The To Don't List

I don't have a To Do List. That kind of shit is way too ambitious for me.

I work off a negative. I'm a negative guy.

And besides, Post It Notes are for uptight queers.

Its much more disciplined to imagine absence rather than presence, like those Arabs who supposedly invented the number zero. What kind of bullshit is that? It reminds me of multi-level marketing.

'What did you do today?'

'Uh, well, I invented nothing and a lot of dipshits bought it!'

This raises several serious questions.

Is it still a donut if it lacks a hole? Or male pattern baldness, does it make you smarter? Less hair, more brain? And what about people who are anal? Why are organizational skills compared to the compartmentalization of shit? And are fake tits like wood shims in a rocky relationship?

To be honest, there's just not much I want to do.

Instead, I'd rather quit working. That would be the first thing I'd scratch off on my To Don't List.

Then, the To Do List would kind of take care of itself on account of my calendar just opening waaay the fuck up.

The fact is, even though I have a rare talent for battle rapping there isn't much else I'm good at.

I guess massaging my little buddy who lives a couple inches underneath my belly button doesn't count. Trust me, I've already tried putting it on my resume. It doesn't work.

So, we need a To Don't List. A big one.

Could you imagine how better off we'd be if the government one day decided to stop doing so much? If their To Do List suddenly shrank by 90%? Could you imagine? The tax industry drying up like Hugh Hefner's balls?

Or what about your wife? You know the To Do List she has? The one that governs your soul? Every weekend, you're Mr. Fixit?

Now, she has a To Don't List. A Get The Fuck Off My Back List. Not only are your weekends free, but you don't even have to worry about her orgasms.

There's nothing to do anymore.

You can just sit quietly on a park bench, shit your pants out and let your brain deteriorate.

No more upkeep.

No more maintenance.

All you have to do is think of stupid crap all day like this blog entry. Ask yourself questions like 'are pears really just apples with fat asses?' or 'is fucking your clone masturbation or incest?' or 'why are skinnier chicks sexier than fat ones when you don't get as many goodies?' and 'why do we feel like we have to actually cook the pancakes when we can just drink the batter? Those church pancake breakfasts would be so much better, a bunch of old ladies sitting around sipping white lumpy goo out of hollowed out Pixie Stix while they played Bingo.'

I'll think of more stuff later.

Tommorrow, I ain't doing shit.

The Technology of Punishment

The neighbors were upset when Ike & Tina Turner installed The Clapper in their living room.

Every evening, through their blinds, the entire street lit up like Club 54 with a high end strobe light.

Context Is Everything

You Have To Admit.

The ear rings. They're a bit much, don't you think?



What's she gonna try next? Lipstick?

It would be like Bill Clinton actually kissing another human being directly on the lips during sex. What purpose does that serve?

Especially when he's already got duct tape over their mouth.

And then there is the question of political hob nobbing...



When is too much just too much? Or just bad depth perception?

And there is also this sad little fact:

Not everyone can afford an iPhone.



Does that make you sad? That not everyone can play Sudoku while waiting in line for their signature Caramel Macchiato at Starbucks! The outrage!

What about this?



A tiny raincloud follows him everywhere he goes to the sound of a Whurlizer playing Frédéric Chopin's Funeral March. Poor little wrist slicer.

And that every time Kim Kardashian overdraws on her trust fund account, forcing her to cry in Louis Vitton's, an angel in heaven dies. Similarly, every time Morrissey takes a shit, somewhere in Berkley, a Vespa gets an oil change.

And finally, you know how Subway's Jared ate a sandwich everyday for 7 years straight?

Well, what about these sandwiches?



Would he still have locked up the seven figure contract?

Or what if Jeffrey Dahmer never got fatally beaten to death with a bar from a weight machine?

Do you ever think, like Jared, he could generate sponsorship? Or would that be a stretch?



And do you have to eat the frosting even if its on a cake?



Would you let your kid sit on this guy's lap at the mall? I mean he is wearing the damn hat, right? Its not like your kid is going to know the difference.



Context is everything.

Yeth You Can

Many black parents were never able to look squarely into their children's eyes and tell them that one day they could become president.

Until now.

With Barack Obama, now all parents, even those with special needs children, can look their wonderful little disableds right into their precious retarded stare and honestly say, 'Yes, you too, can one day become President of the United States now thanks to Obama.'

Too Much Yeast In The Dough

People who don't like rich people can be heard saying things like, "Yeah you with your big house and your fancy car!" in the same way that the Elephant Man hurls insults and zingers at people who walk up to him at the mall, "Yeah you with the NOSE and the fancy forhead and that small little chin of yours!"

If You Watch This You Will Get Aids

I think I'd start with a kick to Greg's balls with snakeskin steel toe boots. Take him out first. Then, a spinning backfist straight into Jan's head from the side, cornerpocket, which would send it squarely into Bobby's like a trained cueball. Then, I would simultaneously punch Cindy and Peter in the face, taking them out in one motion. And finally, Marsha would be the last one remaining. I'd kick her in the babymaker and then crap on her face.

McCauly Caulkin's Wrist Grip Of Death

Obama Picks His Cabinet

Why Nuclear War Would Be Cool

The good points:

1) Eskimos wouldn't need their igloos anymore.

2) It would be real pretty colors in the sky.

3) I wouldn't have to go to work.

4) I'd have an excuse to eat Otter Pops.

5) I wouldn't have to hear my neighbor's barking dog anymore.

6) Those lanes on the freeway would suddenly just open the fuck up.

7) I wouldn't have to worry about my neighbor anymore.

Why Nuclear War Would Suck

The bad points:

1) It'd be kinda toasty.

2) I'd get sick of the corn beef & hash in my bunker.

3) Nuclear winter = no bikinis.

4) That whole radiation thing. Yeah... sucky.

5) And one for the ladies: split ends.

Why Children Would Make Great Drunks

1) They wet their beds.

2) They trip and fall down. A lot.

3) They are very weepy.

4) They fly into fits of rage.

5) When they eat, they smear macroni & cheese down their chin and slices of hot dog fall into their lap.

6) They crap themselves.

This Little Piggy Went To Market

I take a couple nice, solid pisses per night. About every other week, trying to make my way to the bathroom, head clogged with sleep, I smash my foot into one of my son's toys and send it flying into a wall.

Last week I destroyed an entire week's work; a Lego Death Star. Smashed it right into the drywall. But it isn't always so easy. Sometimes your foot collides with something that has heft. Something metallic and substantial. Something unforgiving and weighty or made by Tyco - a cruel company - and when you smack into that, like I do from time to time, you know it instantly. Incandescent pain accelerates up my entire leg in exponential waves, like bar graphs, each greater than the next. The 25 steps between my bed and the bathroom are like a Zimbabwean mine field.












By the time I get to the bathroom I can see the full extent of the damage; toenail shrapnel hanging off to one side, the little toe beat red, blood starting to trickle onto the linoleum.

As I piss into the crapper I can feel the metronome of my heartbeat's cadence exploding in my toe and for some strange reason the pain reaches all the way up into the right side of my jaw.

Looking down again I can see that my toenail has been cracked almost in half like Princess Di's limousine windshield. Hallucinating I can almost see her head poking out. Is that bone??? No. Its just skin loosely folding over to the side.

Sometimes the worst pain comes in small packages. The unforseen shit at 4 AM. You could stab me in the chest with a 5 foot javelin or drag me behind a car with chain and meathooks curled neatly around my collar bones and it wouldn't hurt like this.

Lot of sensors tucked into that little digit on the end of the foot and sometimes its the littlest one who makes the most noise. All the way home.

Dead Skin Mask

Check out this jack-o-lantern.



Apparently it is the most popular Halloween mask this year behind Michael Myers.

See how the circuits keep the corners of the mouth raised while not transferring that data to the eyes or the forehead? Strange.

Try it. Try smiling with just your mouth while maintaining dead nerve ends in your forehead. John Gacy used to do this. He could smile just with his mouth while keeping the rest of his face completely dead.

We have great leaders.

Unnnnguhhhhhhurrrrr...duuuuh

I'm Uh The LAPD Muthufucka

Monsters And Shit

And the mash-up.

Walk A Mile In These Shoes

2 For The Price Of 1

Turducken

A turkey.

Inside the turkey, a chicken, whole.

Inside the chicken, a duck.

Inside the duck, an antique doll's head.

Inside the head, Gary Coleman's little black balls rolling around.

Wrapped around the turkey, a giant condem. Ribbed.

This is then shoved into the gaping vagina of Michelle Duggar, the woman who had 16 kids.

Her body is then wrapped in a 3 inch blanket of cookie dough and rolled in pork rinds.

Now, go find a polar bear. Shoot it.

Rip open its belly and shove entire mess into its gut.

Tenderize with Louiseville Sluggers and by running over with Jeep 4X4.

Light on fire to coat outside to crispy.

After, reduce heat to low. Cook another 2 and a half hours until fully done.

Place entire...

bearcookieporkmomrubberturduckendoll'shead-
Garycoleman'sballs

...on table next to cranberry sauce, yams and jello mold.

Enjoy.

Planet Of The Apes

I bet it must have been tough filming Planet of the Apes.

Could you imagine?

Every scene the director has to yell 'cut' and mop up all the shit that was flung around.

He's like, 'Guys, guys! Could we please just get through this one scene without lobbing your funk at each other? Jeesh!'

The entire set must have been a giant cow chip by the time the movie was finished.

Every action scene a shitfest breaks out and the only thing that stops it?

Banana Friday.

Marty's Got Game

STDs

Like playing 'tag, you're it' except its much itchier and this isn't recess.

Or like when you get hit in dodgeball... in the crotch. Suddenly, you're out of the game.

But wouldn't it be wierd if instead of giving each other burning piss, we gave each other super powers? Could you imagine? 'Uh, yeah, after last night I contracted flight', or, 'after I slept with her I could bend steel'. That's kind of what vampires do. You can turn invisible and shit. You can also fly after becoming a vampire! And that's something I always wanted to do.













But it would suck to have to avoid the sun all day.

Why couldn't there just be a third option? Steal one of their traits. Take something else they had lying around biologically on a vicarious joyride: Instead of herpes, maybe your eyes turned the same color as their eyes or what if you shared their body odor for a couple days? Just rent their bad breath. Why a disease? I'm just saying why couldn't that be an option?

Why do people have to give each other AIDS? Why not give them something cheap like a plant? Or a poem? Or a high five?

Is Anyone Else Sick Of Google's Logo Department?

Every week its more lame shit piled into their logo.









Here's my theory. Its pretty simple.

Someone high up in the ranks of Google's corporate headquarters is banging one of the office secretaries. Eventually, he impregnated her. Wanting to shut her up, he arranged to have her 'promoted' to their 'art department'.

So, he puts her in an office with a bunch of crayons and construction paper. Her job is to look busy.

Problem is, a few more female receptionists on the first floor also were humped by wayward execs. Now the art dept. is getting too full.

This problem is compounded now by an intern, a junior fag from Michigan State who was molested, probably by a large shareholder. Now he's in the art dept. too. This is creating tension.

12 girls and a fag all holed up in the basement with scissors, crayons and construction paper. Oh yeah, the fag brought a little glitter also.

Legal said it would be easier to make them believe they all had real jobs rather than face the potential claims.

So, they are all down in B1 scribbling furiously with their crayon boxes, but there are tiffs breaking out now. Little arguments about who gets to doodle what. One girl wants to put an Olympian gymnast's tush in the 'G' while someone else wants to put a horse's tail on the bottom of the letter 'L'.

This latest Olympic blowfest logo is an example of some of these most recent office scuffles. Too many chefs in the kitchen in the 'graphic design'(translation; doodler) room at any one time.

What Google needs to do is to fire their art dept, start paying child support and go back to their original logo.

Safe Sex For Robots

Black Metal

Today's Helpful Reminder

Did you know that if you whack a midget on the head with a scrolled up newspaper and say 'No', they'll learn to go potty in the designated area?

Its true.

How About Some Applause?

Old Fux-A-Lot Remix

Public Works

Do you think when a highway exit flagger gets it on with a Cal Trans manhole inspector they place pylons & cones around their bed?

Or do they just hang this sign above the headboard?

Olympics

Where grown men carry around corsages...















...and women air out their squish mittens.












Sometimes you cannot tell if they are making turds...











...or being chased by cops.





















Wake me up when this shit's over.