On Channel 306 HDNet the other night, there was some show called Celebridate.  I didn’t watch long enough to know who the celeb was, or where they and their date went.  I did see a quick montage a tois of the three datetestants.  One had a tattoo on her shoulder that looked like the artist had used an Etch A Sketch.  I can’t remember anything about one of them.  My favorite though was the girl who said she wanted a guy who could make her laugh because she loved to laugh.  Who the fuck doesn’t love to laugh?  There are only two times in a person’s life where they do not love to laugh.  The first one is if you’ve already been laughing so much that continued chuckling will cause a bodily event resulting in a pooling of fluids, or whatever the last substance entering your giggle googler being spit across the room.  The second one is is a situation in which fun must be suppressed like a fart in an elevator.  Come to think of it, if you are the one trying to hold it in or just gave in to temptation, what is funnier than a fart in an elevator?

Not to stand up comedian out, but what’s the deal with actors wearing bulky jackets in hot weather?  I first noticed this phenomenon when Keanu Reeves wore that Mexican woven surfer rug thing during the Summer in Speed.  Sure, he only applied it to a taut t-shirt over his rather ample upper torso Bill and Ted’s, but he’d have to have fucking delusional expectations to think he was going to stay cool in that thing during the Summer in L.A. Yet another instance of the above mentioned outerwear idiocy, is the alleged soon-to-be-former Mr. Will Jada Pinkett-Smith in the original M.I.B.  He’s parlaying around NYC during robbery and carjacking season wearing a jacket made out of tarp like material used by construction workers to keep shit dry, and rappers to keep themselves dry after clock’n hoes.

I went back to HDNet to watch something called Deadline! Unrated, the “100 Percent Happy Endings” edition.  The info button on the remote says it’s about “Breasts of all kinds, including Burlesques, pole danger and calendar girl.  Entertainment, High-Def, CC.”  I didn’t know the Info button had such weird taste in tit size.  Every set of tits on this show is more circular than Rick Perry’s reasoning.  These womens’ boobs are faker than the McAnimal that is slaughtered to produced the McRib.  If they don’t got some jiggle and sag, tell her to put up them salt water bags.  Titties ain’t supposed to be a replacement for that weird black-handled-spring-thing people in the 80′s swore by.

As I’m trying to cleanse my head of all these looney thoughts, a relatively unknown friend of mine on SpaceFace just sent me a Farmville request.  It came through and finagled my whole style on my iPad like a text message.  I have never played Farmville in my life.  The only thing I know about it comes from an episode of 60 Minutes I watched.  I want to be clear, the dude that thought up people paying to keep video vegetation alive is a genius.  I bear him no ill ville.  I just don’t understand why this one quasi anonymous chick keeps requesting I do something with Farmville.  Even though I continue to immediately delete these requests, I keep getting them.  Each one comes with her profile picture to the left of the request like a teaser for the next episode of Guilt Acres.  Whereas you get confirmation or denials of your requests to be friends, there must not be any records kept or notifications given for immediate deletions of Farmville requests or this chick would have sold my friend base to the gubmint.

Platoon is on whatever 519 AMAXHD.  I find it ballsy whoever that is has the guts to show a Nam movie with the Nutty Sheen in it in light of recent events.  If there was a Platoon Redux, the closing scene would be that crazy fucking warlock pissing on the Vietnam War Memorial.  Mark, highlight, underline, italicize, copy, paste or whatever my words.  That crazy motherfucker will be in a porno movie within the next year.  If he was born lucky, it will be a one man tour de force entitled “Two and a 1/2 Men”.

When a titty flick is on, why does the description even list the actors or attempt to describe the plot?  If it is a true tit flick, you may have seen the tits before but you can’t associate a name to them.  If you are up at the time of morning tit flicks come on, you aren’t hitting the info button to get plot summaries.  You’re hitting it for ratings and film lengths.  Just cause its an MA, it doesn’t mean you’re going to be able to stay up long enough to jerk off to it.

Channel 530 is Starz in Black.  I don’t know if this has just sprung up overnight or what.  I had no clue there was such a channel.  The only reason I found it is because I’m watching CB4.  Like jerking off, on one hand, I get ethnic channels.  On the other, they just don’t feel right.  I eat tacos.  I listened to rap in its infancy and understand everything about this movie.  I like egg rolls.  I will throw down on some sushi.  I didn’t learn to like all that shit from a bunch of different fucking t.v. channels.  I didn’t learn to be fat from the Food Network.  That shit is genetic.  I refined and honed my honkeyness without a channel dedicated to not being able to dance, having a flat ass and liking rap music.  But, at the same time, where is Honkey T.V.?  Unless you’re in a foreign country speaking a non-indigenous language, I think the idea of a TV channel related to your ethnicity is a non-necessity.  At the same time, if you can get that shit on TV, go for it.  I mean, goddamn, I’ll watch any fucking channel that periodically shows Roadhouse or Point Break.  Is ignorance an ethnicity?

Airline bottles of alcohol are a rip off.  But they do fit nicely in the pockets of a robe though.  This allows for them to be hid from a spouse, significant other, employer or religious leader.  And, drinking airline bottles makes you feel like you aren’t drinking that much.  Of course, that myth is debunked after there’s a Hansel and Gretel like trail of bottles left in your wake.  All I’m saying’ is, don’t rule them out just because they’re overpriced.  You may find them handy.

I’ve gone back to HDN.  Girls Gone Blue Ball is on.  This whole series is so fucking stupid I can’t take it.  I have no idea what the point of seeing drunk chicks in bikinis is unless it is in person and you’re single or ensconced with said wearer.

I’m trying to stay awake for Art Mann Presents, which is the next show.  He’s a funny bastard.  I’ve got a theory he is Joe Flaherty‘s unclaimed son.  I sent him some long-winded Slingo-filled email about a year ago, and he responded with a comment about it being funny.  I then replied to his response, but there was no reciprocation.  I chose not to go any further for fear of being charged with cyber stalking.  A SWAT team may burl up into my crib and stop me from watching if I stay conscious long enough to view it.

“I’ve never seen girls go this wild.”  That is a direct quote from someone labeled as a West Cost Cameraman in the Girls Gone Wild Fiefdom.  I’d have to think it is a total fucking lie that a dude who films drunk chicks for a living has never seen anything nuttier than some titty flashing.  That lying bastard has seen chics having sex with chics who were having sex with other chics while waiting in line to have sex with him just to get on camera.  I’ll say this, the dude who owns the whole franchise looks Munsterish since he was sprung from prison after his short stint for going wild and not paying taxes.  Another weird thing about the dude is someone forced him at gunpoint to engage in a “homosexual themed video” on January 22, 2004.  What does it say about you if your burglars take all your shit, and before leaving, break out the camcorder and force you to go to the really wild side?  When you think about it, you must really have fucked with someone because you’d think the homosexual acts you performed at gunpoint were performed on a practicing homosexual.  Unless you live in a particularly rough part of San Francisco, I’m guessing these burglars brought entertainment with them.  Now that’s Karma.

It’s been less than twelve hours since the Yankees lost, so I’m still be angrier than a hemorrhoid that’s been freshly plied with Absorbine Jr. because # 28 didn’t materialize this year.  But, they’ll never be able to take Boston’s late season gag away from me.  To a minor degree, 2004 is kinda avenged.  Nah, not really.  To sum up the the Yankee mauling, here are a few overarching post-series observations from a militant, nutty, illogical and angry-when-they-do-not-win Yankee fan:

- Joe Girardi has never met a pinch hitter he did not want to use.  Except for Jesus.  Girardi had a catcher named Jesus on the bench, who was 2 for 2 in the series.  That’s right, Jesus is a Yankee.  In case you were keeping tabs, he recently left Chicago; but whereas he was bound for New Orleans, he apparently had time to make a quick stop in Detroit to get an RBI single.

- TV networks sometimes attach exaggerated descriptions for upcoming games, like “Battle in the Bronx” or “Melee in the Motor City.”  Well, I came up with a couple of suggestions that could have been used:  Yankees vs. An Umpire on TBS, and Yankees vs. Refusing to Swing on TBS

- Who in the hell would keep pitching Scott Proctor given his reputation as a sorry ass sumbitch?  Every time he ever comes into the game, the Yankees take it up the (insert anal/anus/rectum slang word of your choice) like getting a physical from Dr. Jellyfinger.  “Moon River” should be played whenever he comes out from the bullpen.

- Girardi is the dumbest former catcher-turned-manager to ever handle a pitching staff in the history of baseball.

- I haven’t seen that many check swings since a moody Richard Simmons was trying to balance his checkbook.

- Stevie Wonder could’ve seen the strikes the Tigers were throwing throughout the series. Whereas the Yankees batters refused to get the bat off their shoulder, Stevie would have at least wildly swung his cane a few times.

- I admit I’m abnormally hard on Joe Girardi for not changing pitchers, but he should also do so in moderation.  At one point, he was burning through them like Clearasil pads at a middle school band camp.

- I’m convinced ARod, or as AOld as I call him, is the most overpaid professional athlete since Jon “Contract” Koncak.  He’s AWorthless waste of batter’s box space.

- The Yankees got Fistered.

Well, the only bright side is that it is now full-blown UK season.  Yankees Ought Eleven.  Glad to have Nova’d Ye.

Sleep apnea is either a disease, or a disorder where “pauses” occur in your breathing while sleeping.  In other words, you’re trying to suffocate yourself.  It’s like you’re involuntarily playing pulmonary chicken with yourself.  You’re choking yourself like a chicken, I, unlike everyone else, just said.

Other than just constantly waking up all the fucking time, a person can get official papers proving they are into the pulmonary equivalent of bondage by having a polysomnogram.  Polysomnogram does not mean a polygamist let you feel all of his wives tits, and rate them using a series of celestial bodies.  It does not mean there was an orgy of breast cancer awareness at the radiologist’s office.  It does not mean you had something about boobs stitched on a towel, or piece of clothing suitable for high falutin’ catered affairs.  It is simply a sleep study.  Sleep study does not describe a student snoring with their head down at a desk in the library at 2:13 a.m. during finals week.  It does mean you show up at the hospital late in the p.m., get all tethered up to primary colored wires via the application of the dermatological equivalent of super glue, and fall asleep.  Your sleeping is monitored via closed circuit sleep-v, and the wires essentially give a neurological polygraph proving you’re choking yourself (or that you’re lying about choking yourself).  When you wake up the next morning, a doctor comes in the room to tell you if you passed or failed, and what your score is.  A “clinically significant” apnea level is where you attempt to snore yourself to death 5 or more times during an hour.  Some in the unlearned and completely falsified knowledge community refer to this as being “attemptedly massively suicidal”.  It’s like your lungs stutter, and are trying to kill you like a fucking character in the “Director’s Cut” of Goodfellas.

Before I go any farther, I’m going to put this in the terms of the greatest man to ever sport a jerri curl and blue jean overalls simultaneously.  “You’re goddamn right, I got this too.”  If you don’t know who Buddy Guy is, well Buddy, all I can tell you is that this Guy is one bad motherfucker.  He’s such a bad motherfucker, people go get DNA tests after they see him live just to make sho he didn’t fuck their momma cause it damn sure felt good.  Anyway, after you’ve been diagnosed as a Bedtime Strangler, you get fitted with something that’s a little bit Darth Vader and a little bit Scuba Diver.  This monstrosity is called a CPAP Machine.  No, you don’t have air tubes shoved up your genitals, and no stirrups of the gynecological or baseball variety are involved.  This is a machine that provides Constant Positive Airway Pressure.  Sounds like something that overcharges your for tiny bottles of liquor, and will give you worthless frequent breather miles doesn’t it?

The machine itself looks like a 1960’s vacuum.  Instead of a medical supply store you’d think some dude with a JC Penny suit, an old bowler hat, and an Eddie Haskel-like persona guilted and/or conned you into buying it so they would get the fuck off your stoop.  It also has an equally old school, smaller vacuum-like hose made out of see through plasticish elastic shit.  It looks like the last pair of drawers you thought you could easily rip off of who or whatever, only to cause them a low degree burn and you to question both your strength and dietary habits.  The shit looks flimsy as hell, but it gets you all the oxymoron you need to allow you to sleep through the night – while forgetting how ignorant it is that you try to pull the plug on your own breathe bags on a hourly basis.  The mask does have the “however you’d spell Darth Vader’s breathing” sound.  It also makes you sound like Admiral Greer when you talk.  If you open your mouth with the mask on, you can feel air pushing through your throat and nose.  It’s like getting an air dick shoved up your throat, and into your sinuses.

The hardness and tubular aspects of the mask also makes sleeping in any position other than “visitation style” impossible.  If you try to roll over on a side, you’re going to cut off the PAP and be tangled up and blue quicker than a Bob Dylan impersonator who had a net thrown over them while trying to escape the Looney Bin.  Sleeping face down is going to keep your head at a higher level, and give your face a long lasting imprint that’ll make all the boys in the band think you blew the biggest triangle player in the Tri Global area.  The goddamn thing only made sleeping impossible for me before I went back to trying to kill myself softly every night.  I wake up so much, there are some times when I wish that racist Fugee Lauren Hill would come and put me out of misery.  You can also try these rubber nostril implant like things that are attached to what looks like the straps you saw on braces in the movies.  They are to sleep deprived nerds what Lebron James is to basketball players.  I’m not even sure that made sense, but I haven’t slept in a while so what the fuck do you expect?  The nostril implants are referred to in the industry as “nasal pillows”.  Big, soft natural tits are what I think of when the word “pillows” is used.  Nasal makes me think of that branch of the military with those sperm-like uniforms.  Mix them together and I don’t come up with a soft, rubbery mechanism designed to fit comfortably in my nostrils to facilitate continuous breathing.  My math equals some member of the armed forces trying to facial my nasals.  Beyond the physicality involved with being able to sleep, you can tell I’ve got way too fucked up of a mind to handle any of this type of shit.

Well, if you can’t tell, I can’t go to sleep.  I wish I could get to sleep so I could start trying to strangle myself, because sleeping in between involuntary strangulation is still sleeping, no matter how you wrap your hands around it.  Sleep Apnea sounds like a minor mountain chain in the Himalayas by the way.  And Himalayas sounds like the name of a tranny version of that chick from Star Wars with the danishes on the side of her head.  Tranny makes me wonder which Transfomer is gay?  And with that inability to turn off my mind, I bid you a happy audios.

Sleep, strangle and the Bangles…

Contrary to poplar trees, the topic of this digression has nothing to do with my ingress and egress into a gas station while under the influence of “the ganja,” “wacky weed” or your good ole fashioned “Bob Marley.”  For the record – and my favorite was Legend: The Best of Bob Marley and the Wailers – talk to Bob and he’ll tell you what to do.  Nope, this description actually describes what can be depicted by your average, everyday blood pressure cuff.  Yes, for those of you scoring at home, I have contracted yet another medical malady.  I’m like the fucking Triple Crown Winner of medical problems.  I’m a goddamn 80 year-old man in a 35 year-old’s body.  I recently caught myself scoping out nursing homes for affordable living…and tail.  I always wondered why I teared up watching Cocoon.  Put more simply, I’ve got the high blood pressure.

One benefit of all this is I don’t think I’m as desirable to those pale motherfuckers who apparently only eat and fuck between sunset and moonrise.  My delectability to garlic, wooden stakes, and sunlight fearers has ended.  I guess I’ll have to wait for zombies to be the “in” humanitarian before I  get myself back onto any menu.  If an excessively tanned dude in a cape wanted a piece of me, he better have a wine cork and a washer, cause I’d get my spew on like a premature ejaculated Old Faithful.  If you see any bloodsuckers walking around town with an eye patch or missing a fang, you know who was for dinner.

When you have high blood pressure, it is a rather contradictory conundrum.  When you’re getting your pressure checked, you instinctively want to see if you can get the highest numbers possible because high scores have been ingrained in your gourd since you use to get the precursor to carpet tunnel playing Galaga until your beat off hand was too sore to make love (I haven’t seen four lines like that since I watched the director’s cut of Blow).  Unfortunately, whether your systolic or diastolic is the winner, you’re still going to be a loser.  There is apparently a range within which healthiness is theorized, and I’m apparently in a range where a stroke or pump attack is a reality.  As much as I hate to say it, I may become a less evil, more liberal, perfectly fine with my gay daughter version of Dick Cheney (hopefully not as bald).  Doesn’t Dick Cheney sound like a nude dancer at male strip club who would perform with a fob watch on his cock?  Sure, he may have been an evil asshole who got to be Vice President with - in the words of Lincoln Osiris, “the dumbest motherfucker who ever lived” - but you have to have sympathy for his medical problems.  Nah, not really.  You can give even less a fuck about his issues than mine, because he was the son of a bitch who said torturing an Ay-rab of some delineation produced terroristic intelligence - even though an “internal White House memo” proved the unlucky squealer gave up the Casper before being tortured.  It seems like our Presidents, CIA, FBI and all those other abbreviated government agencies take too good a notes when they are doing highly immoral and illegal shit.  Who the fuck writes a paper about why the illegal shit they did was legitimate?  It is one dumb fucking thing to confess to some shit, but it is quite another to confess to it by putting a pen to paper.  It’s like a goddamn blueprint to Leavenworth.  I didn’t get an A on every book report I came up with after reading notes from Cliff, but I sure as hell didn’t get arrested when I turned it in.  If you ever see a bunch of motherfuckers wearing ear pieces, suits and sunglasses – who are not a bunch of NBA players – showing up at your child’s school, run for the hills cause Junior breached national security by using his decoder ring to decipher the hidden massage in the State of The Onion address.

Without Wikipediaing “Presidents with heart problems,” I’d have to say your blood being filled with pressure is a strange affliction to be afflicted with.  It ain’t like you can take my pulse by staring at my temple or crotch when I’m wearing spandex.  You can’t set your watch to the rhythm of my jugular vein (I think Jugular is a porno movie about a big tittied super hero).  You’d think there being a lot of pressure in your blood would be a good thing.  With high blood pressure, you’ve got like the Audubon of circulatory systems.  I guess the fatter you are, the more circulatory your system is.  Fat Albert was like the fucking Churchill Downs for platelets and white blood cells.  If he was walking/running downhill, his shit would get moving so fast it looked like a jar of Vaseline on a Slip N’ Slide.  Havin’ a lot of pressure in your blood doesn’t make you a potential blood rig, but it does make you contemplate additional medication when your gourd continues to ache.  I’ve brained myself on the windshield of a fucking Mercury Cougar, and I ain’t never had a head throbbin’ like this since the first time I had blue balls.  Trust me, I remember it - and I remember it feeling like a fucking Whoopee Cushion before it flatulates.  In the parlance of the tiempo, that shit was tight; but it wouldn’t be off the chain, because bondage was not involved.

So when your blood gets all tensionified, they first ax you to shed some lbs.  I did such.  I’m down to an incredibly sexy, Kevin James in high school, svelte 187.  I’m wearing larges instead of XL.  It is like a renaissance to my Freshman year in college when I first got fat.  I can now see my whole dick, and the remnants of Kool-Aid, copious amounts of gin mixed with anything, and more grub than a bucket full of bait.  I can now see that apparently I may still have stomach muscles.  Sure, they’re weaker than Nick Nolte when offered hair jell, a Ha-Why-Yan shirt and GHB, but they still exist.  I still need Indiana Jones to come unearth them fo sho.  However, this return to medium large did nothing for the explodability of my life juice.

It is kind of neat being put on a new medicine.  You get all that worry.  Will it fit in with all the regulars to whom I’ve already guaranteed a spot in my rotation?  Will this drug turn into the Michael Vick to my Donavan McAtivan?  As of this typing, whatever this is only makes me piss like a race horse on coke, and doesn’t really get rid of my achein’ gourd.  Basically, I could win one leg of the Triple Crown, and then have to be immediately euthanized due to stress and the inability to eat, sleep and get a hard on.  I’ve read some books and seen some movies.  I ain’t got a flush face like Santa Claws or a Priest walked in on an altar boy orientation.  I ain’t got a Ted Kennedy-like nose or grande cabeza.  I pretty much look like a cracker with normal pressurized Vampire sauce.  I still like garlic.  I didn’t run when I was near that picket fence earlier today.  I really don’t know how any of this affects me, because I already had an achin’ head and took enough pills to kill Elvis standing up - as opposed to on the toilet.  Thankfully, I’ve got the world famous Smith Family “Liver O’ Steel,” and I ain’t havin’ fun if my enzymes ain’t digestin’ some.  When I die, cannibals will fight over that shit on Organbay.  Not only will it be good eatin’, you could build a fucking hut foundation out of it.

Maybe this shit makes me run thangs, do bidness and otherswise flake and perpetrate more than I used to.  I don’t really knowed.  I doubt it.  It could be the fact that I’m in day two of juice decompression, and I’ve decided to test the reducibilty of said pharmaceutical by acquainting it with the third cellular body in my special sauce – alkyhol.  If it don’t get directionally proportional to the heat of the meat, I ain’t doin’ the Tango like Kurt Russell without a partner.  That was even a Stretch Armstrong for me, but the key is, I think I knew what I meant and sometimes coming close enough counts.  Think of the first time you had sex.  Now think of the second time you had sex.  A whole helluva a lot different, wood’nt you agree?

Well, my wife and the production of my testicular milk are actually about done playing goddamn “Lego Something or Another” for Nintendo You.  If you’re playing this fucking thing to build up forearm strength because you can’t get a date, I see where you eventually will be coming from.  Otherwise, the games that don’t involve sports are like fucking a 1^st cousin.  You like it, but you wish you hadn’t spent so much time doing it.  Well, the only other weirdness caused by me being a pressure cooker for Life Marinara is my trial that was supposed to go down today was continued.  So I’ve been ordered to take a week’s hiatus from the doing of legalities.  Essentially what that means is my wife will give me a bunch of shit to do, and I’ll stay as stressed out as I ever was.  If stress were a rubber band, I’d be that real big, professional grade motherfucker that only postal workers, UPS men, and people into sack strangulation use.  Thankfully, I have access to a computer, the Internet and alkyhol.  Brace yourself.  Free your mind from reality, and anything else that makes sense.  Break out the candles, and put a tea cozy on your head.  Jehovah is coming over, we’ve got some meatballs, felt up a fish and took some hits off the menorah.  It’s gonna get weird…er.

JIS
(I take full responsibility for all grammatical and spelling errors contained in the preceding, including this statement of exceptance of responsibility, due to my lack of memmory, desire to refresh myself with grammatical basics and an overall carelessness)

I had to break out some 1870′s law the other day during a trial by saying you can’t hornswaggle a person if they’re absent from the proceedings due to mandatory tour dates with Uncle Sam and The Freedom Fighters.  Even though everyone agreed the case was still controlling law – i.e. the legal equivalent to a wife on a piece of paper, because it still tells you what to do no matter how old it gets – someone in the courtroom declared, “The Civil War ain’t goin on no more.”  I quickly looked around to make sure there were no Yankees in attendance who hadn’t gotten the telegraph, and were still being held as our prisoners.  All of this historical fightin’ referencin’ then led my hamster wheel to start turning.  When in the fucking history of this life-sustaining sphere has there ever been a “civil” war?  I guess soldiers in the Revolutionary War said things like: “Oh, not to bother you old chap, but would you mind if I shot you with my gold musket when you finish that spot of tea?” or “Say ole boy, once the band quits playing the Queen’s Greatest Hits Volume I, may I bayonet you in a rather uncomfortable area – above the belt of course – to ensure the King James Bible endures and the Monarchy remains triumphant over you heathens?”  I seriously doubt those straight from bland food and teeth Isle were as cordial while plotting the end of existence.

I know any idiot with the History Channel will tell you the term “civil war” applies to fighting inside a country betwixt its own people.  Sort of like sperm jockeying to get in front of the line, so they can ride that white train out of town.  No matter if you’re trying to take out Ned Flanders and pillage Ma Flanders before doing so, you’re not going to be civil about it.  Civility is not something people fighting with themselves take into consideration, especially when trying to decide which flag to strategically stick into a certain piece of property.  You never heard, “There’s old Jeb Forest.  He’s been a purty good friend until he done decided he couldn’t turn his back on makin slaves out of blacks.  Guess I better go ask his paw if’n it would be better to gut shot him for buryin’ purposes, or split his melon clean so as to ease him out real quick like.”  Those fools were fighting over keeping a race of people under wraps, versus allowing them to be free for not-so moralistic reasons.  I think Thomas Jefferson was for it, because he was supposedly the first of the Founding Fathers to catch a bad case of the Jungle Fever.  In between practicing up on his Monticello, he was helping himself to a lot of the help.  He may have been the first true American pimp.  He was porkin chicks faster than milk could curdle, all while wearing hosiery, knickers, and a powdered wig.  Jefferson should be an inspiration to anyone who wants to dress like a queer, and sexually dominate a race of people.

That song ”War” by Edward Starr was annoying, yet it was good for pointing out the uncivility of killing in the name of some joint with its own flag.  I wonder if you would have wars if the separate factions didn’t have flags.  Think about it.  What would they be fighting for then?  If they had nothing to place in the ground they just conquered, what good would the conquering have been?  You couldn’t really prove you conquered anything, because without a flag you’re just some son of a bitch squatter.  Anyway, E.S. – as he is known to you and me – wrote a song decrying the art of war and all the tragedy that goes along with it.  I think old E.S. would have changed the world, and could have possibly done away with the need for NATO and the U.N., if he hadn’t put so many fucking “uh’s”, “huh’s” and “ha’s” in that song.  The message was correct, but the grammar was too Rocky-esque for anyone to take it seriously.  Can you imagine Henry Kissinger telling President Johnson, “War, it isn’t really good for nothin.”  To which the president responds, “Say it again.”  “Huh, good gawd y’all, absolutely nothin, ha, uh, say it again.” Kissinger responds.  “Well, I’ll tell you Kissy, you may be right.  But nobody is going to buy into that horseshit with you sounding like you just stuck your dick in an armadillo hole.  If you can make it sound less like J. Edgar Hoover and Roy Cohn gettin it on in one of those goddamn soup cans Andy Warhol paints, then we’ll go with it.  Otherwise, I don’t want to hear that pump talk again.”  Who would’ve thought President Johnson could put it so eloquently?

In closing, I think it’s safe to say Risk is the only real civil war game out there.  Even that can get ugly though, because it fucking goes on forever, requires a Master’s Degree in Geography to play, and the pieces are just the right size to sting when thrown at the right velocity.

JIS
(I take full responsibility for all grammatical and spelling errors contained in the preceding, including this statement of exceptance of responsibility, due to my lack of memmory, desire to refresh myself with grammatical basics and an overall carelessness)

This pic has nothing to do with the post, beside the fact that there is no rhyme or reason to either of them.

We had an alarm installed since some cats came unwanted into my wife’s home a few weeks ago while our ferocious 100 lb German Shepherd snored away.  Ever since it has been hooked up, the thing has never worked right.  You turn the goddamn thing on, and twelve minutes later it’s fucking Armageddon–without Ben Affleck’s shitty acting.  You simply wanted to be safe in your own home, not be made aware that the world is ending and the police are about to be called.  The alarm sounds like Stephen Hawking with a cough being plugged into Aerosmith’s sound system.  The hocking of a loogie has never been more frightening.  Any you, we scheduled an alarm “service call” for this Friday.  ADT apparently is a close relative of DirecTV, or whatever cable company you prescribe to, because I was told the alarmologist would appear at my wife’s abode between 8 a.m. and 12 p.m. on Friday.  In other words, when you actually need these people’s help, they’re going to take their sweet ass time getting there – and may stop off for some fried pork chops at Granny’s Grease N’ Gas on the way in.  How the fuck did any profession ever get to the level of giving you a four hour block of time when they may appear to render whatever it is they service?  Let’s say you call 911.  Someone is shoving a cock down your throat against your will.  Experimentation turned into straight up throat hockey real quick like, and now Don Wand isn’t layin’ off.  “911, what is your emergency.”  “Mmmm habbb a ckkk shhh dwnnn meye froatttt!”  “You’re having chocolate shakes and fried ice cream?  Well, we have some people in the surrounding area, so we can get that removed within five hours or so.  Is that OK?”  “Eye esss ohhh…”

What in the fuck is the deal with people licking their fingers before they turn a page?  Was that Bob Seger song about some kind of obsessive compulsive behavior where saliva facilitates the continuation of knowledge?  How do you ever learn that licking your fingers will help you move something made out of papyrus?  It’s like these people have a need to leave their genetic imprint on every single page of whatever they read.  Now, I’m not gonna cast asparagus in any one person’s direction – my wife – but some people don’t just lick their fingers.  They hand slobber everything like a pre-school pimp with the biggest Valentine’s Day box.  She licks her fingers before she starts folding towels.  Before she starts picking up the dishes.  Before she picks up the clothes she’s about to put on.  No shit, she licks more than a porterhouse precursor at a salt lick.  It’s like her brain can’t comprehend what it’s touching unless it’s lightly glazed with her own DNA.  I’m starting to think she has a feline relative somewhere down the pipe, and one part of her Jordache’s that never changed was the propensity to lick herself.  Well, at least in five small places.  Had it been a different body part, there would probably be DVD’s, a special on NatGeo, and a nationwide tour.

I was at Kwik Lube the other day waiting for my car to be quickly put in the mood.  First, there was this cat that gave me the fingers signaling me to turn my wheel more right, then more left, to insure I was able to drive over the obvious hole in the floor.  I believe he was on scholarship from the Jack Hannah Mental Ward for Upright Walkers School of Hygiene, Auto Mechanics, and Barber College.  Their school is funded by having students participate in new deodorant trials, sitting in cars that are being run into walls, and having their hair cut by students from the Hellen Keller Academy.  He asked me what I wanted done in a Lurch/ Mushmouth dialect that I had not heard since the old toothless bastard at my grandma’s nursing home asked me if I wanted some of his applesauce.

After this close encounter with the fourth kind, I then slid on into the waiting area receptacle.  Next to the chair I was sitting in there were an abundance of Redbook Magazines.  I theorized that they were either trying to kwikly lube a more female clientele rather than dice danglers, or the place was filled with Sioux, Cherokee, or possibly Seminole Indians.  I believe those tribes were known to have an affinity for firewater, gambling, and lube making skills.  I was disinterested in learning how every squaw this side of the tee-pee could lose 5-10 pounds without laying off the maize, so I broke out my iPhone.  It kept me from being ibored.  In betwixt playing Tetris, Frogger and perusing iboobs, I noticed a strange melody in the background.  No, it was not the harmony that comes from a grease monkey changing the oil in harmony with a co-worker topping off the fluids.  It was gosprock, or the strain of gospel music mixed with the rock and roll stylings of a bunch of nuts keen on Jesus.  No shit.  A company with part of its name being Lube decided I needed saving via the power of music.  Look, if somebody gives you the strength to do something, deal with something, or explain some random shit, then I’m happy you’ve found it.  However, I will not be converted into believing a guy packed two of every animal onto a biblical pontoon boat, and sailed the sea that Moses didn’t have time to butt cutt.  Having religious music pushed on you while your car is being serviced is like listening to Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It” at the urologist’s office.  You don’t need to be reminded that God created everything, and by his grace, your fat ass doesn’t have to walk no distance in anyone else’s sandals.

JIS
(I take full responsibility for all grammatical and spelling errors contained in the preceding, including this statement of exceptance of responsibility, due to my lack of memmory, desire to refresh myself with grammatical basics and an overall carelessness)

So my wife decided that our young son needed a playroom equipped with a 50″ TV.  Did I forget to mention it also has a BluRay DVD player and surround sound?  If I did, I apologize and consider that omission a fluke.  My wife and son went upstairs to give it up for the night, so I went into his “media room” and attempted to watch the greatest movie ever made, Tommy Boy.  Nah, I’m just John’n ya.  Tropic Thunder is what I actually attempted to watch.  Now, follow me here, I pushed the button with the up arrow on top of the other other line, and got nothing like a zit-faced nerd at a Hannah Montana Appreciation and Tire Changing Exposition.  No luck.  So I went to the fucking remote that allegedly came with the TV – according to the Geek Squad Geek in my wife’s house – and I pushed the button that said “Open/Close.”  I didn’t think that was too much to ask of a fancy BluRay DVD player.  I mean, simply push forth your tray of entertainment goodness, and I shall provide an information disk into what you put forth post haste.  That didn’t work either.  As of the writing of whatever you’d call this, the goddamn whatever it is still hasn’t opened.

How in the hell do you make anything that has buttons alleged to do something that do nothing?  Open and Close is pretty fucking simple.  You open the doors to let whoever the denizens of Troy are in, and you shut the motherfucker when the Acheanas show up to party like it was 99 B.C.  You don’t need a locksmith to tell you who is friend or foe.  I have no clue as to why the more technologically advanced things become, the harder it is to do simpler things.

For resistance, you want to turn on your TV.  You’ve grown up with one of those fancy Oscilatrix with the bunny hearers and pull button turn-ons.  That was simpler than those books about the guy with that dog named what’s its nuts.  Pull a button and you get what you’re looking for.  It was the technological equivalent of an orgasm.  That shit came on, and you enjoyed the three channels you got.  Nowadays, you push a button and your TV turns to a black screen asking you what “source” you want to go to.  You then have to pick and find out if HDMI or ATV2 is the proper misnomer for watching a movie.  It’s almost as if you need a fucking Cracker Jack’s decoder ring, and the key to the Ten Commandments to break this sumbitch up.  All you want to do is watch some TV, and suddenly the remote turns into some sort of entertainment Rubix Cube.  Power to one side, open to the other; volume goes here, and channel changing goes there.  Wait a minute, fast forward goes with Valium, and chapter skip goes with power.  Awwwww hell.  I don’t want no Player Hatin Degree in rocket surgery, I just want to watch the fucking Yankees game in peace.

Women don’t even understand the hell this shit causes to a sack hanger.  We like shit simple.  On means on, off means off.  Up means up, and down means down.  Other than that, it’s all surplusage.  Who needs a “favorite” or “recall” button?  If you can’t recall what your favorite channel is, you need to get up off the couch – I ain’t saying sofa, because sofa operas are a waist (not waste) of time – turn in your weenie, and go home to watch the end of Steel Magnolias before that sugar-free bitch takes a dirt nap.  How in the gonards the remote control came to this complexity, like an end of the month pregnancy test, I’m unsure.  Why did whoever have to do whatever to make all of it harder than a priest’s cock at an Underage Altar Boy Convention?

Not being able to watch your favorite movie on a large TV that you just bought is severely fucking aggravating.  It’s like rubbing your nuts on sandpaper, or squishing your lady parts on Bag Balm – it burns you up either way.  I have no clue who came up with the StingRay DVD players either, but they needed to at least have the remotes do what their buttons say they do.  If it says open, it should show its mechanical tonsils.  If it means no, then it really means no…

We have all worked for this guy

Unfortunately for most of us, one of life’s cruel realities is that sooner or later we all have to gain employment and sell our eternal souls to The Man.  The worst part of having a career, or job (watch Chris Rock’s “Kill the Messenger” if you want to find out the difference), is that few people end up doing something they enjoy, and can only watch as their childhood dreams are slowly shattered while the years pass by.  Usually at the forefront of your life’s steady decline is that boss who only excels at one thing, which is making you question the path you have chosen so far in life — the Michael Jordan of Stupid Assholes if you will.  I’m not saying I’m a genius, and I have never claimed to possess any more intelligence than Joe 6-pack; but after years and years of employment, I would kill to have Joe 18-pack as my boss because it seems like I always end up with this:

There are varying degrees of awful bosses, but here is a quick look at five of the most prominent traits embedded in the personality of a sucky boss:

• Apathy – Your boss would rather run you over with his/her C-Class Mercedes Benz than listen to one thing you have to say about anything.
• Lack of Personality - You would rather have your boss run you over with his/her C-Class Mercedes Benz than spend five minutes talking to them about anything.
• Inflexibility – The old, “My way or the highway” thinking is fine, unless that highway happens to always lead you straight to Exit 2, Shit’s Creek.
• Lazy - There is nothing worse than getting paid a tenth of someone’s wage when you are doing at least twice the work–that’s just simple math, which is a skill stupid bosses also lack.
• Idiocy - This is the grandaddy of them all, and no doubt the trait that annoys me the most.  The bosses that possess this trait produce what they believe to be forward-thinking ideas for your company; but in actuality they are really ass-backwards, and everyone in the company knows it but him/her.

If your current boss is endowed with any of the attributes above, or if you curse their very existence for other reasons, there are really only two options to choose from:

1. Quit…then run like hell, & don’t look back or even think of that godforsaken place again (if possible, leave in a manner that will have co-workers recalling the incident years after you left–nothing violent, be creative)
2. The economy is bad, so I like many other will have to choose this option.  You have to continue working for that soulless, thankless pile of human flesh; keep dragging yourself out of bed so you can make enough money to pay the bills, and put beer on your table (or whatever your necessities may be).  The glaring downside is eventually your outlook will soon resemble that of Peter Gibbons from Office Space, and you will come to that realization when this quote describes your life:

“Ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it.  So that means that every single day that you see me, that’s on the worst day of my life.”

While I salute you that have the courage to choose the first path and quit, I have a lot more admiration for those who have no other option but the second.  So when you lay your head on the pillow at night and already begin to dread the following day, you should at least take some comfort in the fact that you did not opt to become one of those idiotic jerkoff bosses that plagues the American workforce.

(If you’ve ever been sore from exercising, and you’ve never Been Gay, be careful if you slather yourself with Being Gay.  Especially if that slathering occurs anywhere near your genitalia – otherwise, this could happen to you.)

Believe it or not, I’ve actually exercised two days in a row.  Oh yeah, I’ll be in next year’s Tour de France if I keep this pace up.  My love handles are already turning into smaller slabs of fat that can either be lovingly held, or angrily pinched.  Once again I decided to give the Wii Active a go, because it’s kinda like playing a video game that hurts.  Although I’ve never broken a sweat playing a video game before, and it is a rather excrutiating endeavor if you’re my age and haven’t exercised regularly since Christ was a precinct captain – I have no idea what that saying means, but my dad always said it when referring to something that happened a long time ago.

Back to the matter at hand.  My legs were sore from all of the day’s Wii’ing, so while picking up the menagerie of subscriptions waiting for me (long time customer, first time purchaser of Lamictal XR) and my wife, I decided to Be Gay.  I thought this would help ease the pain for the day’s impeding fat jockeying with my virtual trainer.  When I got home without getting picked up for trafficking in a controlled substance within a 1,000 yards of every school in my city, my thighs and calves were Being Gay.  I put on a pair of basketball shorts (I had to blow what appeared to be a poor man’s version of Charlotte’s web off of the waistband), sweat pants, and a sweatshirt to maximize my post-exercise smell.

About 10 minutes into it, I noticed a tingling sensation in the general area that tingling doesn’t occur as much since my nuptials occurred.  Then, like putting YOUR weenie on a grill, it kind of started to burn - but in a menthol sorta way.  I found this odd because I washed my hands after Being Gay, and performed no adjustments prior to suiting up.  During my video exercise regimen, I am bitched at by a virtual trainer to breathe in and out during some “reps”.  While breathing in, I suddenly noticed that I felt like I was getting more air from some other never-before-tapped oxygen ingestion part of my body.  Oh yeah, a side effect of Being Gay – whether you actually are or not – is the feeling that your genitalia is suddenly able to inhale air.  It’s basically like having a third, below the Mason-Dixon Line, lung.  Maybe this is what people who smoke Kool’s feel like, except in their oral area.  The excess inhalability did however cause me to complete what was scheduled to be a 39 minute work out in 33 minutes and change.  I’m telling you, the French are always saying Lance Armstrong is taking performance enhancing drugs, but I don’t buy it.  I just think the only one he has left is Being Gay on a daily basis.  I have never heard of making your one nut Be Gay as being illegal – or a reason not to film a specific genre of adult topography.  Like “One Nut Ned v. Sack Happy Sid”, which I think won some AVN awards for most closely shorn scrotum or something.  That’s like the porn awards equivalent to Best Supporting Actor from what I understand.

Plus, making your red touch area Be Gay in order to maximize your oxygen intake, or carbon dioxide output, is a lot easier than going to one of those third world countries to buy a spare lung if you’re in a tight spot.  Who wants to be wait-listed?  Who wants to have “surgery”?  You can be your own little kung fu-less Ty Lung if you just visit your local pharmacy, discount retailer, or raid a sports team’s locker room.

Well, I had something else I was going to go into, but quite sausagely, I can’t remember what it was going to be.  I guess that’s all I gots…

The title of this post can mean a myriad of things.  The most common being you’ve said your piece and now the ball is undoubtedly out of your court.  It could also be a response to a co-conspirator asking what you did with the blood on the murder weapon, or a teenage boy with noticeably strong forearms telling his parents where and how he discarded their potential grandchildren.  Or, it could mean – as only I could mean it – that you’ve attempted to keep your significant other from doing things they shouldn’t do while recovering from an illness, procedure, or favorite NASCAR driver death; but then you simply give up, because it’s impossible to reason with someone who has the work ethic of a drone ant with no home life.  Especially when they’re hopped up on painkillers and benzodiazepines.

For example, she attempts to answer the phone by grunting, getting a pained look on her face, and attempting to push her legs off the side of the couch - full well knowing even I could out run a physically and psychologically worn down person such as herself.  I’m trying to understand this as best as someone who can never understand it can.  The only commiserating I can do with her pre-admittance to the loony bin is to explain that no one knows why the hell anything this terrible happens three times in a row – like Superman’s II, III or IV – but it does.  That doesn’t give you much of an answer.  But chalking it up to the will of some mystical fool up in the clouds who was crazy enough to keep apples away from nude people, make Noah find a version of every animal that had a significant other, and let Charlton Heston publish the 10 Commandments is as nutty as one of those chocolate covered wafer bars.  You know, the ones that never get the respect they should because they’re made by Little Debbie, as opposed to the pastry conglomerate and Monsanto of the industry, Hostess.  That’s not to mention all the duck billed platapie out there.  I mean if you’re almighty, and you’re creating animals, you should have to come down off the fence and choose either one or the other.  When laying this logic down to a bisexual trying to choose which sexual orientation they sex the best, it’s called “picking a hole” and sticking with it.

As for the physicality, I can scooper the pooper she’s baggin’.  While not being nearly as sensitive as anything having to do with the “Man In The Boat” or the “Happy Hole,” having your rather substantial skull cracked open and tinkered with requires a recovery period necessitating the use of a catheter.  In case you’re lucky enough not to know what a catheter is, it’s kind of like aquarium tubing with a balloon on the end that gets run up your answer to Skeletor’s Snake Mountain.  Except the balloon is not one of those funny “let it go and watch it fly around the room making fart noises” type of balloon.  It is an angry balloon that, when inflated, stops a crazy, 15 year-old juiced out of his noggin and full of pain meds from pulling the hose portion out of his business.  I don’t know if you’d actually call this a voluntary action on my part, due to all the A-List celebrity medications I was on.  But it definitely gives me an excuse for coming no closer to the toilet when I pee than the last ring you tried to toss on a 2 Liter at some festival, fair, or other carnie-administrated activity.  Ray Charles, Jeff Healey, and Louis Braille had better aim and the ability to make words out of zit formations than I did for sure.

I have learned that strong-willed, control freak doctors don’t take the advice of their own doctors very well either.  And they take the misconstruing of the doctor’s advice by their husbands even worse.  When this occurs, no matter how slurred the words explaining in great detail her “issue” as to why you’re wrong, the request of “being with her,” and being repeatedly asked if you know what she’s sayin’, you’re going to be listened to less than any other song on Right Said Fred’s album than the one you know.  You may have been too sexy to read all of that, and just found yourself admiring your lustiness in the mirror at this juncture, after being reminded of your “girl’s night out” theme song.

I just hope she doesn’t let her desire to stay in the normal routine of surgerizin’ instead of being the surgeree cause further problems.  I don’t want to have to pick up salads at Quizno’s and a bag of B+ at the Red Cross for dinner.  Blood, it’s what shouldn’t be for dinner.  If that starts occurring, I’ll have to put her doctor on speed dial, buy a bunch of wooden crosses, and make sure the neighbors all have reflections.  There is enough garlic in my house to supplement an Italian’s aftershave, or corner the market on seasoned loaves of bread, so at least I’ve got that covered.

When you’re historically supposed to be the pants wearer in the tribe, but you’ve willingly given up that role because you had no choice, and your spouse doesn’t listen to you in a time of need – short of calling their doctor and getting him/her to bitch at said spouse – you are not gonna get anywhere.  Like Bill Bixby, or The A-Team.  You’re just going to keep trudging on, aimlessly giving opinions and advice that seems helpful and might remedy the situation at hand, only to find out thirty minutes or so later your advice was a temporary fix.  Now it’s time to move on to some other problem you’ll only be able to temporarily fix, like that duct tape on the pipe everyone has under their sink.  I love it when a plan of not being angry after not being listened to comes together.

That’s about all there is to say about that for this particular day and age.  No questions please.  If you’re interested in commenting, contact my people, who will get in touch with your people’s people to set up a meeting between all the people.  From that, a hands across something coalition will most likely be formed, and I’ll take all the credit for initiating it;  by then, you will have forgotten your original questions, or won’t feel like asking them because you’re so caught up and believe in “the cause”.

JIS

(I take full responsibility for all grammatical and spelling errors contained in the preceding, including this statement of exceptance of responsibility, due to my lack of memmory, desire to refresh myself with grammatical basics and an overall carelessness)