In a state of Sarcastic bliss

I would like to approach a delicate very controversial topic.


The Great Emu war of 1932.

No really it happened, quit laughing, this is a serious issue damnit.

In Australia after World War I. They offered land to service men in areas that needed to be developed for farming.. These service men moved into harsh areas, with poor farming and then were abruptly attacked by rampaging Emu.

Yes, Emu!

Rampaging flightless birds eating all of their crops destroying their hard work and time, and opening gaps in the very important Rabbit fence.

What do you do?

Well what any flightless bird fearing soldiers do, you ask for a machine guns.

The government concerned of letting civilians  have the Lewis Automatic Machine Gun. They sent a military force to accompany them.

If you want to know more you should really invest some time and read about this conflict. The Emu won.

Now we have brought them and are raising them.

They are biding their time till the rabbits give them the queue to enslave us like the Australians.

The Australian's hide their masters well but if you know their history you know who actually run their country. The merciless campaign of subjugation and enslavement of human populations by the Rabbits and Emu, are only beginning here in the US. Just wait one day we too will be disguising our masters to wait for them conquer other unsuspecting countries.

Just remember I told you so.

Preparing for the End or maybe the next bridge or tornadoes.

In a conversation with a friend about his new Cross Fit program, we wandered onto the idea of making a program called Z-fit, or Training for the Zombie apocalypse. I did some ogling around the net, and it appears I am not all that original. It has already been attempted multiple times. 

A current program is being taught by the people at the following link: http://zombiefit.org/

However, I was thinking, as with any horror thriller, the action is always accompanied by music.

So, you add in some spin bikes, push ups, and zombie killing themed exercises (cardio boxing?), with a fast paced and fun work out mixed with thrilling music to add to the atmosphere, you have a work out I might actually do. Plus, you're getting prepared for the Zombies to walk.

I should work up something and post it here, along with building some unlicensed tracks for the horror.

We will see what comes from it.

You might be an ass hat.

If the last time someone said you look nice, you and your date answered, "Thank you"........

You might be an ass hat.

If the last story you told included the statement, "I can't believe I made it home that drunk. I should be dead.".......

You might be an ass hat.

If you accelerate to keep the person from merging in front of you.......

You might be an ass hat.

If you have ever seen some who needed help and didn't help them.......

You might be an ass hat.

If you think your car can get you laid.......

You might be an ass hat.

If you have a name for any body part.......

You might be an ass hat.

This has been a Public Sarcasm Announcement.

Sarcasm goes on a fieldtrip! ~ Episode 2

When we ended last time, I was preparing to embark on a boat ride to the docks at Swinoujscie Poland. If you have ever been to Europe in March, you know that it's cold and miserable. The Baltic Sea, especially during this time, is choppy. Add a tropical storm south of that, and you have rough, cold ocean water that doesn't give you a lot of time to recover should something unfortunate happen.

Knowing this, four British sailors and myself climbed into a small boat, and made the hour and a half long trip to the pier where the French minesweeper was waiting for me to arrive. Or, at least they *should have been waiting for me. However, what they were not expecting was a small boat with five unarmed men in black approaching with no notice. They greeted us with the traditional reaction to such an approach: automatic rifles and french profanities. With all the other mine sweepers parked on the pier, we kept our distance, and I was dropped off a mile away from the French ship.

[*Should: Defined as DO NOT APPROACH OR WE WILL SHOOT THE MERDE OUT OF YOU!!!]

This was post 9-11. We should have used some common sense, but the water was really, really rough and even the saltiest sailor would have been feeling ill. I walked down the pier looking like an aquatic hobo. The Brits decided my Sea bag (notice the name says SEA) was not water tight enough for the trip, so they threw it in a trash bag. So, there I was, in a Dry suit, with a trash bag in one hand, and a rucksack in the other. I approached the French ship and showed them my credentials. They asked me to wait. Forty five minutes later several sailors approached. This turned out to be the Captain and his command officers, and the mine sweeper fleet departed. It was late on the first day when I received a technical manual and a rack. Both of which I dove into. I was a little tired. Small boats and rough water take a lot out of you.

This is a conventional rack. When a sailor says they are hitting the rack, this is what they mean. Looks all warm and cozy!

The next day, it begins: the problem on the french ship was a simple fix and required a little training on window/day/night frequencies. In a few minutes, their system was up and messaging the only other ship in the fleet with a working system. I had breakfast (they offered goat curd and... something, but I passed in favor of bananas and biscuits for my stomach), then, it was back on a different helicopter over to what **should have been the base location for hopping back and forth from ship to ship. The Estonian mine sweeper gave me my own room. I quickly put my trash bag enclosed sea bag in my berthing, brushed my teeth, and went to go troubleshoot the Estonian system.

[In post soviet USSR, **should is defined as: We're going to fuck you over, but you don't know it yet.]

 Moments later, the Estonian ship is communicating with no issue. They shuttle me to another ship, where the system was installed in the engine room, where the Windows antiquity-based system promptly over-heated and died. I pulled the equipment, moved the cable, and jumped from that ship to the supply ship (a converted car ferry from Iceland commanded by the Swedish). I obtained replacement parts, and hopped back to the broken ship, then off to another ship, and another. At this point, half the fleet is up and running. It's getting close to dinner time, and the multiple helicopters that have been bouncing me all over were going to call it for the night to do some real mine operations, (I had found out from a group from Germany they were all using me to complete some of their qualifications for the pick up and delivery of personnel), so they promptly dropped me off back at the Estonian ship. At my berthing, I went to get a shower and change. My sea bag was gone.

And here ends Episode 2. I know, I know, I am not dead yet. 

It's coming. As I said in Episode 1, it is a long story.

This has been Public Sarcasm Announcement, if knowing is half the battle, you have still lost.

It all started with "Back to the Future", and an image of Marty Mcfly looking at his watch over a picture of the Deloreans dashboard showing the date he went to in the future. In fact, it's coming up. The entertaining part is that there are numerous memes depicting dates stating "Today is the day" he arrived. Most of them are incorrect. This began the need for a jerk to attack my sister, not physically mind you, but on Facebook. 

Sarcasm hates bullies.

I am honest, direct, and sarcastic. I will get upset on occasions of poor customer service, rude customers, and shitty coffee. However, after I have made my point I will wish you a good day, apologize and leave it that. I understand people have bad days. I can usually identify those people just by the look of absolute despair, anger, or anguish on their face. I will not try and take a moral stance to make you feel like shit. 

This guy proceeded attack her for posting hoaxes. 

Let's define a hoax here, shall we: A hoax is a deliberately fabricated falsehood made to masquerade as truth.^[1] It is distinguishable from errors in observation or judgment,^[1] or rumors, urban legend, pseudosciences or April Fools Day events that are passed along in good faith by believers or as jokes.

Lets Define a Meme:A meme (pron.: /ˈmiːm/; meem)^[1] is "an idea, behavior, or style that spreads from person to person within a culture."^[2] A meme acts as a unit for carrying cultural ideas, symbols, or practices that can be transmitted from one mind to another through writing, speech, gestures, rituals, or other imitable phenomena. Supporters of the concept regard memes as cultural analogues to genes in that they self-replicate, mutate, and respond to selective pressures. 

Pop culture makes these prevalent. Hoaxes are also all over. I will post connective information to show you the truth. Then will leave it to you. This man made himself a menace. I stepped in, made a few comments about the basis of information he was using and helped him understand what internet humor was. Shortly after, he un-friended my sister. I have been told this is a severe insult. Much like the social stigma of changing your relationship status first. 

Now this is something I just don't get. When did Facebook become the go to area for relationships? According to recent statistics from lawyers (I know, if information came from lawyers can we trust it?) that two thirds of divorces state Facebook some where in the reasons for divorce. Gives me the creeps that the value of a line of text in a drop down menu makes so much of a difference. I think the option should be for other people to be able to click a drop down menu to rate others and develop a public reputation. I for one expect to be notified the "Asshole" option was chosen at least 35 times in the first second of this application. I am totally OK with that. My friends know this about me, and frankly, they will be the first 35. I wear it as a badge of honor. 

Now, moving foreword, where the hell do you get off with assuming the funny item posted by some one else is offensive to you? Give it up people. It's a damn cat, or some funny pseudo political statement meant to snub some current situation. I decided to come up with a list of Sarcasm Given Rights on internet:

1. You have the right to scroll. In the event the post, article, meme, picture or rant looks like it might be a little too far outside of your views for you to be OK with reading it, feel free to scroll right on by. Your opinion really isn't that important. It's not going to have an affect on the people who posted the comment in the first place.

2. You have the responsibility to Google/Bing/Snopes/Huffington the article for real information pertaining to the validity of the information they are spouting. They won't learn without broader horizons. Also, the ones who are really fucking nuts, destroying their reality with the facts, are entertainment for months. Sometimes, you can see the spittle on the screen, even from the other side of the internet.

3. If the specific post "tags", "@", or by some other fashion of targeting posts to you directly, by all means a Social Media throw-down should commence. But, please, please, please do your research to make it good! You have a responsibility to make the show worth watching. I have emergency popcorn waiting.

4. You have the right to shut the fuck up. It's an opinion posted by some one else. If it is going to cause you stress you should really look at doing something else with your time. Maybe write a blog where you're a complete and total jerk to the internet ether. It makes me happy. I'd recommend it.

5. You have the right to be ignored. If you are posting something to cause an argument, you're a jerk. I should know. I do it whenever I am bored. I expect to have the trolls climb out from under their bridges and go at me. I also know and love my little troll minions. They give me something to do. If you don't get any posts on your inflammatory comment, you sir have been ignored. It's OK. It happens.

6. You have the right to chill the fuck out. If your time on social media, the internet, video games or porn sites leaves you sweating, and your heart racing with potential cardiac arrest, first you should see a doctor. Second you should disconnect. The internet is not a place for you. Some of us are sick fucks and will try to kill you any chance we get.

These are your rights, know them and CHILL OUT please.

This has been Public Sarcasm Announcement, if knowing is half the battle, you have still lost.

Small Treasures, and diamonds in the rough.

Small Treasures, and Diamonds in the Rough

It was a busy weekend here around the sarcasm clan, my sisters birthday was this weekend, my daughters soccer game and a few other events and deadlines that pretty much guaranteed I was not going to get some quality time with my press and other equipment. So when I finally had some down time I spent it cleaning some of the Type Cases that came with the press, pulling all of the little pieces out of the section, vacuuming it then wiping it out, and returning the letters back to their slot. I only finished 3 of them its a little time consuming, and I really need to figure out a way to clean the letters off as well. This is going to be the hard part, small delicate lead letters will take time to wash the dust of time and then dry. Other wise I am printing with dirty letters. Not much sense in that is there?

As with anything you buy with only part of the history as you go through it little pieces of its past come to your as you clean it up and polish it. Today I found these wonderful little treasures:

 Light bulb! (obviously done in the voice Gru, from Dispicable Me 2010)

 CONOCO

 Champlin USE Oils

 Mc Cormick-Deering Farm Machines and Implements

 John Deere

To give an idea of how big these little gems are (yes I am geeking out over them) Texaco and Philips 66 were there also. This fills out a small part of the printing presses history, part of the story I received was that this press was owned by a Colorado mining towns preacher and was used to print items for his sermons, town bulletins and Scrip for the company store. Brings back memories to some of the Mining Music.

Speaking of mines, I have been having an ongoing conversation with my spouse about the Diamond trade and frankly I don't understand how pressurized carbon is worth anything more than really expensive, pretty drill bits. The value is inflated from diamond traders, and sales. The idea of it being a heirloom is a sales campaign from the 70-80s. However she wants a Diamond in her setting. I offered a counter of getting a meteor ring instead, a truly rare item, but she says its not an option. I will have to figure it out at a later time.

Now for Monday's greeting card: Happy Birthday!

Front:

Happy Birthday, you are another year older!

Inside:

I promise this year I will try harder, so you don't have to deal with another.

Sarcasm Prints

Sarcasm Prints

  I recently found a wonderful ancient artifact in a garage that I decided I had to have. A Pearl #3 Letterpress.

It came with a lot of bonuses, a complete case of fonts, an 1881 Paragon Paper cutter, and a stapler that I don't think works. What I have decided to do is clean it up, restore what needs to be restored get it working, and make evil greeting cards.

So I am going to try and post ideas for Evil Greeting cards at least twice a week. Interlaced with stories of Sarcasm, his siblings and friends interacting with an unsuspecting society. I would like to thank Sarcasm's Sister and the two professional telemarketers that provided the fodder for the last post. I feel bad, that some people can mistake polite phone etiquette for the inability to speak English. I am a jaded, cynical  and sarcastic human being. This doesn't mean I go out of my way to be rude, especially when taking on the social contract of representing another person for a short time by answering their phone. In our house if you answered the phone you were representing the whole family, it was important and frankly  you don't want "She who won't be named" coming down on your for not being polite to one of her sewing customers, its just common sense people

And for Evil Greeting Card #1: Congratulations

Cover:

I have been told that calling people names is rude.

 Inside:

CONGRATULATIONS!!!!

I have had you scientifically recognized as an ass-hat.

Sarcasm's Sister Answers the Phone, Answers a question, and gets removed from the list... which is a good thing.

So, I answered my Moms land line, and I think I should stop doing that, if I don't recognize the number. Apparently the power of my voice alone can hurt people.

Here's how the conversation went, today at least:

Me: "Hello"
Lady: "Is"She who shall not be named" there?"
Me: "She's not in, can I take a message?"
Brief pause....
Lady: "Is "Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee whooooooooooooo shaaaaaaall not be named" there?"
Me: "She's not in, can I take a message?"
Another brief pause...
Lady: "Is "Sha wha shall nit be nomed" there?" (that was my favorite)
Me: "She's not in, can I take a message?"
Longer brief pause, accompanied by the click clack of a keyboard...
Lady: "Let's try this again. Is Miss "She who shall not be named" in?"
Me: (trying not to laugh, and speaking slower) "She's not in, can I take a message?"
Really long pause, and a couple of frustrated sighs.....
Lady: "Is there an adult in the house?"
Me: "I'm an adult."
Lady: "Is this Miss "She who shall not be named"?"
Me: "She's not in, can I take a message?"
Lady: "Please hold?"
Me: "OK"
Now I'm feeling guilty, so I stay on the line, for about 3 minutes... then.....
Guy: "Hello, ma'am?"
Me: "Yes?"
Guy: "I think we're having difficulties communicating. We're calling for a Miss "She who shall not be named".  Is she available?"
Me: (deliberately speaking slowly) "She's not in, can I take a message?"
Lady (in the background): "See? That's all she keeps saying! I think that's all the English she knows!"
This outburst is followed by a muffling sound, where I'm gonna assume a hand was placed over a microphone and she was told to shoosh.
Guy: "Habla Ingles?"
I giggled a little out loud at this point.
Me: "Sir, I speak perfect English, at least most of the time. I can see that you and your friend are having difficulties communicating, but it is most definitely not with me. I'm sorry for confusing her, but I don't know of any better way to answer her. You can ask for the person you are trying to reach in a thousand different ways, with different pronunciations, and even different dialect's for all I care..... which could be fun.......but it doesn't change my answer to her questions, or yours, and frankly, I don't understand why she's so confused and upset."
Guy: "OK..... But you didn't answer her questions....did you?"
Me: "Yes, of course I did."
Slight pause......
Guy: "....and she asked if a Miss "She who shall not be named" was there?"
Me: "Yes."
Guy (with regret in his voice): ".....and what was your answer to her questions?"
Me: "She's not in, can I take message?"
Lady in the background: "SEE?!" followed by more muffling...
Guy: "Thank you for your time ma'am. Your number will be removed from our call list."
Me: "Oh good. Thank you!"

Best laugh I've had in days....

Getting Served

Getting Served

or

The Reason Sarcasm is now banned from WaWa.

*Disclaimer: The specific Starbucks employee mentioned was fired the next day. Oops.

Moving on....I happen to be a very easy going person. I don't ask for

much, in fact most of the time I don't really try and have a

conversation with people at all. The sound of people weeping gets on

my nerves and seems to follow me around any day I feel chatty. However,

this particular day all I wanted was a simple coffee. I like coffee.

Coffee likes me. We get along great, as long as no one tries to

converse with either of us until we get together for our morning

ritual. I either hit my usual Wawa (where the coffee is usually made with the

tender loving care of other religious coffee drinkers) or, if I'm feeling spendy,

I will hit the Starbucks, which is along the same route to work.

Well, on this particular day, I had to take a different path than I usually do, so I stopped at a relatively new Wawa in my area. Used to the good quality

brew I find at this franchise, I made my black, lightly sweet, cup of coffee,

and took my place in the check out line queue. Some of you are groaning right now. He hasn't paid for it yet, why is he drinking it already? Well, frankly, I made my cup of Joe all by myself, just the way I like it. I may not have filled the water reservoir, or scooped the grounds into the filter, but I poured the resulting liquid smile into the cup, added just the right amount of sugar, and stirred till the granules dissolved. They aren't going to put it back in the pot at this point, are they?

No, of course not. So, logically, standing at the counter waiting to check out is the perfect place to take the edge my early morning stabbie feelings. Two birds, one stone, and all that. Normally, this action would have resulted in a deep, throaty groan, closed eyes, and a small smile. On this day, however, I gagged. You can imagine my disappointment to discover the coffee was ice cold, and at a closer glance had black flakes of something floating in it. Please don't get me wrong, I enjoy a delicious glass of

iced coffee as much as any other addict. Floaties though? Not so much.

I know, it was probably just burned coffee from a pot left on the warmer too long, no biggie right? Well, to me, it most certainly IS a biggie. You see, I come from a long line of coffeinds.We are a rare breed of human who require the achingly sweet embrace of caffeine on a daily basis to ward off a murderous demon that resides deep within us. This demon, if not appeased, makes my normal sarcastic self seem like Bob Hope

in a Christmas special, with Jerry's kids, Santa Clause, and 6000 Puppies thrown in for that extra "if I wasn’t sure I wanted to kill myself before" effect.

We like our coffee hot, fresh, and not burned.

I started to walk back to dump out my cup, and try and find a fresh pot

of hot coffee. Before I could, some clerk, who will be forever known to me as dick face lumpy chins, stopped me and declared in a nasally power mad voice, "You drank from that CUP!!!".

Now, with the entire store staring at us, and the other coffee loving patrons

staring at me like I had something wrong with me, I explained to the

clerk that I had all intentions of purchasing said cup of coffee until

I realized they must have used frozen piss to make this batch of

coffee and I was going to go back to find a decent cup of coffee from

their plethora of coffee dispensers and then purchase a cup when and if I

found one. At this point the other patrons began to try theirs, and

several looks of disgust ruled out the Hazelnut, Irish cream, and

Jamaican Blend from the options available to me. As the clerk

berated me for about 2 minutes for abusing the serve yourself kindness of his establishment, I watched as several future customers set their coffee cups on the counter and left. I pointed to the counter then to the clerk and said. "Your service sucks, your coffee sucks, and now everyone who is in here knows it too." I handed him my cup of coffee and left.

Luckily there is a Starbucks down the road. Well, at least usually that

is a good thing. While waiting in line at the drive through window,

the common thing to do is listen to music and think about what you are

going to order. The person in front me however felt the need to yell.

I assume her screams of anger were at a person on the other end of a

cell phone although she had no cell phone in hand, no kids in the

backseat and no passenger, unless they happened to be invisible. I

suppose she could be an actor, and any play with that kind of language

is going to be high on my must watch list, but I doubted it. So with

the drama unfolding before me we crept slowly in the manufactured

circle of service around the Starbucks. The screamer pleasantly

ordered something with too many names to be called a coffee, and I

ordered my usual heart bursting caffeine overload. When I finally

reached the window, I paid for the white and green cup, and waited for them to finish making my coffee. The clerk who took my money set my cup of coffee on the little metal counter just inside the window. I knew it was my cup because the espresso box was marked with a number 6, followed by 3 question marks.

And then she left. Walked away. Leaving my cup of coffee all by itself,

alone, without handing it out the window to me. There sat my hot

cup of coffee, slowly getting colder, kept from me by only a glass and

metal frame. That was locked by the way! I tried to open it but it

wouldn't open.

About 2 minutes later I noticed the woman working the drive through window was standing at the corner having a cigarette, and talking on her cell phone. And there I sat. So I did the only thing I deemed to be the least violent, much to the chagrin of my inner demon, who would’ve preferred I smashed the drive through window and retrieve my cup of coffee. I got out of my truck, locked the doors, and went in to talk to the manager. About the time I got inside they were all asking about the truck sitting in the drive through. I explained that it was mine and I had been forced to stare at my coffee sitting in the window in front of me for the last five minutes without bothering to hand it to me before she took a smoke break out behind the Starbucks. I think I went on for a little while because I blacked out with rage at this point and found myself walking back to my truck with a gift card and a fresh cup of coffee in hand. So there I was, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, and more free cups to come in the future, walking past the clerk who had snubbed and forgotten me. Well, obviously, there was only one thing to do. I got in my truck, rolled down my window and drove up to where she was.

I poured my coffee on the ground about where her feet were and drove

next door to Dunkin’ Donuts and got a cup of coffee there.

I have not been back to the WaWa. However, the manager of the Starbucks remembered me, apologized again and gave me another free cup of coffee. Cool guy, he also fired the clerk. That's justice, and the Sarcasm Way.

So remember, Customer service is not dead, with the appropriate amount

of rage it comes back rather quickly, with bonus prizes.

Ballad of the wing-men..

I am not a follower of the "Bro" Bible as founded by Barney Stinson on "How I met your mother." In fact I have been out of the dating game for some time. Well, 12 years is more than some time, but that is a conversation for another time. But, as a married man, when hanging out with single men, you are going to be the wing-man 99.9% of the time, and it is a responsibility I take seriously. Unlike single men, married men have nothing to prove, and nothing to lose by walking up to an attractive women with the trademarked, "Ha-a-a-ave you met Ted?" If they shoot us down it doesn't effect our ego because we already have a beautiful wife we are committed to back home, so nothing is lost to us.

For the last 6 months, I have been working a contract with the US Navy as a Graphic Designer on board an Air Craft Carrier. With my civilian rank, I find myself spending more time with pilots and officers. This always guarantees a good time, and stories to share with the wife and friends back home. While we have been busy and have only stopped at a few liberty ports, I feel it is my duty to share some lessons learned as the permanent on hand wing-man.

First: Your responsibility as a wing-man (as it pertains to flying wing-man for Naval aviators; there is a difference trust me). Accept your call sign. Mine was "Cash". This is important to aviators. They will have entire conversations with you using this name. This is your new name, accept it, embrace it, and respond accordingly. You can miss very important details about the path your night is going to take if you do not pay close attention. For example: "Cash, you'll need to talk to the one with a mustache so she doesn't get bored and take all the hot women home with them." This small missed phrase almost lost my friends the chance to spend some quality time with very attractive Swedish teachers. It is called jumping on the hand-grenade. As the wing man, who has no interest in the pursuit, this is your responsibility to deal with. Be funny, interesting, and keep the pattern full. Once the the rest of your group has paired off and separated from the hand-grenade, you politely excuse yourself, or mention your wife and kids. Hand-grenade defused, you can carry on with the rest of your night filled with people watching, dancing, copious amounts of imbibing......or whatever your thing is.

Second: If you are all headed back to the hotel, and the cab only has room for 4 people, and you are the fifth, as the wing-man it is your responsibility to catch the next cab. As a note, this cab should not arrive at the hotel for at least 2 hours. Arriving early can cause some unsavory mind burning trauma, should you arrive too early and find your single room has been commandeered for the greater good. So, be prepared to have extra money for time at the hotel bar, or have a visual code, like the universally understood sock on the door handle, and make sure your roomies set your laptop by the door so you can at least peruse the inter-webs while they "Call in the alert 30 strike package." On a second note, if your pilots are slapped and left naked following an also naked, quickly dressing, British female down the hotel hallway after the last phrase is shouted during intercourse, it is in no way your fault if she makes it out the front door of the hotel and into a cab. Holding people any where against their will is kidnapping, and always will be. If you have to explain this, it is time to call in a replacement pilot. You do not want to be associated with this one anymore, no matter how funny it is to watch him try to explain to the military police and local authorities why he is bare naked on the street, screaming at a cab that left 20 minutes ago.

Third: Pilots should have respect for the wing man. I walked up and talked to the women first, kept the conversation funny and personable every time the conversation died, sacrificed sleep, and at times, pride, so that you could pursue your conquest of an exotic goddess in a foreign land. You owe the wing man. He lied, bribed, sacrificed, and sweated so you could have your fun. This is a list of things you should not ask your wing man to do.

#1: Permanent forfeiture of hotel room based on "falling in love". Quite frankly, "FUCK YOU". This is most important when you have been on a US Naval Vessel for the last 6 months. Get your own damn room if you are in love, and want to spend the last 2 days of liberty with your Spanish beauty you only met last night in that topless bar. You can't have my room. You wanted to share a room, and feel uncomfortable when your roommate walks in on you.

#2: If you order a round, you ordered the round, and therefore you pay for said round out of your money. Just because my call sign is "CASH" doesn't give me the ability to shit money and cover your idiocy.

#3: If you get her drunk, you have to clean up after her. That is not my job. If I have to, I will curse your name the entire time I hold her hair back as she pukes, while you try to pick up her friend down at the bar.

#4: Any failure on your part to close the deal is not my fault. I don't care how close you got, what went wrong, what you said about the hair on her nipples, or shouting random ass thoughts while in mid-coitus. NOT MY FAULT. This is not potty training, or summer camp. I am not Yoda. I am not going to call a time out and slap the shit out of you before you abruptly slap her ass and knock her off the crappy box springs on wheels they call beds in your small cheap ass room. However, if you wake me up, or approach me while I'm eating, to go into detail about what went wrong, right, or ask what an STD looks like, I will fucking stab you in the face.

#5: During the down time of the cruise at our hotel, if I am in my room, using the internet to talk to my kids, wife or mother, and you walk in and expose yourself to any of my family, punishment will be dealt out when you are drunk, and at your most vulnerable. For 50 Euros, most janitors will jump into bed with you while you are passed out. Many will do it butt ass naked wearing lipstick, and will kiss you awake for 150. While you sew your oats, I want the time to talk with my family. I respect your fun. Please respect mine, or suffer the consequences.

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.

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.