Wyatt Junker

Dat Muh Funnee Bone!

2011-10-02T20:30:00.000-07:00

Moving Statues

2011-09-11T09:02:00.000-07:00

Instead of handing out little Dixie cups of Gatorade
and bananas to runners from the sidelines,
I hold out vials of crack & chocolate dipped
deep fried tacos.

I see one runner approach me, I call out to him,
'Would you like to end the pain? Here, slow down
you uptight douche.' Holding out a joint, 'Come here
take a hit and set your ass down.'

Suddenly he stops running, walks over to me, lifts
the yellow tape and sits down next to me on the curb.
He takes the white stick from my hand and immediately
sucks down one of the biggest hits I've ever seen.

Sitting indian style, with legs slightly raised,
his muscles go limp and he drops his head down
between his knees. Then, without looking, he lifts
his right hand with the joint back up into the air.

Retrieving it, I lay into it myself, thoroughly,
holding it in the upper third of my lungs,
then I let it out and lean my head back against the wall, looking up at the sky.

The other runners keep plodding along ahead of both of us. What are these people so scared of? What are they trying to escape? Jealous boyfriend, a shit job, a creepy Frankenstein? None of them can sit still, all of them

moving even as the world moves, nothing is stationary, life is always in motion, you stop you die, or at least approximate it, but here in this race there should be a dozen hunters with shotguns

also running thirty minutes behind them, chasing them, open season, on the runners. At least that would make more sense and would define what these people
are running from... or for.

Their lives. Their lives always thirty minutes ahead of
or behind schedule, never on time. The guy next to me holds his hand back up. I don't even know who he is. I hand him the doobage.

He runs it deftly back into his mouth between two pinched fingers and he totally looks like a pro the way he puts a drag on it, like something out of the movies
it feels practiced, rehearsed,

a bit dramatic, you know when some intellectual moron tries to feign off their insignificance by pretending to act persecuted, distressed, tired by the world, like the kids in Europe, tousled hair,

perfectly shaved 5 o'clock shadows, hanging out in front of coffee shops, life, so hard carried by the state... or their mothers but you'd never know the way they pretend to be Romanian concentration camp survivors,

honing that designer tragic look to an art in their world of unemployed freeloading. Not these runners. They are like Protestant missionaries made of pentium processors and hard drives. They never stop.

This was the only one, this young shithole sitting next to me. 'You never had it in you, did you?' I ask. He just sits quietly looking out across the Pacific Ocean

the clouds starting to reach down like witch hands imposing rain, the way they curl out, and my new friend like an elderly domestic cat too tired to take shelter,
waiting for its next morsel of store bought food.

2011-08-31T15:46:00.000-07:00

Another New Phrase

2011-07-13T20:21:00.001-07:00

Restroom Soccer.

Have you ever played?

New Phrase

2011-07-13T20:19:00.001-07:00

Butthole Boulder

Rate it here.

Do you see it?

2011-07-10T13:29:00.000-07:00

Its a dried up baby wipe, yes, but do you see it?

Lawnchair Driver

2011-06-27T15:30:00.000-07:00

New word I made at Urban.

Happy Bastard's Day!

2011-06-19T09:11:00.000-07:00

The broken condom kids need a day too. Its not fair.

All of Jesse Jackson's kids, Arnold Schwarzenegger's kids, John Edward's kids, *my very prolific cousin - yes, his kids*, spread out over several counties, nations and states. What's Father's Day like for these brave, feral disseminators of unbridled 'pooge? We could rename the entire day just for them: Mister Boner McCheese Dog Day. Let's let the sound of that one sink in... Nah... Sounds like something you'd order at a drive thru window.

But the poor kids, um... excuse me, I mean the bastards. Do they have a shuttle service for them? Give them a loaner car from the shop that can come and pick them up? Bring them to the barbecue with all the other accepted siblings? I mean how does this all work logistically? Is the bastard brought in via the back door? Maybe a small blankey is thrown over his head as he is shuffled through a corridor like witness protection or a famous actor getting out of a limo at Spago's. 'Just wanted to come by and say hi dad, before your real family wakes up. I know they all hate me.'

Maybe like the Department of Motor Vehicles, your kid walks in and you hand him or her a number and tell them to sit down by the front window, that you'll get to them. Expected wait time: 12 minutes. Meanwhile, all the non-bastards are in the backyard laughing and playing lawn darts with popped collars while you wait in the hallway all by yourself.

How does Bastard's Day work? The mechanics side of it? Does John Edwards use his private jet to jump from city to city, kid to kid? And if so, how many layovers does he have on this very special day? And by layovers, well, you know what I mean. We all know what I mean.

How Its Made

2011-06-15T22:30:00.000-07:00

Yeah, have you seen the one on how people are made?

Don't pretend you don't know what's up.

You know what I'm talking about.

It Was Cute... At First

2011-06-01T14:40:00.001-07:00

The new puppy dog was cute at first, until it started taking dumps in the living room. But it wasn't just the dumps in the living room either. It was how it rolled its body over the top of those dumps, squishing it around and all over the carpet creating a giant shit stain.

Then it began eating the drywall in little sections, just a bit at first, until a month later half the wall in our bedroom was exposed to insulation and studs. Fed up, we threw the stupid animal in the garage where it belonged. Its new home.

It barked like a sonofabitch. Day and night. Neighbors complained. Cops were called out. When I opened the door, I said 'What, its just a cute little puppy?' I only opened the door a little bit, with the security chain on. I was ashamed.

I threw an old mattress out on the garage floor for it to lay on. It was winter and very cold and I didn't want its bones lying on a freezing concrete floor. A month later, the entire mattress was eaten. Just steel springs left. The dog shit the fabric, had it tangled up in its runny piles. One time it had gotten into a box of Christmas ornaments, the next day I saw the dog squatting out a coil wrapped in silver, K-Mart holiday tinsel. It looked like the Tin Man's beard inside a meat sock.

The tipping point was when the dog began eating our adjoining door that led from the garage to the living room. I opened the door and felt it buckling in my hand. When I looked out into the dark space of the garage I saw the animal on top of an old schoolhouse desk antique that I got at an auction. It had urinated all over it. There was a large King James Bible that was chewed in half and what was remaining was matted with hair and, more dogshit, on the front. It didn't even fear the word or our Lord.

This dog was demonic. I needed to call in an exorcist.

The animal was eating our entire house, destroying it. I thought maybe it had a metabolism problem so I went to the vet. The vet looked at the dog and said it was part wolf and that was the problem. The dog needed to be outside, in the wild. He suggested I also get it some chew toys and snacks so it would eat those instead of our house.

"Go get the dog a bullwhistle."

"A bullwhistle? What's that?"

The doctor said, "Its a bull's penis, dried of course."

I went to Costco and got it a pack of bullwhistles. A 12 pack. A dozen bull dongs.

Our dog tore into them, just started sucking bull dick. Our dog sucked bull dick all day long. I turned my dog into a homo. It just sat around after that, chewing, licking and slathering over the bull dicks like gay porn.

At least it stopped destroying our house.

We finally were able to let the dog back into our house again, after gaying it.

I would come home, look down, and there it was, a giant animal schlong in its mouth, just sucking that dick down to its nub. And then off it would run down the hallway, the bullwhistle sticking out from its face like a big old cigar. Gay pride, man. My dog is not ashamed of it. Loud and proud.

Yeah, I don't think I'll read this book.

2011-04-26T01:06:00.000-07:00

The Grotto

2011-02-28T22:18:00.001-08:00

We slipped into the deep end and slowly bounced on our tip toes over to the waterfall and eventually down beneath the rock wall. Pretty soon we were encased inside the small, man-made cave. This is where the venereal disease was exchanged back and forth between strangers, I presumed.

There were some familiar faces. Paul Reubens was down there jacking off into a motor jet. I spilled my Mai Tai trying to get around him. My little red umbrella fell out and went floating upside down in the bubbly jacuzzi. I felt like putting out an Amber Alert for Mary Poppins. It actually went through my mind for about 5 seconds. I was baking like so hard from the purple power and the cheap bubblegum that Baller and his crew scored on Crenshaw and Expo. Every second I felt stupider and stupider. In another hour I would be clinically retarded. An hour after that? In a coma.

We weren't invited really. We knew somebody who knew someone else. I'm still not sure how we got here. My mouth was dry. I had to keep licking my lips like a hungry iguana. The rock walls were wet with steam. I felt like I had fallen into the middle of a volcano. If Hollywood was a person, this would be its buttcrack. My head felt large, really large, like a rubber yoga ball with an obese housewife rolling her ass around on top of it.

There were about 8 or 9 blondes in the grotto with us and someone was in the middle of them moving their hands around violently up and down. I moved over and saw it was Seth Rogen fucking some plastic titty bitch. Occasionally he would trade off with one of the other ones standing around and switch hit, back and forth, like musical chairs except there's only one chair and that one chair is his dick.

I wanted to warn him of the dangers of jacuzzi dick. Especially if it gets overworked. Shit will dry out. And if it dries out we all know what can happen next. It could crack off. I almost shouted over to him, 'Careful Seth! Next day when you look down to pee, all that will be left is a tiny scab about the size of a dime, and it won't be heads.'

Paul Reubens looked like he was passed out now, both arms straight out to his sides, but I could tell his eyes were really open and just pretending to be closed, two little slits, and he was watching the girls bouncing on top of Rogan's half bent party drunk dick.

There was a lot of stuff floating on the surface of the cloudy water: Body glitter flakes, ass juice, corn and protein. I bet Hugh had to tip the pool guy a G note after every one of these parties to fish out the chunks. Seriously, it was like Progresso soup in here.

When I turned around I saw Captain HH McBoner himself on deck holding his pipe in a withered hand. A white yacht cap sat atop his eggy head along with a little burgundy smoking jacket across two bony posts. He looked like a corpse and I wasn't sure if the two ladies on either side of him were actually dragging him around or if he was capable of being self-propelled. His girlfriends, or soon to be coroners or whatever the fuck they were, hauled him around place to place and neither of them ever left his side the entire time. Occasionally they would lean him up against a wall or prop him next to the bar. But they always came back like mindful pet sitters. Yep, I thought, they were on the payroll. Just not sure if either of them had to wipe him or if that was the job of the unseen Filipino girl washing dishes in the kitchen or the hispanic man mopping up the puke on the marble staircase.

Speaking of puke, Reubens had released a tummy full himself and as it made its way towards us I decided it was time to go. Probably a good move.

Sippin sizzurp in my ride

2011-02-28T21:12:00.000-08:00

Slip Him A Roofie

2011-02-27T11:19:00.000-08:00

Then make hard passionate love to him.

A Hole In The Ground

2011-02-21T22:46:00.000-08:00

I need one of those prison toilets. The ones in Mexico
where you walk in and there's just this little silver grate
on the floor that you crap into. At the end of the day
they come out with a fire hose full of chemicals
and knock it all down the hole in the ground.

All that's left after the 243 men that day
are a couple of cashews and a lone green pea
sitting on the drain, good as new.

Elvis

2011-01-26T18:03:00.000-08:00

They found him dead,
like a python
that had just eaten a goat.

Forensics said he suffered
from constipation for 8 days
prior to the overdose;
nothing passed for 8 days.

Think about that.

That's 8 dinners
and 8 breakfasts
parked inside of you
like several idling
limousines on Lombard St.
unable to cut those sharp turns.

The inside of his ass
was like a muscled bouncer
in a black t-shirt
holding his hand out,
"NOPE, SORRY,
I can't let you through."

The smell trapped
to where it came out his pores,
his mouth, his eyeballs.

All of it rotting inside him
forming unthinkable gasses,
fermenting within.

The porterhouse was the final straw,
jackknifed between half a dozen or so
pickled eggs and several bags of undigested
corn chips which sat atop a massive collection
of bacon and sardines, indistinguishable
from the bile which wasn't enough
to break down the pudding cups properly
since the pancakes beneath them
acted like a giant sea sponge soaking up
all the body's natural enzymes, and,
combined with the loss
of electrolytes,
flushed the remainder
of Root Beer right out his asshole
like a cheese funnel all of which
ran down the side of the shitter
and into his unlaced blue suede shoes.

The Toilet

2010-12-30T14:52:00.000-08:00

Why do you do this to me?

Seriously, why do you fuck with me like this?

You shit on me everyday.

It ain't right.

All I do is take it, day after day.

The side sliders, the Jackson Pollock knockoffs, the statue of Saddam Hussein from the waist up you left like some kind of parting gift.

It was like yesterday when you decided to pull up and drop off the Cosby kids by the pool. You didn't call me. I had no idea you were coming. You just show up and then drop them off.

How am I supposed to handle that?

Our relationship is getting worse and now with the medication you're on I don't know, when you do show up, whether or not you're sticking around this time or leaving.

All I know is that you're an asshole.

A huge gigantic asshole!

Vampires = Fags

2010-11-11T11:26:00.000-08:00

Was there really any doubt?

The fabulous shirts.

The makeup.

And, the knickerbockers.

The occasional going down on each other at rapid, supernatural rates of speed.

Now zombies? They're fully straight. They are a man's man when they scoop out your skull, quaff it down and then burp like it was a Pabst Blue empty.

No faggot shit here.

And no fashion sense either even if they are a little bit retarded or 'slow'. They wear moth eaten Ocean Pacific shirts from 1984 and those high crotch-grabber shorts from the 70's that Magic Johnson wore. Its like a giant army that just cleared off the chrome plated racks of a Goodwill.

You could see them shopping at Wal Mart for sure.

They are blue collar and they probably watch football and jack off into fireplaces and kitchen sinks.

Ghosts?

I will not get into that. I will save it for later, but the short answer is that there's really no such thing as a ghost.

Ghosts are farts that we mistake for dead people. You can't see them, only smell them and when we do we remember our loved ones.

Shit Hitter

2010-11-03T09:41:00.000-07:00

Vote for it now here.

Because We Can...hahahahahaha

2010-10-19T00:07:00.000-07:00

Town Coupe, Bitch

2010-10-18T20:02:00.000-07:00

Geriatric Lapdance With Hip Replacement

2010-10-16T09:45:00.000-07:00

I seductively raised the Sizzler Senior Discount Card between my index and forefinger. It caught her attention and our eyes met.

The DJ who reopened the Bingo Bar slid out an album with Englebert Humperdink’s face on it.

She came over wearing a fluffy purple nightie and old flip flops. Her breath smelled like Immodium AD and Newports.

“Whaddya say soldier?”

I felt something rise inside of me.

Her mouth was like turkey jerky.

My tongue felt like a dessicant packet at the bottom of a bottle of pills.

Then she was on top of me, grinding me with all the experience of a well trained centenarian.

She placed her hands on my cheeks. I felt the hardness of the carpal tunnel corrective wrist braces.

I could hear her back pop when she rotated her hips followed up by a wet fart that spattered on my thigh.

The lipstick slid off her face like a clown running a marathon.

She was breathing pretty hard at this point. I was worried.

“How do you like that big boy?”

All those decades stacked up on one another like a skyscraper.

All those years to hone her craft with sailors on leave, perfecting her art with the men in uniform.

Then she froze.

I could see the pain on her face. A spasm of some sort.

“M, m, my… sh, sh, shu shoulder.”

Her arm looked like it had fallen out from its bony anchor up near her clavicle which was now sticking out like an unsecured tailpipe.

She was breathing hard, her cheeks filling up with air then blowing it out again, rapidly. Faster now.

Two Filipino men came over, one on each side, and lifted her off me. They set her down on a stool.

I got up concerned, but there was nothing I could do.

I dropped a fiver onto the table then walked outside.

Next door I saw a sushi chef scratching his ass on a smoke break, under the shadow of the awning.

And beyond that, two young twentysomethings giggle and walk into a tattoo parlor.

In this wet dirty buttcrack of a city, I guess we all have to find a way to scrape.

My eyes were burning from the Icy Hot caked into my beard.

I just massaged it into my cheek and walked down the street, inhaling the night air.

What Goes Through My Mind Whenever I'm Fucking Or Kicking Someone's Ass

2010-10-12T20:26:00.000-07:00

A Few Considerations

2010-10-10T12:04:00.000-07:00

I could see Pangaea & Continental Drift in my morning shit today, Africa separating from Latin America. A bit of blood on the tip of Nairobi.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Except backwards. Hopefully I'll end up face first in a vagina muttering goo goo ga ga before lunch, as I try to get back in.

Eat shit and die. Really? Is it that easy? How much shit? I mean how much would you have to eat to die, a couple ounces or an all you can eat buffet? And fuck off and die. I guess we'll need to figure that one out as well.

An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. No. Not the Bible. The application for Wal Mart: How big is the hump on your back? How narrow is the bridge of your nose and do both eyes work? Can you bite into an apple without excruciating pain?

The White Faceless People

2010-09-27T16:16:00.001-07:00

When you turn democrat the first thing you do is remove your face. You are no longer an individual.

Then you are pumped full of kerosene and turned into a Coleman lantern. A fluorescent mob of genderless silhouettes.

You stare at The Great Floating Orb above, mesmerized, your head cocked back like an obedient dog waiting for the command.

In the back, the spirit beings raise their arms, getting all Def Leppard and Whitesnake and shit.

The four angels in front are exact mirror images of each other so there really are only two up front. Graphic artist didn't want to work overtime so he punted after the first piss break.

If you want to be one of these space creatures, go here.

Don't forget to take off your face first. Don't want to piss off any of these flashlights.

Remember, they do not give off shade. Only light. I can't see how that's energy efficient or green.

They are totally fucking evolved new age zombie light motherfuckers that will blind you if you're not careful. Wear shades or you might get fucked up.

The Merry Go Round

2010-09-23T14:35:00.001-07:00

You ever stand outside a delivery room and listen to the groans?

They sound just like porn.

The woman's pushing, harder, harder.

You're getting wood, bigger, bigger.

She's in pain.

You're imagining that you're the cause of it, which you are. Kind of.

If you have a dick out here in these parts, you're the enemy.

The dick is the club used to beat baby seals.

Don't worry. At least you're not the Chinese fisherman with blood on his trousers.

That guy's in the room with her, holding up one of her legs. Getting bitchslapped like a nerd in a roomful of quarterbacks.

Could you imagine passing a 2 liter bottle of Mugs Old Fashioned Root Beer through your asshole?

Me neither.

Its so much easier out here, in the hallway, with the boys.

Their fingers itching to light those cigars.

Thank God its not your wife.

You've already been there and done that. Twice.

Now you get to just stand outside here. You've graduated.

You laugh.

The boys laugh.

The silver flask just a blur between grasping hands, making the rounds.

Up-n-at 'em.

The boys in the hallway. Making jokes.

You trying to hide your boner.

Its like a disobedient schnauzer.

Down boy.

Git down.

How Gay Sex Was Discovered.

2010-09-14T19:52:00.000-07:00

The Tea Party Is Coming & They're Gonna Fuck You Up

2010-08-26T23:53:00.000-07:00

Fight the fucking power.

Ouch EEEE WOW WAAH... AI YAYAYAYA

2010-08-26T23:45:00.000-07:00

I cut up some small little green peppers from the garden and then sprinkled them all over my eggs.

An hour later, I scratch my balls on the couch.

Apparently, that shit has HALF LIFE!

Now it feels like I have late stage gonorrhea.

Or, in NASA terminology, we call it Space Shuttle Dick.

Muh man, R Watts

2010-08-19T15:50:00.000-07:00

Fresh Is Better

2010-06-18T00:14:00.000-07:00

Republican Versus Democrat

2010-06-03T14:54:00.001-07:00

WTFs Going On Here?

2010-05-25T09:48:00.000-07:00

The audience is dying.

BAY CITY ROLLERS & ANN MARGERET SATURDAY NIGHT @ Yahoo! Video

Group Therapy Remix

2010-05-05T14:19:00.000-07:00

Dogshit Wars

2010-03-01T18:22:00.000-08:00

When I was younger, my brother and I used to reference this scene when we were fighting on the front lawn. He would play Spock. I was usually Kirk. One of us would hum the song while trying to wrestle the other one's back over a hot, creamy pile of fresh dog shit.

The Tea Party Movement Kicks It Up A Notch

2010-02-02T00:59:00.000-08:00

Don't cutz MUH MEDICARE BEEEEEEEEECH!

Gonna Burn The Silo

2010-01-16T23:43:00.001-08:00

RIP

2010-01-07T10:31:00.000-08:00

I would

2009-12-31T14:24:00.000-08:00

Prince Charles Taken Hostage By Retarded Terrorist

2009-12-28T20:16:00.000-08:00

A retarded terrorist thought he could take Prince Charles hostage.

Unfortunately, the world did not care and no official amount of ransom, not even a 5 pound note of the Duke of Wellington, could keep the world from giving a second's shit.

In the end, nothing was worth the effort at getting him back or even keeping his head from being sawed off.

When stopped and asked about the Prince, most residents just said 'Ah Fock im! Let him die.'

Even the terrorist gave up. 'Now that I think about it, Allah wouldn't even care whether this guy lived or died. I fucked up.'

The terrorist was later caught taking a shit in an aisle at Big Lots.

No Hand Rails In Crapper At Helms Deep, King Théoden Sued

2009-12-28T00:56:00.000-08:00

Apparently 1991 law caught up with Middle Earth last Thursday when Gimli The Dwarf got stuck halfway in a stone shithole.

And even more humiliating: It was Beef Night.

The small man was hailed upon and pelted from above with corn and malodorous chunks of mastodon droppings through gaping leaks in the wood planks by Aragon's men

Neither Frodo nor Bilbo Baggins were available for comment. Nor did the facilities manager return our calls and requested we speak to his representative, The Elven Lord of Rivendell.

ABBA Not Hardcore Enough For Gays Mamma Mia Dubbed With Pig Destroyer

2009-12-28T00:12:00.000-08:00

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!

The vomit on your lips tastes like the sex of a twin sister i can hear your stomach knot as another threshold is reached and crossed imagination is the key so destroy with the nails repair with the tongue and repeat!

Semen tastes like gunmetal she said smiling,
the arms of boys drowning in fire reaching for the rungs of my rib cage.
These pills I take in the witching hour.
I imagine I am swallowing you.

ROOOOOARRRRR!

It only hurts if you look i am a velvet corpse kneeling before you and for a split second your eyes were lambs as my fingers slipped around your neck on the way to heaven

Stitched together into this beautiful monster animated by starlight.
Pose like a fashion corpse and shed your denim skin my love.

It is just a skull full of chlorine in the septic tank.

My skin has atrophied.
It has been so long since the last touch.
The maggots play their dead instruments for me.
Devour in the key of E.
Like a symphony of throats and piano wire.
Like explosions in space and prostitutes of fire.

This is an advertisement for the skin machine.
Paid for by the people that supply the lash for these pointless acts of self-flaggellation. The vultures are made up like mockingbirds and they're circling.
It is very important I make for a thin chalk outline.

ACK ACK ACK GUROWL UGGGGURRRR!

Tiger Woods Hires Caddie For His Cock

2009-12-12T11:56:00.000-08:00

After several years of lugging around his own cock, Tiger Woods announced Sunday that he would be using his own Caddie to carry it for him.

When pressed for comment the new helper said, "Yeah, I'm just going to stick it in the bag with the rest of the clubs."

"If a pretty blonde walks up, I will hand it back to him as long as we aren't officially on the green yet."

The two were recently disturbed by the loss of his cock in the semifinals with his wife last month. Both men pledged to use his cock better in the future and to perhaps be more selective.

It was thought that another hole be added, a 19th, and that manual ball washers also come equipped with vials of penicillin.

The new hole would be used by all men on the PGA to help them readjust to their own cocks again.

Officials were also thinking about renaming the Tour to the Giant Dick Derby and refashioning their trophies into large giant gold dicks that spin on battery powered lazy susans.

Phil Mickelson refused to comment for this article seeing as how he was putting his dick into a gently heated, soft & warm Hot Pocket at the time of this interview, pizza flavored.

Evil Or Divine?

2009-12-07T01:26:00.000-08:00

1) Denim jacket

Check

2) Firebird

Check

3) Silver Bullets

Check

4) 5th of Jack

Check

5) Hair

Totally Fucking Check!

Pretty Poor Girl

2009-12-04T01:30:00.000-08:00

(in the voice of a stoned Lou Reed. Sing it raspy, slow and drunk for effect. Chords coming shortly.)

She's a pretty girl
in a shitty car.

Has nice legs, but
can't get very far.

She serves drinks
in a titty bar,

but tips have been
oh so sub-par.

She's a pretty girl
who wants to be a star.

Puts all her pennies
into a jar

and dreams of diamonds
and caviar.

She's a pretty girl
in a shitty car.

Has nice legs, but
can't get very far.

Serving drinks
in the titty bar,

but, oh, the tips
have been so sub-par.

My New Girl

2009-11-27T11:17:00.001-08:00

Happy Thanksgrieving

2009-11-25T19:16:00.000-08:00

Uncle Walt's checkered pants leaked down the front as a poodle lapped it up excitedly. The decades of nicotine stains had turned the 1972 yellow vinyl living room floor into a warm vomit-like pastiche. Smoldering cigar butts extinguished into plates of hardening gravy had now worked themselves into mash potato sky rises resembling Godzilla invading a model Tokyo set.

Al's oxygen tanked wheeled neatly into the corner of the room next to the giant Zenith console wall unit which kept the Lawrence Welk Time Life Series and Engelbert Humperdink albums from tipping over. Plastic ferns filtered the slow migration of low layered haze from Pall Malls and the irregular elderly bowel eruptions, violent at times from the medication, sending forth wind from the several aging anuses in the room as randomly as plunking down plastic markers on a Bingo card.

Wheezes, loud gasps, fits of coughing, nice teal chunks blasted into handkerchiefs, sometimes accompanied by a bit of dried blood torn from a shattered capillary deep in the lung. Occasionally a wig shifted on a head too slick from the hot sweat underneath, triggered by earthquake-like guffaws from Merv Griffin's tame one liners. Or watching Gus and Les, still relatively young, make an impressive tent pole emerge in their thick army cotton wools as a blonde bombshell jiggled on the toob. That, of course, was a miracle and its probably how we won the war.

Wise Olde Ye Sayings

2009-11-25T18:16:00.000-08:00

Dost knowest thy wheel begot,
a Honda Civic on used car lot.

Ere long I trow thy great desire,
o' knaves of whores
who dost burn my crotch with fire!

Routing swine, thou breaking wind
thy rag wrung taint o'er
ass and chin.

A shield for shelter, a sword for striking,
a brand new banana seat for biking!

By the balls of Billy Joel!

The Dirty South

2009-11-18T02:00:00.001-08:00

We threw all our guns into the trunk of his rebuilt Nova and headed out the 250 miles to Trinity County. We were gonna have us a bro-down. Beer and rounds. Dick had 50 acres. Not many people would hear us, but even if they did, every one else shot into the hillside out here also. We would go unreported.

The clunking sound of the metal as we loaded the trunk; Rugers, Glocks, Smith & Wesseys. My own .357. Jimmy's 44. Then, the rifles on top. War grade. M14s. FNA2 sniper rifles. Remington. Mauser. Weatherbys. Some weird shit from Switzerland. The tactical stuff went on last. The Socom MK23, silencer. Disassembled in the case. Then, the semi-autos. The ARs. The AKs. A lattice of death. And on top, laid reverently, Mike's titanium Heckler & Koch and Steve's completely gangster gold plated Desert Eagle with diamond pearl grip, pretty as fuck.

I kept my hog leg in the back also just to break things up. The weight of the ammo nearly broke the axle, but we made sure it rode over the wheel well.

Guys retreat. 5 dicks in a car. 10 jiggly ballsacs.

We rolled in at 0 nineteen hundred. Dick was supposed to be making chili. We stopped at the convenience store a mile away and threw in 5 cases of Hams in the back seat and as many bags of ice we could fit on our lap.

The dirt road was hollowed out in places and kept scraping the muffler. And all that weight made it worse. Finally we made it to the top and Dick told us to put the beer in an old washtub out back.

'Unfortunately', he said, 'The electricity went out and the well was dry.'

We were going third world country this weekend, apparently. By day three the smell would be lethal. Electricity wouldn't be so bad, we could ambulate just fine in the dark. But no water would start to suck. I guess we could shit in a hole and have beer for breakfast.

Dick offered us up a jug of white lightnin as clear as jet fuel.

'Want some?'

'Mashed it just right. Only used enough hillside corn to swell her up.'

Dick's missing teeth made him look like a kid toucher, especially when he wore the overalls. The kind you'd see on the news. Weird stare. Falling open mouth. Half drunk already, he rocked back and forth on his heels to the balls of his feet.

I took the jug, unscrewed the top and gave her a smell. Rubbing alcohol. 'Shit will make you go blind Dick.'

'Ah cain still see.' he said.

'No thanks. I'll just stick with my beer.'

'Suit yerrself.'

I didn't need the federal government to tell me what I could and couldn't drink, but out here, you never knew what kind of piss someone had an inklin to put into a jar. Just because it gets you high was not a good enough reason to pillage your bloodstream. Dick's eyes were already halfway pilled in and I wasn't sure if it was the inbred genes or the likker. I didn't want to find out. He was just a tick above a paint rag huffer. The last thing left for him was the institution.

The chili tasted like a hooker's ass. Brown and bubbly. Strange foreign shit floating in it. I was already on my 5th aluminum can so I didn't care and just powered some of it down anyway.

'Deer meat' whispered Dick.

'Cured it out in muh shed.' he said.

It was getting dark. By now I was up to 13 cans. I couldn't walk in a straight vector. I laid down in the kitchen next to the bloodhound's water bowl. Every once in awhile a tail would swipe my nose.

I woke up somewhere around 4 in the morning, mouth dryer than an old lady's clam sandwich. I was dazed. The room was moving. And I needed some drank, other than beer. W-A-T-E-R.

The faucets were all dry. One of Dick's property lines was suppos' to be a crick but that was a long way away and I hadn't a flashlight. My mouth was so dry my tongue was sticking to the inside of my cheek and my lips pursed up like a horny trannie. I opened cabinet drawers. I hunted outside a ways. I finally found the old washtub where we stored the beers, thought maybe I could suck off some of the melted ice, but Jimmy and Steve had used it to clean their feet in. Their dirty socks were draped over the side.

I went back into the house and had an idea. I went into the bathroom and popped off the lid on the upper deck of the toilet's water tank. I looked in. It seemed clean, for the most part. Should be fresh, technically. A couple flakes of something floating on top. My lips dryer'n old cunt, I didn't care anymore. I lowered my entire head down like a horse right into the back of the shit tank. It was even cold! Didn't taste no bad either.

'Aaaaaah' I bubbled underwater, drinking it in soundly.

Then I put my head against the wall and tried to quelch a wretch.

I went back in, but this time I put my entire head into the water tank and just drank it down and down. It felt so good to get some water in me, even if it was dirty. I guess if toilet water was good for a dog, it was good for me too. But tank water should be okay.

I lay my head back against the wall again.

'You okay in there?' Mike asked.

'Yeah, just taking a breather.' I said.

The next morning we all had sore assholes from the fire chili. We each took turns out in back, 4 or 5 shits apiece. Must have been that deer meat gone bad.

We went fishing just after noon. I chipped my tooth on a lead weight I tried to close over the line, but caught me an eleven inch brown. Later, we emptied out the trunk with our mean toys. We put them in a wheelbarrow then all of us went out over the mountainside the guns all a-clickety-clack as we hit bumps on the back edge of Dick's property.

We started with the handguns, popped off a couple hundred rounds. Mike then took out his semi and started rocking it. He shook like a Parkinson's patient, shells flying out the side like a golden rainbow, a few hitting me in the arm. Still warm.

I asked if I could use the Desert Eagle. It had a scope on top, which was good for a 44 to keep the weight down when it tried to jump on you. I tried to one hand it but it popped way too hard. I did some Dirty Harry moves. Quoted a few of his lines before emptying out the handle. Then, I went gangster. Horizontal. The fire slanted out the end like a flame thrower with the tracer ammo. The peppered dirt on the hill looked like fire smoke.

By the time we were done, we probably unloaded 3 g's of ammo. Then we walked back to Dick's. Later Mike and Steve came back with what looked like a kilt boar. They ran a fence post through the front and back legs and carried it along. But when they got closer it wasn't no boar. It was a baby calf.

'Whar did you get that?' I asked.

Dick looked nervous. He didn't have no calves on his property.

'Better not have poached. My neighbor don't take kindly to strangers pinching his live.'

Mike seemed unhitched also. 'Steve told me it would be okay. We only went in about 10 yards across the fence. It was right there and your damn chili gave us all the shits.'

Dick looked pissed.

Steve then walked the kill over to his Nova and loaded it in the back. 'I don't see nothing.'

We loaded our guns and got in. The calf didn't move. ... at first.

About 20 minutes down the interstate, the calf starts to twitch. Pretty soon, another minute later, this thing is bucking, sideways.

'I thought you put a clean kill on that thing Steve!' I said.

'I did. Right in the head. Zero shot.'

Mike screamed as it bucked and broke out the rear window, smashing it clean through with a hoof kick.

'Shoot it!' screamed Steve.

'In you car? You want me to shoot it in your car, while you're driving?'

'Yes!' shouted Steve.

I grabbed my hog leg and put it under the calf's jaw to spread the cranium up, WHAMMO, and in the process took out a tenth of the car's roof. The calf stopped kicking, instantly, but it took a big old runny shit on Mike as its bowels loosened out like a heap o' rope gone slack.

'You like your new moon roof?' I asked.

When we got back in, we hung the calf up. Steve told us he was the real shit. He knew how to cut a kill. A real badass. But when he knifed open the stomach, the bile ran out and it ruined the thighs. The intestines spooled out onto the floor like movie theater reels.

'I want to age it here.' said Steve.

'In your garage?' I asked. 'What about the mice? That shit is gonna rot.'

'No it won't.' he said.

A couple days later he had us over for ribs. They tasted like hell. Tough, sinewy, flavorless. Apparently it was the only thing on the young bull that didn't rot right out. All that trouble; a poach, a smashed rear window and a shotgunned car roof for a half dozen pounds of rib meat. Not to mention the mess in his garage.

I guess it makes sense down here in the DS.

Sean Penn >>> Triple Threat

2009-11-18T01:40:00.000-08:00

In point of fact...

1) He plays a mean stoner.

2) A dumbass retard.

3) And a badass faggot.

No one in tinsel town, AND I MEAN NO ONE, can reckon with that kind of caliber of shit!

Just think, all he has to do now to round out his chops is play a scurvy laden pirate.

The boy is diverse.

Public Display Of Dismemberment

2009-11-18T01:38:00.000-08:00

The man's a philosopher.

Close Encounters Of A Lame Kind

2009-11-18T01:28:00.000-08:00

Just look at this. There's a fucking city on top of a flying saucer! A fucking Atlanta or an Albuquerque just floating and shit. Probably not LA though. Too much suburban sprawl. It would fall down the side, all those... illegal ALIENS (hahahahahahahaha).

I know. Pretty stupid. But if you look, its also a flying saucer in the shape of a guitar. A UFG. An unidentified flying guitar. At sum bad shit sombudee be takin. And that's just what I would do too if I was a band in the 70's. Pink Floyd did it with giant walking asses. Why not having a flying guitar too? That's what cheap drugs did back then, it turned everyday things like paper clips and ice cream scoopers into real cool crap.

Slave Kittens

2009-10-30T09:44:00.000-07:00

I need extra punching power when I punch these Barney the Dinosaur extras.

Shit Of A Thousand Wipes

2009-10-29T19:29:00.001-07:00

You will know it when you get there.

First, it will have to be an Anchor Steam shit, preferably preceded by a large Round Table Canadian bacon/pineapple, thick crust.

Your shit will be of a hardened brown variety. Dark as mud.

When you begin your wiping proper, you won't think anything of it at first.

But when you get to wipe 39 you will begin to question your predicament.

The black on the TP does not seem to be diminishing in its feedback.

You continue to wipe nonetheless, aging considerably as time goes by.

You try adding forwards wipes along with your backwards ones.

No avail.

It only brings out more mud.

And, yes, still wiping as I type.

Random Shit Caking The Right Side Of My Brain And Falling Off Into The Waffle Batter Below

2009-10-17T01:26:00.001-07:00

My mom went to high school with that retarded guy named Radio. Took him to senior prom. Got pregnant in the back of the limo. And I am the result. Except I didn't get any FM genes, only AM. I got the NPR side of him; calm, cerebral, and catatonic.

The midget from Kid Rock is wholly gay. Have you seen him dance? He's like an Irish clogger with a gerbil clogging up his corn maker.

Sweet dill pickles can crack off in your asshole, so be careful.

I have a rare talent for battle rapping which I usually employ during job interviews. I judge an interview successful or not to the extent that I coat the HR hiring manager's face with the light dew of expectorate.

When I hambone, I only use my right thigh for it is most reliable. It is my consistent, go-to smack-R-roonie.

I like the dirty south, but I have to ask. Why is the south dirty? Besides the fact that instead of dogs catching frisbees in midair with their teeth at parks, they use children. Also, a little factoid: A lot of dumb hot chicks that don't wear shoes in hiked up flower dresses hauled around in wheelbarrows by toothless boyfriends. They should have traffic lights in the shape of that crazy combination! And sure, I can also get dirty like that. Especially when you watch one uh them Appalachian mountain mommas hold up a Mountain Dew to her red hot cheek in July on the steps of the County welfare office. Its real and organic.

Cracklins are good eats. There's nothing better than watching your heart turn into a sinking catcher's mitt on an MRI. Especially when you're enjoying a countrified Slim Jim wrapped in bacon.

If I was ever implicated in a crime of passion like Ojay, my weapon of choice would definitely be a lawn dart. This comes from my decorated background in picnics and Norman Rockwell American culture studies.

Speaking of, I'm multiculturally sensitive. When I'm in the 7/11 looking for condoms, I'll ask the man at the counter, 'Yo Shithead(pronounced Shuh-heeeet-head), whar's the dick bags at?' Then, I make sure to bow very low to the ground.

One Sho Ass Wiggly Fuck

2009-10-17T00:57:00.000-07:00

New Wuuurds

2009-10-08T16:08:00.000-07:00

Here

...and here

Adding to the collection.

Fart Locker

2009-10-07T14:56:00.001-07:00

A place in the mall where you go to buy shoes for your asshole.

Question

2009-10-07T14:55:00.001-07:00

Is fucking your clone masturbation or incest?

Wait for it...

2009-10-07T14:09:00.000-07:00

2009-09-14T19:22:00.001-07:00

!!!!!!!

2009-09-02T00:46:00.000-07:00

Triptease

2009-08-14T21:31:00.001-07:00

Urban Dictionary published my new word.

Check it.

Ain't No Thing

2009-08-08T13:07:00.001-07:00

1

In the beginning there was nothing and it was good. There was nothing at all and nothing to comprehend it. Nothing was all there was(or should I say wasn't?). Nothing to even process or understand the nothing. Total unrecognition. Indeed, no cognition whatsover. An absolute coma throughout the empty fuck hole of space sucking all light into it like a cosmic blowjob, like Carl Sagan with Alzheimers going down on Stephen Hawking, then having Hellen Keller break it all down to us afterwards using Power Point.

In a word, there was absence. No initial spark to fire up the creation, not even two trillion nuclear wars could undo this kind of heavy weight entropy. It would look like someone trying to ignite a fart with a Bic while scuba diving. No way to capture the anus fuel.

You need to understand this. Behold! Way back before there was time, a kind of ancient autism was all there was, staring out into miles of black space, like wheeling a senior over to a window with a view of a brick wall and parking them there for the next week. Now the wall is inside their head. It was all that ever was in their head in the first place; bricks and mortar. Their thoughts, frozen. Their existence, incarcerated in the amber of no time.

The emptiness of non-existence is what made the Hasidic Jews go mad during their Ezekiel studies which is why they were encouraged to marry if they were to go on to become rabbis. They needed some cock-footing to remain sane like a professional rock climber, use their dick like a rope and attach it to a carabiner. They needed to knock that fucking pussy right out of the ballpark. Otherwise their stare would begin to resemble the heavy black rain-soaked coat worn by a hitch hiker sanded faceless by the side of the road.

We all need to understand this, that our existence is the first and the last miracle. That we are not alone. That we are here. Take the time to share this with the one you love. I know its corny and hallmark, but you are caught up with them in time and space, the people that you love and even the ones you hate comprise the miracle of who we are. Remember that. Take the time to hold them against this huge expanse of nothingness. Suddenly they will be the most important discoveries in your life.

The alternative is too much to bear. Outside of this creation, the entire universe is as dead as Paris Hilton on her second bottle of cough syrup and chopped up, snorted No Dos when she falls asleep with her eyes open and then hits her head on the end of the coffee table with her panties pulled down around her shins.

In the beginning there was nothing, just this dead stare. And then...

...for no reason, faint noise slowly erupting.

A subtle pulse which grew louder wave upon wave until, instantly, you know the song, a song that no one had to tell you the name of. Here it is. Listen to it and understand its commonality. Its universal ability to set the world order into place. This was the first act of all creation, the organ keyboard working into the opening riff with the volume control knob. Subtle. British Marshalls tearing a hole into the flat, obsidian universe like a jackhammer.

Or it could be the opening riff of Led Zeppelin's Black Dog, repeated over and over, and with it an explosion of light into history and time. No one will forget that riff. No one.

But then again, it could be this Presley classic that accompanied the first few days of creation as well. As done by Sabbath.

Instantly recognizable even to the deaf ears of the unborn, huge riffs taking shape, chiseling chunks out of space, creating form, objectifying the nature of mankind, as God spoke, each chord blasted its way into our future with reckless violence like a bouncing Chevy lowrider fucking a Bond girl on top of a skyscraper, hopping across the ledge, as chunks of concrete mortice fall to the street below.

2

From the moment I saw this album cover, I wanted to own some land and haul sticks around like this old man. As a young kid, something I can't quite name spoke to me about this picture. Something timeworn and indigenous, something storied, perhaps he had survived a few of life's tragedies; the boot liquor wars, joint disease, the potato famine, a shrunken limb forcing him to adopt a cane or perhaps a wife who had died years ago but then he kept going it alone.

And back in his autochthonous village, the overturned carts left in the street, starving livestock, silos burned by bombing raids, he escaped to come here in his last days; a stone cottage in a small grey field next to a stream. Everyday he cut firewood then cleared the broken pieces into a pile of sticks to haul back.

This meant something, who could outlast who. This was his fight against what didn't exist, his testimony that nothing could beat him as long as he could keep getting up and put on his wool jacket, grab his pruning saw and put another dent into nature.

I wanted to be that man. I, too, had bought some land wanting to understand it. Rejecting a complicated life, I knew that a kind of truth could be found in hard work and that reward came from the degree to which one exerted their self. Bowing down before the evening clouds pressed up against the moon and rising up with the thieving sun and walking uncertain distances alone. Putting an order into things and carving your notch into existence. All of this held the secret of knowing what can never be known. So you go about your business here trying not to be so important, trying not to know so much and remain hidden.

There are no alternatives. There are none. Either you are or you are not because this existence itself is so fragile. You have to carry it around with you like a bird with a broken wing and you have to nurture it wherever you go. This thing inside your heart, you have to take care of it and feed it. You have to take care. Existence. We are. Testimony against that which isn't. Put your mark on this world. Its all you have. The fight against non-existence.

And sometimes in church, half asleep, dozing in and out, it hits you again, suddenly like a collision from the side by a train. You realize how many eyes are watching you from afar. All of them looking into this world from beyond this world. Some of them never knowing what life is, only seeing it at great distance and so they are curious. Others, fallen, now asleep who peer into your world understanding what they used to know even as it quickly fades from view. How quickly the dead forget what it was like here, their hands that they used so often, now its like 'What are hands? What are feet?' They start forgetting the moment they are gone, back into the white light's fine eraser. This is what makes life so precious. Understand this. This is no accident, you here, reading this now. You are a part of this voyeuristic journey. You are one who will also look into the deep recesses of space and find out how empty they are, and you will then know that everything you lived here was the richest treasure of all. Compared to nothing, this is everything. You must take fate by the throat. You must take life and run with it. You must take every denial of life and garrot it in front of the giant list of excuses you use to keep you from this moment. Do whatever it takes. Place a loaded gun on the nightstand as a reminder. When you pray, hold it between your legs with both hands.

And so I pick up sticks and pile them up by the roadside next to the brush. Later I will light them on fire and watch the flame rise up into the sky. I will use my hands and work my legs under the sun until I tire. And in the quiet evening I will go in and love my wife and kiss my children. And I will ask for nothing else but to be left here in this place among my kin for it is my heritage. The glory and strength of not having to prove anything to anyone. Of just being. Of just existing. Breathing.

The Dirty Donut Award

2009-08-08T11:30:00.001-07:00

The Alligator Sonata

2009-08-01T08:03:00.000-07:00

1

My kid has a game on his Nintendo where you take care of a pet. It starts out as a puppy, you name it, then it grows into an adult. Of course you have to pet it so it doesn't shit on your digital carpet. Or maybe there's a scrolled up newspaper icon you can latch onto and smack it across the nose. I tried beating his dog the other night. I wasn't able to.

I thought a game like this would be more for urban kids stuck way up in the 65th floor of a Manhattan apartment, their pale, atrophied limbs needing an excuse to be used, at least their thumbs. Not my kid who lives in the country. Out here we make pipe bombs and then bring them to church to critique their weak points in-between armageddon references. When we want cereal in the morning for breakfast, first we have to kill it.

2

They should make one of these pet games for paraplegic children. Instead of a dog, maybe a turtle. They could probably manipulate a turtle through their $10,000 tongue driven system. A turtle only moves once a day. Its little green tail wipes away the urine tracks behind it. And its hard shell reflects all the ugly stares from strangers over the years.

Maybe we should put paraplegics inside hard cases. Put a 2.5 horsepower weed eater engine in there with a push-button start. Slip a skateboard under there. Then they could go to the beach, crawl into the jetties and if someone tries to make fun of them, they could pull their head into their shell.

I'm just trying to offer up some solutions here. The world is full of problems. I'd like to think I have something that might help make it a better place. Pay it forward and shit. I feed pigeons breadcrumbs. Free Tibet. Vote No on 8. Rah rah rah sis boom bah.

3

I think we should have a game where it starts out as a fetus. You navigate it through amniotic fluid for 9 months, but first you have to dodge an abortionist's steel claw.

The game doesn't stop. The game never stops. It keeps going, forever. You have to keep navigating this person through high school, college, its first job. Pretty soon, your digital person begins to lose its hair, its reproductive prowess, its fashion sense. It starts to move slower.

You continue navigating this person through a pair of divorces, a brief cancer scare and its first emotional breakdown. By the time the game is almost over, on the last level, the person has nearly lost its mind. All it can do is sit in a room and shit out its paper thin, state-issued night gown next to an archipelago of stainless steel machines. You gave it a name when you first began playing, but now it forgets its name. It doesn't answer to it anymore. It just sits there rocking back and forth next to a pixelated curtain.

There are no more points to score, no rotating coins to collect, no more life points in the shape of a red, beating heart that will extend your lives. All the lives you lived over the years. All the lives in this one life.

Milk Truck

2009-07-30T09:12:00.000-07:00

Not Just Another Football Team

2009-07-25T00:27:00.000-07:00

This story needs a soundtrack to go with it. Click the video and pause before reading.

You need to understand. You need to know and the story must be told.

January 19th, 2003. Oakland Colesium. In the parking lot. The Lord was angry with us and the sun was approaching high noon. I had my brauts on the cue in the back of my pickup truck, guarded by Lou and his Rot. Homeland Security had their eye on us from the start.

We borrowed a complete draft kegging system from the Ace of Spades downtown, came with its own ball lock and regulator. All we had to do was connect the CO2 bottle we picked up from Bevmo. It looked like a damn bomb in the back of his truck, but the taste was rich and retained a thick, creamy head. We were so spoiled.

I was starting to get one of those beginner buzzes, the early warm fuzzies. I felt powerful yet resigned. And as I poured more into my red cup I began to feel separated from my surroundings, just a bit, like a hamster lost in the bottom of a zipped up sleeping bag.

When you are surrounded by asphalt, blue sky and makeshift mosh pits, there is a wonderful feeling of eternity that begins to creep up on you. I leaned my head back against the rear window of the truck and stared up at the clouds. I will try to describe it to you like an armless amputee trying to wipe his ass. I will be shit out of luck, but here it goes. Please forgive me if I sound like a queer: You know the unspoken things. The history that leads you here, yes, before you were even born. It comes in waves and, remembering, lifts you to high places. You are invincible, one of the chosen ones. You were all here before and will be here again. This is just another battlefield, this football game, except this time the line of scrimmage will not end in mass casualties like Iwo Jima or Omaha Beach. This is just another day, like any other, except this time your childhood dreams of watching Jim Plunkett go long on a fake and pitching it out to Marcus Allen on a reverse or Lyle Alzado rip an offensive linemen's helmet off or Lester Sticky Hands Hayes wrapping receivers around goal posts are all coming true today. This is what you have been waiting for and even if they don't win which they probably won't, matters not. The fact that you are here now is all that does matter, with the rest of the inconsequentials, Raider fever baby, the black hole, the place where the cameras will not come. Its like Beirut. The Sunni Triangle. A strike on the West Bank. Here in this parking lot, a total blackout.

The masses were becoming restless. We were getting our war footing on. Kickoff was fast approaching, a sight the majority of us would only see on tonight's ESPN post show highlights. We were poor, all of us out here. We just wanted to be a part of the circus. Metallica knew that. They came here to honor us, the fan, those who could only pretend to be inside the coliseum. It didn't matter. You would have to know the troubled history of this team and its owner. You would have to know why it never mattered whether or not the Raiders actually ever won a game. It was never about winning. It was about mastering the art of the loser. That's what being a real fan is about. Loving the colors. The Raiders were always picking up losers and sopping them up like truckstop gravy with a dry, crusty dinner roll contract. The second chancers and the comeback kids, the bum knee throwbacks, the traded journeymen. All of the wounded. When it came to talent, we always got sloppy seconds. But boy did we love them. The rejects knew it also. Al Davis picked them up on the cheap, then reshaped them.

Romanowski, violent felon.

Jerry Rice on his last knee.

Barret Robbins who we learned that morning no showed.

Stubblefield.

Tyrone Wheatley.

Shabbaz.

Jerry Porter.

Mo Collins.

Sebastian Janikowski the headcase.

And Rich Gannon.

All of them assembled as one team.

God help us.

But then the shit started. Right when James began to scream in the beginning of this second video...

I look over and there's this totally wurked dude hanging onto the edge of my truck, arms stretched over the side, squatting down and laying out a thick line of brown tapered shit right next to my rear tire. 'Hey!' I shouted, 'BRO, yo you need to back right the fuck up!' Then I empty out the last third of my beer into the side of his face. 'Hey, back it up!' but he doesn't hear, he just keeps bearing down.

Just then the fucker lifts his head up and looks like one of those Disneyland pirates, the one holding that big clay jug with XXX on the side. Missing chicklets, one dead eye and a sun burnt forehead so beat red it looked like a birthday party balloon. Stoli and day old salami breath comes off him, then an eruption of corn and a little bit of hot dog burst out of his mouth and cakes down his beard, hitting his chest, rolling off in clumps which tumble onto the ground in large pancake-sized dollops which splatter my rims.

Oh man, why do I have to be on the receiving end of this? It ain't right. But then I look back over and there's Lou standing over him pissing straight onto the top of his bald burnt head. Yellow drops run down his eyes and, blinking, he screams at both of us 'You sonsofabitch!'

And sure enough, like clockwork, here come the cops. You know when someone starts a fight? Its usually the guy who throws the last punch who gets in trouble, not the shit starter. Well, today, that's us.

Usually the cops have a look-away policy on drunk and disorderlies with tailgaters, but not today. I guess there's a limit to the 'disorderly' clause. You can't give a hobo a man shower. That's where they draw the line, even when Metallica's playing and your ears feel like they're full of pea gravel.

*Click* *Zip Zip* I feel the cold metal hit my wrists. Then I watch as the hobo walks away into the crowd and I am pulled up with a gloved hand that has dug into the deep ditch of my armpit. Same with Lou. As the cops drive us out, I see about 15 black jerseys reach into the back of our truck and grab our little kegger.

I tell the cops. They don't seem to care. Just keep driving forward.

Game. Over.

>3

2009-07-23T07:42:00.002-07:00

Wait for it...

2009-07-23T07:42:00.001-07:00

Fat Rakky Boy

2009-07-13T13:54:00.001-07:00

Yo... I Carry A One Two

2009-07-13T13:53:00.001-07:00

A Troubled Shit

2009-07-13T13:02:00.000-07:00

I woke up in pain. Rolling to my side, I tightened my jaw then released like a fish trapped in a sportsman's bucket, a hook through its mouth. The sensation shifted, as did the tiny riot police mobilizing on the perimeter of my gut, all of them now striking the palm of their left hand with the club in their right, waiting for me to make another move.

Moaning like a late, third trimester expectant crackwhore, I immediately grabbed my asshole with my right fist, clenched hard, then shoved in my thumb like a cork to keep the mud from squishing its way out. I ran to the bathroom like Dick Pryor with his hair on fire.

An untaxed red bell pepper erupted out my chute, just the bullnosed tip, like some kind of Toucan's beak. I could have sworn it had an eye on the end of it peering around like a security camera. It looked like a clown shoe, bright and shiny, one of Ronald McDonald's after getting soaked in old, french fry grease.

It was a stop gap surprise. That was just the fuse apparently. After the shoe came out, an explosion ensued. A roiling myriad of colors blew out, Jackson Pollock style, all over the rim and bowl. Winston Marsalis was blowing out a trumpet solo. Just ad libbing. He killed it, too.

I'll let you know how the toxicology reports come out next week.

This Shit Is Hot

2009-07-02T08:32:00.001-07:00

Jenny Seems To Have Taken It To Heart

2009-07-02T08:15:00.003-07:00

Bachelor

2009-07-01T21:03:00.000-07:00

My wife left for New York. Took the kids with her. I don't give a shit about anything anymore now. I let the bar-b-cue sauce, a little dot, harden on the side of my face. I pass out on the floor and make a snow angel except with empty beer cans. I don't use any electricity. Don't need it. I sit in the darkness, no air conditioning, just one ceiling fan on 'low'. I facilitate this by not wearing any pants. It helps.

I have noticed a disturbing trend, however. I have begun talking to myself. I say whatever comes to my mind, out loud. I'm not sure what this means. When I'm watching TV and someone comes on I don't like I scream at them FUCK YOU! I would never do this if my family were here, but now that they're gone, I am retreating into my own mind. Pretty soon I will be putting lipstick on volleyballs and sleeping next to them.

This is the curse of being an animal who has lost his pack. I glance longer than I should at the pretty yellow Tequila bottles in the cabinet. Then I lighty smack my face with my hand and run it over my cheek, wiping the sweat off. I talk to God openly. Even scarier than that; He talks back.

I engage hygiene loosely and irregularly. Whatever is necessary. No more. I floss and I flush. That is all.

I only use one plate. Each time I eat off it, I wash it and set it aside. Then, I use it again, the next morning.

With the family here, I throw away a bag of trash once a day. Now, with them gone, once a week. I guess I'm not wasteful.

I stare out of open windows. I see the empty fields. Now that it is summer, they are golden and dry.

This is the first day of my life. This day. The one where I wake up.

The Carnival Poem

2009-06-25T22:45:00.000-07:00

When making love with the woman with two heads, its important to respect the privacy of each by deciding beforehand which face to ignore while you lock eyes with the other.

And courtesy would dictate that you kindly ask one of them, say the head on the right, to wear a bag over its head so that you could have a tender moment with the head on the left.

You wouldn't want jealousy to break out in the middle of the encounter, one head becoming enraged with the other. There needs to be protocol. And extra care should be taken to keep each head separate.

And even if the other head, the one not getting the immediate attention, were to break this sanctity, even for a second, with an expression of ecstasy, even if it wasn't her turn, the fact is, there is no real way getting around this because, in the end, you are fucking a girl with two heads.

Obama Regulates Smoking

2009-06-24T01:12:00.000-07:00

I don't smoke, but I wish I did. Its on my to-do list, along with contracting genital ass warts from an under-chlorinated public jacuzzi at the YMCA. Sometimes you just want to relate to other people so bad and understand their problems that you're willing to endure sitting in a jacuzzi next to a gay lumberjack wearing mirrored sunglasses and a John Deere ballcap. He said the Vaseline in his handlebar mustache kept the chlorine from turning it green, but you disagreed with that theory. By the time you were done, it looked like holiday gravy hardening on the end of a wet paper plate. An acne ring around his neck was barely hidden by a dark brown holiday reef of hairy matting that resembled thick, oven insulation. Remember what your mommy always told you. Stay away from strangers.

But back to the smoking thing. Its always been so damn cool. I've never really done it. Sure I've tried it, but I never followed through like the neato people. It never stuck. There's nothing cooler than watching other people lift these miniature fires up to their mouths, and when they exhale: medieval dragons.

The wizardry of it always amazed me. These mysterious keepers of the sacred rite of the holy flame. Like a cult with a cartoon Camel as its leader. Question: How did the rest of the non-cloven hooved animals ever hold a ciggy? Answer: They didn't. Thus the critical brainstorming session by RJ Reynolds execs of the hump backed quatropod desert animal. He had the right feet to make it credible. He could just rest that stick in the crotch of his toe.

Now Obama is going to take that sacred camel away from us all. I am going to miss that camel. Nice suits. Spiffy shades. He was an extremely attractive beast. A beast who smoked. My dog never smoked. But if he did, that would be pretty cool.

I wonder what my grandma would think of all this? She smoked those big long brown ones. No, not ethnic men. Mores. They were called Mores. Get it? You get more because they're longer. Who was the brilliant genius who came up with that? 'Hey, I've got an idear! Let's make the ciggys longer. That way, the person can get more of a smoke.' Awesome. Then they had to re-package the damn things and make the boxes longer too, which threw off the Circle K franchisees because their cigarette racks were only yea long, pissing off the poonjobs.

I used to watch her smoke the Mores. She would be working in the yard gardening and let them dangle off her lower lip like a broken tachometer needle on a Pinto's dash. And she wouldn't flick off the ash either. She'd just let it grow like a snake shedding its skin, there'd be 2 inches of ash sitting on the end of her brown More. And she'd just suck that thing down. She was so stingy she'd suck it all the way past the filter, then let the filter erupt into flame until she could barely hold onto it any longer, just pinch it with her fingertips. Then she'd proceed to keep sucking it down until all she was getting was the adhesive from the factory glue and the little bit of resin that was leftover from her own drying spittle.

Ahhhh. To get a nice smoke early in the morning. That's when you know you're really alive. And now Obama wants to take that away from all the little people who 'should know better'. He's going to make sure they know. I'm so glad we have these brilliant politicians on our side. Keeping ourselves from ourselves. Without them we'd be dangerously free. And that's never good.

And I don't even smoke. Just the genital ass wart thing. Maybe that could be the next big thing government saves us from. Big signs on gym jacuzzis warning us of the danger. Signs in the crapper at Popeye's Chicken. Splashback is dangerous. Be careful when you bear down, not to stir the waters below.

Mid-Life Crisis

2009-06-18T15:47:00.000-07:00

I put on Foreigner's It Feels Like The First Time.

I wait for the keyboard solo because that's the real sexy part of the song.

Then I empty out a can of pie cherries onto my wife's crotch.

I ask her nicely to scream because it hurts.

Suddenly, I am young again.

It feels like the first time.

The Year Of The Cock

2009-06-15T01:18:00.000-07:00

I was born in the Year Of The Cock. 1969.

However, let it be said, I do not like cocks.

This was just the year that I came out of my mother's vagina.

I had nothing to do with it, other than bad timing.

So, no jokes please.

I would've rather been born in the Year Of The Beaver except there is no Year Of The Beaver.

Could you imagine? An entire year devoted to beaver?

But, as all developing humans do, I spent the better part of a year inside one.

I still remember it well.

The warm feelings, the sense of weightlessness, the strange smell.

Sometimes I would get bored and do sit ups and shit in there.

9 months is a long time.

I'd light up a smoke, get my tools out, tinker a little bit.

My mom told me she could smell the grease whenever she farted from all the oil changes I did and wearing out drill bits on her uterus wall.

I also did a little graffiti on her endometrium. Wyatt was here in Softy Letter style.

I put up the Farrah poster.

Put my weight bench next to my punching bag.

You know, a bachelor pad inside a pussy.

Have one of those mini-fridges in there full of beer.

Watch cage fighting and record Kelly Ripa's calves then burn it to DVD.

Being inside a pussy is fun, but living inside one is even better.

Suspended animation. Its also sloshy and shit.

You can do backflips if you twirl your arms.

So yeah, The Year Of The Cock.

Don't let that fool you though.

I was totally down with the whole vagina thing.

The Song That Invades My Skull Every Time I Hose The Wife

2009-06-07T09:24:00.000-07:00

Oh, that's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
When you take me by the hand,
Tell me I'm your loving man,
When you give me all your love,
And do it the very best you can,
Oh, that's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
When I get to be in your arms,
When we're all all alone,
When you whisper sweet in my ear,
When you turn, turn me on,
Oh, that's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Stock Trading At Home

2009-05-31T11:52:00.000-07:00

My son asked me what I was doing.

"Reading about the future," I told him.

"Will there be robots?" he asked.

"Sure, there will be robots," I said.

"Will there be cars that float?" he asked.

"Without a doubt," I said.

Wanting to get back to the intraday trades,
I turned to my computer screen.

My son then put a Jedi action figure on my keyboard
and hopped on one foot out of the room.

Rattlesnake Dick

2009-05-30T11:06:00.001-07:00

Legend has it that the muleskinners had brought in bullion shipments from Nevada City. They were held up at gunpoint by partners of Cy and Barter who intercepted them, then made off to Folsom. Half of it they buried in the mountainside, the rest they took. In all, there was $80 grand of yella loot.

From there, on into Auburn, a Wells Fargo posse gave pursuit. A gun battle opened up and George Skinner was killed. $40 grand was recovered.

Cy and Rattlesnake Dick went looking for the rest of the gold back somewhere in the mountain. They finally quit looking when it became apparent that it was a lost cause.

Both men resumed what they knew best, namely robbing stagecoaches. This would not last for long. On the fateful day of July 11, 1859, Sheriff J. Boggs trapped them both in an Auburn pass and shot Rattlesnake dick right through the chest. Skinner was taken into custody.

This is the story of what happened up near the Trinity/Shasta line, from the mountain valley between Yreka and the Klamath River mines.

All this happened in my backyard, up here in Placer County. And the bullet that went into Dick's heart, from the gun barrel of Boggs who lived just down the road from where I live.

Things haven't changed much since then. My neighbor was sent to prison about 8 years ago, a pipe bomber, who blew the hands off the wife of a college professor. And my other neighbor 15 acres East, had a meth lab. They found his body in a mine shaft in Reno.

If you continue down the road, you will see the Potter family who reactivated a dormant gold mine on their property. Apparently they still owned the mineral rights as grandfathered in from their ancestors. Just last week they paid off their mortgage from the metal proceeds.

If you go West from my front porch, you will run into the Hill family. Their son had a sill that exploded in the basement. Turned his hands to jelly. He almost died from third degree burns. Their house is right next door to the granite stone post office which formerly belonged to the Griffiths who owned the quarry, and Mr. Senior Griffith, who had the exact same first and last name and went by the name Griffith Griffith. The second floor is where the Masons still meet to this day every third Tuesday, now converted into a rustic lodge.

I also know that gold still exists on my property, down below my feet. When they trenched out the line, 4 feet deep, and sank my electric in, quartz came up in tire-sized chunks. If I had the mining equipment, I'd get to pimping. For now, I have a lame metal detector I bought from Big Five Sporting Goods and walk my property line whenever I'm bored with a shovel slung over my shoulder. I usually do this when I'm drunk and feeling really good.

Peg Leg Sam

2009-05-30T10:32:00.000-07:00

The Chinese Hokey Pokey

2009-05-30T10:24:00.000-07:00

While the Chinese version is a little different than ours, its the same general idea. Oh yeah, the song is still the same one we used at Roller King.

You put your right hand in
you put your right hand out
you put your right hand in
and you shake it all about.

I feel bad for the guy. All he wanted to do was get his Blockbuster late fee waived.

Obama Administration Is Going To Regulate Slayer

2009-05-21T23:00:00.000-07:00

The Sex Goiter

2009-05-19T15:57:00.000-07:00

I've got a repository, a third nut, and when I don't get it enough it builds up with baby batter. If I go too long I actually grow a hump like a camel on my back, a kind of dorsal fin. Its like a giant cheese wheel on my back, a French brie. And if I don't get sex soon, it has to get lanced like a boil every third week of the month. The smell is awful.

Usually there's a bunch of other lonely men in the waiting room with me, all of them with their humps. We wait for the nurse to take us back for our monthly drainings.

If we didn't do this, we'd all go insane.

Behind The Scenes Of Ordinary White People

2009-05-17T00:37:00.000-07:00

Inside the compound, protected from all other races, we were treated to undeniable affection, welcomed with such unnatural warmth that at first it took some getting used to, but we could discern instantly that this strange universe had its privileges.

Please, click the link above and see for yourself.

Okay, ignore the guy at 2:36. I don't know how he got passed security. Anyway, he didn't cause any trouble. No one was raped or murdered.

The purity conference went on without a hitch, hinting on ways to continue to dominate natural resources, consolidate power, perform wire transfers from foreign bank accounts. The Anglo Saxon gathering felt like a glorious dream. There were no germs spread. No monkey viruses. And no crack.

In all it was a good week.

Blowmance

2009-05-16T13:31:00.000-07:00

When she says you can't have any unless you give her some romance first, at which point you pull out your beef bazooka and ram it into her corkhole.

I Know How To Stop Unemployment

2009-05-13T12:41:00.000-07:00

Start killing people.

If instead of firing people we just shot them in the head, we could reach 0% unemployment by the end of the third quarter.

Euro-Fuck

2009-05-13T09:53:00.000-07:00

Gooey cheeses. Cobbled streets. Gelato & baguettes. Appeasement. Mimes and shit.

The Kennel

2009-05-04T23:06:00.000-07:00

When I was bad, I was sent to my room without any supper. Later that night, my parents would come in and dress me up in a black robe and place a tall pointy hat on my head. Then they would lead me outside by a rope tied around my neck, my dad cackling with his shotgun and all I could see was the glowing tip of his menthol in the 4AM dark.

My mother would be on all fours, her stringy hair falling over half of her face like a janitor's dirty mop. Her gold tooth flashed like a caution sign in the moonlight. She stopped to take a drag on her inhaler like a praying mantis.

I was handed a shovel as my dad racked the pistol-grip 500 Mossberg, what we lovingly referred to as The Persuader, "Dig, boy!" Then he sat back in a lawn chair, put down the lighter fluid and bit off a plug of low grade chew.

Then both of them laughed like two crazy high school kids with a crush, if by 'crush' you meant pulverized, all my hopes of ever escaping them transformed into chalk white dust.

I watched the sun rise like a Dracula movie, hoping both of them would disintegrate. By the time the sun cleared the top of Hill 42, my hips were level with the ground and my shovel felt like a barbell stacked with pharmaceuticals. Standing straight up and stretching I could feel each disc in my back pop like a twisty beer cap at a frat house.

When I turned around I saw both of them slumping into each other like dominoes testing each other's gravity, snoring like idling chainsaws. I threw down my shovel and slowly turned toward the house and as I reached for the door, I felt the rope tighten around my throat.

My birth witch hammered a couple teal chunks into an empty, sat up then tore into a bag of Doritos with her teeth. The early fog cut into her face like a white machete. Her voice was like a set of angry jumper cables. It would always be this way, that spark - the beginning... that flash of light - the end.

This One Goes Out To The One I Hate

2009-04-25T11:27:00.000-07:00

War is totally badass. I don't understand why anyone is against it really. I mean war has everything a man needs; fire, blood, comfort women and death. What's not to like? Its also very patriotic. War looks like the 4th of July without the potato salad and Ball Park Franks. War is like Motley Crue back when they were on The Devil Tour in '84. I was there so I should know.

When there's no war, life is boring. We need drama to spice things up. Every once in awhile you get a double homicide on the news or a dead body backing up traffic, the foot still twitching out the bottom of the plastic sheet. I guess those are nice, but its not enough.

But war? That's like death every couple of seconds! Its multi-ball. Snap your fingers as fast as you can, both hands. *snap snap snap snap snap snap* How does that feel? You just killed 6 people. Just like that. Organized murder like a chicken ranch except with humans. Like playing Grand Theft Auto, but with better graphics.

Which is why I think we need more entertaining wars. We need an XBox War! All out total war except only 9 year olds get to play using their controllers which fly real C 130s, bombers and F 22s out of Edwards Air Force Base and just rain down total fucking devastation on the 405 freeway!

Just think of all those kids on their PSPs and Nintendos turning the Middle East into cheap, storefront window glass. And there's always that fat kid who's played Sakura from Streetfighter since he was 5 years old and could even fuck up Bruce Lee. In a real war, that kid would be a cross between Jason Statham in Transporter and Caligula. Just conquering and raping shit.

So, let's recap. Nations, like people, need to vent. Its healthy. We need to not only accept it, but embrace it. Who are we trying to fool? Even our words are laced with false hippie horseshit. Take mankind for instance. Since when has man been kind? I would prefer some honesty for once. Just a little more acceptance of our unavoidable ties to manhate.

Wherehouse Sex

2009-04-21T00:38:00.000-07:00

Take the alley, down on the south end, behind a stacked up pile of empty pallets. Wait there.

A note will be tucked underneath your windshield wiper at noon with further instructions.

Dry weeds erupt through the cracks in the pavement and rusty whirly birds spin on the flat rooftops.

A dozen vacant back lots sit unleased as tax write-offs.

A mildewed mattress leans against a dumpster next to a washer machine on its side with the copper ripped out.

And from here the uninteresting science of summer heat makes the oil rise off the tarmac, blurring the abandoned buildings at the far end like viewing them through some invisible flame's current.

Men come here, their shirts unbuttoned halfway down.

Every once in awhile a roll up door barely open, maybe an inch to let the air in, while a ball cap hangs on the doorknob outside.

Morning Presents

2009-04-16T10:52:00.000-07:00

Today I crapped a giant moray eel.

When I looked back into the bowl there was even an eye built into the side.

It kind of bounced around in the water, up and down, like knotty pine.

I waved goodbye.

Then flushed.

Enjoy.

Just Fuckin Pickles Man

2009-04-08T15:29:00.000-07:00

At first the Seattle coffee shops in the early 1990's were quaint retreads. People pretending to be sophisticates, scattered around courtyards. Sometimes a guy strumming an acoustic guitar on bended knee in the grass, eyes closed, as people drank deeply from their hot cup o' joes.

But then it got serious.

One started to pop up on every block on every street in America. Even right next to Wal Mart. And then a thousand Volvos a day are pulling up and getting their lattés. Scone farts in elevators. Jittery hands at ATMs. Whip cream on the lower lip of soccer moms like some new rabies infection.

The kitschy euro-franchise suddenly made using a can opener to a vat of Folger's beneath them.

And then it got worse.

Jamba Juice. World Wraps. Panera Bread. Noah's Bagles. Yep. That's right. A store that only sells smoothies or one that only traffics in round breaded treats. Leases were signed. Hands were shook. Starbucks and Noah's, side by side. First you go in and get your coffee. Then, 15 paces over, right next door, you get your sun dried tomato basil bagel with pesto brie in a separate biodegradable container.

Pretty soon you're going store to store with half a dozen separate transactions and receipts and carrying a bunch of little baggies in order to become a complete human being in order to get enough bodily fluids to match your carbohydrate intake.

Suburbs now are like Burbank Studios, a cardboard replica of what Americans(Americans who have never been to Europe) think Europe should be. All we need now is the fruit stand vendor, the barber, the pie maker, the tanner and the blacksmith and we will have our own little village.

I'm starting my own franchise today.

JUST FUCKING PICKLES MAN!

That's right. I already have my sign guy on it. Millions of hand-picked pickles, all kinds, sizes and varieties. Flavors imported daily from the south of France, others from local co-ops who don't use those terrible pesticides. I'm a specialty store and its all about the cukes. I have only the best gherkins. And I will have all sorts of dipping sauces.

And just like Starbucks who puts a paper collar on their coffee so you don't burn your hand, I will give each of my customers a small paper hand mitten with which they can grab their pickle so they don't get any juice on their fingertips. They will also have neat zen sayings on each mitten and green, earth-friendly reminders.

Some of my pickles are bigger for the soccer moms. I also have a good mid-size variety grown in Mendocino County but boy it packs a punch of flavor! Come in. Try my pickles. I have rosemary I can sprinkle on the tip. I have sesame seeds also if you'd like to roll some on for an additional .35 cents. All proceeds from extra seasoning add-ons go to end world hunger, my Pickles For Africa Project!

I don't sell anything to drink though. Just pickles. So make sure you go to Starbucks first to get your coffee, then come here.

I just serve fucking pickles here. Just pickles.

The Simmering Fury

2009-04-03T17:07:00.000-07:00

Can you feel it?

I know I can.

There's some real man's men there, the kind that are made from a diet of salt and beef and who engage in loud, chaotic animal sex nightly in a kind of Darwinian back stage bus pass where the second-hand beer and coke farts could get a rhinocerous high.

Enough hairspray to use as soil erosion mitigant and venereal disease cream bought in 5 gallon drums from OSHA's website.

After a sweaty night of rockin' where you don't come knockin', shirtless man, second from the left, chest like an overcooked ham, pulls his tassled cowboy boots up over his pinstriped tights and attaches pelvic chain hardware to doorknob for a total boss effect. Then he's off to another one of his poodle cuts, this time with perm smell.

Next guy, far right, bookends Coverdale in 80's retro jacket and pink blouse standing in false pose of assurance, one known by Wall Street execs as a 'wide stance' for total control.

The other two blondes, one at 12 o'clock, the other at 9, are twins. They used to be chicks, but in order to join the band had to 'man up'. Coverdale still taps them when he's bored between Bakersfield and the small gigs in the Yuba City waffle houses on those long treks on I-5.

First Boy Scout Motto: Be Prepared

2009-03-29T14:12:00.000-07:00

Hi, I'm George Clooney. I'm extremely awesome. And in this public service announcement, I'm going to talk about love, but first we need to talk about protection.

Rule number one, always wear a condom. I learned that at a young age. And, I still do, even when it feels like I'm fucking a toaster.

When I'm playing a game of pickup basketball or mowing the lawn, I'm always protected. After idling my Toro push/pull, I roll one on, carefully, like placing a tiny little turban on top of a baby carrot. Then Scotch Tape it down so it doesn't fall off when I go up for a layup. Remember, it has to stay on all day, even after a sweaty game of halfcourt.

Its even more important to wear a dick bag when you're out grocery shopping. You never know. You just never know. What if a stock girl just lays down in the middle of the canned food aisle?

What if she pulls down her brown Safeway stretch slacks right there and starts to do pelvic raises? Did you ever think of that? You gotta be prepared for shit like that. You gotta be a good boy scout.

Always get your dick sack on until its go time. Like that stocker in the grocery store, if you had your rainjacket on all you'd have to do then is just mash her, right next to the jars of Prego and Paul Newman salad dressing. Maybe bang her head a little on a can of peas.

Dancing With The Stars

2009-03-29T10:01:00.000-07:00

Reincarnation

2009-03-26T23:44:00.000-07:00

I wonder
if Jews
suddenly get
diarrhea
when they are
reborn
as Sumo Wrestlers,
a kind of
gastrointestinal
machine gun?

And Hitler
becomes
their toilet.