The Unveiling of Mrs. Moog

She's the hottest chick in the Hangman game.

Let me explain.

From time to time here, I mention my wife, Jen.

I try not to do this too often, as she often expects royalties from publishing her name here.

Since I've made roughly 53 fucking cents on this site, it hardly seems worth it.

Gold digger.

I've also never posted a picture of myself past high school on this blog - and, therefore, never posted one of my wife, either.

Until now.

You see...my daughter, Payton...

Likes to draw.

We really wish she'd take up another hobby.

Like, inventing something that makes her rich and is able to then support her deadbeat parents who, in all honesty, don't really feel like putting in the effort anymore.

For anything (helping out, raising children, working, self pleasuring, etc.).

I've digressed.

But, yeah, my daughter likes to draw.

So...

Without further ado, I present to you...

Mrs. Moog!


NICE.

This is a drawing my daughter, Payton, did of my wife at school last year.

I particularly like the fact that:

1) half of her head is shaved bald

2) she has one ear

3) apparently, the top of her nose could pop balloons

4) she has no feet

5) she suffers from a major case of elephantitis of the skull

On a related note: a woman with these actual qualities would make the highest grossing porn movie of all time.

Don't ask me how I know that.

(Call me)

Also, my daughter believes that my wife has tilted, oval boobs that are directly in line with her armpits.

Hey...Payton...

Why couldn't you draw mom with elephantitis of THOSE?

Um...

In the picture, I mean, honey.

I'm perfectly happy with your oval armpit boobs the way they are.

Ah, shit.

I'm SO owing her money after this.

Good luck collecting!!

I've hidden that 53 cents pretty well.

Oh. Joy.

I turned 41 today.

41.

Forty fucking one.

Oh. Look.

My ear just fell off.

That's just fucking awesome.

Born to be Wildfire

Dear Fucknut,

You don't know me, but I know you.

You see...

...I'm the poor bastard who had the privilege of driving behind your car today...

...on my motorcycle...

...on the highway.

And I hate you.

I hate the fact that I had to stare at your two kids in the backseat.

Not because they looked like the redheaded spawn of Satan...

...and not because they kept doing the "Beep your horn with the pull-down handle" arm-motion...

(seriously...I'm on a fucking motorcycle NOT a goddamn 18-wheeler...do your kids actually go to fucking school or are you driving them to detox?)


No, I hate you because as you drove in front of me at 80 miles an hour...

...your little shithead kids were obviously able to annoy me relentlessly...

...because they were unbuckled.

This means I know at least one thing about you without ever having to meet you:

You're. Fucking. Stupid.

Realizing this, I should have seen what was coming:

Lit cigarette flung out your driver's side window.

*THUNK*

Nice.

Right off my facemask...

...and onto my lap.

Thank you.

Nothing like catching on fire on the way to work to start your fucking day.


Me: "HONNEEE...IMF HOOUUUMME!"

Wife: "How's was your day?"

Me: "Unggn...COT ONF FIRE AN NOW NY WIPS ARE BORND OTH."

Wife: "That's good. It's trash day, don't forget."

Jesus H. Christ.

Even when melted, I can't catch a fucking break.


Back to you, Mr. Driver McAsswipe...

Were you done?

FUCK NO!

Apparently - and, oh, lucky me...

...your windshield was dirty.

What better time to clean your fucking windshield then on the highway at 80 miles an hour with me behind you on a motorcycle?

Yeah, I can't think of one, either.

On the bright side:

I now smell of lemony freshness!


Plus, you managed to douse the fire in my balls with the cascading waterfall of windshield washer fluid you hosed on me.

Many thanks.

I, in turn, have repaid you in kind.

When you ask your little kids where they learned how to give the finger to someone, you'll have me to thank.

You're welcome.

Drive safely.

Jackass.

Summer Reruns - My Foray Into the Porn Industry

My second and LAST of the summer reruns today

The following post was originally done in December of 2007 titled:

Is there a 401(k)?

...and, as is appropriate for December, full of holiday cheer.

Yeah..

It's about porn.

The gift that keeps on giv..UUNNNNGGHHH!!

Nevermind.

I'm done giving now.

The post has been remasturbated for your protection.

Enjoy.

*************************
Is there a 401(k)?

Blah, Blah, Blah.

This is what I doodled in my notebook at a work meeting the other day...as I was listening to the ramblings of people I don't care about talk about shit I don't like to do.

...and it got me thinking about Dream Jobs.

Now, granted, I don’t have the most awful job in the world.

I work in the tech industry, I get to wear jeans and – occasionally – my Underdog t-shirt to work...

LOOK OUT, LADIES!!

...and I’m paid reasonably well.


This is in stark contrast to the janitor in my building.

The janitor gets paid shit, has to wear an outfit, and – on the rear occasion – must wipe up the remnants of an episode of explosive diarrhea in the men’s room.

As a side note, please notice that I said "Men’s Room” – not “Ladies Room” - as ladies don’t have diarrhea…as I’m convinced that they don’t poo.

..little poo fairies come and take it away in their sleep.

This is what happens.

I firmly believe this.


I need to maintain this fantasy, so I can continue to look women in the face without picturing them sitting on the john with their wrists under their knees, hiking their legs up to their chin, trying to get leverage to push out the anaconda that’s been building up since the Mexican dinner the night before.

Again, ladies don’t poo.

Please let me have this dream.

Regardless...

So we know that this guy gets paid dogshit to essentially clean up our pee stains.


I feel for this guy…I really do.

And I know, deep down inside, he hates my fucking guts.

I know he resents the fact that he has to go through his day looking at me in my Underdog shirt, making 5 times the money he is, and say:

“How the fuck did that asshole get here…and why am I picking up his dingleberries?”

(..for maximum effect, say the above line with a Mexican accent..maybe add the word "Homes" or "taco" to the end of it..)


I also know he hates me because, when I do have the pleasure of seeing him in the bathroom I do the following:

1) Say "hi," as to catch his eye

2) Flick a booger on the wall over the urinal

3) I pee on the edge of the urinal (extra points if you’re at the short urinal, and actually pee on TOP of it near the handle)

4) Put the water on full blast so as it sprinkles the entire countertop as I’m washing my hands (after letting the soap drizzle from the dispenser all over the counter, of course)

5) Wipe my hands and then drop the paper towel directly on the floor…only an inch wide of the basket

6) Call him a “fucking peasant” as I leave

So I have this weird feeling that he hates me.


Anyway, so I started thinking of dream jobs…I mean…if I could have ANY job in the world, what would it be?

Now, for the ladies out there, I believe this is the common answer (as I hear this ALL the time):

A Woman on her dream job:

“I want a job where I can work part time hours, but still get paid well. The part time hours would give me the time to take care of my kids in the morning, and be home for them in the afternoon. But I’d still want a job that was challenging and fun, and that my kids would respect me for.”

Everyone:

Awwwww.

Nice answer.

Respectable.

We applaud you.

Except for Jim...just ignore him.

He just likes to masturbate into Dixie Cups. Don't try to stop him because he has really really good aim.

Don't ask me how I know this.

Now...

A MAN on his dream job:

“Adult film star or professional masturbator.”

Done.

That’s right.

Dream jobs for a guy include some type of face contorting.


Now THAT’S what job satisfaction is all about.

(…as a side note, if there’s a woman out there reading this who thinks, “that WOULD be a great job”, call me)

Now, you can make a MODEST living by doing this via sperm bank…

However, the cost of skin grafts sometimes outweighs the benefits.

Also there’s no live action other than the prospect of “you being the director.”

When I say 'being the director' I mean "deciding whether or not you’re going to direct it to the left, or direct it to the right".


I know that some guys out there are saying that their dream job is, like, “sportscaster…or maybe video game tester…” or some other shit.

Liar.

Think DREAM job – if you could do anything, anything in the world and get paid for it, wouldn’t it be porno?

Fucking ay, right.

Of COURSE it would.

Really – would you rather be:

1) On the sidelines of the local High School soccer team as they go for win #3! This time...it's personal!

2) Trying to get past level 3 of Duke Nuke' em you fucking fucking LOSER

3) In the middle of take #15 of the movie "One guy...16 bisexual women"

Yeah.

#3.

I thought so.

(..as a side note, let me say that another guy in the scene is okay...as long as I don't have to touch it...)


I’m sure every single man out there – including you gay men – have thought about being in the adult film industry.

You know, you’re there with your tissue in one hand, small chihuahua in the other...

...watching “Rambone 2” and saying:

“Hey…I could be that guy...his dick’s not THAT big…”

Seriously – how hard can it be?

(that's what the fluffer said)

I mean, runaways get sucked into the goddamn industry without trying.

If you ARE trying, it HAS to be easy.

In fact, with the advent of the amateur and fetish industry, ANYONE can get into it.

Shit...

There’s movies with:

fat chicks / fat guys / midgets / fat midgets / Asians / Blacks / Blacks and Asians / lesbians / gays / bi’s / fat-chicks and skinny guys…

...you name it, there’s a category for it.

Christ, there’s even a category for people who like to get shit on.

GET. SHIT. ON.

Wtf.

I want to know who the first person was to market that as a goddamn fetish..and how did it come about?

I mean, was the guy and his girl messing around one night and she accidentally, like...

....shit on him?


I would have to guess that the first instance of this in the history of this poo-fetish HAD to be an accident.

There’s NO WAY someone purposefully looked at the other person in their life, and said:

“Honey. You know I love you, don’t you? I've been thinking about us. I thinnk that having a steaming pile of shit on my chest can only make our love stronger. Would you please drop a loaf in my eye?”

(just thinking that "Stinky Eye Loaf" would be a great name for a rock band)

Whatever – the adult film industry.

We’ve all thought about it.

I mean, if Ron Jeremy can get paid for sticking his giant fat hairy ass out there, isn’t there hope for the rest of us?


My problem is that I don’t think there’s a fetish out there yet that exists for me, as I have yet to see a movie titled:

SNSPE4: Short, Near-sighted, Small-penis Premature Ejaculators…Part 4

Once I see that first one, though, I’m off.

I’m short..but I don’t think I qualify as midget status.

I think I have my own category: Runt.


So, that’s what I came up with as a guy's dream job.

But, you know, the part-time stuff to help take care of the family would be nice too.

Moog out.

Motivational Filler - Hopes and Dreams

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

Motivate THIS.

(points at crotch)

Nothing to see here today...

...except a custom "motivational poster" made by yours truly over at Big Huge Labs.

Seriously...

...I have no idea how I made it almost 40 years without finding this thing.

Here's today's poster for you (click to enlarge (that's what she said)):


I know what you're thinking:

Maybe the kid should have cried a little less and she wouldn't be in this predicament.

I totally agree.

If you want to see all of my custom posters, click here.

If you like them, feel free to post them on your site.

Just give me some credit.

God knows my bank won't.

Moog out.

Stressing Out

Before I start today, just wanted to let you know that I won't be replying to comments per usual...

...as I'm taking advantage of the last week of summer and bringing my kids to an amusement park today.

By 'Taking Advantage' I mean 'Going fucking crazy.'

Pray for my safe return.

Actually...pray for my kids' safe return.

The get on my fucking nerves like you wouldn't believe.

ONWARD!!

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

Stupid fucking treadmill.

(Best opening sentence ever? Possibly!)

Let me explain.

My recent physical examination went off without a hitch.

Let's put it in my doctor's own words:

Doctor: "Rodney..I'm impressed for someone that's over 40. In fact, I would say you have body of a 20 year old."

Shit.

How he knew this, I'm not exactly sure.

I really thought I buried her pretty well.

Great.

There goes my Wednesday afternoon.

Digging...filling in...re-digging...

That shit takes time.

Perhaps I've said too much.


Regardless, although I emerged from the exam with great grades, I still had a concern.

Me: "The one thing I wanted to ask you about was my ability to do cardio."

Doctor: "I wish we were both gay. You're truly magnificent."

(I seriously need to stop watching "Scrubs")

Me: "I can only do, maybe, 15 minutes of cardio before my pulse is up to, like, 182."

Seriously. I get winded.

This is basically because I hate goddamn cardio.

I don't even like walking to my fucking car.

The doctor looked at me and said:

Doctor: "Well..let's schedule you for a stress test, then."

Great.

A stress test.


(yep...one of mine)

So, in a week, I'll be heading for my 'stress test.'

This got me thinking about tests they'd give me that would really stress me out.

Here's what I came up with:

***************************
Stress Test #1:

I'm on death row.

Apparently, my doctor doesn't understand the "No Snitchin'" doctor/patient confidentiality thing.

Fucking narc.

Whatever.

I'm on death row.

However, there is only ONE more execution allowed before the death penalty is abolished...and it's up to the guards to decide who gets killed.

They are deciding who this will be using one of the following methods:

a) the shortest person dies

b) the guy with the smallest penis dies

c) shortest person with the smallest penis dies

It's cold in the cell...

...and I'm wearing flats.

Fuck.


***************************
Stress Test #2:

I'm alone in the house.

My wife is gone with the kids.

I'm sitting on the couch.

I'm naked.

I've got a raging boner and I'm jerking my gherkin furiously to some free Cinemax On-Demand girl-on-girl porn.

* hummina hummina hummina

Kleenex ready?

CHECK!!

Almost...there...

Then...

I hear the garage door open.

Fuckity fuck fuck.

They're home.

It's at this point that I discover that the batteries in the remote control are dead and I can't shut the cable box off and I've got wood and oh look at that there's an ass-sweat stain on the couch and now I can hear them coming up the stairs...

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

THAT, my friends...

...is STRESS.

Shit.

This treadmill should be a cakewalk, then.

I'll just pretend I'm running from the cops.

I really have to pick my shallow gravesites better.

Burnin' Down the House

Before I start - some shameless pleading (this time it's NOT for sex..but I'm still taking offers).

Head over to Living Wicked and vote for the best story ending for her tale about a guy falling into some other guys' feces.

Been there, done that too many times to count.

But even on purpose it's still a little uncomfortable.

Wait.

Nevermind.

* stupid backspace never works right

My story ending is #12.

I get some weird book or something.

I have no idea if the book has pictures or not...which pretty much sums up my reading ability.

Whatever...I just like winning.

Thanks for the vote.

#12.

#12.

ONWARD!!

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


We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

- some bug-eyed dickfuck who wasn't me who managed to get married to Christie Brinkley and bang the bejeesus out of that chick

I'm not bitter.

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

Speaking of the Christie Brinkley...

If you'd like to read about our tumultuous relationship...

Click Here.

Go ahead.

I'll wait.

Ah! You're back!!

Let's move on.


While we were vacationing in New York...

(New York City motto: "Yeah...I think we could squeeze another Asian tourist in here somewhere")

..we visited the FDNY Fire Zone.

If you ask my kids what they liked best about New York...

The Statue of Liberty cruise...

Going to the Central Park Zoo...

Visiting the docked aircraft carrier museum...

They would pick the FDNY Fire Zone as their favorite thing we did.

Thanks, kids.

You owe me $1,100 for all the fucking money I wasted going to all the other goddamn shit.

Little bastards.


While at the FDNY Fire Zone, an actual firefighter goes through a pretty cool presentation about fire safety...using actual stories, visuals, special effects, etc.

He then asks the kids questions.

So, after one of these stories, this is what happened:

FireFighter: "So...what knucklehead thing did Jimmy do?"

Son: "He was smoking!"

FireFighter: "Correct. And that's not healthy...and what's worse is that he fell asleep...and that started the fire."

Me: "WE SHOULD KILL ALL SMOKERS!!! Their carelessness will destroy us all!!"

* cricket

Um..

Fine. I didn't say that.

I WOULD have...

...but he wasn't taking answers from the "adults."

Stupid rules.


After the presentation, though...

...THIS happened:

We were getting ready to leave, saying 'thank you' to the firefighters there...when...

Daughter (out of the blue): "I did a knucklehead thing once."

Firefighter: "Oh yeah? What did you do?"

Daughter: "I put my brother's monster truck in the microwave and it started a fire."

Um...

* blink

She did....what?

I look at my wife.

My wife looks at me.

This is the first time either of us are hearing of our daughter torching the house.

Ever.


Wife: "What?! When did this happen?"

Daughter: "When grammy was over. I put Cam's truck in the microwave. It made sparks and then caught on fire and there was lots and lots of smoke and everything."

We look at each other...completely shocked...

...then look at the firefighters...

...who are laughing.

Seriously.

They're fucking laughing.

Daughter: "..and the fire alarms went off and grammy had to throw water on it and..."

Oh. My. God.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Firefighters?

Still laughing.


GRAMMY!!

That night, my wife calls her mother.

Wife: "..oh...and, we learned something interesting today. Payton told us that she almost burned the house down by putting a monster truck in the microwave."

* cricket

MIL: "Oh. Um...she told you that?"

Yeah, ma.

She told us that.

She told EVERYONE that.

BUSTED.

Wife: "At least the firefighters got a good laugh out of it."

I'm glad my wife sees a silver lining out of this.

The silver lining.

I'm waiting for my daughter to find it and put it in the fucking microwave now.

Huh.

And I thought Jimmy was a knucklehead.

Summer Reruns - My Tattoo

My first rerun of the summer.

On a related note:

What's happenin, Rog?

* cricket

People everywhere under 40 right now are going:

Um...What the fuck?

No different than usual, really.


Whatever.

Since traffic seems to be down both here and on the highway...

(This specifically excludes traffic leaving my Hershey Highway. I had a big steak.)

I figured it was time to give some of my readers who arrived after 2007 a taste of some earlier shit.

The following post was written in November of 2007, and titled:

A Bunch of Little Pricks

Which, incidentally, is what my wife calls her kindergarten class.

However, I've remastered it a bit..so if you've read it before...it's a bit different today.

I'll have a new post up tomorrow afternoon.

(that's what Bob Dole said)

In the meantime....enjoy.

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

A Bunch of Little Pricks (my tattoo adventure)

My wife has a few tattoos.

She never tells me when she’s getting them…or where they are. She usually gets them during “girls weekends”…

...where I can only imagine Enrique Iglesias as the tattoo guy:


I’ll kill that tattooing bastard if I ever see him.

Damn you, Spanish language!! Why must you be so haunting?!?!?

I'm bitter.

Back to her tattoos:

They’re all small...

(hey crack whore...there's nothing like a giant dragon down your arm to get me going)

...and fairly innocuous (a rose, a ladybug, "USC was here").

Her second tattoo (the ladybug) was done just above her bum.

I first saw this tattoo about two months after she got it.

Two. Months.

I cry sometimes.

Anyway, I decided in a fit of whimsy...

(oh, look...I'm gay!)

...that I’d get a tattoo as well.

I couldn’t be the only one in the relationship without one.


I decided to forego the matching ladybug tattoo and instead went with "Insert Apple Here" with an arrow pointing to my sphincter...

Woops.

I mean I went with a Boston Bruins logo.

Phew. Dodged a bullet there.


Regardless, my tattoo was supposed to be about the size of a shot glass on the back of my left shoulder.

This idea of getting the tattoo probably wasn’t a good one for a number of reasons:

1) I hate needles

2) I hate pain

3) I hate needles that cause pain

4) I hate the pain caused by needles

I'm manly.

So, being the brilliant little man that I am, I scheduled my tattoo.

As is my luck, my tattoo was scheduled for the hottest fucking day in August in ten years.

It was also done on the top level (third floor) of my heroin deal..um...the tattoo parlor.

Said tattoo parlor had no fucking air conditioning.

Awesome.

You know...sometimes I don't know why I even bother to wake up.


So there I was, bent over like Paris Hilton on a first date in a 120-degree oven when the pain comes like a billion mosquitos diving in for the kill.

*buzzzzzzzzz*

Ow.

*buuzzzzzz..buzzzzzzz*

I started sweating…

..great...now I'm hyperventilating…

I’m starting to think that maybe…maybe I’ll tell him to stop now.

I'll just have a tattoo of a few black dots.

That should be good enough...

Me to my friends: "Hey, I got a tattoo."

Friends: "NICE. Of what?"

Me: "A few little dots. It looks like freckles."

(scene of unimaginable violence as my friends beat me to death)

Now I’m getting woozy…

You know...the friend beatdown might be worth it.

I ask him, “How far are you?”

The buzzing stops for a second.

He says, “I’ve got the outline almost done.”

*blink*

The OUTLINE?!?

You’ve only done THE FUCKING OUTLINE?!?

I feel like I’ve been in here for 17 hours being interrogated by Jack Bauer and he’s only on the OUTLINE?!


(by the way, I only found out what a Prince Albert was the other day...if you don't know...you don't WANT to know...)

Based on what I felt like...

I was positive that I’d be stepping out of that chair and seeing an entire replica of The Last Supper scrawled out on my back.


..ugh…

I look at my wife…

“Honey…can you get me a soda?”

She shakes her head, looks at me and says:

“You’re such a fucking pussy.”

Gee.

Thanks, hon.

Such compassion.

GO GET MY SODA!

This went on for what seemed like infinity.

The tattoo guy had to stop three times because I almost passed out.

When it was over, I had this fancy new sporty Bruins logo sitting on my shoulder.

It looked cool.

It looked hip.

It hurt like Hell.

It won’t happen again.

..unless I get a cortisone shot first.

Motivational Filler - Social Acceptance

Before I start today, two things:

1) Phillipia of 'Writes Phillipia' tagged me.

* adds notch to 'anal intruder'

No..she tagged me with the task of coming up with a 'list of seven things about me.'

Well...I did this WAY back in October of 2007.

Yes.

2007.

Back when Madonna only had 47 kids adopted from Guatemala.

So, I MAY redo the list at some point...but not right now.

This notch is harder to carve in than I thought.

Check out Phillipia.

She's a good tag.

2) Christina the Wench (...mom...?) gave me my first shitty comment of the day (typical), prompting me to change my Motivational Poster from what it originally was. She has thought it was a repeat, which it WAS NOT (read: bitch), but probably showed up recently in another post of mine.

So, instead of 'Kittens' you get 'Social Acceptance.'

You'll see 'Kittens' sometime in November.

Suck it, Christina.

ONWARD!!

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

Motivate THIS.

(points at crotch)

Nothing to see here today...

...except a custom "motivational poster" made by yours truly over at Big Huge Labs.

Seriously...

...I have no idea how I made it almost 40 years without finding this thing.

Here's today's poster for you (click to enlarge (that's what she said)):


Man...

I need to get me a six pack of that shit.

If you want to see all of my custom posters, click here.

If you like them, feel free to post them on your site.

Just give me some credit.

God knows my bank won't.

Moog out.

Rocket Can

She's a regular PicASSo.

My daughter.

Here's what I came home to the other day:

Wife: "WHO'S RED HAIR IS THIS IN YOUR BOXERS?!? WHY IS THERE A CONDOM IN YOUR WALLET?!?! YOU HAD A VASECTOMY!!"

Whoops.

Wrong day.

AshleyMadison.com

Discrete, my ass.

I've digressed.


Here's what I came home to the other day:

Daughter: "Dad..you have to see what I drew today."

Me: "Is it divorce papers? I'm guessing your mom had you draw up divorce papers."

Seriously, AshleyMadison...

That shit was supposed to be confidential!

Regardless...

Nope.

Not divorce papers.

Here's what my daughter drew on her whiteboard in her room:

(click to make bigger (that's what she said)):


The caption she wrote:

"It's Daddy going to the bathroom. I know this is inapropeit, but it is really funny!!!!"

Ha. Ha.

Shit like this is why some species eat their fucking young.

Also, I'll ignore the fact that my 8 year old misspelled 'inappropriate.'

Well..not 'ignore.'

I mean, she still needs to be beaten for making such a blatant mistake.

Parenting means making the tough choices.

Actually...it's pretty funny.

Let's take a closer look:


Nicely done.

Then she explained that I was reading a magazine on the shitter (actually, she said, "While you're taking a shit")...

...and that the squiggly lines under the toilet were flames.

Yes.

Flames.


Apparently, either my toilet flies like a rocket ship...

...or I just had Jambalaya for dinner.

I think I just coined the phrase, "Rocket Shit."

This is the phenomenon where you poo with such great force that you actually achieve liftoff.

This is how Criss Angel levitates.

This also explains his lack of an entourage and why his investment portfolio is mainly comprised of Depends Undergarment stock.


My daughter only got one thing wrong, though.

Look at the face:


Who the fuck smiles when they're shitting?

I mean, sure, I'm reading "Juggs Magazine."

But even then I'm usually jerkin' my gherkin'...

...and when I'm doing that...

...it's all business, baby.

No.

When I'm pooping, I usually look like this:


Ah.

That's more like it.

K. Gotta go free the slaves.

Anyone see my Juggs Magazine?

F.U. Day - Lazy Fuck Edition

Just a goddamn rant today.

To celebrate this rant, I'm beginning a new series called:

"F.U. Day"

Sweet.

Like Martha Stewart always says:

"Burning, relentless, pure unadulterated hatred. It's a good thing."

She has a tattoo of that on the small of her back given to her by a chick named 'Ella' during her prison stint.

I'm in the know.


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

Today's episode of FU Day:

FU, You Lazy Fucks

That's right, folks.

Let's all raise a mighty middle finger and give a hearty "F.U." to:

1) People who take the elevator up ONE fucking floor when the stairs are clearly visible

Seriously?

You HAVE to take the elevator?

Is all the whipped cream on that cappuccino weighing you down?

It's, like, 20 fucking steps you lazy piece of shit.


Oh..oh...

I see.

You get winded taking the stairs.

You know why?

You know why you get winded?

BECAUSE YOU TAKE THE FUCKING ELEVATOR UP ONE FLOOR.

Cardio: it's not just for sweaty, glistening hot chicks in spandex anymore.

Although, seriously, we DO prefer it that way.


2) These same people taking the fucking elevator DOWN one floor

Really, asshole?

Now you're just being silly.

3) Asshats who leave their weights loaded on bars in the gym or scattered around the fucking place

Thanks, dickfuck.

This is exactly what I wanted to see when I walked in here.


How else would I want to start my workout?

You got it!

I TOTALLY wanted to spend the first fifteen minutes of my lunch hour in the gym unloading all your goddamn fucking weights so I can use the equipment and trying to hunt down the other 25-pound dumbbell.

Me: "Fuck. Me. Well...I've got one dumbbell....let's see if we can find the other one..."

* Fifteen minutes later *

Me: "Olly olly oxen free!"

* cricket

Me: "Come out, come out wherever you are Mr. Dumbbell!"

* silence

Me: "WHERE THE FUCK IS THE OTHER 25 POUND DUMBBELL?!?!?"

* pause

Guy on treadmill: "Maybe you should leave."

Maybe.

Maybe I should leave.

Maybe I should leave and go find the asshole who left all his goddamn shit for me to put away and then apparently hid the other fucking dumbbell in the magical land of Narnia.


Lazy fuck.

I think I know where to find him.

I'm guessing he's taking the elevator to the second floor.

Which is where they'll find the body.

With a 25 pound dumbbell shoved up his lazy ass.

Moog out.