For The Lovers

With Monday being Valentine's Day, a day perpetuated by the candy and card companies of the world so they stay in business between Christamases, I wanted to give to you a couple pieces of the finest, most sensual words ever committed to the catalogs of historical sexuality. Get a towel, 'cause it's about to get damp...

I give you... TENACIOUS D!

"Fuck Her Gently"

This is a song for the ladies

But fellas listen closely...

You don't always have to fuck her hard

In fact sometimes that's not right to do

Sometimes you've got to make some love

And fuckin' give her some smoochies too

Sometimes ya got to squeeze

Sometimes you've got to say please

Sometime you've got to say hey

I'm gonna Fuck you

softly

I'm gonna screw you gently

I'm gonna hump you

sweetly

I'm gonna ball you discreetly

And then you say hey I bought you flowers

And then you say wait a minute sally

I think I got somethin in my teeth Could you get it out for me?

That's fuckin teamwork!

Whats your favorite poz-ish?

That's cool with me It's not my favorite But I'll do it for you

Whats your favorite dish?

I'm not gonna cook it But ill order it from Zanzibar

And then I'm gonna love you completely

And then I'll fuckin fuck you discreetly

And then I'll fucking bone you completely

But then I'm gonna fuck you hard

Hard
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(for those of you who are into team sports)
"Double Team"

[spoken] Damn, a hard day's rockin'.

Better slip off ma shoes.

Maybe give a little stretch, and a bend.

Dip m'toe inna jacuzzi, behbeh.

Slip out this book: The Buttress of Windsor.

Ho ho ho, who's this? How's it goin'?

[sung]

That's the first thin' I say to you. How's it goin'? Are you flowin'?

Listen honey, Thinkin' 'bout a couple things to say to you,

Showin', growin'.

Man I'd like to place my hand upon your fuckin' sexy ass and squeeze.

And squeeze!

Take off your blouse, And yo' UNNAH PAY-ANTS,

Then take a look,

'Cause here me and KG come naked, Out of the side-hatch,

With the oils and perfume and incense.

Now you're groovin', Put on a cool '70s groove.

A funky groove to fuck to. A funky groove to fuck to.

Me, me and KG, It's all about sex supreme,

We likes to cream jeans. (sex)

Have you ever been worked on

By two guys who are hot for your snatch? (sex)

That's what I'm offerin' you.

You step into our room, And then you smell the perfume,

You lay upon our roundish bed,

And then you feel a tickling on your head. It's KG with the feather

and the French tickler, Look out baby he got the tools.

And then you feel sumpin' down by your feet.

It's me, it's JB, I'm suckin' upon your toes.

We don't mind sucking on toes!

Good luck finding a boyfriend who sucks toe, ow!

Havin' sex with me and KG,

Now you're talkin' double team supreme.

Let's roll! Oh! Ahh, oh!

What! Yeah!

Huh! Nah!

Oh! Ah, that's it, that's right, ohmygah,

oh-I-think-I'm-gonna,

Ohh!

Deht!

Deht!

Eeee!

Splooge!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

And if anyone was offended by the subject matter or words used in this blog, I'm sorry.

Sorry you're such a BORING sack-monkey.

Maybe you need to cut that talk and drop the wok, get into a little hot-n-heavy stir fry of your own, quit judging everyone else for seeing the majestic peaks that are Rage-Kage and the JaBles. Go get your knobs polished.

May you have more screws than a Home Depot. Get drilled.

"Bloggingly-Relevant Sign Off" You stray butthair!

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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Thursday's Blog Is Boxer Brief

Is President Bush Really All THAT Bad?
This is from an AP news report on a speech given by a governmental leader and Islamic fundamentalist in Iran:
"Will this nation allow the feet of an aggressor to touch this land?" Khatami asked at the crowd. "If, God forbid, it happens, Iran will turn into a scorching hell for the aggressors."
His statements drew chants of "Death to America!" from the crowd.
Khatami is widely recognized as a leader of a moderate faction in Iran.

Khatami doesn't mention the U.S. once in his speech, which is a smart political move, as he knows it's going to be recorded and broadcast for the world to see. Well, the world outside of Iran, which is in the middle of a 327 day telethon to raise money for tsunami victims. Pledge now to see your wife get horse-whipped, the whore.

The crowd starts chanting "Death To America!" This is where I get pissed off. The President, whomever at whatever point in history, is the Ideal of Americanism broadcast to the world. It's been over 40 years since we've had a President that could draw a nation together. It traces back to Viet Nam, and even Korea, as we fought "Communism." (btw, you can't fight a theory, right "terrorism fighters?") The crowd hates our leaders, and thinks that we actually control who gets into office. Wow, they are as disillusioned as the rest of us. As of November 4, 1963, the President is not the Nation.

Lastly, this guy's a MODERATE in Iran. The hardliners have been rather mum. A "moderate" leader, this guy is neither a left hand-chopper nor right wife-beating hander, he's more of a wife banisher, maybe even prone to a good smiting. This is over Nuclear Weapons, by the way. When you see someone filling up water balloons, it's best to let them see you grabbing the hose, and filling your water balloons with urine. If you pre-empt their intent with a "Don't fill those" or "Don't throw those at me," you're just going to incite some sort of "shut up." Then again, if your neighbor is a crowd-riling megalomaniac with a penchant for misogyny and rigging Hyundais to go Kablooey, you may wanna cut his water off yesterday.

Damned if ya do...
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I am currently so busy at work that I had to come in on a day where I originally told my bosses I would be gone. This is so they will leave me the F alone for a few hours and I can finish the projects they have asked of me.
Literally, they are asking if we can turn an Apple into an Orange, and they've asked for an Assessment of the project. I am so sure that we cannot do this that I want place a wager on it, it would go as follows:
If I lose, and find out that Apples and Oranges ARE interchangeable, then I will donate $200 to the charity of their choice.
If I win, they have to give $200 to the charity of my choice, OR wear a t-shirt emblazoned with the words "I Am Grossly OverPaid," for all of Monday. Seeing as how we just recently received 5 boxes (for a total of 60) ball-point pens for the first time in 4 months, I'm going to get working on the T-shirt.
I'm not concerned with money, it's humiliation that motivates me... at least when it comes to my bosses. And my Friday nights.

"Big And Menacing Sign-Off" YOU WEENIEHOUNDS!
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Some Perspective

I ended the previous blog by saying I would leave work at 2pm.
I'm still here.
For the past year my job has been so mindless and underloaded (that's not, but should be, a crap euphemism) that I am actually fretting that I may be here until as last as 4:15.

I'll be answering a Yes/No question for a "Director" in the form of a 3 page project assessment. Basic question, can you take Apples and Make them Be Oranges?
It will take me until Monday to explain the answer to people making upwards of $90,000 a year. Overkill, sure thing. But if you give your customer more than they expect, they'll quit f*cking asking for stuff.

Seriously though, this does beat looking for a job at the moment. Because I am friggin' TOASTED on Crown Royal right now, you penis!


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

News You Can Abuse

Much of this came from the Q13 News website. They do care about us, afterall.
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Starting off Right:
Get Spyware off Your PC Now!
Spybot is great at doing this, it's helped me in times of trouble.
=======================
LIST OF "SCHWAN'S" PRODUCTS NOW BEING RECALLED, JUST IN TIME FOR THE CHINESE NEW YEAR!
Recalled products that were sold in grocery stores nationwide may contain harmful pieces of glass, as opposed to the more beneficial organic shards.
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-20 ounce packages of Tony's Pizza Twists in Sausage andPepperoni, each package bears the date code 384313.
-Eleven ounce packages of Pagoda white meat chicken egg roll.Each package bears the date code 384313.
-Eleven ounce packages of Pagoda Savory pork and vegetable eggroll. With the date code 384313
-Eleven ounce packages of the Pagoda Sweet and sour chicken eggroll, with the date code 384-313.
-6-point-4 ounce packages of Pagoda savory pork mini egg rolls,with the date code 384314.
-6-point-4 ounce packages of the Pagoda white meat chicken miniegg rolls, with the date code 384314.
-And eleven ounce packages of the Pagoda Southwest style Chicken eggrolls, with the date code 384313.
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Considering that you're eating frozen eggrolls, along with the unmentioned frozen mini-tacos, you're likely not concerned about mixing glass into your diet. My fave is the last one.
Pagoda... Southwest Style... Chicken... eggrolls. Pagoda = Japanese. Southwest = Mexican. Chicken = Urban. Eggrolls = Safeway China Express. It just doesn't fit.
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We Report to You:
Home Test Warning The Food and Drug Administration is warning people that certain home tests for pregnancy, HIV and drugs may not be legitimate. The test kits are made by Globus Media, based in Canada. They are not approved for sale in the U.S. If you've used these kits, get retested, (then sterilized):
Rapid H-I-V;
Rapid Syphilis One Step Cassette Style
Cocaine Test One Step Cassette Style
Marijuana One Step Cassette Style
Amphetamine Rapid
Dengue Fever One Step Midstream Urine test (??? are you shitting me???)
Pregnancy Test
Find out more at http://youaresooooof*cked.org
===============
A teen in Idaho was recently scalped.
I wish I was kidding. A 16 year-old girl was scalped by a 26 year-old woman who had deemed some of the 16 year-old's behavior as disrespectful of women.
The 16 year-old, who had a mohawk haircut before the close shave, and the 26 year-old, now facing possibly 14 years of prison sex, were both part of a group that deemed the mohawk a sign of strength and respect for one's self and their group. The 16 year-old did "something" and the 26 year-old made violently sure there would never be a mohawk on that girl's head again.
Make all the jokes you want, please, because I can't think of any that really sum up how weird this whole story is. I've seen a number of haircuts that made me want to shave someone's head, but never have I pulled a Lakota Sioux DaySpa on a person.

In related news...
The British Open will allow Transsexual golfers. Yep, the Ladies British Open will allow transsexual golfers to compete. Well, openly transsexual women, is what it should say.
Tee up your jokes now.
First submission: "It's the only way to lose a club and two balls, and still get a hole in one!"
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Uh... Believe it or Not. I Don't Care.
When Penis Met Vagina
GERMANY -- A local couple went to a fertility clinic here in Lubek when they were unable to have children. After a battery of tests showed they were both fertile, doctors finally discovered the problem: The ultra-religious pair had never copulated and had no idea how it was done. "We're not talking about retarded people here," said one doctor of the husband, 36, and wife, 30. "They were simply unaware, after eight years of marriage, of the physical requirements necessary to procreate." This discovery also helped clear up a lot of the problems the not-so-bright couple were having earlier with their toaster.
(ed. note: NOW try and debate the fact that Germans are aliens)
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Net Job
UNITED KINGDOM -- It's hard to meet women in bars, and prostitutes can be rather iffy. So a British teenager went another route when he wanted to pop his cherry: David Vardy, 19, auctioned off his virginity on the Internet. The Bournemouth University student received more than 7,000 hits from women around the world, and bids reached nearly $11,000. "The ideal situation would be if it was a really nice woman," said Vardy.
(ed. note: Good for him. He's not giving it away free to some randy Pre-Trig T.A. like these American kids. Europe's way smarter than us.)
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And Finally...
Today is really gorgeous out. Sunny. Clear blue skies. And we in the Puget Sound area are stuck at desks, indoors, and if you're like me, listening to yet another discussion about Caesarean vs. Vaginal birth. I work for a Mobile Communication Company, BTW, so yeah, that fits. 1/3rd of the office is sick as a frat pledge on Seis de Mayo. They're not out of the office, mind you, they're just ill and coughing, sniffling, sneezing, running, dripping, horking, snorfing, wheezing, aching, and oozing like a similie/metaphor-laden comedy routine.

I'm going to leave my desk at 2pm today, and not return, most likely, until Friday morning. There really isn't much more I can do to divert this company's progress. My new boss, however, is all about holding up progress. I wrote a 2-page proposal at his request. He now wants to meet tomorrow afternoon at 2:30 to discuss it. Wow, this "Open Door Management" has seriously pussy-willowed managers these days. He's got the power to fire me for no reason, yet he cannot make a decision that costs zero dollars to affirm or negate.

Right-click, Save As... "timewaste.dic"
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Take Me Home

The Blog About My Dad

Dearest Ashlee...

Simpson.

About 17 minutes ago I woke up on the floor, thinking I was in Heaven. There was your voice, in my head, like it always is. But it was not Heaven. It was merely my parent's basement, and I'm still alive. I am your biggest fan, and at 37 years old, probably your oldest. I have numerous personality disorders, from paranoia to schizophrenia to being your biggest fan to paranoia. And something you said tonight on your show made so much sense to all three of us.

You said that after the world accused you of lyp-singing on Saturday Night Live you were worried that your career would be over. You said these words, that you "had worked really hard for everything you have." I am so happy you said that, because the world now knows the truth. All this time the world has mistakenly thought that you had merely rode your sister Jessica's (or as I call her, "the first to die on our wedding night") wave of fame. The world thought you had been pushed into the big world of fame and riches without having any real talent. The world thought you had been handed the keys to the money car on rich time street by your dad, who is the second one to die on our wedding night. The world thought you couldn't sing without a backup track backing up your singing. But you told them "NO!" And that gets a big "YES" from me.

Even when 80 thousand people booed at you during the Orange Bowl, you haven't given up. Even with all the media ignoring you and what you do, you still get out there and stir things up by breaking up with Ryan Caberra (third to die on our wedding night) and being ready to come to me when you are ready. No matter how much the world doesn't care about you, you will show them you DO care about being a singer, as it was what you were BORN to do. You could not do anything better than you do when you sing. Like when I'm translating your songs into Klingon for my basement karaoke that you will sing with me on our wedding night, it's what is the most right and natural thing to do.

So don't listen to people who don't like you, even if they would be happy if you'd never record another song. They are going to die when we have our wedding night. You are the amazing singer, better than Britney, who NEVER writes back and ALWAYS calls the cops too fast, even if we're just sleeping on her porch and being totally quiet. So keep recording songs, because I feel like you are speaking to us when you do, like we have something in common.

sÿ(¹¿KLYß!!! ("Marry Me!!!" in Klingon, but you already knew that from the dictionary I wrote for you),
R.T. Fullenbush

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Ashlee Simpson IS America. Delusional yet blindly confident in non-existent talents. And rich as a mofo. I can't wait until she gives William Hung herpes at Carson Daly's "Raising The Big JC" Easter blow-out.
And if you think I'm the only one blowing smoke, check THIS out!
The Stop Ashlee Petition!
And at the same time, how would it feel to have over 300,000 people publicly denouncing your career, and often, your existence, while you have yet to hit your 20th birthday?

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Take Me Home

The Blog About My Dad

Hippé Neuveau (Earth Lover, Man Hater)

I feel like backhanding a four-earringed bearded guy and his sweatpantalooned, Birkenstocker girlfriend right about now.

This morning I went to Whole Foods on 65th & Roosevelt to grab some grub on the way to work. It was about ten minutes to 8, but people were walking in at their leisure. I grabbed a parking spot near the door, managing to squeeze my car, defiantly, into a spot that the 2003 Honda Accord Coupe behind me was likely trying to disallow by parking "almost" too close to the stop sign. I could parallel park a riverboat in a bathtub, BoogerFinger, don't test my chest.

I throw the Cirkus in park and glance up to notice a person glaring at me, seated inside Whole Foods, mouth opening and closing quickly, dominating a conversation about masculine devils and how Ani is all you should ever listen to TOFU TOFU GODDESS VAGINA FULL OF LOVE FOR THE EARTH AS LONG AS IT'S NOT MALE. Maybe she was singing, I was three panes and 60 feet away, point taken. So I grab my mobile phone, and step out of the car, glancing around at all of the people standing outside. There are people inside... and people outside... so the store's open and these folks are standing around in the 37 degree weather?

Whole Foods specializes in natural, organic foods and products. These foods are believed to be healthier for all organisms they come in contact with, as well as for the environments they represent, from agricultural to retail. And I'm all for a store that charges a few cents more here and there for something that isn't mass produced, and selling bean curd, kefir, and chicken meat that were fed, bred, and killed humanely. However, many people wear their Vegetarian Badge like, well, a badge of honor, snootily reaching for a 3 gallon jug of Odwalla, looking about to see who's watching them. That's when they lock eyes with me, ingesting Emergen-C the way it was intended: through a kelp straw, nasally railing pack after pack until I can see Ciscoe in the Free Range Tofurkey. It's all about your health. Check out Ciscoe's "Recipes" link.

Which is why I was laughing when I saw 20-something 20-somethings standing outside, breathing white into the morning shade, 2/3rds respiration, 1/3rd Big Tobacco Cigarette smoke. The "ultra hip" greenjeans were loading their chambers with butted smokes, nobody was rolling their own in defense of the environment and "little tobacky." To each their own, and I owned my laughter. Too much irony in the water.

After grabbing a few items, I make for one of the 2 open registers, each one snaking a dredlocked line of 6-10 people with as much of their real hair as cat hair on their fleece. I'm getting looks, too, at my shirt. It's a retro-western style, black with a light blue yoke on the shoulders and cuffs, people staring at me with frumped if not grunty faces on. Nearly every one of them is wearing sandals (gawd), socks (double gawd), fleece pants, fleece vest, sweatshirt, scarf, and a knit cap. And I'm being looked at funny? Apaprently they'd never seen someone who doesn't give a shit how much fiber and/or pot brownies they ingest during a Red Dwarf marathon, the cowboy shirt guy just wants his water and almonds and an escape route.

On the way out I lock eyes again with the staring mouth-gaping parking voyeur. She has a weird look on her face, like she suspects me of using the last of her Bert's Bee's Labial Moisturizer. Her hair is short, face free of makeup, blemishes and all, eyes burning, hands stuffed into zip-up sweatsuit jacket. As I near her I ask "Yes?"
She says "Nothing. Nice shirt."
As I start to thank her, feeling a jerk, her whispered word slides in...
"... poseur."

Thank you Whole Foods, Organic Agriculture, Rainbow Stickers, Hemp clothing makers, and Ani! Your peaceful ways have created judgmental, prejudicial, self-righteous burnouts with less style than their waning substance. Grab your labial balm and take a seat in the back of the Vanagon, we're going to KFC, lovers. Only bludgeoned meat can cure this.
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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Like School On A Saturday: Needs A Good Cleaning

A couple days into 31 years, and I've seen some really neat things already. One thing that was hammered into my head last night over 3 hours was that money doesn't buy class, nor does age equate to social suaveness. Also, karaoke in the International District is not as friendly to the, how you say, "national."

Friday Night:
As Alicia and I sat to enjoy dinner at the Queen City Grill, home of apparently the best motherslapping New York steak of all time... seriously, it was so good I would have killed the cow with my bare hands and a 2lb. mallet to get at that cut ... we found ourselves in a bay of human jellyfish. As a rocky outcropping protects a shoreline from being eroded on the leeward side, the windward side will be drilled wave-wise until your house slides into your guest house and that slides into your island. As we enjoyed dinner, we were getting hammered by the constantly crashing voices of 4 adults, 2 of whom were auditioning for the role of "HUMAN DENTIST DRILL" in the off-Ballard production of "Magnificent Decibels of Murder."

It wasn't just that we were hearing the waves cut through the wafting smells of seared meat, peppercorns, and that one guy's drug store cologne. Thriller-Drill was getting looks from patrons right under her volume-amp'ing nose, as if to say "Excuse me, Sack of Trash? Yeah, we're paying in the $200 range for this dinner, so how's about reposing at the Bad JuJu until the check drops?" And yet money solved nothing here, since it all comes back to people. You don't need money to be classy. You just need class. And the lack of restraint to tell someone to shut their flap.

Next was ZigZag behind the Market. The place was packed with two parties. First was a large birthday-like group, some of whom didn't feel the need to say "pardon me" when pushing past me in threes, and tortured the cocktailers by asking for separate checks (18 people). Second group was a late-30s / mid-40s gang who didn't feel the need to say "pardon me" until realizing they had just pushed past me in fives, and that I didn't really care where they got botoxed, 'cause roses really smell like poo-ooh-ooh-ooh. Party One threw attitude like elbows in the Octagon, as if the rest of the bar were in their way, crowding their air, killing them softly. Party Two didn't give a Swarovski shit-statue about anybody, they were gonna have issues within their own gang, and didn't really f*cking-A care who heard or saw what was going on. Party Two was comprised of doctors and lawyers and whomever they left their second marriages for, all quite well dressed, acting with all the aplomb of alternative high school sophomores trying to figure who said what about who's dye/hand/primer-job.

There was money all over the place, you could smell it over the affected cigars and cutting looks of the new wives. One woman was cast out for being talked-to by someone's new husband. Two fellows circled one drunken stork without removing their overcoats, ready to go Dracula on her virture the moment her knees wobbled over Ipecac-thinned legs. In a non-related group, a man old enough to know someone who just got a new hip tried desperately to charm and molest an early-20's femme d'argent, or however you say "Chick drinking on someone else's tab" without consulting an on-line French dictionary. The old-timer nearly fell over twice while trying to pick her up... FEATS OF STRENGTH WILL WIN HER PANTIES!... and we left about ten minutes prior to his incontinence kicking in after the bun-hoist. At last glance he was droopy-eyed and swaying back and forth as the open door's breeze waved his quickly-lowering Levitra flag.

I guess that I'm seeing behavior in others that I can identify with, and therefore, must work to correct in my repertoire. People I spend a lot of time with tell me positive things that I do, yet do not recognize. I know that people are not always the way they are acting, especially when alcohol is involved. Booze amplifies traits you wish you could continue hiding. So be yourself, and let everyone see the real, mothersnogging, annoying You!

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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.