Archive for April, 2008

Note to Parents

Posted: April 28, 2008 in Uncategorized

I have two words for parents today, and while I am not a parent myself, I do not feel that I should have to hold these two words back any longer. The two nouns that I present to you today are this: hairbrush and washcloth. You may be asking yourself, what do these two words have to do with parents? Well my friends let me paint you a picture.

Have you ever been out and about and been subjected to wild, unkempt children? You know, the kind of children that look like they rolled straight out of Lord of the Flies and are wandering the mall (or grocery store) looking for bark or roots to eat. As a non-parent I, perhaps, may not be able to understand why anyone in their right mind would leave the house with their kids looking as though they fell off the nasty train. I don’t really know how quick children are and maybe they successfully elude their parents and are only coaxed into an automobile with promises of candy and unicorns. Once coaxed into said automobile, no hairbrush or washcloth is available, so the parents just live with the fact that their children look like they are from a 3rd world nation with no running water.

While I wish to believe the above scenario is true, you and I, my trusty Reader, both know this is not true. It is because of the fictionality (new word) of my play-by-play above that I present the offending parents with the suggestion of hairbrush and washcloth. Just because you (parent) choose to live the Whiskey Tango lifestyle does not mean that you should ruin your child’s chance at a productive, non-teenage-pregnancy filled life before it even gets a chance to get going. We all know damn well that you can see your children and what they look like and with that, when do you find it acceptable to leave the house and enter public domain with bird’s nest-hair and a face caked with snot, dirt, and popsicle residue? If you wish let your kid run wild within the walls of your trailer, so be it, but don’t make the rest of us nauseous…please, save us from that little visual gem.

There are, as I see it, five situations when I would consider kids in such a state, in public, in the Western world, to be socially acceptable. They are:

1. The parents are blind
2. The parents have no arms or legs
3. The kid (or kids) possess Drew Barrymore-Firestarter powers
4. The kid (or kids) melt when touched by water
5. You live on a commune

(Oh, and while we are at it, why don’t you control them after you clean them. I’m sure the folks at Wal-Mart would appreciate not having EVERY SINGLE TOY thrown all over the store and infected with kid cooties.)

Self respect is taught a very young age. If you allow your rapscallions to subject the rest of the world with their nastiness then they will forever not give two shits about themselves and are forever destined to continue the pattern of the ubergrodiness that you taught them at such a formidable age. Whiskey Tango behavior is cyclical…let’s break the cycle by trying out a hairbrush and washcloth on the spawns of Satan you call children.

Cleanliness is indeed next to Godliness
–John Wesley



Fun with Shorthand

Posted: April 25, 2008 in Uncategorized

Texting…a scourge to some and a Godsend to others. While many people find texting to be annoying, there are some of us that welcome this form of communication and have become quite addicted to it in many cases. I, for one, hate talking on the phone. Having to listen to someone ramble on about something that does not interest me gets under my skin like a tick. Texting solves this problem and allows people such as myself to respond at leisure, or in some cases, not respond at all.

I will say, though, I do get a little annoyed with the abbreviations. “R” for “are”…2 for “too” or “to.” Such abbreviations show incredible laziness and they make me want to stop talking to the person all together. But, in the spirit of all things that annoy me, I decided to put together a list of text abbreviations that I may be more inclined to use. Some of these you have heard, others are brand-spanking new.

So with that my Readers, Happy Friday to each of you and enjoy!

• OMG=Oh My God
• LOL=Laugh Out Loud
• LMAO=Laughing (or Laugh) My Ass Off
• BRB=Be Right Back
• BTW=By The Way
• WTF=What The Fuck
• ROTFL=Rolling On The Floor Laughing
• ROTFLANIHRB=Rolling On The Floor Laughing And Now I Have Rug Burn
• IJL=I Just Lactated
• OICMP=Oops, I Crapped My Pants
• GFY=Go Fuck Yourself
• WYD=Who’s Your Daddy?
• ISBHB5PM=I Should Be Home By Five PM
• YSLE=You Smell Like Eggs
• IHYAIHYD=I Hate You And I Hope You Die
• WJSMMATWF=We Just Saw Matthew McConaughey At The Whole Foods
• ICBINB=I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter
• KMAMF=Kiss My Ass Motherfucker
• TDBIKMPCMASMFTD=This Dude’s Breath Is Killing Me, Please Call Me And Save Me From This Date
• IJPAL=I Just Peed A Little
• HYSMM=Have You Seen My Monkey
• LMO=Let’s Make Out
• 2ABPSSLCPOOASSB=Two All Beef Patties Special Sauce Lettuce Cheese Pickles Onions On A Sesame Seed Bun
• ITSMBAL=I Think She Might Be A Lesbian
• ITHMBG=I Think He Might Be Gay
• IJTUIMMAL=I Just Threw Up In My Mouth A Little

I’ve got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands
–Saul Williams



Posted: April 24, 2008 in Uncategorized

The English language is one of the most confusing, and misleading, languages on the planet. From synonyms and homonyms, to just plain odd words, it’s no wonder that many immigrants don’t care to learn the language. I find that, on many occasions, I get a word from this (my) wonderful language in my head and it just bounces around until I do something with it. Today, I have a word floating around my skull that I don’t believe I will ever use in a sentence. So, as a matter of intellectual purging, well, you know the drill.



Earwig. Say it with me…eeeaaarrrwwwiiiggg. It just sounds gross, doesn’t it? This little gem popped up like a boner on prom night today and for nine hours and 51 minutes, it has tortured the inner workings of my mind. I quickly came to realize I didn’t know what the fuck an earwig was, so I did a little research.

An earwig is, quite obviously, a bug (that part I knew). What I didn’t know is, why is it called an earwig? If there was a bug around that actually resided in the ears of humans, one would think that it would be much more hotly advertised. Maybe in elementary school there would be earwig prevention videos, or maybe there would be statistics on the number of people killed by earwigs each year. Considering that I have never run across either situation, I found myself perplexed. Well, after a little light digging, I found out why an earwig is called an earwig and I was mildly annoyed when I came across the answer.

The name of this ugly insect was originally derived from an old wives’ tale. This tale states that they (the bug, presumably before they were named earwigs) burrowed into the brains of humans via earhole (new word) entry. What…the…fuck…??? Who the hell are these wives that are spreading such rumors? Was there a committee of bored wives back in the olden days that came up with absurd, and obscenely disgusting, gossip to spread among the masses? Apparently at least one of the aforementioned wives was an entomologist because, as it happens, the name stuck, and, voila, we have earwigs (I wonder what they were called before). So we can say thanks for this linguistic marvel, in large part, to a group of women that had fun scaring the shit out of people with evil tales of entomological bloodlust (and for the record, the whole masturbation equals blindness tale, not cool man…not cool at all).

There we have it…word purged and Readers enlightened. Life is grand.

Screw you guys, I’m goin’ home.

–Eric Cartman



Posted: April 23, 2008 in Uncategorized

Good evening once again my friendly Readers. You may be wondering why I have taken yet another hiatus and, well, truth be told, I didn’t really have anything to say. Perhaps we could equate it to some sort of writer’s block, or perhaps I have some sort of worm in my brain stealing all of my creative thoughts. Strike that, if it is a worm cozying up in my gray matter, it is merely stealing my funny thoughts, not my creative thoughts. But I digress…

Before I get into my topic of choice, I am curious about one thing (well, I’m curious about lots of things, but I’ll pace myself here): why do your ears get so dirty? Ever thought about that? I clean my ears religiously…soap, towel, rag, Q-Tips, beef tips, pencil tips, all sorts of tips really…but they are always dirty at the end of the day. Is this just isolated to me? I sincerely hope not because I might see a doctor if it is. I’m sure they have a syndrome for it; I mean, they have a syndrome for older women that develop aches and pains whilst getting older, or when you sit down too much and your legs get pissed off about becoming atrophied. I don’t see why we can’t have a dirty ear syndrome (though I think we should come up with a more creative name, but that worm is keeping me from reaching an epiphany on the subject). Back to the issue at hand…I wonder if being around people that cuss all of the time (dirty words) affect the cleanliness of your ears (dirty ears). I don’t fucking know and I’ll sure as fuck probably never find out (unless I get a government research grant), so fuck it…fuck it right in the ear.

Well now, wasn’t that a roundabout way to get to some Reader mail? I received an email the other day from someone that seems like they are a true fan, and as is the norm, I will subject you all to it.

Dear Longstar,

You seem to have an unhealthy obsession with poop. Were you pooped on as a child?



Thanks for your email Blueyed. Unhealthy obsession? That seems kind of harsh, don’t you think? I don’t bathe in poop nor do I have poop based soap. I haven’t bottled it into cologne and sold it on a corner for $4.99. I don’t have a shrine in my house with pictures of poop on the wall that I stare at for hours on end while I call poop every fifteen minutes. Lastly, I was not pooped on as a child (though admittedly as a wee lass I did wear diapers and, by extension, pooped on myself from time to time).

I have, if we can all recall, merely stated the obvious as it relates to poop-related events. Considering that dropping a deuce is such a natural part of every creature’s existence, I find it only fitting that I use it for humor from time to time. I think maybe you have an unhealthy fear of poop. Perhaps you should look inward for the answers. You should embrace the poop…go to work tomorrow and tell a poop joke. After all, if you become comfortable with poop, you will become comfortable with yourself (I think Mr. Myagi said that, but I can’t be 100% certain).

Two topics at opposite ends of the spectrum, both of which have absolutely no real value in the grand scheme of things…go figure.

My name is Mud.
–Les Claypool



Posted: April 11, 2008 in Uncategorized

I have a grand idea this morning. Well, I don’t know if it is necessarily grand per se but, and you can call me egotistical; I truly believe that any idea that comes from within the confines of my skull is a good one.

My travels have been well documented in this journal of madness that I keep. Most of this travel these days is of the driving variety; getting behind the wheel and flying down highways from point A to point B. During these travels I am subjected to, as most of you are, trucks. Not the type of truck that your grandpa drives on the farm, mind you, but rather big rigs (semis, Mac trucks, trains of the open road). While I understand that the job that these gentleman (and maybe some ladies) do is thankless and exhausting (and necessary of course), I do find them to be quite an annoyance. From the teaming up on other drivers in an aggressive manner, to just the all out irritation that comes from being stuck behind one in the rain, the issues that surround these bastions of environmental hazard are numerous.

The primary sore spot for most drivers (myself included), as it relates to the semi-truck, comes during daylight hours. Clogging up the roads; making entrance and exit ramps slingshots of death; gnarling traffic during bad weather events (slow down when it’s raining for God’s sake). And considering that most of us do not do a great deal of driving during the graveyard hours, I think I have a solution that will make everyone happy, thus ending these issues all together.

My proposal is that semis should not be allowed to drive on public roads from the hours of 7 am-9pm. Sounds easy enough on the surface, but I do understand one drawback to this: the drivers of these vehicles are only human, and asking them to drive all night, every night would make them even more dangerous than before. I have, my Reader, thought of this, and I have a solution for that as well: vampires. Yes, vampires. Blood sucking, cold skinned, holy water fearing vampires. Sounds crazy right??? Well, think about this…

Vampires probably have a hard time finding work because, well, they can’t be out in the daylight. There are only so many bartending and adult video store jobs to go around, and I suspect that they account for a large portion of our unemployment population. Many people probably think of them to be lazy because they sleep all day, but in actuality, they will melt if they go job hunting during the day. If you put two and two together, this seems like a perfect fit. Vampires across the country will have gainful employment, and we can keep these trucks off the road, and out of our hair, during the day. There are benefits from an economical standpoint as well. A segment of the population that was previously unable to contribute to the economy will now be able to afford more things in life, and stop mooching off the government for benefits. Another benefit would be from a safety and insurance side of the fence. If a vampire that is driving a big rig happens to get in an accident, he or she will most likely not be killed due to the fact that he or she is already dead…you can’t kill someone that is already dead.

The only real issue I see with this epiphany of brilliance is the whole feasting-on-the-blood-of-the-living thing. I haven’t thought of a way to circumvent this chink in the armor, other than offering up Cajuns (but then Cajuns would become vampires and goodness knows we don’t need them living for an eternity). I welcome your thoughts and suggestions on how we can get around this. I would like to have a full solution in place prior to passing this idea off to my Congressman.

Before I leave you today, I do want to give a quick shout out to the motherfucker in the blue Dodge Ram 1500 SLT Louisiana license plate W495306 that I had several encounters with during my roadie yesterday. Two words for you buddy: cruise control. Flying up to 95 then back down to 60 doesn’t make you a bad ass; it just makes you a douchebag. I don’t know how they drive in Louisiana, but if you want to drive like a complete dildo, I suggest you stay in Cajunland and spare the rest of us from your horrible driving techniques. Oh, and staring me down every time you flew past me, or I flew past you, didn’t give me a boner, sorry buddy.

Angels can be so deceiving, when they love you well.
–Veruca Salt



Posted: April 10, 2008 in Uncategorized

Let me preface this post, my loving Reader, by advising you that I am, um, mildly intoxicated. I did a slow dance with my good buddy Patron, and because he is such a good dancer, I have found myself in the midst of the vapors.

I know that they call a fall summer “Indian Summer,” but what do they call a spring winter? I have long professed my love of the snow, but there comes a point in time when the cold temperatures need to exit in favor of the warmer, flip flop-wearin’ degrees. Once again my friends I am on the road. This evening, as I write to each of you, a cold, steady rain is pouring down, and under normal circumstances I would find such an event to be mildly pleasing, erotic even. However, on this night, I find it to be somewhat of an annoyance.

Much like my last roadie post, I have no singular subject matter. In fact, I really have nothing of value to say. But as my dance with Mr. Patron ended (and before you get all freaked out by the “Mr.” part, understand what Patron is), and I headed back to my home, home on the road, I realized that the cold rain really got under my skin. I would like to think that this irritation has set me off on some path of enlightment; a path that I would share with all of you. Alas, it has not. It has just made my toes blue and my shirt damp. I thought about hitting the local bar for a wet-t-shirt contest, but then a couple of things occurred to me (even in my slightly drunken stupor): 1. I only have A-cups…who wants to see those? 2. I’m a guy. 3. I’m wearing a black t-shirt.

I decided that, instead of seeking out a local establishment, that I would return to my home away from home and break off a little meaningless, utterly rambling post. I think I have successfully accomplished these goals, and with that, I bid thee farewell. Peace in the Middle East ya’ll.

Why don’t you tell me that it’s almost over.


No Way Jose

Posted: April 2, 2008 in Uncategorized

I am not one to keep my displeasure to myself. Whether it is in person, over the phone, or even over the internet, biting my tongue is not one of my, um, strong suits. I will say though that biting comments coming from my lips (or my fingers) are rare, but when they are unleashed, I tend to blindside people with them.

I am of the opinion that just because I don’t know you personally that you should be spared my wrath (if you can call it that). I have no problem shooting a complaint letter to a company, and in a lot of ways it is cleansing for both soul and mind. Over the last several months, something has been bothering me, and in the spirit of my blog, and for those of you that read this regularly, I mean to share it with you today.

Sports are for me, as they are for many guys, a mild obession. Football (not stupid soccer) is my primary obsession, but all sports interest me (except soccer). So when I hear about Jose Canseco (cover your ears children) opening his big fucking trap about Alex Rodriguez being a roid-head, or about him banging his wife, I get a little nauseous. Today, my nausea spilled over into a love letter that I sent Jose at, and I would like my Readers to enjoy it as much as he will.

My Dearest Jose (a little poetic license there),

You are, quite frankly, an idiot. Not only that my friend, you are the worst kind of idiot: an idiot that thinks he is King of the World. Truth be told, idiot is probably too kind. You are, in essence, nothing more than the neighborhood bully trying to push people around because you are insecure about yourself. You are a nothing but a bag of hot air without steroids and you are just upset because baseball moved on without you, and that your weiner left you long ago because you felt it to be okay to keep a needle permanently sticking into your ass. You are quite obviously jealous of others that have real talent on the diamond, and it just inflames you to see someone who was as doped up as you doing so much better than you could ever hoped to have done yourself. If you had half the talent of someone like Alex Rodriguez, you wouldn’t resort to being a sniffling crybaby tattle-tale doing anything and everything he can to make people like him.

Your slick hair, steroid induced physique, and over tanned skin can’t hide the fact that you are an uneducated, womanizing, steroid abusing moron that thinks you are making the world better when in fact you are a plague of self-interest and a role model of what kids should not grow up to be.

I am quite sure this will never make it to you, but Karma is a bitch my man, and she will hunt you down and make you feel the misery you have put everyone else through your entire life. Put that in your syringe and inject it, fuckhead.

Your Biggest Fan,

********* (I used my real name there, I hope he shows up on my doorstep)

Too much maybe? I debated on whether to curse or not, but sometimes a coined phrase like “fuckhead” just fits perfectly into a sentence. I encourage each of you to find something or someone that you really can’t stand and send them a letter professing your displeasure. I promise, it will be worth your time.

It’s the one that says Bad Motherfucker.
–Samuel L. Jackson