it at a time, much less the required Secret Service Agents.  It only has a normal size tube.  There is a mini-living appliance area.  It’s kind of like one corner of your room was designed for midgets.  Everything is smaller.  The refrigerator is the size of a microwave.  The microwave is the size of a shoebox.  The coffee maker is smaller than the bag of coffee it purports to be able to brew.  You do get a pretty good free breakfast with this here abode.  It’s omelets, pancakes and all the swine related products the eye can see.  So, I highly recommend getting your William Henry Harrison on next time you come to Nashville.

JIS

Seeing the morning after drinking makes you wish you were disbelieving.

The first step towards being a community activist is to come up with a hair style people will either remember, be unable to forget or be afraid of making and pissing off.

Taxidermy is always taking it up the ass.

Slap a Santa suit on the Republican Presidential front runner, force him to eat some Taco Hell and you’ve got the potential for a new holiday classic: The Gingrinch That Stole the Election.

Have you tried to use this Siri thing on the iPhone? Based on its ability to understand what I say, they should have just named it My Wife-I.  Siri-ously.  It’s just like marriage.  I spend more time explaining what I didn’t say or didn’t mean with that than I do actually saying anything.  I need Siri counseling.

I don’t use my account at all, but if I did, I’d write No Fat Tweets on Twitter.

Barry Bonds was sentenced to 30 days house arrest, community service and a fine less than the average cost of each steroid injection he lied about using that led to his conviction for obstruction of justice in Federal Court.  The judge postponed imposition of the sentence to allow the house’s lawyers to appeal what they believe to be a travesty of realty.

Accessed molester and former Penn State assistant football coach Jerry Sandusky was in court this week for his preliminary hearing.  In a surprising move, his lawyer waived the hearing saying he did so to get the evidence against his client sooner, and to insure his bond remained the same.  Sandusky refused to comment and sped away from the court house in what appeared to be the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.

If a transvestite dies in the woods, does it confuse the bear who’s trying to take a shit?

I saw a guy on Pawn Stars try to hoard something the other day.  A Storage Wars guy had Holmes remodel one of his lockers.  American Pickers busted the myth that couches can’t fly when properly fitted with wings.

The Turtleman‘s grandmother and my grandmother were sisters.  As such, to glom onto the fame of a relative I’ve never met, I’m getting my own show called Lawyer Man on Tru TV next fall.  I’m going to travel around western KY and brave such dangerous territories as District, Circuit and Juvenile Court.  I’m going to dive right into jails and see what in the hell people who pay me have been wrongfully accused of.  The camera is going to show viewers how I use my bare hands, Rolex watch, fancy suits and shoes to convince prosecutors and others I must know what in the hell I’m talking about.

My thumb blew out.

JIS

I just ordered a pizza on my cellphone from Domino’s store #1487.  According to my fancy virtual “Order Tracker,” some pizza pusher named Derek put it in the oven at 9:12.  Oh, wait a minute.  That crazy bastard Derek then checked my pizza for deliciousness at 9:18.  The deliciousness checks are now complete.  But I don’t know if that means he stuck his finger or his dick in it.

How is the Internet keeping track of the progress of my pizza?  I can’t believe it can be cooked this quick with him continually updating its Pizzafacebook status so regularly.

I’ve become a little worried about Derek.  It’s now 9:23, and he hasn’t told me what’s going on.  He hasn’t asked me to repost his deliciousness check, or if I’ve ever eaten a delicious pizza cooked by someone who’s name started with the letter D.  He hasn’t posted any video of my pizza cooking, being taken out of the oven or put in a box.  And I haven’t got any invitations to Deliveryville or Pie Wars.  I mean, he could at least send me something saying my pizza went into the oven with a whole bunch of other pizzas that are now trying to get back together after graduating from High Temp High.

The progress of my pizza has now officially stalled at Step 4 on the pizza meter.  Step 5 is the last step left, but it’s a doozy.

Wait a minute.  My phone just updated and it appears Derek is still telling everyone my pizza was checked out to be delicous at 9:18.

Hell yeah!  It’s 9:30 and some dude named Kevin “just left the store” with my order.  I’m glad Derek suggested that Kevin and I meet.  I’m sure he is a nice guy.  I can’t wait till he gets here.  I have so many questions the website doesn’t address.  What flavor automobile does he drive?  How many stains will his uniform have on it?  Will his hair be long and greasy, or short and sparse?  What will he think about the fact I’m wearing my wife’s pajama pants, an Angry Birds t-shirt from Wal-Mart and my Halloween costume Big Lebowski robe?  The suspense is fucking killing me.  It’s now been five minutes since my order left the store, and I only live 1.9 miles from this particular Domino’s.  Should I call 911?  I lost the number for the Pizza Police.

Thank whoever.  Kevin showed up with my pie at 9:40.  He was about 5’6″ with a mustache that had a Mr. Bubble’s vibe.  He bought a pair of glasses, but was obviously wearing the free ones.  Kevin took pride in his appearance and did not have any visible stains, wrinkles, moth holes or Taser marks.  Kevin was very professional, cordial and gave me some type of coupon I lost instantaneously.  The last update of the website didn’t mention I discounted the value of the coupon.

All in all, I’d recommend sitting on your fat ass and using your phone to order a pizza.  You don’t actually have to talk to anyone.  You can see what you’re ordering.  Some random motherfucker you’ve never heard of keeps you up to date on all the goings on of your pizza.  It’s like a paid acquaintance is making you a short-term friend who will help get you through your temporary pang of hunger.  Then, just as soon as whoever told you they were making it, whoever else brought you the labor of your texting, it’s gone.  You fucking ate it.  Great experience.  Just hope that your fingers aren’t too fucking fat and greasy to enjoy it.

The manufacturers of the drug Dulera wants me to ask my doctor if it can help me breathe better.  If you’re having to recommend medicine to help you breathe to your doctor based off the advice of a commercial, I’d say you need to watch another channel for a second opinion.

In the spirit of crossover episodes, A & E needs to start a show that is a cross between Hoarders and Storage Wars.  Hoard Wars.  Here’s how I see it: The scavengers from Storage Wars could come in and bid on the houses of the Hoarders.  This would either help speed up their recovery, or make for a very exciting ending.  Auctioneers aren’t quacks like psychologists either.  That shit is real.  Whether you clearly heard what he said or not, you wiped your nose at the wrong fucking time and now you own whatever it is you bought.  Whether you wanted it or not.

I’m flipping through the channels and….The man you all know as Joe The Policeman from the What’s Goin Down? Episode of That’s My Momma, RANDY WATSON!!!!

What if there was a Cracker Awareness Week?  A White Freedom Fund Luncheon?  Honkey History Month?  Why are those of us who aren’t racist or supremacists worried about being aware, free, or interested care about what our history says our future has in store for us?  Is it because we are lazy?  I’ll be honest, if I were in charge it would be Cracker Awareness Week sponsored by Machaen’s Lawn Service – because “If you can’t do it, a Mexi can.”  I’ve never really understood why anyone needs to be reminded to be aware of their race with a special event/day/month.  I mean, you’re either stared at, stepped away from, looked down upon, tolerated, accepted or celebrated.  Don’t matter what fucking color you were or weren’t, or how aware you are, them’s the options.

I had a friend in college I co-created named The Googler.  He was 30ish, prone to wearing Glad Bags with a head hole in the rain, one golf glove on either hand for warmth during the winter, and handing out the most worthless of all analgesics, Ultram with the instructions to, “Take two Hoss.”  He use to say “bristle”, “bristle up” and “bristlin” a lot to describe various states of awareness and excitement.  For instance I’d say something like, “Hey Googler, what the fuck happened last night when you were talking to those chicks, before they kicked you in the nuts and maced you?” “Bristlin,” he would inevitably reply.  If you disagreed with him, he’d tell you to “bristle up,” and express your disagreement either verbally or physically.  To “bristle” really meant nothing more than to keep one eye open, an ungloved hand on a beer and the other firmly clinched on that bottle of worthless fucking pills an opiate would rather pawn than eat.  In his honor, I’m bringing bristle and all it’s conjugations back.  So, bristle up motherfuckers.  There’s going to be a hole helluva lot of bristlin going on.

After rallying in support of Joe Paterno earlier last week, Penn State students came to grips with the reality that the football program hid and protected a pedophile.  In their first attempt to acknowledge this wrong, 10,000 plus students took part in a rally in which they all held lit candles. These delusional bastards don’t owe nobody nothin, cause they had nothing to do with none of it. However, something as serious as what they say went down there requires a lot more than a live Freebird-like acknowledgement.

From this point on I think that, at the very least, no Penn State football player should be allowed to wear any uniform number under 18.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” now means something entirely different at Penn State.  While pronounced the same, it’s often heard as “You fucking a kid with me?”

I wish I had thought this one up, but it’s already making the rounds: “If an older woman who likes younger men is a cougar, what do you call an older man who likes young boys?  A Nittany Lion.

Sam’s Club, Paducah, KY – Paradise Horses released their controversial new product “Dora Likes To Explora” this week, a toy which was created after a company employees’ recent trip to attend a bachelor party in Tijuana.  It went up for sale at several popular retail stores across the country despite threats of protests, boycotts and even an endorsement from the Perverts for Explicit Needs from Inside Stuffed animals, or P.E.N.I.S. for short.  Samuel Johnson Sinclair Kennedy Vanderbilt St. James Gates Walton, the Current Relative In Control (CRIO), and founder Sam Walton’s eight great-great-grandsons from a previous marriage on his maternal privileged side recently released a statement regarding their decision to carry Dora at Sam’s Club:

“Sam’s Club has always been about the privilege of membership in a private club that’s not readily accessibly to the general public.  With the release of Paradise Horses’ Dora Likes To Explora, we feel we are staying true to the form Sam pioneered years ago, by allowing each and everyone of our members to decide whether they are open, support or even eguage in pre-pubescent bestiality.  The only difference between Dora Likes to Explora and Mormonism is she’s open to new ideas, and only loves one horse at a time.”

P.E.N.I.S. Head Steve “Secretariat” Stevens said he was glad Sam’s had finally shown support for the perverted arts.  “Look, let’s be honest.  Most people enjoy being liked by animals.  Most people enjoy betting on horse races.  Mix them together and you’ve got something to bet on.”  Many within the discount mass retail business have always waffled when it comes to items that either insinuate or endorse anything other than straight, missionary-style sex.  COSTCO Founder, renowned cheapskate, and sexual bore Pete Pennybags when asked about the toy at an Incredible Bulk Convention had this to say:

“If children of questionable alieneage want to fuck horses, that’s one thing.  But having the cost conscious American public support horse fuckin’ just ain’t right.  I mean, it even says right there on the box, ‘Encouraging Serious Horseplay’.  What kind of message will this send to our sexually confused and curious kids? And I’ll tell you another thing, all them vet bills ain’t going to be cheap either.  Some historians have claimed the Roman economy collapsed after an outbreak of horse fuckin’.  It could happen here too.”

If you’re famous and say stupid shit, people either classify your statements or musings as: (a) stupid, (b) drug-fueled ramblings, or (c) an ingenious interpretation of something in everyday life that no one else’s eye is keen enough to spy.  Well, I ain’t famous, but I’m going to say some shit famous people would be hailed for saying because it would either be so stupid it was smart, proof they read Niche or Confuse-yas in rehab, or just so goddamn obvious that saying it was impressive in and of itself.

- Thinking you’re smart isn’t smart unless you’re smart enough to realize you’re only as smart as those who believe they aren’t as smart as you.

- No matter how many times you get hit in the nuts, it can only hurt twice.

- A big, hard dick is great thing to have, unless it is time to run.

- Tits on a warthog are only useless if you don’t want to pork.

- Trick or Treating is the first chance any parent gets to assure themselves it is the kid that initiated playing doctor who is gay.

- The manager of the World Series Champions Cardinals Tony LaRussa uses the word goddamn as an adjective, noun, verb and motivational tool.

- No matter what anybody says about anything, it all really don’t mean anything about nothing.

- Tony Orlando did not play first base for the Cardinals.  Orlando Cepeda did not perform duets with Dawn.

- Sleep apenea prevents fat people from exercising in their sleep.

- Matt Damon has been in more movies without Ben Affleck than Ben Affleck has been in threesomes with Matt Damon.  At least that is what I heard.

- Radio talk show hosts are like heart monitors.  There is a steady pulse of conversation until someone calls and disagrees then the line disconnects like an ideological flat line.  The only question is whether a Code Red or Code Blue is necessitated to revive the witty, and often canned banter.

- If pictures speak a 1,000 words, photographs disprove 999 lies told before the liar is told there is a photograph.

- iPad/iPhone porn is the internet equivalent of a double headed dildo.  It prevents both sexual assault and consensual sexual contact because it allows users to master-i-bate on at the touch of a screen.

- If you buy Halloween candy more than 24 hours prior to handing it out to trick or treaters, you’ll treat yourself so much that you’ll think its a trick next time you put on your jeans.

- Oscar Wilde was queer.

- Prison isn’t so much of a deterrent for gay people convicted of a crime, as it is a suggestion to change their tastes.

- If you’re against Mexican immigrants, you are in denial about how good your yard looks.

- The only difference between liquor stores and Obamacare is you get to chose what you want to buy at a liquor store.

- People who aren’t worried about the economy were rich enough to not have any worries about it in the first place.

- Anyone who joins a political party with a name that is slang for having your testicles sucked is a nut.

- Roman and Greek mythology are interchangeable, but the Greek’s used fancy words, accent marks and pronunciations to sexy up all the pedophilia.

- Inner peace is nothing more than believing whatever the voices in your head are telling you.

That’s all I’ve got.  I’m almost drunk enough to think up some shit.

JIS

Ignorant Sight Gag Takes its Troll on Local Man

Water Valley, Kentucky – Johnathan Francois McDermot, who is know by all the locals as “Skeeter McD,” was recently diagnosed with Spinal Stairoidal Ignorantosis as a result of his many years endlessly performing the old Vaudeville “Walking down the stairs trick.”  Dr. Jason Bent, a world renowned expert in spinal surgery and mime physiology, stated Skeeter McD’s case was “the worst I’ve seen since I returned from treating French illusionists post-Carrot Top’s ‘Tour de Ignoreance’ in 1992.  While very rare, SSI’s symptoms have a lot in common with many other diseases, including being a lazy motherfucker, which makes it even harder to diagnose.  People suffering from SSI have trouble standing up straight and working, which often manifests into “getting a check” from Uncle Sam.  The most severe cases result in milk crate hoarding, as well as a nicotine and camouflage addiction.  “It’s clear Skeeter’s suffering from one of the most acute cases I’ve ever seen outside of sterile, research setting.  I didn’t even know they still made prescription strength mopeds,” Dr. Bent stated.  The residents of Water Valley are currently trying to raise money by selling tickets to the Purple Hull Pea Supper at St. Patrick’s Parrish, with all proceeds going towards funding for Skeeter McD’s trip to the world-renowned Los Angeles Limbo and Mime College, where he will seek aggressive therapy and treatment.

Silky is on his way to attend zero weddings and a funeral (don’t look at me like that, he ok’d that veiled Hugh Grant movie reference via text message), and I am in the midst of preparing for a trial, so let’s get right to it, shall we?  My wife’s dishwasher broke the other day, and we’ve been forced to live the frontier style life around these parts.  It’s rough I tell ye.  I had to hike up to town to get us some liquefied soap, and a soft pumice cleanin’ square, but we seem to be doin’ alright now.  It’s gonna be a piece before the dishwasher will get herself back to oscillatin’, but the postal buggy should a be bringin’ us the part to fix it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

From this experience, I discovered something NAFTA didn’t contemplate or attempt to fix.  You can’t hire Mexicans to do your dishes.  I mean, my buddy Octavio (a/k/a Uncle O) can either fix it, mow it, put it together, or wrap most anything in a tortilla.  If he can’t do it, there’s definitely some other Mexican he knows who can.  However, when it comes to washin’ the China, no amount of pesos will solve your domestic laziness.  Maybe it’s all the water.  Or maybe it’s memories of crossing that big fence in the desert, but whenever Uncle O has described his naturalization to me – and by naturalization I mean it was totally natural for him and his family to cross the border sans any governmental formalities – it didn’t involve the hardest leg of a triathlon.  It did involve paying a guy a large amount of dolores de Americano and crawling through a whole in the chain link barrier that keeps people like me from having shoulder high grass.  So needful to say, I don’t think it is the agua.

Maybe some nationalities are immune to the soothing, healing qualities of Palmolive Dish Detergent.  It could even cause some sort of dish soapatitis.  I think they have whole colonies of people suffering from this on islands far, far away.  I’ve never eaten a Palm Olive, but I bet it is filled with awful tasting liquid that makes you foam at the mouth.  Palm Olive sounds like a description of the knot you get from masturbating too much: Dr. Timmons to little 10 year-old Stevie’s parents, “Well, that circular mass in his palm is nothing to worry about.  It will cure itself if you remove all the National Geographic magazines and J.C. Penny lingerie catalogs in the house.  However, if you start to see what appears to be hair growing out of it, call me immediately or keep it flow-bee’d until you can get him into my office.”

And now for something completely irrelevant - not like that’s anything new……

“His trailer’s cool, he’s got one of them blue plastic pools.”  That’s an abbreviated line from Todd Snider‘s “Doublewide Blues” off of Viva Satellite. He’s a lot more philosophical, talented and cool than anyone normally displayed on the Bob & Tom Show.  Another line from this classic example of a truism from a folk singer – trailers or trailer congregations - is, “V-neck t-shirt with a mustard stain.  Rolled up hose outside in the rain, he’s been my neighbor since 89, course he was in prison most of that time.”  I can’t remember – which should come as no surprise to anyone at home – if those lines are sequential or in different parts of the song.  On a side note, ever since I first heard them, I immediately look for the mustard stain whenever I see a wife beater.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mustard stain on a V-neck or wife beater before or after I was exposed to that lyricism, but it makes complete sense to me.  Kind of like tequila and limes.  Who would have thought you could get drunk and prevent/rid yourself of scurvy?  It’s a win-win situation.  I’ve also never known anyone who’s been a trailer park denizen to have neighbors in prison most of the time they’ve lived next to each other, but I suspect it occurs.  Now, what I find unbelievable about that line is that someone could be in prison for years, and somehow their lot rent would be kept up.  A trailer is going to last as long as a bomb shelter Twinkie, unless a Ralph-less Nader comes through and remodels its interior and the exterior of the whole park.  As for calling them “trailer parks”, I’m clueless as to how that came about because I’ve never seen a ferris wheel, corn dog stand, or “guess your weight” game in any of them.

Before you think this is some kind of anti-home on wheels mantra, let it be known that some of my best friends I have ever had in my life all lived in parked trailers a long, long time ago in a city not too far away.  And from what my parents have told me, I would not hell (KY pronunciation) from my current locale if it were not for the Bogle Trailer Court in Bowling Green, Kentucky.  As for the aforementioned dishwasher situation, hopefully we won’t have to take it back wherefrom we got it and part with any gold bullion; cause we’s done been a savin’ for a new wagon.  Well, I gotta blow out the wicks and straighten the hay, hope ya’ll have a mighty fine day…

• The Super Bowl kind of sounds like an emergency appendectomy that’s being performed on Andre the Giant.
• “I wouldn’t make a good gay guy because I can never get it all in the first wipe.” – Anonymous…ok, I just made that shit up.
• “Nin ten dough, Wii go” – An ultimatum given by Chinese terrorists.
• Herpes – Genital Braille
• Plastic or Paper? – Old school dope dealer vs. new school, environmentally conscious dope dealer.
• Politically correct - A show by a guy with a duck-billed platypus-like nose, or a term for not having the guts to say what you really think in a given situation.
• A blow job – What a married guy gets when he is told to clean up the car.
• Bourbon balls – A pair of testicles in a red, wax-covered sack.
• Pill head – The one member of your family who actually enjoys family get togethers.
• MSG – The Chinese equivalent to PMS, but it’s much saltier.
• Mopeds – What a fat kid with a lisp says when his dispenser runs out of candy.
• Sectional sofas – Furniture for those of us who are too lazy to make it all the way around the room without needing to sit down.
• Sean Connery – Has he ever played someone who was actually from Scotland?
• Submarine movies – Can’t we all just get along?  Ain’t nothin angrier than a bunch of motherfuckers under water, in a tube, with a camera following them around.
• Homicide – A pesticide made by a gay guy.
• Sumo wrestlers – Who wouldn’t want to be fat and adored by women, all while wearing a diaper?
• Steven Seagal – The reason I went on a diet and quit slicking my hair back.
• 100 Proof – Evidence that life is only good 50% of the time, which necessitates drinking something at least twice as strong.
• Drug addicts in movies – Always more fashionable, prettier, and less scary than they are in real life.
• Jennifer Tilly – Has got some Tillybitties.  She’s almost as bad as Gene Simmons’ wife Shannon Tweed.  Both of their movies are always on Skinemax late at night, and they both show their tits within the first five minutes of appearing on screen.
• Zoo – “A controversial documentary about bestiality which focuses on a Seattle man who died after having sex with a horse.  Includes interviews and re-enactments of the incident.”  This was apparently the funniest shit I missed on DirecTV’s Sundance East Channel.  I don’t think actual horse fuckin is as bad as re-enacting it.  Plus, a man lost his life.  Have some decency and quit trying to beat off a dead horse for Christ’s sake.

I had written about thirty minutes worth of lingo on how cool my friend Octavio is, and how he got me hooked on drinking good, non-piss colored tequila (Jose Cuervo).  Then outta nowhere, it “disk” appeared into the internet ether like the fruit of a cottonwood tree making its break for freedom in a summer wind.  I kinda felt gay just writing that – not that there’s anything wrong with that.  Not gay enough to watch the Home and Garden Network without my wife within at least 15 feet of me, but somewhat close I’m sure.  I had written a lot of great philosophical ramblings about Octavio, and spoke about how we make fun of each other’s heritage.  I do so by being lazy and paying him to mow my yard, and he makes fun of my swilled back Irish heritage by buying me cool attire.  For instance, he bought me a green shirt with guys in various stages of being passed out - some on the floor, some on chairs – and above these guys the shirt says “Irish Yoga”.  Classic.  I don’t think I’ve ever came up with a better metaphor than when I said he works harder than a carpenter with a woody.  I’m not going to rehash all that shit like a Jamaican with a stutter, I’m simply saying it was pretty good stuff.  But now, due to the failures of technology, I must digress into a different level of my gourd to pour forthwith that which is, at this moment, untold.  I don’t really know where else to go.  Let’s see, I’ll look around my general vacinity and try to spy some inspiration.

The Quizno’s taste tube sandwich thing-a-ma-bob ain’t too bad, huh?  I recently had a turkey, pesto, cheese, and bacon episode on their tubular style carbohydrate offering.  It was like eating a sandwich and having a flashback to that class in high school where you realized that there might be animals living in Castro’s beard, and that the Russians caused the Cuban Missile Crisis by stationing missiles right off the coast of Geezerville, USA.  I think the given name for this Tasty Tube is the “Torpedo” – I hear they’re coming out with another sandwich that will be marketed as a flavor explosion, it’s called the “M-80″.  I bet if you pay them to cater an event, they would probably substitute the word platter with something like “The Flavor Craft Carrier”.  It’s weird how they now apparently want you to “eat militant”.  I’ll say this, you could definitely use that tasty tube to beat down a fool from a foot or less away – depending on how hungry you were.  Or, you could also use it like a crusty, spicy javelin, and try to strategically take someone out with it.  Like my mom always said, it’s all fun and games until someone gets their eye tasty tubed out.

As a lawyer, I can tell you that forgetting to pay your court costs is the legal equivalent of an absent minded fornicator not taking/using birth control – See any of Mick Jagger’s kids born during his marriage to Jerry “Town” Hall that weren’t hers.  I mean Mick should just wake up, strap on a condom and take a confidentiality agreement with him, but he apparently never learns.  Obviously, it happens to the best of us, but it is also a simple mistake to avoid.  Me of all people should probably not be preaching about remembering to do anyth…and I told that lady, “your car was already upside down, and as for your mother, well, she’ll have to tell you about those bumps.”  Hey, I’m back.  Excuse me.  Like I was remembering to remind you to remember, when you get some kind of ticket, fine or court costs and said administrative bullshit has to be paid on or about (legal term for “not really sure but sometime around then”) a certain date, don’t wait until “on” or “about” - or even “near on”.  Hell, don’t even let it get close to about.  Just go pay the damn thing as soon as you can so you don’t forget. I’m not saying you have to be like that guy in Memento - or any college basketball player – and tattoo it all over your guns, but write it down somewhere and don’t forget it.  Me, I’d write it on all 12 of my pill bottles.  That way, I’d have to forget it 24 times a day to really forget it.  I’ll take those odds.  Make the date the I-know-where-you-are-equivalent of those people on milk cartons.  Instead of it being written on stuff because you need to be reminded to look for it, write it on stuff to remind you to do it.  Easy enough, right?

Well, I would have like to expounded further but my desire to sleep has overtaken me.  I will see you fools later like a baked tater…