Why? Because a surprising number of folks these days are opting to describe themselves as “In a Relationship” on their Myspace pages. Who’s in love?
This pretty much says it all:
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So I just got home and found this email from Bro Taguchi. He writes,
“I said if the Birds won, I’d buy beer. It’s 4 PM. I’m going to sleep
because I’ve been drinking for nearly a day. When I wake up, I’m going to
buy a keg of beer. [Here Taguchi inserts this video]
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[Taguchi continues to say:] I’m going to stay by my stainless steel friend until it’s gone, so if you
want to drink it tonight…come over and drink it. If not, I’ll take it to
Malpractice Bowl tomorrow and be the beer man. I’m planning on getting a
pony keg. If somebody wants to chip in the extra $25, I’ll go ahead and get
the 1/2 barrel. I’ll probably wake up around 7, so write back, call me, or
text by 7 to super-size the beer.”
I was just watching this event called “baseball” or something like that. In between innings, there was a commercial for a credit card that now allows you to go through the checkout lane without punching in a PIN or signing a slip, so long as the purchase is under $25. That’s sooooooooooo fucking sweet.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t have time to wait to punch in 4 numbers and then “Enter.” All that adds up. So much life… wasted…. punching numbers. I need to get rid of all the money I don’t have… right now. If you have that kind of time, it’s probably because you’re unemployed, worthless, and lazy. Well, you’re unemployed and worthless because you’re lazy. After all, people never lose their jobs or fail to get jobs because of anything else but laziness. If you’re punching numbers at the counter, you should be embarrassed–big time. Lahoooooossssserrrrrrrrr.
I’m in a bigass hurry to get to Walmart. There’s a plasma screen TV (yep, Wally World sells ‘em) with my name all over it. I’ll watch that for a while until a new one comes out. Can’t be lame. Will have to get a new one. What if all that number-punching slows me down and Sally McSelf-absorbed beats me to the new TV? (I hate Sally McSelf-absorbed. I wouldn’t stop to help that bitch out of a blizzard. I have places to be, too.). I must have the newest and best things. After all, I don’t want to drive down property values in my neighborhood.
So, why the hell I am writing on this goddamned website? Fuck this. I need to go spend some money… and fast.
[Spanky erased all previous comments on this post, as they got out of control 10-26-06]
During the tenure of my friendship with Mr. Gooch McDickley (retired Senator (whig) from the great state of Illinois), he and I have had some very strange conversations. I will try to recount as many of them as I can in a series of articles entilted “I hope the N.S.A. hears this shit.” Most of these conversations have taken place via cel phone.  Dubya is laughing his hick,hillbilly,backwoods,cornpone ass off at some of this.
Ring Ring
Poon, “Hello?”
Gooch, “Fuck off.”
Poon, “Go fuck your mother.”
Gooch, “So what’s up?”
Poon, “I was just thinking that if someone came into your house and jerked one off into your shampoo, you’d never know it.”
Gooch, “What?!”
Poon, “I mean they are about the same texture and everything, Jizz and shampoo would probably just blend together if shaken up properly.”
Gooch, “Uh o.k……I guess so. You don’t think it would dry and get crusty?”
Poon, “No-ho-ho, my friend. Jizz is mostly water. I’d bet if you were walking around with someone’s baby batter in your hair right now, you’d never know.”
Gooch, “What are you getting at?”
Poon, “Nuthin’”
Gooch, “Hey next time I see you remind be to punch your two front teeth down your fucking throat. Just be prepared for that”
Poon, “I never said I did, but I could have….Hey if you do knock my teeth down my throat, I could get a badass gold grill like that old Russian lady who used to run the cash register at the White Hen Pantry on West Grand.”
Gooch, “You could go platinum, but that’s a little trendy right now.”
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Jim Mora takes the cake…hands down. [A collage of coaches rantin' and ravin'. Excellent. -Spanky]
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This is called “Star Wars Cops.” It’s not too shabby… It starts off well and then trails off a bit. It’s worth a look. I can’t tell whether the first storm trooper is supposed to have a Minnesotan accent or what. The accent is kinda New York, too. Don’t know.
The under-the-radar moment occurs when one storm trooper says, “We didn’t find the droids we were looking for”–alluding to the fact he just got bamboozled by a Jedi mind trick. Heh.
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…and we know who could wear it.
No, not the Snow Patrol tune you’re hearing on the radio constantly… but me and my car. A 1999 Chevrolet Malibu, that has been from Maine to California not once, but twice. 118,200 miles on it… 110k by me. Well, Old Yeller… time to go out to the back shed.
Seems like one of the lifters under that gaz guzzling engine of mine decided it wanted to play jumping jacks and dislodge itself from its’ home this morning during my 135 mile drive. Wonderful, now the worst thing that can happen on the ride home is, I break down. Excellent. Top that off with the phone taking a dump on me last night, my fun-filled 12-hour span of self-amusement has become more of a “Samir in his Camaro stuck in traffic” type episode.
An episode, that is what I just might have. An episode. Where I take the baseball bat to the copier… the copier in this case being that hunk of crap Chevrolet sitting in the parking lot gathering dust. A ton-and-a-half fucking paperweight. Being flat broke doesn’t help either, especially when the work I do has not been pouring in like it was a few months back… go figure.
Whomever took the large pile of shit and dumped it over my head, I am going to get my .38 and come after you! Today is like the movie Office Space…
Well, I generally come in at least fifteen minutes late, ah, I use the side door – that way Lumbergh can’t see me, heh heh – and, uh, after that I just sorta space out for about an hour.
I’m going to go space out now. Fuck it.
Condi says that we Americans still love the World. We know that you turned down the invitation to the party in the desert (WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOOOOOOOUUUUUU? WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU?), but our parties are so awesome that it’s just your loss, BRO. Shit, I’m surprised Rumsfeld didn’t call in Snoop Dogg and his green hat. “Make money money make make money money!”
Anyway, we didn’t need your sniveling Frenchy-Sartrean validation/cosign on the War Keg of Liberty at Baghdad Freedom Bash 2003, but don’t start thinking we need it now. We’re giving you this opportunity once again to be on the winning team. Keep in mind that we’re stamping your Freedom Club Card, and it’s not the other way around.
When we say that the World is united against North Korea, it means that America is Right, and everyone else knows that shit: “Yeah, what that dude said” (pointing to Uncle Sam).
It’s kinda like Descartes: you don’t know shit until you know God exists. But Descartes fucked it up. You don’t know shit until America has said that you do.
Well, maybe Descartes wasn’t wrong. God is on our team. I don’t know why Baby Jesus particularly loves the midwest. “He who conquers Kansas gains Truth, Justice, and the World.” I think Baby Jesus said that once.
We have such a monopoly on God it would seem as if Americans invented him.
I just can’t figure out why Baby Jesus put the oil so far away. Oh yes, Baby Jesus wanted to build our character. That’s it.
Fuck you!
When I buy a phone, and get another one for free and get insurance… when I buy insurance for the PHONES (plural) then I should get insurance on BOTH.
Instead, tonight, my fucking phone fell apart in my hands like a cheap piece of 10-year-old IKEA furniture… wonderful.
Verizon says I have no insurance on it… so I am fucked.
Goodbye, Verizon… you greedy cocksuckers. You just lost a customer and gained a very unfriendly enemy. I will spread the word of your bullshit and hope that you get bought out and all those fucking twats I dealt with on the phone get fired.