Now, I’m not tryin’ to go all Da Vinci Code’ish on anybody out there – even though it may appear that way after my investigative report on the McRib – but it seems to me (said with a Bill Cosby from Himself-type inflection) that Catholics in the area where I live have some type of monopoly on mutton.  Around these parts, mutton only emerges when the local politicos descend upon one of the many various church functions/picnics that take place during the summer months.  In case you didn’t know, mutton is the meat of domestic sheep.  It is also known as – that’s a/k/a to you and all those in law enforcement, kids (…look Big Ben, Parliament) – lamb or hogget.  Lamb is a young sheep under 12 months of age that does not have any permanent incisor teeth “in wear” - Lamb Chop is that annoying sock puppet with that chic’s hand up its ass.  There is quite a difference, namely one tastes good with a little BBQ sauce, while the other is all moral and wants you to do the right thing.

I’ll be honest, I never knew that teeth had anything to do with what diagnosis you laid on sheep meat.  I guess there is a whole field of sheepistry that goes around telling sheep herders when the sheep have magically turned into mutton.  There may also be other ways to size up their teeth…I mean, who hasn’t heard a sheep herder-beastiality joke? Hell, Brokeback Mountain appealed to a large, happy market for that very reason.  Contrary to popular belief, a hogget is not a large woman riding a Harley Davidson.  Hogget is a young male sheep, or maiden ewe, having no more than two permanent incisors in wear…decisons, decisions.  What should a hogget wear?  Seemingly, they run with incisors if they choose to live and grow old.  Again, who would have thought teeth played such a big role in determing whether or not to eat something?  I could see that if you lived off of carp maybe, but sheep?  I would have thought that you’d just eat them young, so they wouldn’t have a chance to go baaaahhhhd.

Now don’t go confusin’ mutton with goat meat either - Goat meat is for pikers.  Those who like goat meat usually turn their snoots in the air when asked about the palatability of mutton - they prefer to use the French-derived word chevon (from chèvre) – instead of the more common El meato de goato.  I guess someone looked into it, and came up with some market research from the United States showing that “chevon eater” is more appealing to consumers than “goat eater”.  The latter kinda sounds like that Hall & Oats tune from the 80′s, while the former sounds like someone who consumes oil-based foods.

Being called a “goat eater” is actually a serious accusation in furry, woolen meat eating circles.  So if you’re a consumer of this type of carne, you have to know what you’re doing and take it seriously; because, damn it, if you just start indiscriminantly eating lambs one day and goats the next, the whole ovine meat economy is going to collapse - the price of sweaters and goat milk will increase threeeeeeee fold.  And just for future reference, hilljacks living in trailers with all their junk fenced in don’t like to be labeled goat eaters because it connotates that they don’t fully appreciate the bounty they are afforded by these four legged lawn mowers.  Sadly though, this nutritional divide will probably never be closed.  You see, goats and sheep have been a feudin’ over whose the tastier of the two species longer than the Hatfields and McCoys have been bumpin’ shine jugs over who’s more ignurnt – so there seems to be no end in sight.  However I recently heard that Bono was taking up the cause, so there’s hope yet.

In the town of Spacefaceville, you can spread your thoughts via a chain letter-like conglomeration of “friends.”  There is no limit or restraint on the number, or type of people whose space you can invade with your face.  Before you can start hoarding faces, you have to either successfully request a virtual friendship, or accept a request to have your space invaded by another face.  Once your request is accepted, or Miami vice versa, your space for faces will start to fill up quicker than a frat boy pouring hooch into a cooler (or so I have been told).  A large percentage of the faces you will add to your space are people you’ve known for a long time.  You’ve got your high school classmate face, college classmate face, co-worker face, family face, and the ever popular long lost friend face.  Those are all good forms of faces to keep in your space.  For me, it’s the anonymous/unknown faces requesting to RAM into my space that are the strangest.

On the average, I get about three requests a week for space from faces I’ve never met in high or low places.  I have less of an idea who these faces are, and how they know my face, than a drunkard knows where the vomit stain on his pant leg came from.  When it comes to accepting or denying a face’s request for space, I always have a hard time saying no.  My theory is, expose as many spaces and faces to my nuttiness as spaces will allow.  I’m taking over cyberspace one face at a time.  Before you know it, all websites will have more metaphors than something they can be compared to.  Run-on sentences will become the Norm, as opposed to the Cliff, because it will be easier to express one’s face out in space without observing the laws of “grammar” and “punctuation.”  The one drawback is that it may become tough to determine where one thought begins, and when your patience with the sentence ends.

One of the most interesting things about accepting unknown faces from space is the post-acceptance attempt to figure out who in the hell this person is.  This is usually accomplished by staring at their face whenever you’re in your space.  It’s kinda like staring at a face in an effort to determine if that porn stache-havin’, raincoat-wearin’, coke bottle glasses-havin’ weirdo across the street who drives the van with tinted windows is the same face you saw on the Most Wanted poster at the Post Office.  As a sidecar, I’ve always wondered why wanted posters are hung up all over Post Offices?  Do people on the run regularly check their PO Box?  Do fugitives have responses to fan mail they’ve just got to get out before crossing another state’s line?  I’d think it would be more productive to put fugitives’ pictures in porn shops, bowling alleys, truck stops, trailer parks, and Chuck E. Cheese.  You could also probably catch a whole mess of ‘em if you ran the fingerprints of all carnival and county fair migrants who come to town.  You could also finally be able to tell the difference between a midget and a dwarf based on this analysis.  That is, of course, as long as the corn dog residue build-up doesn’t skew the results.  You’d be amazed at the build-up of corn dog grease that will collect under the fingernails of someone who is a true believer in the “Guess Your Weight” lifestyle.

I tell you this, I wished I had known about all these single faces that sometimes show up on the right side of my space in my pre-married years.  I seriously doubt any of them would have ever allowed me to put my face into their space, but you can always dream.  You catch that?  I nude you wood.  Whoever came up with the idea of trading faces to all kinds of different spaces is the Larry Flynt of cyber socializing.  Like Larry, someone took a lot of faces and showed their spaces.  There it was again.  I’m the Kevin Nealon of subliminal sexual innuendo.  If you don’t get it, there is no need to jump out the window.  Anyway, I guess my face enjoys sharing space with other faces, because I seem to devote a lot of time to my space.  Once you get started, collecting faces for your space is more addictive than masturbating.  Seriously, who has only done it once?

Why would you have brunch instead of breakfast if you can’t buy swill until 12:00 p.m.?  If you’re sleeping late and going to partake in a meal that some delusional fat man discovered to quench his hunger pangs in betwixt breakfast and lunch, you need alcohol – if for no other reason than to quit hanging over.  What the hell is a beignet?  I always thought they were those Rambo knife-like things soldiers put on the end of their guns, but apparently they can also be a doughy, early morning answer to the hush puppy.  The “starter” I chose for this particular brunch was deviled eggs.  I didn’t really want to eat them.  I just wanted to see a waiter at a fancy joint bring me a huge jar of eggs that I could shove my whole arm down into for my selecting pleasure.  Instead, I got three egg quarters with a speck of bacon, a smidgen of country ham, and a bunch of miniature, tasteless vegetable cubes.

I ordered beer battered fried chicken as my brunch closer.  The menu described it as “spicy” beer battered yardbird.  When it appeared, it was just two chicken thighs with seasoning all over them.  Wasn’t that the chorus to an Eddie Money song back in the day?  “I’ve got, two chickens, a pair a thighs.  Won’t you, come home and we’ll fry tonight.”  If those aren’t the lyrics, they should be.  Would you have guessed a joint with a high reading on the swank meter would be dollin’ out dark meat yardbird under the guise of it being gourmet, just because it was served on top of a corn soup-like mixture called succotash?  I would have been sufferin’ had I ate that succotash, so I didn’t touch it.  At least Popeye’s and KFC make it clear that you are getting second tier pollo when you order it, because it is labeled as such.  After the meal was over, I felt as though I had been duped.  Then we got the bill for the whole affair, and I knew we had been duped.

“Is anybody in there….” Cue clocks ticking, collect call sounds, and various other assorted noises.  Who reading this likes Pink Floyd?  If you do, raise one hand and use the other one to push that back button on your browsers, because I hate those fools worse than running out of alcohol on a Sunday.  I’m not saying they didn’t have musical talent, and weren’t smart enough to realize their niche, but what the hell?  I just realized I may have gone off on Floyd several months ago, but it just hit me again, so I’m literally free ballin’ with it.  I mean, a lot of people did acid and wrote songs about it in the 60′s and 70′s.  Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” comes to mind.  But it’s like Floyd couldn’t make it without pandering to the LSD-laced crowd.  Unless they repaired watches or collected grandfather clocks, what was all that clock noise at the beginning or end of whatever that song was?  Having children sing the chorus to one of your tunes is also freaky.  I know the Stones did it too, but that is completely different because they’re my favorite band.  “All in all you’re just another brick in the wall” wasn’t that bad; but if you really felt that way, just call a damn mason and leave me alone.  I understand you’ve got issues in your life, but your clock and masonry problems don’t concern me.  I’ll say this, “Money” is a damn good song.  It has a good bassline, and the cash register sound is strategically placed.  Other than that, there music has been Roger Waters under the bridge to me.  Not that any of them are going to lose sleep over it, I just had to get it out there.

Even the name Pink Floyd makes me think that barber from The Andy Griffith Show was gay (not that there’s anything thing wrong with that).  But there’s no reason for no Floyd to be pink, unless you show me some measurements and they involve a significant bust line.  Well, I would like to expounded further, but I am not going to.  I will see you fools later like a baked tater.

One of my friends emailed me the following story this morning, and I couldn’t resist posting it.  However, I don’t believe the emailer actually wrote this anecdote; so if this is someone else’s work, I will be happy to give that person full credit, and then beg them to write for this site:

I went to the Home Depot recently while not being altogether sure that course of action was a wise one.  You see, the previous evening I had prepared and consumed a massive quantity of my patented, “You’re definitely going to shit yourself roadkill chili.”  Tasty stuff, albeit hot to the point of being painful; it comes with a written guarantee from me that if you eat it, the next day both of your butt cheeks WILL fall off.

I had awakened that morning, and even after two cups of coffee (you all know what I mean) nothing happened.  Despite the habanero peppers swimming their way through my intestinal tract, I was unable to create the usual morning symphony – which I refer to as “Thunder and Lightning.”  Knowing that a time of reckoning had to come, yet not sure of just when, I bravely set off for the Depot, my quest being paint and supplies to finish my man cave.

At first all seemed normal, I selected a cart and began pushing it about and dropping items in for purchase.  It wasn’t until I was at the opposite end of the store from the restrooms that the pain hit me.  I’m referring to that “Uh, oh, shit, I gotta go” pain that always hits us at the worst time.  The pain was different this time though, the habaneros from the night before were staging a revolt.  Before I could take one step in the direction of the restrooms which would bring sweet relief, it happened – the peppers fired a warning shot.

There I stood, alone in the paint and stain section, suddenly enveloped in a noxious cloud the likes of which has never been recorded.  I was afraid to move for fear that more of this vile odor might escape me. About that time, a red-aproned clerk rounded the corner and asked if I needed any help.  I don’t know why I did it, but I wanted to see what his reaction would be to the malodorous effluvium that refused to dissipate.  Have you ever been torn in two different directions emotionally?  Here’s what I mean, and I’m sure some of you can relate.  I could’ve warned that poor clerk, but chose not to.  I simply watched as he walked into an invisible, and apparently indestructible, wall of odor.  It was so terrible, he stood there blinking and waving his arms about – like he was trying to ward off a swarm of angry bees.  This made me feel terrible, but then it also made me laugh…Big mistake!!

Here’s the thing, when you laugh, it’s hard to keep things “clamped down” if you know what I mean.  With each laugh, an explosive issue burst forth from my nether region.  Some were so loud that I was later told a few folks in other aisles had ducked, fearing that someone was robbing the store and firing off a shotgun.  Suddenly things were no longer funny, because “it” was coming.  I raced towards the restrooms, praying I’d make it before the massive assplosion.  Luck was on my side, so I got to the john in the nick of time and began the inevitable “Oh my God”  hovering because my ass was burning so bad.  One poor soul walked in during the middle and began gagging, then disgustedly said, “Sonofabitch, did it smell that bad when you ate it?”- and he left just as quick as he came in.

Once finished, I left the restroom and returned to my partially filled cart so I could resume shopping.  Within seconds, a store employee approached me and said, “Sir you may want to step outside for a few minutes, it appears some prankster has set off a stink bomb in the store.”  My smirking of course set me off again, causing residual gasses to escape.  The employee took one sniff, jumped back and shouted “It’s you!” while covering his nose with his shirt.  I was unceremoniously escorted from the premises, and asked none too kindly not to return.  I should probably end the story here, because my lawyer has advised me not to say anymore.  Yes that’s right, I am now embroiled in a legal battle with Home Depot as a result of this incident…the bastards claim they are going to have to repaint the entire store.

You think people who are real religious are on Jesus’s email list?  I mean, don’t tell me that you haven’t ever googled God.com.  You know it is out there, and while you’re not quite sure it is the real deally-o, you’re not exactly going to sign up for a membership with the email address of fuqoff@smallpp.com either.  You think Jesus gets spam?  OK, I see the problem with that query.  Every good Bible scholar knows that Jesus did turn unwanted pork products into Spam in the book of Pottedmeaticus; but that is not what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about the slew of unwanted emails that anyone who has ever been on any site on the world wide webular inevitably gets.  If you’ve ever been unable to persuade someone of whatever sex to crank your generator and looked at porno sites instead, then you’ve got more Spam than all of the Hawaiian Isles combined.  Before I go any further, what is the deal with all those Sumo-American fools diggin’ the potted meat?  Not to say that an occasional grilled Spam and cheese sandwich isn’t tasty; but my understanding is, those homebiscuits throw it down like a snap n’ pop around the 4th O’July.  That seems so strange to me seeing as how they have all that fresh fish and seafood everywhere around them.  I mean, I wonder if the same girl scout that came up with Samoa cookies convinced the rest of her troop that “potted meat” did not mean it came in a clay pot.  Did she have to tell them it was a taste explosion manufactured far before the entrails hit the butcher’s floor?  If she did, you know that ho-tater has like the biggest “Dr. Phil” badge on her accomplishment sash that anyone short of Oprah with a magnifying telescope has ever seen.  By the way, aren’t sashes just supposed to tell you where you’re from, like in case you get lost at a beauty pageant, as opposed to throwing all your alleged Little House On the Prarie-esque accomplishments on the common folk who have embraced the 21st Century?  John Rambo made due with a tarp and knife, but these girl scouts don’t have to wear a sash to force me to acknowledge they cleaned toilets at a geezer commune, or picked up dog turds at the park for 3 hours straight on 8 non-consecutive Sundays.

Anyway, Jesus is allegedly about to show back up…I think…I don’t really know.  I know that he did at one time, but I’ve never had religion forced on me enough to know if he’s like Santa Claus – he comes back every year - or like David Lee Roth and Van Halen – he only comes back when he needs more money.  Do you think Jesus and the Easter Bunny know each other?  Maybe the Easter Bunny was like the first pet that the Head Hippie In Charge received from God; but after realizing that he might be ready to die for everyones sins, he still wasn’t too keen on the idea of having to take care of a pet.  Due to Jesus being unable to care for his – crucifixion wasn’t exactly a believable excuse back then – he was given a special power,  and placed on Earth to bring happiness and joy to the rest of us non-celestial bastards.  How else are you going to explain a rabbit that lays colored eggs?  Short of Leslie Nielson pulling those eggs with finches out of that chick’s mouth in Airplane, I haven’t seen anything similar.

I guess no matter what flavor you believe the big sucker in the sky is, you still can’t say how many licks it takes to get to the center.  But, I think most everyone can agree that the thrill of licking your way there is what brings us together as people.  I hope you have a surge protector, because you might see some lightning after reading this.  I am not responsible in tort, nor blasphemy.

I was flipping through the channels as I was trying to decide whether to continue preparing for the trial I have on Friday, or just screw off like the top to a 1.5 liter bottle of the classiest wine Riunite has to offer - even after the increase in smoke and swill taxes, Riunite is still more affordable than paying attention.  The only real problem with buying Riunite is having to look the clerk in the eyes when you’re checking out.  Whatever that purple flavor they have isn’t all that bad – my mother guzzles it whenever she is in the general vicinity.  It’s refreshingly sweet, with a hint of carbonation; but it is subtle and less puke-inducing than Mad Dog 20/20 - which contrary to popular belief, does not help your eyesight.

Getting back to what I intended to theorize on, while flipping through my choices, I noticed something called Mother, Jugs, and Speed was coming on Channel 168.  Surprisingly, the name of Channel 168 – which upon second glance does not appear to be affiliated with any numerically named sexual position – is RETRO and not something like LUVSAC, STAFF, or HOLE.  Mother, Jugs, and Speed sounds like a movie about busty MILF’s who either have a meth problem, or drive NASCAR.  It’s hard to keep scrolling through your choices when you see a title like this on a non-credit card requiring channel.  It sounds like a movie that you’d be concerned about both stopping on, and hitting the info button when your significant other is in the room – that is, unless of course she has $14.99 plus tax left on the credit limit of her MasterCard.  As for what the movie is actually about, I hit the info button and was told that none other than Heathcliff Huxtable was in this story “about an unlikely trio of paramedics employed by a private ambulance service.”  They should have called it Mother, Jell-O Pudding, and Speed if the voice of Fat Albert was going to be in it.  Hey, hey, here is something that would be fun to watch: Fat Albert in an adult movie.  There would be more bouncin’ than a trampoline expo – you think Mushmouth would take off his hat when it got down to the nitty gritty?

Soul Player was on Channel 144 VHISO.  I am guessing this is a show about a ghost-like entity who has a strong pimp hand.  I find this an odd show to be on a channel which appears to be named after either a saline solution, a black market cellular service provider, or that less filling soup you get at most sushi joints.

Something called Pucca comes on channel 135 DISXD.  To be honest, I have no idea what or who a Pucca is – unless the show is about one of those sweet necklaces I used to wear back in the day.  I’ve only got 30 minutes to figure it out, however, because Yin Yang Yo! comes on next.  I find it hard to believe that something on an alleged youth network would be named after the way a honky pretends to rap in Chinese, but it appears as though it has occurred.  And if I don’t want to watch Pucca, I could change the channel to 131 NOG and watch Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!  Honestly, I think the name of this show sounds like what a Teletubby would say before having an orgasm, but this is apparently a children’s channel as well.  On a side note, I think there was a fetish film shot in Miami entitled Sham Wow! Wow! You Bit Me!  I think it will be interesting to see once it comes out; can a Sham Wow soak up all the blood, and make teeth marks disappear after you’ve been bitten by an apparently rabid hooker? 

Well, I’m going to have to let you go because I don’t know how to work my MVR, CVS, ATV or whatever the hell the recording feature on this contraption is called - plus, I want to be able to divert my full attention to Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!

I recently came up with a couple of new game shows that I think have a lot of promise, and would like to pitch one of them to you this morning.  The first show idea would be titled Crotch Kicks for Cash (Which is not to be confused with that one clown’s show, Kicked in the Nuts).  Let’s face it, everyone loves a well placed shot to the cods, especially when it is on film and their jubilees aren’t the ones being jubileed.  The hidden camera views aren’t bad because you’re nervous and anxious, while trying both to spot the unsuspecting crotch and the angle from which the offending object will come.  Then, out of nowhere, it happens and you get a good chuckle whether you saw it coming or not.  If you were to then put that footage in slow motion, you will be able to see priceless facial gestures and the too-late-to-stop-it futile reaction of the crotch shotee.  If the record reversing, slow motion voice feature can be added to the “Oh No!” with loud crashing sounds effects once the crotch is assaulted, yuks will be had by many.

While that is all and good, Crotch Kicks for Cash will be the real hit of next season’s degradation TV schedule for one main reason: contestants will be made aware of the gonard crunching well before the first ball is ever busted.  Oh yeah, there will be no secrecy to this game.  The contestants will agree to take shots to the crotch for increasing amounts of money.  Let’s say, for like $2500, you have to take a kick to the crotch from a strong three year-old, the prosthetic leg of a French mine victim, and a Polio sufferer.  The next level would be $5000, and you would get your pistachios pinched by a high school level kicker/punter, a Jackie Chan impersonator, and a girl from a chorus line.  Reaching the $10K level would bring in the heavy footers.  In this round you’d be spreadin’ your legs, closin’ your eyes and waitin’ for the below the belt lead foot from the likes of Morten Andersen, a semi-retired Pele, the real Jackie Chan, and an angry Elaine Chow - Margaret Cho could be substituted for Elaine Chow if she’s too highfalutin, being a former Labor Secretary and all.

Bustin’ Biscuits (my second choice for the show’s title) could make a ton of dough, based on the number of people who want to quit taking symbolic crotch kicks.  Why not put your Mary Kate and Ashley’s out on the line for some money, instead of a feeling of innate wussness?  I realize the sacktasticness of the Nielsen Ratings could ultimately come down to the level of stardom of the crotch kickers, and/or the dollar amounts involved.  So to spice things up, maybe there could also be celebrity versions in the name of charity.  You could have Angelina Jolie kicking Justin Bieber in his bags to help sack-out urinary tract infections.  Your promotional advertising flyers could be “scratch and shift” stickers.  The MLB would surely go balls to the wall and contribute some type of corporate sponsorship, too.  Cup manufacturers from across the country would be vying to have some kind of  disclaimer before the show like, “Don’t try this at home…unless you’re wearing a Nuclear Nads protective device!”  I can just hear their slogan running during commercial breaks now: “Whenever you’re worried about your nads exploding, just remember to go Nuclear!”

Would you ever move to a subdivision that was called “Morningwood”?  My friend and I came up with the idea the other day of naming a subdivision MorningWood.  This would be in response to all those high falutin’ forestry soundin’ subdivision names, like Lake Forest or Forest Hills.  Just think, while it is under construction, there would be endless possibilities for a great slogan: “Erecting homes daily,” “We’re hard on construction,” “Consider being cocky about your home,” or “Wake up with the Wood.”  It could also be the first neighborhood where the term cul de sac would  take on a completely different meaning.  You could rename it the “sack circle.”  What about “Nut Junction Road,” “Stiff Avenue,” or “Viagra Valley Road” as some potential road names?  If you really think about it, the entendres are unlimited.

Does peyote come from a bush?  I’m not talking about Wil E. Peyote or Peyote Manning, the all-pro quarterback for the Colts and former Double Stuf Racing League champion.  I’m talkin’ about the Pre-White Eye American’s second greatest discovery, which is a close second behind casino gambling on reservations.  The stuff that at one time made Jim Morrison think he could get into those tight leather pants without baby powder, vaseline, and a steamer.  The stuff that makes medicine men find cures for all that ales them, because when you’re that high, you ain’t really all that worried about what ales anybody else.  I think the term that describes the amount of peyote you’re purchasing - uh, I mean finding naturally in the desert while innocuously just passing through - is “buttons.”  I’ve always found it weird that you would buy a drug in “buttons.”  I guess the way you know you’ve got a serious peyote problem is if you buy enough buttons for a three-piece suit.

I think one clear sign of peyote abuse is probably wearing button fly jeans – I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is yes, they do still make those.  If this isn’t an indicator, it must be related to some other form of psychosis or malady.  I mean, who in their right mind wants to spend 5 minutes closin’ off the draft, when they can just as easily zip out the windchill factor in a mere 3 seconds?  The only drawback to the zipper is the obvious “in the line of duty” issue that may occur, a la Ben Stiller.  There’s Something about Tearing That Area that even sounds hurtful, and just thinking about it makes my boys stand at attention.  I really think buttoning up a fly is Levi’s answer to the chastity belt.  If you’ve ever tried to shuck a pair of button fly jeans while in the throws of some red touchin’, then you know that of which I speak.  Well, I’ve got to go pay some bills, but there’s a slim chance I might be back up in this trailer later on your p.m. dial.  Remember to stay out of the bathroom and keep your windows down.  Like a freshly freed fart, I might just blow on through.

So I ended up watching some of the season premiere of The Biggest Loser last night, and came up with a weird scientific hypothesis that should be tested:  Is it impossible to discount the impact that the weight loss of a large number of large people has on the Earth’s gravitational pull?  If you watch the end credits, you’ll also see that they have some Inuit whale hunters who serve as executive producers on the show.  These guys – Big Lovehandle Light Feather, Fat Rabbit Roundtree, and Big Ass Phil – wipe down all the exercise equipment, pick up any actual fat that falls off the contestants, and wrings all the liquid blubber out of the towels.  They want the blubber because it is much easier, and less dangerous, to follow a fat person around than the alternative.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to canoe out into the ocean, and try to kill a whale with sharpened pine tree limbs and fishing line made from the hair of what would appear to be your tribe’s answer to Crystal Gale?  This blubber is invaluable because it can then be turned into oil, which can be used for heat and light.  You can also make some form of leather out of it – lard leather, I guess?  And believe it or not, it can even be turned into cosmetics.  I believe the Inuits primarily use it as an ingredient in their unisex fragrance “Are You Inuit?”, which is sold at all fine Wal-Greens, Dollar Generals, and Lowe’s near you.  So don’t let anyone ever tell you that reality shows really don’t matter.

Why is it called “taking” a pee or dump?  As far as I’ve seen in my 34 and some odd years, there’s definitely a lot of giving in those situations, and not nearly as much taking.  It’s like donating biological waste to the Salvation Army, except you don’t get a tax credit.  If you did, you’d be drinking water, prune juice, and eating Mexican food like you were an over 70′s version of Lance Armstrong in the Tour de Ass.  Don’t get me wrong, you can definitely take something away from either occurrence.  For instance, if you’re peeing repeatedly, there’s a good chance you could be: drunk, pregnant, drunk and pregnant, nervous, or scared.  If you’ve got some type of discoloration or non-corn like substance when you drop the Huxtables off at the pool, then you may need to see someone with a medical license and the equivalent of a roto-rooter to check you out - or “in”, as the case actually is.  Thankfully, if you have this kind of thing done, the big van doesn’t pull up outside your room and let everybody who has seen you in the hospital that morning know that you’re having your pipes cleaned.  Who wants to take snake the rooter in the side door for all to see?  How embarrassing would that be?  People would drive by your home, and either assume something like a paper towel got flushed down the toilet, or that you have some severely stinky, USEC-style poop.  Instead of proctologists or gastroenterologists, these type of doctors should just be called master plumbers.  I guess medical plumbers would sound more high falutin’, but tubin’ people would still be the same.

According to the most recent episode of the local rag, I am apparently one of the few people left in the world who has not been assaulted by Ms. Lohan or sexted by Brett Farv-ruh.  I don’t know whether to cry, shower or cry in the shower.  I also don’t know if that sentence should end with a question mark.  To be clear, I’d much rather be roughed up by Ms. Lohan than subjected to sexts from “Lil’ Brett”.  Also, am I looking at this wrong or do all of Number Four’s love interests look exactly like his wife, including one with a local address?  You gotta give it to Brett though, because it’s obvious that he either knows what he likes, or has an amazing inability to think outside a certain box.

It’s time once again to channel surf the DirecTV Digital wave, and carve the barrel of my gnarly associative powers:

Channel 507, HBOFE: Robin Hood – A touching story about a young black male from the mean streets of Compton who aspires to be a famous ballet dancer (from the creators of Step Up I & II, You Got Served, Stomp the Yard, Bring It On, Bring It On Again, Bring It On: All or Nothing, Bring It On: In It to Win It, Bring It On: Fight to the Finish...how many of these fuckin movies are there?!?)

Channel 503, HBO Signature: Boomerang – A documentary formerly titled “What Goes Around Comes Around,” which talks about the use of STD’s to stop promiscuity amongst teens in wealthy neighborhoods.

Channel 509, HBO Zone: Wisegirls – A porno about librarians.

Channel 515, Max East (the hip new name for Cinemax): Cast Away – A documentary short film on socks that are used as masturbatory receptacles by teenage boys.

Channel 549, Showtime Extreme (I guess this channel is now funded by the people who brought you Mountain Dew): Flashbacks of a Fool – The charming, yet alarming tale that follows the life of a retard after years of LSD abuse.

Channel 550, Showtime Beyond: Death by Engagement – an exposé on the high suicide rate amongst engaged males who have married friends.

Channel 556, The Movie Channel: Tyler Perry’s The Family That… – Some stupid and covertly racist movie involving some unrealistic family shit.  It’s made by that fucking egomaniac who seems to be really famous all of a sudden, even though no one understands why.

Channel 370, EWTN: Life on the Rock – A news magazine show that gives viewers a sneak peek into the most hip, and hottest urban places to smoke crack – or the biography of Tyrone Biggums.

Channel 338, Gospel Music Channel: Amen – A pornographic film about gay Eyetalian men who all talk like the Fonz.

Channel 559, IFC: The Handmaid’s Tale – A tragic story about a woman who gave the best hand jobs in the Northeast, but eventually lost all use of her right arm due to a nasty case of ejaculator’s elbow.

Channel 333, MTV2: TXTO URB – Who the fuck knows?  This might be a show hosted by Devo, an infomercial with a British host who talks about some shit that cleans everything, or some kind of genetically engineered plant used to spice foods that you can also smoke.  One thing I do know, if it’s on MTV, it has absolutely nothing to do with music.

Channel 300, Nickelodeon West: George Lopez – A wuss sitcom based on the unhilarious stylings of a guy who has only gotten by because he has continuously played the South of The Border card.  What self-respecting comedian has a fucking show on any version of Nickelodeon anyway?  They slime everybody, and even Gallagher didn’t even fall prey to that shit.

Channel 301, Nick Jr.: Ni Hao, Kai-Lan – A channel devoted to the study of seizure medications and treatments, through the use of annoying Japanese anime cartoons with excessive strobe lights.

Channel 290, Discovery East: Big, Bigger, Biggest – A show about a reputable and highly-respected penisologist, and her attempts to both encounter and preserve live specimens in their natural habitat.

Channel 253, Lifetime Movie Network: Lies He Told – A short biography that revolves around some chick who reminisces about a recent trip to her local night club – she also references the research being done by the doctor who stars on Big, Bigger, Biggest…