You’re an important American.  I’m not talking about some type of motherfucker that Earl Pitts raves about either.  I am not talking about the fool who came up with the 8,000 calorie, deep fried Oreo taco salad burrito bigger than your ass.  I’m talking about someone who did something that others find magnanimous – that ain’t no volcano spooge people.  What I noticed the other day is that the upper echelon of Americans are always honored with a road, avenue, street, freeway or interstate dedicated in their name.  You know, if I stood up for equality, took dog bitings and fire hosings, I know my main goal in life would have been to have a fucking thoroughfare of any magnitude named after me.  “Hey, you shouldn’t have to ride in the back of the bus.  But, if you do, ride in the back on the stylish and pothole free MLK Boulevard.  Where equality goes both ways.”  I think it is standard practice to name some type of paved fare in the general vicinity of the locale in which a medal of honor recipient grew up.  You’re a badass mofo, killed a bunch of (insert evil enemy/racial remark delineating a nationality that was either defeated or interned here), lived to tell about it and probably had to start taking enough anti-depressants and psychotropic meds to make you believe Prozac is an evil alien on Star Trek, and Lithium is a Nirvana song.  Nevermind.  You’ll never be able to decipher such.  The point signifying the right away to navigate your chariot is, naming routes of transportation is a goofy fucking way of honoring great people.  Is there anyone out there who’s main motivation in life is to do something worthy of having a bypass named after them?    “Hey, I could kill this Hitler guy with a paper clip my letters from home are held together with.  But, before I change the course of history, do you think if I do go through with it, a concourse could be named after me in the future?”

Hurricane Henry Earl is gettin’ its twist on near North Carolina.  Who was the first person to come up with the idea of naming storms after people?  Did they think doing so would make death via Mother Nature more friendly?  Are storms named to allow hemp-wearing, patchouli-laced, multiple dog-havin’, new age hippies feel like they were being killed by a Green Planet?  If you’re killed by the environment, can you be recycled?  What the fuck is the purpose of those “HE” laundry sauces?  Werd on the street is they are high efficiency.  I always thought high efficiency meant someone who came to work with red eyes, a mild case of paranoia, a desire to eat crunchy snack food and the ability to concentrate their ass off so they can get some shit D.YOU.N.

If you ever hear the term “required by law,” you’re either being shafted, or given an excuse for someone not wanting to help you.  There is a lot of things that are required by law, like leaving the tags on mattresses or refraining from fucking endangered species, but that phrase should never be used in casual or business conversatin’.  If you ever ask someone who explains the requirements of law to you for the name or proof of the actual law, they are required by the law of lying to either make some shit up or say, “Look, a squirrel!” and take off running in the opposite direction like the love child of Usain Bolt and Jon Lovitz.  “Hey, can you help me change this flat tire?  Nah, sorry.  I’m required by law to refrain from strenuous exercise on account of something being wrong with my semen.”  Strap a sperm Garmin’ on those motherfuckers and help your goddamn friend, you pussy!

I just read a story that said Stephen Hawking has now changed his view on God.  You have to axe yourself, is this true or did his batteries just die during a conversation?  You think you’d ever believe that, if he does exist, God can be a prick due to the circumstance that your brain is faster than an iPad, but the body you were given is an iDud?  “Stephen Hawking changes his view on God, because he finally came to grips with being a retard in stripped down, 2-wheeled Stomper.”  That motherfucker should tear it up, and enter the Tour de France before he goes out with a Big Bang.  You think his computer has a program for “sexy voice” whenever he makes computer love?

Why is it that there is apparently an abundance of recently discovered, newly minted, uncirculated coins of some nature that are set to be released by the U.S. Mint every single fucking day?  If you ever listen to satellite radio, you’ll hear “rare” coins of all types of strains being flogged as if you’re the luckiest fuck on the mug of the circular sphere of life.  Their shtick is always that all their wares have been “recently discovered.”  You know, exactly how commonplace it is to discover recently hidden pieces of desirable and valuable metal in pristine condition on a weekly basis?  Hell, just the other day I discovered a cache of booty previously unknown to the free world AND Jack Sparrow, and it was filled with more doubloons than plastic helium filled party decorations at the last drive-by shooting in honor of P. Diddy.  Due to the constant offers I have ignored up until the writing of whatever this is, I decided to watch something called thecoinvalt.com.

It’s all coins all the time.  Unless correct change is needed, and then you have to put a .75 cents in for 10 minute blocks.  Hey, what the fuck is the deal with soda machines refusing to take the dollar bills that are crispier than bacon fried stationary?  It is almost like the more stout and starch your G.W. it’s less likely that you’re to get a drink than a new AAA member.  Them motherfuckers won’t let you change a tire if you have a hint of swill among your exhalations of plant life.  As of now, Silver Dollar Stan and the Coin Purses is trying to convince me to buy a “Complete Eisenhower Dollar Se.t”  Uh, weight a minute.  I am now being told that I must have “2010 Silver United States Proof Set.”  I’m familiar with the multiple variations of grain alcohol, but I’ve never heard of anything 2010 proof.  If you’re drinking shit so strong it has commas or decimal points, you’re going to go into a coma and can only be awoken with music played at high decibels.  Probably Rush.  Rush played softly has been shown to cause gerbils to run and hide in people’s asses, so they can avoid the high pitched, bass heavy songs with lyrics more fucked up than an unfinished Cherokee song called “Squaw Big Snake Make You Feel Like a Woman.”  Every race of people – whether inhumanely and unfairly kicked off their own land or not – has transformers.  Indian transformers had it easy.  Guy or gal, or both, wore the same skirt-like get up, or pants held together by Indian macramé.

Wouldn’t President Kennedy have been more appropriately honored with a dildo in the shape of his head?  He was a puss hound of the first degree.  I think he also has a monument or some shit, but I have just been reminded in the form of picture that he has his mug put on the front of a ½ dollar.  Sure, he was ½ fat and ready to put his monument into any triangular office he could find.  But I think he got screwed by getting commemorated in bullion.  He liked himself some “strange” more than the protagonist in anything Tim Burton is affiliated with.  If you’re going to truly commemorate his existence via the medium of coinage, show him with Marilyn Monroe ho-tard’n it up in the back ground.  Show him and Joe Dimaggio cock fighting over her.  Depict JFK and RFK Cameloting some chick on some sort of folding money.  The last time I checked, you can’t stuff a ½ dollar in a g-string.  You sure as hell can’t buy Georgia Bush or Hillary Rod-Me Cliton a Pepsi product for fitty fucking cents.  Well, unless you’re fucking Fitty Cent.

Today I wanted to talk a little bit about police issued field sobriety tests.  First off, I’ll go ahead and let you know that this exercise in inebriation sets up any person – whether drunk or sober – to fail from the get-go.  Who in the hell has ever practiced any of these tasks in everyday life when you’re sober?  Have you ever been to a friend’s house for dinner, and been asked to take 9 heel to toe steps up and back down a line?  If you show more than 2 clues, you don’t get dessert.  Horizontal Gaze Nystagmus sounds like you’re staring straight ahead at a gay male of a rare breed of Antelope.  I guess you could also have a gazed donut, a/k/a sweet grease, if you had .50 cents and were in the write locale.  I’ve never known anyone to get pulled over for a DUI in close proximity to a donut shop that was open.  If what they say about cops is true, that would be the most purified distillation of the phrase “looking the other way” I ever heard of.

By the way, how in the hell does a donut shop make money exactly?  You can go in and get multiple boxes of sweet grease along with a keg of chocolate milk, and at the most, you’ll have to part with up to $10 bucks if you really get extravagant.  Donut makin’ folk have to get up at like two in the morning on Sunday for all those who are keen on both Jesus, and fried dough that is covered or filled with tasty goodness.  Getting up that early in the morning and then charging like .75 cents for the most high end thing you make with all the options – icing, sprinkles and Bavarian cream in the center – just doesn’t seem profitable.  I just don’t see how you can make a profit from floggin’ a product when the purchase price only requires that the purchaser be familiar with green paper containing the visage of either G.W., or Honest Abe.  I’d think if you were working that much, you’d at least want to get up into Andrew Jackson territory.

Like Snoop Dogg once said, back to the lecture at hand.  For those of you scoring at home, I’ve been through two of the three standardized field sobriety tests and now it is time to move onto the one leg stand.  For most people, standing on one leg is only relevant when you’re being fitted for a prosthesis.  You have two legs for a reason.  They are both for running or standing on, while they are either simultaneously in motion or stationary.  But let us digress further into the monikers involved in these here examinations.  “Field” is an interesting term to use in a Children of the Corn type way.  What type of field were these tests standardized for?  If you can complete all of these tests in a soybean field, are you free to go?  What if you only take 7 heel to toe steps and you happen to be in a corn field? Would the ability to shuck and silk an ear save you a trip to the pokey?  Would failing mean you’ve had too much to drink, or were caught trespassing in an effort to obtain the most durable organic product on Earth?  You know what I’m talking about.  It doesn’t take David Blaine or Criss Angel to explain that strange fact of gastroinveginal fortitude.

To get back on topic like a concept album – which are always terrible because they inevitably contain some “moral” or heavy thoughts that the majority of us want to forget about while drinking and holding up our lighters, and screaming for “Freebird” no matter who’s show it is – the one leg stand is a test in which you are told to choose one of your legs.  Of course, this assuming you’ve only got two.  They don’t count, well, you know, if say you’re the star of Ripley’s Believe It or Not’s “The Three Legged Dance.”   Then you’re told to hold said foot about approximately 6 inches off the ground, and count to 30 without using your arms for balance.  This is like something people taking ballroom dancing lessons in a mine field would do.  The only thing standardized thing about this test is that it’s standard for an officer to ask you to complete these stupid human tricks after they observe the requisite strong odor of alcoholic beverage, slurred speech or glassy and blood shot eyes.  In other words, don’t drive if you’ve got a drinking problem a la Ted Striker, have been to the dentist or had issues with your contacts.  Sure, that’s a lot of improbable factors that have to come together for that perfect storm to come to fruition, but stranger things have happened.  John McCain once chose Tina Fey as a running mate.  Stuart Smalley won a Senate seat in Minnesota.  Conan The Republican is married to that Kennedy who resembles Skeletor,  and he is still the governor of the highly flammable state known as California.  Crazy shit goes down right in front of your peepers people.  Jeepers.

American politics is one of the most often discussed, and least understood, topics in our society today.  I concede that my knowledge of the government’s inner workings and policies is minimal; but the big difference between me a lot of other people is that I will voluntarily plead ignorance when something goes beyond my understanding.  It seems like more and more U.S. citizens have strong opinions just for the sake of having them, thereby giving the illusion that they are informed on a given issue.  This is comparable to the old rap line that has been repeated in numerous songs, “You talkin’ loud, but ain’t sayin’ shit.”  You will hear those who identify themselves as Democrats contend that Republicans are arrogant, rich elitists who are stuck in the past.  Republicans claim Democrats are liberal pansies who are opening up this country to terrorists while turning towards socialism.  Independents probably (I’ve yet to meet anyone who admits to being affiliated with this political party) believe that the other two can’t do anything to help the country, because they are too busy arguing over anything and everything.  And you know what?  They are all right if you make sweeping judgments about the groups as a whole, which are based on the actions or words of a few who are talkin’ louder than the others.

An example of our blissful ignorance when it comes to politics took place this past weekend in Washington D.C. at Glenn Beck’s highly publicized “Restoring Honor” rally.  The event raised money for a non-profit organization for military veterans – which is commendable – and was touted as a “values-and-patriotism event to restore honor in America,” as well as “a celebration of America’s heroes and heritage.”  While I tend to agree with Beck (just typing that made me vomit in my mouth a little) in thinking our country has deteriorated, we differ greatly on the perceived causes of this downfall.  He seems to believe all of our problems will go away if we as a nation turn back to our faith in God.  I believe religion – like political affiliation – is yet another thing that further divides people, and discounts the multitude of similarities and experiences we share as human beings.  Beck thinks our freedoms are being taken away, and that we have strayed away from our country’s roots.  I think freedom is now more of a state of mind, and a brief history lesson reveals that our roots are filled with delusions of manifest destiny and genocide.

I will also give Beck credit for publicly promoting this rally as a non-political event, even though that’s an unusual – and shady – decision considering his fame is derived from televised, tear-infused political diatribes.  But after watching the following video, it looks like some of the attendees at the rally didn’t get the memo.  Yes, I know that everyone who is interviewed in the video is handpicked, and realize it’s edited to illustrate only the dumbest and least articulate individuals in Washington D.C. at Beckapalooza.  They only comprise a very small sample size, and unfairly shed a negative light on everyone else who was present.  Having said that, it still represents one of the single biggest factors affecting our society – that being pure, unadulterated ignorance.  Some may watch this video and automatically think I am a card-carrying Democrat, or a liberal, fascist commie who loves Barack Obama.  But the truth is that idiots come from all different walks of life, and have varying opinions on our government – it just so happened that some of them chose to open themselves up for scrutiny by giving an interview at this particular gathering:  

Yesterday marked the end of August, and also wrapped up the Big Think’s “Month of Thinking Dangerously” series.  Over the course of 31 days, the site posed questions and possible solutions on topics ranging from legalizing all drugs, to changing weather patterns with the aid of lasers.  Yesterday’s final big idea centered around a growing problem in the United States, both literally and figuratively.  I’m talking about our bloated brethren across the country who think exer-cise is some new meal deal upgrade at McDonald’s that comes with a bucket of fries and 132 oz. soda.  Writer Andrew McDermott explores one option to curb their collective appetites in the form of a fat fee, or butterball bill if you will.  This doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea, especially when you consider the fact that there are starving people everywhere, and we have a sanctioned competitive eating organization.  But if I had to guess, I’m betting this taxation with food inhalation wouldn’t go over too well with many of the Tea Party members.

If Americans were paid to eat less and exercise more they might be motivated to lose some weight—and save us a bundle on health care—says Dr. Barry M. Popkin, director of University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill’s Interdisciplinary Center for Obesity.

According to a report released by the Center for Disease Control this month, 26.7% Americans are obese and they’re only getting fatter. “The statistics have become rote, but consider that people in their 50s are about 20 pounds heavier on average than 50-somethings were in the late 1970s,” wrote economics journalist David Leonhardt…”As a convenient point of reference, a typical car tire weighs 20 pounds.”

Obesity is defined by having a Body Mass Index (BMI) of over 30…By state, obesity prevalence ranges from 18.6% in Colorado to 34.4% in Mississippi…To make matters worse, these rates rely on self-reported height and weight data, which likely produces underestimates because both men and women tend to overestimate their height and women tend to underestimate their weight.

“From a societal standpoint, if a third to a half of Americans weren’t so fat, the idea of the government providing tax incentives for the obese to eat less and exercise more wouldn’t be so controversial,” Dr. Popkin told Big Think, “In 1955, if you’d thought about taxing cigarettes you would have been run off the planet.”

Popkin proposes two possible ways of using taxes to motivate people to lose weight. His first policy suggestion is to demand that anyone with a BMI greater than 30 who receives Medicare, Medicaid or government administered health care pay a fee if they are unwilling to prove they’ve undertaken a few predetermined exercise activities or show that they are consciously watching what they consume. Popkin admits that taxing bad behavior is different and more challenging than placing a tax on consumers products like cigarettes and alcohol, but he says there are technologies available that could enable the government to monitor obese people’s diets and exercise.

“We have devices that we could put on your throat that could measure your swallows,” Popkin explains. “We have devices now to measure how much you move, so we can see when people are engaged in activity like walking or jogging. He even suggests that obese people could wear ankle bracelets or collars similar to those used to monitor DUI felons and people on probation to prove that despite their high BMI, they’re active and eating properly. “If Americans are going to be serious about losing weight,” says Popkin, “then they need something that’s serious.”

If the idea of asking obese people to prove that they’re exercising and eating well, or else face a tax, sounds far too Orwellian, Popkin’s second suggestion is to make all Americans pay an additional flat-tax of, say, $100 a person per year, to build a pool of money which is then returned to people who either have a BMI lower than 30 or have somehow proven that they’re dieting and exercising. Popkin points to corporate weight-loss programs, in which employees are rewarded with cash for partaking in exercising, dieting, and smoking-cessation programs, as an example of how there are already versions of what might be considered a “fat tax” being administered not just in America, but around the globe.

Full Story

(The sound effect around the :49 second mark is the scene stealer in my opinion):

I cannot resist to share with you what is being shared with me in this wating room in which I currently find myself.  Since I’ve usually been the operatee, I have not been given the pleasure of being in this room full of humanity.

“Johnson, you have a telephone call.”  That just came over the intercom, which I might point out is as needless as a No. 3 pencil on a scantron exam.  This entire waiting room is about the size of a living room in a pre-fabricated home.  “When Mikey went to jail, we told her not to leave him inside, because he was attacking the cat.”  I may have to come back to that, but I’m just going to type out whatever comment I may hear, due to my absolute lack of memory.  The woman partaking in this philosophical equivalent to Plato and Socrates discussing farts, just said, “Animals can turn on ye.”  To which, “That’s why I have Chihuahuas.” was retorted.

Back to the discussion that used to be at hand, the beauty or ignorance of this room is that it’s so small, you can hear all the HIPPA-violating conversations going on.  Hell, I’m so close to some of these people, I can hear what they are thinking.  It does have hardwood floors as if someone from “Fancy Up Your Fabricated Home” on the Home and Garden Network came in and spruced the place up. “If you’re going to eat sweets, do it responsibly.”  This same woman just said she weighs over 330 pounds.  Apparently there has been threats of a lock on this woman’s refrigerator by her husband.  Her problem is, if she gets a bag a chips, she just don’t eat a few, she eats the whole bag.  She has attempted to thwart her chippery by buying smaller bags, and for every one she eats, she gives six to the dog.  I swear to whoever you believe in, this is really being said within keyboard range.  I can’t believe these people don’t realize I’m typing like a transcriptionist on Adderall after each and every word they say.

“It doesn’t help that Michael can sit there and eat 5 Arby’s sandwiches and be as small as he is.  He wears a small.” Based on the previous threads of this conversation, I find it hard to believe Michael – which seems to the BBW (porn term) lovin’ thin man (not the oil needing dude from The Wizard of Oz) married to this behemoth of intellectual enlightenment – isn’t tackled, tased or held at gun point any time he brings five Arby’s sandwiches into the home.

The chairs have kind of a 70′s funky turtle shell pattern that, thank god, is not counteracting my Lamictal or sense of hearing.  It has been confirmed.  The guy wearing the camouflaged wife beater that would only hide him in the Antarctic or on Hoth, is Michael.  His bride with the 330lb ass and it’s own zip code just asked Michael to kill a seemingly injured or ignorant fly walking around on the hardwood.

“The Redd Family.” is all the old chick on the intercom said after answering the phone.  It’s like surgery bingo up in here.   A name is called out, and you blot your card.  If Kawolcheck is next, I win.  I just noticed that Big Talker – Indian name – has a tattoo on her right shoulder.  It does not appear to be any sort of perishable item or fast food logo, but it definitely has been stretched further than any spandex she has ever worn.

And then you got your anonymous, random people that come in and look around, like they’re casing the joint for something nefarious.  They don’t say anything, show any credentials or ask anyone to submit to a polygraph, but they definitely look like there “uhthoritie” needs to be respected.  They only hang around for an average of 30 seconds to a minute, but it makes you somewhat antsy nonetheless.  You can definitely tell who might be holding in this crowd, because some of these cats mysteriously get called by nature and head towards the head every time a sick bay sentry rolls up in this joint.

“When Randy was four years old, he was big enough to pick up my grandmama.”  Randy is apparently not here, because I’m sure he would have stood up, flexed his biceps and taken credit for such a feat of strength, had he been present.  Not to mention the girth or weight of the grandmother that was sack-o-tatered was never mentioned.  If she had osteoporosis or was too short to ride rides at theme parks, I’m not impressed.

“He’s the anti-Christ.”  To which the older participant queried, “How old is he?”  To which our clearly-not-on-heroin-heroine replied, “Two years old.”  Damien didn’t even match those numbers.  I don’t know how you’d figure a two year old to be the anti-Christ.  If he threw up pea soup like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, that could merely be a mix of gastric juices and baby food peas.  If his bodily discharges were extremely funky, that could be attributable to that sour mash-like baby food they’re all fed along with that un-Kool Aid like formula mixture forced upon them.  On the other hand, if they incessantly watch Teletubbies, then you may have yourself a problem.  Jerry Fallwell was only touching the surface of there ungodliness when he went after the purple, purse carrying, apparently man-on-man loving one.

To be clear, before this ends, I don’t believe I’m perfect in anyway and admit my love can be handled very easily around my waist.  My forehead is scarred with what appears to be a surgeons take on the river Nile, and I have such a little ass that it appears my sizable gut ate it at some point during my college career.  My legs are skinner than an anorexic chicken with anemia, and I’m more pasty than a hungry first grader’s mouth.  I just call it like I see it and, this particular morning, I’m apparently seeing things rather critically and I thought I’d do a little sidebar showing I get as much as I give.

The chick at the waiting room front desk is on the phone every time it rings, like an actual Indian on Microsoft’s Help Line.  I know that happens once in a red dotted moon, but I have experienced it.  They must have been bored that day.  Anyway, when she answers the calls, she either gets on the aforementioned intercom, or simply calls out the name of the family which needs a designated representative to talk to whoever.  It’s almost like managers meeting at home plate and exchanging lineup cards before a baseball game.  These people run up there, talk to the lady and then speak to whomever on the phone.

O.K., at the risk of chapping my wife’s robe exposed ass, I’m going to shut this down.  As I’ve said before, I’m completely responsible for all errors and loony thoughts.  There were a lot of quotations in this note, and I don’t know how to convey the finger bending hand gesture that is the style of the times.  I shall return.  Keep your head on your shoulders, and keep reading gossip magazines in lines at stores about stars.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.  A riveting drama about a particularly perfect cut piece of Spam with a beard, who turns to a gang to fulfill the void left by an absentee father.

Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin went on tour this past weekend to get Republicanism off their chests, and served as the main acts in a reenactment of an actually historical event.  Glenn Beck took time away from yelling, crying and reminding everyone he was an alcoholic long enough to promote a “rally” at the Lincoln Memorial.  Glenny B said the point of the whole thing was to “restore America’s honor.”  Civil rights leaders – who have no actual job other than running around and bitching about shit they think ain’t right civilly – had a bunch of separate but equal opinions on this matter.  Basically, they all individually said the same thing collectively.  According to their over-sensitive selves, the rally should have been segregated to a different day than the 47th anniversary of MLK’s greatest hit.  Who put apartheid pee in their Freedom Wheaties?  I don’t know a lot about a lot of things, but I do know very little about some things.  If I remember watching something correctly, MLK was all about letting everyone have their say and their own opinion.  Of course, his main gig was that black people should be treated just like anyone else.  Uh, duh?!?  That’s a novel theory there, MLK.  Equality for all human beings.  You should bottle that up and sell it.

As ignorant and obvious as this ideal is, he was one of the first in this country to say prejudice assholes should just get over it.  It is unfortunate that someone had to do a book report on the steps of Uncle Abe’s statue to really bring that into the forefront of American history.  If you have to be told that all humans are created equal, you should probably not be allowed to play with different colors of Play-Doh.  If you have to be told that all humans ain’t really equal, you’re dumber than a piece of Tupperware filled with mountain pellets.  What I’m trying to type is, all of us ain’t anywhere near the same, but we shouldn’t discriminate on the basis of skin color.  You should hate a motherfucker ’cause he’s an idiot, asshole, jerk, wuss, puss, goober, dunderhead or a Boston Red Sox fan.  Skin color hatred can also be very dangerous if getting a tan is a possibility.  Passing out on a float in a pool after having too many Third Reich Ice Teas could lead to your being kicked out of Klub.  I have to think melatonin is a motherfucker if you’re racist.  Hatred should be used sparingly and intelligently.  There is a whole bunch of shit in life that is worth crinkling your forehead, and blowing out your o-ring.  You don’t want to spend a large portion of your breathing career on being pissed off or chapped over anything; but if you’re going to hate some shit, it shouldn’t be because you failed kindergarten due to an inability to remember the color brown.

Why is it that a brief power outage throws Direct TV into a bigger tail spin than a tornado coming out of the backfield?  From experience, I’d have to say satellite signals are more fragile than Fabergé eggs.  If you rip a big enough fart, you can cause a blurry screen.  And when it finally does decide to come back on, it gives you this progress bar so that you can countdown the % points until your TV comes back on directly.  It’s like you are being held captive by satellite TV’s answer to Dick Clark.  Fucking telling me my TV will come back directly.  All I want is my TV back on.  I don’t need no damn in progress update.  It’s like a SportsCenter in-outage update.

“Get a Life“

One morning I get up, get out of bed, get showered, get some breakfast, and get to thinkin’, “I’m not gettin’ any.”  I get the urge to get some nookie, and get an idea.  So I get dressed, get in my car, and get on the freeway.

When I get downtown, I get a few beers, get a buzz, and get lucky.  I get a glimpse of a fine-looking woman.  I get her a drink, get her talking, and we get acquainted.  So I get up my courage and get her to agree to get a room.

We get outta there, get some booze, get in a taxi, and get a hotel.

We get in the room, and get comfortable, and and I’m gettin’ excited ’cause I’m gonna get in her pants.  So we get undressed, get in bed, and get started.  And I’m gettin’ hot ’cause she’s gettin’ horny.  She wants to get down, and I wanna get my rocks off.  I wanna get it up, get in on, get off, and get out.

And it starts gettin’ real good.  But then I get thinking, “Suppose I get the clap?  If I get the clap, I’ll have to get shots.  Might get worse.  Could get AIDS.  Shoulda got rubbers.”

Now I get paranoid.  Get a bit crazy.  Get a bit scared.  Gotta get a grip.

Then it gets worse  Suppose she gets pregnant?  Will she get an abortion?  She might wanna get married.  I can’t get involved.  If I gotta get married, I gotta get her a ring.  How do I get it?  I’d have to get credit.  Or get hold of some money!

That means gettin’ a job.  Or gettin’ a gun.  And a getaway car.  But suppose I get caught?  Get busted by the cops.  Get thrown in jail!  Gotta get help.  Get a good lawyer.  Get out on bail.

No.  I gotta get serious.  Get it together.  Get with the program.  Get me a break, get me a job.  Get a promotion, get a nice raise, get a new house, and get some respect.  But if I get all of that, I can’t get real cocky.  Might get someone mad who’d get on my case, get me in trouble, and then I’d get fired.

Then I’d get mad, maybe get violent, get kicked outta work.   Then get discouraged, start to get desperate, get hold of some drugs, get loaded, get hooked, and get sick.  Get behind in my rent, get evicted, get thrown on the street.

Maybe get mugged, get beaten, get injured, get hospitalized, get operated on, get a blood clot, get a heart attack, get the last rites, get a stroke, get a flat line, get a trip to the graveyard, and get buried in the field.

So get this.  You gotta get smart, and gotta get real.  Get serious.  Get home, get undressed, get in bed, get some sleep.  Or you might just get fucked.  Get me?

“A Few Random Sexual Ejaculations“

In spite of all the wonderfully entertaining sex crimes we enjoy in this country, Americans are still a prudish lot.  So now we’ve decided to use the word gender when referring to a person’s sex.  Gender has been borrowed from linguistics, and will soon include other meanings: “I think he’s perverted, Stan.  He told me he had gender with a woodchuck.”  “He’s as ugly as shit, Gloria, but the gender is strangely dark and quite intense.”  “Pull up your pants, Russell.  I told you anal gender is high-risk fun!”  And, of course, that once-exciting 1960′s tripod of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll has been completely euphemized.  Now it’s, “gender, controlled substances, and alternative rock.”

If a movie is “R-rated,” it means that if you’re under seventeen, you have to see it with an adult:

“What’s he doing, Dad?”
“He’s fucking her, son.”

Sex Quiz For Men:
1. Have you ever been walking on the street toward three great-looking women who all have fabulous tits, and you don’t know which set of tits to stare at?  And you only have a few seconds to decide?  Thank God you can at least study their asses while they’re walking away.

2. Did you ever see a really attractive mannequin in a department store, and you think maybe you’d like to fuck her?  But you know you can’t, so you try to sneak a quick look at her crotch?  And you don’t worry about anyone seeing you, because they would never believe what you’re thinking?  Remember, ladies, the thought most often coursing through a man’s mind is, “Boy, I’d sure like to fuck that.”

3. Have you ever been talking to a married couple you just met, and the woman has really great tits?  And you’re dying to get a really long look at them, but you can’t even take a quick glance, because her husband is staring right at you?  Then, when he finally looks away for an instant, do you immediately look straight at her tits, regardless of whether or not it makes her uncomfortable?

News note: On TV recently, a guy was complaining that he was sexually “abused” by a female teacher when he was a boy.  He said she touched him and made him touch her in their private parts.  Yeah?  So?  Where’s the abuse?  Maybe I’m twisted or something, but as a child, I would’ve been willing to kill for this kind of special attention.  I’d have had my hand in the air all day long, “Teacher!  I need some more of that special help!”  It would have really lent a stimulating new perspective to the idea of staying after school.

I’m glad I don’t have any weird sexual fetishes.  It’s hard enough just getting laid, can you imagine cruising the bars searching for a submissive, albino rubber freak who wants you to throw cantaloupes at his ass and shit on his chest?

I will, however, admit to being fascinated by a strange new perversion I’ve heard of.  It’s called S & W.  Apparently just as you’re about to come, your partner vomits root beer on you.