Wait, Madam! There is comedy in your purse

Spread the word! Rich wears women's underwear (No, not THAT word!) What I meant was, spread the word that this BLOG makes polio string cheese come out all of your orafices. And if it doesn't, lie to your friends and say it does. Rich is tired of sucking scrotum to get ahead, and he wants a real job, one that pays. So come on in! I have Hot Pockets in the fridge

Friday, June 02, 2006

Apparently, Snoop Doggy Dogg needs to get a Jobby Job

I was watching a documentary the other day on this strange network, and I saw the most depressing scene in my life. In it, a young, poor, black man from the slums was waking up in the morning and his parents were going on some sort of vacation that wasn’t really specified, but by the look of the clothes they were wearing, it looked as if they were going to Florida to die.

Well, in this short film directed by a multitalented physician named Dre (I hope he practices medicine with the same astute awareness he does to capturing the conditions of the impoverished on film), a young man with cornrows is told by his parents that: “Snoopy Dog Dog needs to get a jobby job” or something of that nature. I’m not really sure, I was drinking an Arizona Iced Tea at the time and my mind was wandering about what kind of Toaster Strudel I should eat that morning.

Anyhow, as soon as this young man’s parents left, he shouted: “HOMEBOY ALONE!” and all of a sudden (I kid you not) out of the blue, music began to reverberate from my speakers. It was like this was some sort of music type video, but I’m not sure if those have been invented yet (Here’s hoping, though! There are a lot of great songs I hear on my radio that I think would be great to see in some sort of short, three minute vignette).

Well, after his parents left, this man’s house filled up so fast that I thought it looked like my house, but instead of centipedes crowding up his room, there were people! Cars were bouncing up and down as if they were going to jettison off to the moon, and women with very large posteriors were shaking their behinds with great force, something in my pants demanded me to look on!

The young man also kept talking about mixing the alcoholic beverage gin with juice (presumably orange) and everybody seemed to be in agreement that this was a good combination as they were all shaking their hips and nodding their heads to the almost hypnotic music.

Everything was going great for the young man until his parents came home and thrashed him violently for inviting so many people over without cleaning up first. That upset me greatly; the young man with cornrows was obviously just trying to have a good time (He probably spent the rest of his days bussing tables or some other sort of degrading Negro job that black people in lower class neighborhoods sometimes fill.)

I only hope they show this documentary again someday so I can one day show my kids. Television needs more short films like these. It only helps that there is music to accompany it.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

A robot is only a robot if it's wired with high tech circuitry. You see a cow, a cow is not a robot

I went to the store the other day (Isn’t that an interesting opener? No? Bah, the hell with thee!) to find me the parts to build me a robot after seeing one in Rocky IV…you know, the one with the Russian guy in it. What I found at the Salvation Army, to my dismay, were not the sort of tools I could use to refine the kind of Ovaltine bringing, Nintendo playing robot I was looking for.

Instead, what I bought was a toaster. I took apart its intestines, studied the interior design of it, and cobbled together what my unsteady hands could produce. And what I have now is a top of the line piece of crap.

It doesn’t do anything I programmed it to do (Retrieve mail, open hard to twist lids, kill people) and it usually just sits around all day and watches Rikki Lake while it drinks V8 through the hole I put in its lid.

I named it Sturdy Gertrude, but it’s not as sturdy as it sounds.

Sometimes, when I kick it down the stairs for pure amusement (I programmed pain into its system, so it actually feels all those jagged steps slamming against its mainframe) it doesn’t get back up for hours, and I usually have to put it back together myself for it to operate again.

Another problem I have with my pet robot is that it swears at me sometimes and demands I feed it rosary beads drenched in Tabasco sauce when it’s writing rhymes in its notebook.

As a polytheistic religious man, I feel a little guilty about this and often times don’t want to anger my many gods like Zeus, Santeria, God, Vishnu, Television, and Odin by feeding it rosary beads. But then I realize that I’m only offending one god in that motif of magistrates, so it really won’t be so bad in the long run. Hopefully not.

But I still wish my robot did better things with its life. It’s practically eating itself to death with all the Combos it consumes in a day.

So, what I’ve decided is that I need a new robot. The next one I build is either going to be a Robocop or a Terminator. I haven’t decided yet.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

I find people who eat meat fascinating

Watching people eat vegetables is depressing. So much so in fact, that when I went to the mall the other day and saw a whole table of vegetarians (They could have been meat consumers too, for all I know, but they were all eating salads, so they might as well have been pterodactyls to me), I went home that night and wrote a suicide note, thinking there was no hope in this world for a poor meat eater like myself. But midway through the letter, I got bored and just turned on cartoons instead. At last that made me feel better for about an hour.

And the reason I get so darn upset seeing people lick lettuce is because it means they are depriving themselves of sucking the beautiful bounty of tastes that is the bovine. Meat is such a healthy, exciting alternative to vegetables, and vegetables don't do anything for you but make you weak in mind and spirit (and probably transform you into a ravaging Communist if you're not careful).

So, in that way, I would like to honor the brave people around the world who are carnivores who believe the only teeth they really need are their incisors and maybe that other flat tooth near the back for ripping open ketchup and hot and mild packets at Taco Bell. You, my friends, are the heroes of this great land, and everyday you are making a diference. One dead animal at a time.

Ten Dead People Who Should Be Reincarnated Just To Be Run Over By A Tricked Out Honda Civic

10. Thomas Edison
Electricity is freaking awesome, man. Sometimes, when I’m all alone at night, I take off all my clothes and worship the vacuum cleaner and press the button on and off so it goes veem, voom, veem, voom, veem, voom. I then chant random words I heard Barbra Streisand say in a sort of mantra (“Mashuga, mashuga, mashuga, mashuga”) and sacrifice a Hot Pocket so the vacuum never stops working on me. I’m a devoted follower. And you know what, electricity is so freaking awesome, that if I had the know how, I’d even attach a Flux capacitor to my Rav 4 and time travel back into the 1800’s to run over Thomas Jefferson in drive, reverse, drive, reverse fashion. In my country (America) running over people is the greatest form of respect you can give a person, as long as you do it tastefully and while playing Jefferson Starship in your cassette player. Try it sometime; I think you will be pleasantly surprised.

9. Alexander Graham Bell
Without Mr. Graham, we wouldn’t be able to call 911 and have the ambulance arrive 12 minutes later than the Spanish guy from Dominos. And running over the creator of the telephone before he finished it would send ripples through the annoying “chat as loud as you can at the movie theatre” crowd. Those jerk-offs ruined Shrek 2 AND Munich for me, both great family films if you ask me; also great date movies (Especially in Munich after Eric Bana has sex with his wife amidst a wtf transcendental flashback of gunfire at the end. That scene gets me in the mood for lovin’ every time.) So good riddance to him, that Mr. Bell. Sending angry smoke signals to your best friend to stop sleeping with your sister is so much more efficient and practical anyhow. Try telling your friend that you’re going to meet them outside the 25 cent Peep Show to kick their ass by flapping a giant potato sack in front of a frenzied fire and you’ll see just what I mean. It works!

8. Abraham Lincoln.
Four Score, and Seven Decades ago, Abe Lincoln was a hero. Now, after being a wuss and stepping down from office by getting assassinated (wimp), Lincoln looks like a magically materialized bra at a Star Trek convention—highly creamed over by fans, but seemingly pedestrian to practically everybody else. Running him over with a Honda Civic would be the best move of his career. Or John Wilkes Booth’s.

7. Elvis Presley
Everybody knows that Elvis is much better dead than when he was alive, so running him over a little earlier in his career (Like, before he started singing) would have definitely sent him into the stratosphere of success. Who knows, perhaps instead of being acclaimed as the king of rock and roll, he might have been known as “that Menphis truck driver that like to eat all dem fried banana and peanut butter sammiches at the diner.” Now isn’t that a whole lot more endearing? The answer to that question is yes. Yes, it is.

6. Lou Diamond Phillips
Lou Diamond Phillips IS dead, right? I mean, I haven’t seen him in a movie in like, a gazillion years. Anyway, the “set it and forget it,” star would look very good as a tread mark because no man should be able to do such an awesome movie like “La Bamba” and then turn around and do a turd with corn in it like “BATS.” Travesty is a word. Lou Diamond Phillips (If crunched together) is another word. Those two words are synonyms in my book.

5. President Taft
Did you know Taft had to be buried in a piano when he died? He was THAT corpulent. A man like that deserves to be treated with utmost respect! That is why you should choose the sleek, comforting ride of a Lexus RX 4h to plow over his fat ass. If you like running over speed bumps as fast as you can, running over this speed bump will send you into the stratosphere! Yee haw!

4. Adolph Hitler
Okay, since everybody on this list has done something positive for this world (except Lou Diamond Phillips), I have to include at lease one jerk-off, so here he is: the fuehrer himself, Adolph Hitler. It would be fun to roll over this bastard with a hefty Honda because it was his idea to create the Volkswagen Beetle. Have you ever seen that thing? Besides it’s presence on the side of roads being a good reason to scream “Punch buggy reds” and leave a right arm sore as salt for hours (You see that? Hitler’s even causing pain from BEYOND the grave), the V wagon is also the fugliest vehicle since the P Wagon (The Prius), but not as fuel efficient. Oh, and besides that, the douche bag also sent millions of Jews to their deaths. It’s that atrocity and the hideous Volkswagon that earns him a place on this list.

3. Marlon Brando
First off, Brando is too epic to be run over by a Honda Civic, you’d have to hit him with a Hummer…or a meteorite. Second, bowling over this blubber ball would be worth it just to hear that glazed ham say, “The horror…the horror…” just one more time for old time’s sake. That never gets old. Neither does Steeelllllllllaaaa!

2. 2Pac Shakur
How many albums did this guy release after he “died?” Seven? Eight? EIGHT?! He’s not dead, he’s probably the one wrote that catchy Empire Carpets jingle (that white guy with the mustache even kinda sorta LOOKS like 2Pac a little bit). Run over this gangster real proper like at least one time to make sure he’s really gone for good this time!

1. Current President George Bush
This fucker’s been dead to me since his first day in office. In his honor, Hot Wheels should lead the way right over his supple, bureaucratic body.

Shattered Solider Enjoys flashbacks. “Vietnam is my fucking Epcot Center, Man.”

Kids today are fucking pussies. When I sit in the dark at night, drinking my beer and watching TV, I get disgusted. All this talk about people coming home from Iraq traumatized and shit, saying they still hear gunfire and screams. All I gotta say to that is that you kids are softer than the spot where my crotch used to be after it gangrened and rotted off from shrapnel fire.

Back in my day, men were men, and boys were old enough to be considered men. I mean, yeah I’m glad the military has now lowered the enlistment age to 12, but still! What’s everybody talking about that they had such a horrible time in Iraq? I had a blast in Vietnam. And I’m not just referring to that minefield I lost the vision in my left eye in, either.

Don’t you understand that war is a beautiful she-bitch of a fat mama? And the best part is I still get photographic flashbacks reminding me of how good times were. They’re like renting movies at Blockbusters without standing in line next to some fat jerk-off who smells like QuarterPounders and Gummy Bears. Sometimes, I even have flashbacks at the office, and it’s like riding on a monorail at Epcot Center for me.

It could be Monday morning, and I could be swamped in paper work, and just one loud noise from the copy machine and BAM! There I go into the jungle. The flashbacks begin to kick in and I go from being swamped in paperwork to being swamped in the Nang River. Good times. Good times.

And hearing that gunfire in my head is like listening to ocean waves on the beach. Ratatatatatata! I could listen to that sound all day and go to sleep hearing that serenading song. My wife can’t, though, but that’s what the couch is for—for her to sleep on! Hoorah! You thought I was gonna go somewhere else with that, didn’t you? Git ‘R Done!

Aw, shit, just thinking about killing some of them gooks out there in the jungle gets me all horny in ways the doctor says is no longer possible now that my penis is made of aluminum siding.

And then there are the Vietnamese prostitutes you get to remembering. I wish there was a word for when you kiss your forefingers and thumb to exclaim how great something is, not that I could do that anyway, though. Not after I lost my two fingers when they were burned off when one of the boys in my company was using a fucking flame thrower to light his cigarettes. Fucking knucklehead. I’m glad he died in my crossfire. Bam bam bam bam bam! He wasn’t pretty no more.

When I can no longer do two in the pink, one in the stink, that’s when I get angry. And that’s when my trigger finger goes blasty. Kaboom!

So, all I gotta say is this. To all you Iraq returnees, stop yer complaining, get back on the battlefield and play your missing arms and legs like a guitar if it makes you feel any better, you wuss. And if it doesn’t, all you gotta do is wait until phantom limb kicks in, and it’ll be like you never even lost them in the first place. Honest.

War can be fun. So stop acting like it’s the worst thing that could ever happen to you. I mean seriously, have you ever watched “Two and a Half Men”? After watching that dung pile, you’ll see there are much worse things than being impotent for the rest of your life. Trust me. So go on, make America proud, son.

Jimmy Faulbucket, Former Infantryman, current mailman

I hope I die a virgin in your arms

Hi, Amanda, it’s Roy. Roy Applebum. You know, that guy who got your name tattooed all over his body in body paint that won’t come off now and has me permanently branded as a stalker. Thanks a lot for not having sex with me when you had the chance; even after I wrote you all those sonnets and told you how much I loved you in binary code (I even sent you a manual so you could decode the damn thing).
And remember when I strummed that song for you on my loon and pranced to your house wearing that awesome Shakespeare leotard I bought off eBay? All I got from you was laughter and eggs pelted at me by your older brothers, even though all I was trying to do was win your affection.
But let’s be honest. We all know why I did it. The loon playing, the poems, the impressionistic dancing I learned from the bar scene in Star Wars: Episode 4—I wanted to get laid! Twenty-two years old and my only lover is still the hand I use to play Marble Madness with at the Diner down the street.
And we all know you’ve slept with every dirty dick in the whole solar system, even the losers with pimples that go all the way from their face down to their small intestine. You even fucked Danny Atola, the school mascot, and that dickwad still has warts on his penis after he stuck his dick in his sister’s Easy Bake Oven (He didn’t even have to show it to me on his MySpace page. It was his user menu picture!)
So why wouldn’t you do me, Amanda?
I’m funny, have my own hair and retainer, and am even a member of the Metallica Club; doesn’t that do ANYTHING for you?
I’m writing you this letter to let you know that I’m not much longer for this world. I’ve decided that if a jerk wad like Danny Atola could get laid and brag about it to all his friends in his Yu-Gi-Oh club, then I should be able to get laid, too. I mean, God, I’m not THAT bad looking, and my prick has even grown a few millimeters over the past few years. At that rate, if we ever got married, my penis would be at least 5 inches, hard, over the next 40 years. And you can take that check to the bank, sweet cheeks.
So I hope you know what you’re missing out on, baby. A guy like me comes only what, every 12, 13 millennia, and you just lost me, sunshine; you just lost me big time!
When they find my dead body underneath that Street Fighter 2 machine by the car wash, I hope you know that you just lost out on the best lay in 30 seconds you could have ever had this side of the universe. Save your tears for somebody else, sister, I’m already dead.

Roy Applebum