Tuesday, December 21, 2010


For the sake of sanity and frankly because I don't believe in working during the holidays we will be coming back to you on the 3rd of January with more of our dry wit and satire in the meantime I hope that you can find something to do with yourself.

If not you can always wait here and hold your breath. We will be more than happy to pick up and dispose of any bodies (dead or not) upon our return. I have to have something to feed Cthulhu.

So from the Sarcasm Family to yours.

Little Cthulhu

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Sarcasm's Sister Vol. 2

Every Sunday morning, while my dear Grampa is watching from the west side of the mountains, my Mom, here on the east side, watches CBS Sunday Morning. They’ve watched this show “together” for years now. It’s a beautiful thing, really, knowing that even though they aren’t in the same room, they are both tuning in at the same time each week.

I don’t always watch the show, but today I sat still long enough to enjoy it with them, and Oh am I glad I did. Today they did a feature about the creators of the website AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com. For today's blog post, instead of posting an angry and/or sarcastic rant about whatever is irritating me this week, I’d like to post a few of the photos I laughed at the most, along with the comments of the people who posted the photos. When we were growing up, our Mom would get us all dressed up, and we’d go get our own Family Photo’s taken for the year. I won’t be posting any of ours, but I thought some free publicity for Mike and Doug at AFP would be a great Thank You to them for this genius idea of theirs. This is the week before Christmas, after all.
Enjoy! (as much as I did, I hope) Remember, the comments and photos are not mine. They are just some of the comments and photos posted on the site.

You actually will shoot your eye out, kid.

You should hear her play the screwdriver.

If he couldn’t blow out the candles, his father was always there to back him up.

This young man had blinked for the last time.

A reminder never to use a baby as a bookend.

“My in-laws live on a farm in central Virginia. One particular afternoon I wanted to get some photos of my father-in-law. Naturally he was outside tending to his horses. This horse needed some shots and we all know horses don’t comply when they see the ‘needle.’”

This horse was very upset when he heard he wasn’t a part of the “bridal” party.

There is a theory that people look like their pets.

Barley had been upstaged for the last time.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Don’t say I never did anything nice for you......

Once upon a time, in the land of make believe, lived a young, beautiful girl, who just happened to be lucky enough to be raised with good manners. She was taught very important things, like brushing her teeth, bathing regularly, saying please, thank you, yes ma’am, no ma’am, and to eat all her limabeans. For many years life was fairly uneventful, and the young girl lived a happy life, full of happy thoughts, with a smile on her face.

Until one day, while foraging for food for her poor, hungry family, she entered a dark and scary wood. Although she was trepidacious, she knew her little puppy was hungry too, so she gathered all her bravery, and stepped into the ominous trees.

The going was rough, due to the darkness and fallen trees all over, but otherwise uneventful...........at first. The young girl felt that she had been walking for miles and miles, and was becoming very tired, when suddenly light began to shine through the trees. Feeling that she must finally be coming to the other side of the dark wood, the girl walked a bit faster. Breaking through the darkness into the light, the girl came upon a small field of sagebrush. She pushed through the sagebrush, scratching her arms and catching her clothes, but finally she made it to the other side. When she looked up she could see a huge archway, with a gigantic door inside it, a big red cowboy hat on the front, with A R B Y ‘ S written inside. “What could this be?”, she thought. The door was so large, so large that she thought there would be no way she could open it herself, as she was small of frame, and weak in muscle. That’s when the smell of curly fries, roast beef, cheddar-melts, potato cakes, and chocolate turnovers touched her nose, and suddenly she knew she must get in! She took a step back, appraised the door to decide the best angle in which to open it, and then started to reach for the handle.

Just as she had a good grip, and was ready to pull with all her might, she heard a noise from behind her. Looking in that direction, the girl saw an older woman heading toward the very same door the girl was about to open. The woman looked frail, and downright sickly, and the young girl knew immediately what she should do. Gritting her teeth, and digging her heels into the ground, the girl pulled on the door with all the strength she could muster. At first the door wouldn’t budge, but then with a loud squelch, the door began to swing open, slowly at first, and then faster, it’s own weight pushing it open. After what seemed like forever, the door was finally open wide enough to walk through. The young girl stepped to the other side of it, propping it open with her own body weight, and turned to smile at the older woman, as if to say, “Please, you go first!”

At first the woman didn’t say anything, just stood looking at the young girl. But then she began to move, at her own lazy pace as people her age do, and started to head into the open doorway. The young girl pushed back on the door, which was very heavy, but kept smiling, holding it open for the older woman to walk through, knowing that she was doing the right thing by helping the woman. As the woman got closer, the young girl could see that she was not frail at all, nor was she sickly. This woman had obviously had a rough life, and her wrinkly face told a story of too much drink, and too much sun. But having been taught from a young age to be kind to everyone, no matter who they may be, the young girl just kept smiling away, pressing all of her weight against the heavy door to keep it open.

Just as the older woman stepped just inside the doorway, face to face with the young girl, she stopped, turned and with a grumpy face, and a sour tongue, said to the girl, “Finally, people your age are starting to do things for everyone else.”

The young girl could not believe her ears. Was she smiling? Check. Were her feet out of the way so the woman could pass? Check. Was the doorway wide enough for the woman to get through? Check. Well, alrighty then.

The young girl looked the older woman dead in the eye, and said, “I was raised to be kind. I was raised to be giving. I was raised to help those less fortunate than myself.” The older woman raised her eyebrows and started to say something else, but before she could, the young woman interrupted her and said, “However, I was also raised not to put up with anyone's crap, no matter who they are, and especially if I did nothing to deserve it. So, because you suck, you can open your own damn door.”

And with that, the young girl straightened herself, released the door, and walked on through. Head held high, with a smile on her face, the girl heard a cry of pain and disbelief from behind her as the door slammed into the only thing blocking it’s path.

Moral of the story: Be grateful. Be gracious. Be humble. Honor other people. Be kind whenever possible, and always say thank you. Don’t judge. Never forget everyone is an individual. Get to know them, you may be surprised. And don’t be all shocked and dismayed if your rudeness is thrown back in your face. You earn what you get.

~ A Little Sarcasm

Yesterdays Blog post was written By my dear friend Sardnicism, and today my Little Sister Sarcasm had something to say about an experience at Arbys. Some people can;t be happy, unfortunately for this old she encountered "A Little Sarcasm".

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Driving or "Top 5 ways I know we are complete tools"

The peaceful lull of the road, the vast openness, the interconnecting expanse connecting everyone to everything; the quintessential veins of America. Is there anything truly as majestic as the open road? It’s serene nature filling my heart with.........

What the fuck man!!??? Really??? Really guy??? How in the hell did you get a license!!???

Haven’t we all been there? Just when we start taking the system for granted it comes back and rears it’s ugly head and shoves humanity’s lack of social skills right in our face. I, of course, am talking about driving or better yet OTHER DRIVERS.

We all know we can drive. We’re the best at what we do, and what we do is drive. We were born to do this. It’s everyone else that can’t drive. I was raised on driving in snow, it’s easy. I’m a natural at driving fast. I got this.

Apparently not.

You see, ladies and gentlemen, we have been living a lie. The worst lie of all: the one you tell yourself. We can’t drive. We are horrible drivers. We are small squishy pink meat-bags sitting between 2,000 pounds of “Oh-no-he-didn’t”. Oh yes, he did.

Now individually, we might be the Mario Andretti’s of the motorized world. We can handle 16 inches of snow, pelting sleet, torrential downpours and winds in excess of 87 knots. But collectively....wow....we suck. It’s like we all take this massive brain dump when we merge into traffic. We forget everything our father’s (or drunken grandfathers) taught us about 10 and 2, polite street manners and passing on the right-hand side and replace it with....”Must break land-speed record, must not let asshole pass me”.

It is to this effect that I present to you the top 5 reasons we; the collective driving world, are complete tools.

5. Lanes merge...we don’t. You see it every day. That douche-bag who rides out the last 17 miles of road that he drives EVERYDAY and knows damn well ends in a merge. 60% of the cars got over and are patiently awaiting traffic to die down so they can get to little Timmy and that roast duck. But not this guy. He’s got it all planned out. He’ll just slide in there and take that 2 foot gap between the patient cars. He’ll save LOADS of time. He’s a douche and guess what....so are we. What do we do to Mr. Impatient....we put our asses bumper-to-bumper...that will show em. Get in front of me now asshole.

4. Get out of my way, I’m a terribly important man on a terribly important, critical mission from God. I’m going to go 175 in a 55. I’m going to swerve in and out of traffic like they were parked cars in a game of Frogger. I’m going to get about 2 millimeters from your Garfield suction cup window ornament and you’re not going to do a damn thing about it. Why? Because I’m important. I’m in a hurry and you’re shit out of luck. Or are we? Because I know the secret to infuriating you: Mr. Importante`...meet Mr. Brake Pedal. Oh yeah. Here’s to you cruising past me now. Stuck between Garfield on one side and Grandma on the other. You’re screwed now. Good luck getting that organ to the hospital on time now, loser.

3. Well, he’s speeding, so I might as well. The “screener”, the “guinea pig”, the “guy-more-likely-to-get-a-ticket-than-you”; whatever you want to call it. For some reason it seems perfectly logical to get behind Mr. Get-out-of-my-way and cruise on in the home plate. After all, he’s doing all the leg work, you’re just riding on his coattails. Nevermind that the logic makes no sense and that most cops tag the person BEHIND the person speeding. That just makes too much sense.

2. Stop signs really are optional if you stop and think about it...good thing I didn’t. Stop signs, yield signs, (slow) children at play signs...you name it, chances are you’ve ignored one in the last 24 hours. It’s ok, we all suck...not just you. We all KNOW they’re important. We all KNOW they serve a purpose and a reason for existing...we just don’t care. Why should we, the last 137 people rolling through them didn’t? What was that rule about the person to the right of the 4-way stop sign....oh, I remember, the person to the right doesn’t have to stop, right?

And the number one reason:

1. Gimmie a break, Gimmie a break, break me off a piece of that...car in front of me.....just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it? You’re driving on the Interstate (insert random odd and or even numbers here), going breakneck speed, observing all of the wonderful items from steps 5 through 2 when suddenly, that jerk in the fast lane decides to perform the “Brake of Death” and slow you down (what an asshole, right?). He brakes, you brake, the person behind you brakes, Jimmy Joe Sue behind that person brakes, Billy Bob, yup..he brakes too. But Curly Jimbo...he can’t brake. He can’t break because he’s already at a complete stop on the interstate. He can’t brake because the other 12,000 motorists in front of him had to brake. Each one slowing down a little more until they get to Curly. Yup...that’s how traffic jams happen. Yup...that’s how organs don’t get delivered to orphans. Yup, that’s why we all suck at driving. Because you had to be a dick and slow me down when I wanted to drive fast in the fast lane.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Tipping clinical hostility...

Today, we’ll be discussing some rather unimportant issues. Just small things that bother me.

To begin with, Tip Jars just piss me off, in certain undeserving venues. I come in, stand in line, tell someone named Balthazar or Stormy what I want after making selections from a pre-existing list of ingredients, and combinations of said ingredients. These products are then made in fast food style, going through grinders, cappuccino machines, brewers, mixers, foamers, steamers, and whippers, and then dumped into a cup made safe with a cardboard condom, followed by being placed on a counter, screamed at (or over) and then abandoned. You just leave it there, all by its lonesome. Anyone could just grab it and walk away! You do not care enough about your product, your beautiful creation, to even deliver it safely into the hands of its new parent, who already loves it before even touching it. Just left alone on a cold, lonely counter, while caffeine starved sharks circle, waiting to get their hands on their very own condom covered cup. The sharks are all wound up, stressed out, and strung out, like a heroin addict in withdrawals, and you had the gall to just set my drug of choice down, in full view of the assembled piranhas, and walk away. But not before shouting some semblance of my name, (mispronounced every time. My name is two whole letters long. How can you mispronounce THAT?!?) not really caring if I heard you, or whether or not I even understood your sorry excuse for enunciation. Then, if all of that behavior wasn’t bad enough, you ask for a tip. Right there, next to my lonely cup, on the lonely counter, sits a strategically placed lonely little cookie jar, plastic tub, or any manner of device purposely intended to hold change.

Here is a list of deeds that you will have to perform to help me feel you’ve earned a tip:
  • Dance: a little Jig would work. Hell, turn my cup of Black coffee, no sugar, no fluff, no espresso, just plain every day coffee, into a production. Bring on the dancing girls, entice me with a tragedy, a story with a climax and epic ending. Better yet, make it a cliff hanger and I’ll be back tomorrow to see how it ends. Maybe I’ll tip you again.
  • Bring me my damn coffee: Get me a shield (condom) and a swizzle stick (also phallic) and fend off the rampaging hordes of customers trying to get their grubby hands on my Cafe` Americano (a-k-a black coffee). Walk your happy ass the 6 whole feet to where I’m standing. I just might tip you.

Then again, I might not. I believe that in establishments such as the one described above, tipping is still optional. You did nothing more than your job. I can’t think of any other thing you could possibly do to make me believe you deserve a tip for doing that job.

In an after note to this point I would like to state for the record that drive-thru tip jars should be reserved for prostitutes. Balthazar had to work harder than you did. He had to walk like 8 whole feet, AND he prepared my drink. All you have to do is stand there, be rude to me, or ignore me completely, before handing me my coffee, which means you may have to stretch your delicate little arms about a foot and half. You don’t have to walk anywhere, get anything for me or even make anything for me. Someone else will bring it to you, completely ready to go! Your sole purpose is to STAND THERE, turn your body 45 degrees this way, then 45 degrees that way, and lift half-pound objects. Oh, you have to put the condom on the cup? Put the cups in a cup-holder? Hand them to me? Whoopty fricken’ doo. Here’s a tip: wash your hands, brush your teeth, and don’t eat yellow snow.

Next, something else that also bothers me. If I make an appointment for 1:30 pm, and you tell me to be there 15 minutes early for check-in, I should be fully involved in the appointment at 1:30. I followed your rules, I made an advanced appointment, I showed up 15 minutes early for check-in and here I am, 45 minutes later, still sitting your waiting room. They haven’t even checked my vitals yet, but I see you all walking around happily discussing everything from sports, the weather, Nurse A’s night with Doctor B etc. etc. etc... This is the point. I loose my temper, I receive my 34th consecutive restraining order. And it will be your fault. You see, I have given you my money, and my insurance companies money, filled out your stupid forms, and now you have wasted exactly an hour of my time. I don’t get paid to be in your office. In fact, most jobs require a note to say that I have actually been to you so they don’t think I was out going to lunch or looking for another job or playing golf. But your medical/dental staff, you have no responsibility to have me served and on my way out the door and back to work in a timely manner. Nope, your only job is to be politely restrained in your over-expensive education and think about reasons you would need to prescribe me a new drug, whose pharmaceutical manufacturer will make obscene amounts of money from its distribution. But don’t worry, you won’t be left out. Oh no, you’ll make sure to have a $300 follow-up visit where you can assure me I’m OK. $300 for OK. $150 per letter huh?

Your passive hostility towards the people you are supposed to be helping sometimes makes me sick. I suggest you get off of your high horse and figure out how to co-exist in an appropriate manner, or you will be replaced. My robot army is just looking for reasons to kill and take over your role in the world.

We also know that is going to be your fault for the coming Zombie Apocalypse. You scoff, but be warned. It IS coming. Don’t worry, I have Robot Pirates, Robot Ninjas and Robot Zombies. I am prepared for everything, including Robot Baristas and Robot Doctors. So, enjoy the pending pressure of being replaced, while you can. I have to go see my lawyer about finding an appropriate medical clinic I have not been banned from.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Important topics...

I have a couple of very important topics to discuss with you today. First and by far the most important: WHO IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?!?!

Facebook has a Causes application. The idea is a wonderful interfacing of social media, and may even be changing the world through the interwebs. I mean, come on. Dedicating a whole 90 milliseconds out of your busy day to push a “like” button more times then a California Valley Girl can, like, say “like”. That has gotta say something for your overall resolve and belief in the cause. You’re hardcore... really, I mean it.

However, this potentially life altering feature has been abused recently; these charlatans putting on a guise of concern.... I actually believe these people are more excited about receiving the most “Likes”, more than they are for the actual causes the applications are supposed to be used for, if the application can really be called a Cause. Seriously, who doesn’t want a consistent flow of free Farmville bucks coming in at each and every level, if only you click the Like button? That's important..... right? I mean, these applications seem counterproductive, (not that the game isn’t as well, but we’re not judging here) wastes of space that demand the companies who developed the game (who allow you to play for free, forever, nor do they charge fees should you decide to purchase “cash”) change the way the game works so that these companies do not make any money at all. Obviously these fakers do not understand the time and effort that goes into building a product, and constantly keeping it updated and interesting to the players, FOR FREE. I mean they don’t need the money you saps will spend on it anyway, right? Their time and energy to make this game one of the most popular on the internet doesn’t need to be compensated. Give me a break, you will spend the money, you will buy the cash, and they will be compensated, so that you can be better than the rest of your Internet acquaintances, who are the same people you share your deepest, darkest, “my dog pooped on the floor” status posts with. If we were all to put our foot down, and stop being so blatantly greedy, all of these Imitation (half the calories, all the flavor) Causes would be shut down, and REAL e-commerce could commence as the good lord intended it.

Just suck it up, play the game like every one else and be happy, so that real causes can be posted, such as “Why are there no mirrors in the “Self Check-Out Line”? (Notice the well played transition here, Bob? I think he’s using a segue, Steve.This could get ugly. Stay tuned for the next episode of Sarcasm Writes, where our pain creates giggles.)

We have been lied to, America (and other countries that have been involuntarily invaded by Rollback prices). Walmart, and all other stores that use these monstrosities to speed up their check-out process, limit the number of employees, and frankly separate human interaction, replaced by yet another machine. They are frauds. The entire title is misrepresentation. “SELF” Check-Out Line. The name itself suggests that I will be able to look at myself while patiently waiting for others to do the same. Who gives a crap about milk and dog food.

But, no. No mirrors, only some brushed stainless steel with kitty litter and chicken blood on it, and smudged, possibly toxic, plate glass with lasers behind it. LASERS, can you fricking believe it?! The only decently reflective surface on those machines (I can just almost barely sort of see myself in it), and they put lasers behind it. My retina’s are burned to hell! All I wanted to do was publicly bask in the glory of my own actor hair, and they shoot lasers into my eyes!

This has got to stop! As self-elected President of the Organization of People and Hair for the Mandatory Placement of Mirrors and Removal of Laser At Self Check-Out Lines Every Where (OPHMPMRL@SCOLEW) I submit that on (insert date here), everyone who reads this blog (Thank you Mom and Dr. Steirn, my therapist), will go to your local supermarket and place mirrors at the self check out line. Stand within view of the other shoppers. Hold up your mirror, let people bask... in the glory of you looking at yourself. It’s your mirror, screw them. If they want to look at themselves they should have brought their own. After you’re done, and you might want to give yourself a couple of hours, you can pick-up a $10 Farmville Cash gift card, conveniently located right there by the Self Check-Out Lines. Two birds, one stone. Or mirror.

Monday, December 13, 2010

No researchers were harmed in the writing of this blog...

I hope you all enjoyed the Sunday blog by my sister. Hopefully none of you were set on fire or emotionally scarred. If you are, honestly, we just don’t care. “Suck it up Buttercup, slap on a new tampon and roll with it.”

Mondays will be product review day or consumer beware day. It’s up to you how it’s perceived. If you’re easily offended or have a weak sense of humor, close this window now. If you can take a joke for what it is, nice to have you! Come on back now, ya here!

I am a bit of tree hugger. I believe in water and power conservation, alternative energy and recycling. Lots and lots of recycling. I think everything could be recycled: water, building supplies, paper, plastic, aluminum, and people. However, I think there are a few things that are not recycled nearly enough. Like sex dolls, old hair ties, mismatched socks, dryer lint, helium balloons, and elderly cats (or dogs), for example. (Oh, gimme a break. How is recycling pets so much worse than recycling people? Lighten’ up already! It’s up to all of us to clean up this planet, after all! Notice how recycling sex dolls suddenly doesn’t seem like that big a deal? HA! Eeeevil.)

However, the career ambitions of the ever popular Ms. Box-In-A-Box has recently changed, and I can’t say enough about the newly re-purposed latex whore parts. You see, they finally came up with a perfect re-use for these open mouth, insert tab “A” adult toys; Sing-A-Ma-Jigs.

The “O” faced little singing animals are the perfect option for the parent who wants to set their child’s hopes as low as possible. Why have them looking for Barbie when they can settle for re-fabricated love dolls? (I’m sure they were sterilized first). When you squeeze these lovable little animals they “sing” in their own distinctive octave, emitting a high pitched tone, or some other portion of electronic noise, that's supposed to simulate a song. Squeeze its hand, and it changes the way it works, to make it almost talk. Put several of them together, and they will harmonize with one another. What could be better than annoying electronic screeching in stereo?! To ensure your child's safety and discourage them from trying to test drive the little things before they’ve even reached puberty, the manufacturer has conveniently included teeth.

Look at that face. How could you not love something that mimics talking or screaming in agony when you crush its cute little abdomen? All children should learn this valuable lesson: It’s OK to crush things smaller and weaker than you, especially if they make cute screaming noises when you apply pressure to their soft spots.

The parents of America should unite, and start a revolution! If we all start teaching this lesson (which was innovated and continues to be re-enforced by the Pillsbury Dough Boy) to our children early on in their development, early enough to really make an impact, we should have a population just chock full of nuts (were going to need more ice cream) in about 14 years. But hey, its not these creepy toys we force them to squeeze and crush. Its gotta be TV because god knows Hallmark and Lifetime force-feed murderous thoughts, not to mention those violent video games. It couldn't possibly be that human nature is prone to over think things to the point where we believe that even blocks have to be interactive. How is stacking blocks into cool buildings, and then knocking them down again, somehow not interactive to begin with? Is it possible to make them MORE interactive? Were we missing out on some part of the blocks we had as kids (which are, by the way, the same damn blocks our kids have now) that made them less effective as a tool to enhance motor skills? Or is it possible that with a few new pretty colors, large font words, maybe some sparkles and sound effects, the toy companies are just selling cosmetically enhanced versions of the same toys from years gone by? Maybe those same companies should look to the past, to the ideas that worked. Stop making toys that freak out the kids of that generation. Not sure if you noticed, but we’re the parents of THIS generation. We miss our Linkin-Logs, our Pick-Up-Sticks, and our Light-Brights!

Remember even the simple things are fun. Go ahead, though. Over think it. Buy them that eight hundred dollar super toy. They’ll find that the box is more fun anyway. Technology is making you stupid, keep reading my blog while you surf the Internet and we’ll learn how to be smart with technology together, or just get dimmer together.

(P.S. none of the information above about the ingredients used to make this product are true. This is a satirical blog and we in no way did any “actual” research into the manufacturing of these toys, but they certainly look like little stuffed blow up dolls with teeth.)

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Sarcasm's Sister

Sometimes bad things happen. Sometimes life sucks. Sometimes there’s just nothing you can do to make your day better. Sometimes you just have to buck up, buttercup, and decide to let things go, and start again tomorrow. It could be worse right? Yes it could. Don’t argue with me.

And sometimes, just sometimes, whatever issues you may be having are completely your own damn fault and no matter how much you bitch and moan, no one will feel sorry for you. In fact, the MORE you bitch and moan, it’s more likely that you’ll lose even those people who would normally stick it out with you, when all your other friends got tired of your crap a long time ago.

We all have problems that arise that are entirely beyond our control, whether it’s caused by someone else, or some crazy cosmic chain of events. Forgive and forget. Move on. And by all means, call me, vent, I’ll be there for you. Even if it was your fault, as long as you’re willing to figure out how to make it all better all by yourself, I’ll be your personal therapist. No prob. Better yet, if you’re willing to fix it without burdening other people, I’ll be there for you! So you went out and bought the newest, greatest, hottest new game system rather than using that money to pay your power bill. Admit that you messed up, have a plan on how to get yourself out of it, and then take action to make it different. I’ll come over with candles and some blankets.

But lets just, for example, say that perhaps you get an alcohol related driving offense. You might have to go to jail, pay a huge fine, lose your license, and maybe even your job. That sucks, yeah. But don’t call me and whine about how unfair it all is and how you don’t deserve to be treated this way. What, is it the cars fault that it started when you turned the key? The booze jumped up, grabbed you by the hair, tilted your head back and poured itself down your throat? Wow, I’m so sorry that happened to you! Maybe it’s time to get a new car and a new bar, huh? Or file assault charges against Jose`?

Perhaps you got a wild hair up your ass, had a fight with your spouse, and decided it was perfectly acceptable to have an affair. And then, when every single person you know told you that you’re a fricken’ idiot, you got angry with them because somehow you’re justified if only because the wife was mean to you. Awwww poor wittle baby. What did she do, stab you with a chef’s knife? Burn you with cigarettes while you slept? Take away all your toys and tell you to sit in time out? She probably should have, because you’re acting like an 8 yr old, mamby pamby sissy la la! You married her, knowing full well what that meant, and what kind of responsibility that requires. This isn’t like 3rd grade, and you “married” that cute little blonde girl 3 seats behind you, dandelion bouquet and everything. This is real, and legally binding. Besides all that, the horrible, awful, terribly abusive ball and chain expects you to act like a grown man. I know, it’s hard. Here’s a tip: Start thinking with your big head.

Give me a break. Quit being a waste of perfectly good oxygen, as well as my time. Take responsibility for your actions, and the consequences for the stupid ones. Don’t expect anyone else to have to stop their lives to help you deal with the situation, especially when you aren’t dealing with it yourself. Anyone truly worth having in your life are the people who tell you to go handle your life, and that they won’t be taken advantage of, but that they love you and hope for the best. How the hell else would you learn anything about how to be a better human being, and more importantly, how else would you learn not to do that again? Everyone else, the ones that allow you to use them and abuse them, they are useless. The people who love you the most are the ones who should be completely honest with you, tell you to knock off your crap, and perhaps go see the doctor.

I hate to be the one to tell you this, but somehow you got your head stuck up your own butt. Yeah, I know, I don’t know how you didn’t notice either. But I’m your friend, it’s my job to tell you that you look like a retard before you go out in public. It’s really just time to get the ass hat removed. It has to be terribly uncomfortable, and it’s really not that becoming on you.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Better With Nuts...

I watched The Human Centipede last night.

Not because I enjoy creepy neurotic films about peoples faces being sewn together with.....well, you don’t want to know. However, I found it more joyous and upbringing than some of the current offerings of holiday splendor that are being brought to us (dipped in sugar with whipped cream topping) for this years Christmas Joy-or-gie.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the holidays, starting with Halloween, and finishing off with New Years. It’s just a fantastic 90 days of judgement-free over indulgence and unabashed capitalism. But I fear they may be going to far. A few nights ago, with my Holiday spirit in full force, I was enjoying some classic, re-tuned, high def Christmas Specials when I was forced to endure a train wreck. Not the fun, slow down, pay attention, ogle the gore kind of train wreck we all know and love either. It seems that the Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice company got their multi-media guru’s together and made a Christmas special, featuring some snaggle toothed creepy old guy trashing another creepy, but bearded old guys house all in an argument over a frozen bog...or pond.... something like that. Not once did it re-enforce good will or anything useful for human to human contact. We learned that if you don’t allow the skinny mean child to ice skate with you he will turn into a psychotic snaggle toothed creepy old dude who likes to slide down hills to attack unsuspecting children who are playing on his bog/pond thingie. And mean skinny kids future behavior will be completely your fault. So for the love of all things holy, skate with the little bastard already! Not feeling the holiday cheer, folks.

This was merely the cranberry atop the holly jolly crap sundae. You see, for Thanksgiving we had family visiting for an extended period of time, 3 weeks in fact, to help prepare the food and get everything ready for Turkey Day. Yes, I am also confused as to the exact reason we needed the entire 3 weeks to prepare for one fricken’ day. They could’ve come on Monday, and left on Friday. 5 days is plenty of time to drive me to commit aggravated murder. As I learned later on, 5 days is not enough to time to ruin my carefully honed surly attitude. No, that takes a bit more time. And they brought with them an arsenal I never saw coming. They watched Hallmark Christmas Specials EVERY NIGHT AND MOST OF EACH DAY!! I was so happy I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wanted to run around exclaiming my undying love for everyone. I almost kissed the old guy ringing the bell in front of WalMart. Hallmark has an awesome writing staff. They start each program with dramatic, yet calming, music. The first thing you see is trees blowing in the wind, or children making snowmen. Each time a show begins we are forced to wait with baited breath until they finally display the title before we can figure out what the story is going to be about. There must be subliminal messages in the intro music, because by the time the title is finally shown, we are totally sucked in, totally emotionally invested, no matter what kind of drivel they will inevitably be spouting. It’s like receiving a life time supply of stale candy canes. At first you just can’t believe how lucky you are, but you are left with nothing more than a bitter taste in your mouth, and emotional diabetes. So, to make sure I don’t go on a joyous spree of Christmas liberation, I decided to balance the happiness ruining my tude with an hour and half of a mad scientist sewing people together to create a disgusting slithering crawly thing. Thank you Tom Six for creating the cure for Holiday Glee sickness. Listen, I would tell you more about it but you really have to look at this one on your own. My suggestion is take in 3 weeks of Hallmark specials. That way you fully understand the importance of sewing people together on film, and how the release of such films can help millions.

Tonight, I will be watching the cult classic Midnight meat train to wash down the sweet taste of whatever ABC Family will be shoving down our throats this week. If you enjoyed it as much as I do, pay homage to the psychopaths and phantasmal visages as well.

So go ahead, watch your heart swelling, teeth rotting happy holiday specials. Let them fill you with the warmth of fresh gingerbread and the tingle of homemade peppermint patties. Allow yourself to feel all cheerful and full of love. Even hug a few people if you must. But for crying out loud, don’t let it go on for too long. Take a shower, brush your teeth, drink a beer, eat some greasy food, scratch a couple of inappropriate areas, and tell the carolers where to shove their Jingle Bells. Follow-up as soon as possible with your favorite horror flick.

Even ice cream is better with a few nuts.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Fertalize Me baby *wink wink*

Fertilize me....

I’m making it public today. That’s right you lucky little grasshopper you, the search is over. I am THAT GUY, THE guy, if we were stranded on an island, and you were the last woman alive, blah, blah, blah. The rest of you losers are off the hook. No, you may not have my physical address. You suck, I rock. Deal with it.

On a daily basis, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, random people take precious time out of their day to contact me, and that phrase is repeated over and over. Fertilize me.......You can just imagine how inflated my ego is right now. I won’t even lie and tell you that other things aren’t also inflated right now. Nope, won’t lie.

Ooh, hold on. Here’s a giggle. Imagine if I were a woman and walked around saying Fertilize Me to people. I’d get strange looks for sure, albeit my Friday and Saturday nights would be booked up for months. I’d be the next OctoMom!

Don’t be a hater, girls. You know you laughed, too.

But, as a man, with a loyal following of precious dirt groupies, who ask me on a daily basis to fertilize them, I feel slightly all powerful. Not ALL all powerful. Just slightly. I’m doing my best not to let it get to my head. I get that a lot, people wanting my special additive for their crops. For some reason they think my juice is extra special. People request it probably 10 times a day, maybe more, but I have to set limits here people. I own a vineyard and produce the best quality wine and vinegar (yes, better than yours apparently). I sell it for thousands a bottle. (Wish I had THAT in the bank.) I raise all kinds of crops, plump and plentiful. I have several friends who count on my bountiful plots of land for their co-ops, and they know exactly how many plots of land I have, and what I have planted on those plots, and to whose co-ops I belong. It’s weird, and a bit intrusive, but they do. I swear they all must keep a secret journal where they write this stuff down every day. My very own virtual crop stalkers. I am the man.

Later on, after I finish sowing my seeds.....and everyone elses...... I’ll whack a mobster, and not in the fun way......no explanation necessary. I get 13 -14 requests a day to support peoples gangs and join their squads, be their hit man, get-away driver or pimp. Not really qualified to do the pimp thing. Well, I wouldn’t say I’m not qualified. I’m definitely qualified bee-otch. More like, I’m not allowed. My wife said no. She’s no fun. Seemed like an easy way to pay for a Disney vacation to me, but I don’t make the rules.

She is, however, perfectly comfortable with me being a knight (how romantic), farmer (very noble), or best of all, some mutant animal hybrid thing living in a strangely rockin’ house (the wife and I should probably talk).

That's the one that bothers me the most, probably; those creepy emotive animals with their purple (or any other color you choose) hair, abnormally large horns and ears, freakishly large eyes, obscenely large heads, and tiny, tiny bodies. They need to be put down, if not for us than to save them all from a horrible, embarrassing death. First of all, we need to start having some regulation of color here. Let’s keep the available colors limited to shades of brown. That way no one feels like they don’t fit in. We can start weeding out all the rebellious genetic mishaps and send them to one of the magical lands they all seem to have hidden in their attics. After we’ve taken care of the misfits, we can start dealing with their physical limitations. Their bodies are so small I’m amazed they don’t all just flop around on the floor with their legs flailing in the air, squealing like baby pigs. They have to be amazingly top heavy. The strain on their spines must be immense. Like Anna Nicole immense. They would starve to death, unless they could figure out how to roll on the floor like a beach ball, until they reach their food bowls. But it would be their luck that they would make it to the food bowl, but be incapable of rolling back out, subsequently suffocating in a bowl of kibble. If we can provide all of our mutant babies with killer homes, appliances, food, cars, yards, friends and magic..... Why can’t we provide them with health insurance? Something for the powers that be to think about. Get these poor, sad little creatures head reductions! Hmmm, I know a few real live people that need that procedure as well. Hell, have you looked at my Avatar?

I have killed over a thousand fish on another game that I get a crap ton (yes, that’s a real rate of measurement) of social spam from my friends and loved ones every day. They love you so much, and because they do, you are thereby obligated to assist them in their plot to dominate the world, or something. He (or she) who hath the biggest and most fish tanks wins. I say whoever can hatch the most eggs, and then let the little buggers starve, en masse, is top dog. And the dirtier your tanks are, the better. Please, send me fish. Send me plants. Send me little plastic statues of deep sea diver dudes. My tank is just not cluttered enough. In fact I can still see glass in the upper left corner. Oh, never mind. I’ll just wait a few hours. It’ll be covered in a coat of lovely green algae in no time.

And by the way, I can’t even get my own damn dog to lay down on command. Why in the world would you trust me enough to ask me to help you train your dragon? I’m liable to teach him how to prepare your taxes, followed by a bit of fire breathing wherein you become nice and crispy, paired beautifully with some lettuce and tomato on toasted rye bread.

All across our great nation these days so many people are out of work, out of money, and out of luck. But I just don’t think most people see the big picture here. You can be anything you want! Don’t you want to be the Fertilize Me Man in your own neighborhood? You probably already are and you don’t even realize it, you stud! Wanna be a contract killer without all the bloody messes or the rap sheet? Want a pimp paycheck without all the ho slappin’ or a pissed off wife? Want your very own dragon you can name Petunia Marigold? It’s easier than you think.

Go check your messages. Be a hero, a hired gun, a geneticist committing genocide, a fish murderer and a plastic plant hoarder, all in one day. Anything is possible if you believe. Ring a bell, clap for a fairy (or is it slap a fairy?), wish on a star, close your eyes, hold your breath, and truly BELIEVE that all things are possible. You CAN own your very mutant critter. You can make him any color you want. Give him huge eyes, disgusting horns, leather pants, and a playground in the backyard. Next week, buy him a stand mixer and a red Vespa. Because you can! And in that universe, you have all the control!

Don’t let the current state of our union get you down. Get online with the rest of America, and live your dreams! And when you’re done doing that, live somebody else’s dreams! Everyone is doing it. But don’t forget to ask the wife for permission. And if you need an explanation for the “Fun way to whack a mobster”, perhaps you’re too young to read this blog. Go ask your Dad.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

I need a larger penis, or breasts....

I need a larger penis, or larger breasts... not sure on this one, but seeing as I’m made aware of my physical imperfections several times a day, I probably should seriously consider my options for the sake of the greater good. There also seem to be dozens of single, randy women waiting to talk to me on the Internet. I know this is true because they have been sending me messages from dating sites that I am not a member of, encouraging me to fork out some major mulah and join. Which is perfect timing, because I can totally afford it now! You see, recently I received a few hundred emails notifying me that apparently my long lost African and British ancestors have left me millions upon millions of dollars in old bank accounts my dead relatives owned, but since the money is located in Africa and England, there is understandably a bit of a problem with banking red tape. This is kind of weird since I have a larger Native American and French collective heritage than I ever would either British or African. Well, let’s just face it; there is no chance in hell of me having family members Africa, past or present. No offense to my African non-relatives. It does seem rather unlikely, though, that my French relatives (Canadian or otherwise) would have left me some obscenely large amount of money in a bank somewhere, since I heard they were broke. Native Americans DO have those casinos though, so maybe I should do a little research of my own in that department. Find my Great Uncle Blue Feather. See if I have cousins.

Apparently having an email account means there are hundreds of thousands of people waiting to spam those accounts even if you only ever use it for simple things. It really causes me to worry about advancements in technology. Someday, when we are driving on the interstate in cars that are completely electric, run on auto-pilot, and totally integrated into social media, am I going to have to worry about spam being flooded into our vehicles as we make our morning commute? Or even worse, being sent to a breast augmentation drive-through clinic (it’s bound to happen) on your way to work because someone managed to hack your navigator while you were logged into your email account, and now you’re sitting in a line of cars, all of you trying to skip forward to the next destination but you keep getting the never ending submission line , “Are you sure you want to do that?” What used to be a painless trip to drop off the kids at daycare will never be the same again. Better start desensitizing the kids now.

Such spam and obnoxious tactics have become so intrusive in every aspect of our lives that the government is now legislating the volume in which commercials are broadcast on the networks. I think it’s time we let people know that we are OK with the size of our manhood/breasts. That the amount time we can keep our erections/ prolong our orgasms is completely normal. It’s not our fault if our partner cannot finish at track star speeds, if you’re a man, nor is it our fault that our partner finishes faster than Jesse Owens, if you’re a woman. Now, please feel free to enjoy your deleting spree every morning and remember both Hotmail and Gmail have made the process of deleting the garbage that much faster.

However, if you wake up tomorrow, and you need a good laugh, a new girlfriend, a bigger appendage, a million dollars, a better sex life, some new friends, a time share, or just something to take your mind off things like your job, your wife and kids, or paying the bills, just log into your email, and say Good Morning to your friendly local spammers. They’ll be forever grateful.

Better yet, just log into Facebook. All the same benefits, but at least you know the spammers personally. You can call them later. Then, get your jollies off harvesting your peaches, plowing your wives fields, sucking some blood, planting some seeds, hatching some little swimmers, and whacking a mobster. But remember, most workplaces frown upon defecating on desks, no matter whose desk it is, so go ahead and fertilize your bosses flowers. He’ll think you did him a solid, but only you will know how that REALLY could have turned out.