Absentee Blogger, Super Blogger, Dumbass Commenter and Unsolicited Advice

Absentee Blogger


That's how I'd best describe myself these days.  I think the last time I posted anything on the blog was about the middle of last month.  I'm reminded of that line from Al Pacino from one of his movies.  I know I won't get it right and I'm too lazy to look it up but it went something like... "No matter how hard I try to get away, they keep pulling me back in."

Feel free to correct me on that or tell me the movie reference as I know somebody reading this probably will.  That is, if somebody took the six to ten seconds to read the first paragraph.  More on that topic later.

Absentee Bloggers will usually go on temporary or permanent absences away from their blogs because of all types of situations.  Deaths in the family.  A project at work.  Having a real job, in general.  Responsibilities.  Vacations.  Unhealthy children.  Or, yes... even having a real life that sometimes keeps you away from your fucking hobby-  Which what blogging is... it's only a hobby folks.  Sometimes, it's a bit of self therapy.  Sometimes, it's you wanting to educate or entertain the strangers out there online.  But, in the end, it's just a hobby.  If you think it's anything more than that, here's your straitjacket!  Do not pass GO.  Instead, check yourself into the mental institution, you hopelessly addicted fucker.  Or seek psychological help of some kind.  I did and it certainly helped me.  Seeeeeeeeee????  :)  And the lopsided smiley face makes it all okay, huh?  

Yes, I know.  My goddamn keyboard is dusty as fuck.  Desk tray is, as well, I know.  Don't care, though.   You may "advise" me to get one of those cans of compressed air or one of those crazy American Republican  presidential wannabes to use their hot air to blow the dust away.  On second thought... no thanks on that idea.  They're all so flagrantly stupid, they would probably just slobber on my keyboard, making a bigger mess than a dude that's heavily addicted to Internet porn- if you catch my drift.  Hope I'm not being my usual subtle self.  :)  You'll note that I have a portable phone that's always nearby or stuck up my ass whenever the next personal or family emergency arises.  Which it will.

Remember:  If you feel absolutely compelled to post something each and every fucking day, you may be a Super Duper Dumbass Blogger (see topic below, later) that needs professional help, not to mention any type of responsibility and/or a goddamn job.

In reference to the previous "pulling me back" quote, the last four weeks have claimed my last strand of sanity and my time.  During my absentee blogger time, I was hit with all manner of health scares stemming from my Dad's Vascular Dementia, his hospital stays where he fell down due to low blood pressure or something else, my wife's own health problems where I was meticulously wrapping her swollen legs up every day, my own insulin prescription crisis (I'm severely diabetic) and last, but certainly not least, my Dad wrecking his car into someone else.  That last incident was expected.  We warned the authorities for years.  We did what we could to prevent it.  Legal, persuasive and everything else kind of ways- beyond imagination.  Luckily, no one got hurt.  And, of course, that's what it took for the right people to finally take action.  A damn accident.

My sister and I could write entire thousand page novels on what we've had to go through the last six years since Dad accidentally left the car running in the basement, which in turn, poisoned my mom to death through the air vents upstairs.  It took me a long time before I could even talk about that.

By the way, Dad is living in an assisted living facility.  His second one.  It's nice.  Amazingly nice.  It's a I-want-to-live-there-when-I-can't-take-care-of-myself kind of nice.  The first one he was living at, well, that, in itself, is a 9 part miniseries, featuring dramatic manhunts, threats to staff from him, breaking rules and full on breakdowns on my part and my sister's end of it.  It wasn't a bad place either, but, things wouldn't stop happening.

NO SOLICITED ADVICE HERE, PLEASE!!!!!


Just in case I wasn't clear, I thought I'd helpfully add a few exclamation points above.  Wonderful of me, wasn't it? 

If you've never read my blog or haven't read about that saddest part of my life, click these links for only a small piece of the never ending saga:

Sorry If I've Caused Concern
Sorry If I've Caused Concern- Part 2 
Sorry If I've Caused Concern- Part 3

I made the mistake of saying a couple sentences about the difficulty of caring for Dad on Facebook and somebody gave me unsolicited advice, assuming that in the 6 years of dealing with his problems- which became our problems, that we had never attempted what he suggested before.  When I read his suggestion, I was only looking to spout off a little to get mild, brief relief on Fuckbook or whatever they call it, I laughed and freaked out just a little when I read the suggestion/assumption and I didn't communicate to the assuming person because I'm not into debating and this person, I knew, would debate and argue something until pigs learned to talk.  It certainly didn't help during "my little freak out" that I was extremely stressed from everything hitting me at once from my wife's problems to my own- which are the same if you get down to it.  When you're married, it's like that.  FYI.

Clue 1: One of the biggest mistakes you can make with me is assuming.  Don't do it!  I've had it done to me far too many times.  Also:  Don't fill in the blanks and tell lies just because you don't know the person or the situation.  Questions are welcomed as long as assumption aren't sneakily thrown in.  My motto has always been:  Always ask, Never assume. 

Clue 1.5:  Unsolicited advice is also a big no no with me, just in case I haven't mentioned that two or three hundred times during the 6 years this blog has been around.  If I ask for advice, only then you can give it to me.

Sometimes, believe it or not, people say shit to just get whatever is troubling them off of their chest or out of their minds for a bit of relief.  Imagine that!

Clue 2: Once I've made my point, I don't argue or debate about the topic any longer.  I might give you a couple paragraphs worth of words back and forth between you and I but that's about it.  And that's if I don't have anything better or more productive to do. In person, if you are errationally determined and choose to "win" the argument or "make your case" or "see the gray areas" (also known as 'splitting hairs', I believe) in everything I say, I will leave you standing, talking to yourself or getting zip for response from me.  Feel free to believe you've "won" the argument or debate when I don't return your brilliant comeback with another brilliant comeback.  It matters not to me.  And when you do it on the internet, I think you're an absolute fool for doing so.  I don't care if both "great debaters" become the best of pals at the end of their battle of words, charts, facts supporting their views that will change after the next day or whatever, it's idiotic.  Period.  Go.  Fuck.  Thyself.  The same goes double for Grammar Nazis.  Please... GET A FUCKING LIFE OR AT LEAST TRY TO ENGAGE IN ACTIVITIES OR RESPONSIBILITIES OUTSIDE OF THE INTERNET.  UNGLUE THY ASS FROM THY OFFICE OR COMPUTER CHAIR, FUCKWAD.  Oh, there goes my delightful subtle side of me exposing itself again.  I gotta watch that.

I'm sure you've seen this before... but have you actually read the words and let their meaning sink inside that big ol' human brain of yours.  Mentally handicapped people have my full respect.  They make people who argue and endlessly debate on the net look like deranged imbeciles that are deserving of being slowly trampled by a hyped up herd of people leaving a Disturbed concert.  I respect the hyped up concert folks more than the "great debaters", as well.  Crush on, dudes and dudettes!  

Anyway, during this last hiatus, I would have much preferred to being in this chair, happily blogging about shit people could laugh and/or think about instead of being imprisoned in endless health scare and moving issues.

Super Blogger

Speaking of irritating people, isn't it about time we got rid of these "Super Bloggers".  You know... these ego-maniacal assholes who need a gazillion fucking followers.  Don't get me wrong!  Or fucking assume!  I don't care how many followers you, I or the next person has but when they promote themselves to death by joining every site, blog and advertise... not to mention sell products bearing their website names, without a drop of true substantial content- it speaks volumes to me about what they're all about.  Superficiality and ego-boosting.  It's a cry for help.  No need to assume.  They flagrantly show IT, celebrate IT and glorify IT, themselves and their site.  Link dropping after every comment on someone's blog post is strategy in their strange game of potential profits or ego-boosting.  They want you to click their ads, buy their shit and follow them like the next messiah.  And if you're "lucky" you may get a comment from them on your own blog once a year.   Again, to those who engage in this self-serving practice... GO.  FUCK.  THYSELF.

If you go to my blog pal, Gary and his funny, observant blog, klahanie, you will see he has posted a bit on this subject, as well.  I advise you to check out his excellent, well written site, too.  Here's the link to the post I'm referring to here.

Did you see where I capitalized the words above where I called no one, in particular, a fuckwad?  I did that in the hopes that you would read those words- which brings me to...

Dumbass Commenter

The Dumbass Commenter excels in leaving comments that shows he, she or it did not read much or any of the post.  Maybe they looked for keywords, big words, bold type words or a tiny chunk of the post to comment on.  Maybe they briefly looked at the pretty or bizarre pictures.  Who knows?  Some will say, "Your site is good.  I follow.  My website is Blahblahblah."  You may call them spammers.  I call them imbeciles.  I say, if you're not interested in my post or someone else's, don't read it and attempt a lay a lame comment in the comment area.  Keep your "following me icon" and your shitty three word or lame comment to yourself.  Gary, of klahanie, also wrote his perspective on this subject.  Look here.  I have to admit.  It's more amusing than my somewhat cutthroat, yet still honest, perspective.  I also have to admit that I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy today, joyfully spreading good cheer to one and all.

Did I happen to mention I'm the King of Subtlety?  Or would that be a mere admirer, user or student of sarcasm or sardonic humor?  It's so hard to tell.

On the bright side, things are finally looking up a little.  No, I'm not talking about my penis becoming erect.  Not that far up.  I'm just saying that through all the bleakness, I see a tiny particle of light at the end of this long, dark, melancholy, jagged tunnel of misery.  Maybe, in a few more weeks, things will get even better.  It depends.

Have you read this far down?  Do you have ADHD?  Or is Lil' Puddin' bored that he or she didn't have a laugh-a-second post to read this time around?  If so... Gosh.  I care a lot.

I'm just kidding, folks.  It's all in good, well meaning fun.  Move along now.  See you or not see you next time I post a delightful story or raging diatribe.  Take care.  I love you.  Would you follow me?  I desperately need  that type of ego boost. Hahahahahahahahaha.  I'm okay. 

Life Lessons From Father To Son

Minutes after placing the plastic Santa, sleigh, reindeer, snowman in the yard and decorating the house with many festive lights in order to give Sean's residence the appearance of a typical American home during the much commercialized season, Sean placed his arm around Timmy's shoulder. The 40 year old corporate executive was proud of his accomplishment. It was important, in Sean's mind, that he keep up with the other neighbors' decorated yards in his suburb. He looked down to see if his son was taking in the grandeur of the perfectly well placed decorations and lights, as well. As usual, Timmy was preoccupied with the latest version of his iPod, texting away another irrelevant message to a friend in a long line of trivial messages.

That reminded Sean. He needed to buy himself an upgraded version of an electronic gadget he had bought only a month ago. Texting, instant messaging and twittering was such a vital part of Sean's life and he just had to have the very latest electronic gadget in order to keep up with appearances and to make himself feel just that much more special than anyone who didn't have the latest electronic gadget at the moment. Sean's cars, mansion, big screen TVs, yacht and the rest of his possessions meant everything to him. After all, Sean thought, your portfolio, your money and the material things you own is a reflection upon your true value in society. And this thought, in turn, reminded Sean that he needed to have a serious talk with his 12 year old son about the facts of life.

"Son," said Sean, demanding Timmy's attention, "I think it's time we had THE TALK."

Sean had to snap the texting device out of Timmy's hands in order to stop the boy's addictive behavior and get his attention. It seemed that everyone during this time had such an addiction to electronic gadgets. At times, it seemed as though they were mindless texting, cell phone- talking zombies, incapable of standing in front of someone and communicating directly to them. With blank stares upon their little screens, they tappity-tap-tapped upon their hand held device's buttons, pausing only if it was absolutely necessary.

Timmy whined, "Hey, I was texting something to Ricky."

Sean said, "When we're finished talking, I'll let you have it back. Don't worry."

Timmy got a pout-y look on his face, thinking it would gain him back his gadget. It didn't. It was one of the few times Timmy didn't get his way with Sean.

Sean started, "It's time for you to know just how important is to run with the pack. To conform. Be a complete team player in life. And perhaps, most importantly, never differentiate from the norm so everyone, from your classmates in school to your fellow players in an organized league to your future co-workers in the office, will accept you during life. Never rock the boat."

Timmy looked up, asked, "Office? Why do I have to work in an office? Why can't I work at the supermarket with Uncle Frank?"

Sean laughed and then continued explaining, "Your Uncle Frank is what we call a loser. A no account. A grunt who performs routine tasks. A nothing, in truth."

"Why do you say that?," inquired Timmy.

As Sean walked Timmy back to the warmth of the interior of the mansion, the father said, "Uncle Frank didn't go to college. Instead of choosing a career where he would earn an annual six figure salary, Frank decided to waste his life and opportunities to work behind a deli counter, never to achieve what you kids today call the "awesomeness" of having considerable wealth and exceptional stature." With this said, Sean winked and nodded, affirmatively. He was hoping to get through to his son the importance of appearances and the never ending goal of attaining vast wealth throughout his lifetime.

As they stepped inside, Sean instructed Timmy to sit at the table for more enlightenment. At the table, Timmy said, "I don't understand. I always thought Uncle Frank was pretty happy. He's always smiling, the couple of times I've seen him."

Sean replied, "It doesn't matter if Uncle Frank is happy. What's important is wealth and conformity. Frank, from the day he was born, hasn't followed the rules of American society and as a result, doesn't measure up to our standards, my son. It's just that simple."

Timmy seemed confused at first, but then his expression brightened.

"So that's why you never invite Uncle Frank to Christmas or Thanksgiving every year," said Timmy, pleased that his father was smiling at his sudden comprehension.

Sean patted the boy on the head and said, happily, "You betcha!"

Timmy exclaimed, "Uncle Frank isn't as good as we are!"

"Why Frank has hardly any value as a human being at all," confided Sean, proud that his boy was eagerly learning a valuable lesson.

Timmy and Sean laughed heartily. This is going to be a wonderful day, thought Sean. The boy was soaking in all the wisdom Sean had to offer like a thirsty sponge.

At that moment, Vicky, Sean's wife walked in from the living room. She asked, "Will you boys be ready to go shopping in about an hour?" Sean and Timmy nodded. "There's a new upscale department store in the city that I've wanted to go into and we have reservations at The Capital Grille later tonight. I hear the Seared Tenderloin with Butter Poached Lobster is out of this world. I"m just so looking forward to eating there."

Sean and Timmy decided to go into the living room to watch TV. A news program was playing, showing the plight of people that had lost their jobs, recently, and were having trouble keeping their homes.

Timmy giggled, pointed and then exclaimed, "Look, dad! Poor people! They're stupid!"

Sean confirmed Timmy's outburst, saying, "That's right, son!"

Sean continued, "And if you should see any people at any time like this or any other losers that ask you for a handout, just pretend that they don't exist. It's easy. And it's the American Way"

The next images were of people fighting a war in the Middle East. Sean thought he could contribute more to his son's education by explaining the reason we were at war.

Sean asked, "Do you know the reason why our young soldiers are risking their lives over in the far away country called...? Eh, I forget the name at the moment... but that's not important anyway."

Timmy said, "Nope. I never really cared. Whenever they talk about war stuff on TV, I usually turn on my PS3 and play games."

Sean thought, Well, I really can't blame him there. Whenever the subject of whatever war we were currently in came on the screen, he'd quickly change channels to some televised sporting event.

"Well," said Sean, "The reason we go to war with people that are different than us is due to a number of things. One, they might have something that we want. Like oil, for instance. Two, our corporations and our government may have found ways to make a profit from setting up our "democracy bases" in these countries, therefore, we should be there. And three, it's the patriotic thing to do."

Timmy said, "I thought I heard it was about terrorism or somethin'."

Sean put his hand on his son's arm while saying, "Well, son, our government and politicians have used fear mongering and terms suggesting that you're not a true patriot unless you want go to another country and kill their people who have nothing to do with terrorism, per se. In fact, a lot of innocent civilians are killed over there for really unfair reasons, I suppose, if you really want to dwell on that sort of thing. Our own soldiers die over there, as well, but hey, ya gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelet."

Sean pointed up toward the air and said, triumphantly, "Heck, our country was practically taken and founded upon the massacre of people different than us. You've heard of Indians, right? Well, we had to wipe them out early on in order to spread across this land like a virus. They had our land and we took it from them. We even let a few of them live. 'Might is right', as they say."

Sean laughed a bit and then added, "But who says life has to be fair? It's the end result that counts. As Americans, we have to protect our gluttonous, selfish way of life by doing things that may seem immoral to some losers but that doesn't really matter. Money matters. Satisfying our needs is what matters. Doing what the government tells you to do and what to believe, no matter how much you think it is a lie, is what truly matters."

Timmy thought about what his father said and though a lot of it didn't make sense, he decided to go along with it. It seemed to him that if everyone else was going along with these rules, then it must be right.

Timmy said, "I guess I get it."

Sean said, "That's all I need to hear. Just remember... the majority is always right. Think and act like everyone else and you'll do just fine. In the future, you'll go to college, get a high paying career, get married, buy a big house and other expensive items, raise a couple rug-rats of your own and never question authority or the government. Don't rock the boat."

Timmy smiled and then said the words a father wants to hear the most from his son.

"I want to be just like you when I grow up, dad."

Sean said, "You betcha, son." Sean, assured of Timmy's compliance with all that was said, gave Timmy his iPod back.

Minutes later, the family gathered into the limousine and were taken into the city for a day and night of heavily commercialized Christmas shopping and fine dining. Life couldn't be better for Sean. Sean felt he had instilled valuable life lessons in his son and took exceptional pride in that accomplishment.

Disturbing Neighbor and The Attention Needy

My neighbor that lives below us in our apartment complex is likely the worst one we've had in the ten to twelve years we've lived up here on the hill.

Not only is he annoying and disturbing, but he has that bad boy, punk ass, "gangsta" look about him. He has made it clear he is a bully and is possibly physically abusive to the woman and little girl who lives with him.

I'll get back to this douchebag in a minute but first I have to say....

It hurts me to utter or write the word "gangsta" because it's not a real word, but instead, something rappers and rap fans made up to make themselves sound tougher than they actually are. "Gangsta", which I'm guessing is supposed to mean gangster or some other similar tough guy nonsense, sounds silly to me.

In fact, anyone who tries that hard to impress me with their toughness or supposed uniqueness ends up making me shake my head. This especially goes for people who stick lots of metal jewelry into their skin or cover themselves with too many tattoos or black eye liner or wear their pants almost down to their knees.

I feel like saying, "Yeah, you're such an individual. How unique you must be. I get it." Or.... "Gee, what a statement you're attempting to make. I'm so impressed with your supposedly extreme, attention getting appearance, I'm clearly shaken by it all or, at the very least, popping a boner with excitement or whatever. Now, go away!"

At first, people like this made me laugh. Then I found them to be mildly entertaining. But as the years go by and I grow older, I find that they just bore the fuck out of me with their desperate need to get my attention or show that they are so much more different than the rest of us. Pure Silliness. Futility in action.

Hey, do you want to show me how unique you are, Numb Nuts? Talk to me and let me in on your thoughts or your true persona. Better yet, show me who you really are through your actions. No swaggering or over-the-top conduct, please. Just the real you.

There were real gangsters in the 1920's to 1940's in America. These were true criminals. Like Al Capone, for instance. Not that these true criminals have any more redeeming value than today's gangster wannabes in the rap industry, poverty-stricken districts and ghetto areas.

I guess you could call someone a gangster that belongs in a street gang. But that's really stretching it a bit for me. To me, they are just common street thugs, dealing drugs, involving themselves in petty crimes and sometimes committing violent acts. They have many excuses for needing to belong in these gangs and will usually acquire their money by doing anything but getting a real job and earning their money.

But getting back to my equally worthless neighbor....

He also wears the droopy pants, has tattoos all over his body and does the "tough" talk routine. Never before have we had someone (or something) like that living in our apartment complex in the years we've lived here.

More importantly, this gangster wannabe screams at the woman and little girl that lives below with him. He shouts at them in the parking lot, too, for all to see. I also hear a lot of thumping and banging down below. I can't say for sure if he's physically abusing the little girl but it wouldn't surprise me that much if I found out for certain.

My wife says the front door below, that sits below our stairwell, is broken at the top, where the metal arm thing was attached, because of him. My wife says she thought she saw him pushing his girlfriend so hard against the door one day, that the force of her shoved body caused the door to break free from the wooden frame above. Earlier that same day, she could hear what sounded like them arguing back and forth below us. The door is, indeed, unhinged at the top and I'll be calling our landlord soon to fix that.

This barely human turd also allows the little girl to drive her plastic tricycle all around the parking lot, not keeping a watchful eye on her half the time. With how busy our parking lot can be, this poses a real danger. On one occasion, I've seen him pull his car into the lot and the little girl looked like she was hanging halfway out of the passenger side of the car. At my angle of sight, I couldn't tell for sure if she was wearing a seat belt or not, but it still looked pretty wrong to me.

Whenever, I see the woman living below us, she is never friendly and, in fact, appears nervous, like she's hiding something. This is conjecture on my part, of course. There are also some unscrupulous looking types of people, "friends" of his who visit him time to time. Maybe they are decent people. I don't know for sure so I'm not going to assume -but all of these things put together make me a little nervous, myself.

Another bothersome activity this asshole likes to engage in, every so often, is thumping on our floor/his ceiling if we turn the volume up on our TV above the 25 mark. Not that loud, really, when you take into consideration that our TV goes all the way up to 100. We've had around five different neighbors living below us in the nearly dozen years we've lived up here and we've never had any complaints before -from neighbors or landlords.

Yes, I know. We should have called the landlord already for a variety of reasons. The couple of reasons I haven't done this so far are this:

1- I don't like to get people that live close to me in trouble. Usually, this will cause trouble for the complainer (me, in this case) and will sometimes result in having your car tires punctured or some other retaliation by the bothersome neighbor. Since I have a bad temper and am easily stressed out, I may do something even more stupid to him. I have my very weak and shaky emotional moments and then, on the other side of the coin, I have my super-motherfucker-I'm-going-to-fucking-kill-you kind of moments in these situations. I can be extreme, either way. And neither one of those ways is not good, I know.

2- Even though our most recent landlord is a cop, he's doesn't seem to care about when tenants complain about other tenants -even if it may concern a serious issue. One tenant, who talks to my wife, fairly frequently, alerted our cop landlord that she thought a person who had just moved into the apartment complex was a thief. He told her that he didn't care as long as he paid the rent on time. This tells me that he may not give a good shit when I tell him about the neighbor below us.

I don't know for sure what will happen next with this guy but I have a feeling I'm going to be forced to call the landlord and make a complaint or several complaints about him. I just hope it doesn't backfire -for our sake and if he pisses me off too much -for his sake. I don't want to go to jail over this gangster wannabe.

Besides, that would put a damper on my all-too-important cruise this summer. Ha ha. Good golly, I hate fuckin' bullies and other tough talking pieces of shit. How about you?

Bad Hair

Sometimes the wifey complains about my hair before we go out in public. Since I'm not into the vanity and superficial thing about appearances, I don't care that much how I appear to people. People, in general, are far too worried about such trivial matters.

Now, I won't go so far as to leave my dick hangin' out of my pants before we go into a restaurant... but when it comes to having everything perfectly adjusted (hair, clothes, stray booger sticking out of my nose, etc) on my non-perfect self, I really don't think it's that important.

Looking good for the ignorant, unworthy masses is just NOT a high priority for me. They don't deserve such effort on my part. In fact, they should be overly delighted and tickled pink that I even take notice of their existence.

Besides, I don't think my hair looks that bad. It could be worse. At least I don't look like this...

Fun At Arby's and New Priorities

Hey, at least you don't suddenly bleed on teenage cashier boys at Arby's. I did that the other night. My nose started bleeding, kind of profusely, drops splattering the counter, while I was trying to tell my order to the Arby's employee. I had to use both handkerchiefs I had in my pants (which I eventually filled with blood) before the bleeding subsided long enough for me to get the order out of my mouth while blood dripped on my tongue, gums and beard.

How embarrassing! But for only a second, however, and then I didn't care because I knew I was most likely grossing every other customer standing beside me and behind me. So... It was worth it, I suppose. I tend to disgust or irritate at least one person every day. I would put something like that on my tombstone "Here Lies Kelly. He could piss anybody off without even trying." But I'm too cheap for all of that lettering, not to mention the plot expenses and so on, so I'm going to have myself cremated. Instructions will then include having my ashes sprinkled over some asshole's ice cream sundae. Or something like that.

My mother-in-law wants a really expensive casket and extravagant funeral. She already has it all planned out. Why? She's gonna be dead. Why do people do that? Simple answer: Vanity.

Er, where was I? Ah, yeah, my nose bleed.

My nose gets a kick out of bleeding like that -especially when it's really dry and cold outside or if I pick a particularly hard booger that's done a super job of gluing itself to my nose booger wall.

Say, "Thank you for sharing!"

These days, since my month long 95% recovery from Major Depression -which I've been diagnosed with for the last five years, my priorities in life have greatly changed.

For one, I don't care as much how I look when I go out in public. That's not to say I go out around town with my tube steak and blueberries hanging out of my pants. You can get ticketed and arrested for that shit. Or... in my case, possibly laughed at.*

*Due to my left testicle being the size of a small Granny Apple and the other one being just peachy -And by that, I mean normal. What's with all this food talk in this post?

No, I try to, at the very least, brush my teeth, comb my hair (even the pubes) and wear normal clothing when I go out. No more Sex Instructor: First Lessons Free type shirts are worn or even owned. I was the first, in my high school, to wear that shirt, by the way. Such pride! Now, if I were to go out with that shirt on, I would be thought of as some old pervert (which, of course, I am) but anyway....

I just believe it's all trivial and vain to go out in normal everyday places, wearing a popular name suit and a twenty to thirty dollar haircut.... or for the ladies (and some men, I suppose) -five pounds of makeup slathered on or plastic surgery work done on their faces. Even if it's for the workplace, don't demean yourself. As much as you have been likely brainwashed by this society, you really are not a product to be sold.

Number two: I don't give a rat's ass about how cute you think your kids are. I don't want to see their pictures. And if they're screaming at a table near me at a restaurant, expect a dirty look or much, much more from me if you don't remove them promptly or discipline them. They're irritating me and everyone else. It's rude. I'm trying to eat, digest my food properly and perhaps cut a small, yet quaint fart. People just don't have the cojones (or something like that) to give the parent(s) what I affectionately call "The Mean Bastard Glare".

Get those screamin' monkeys out of here!

Number three: Keeping up with the latest electronic gadgetry. That's an endless, futile and very expensive goal. You can keep your high powered computers, iPhone and other devices of diversion and stick 'em way up your toot hole. I'm just as happy reading a paperback book.

And lastly: Arguing continuously with certain people. If I've made my point and you've made yours and we still don't agree, then let's cool off for awhile and step away. More than likely, it won't be the end of the world. And later, after some thought, somebody might just see the other's point of view and go with it.

The Princess Chlamydia

Let's talk about pleasant subject matter today, shall we?



Her name is Chlamydia. She was a beautiful girl, she was. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Lickable rosy cheeks. Eh.... anyway.... Chlamydia was more than just a princess to the denizens of her shimmering city. They believed she was a genuine blessing. Everyone had plenty of food, shelter and entertainment. Everyone was happy and were charmed by her outward character. But what her adoring fans didn't know, was that Chlamydia had an ugly side. Her pride being her sin, the young princess often gloated to her lady servants and anyone else with ears about her bewitching beauty and charm.


At times, she would hear her servants mocking her from behind closed doors. Chlamydia would come in abruptly with the guards and have them taken into the dungeon where she would often scold them with a swift whipping. Strangely, some of ladies rather enjoyed it. But you didn't hear that from me.



One evening, Chlamydia took a secret walk into the garden area. Soon, she thought, my lover will meet me and we will be free to-


Suddenly, a creature popped out of the shrubbery. It was almost human, though it's pasty white form was covered with strange oozing sores, pustules and patchy hair on it's unclothed body. Chlamydia blinked, gripped by shock and unable to trust her sight. The hideous creature screamed, "I am the demon, Howardsternizzalameass!" Then he raised his bleeding arms, releasing a foul aroma that caused the red roses, surrounding them, to wither and die. Curious vermin went blind.


Chlamydia tried to say something that would deter the creature from attacking her, but before she could, the creature rushed at the princess, grabbed her petite waist and pushed his slimy tongue deep down her throat. An infected bubble of mucous and blood popped against her tongue. Vomit burbled up her throat as she felt his thick, lumpy tongue writhing around inside her mouth. The demon chuckled to himself, tasting her puke and relished it's flavor, sensing she previously had a meal that contained peas, onions and tomato paste.


After minutes of violating her tonsils, Howardsternizzalameass withdrew his tongue from Chlamydia's mouth and stepped back. "So how was that for ya, princess? Pretty good, huh?" asked the demon.


Chlamydia, bent over a small shrub, finished retching her supper upon the nearby lillies and paused a moment before straightening back up. The princess wiped some bile off her lips and said, "You disgust me, you sick, ugly thing!" The demon heard this and became frantic with rage. Fire shot out from his fingertips towards the ground! Wondrously, a toad appeared. The toad was also covered with many infected sores. Many were bleeding, profusely.


The toad said, "Croak." Not much, did he say after that.



The demon smiled and then announced, "This is my pet, Garydellajailbatemus. There are some in my dark realm who call him "The Producer".


Chlamydia asked, "What does it produce?"



"This," answered the demon. The demon pointed toward the nether regions of the princess. Suddenly, she felt something jumping around inside her. She moaned a bit and let loose a magical queef. Then a moment passed and the toad was gone.


Later, Chlamydia found out she had been cursed by the demon. One morning she woke to realize she had bloody, pustulating sores all over her body. The citizens, from then on, found her repulsive and not worthy of their worship. As a result, they gathered round, feasted with gusto and had a delightful festival with dancing clowns and talented musicians before burning the princess at the stake for being ugly and diseased. A few had sex with her, beforehand, just to say they did it with a princess once and then later became infected and spread the disease throughout the country and then the entire world.




And that, my friends, is the dandy end.

Strange Occurrences

SAGINAW, Mich. — A man who police said was arrested for performing a sex act with a car wash vacuum was sentenced to 90 days in jail on Wednesday and ordered to submit to drug testing. The 29-year-old man pleaded no contest to indecent exposure last month.


My opinion: If you really feel the urge to push your stink log into something mechanical or non-human, why not try a nice ripe watermelon, with a hole in it-in the privacy of your own home. After you're finished, why not give the used melon to a friend?


Not that I would do that sort of thing.


NEW YORK– A small political party angry at bonuses paid to staff of bailed out insurance giant American International Group is organizing a bus tour to the Connecticut homes of several AIG executives. "We're all mad at AIG," the Connecticut Working Families Party, a small liberal party, said on its Web site, inviting people to sign up for its "Lifestyles of the Rich and Infamous" bus tour and a rally at the company's Wilton, Connecticut, headquarters, on Saturday.


"Their executives bear a large share of the responsibility for bringing the economy to its knees, and now the same folks are getting hundreds of millions of dollars in bonuses -- at our expense," the website said.

My opinion: Don't forget to bring the napalm!

BRUSSELS - A world record in the length of a queue to a toilet was set on Sunday when 756 people lined up to a latrine in central Brussels to raise awareness for the need for clean water on World Water Day.

My opinion: I'd hate to be the last one. I would be PISSED.


HUNTINGTON BEACH, Calif. - Police are seeking a woman they said used a false identity to get breast implants and liposuction, then skipped town. Huntington Beach police said Monday that a 30-year-old woman opened a line of credit in someone else's name in September 2008 and had the procedures worth more than $12,000 performed at the Pacific Center For Plastic Surgery.


My opinion: Some women will do anything to get a man's attention (and money, eventually). I hope they catch the vain, crooked bitch and she gets her boob balloons ripped out with a rusty pair of pliers.

January 2008, London's The Sun found a practitioner of a new art form in which a design is inked, with a tattoo needle, into the sclera, which is the white part of the eyeball. That volunteer (from Canada) may well be the only daredevil, or one of a tiny number, but Oklahoma state senators were alarmed enough that they passed legislation out of committee in February to ban the practice in their state. "If we can stop ... one person from doing it, we've been successful," said Sen. Cliff Branan. An Oklahoma City tattoo artist told KSBI-TV that the law is useless, in that "common sense" will prevent the problem.

My opinion: Unfortunately, most people don't apply "common sense" to much of anything anymore. I'm waiting for eyeball piercings to come out as the latest fad. The willing participants won't complain about being blind as long as they feel trendy.

LAKELAND, Fla. - An eighth-grader was suspended from riding the school bus for three days after being accused of passing gas. The bus driver wrote on a misbehavior form that a 15-year-old teen passing gas on the bus on March 16 to make the other children laugh, creating a stench so bad that it was difficult to breathe. The bus driver handed the teen the suspension form the next day. Polk County school officials said there's no rule against flatulence, but there are rules against causing a disturbance on the bus.

My opinion: If the bus driver can't handle gagging to the point of vomiting on some kid's nasty rectal bombs, then he shouldn't have become a bus driver.

The Human Race Is, Indeed, A Freak Show

My latest blog post title certainly suits my latest blog design, eh?



But it is true what I say. You, I and the other inhabitants on this rock are the players in this continuous show. We kill each other for religion, land, oil and whatever reason that suits our fancy. We scrutinize and pass judgement on each other's intelligence, monetary wealth, family background, race, outward appearance, physical abilities and whatever nonsense that comes to mind. We pollute the air we breathe. We overfish and poison the oceans. And we destroy and deforest the land we live on.



WTF?






Dance, monkeys, dance!



It's my belief that all those things I've ranted about are terrible, shallow, insane and suicidal on a planetary scale. Can I get an amen on that?



I don't get it. If we know that the outcome of all our dangerous actions will be the ultimate death of all or most of the human race, why do we continue to do it? There must be a lot of denial going on in our minds. I know any excuses given are worthless compared to what will happen if we don't get our collective mindset right and stop being so fucking crazy.

Wallowing In Shallow

Big deal about the Golden Globes. The only reason I have ever watched them in the past was in the hopes of seeing up-close, partial boobie shots of my "favorite" actresses.



Hee ho.



What's so horrendously stupid is the media making a big deal about who is dressed in whatever brand name/"artificial" person as they have year after year. Who freaking cares?

I just wanna see boobies.



Most of these celebrities have so much goddamn makeup painted on their faces, they resemble department store mannequins. Have you ever seen one without make up. Scares the shit out of me when I see a picture of one. I want to throw up my hands and say, "Are there anyone of these media-worshiped people going to get to anything close to real looking. Not real close. I don't want to be startled and make a mess in my pants."



Anyway....



We've known a long time that you look pretty much like the rest of us. Tell your agent that your face needs to look like you've gotten out of the house a couple times in your lifetime.



And for all the rest of these wankers who buy those paparazzi rags over the counter. You can stand up and be counted as being just as shallow. Who's give a shit about celebrity lives?



Chance are, they may be as fucked up as the rest of ours. Again, who cares?



I shall now get off my soapbox and open my latest boobie magazine. I thank you, gentle reader, for your patience. Please..... enjoy my sarcasm. Goodbye for now. Don't get hit by any metal trains. See ya.

Extreme Muscles Are Extremely Disturbing

When people take body building as far as what these pictures show, I believe they are mistaken in thinking that they look good or even healthy. Muscles on top of muscles on top of more muscles = freakishness.

Don't they realize how distasteful or ugly they appear? It's not sexy or appealing at all. The first word that comes to mind when I see something like this is: Monster.

It's somehow even more disturbing when women push themselves to develop physiques like this. They don't resemble women anymore. Don't get me wrong. I'm not putting women who do the normal "working out" routine down, but hey, don't get ridiculous about it.

Even if I was physically able to, I would never turn myself into an eye-wincing behemoth like these people have done. Not for vanity's sake. Not for trophies. Not for money.