Dude, I’m Sorry

I really did start a new job this week that may or may not in some way be related to diapers, so time has been tight.  Yes, I know I have been posting regularly on On Deaf Ears, but those require a lot less thought and creativity.  If you like music, go over there and read some of that crap.  As for humor, you’ll just have to wait.  Sorry.

I promise I’ll try to get a new post up soon.  I’m know I’m lazy, but this is ridiculous!

The Times They Are A-Changin’

       Sorry for the long break between posts, but I have been extremely busy lately.  I am in the process of transitioning to a new job.  As you may remember, my old job at Colonel Al’s Old Time Cloth Diaper Emporium™ was not a great fit for me, as I had dreams and aspirations of a greater and more meaningful existence.  Well, the Chinese pop music trend did not make nearly as much of a splash as I had originally hoped, and after months of trying to break into the music biz, I was forced to sell all of my young Chinese singers into sexual slavery to recoup my losses.  I still hear from them by mail every now and then.  They like to fill me in on how their lives are going.  The letters are sparse, though.  There’s only so much time for letter writing between all of the gangbangs.

       After the failure of my foray into the world of pop music, I decided for a while to renew my commitment to the diaper industry.  I managed some one on one time with Colonel Alfred P. Moneybags, and I was able to talk my way into a new job at the Department of Research and Development.  There I undertook one of the riskiest but potentially most rewarding projects of my life.  I decided to completely change the way people looked at diapers. 

       Think about it: what do you think of when you see a diaper?  It’s basically just a white blob made for holding feces and urine, right?  How boring is that?  All function, no form.  Well, I aimed to change all of that with my eye for fashion.  I was going to make diapers the trendiest, most visually stunning items a person could own.  That’s right, I thought, diapers aren’t just for babies and senior citizens anymore!  Now everyone is going to be wearing diapers!  Bathrooms will become a thing of the past.  You’ll shit yourself, and you’ll look great doing it!

       I immersed myself in this new venture, practically taking over the whole R & D lab for my own vision, and my project dominated the company’s research budget.  Colonel Al had given me carte blanche over the whole project while allowing me to keep it secret from all but a few of my most trusted underlings.  Day and night we toiled, hoping to create a signature look for our new line, one that would capture the hearts, minds, and asses of the fashion world.  After a few months of back-breaking labor in the labs, I had finally constructed the perfect item, and it was ready to be revealed to the world.

       Colonel Al spared no expense for our product reveal to the public.  He booked several stages in cities around the world during Fashion Week, and our first big show was in Milan, Italy.  We hired the top models, makeup artists, and hair people from around the globe, and the stage was set for this world-changing event.  I could barely contain my excitement as I helped the models preapre for their first trip down the catwalk in my new creation.  Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would be witnessing Kate Moss, Gisele Bundchen, and Naomi Campbell modeling something of my design, but here they all were, and the show was set to begin.

       What followed could only best be described as a disaster of epic proportions.  I had instructed all of the models to binge on food and drink lots of water before the event so that they could properly demonstrate the full functionality of my design.  I had fed them coffee and cigarettes all morning, but since this is pretty much a model’s normal diet anyway, I made sure to spike their coffee with as much liquid laxative as possible.  I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

       As the music began thumping, that was the cue for the models to take to the catwalk.  I watched from behind the scenes in nervous anticipation as one by one the models made their way down the runway modeling my signature creation:  Colonel Al’s T-Back Thong Diapers.

       An air of silence prevailed in the whole room, and the audience looked on in stunned amazement.  At the end of the runway, I had instructed each model to let loose their natural body functions, and the diapers held up just fine.  The audience screeched in horror as they watched the tiny diapers bulge from the rear as the models filled them with their leavings.  Screams filled the air, and those in the audience who were not fleeing the venue were invariably vomiting in their tiny black handbags. 

       Apparently the fashion world and the general public were not ready for such an innovative design.  Fashion critics the world over lambasted my designs, calling them “disgusting”, “tragic”, and “retarded”.  Colonel Al saw his stock prices plummet, and when all was said and done, the company hemorrhaged approximately thirteen billion dollars in revenue.  I became a pariah in not only the fashion industry, but in the diaper industry as well.  Uncle Al handed me my walking papers and an unceremonious kick in the ass as I was booted out the front door of the Diaper Emporium Corporate Shitquarters®.  When all was said and done, I couldn’t even find work with lesser diaper companies like Luvs or Huggies.

       Thus, I have been forced to seek out a new line of work.  I have created my own company, and I am currently developing yet another revolutionary product, one that will, God willing, revolutionize the farming market for decades to come.  What’s this amazing new product, you ask?  Well, I will tell you, but I ask that you keep it under your hat, for corporate espionage is alive and well, and I wouldn’t want someone to steal my idea.  The tentative title of my new product is PeckerPuckers™, a tampon for chickens.  We’re still in the beginning stages, but everything is looking good so far.  I have my scientists working around the clock to answer some unknowns for me, such as if chickens even have periods to begin with.  They have to with all of those eggs, right?

Beijing Baby Brings in Bronze

Beijing, China (AP) – Olympic audiences the world over were stunned today with the bronze medal winning performance of young Soo Chin Liu of China in the women’s gymnastics all-around competition.  Audiences stared in disbelief as the tiny Chinese woman turned in near perfect performances on the uneven bars, the balance beam, and the vault.  Liu would have been a shoo in for the gold had it not been for an unfortunate turn during the floor exercise.

       United States gold medal winner Nastia Liukin watched dumbfounded as the young Chinese woman turned in perfect score after perfect score.  Silver medalist Shawn Johnson also looked on with a combination of fear, wonder, and disgust on her face.  Johnson commented, “That’s just not right.”

       There was a short delay in the beginning of the event when several coaches watched Liu enter the arena.  Teammate Yang Yilin entered the competition floor carrying a child’s carseat with what appeared to be an infant strapped in.  The crowd and competitors stared in amazement that the Chinese team would make Yilin bring her child onto the floor with her, but that amazement soon turned to wonder when Soo Chin Liu was unstrapped and let loose on the practice floor wearing a tiny leotard that barely concealed her diaper.  Outraged, a group of coaches from several nations approached the judging panel in protest.

       Chinese coach Chen Zhang was called over to the judges table, where he produced Liu’s official Chinese passport, verifying her age at fifteen years old.  Zhang was overheard saying, “It no problem.  She fifteen, just very little!  No problem, guys!  No problem!”  Judges had no choice but to allow Liu to participate in the all-around competition.

       Liu went on to complete virtuoso performances in the first three events, giving herself a stout lead over her closest competitors, Johnson and Liukin of the USA.  However, the floor competition would prove to be Liu’s undoing and would crush her hopes of a gold or silver medal. 

       As Liu stepped up to the floor, she completed her first run perfectly, and tears were visible in the eyes of the American women.  Then, on her second run, Liu’s diaper appeared to rupture mid-air, causing urine and fecal matter to rain down on the mat before Liu touched down.  As her feet hit the mat, Liu could gain little friction in such a mess, and she slipped, hitting the floor with a loud bump.  Liu managed to finish her performance, but she had obviously been rattled.  The remaining routine was not pretty.  It also smelled bad.

       Still, even with these significant blunders, Liu managed to receive an abnormally high score, enough to keep her in medal contention and ultimately win her the bronze.  On the medal platform at the awards ceremony, Liu could be seen chewing on her bronze medal, presumably because she is currently teething.

       In her post-event interview, Liu said, “Ba gaaa, brrbbbbb!  Ahhh-ah!  Burp!”  Unfortunately at press time, no Chinese interpreter was available to decipher this comment.

       As the female athletes prepare for the individual events, many have been left wondering what else China has up its sleeve.  A clue came earlier today, as the Chinese women’s team enjoyed some practice time on the floor.  Doctors could be seen performing an ultrasound on a Mrs. Han Chin, and the ultrasound astoundingly revealed what appeared to be a fetus performing a flawless routine on a set of surgically implanted uneven bars. 

       When questioned about this disturbing sight, Chinese coach Chen Zhang replied, “No problem!  I have passport!  She fifteen year old!  No problem guys, okay?  No problem!”

Kids These Days…

       It’s been a nice vacation from blog land, but I guess I should write something, huh?  Fuck you.  I told you I’m lazy.

       So anyway, a fairly common theme that has been revisited on this blog a couple of times is how I’m getting old.  The hard truth of the matter is that growing up sucks.  Life is like a box of chocolates… oh, wait, that’s the worst simile I’ve ever heard.  Life is like taking a hit of ecstasy.  The first part is all anticipation and nervous excitement about how the whole thing is going to turn out.  This is your first fifteen years.  Then, the drug hits you, and you party your ass off, smoke a lot of cigarettes, maybe do a little drug-induced fornicating.  This part is the ages of sixteen to thirty.  Then, you slowly start to realize that the drug is wearing off.  Sure, you can take another tab and keep it going for a while, but eventually that won’t work either, and you’ll just be wasting time and money trying to get that highest moment back.  But it won’t come back, and the end is pretty much just a slow, depressing comedown until the whole thing is over.  Welcome to adulthood.  P.S. Don’t do drugs.

       Blah blah blah, life sucks and then you die.  End of story.  One sure fire way to tell that you’re getting old is when you start looking at the younger generation with fear and dread.  Their look, their music, everything seems alien and frightening.  The Jonas Brothers?  I don’t know what that is, but I know it scares me.  Hannah Montana?  Somebody kill it!  Life becomes an unending cycle of fear, confusion, and mistrust.  And I can’t find my keys anywhere!

       Another thing that bothers me about kids today is that they don’t do anything!  I drive down the street in my neighborhood filled with the hopes of maybe running over a careless skateboarder or two, but all I see is deserted driveways and desolate yards.  How am I supposed to yell at a kid and tell him to get off my lawn if they’re never outside?  They just took away half the fun of being a crotchety old douchebag right there!  I suppose children today have more technology and specialized cable channels for kids than I had growing up, but don’t their parents need some relief from these little monsters?  How can they possibly stay inside 24 hours a day?  Knock the Cheetos and the Playstation controllers out of their hands and send them outside, for God’s sake!  I want to hit them with the bumper of my car!

       When I was a kid, I would get home from school, and my mom would meet me at the door, take my backpack from me, and block the door so I couldn’t get inside.  As she poured another glass of wine for herself, she would leave me with the warning, “I don’t even want to see you until dinner time.  If you knock on this door, somebody better be fucking dead, or so help me God, you’ll wish you were!”  The last sound I would hear over her soft weeping would be the slam of the door and the click of the deadbolt.  Those were the good old days! 

       Anyway, I guess the kids in my neighborhood have caught on to the fact that I’m suspicious and frightened of them, because during the slim instances when they actually are outside, they are using it to fuck with my house, the little bastards.  But they can’t even do that right!

       An example: last week I was sitting in the house farting and yelling at the television, when I heard a soft thumping coming from the front of the house.  I peeked out the window to see three fat little kids sort of half-assedly lobbing eggs at my front door.  While a few made contact with the door, some were just dropping in the yard.  I excitedly ran outside with a baseball bat to start cracking heads, but by the time I got out there, they were already gone, leaving a half a carton of eggs just sitting there undisturbed due to their ADD, I’m sure.  Of the six eggs they actually did manage to throw, none of them were even broken!  There they were, resting snugly on the welcome mat (which reads “Hippies use back door.  No exceptions!”).  I wouldn’t have been surprised if the damn things hatched!  What kind of rag-armed pansies was I dealing with here?

       The biggest travesty came just a few days ago.  When I was a kid, we had this great little prank that I invented that was always great for a laugh at Old Man Futterman’s house.  We would take a paper bag and take a dump in it.  Then, we would light it on fire and ring the doorbell, running just far enough away to where we could see Old Man Futterman come out and stomp it out, getting poop all over his shoes!  Genius!  And if anyone tells you I didn’t invent that, kindly send me their contact information.  I will fight them on the spot!

       Now, this sounds like a simple gag, but a lot of work went into pulling it off correctly.  I would hand select the finest of turds from the toilet.  It had to be just the right consistency and weight to keep from blowing away and to keep from staining the paper bag, which might possibly reveal its contents to the discerning eye.  Any hint of runniness or diarrhea, and the whole thing would be called off.  After I made my selection, I would scoop it out and let the water run off so that I could avoid soaking the paper bag and damaging its structural integrity.  Then, after it had been inserted into the bag, I would neatly fold the top so as to conceal the contents and to make sure it burned evenly while it waited to be trampled by that stupid old man.  Timing was also key.  The lighting of the bag had to be done a few seconds prior to the ringing of the doorbell in order to ensure proper ignition.  The whole thing was a labor of love, and it always paid off with big rewards.

       Well, the other day, I was sitting on the couch throwing things at the “Jeopardy!” contestants for being unable to answer questions that I knew the answer to (still waiting for my check, Trebek!), when I heard the doorbell ring.  I went to the door to see two fat little monsters running away.  A hint of recognition told me to look down and prepare to extinguish a flaming bag of shit with my shoes, but to my surprise, they had just taken a crap on my front porch!  No bag or anything!  I ask you, where is the craft in that?  My flaming bags of turd were lovingly crafted with care and skill, an arduous process that made the end result that much more sweet and satisfying.  Where’s the satisfaction in crapping on someone’s porch and not even sticking around to see how they react?

       I tell you, kids these days are just lazy.  They don’t even know how good they have it!

Jury Duty

       A couple of weeks ago, I received my first jury summons.  Nothing says, “Okay, you’re old now” like a jury summons!  Anyway, it was my first one ever, and it was making me kind of nervous.  Part of me thought, “Wow, maybe this will be exciting and thought provoking, like that movie, [insert name of formulaic courtroom drama here].”  But the other part of me thought, “No, it will probably be disturbing and painful like that movie Jury Duty” (Yes, I pretty much stole that joke from “The Simpsons”).

       Long story short, I was selected as a member of the jury.  I’m not allowed to talk about the case, but I will anyway, because who ever looks at the internet anyway?  Nobody, that’s who. 

       Besides, with my involvement in such a landmark case, how could I possibly keep quiet about it?  This case has the potential to change the way we look at the institution of marriage in this country.  People v. Dorfberg and Twinkles will challenge everything I’ve ever thought about the right of two adults to be wed in a civil union in this state, and possibly the entire nation.  This is not just about gay marriage, although that’s part of it.  The actual details are much more strange.

       Arlen Dorfberg has lived an unconventional life, indeed.  As a young boy of 7, Mr. Dorfberg was “lost” in the wild while on a family trip to Uganda.  Dorfberg’s family would later admit that they purposefully left their son in the rain forest because, as Arlen’s father revealed in court today, “What, you want we should have kept him?  His face looks like a ruben sandwich!”

       On his own in the wild, Arlen Dorfberg would normally have perished within days, but he was found and raised by a family of common chimpanzees.  Dorfberg would thrive with the chimps, even reaching one of the highest positions in their social order up until he was discovered by a group of poachers ten years later.  Remarkably, Dorfberg still remembered the English language and was able to tell the poachers his name and his home state of New Jersey.  The poachers offered to take Dorfberg to the nearest U.S. embassy, but this is where the complications began.

       Because of his full immersion into ape culture, Dorfberg had selected a mate from his family of chimpanzees.  What’s more, Arlen’s mate was a male whom he had christened “Mr. Twinkles.”  It is well documented that chimpanzee society is much more tolerant of alternative lifestyles than human society, but now, with all of the other chimps slaughtered by the poachers, that point was moot.  Arlen Dorfberg had managed to save Mr. Twinkles through unorthodox methods.  For the next several weeks, Dorfberg would carry Mr. Twinkles around everywhere he went, the chimp safely nestled in Dorfberg’s ass.

      After smuggling Mr. Twinkles into the United States in his anal cavity, Dorfberg then moved to a remote area of west Texas to live in peace with the love of his life.  All seemed well, but, after time, Mr. Twinkles became despondent.  Dorfberg at first thought that Mr. Twinkles was just upset that the rest of his family’s skulls were now being used as ashtrays, but Mr. Twinkles would reveal that this was not the issue at all.

       “Look, Arlen,” Mr. Twinkles said.  “We’ve been together now for going on eleven years, but we have to keep our love a secret.  I hate having to live as if our love for each other is something to be ashamed of!  I want you to marry me, Arlen, so that we can screech our love from the treetops for all to hear!”

       After some deep thought, Dorfberg came to the realization that Mr. Twinkles was right.  If a man and a gay chimpanzee could not be openly and legally married in this nation, well, something is wrong with this nation!  Dorfberg then took Mr. Twinkles to the local District Clerk’s office to file for a marriage license.

       After Dorfberg was released from prison on bail a few days later, he realized that this would be a long and arduous legal battle, one that would test his resolve and his stamina.  Armed with nothing more than his gay chimp love and a high-powered attorney, Phineas J. Turtlebottom, Esq., Dorfberg and Mr. Twinkles have just begun their journey through the long, dark corridors of the legal system.  It should prove to be thought-provoking, exciting, and a little disgusting!  I’ll keep you updated as the case progresses!

       Actually, I did receive a jury summons, but the case had nothing to do with chimpanzees, to my knowledge.  Also, I wasn’t really selected for the panel.  That’s probably for the best.   I’ve got issues.

Beach Bums Bum Rush Brownsville Beaches, Bring Boards

BROWNSVILLE, TX (AP) - As the residents of Brownsville, Texas brace for the arrival of Category 2 Hurricane Dolly today, a sect of adventure seekers has a different take.  While may residents are have packed up their most prized possessions and are fleeing for their lives, these self-styled “adrenaline junkies” have a different idea:  go to Brownsville, and find the perfect wave.

This group of young men, their ages varying from 18 to 32, travel the world in search of the perfect crest.  They are extreme surfers, and their quest is to find the biggest, “gnarliest” wave imaginable so that they may ride it on their wooden or fiberglass boards, which they refer to as “surf boards.” 

The leader of this unusual group of men, 30 year old “Moonie” Gomez, has visited over 75 countries in his lifetime searching for the perfect wave, but his quest has brought him little more than pain and heartache.

“It’s been a rough ride, brah,” Gomez said, “but you just gotta keep on searching, and keep on f-ckin’ surfin’, ya know what I mean, dude?”

When asked where he took the inspiration for his dangerous lifestyle, Gomez revealed that his entire life has been modeled after the surfers featured in the 1991 film Point Break. 

“Before I saw that film, I was pretty lost, ya know?” Gomez said.  “My life was pretty much an endless stream of hookers and blow, and I was only 13 years old at the time!  But when I saw Patrick Swayze acting all harsh and sh-t in that flick, man, I knew I had found my calling.”

Gomez then made it his life’s quest to travel the world, following storms around the globe in order to ride the largest wave ever encountered by a surfer.  Joined by friends from his life before and others he has picked up along the way, Gomez has seen the size of his group grow and shrink with each new adventure.

“We’ve lost a bunch of guys throughout the years.  Fuzzy, Ramblin’ Joe, Nugget, Floppy, Dave, Sleepy Dave, Dirty Dave, Patchouli Dave, Smelly Dave, Argyle, Monkey Nutz, Dizzy, Fudgepacker, Boozehound, Potsmoker, Professor Cornbluth, Homeskillet, Homey, Homeboy, Bonkers, Foggy Bottom, Stoner, Old Smokey, and Dr. Fartypants.  Those were some solid dudes, ya know?  They died with a smile on their faces, though.

“When we rode the waves into New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina, man, everyone called us f-ckin’ crazy, but those were some killer waves!  Oh, shit!  I guess they really were killer waves!  That’s kinda funny!  What, too soon?”

Gomez had similar insensitive jokes to tell about his experiences riding the tsunami into Thailand, as well as Hurricane Rita and many other natural disasters.  Gomez, however, does not consider “disaster” to be a fitting word for these events.

“Look, I know that some people died or whatever in all of these events, but I lost friends too.  Sloppy Balls McGee, Foolie, Tweeker, Twat, Bungaloe Joe, Dr. Fartypants Jr., Wacky Will, Turdbutt, Sonny, Cher, the Queefy Twins, Cholera Bob, Dickhead, Poon, Gay Wonder, Wembley, Gobo, Red, Boober.  But if any of those folks were alive today, they would tell you it was all worth it!”

As Gomez and his few remaining compadres (Fat Rob, Gaseous Jackson, and Wormhole) wandered out to the beach early this morning, surf boards in hand, they flashed the popular surfer hand gesture, thumb and pinky extended.  They then set their boards into the surf and waded out, seeking their dream of the perfect wave.

At last report, all four men drowned.

Little Known Movie Review #4

       I know I said in the last post of this series that I would be reviewing The Legend of Billie Jean, but I just don’t have the energy right now to accurately describe the highlight of that film: Yeardley Smith, the young actress who would later portray the voice of Lisa Simpson, getting her first period in the backseat of a station wagon.  Maybe later.  I feel that I’ve made it fairly clear on this blog that I’m lazy, so you’ll just have to wait.  Until then, imagine Lisa Simpson saying, “When can I get a diaphragm?” in an exaggerated southern accent.  That should tide you over, you disgusting perverts.

       No, for today’s review, I would like to revisit the year 1986.  This was another banner year for 80’s filmmaking, and yet another example of the kind of crap that people enjoyed in that worthless decade.  That year would actually see an Oliver Stone film, Platoon, winning Best Picture.  Granted, this was probably Stone’s best film, but still, he sucks, so it can be gleaned that 1986 was a sucky year for movies.  If that’s too much of a logical leap for you, may God have mercy on your soul.

       However, once again the Hollywood types ignored another masterfully made film that came out that year.  Apparently in 1986, if a film didn’t involve Vietnam, Woody Allen, deaf people, or the sexual tension between Tom Cruise and Paul Newman, it wasn’t good enough for Captain Oscar.  Well, screw you, Oscar!  How dare you overlook my pick for the greatest movie of 1986, a perfect blend of gymnastics and angst titled American Anthem.

       This glorious film was supposed to be the career launching pad and starmaking vehicle for 1984 men’s Olympic gold medalist and hearththrob Mitch Gaylord.  Yes, that’s his name.  I’m sure he’s heard all of the jokes before, so I won’t revisit any of them here.  The Lord of the Gays plays young Steve Tavere, a troubled ex-quarterback and former gymnast whose high school athletic career was cut short by an abusive father who broke Steve’s arm in a drunken rage.  He has since abandoned his gymnastic aspirations to work in his father’s motorcycle shop.  You can really tell that Steve is troubled because he wears a leather jacket, sunglasses, and rides a motorcycle. 

       One day, Steve breaks into his old gym to spy on the gymnastics team, where he discovers a new girl on the team, Julie (portrayed by Janet Jones).  Jones was 25 at the time this movie was made, but she already looked about ten years older, especially when compared to some of the tiny little gymnasts portrayed in the same film.  It probably doesn’t help that she’s a tall, leggy blond, something you don’t see much of in female Olympic gymnastics hopefuls.  Anyway, Steve makes Julie his girlfriend, and he is so inspired by her drive that he decides to get back in shape and try out for the national team.

       We now have the setup for some of the funniest scenes in movie history.  Steve trains for the olympic team on a homemade parallel bar that is suspended between two trees in the woods.  Oh yeah, and he likes to practice his routine at night in the middle of a huge rainstorm.  Wouldn’t it be fairly tough to keep a tight grip on a parallel bar in the middle of a monsoon?  Just asking.  At Steve’s first meet, he is so confident in his abilities that he decides to attempt the hardest dismount ever from the parallel bars.  Bad idea.  He instead smashes into his spotter’s head, leaving the spotter bloodied as Steve cringes sexily.

       The only other thing worth noting in this genius film is Julie’s floor routine.  Julie, a former dancer, argues repeatedly with her coach over the selected music, as her natural spunk and energy are stifled by the traditional and old fashioned music that her coach forces on her for her routine.  Well, not for this rebel!  Taking a page from Steve and his rebellious ways, Julie has her retarded cousin compose an awful bit of synthesized dance music and slips the tape to the judges just before her performance.  And, wouldn’t you know it, the shitty 80’s synthesizer music causes her to shine!  If you see this movie for nothing else, see it for her retarded cousin doing his goofy ass fist pumps in the audience while Julie performs.  That little monkey sure can act!  Act retarded, that is.

       Anyway, this whole movie is basically just an excuse to film Mitch Gaylord (snicker) looking hot and sweaty along with Janet Jones.  It’s pretty much like a 102 minute 80’s music video.  If that doesn’t convince you to run out and rent this film immediately, well…  okay, then you may have better taste than I thought.  But you do get to see Steve’s kid brother ride a 4-wheeler off of a cliff for no reason, so that’s always a bonus. 

         Enjoy the movie, suckers!

My Shameful Secret

       I have a confession to make, and it’s something I’ve never shared with anyone.  For the last thirty years, I have lived with this dark secret, and it has been a constant struggle to hide it from everyone.  But I just feel so comfortable with you, blog.  It’s like I’ve known you forever, and I know you wouldn’t go telling anyone my deepest secrets.  It feels like I have this huge weight bearing down on me, getting heavier and heavier by the day, and the only way I can relieve this burden is to come clean and be honest with myself and with you, blog.  After months of soul searching, I think I’m finally ready to unchain this secret, let it out of the dark basement of my mind, and let it roam free in the sunlight of truth (by the way, that metaphor does not apply to the troop of Boy Scouts that are chained in my actual basement.  They will remain where they are).

       So what is this awful secret that I’ve been keeping for the last thirty years?  Okay, blog, I’ll tell you.  Although it has brought me incalculable heartache and struggle, I have been, and remain… illiterate.  There!  I said it!  Wow, I knew it would help to just get it out there, but I had no idea it would be this liberating!  Oh, truth, I welcome you into my life with open arms!  In fact, as we speak, I am listening to Journey’s classic tune “Open Arms” on my iTunes!  Thank you, Journey, for providing me with a proper soundtrack to today’s revelation.

       When I was in kindergarten, I remember when the teacher started grouping kids together in various color-coded groups based on intellectual ability and prior reading experience.  The smart kids or those freaks of nature who already knew how to read before kindergarten even began were placed in the gold group.  Next, there was the silver group, comprised of children of normal intelligence who were not disruptive and were willing to learn.  Third, we had the bronze group, those children who may have been a little dim and would probably need some extra guidance and attention to learn how to read.  My group was the brown group.  This is where they put the kids who wore helmets, threw blocks at the teacher, or repeatedly disrupted the class by constantly making fart noises with their armpits (me!).  Even the selected color choice for the group said, “You guys are the brown group.  What else is brown?  That’s right, shit!  Which is what you guys are!”  Even my young kindergarten mind was able to decipher that little implication.  So, while I was placed in a group with the feeble minded and disruptive kids, I was not in fact stupid.  No, the reason I didn’t learn to read?  I was lazy, and learning takes work.  And fuck that.  If no one is paying me, I ain’t working, and even then, I’ll only do a half assed job of it.  This lifelong commitment to laziness is what has led me to being illiterate for all of these years. 

       What’s that, blog?  You’re saying that this whole announcement is problematic?  How do I actually write a blog if in fact I am illiterate?  How do I read and then compose hilarious responses to the commenters on this blog if I can’t read at all?  Good questions, blog.  It’s good to know that you are really paying attention.

       You would be surprised, blog, how easy it is to get away with something like illiteracy in today’s modern world.  With all of the technological advances in computer software of the last few decades, I have had little trouble fooling everyone into believing that I can read and write.  Without giving away all of my secrets, let me just say that there are many available text-to-speech software programs on the market, as well as voice recognition dictating programs.  Who even needs to know how to read anymore when you can have a robotic voice lull you to sleep every night with the sweet cadence of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”  Let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard iambic pentameter recited in the sweet voice of a piece of cold, unfeeling software!

       However, there are still areas where I have difficulty faking the ability to read.  Computers don’t really help you out much when you’re moving about in public, trying to decipher the evil witchcraft of words printed on a McDonald’s menu.  Luckily my fat ass has memorized that particular establishment’s listing of fine cuisine, but you can imagine how daunting it is to try new places.

       It can also be difficult when driving and trying to understand street signs.  I’ve gone through many a car due to my inability to distinguish a one way sign from a stop sign from a detour sign.  I’m surprised I’m still alive with the number of crashes I’ve been in.  And, let me tell you, blog, my insurance rates are through the fucking roof!  Why, just last week, I was driving down the highway, and I saw a weird orange rectangle on the side of the road inscribed with a bunch of black letters that formed nothing but gibberish in my willfully uneducated mind.  Well, it turns out that the sign said “DEAD END,” according to the traffic cop making the report later.  After smashing through some barricades, I ended up in a ditch with yet another totaled car, bringing my grand total to 17 vehicles crashed. 

       Anyway, I finally came up with a plan that might help me avoid more crashes in the future.  I know that there are some cars out there on the road that have signs on them that say “Student Driver.”  I wasn’t really sure what they looked like, but I knew they existed.  So I went down to the same used car lot where I purchase all of my vehicles, and I spoke to Ramón, my regular salesman.  Ramón may be the only person in the world besides you, blog, who knows my awful secret, but he’s always been really helpful.  I told him what I was looking for, and he offered to help.

       “I don’t have anything like that on the lot,” Ramón said, “but I’m sure we could help you out with something.  Maybe we could get a custom paint job for you and have that put on there.”

       My eyes welled up with tears.  “Thank you, Ramón.  You have always been so kind to me and so understanding of my illiteracy.  I’ve never felt like I could trust anyone as much as I trust you!”

       Ramón smiled, his capped gold tooth twinkling in the sunlight, and said, “Hey, man, it’s no problem!  I mean, if you can’t trust a used car salesman, who can you trust?”

       Truer words were never spoken.  Ramón hooked me up with a nice used pickup truck with the words “Student Driver” painted on the taligate.  As an added bonus, he even came up with the idea to paint the truck yellow so that it would stand out in traffic.  I have to tell you, blog, it works!  People definitely notice me!  Some keep away from me, while others point and stare, some laughing, some angry for some reason (I guess people don’t like student drivers!), and some honking their horns.  With Ramón’s help, I think I’ll be in good shape and not have to worry about buying another truck for a while.  I’m so proud of it, I’ll even post a picture below.  Thanks, Ramón!  And thank you, blog!

Were You Fooled?

       I was supposed to post something very funny this afternoon.  I must apologize to all of you, but it’s not going to happen.  After consulting my legal team, I was informed that my disclaimer from yesterday was not legally binding, and I could still be held liable for any and all negative consequences that resulted from posting something too hilarious, so I will leave you instead with this joke:

       A young Chinese couple gets married. She’s a virgin. Truth be told, he is a virgin too, but she doesn’t know that.

       On their wedding night, she cowers naked under the sheets as her husband undresses in the darkness. He climbs into bed next to her and tries to be reassuring.

       “My darring,” he whispers, “I know dis you firss time and you berry flighten. I promise you, I give you anyting you want, I do anyting, juss you want. You juss ask. Whatchu want?” he says, trying to sound experienced and worldly, which he hopes will impress her.

       A thoughtful silence follows and he waits patiently (and eagerly) for her request. She eventually shyly whispers back, “I want to try something I have hear about from odda girls — Numbaa 69.”

       More thoughtful silence, this time from him. Eventually, in a puzzled tone he asks her….

       “You want Garlic Chicken Wif Snow Peas?”

 

 

 

 

Good News, Everybody!

       Tomorrow afternoon, this little insignificant post will be replaced with the most imaginative, magical, fantastical, hilarious story you have ever read in your lives.  There will be no mermaids, no unicorns, no magic beans, and no rainbows leading to a pot of gold, but still, it will be really fucking incredible.  You have been forewarned.  Your head may literally explode at the awesomeness of this one post, but it will be worth it. 

       Warning:  if you lose the ability to read after witnessing this incredible story, I cannot be held responsible.  Also, if you succumb to an unexplained case of incurable laughter, I absolve myself of any responsibility for your affliction.  You are an adult.  You are old enough to make your own choices, and if you think you can’t handle it, you should really think twice about reading what will be posted on this blog tomorrow.  I mean it.  You should consider the consequences of your own actions.  I’m not your mom or your dad, so I can’t tell you what to do. 

       Oh yeah, I guess I should also mention this: if your head does literally explode, that’s not my fault.  I’m tired of this litigious society that we live in today.  By not commenting on this post (the current one, not the fucking incredible one that you will see tomorrow, should you choose to partake in it under your own free will and through no coercion by yours truly), you have forfeited any liability on my part for any injury or psychological harm that may come to you by the reading of my post tomorrow.  Through your own silence, you agree to not sue me or seek any other form of compensation from me due to the results of your foolhardy decision to go through with reading tomorrow’s post.

       In addition, I absolutely cannot be held responsible for any cleaning bills associated with your reading of tomorrow’s post.  Should your uncontrollable laughter and perhaps permanent stupor cause you to lose control of any of your bodily functions, whether it be controlling your bladder, your bowels, or your gag reflexes, I will not be liable for any resulting laundry, dry cleaning, or upholstery treatment bills associated with your inability to keep from shitting yourself.  For real, people, you might want to reconsider reading tomorrow’s post.  It may be for your own good.

       I also will take no responsibilty for any medical bills that may result from your poor decision to read tomorrow’s post.  If you have to go to the “funny farm” or “loony bin” or “wacky hut” or “cracker box” or “place where they put people who are fucking wicked crazy out of their freaking gourds,” that’s your problem, not mine. 

       Along with the whole psychological aspect, I will also not be responsible for any bodily harm that may come to you should you decide to read the upcoming story.  If you decide to take your own life because you realize that you will never again witness anything as beautiful ever again and that the rest of your life will be but a futile struggle to once again regain the joy that you felt on that one magical day (tomorrow) that you read the best thing you’ve ever read in your life, that’s your own thing.  You did it, not me.  I’ve been more than fair in providing this little disclaimer.  The same thing goes for if you become a weird little retard because you are so happy after reading the post (coming tomorrow!) that you decide nothing would be more fun than going to play in traffic and you get hit by a car and end up losing multiple limbs and part of your jaw and half of your cerebral cortex and maybe a kidney and your appendix and the memory of how your mom’s hair smelled when you were a child and some or all of your sexual organs/functions.  Not my fault.

       Be practical here, people, that’s all I’m saying.  Do you have a heart condition?  Are you pregnant?  Is there a history of cancer, diabetes, high blood pressure, alcoholism, or sleep apnea in your family?  If the answer to any of these questions is “yes,” you might want to consider refraining from reading tomorrow’s post.  If the answer is “no,” you still might want to consider refraining.  My writing has been known to cause all of the above conditions in lab rats, lab monkeys, and cute little fuzzy bunnies. 

       If, after reading tomorrow’s post, you find yourself afflicted with herpes, HIV, chlamydia, pubic lice, gonorrhea, genital warts, syphillis, or any other various STDs or UTIs, I cannot assume responsibility for your filthiness.  Also, if you find yourself pergnant, don’t look at me.  I was wearing a condom, remember?

       I think that about covers it.  You have been fully briefed about all of the possible negative consequences of reading the story that I will post tomorrow afternoon.  Still, it’s gonna be really fucking good!  I think the risk is worth it, but that’s just me.  I also think you would be a giant pussy if you decided not to read tomorrow’s post, and you’d probably spend the rest of your life wondering how awesome it would have been if you had just decided to take a chance and read the greatest story ever told (not the Bible).  But no pressure from me!  Do what you want.

       So tune in tomorrow…  if you’ve got the balls!