Let me spare you the work and fill in the blank for you.
Cats
Dancing With the Stars
Escalades
Fast and Furious
Glee
Hipsters
Indie Rock
Justin Bieber
Lil Wayne
Mandated healthcare
McDonald's ad campaign
NCIS
Pink
Sports Analysts
Taylor Swift
The Word "Epic"
Twitter
Friday, May 24, 2013
Monday, September 24, 2012
The Path from A to B
Logic. It is a key to success in any and everything outside of the arts. Logic is the process of mapping a concept to a conclusion in a coherent manner. If we're speaking three-dimensionally, the shortest, and therefore most logical, path from A to B is a straight line. There is no pretense or ambiguity about it. No bullsh!t. Just a straight path and you're there.
If I ask you, "What is 2 + 2?" I don't expect you to give me some extended monologue about how you feel arithmetic, or math in general, eludes you altogether, and is therefore unimportant in your life (which actually proves what a retard you are for failing to learn a simple set of universal, and unchanging, rules). I expect you to give me the answer, idiot. Nothing more, nothing less.
The problem in the workforce is that many people will try to confuse you with phrases like, "Well....it's just not that easy," which is actually just another way of saying "I'm either too lazy or incompetent to figure it out myself." True, not everything is as simple as 2+2, but this is where logic becomes especially advantageous. Logic helps you keep sense of the madness, to find order amidst chaos, and to reach sensible conclusions. Still, I find myself sitting in meetings with people who seem to think it is more beneficial to the company for them to blab about some tangential path of idiocy they've conjured in their pathetic excuses for brains, than it is to reach a common solution.
I've noticed it is typically a result of egos and pride. Some douchebag thinks he or she has something to prove, and then his or her sole mission becomes killing an hour's worth of time that everyone else could have spent being productive. They purposely drive you down the wrong path, and then everyone sits around the room at the end of the meeting, eyes wide, confused as to why nothing got done. If you ever employ logic in your thinking, you'll realize corporate offices are completely devoid of it. Instead, it replaced by sheer complacency and utter nonsense. It leads me to conclude that at least half of the people in these offices are wastes of space, and contribute nothing to the company, other than overhead.
These folks might as well dress up as clowns and come into work to make balloon bicycles for the day. It actually might improve morale. They certainly don't contribute to productivity, so I can honestly say there wouldn't be any repercussions there. They are like rusted anchors hanging over a ship's walls. We don't need more than one anchor, so why not just cut them loose now and watch as they sink deep into the murky abyss? Free our ships from uncessary baggage, pointless conversations, and pride wars.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Gym Gremlins
Why are there so many weird people at the gym? It never fails. Every time I step through those doors, I find myself in some foreign land, surrounded by weirdos who looked like they crawled out of holes in the ground. Now I know you're thinking, "Didn't you praise weirdness in a previous post?" Yes. Yes I did. But I should have clarified . . . there are good weirdnesses and bad weirdnesses. Weirdness is ubiquitous, no doubt, but it takes a skilled mind to discern the difference.
Remember Doc Brown and Marty McFly? There was a guy the other day who looked like Doc Brown, working out his shoulders with free weights. He has this silvery, white explosive hair, he looks wiry and lanky, and wears multiple layers of sweats that he presumably cut into weird shapes with the same pair of scissors he used to murder people before storing them in his basement. Hey Doc Brown, why are you pumping so much iron? Shouldn't you be spending that time refining your flux capacitor, or building an electric conductor to attach to the clock tower so Marty can get back to 1985 and avoid being perved on by his nubile mother?
But last week, I saw the weirdest guy, hands down! To define his appearance doesn't do him any justice, but I'll make an attempt regardless. Let's start with his feet. Leather flip-flops. Then he had a pair of tight black biker shorts that went halfway down his thighs, adorned with neon-green stripes down the side. Into these shorts, he tucked his spaghetti strap-like tank top. I say spaghetti strap because there was virtually no fabric in the front or back. He had a strap over each shoulder, attached to a strap over his belly and a strap over his back, all tucked into his biker shorts. He must have been in his 50's because his pale mole-covered skin was worn and somewhat floppy and he was covered in a coat of coarse, nappy blonde hair. He sported a blonde moustache that curled around his mouth to make a quasi beard. But his hair was the weirdest part. I must have done 10 takes at his hair because I wasn't sure if it was fake or not. I realized after awhile that it couldn't have been fake, because nobody would ever pick out a wig like that. His hair looked naturally reddish-blonde, but the top layer was dyed...get this....CARROT ORANGE. We're talking baby carrots too. Regular carrots have a more earthy orange color, partly because their just dirty, but baby carrots have a bright orange color. And such was the color of his hair. He also had a BOWL CUT. Rembmer how cool those used to be?? On kids?? It literally looked like he cut a bunch of hay, glued it to his head, beat up a bunch of carrots in a Magic Bullet, and poured it over the top. Even worse was the back region leading to his neck. On bowl cuts, this part was supposed to be shaved. His hair here was definitely shorter, but it looked like he tried to cut it himself without a mirror. Parts were longer than others, you could see a "shingle" effect, and the end result looked like he slept on a weed wacker. He had a red flip phone that he was charging at the gym, and between each set, he'd pick up the phone, dial someone, and talk about the importance of education as loud as he could. WTF??? When I passed by him, his body odor was so severe, it hurt to breathe through my nose.
That man, whom I call "Fry Kid," is probably a severe example, but why are there so many gremlins at the gym? It makes me never want to work out. Especially when I look at the guys who look like they're training to try out for the Packers. What are you training so hard for? Accounting? Selling insurance? Typing on your keyboard? Picking your butt? Make sure your pecs and abs are hard enough first.
Remember Doc Brown and Marty McFly? There was a guy the other day who looked like Doc Brown, working out his shoulders with free weights. He has this silvery, white explosive hair, he looks wiry and lanky, and wears multiple layers of sweats that he presumably cut into weird shapes with the same pair of scissors he used to murder people before storing them in his basement. Hey Doc Brown, why are you pumping so much iron? Shouldn't you be spending that time refining your flux capacitor, or building an electric conductor to attach to the clock tower so Marty can get back to 1985 and avoid being perved on by his nubile mother?
But last week, I saw the weirdest guy, hands down! To define his appearance doesn't do him any justice, but I'll make an attempt regardless. Let's start with his feet. Leather flip-flops. Then he had a pair of tight black biker shorts that went halfway down his thighs, adorned with neon-green stripes down the side. Into these shorts, he tucked his spaghetti strap-like tank top. I say spaghetti strap because there was virtually no fabric in the front or back. He had a strap over each shoulder, attached to a strap over his belly and a strap over his back, all tucked into his biker shorts. He must have been in his 50's because his pale mole-covered skin was worn and somewhat floppy and he was covered in a coat of coarse, nappy blonde hair. He sported a blonde moustache that curled around his mouth to make a quasi beard. But his hair was the weirdest part. I must have done 10 takes at his hair because I wasn't sure if it was fake or not. I realized after awhile that it couldn't have been fake, because nobody would ever pick out a wig like that. His hair looked naturally reddish-blonde, but the top layer was dyed...get this....CARROT ORANGE. We're talking baby carrots too. Regular carrots have a more earthy orange color, partly because their just dirty, but baby carrots have a bright orange color. And such was the color of his hair. He also had a BOWL CUT. Rembmer how cool those used to be?? On kids?? It literally looked like he cut a bunch of hay, glued it to his head, beat up a bunch of carrots in a Magic Bullet, and poured it over the top. Even worse was the back region leading to his neck. On bowl cuts, this part was supposed to be shaved. His hair here was definitely shorter, but it looked like he tried to cut it himself without a mirror. Parts were longer than others, you could see a "shingle" effect, and the end result looked like he slept on a weed wacker. He had a red flip phone that he was charging at the gym, and between each set, he'd pick up the phone, dial someone, and talk about the importance of education as loud as he could. WTF??? When I passed by him, his body odor was so severe, it hurt to breathe through my nose.
That man, whom I call "Fry Kid," is probably a severe example, but why are there so many gremlins at the gym? It makes me never want to work out. Especially when I look at the guys who look like they're training to try out for the Packers. What are you training so hard for? Accounting? Selling insurance? Typing on your keyboard? Picking your butt? Make sure your pecs and abs are hard enough first.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Tale Of The Hosie (The Hobo Newsie)
Remember the Newsies? I sure as hell don't. Never watched the movie. But I do have a vague idea about what a newsie looks like. Picture a kid out of the 20's...maybe just in his prepubescent, or even teenage, years. He's a rebellious lad, and's he'sa gonna get a whippin' when he gets home, see? His poppa works in the steel mill and his momma feeds the family what she can. His attire ironically seems sought after by the modern-day N.Y. hipster who both prides and disillusions himself into believing nobody understands him. A pair of tweed knickers held up by suspenders and a dirty t-shirt. Possibly a tweed coat and a fisherman's cap that looks like he stepped off the wharf following a long trip to sea looking for fresh grouper. His face is smudged and grubby, yet it doesn't seem to mask the innocence of his cherubic features.
That is what I believe to be a newsie.
Picture this: Post-Incubus concert. Sunday night, August 21, 2011. I'm rocking my surfer wig that was freshly brushed to remove all the greasy clumps. 2, 24 oz cans of Bud Light deep, plus some pre-concert beverages. Feeling weird. Incredible, but weird. I was in a field of people listening to my favorite band of all time, basking in sonic glory, inhaling the faint scents of mesquite fires, grape tobacco, and weed. The air is warm, but slightly cool with the breeze. I am on a high I can't even describe...I feel as though I'm on another planet. To put it short, my brain is in another place.
After probably over a mile's walk back from the Peninsula to our RV, I find myself standing in a large, pretty much vacant parking lot. My wife is next to me as we wander to the other side of the lot which is cornered by two buildings. We notice a body, lying on the pavement in the fetal position. The head is resting on the curb and is facing away from us. His clothes looks pretty normal...slightly too big, and maybe a little unkept, but nothing out of the ordinary. Jackie is convinced the person is dead, that perhaps it was someone who drank too much at the show and passed out in a parking lot...she insisted he wasn't breathing. After closer examination, I could see a light rise in the chest and pointed out that this person was most definitely alive, and if anything horrible had in fact happened to him, he most certainly would not have fallen into a perfect sleeping position with his head resting gently on the curb. This stirs Jackie even more.
"Wake him up Josh!"
"What? No! What is going on here?"
"Josh...we have to do something! At least call police!"
"Why? What is he doing wrong? He's sleeping!"
"Well we have to make sure he's ok!"
At that moment, Beau walks up behind us, and after a brief explanation, he walks right up to the guy. "Hey! Hey buddy, you ok?" No response. What happened next will forever be seered in my memory. Beau again prods, "Hey man! You ok?"
In that very split-second the guy flies up out of his fetal position, directly onto his feet. Instantaneously, we all stumble back, and Beau literally jumps backwards as he screams, "Oh shit!" The man, clearly awake now, is staring at us. My heart is beating fast....I'm worried he has a gun. I look him up and down. He is tall and lanky...taller than me. His clothes appear much bigger now...they are baggy like the old pictures of hobos. His face is a little grimy and his hair is messy. His head is as round as a basketball and guess what? He looked like a Newsie!!!!
Beau says, "Hey man....you got somewhere to sleep tonight?"
The man stares at us and nods no.
Beau replies, "Ok. Well, you gotta figure that out."
We take off running, afraid of a potential violent aftermath. I continue to glance over my shoulder and notice that he is following us. As we load the RV, I proceed to the bathroom to poop, and I raise the blinds. I peer out and notice the hobo-newsie is walking in a 5-foot diameter circle in the parking lot. Round and round he goes. Lapping circle upon circle. Where is this guy going?? I wanted to give him food, but figured his brain was probably in a much weirder state than mine, and if given the chance, he might kill me and use me as a lampshade.
And thus is the tale of the hosie.
That is what I believe to be a newsie.
Picture this: Post-Incubus concert. Sunday night, August 21, 2011. I'm rocking my surfer wig that was freshly brushed to remove all the greasy clumps. 2, 24 oz cans of Bud Light deep, plus some pre-concert beverages. Feeling weird. Incredible, but weird. I was in a field of people listening to my favorite band of all time, basking in sonic glory, inhaling the faint scents of mesquite fires, grape tobacco, and weed. The air is warm, but slightly cool with the breeze. I am on a high I can't even describe...I feel as though I'm on another planet. To put it short, my brain is in another place.
After probably over a mile's walk back from the Peninsula to our RV, I find myself standing in a large, pretty much vacant parking lot. My wife is next to me as we wander to the other side of the lot which is cornered by two buildings. We notice a body, lying on the pavement in the fetal position. The head is resting on the curb and is facing away from us. His clothes looks pretty normal...slightly too big, and maybe a little unkept, but nothing out of the ordinary. Jackie is convinced the person is dead, that perhaps it was someone who drank too much at the show and passed out in a parking lot...she insisted he wasn't breathing. After closer examination, I could see a light rise in the chest and pointed out that this person was most definitely alive, and if anything horrible had in fact happened to him, he most certainly would not have fallen into a perfect sleeping position with his head resting gently on the curb. This stirs Jackie even more.
"Wake him up Josh!"
"What? No! What is going on here?"
"Josh...we have to do something! At least call police!"
"Why? What is he doing wrong? He's sleeping!"
"Well we have to make sure he's ok!"
At that moment, Beau walks up behind us, and after a brief explanation, he walks right up to the guy. "Hey! Hey buddy, you ok?" No response. What happened next will forever be seered in my memory. Beau again prods, "Hey man! You ok?"
In that very split-second the guy flies up out of his fetal position, directly onto his feet. Instantaneously, we all stumble back, and Beau literally jumps backwards as he screams, "Oh shit!" The man, clearly awake now, is staring at us. My heart is beating fast....I'm worried he has a gun. I look him up and down. He is tall and lanky...taller than me. His clothes appear much bigger now...they are baggy like the old pictures of hobos. His face is a little grimy and his hair is messy. His head is as round as a basketball and guess what? He looked like a Newsie!!!!
Beau says, "Hey man....you got somewhere to sleep tonight?"
The man stares at us and nods no.
Beau replies, "Ok. Well, you gotta figure that out."
We take off running, afraid of a potential violent aftermath. I continue to glance over my shoulder and notice that he is following us. As we load the RV, I proceed to the bathroom to poop, and I raise the blinds. I peer out and notice the hobo-newsie is walking in a 5-foot diameter circle in the parking lot. Round and round he goes. Lapping circle upon circle. Where is this guy going?? I wanted to give him food, but figured his brain was probably in a much weirder state than mine, and if given the chance, he might kill me and use me as a lampshade.
And thus is the tale of the hosie.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Let's Get Weird
I've been told I'm weird by many people in my life. In fact, it's a phrase I've heard more frequently the older I've become. I wondered how that could be, since most people seem to think the process of aging naturally grounds you.
But then I realized that maybe I'm not the one who's weird. Maybe I simply choose to acknowledge the oddities of this world more than the next man or woman. I recently watched a video Lewis sent, and there was a sheep with a sausage link tail (P. Deeny et al.) that was growing appendages out of its ass, all while throwing up sheep heads. And though it may have been a bit creepy and disturbing, I couldn't help but find it amusing.
The truth is, we all live in a weird world, and nobody is exempt. The world is full of wizards in bathrobes, deer nuggets, "pants" shirts, and chicken pelvis rhymes. The very fact that you exist on this planet means that the so called "weird" people are not the only ones privy to weirdness...you are too. It is always made available to us, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.
What I find funny then, is the people who seem to disregard weirdness altogether. It's possible they're either in denial or they've somehow managed to subconsciously omit the weirdness entirely, and it never ceases to make me laugh. Next time you are in public, just listen to conversations and look at the people walking around. Everyone has "important" things on their minds...even people who think they are funny have an agenda to create this socially constructed environment of so-called comedy. But the truth is, they are all oblivious to the fact that at least one person in the crowd just finished wiping his cornhole, pushed too hard, slipped a didge inside, and failed to wash his hands thereafter. They all refuse to acknowledge the vast multitude of words that could be rhymed into a spur-of-the-moment pleabus poem. And they blanket their eyes to the Navajos asking for a bag of chips as a consolation for five bucks.
So what I must say to these people is...stop pretending and stop trying to glamorize your life. You have just as much sweaty, tangled grundleweed as the rest of us.
Chicken Bus.
But then I realized that maybe I'm not the one who's weird. Maybe I simply choose to acknowledge the oddities of this world more than the next man or woman. I recently watched a video Lewis sent, and there was a sheep with a sausage link tail (P. Deeny et al.) that was growing appendages out of its ass, all while throwing up sheep heads. And though it may have been a bit creepy and disturbing, I couldn't help but find it amusing.
The truth is, we all live in a weird world, and nobody is exempt. The world is full of wizards in bathrobes, deer nuggets, "pants" shirts, and chicken pelvis rhymes. The very fact that you exist on this planet means that the so called "weird" people are not the only ones privy to weirdness...you are too. It is always made available to us, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.
What I find funny then, is the people who seem to disregard weirdness altogether. It's possible they're either in denial or they've somehow managed to subconsciously omit the weirdness entirely, and it never ceases to make me laugh. Next time you are in public, just listen to conversations and look at the people walking around. Everyone has "important" things on their minds...even people who think they are funny have an agenda to create this socially constructed environment of so-called comedy. But the truth is, they are all oblivious to the fact that at least one person in the crowd just finished wiping his cornhole, pushed too hard, slipped a didge inside, and failed to wash his hands thereafter. They all refuse to acknowledge the vast multitude of words that could be rhymed into a spur-of-the-moment pleabus poem. And they blanket their eyes to the Navajos asking for a bag of chips as a consolation for five bucks.
So what I must say to these people is...stop pretending and stop trying to glamorize your life. You have just as much sweaty, tangled grundleweed as the rest of us.
Chicken Bus.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Stall Wall Musings (Lava Snakes)
i sit here today with a mix of emotions. and red ass cheeks. i am angry, but i'm also afraid. i feel confused and anxiety-stricken as i think about the future. i feel cheated by those close to me. those who told me that a simple blob of body wash and a vigorous karate chop of the hand would solve all my problems and render me a fresh and renewed human being.
but today, i'm faced with the harsh cold reality of my anal expulsions. to make matters worse, i'm punished by the consequences from the same gruesome scene that took place the day before. this self-perpetuating cycle has made me afraid to defacate and has made me angry at the lies that were fed to me, both from friends and media. there isn't a day that goes by when i'm not told how much i need my daily fiber. did all those stupid constipated folks out there ever stop and realize that there are some of us who don't need a shovel's worth of fiber in our diets? it irritates me to think the FDA knows what my GI-tract really needs. f*** them. and let's not get me wrong here - i'm not your average immodium hd customer complaining about my sloppy brown puddles on tv. so don't think that i've got some kind of virus or stomach bug you stupid inconsiderate pleab.
to put it short, i'm plagued with lava snakes. these seemingly innocent turds come out looking like normal poop, but they are pastier and tapered in consistency (hence the reference to snakes), they feel hot (hence the lava), and they smell like the reaper knocking at your door. aside from their obvious foul nature, it's the consistency that really punishes you. you never get a clean cut so you're left with an asscrack that looks filled with the remnants of a melted burnt sienna crayon. i kid you not...the brutality of the vigorous wiping that takes place thereafter demands a half a roll of toilet paper...and this is the thin, mass-produced crap from companies like sysco. i look at the leftover roll and want to cry heavily into the consoling arms of the mother who birthed me. eventually i have to give up because i'm in so much pain, or the lady janitor, the old angry russian woman with terrible B.O., comes exploding through the door to scrub up the poop driblets from the previous guy who could have applied for one of those immodium hd commercials i was talking about...not to mention the dried up piss fungus from the retard who decided not to pee in the giant white target like a big boy, but rather aim his little peanut dick at the clean floor and defoul it with his coffee-smelling, dark yellow, viscous piss. what an asshat.
and then the following day, when you thought the storm cleared, it happens all over again...only this time your dirt star is terribly wounded like a soldier on the field. and you further massacre it with abrasive toilet paper as if to punish it for the gross malfeasance it committed the day before. why does it have to do that? why does my body, even on non-coffee days, insist on creating the most difficult, intricate, time-consuming process for me? i've double-checked my diet, and it's fine. the tp i use is fine, because the same happens when i'm at home using our own tp (which is like rubbing pillows in your butt...and you go through an entire roll in one sitting). a lot of times, i simply give up on the wiping and just have to wait til nighttime when i scrub it all out with bodywash, something i never had to do before.
this leads me to two conclusions. 1. i was never meant to bodywash my dirt star in the first place. i was told by two friends, who shall remain nameless, that an unscrubbed star was a disgusting one. well i'll tell you what...that didn't stop lots of hens from wanting to lick it back then. now, i've created the lubricated environment for poop to run wild like the elk of the northern plains. it sickens me. 2. i need to start eating saltine crackers now. my diet is fine, but i realize the need for substances that can really solidify my poop. saltines have always been my ally for this...saltines are like your friends across the large, ovular table at a United Nations meeting...they want peace, and they do the job it takes to make peace. (unlike coffee, which is like the weird, narcissistic prime minister that sits off to the side with a dirty, conniving look on his face...you just know he wants to do something bad). the problem, then, is that i must always maintain a constant supply and devote my monthly income to a plethara of saltines.
my bowel monologues are far too frequent, this i realize. but it's been a constant source of anguish for me, and it's time i do something. this is seriously affecting my daily life, and as i begin the healing process for lower intestinal tract, i will simultaneously strike down my wrath upon the two smelly asses that catalyzed this nightmare for me in the first place.
but today, i'm faced with the harsh cold reality of my anal expulsions. to make matters worse, i'm punished by the consequences from the same gruesome scene that took place the day before. this self-perpetuating cycle has made me afraid to defacate and has made me angry at the lies that were fed to me, both from friends and media. there isn't a day that goes by when i'm not told how much i need my daily fiber. did all those stupid constipated folks out there ever stop and realize that there are some of us who don't need a shovel's worth of fiber in our diets? it irritates me to think the FDA knows what my GI-tract really needs. f*** them. and let's not get me wrong here - i'm not your average immodium hd customer complaining about my sloppy brown puddles on tv. so don't think that i've got some kind of virus or stomach bug you stupid inconsiderate pleab.
to put it short, i'm plagued with lava snakes. these seemingly innocent turds come out looking like normal poop, but they are pastier and tapered in consistency (hence the reference to snakes), they feel hot (hence the lava), and they smell like the reaper knocking at your door. aside from their obvious foul nature, it's the consistency that really punishes you. you never get a clean cut so you're left with an asscrack that looks filled with the remnants of a melted burnt sienna crayon. i kid you not...the brutality of the vigorous wiping that takes place thereafter demands a half a roll of toilet paper...and this is the thin, mass-produced crap from companies like sysco. i look at the leftover roll and want to cry heavily into the consoling arms of the mother who birthed me. eventually i have to give up because i'm in so much pain, or the lady janitor, the old angry russian woman with terrible B.O., comes exploding through the door to scrub up the poop driblets from the previous guy who could have applied for one of those immodium hd commercials i was talking about...not to mention the dried up piss fungus from the retard who decided not to pee in the giant white target like a big boy, but rather aim his little peanut dick at the clean floor and defoul it with his coffee-smelling, dark yellow, viscous piss. what an asshat.
and then the following day, when you thought the storm cleared, it happens all over again...only this time your dirt star is terribly wounded like a soldier on the field. and you further massacre it with abrasive toilet paper as if to punish it for the gross malfeasance it committed the day before. why does it have to do that? why does my body, even on non-coffee days, insist on creating the most difficult, intricate, time-consuming process for me? i've double-checked my diet, and it's fine. the tp i use is fine, because the same happens when i'm at home using our own tp (which is like rubbing pillows in your butt...and you go through an entire roll in one sitting). a lot of times, i simply give up on the wiping and just have to wait til nighttime when i scrub it all out with bodywash, something i never had to do before.
this leads me to two conclusions. 1. i was never meant to bodywash my dirt star in the first place. i was told by two friends, who shall remain nameless, that an unscrubbed star was a disgusting one. well i'll tell you what...that didn't stop lots of hens from wanting to lick it back then. now, i've created the lubricated environment for poop to run wild like the elk of the northern plains. it sickens me. 2. i need to start eating saltine crackers now. my diet is fine, but i realize the need for substances that can really solidify my poop. saltines have always been my ally for this...saltines are like your friends across the large, ovular table at a United Nations meeting...they want peace, and they do the job it takes to make peace. (unlike coffee, which is like the weird, narcissistic prime minister that sits off to the side with a dirty, conniving look on his face...you just know he wants to do something bad). the problem, then, is that i must always maintain a constant supply and devote my monthly income to a plethara of saltines.
my bowel monologues are far too frequent, this i realize. but it's been a constant source of anguish for me, and it's time i do something. this is seriously affecting my daily life, and as i begin the healing process for lower intestinal tract, i will simultaneously strike down my wrath upon the two smelly asses that catalyzed this nightmare for me in the first place.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Hands
as i sit here in the early hours of my work schedule, i think about all that needs doing...all that needs to be done. i think of the purposelessness of writing sheer babble...drivel...banter. alas, i care not. i work in a job that demands 5% of my brain-power. i work in an open field with a wall and my job is to get to the other side of that wall. i spend my days walking around the wall, backwards even, so that i can get a glimpse of my coworkers feverishly tying knots and splicing together crude segments of rope using whale bones from a kill they made in order to splice rope. i just don't understand it. i don't understand all the fuss, the commotion. i remember being a small child, or even a teenager, and looking at adults as if they somehow had it all together...as if they represented accomplishment and ingenuity. now that i'm an adult, i look around me and realize 90% of these people are retarded.
i digress.
i come here to discuss hands. women's hands. the thought crossed my mind the other day as i was sitting in traffic, and i realized what a difference a woman's hands can be. now, there are a number of misconceptions women have about what makes women beautiful. many a time, you'll see a woman sporting 2 pounds of clown paint on her face, zebra stripes in her hair, and burnt skin nothing shy of an overgrilled ballpark hot dog. yuck. worse yet, there is a demographic of men that cater to this particular look, perpetuating its existence. perhaps this is a subject for another discussion.
i speak today regarding the delicacy of a woman's hands. chances are, if you are into the women i mentioned above, or you love the short, prepubescent-looking girls, you'll have no idea what i'm talking about. when you experience a woman's sleek, thin, and delicate hands, there is no comparison. the long, sloping fingers. the aerodynamic shape. the gentle curves. i can imagine those hands running through my hair and i get goose bumps!
on the contrary, if you've been wading through landfills, you probably spend quite a bit of time with pudgy, bloated looking hands with half-crusted orange nail polish falling off the ends of her fat, sausage like fingers. these are the hands that look like the top of a mcdonald's hamburger bun that's been sitting too long in the heater...a soggy, bloated bun with 5 lil' smokies shoved into it. next time you are getting some lovin', take a moment and analyze the woman you're with. does she have hamburger bun/lil smokies hands? do her fat fingers smudge your face when she's trying to be delicate? does she bat at your face with her chubby paws when she's trying to be romantic?
i digress.
i come here to discuss hands. women's hands. the thought crossed my mind the other day as i was sitting in traffic, and i realized what a difference a woman's hands can be. now, there are a number of misconceptions women have about what makes women beautiful. many a time, you'll see a woman sporting 2 pounds of clown paint on her face, zebra stripes in her hair, and burnt skin nothing shy of an overgrilled ballpark hot dog. yuck. worse yet, there is a demographic of men that cater to this particular look, perpetuating its existence. perhaps this is a subject for another discussion.
i speak today regarding the delicacy of a woman's hands. chances are, if you are into the women i mentioned above, or you love the short, prepubescent-looking girls, you'll have no idea what i'm talking about. when you experience a woman's sleek, thin, and delicate hands, there is no comparison. the long, sloping fingers. the aerodynamic shape. the gentle curves. i can imagine those hands running through my hair and i get goose bumps!
on the contrary, if you've been wading through landfills, you probably spend quite a bit of time with pudgy, bloated looking hands with half-crusted orange nail polish falling off the ends of her fat, sausage like fingers. these are the hands that look like the top of a mcdonald's hamburger bun that's been sitting too long in the heater...a soggy, bloated bun with 5 lil' smokies shoved into it. next time you are getting some lovin', take a moment and analyze the woman you're with. does she have hamburger bun/lil smokies hands? do her fat fingers smudge your face when she's trying to be delicate? does she bat at your face with her chubby paws when she's trying to be romantic?
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Escape From Beardy
He knew. I knew he knew. And I knew he knew that I knew. I could tell by that look in his eyes. And it was probably apparent given the swiftness of my feet and the look of panic across my sweat-ridden face...not to mention the cacophany of my digestive tract as I barrelled down the hallway.
Any other day, any other situation, and this wouldn't matter much. The problem was that he was lingering at the corner of the hallway that crossed the main hallway. And the cross-hallway provided the wall against the bathroom I called my own secret haven. It was ideally a place of solitary confinement...a place I could poop in piece, left to my own organic smells, tapping away at my phone, searching for 100+ point words in Scrabble. At least, that's what this place was intended to be. Since discovering my underground oasis, it's peace and purity have become defiled by the carelessness and putrid dirt stars of what I could only assume to be washed out degenerates. I say "assume" because I have never laid eyes upon these foul perpetrators; the closest I have ever come to seeing them was through the slits between the stall doors.
As I raced toward the door, the thoughts of these imposters lingering in my secret bathroom crossed my mind. But more importantly, the thought that Beardy knew exactly what I was going to do was weighing on my mind. His face ruddy and worn, presumably from the long summers he spent shucking corn and tending to the hens out in the stable. His flannel echoed many a Christmases and his white hair and beard trimmed neatly, reminding me of a well-kept Santa. And as I pondered over his brief yet vivid imagery in my head, I swung the door open to the bathroom, and bolted in.
To my surprise, nobody was there. Two stalls and two urinals and not a soul around. I quickly latched a door shut and furiously pulled tp off the roll to cover the seat. In my typical OCD fashion, I pulled off 6 seperate sections, 2 of each, all in different lengths. One section for the front trap with all the piss stains and pubic hairs. Two side sections for the thighs. To back corner sections for the butt cheeks and a rear section for safety reasons. Each layer was 2 ply thick because there was a chance of piss driblets on the seat, rendering the first layer nothing more than an absorbable pad. I quickly sat down, rang out farts reminiscent of heavy artillery, and dropped a few nuggets in relief.
The next 30 minutes were typical. My privacy was invaded 2 or 3 times by the inconsiderate a-holes who thought it ok to sit in a stall next to someone who's pooping. The foul and foreign odor of their excrements made me dry heave and thank the heavens that, even in my worse days of violent explosive diarrhea, my butthole was nowhere near that kind of stank. I listened to several pissers, a couple of which thought it would be great to hack up a huge spitball and dribble it into the urinal. The sound alone made my stomach knotty.
After I was convinced I had everything out, and I had finished playing all my Scrabble moves, I washed my hands and finished up in the bathroom. I exited the 2nd door feeling content and confident once again, only to see Beardy at the same corner, leaning against it, his arms crossed at his chest and a sumg look across his beaten up face. HE KNEW! He had been watching, waiting, surveilling. At that moment, my eyes shot to the floor in dejection and I picked up my pace like a dog running away with its tail between its legs. Sure I was being followed, I tore through the stairwell door and ran up the stairs as fast as I could. A few corners later, I relized I had lost him. I had escaped Beardy. This time.
Any other day, any other situation, and this wouldn't matter much. The problem was that he was lingering at the corner of the hallway that crossed the main hallway. And the cross-hallway provided the wall against the bathroom I called my own secret haven. It was ideally a place of solitary confinement...a place I could poop in piece, left to my own organic smells, tapping away at my phone, searching for 100+ point words in Scrabble. At least, that's what this place was intended to be. Since discovering my underground oasis, it's peace and purity have become defiled by the carelessness and putrid dirt stars of what I could only assume to be washed out degenerates. I say "assume" because I have never laid eyes upon these foul perpetrators; the closest I have ever come to seeing them was through the slits between the stall doors.
As I raced toward the door, the thoughts of these imposters lingering in my secret bathroom crossed my mind. But more importantly, the thought that Beardy knew exactly what I was going to do was weighing on my mind. His face ruddy and worn, presumably from the long summers he spent shucking corn and tending to the hens out in the stable. His flannel echoed many a Christmases and his white hair and beard trimmed neatly, reminding me of a well-kept Santa. And as I pondered over his brief yet vivid imagery in my head, I swung the door open to the bathroom, and bolted in.
To my surprise, nobody was there. Two stalls and two urinals and not a soul around. I quickly latched a door shut and furiously pulled tp off the roll to cover the seat. In my typical OCD fashion, I pulled off 6 seperate sections, 2 of each, all in different lengths. One section for the front trap with all the piss stains and pubic hairs. Two side sections for the thighs. To back corner sections for the butt cheeks and a rear section for safety reasons. Each layer was 2 ply thick because there was a chance of piss driblets on the seat, rendering the first layer nothing more than an absorbable pad. I quickly sat down, rang out farts reminiscent of heavy artillery, and dropped a few nuggets in relief.
The next 30 minutes were typical. My privacy was invaded 2 or 3 times by the inconsiderate a-holes who thought it ok to sit in a stall next to someone who's pooping. The foul and foreign odor of their excrements made me dry heave and thank the heavens that, even in my worse days of violent explosive diarrhea, my butthole was nowhere near that kind of stank. I listened to several pissers, a couple of which thought it would be great to hack up a huge spitball and dribble it into the urinal. The sound alone made my stomach knotty.
After I was convinced I had everything out, and I had finished playing all my Scrabble moves, I washed my hands and finished up in the bathroom. I exited the 2nd door feeling content and confident once again, only to see Beardy at the same corner, leaning against it, his arms crossed at his chest and a sumg look across his beaten up face. HE KNEW! He had been watching, waiting, surveilling. At that moment, my eyes shot to the floor in dejection and I picked up my pace like a dog running away with its tail between its legs. Sure I was being followed, I tore through the stairwell door and ran up the stairs as fast as I could. A few corners later, I relized I had lost him. I had escaped Beardy. This time.
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Most Pleabus Version of Goldy Locks
What was suppose to be a quick in n out pit stop wasn't so for 6 chauns. After 37 minutes of "sheep, sheep, sheep," some random Pringles, sunflower seeds were purchased, and, I believe, 5/6 were able to successfully use the restroom. It didn't help that the most Pleabus version of goldy locks was roaming the store with her entourage, slowing us down as we gawked (no, that is not a wig - yes, those are bear slippers and vending machine tats are her arm - too bad you can't see the glasses and pot belly - I believe they were buying blow bubbles, airheads, and fun-dip). Before we exited, Josh was seen standing disheveled at the door saying, "we need to get out of here before I start banging my head with a hammer."
Just another successful misadventure for the chauns!
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
Unbridled Domepiece
My domepiece is unbridled; it is a feverish cauldron of seething hatred and visceral love making. The two fronts collide, rendering an omnipotent storm of passion. Dark clouds evolve, like the exhaled breath of a million-year-old mummy brought to life, and lighting strikes through my vasculature with vicious intent. I am a walking twistical. A walking, mystical twistical. . . who happens to like physicals. And chicken tenders.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Everyday Folks Signing Emails Like You 'n Me (and Peacil Mints/z)
-designing heating elements for coffee machines in the sunbelt,
Marion B. Ashleford
-Beegle M. Hooflarouex
-slicing skin off pig abdomens to separate bacon from pork rinds in a greasy ohio factory,
Fladdus Sen Perchery
-Speulunking my own natural mountainside garage,
Birmingham Fudgeknuckles
-Cordially, within the cavernous dwellings sequestered within my inner-being,
Chavez Vindigo
-Eat it,
The Cob
-in holy macaroni,
Juarma
-Peace,
Apollo
-Scabby Milkerton
-Virginia Roundanob
-Uranus
-dime lo que pasa!!
Luis San Chicharon!
-Hasta que los pedos me abandonen,
Josue el Gigante
-Un raton voleando,
Luis de la playa
-I will possess your heart,
Baskin Robbins
-Curious,
George
-percolating questions,
a carnal mind
-Lemmit vanSanscrit
-picklewicks
Marion B. Ashleford
-Beegle M. Hooflarouex
-slicing skin off pig abdomens to separate bacon from pork rinds in a greasy ohio factory,
Fladdus Sen Perchery
-Speulunking my own natural mountainside garage,
Birmingham Fudgeknuckles
-Cordially, within the cavernous dwellings sequestered within my inner-being,
Chavez Vindigo
-Eat it,
The Cob
-in holy macaroni,
Juarma
-Peace,
Apollo
-Scabby Milkerton
-Virginia Roundanob
-Uranus
-dime lo que pasa!!
Luis San Chicharon!
-Hasta que los pedos me abandonen,
Josue el Gigante
-Un raton voleando,
Luis de la playa
-I will possess your heart,
Baskin Robbins
-Curious,
George
-percolating questions,
a carnal mind
-Lemmit vanSanscrit
-picklewicks
Peacil Mints/z: The Man Behind the Socially Inept Mask of Creepiness
Loobis, why does Peacil Mintz have a z instead of an s now? It sounds like he's trying to be hardcore.
Peacil Mints/z is a humble unassuming man who has come across some sexual proclivities in the privacy of his own home, that he doesn't know how to deal with. This makes him insecure and a little manic. He doesn't wear socks.
Peacil never wears socks? Like outside the confines of his home? Is he socially maladjusted because of his hypomania? Is he old? What does he think of children? And what is his natural body odor?
no never. he has old ratty slippers that he wears in his home. yes. he is middle aged but not near retirement. he is very uncomfortable around children because their oblivious jubilation makes him so aware of his own overcooked self-deprication. carrots.
poor guy. sounds like he struggles a bit. what's his love life like?
he is the only person involved in his love life.
Peacil Mints/z is a humble unassuming man who has come across some sexual proclivities in the privacy of his own home, that he doesn't know how to deal with. This makes him insecure and a little manic. He doesn't wear socks.
Peacil never wears socks? Like outside the confines of his home? Is he socially maladjusted because of his hypomania? Is he old? What does he think of children? And what is his natural body odor?
no never. he has old ratty slippers that he wears in his home. yes. he is middle aged but not near retirement. he is very uncomfortable around children because their oblivious jubilation makes him so aware of his own overcooked self-deprication. carrots.
poor guy. sounds like he struggles a bit. what's his love life like?
he is the only person involved in his love life.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Birthday-O's
Leslie, trying to enforce an aritificial, individual award ceremony for your birthday o clock is pointless bureaucracy. i could understand if you silently acknowledged it in your head, but when you profess it, i feel like i'm obligated to buy you a birthday o present. actually, i have no idea how i should feel. should i congratulate you? should i laugh? should i cheer and clap my hands with delight? what does it even mean? what does it mean to have a birthday o clock?
that's what i'm saying. i don't know what it means when you say "it's my birthday o clock." so if i plan to let you know when it's my birthday o clock, meaning it has intentions, does it mean the same thing as it just being a coincidence? it's like a horoscope. should i believe that i will laugh today? of course! if i were to put myself in that situation. but what does that even mean? and why should i acknowledge it?
________________________________________
From: Manboy [mailto:Xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:42 PM
To: Leslie Hammerwhacker
Cc: Peacil Mints
Subject: RE: batman
You’re saying that our counter to “birthday o’clock” is “pointless bureaucracy?”
Manboy
________________________________________
From: Leslie Hammerwhacker [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:40 PM
To: Manboy
Cc: Peacil Mints
Subject: Re: batman
You're muddling it all up with pointless bureaucracy. What is this 'count' you're talking about? will it count for what?
On Wed, Jul 16, 2008 at 3:26 PM, Manboy wrote:
Peacil,
You make good points… I think it's more of a point of having your "birthday o'anything" aka what your numbers are, on the top of your head, and of course you will notice them.
It's like driving down the street when you're looking for the address 1004… you're looking for it, so when you see it, you recognize it.
Congrats on being the stinky kid… I'm sure it'll come with a newfound respect from your co-workers…. Or something like that…
Manboy
________________________________________
From: Peacil Mints [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:24 PM
To: Manboy; Leslie Hammerwhacker
Subject: RE: batman
so does this have to be by chance or should i try to integrate my birthday o's? like what if i set my alarm tomorrow to send you an email at 9:17 am? that's an intentional birthday-o. does that count? or what if i decide to blow you away with a double whammy. . . by sending out an email at 9:17 am on 9/17? is that a double birthday-o? and have you ever taken into consideration army time? chances are, you haven't, because i've heard you profess your birthday o clock at 22:04. And technically, that's not your birthday-o. how does one account for that?
Manboy, i meant i'm the stinky kid for once because this time, i know that people know. there's no way they couldn't know. would i hold the title of stinky kid if nobody besides myself knew that i stunk? i mean, i left my cube with a trail of gas that smelled way worse than poop. . . and this woman walked up and tried to come into my cube to give me a card. i just snatched it out of her hand and bolted down the aisle. everyone proceeded to fill the aisle thereafter. busted. i am now the stinky kid.
________________________________________
From: Manboy [mailto:Xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:17 PM
To: Leslie Hammerwhacker; Peacil Mints
Subject: RE: batman
Hahahahahasld;k fj2r98 jd;slajkg tqg5jrz;xlc k90283 tfwedsxl;j
Manboy
________________________________________
From: Leslie Hammerwhacker [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:15 PM
To: Peacil Mints
Cc: Manboy
Subject: Re: batman
Manboy, that's fate! God wants you to know your birthday-o's!!!
On Wed, Jul 16, 2008 at 3:13 PM, Leslie Hammerwhacker wrote:
that's unfortunate that you have such an awkward birthday. But through the wonders of the hexadecimal system we all have a birthday-o'clock. The Cabooze is on 917 Cedar Ave. That's a pretty cool birthday-o'address. In essence Peacil, don't be insecure about your birthday-o's, you've just got to be creative and be aware. Sometimes I wait for my birthday o'clock now because it makes me happy to see it, but most of the time, i'm just going about my day and 1004 jumps out of nowhere and delights me like a little ejaculation you didn't know was coming (literally! HA!).
On Wed, Jul 16, 2008 at 3:06 PM, Peacil Mints wrote:
how would 0917 play out in the real world, aside from time? Rarely is a baseball game ever in the 17's scorewise. That means my chances are slim to none that I will ever get to see my birthday o score. I don't live on 917 munchalunch lane either. So i don't have a birthday o address. I can't shape my area into 0917. Therefore I don't have a birthday o dong. I think this birthday o club is merely a scheme for you to form an extremely exclusive club so you can pretend you're better than the rest of the world.
Manboy, remember when I had those fart bags that would inflate and explode, leaving an eggy, sulfuric smell everywhere? i'm literally farting that stuff. it's hot and it spreads like wildfire. i just cropdusted the aisle here, and i heard some women joke about how stinky it smells in here. hahqa43yj24^@$^@!!!!! for once, i'm the stinky kid!!!
________________________________________
From: Leslie Hammerwhacker [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 12:04 PM
To: Manboy
Cc: Peacil Mints
Subject: Re: batman
I didn't say they are essential, but they are not trivial. They are a self declamation of being. And yes, they existed before digital clocks. But birthdays can be found in almost any series of numbers. if you're at a baseball game and the score is 10-4. Well that's my birthday-o'score. do you live on 1004 munchalunch lane? that's my birthday-o'address. did you twist your genitals to shape 1004? that's my birthday-o'dong. It's about claiming an identity and being comfortable enough to declare that wherever you are. and while that is not essential for being alive, it is important for living!
________________________________________
From: Peacil Mints [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 11:01 AM
To: Manboy; Leslie Hammerwhacker
Subject: RE: batman
that brings me to the question that has been burning in all of our minds Leslie. before digital clocks, did birthday o clocks even exist? with something of such short history, how can we say that birthday o clocks are an integral part of life? almost all things that are paramount to our lifestyles have extensive histories. and those that do not, like cell phones for example, are slightly more valuable than birthday o clocks. if a day went by where you didn't see your birthday o clock, would it honestly hamper your lifestyle?
______________________________________
From: Peacil Mints [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 10:46 AM
To: Leslie Hammerwhacker; Manboy
Subject: RE: batman
Leslie, i think, aside from this past weekend, i have never hung out with you where you have not mentioned your birthday o clock. i'm going to think of something trivial of the sort and say it everytime around you.
that's what i'm saying. i don't know what it means when you say "it's my birthday o clock." so if i plan to let you know when it's my birthday o clock, meaning it has intentions, does it mean the same thing as it just being a coincidence? it's like a horoscope. should i believe that i will laugh today? of course! if i were to put myself in that situation. but what does that even mean? and why should i acknowledge it?
________________________________________
From: Manboy [mailto:Xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:42 PM
To: Leslie Hammerwhacker
Cc: Peacil Mints
Subject: RE: batman
You’re saying that our counter to “birthday o’clock” is “pointless bureaucracy?”
Manboy
________________________________________
From: Leslie Hammerwhacker [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:40 PM
To: Manboy
Cc: Peacil Mints
Subject: Re: batman
You're muddling it all up with pointless bureaucracy. What is this 'count' you're talking about? will it count for what?
On Wed, Jul 16, 2008 at 3:26 PM, Manboy
Peacil,
You make good points… I think it's more of a point of having your "birthday o'anything" aka what your numbers are, on the top of your head, and of course you will notice them.
It's like driving down the street when you're looking for the address 1004… you're looking for it, so when you see it, you recognize it.
Congrats on being the stinky kid… I'm sure it'll come with a newfound respect from your co-workers…. Or something like that…
Manboy
________________________________________
From: Peacil Mints [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:24 PM
To: Manboy; Leslie Hammerwhacker
Subject: RE: batman
so does this have to be by chance or should i try to integrate my birthday o's? like what if i set my alarm tomorrow to send you an email at 9:17 am? that's an intentional birthday-o. does that count? or what if i decide to blow you away with a double whammy. . . by sending out an email at 9:17 am on 9/17? is that a double birthday-o? and have you ever taken into consideration army time? chances are, you haven't, because i've heard you profess your birthday o clock at 22:04. And technically, that's not your birthday-o. how does one account for that?
Manboy, i meant i'm the stinky kid for once because this time, i know that people know. there's no way they couldn't know. would i hold the title of stinky kid if nobody besides myself knew that i stunk? i mean, i left my cube with a trail of gas that smelled way worse than poop. . . and this woman walked up and tried to come into my cube to give me a card. i just snatched it out of her hand and bolted down the aisle. everyone proceeded to fill the aisle thereafter. busted. i am now the stinky kid.
________________________________________
From: Manboy [mailto:Xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:17 PM
To: Leslie Hammerwhacker; Peacil Mints
Subject: RE: batman
Hahahahahasld;k fj2r98 jd;slajkg tqg5jrz;xlc k90283 tfwedsxl;j
Manboy
________________________________________
From: Leslie Hammerwhacker [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 3:15 PM
To: Peacil Mints
Cc: Manboy
Subject: Re: batman
Manboy, that's fate! God wants you to know your birthday-o's!!!
On Wed, Jul 16, 2008 at 3:13 PM, Leslie Hammerwhacker
that's unfortunate that you have such an awkward birthday. But through the wonders of the hexadecimal system we all have a birthday-o'clock. The Cabooze is on 917 Cedar Ave. That's a pretty cool birthday-o'address. In essence Peacil, don't be insecure about your birthday-o's, you've just got to be creative and be aware. Sometimes I wait for my birthday o'clock now because it makes me happy to see it, but most of the time, i'm just going about my day and 1004 jumps out of nowhere and delights me like a little ejaculation you didn't know was coming (literally! HA!).
On Wed, Jul 16, 2008 at 3:06 PM, Peacil Mints
how would 0917 play out in the real world, aside from time? Rarely is a baseball game ever in the 17's scorewise. That means my chances are slim to none that I will ever get to see my birthday o score. I don't live on 917 munchalunch lane either. So i don't have a birthday o address. I can't shape my area into 0917. Therefore I don't have a birthday o dong. I think this birthday o club is merely a scheme for you to form an extremely exclusive club so you can pretend you're better than the rest of the world.
Manboy, remember when I had those fart bags that would inflate and explode, leaving an eggy, sulfuric smell everywhere? i'm literally farting that stuff. it's hot and it spreads like wildfire. i just cropdusted the aisle here, and i heard some women joke about how stinky it smells in here. hahqa43yj24^@$^@!!!!! for once, i'm the stinky kid!!!
________________________________________
From: Leslie Hammerwhacker [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 12:04 PM
To: Manboy
Cc: Peacil Mints
Subject: Re: batman
I didn't say they are essential, but they are not trivial. They are a self declamation of being. And yes, they existed before digital clocks. But birthdays can be found in almost any series of numbers. if you're at a baseball game and the score is 10-4. Well that's my birthday-o'score. do you live on 1004 munchalunch lane? that's my birthday-o'address. did you twist your genitals to shape 1004? that's my birthday-o'dong. It's about claiming an identity and being comfortable enough to declare that wherever you are. and while that is not essential for being alive, it is important for living!
________________________________________
From: Peacil Mints [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 11:01 AM
To: Manboy; Leslie Hammerwhacker
Subject: RE: batman
that brings me to the question that has been burning in all of our minds Leslie. before digital clocks, did birthday o clocks even exist? with something of such short history, how can we say that birthday o clocks are an integral part of life? almost all things that are paramount to our lifestyles have extensive histories. and those that do not, like cell phones for example, are slightly more valuable than birthday o clocks. if a day went by where you didn't see your birthday o clock, would it honestly hamper your lifestyle?
______________________________________
From: Peacil Mints [mailto:xxx]
Sent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 10:46 AM
To: Leslie Hammerwhacker; Manboy
Subject: RE: batman
Leslie, i think, aside from this past weekend, i have never hung out with you where you have not mentioned your birthday o clock. i'm going to think of something trivial of the sort and say it everytime around you.
Friday, July 11, 2008
A Test of Your Pleabological Righteousness
Grandpa Pleab says:
who likes chicken beaks?
-peeble deaks
Grandpa Pleab says:
who likes fried onions?
- punyons and funyons eating at runyons
Grandpa Pleab says:
why do they fry them?
-weed stem
Grandpa Pleab says:
what's that blue thing in your water?
-Harry Potter looking hotter
Grandpa Pleab says:
what's under your pillow?
-willow. that silly dwarf
Grandpa Pleab says:
who likes candy?
-randy pandy, all sandy boning mandy
Grandpa Pleab says:
why is there Pluto?
-pooh-doe
Coworker says:
why are you so weird
-chicken beard
Grandpa Pleab says:
Who likes physicals?
-mystical twisticals
Grandpa Pleab says:
Why do doctors operate?
-masterbate
who likes chicken beaks?
-peeble deaks
Grandpa Pleab says:
who likes fried onions?
- punyons and funyons eating at runyons
Grandpa Pleab says:
why do they fry them?
-weed stem
Grandpa Pleab says:
what's that blue thing in your water?
-Harry Potter looking hotter
Grandpa Pleab says:
what's under your pillow?
-willow. that silly dwarf
Grandpa Pleab says:
who likes candy?
-randy pandy, all sandy boning mandy
Grandpa Pleab says:
why is there Pluto?
-pooh-doe
Coworker says:
why are you so weird
-chicken beard
Grandpa Pleab says:
Who likes physicals?
-mystical twisticals
Grandpa Pleab says:
Why do doctors operate?
-masterbate
Hypothesis on the Origins of Chicken Mots: An Analytical Perspective of the Corollaries of Space Bots
Chicken Mots: I picture these half-mutilated soggy Nuggets from McDonald's with the skin off, of course. And they'd be coated in Motts Applesauce in those little lunch pack containers? They'd all have little smiles and speak with chipmunk voices, but if you tread within their vicinity, they wouldn't hesitate to bite the bajeezus out of you.
Somehow, it makes sense that they exist within outer space, along with Space Bots. I picture Space Bots as being these little industrial robots that explore the vast regions of our mighty universe. Chicken Mots would be their little sidekicks, but would somehow dually serve as their antagonist. . .Kind of like a Tom and Jerry thing. Eventually the Space Bots would get so annoyed from having to sift through the plethara of chirping, gravitionless Chicken Mots, they'd just eat 'em as little snacks. Little packets of protein, carbohydrates, and animal gonads.
Somewhere, somehow, regardless of their opposing personalities, the Chicken Mots and Space Bots are attempting to accomplish that goal; what that goal is, however, we cannot say for sure, as we are merely humans. We cannot fully comprehend the true beastial nature of Chicken Mots and Space Bots. They are in a league of their own. . .kind of like those chicks who played baseball during the war and Tom Hanks was their coach?
The point is, we may think that the Chicken Mots and Space Bots are on a mission to travel to the vast ends of the universe, but we can only perceive this from our earthly location. While we become so fixated upon this seemingly fascinated observation, we fail to realize the obvious:
Perhaps there are Chicken Mots in the cardboard container on our lap. Perhaps we just ate some Chicken Mots at a company picnic. Perhaps the Chicken Mots have already be absorbed by the tissues of our bodies, and now we are, in fact, representatives of Chicken Mots ourselves. Perhaps one must ingest the nourishing qualities of Chicken Mots for him to realize that he has Chicken Mots qualities.
You, Deeny, are a Chicken Mot.
AK, you, my friend, are also a Chicken Mot.
But one cannot ignore the existence of Space Bots as well. Whatever happened to them? Well, let me tell you this: Perhaps the car you got into this morning is a remnant of that Space Bot. You would never know.
And let's say you had some Chicken Mots in your car. What would this make you? A Chicken Mot with a Space Bot.
Therefore, you must be on a universal journey yourself. Whatever that journey may be, whether it be to find the ends of the universe, or simply to enjoy a full half hour of Family Matters, you are on a journey. And that makes you a Chicken Mot with a Space Bot.
QED.
As in Quod Erat Demonstrandum
Somehow, it makes sense that they exist within outer space, along with Space Bots. I picture Space Bots as being these little industrial robots that explore the vast regions of our mighty universe. Chicken Mots would be their little sidekicks, but would somehow dually serve as their antagonist. . .Kind of like a Tom and Jerry thing. Eventually the Space Bots would get so annoyed from having to sift through the plethara of chirping, gravitionless Chicken Mots, they'd just eat 'em as little snacks. Little packets of protein, carbohydrates, and animal gonads.
Somewhere, somehow, regardless of their opposing personalities, the Chicken Mots and Space Bots are attempting to accomplish that goal; what that goal is, however, we cannot say for sure, as we are merely humans. We cannot fully comprehend the true beastial nature of Chicken Mots and Space Bots. They are in a league of their own. . .kind of like those chicks who played baseball during the war and Tom Hanks was their coach?
The point is, we may think that the Chicken Mots and Space Bots are on a mission to travel to the vast ends of the universe, but we can only perceive this from our earthly location. While we become so fixated upon this seemingly fascinated observation, we fail to realize the obvious:
Perhaps there are Chicken Mots in the cardboard container on our lap. Perhaps we just ate some Chicken Mots at a company picnic. Perhaps the Chicken Mots have already be absorbed by the tissues of our bodies, and now we are, in fact, representatives of Chicken Mots ourselves. Perhaps one must ingest the nourishing qualities of Chicken Mots for him to realize that he has Chicken Mots qualities.
You, Deeny, are a Chicken Mot.
AK, you, my friend, are also a Chicken Mot.
But one cannot ignore the existence of Space Bots as well. Whatever happened to them? Well, let me tell you this: Perhaps the car you got into this morning is a remnant of that Space Bot. You would never know.
And let's say you had some Chicken Mots in your car. What would this make you? A Chicken Mot with a Space Bot.
Therefore, you must be on a universal journey yourself. Whatever that journey may be, whether it be to find the ends of the universe, or simply to enjoy a full half hour of Family Matters, you are on a journey. And that makes you a Chicken Mot with a Space Bot.
QED.
As in Quod Erat Demonstrandum
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Ramifications of Chicken Plantations
Whenceforth kind Chickabun dost proclaim,
Thy Chicken Plantation is not a game
Sir Edmond Pleabus the III, Esquire
Braved through water, wind and fire
Volleyed thunder, ferried fjord
All hailed him in the year of our Lord
Broke through fences, burned down peasants
Slaughtered dragons, pissed on pheasants
To save the Chickens from plantations
Whilst crippling their masters' evil nations
And carried kind Chickabun far and wide
Across the seas, to her bride
A Tupperware bowl in Newport Beach
For which a Deen Bean mouth dost beseech
And such is the mouth of a hungry man
Which grew so tired of Raisin Bran
Tomatoes, beans, all treasures included
Not one cupboard left unlooted
A happy meal of Chickadeal and joyful song,
Chickabun won approval of Ding Dong
No more plantations, No more travesty
Just deals for our meals, such glorious majesty
Chicken Basketry
(The art of making Baskets from Chicken Raquets) Jackets.
Whackits.
Thy Chicken Plantation is not a game
Sir Edmond Pleabus the III, Esquire
Braved through water, wind and fire
Volleyed thunder, ferried fjord
All hailed him in the year of our Lord
Broke through fences, burned down peasants
Slaughtered dragons, pissed on pheasants
To save the Chickens from plantations
Whilst crippling their masters' evil nations
And carried kind Chickabun far and wide
Across the seas, to her bride
A Tupperware bowl in Newport Beach
For which a Deen Bean mouth dost beseech
And such is the mouth of a hungry man
Which grew so tired of Raisin Bran
Tomatoes, beans, all treasures included
Not one cupboard left unlooted
A happy meal of Chickadeal and joyful song,
Chickabun won approval of Ding Dong
No more plantations, No more travesty
Just deals for our meals, such glorious majesty
Chicken Basketry
(The art of making Baskets from Chicken Raquets) Jackets.
Whackits.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Hot Bacon Love
There was a lil guy named Bun. The irony was that Bun thought he was a Bun. You see, his parents were cruel, worthless fatsacks that decided to trick Bun into thinking he was a Bun by naming him Bun. In actuality, he was Bacon.
You can imagine his surprise when his parents threw him into a hot, oily pan on the stove. Slapjacks and cookie racks! That’s a hot bitch!
But how do you differentiate hotness from literal hotness? Bun thought his life had culminated into nothing more than an ill-named slice of pork, sizzling in a million degree pan, splitting apart his fatty lipid bilayers.
To the human eyes, however, Bun was hot – not physically hot. Well I suppose physically hot, but more along the lines of hot love. Who doesn’t lick their lips when they smell the aroma of Bun on a pan? That, my friends, is hot bacon love.
Can we get some hot bacon love up in here?
You can imagine his surprise when his parents threw him into a hot, oily pan on the stove. Slapjacks and cookie racks! That’s a hot bitch!
But how do you differentiate hotness from literal hotness? Bun thought his life had culminated into nothing more than an ill-named slice of pork, sizzling in a million degree pan, splitting apart his fatty lipid bilayers.
To the human eyes, however, Bun was hot – not physically hot. Well I suppose physically hot, but more along the lines of hot love. Who doesn’t lick their lips when they smell the aroma of Bun on a pan? That, my friends, is hot bacon love.
Can we get some hot bacon love up in here?
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