Color Me Stupid

I can’t stand guys who get their hair highlighted.

It’s freakin’ bad enough that the streaked hair look is popular among trendy females making most women appear like striped gazelle’s grazing on an African plain; but on men, this look is about as scary at James Gandolfini in a flesh-toned body stocking.

It just looks like shit any way you dye it. It’s practically impossible in my opinion for men to ever look cool with those faggy blonde highlights on the top of their heads. They look like they have a birds nest built on top of their noggin, or they’re groupies on the recent ‘Flock of Seaguls’ revival tour.

Technology just hasn’t advanced to the point to make male highlights look reasonably natural looking. We can design and build a laser beam that could scratch our ass from outer space, but we can’t make highlighting men’s hair look anything less than fucking Pussius Maximus.

What are these retards thinking? Don’t they ever look in the mirror afterwards and realize they look like a Daisy Mae McTinklepants? Just seeing a group of guys out together with the same nightmare highlight haircut leaves such a bad taste in my mouth that I have to make an appointment with a gastroenterologist the next day.

Unfortunately, this faux pas fashion pour homme is fucking everywhere! This could be the most recognized hideous natural cultural phenomenon since Bat Boy first graced the pages of the ‘Weekly World News’.

It should be made into a law:

“Men are forbidden to streak, tint, shade, dye, or otherwise color their natural hair color with blonde highlights. All offenders will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law by a jury of his real manly peers, and immediately punishable by judgment of Thunderdome."

"Form of...an Ice Jackass!"

You know who really annoys the fuck out of me – people who bang their fists. Usually, this kind of activity is rampant among testosterone-stricken males as an outward expression of their cool machismo. How did this ever become a hip greeting among civilized upright primates? Nobody bangs fists anymore; that was so 1970’s - and even then it was gay as hell!

I hate that awkward moment when one of these uber-trendy retro hipsters jut out their fist, leveled midair into my chest, eagerly awaiting me to reciprocate by lightly punching it with my own balled up fist.

Uh-huh, no way Huggy Bear! If we bang fists we’d better be activating our ‘Wonder Twins’ powers, in which case I’m going to take the form of a giant ice dildo and shove it straight up your sorry ass!

Whenever I see two guys shamelessly banging their fists together in greeting I get a sense of evil superiority. I am secure in knowing that my genes have obviously flowed from another richer pool.

Inevitably, these would be the same two drunken schleps with their shirts stripped off and sweatily hugging one another and slapping backs like two Mary’s in the front row at a rock concert. The best any of us can hope for these rhubarbs is that they miss touching their fists in the middle, and knock each other at with a double right cross to the chops.

Six Flags Conviction

Edgar Ray Killen, an 80-year-old ordained Baptist Minister and former Ku Klux Klan leader has finally been convicted, 41 years to the day, of manslaughter in connection with the brutal slayings of three civil rights workers who had come to Neshoba County to organize the registration of black voters in the district. Their bodies were found six weeks later after they had disappeared buried in a dam in 1967. All three men had been beaten and shot.

Killen is now facing up to 20 years in solitary at a prison outside Jackson, with a mandatory serving of one-third of his sentence before parole.

On behalf of all morale, law-abiding citizens like myself, let me say:

“IT’S ABOUT TIME THIS FUCKER WAS CONVICTED!”

If anything, NOT for the vicious murders of three civil rights workers or his criminal involvement with the KKK, but for being that fucking dancing-hard-on-in-glasses mascot in all the Six Flags amusement park commercials, and for the ultimately unholy sin of getting that uber-annoying techno jingle stuck in the head of every plugged in citizen in the Western World.

For this injustice, I say fuck solitary; lets beat his 80-year-old tuxedoed ass and bury him under a rollercoaster!

“dit, dit, dit, dit, dah dah, dit dit, dit, dit, dah dah…”

POW!

Take that, motherfucker!

Vehicular Fortitude

Today while walking to work, I happened to come across a good looking car, sadly named the Chrysler Sebring, that had been parked by the side of the road. Sure, it was a cool looking family sedan to be certain, but I could still never drive anything that sounds so... pussy.

The ‘Sebring’ - no fucking way!

When I own a car, I want a model of car whose name sounds like it would eat all other types of automobiles on the road for breakfast – not something that sounds like it could be a term used to explain the shriveling effect of one’s penis upon leaving the swimming pool.

Chrysler may as well have named it the “Shrinkage”. How cool is that?

I would imagine that anyone who drives something called a ‘Sebring’ would also be the type of person who drinks wine coolers through a straw at a keg rager. I just know that no real man in his right masculine mind would ever drive anything that sounded so fruity.

But I guess I am not really surprised given the common marketing trend immerging recently of naming makes of cars with rather limp sounding names like the Echo, the Essence, the Hybrid, the Neon, Optima, or Tiburan.

The Tiburan? Iisn’t that a brand of Swiss chocolate bar or something for Christ sakes? Who wants to drive a chocolate bar molded into milk chocolate triangles? Likewise, the Echo isn't about to invoke the desired masculine satisfaction of having operated a powerful performance vehicle either, is it? It hardly causes any stirrings in my lions, that's for sure!

Jesus! Even my frisbee golf discs have cooler, more powerful-sounding names (Roc, Talon, Vulture, Cheetah, etc.)! If this sissy-ass trend of naming our new automobiles continues as it does, I can foresee a time in the near future where we'll all be driving cars with names like the new Ford Clitorus*, or the Pontiac Panzarotti.

Fuck - I'd rather walk than be caught riding around in town in something with such a ridiculous sounding name, than you very much! Even the losers riding in the "Priority Seating' spot behind the driver on the city bus can ride with more pride than these pansy-ass car owners!

* Prossibly marketed as 'Klytorus'

How Low Can You Go?

It’s official – I’m depressed.

Lately, I feel about as palpable as a downed power line on a lonely country road. I realize it’s silly to feel this way, but it’s as if an entire emotional wormhole has suddenly been opened into my very soul sucking in every negative ion within a hundred thusand square miles. Things just seem darker these days than the Harlem Globetrotters inside a Cheerio’s cereal box.

It’s like life, which under normal circumstances for me is about as thrilling as women’s golf, has been giving me the royal enema treatment; only it’s not being polite or professional in using the streamlined greased up nozzle end. Instead it’s going in dry, and its going in hard and deep.

I feel about as confident as Rocky Dennis at a Malibu beach party. I’m as broke as a three dollar wrist watch, I have a body like a sack of walnuts, and this morning I even woke up with a zit on the side of my nose that would make John Merrick look away in disgust – oh, woe is me!

I know at my age, I shouldn’t let these trivial matters bother me so much, but I can’t help it much either - I can't seem to shake it.

So in order to combat these complex negative emotions, I’m going to employ some radical measures that i haven't utilized since my moody high school days. I plan on spending the weekend locked in my bedroom with a jar of peanut butter and playing all my old Morrissey albums until my eardrums bleed out and I finally work all this negative anxiety out of my system for good.

Hopefully, I won't turn into a sexually ambivalent protagonist in the protest. And even if I do, perhaps it will still be for the better. Even the Moz looks to be alive and well these days as if he's been taking his Vitamin C and spending less time pondering his minute existance in this universe.

I should be so lucky.

Ovary Overload

Somebody has ripped out the featured article “MOST FAMOUS SEX TIPS: The Legendary Tricks That Have Brought Countless Guys to Their Knees” out of the center of this months Cosmopolitan magazine that was left on my work desk today.

What a dirty trick!

What a tease to rip out the good juicy bits. Who the fuck wants to read the shitty leftover articles such as “YOUR PERIOD: What’s Normal, What’s Not”? Personally, I’d rather floss with Robin William’s chest hair than indulge in this uber-feminine tripe; at least the ”MOST FAMOUS SEX TIPS” article had some titillating appeal.

As a proud heterosexual male, like all men I suspect, anything that invokes images of a bunch of chicks sitting around and crying over a box of chocolates while talking about their periods is to be automatically avoided at all costs. We are conditioned to steer clear of these kinds of scenarios like a vampire avoids a garlic patch at high noon, lest we should develop ovaries, take up needlepoint, and join Oprah's 'Book of the Month' club.

T3: Recuperation Day

Under the circumstances, this week so far, should blow serious chunks. It was unbearably hot and muggy outside, my planned “BYOP” (Bring Your Own Potato Party) patio party was a complete flop, and getting around on my injured foot was excruciatingly painful.

In fact, as of Friday morning, to say that stretched anterial tibial muscle was painful would be like saying that the sacking of Rome was a mere weinie-roast. But thanks to the prescribed Tylenol 3’s from the doctor I was given – it was not altogether unpleasant.

I haven’t tripped balls that hard since my third year in University! Hell, why worry about getting busted with illegal drugs when all you have to do is twist your foot while admiring trippy-ass bugs when walking and just pop a few T3’s down with a full glass of Crown Royale and then just sit back and ride the snake.

There were moments this week where I would just stare off into nothingness until the very air itself opened up around me into a kaleidoscope of colors that aren’t normally noticed by the human eye.

Actually, they made being crippled pretty fucking cool! They didn’t do anything for the pain in my foot exactly, but they sure made it so that I just didn’t give a shit. I wouldn’t have cared if a pack of rabid badgers had been attempting to gnaw off my foot – I was in medicated la-la land.

Now, I’ve taken a boatload of hallucinogens in my past to levitate a fully-grown sperm whale, but nothing could have ever prepared for these particular potent painkillers! It’s like they opened up a wormhole into my very consciousness through which was sucked just about every pink elephant, flying monkey and talking aardvark that my poor drug-addled imagination could conjure up before my eyes.

Basically, as I sit around my apartment recuperating, I feel like Jimmy Stewart in Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Rear Window’; sitting alone helplessly in my apartment spying on my neighbors. Except that after my regular dosage of T3’s it’s like I’m instead spying on a whole creepy carnival of characters.

I love my Tylenol 3!

The Fat Bastard Speaketh

Okay, I REALLY need to diet! I know I’ve said it many times before, and I’ve probably accumulated an entire mountain of hollow promises to myself in doing so – but I REALLY mean it this time!

What’s the latest source of inspiration you ask?

I’ve been noticing now that when I shower that the magnetic protective shower curtain is drawn to envelope my body each time I hop inside to bath instead of the shower walls like they’re designed to do. It makes me feel like a pork chop in a vacuum-sealed baggie.

Yep, it’s finally become diet time for this particular fat bastard before I can't even find my belt buckle without a medal detector.

Since I’m not much of a jogger, or weightlifter (or aerobicizer, jazzercizer, tai-boer, or anything else for that matter that may require me to move or stress myself too much – in fact, just moving my ass off the couch to refill my bowl of Cheeto’s is energetic enough for me) I’m considering taking up Yoga, since all the rage these days. Besides, even if I don’t like it I’ll still have lots of eye-candy to ogle at.

The only thing is, that I’m afraid that I would snap my spine in half like a dry chicken bone the first time I attempt the lotus leaf position.

Sure I want to get slim and healthy, but I’m also aware that Christopher Reeve probably isn’t getting laid too often either.

I don’t need to end up in any similar situations in the process, reduced to the same mobile capacities as a sausage in a go-cart.

The Wall of Boogers

There is a “Wall of Boogers” in the Men’s Bathroom at work that has failed to be cleaned for the entire length of my employ inside the building. This long wall that occupies the urinals has a literal mosaic of dried snot on it, so much so, that when you stand back and squint your eyes at it, it almost looks like a Manet painting.

How fucking gross is that?

By now, there is at least a few years of dried mucus membrane on this particular wall from all the nasal cavities of thousands of past and present male employees who have passed through and cleared their passages while taking a quick piss.

Doesn’t exactly give you the “warm fuzzies”, does it?

I used to try and block out these disturbing mountings each time I have to go to the bathroom, but it’s no use – they’re just too in your face, literally, as you stand there idly facing them as you get on with your bid’ness. It’s like trying to not let your gaze slip away and pass over to scope out automobile accidents as you pass by on the freeway.

I have noticed however, that other men seem to have no problem whatsoever, and in no way repulsed as much as I am about this cornucopia of dried boogers. Instead, they will stare directly into this crusty constellation mindlessly as if they were trying to make out some hidden picture in one of those 3D optical illusion posters.

Personally, I can’t see the forest for the mounted snot – so I have to close my eyes or divert my gaze elsewhere while I am peeing – usually, I just stare at my cock (it’s the least unassuming thing that I can think of looking at, at that exact moment).

I think it may be because, in this ever-changing office environment, this Men’s Bathroom “Wall of Boogers” has easily become the most recognizable non-changing entity in the entire building. It’s the one thing that will always remain constant during their regular workday – after all, who’s going to willfully accept the task of scraping and chipping off years worth of smeared snot?

Perhaps this mucusy montage is actually the trophy wall for some sick twisted bastard who refuses to use Kleenex (or his seat cushion) like the rest of us. Maybe this is his bizarre installation art project in progress.

Now here's a guy that I hope never to have to knowingly sit beside! He’s probably the same kind of guy that likes to wack off in the bathroom stalls, braids his pubic hair, and sketches spooky clowns in charcoal at his desk. He’s likely a sure candidate to suddenly snap and go all ‘Children of the Corn’ when somebody actually does clean away his prized booger collection.

That’s a day I can only pray that I had the good foresight to have called in sick for!

Anterior Tibial Blues

To say that my day sucked yesterday would be serving as a great discredit to everything else sucking. During my normal shitty-ass suck hole of a day, I also somehow managed to wind up at the local Hotel Dieu hospital as the result of my walking to the nearby shop for a $2.00 hot dog.

I’m not sure how it happened exactly. One moment I was happily leaving the building, free from the horseshit for a few moments to revel in the beautiful weather outside, thoughtlessly crossing the company parking when I happened to notice a particular trippy-ass bug climbing along the side of the dumpster, when I also managed to clumsily turn over on my right ankle suddenly and thereby tearing the ligaments in my right foot badly.

Great! I was taken out by an oddly colored insect - not exactly a tale to evoke much sympathy with the ladies is it? Unfortunately, my initial attempts to cover up my clumsy folly with an elaborate yarn of heroics involving my rescuing of a basket of kittens from a nearby flaming building were not met with much enthusiasm or belief. Damn skeptical broads!

What can I say? I’m no ballet dancer. I have all the graceful poise and balance of a drunken water buffalo.

So, as a result, I was required by my work managers to make a pilgrimmage to the hospital to have my foot checked out properly. Swell.

Now normally, with the regular office environment that I currently work in, spending the afternoon in the lobby at the local hospital Emergency Room seems inviting and a welcome option in comparison, but for the stumbling and getting injured while inspecting bugs at the dumpster – I think I’d like to let this little tragedy slip by undetected and unnoticed. I don’t relish relating this particular unmanly accident report to the admitting nurses.

I already know how to handle these kinds of sudden inconvenient accidental injuries: a pillow, some tensor bandage, a bottle of Crown Royal, some strong opiates, and maybe a little Wilco on the stereo.

Certainly I don’t need some pansy-ass Emergency doctor poking at my tender tootsie, only to inform me that I have stretched out the anterior tibial muscle from the top of my foot – the searing white hot twangs of pain in that area already alerts to that, thank you very much!

Just give me my Tylenol 3’s and fuck off.

At first, to avoid the trip to the hospital, I initially panhandled from my fellow co-workers fistfuls of Tylenol, Aspirin, Motrin, Ibuprofen, and Valium from their secret stashes. By the time it dawned on me that perhaps my injury was a bit more serious and I really should really seek out medical assistance, I was lit up like a Christmas tree and didn’t care so much that my right foot had swelled up to the size of a ripe melon - or the fact that I was halucinating that my foot was trying to teach me quantum mathematics.

So what did the doctor do? First he poked at it, then told me I had stretched my anterior tibial muscle, then prescribed me some Tylenol 3’s and told me to fuck off - just like I had predicted. Like clockwork.

So today, I'm home gobbling down the Tylenol 3's like Pez candies and tripping the light fantastique on my couch with a bowl of chilled grapes and Wilco on the stereo. I am still in a lot of pain, but at least I'm drunk and stoned enough to not care so much.

Thanks OHIP (Ontario Hospial Insurance Program)! I love the healing process.

The Ultra-Violet Diet

My sunburn from the previous weekends camping excursion is beginning to flake so badly that within an hour or so at work, my swivel chair was centered square in the middle of a pile of flaked skin, and I was sitting there looking like a snowman at the North Pole.

I feel so repulsive as if I’m melting on the spot before my peers. This isn’t exactly the weight loss plan that I had in mind when I decided it was time to diet!

But shedding pounds is shedding pounds to me – regardless whether it’s my skin being shed from my body like the scales off a dehydrated rattlesnake, or the actual fat off my body while I pedal my ass off on an exorcize cycle.

Shit, I’ve just stumbled upon the perfect dieting plan!

Fuck calculating out your overall calorie counts, body fat percentages, carbohydrate amounts, and maximum heart rates – leave that to the spandexed uber-fit lettuceheads. Likewise, you can finally take all your ridiculous Ab-Flexes, Bo-Flexes, Deal-a-Meals, Stepmasters, Stairmasters, Exercise Balls, Tummy Toners, Taibo videotapes, Dynamic Juicers, and any treadmill-ski-thingamjigee’s that may still be laying around collecting dust in the back of your closet along with your graduation suit and shoebox of porn, and shove them up the asses of any good-looking buff person that may be standing conveniently around you.

From now on, I’m going to harness the incredible fat burning energy of the sun and let nature work its weight-reducing miracles on me instead. I’ll just slather myself in butter, pour myself a nice cocktail, and sit out in the blistering heat unprotected and soak up the UV’s until the pounds literally flake off effortlessly!

Eat your heart out Richard Simmons – and kiss my pink 3rd degree burned ass Suzanne Powers – pass the Lactancia Jenny Craig, daddy’s got some pounds to burn off…

…LITERALLY!

331 More Words About Sperm

It seems that sperm is the popular topic of discussion in the world media spheres. At least this time it doesn’t include the Food & Drug Administration (FDA), thank god!

Instead, an Australian court ruled that a widow couldn’t use her the frozen sperm from her dead husband to have a baby. WTF? Apparently, a written consent must be supplied from the husband before his juice can be utilized to bear any more children.

Like that’s possible.

I think that the dead husband has more pressing concerns as to whether his frozen ‘Spunk Parfait’ is going to be used to father another child for his living wife. It’s not like his junk was being of any use to anything whatsoever now is it?

I think that he’s looking down from a cloud in heaven, more pissed at his being prematurely reduced to worm food, than why his wasted sperm was being taken without his consent.

I guess when I get around to tying the knot, I will include in our marriage nuptials a signed consent form allowing my wife to milk me like a garden snake if she ever chose to father an army of Crazytigerrabbit clones after I shuffle off this mortal coil. My man juice may as well be put to some good use when I’m dead.

Besides, I’d rather my beloved surviving wife use my sperm to father another healthy child than perhaps limiting her options to taking out a donor sample from the local ‘Lenny’s Soda & Sperm Bank Emporium’ down on the corner.

In fact, I think I will go one further and contact one of those biogenetic laboratories, and have them recreate a fully functioning replica of my manhood, by growing an exact cock in my likeness on the back of a meercat at a cloning cock farm in Indiana that my wife can later use to impregnate herself in my absence without relying on the courts to wave all the stupid judicial red tape.