Throwing Poo

For some perplexing reason, the day I turned forty I began gaining weight.  Even though I had made no culinary lifestyle changes, my crispy abs began to grow increasingly flabby as did my bottom soggy.  Something had gone rotten in Denmark, and, being the inquisitive and pigeon-toed person that I am, I vowed to sniff it out.

After several months of fruitless investigation, the only reasonable conclusion I could, well, conclude was that tiny gnomes were infiltrating my bedroom at night and force-feeding me gum drops in my sleep.  Now there are probably some skeptics out there who don’t believe in gnomes, but I’m not going to argue with them.  I just thank L. Ron Hubbard that these non-believers weren’t around during the Salem witch trials, or today we’d all be up to our armpits in wart-lousy hags.  Besides, everyone knows that gnomes live to pull off shenanigans like making people fat, stealing underpants, or leaving Magnum condom wrappers under the bed for you to find after arriving home from a long business trip.  Both my wife and I agree that there can be no other explanation. 

So I proceeded to invest heavily in an elaborate video surveillance system with motion sensors, titanium trip-wire-activated ceiling cages, and a network of strategically-placed miniature guillotines baited with ginger snaps.  I was determined to kill one of these bastards and drive his stupid little head onto a pike to send a message to the others: Stop making me fat or else!  In case you think this too harsh, let me assure you that gnomes are evil little terrorists, and not at all like the cuddly and helpful elves that the Keebler Corporation has enslaved in their chocolaty sweatshops.  What about the friendly little guy in the Travelocity commercials, you ask?  In reality, he is not a gnome at all, but is actually actor Morgan Freeman playing a gnome.  The fact that you probably never noticed is simply a testament to Morgan Freeman’s incredible acting prowess.

Here’s another thing about gnomes that you won’t find in any facts or folklore; they can shape-shift.  Not only can they do it, the tiny shitheads are able to hold their shape-shifted appearances for extended periods of time.  As you can imagine, this allows them to pull off some very elaborates ruses.  How do I know this?  Well, as it turns out, our housecat George had been a gnome all along. 

When I first found him this morning in the guillotine near his litter box, a half-eaten ginger snap crumbled in his gaping mouth, I thought a horrible accident had occurred.  Then I got to thinking: George slept a lot during the day.  When he wasn’t scratching up the furniture or puking hairballs into my shoes, he was sleeping.  Every day it was like he hadn’t slept the night before.  But what on earth would he be doing all night long? (And cue the light bulb).

While I still haven’t figured out why George didn’t shape-shift back to his original gnome form when he was killed, I’m not going to let it worry me.  With all the weight I’ll soon be losing, I need to get busy buying my new wardrobe.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

An alley cat in a wood chipper

A cappuccino machine with a deviated septum

Metallica

Chris Tucker on a coke binge

A family of raccoons trying to claw their way through a maze of chalkboards

The loud, old piece-ofshit fan that it was suppose to replace.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Sitting here in a sleazy airport hotel in the middle of nowhere, I stare at the stains on the carpeting and wonder how it all went wrong.

Ever since I began traveling for business back in 1990, I have been addicted to the Continental Onepass frequent flyer program.  At first it was all fun and games, earning free flights and first-class upgrades.  Slowly, though, it began to take over my life.  Over the years, I have sacrificed family, friends and career in order score a few more miles.  During my darkest days, I’d hang out in airport restroom stalls and trade unspeakable favors for a few miles each.

Still, despite some setbacks and the occasionally sticky chin, I’ve managed to lead a relatively normal life.  I’m what they call a functioning junkie.  At least I was.

Normally, whenever you fly on a Continental flight, you directly receive Onepass frequent flyer miles.  Simple enough, yet extremely effective with highly addictive personalities like mine.   A few weeks ago, the enabling bastards over at Continental came up with the brilliant idea to create a frequent flyer program within their frequent flyer program to promote usage of other services. 

Basically how it works is that Continental will give you a certain number of “credits” each time you use their website to reserve hotel rooms and rental cars, subscribe to various publications and services, or apply for credit cards.  As you accumulate these credits, you can reach various predetermined milestones at which you are awarded a block of frequent flyer miles.  For example, if I earn 125 credits by December 31st  - and God help my family if I don’t -  I will receive a bonus block of 25,000 frequent flyer miles.  It’s like Continental got me hooked on heroin, then figured out a way to get me addicted to the metal in the syringe, too.  

Needless to say, I immediately scrambled to cancel all my existing reservations and re-book them on Continental.com, and created every excuse I could to book new travel.  It didn’t matter if the prices were padded, the hotels were shitty, the cars broken down, or the credit card interest rates higher than Andy Dick at a Friar’s Club Roast (or on the set of a new movie, at a funeral, or anywhere else for that matter).  I wanted credits like Larry Craig wanted cock, and was willing to go to the same lengths. 

Now, as I sit here alone in a fleabag hotel, the wall-unit air conditioner blowing hot air on me as I fight the cockroaches over a brownish salad and a vile lump of meat, do I finally begin to realize the error of my ways.  Credits aren’t love.  They’re not friendship.  Nor are they overstuffed mattresses, free HBO, or candies on my pillow.  Credits are cold, soulless units fabricated in the mind of a shrewd marketing consultant looking to profit from other people’s misery.  A treacherous heathen who, at this moment, is probably enjoying the oversized shower head and complimentary turn-down service that rightfully belong to me. 

********************

Thanks for all the great entries into the caption contest.   Both Matt and ACW made me laugh the loudest with their respective entries:

I thought the Nintendo Wie was supposed to be hand- held...

Michelle Wie for Extendable Lady-Graphite Tampons. Because cotton is for pussies.

However, Jeremy automatically wins for inviting me to his party.  Well done, sir.  You shall go far in this world.  

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Normally I don't post Caption Contests, primarily because this site doesn't get enough commenters to justify it.  Still, if there was ever a photo crying out for a caption, it is this one:

Best caption will win four Continental drink coupons.  Let me help get you started:

Wilson's new battery-operated nine iron...for the ladies.

Having lost the strength in her hands during a terrible yo-yo accident, Michelle Wie has developed an innovative new way to grip her club.

Suddenly the carnivorous monster between her legs devoured the blind man, leaving behind his tapping cane as the only remaining trace.

Fed up with the endless hot days in the golf course, Michelle Wie's crabs build an escape shoot.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

First, let me explain.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. recently left her high-faluting law firm to take a position job clerking for a federal judge for the next two years.  While she really loves practicing law, representing greedy corporate interests quickly lost its appeal.  I guess she didn’t want to feel like she was selling her soul to the highest bidder.  However, given the pay difference between Big Law and the Federal Government, everything else will be up for grabs.  Check our brand new eBay store for more details.

As a result of her new pay cut, um, I mean position, she was not able to take time off for our usual summer vacation.  Instead of canceling my vacation time as well, I decided to take the time off and just relax around the house.  For some people, this might be a fine idea.  But for an obsessive-compulsive with the attention span of a coked-up fruit fly and delusions of grandeur, it is horribly ill-conceived. 

Most of Monday morning (Day 1) was spent making lists of all the things I was going to get done this week.  A small sampling from these lists includes caulking the storm windows, learning Photoshop Elements, tuning up my mountain bike, writing a fundraising article for a professional journal, building a shower in the basement, developing a screenplay idea, mapping out my electrical circuits, and reading four books.  I’m not kidding.  I have some serious fucking issues.

Anyway, around noon I decided to head out for lunch.  Backing out of the driveway, I noticed a small pool of oil where the car had been parked.  Further inspection revealed that the oil pan was seriously rusted and had sprung a leak – a problem that must be taken care of immediately.  Since the thought of simply trusting a repairman is more painful to me than peeling back my skin and jumping into a vat of lemon juice,  I spent the rest of the afternoon was spent investigating auto repair shops, checking parts prices, getting the car to a shop, haggling on price and, finally, arranging for taxi service home.  Still, that evening I got my caulking done.

Tuesday (Day 2) morning I woke up ready to take on the day, even though I would have to do it on foot since the car wouldn’t be ready until Wednesday.  As always, I started the day off right with a heaping helping of Raisin Bran.  Shoveling in the first spoonful, my mouth froze and milk leaked its way down my chin. Something was wrong.  Warm.  The cereal, the milk, was warm, as was everything else in the refrigerator.  It wasn’t working.  

Needless to say, other that a lovely lunch with Nerdy at her new office (which, without a car, turned into a series of stinky adventures on public buses), I spent the day reading about refrigerators and trying to trouble-shoot the problem.  Oh, and I prepped the basement for the shower stall. 

Now it’s eleven at night and I just sat down to look over my list of things do tomorrow.

Wish you were here.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Remember last year when AOL got publicly embarrassed for recklessly wielding a mighty pimp hand against one of their bitches who dared to want to quit? (Welcome to the internet.  I am what is called a “link.” I connect to an idea/subject referenced in the previous sentence to give unfamiliar readers some context. Click on me with your mouse, and enjoy the ensuing clarity.  You’re welcome!)  

Given the outrage that resulted, I assumed that the world would become a better place for us hos.  No more getting smacked around by the mack daddies we rely on for our internet, television, cell phones, credit cards and other subscription-based services. 

Well, apparently I was wrong; the corporate pimp hands remain strong.  (Did my black eye give it away?) 

Last Friday I tried to cancel a Citibank credit card and our Cox Cable HBO service. Unfortunately I couldn’t just tell these companies to fuck off.  With AOL or Sprint, if things got really bad, I could just have my bank stop payment.  Citibank, on the other hand, has all my credit information and can simply leave the account open, and with Cox Cable I wanted to keep some level of service.  So, one after the other, I was forced to go through invasive inquisitions that left my eyes swollen and my orifices sore.  

When Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. got home from work, she found me sitting fully-clothed in the tub, crying and shaking under a running shower.  When she asked what had happened, this is how I remembered it:

Cox: Where you gonna go, bitch?

Me:  I, um, I got plans, daddy.

Cox:  What the fuck you say?

Me:  I want a better life.  I’m gonna study to be a cosmetologist.

Cox:  Telling fortunes and shit?

Me:  No (laughs nervously). No. Cutting hair.

Cox: Bitch, you don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout cutting no hair.

Me:  I can learn.  I wanna be somebody, not no sorry-ass pimp like…

*SMACK*

Me:  (Whimpering)  Sorry, daddy!  I didn’t mean it, I swear!

Cox:  Now, you gonna start acting right and pay me my money? 

Me:  Yes, daddy.  I’ll pay, I’ll pay.  

Anyway, HBO really does have some great shows, and I guess it’s always good to have an extra credit card on hand

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)