Throwing Poo

Years ago when my mom was still alive, she would always tell us about my father's inappropriate public behavior.  Don't get your hopes us, though.  As much as I'd like it to be, this is not a post about rampant flatulence or ass scratching. 

After he retired, the two of them spent nearly all of their time together.  Like a lot of older, retired folks, their world began shrinking.  Going to the grocery store or out for dinner became a big to-do, requiring an excessive amount of logistical planning and griping. 

My father is a one of the most honest, decent men I have ever known.  Even though we were always scraping to get by, he has never been what I would call "cheap."  He does like a good deal (we once considered getting a t-shirt made for him that said "I wouldn't be here if I didn't have a coupon").  On the other hand, he wouldn't think twice about turning around and going back to a store that had given him too much change. 

The other thing about my father is that what you see is what you get.  He has no pretense, says what he thinks and doesn't play games with people.  Oh yeah, and he loves small children.

The reason I'm explaining all this is because, as a result of who he is, my father does not seem to wonder (or possibly care) what other people think.  If he saw a toddler wobbling around in the mall, he would approach and try to get the child to walk over to him.  An infant in a cart at the grocery store would compel him to make a series of noises and faces (one of the best unintentional impressions of an epileptic fit I've ever seen) in order to try to get a giggle.  As my mom would tell it, horrified parents would then steer away from them with such urgency that even she felt creepy about it.  My dad never noticed. 

Since having knee surgery a week ago, I have been walking in order to help rehab my patched-up limb.  Despite a cold, dreary morning, I threw on a hooded sweatshirt and headed out last Friday morning.  About fifteen minutes into my walk it began to drizzle.  My leg was feeling good so I flipped up my hood and decided to press on. 

In order to mix things up, I vary my path every morning.  This particular morning I found myself walking down a street where an elementary school was just letting in.  The road was littered with minivans and the sidewalk teeming with little kids rushing to get inside. 

Suddenly I'm hit with a wave of self-awareness.  It is 8:30AM - a time when most decent folk are at work - and here I am, hooded and hunched over from the cold, limping towards a smorgasbord of little kids.  I am overwhelmed with a sense of my own creepiness.  The flight or flight instinct kicks in and I begin spinning through the options.  Turning around and walking away will look even more suspicious that just walking through.  Making eye contact or smile is alarming, but I also don't want to be staring down and looking ominous.  Despite the rain, I decide to flip down my hood and look only at the adults.  I spend the next three or four minutes (an eternity) walking through a gauntlet of apprehensive stares, smiling and waving to people I don't know.              

It felt like I was being tailed by security through the mall, only the mall was actually a massive child pornography sting operation and security is the crushing judgment of an entire community.

Unfortunately, this is a reality of modern times.  When fear escalates, every man is a potential terrorist or pedophile.  Be safe.  Assume the worst.  While I can't possibly blame parents for wanting to protect their children, sometimes I wish I could just lean over and make stupid faces. 

But I'm a creep.  I'm a weirdo.

P.S. Next week I have to interview potential staff members for a new office in Detroit.  The actual office space has not been leased yet, so I have to hold the interviews in a hotel suite.  While not an unusual practice, it feels really scummy.  At least I'm not holding auditions.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You may be concerned that my posting has been a little sparse this week.  OK, maybe "relieved" is the better word.  Anyway, pricks, even though my knee is still on the mend and hayfever has been tossing my salad all week, I cannot blame my lack of output on health issues.  Well, physical health issues.

The simple truth of the matter is that I finally received the complete series of Firefly on DVD earlier this week.  Now, I don't usually buy television shows on DVD - it seems to me like paying your wife for sex.  Other than the BBC version of The Office and Home Movies, I don't own any.  Nor am I a sci-fi fan in the way that Muslims are fans of dogma.  I do not own a light saber and I think Wookies are big, hairy fags.

Still, I got interested in the Firefly series after seeing Serenity, the very cool movie that was based on it.  While most television shows of this type are based on popular movies, this was a situation where the movie was based on a failed television series.  That's just plain old good salesmanship. 

Because Firefly only partially aired in 2002 before being cancelled, the only way to see it is to buy the DVD.  So I did, and now I cannot stop watching.

I guess the good news is that this is a situation where everyone wins.  Pricks.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

In an interview yesterday, Fox News reporter Chris Wallace accused former president Bill Clinton of failing to prevent terrorism. A partial transcript of the interview follows:

Wallace:  Did you do enough to prevent terrorism?

Clinton:  It was a threat I took very seriously, but ultimately I failed. 

Wallace: Should you have killed Osama Bin Laden when you had the chance?

Clinton:  If you'll remember, when I tried to strike at Al-Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan during my second-term, Fox News and the conservatives said there was no threat and accused me of trying to distract the public from my personal life. 

Wallace: No sir.  What I meant was don't you think you should have killed him that time when he was in the Oval Office giving you a blowjob while you performed partial-birth abortions during a Satanic ritual?

Clinton: Wha...What the fuck are you talking about?

Wallace: We have his soiled robes, sir.

Clinton:  You've lost you mind! 

Wallace:  What were the cigars and Altoids used for, sir?

Clinton rips off his mic and storms out.

Wallace: (Faces camera) There you have it.  Former president Bill Clinton admits to conspiring with Saddam Hussein to blow up the World Trade Center, destroying the levees in New Orleans, spreading AIDs and selling healthy white babies into sexual slavery.  Back to you, Bill.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Derivative Music Video Concepts Ripped-Off from the Wildly Popular OK Go on Treadmills Video 

Kaiser Chiefs on Bowflex

The Killers doing Tae Bo with Billy Blanks

Franz Ferdinand and the "Buns of Steel" workout

The Raconteurs with the late Jack Lalanne

TV On The Radio using ThighMasters (As Seen On TV)

Barenaked Ladies binge and purge

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Last night Nerdy Squirrel and I went to the Opie & Anthony Traveling Virus Tour in downtown Cleveland.  The show featured six great comedians who are regulars on the radio program.  As a big fan of the show, I decided to splurge and bought good seats and VIP passes in order to get the most out of it.  Needless to say, I have been looking forward to this event for a couple of months.  I even bought myself a cane so that I could make my way around a little better (to be honest, I also wanted a handy weapon just in case any drunks tried to fuck with us).

For those of you who don't know, Cleveland is a town with a chronic, raging inferiority complex.  Ever since the river caught on fire and the city went bankrupt in the 70's, Cleveland has been campaigning to try to convince an ambivalent nation that it isn't a sad, pathetic loser.  While I'm sure its intentions are good, these campaigns have always been misguided attempts to put Cleveland on the level of the A-list cities like New York and Chicago (For example, the "Cleveland Is A Plum" promotion was a transparent comparison to the "Big Apple."  But really now, a fucking plum?  How is that appealing?) 

Unfortunately, despite the continual public relations efforts, the city has continued to struggle.  I guess when your poverty, tax and unemployment rates are among the highest in the nation and your education among the lowest, a catchy bumper sticker will only do so much.  The result is city that resembles Chicago's retarded kid brother.  Still, I truly believe there are a lot of good reasons to live here, even though I have never felt the need to try to justify it to anyone else. 

However, there is a significant population of locals who drank (and continue to drink) the "Up With Cleveland" Kool-Aid (I call them the Drew Carey Clones).  The DCCs act as if the national perception of the city in which they live is somehow a reflection of their own personal lives.  A collective consciousness with a mullet, DCCs will repeat verbatim the pro-Cleveland slogan of the day without offering the slightest bit of factual information to back it up.  It is like living with Dustin Hoffman in Rainman - constantly being followed around repeating, "I'm an excellent city." 

The latest (and most successful) attempt to remake the city's image is "Cleveland Rocks," a campaign based around the fact that we successfully outbid New York in securing the location of the Rock-N-Roll Hall of Fame. (Bill Maher once referred to the Rock Hall as a Hard Rock Café without the hamburgers.  The really funny part is that some people in Cleveland thought this was a compliment.)  Nowadays, if you come to Cleveland and stand on a corner, within five minutes someone will be telling you about how it is the home of Rock-N Roll (and then probably ask you for your spare change).  Never mind the fact that the city has been in existence for 210 years while the Rock Hall has only been here since 1995.   

Anyway, because of the Drew Carey Clones, I have avoided going to big, public events in the city for several years.  After one too many unpleasant run-ins with these drunken, unemployed, Bernie-Kosar-jersey-wearing fucktards and their blackened-eyed wives, I gave up.  Until, that is, last night.

While I had my concerns about the audience, I really wanted to go and, as I said, we dropped a few extra bucks to try to insulate us from the unwashed masses (we are fancy people). 

Several weeks ago this very same event was playing in Philadelphia - a town notorious for its booing audiences (they actually booed Santa Claus once).  During the set of comedian Bill Burr, the booing got so bad that he stopped his material and proceeded to viciously lambaste the audience with improvised insults.  Burr's entirely organic performance was recorded and, thanks to You Tube, it has become notorious. 

Back to Cleveland. The show was going extremely well and all the comedians were killing.  Late in the show, Bill Burr came on stage and I knew we were in trouble.  Immediately the mullet-wearing hayseeds in the crowd thrust their camera phones high in the air and began booing the guy.  It was a blatant attempt to manufacture a moment.  Not even an original one - a reconstituted version of the one from Philly.  Burr admirably attempted to quell the crowd by saying, "I get it. You pretend to boo and I pretend to get mad and then it all collapses into a pile of shame."  Basically, he was asking the audience not to embarrass themselves, but fucktards don't listen.  They wanted Burr to rip Cleveland a new one, but he simply couldn't.  In his own words, "I really do hate those assholes in Philly, but I don't hate Cleveland.  I don't know anything about Cleveland," reminding us that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference.  The boos continued and shortly after that, he left the stage.

Suffice to say, it was an embarrassing moment for our city.  I don't mind if we do things that are inappropriate, inhospitable or just plain mean, but couldn't be just a little fucking original about it? 

Even though the majority of fans came to enjoy the show and tried their best to encourage Burr and the rest of the comics, the vocal majority won out and that's how we will be remembered.  It's always a shame when a few bad plums spoil the bunch.

P.S. One of the funniest bits of the night was when Patrice O'Neal came out and yelled, "Cleveland Rocks!" and the crowd cheered wildly.  After they quieted down, he shouted, "That was sarcasm, you stupid motherfuckers!" 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Finally had my knee surgery yesterday.  Now I guess I'll have to find something else to look forward to, like a tooth decay or an ugly divorce that leaves me penniless.

I woke up this morning still feeling a little loopy from the anesthesia, so I spent the day watching movies - awful, shit-filled movies that I picked out myself.  At the time, I figured I'd be brain-dead (figuratively, though literally was a possibility according to the waiver I signed at the hospital) so it wouldn't really matter.  It did.  Here they are so you don't make the same mistake as me:

Bloodrayne - Blockbuster had a significant number of copies of this flick so I thought it might have been a cult favorite or something.  Plus, Ben Kingsley was in it (he was Gandhi, for Christ's sake!).  Turns out that Bloodrayne was a popular video game so it had built in audience - hence the numerous copies.  I only got through 20 minutes of this genuine turd.  Apparently Ben Kingsley is now a crack whore who will do anything for a buck. 

Bulletproof Monk - In my book, Chow Yun Fat is as cool as a Chinese guy gets.  He has been in some of my favorites, including Hard-Boiled and The Replacement Killers.  This one, however, sucked all kinds of ass.  The martial arts scenes were limp, the violence neutered and the humor non-existent.  I watched the whole thing, only because I kept thinking it had to get better.  It didn't.

The Sentinel - Michael Douglas and Keiffer Sutherland in a political thriller.  What seems like a good idea is actually a totally unwatchable borefest.  This is such a piece of shit that I think I might have gotten E.coli just from touching it.  Pulled from the DVD player after 30 minutes.

Tune in tomorrow for a Vicodin-enhanced description of my belly button lint and a conversation with my cat.  Immobility sucks.
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

For my birthday this summer, the men-folk in my family offered to take me on a fishing charter on Lake Erie.  Due to numerous conflicts and general malaise, we didn't get around to actually taking the trip until last Friday.  The plan was to meet at the marina (i.e. a boat ramp with a rusty gas pump) at 6:45 AM, spend four hours pulling yellow perch into the boat and then head over to my father's house to fry up the day's catch. 

Unfortunately for me, my family still lives in my hometown; a small municipality that is a 45 minute drive from where I currently live.  Since they all live there, it is generally understood that I will drive to them every time there is an event or family dinner.  This inequity is so engrained that I regularly get calls to "stop over and watch the game" with no acknowledgement whatsoever that "stopping over" will require that I spend 1.5 hours in the car. 

Needless to say, the fishing charter - a gift for me - departs from said hometown, requiring me to wake up at 5:30 AM to get there on time.  I do not get any sleep because I am up way too late writing a post that totally sucks ass but I put it up anyway because I've been procrastinating all week (see if you can pick which one.  Yes, all of the above is an acceptable answer, shitbag).   Still, I get up on time and hit the road.  It's early and there's no place open for coffee, so I arrive cranky and am immediately made crankier by the fact that no one else is there yet. 

Slowly people begin showing up.  One brother brings coffee and donuts and I quickly conclude that he has always been my favorite sibling.  Finally, at 6:45AM everyone is there except one- a brother who lives five minutes away from the marina and is suppose to bring the beer.  This is not unexpected - I know this person.  He is a Family-member whose Underperformance Constantly Creates Unnecessary Pressure (FUCCUP).

At 7:00AM FUCCUP shows up sans beer.  We are disappointed but not surprised and no one wants to complain too loudly about needing alcohol at that time of the morning.   We make our way over to the boat and, while it appears to be in good shape, the captain is nowhere to be found.  The next fifteen minutes is spent passing out Dramamine and discussing the sleazy scenario that has likely detained him.  FUCCUP decides to assert his masculinity and proclaims that Dramamine is for pussies.  When I attempt to warn him, he suggests that I fish with my cock and balls tucked under my legs.  I acquiesce and decide this is a good opportunity to let everyone that for my birthday next year a Home Depot gift certificate will do just fine. 
   
Finally "Captain Tim" shows up from what we have imagined was a night of crystal meth and underage hookers and ushers us onto the boat.  It is now 7:20AM and just as we begin to push away from the dock, FUCCUP casually asks, "So, what do we do about fishing licenses?"

"Um, you buy it yesterday, shit-for-brains." I blurt out.

We spend the next 40 minutes waiting for him to drive to a nearby tackle store and get his license.  By the time he steps back onto the boat and we shove off, a full quarter of our scheduled trip  - again, my gift - has been wasted.

As the boat passes the breakwall and makes its way out into the open lake, the water starts getting rough.  We're getting bounced around pretty good.  Fortunately the perch are running close to shore, so we find our spot in about 15 minutes, anchor in and prep our rods.       

FUCCUP heads to the head and the rest of us drop our lines and immediately begin pulling up perch.  We can barely get our lines to the bottom before they get hit.  It's an absolute massacre. 

Before too long, someone notices that FUCCUP is still missing.  Captain Tim ducks below to check.  We're all still yanking in fish, so no even notices when FUCCUP crawls up to the deck.  When I finally catch a glimpse of him, he is curled up in a corner, hugging a five-gallon bucket like it is a newborn baby.  He looked like death, if death emptied the contents of its stomach into a bait bucket every thirty seconds.

Now, this is where the funny should really begin.  This is where I should have blistered his green ass with barbs and told tales of greasy pork sandwiches.  But I didn't.  Even though I had earned the right, instead I let him be and caught my limit.  As much as I hate letting a golden opportunity such as that pass by, I'm glad that I'm not always a completely heartless prick.

So, I guess I'll simply end this post with a take on the old French rifle joke:  For sale: fishing license.  Never used.  Puked on once.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Three days until knee surgery.  I hope I don't pull a Steve Irwin and die from some stupid fluke like getting hit by a speeding ambulance as I'm leaving the hospital. 

Yesterday, Nerdy Squirrel got her first real paycheck in three years.  Thank you, enormous, grossly-rationalizing-the-merciless-pummeling-of-the-little-guy-in-order-to-make-obescene-amounts-of-money-for-you-and-your-fatcat-clients law firm. Thank you all the way to the bank. 

Took the day off yesterday and went fishing.  Unfortunately, mid-way through the day an emergency came up at work and I was pulled into a conference call.  While I did agree to participate via cell phone, I also continued to drink tall boys.  As a result, it was the first conference call in which I called someone a "fucking pussy" and was subsequently able to justify my outburst by saying that "it was just the beer talking." 

Last night we watched a movie from the late 1970's that I thought was really cool when I first saw it as a teenager.  I'm now wondering if I used to be retarded.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

For most of my adult life, I held firm to the belief that owning a house meant that the house owned you.  Even if you could easily afford your mortgage, to buy a home was to knowingly shackle yourself to an eternity of mowing grass and fixing toilets. 

My cynicism also helped me see through the great lie perpetrated by realtors and bankers so they might rifle your pockets:  buying a home is a good investment.  This is complete bullshit.  I will now easily prove with simple math (I minored in Remedial Math in college).

The average home appreciation rate is 8%.  This means the principal amount of money you invested in your home at the time of purchase will grow 8% each year.  Not as good as the stock market which over time averages 10% per year, but still good, right? 

Well, unless you paid cash for your house you've got a mortgage with an interest rate which, if you got lucky, is 6% per year.  Now your annual return is down to 2%, but you're still making money.  Oops, wait a minute.  We forgot the cost of insurance, property taxes, utilities, paint, a new lawn mower, fixing the leaky roof, replacing the goddamn water heater that just blew up, re-tiling the bathroom, more paint, what do you mean the fucking roof is leaking again, etc., rinse and repeat.  Oh yeah, and your time.  Remember when that use to be worth something? 

Throw all that shit into the pot and start stirring.  Pretty soon it becomes clear that what's for dinner is you. 

If you want a house, buy a house.  Just don't believe the hype. 

Anyway, four years ago I convinced myself that this strongly held belief was just a gross rationalization used to justify my avoidance of responsibility.  Shoring up my gumption, I vowed to quit my old ways and join the brotherhood of adult men - and what a bunch of pants-wetting pussies these guys turned out to be - by buying myself a house.  Guess what happened?  All that time I once spent smoking weed and hanging out in strip clubs is now spent pulling weeds and stripping paint.  At this point I'm so into working on my house that the mere mention of the words "reciprocating saw" gives me a chubby.

Besides the free time, I also miss the blissful anonymity of apartment living.   Unless you were a cute chick or had a large stash of quarters for the borrowing, I could simply ignore the stupid "Howdy, neighbor!" smile on your dumb, fat face when I passed you in the hall.  I mean, chances are one of us would be moving or evicted soon enough. 

But now I've got real neighbors and they seem to be dug in.  Try as I might, I just don't think it is humanly possible to pretend not to notice someone waving at you for 20+ years. Nor do I want them collectively plotting against up on me during their faggoty little coffee claches like in "The Burbs."  So I feel forced to be polite and have inane conversations about garbage pickup and the superiority of Scott's fertilizer.

In the end, while there may be some satisfaction in realizing that I knew myself well enough to predict my behavior, it is far more disappointing to have not trusted it and/or simply fail to act.  Sometimes I hate being right. 

P.S. By the way, those of you who think I'm using home ownership as a metaphor for marriage, well...just never you mind.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

During a conference call today, a co-worker asked our Vice-President about a particular subject and he replied that she was asking the wrong question.  While some questions may be more appropriate than others in any given situation, it seems to me that the inherent rightness or wrongness is an entirely subjective estimation.

This got me to thinking: Are there any truly "wrong questions"?  That is to say, are there any questions that are always inappropriate, erroneous, or futile regardless of the situation?  Being of a scientific mind, I decided to put this hypothesis to the test.  Here are my first few attempts:

Pardon me, but are you pregnant, fat or just shoplifting meat products?

Who do you think is funnier - Jeff Foxworthy or Dave Barry?

It is possible that I'm a lesbian trapped in a man's body?

If I cram a dozen Big Macs up my ass, will I develop a talent for juggling chainsaws?

When does your daughter turn eighteen?  (OK, this one might be appropriate in certain situations, but never when it's coming out of my mouth.)

When do we expect the mothership to arrive?

Do you think that if I had my penis surgically removed, the strap-on harness would fit better?

Why don't you ever think of anyone but yourself?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

As the risk of making everyone hate me (or simply re-confirming their feelings), I need to complain about not getting my first-class upgrades when I fly.  I know, I know.  Little princess with the heavy flow needs her upgrades.  In my defense, though, I fly every week.  The only benefit of this lifestyle, besides constipation and chronic sinus infections, is that I'm offered free upgrades.  Yet, over the past year I have only been offered upgrades twice and both times I was traveling with my wife.  Being the good and decent husband that I am, I declined both times so that I could sit with her in coach.  Plus, I'm not yet ready for a life of celibacy. 

So it is that I'm sitting here typing this a mere five feet away from first class.  As I watch them getting served complimentary drinks and fancy meals with a smile, the bitchy stewardess in coach is tossing petrified cheeseburgers wrapped in cellophane at people.  To make matters worse, it's a four hour flight and I hit the trifecta of misery - a new born baby in the row behind me, a fat lady in the middle seat next to me (I'm talking seat-belt-extension-needing, spilling-over-onto-me fat) and the old guy in front of me has his seat fully reclined...and the prick isn't even sleeping.

It feels so unjust that I want to stand up and, with the tears streaming down my face, sing out loud:

"What about me!  It isn't fair!  I've had enough and I want my share!  Can't you see, I wanna live, but you just take more than you give!"

I think I'm turning into a gay guy who is exclusively hetero-curious.

P.S. I'd like to point out that despite this wretched situation, I didn't write "fuck" once during this post.  I think this proves that I'm making progress, you judgmental cunts, you.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I finally figured out how to add links to the side bar.  All it took was me taking the time to follow the instructions on the "How Can I Add My Own Links To The Sidebar On My Weblog Page" article from Moveable Type that I had printed out over four months ago.  Still, I feel brilliant. 

As I have a No-Reach-Around policy, these are all links to sites that I read on a regular basis. Since I am on the cutting edge of pop culture (as the Emeril Lagasse joke below so definitively proves) you should check these out.  One caveat - as when shopping for a home, I suggest you read this blog before reading others.  Reading their funny stuff first will only make your experience here that much more disappointing.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

A man walks into a bar with Emeril Lagasse on a leash and announces that Emeril can actually talk.  The surly bartender laughs and the scattered patrons snicker and mumble before going back to their drinks. 

"I'll bet anyone a hundred dollars that Emeril can talk," the man insisted.

The bartender sets down the glass he was wiping and walks over.

"I'll take that bet. Let's see the money."

The man slaps a $100 dollar bill on the bar. 

"OK, asshole," said the bartender, "Let's hear him talk,"

The man turns to Emeril and tugs on his leash to get his full attention.

"Who was Barney and Betty Rubble's son?" the man asked Emeril.

"BAM!" Emeril barked.

"Right," the man said, "their son was Bam Bam. Next question: Who did Tommy Lee marry?"

"BAM!"

"Good!" the man said excitedly.  "Pam Anderson, that's right.  OK, last question: Who was the greatest baseball player of all time?"

"BAM!" Emeril barked for a third time.

"Yes!" the man yelled.  "Bam.  The Bambino. Babe Ruth. I win!"

As the man reaches for the money, the bartender slams his hand down on it.

"No way, asshole," the bartender growled, "You're not gonna come in here and con me.  Joey, show this guy the door."

A large man slides up, grabs the man and Emeril and throws them out the front door onto the sidewalk.  As they pick themselves up off the ground and brush off, Emeril looks at the man and shrugs.

"Maybe I should have said DiMaggio?" and throws hot pepper in his face.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:08 AM | Permalink

I'm a big, fat, fatty, crème-brulee-in-a-chocolate-shell-eating fat ass.  Oh yeah, and I'm a big, fat fuck, too.

OK, maybe I'm not really fat.  I could stand to lose 5 lbs. and I'm kind of a fuck (not a "good fuck," just a fuck), but not actually fat. 

For the past three days I have been attending departmental meetings at my employer's national office.  Nearly 90% of my department's staff are women, a statistic that is not uncommon for non-profit organizations.  This means that our meetings consist of massive quantities of whining and equally massive quantities of sugary treats.  Normally I don't eat sweets, but given the choice between shoving snacks into my face or listening to Sally blather on about whatever-the-fuck, I'll choose consumption, diabetes and eventual blindness every time.  You can even cut off my foot if you like, just don't make me pay attention to that yammering bitch. 

As a result of the relentless eating, I'm feeling bloated and disgusting.  Even worse is the fact that, as a result of the constant exposure to women, I find myself drinking Chardonnay and obsessing about ridiculous things like my weight.  Estrogen through osmosis, I guess.

God, I hope I get my period soon.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

The pyramids

A new personal record for beers consumed in one hour

Olympic gold in Greco-Roman wrestling

2:00 A.M. (Waking up to pee doesn't count)

Brittany Spears naked.  No, wait. This is actually something that my DESIRE to see decreases with each passing day.  Stupid, blonde dumpster.

The Late Night With David Letterman Show "Green Room"

Morning wood

My toes

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Dear Penthouse Forum,

I always thought your letters were fake, until it happened to me.

Last month my wife and I were having dinner at the TGI Friday's - which was lovely - when I felt nature call.   As I headed off to the little boy's room, I felt a presence behind me.  I turned and standing there staring at me was our attractive, 19 year-old waitress.  As a Senator, I am often recognized in public and have grown accustomed to having people approach me.  But this was different.

The waitress - let's call her Mandy - stepped in close to me and whispered into my ear.

"Aren't you Rick Santorum?" she asked in a husky voice that registered a level of knowledge beyond her years.

'Yes, I'm Senator Santorum," I replied, feeling the familiar tingle in my pants that occurred whenever I said the words aloud.

"I just wanted to tell you that, when I was 16, my drunken uncle got me pregnant," Mandy whispered, her lips brushing against my ear.

This could be trouble, I thought to myself.  As I leaned back to try to get a read on Mandy, I noticed that one of her pieces of flare was a button that said "I (heart) Jesus."  My own heart began racing and I knew this was going to be my lucky day.

Mandy then told me the story of how she had heard me speak and, as a result, decided to have the baby instead of becoming a murderer.  She was subsequently kicked out of her home, ostracized by her friends and eventually dropped out of school and began waiting tables to try to make ends me.  Before long, Mandy realized she couldn't work and take care of her child - paying for childcare was out of the question - so she decided to give the baby up for adoption.  Now, three years later, her child was gone and she was hoping to get promoted to shift manager and, if things go right, maybe begin taking classes to get her GED.

"Still," Mandy ended, "it is better than being a murderer.  Thank you for your wise words."

I have to tell you, my cock has never been harder.  After thanking Mandy for her story, I rushed back to the table, threw down some money, grabbed my wife and raced home.  Pulling her in through the house, I burst into the bedroom and tossed her onto her twin bed.  Giving a quick, knowing wink, I slipped into the master bathroom just off to the side and faced myself in the mirror. Slowly, I released my throbbing erection from my pants, opened the vanity drawer and began rhythmically slamming my cock in it. 

After beating the devil out of myself, I breathlessly staggered back into the bedroom and collapsed on the twin bed on my side of the room.  Before falling asleep, though, my wife and I talked about how nice it would be to have sex, if only we were prepared to have another child.

Many of your readers might think this story is made up, but I assure you that it is completely true.

Sincerely,

Rick Santorum, U.S. Senator

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

NOTE: Because I have long since been abandoned by my friends and no longer enjoy activities of any kind (damn you, existentialism), for me long weekends end up being a time of excessive reflection.  As such, my posts this week will probably be a little more personal and a little less amusing (meaning, less of the laughing with me and more of the laughing at me).  The good news is that I'm flying to LA for the week, so things should get superficial again in no time.

Lately I find myself turning into a contradiction.  On one hand, I hate people.  For the most part, I find them to be self-involved, materialistic, inconsiderate, greedy little suckholes who are completely void of common decency.  While this hatred is admittedly fueled in part by my own manifestation of these characteristics (and the subsequent self-loathing), it is nevertheless both visible and enduring. 

People say that enjoying life is about the little things.  That may be.  What I am certain of, though, is that it is the little things that make me want to execute a motherfucker.   For example, if I hold open a door for you and don't hear a "thank you," it takes every fiber of my will not to kick out your walker and slam the door on your colostomy bag.  I don't care if you are my grandmother, you ungrateful whore.

On the other hand - the one without the blood stains -  I seem to be mysteriously evolving (or devolving) into an emotionally gullible schoolgirl who can be manipulated at will.  These days I rarely get through a movie without something making me water up.  I'm not just talking about "Old Yeller" here.  In the past three weeks we've seen The Illusionist, Invincible and Little Miss Sunshine  - none of which would be classified as a tearjerker - and each time I leaked.  Hell, the other day I got choked up during a commercial.  A fucking commercial!  Like a case of uncontrollable flatulence, it is embarrassing and must be blamed.

So I'm trying to make sense of a mind-set that is simultaneously free-basing cynicism and searching for a big group hug.  Is it that my heart has become so thoroughly frozen that even the slightest touch of manufactured sentiment will crack a piece off and send it falling to the floor to melt?  Or is it that my misanthropy is manufactured (because it's both fun AND cool) and my subconscious is fighting to release itself, like a butterfly from a cocoon (or a dung beetle from a giant pile of steaming rhino shit)?  I'm not sure and I don't think a fancy new sports car is going to solve this one. 

Then again, maybe it's just testicular cancer.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

ATM Machines

The Sneeze Reflex

Fire Extinguishers

Public Bathroom Stall Doors

Emergency Healthcare

Erections

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)