Throwing Poo

Fucking internet.  My site...this site...the very conduit for our virtual, occasionally-more-than-platonic cohabitation...was vigorously attacked by automated spam robots today.  These sneaky little fuckers jump from page to page, adding generic, clichéd remarks (apparently written by high school guidance counselors) and inserting links to porn and prescription drugs sites. 

I'm afraid that, eventually, invisible little nano-robots will be crawling around our homes recording and transmitting everything we do to marketers.  Sneeze and receive an instant message for Sudafed.  Mention you're hungry and get a call from Dominos.  Get punched in the eye by your wife and a commercial for Omaha Steaks pops up on your television.

First, let it be said that I am a capitalist with an MBA in Marketing (which, by the way, is completely fucking wasted in the non-profit world).  Marketers tell us that all this information actually helps consumers (a.k.a. your lazy, fat ass) make informed choices and increases gratification.  Fine.  But when I fart, I'd like to have time to check my underwear for damage before getting a text message hocking Beano.

I guess the question is this: How much immediate gratification can a person experience before turning into reactive, thoughtless blob of consumption?  I have no idea what the answer is.  I'm just hoping to impress you with the question.

Anyway, the very worst part about all this is that I always get excited when I receive comments.  Eagerly opening a comment to find blog spam is like getting a pair of socks wrapped inside an iPod box.  It's the kind of letdown that makes you want to perpetrate unspeakable things upon the giver. 

That's said, if I'm ever arrested for accosting a nubile young woman and forcing her to read my blog, you'll know it was because the spam robots cock-teased me one time too often.  And besides, she was probably asking for it. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Santa Claus Is Coming To Get Me
(Sung to the tune of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town)

You'd better watch out
Find someplace to hide
I know that he's watchin' and I'm terrified
Santa Claus is coming to get me

He's got a long list
Of those who aren't nice
He's gonna make us pay a terrible price
Santa Claus is coming to get me

He sneeks in when I'm sleeping
Planting bugs so when I wake
He can see and hear everything I do
So I gotta stay cool for goodness sake
gotta be ready to make my break

You'd better watch out
The government knows
Santa and his deer are on the payroll
Santa Claus is coming to get me

Coming soon:

Frosty the Hit Man and Decked in the Balls

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Introduction

For as long as I can remember, I've been looking for a better job.  Countless hours over many years have been spent searching for a good opportunity where the salary is higher, the hours shorter and the boss not quite such a flaming asshole. 

One problem is that I always accepted phrases like "better job" and "good opportunity" as if they were absolute truths - career commandments handed down from Fringes, the Greek God of Ladder Climbing.  Usually all these phrases amounted to were, well, amounts.  More money.  More money to buy more shit to distract me from the soul-crushing work I had to do to make money. 

It reminds me of a saying: "Experience is what you get when you don't get what you want."  Similarly, I think that opportunity is what you pursue when you don't know where you want to go.  There is another saying that goes: "Hermaphrodites with chlamydia are what you get when you order hookers through Craigslist."  I'm not really sure if that one fits the topic at hand, but it is still good advice.

I've spent a lot of years pursuing opportunities, first in business, then in non-profits.  The non-profit work is particularly dangerous because it gives you a free pass on the intrinsic questions.  You convince yourself that you are "making a difference," and therefore it is a worthy pursuit.  Even if you get no pleasure from your work, you can take a certain amount of pride in your selfless martyrdom.  Plus, if you're an asshole, it is a lot easier to live with yourself if you do non-profit work.  Trust me on this one.

My basic problem is that I don't know what I want to do for a living.  I never have.  "What do I want to be when I grow up?" is a question that has tortured me since my first post-college paycheck.  Up to that point, I was entirely preoccupied with making money.  That's not to say I wanted to be rich.  I just wanted to have enough for pizza and car payments - the modest financial goals of a blue-collar kid who saw his father get laid off from the big factory in town (cue the Bruce Springsteen soundtrack).

Some people are lucky because they know what they want to do with their lives.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. is one of those people.  Since she was a kid, she has always known that she wanted to be a lawyer (She's lucky now, that is.  I imagine that milk money is easily parted from the bookish geek who wants to be a lawyer someday.) 

Unfortunately, I've never had that dream job.  There was a time when I wanted to drive Chitty Chitty Bang Bang to work at Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory.  But then I saw my first nudie magazine and the idea of unfettered access to candy lost out to the idea of unfettered access to Candy.  Since then, I've bounced around like a rubber ball that bounces from job to job with no real goal or destination (Note to self: work on your metaphors).

So here I am: a 42 year-old smart-ass who hates his job and uses the word "fuck" like he gets frequent flyer miles for it.  Now what?
 
First, I think I have to come to terms with the fact that I actually am a grown-up.  Hell, I'm nearly a senior citizen.  Still, I cannot seem to let go of the prospect of being discovered as a hot new actor, composing a top ten pop song or winning an Olympic event.  These are the daydreams of a child.  Clearly, I have the full-blown AIDs of Peter Pan Syndromes.  This one may take some work.

Second, I need to find the compromise between 1) what I want to be; and 2) what I want to spend my time doing.  For example, I might want to BE an astronaut.  However, I do not want to spend years studying physics, taking drug tests and not getting laid.  Another example is a musician.  While I would trample my grandmother for the chance to BE a rock star, standing on stage and playing the same twenty songs over and over again for the next twenty years seems like a special circle of hell. 

Maybe the best place to start is to look at what it is I would ultimately like to accomplish with my life.  In other words, on my deathbed, what is it that will I regret not having tried?  One thing is for sure, despite her insistence on Thanksgiving Day, it will not be my mother-in-law's baked turnip mash.  Ugh.

So, for next week's post, I'll begin pondering this idea: Assume I've got one year to live.  What will I spend it doing, and what will I regret not having done?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

For most of my adult life (it is just me, or has it gotten to the point where the mere word "adult" seems to evoke something seedy?), I have been agonizing over what I should do with my career.  Over the years I have read countless books, taken tests and written hundreds of journal pages on the subject.  Yet here I sit in an unfulfilling job that is slowly draining me of my will to life. 

I feel like a maple tree in that keeps getting tapped of all its syrup (metaphor hint: syrup = my will to live), leaving none of the good stuff for me to pour on my pancakes.  OK, maybe trees don't actually eat pancakes, but I think we can all agree that they would if they could.  Everyone likes pancakes.

Anyway, I've decided to take a new approach to figuring out my life.  I'm going to write about it on this blog.  Starting tomorrow, every Monday I'm going to peel back a layer and honestly try to get to the core of who I am and what I want to do with my life.  Kind of like my own personal "Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," except I'll be replacing all that cumbersome analysis, philosophy and critical thinking with scatological jokes and filthy language. 

Now, I'm not really sure what this is going to read like.  Hopefully there will be some humor, even if it is of the unintentional, laughing-at-me-and-not-with-me sort.  However, if there is no entertainment value to these posts, at least you can take some satisfaction in knowing that I'm honestly attempting to sort out my life. If not, well, fuck you then.  

When discussing this idea with Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. at breakfast the other day, she replied that, if anything, I was certainly efficient - referring to combining my life-sorting-out process and blogging together.  There was a time when this would have been a source of pride for me.  Not any more.  If nothing else, I hope this process will produce a result that, when I'm finally dead and being eulogized, people don't think to sum the whole of my life as being "efficient." 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 05:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

First, let's clarify a few points for the non-travelers out there. If you are a car rental business located at an airport, 99% of the people renting your cars will be from out of town.  They will likely be unfamiliar with the area of God's ass crack known as Grand Rapids (apparently named for the day God ate some bad shellfish).   As such, directions like "Turn left where the old Dynamics building use to be," mean abso-fucking-lutely nothing, you stupid, shit-kicking hayseeds.

Also, when your rental business is located at the airport, chances are nearly every person returning a car will have a plane to catch.  In other words, we're in a big goddamn hurry.   We've got shoe-bombs to activate, anthrax to sprinkle, small pox to hack.  Your job should be to get us in and out of your business as quickly as possible so we don't miss our flights (and, ultimately, our hot date with 70 virgins).  Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, wants to spend any more time in Grand Ass-Crack (GAC) than is absolutely necessary.

Moving on.  Budget advertises its GAC site as being on-site at the airport.  Actually it is off-site.  What this means is that when renters return to the airport and follow the signs for "Rental Car Return," they will not find Budget.  In Grand Rapids, what they will find is an old, toothless man who waves diagonally across the parking lot and says, "It's over that way."  He is extremely helpful and will hopefully die from exposure in the very near future.

Second, when your falsely advertised business is off-site, you shouldn't distribute "Budget Courtesy Maps" for the area that list the wrong address and phone number for your location.  Let me explain this to you like you're an idiot...because you are:  An address and a map are used by business travelers to find specific locations, be that an adult bookstore, an Indian casino with midget dealers or a moronic rental car company.

Third (and we really don't even need a third at this point, do we?), given the above, if your location is hidden from the main road by a large, industrial building, you may want to post a sign on the main road indicating your existence.  Something along the lines of "Budget Car Rental."  Otherwise, people will wonder where the fuck you are.  After thirty minutes of following faulty maps, calling disconnected phone numbers and randomly searching for non-existent addresses, people may just give up and leave your piece-of-shit car in a ditch.

Finally, when a frantic customer who is now late for his plane on the day before Thanksgiving when all other flights are sold out, arrives at your office and explains the points above, you should not answer in the following way:

"Yeah, we moved."

"The maps are wrong. We draw arrows on them to show where we are now."  (There was an arrow on my map, but there was no caption explaining it.  No one crossed out the old address and phone number or wrote in a new one.  Just a fucking arrow.)
 
"The airport doesn't allow us to put up a sign. They are difficult to deal with."

"Yeah, it's a problem."

I hope you choke on a turkey bone and the ambulance driver is from out of town and the hospital has moved and doesn't have any new signs posted and when you finally arrive dead and blue, the admitting nurse says, "Yeah, it's a problem."

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I've got a friend who gets invited to parties.  And fortunately for me, my friend is someone who thinks protocol is a giant flying dinosaur (he is not, however, sold on the idea that they are extinct).  In other words, he doesn't have any problem with me tagging along, usually sans invitation.  Such was the case with an Ohio State vs. Michigan football party on Saturday at a local bar. 

Lately work has been totally eating my ass.  I've been put in charge of a project that is causing a lot of anxiety, due in no small part to the fact that my boss is a meddling, incompetent fucktard.  It all came to a culmination last week and the stress had, in turn, wreaked havoc on my system. 

Anyway, on Saturday morning I was eagerly anticipating an afternoon of drinking and watching violence in colorful uniforms.  The all-the-beer-you-can-drink-and-all-the-wings-you-can-eat-for-$20 theme of the party was right up my alley.  Or maybe I should say "down my alley."

Not long into the first quarter, a sudden case of stomach cramps hit me like a tsunami of unthinkably stinky things.  I immediately weaved my way through the crowd to assess the commode situation, figuring that we would become well acquainted before the afternoon ended. 

The bathroom was a health code special: one stall, one urinal.  With nearly 100 rowdy drunken Buckeye fans milling about, these units were about to be tested for both strength and endurance. 

At this point, I think it is also important to note that one of my friends is a 300 lb. shaved gorilla that thinks it's funny to cut the lights in the bathroom and then beat the crap out of anyone too indisposed to defend his self.  Actually, it is very funny when you're not the one getting thumped.  This is such a common occurrence that a few weeks ago, when I was in a bathroom in a St. Louis restaurant, someone accidentally bumped the light switch and I instinctively squealed in delighted horror.      

Suffice to say, this bar's bathroom was not going to be a place where I could laze about as sane and decent folk patiently waited for my horrible episode to end.

Before long, the hot flashes and cold sweats started.  Making matters worse was the fact that every time the Buckeyes scored  - and they scored a lot - gorilla-boy would bear hug me, requiring Vulcan-like concentration to not muddy myself.

Finally, I could take no more, clenched-ass-cheek-shuffled out the door and eased into my car.  I figured I had maybe 10 minutes before the levee broke, but as I pulled out of the driveway, my Hollywood moment arrived.  The tidal wave/lava flow/avalanche was bearing down on me and I was not going to make it.   That's when three miracles happened.

Miracle One: There was a BP gas station on the corner with an open, single-user men's bathroom containing an abundance of toilet paper.

Miracle Two:  There was no recent, horrible disaster that typifies gas station bathrooms.

Miracle Three:  I'm pretty sure I saw God.

And there you have it: the happiest moment of my week. 

P.S. Please support your local BP station.  They are there when you need them most. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

PLEASE "ENJOY" THIS REPEAT AS I AM RECOVERING FROM A KOOL-AID OVERDOSE. 

I'm such a hypocrite.  There is nothing I hate more than when I'm in a situation that requires close proximity to another person and they use me as a captive audience on which to unload their crap (i.e. in airplanes, on line at the DMV, after sex).  Yet give me a situation where someone is forced to interact with me (cashiers, waitresses, people I'm paying to have sex with me), and watch the jokey banter spew out like so much tepid bile.

Today my department arrived in Cleveland for our quarterly meeting.  This means two full days of rehashing the same old shit we rehashed the last time.  Two full days of preoccupying myself with sucking down caffeine and eating candy in order to block out the relentless gibberish that stabs at my ears like AIDs-infected needles.

If I were asked to write an honest agenda for these meetings, it would look something like this:

8:00AM
Breakfast meeting.  Two people do not show up, infuriating everyone else.

8:19 AM
Everyone finally shows up for the meeting.  Passive-aggressive comments are exchanged.

8:36 AM
I offer my first brilliant idea of the day.  It is too intelligent for anyone else to comprehend. Dumbfucks.

9:00 AM
Important Issue #1 Discussion begins

9:03 AM
"Blathering Betty" begins pontificating on some irrelevant topic. A Search-And-Rescue (SAR) team is scrambled to try to find Betty's point.

10:00 AM
Important Issue #2 Discussion begins

10:13 AM
A cell phone rings

10:14 AM
Discussion deteriorates into complaint session about cell phones.

10:52 AM
Important Issue #2 Discussion resumes

10:55 AM
Five minute bathroom break. 

11:15 AM
Everyone finally returns from break

11:16 AM
Everyone complains about how busy they are - Part I

12:00 Lunch
Someone shares way too much personal information, making everyone uncomfortable.
Another sneaks off to the bar to steal a quick drink.  No one is fooled or surprised.

1:17 PM
Everyone returns from lunch

1:18 PM
Snacks are served

1:20
Everyone complains about how busy they are (with their mouths full) - Part II

2:00 PM
Outside speaker begins presentation on Important Issue #3

2:11 PM
Speaker uses the phrase "Stick that in another bucket." I spend the rest of the meeting responding to comments by saying "stick that in your bucket" and laughing uncontrollably.

3:00 PM
Everyone complains about how busy they are - Part III

3:30 PM
Discussion of dinner options begins

4:45 PM
Discussion of dinner options ends.  No consensus is achieved.

4:59 PM
The SAR team returns, stinking of alcohol and illicit sex.

Every day I hate my job a little more, but what are my options? 

I do have this fantastic business idea, which I could totally pull off.  Well, fantastic except for the fact that I can't make any money doing it (thank you, eleven years of worthless fucking non-profit experience).  

I could write a book about fundraising.  But the thought of spending hours upon hours writing without being able to use phrases like "dirty tampon sandwich," "shit-stained forehead," "vomiting horse semen," "I like my toast with a little yeast infection," "dead baby stew," "grandma is dragging her droopy hemorrhoids across the rug again," and "wading in a steaming pool of blood and feces" seems unbearable.  (I am going to run for Congress one day just so the newspaper will be forced to report that last sentence.  Wheee!)     

I could try to write a book of humorous essays, but who would buy it?  Hell, if Anonymous Coworker didn't occasionally fumble with his balls while typing, I'd rarely get more than one comment.

Fuck it. I'm too tired to figure it out tonight.  Plus, I've got meetings in the morning.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Potential Terrorists Plots I Hope Don't Get Uncovered, Causing Excessive Public Searches By Airport Security Officials

Anally-implanted "dirty bombs"

Al-Qaeda members disguised as white, middle-aged Irish men wearing women's panties

Potential Terrorists Plots I Hope Get Uncovered, Causing Excessive Public Searches By Airport Security Officials

Toupee adhesive-based explosives

Silicon implant bombs

Potential Terrorists Plots I Hope Get Uncovered, Causing A Wholesale Ban By Airport Security Officials

Obese, yet cleverly-disguised, Islamofacists whose fat rolls spill over into the seating areas around them, causing otherwise normal passengers to flip out and bring down the plane

Crying baby bombs

Exploding people-who-think-that-sitting-next-to-me-means-I-want-to-hear-about-their-horrible-boring-ass-life.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I get a little cranky if I don't get my eight hours of sleep

Occasionally I like to Rock-N-Roll during the day, which is generally considered a perversion. 

Cirrhosis

I'm already on probation at work for excessive "Woo Hoo"-ing during office hours

Leaves precious little time to watch my shows

Tired of constantly having to determine whether an activity should be categorized as Rock-N-Roll or Party

The pay sucks

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

And the winner is:  Everyone. 

My need to be liked by everyone has rendered me incapable of making a decision.  So the bad news is that you will have to share your victory lap/end zone dance/home-made "World's Greatest Blog Comment Winner" sign in sparkling letters with the other entrants. 

The good news is that the trinket is not actually worthless.  Any entrant who emails their address to me at admin@throwingpoo.com will receive a free Continental Airlines drink certificate.  True to my word, though, it will be filthy.  In fact, we can have a new contest called "What favorite body part did Crunchy vigorously rub this on?"  If you're a fan of DNA, this game is for you!

Oh, and by the way, the certificate will arrive in an unmarked envelope (just like your Milky Maidens magazine).   You didn't actually think I'd let you savages get a hold of my address, did you?    

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Like many of you, last night I stayed up way too late drinking beer, watching the election results and rooting for my team.  Despite this patriotic effort, I awoke this morning to find that while the House was decided, the Senate was still up in the air and might be that way for weeks to come. 

This is intolerable.  As an American, I have the God-given right to immediate gratification.  I want results and I want them now...and some tax-breaks, a box of Ho-Ho's and any other free shit you might have lying around. 

Therefore, I would like to propose adding Sudden Death to the electoral process.  For any race not clearly determined within 24 hours of the polls closing, candidates are shoved into the Thunderdome and forced to battle with dirty syringes and rusty razor blades.   

Imagine Nancy Pelosi with wild eyes and blood-matted hair (OK, just imagine the hair being redder) circling a sweaty, shirtless Dennis Hastert* while tossing a blade from hand to hand.

NP:  (in a creepy, sing-song voice) "Here, piggy, piggy, piggy.  Here, little pig." 

DH:  (breathless and waving a mace in the air) "Bring it, whore! I'm gonna gay-marry your skull to the pointed end of this fucking bat!"

NP:  (soft and creepy) "Oh, you're a feisty little pig, aren't you?" (licks the blood off her razor blade) "How about another tax-cut, piggy?  Time to get that trickle-down flowing."

DH:  "Just another Cut and Run liberal." (Cocks his bat) "Come on, bitch!  I've got a tree for you to hug!"

Unlike Sudden Death in sports, the political version should actually result in the death of at least one of the candidates. 

Preferably both.   

*Nancy Pelosi is not from the same congressional district as Dennis Hastert.   

P.S. For a great read on post-Election Day, check out Anonymous Coworker.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Like most of you, I simply cannot stomach people who harp on and on about their chronic illnesses and/or injuries.  The last thing I want to hear when I'm at a fancy party is some old woman whining about her diabetes-related double amputation.   It's like, "Jesus, creepy dying person that smells like a medicine cabinet, I'm TRYING to enjoy these free potato chips!  Please stop reminding the young, (well, youngish) healthy, bipedal people about the eminent doom that awaits us in our adult-diaper years.   I know - let's play a game.  How about you and your monstrous contraption try to disappear without bumping the coffee table and spilling everyone's cocktails this time?   Even though the drinks are free, someone still has to get up from their comfortable seat and retrieve fresh ones from the overpaid servers with entitled attitudes!"

I'm sure you all feel the same, so please forgive me for preaching to the choir.  More importantly, please forgive me for being naked under my vestments and stink-palming the chalice.

Anyway, a few months ago Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. - who, by the way, is a total hottie - and I went to a raucous outdoor concert.  It was only a few days after my knee surgery, so, even though I could walk, my stride was slow with a heavy limp (I've got your "heavy limp" right here, baby!  No, wait...I didn't mean it that way.  Shit.).  I decided to buy a cheap cane to help me get around a little quicker and serve as an emergency nightstick, just in case. 

When we arrived, the crowd was pretty rowdy and getting increasingly intoxicated (and had apparently been ingesting a steady diet of fried foods on a stick for some time).  I've got a pretty good eye for spotting trouble so I kept a tight grip on my cane whenever we passed in close proximity to a group of drunks.  The surprising thing was that, no matter how wasted some punk was, he would excuse himself and make way when spotting my cane.  This happened time and time again throughout the evening.  I felt like the mayor of Politeville and I must admit, I REALLY enjoyed it.  So much so, I will probably have to fight the urge to begin practicing a limp before the next show. 

If people knew that I was merely recovering from minor surgery, I think the reaction would have been slightly different.  The cane opened up the possibility that I was a veteran or, at the very least, a young (OK, OK, youngISH.  Geez!) guy who had experienced some life-altering accident.  It seemed to provoke genuine consideration and, in some instances, even sympathy.

Maybe this is the type of situation that people are attempting to re-create when they complain about their unfortunate circumstances.  I always thought it was a manifestation of overbearing self-importance, but maybe it's just an attempt to trigger civility.  The problem is that most of us are very good at seeing through someone else's attempt to manufacture an emotional connection.  Not only that, it usually sparks a bitter, if not hostile, reaction.

Especially if you spill my fucking brewsky in the process.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 06:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

For your weekend enjoyment, I offer the following contest (thanks to Kelly B.).

Read the questions below and fill in the blanks.  The best (or, probably, only) entry will win a completely worthless and filthy trinket.

Dear ______.

I have always wanted to _______ you.
You have a cute _______.
You make me want to _______.
You should _______.
Someday I will be able to _______.
You + me = _______.
If I saw you now I'd _______.
I would build a _______  just for you. 
I would get your name tattooed on my ________.   
If I could sing you any song it would be _______.
We could _______ under the stars.
My love for you is like that of a _______.

Love, ________
P.S. ________.

Here are my examples:

Dear Sexy White House Intern,

I have always wanted to shoot you in the face.
You have a cute set of healthy internal organs.
You make me want to eat live puppies.
You should try one.  They're good with some baby seal salsa on the side.
Someday I will be able to rise from my underground bunker and watch the sunrise without bursting into flames.  When they kill Newt, we'll all go back to being human.
You + me = Replacement parts for me.
If I saw you now I'd check your blood type.
I would build a city in the desert just for you.  Well, Haliburton would build it for you and the taxpayers would get gouged.  Still, it'd be your city...until someone blows it up.
I would get your name tattooed on my gay daughter.   
If I could sing you any song it would be...um...I don't know many songs...what's that one.... I don't really like singing...the one about the birthday...I can't remember it right now, but that one.  But like I said, I don't really like songs or singing or any type of joyful self-expression. 
We could do anything but sing under the stars.
My love for you is like that of a vampire in need of blood, a war profiteer facing an endless battle, an oilman in Persia, a sadist in Gitmo.  You know, hypothetically speaking.

Love,
Dick Cheney

P.S. Is that enough foreplay?  I'd really like to shoot you in the face now.

Dear Brett Summers, 

I have always wanted to BLANK you.
You have a cute BLANK.
You make me BLANK
You should BLANK.
Someday I will BLANK
You + me=BLANK.
If I saw you now I'd BLANK.
I would build a BLANK just for you.
I would get your name tattooed on my BLANK
If I could sing you any song it would be BLANK.
We could BLANK under the stars.
My love for you is like that of BLANK.

Love,
Gene Rayburn

P.S. Charles Nelson Reilly is a pillow biter.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Part of the Steven Seagal Movie Game back in May, I think this little quiz merits it's own post (In other words, I'm tired and pissy today).  Sometimes things taste a little different the second time around. It's kind of like throwing up in your mouth.

a. Fire Down Below
b. Five To One
c. Black Dawn
d. Screaming Eagle
e. Exit Wounds
f.  Mob Justice
g. Belly of the Beast
h. Donkey Punch

Check COMMENTS (or the dark, perverted corners of your subconscious) for the answers .

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Just one simple, fun-sized-candy-fueled thought:  Can John Kerry please stop dragging down the Democrats, for fuck's sake?!

Like swing dancing, Mr. T, prophylactic sponges and the phrase "I just threw up in my mouth a little," his time has passed and he needs to just go away.  Hold a press conference about that, you stupid, self-important douchebag.

P.S. Thanks for all the movie recommendations yesterday, turd punchers.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 04:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)