Cow Pie vs. Ruger .44

USA vs. China

Let's Form a Suicide Pact :)

Suicide pacts are funny. According to the first sentence of the Wikipedia "suicide pact" entry: A suicide pact describes the suicides of two or more individuals in an agreed-upon plan.

Not to be confused with the super-sheep that take part in mass suicides such as the Heaven's Gate Cult. Nope, instead of following the ass in front of you into the slaughterhouse, this is more along the lines of wearing matching jerseys to a sporting event. Baaaaa, let's all kill ourselves.

Shakespeare's most well-known play, I think it's called Rockafaldo and Juliet, made suicide pacts seem cool. Instead of just sneaking off to live their lives together in infinite bliss, they offed each other with poison. I guess that's neat. When I had to read it in school I always thought to myself, "So I can't wear a shirt that says FART on it, but I can read stories about self-inflicted death over a skank. That's super."   

I've always wondered, how much planning goes into these life-ending decisions. Do people make a note on a calendar or is it more like shoplifting a candy bar, you know do it quick before you wimp out.

I guess there has to be a note or some sort of statement of fact that confirms the joint decision. Most importantly, if it is a "save-the-date" sort of thing, how many get canceled or postponed indefinitely because of weather, fear and laziness? 

Another thing that bothers me is ,in most cases, these couples, troubled triads and like-minded people love each other. What? I don't want someone I love to die, I want some jerk to die. I'd only join a suici-pact if the following people were on the list with me: Jay Leno, The Aflac Duck, Charles Manson, Bruno Mars, Lebron James, Any religious TV Evangelist or any run of the mill child molester.

I'd clean house and be known as a the world's best janitor. A real martyr the public could get behind, not just some foreigner from a loser country with an agenda that only makes sense to him and a deity that doesn't exist. I'd be, dare I say...(dramatic pause)... a hero.

Look for a letter in the mail if I hate you. It'll be a brochure with sweet colors, pics and convincing points why you should join me in jumping off the top of Bank of America Plaza aka The Big Green Pickle in downtown Dallas.

I'm pretty sure I can make this happen. My skills in persuasion can only be rivaled by my tedious deidication to the logistics it will take to complete the mission. See you jerks at "The Pickle"...(yet another dramatic pause)...soon.

Jesus Spoke to me Today

I ran into Jesus today, at work. He works in the same complex as I do at a roofing company. I enjoy our conversations. I've spoke to Jesus once before about truck tires and rims.

We also discuss the weather and current events, but today was different. He told me to tell the world of his message.

So here it is:

"My brother's dog just had a litter of pit bull puppies. If you know anyone wanting a dog let know." Amen. Let the world rejoice and follow his voice to the promise land.

Let us pray that the brother of Jesus has both sets of papers for the parents of the litter. For it is written, that the value of a puppy is directly proportional to the evidence that ensures it is indeed a pure breed.

Mexican Cinema

I watch a lot of Telemundo and Univision. Last night I saw a movie so bad that I sat and watched the whole damn thing from beginning to end. So here's a list of what makes a great/bad Mexican movie.

1. Somehow, some way, the lead character will ride a horse at some point.

2. There is a reoccurring, errant chicken in  background shots.

3. Actors on camera seem surprised when the movie ends.

4. The boom mic, it might as well be a character. I see its plentiful and sporadic appearances as a potential drinking game.

5. When a character uses the phone he uses his index finger to dial. Who the hell does that? The thumb is the only way to go. Just try doing it, you'll see what I mean.

6. And when the phone rings, the character that's supposed to answer is staring at it waiting, as if he's telepathic.

7. Somehow every gunfight occurs in a rock quarry.

8. Actors using firearms ,that apparently, have never shot a gun before. A little firearms training goes a long way. When the villain slays people with his Desert Eagle it would be nice if he didn't flinch like a little bitch.

9. Every stinking car is a piece of crap. Last night the hero of the movie drove a Corsica. The villain drove a Cavalier.

10. The random use of midgets and the need for dogs that have the ability to talk.

11. Random, unexpected and pointless nudity. This is a big plus.

12. The men are unproportionally ugly to the women in the movie that are as hot as Telemundo weather chicks.

13. At some point, a meeting between key characters will take place in a strip club.

14. There will be at least 10 images of the Virgin Mary. Look for it to appear in the background hanging on the wall or when the stripper goes to kill the priest that betrayed her.  

15. Black people that speak Spanish. They add that in because it's totally odd to see a brother speaking Spanish.

The Blood/Crip Hybrid Project

Well I did it. A feat once thought unattainable, now can be seen and touched by the cynics and the dreamers. The speed of science is now in pace with the beat of the human heart and this is an exciting time.

A time where the convergence of cultures mix without volatile conflict, a time where change is a positive. The journey was longer than I thought it would be. The path needed to be made by a trailblazer.

As my footprints chronicled the journey, the world followed in anticipation. My legacy will exist beyond the dirt. A thousand mountain switchbacks lay in front of me, to my back, the progress.

Along the way I had a great deal of help. I'd like to thank my local livestock farmer, the apathetic police and the clueless fools that never thought to pursue the solution.

The genetics of two opposite polar minds. The culture of crime defined, now infiltrated by good people hoping to not be needed in the future. A prayer for obsoleteness, a prayer for peace. The culmination of lives well lived and tranquility the reward. The plague of gang violence in our fair cities will be no more.  

The CRIP/BLOOD hybrid is born. Created by science in hopes of preventing the violence. He could be our most powerful weapon to fight crime from the inside. Pressing through the cell wall of the social clicks and into the nucleus of the problem.
We took blood from a BLOOD and a CRIP to fuse their DNA as one. It was easy gathering the gang member DNA, "they blood is already on da street. Truth."

After splicing the BLOOD/CRIP DNA, we were left with a man named Gary. He was our gamble on life and ethics. Our bold mission is to unite the world between the playas and the haterz.

Sadly, things haven’t gone well in this noble attempt at curbing urban crime. Good intentions and results often find themselves at a crossroads. Every now and then, results shakes hands with good intentions and they agree to see other people.

Gary ended up being a chatty, effeminate dude in a purple tracksuit. We knew red and blue made purple, but we never saw this coming. Possible infiltration into certain circles is uncertain. He’s made a splash on the club scene, but has not returned any info on gang activity.

He has managed to amass a very impressive collection of shoes and dating a man named Domm. They are planning to buy a tea-cup poodle together. So I guess, at least Gary’s assimilation into society was a success.

All that stuff I was saying in the beginning disregard. Starting ,effective immediately, my exit from genetic tampering begins.

I've got a bathtub of lamb afterbirth I’m just going to throw away. So come by if you want it for some reason. I won’t judge. I just figure since it’s sort of hard to find there’s got to be someone that might want it. Gary just sort of birthed himself and left without cleaning up his cocoon juice. Who knew genetics would be such a challenge.

But know this, I will stay dedicated to preventing blood shed over people's favorite colors, lowering the number of chicken-heads and I will do my best to ensure "represent'in" never exceeds regulation. East Coast/West Coast same Erf, Blue/Red just a shirt, we all the human race and they be no finish. Improper grammar...word and truth. Really, real talk and what not.

If you run into Gary tell him I'd like to talk to him about some missing prescription drugs that were prescribed to me after a dental procedure that seem to be missing. I'm  not mad, I'd just like him to remove my personal information from the bottle before he trades it for Ecstasy.

As a child...

...I thought nipples were a genetic defect. After my first trip to a public pool the world made sense.

Hip-Hop is Our Only Hope

The Gross Domestic Product of the United States is in the red, the numerous unemployed are considering Anarchy and the value of the dollar is so low it's more profitable to shoplift liquor than rob a bank. The outlook is a tad bit bleak. The 5 year plan of most is to simply stay a step ahead of suicidal-inducing debt. Of course, not everyone is circling the drain.

Remarkably, the hip-hop artist has felt none of the plight affecting the rest of world. According to every fresh-beat practitioner and lyric spitter, they're reporting (representing) record amounts of wealth. Their lyrics speak of "stacks of Benjamins", successful sale of illicit drugs and massive spending on luxury items. Sure they speak of the occasional "chickenhead that tests they patience", but bitches be crazy. We all know dat.

I recently purchased a mix tape/CD from a rapper in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Even though the quality and production of the recording is total bush-league, his lyrics speak of throwing money at strip club employees, profitable racketeering and the lobster he takes home in foil swans. I've noticed it helps to spend a great deal of money on ill-fitting clothing with a dash of violence tossed towards women.

So the question remains, why don't we employ every last one of these successful individuals. Put them in office. Hand our government over to them so they can right the ship. They've figured out how to overcome the economic enigma that puzzles our elected officials. All these singers, rappers and producers need for revenue is, "a mic in they hands."

The entrepreneur/record mogul I met in the Wal-Mart parking lot told me he was "keeping it real", and I believed him. "They won't let me sell my shit near the door, but they let those Girl Scouts sell they cookies all day long. That old-ass door greeter is racist," said the record mogul as I loaded a ridiculous amount of generic off-brand cereal into my car. It's hard to believe the geriatric man that gave me a smiley-face sticker is evil, but racists are a lot like cross-dressers. They often reveal their true self in the bathroom or at a Klan meeting.

It really was amazing the success this artist had achieved despite the amount of oppression he had to overcome. They can virtually perfect their money-making craft in any habitat. It was inspiring. Every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings and every time a computer is purchased a music producer is born. After that, unbridled positive cash flow to follow.

So it's time to jump on the band-wagon with sick 24 inch blades. It's time to chase a dream my friends. It's time to put words together where the last word in the sentence rhymes with the one before it. My hope is to unleash my musical talents on the public. Like a blind-drunk frat boy pissing on an ant hill, I will flood the underground.

I've done Karaoke on the toilet in the past, but this time it's for real. The acoustics in the shitter are magical. With that said, the restroom shall be my recording studio. Add a little dash of Garage Band to produce my beats and then I make it rain (dollar bills).

So, down with the haters, up with the players. Here's my first music video about how tense it can get during a dance-fight at the club. I will know be known as Talcolm X aka Kalgone.



I went ahead and did a "Behind the Music" for when I mess it all up. The marketing machine is demanding. Real talk.  


 

It's Just Money

I never would of thought I'd have a better credit rating than the country in which I reside. There's a fine line between terrorist, anarchist and patriot. It's all about point of view. If we didn't label them we couldn't tell them apart. Never underestimate someone willing to die for what they believe.
Attacks on an enemy without fear of stepping on the toes of morality happens everyday. In our newspapers, the terrorists are referred to as self-righteous, delusional zealots. Motivated by their own perverted beliefs.

Our elected leaders are "C" students without street-smarts. Their minds powered by self-preservation. Never questioning the repercussions of their actions or lack there of. We elect lawyers and cowards, then act surprised when they make us grab our ankles.

The funny thing about terrorism is you never get a chance to label yourself. We leave that job up to people who are self-righteous, delusional zealots. Motivated by their own perverted beliefs.

See what I did there...Yeah, I'm real deep. 

My Shoulder, Your Shelf

It's not a lack of pride, but a lack of money. I mean, I could blow my money on clothes, haircuts and pedi's, but I think gas is more important. I have no problem with being the disheveled dude at role call. At least I didn't have to ride the bus to get there.

I got a problem with getting haircuts. I won't pay $40 for a trim, so that means most of the time I go to this place called Economy Cuts. For real, that's the name. It's owned by an Asian family and their militant mother always bullies me into a shampoo I didn't want or need. She got that $3 extra bucks out of me every time, that's right, she scared me.

So when I moved, I thought "lets start a new life with a new cost efficient stylist." That's just what I did, I stepped into another low-rent salon and proclaimed that I needed a haircut. Of course, the only person available was Raul, a plucky Asian/Mexican male that was "fabulous" and seemed to purposely rub his junk on my shoulder when he would trim my sideburns.

I get the whole gay thing, do what you feel I guess, but my inner redneck ,I hide daily, is screaming at me to never let this man's junk take a seat on my shoulder ever again. I sat petrified till it was over like a kitten being mounted by a German Shepard.

Well, like a jackass I went back to the place. It wasn't that I missed Raul's manhood on my shoulder, it was the fact I'm a sucker for convenience, so I rolled the dice. In the hopes of drawing a different stylist that didn't have the propensity to perch his or her dick on my shoulder like a blue jay. See what I did there? Even if Raul was a herm, transgender or post-op I still don't like it. Equality.

As I enter, I see a short Hispanic lady sitting in her chair as if she's waiting for the next customer. Raul sees me and he's got on one of those shirts with the samurai picture on it that dudes wear in clubs when they plan on dance-fighting.

I immediately shot like a rocket to the senorita and she happily took me in and protected me from another genital shoulder perching. As I told her what I wanted, the next best thing other than having a dick on my shoulder happened. She stopped me, in mid-sentence, so a fellow employee could come over and translate to her ,in Spanish, what I wanted.

Evidentially, "clean up the back" and "just a little off the sides" in English, translates into "Carve this jerk up and make him look like Charlie Brown." Whatever, still better than Raul's unit on my shoulder I suppose.

Initially I thought I was better off, but when reflecting on the ordeal I really wasn't. As I looked in the mirror, the pale white skin of my scalp shined through stubble is a telling sign that's there's no way in hell a gay dude cut your hair. Raul would of never done this to me. Today I learned it might be best to look past someone's genitals perched on your shoulder and take notice of their mastery in their craft.

At this point "being cool" isn't a necessity. Being "cool for a white guy" is more my aspirations. Bend with the trends I suppose. I plan on making a support group for middle-class males that share this ailment. We'll get this together. Of course, I'd probably end up with a bunch of dudes that dig a good set of "gens" on their shoulder. Never mind. I suppose it's my twig and berries to bear.

Fat Ladies, Ice Cream and Pedophiles

Sometimes things that seem unrelated meet at a crossroads to form a logical picture we all can understand. Certain combinations find their way to each other organically though chance and destiny. You can't alter destiny, it's an unstoppable force. I prefer to just call it "the future."

I recently discovered pork rinds and chocolate have such a relationship. I thought I invented something new, but sadly there is actually a candy bar ready for national launch that is indeed bacon bits inside a chocolate bar. Look for it to pop up near the register in a few months at your local junk-mart. Some might think this marriage of flavor is disturbing. So did I, till I experienced the sweet-salty fiesta that took place on my skeptical pallet.

Some combinations you just see coming. PB n J, strippers and cocaine or soccer and boredom, the similarities greet us with a hello and we accept them.

And we can all agree that fat chicks and pedophiles will have their freezers fully stocked with ice cream. Their motivation could be characterized as polar opposites, but science should still take notice of the correlation.

Streetfighter 2: Under the Microscope

I'm not really a gamer. I find most video games a total waste of time and life. However, when I was kid I was not above the Street Fighter II craze. Does anyone remember Street Fighter I? I don't either. The picture on the left  is from the first one. Is Ryu fighting O.J.?

It's funny to look back and see how lame something can be, that was once deemed cool. The odd thing about the ancient game is it's ability to be just as disturbing as current game titles that are far more of an affront to decency.

"Oh my god, you can see up Chung Li's skirt when she falls down!" said an overstimulated youth. Yeah that was hot, but the question still remains. Is it right for a 400 lb. plus Sumo Wrestler to beat the holy-hell out of a 4 foot tall Asian lady? Sure she can fight and she has that fast kick thing, but geez, now that I look back, that match-up doesn't even seem ethical.

Oh and another thing, I just noticed most of the fighting never takes place on the street. In fact, I never saw a traffic light or parking meter. I'm just saying, don't call it a street when your fighting in Dhalsim's temple, that's offensive.

Then there's the whole issue of Guile. His hair is far from regulation and organizing fights around a multi-million dollar jet just seems foolish. Or how about when he goes abroad to kick people's asses in other countries. All the while, wearing his uniform. That's almost an act of war. I would at least not dress in Army issue fatigues, I doubt the Army would want to be part of a underground fighting tournament.

And what race are Ken and Ryu supposed to be? Are they Asian, White or Robots? They got plasma cannons in their hands, I feel labeling them as robots isn't out of line. And, why does Ehonda look like Richard Nixon? Did they not think we'd notice?

Don't even get me started on Blanca.  I'm so very, very disillusioned.  

10 Things I Hope Never Happen

1. Squirrels become carnivores and their agility in the trees shifts from cute to freighting.
2. The ice caps melt and swimming becomes a chore instead of a joy.

3. Herpes become a fashion statement.

4. The outlawing of cheese.

5. Doritos become guitar picks, guitar picks become Doritos. (Think about it.)

6. The resurrection of Michael Bolton's career.

7. Lady Bugs become our national currency.

8. The death of Whiplash the rodeo monkey.

9. Metallica and P Diddy collaborate. Diddy says "yeah" 5598 times on their debut album. People still buy it.

10. Robots become self-aware and realize if they never poop, they can never be human. Through efforts beyond our understanding they achieve their goal, but lack proper hygiene. Leaving us to live in a world with shit covered robots and our computers must now reside in litter boxes.

10 Ways to Make a Splash at the Christmas Party

1. Viciously network with everyone. Enter contact info of all the folks you encounter at the party. It's good to get this done as soon as possible so you can start emailing and texting them during the party. In this lightening fast world everyone at the party needs to know your views. Enlighten them about your thought-provoking blog, send them a link to a cat video and complain in real-time about the decor, host and lackluster food presented at the party. Your opinion matters.

2. During step 1 ,the networking phase, make it known you're a recovering alcoholic as you drink a double Cape Cod (vodka/cranberry juice). Make sure to say "This is our little secret," as you point at the glass. Feel free to down the drink as you walk off.

3. If you've got a scar, show it off! If you don't have proof you've lived a remarkable life, keep showing people your belly button. Either way, tell a different yarn every time you get an audience. Continuity of a story is only important if you're asking for donations.

4. Commandeer the sound system. Proclaim any seasonal music is "tarded" and put on Paper Planes by MIA. The perfectly modulated gunshots often distract from a lack of dancing skills. The song is around 5 minutes long, so everyone at the party will be sure to see your act of representation.

5. Be gracious, use a napkin and ask any Jewish person present "Why are you here?"

6. Carry the board game Pictionary around the party. If anyone shows interest in wanting to play, scream at them "I don't play games!!!"

7. Walk around handing people Tylenol. Be mysterious and aloof about it. "Every one's going to take their Ecstasy at Midnight so we can all trip together," as you pull your collar down to reveal a baby pacifier on a candy necklace.

8. If you have a pet or pets bring them, but make sure they're dressed festive.

9. Wear a hat that proclaims your personal belief about abortion. Perhaps a fetus on a baseball cap like a mascot of a sport team. What the fetus is doing is your constitutional choice.

10. Tap a glass with some flatware to arouse attention. Announce it's time to move the party outside. Now you are the Shepard. Lead the sheeple to the veranda. As soon as this is achieved, explain the plot of your favorite Christmas movie Die Hard. Then quickly move them back inside. To hell with the host, some people ,such as yourself, are born leaders. Taming one's charisma is only cool if you're Asian. 

Bert Branches Out

Dating Profile

Name: Burt

Location: Sesame Street

Sex: Male?

Favorite Color: Limes!

Occupation: Teaching kids how to clean up after themselves and being angry.

Favorite Movies: Reservoir Dogs, A Fist Full of Dollars, Thelma and Louise

Hobbies: Discussions about minorities, amateur aviation and depression.

What I do for fun: I like to stand under the shower when you turn it off. As the water pressure lessens the remaining water dribbles out like your being pissed on by a giant or a horse. It makes me feel like I'm somebody.

About Me: Greetings, my name is Burt. I'm new to the dating scene and was looking for a caring lady that can keep up with my unique lifestyle. Most of my time is spent shaving my head to look like a felt tip marker. Despite my shaving regiment, I do have a monumental uni brow, I think it makes me mysterious. I'm very close to my roommate Ernie. We share a room with matching twin beds and I'm often annoyed at everything he does, yet I stick around. I stay out of pity, since I think he might be mentally disabled. I promise I will keep him in the closet when you come over.

Air Horns

I love air horns. My little brother just upgraded the horn on his K-5 Blazer. It's almost 3 times  louder than the legal decibel limit allowed on our highways and byways. Needless to say, the middle finger of opposing motorist has diminished in its effectiveness when the retort is undeniable audible power. The deaf community is his only worthy adversary.

I buy an air horn at least once a month. Not once have I ever used it for its intended purpose. No where on the packaging does it illustrate how well it can scare your pets.


The air horn is also a fantastic way to end a conversation. It eliminates that moment of purgatory when both parties run out of things to say to one another. As you say the last word make the period be heard with a ferocious air horn blast and simply walk away.


One of the best uses of an air horn is to announce when it's time to go to bed. Wait till everyone's in their beds for about 15 minutes, then fire off a blast. Everyone under your roof will sleep soundly knowing it's officially time to go to sleep.


In many cases an air horn replaces a fart that just isn't there. We're only human, but the air horn isn't.  

Why should we restrict ourselves to only having a horn while operating a vehicle? The technology is there for the taking and I say take advantage of it as much as possible. A portable horn let's everyone know what you're all about. It tells people "I'm here and I got this whole scene under control." 

I once had a dream about an air horn. Would you like to hear it? (Mat blasts an air horn at his computer monitor.) That was a really deep joke wasn't it? 

Anyways, in my dream I was at a Texas Ranger game. They're the professional baseball team that came in second in the World Series twice, back to back, perhaps you've heard of their dormant greatness. I know there greatness and in my dream I was in the stands holding a rally sign and brandishing an ungodly loud air horn. The whole scene was totally tits. My sign read in big letters, "I've Got an Air Horn!!!" 

Is it too stupid to make this dream reality? Is too stupid to get on Sport Center or is it just stupid enough? Only time will tell. I already own an air horn, making the sign shouldn't take too much work. I might add some Lisa Frank stickers for flair. The next step is to wait until the first pitch of the upcoming season. Then no longer will I be a dreamer, but a doer. 

A Letter to a Post 2012 World

If you are reading this the world must of ended. Either you're an alien-being colonizing the charred remains of our planet, a mutant-zombie or I'm your ancestor. We sort of scoffed at the whole Aztec calendar thing. Honestly, we were too busy and their attire was too ridiculous for us to take them seriously. As a general rule ,we humans, are a reactionary species that tends to be a bit self involved.

The planet Earth was an okay place when we were alive. Some us did great things. We cured diseases, built things beyond our own comprehension and we were the master of all species. We even enslaved each other at different times in our history. It was an effective way to get things done, but not practical. Slaves always seem to get pissed and revolt.

Sometimes we killed each other, sometimes we loved one another and the rest of the time we watched reality TV shows. TV is short for television. We used it for entertainment and to dilute our minds. Which reminds me, if you see any relics from our culture with the words "Jersey Shore" on it, feel free to burn it for warmth.

We also had a lot of gods we prayed to for salvation and enlightenment. Then we would fight over who was right. Some people even felt there wasn't a celestial plain, they merely existed. Needless to say there was friction between the factions. Do your best to get everyone on the same page. It will speed up the progress of your fledgling civilization greatly.

Whatever you see is your's I guess. It really doesn't matter who's is what anymore. Do your best to keep that thought in mind. Our culture often got caught up in territorial pissing matches over the dirt your standing on and everything that had any conceivable value. We loved to act smart and take pride in our ignorance.

The other thing you should know about us is we were the best and worst species on this planet. For every great conquest a thousand atrocities followed. A great deal of the bad things just happened, others we knowingly caused. It's not an admission of guilt just a statement of fact.

There's something else you should know. I'd recommend using whatever advanced technologies you might have to cure what our kind referred to as "Cancer." It killed us from the beginning of time till the end of our present.

Other than that, here's the keys to what's left of our planet. Armed with this knowledge you should be able to build a utopia. Of course, I'm dead so you'll probably ignore my warnings. I know that's what I'd do.

So with that said, I pass on to you the arrogance my generation left me. Sometimes it will get you into trouble, sometimes it will make you look foolish and on rare occasions it's the only thing that matters. When arrogance worked in your favor we called it "pride."

We were kings of our world, but we willingly retarded our progress. Nothing we did was totally perfect, but we did it our way. Fail to plan, plan to fail I guess.

Thanksgiving and the Missing Deer Testicle

Respect and love keep you steadfast like an old dog tied to the porch. The story involves a person you've never met, yet it's critical you know the name of the man that grew the biggest watermelons in Lampasas county. In the distance you can hear another conversation between a toddler and another elder about the financial benefits of purchasing the generic version of Lipitor.

Despite your efforts to eat healthy over the past few years, you're wrong. The decision to not eat trans-fats means nothing. You often wonder if between baking margarine-laden treats, members of the family moonlight as drug dealers. They even talk like a pusher, "If you just try it once I know you'll like it." All they see is a harmless little cookie. I see a synthetic polymer that causes the hardening of arteries.
 

Of course, if you let them know about your fear of high blood pressure, that opens another door. In some cases you might see some of the extended family only a few times a year and that time is spent talking ,in depth, about hypertension. They don't want to prevent it or listen to your theory on Spam being worse than cigarettes. They just want to talk about anything to anyone. It's better just to nod up and down.

The oddest part of the whole day is supervising the television. For most folks the selected background noise is either a parade or a football game. Then one of the olds grabs the controller to watch the weather channel and ends up on the Maury Show. As I hear bleeping and a discussion about adultery I walk in to see all the old folks looking at the TV with judgmental faces.. " We were looking for the weather channel and "your" TV landed on this channel," says an aunt in an accusatory manner.

As the announcement is made that the feast is ready, the children's discussion on "What is a Lipitor?" ceases. The young and old migrate to the chow line. The big moment is upon us and all the generations are finally on the same page.

All the food is assembled into breathtaking entrees. The turkey, the stuffing and something that you mistook for a centerpiece is now on the menu. "Sure I'd like some of...uh...that," you say, as a giant spoon is pointed at you like a weapon.

As the first few bites are taken, the compliments flutter about. All the hard work of the chefs comes full circle as they are showered with accolades. Then, like a sniper with a perfectly aimed bullet, one family member will ask why there isn't any marshmallows on the sweet potatoes and the love-fest is over.



The Liposaurus

The next 4o seconds of awkward silence is all the peace and quiet you're going to get all day. Cherish it. Then wait for the next comment to break the tension. It will be random. It will be awesome. "That buck I tagged this year only had one testicle," says one uncle. Yeah, there you go.

"Is this what they were talking about?" asks a child as they hand me their phone. "They were talking about a pill people take when they're sick, but what you've found is far more interesting," I reply.

Hey Guys, Rick Ross Here...

Hi, my name is Rick Ross. I have a cell a phone. I use it to sell drugs. I talk about breaking and entering properties illegally. I realize I'm far too obese to even climb through a window.

Thanks again for recognizing I wear red bottom shoes. I poop a lot and it takes a whole bar of Dove soap to clean me.

I am very gansta and I make a great deal of money illegally. Then I tell millions how I do it. I once had a seizure like an inbred tea-cup poodle on an airplane.

I also like to promote drugging people and molesting them while they sleep. In my mind the difference between rap and rape is just one letter.

It hurts when I go number two. My booty is mad at me 'cause I go boom-boom too much.

Please continue to mortgage what remains of your life as you purchase what I call music. I will take your money and buy things I don't need. I hope to buy enough things to fill the hole in my soul where the talent used to be. I'd like to remind everyone that I have a cell phone and shoes with red bottoms.

I'm pointless,

Rick Ross

P.S. - I desperately need to be milked. Please embrace me from behind and cup my melons. You may keep the salty excretion as a souvenir. Try me in coffee or as a substitute for buttermilk when you make biscuits.  

A Clown Story

Tuesday night the sky filled with the smell of burnt rubber and wigs. The wind swept the undeniable smell all about. The town folk rushed to the scene hoping to lend aid. For you see, everyone in the town already knew the accident would be messy.

The clowns left town around 9:30 in the morning. They were leaving Manitoba Canada to get to a gig in Salem Mass. So they packed up their GEO Metro and began the journey. This was their passion and profession.

The group of 4 clowns never made it. They're plush rubbery clown noses were their down fall. Not a single one could smell the danger. A pickle bucket full of gasoline lay in wait in the back of the hatchback. Needless to say, this wasn't an accident. It was murder. The assailant knew these clowns were chain-smokers. It was only a matter of time.

Four clowns dead. As Molesto "The Scary Clown" lit his cig the whole car erupted in flames. These clowns were stars, now they were "literally" stars. Like mini-supernovas with flaming appendages covered in melting rubber hoping for death, none of the deaths were quick.

As the gathered mass watched on, they all began to smile. Then to laugh out loud. They knew the clowns would want it that way. To go out with a laugh.

Of course the other half of the town was laughing because these clowns , a staple of the community for years, were bad. The other group of people were members of a generation of adults that had been repeatedly fondled by the clowns at an early age. The memory remains and now Karma and perhaps vengeance has taken over.

So the moral of the story is, if a clown dies just think of them as a child molester. It's just easier on you.