Monday, March 30, 2009


I propose that we all stop using the phrase “Surf the Internet.” I have suggested this to the new President and he gave me a pat on the head and sent me off with a glass of milk. I think he was trying to avoid the subject. Surfing is a dangerous, athletic sport that requires unparalleled balance and stamina. Going to a website requires a working finger (or barring a working finger, I suppose one useable toe would suffice). Don’t fall into the trap of feeling like maybe you did some exercise that day because you “Surfed” for 5 hours. I think in the end America’s fitness issues are in part hampered by this phrase. Many people claim exercise due to “surfing all day” which we all know to be false. Have you ever moved your mouse a few inches and then put your arms out dramatically to either side of you shouting “WHOA!” like you almost lost your balance? If you have, then go see a doctor because you probably have a serious inner ear infection. I worry about you. Plus “surf” and “web” don’t even remotely go together. That is like saying “Paddle the Limo”, “Ski the Golf Course” or “Eat the Brussels’ Sprouts”. Total nonsense.

I propose we use one of the following new phrases to replace the old “Surf the Internet” abomination. Please vote and I’ll forward the results to the following authorities: God, Octomom, Lauren Conrad of 'The Hills', Keenan Ivory Wayans, the other 74 Wayans Brothers, Fred "Rerun" Berry, Thomas the Tank Engine and Madonna.

--Spin the Spiderwebs (spooky and mysterious...)
--Ride the Info-Coaster (Ups, downs, occasional vomiting...)
--Screw the Library (Self-explanatory.)
--SOAP: Search Out Animal Pornography (NOTE: Remove this before posting. IMPORTANT!)
--Be Awesomely Anonymous (BAAAAAAAAAA!)
--Walk the Light-Rope (Fiber optics? Light based data delivery? It’s a stretch, but I’m counting on you to stretch with me. And if you read the stuff on here regularly, you are going to have to stretch more than Elastic Man.)
--Mouse Trap! (Exclamation points always make things sound better and more exciting. Also, Mouse Trap is an awesome game I used to play when I was a kid, so double bonus points for this one.)
--Sausage Links (I’m starving.)
--Sweet Potato Link...Fries...Web (*looking around for some Ritz Crackers or something*)
--Hitchhike on the Pancake Superhighway (Ok, I have to go get something to eat.)
--Linky-Loo (My kids both love this one, for some reason.)
--Orbit Planet Uranus (*giggle* Forgive me, this is supposed to be serious.)
--Orbit Planet Linkatron (There that is much more serious.)
--Burn up the Floojit (Floojit? It’s pronounced “Stop asking so many questions about the words I use.”)
--Skydive into Link Heaven (OK, I may have written that one while I was “under the influence” (of pancakes)).
--Wear a Heavy Coat (That isn’t a suggestion for a new phrase; it’s just a friendly reminder. It’s cold out.)

I am welcome to other suggestions as well. Please help me redefine the internet and the way the world sees it. Now pardon me while I go “Vigorously lift weights” the “Television”.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Conversation at a Diner

Two men sit at a table by the window of a local diner. They are unaware of the stares they are getting from the other diner patrons. They look serious and appear to be sizing each other up.

Man 1: *slowly sipping a cup of coffee* Do you realize what my name is?
Man 2: *leaning forward in a challenging manner* Do you realize what mine is?
Man 1: I will bet you mine is more unusual.
Man 2: I’ll take that action.
Man 1: Boozle.
Man 2: Boozle?
Man 1: Exactly. Boozle Worthington. *offering his hand*
Man 2: Hmmm. *raising an eyebrow* Well played, Boozle. *shaking Boozle’s hand* What are you some sort of butler? Do you buttle?
Man 1: Hardly.
Man 2: Sounds like a Butler’s name. Like someone who enjoys an occasional buttle. May I call you “Boo”?
Man 1: If you do, I shall be forced to murder you.
Man 2: Well let me just say this: Floofy. Floofy Dubois.
Man 1: Dubois you say? Of the Beverly Hills Dubois’?
Man 2: No, of the Paris Dubois’.
Man 1: I should have known. No American citizen would name their child Floofy.
Man 2: As if a human being from any part of this Earth would name their son Boozle? My dear man, you disgust me.
Man 1: Because of my name?
Man 2: No, because of your nudity.
Man 1: Let’s just put all of our cards in the basket here, Floofy. You *sip of coffee* are nude as well.
Man 2: Touche, Boo.
Man 1: Boozle.
Man 2: As you wish…
Man 1: I wish for a great many things; such as the removal of your testicles from the windowsill.
Man 2: I only wanted to get a better view of the street. *sitting back down* I’m waiting for someone, you see.
Man 1: My dear Floofy, there is no need to take your package and mail it special delivery for the rest of the patrons of this fine eatery. *gesturing broadly to the rest of the room*
Man 2: *raising an eyebrow* Special it is, though, wouldn’t you agree Boo-Boo?
Man 1: It’s Boozle, and no, I wouldn’t.
Man 2: To each his own.
Man 1: You really put the ‘Ass’ in ‘Horse’s Ass’.
Man 2: Well you really put the ‘Bite Me’ in ‘Shut your mouth’.
Man 1: And I don’t even want to discuss the way you are stirring your coffee.
Man 2: *chuckles* Oh Boozy, you are such a ‘Nervous Nellie’.
Man 1: *looking up at the sky through the window* Looks like rain…
Man 2: Nice analogy.
Man 1: Well, you are making no sense, so it doesn’t surprise me that you find yourself completely unaware of our situation.
Man 2: Our situation, you say?
Man 1: I must admit it is serendipitous that we find ourselves here at this diner, at the same table, nude.
Man 2: Is it? Or is it an act of fate?
Man 1: You say tomato…
Man 2: We are being quite formal with each other, aren’t we Boozle?
Man 1: The situation requires it, Flute.
Man 2: *slamming his fist on the table suddenly, causing a woman at another table to let out a brief scream* It’s FLOOFY!
Man 1: *grinning* Yes, of course it is. *continuing to sip his coffee*
Man 2: *regaining composure* So, who wins the bet?
Man 1: Bet?
Man 2: Yes, the ‘most unusual name’ bet we made.
Man 1: Ah, yes. I think they are equally marvelous; and equally terrifying. Let’s call it a draw.
Man 2: A draw it is.
Man 1: You are quite hot-headed, aren’t you Floofy Dubois?
Man 2: That isn’t my name.
Man 1: *frowning in confusion* But, you said…
Man 2: That was before.
Man 1: Before what?
Man 2: Before the nudity.
Man 1: We’ve been nude the whole time here!
Man 2: Yes, well, my name is not Floofy. It is Joe. Joe Jones.
Man 1: Confession: My name is not Boozle Worthington. I’m Pete. Pete Johnson.
Man 2: *laughing and shaking his head* Why must we always invent different personalities like this?
Man 1: *grinning* Probably because we are nude.
Man 2: *raising his glass for a toast* And isn’t nude a wonderful way to be?
Man 1: *clinking his glass against the raised glass of Pete* Indeed Floof…I mean, Pete!

*A semi-automatic pistol falls loudly on the ground from Joe’s lap as Pete and Joe start laughing loudly with their heads thrown back, oblivious to the agitation of the other customers of this diner as they wonder when this hostage standoff will be resolved and they can be returned back to their normal, non-nude lives.*

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Book of Oscar: Verse 9, Chapter 2

And there was a terrible crash, and the large one fell through the heavens and landed on the little one, causing much laughter. The little one didn’t think it was so funny, but the large one did and so forevermore the constellation “Big Dipper” was known as the “Funny One” while the “Little Dipper” was known as the “One with no sense of humor”. The constellation “Orion” was known as the “laughing asshole”. So it is written.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Book of Ann: Verse 1, Chapter 13

May the sun light your path through the twists and turns of life. May the road be long and straight, and the way clear. May the rest stops along the road be named after literary and historical figures for no discernible reason. All Praise the Walt Whitman Rest Stop at mile marker 7, the Emily Dickinson rest stop at mile marker 5 and the Benjamin Franklin Rest Stop at mile marker 2.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Google Trap

I have had quite a few Google hits from people searching for information on “Clubbed Thumbs” due to this entry I wrote last year: Clubbed Thumbs. Currently, my “Clubbed Thumbs” blog entry is the eleventh result in a Google search on “Clubbed Thumbs”, believe it or not. I was flattered for a minute and then I realized the sad state of affairs for Clubbed Thumbers when my ridiculous post is the eleventh most pertinent web entry on this medical condition. I picture poor people searching Google for legitimate information and help, instead stumbling into this buffoonery. That being said, I want more people getting stuck here while searching for legitimate help (who wouldn’t?). Therefore, I am littering this post with some (hopefully) common Google searches and some other medical conditions besides Clubbed Thumbs making this post an official Google Trap. So, without further ado, here we go (despair, for there is no escape):






















Bring them to me, Google. I command you. Bring them to me.

Monday, March 16, 2009

A Day in the Life: John Cougar Mellencamp

John walked out of his bedroom and sat at the kitchen table, picking at a fruit salad. His children and wife all ate their breakfast silently, waiting for him to speak. Finally, his wife spoke up, “Well?” she asked expectantly.

Clearing his throat, John said, “Today, I am John Cougar. That’s it,” he said defiantly, and his family collectively sighed loudly. “What, what’s the problem?” John asked as his wife rolled her eyes.

“Every day it’s something new with you. Why can’t you just pick a name and stick with it? I was fine with John Mellencamp,” John’s wife pleaded with him as his children picked at their breakfast.

“Daddy, why can’t you just use your real name,” John’s daughter spoke up.

John’s face instantly flushed and he slammed the table with a closed fist. “Never! I will never use my real name!”

“It’s a fine name, John, I don’t see why you get so angry,” his wife began.

“Are you kidding? ‘Hello Cleveland! Are you ready to rock? Put your hands together for IRA HERSKOWITZ!’ I would be laughed off the stage before I even got on! No one named Ira Herskowitz has ever rocked Cleveland, or any other city in the world.”

“Well, who cares? I think it’s a fine name.”

“That’s it! THAT’S IT! I am now ‘Cougar’. That’s all, just Cougar,” John raged, fuming at the table while his family grew uncomfortable.

The silence stretched for minutes when his kids finally finished their breakfast and left the table without commenting. John lit a cigarette and puffed away while his wife got up and began doing the dishes. The silence continued; finally broken by his wife. “John, at least let the kids be spared your name changing. It isn’t good for them.”

“Isn’t good for them?” John asked. “Isn’t GOOD for them?” He stood up from the table, letting his chair hit the floor and stormed outside heading for the barn. His wife followed him out, straining to catch up with him. “John, wait, slow down.”

He turned and faced her, still visibly angry. “I’ll call myself whatever I please, and you and the kids had damn well better accept it!”

“OK, John, I mean Cougar, OK,” John’s wife said placating her husband with her tone. “But I do want to talk to you about something else. It’s the house.”

“What’s wrong with the house?”

“I can’t stand the color! It sticks out like a sore thumb!”

They both turned to look at their farmhouse. It was painted a neon pink color on every surface. Even the rocking chairs on the porch were painted the same shade and almost blended in with the siding behind them. The windows were also painted solid pink, making them impossible to see through.

“The windows are solid pink, you can’t even see outside! It looks like someone threw up Pepto Bismol all over it! The shade is just...just awful!” she broke down into tears as John stared straight ahead at the house, grinding his teeth; his jaw muscles clearly clenching and unclenching.

John spoke softly to his wife, “The color of that house paid for Jack’s braces. The color of that house bought us that car over there! The color of that house got Diane that operation she needed when she was six! The color of that house will put our kids through college one day! THAT HOUSE IS FOR YOU AND ME!” John grew progressively louder as he gestured towards their pink house. His wife continued sobbing, realizing she was in a losing battle. John stated simply, “The pink stays. And call me Cougar,” and continued into the barn to start the daily farm chores.

At the end of another long day, John and his wife stood side by side as the sun set on their little pink house. John chewed on a long stalk of hay, thoughtfully staring up into the sky. John’s wife waited patiently, fearing what his next words would be. Finally, he spoke:

“Wolfblood. John Wolfblood Wildcat Mellenballs. Write it down.”

John’s wife hung her head in defeat as he grabbed his pink paint brush and began painting the new porch swing that was installed that afternoon.

Friday, March 13, 2009


I decided that by the year 2030 I want to have a Robot created that is an exact duplicate of me. By then I think we should have the technology available to get this done. Naturally, if I’m getting a robot built, I’m going to make a few modifications. Here is a working list of what I want to include in my robot-self:

-- Laser eyes that can shoot through any solid surface.
-- The ability to sing the entire soundtrack from “Phantom of the Opera” note-perfect.
-- Flight.
-- Flame-producing fingertips, with an optional lightning add-on.
-- The ability to judge everyone on their flaws, and have those people thank me-bot for the effort.
-- The audacity to wear clashing colors and get away with it.
-- TV Screen in the chest-plate that plays constant reruns of “Arrested Development”.
-- Knee and elbow joints that have 360 degrees of flexibility so me-bot can perform psychotic dance moves that no one else can even hope to attempt.
-- Voice module that can reach a volume level of 250 decibels so that me-bot can always be heard when attempting to tell everyone what the real deal is.
-- Bulletproof Ass (coincidentally, also the name of the first band I was in).
-- Hair generator that can instantly restyle itself into any hair style I choose. Default hair style: Pete Rose.
-- A Metallic Eagle attached to me-bot’s shoulder that screeches piercingly every time anyone gets within 100 feet.
-- The ability to scream in 35 different languages.
-- Increased memory to allow the ability to instantly recall anyone’s face and make fun of it.
-- Wheeled feet that let me-bot roll at speeds up to 130 miles-per-hour to allow for high-speed chases and general freakish behavior (or ‘behaviour’ for our friends from Great Britain).
-- Explosives concealed in the palms of me-bot’s hands so that I can use me-bot to take over a third-world country, who would confuse me-bot for a God with a few well-timed claps and some ear-splitting screeches from the Metallic Eagle.
-- Edible Underwear.
-- Double-jointed hips so that me-bot can put a hand on its hip, jut it out to the side a little, and say “Oh no he didn’t!” while waving a finger with its other hand and shaking its head from side to side more and more dramatically until the head just starts rotating in place quicker and quicker until whoever was telling their silly story just leaves us alone.

I’m guessing you never considered having your own robot built in your likeness, but are now salivating at the thought of a robot that does the things I just mentioned? I thought so. I’ll let you know how the testing goes.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Book of Buster: Verse 11, Chapter 11

A man will arrive from the south bearing gifts and good tidings. He will be fair-haired, light-skinned and have large eyeballs. You will soon realize that those aren’t eyeballs, they are testicles; and that is definitely not his nose. Believe nothing the man says, and ye shall be saved. In fact, run the other way when the man arrives. Peace be with you.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Book of Lucille: Verse 4, Chapter 4

Shrimp are not to be cooked and eaten on the first day of each month. Besides, the correct term is ‘Little Person’. Don’t cook them either. Pretty much stay away from anyone under 5 feet tall. Guard ye kneecaps well. Peace to the little ones.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Press Conference

A crowded room of press members, photographers and interested parties all sit or stand waiting for the press conference to begin. They all stare towards the front of the room where a stage has been set up. The stage holds an empty podium with a large microphone sticking from the top of it. Behind the podium on the stage is a wildly decorated pink and purple background. There are no chairs on the stage. Just then, from the left side of the room, the loud bang of a slammed door is heard, followed by the quick footsteps of someone running. A man leaps onto the stage and runs to the podium; stopping behind it out of breath. He is wearing a black velvet running suit, and his bushy hairdo appears to be uncombed. His glasses are askew and he is sweating profusely. He takes at least 5 minutes to catch his breath, all the while glaring out at the crowd of people who by now have stopped their murmured conversations and are now looking towards him waiting for him to say something. He closes his eyes, gathers his thoughts, and leans towards the microphone.

You sons of bitches.

*Stunned silence followed by the sound of one reporter coughing nervously and a brief squeal of feedback from the microphone causing everyone in the room to briefly cover their ears*

You thought you knew me? You thought you knew my family? I will smack your faces. I will smash my head on top of your cars! I will open up hellfire and let it rain down on your farting heads! Only I know the story. Only I know what happened! Holy Mary Mother of God! You balloon-headed puppet painters! *A reporter stands to ask what a ‘puppet painter’ is and is told to sit down by the ranting gentleman* When I open the morning paper and see my own face staring back at me, I want to eat the entire paper out of pure ANGER! You will know this anger when I take each of you into a bear hug and bite your faces off! Each of you! Even now as I stand before you enraged, I have shat my own pants due to uncontrollable fury! I wish this on all of you: Uncontrollable bowels and needles in your eyes! I know how to slap the taste out of people’s mouths, and I will do this to every one of you! You, in the corner! *pointing at a photographer who has just finished taking a picture of the man at the podium* Take a picture of this! *the man steps from behind the podium, drops his pants, and turns around while bending over, showing his backside to the photographer. The crowd gasps in astonishment and revulsion*

*The man pulls his pants back up and moves behind the podium to continue* You think I do not know you, but I do know you! You cannot ignore my story! Write this down: ‘I hate you and I hate your ass faces!’ You are like crap in my sneakers! The government is a stain on my buttocks! What you, and they, have done to me will haunt you for the rest of your lives! I…I…

*The man abruptly stops speaking and wrestles with the podium, trying to rip the microphone from its bracket. A reporter in the front row briefly stands up in an effort to stop the man and then sits down again in confusion. This continues for 45 seconds of muffled sounds and feedback from the jostled microphone. With one final smack, he halts his assault on the podium and continues with the microphone still firmly lodged in place*

I am not even finished fighting. I will get what I deserve, and you will all thank me for doing so. Injustice in America should not be TOLERATED! Stinking balls! Fifteen thousand horses pulling my hair will not keep me from pushing forward into the homes of your mothers and crapping on their doorsteps! You will…I…

*The man again briefly wrestles with the microphone and again fails to dislodge it from its housing. He then turns to the draped background fabric and attempts a karate-style side-kick at nothing in particular. The fabric balloons inward and ripples cascade outward from the location where the man’s foot silently struck. He takes a wild roundhouse swing at the fabric missing completely. The momentum of his swing causes him to spin on one foot and lose his balance; falling down on his back with his legs sticking straight up in the air. A hushed gasp is heard from the crowd of reporters who are still stunned by this turn of events. The man picks himself back up and begins speaking again.*

Know this, my antagonistic ball blasters: You have not seen the last of me. I will hide in your garbage and assault your families! I will chase you through crowded shopping malls and tackle you into fountains! I will slap your buttocks with large paddles! I will open your mail and piss on your bills! I will climb your trees and throw dead squirrel balls into your gutters! I will paint the windows of your houses with feces from zoo monkeys! I will shoot arrows through your kneecaps as you walk your children to school! I will rent an ice cream truck and fill its bins with my own excrement and serve it to your families! I will stand outside your places of business and chase you down the street after you are done working for the day, throwing small darts at your Achilles’ Tendons! I will write threatening letters to the governors of your states and sign your names! I will drop kick large watermelons into your swimming pools and then urinate on the remains of the previously mentioned watermelons! I will…

*As the man continues to assault the media from his podium, Reporter 1 leans over to whisper to Reporter 2 sitting next to him*

Reporter 1: *whispering* Why does this guy look familiar?
Reporter 2: *whispering in response* He’s the nut job that applied for stimulus package money for him and his family. He’s a millionaire, but he felt like he deserved ‘a little extra for the trouble’.
Reporter 1: Trouble? What trouble?
Reporter 2: Who knows; the trouble of being certifiably insane maybe? He was supposed to have a press conference today in Building B.
Reporter 1: Why is he here? This is Building A.
Reporter 2: He probably got lost, but I’m not saying a word. This is way more interesting than another stupid Miley Cyrus press conference.

*As Reporter 2 gestures to his right, Reporter 1 looks over and sees a frightened Miley Cyrus huddled off in the wings speaking in hushed tones on a cell phone while the raving lunatic at the podium kicks it with his bare foot (after throwing his shoes at a photographer) and begins to urinate on the pink and purple ‘Miley Cyrus 2009!’ fabric background behind him.*

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Book of Tobias: Verse 3, Chapter 12

Buy a man a fish; you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish; you make him stink the rest of that day. Teach a man to read; you give him a headache for a day. Teach a man to run; he gets tired very quickly. Teach a man to jump rope; he’s already exhausted from running, fishing and reading. Buy a man a treadmill; are you saying the man is fat? Teach a man to lift weights; you make him self conscious. Buy a man an oversized sweatshirt; the man can take a hint. Buy a man some earplugs; leave the fat man alone.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Urgent Questions: Volume 3

When the mailman arrives at your doorstep gingerly carrying a fragile Christmas gift from a distant relative, do you make fun of his silly looking blue half-pants?

When the power goes out in your house, do you crawl under your kitchen table and wait for the inevitable alien invasion, or do you just stand on your front lawn and shake your fist at the sky shouting “Bring it on, you alien suckers! I’ve got 10 knuckles with your alien names on them!”? If more people did the latter, then maybe global warming wouldn’t be such a problem.

If a beautiful Monarch butterfly flaps its wings in Texas, what are the chances that someone is going to try to shoot it with a 10 gauge? I would say, Defcon 1 (only because I’ve always wanted to say that).

Do tigers ever look at their beautiful orange and black stripes, stretch their powerful muscles, and wonder why the hell Oprah Winfrey is famous?

If an apple falls from a tree and hits me in the head, will I be inspired like Newton was when he invented the laws of gravity, or will I just smash that apple into your stupid laughing face?

Wouldn’t it be easier to just fly to work on my golden wings of love and divine inspiration instead of riding my bike because of multiple DUI convictions (alleged)?

How many times can I call the police and report a robbery before they look out the front window of the police station and force me to put my clothes back on?

Will my gentle and forgiving nature one day rise up and strangle me in a fit of rage because it represses everything and doesn’t know how to express its feelings like its ex boyfriend did, and wow was he a lot cuter, and he actually cooked once in a while too?

Couldn’t I get lucky one time, just one time my sweet Lord, and hug a 300 pound bouncer who actually wants and appreciates a loving hug?

How many times have you opened a closet door expecting an inter-dimensional time warp portal to be behind it? And how many times have you punched your stupid pinstriped suit as hard as you can when that portal isn’t there?

Did the 80’s really happen, or did someone just throw a box of parachute pants and Cyndi Lauper into a ceiling fan in 1979?

If the fifty United States had a meeting to decide whether or not to allow prayer in schools, what are the chances that California shows up like a half hour late, minimum? I say 100 percent. Oh, make sure you separate Nevada and Utah; they don’t get along at all. I’m sure Texas will show up and be all like “Yeehaw, lets have some barbeque! Who wants to go to the Ro-day-o?!?!” And don’t even count on Hawaii, I guarantee they are so high right now.

If Billy has six apples, and Lucy has three apples, and Johnny walks up asking for half of Billy’s apples, and one-third of Lucy’s, then who does Johnny think he is? Can’t he just earn his apples like Billy and Lucy did, running guns for the Gambino crime family?

Have you ever sat cross-legged in the middle of a busy highway singing Bon Jovi songs while birds swoop down and peck at your hair (which is filled with birdseed from a wedding you went to) and then Bon Jovi himself pulls up next to you in his limo, leans his head out the window, and sings harmony on “Wanted Dead or Alive” thereby forcing the birds to attack him instead?

Does grass that grows on the moon taste like peppermint? If it does, then get yourself up there on the next shuttle and start eating as much as you can get your hands on. Your breath smells like a gym locker.

Ladies, is it really so hard to put the toilet seat up when you are done sitting on it? Y’all gonna make me lose my mind up in here (up in here).

Would you let Rudolph join in your reindeer games already? He’s really bumming everyone out hanging around the house and complaining about nose-ism (discrimination based on the function of one’s nose), which I secretly think is something he made up just to get some sympathy. I mean, he can fly, isn’t that good enough?

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