When PINK Means OVERcooked

Sweatpants with the word PINK written on the leg, or more likely the ass region, need to be policed more regularly. I'm shocked that some asshole Senator from Massachusetts hasn't tried to introduce legislation. The PINK company probably has lobbyists who make the NRA ones look like pansies.

I would be perfectly happy if the government intervened  and violated the rights of eight year old predator bait walking around with a g-string slingshot hanging out of her PINK-emblazoned ass.

Take them away from her fifty year old mother too. The one that used a tanning bed to turn herself into slut jerky, riddled with melanoma and STDs, bleach blonde hair in a ponytail making me think I'm looking at prime rib until she turns around and it's obvious she's been well done.

Palin Comparison

So everybody's still on this broad's labia, huh? After a reality show, a whirlwind of high paid appearances (at least Paris Hilton dances on tables at HER gigs), and a book, the adoring public gets to see Sarah Palin in a movie.

http://tv.yahoo.com/blog/julianne-moore-as-sarah-palin-first-photo--2841

But I'm recommending this one instead:
(You better be 18. It's porn. I warned you)

http://www.cduniverse.com/productinfo.asp?pid=7792653&style=ice

This is the part where my account gets deleted. Or I get a sweet endorsement deal. I got the shredder waiting just in case.

La Maquina de Misterio

I woke up one Saturday morning and I couldn't understand cartoons any more because they were all in Spanish. After checking to make sure I didn't accidentally turn my television to UHF or

forget to pay my cable bill, I realized Dora the Explorer had done the same thing to my weekends that Oprah did to my weekdays.

Handy Manny makes me feel like Arizona state about my cartoons. It was easy to avoid foreign language programming as long as I knew where TELEMUNDO was (usually sandwiched between a station existing on Matlock reruns and public access stations where old people filmed each other talking about Matlock).

When the Latin invasion invaded the cartoons, I was still in a Friday night fog and wrote it off as a Menudo revival. After a few weeks, I realized even Timothy Leary doesn't hallucinate that long. My television wasn't speaking English anymore. I almost called an old priest and a young priest. I gave it a crucifix in hopes I wouldn't have to pay for the SPICE CHANNEL ever again. Nothing happened there. I've chalked it up as a demographic shift, wondering if TACO BELL would ever have the balls to buy every commercial spot around DIEGO.

When they run out of ideas and start harvesting old cartoons like Puffy Diddy P Diddle Dizzy Combs getting a BEST OF THE 80s collection, I think Scooby Doo is ripe for a redux. I'm thinking it'll be about a bunch of Mexicans riding around in a van with a chihuahua, going from town to town, solving landscaping mysteries. Every episode will end up with the cops, conveniently never verifying the protagonists' legal status, arresting some pasty white guy. When they rip off his mask, he'll yell:

“AND I WOULD'VE GOTTEN THE JOB TOO IF IT WEREN'T FOR YOU MEDDLING IMMIGRANTS!”

Writer's Block

...sucks. But a post is a post, so this counts. Deal with it.

You ever stay in a motel that makes you nervous and you don't know why?

Lo Cal Style

I was in the frozen food aisle staring at boxes. Sort of like a strip club with a broken furnace but way less likely to score a fifteen dollar blowjob. I brought change just in case. The whole 'portion control' theory started making a lot more sense since I gained twenty pounds of deviled egg weight, but like every other overpopulated American food niche, I had to sort my way through eight doors of low calorie choices.

Normally I disregard the PRODUCT HAS BEEN ENLARGED TO SHOW TEXTURE blurb on food packages. Common sense dictates that Cheerios don't come in doughnut size. The same common sense should've kicked in when I found a 200 calorie deluxe meat pizza. Only the least luminous of bright folks such as myself would be taken aback when a frozen pie the size of an air hockey puck slides out of the deceptively oversized box.

A likewisely obese couple happened along while I was window shopping, trying to waddle into a browsing position without violating my personal space. Like sharing a clown car with elephants. At least that's what the smell reminded me of. I didn't know whether to keep doing what I was doing or go get a garbage can and a push broom.

Once my mouth took over breathing and the dizziness quelled, I pressed on with urgency, grabbing meals that said CHEESY or MEAT, hoping for the best. The girl-looking one pivoted her body towards me because her neck was too jammed with gristle, sneering at my cart.

"I USED to eat those, but they have so much sodium in them, it's ridiculous. Like a third of your daily intake per meal."

Avoiding salt is no surprise coming from a person built like a slug. Fat people know diet tips like nerds know karate. You can wax a car or paint a fence all day long, but if you don't practice what you read, Johnny's still gonna hand you your ass when you try the crane kick.

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Dog Day Aftermidnight

One of the great joys of owning a dog is the unconditional love they provide. Until you let them sleep in your bed. Then they become the most selfish hairy assed bastards you've ever slept with (that sound you hear in the background is women all over the world screaming that I must've never met their ex husbands).

We got two sons of bitches, Franklin and Louis (Sons of bitch, actually. They're brothers) roaming around my house. These freeloaders circle my bed like vultures on a carcass, waiting for the first sign of yawning so they can claim their rightful spot: dead center. My girl's hip to the game. She comes into the room, changes into her pajamas nonchalantly, and HOPS IN THE BED REAL FAST!!! The dogs freak out, throwing themselves on the mattress like children playing musical chairs when the music stops.

Which makes me the asshole, standing in the middle of my bedroom looking at a bed with less vacancy than the Hotel Bethlehem. No amount of pushing, threatening, or peanut butter biscuit bribery means shit to a squatting dog. As the alpha male of the house, it leaves me no choice but to squirm into the remaining 6 inches of the bed and hope someone rolls over during the night so I can get my whole body under the covers.

One night, only one of the canine crashers showed up. Louis must've been out carousing for bitches (If I can get away with it, I'm gonna throw it around). I was ecstatic to get my parking space back even if it was temporary. I crawled into bed, kissed my girl goodnight without having to overcome the Great Wall of Canine, and fell asleep.

I woke up at three in the morning to the sound of a clogged sink gurgling over my head. HURG. HURG. HURG. The only light source on my room is an LCD alarm clock I scored at a drugstore for ten bucks. In the red glow, I could barely make out the silhouette of a pit bull in the throes of pregame nausea.

During the housebreaking phase, one of the puppies took a piss on our comforter. It was one of the worst days of my life. Apparently, 'overstuffed' describes the state of the washing machine I put it in. Starting at home, I went from laundromat to laundromat, trying to find a washer that could handle my load (heh). After six hours, I had a damp blanket I swore I would never wash again. It's easier to buy a new one.

Mount Saint Franklin was about to erupt all over the comforter, so I did the only thing that came to my half-dazed mind. A t-shirt is way easier to clean than a comforter. I grabbed Franklin's head with both hands, centered it over my torso, and took one for the team.

DMV Oversight?

If I got a vanity plate openly mocking the handicapped, I'd come out of the mall to find a crutch through my windshield. Or an ass dent on my hood. Fat people are cripples too now.

Apple Picking for Dummies (no...it really is)

A magical thing happens in New England around September. Not the leaves changing color (though city-folk who've never seen a tree before are mystified as a hobo with a bar of soap). Not kids going back to school. Or even Major League Baseball play-offs. If you see anything professional there, it's likely caused by steroids. No. I'm talking about apple picking.

Children have one of their too few weekends torn from them, forced to endure hours in a crowded car with asshole sibling cellmates, listening to CAT STEVEN'S GREATEST HITS by the warden.

The orchard's duped every knucklehead roaming the field. Cutting out the supermarket and the labor should lower the prices. Instead, the privilege of picking Farmer Brown's pommes will cost you double what you could pay in the store only a five minute drive from your house. Assuming you can find a parking space among the other hoodwinkees clamoring to help Tom Sawyer whitewash his fence.

Republicans have the wrong idea. Rather than creating stiffer illegal immigrant policies, hire an ad agency to create a campaign letting Americans know how much fun it is to mow a lawn, pick strawberries, or make your own fucking coffee. Within a year, it'd be easier to find a horseshoe salesman than a Mexican. Unless they adapt by scoring jobs gathering all the abandoned 5 gallon Home Depot buckets left in front of boarded up Dunkin Donuts.

The last time I went, we paid twenty bucks for a medium sized bag and filled it in ten minutes despite acting more critical than an emotionally crippled mother at a children's beauty pageant.

“No. Not that one.” Toss.
“Too green.” Toss.
“Wormhole.” Toss.
“Apple.” Toss.

So then we get to leave, right? WRONG! I knew there was a reason I was asked to wear my sweatshirt.

With three in each pocket, a half dozen in the hood, and the front stuffed from waist to collarbone, we shuffle past security (consisting of two 15 year old girls) covered in apple shaped tumors bulging from every clothed part of our body. I tried to suck in my cheekbones to appear as sickly and cancer-ridden as a guy 30 pounds overweight can. They didn't buy it. Nor did they give a shit. We paid roughly five bucks a pounds for apples. The only one we outsmarted was evolution.

Apple picking coaxes the uglier, greedier side of humanity. The entire time I was there, it looked like a fucking apple eating contest. Kids ran around, snatching apples off trees only to take a single bite, and tossing the rest over their shoulders while in pursuit of the next fruit. Maybe med students should spend autumn in the fields to better understand why sexually transmitted diseases seem to spread easier than warm butter.

Old folks have it all figured out. After all, it's their 80th time. They back up their Toyota Avalons to the fence, gain entrance through purchasing the smallest bag possible, and spend the day lobbing fruit over the fence into the open trunks on the other side. I can't imagine how brazen the elderly would become if there were a starlight mint hard candy orchard. Or a grandchild's love orchard. Could probably get that cheaper at home too. I used to sell mine for a quarter. But those are 1980's prices and have not been adjusted for inflation.

I bet you're thinking: What the fuck are we gonna do with all these apples? That's funny. I asked the same thing when, running out of options, I was trying to conceal a cortland up my ass like a rubber full of heroin. They didn't ask me to do that, but I felt obligated to try. No one would answer the apple question. Or shake my hand.

The GOOGLE spike for apple recipes must be astronomical in the fall. Suburbs reek of apples and cinnamon for months. Children get rewarded for their lost weekend by having all sorts of housewife misfires snuck into the bag lunches in desperate maternal hopes that if the kids throw it away, at least they won't tell mom they did it.

In a couple months, when your shitty produce investment is a mere vapor in the landscape of your mind, and while rooting through your fridge for a snack, you find a long forgotten apple crisp triple wrapped in aluminum foil, do us all a favor:
TOSS.

Edgy marketing doesn't always work.

TSA

Pimps Up. Parrots Down

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I saw a picture of my buddy's daughter getting ready for 'Pirate Day' at her school. She had an eye patch and a hook crafted out of a silver pipe cleaner. The caption read:

“I've never met a prettier one eyed 8 year old with a hook for a hand in my entire life!”

I'm sure that's a true statement. Aside from being a doting dad, he's never been to a brothel in Southeast Asia.

I'm not sure at what point in our lives pirates became so kid-friendly. Could it be that Robert (or was it Parker? One of 'em's a Hardy Boy, I think) Louis Stevenson guy? Last I remember, pirates lived on a floating terrorist colony, looting ships, raping and killing along the way. Apparently all is forgotten. I waited the entire movie to see Johnny Depp give Keira Knightley a good jolly rogering when they were stranded on the island with nothing but rum and boredom to entertain them. Sadly, the only people that got fucked were the ones paying to see the sequels.

Pimps enjoy a similar historical ignorance. The word 'pimp' is a compliment now. MTV would never have the balls to put out a show called RAPE, EXPLOIT, BEAT, AND HOOK MY RIDE ON SMACK TO KEEP IT UNDER CONTROL. But every week, some scrawny crackerbread from the 'burbs was dancing around his new booger green whip, thanking Xzibit and the mechanics (heavily subsidized by the cable company judging from the amount of televisions they attach to every open surface) for pimping his ride.

I'd like to see Captain Alligator Shirt ante up his mother for the show. Jump for joy when they pull back the tarp to reveal the fellas at West Coast Customs stuffing an eighteen inch bass cannon up his mom's ass. Upholstering her saggy tits with a bright orange shag carpet. Don't forget the added neon adorned cum bubbler feature to make her head look like the funnest glass of milk at your next orgy.

Maybe it's the language. The patois. Kinda fun to talk like a pimp or a pirate. Both are notorious for ignoring grammar as a whole. Pirates like parrots. Pimps like to dress up like parrots. Both wear funny hats. Pirates have hooks for hands. Pimps have hookers on-hand. Both are suckers for shiny objects. And both are in the booty business.

So where's Disney on this trendy untapped market? If Walt were still alive (or at least more than his head), we'd already be familiar with Jezebel, the talking goat, constantly exploited by her step daddy to turn tricks in WhateverEver Land. But one day, she's gonna be the best singer anyone's ever seen. You can see the passion in her square eyes.

Or how about a theme park ride with mechanical Sleeping Beauty, Mulan, and Cinderella going around in circles on the ho track. Hiking up their skirts, showing their goods to the whole family as they ride by in a pink fiberglass Lincoln while listening to the soothing island drums and mice in floppy hats droning on about being “a motherfuckin' P-I-M-P”. It's a small world after all, playa.

Bad Math

Saw an article in a magazine with a picture of a deformed little girl soliciting donations. "FREE cleft surgery...COSTS as little as $250 dollars"? As a kid, I would've screamed trickery and demanded the word problem editor be fired. As an adult, I'm thinking blowjob solicitation in the business district could raise that money long before neck cramps happened. AND you could probably skip a meal too.

Hunting and Gathering

   While working in an office building, we shared a floor with a life coaching company run by a bunch of uppity Cambridge granola eaters. Why anyone would listen to advice from a guy who wears socks with his sandals, I'll never know. It's judgement calls like this that made their lives suck to begin with.
 
   I fantasized about casually walking into their office while they're busy reloading their organic incense burners and stealing all their K-Cups for our coffee machine. Maybe a soy danish.  If I get caught, I can always curl up into a ball, sobbing about how my father never told me I was a man, and hope the prospect of a new client blinds them from noticing that I didn't give the coffee back. Witnessing my craft doesn't come cheap.

So much for being supportive...

Prison Cells

It's hard for me to believe my cell phone increased my productivity as much as I tried to fool myself into believing it would when I was trying to justify the pricetag. Sure, it's got a touch keypad as well as a physical keyboard. Any kindergarten apple counter will tell you I'll be able to type twice as fast as normal.

What I didn't count was all the free shit I would download, turning my phone into a hole into which I chucked every spare second. Any game I enjoyed during my stint on this miserable earth could be had in a matter of seconds if you could rhyme or describe it in monosyllables.

Such classics as PIE SHAPED YELLOW MONSTER WHO EATS GHOSTS, CRABBLE, and Russian puzzle game MOVING BLOCK SHAPES killed my phone's memory faster than a tequila bender. Likewise exterminated were most friendships, unable to tolerate my eyes wandering to the device in my hand like it was a ginormous pair of silicone knockers.

My ex-employer would tell you it was this developing addiction that got me fired (Though I bet it was him catching his daughter masturbating to pictures of me playing on the company softball team. Only a court-ordered cease and desist will clear that discrepancy.)

Still find myself staring at the screen during red lights despite the anti-text laws. I know a targeting law when I see one, and I haven't been under 21 in more years than I'll admit to a naive college freshman. For some reason, reading a dialogue between dimwitted Maine housewives about their kids' messy rooms or an urgent email about my dwindling erection seems worth the potential $100 fine.

I'm sure I'll be able to afford it once all the bullshit I write on my phone at the gym pays off. Until then, find another arc trainer, stupid.