My Spouse's Heroism

I had many surprises, mostly good and a few that were unfortunate, happen to me and those close to me during the summer. One such event, that had dramatic elements of bad and good, occurred about two months ago and it's one I'll never forget. And it's one that made me take a better, more appreciative look at the woman I married.

The scene: My father, who has dementia and is extremely verbally abusive, is found at a McDonald's restaurant inside the local Wal Mart store. It was one of those times, out of several over the summer, where he went somewhere and I and another family member had to go searching for him. Those are all long stories that I can't/won't go into for the moment. Suffice it to say, he's a big pain in the ass and after trying to get him put in a nursing home for months, we keep hitting a brick wall. No one will help us. He threatens. He shakes his fist while ranting and insulting those around him. He's unfocused. He gets dizzy spells and the list goes on and on. Still, the lawyers and a few doctors out of a majority of doctors say he has just enough marbles to fight against being put in a nursing home against his will- which is what it would take.

Please... don't ask any questions about the "Dad Dilemma." As I said, there are too many details to go into with this ongoing, depressing part in my family's lives and I would be sitting here, writing for hours, if I started to explain it all.

So I won't.

Anyway, we finally find the crazy, abusive bastard at a table at McDonald's. Dad is eating his french fries, muttering and ranting about whatever while my wife and I calmly listen and wait for him to shut up long enough where we can ask him if we can take him home- which will inevitably lead to a heated argument. Then next thing we hear, over Dad's ramblings, is a horrendous scream. At first, at least to me, it sounded like a coworker in the food preparation area of McDonald's had suddenly surprised another coworker. Like a prank scenario. And then everyone in the small dining area hears a loud "thunk" on the floor from the back. My wife, a young guy that's a Wal Mart employee and I go rushing to the open back door to the kitchen.

Sprawled out on the linoleum floor of the kitchen (or whatever they call it) is a woman who has a big gash in her head. Blood is gushing out of her wound and she is moaning and breathing erratically. I stand there, frozen. I can't move. My anxiety disorder kicks in and debilitates my ability to do anything positive.

Ever since my mom's death years ago, the vision of her in my mind of the way she looked when I saw her, in death, I don't respond well or not at all in intense or stressful situations. I have all the usefulness as a lump of fungus. In surprise situations, like the one that night, it's even worse.

I'm not trying to make an excuse. That's just how I am now.

My wife turns back and gently pushes me away from the doorway. The Wal Mart employee shouts, "I'm going to get help." He runs off. My wife takes the cell phone out of the holster on my belt and calls 911. Meanwhile, in a daze, I shuffle back to the table where Dad is sitting. He's still eating french fries, oblivious to whatever is going on around him. The only thing I can think about is all the blood on the floor in the back room.

The only other McDonald's employee is a nervous, crying young woman. She's as useless as me at the moment. She's wringing her hands and looking around, waiting for someone to do something for her fellow coworker, the victim on the floor. She kinda walks around in the dining area, fidgeting and looking afraid. I look at her and wish she would help the woman in the back kitchen area but then I wish I would do the same.

My wife, on the other hand, with a tone of controlled urgency, explains to the 911 dispatcher what has happened, as far as she knows, and where the accident has taken place. I watch her until it finally dawns on me of what's going on. Then several people walk up to the counter and begin to become agitated because they can't place an order. I become agitated because it is starting to become apparent that there is a real emergency situation afoot and these dumb fuckers are worrying about getting their next Quarter Pounder with cheese.

While customers are grumbling about being waited on, my wife goes into the kitchen and kneels by the poor woman's side. The woman was getting paler by the minute, according to my wife. A pool of blood was forming all around the woman and running into the crevices of the floor. Still, the woman was mumbling and trying to raise her head off the floor. My wife told her to lie still and not move. My wife likely helped save her life, just doing that part. Not to mention calling the emergency telephone number. I think she helped keep the woman alive several ways that night.

Minutes passed until a Wal Mart manager finally shows up. The manager was accompanied by two other employees. Instead of helping the woman on the floor, they ask my wife how the woman is. My wife tells them her breathing is erratic and she's lost a lot of blood. My wife is shaking now, at this point, afraid the woman is going to die. Still, she stays by the woman's side, crouched down, saying words of comfort near her ear. The Wal Mart employees at the door tell my wife to keep doing what she's doing. In my mind, they're being useless in the situation, as well.

The manager does do one thing. She grabs a towel and throws it to my wife, who she apparently believes is the only one who can do anything (even though my wife has zero medical training) and tells my wife, "You should put that over the cut in her head and apply pressure."

Fearing the woman is going to die, my wife takes the towel and applies pressure over the gash. Eventually, a couple emergency first responders show up and come into McDonald's. I point to the kitchen area and say, "Back there."

Dad stops eating french fries long enough to ask what's going on. When I tell him about the situation, he says, "Ah... I've seen people bleed before. It's no big deal. Who is it? Anyone I know? Why are you looking like that? You're acting stupid." I tell him, "I don't know what her name is. I didn't ask the woman her name or look at her name tag as all the blood was gushing from her head."

One of the customers, pissed off, said, "The service is really bad in here. I tried to get some Chicken McNuggets up front and no one would come up and take my order." I find this statement disgusting and for a second, oddly humorous. But then I become annoyed at this redneck's stupidity to the point where I walk over to his table, turn around and cut a silent but pungent fart, directly in his face.

Of course, since we were at a McDonald's, he probably couldn't distinguish the aroma of anything on the menu and my turd fog.

Worried about my wife's emotional welfare, I went to the kitchen and motioned for my wife to rise up and come out into the dining room area. She had done enough and it was time for the first responders to do their job. After coaxing her with gentle words and hand gestures, she finally leaves the woman's side and joins me. Around this time, the EMT's come to the back and do what they're trained to do.

I tell my wife how brave and kind I thought she was for doing what she did for the victim. I tell her how impressed I was that she took action whereas I and everyone else didn't do enough or anything at all.

My Dad sees my wife and asks, "What's that woman's name back there?"

My wife said, "I don't know. I think her name tag said Sarah."

And then my wife grabbed me and started crying into my chest. I rubbed her back and told her she did everything that could be expected of her and more and that everything might turn out okay. She was shaking and crying. I tried comforting her as best I could.

Meanwhile, people were grumbling and taking their sweet time in getting the hell out of the way after being told to move for the victim who was being taken out of the store on a gurney. At this point, I was telling them to move out of the way, as well and that it wasn't a sideshow act taking place. I was finally starting to return to my normal state of mind. Actually, when I farted in Mr. Chicken McNugget's face, earlier, I may have been getting back into my normal groove, my normal state of mind. Who knows?

Everyone reacts differently in extreme emergency situations, for certain. I'm just glad my wife took appropriate action when others didn't. In my mind, my wife had an important hand in saving the woman's life. There aren't enough words to describe how impressed I am of her and how much I think of her as a hero. Whenever I bring up the story to other people, it bothers her because of all the memories of the blood on the floor and the woman, in pain, come into her mind. I feel bad that it causes her this distress but I can't help telling the story because of how proud I am of her.

We found out later that Sarah, the woman who fell to the floor and almost lost her life, turned out to come out of the accident, alive. We were also told Sarah had a history of seizures, before. That night, she had had the most devastating seizure of them all. Sarah was released from the hospital two days later. I was surprised at that, considering how much blood she lost that night. She was likely released in only two days because the health insurance company didn't want to pay for her to stay at the hospital any longer. I've heard that with a lot of head wounds, people have a tendency to bleed profusely but the amount of blood I saw looked like something out of a horror movie.

In conclusion, I would say my wife is a better person than I, when it comes to helping people. She's certainly more generous with her time, when it comes to listening or taking action. I know she helps take care of me everyday and I try to do the same for her but I feel like I don't do enough at times. But that's my hang up. When I look back on that night and all of the varied ways she gives of herself, I feel blessed that I married a woman like that.

Work of Fart

Wow! This kid has talent. Due to writer's block, I am unable to come up with anything so I thought I'd at least leave you with a chuckle. You could also call this a cautionary tale.

Also: I've been told by some of you living outside the U.S. that you are unable to watch the video. I've had trouble with people (in the past), living outside the U.S., not being able to see vids from Spike TV, where this originally comes from. In regards to that, here's a link to the same clip on You Tube. Maybe you'll have better luck seeing it there. It's funny as fuck.

Work of Fart
Tags: Work of Fart

The Psycho Carnival Award For Originality

I'm more than just a little ecstatic and loopy with glee to present my first ever, created-by-me, award. You could say that I'm more excited than a upright-standing, three-legged weasel, twirling a baton and gnashing it's teeth to the beat of Metallica's Master of Puppets. In the three and a half years of blogging, I felt the urge to produce an award that seemed to represent a quality I admire most in a blog... ORIGINALITY.

This award is given to those I believe who stand out in their blogs by showing and offering one of the greatest qualities most of us enjoy finding in a blog- and that is true originality. I'm talking about the kind of originality that you can tell isn't forced to garner attention for attention's sake or some other trivial pursuit but the kind that is apparent, shown by fresh, inviting writing that is displayed simply for the enjoyment of the blog author and any random Internet surfer that is visiting.

It can be a blog of humor, world news, history, paranormal, erotica or one that does not fit with the supposedly normal (but not really) values of a truly fucked up society or a mixture of all of the above and then some. Whew! I think I popped a vein in my forehead getting all that out. For Christ sakes, call 911 or give me a blow job or something. Girls only, though. My swing only goes in one direction.

In the future, I will award other bloggers this fine, you-can't-sell-this-for-magic candies award another time but for right now, I'm going to offer it to these four fine folks. I won't bother handing it to the good folks out there who don't accept awards because there's no point.

Without further ado, I present the Psycho Carnival Award for Originality to the following bloggers, in no particular order (please save for your applause or masturbatory tribute until I've finished reading the recipient's names) :

(1) Rebecca, from the most excellent, humorous satire blog called The Snee: The Sometimes, Never, Eventual, Express. Very original, very clever. You'll ask yourself where she comes up with this great stuff until you finally blow a vein in your head. Then you'll be sad. But if you get your satiric news here, you'll be a happy weasel once again.

(2) Greg, from The De-Evolution of Man. Always some wild, original and hysterical writing to be found here. He can find the humor in the craziest or most mundane of things. Like the routine a man goes through each morning... such as showering, shaving, shitting and dipping a spoon in the soft, wriggly eyeball of a tied up retard who every so often shouts, "Akibba bu dilla!", without warning.

(3) LilPixi, from It's a Lollipop World. Brilliant, off-the-fucking-hook writing and photos can be found here. Laughs are what you'll get when you read her up front, in your face stories and ideas. The very epitome of originality are what you'll find on her site. You'll chuckle uncontrollably until you spooge.

(4) Gary, from klahanie. His blog promotes positivity with his non-abrasive, honest writing that is often spiked with humor, irony and/or kindness. His writing and photos are completely original and that is one of his qualities I most admire. Plus, his farts smell like cabbage. I know. He kindly sent me a jar of homemade farts for Christmas last year. Had a fancy bow on top.

People seem to enjoy making rules up for these awards that are passed around to show appreciation. I've never understood the rules concept in all that. But for fun, and because the devil is dancing and playing the ukulele by my ear, I feel compelled to come up with a few rules you may or may not want to act upon. Or make up your own. Remember... you're creative... and original. Just don't get too creative or the boring, normal ones will lock you up in a padded cell, in leather restraints, with no pants. That way, they can come and bugger ya in your sleep.

Here be for thee... The Magnificent Rules

First- Copy, paste and display these rules and this award upon your blog, if you so desire.

Second- Give this award to anyone who exemplifies originality, in some way, in their blog.

Third and Three Quarters- Answer this most important question: Ketchup or Pygmies?

Fourth- Write an original thought (or something that seems like a rare idea) or display a photo for everyone to stare at, in awe, that will cause the peeps to fall down upon their knees and smile with tears of profound realization. Or just say the first thing that comes to mind.

Fifth- Give a link to the one who bestowed the award to you. No, I don't mean a savory sausage link. That's the image I just saw in your mind. Amazing, yes?

Well, folks... there you have it. The Psycho Carnival Award For Originality. Winning recipients may place this award upon their mantelpieces with pride and enjoy for years to come. I must go now and twirl my baton.

Auditions For The Circus

Created by Oscar The Disturbed, Chloe The Nympho and MasterHeathen

The circus tent was noisy inside with hopeful artists talking to each other and practicing their acts. Sitting at a large wooden desk on the furthest right hand side were two men, murmuring to each other, serious in their appearance. The owner of the circus was a large man with dark brown eyes with just a hint of red surrounding the pupils. The look of his face conveyed a wisdom about him. His name was Byron Asmodeus and he had owned Asmodeus' Astounding Circus for 20 odd years. His ringmaster, Gregorio, worked hard as a manager for the circus.

For the last hour, they had seen and judged two sets of performers and neither group made the cut.

Gregorio stared straight ahead and to Asmodeus, he announced the next group of artists to audition. "Next, we have The Blutarsky Brothers."

Asmodeus cleared his throat and asked, "What do they do?

Ringmaster Gregorio replied, "They are a family of midget clowns."

"I see," said Asmodeus, as he leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together.

A little old woman, her face white and red with make up, was leading her little tribe of offspring up to the stage in front of their potential employer's desk. She had a grizzled look about her and the make up on her face could not hide the fact that she was well into her sixties. The mother of 7 children, who were between the ages of thirty to forty, tilted her head as she spoke.

"I am the mother of these seven clown midgets. We came to America from Russia, home of Vodka. All my children suffer from hydrocephalus and Down syndrome. They also have trouble with their feet from wearing the big clown shoes and as a result, they walk funny."

Asmodeus and Gregorio looked at all seven and noticed they were kind of wobbling back and forth, shifting uneasily from one foot to another.

The mother, Isa, continued, "They have the fungus grow under their toenails. Only Lamisil helps to keep their toenails on."

Asmodeus and Gregorio exchanged glances of bewilderment before the mother of the clown midgets added, "The father of these boys has passed on. If he were here today, he would show you his magnificent ability to shoot miniature bullets out of his fully erect penis."

The two men, glanced at each other and then looked at the mother, giving Isa the impression that they were impressed by this.

Isa said, "First, I will show you what my talent is and then each of my boys will show you what they can do for you."

Asmodeus said, "Whenever you're ready... begin."

The little old midget turned around, dropped her tiny pants, bent over, touched her toes and shot a steady stream of butt gravy across the stage. Quickly turning around, the mother of 7, briskly rubbed her chubby little thighs together and with the power of her vaginal muscles, sparks began to fly from her coochie until a eerie ball of fire erupted from her ancient pussy.

Amazed and impressed, Gregorio and Asmodeus applauded Isa's talent.

After her fire died out, Isa said, "This was how I killed the father of my boys. One night, after he beat me and called me names, I lay on top of the horrible man while his penis was soft. I acted like I was hot with sex for him. My husband was fooled by this. Then I make powerful sparks with my vagina and ignite a fire upon his penis as I wrap my short strong arms around him, not letting the bastard free himself. By the time I was done with him, he was like a burnt hog, crispy black and flesh falling from him."

Without pausing, Isa introduced one of her sons, "This is Nikolai. He lived with his uncle in Budapest for a year to learn all he could from him. My son, Nikolai, is the only clown who can juggle a chainsaw, bowling ball and box of condoms in the all of Russia, maybe in the entire world.

Nikolai took a spot in the middle of the stage, juggled the chainsaw, bowling ball and box of condoms without dropping any of the items. Asmodeus, nodded his head, impressed.

Isa introduced her next son, "This is Vladamir. He drives the clown car. He got his license in clown car driving by driving Smart cars for Mercedes Benz and being crash test dummy for them."

Vladamir demonstrated how well he drove the clown car and got out of it hurriedly, to waddle back up on the stage. The ringmaster clapped his hands and said, "You have great skill." Vladamir smiled, was obviously bashful, his face crinkling beneath the white make up. Vladamir suddenly celebrated being complimented by pulling his pants down and scratching his taint.

Isa, full of pride, introduced her next son, "And this is Ivan. He has taught his dog, Spot, how to ride on the back of his pony, Speck, for the Dog & Pony show."

Ivan had the pony and dog do the trick at his command. Asmodeus nodded approvingly and then said, "Very good. Next."

The mother of her offspring of clown midgets said, "This is Dragoff."

The two judges gave the little man a curious look.

Isa continued, "Dragoff was born with a permanent smile. A birth defect, as you Americans call it. He was diagnosed at the age of two. My son, Dragoff, because of this defect, does not require much clown make up. Before this audition, for you gentleman, he spent many years in midget tossing competitions."

Asmodeus put a hand up, pausing the old woman for a moment. The circus owner said, "And what talent can he demonstrate for us, today?"

Without missing a beat, Dragoff did a series of backward flips on the stage until landing in a barrel of thumbtacks and needles. He remained, motionless in the barrel, enduring what would be a painful experience for most people and kept his smile. Then Ivan came out, ran toward Dragoff and, suddenly, with a wooden chair, crashed it down on Dragoff's head. Splinters and wood fragments flew out in every direction. Dragoff smiled. Ivan shouted, "Ta Da!"

Asmodeus and Gregorio laughed, clapped and then, in unison, said, "Bravo."

After the stage was cleared, Isa said, "The next son performing for you handsome men is my eldest. His name is Jeepo. Jeepo has had an aneurysm that has affected what you may call his mo-mo-mo... motor skills."

Jeepo weeble wobbled his way onto the stage. To keep his balance, the stumpy clown flung his arms wildly, looking like a human pinwheel. This act gave the illusion of an abstract dance that had amused many crowds in the past. Soon, the midget clown's arms were all a blur. It was hypnotical. When he could no longer move his arms from the tiresome flailing, Jeepo spun around and dove off the stage, landing head first into the heavy desk, making a squishy sound with the softest part of his bulbous head.

Asmodeus and Ringmaster Gregorio abruptly stood up and gave Jeepo a standing ovation.

Isa, happy with the two men's reaction, introduced her next offspring.

"This is Luscious. Before she had, what you call "sex change operation", though it was not much an operation because my son, Ivan, is so handy with the knife. Her name was Chekov and she was a he. Before coming to perform for you today, Luscious worked at a tampon factory. Her job was quality control."

Without being prompted, Luscious, in her tiny tights, began doing a series of back flips, spins and twirls until finally ending her stunt by jumping straight up into the air and coming down onto the stage, doing the splits. Hurriedly, she got up, pulled down her tights and exposed her bald beaver. There was a tattoo of a snake on her cunt lip. The tongue of the snake hovered just above her clit. Like her mother, she, too, rubbed her thighs together until working her new vagina muscles up enough to produce sparks from her cunt. Soon flames flickered and all of Isa's sons came over and roasted marshmallows over her fiery pussy.

She, too, was given a standing ovation by the two delighted men behind the desk.

Isa waved Luscious off the stage and introduced her last son. A cross-eyed midget teetered from side and side, gradually making his way onto the stage. Asmodeus and Gregorio sat back down.

"My son, Trotsky."

Trotsky had troubles with his lungs because he was a heavy smoker. Pulling out deflated balloons from the pockets of his clown pants, Trotsky coughed and gagged before filling each long, slender balloon to it's fullest capacity. Without haste, Trotsky quickly formed the balloons into the shape of a male organ and a female organ. Luscious came back on stage and took the phallic balloon and slid it into her little midget slit. Shifting her thighs rigorously together, she created sparks and popped the penis shaped balloon with ease.

Ivan suddenly made another entrance onto the stage and bashed both of their heads in with a toaster. As his siblings fell to the floor, bleeding profusely, Ivan shouted, "Ta-Da!"

Asmodeus stood up and said, "All of you are hired. I welcome you, as my working performing artists to Asmodeus' Astounding Circus."

In unison, Isa and all the rest of her midget clown family cheered and whooped. Trotsky coughed up blood and smiled. It was a great day for The Blutarsky Brothers.

Bizarre and Creative Sand Castles

Growing up, my family and I only went to the beach a couple times, down in the state of Florida. When I was a wee, innocent lad (the only time I was ever wee or innocent), I would try my hand at building sandcastles but I never could seem to get anything to come close to remotely resembling a familiar structure. Nor would my "masterpieces" stay together long enough to be appreciated by either parent, in the hopes of gaining a compliment from either.

Oh fucking well. At least, I had fun wriggling my toes in the hot sand. I could not have given a fuck less about making decent sandcastles back then.

This was long before BP let loose it's far stretching oil monster on the people down there and elsewhere in the Gulf. Now, a lot of people are afraid to swim and/or not allowed to swim at some of the most popular beaches in that once-beautiful massive area in the south. With tourism down along those coastal towns, people in the Gulf region are presently losing their spirits and livelihoods.

Anyway, as I've grown older, I've really began appreciating more the clever and imaginative ways people have been expressing themselves in art- in any form. I was watching the news a couple days ago and saw some video of a recent sandcastle contest in one of those southeastern coastal states. What I saw in this video were some really cool sand sculpture masterpieces. Don't ask me the name of the official contest or where, exactly, it took place. I don't know. I have enough trouble remembering how many days in a row I've worn the same underwear. I usually go by how deep the crust is down at the bottom.

But back to the meat of this subject... The contest I saw inspired me to peruse the Internet for some truly innovative sand sculptures. Calling them sandcastles just wouldn't do them any justice or make any sense. I saw these photos here and there and they provoked a mental response from me. Each one, I found, is unique for one reason or another.

Let me know what you think or feel about any or all of them. What do you see? I also will add that a few of these sculptures are obviously a reference to several pop culture phenomenons. Here ya go!

The End.

I Picked A Booger

Not to worry, folks. It was my very own. Fresh and hand-picked. I told my wife about picking this little green gem while we were watching "Dancing With The Stars". Yeah, I know. That fucking show. Just so all of you know, I'm being forced against my will to watch that god-awful piece of monkey shit that's chock full of either no talent, has-been celebrities or athletes who could bore the fuck out of a drooling retard whose only entertainment in life comes when she's eating a dead fly on the window sill of a sanitarium.

I did like Buzz Aldrin, though. Was that his name? Hell, I don't know. Fuzzy condition and all. I just know he was one of the original astronauts that went to the moon. I think I watched it on TV when I was a kid. At least, I think it was the moon.

But getting back to what's really important here. I picked a booger. And it was a perfectly proportioned booger that was green at the base but had a bit of yellowish pudding like substance on top. Now what I did with this nose trophy was truly most excellent.

I put it in a Kleenex tissue, twisted the tissue until it formed a white missile with, of course, the booger bulge (where the booger was resting comfortably and snug as a bug in a rug) was precisely at the top of this missile. Ready for liftoff, I threw my booger missile towards the trash can. Misfortune laid a hand upon me when my booger missile fell short of my intended target.

"What's that?", asked my wife.

I replied, quite triumphantly, I constructed a booger missile. Isn't it magnificent?

She said, "Ewww."

My wife got me back, however, for making her mildly nauseous. She suddenly stuck her tongue out and wiggled it. Normally, this would get me "in the mood", but then, I noticed a little bump on the end of it. Curiosity persuaded me to ask, "Is that a booger?"

She shook her head NO and finally said, "No, I ripped a piece of someone's foreskin from their cock." I thought, How nice. I smiled a bit and then quickly gave her my look. She laughed at the fake shocked look on my face and told me that it was actually a sore from biting her tongue by accident -which hurts like a motherfucker and usually happens when you're hungry as fuck and you go to take a big bite out of something and chomp on your freaking tongue, resulting in you having a big bloody wad of food in your mouth.

Fucking sucks, man.

Anyway, I hope you can use this important information so you can use your own boogers in such a fashion that you can help save the trees, the whales, the coral reefs and the ozone layer. This has been a public service announcement. Thank you and good night.

Toadie in "Road Rage Spectacular"

Reggie was honking his horn and beating on the steering wheel, angry and frustrated from the traffic jam. The guy and female passenger in front of his Chevy would stick their heads out their windows, laughing and giving him "the fuck you" sign of peace every so often. On this hot August day, this was pissing Reggie off to the point where he was thinking about killing a few people, namely, the fuckwads in front of him.

The interstate, Reggie and the fuckwads was on, long and heavily congested. The longer people had to wait to get home from work or wherever, the angrier they got.

When Reggie reached the maximum limit of his patience, the female fuckwad in front stuck her naked, zit-covered ass up against the back windshield. Bad timing. Reggie had pulled back his powered-up car far enough to create some distance between them.

Reggie revved up his engine and cut loose, in every way imaginable and otherwise. Without haste, Reggie plowed into the car in front of him, obliterating the car's back bumper, sending the girl soaring over her front seat, with the end result of her head cracking the front windshield and her blood dribbling down the glass. Tim, her multi-talented sex partner, was shocked. And bleeding profusely from the crash. Upon impact, his face had smashed into the steering wheel of his car with enough force to break his nose and almost all of his teeth.

Tim was dazed and bleeding heavily, but anger took over. He found the strength to stomp on the gas peddle and ram Reggie's car. That was the idea, anyway. Reggie was smart enough to drive around the cars in front of him... just before Tim got to him. Instead Tim's car hit a large white truck. A muscular man got out of this big truck, with a baseball bat, full of deadly intent.

Tim, depressed that he missed Reggie's car, fondled his girlfriend's titties, for comfort. She, in turn, had just enough strength to pull a nine millimeter out of her purse and put a smoking hole in Tim's forehead. She smiled, suffering through blood soaked eyes and died, instantly, thereafter.

Toadie had been calmly watching the ensuing mayhem. Other drivers were getting involved, as well, cursing and screaming. Some were threatening. Some screaming and threatening.

That's when Toadie got out his machine gun and various knives that had been nestled safely in his special "Toolkit Of Death". After masturbating to the thought of killing everyone in sight, Toadie, truly armed to the fucking teeth, got out of his vehicle and said, with pride, "Toadie make everyone's day much brighter with the color of crimson and other shades of red. Ahoy!"

Still hard as a rock, Toadie stood, triumphantly, and shot everyone on sight, laughing hard as heads popped open like fresh spring cantaloupe or something. When the tv and newspaper media vehicles got to the scene, they were killed by Toadie, as well. Their blood lovingly pooled and then drifted off into a sea of red and eventually swelled on the ground and cement... forming small oceans.

No one could defend themselves with Toadie's deadly skills against them. Minutes later, the smoke cleared.

No longer -was the screaming heard. No more vehicles were exploding from Toadie's favorite bazooka. No more bodies fell, raggedly, making splashes in the lakes of blood. All was silent and calm.

Toadie farted.

History was made that day and everyone in the nation helped in their own way to make Toadie a TV sensation and America's new hero. Toadie would remember that mid-afternoon day, often, and with much fondness while stroking his wang, full of glee, until he came.

Spurt.

Afterwards, he would shout, "Modugalphagimminna!"

Pants On The Ground

This seems to be, for an extremely odd reason I'm not sure about, the song that's sweeping the country. It's a song that will bring a tear of insanity to your eye. You can pick which eye. Larry Platt, a contestant on American Idol sung the very unusual song the first time. The song surprised the judges because the song contained weird yet true words coming out of Platt's mouth.

In the video clip below, Jimmy Fallon does an excellent job impersonating the great Neil Young, singing the same song. It's funny. And Neil Young is one cool dude, too. His songs could be meaningful, poignant, telling the truth of how things are in life or all of it put together. It's not celebrity worship I'm demonstrating here, folks, it's just that I respect the man for his thoughts, music and talent. Click the above link to know more about Neil Young. Or better yet, listen to his music to really know him.

Here's the You Tube video of Jimmy Fallon's parody of "Pants On The Ground":

Big Deal About Michael Phelps Pot Smoking

The media is getting all worked up about the trivial pot smoke break Mike took during a college party. He has apologized profusely for his "indiscretion" since the picture came out. The uptights call Michaels's bong hit inappropriate behaviour for the kids or anyone else looking at him as a hero. I say, "Fuck 'em." And, by the way, don't teach your kids to look at anybody as a hero. That's inappropriate behaviour for a parent. In reality, there are no heroes. There are only normal every day people trying to do the best they can.

Furthermore....

Tell me which is the more appropriate behaviour for a 23-year-old male: taking a bong hit at a party or swimming an average of 50 miles a week? There's no need to take too long thinking about that.

Kellogg's has dropped him, as a sponsor, so I guess he won't be on any of their cereal box covers. To them, I say, "Fuck you." To his other sponsors, that have still have common sense, I say, "Bravo" for honoring and respecting Phelps by not allowing a trivial matter cloud your judgement. Phelps doesn't need Kellogg's, anyway. He's got 16 gold Olympic medals for his magnificent achievements, the respect of his team mates and more important things going for him than some cereal company can ever hope to compete with.