Motivational Filler - Respect

Before I start today, I have my first ever Guest Book Review over on Moog's Movie Reviews, of the book:

Twilight

I only read books with pictures of boobies (this includes National Geographic starving pygmy women boobies), so this doesn't apply to me.

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)):


Don't worry.

She gets plenty of sunlight, water and kibble.

I'm not heartless, you know.

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.

The Shit I Learn - Soccer Dad Edition

It’s time yet again for another entry in the ‘Shit I learn’ series of Mental Poo!

Like you had anything else to do right now.

For more of 'The Shit I Learn,' check out these gems:

The Kid Vomiting Edition

The Broken Hand Edition

The Karate Edition

The Marriage Edition

Today’s episode:

The Shit I Learn – Soccer Dad Edition

Yeah. I’m a soccer dad.

I drive a minivan, enjoy Pina Colada smoothies, bring the kids all over the place, and have a crush on my Latin pool-boy, Guapo.

Don't judge.


Okay...back to the soccer shit.

My 8 year old daughter enrolled in the town’s recreational soccer league this past spring.

How good is she?

Do you know that world famous soccer guy, Pele?

My daughter is just like Pele.

That is if Pele lived in fucking Bizarro World.

Also, Bizarro Pele has no legs and is blind.

So, yeah.

She’s like "Bizarro multiple cripple Pele."


She is awful.

But, I love her with all my heart so I'll try to look past the inadequacies of her pathetic play on the field every single goddamn Sunday but for Chrissakes you'd figure that after practicing and practicing and practicing she'd GET SOMETHING RIGHT BUT NOOOOOO.

Ahem.

Sorry.

So here are some things I’ve learned painfully sitting through games every Sunday:

1) Positions are merely serving suggestions

You know how when you buy a box of Ritz crackers and the cover of the box shows the crackers with, like, cheese and ham and peppers and OMG they look so fucking good shit on them?

Then you open the box, and all that’s in there are some shitty fucking crackers?

So you look at your pack of shitty fucking crackers in your fat hand then look back at the cover of the box and see in teeny tiny little letters:

“Serving Suggestion”

?!?

And you drop the box, fall to your knees, and look up at sky screaming, “WHY GOD?! WHY?!?!”

* cricket

Maybe that’s just me.


Helpful tip: this SAME shit applies to Wheat Thins and Triscuits and shit, too.

Un-fucking-believable.

They build you up and build you up and then tear you right the fuck down as soon as you open the box.

Stupid elves.

Whatever…

…the entire ‘serving suggestion’ thing apparently applies to putting my daughter out in the field and giving her a position to play.

Coach: “Payton…you’re on offense.”

Two minutes later…

...Payton is over by our goal while the rest of the team, defense included, is on the complete other side of the goddamn field actually trying to score goals.

Every once in a while, she looks over and – in her most professional soccer attitude – waves at us...

...and then proceeds to skip around in circles.

Awesome.

Coach: “Payton…defense! You’re on DEFENSE!!”

Payton doesn’t hear this because, apparently, she saw a baby on the sideline and is now over there tickling it’s feet.

I’m so proud.


2) Yelling swear words is not encouragement

So, as the wife and I are sitting on the sidelines, we’re surrounded by other parents shouting things to their kids playing in the game.

Things like:

“Way to go, Trevor!”

“Nice block, Haley!”

“You go, Jared! You did that great, Jared! You are the best, Jared! Jared you are great!”

Admittedly, Jared’s parents are a little fucking weird.

Regardless, all these parents are yelling words of encouragement to their kids who are playing their hearts out.

Meanwhile, my wife and I are yelling shit like:

“PAYTON!! KICK IT! KICK THE BALL! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO KICK THE FUCKING BALL!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I didn’t raise you to be a LOSER!”

“Awful!! You’re awful!"

"You’re not my daughter!”

“Stop tickling the baby!”

(I heard that last line in a porno once)


Tough love.

It works.

Just not on the soccer field.

You know...

Where you're supposed to KICK THE BALL!! KICK THE FUCKING BALL!!!

Sorry.

Gotta run, anyway.

Guapo's here to clean the pool.

Elmo and the Tragic Parachuting Accident

I'm not sure what the little guy did to deserve this.

I have two stories about Elmo.

Yes. Elmo.

The puppet.

The last time I had my hand in something red and fuzzy that talked funny was back in college.

On a related note:
It takes a while for your friends to forgive you for banging their girlfriend while they've gone back home for two weeks because they have mono.

You've been warned, guys.

You're welcome.


Today...you get story #1.

Here goes:

I drive my kids to school most mornings.

I used to drive other kids to school but the restraining order put a stop to that.

Apparently, just because I make a sign called "School" and hang it in my basement doesn't necessarily make it true.

Stupid laws.

I've digressed.


Driving my kids to school on this particular morning, for whatever reason, the topic of Elmo came up.

Now...I have to confess:

I do a mean Elmo impersonation.

I'm assuming this has to do with the fact that I'm about his height...

...and have had a vasectomy.

You're a short guy?

Normal voice.

You're a short guy who's taken a scalpel to his sack?

Welcome to "Muppet Town".

Population: you.

You poor falsetto-note-singing bastard.


So, a game started to be played where the kids would ask, "Where's Elmo?"...

...and I would reply in my Elmo voice with something weird like:

Son: "Where's Elmo?"

Me (in Elmo imitation): "Elmo in the swamp!...Is this quicksand?....AAARRGGHH!"

..or..

Daughter: "Where's Elmo?"

Me: "Elmo in the woods. Oh, look...a bear! Hi bear!...Nice bear...NICE BEAR!! Elmo running away now! AAARRGHHH!!"

* cricket

And I wonder why my kids are messed up.


So..this game goes on every morning.

Then my kids start playing it with each other...leaving me out of it.

Thank Christ.

It's bad enough I have to feed and clothe them and shit...

...but the 'attention' aspect of parenting really takes time away from me thinking about porn.

Mmmm.

Porn.

Um...wait.

What the fuck were we talking about?

Oh.

Elmo.


So...one day...

...my son said something that damn near killed me while they were playing this in the back seat.

He's 5 years old, mind you.

Here's how it went:

Daughter: "Where's Elmo?"

* pause

Son: "Elmo's jumping out of a plane with his parachute!"

* pause

Son: "Elmo's falling through the sky!"

* pause

Son: "Oh no! Elmo's parachute won't open! AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"

Then he makes this noise:

Son: "Thump."

* pause

And now...the kicker....

Son: "Elmo...suffering...in pain..."

* blink

Yep.

Elmo. Suffering. In pain.

Dude...twisted.

I totally fucking lost it laughing.

Awesome.

Yep.

He's my kid, alright.

He's SO screwed.

Try it at Home, Kids: What's a Motto With You?

It's another episode of Moooooog's "Try it at Home" series!

It's like a home improvement show.

You know.

Except without the home.

And improvements.

So, nothing like that at all.

I have no other analogy.

Thesauruses are fucking useless.

Once again I give you another annoying thing that I do on a regular basis.

On a related note:

My friends call my wife "Saint Jen."

Today's thing:

What's a Motto?

Admittedly, probably my most annoying habit.

You know that old joke?

Man #1: "What's that?"

Man #2: "It's a motto."

Man #1: "What's a motto?"

Man #2: "I don't know...what's a motto with you?"

HA HA!!

That shit kills in Vegas.

This is why I don't go.

Plus the heat.

I get swamp ass pretty easily.

I've digressed.


Regardless...I take that same joke...

...but apply it to pretty much everything else I'm asked.

Daughter (reading a sign from the back of the car): "Daddy, what's a rebate?"

Me: "I don't know...what's a rebate with you?"

OH! OH MAN!

ZING!!


Or this:

Me: "..so if our house doesn't assess high enough, we'll have to pay PMI."

* pause

Wife: "What's PMI?"

Me: "I don't know, what's PMI with you?"

HA!

I sold it! You bought it! No refunds!

See?

No need for Vegas.

Well...except maybe for the cathouses.

They don't care how annoying you are as long as you can pay.

I have a Gold Card.

I Made Fun of Bloo and All I Got Was this Stupid Mug

Before I start...I have a new movie review of:

He's Just Not That Into You

..over on Moog's Movie Reviews.

Go check it out. I made an alternative movie poster!

This just in:

I'm. Awesome.

Like that's news.

Now...ONWARD!!

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

Well, it’s finally over, thank Christ.

It went on WAY longer than it had to.

Great.

Now I sound like my wife when we have sex.

You know…

…except for the ‘going on longer’ part.

I’m like Speedy Gonzales in the bedroom, except I have a slightly bigger penis.

Whatever.

I take pride in the things I can.


I'm talking about my contest.

My first ever contest was a doozy…spawning entries from AROUND THE GLOBE!!

By ‘around the globe’ I mean ‘within 12-25 miles.’

Geography bad I am at and construction sentences; and yes!

I've digressed.

The contest was to simply come back with the best retort for this asshole:


Let's have at this dipshit.

Here, in no particular order, are the runners-up:

The "short and to the point" entry:


Chris said...

Hey Bloo, what's your last name, "My Priest"?

The setup and payoff entry:


justjp said...

Let us review Bloo:

Shitty tattoo's + wife beater + dollar store shades - personality - a grammatically sound attack x douche bag = Future winner of the Dallas County Correctional Institutions "boy, you got a pretty face award."

The just plain funny entry:


PhilipDyer said...

Anyone who posts a picture of himself demonstrating that (1) He sleeps in a hair net and (2) He can't grow a mustache, is okay in my book. But then again, my book is called "Extraordinarily Self-Unaware Douchebags."

A special ‘honorable mention’ goes out to Malicious Intent who sent me a decent response AND the added bonus of pictures of her boobs.

However, I had to take points off the entry because they were (a) boob pictures she already posted on her own site and (b) had clothes around them.

Nice try, MI…nice try.

But now, standing an inch or so above the rest while laying down…

…was this entry:


DouglasDyer said...

Dearest Bloo, Mongoloid Esq.,

How sweet of you to stop pasting Alton Brown’s head on Richard Gere’s body and scrape the semen out from under your nails long enough to drop me that thoughtful note! You are an absolute stitch!

But the language! I mean, do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Ha ha…oh, you do? Well, who could blame her?

Listen, since you said I was a “Fucking Moron” and a “Fucking Dumbass” I just wanted to make sure you understood that I meant the turkey I cooked came out inedibly raw, not that it wasn’t a great fuck. I fucked the giblets right out of that little gobbler, if I do say so myself!

So thank you for your concern but, no “fucking moron” here! PS – I saw your MySpace pictures and I really want to congratulate you on your hatchback! And your car too! I don’t know what that means so there’s NO WAY you do either.

Oh, and good luck parlaying that C-note into a pre-community-college sexual encounter! Make sure he gives you your change!

PPS – A bunch of guys at work think you didn’t really graduate but just happened to pass by a graduation while wearing your teal dress.

If you could be a tub of peaches and send me a copy of your diploma, I would win my own $100! Thanks in advance!

Yep…Doug.

Sure, it was a little long...

(that's what any girl I've ever had sex with has never, ever, said to me)

...but it made the cut of an independent three-person judging panel nonetheless.

What set this apart was that it was the ‘response’ I was looking for, coupled with such fantastic gems as:

“I fucked the giblets…”

“I don’t know what that means…”

And…

“..if you could be a tub of peaches..”

Tub of peaches.

Awesome.

Doug Dyer wins the coveted Mental Poo mug!


Congratulations, Doug! Let the intense fighting between you and your brother commence!!

Thanks to all who participated.

Remember, you can continue to play by heading over to Bloo's MySpace page and continually giving him shit for the rest of his miserable fucking life.

Just 'cuz it's fun, really.

Thanks in advance.

Moog out.

Cloudy with a Chance of an OJ Simpson Verdict

Before I start:

Don't forget the BIIIIIIIG contest that I started last week.

You can win an authentic "Mental Poo" Mug!

Which, you know...

...you can also buy at my store.

Fine.

Contest ain't that big.

No more entries will be accepted after TODAY.

Sorry...I have to do it...remember...I'm a dumbass.

At least that's what Bloo thinks.

Now...ONWARD!!

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

I'm going on vacation in a couple of weeks.

And, no, you can't come.

Wow.

Had a vasectomy flashback there for a second.

I've gone off topic.

We're taking the family on a road trip.

First stop:

New York City.


Since I'm pretty anal about my trip planning...

(that's what the whore travel agent said)

...I thought I'd see if I could find a super long range weather forecast for New York City in July.

Like Farmer's Almanac.

Because, you know...

Who on Earth would know what the weather was going to be like an entire month from now in one of the busiest cities in the world better than a guy who fucks sheep?

Mmmm...sheep.

I'm totally going to Iowa.

Wait.

Weather.

We're back on course!


(yep...that's one of mine...)

So, I plugged the following search into Google:


"New York City weather July 2009"

Fine. Simple enough.

Until I browsed down on the results, and saw...

THIS:

(click to enlarge...that's what the whore travel agent said)


What. The fuck.

Obviously, I have to click on this site.

Here, according to this guy, is the forecast for New York City:

*********************
THREAT LEVEL RED 07/01/09 to 07/11/09

AN EARTH-SHATTERING CALAMITY IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN. IT IS GOING TO BE SO FRIGHTENING, WE ARE ALL GOING TO TREMBLE - EVEN THE GODLIEST AMONG US.

For ten years I have been warning about a thousand fires coming to New York City.

It will engulf the whole megaplex, including areas of New Jersey and Connecticut.

Major cities all across America will experience riots and blazing fires—such as we saw in Watts, Los Angeles, years ago.

There will be riots and fires in cities worldwide.

There will be looting— including Times Square, New York City.

What we are experiencing now is not a recession, not even a depression. We are under God’s wrath.

*********************
Jesus H. Christ.

Meteors?! Looting?!

Fuck.

I've already booked the fucking hotels and everything.


So, I turn to my wife:

Me: "Hey, hon...looks like there will be meteor showers and shit the week we're in New York."

Wife: "Awesome."

Me: "Says there will be looting in Times Square."

Wife: "Looting? That's excellent news."

Me: "Yep...looting. But on the bright side...hey...FREE TV!"

She stops a second, then asks:

Wife: "When's this going to happen?"

Luckily for me, this guy has actually put the date down.

Me: "June 1st through the 11th. We get to New York on the 11th. "

* pause

Wife: "What's it going to do on the 12th? If there are no meteors, maybe we should push it off a day."

The woman...is GENIUS.

I just hope there are still some TV's left to loot on the 12th.

I mean, a devastated city will be cool and all...

...but a FREE PLASMA would make the trip so worth it.

The Expensive Weekend Fuckshow

Before I start:

Don't forget the BIIIIIIIG contest that I started yesterday.

You can win an authentic "Mental Poo" Mug!

Which, you know...

...you can also buy at my store.

Fine.

Contest ain't that big.

No more entries will be accepted after Monday, June 22nd.

Sorry...I have to do it...remember...I'm a dumbass.

At least that's what Bloo thinks.

Now...ONWARD!!

***********************
Alternate title to this post:

How to be a friggin' moron for three days straight.

How, you ask?

Well, my horde of large nippled brethren...

...let me show you.

By the way:

Put a fucking shirt on, will ya?

That shit's nasty.

Dinner-plate sized nipples only look good on giant female dinner plates.

Great.

Now I want to have sex with King Kong's wedding china.

No different than usual, really.

Here's how my long Memorial Day weekend went and how YOU TOO can reach the precipice of suicide in the short span of a three-day holiday break.

Good times...good times.

Not really.


Step #1: Drop your motorcycle on the ground

Yep.

Just let the thing flop right the Hell over.

Twice.

Oh...look.

A dent.

Oh...look again.

I'm crying hysterically.

Awesome.

Replacement gas tank cost plus labor: $1125.

For comparison sake:

Cost for a hooker the size of a tank with bad gas and dinner-plate size nipples (includes labor):

$50/hour depending on location and how long she's been off the crank.

Just sayin'.


Step #2: Destroy a pair of jeans

You must destroy said pair of jeans while TWICE trying to upright your now dented fucking motorcycle.

Hold on...hold on...

Yep.

Still crying.

Replacement cost of jeans (501 Button Fly, only): $40


Step #3: Destroy another pair of jeans. Really? ANOTHER fucking pair?!

Yep...one weekend, two goddamn pair of jeans down the great brown shithole.

I managed this by staining my deck on the very same weekend.

At one point, my wife popped her head out of the door as I was pouring a gallon of stain into a paint tray.

Wife: "I'm going for a walk with Sarah.."

Me: "Oka...OH NO!!"

Because God apparently hates my cute little guts, he decided to let the paint NOT go into the paint tray...

...and instead go all over the right leg of my jeans.

Hooray for me.

Shit like this is why I pay people to come to my house and do handywork shit like hang pictures and put thumbtacks in the bulletin board in my kitchen.

Replacement cost of A SECOND goddamn pair of jeans: $40


Oh...

....did I mention I was wearing my good Columbia sandals at the time?

Step #4: Ruin a pair of good Columbia sandals

Me (upon pouring a half-gallon of stain on my leg and foot): "AW SHIT! SHIT!"

Wife: "What's the matter?"

I raise my foot up so she can see that my entire right leg and foot is now covered in thick "Cedar Naturaltone" deck stain.

Wife: "HAHAHAHAHAHA!!"

She's awesome to me.

Moooooog35: Accidental fodder for hilarity since what seems like fucking eternity.

Ugh.


Replacement cost of my Columbia sandals: $70

Yes...$70 to replace footwear that has less material in it than a Carrot Top performance.


Step #5: Can you hear me now? Blurgle blurgle blurgle.

After I finished staining the deck...

(read: got tired of staining it 1/10th of the way through because my XBox isn't just going to play itself)

...I threw my jeans in the wash to see if I could get the stain out.

About 20 minutes later, I realized my hand was killing me.

I needed Bob.

I searched everywhere for Bob...

...but he was nowhere to be found.


Then..it hit me:

BOB WAS BEING WASHED!!

I sped down the stairs to the laundry room...

...with the image of Bob...silently drowning in my pants pocket...quickening my every step.

Sure..he's a sponge.

But he's family now.

Don't judge.

I opened the top of the washer, which came to an ubrupt stop.

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Um...???

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Something in the washing machine was...

...was...

...buzzing.

I reached into my pants pocket...

BUZZZZZZZ

Oh. Of course.

My cell phone.

Yep.

I washed my fucking cell phone.

Brilliant.


On the bright side...

Bob was fine.

Wife: "How much money do you actually plan on wasting this weekend?"

Me: "Not sure...it's only Saturday. Got two more days to go."

* blink

Me: "But, hey...look. Bob's okay!!"

My wife took no solace in that.

Jealousy is not pretty.

So, how much money did I blow that weekend?

Well...if you add in the $50 replacement fee for my phone...

...the tally that Memorial Day weekend was about $1300.

$1300.

You know how many tank-sized hookers with bad gas and dinner sized nipples that would get ya?

Try it at Home, Kids: Fly With Purple Skeletons and That's Why

Before I start:

Don't forget the BIIIIIIIG contest that I started yesterday.

You can win an authentic "Mental Poo" Mug!

Which, you know...

...you can also buy at my store.

Fine.

Contest ain't that big.

You have 6 more days to enter!

Now...ONWARD!!

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

It's another episode of Moooooog's "Try it at Home" series!

Hooray.

For me.

Hooray for me.

Woohoo.

You know, it would really help my self asteem if you'd at least snap your fingers or some shit.

Thanks.

Today, I give you yet another annoying thing that I do on a pretty regular basis.

Amused, my wife is not.

Yoda was the fo-shizzle.

Today's thing:

The Unintelligible Reply

I hate when this shit happens.

I'll be upstairs or somewhere TOTALLY out of earshot...

...and my wife (or Asian prostitute - depends on the day and time)...

...shouts something to me from, like, down in the basement totally out of earshot.

Wife (yelling because she's 900 feet away): "ROD?!"

Me: "WHAT?!?"

Wife: "Where is the mwaang get the gwaangh slee bwith mapeph?"

* blink

What the fuck did she just say?

Anyone know? Anyone?

Because I have no fucking clue.

No.

No one knows.

No one knows because she's on a different floor of the house...at the total opposite end...

...probably behind cardboard boxes or my stained Elvira Halloween cutout (good times...good times) and shouting some shit to me at the top of her lungs and I can't understand a fucking word she's saying.


So I shout back something like this:

Me: "I put the blue ladder up the kitchen to get the green sneakers!!"

* silence

After about 10 seconds of my wife trying to process what the fuck she just heard, I get:

Wife: "WHAT?!?!"

Me: "EXACTLY!!"

Most times, my wife wants to kill me.


Par for the course really.

Hold on...she's calling me now for something.

Me: "I PUT IT OVER THE BLANKET WITH THE HAT IN THE ELF RAINBOW!"

Seriously.

She's going to kill me.

Go ahead kids:

Try it at home.

A CONTEST!!! - Bloo is Gay and Likes Eating Men's Bums in Texas

Before I start today, I've got a movie review of "The Day the Earth Stood Still" over on Moog's Movie Reviews.

Finally....a movie in which Keannu Reeves shows emotion!!

Just kidding.

ONWARD!!

*********************
A contest. Here.

You read it right.

Today, after almost TWO YEARS of writing this stupid fucking blog...

...I'm having a contest.

Here's what inspired it.

Back after Thanksgiving, I wrote a post entitled:

Fuck Alton Brown

In this post, I basically announced a jihad on that fuckhead, because he almost wiped out my entire family with salmonella poisoning.

Asshole.

Whatever.

So...I get THIS comment on that post this past weekend:

From: Bloo

"The Doggy Did It's turkey came out fine....Yours didn't cuz you're a fucking moron. Go kill yourself you Dick! Fucking Dumbass..."

* blink

Um.

First off, I'm amazed that an in-bowl toilet cleaner has managed to (a) get out of the toilet and (b) learned how to not only type BUT surf the Internet as well!


Actually, maybe it's not the toilet cleaner Bloo I'm thinking about.

That would be awesome, though...wouldn't it?

Regardless...toilet cleaner or not...

This boy has some serious fucking turkey issues.


Being a professional comedian means that you have to take the bad responses as well as the good ones.

It also means you have to be a pathological liar and lie about shit like being a professional comedian.

I'll give you a minute with that one.

Back? Okay.

Let's check out Bloo's MySpace Page:


Hmmm..

****************
Mood: Fucked Up

Body type: 5' 8" / More to love!

Income: Less than $30,000
****************

LOOK OUT, LADIES!!

* cricket

Actually, now that I'm checking out his MySpace page...

Chances are that he probably WILL still be a toilet cleaner.

I've digressed.

Regardless, I quickly came up with two comebacks.

Trust me, I can come up with more...but at the risk of losing my dignity.

Sometimes I make myself laugh.

Here are a couple I came up with (first, let's see that awesomely well thought out comment from the toilet cleaner again!):

"The Doggy Did It's turkey came out fine....Yours didn't cuz you're a fucking moron. Go kill yourself you Dick! Fucking Dumbass..."

The short comeback:

...mom...?

The medium Comeback:

Wow, Bloo.

Sounds like you have some issues with your mother.

Next time she's over and I'm 5 knuckles deep in her ass, I'll make sure she talks to you about it.

The Next Comeback:

This is where YOU come in.

THE CONTEST:

I want you to come up with your best comeback for this meatball.

Put your entry in the comments section of this post or email it to me.

EXTRA POINTS to anyone who makes this quest into their very own blog post on their site.

There, you can use photos, etc., to really customize the verbal beating you give to this stupid douchewad.

I'm not bitter.

Entries will be graded and based on two criteria:

1) If they make me laugh
2) If they are accompanied by nude photos via email

Obviously, I'm kidding.

I'm only grading on #2.

What's up for grabs?!

A COVETED, AUTHENTIC...

"MENTAL POO" Coffee Mug!!!


FYI:

I have a store where I sell this shit.

Since no one is buying any of it, I apparently have to fucking give it away.

So..please...buy my shit.

* sigh

The deadline for entries is a week from today...

..and I will announce the winner as soon as I browse through all the porn.

I mean...go through all the entries.

In the meantime, check out Bloo's MySpace page and give him shit.

Be careful, though.

He looks all gangsta.

"The Obsessed Turkey Gangstas" would be a great name for a band.

Whatever...send me your best.

Thanks in advance.

Good luck!!

Dear Moog: Put Your Dongle in my Expansion Slot

It's another time for an exciting episode of "Dear Moog"...

Where good questions breed good advice.

Unfortunately, you all send me crap.

So I've got a bunch of shitty questions in the corner over there screwing like teenagers with their socks on.

This is gonna get ugly.

**********************
Disclaimer:
I am not responsible for any stupid shit you do to yourself or others as a result of taking any of my advice seriously. There, I think that covers it.

You've been warned.
***********************

Today's question comes from Ali.

Ali writes:

Don't worry, Ill make this easy on you and make it short.

Why are all IT guys PERVERTS!!! I swear it is like part of your job training. Please explain...............

Thank you,
Concerned Female in Corporate America

****************************
A female...

... in CORPORATE AMERICA?!?!?

Is there a 'baking cookies' division of your company, because I've never heard of such a thing!

Just crazy talk is all that is.

I've digressed.


Without further ado,

Let's begin the response to Ali's letter.

****************************
Dear Ali,

First off, I'm so happy to hear that your Parkinson's is doing well enough to take time to write me.

But, I'm sad.

To be such a great boxer but now subjected to the taunts of 90-pound computer guys who get to see less box than Britney Spears' paparazzi must truly suck.

Oh.

Not Muhammad Ali.

Nevermind.


So, I asked Ali for some examples of this 'sexual harassment' (make air quotes for best effect).

Here's what she wrote back:

***********************
Lets see examples huh?

Oh God they are just gross!

Always saying they can see up my skirt, trying guess the underwear the associates and interns wear.

They have access to our employee photos and they are always photo shopping them on gross stuff and then posting it in their department when no managers are down in their department.

They make up nick names for us and use them when we call. Attempting phone sex when we call for service.....etc.

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

* blink

I wrote Ali back this:

***********************
Holy shit!!

Are they hiring?!?!?

That. Job. Sounds. AWESOME!!

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

Seriously.

What a great fucking job that is. I'm so jealous I can't stand it.


Where was I?

Oh yeah.

IT people are perverts.

Listen...

I know sexual harassment.

I learned it from one of the best in the business.

Also...

I've been working in the computer industry for years.

Perversion is what we do.

That, and sometimes installing antivirus shit.

Whatever...just get used to it.


Trust me, if you play along...there are extra bonuses.

Example #1:

You: "Hey..my computer just froze up."

IT Guy: "I know...it must be freezing. I can see your giant nipples and my balls are blue."

WRONG RESPONSE:

You: "I'm going to HR this instant to report you!"

RIGHT RESPONSE:

You: "Have sex with me!"

...and/or blowjob.

Either one, really.

THE PAYOFF:

3 months free Internet surfing outside of the Corporate Internet Usage Policy.

fatchicksinpartyhats.com, here I come!!

Example #2:

You: "Hi..my computer locked up and now I have the Blue Screen of Death."

IT Guy: "Uh oh. Not good. Hey...let me put my pinky in your butt."

* makes shocker symbol for added effect

(the don't teach subtlety in 'Learning Excel Spreadsheets' courses)

WRONG RESPONSE:

You relentlessly empty your pepper spray container on him.

RIGHT RESPONSE:

IT guy inserts his pinky in your bum hole.

THE PAYOFF:

Any and all computer problems you have put you immediately first in the 'To be fixed' queue.

Also...

Other guys in IT get to insert their pinky in your bum hole.

Helpful hint: IT guys can't keep secrets.

By the way, you make 'pervert' sound like it's a bad thing.

It's when IT guys STOP being perverts that you need to worry...

...because that means that they don't want to bang you and you're probably ugly.

You're welcome.

Moog out.

****************************
There you go! Yet another exciting episode!

I have a "Dear Moog" link on the top right of my page, or you can email me here.


Want bad advice? Want sh*tty answers?

You've come to the right place.

Drop me a line.

Moog out.

My Sucky, Dented, Tipped Over, Ripped Open Friday

My life, in a nutshell, is this post.

Here goes.

It was the Friday of Memorial Day weekend.

This particular Friday started out just like any other day:

1) I woke up

2) I heard my wife downstairs making coffee

3) I ran to the bathroom, grabbed a tissue and masturbated furiously before she came back upstairs

4) pretended I was sleeping when she came back up

Me: "Morning, hon."

Wife: "Hi. Why are you out of breath?"

Me: "Um. Bad dream. Scary. Had spiders and Rachael Ray. Don't want to talk about it."

Wife: "Well...what's with the tissue stuck to your shirt?"

Me: "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!!"

Like I said.

Typical day.

The forecast for that day called for 80 degrees and sunny.

This means "Harley time."

I got ready for work, and went back to the shed and took out my motorcycle.

She's black and she's beautiful.

Like Oprah Winfrey.

Except, you know, beautiful.


I started her up, then turned back to the shed to close the doors.

Behind me, the engine STOPPED.

"..huh..?"

I turned to see my that my Harley Davidson had decided to flop over on it's right side, crash to the ground and shut itself off.

That's. Just. Awesome.

**********

Dear God,

What the fuck? Seriously?

You gotta pull this shit on a fucking Friday!?

Signed,

Not a happy disciple right now, dude. Not even a little bit.

Rod

**********


I went over to the bike, grabbed it's handlebars and pulled it upright.

I realized , at about a 30-degree angle to it's LEFT, that my kickstand had decided to go back to it's little home under the bike.

Kickstand's mom: "Kickstand! Time for dinner!"

Kickstand: "Coming mom!"

My bike, without a kickstand to rest on...

...began it's descent to the opposite side.

It's at this exact moment that the right mirror caught the pocket of my leather jacket.

And the bike...

...with me now attached to it...

...fell over on it's LEFT side.

Taking me with it.


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

Dear God,

Yeah..it's Rod again.

Seriously. You've had your fun.

Cut the fucking shit.

Signed,

Guy who's going to convert to Judaism soon

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


I finally managed to pick the bike up, readjust everything that had bent or moved...

...and went to work.

It's about halfway to work where I look down at my gas tank.

There...on the top right of my tank:

A FUCKING DENT.

Me: "Kill me."

My throttle linkage apparently drove into the gas tank with such force that it caused a small dent in the tank.

So far...this Friday?

Not the best.

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

Dear God,

Please forget about the 'converting to Judaism' thing I said earlier.

I was kidding. I know I shouldn't be fucking with you.

Plus, I don't look good in beanies, so I don't think the Jew look is for me.

Signed,

Your humble servant, Rodney

P.S.,

Please stop now.

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


I get to work, completely bummed.

I immediately start researching 'how to pull out dents' and 'Harley Davidson body shops' and 'how to slit my fucking wrists'...

...when suddenly I have the urge to pee.

I walk into the men's room and step up to the urinal.

That's when I notice it.

Apparently, in one of the two efforts to pull my bike back up from the ground...

...something had caught on my pants...

...and ripped a four-inch hole in the crotch of my goddamn jeans.


Oh.

Looky there.

My right ball is hanging out.

Excellent.

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

Dear God,

Touche'.

I give up.

Rod

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

So, here I sit at my desk...

...with a nut hanging out of the hole that remains.


I say 'remains' because I tried to staple it shut.

Some fucking hairy moments doing that, my friends.

I leave work in about an hour.

I wonder how God will finish me off.

Death by Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders?

Trapped in a hot elevator with an unshowered Rosie O'Donnell?

My money is something messy done by a steam roller.

It seems like it's gonna be a steam roller death kinda day.

Pray for me.

'Cuz it doesn't seem like mine are working.

Moog out.

Lab #1: Insert Apple into Colon

Stupid fucking teacher.

I’d put an apple on his desk, but he’s probably too fucking stupid to eat it.

Me: "I brought you an apple, teach!"

Teacher: "Thanks!..Unnngghh...UUNNGGHH!"

Me: “NO..NO…DON’T PUT IT IN YOUR ASS!!”

Idiot.

A perfectly good Golden Delicious is now brown and not so good.

Great.

Now I want an apple.

On a side note, I look fantabulous in my Catholic School Girl outfit and matching ball-gag.

But I've digressed.


A few weeks ago, I spent 5 days – 40 hours – in a training class for my job.

You may be thinking:

“Sex Gods need TRAINING?!?”

Don't lie.

You know you were thinking that.


FYI:

Everything you need to know about Sex God Training can be summed up in this one elaborate equation:

((P + V) * ((Lube + stray pinky finger))/x minutes (where x=3)= rockin' good time.

I know.

I totally blew your mind right there.

Just like "Good Will Hunting" but not even remotely similar.

Actually, I was in a technical training course.

This course had the word, “ADVANCED” just before the rest of the title.

And although I’m sure my wife wishes the course was “Advanced Sexual Techniques for the Tiny-Penised Male”…

…alas it was not.

Look out, honey!

Here comes two more minutes of fun!

For me.


No – the class was an advanced technical class.

As such, I would expect a couple of things:

1) To learn something new
2) That the instructor wasn’t a stupid fuckshit

Neither was true.

Instead, I spent roughly 25 of these forty hours saying shit like:

“This still isn’t working.”

“Nope. Not working.”

“So…how do you do this exactly? By the way, this fucking thing still isn’t working.”

"Do you actually test this fucking shit...or is it like your visit to the gay bar...just stick your dick out and hope an ass lands on it?"

“If I have to sit through two more days of this shit, I’m going to take this fucking box and throw it out the goddamn window.”

His replies?

“Yeah. Um. I really don’t know how to do that.”

...and...my favorite...

“Um. That’s beyond my level of expertise.”


Oh.

Wait..wait..let me check the course descrip..yep..yep…says “ADVANCED” right here in the title.

Apparently, the criteria for teaching an ‘Advanced’ course is:

1) Be semi-conscious

2) Be able to say “Um. Err…” repetitively

3) Be able to know where to send people for lunch in the general vicinity

4) Be completely incapable of answering a single fucking question unless it's about where the fuck to eat lunch in the general vicinity

Asshole teacher.

Total fucking waste of time.

But, I’m back now.

In an advanced state of pissed-offedness.

On the bright side, they brought cookies in the afternoon.

And, no...

I didn’t stop the teacher from sticking it in his ass.

He totally deserved that shit.

Motivational Filler - Blasphemy

Before I start today...

Got a new movie review of Terminator: Salvation over on Moog's Movie Reviews.

You know...with a wife and two kids you'd think I'd spend more time with the family.

On a related note:

Sometimes I make myself laugh.

Carry on!

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

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)):


Yep.

Going to Hell.

Like that was even debatable before.

I'll tell Rachael Ray you all say, "hi."

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.

These Balls Smell Like Beef Jerky!

Have I mentioned that I HATE people?

Really.

I really, really do.

This fact came into blazing clarity the other night as my family attended our weekly "Adult/Child Bowling League."

We've been doing this for a while as a family on Wednesday nights.

I bowl with my son while my wife bowls with my daughter.

This translates to:

"I get to see how slowly a bowling ball can roll before it actually starts moving BACKWARDS...

...while my wife finds out that you really CAN sing songs from High School Musical and dance ballet really ANYWHERE."


Why do we do this?

1) The family spends time together.
2) It empties $32 out of my wallet every week.
3) I get to spend the time listening to the local trailer-trash yell at their bastard children.

Hm.

Great.

Now I'm asking myself why we do it.

Of course, the first fifteen minutes of bowling are spent weeding out all the pedophiles and shit who showed up after only seeing the words "adult," "child," and "balls" on the flyer.

Assholes.

I WANT TO START BOWLING, ALREADY!!

Me: "Dad...what are you doing here?"

The other night, I was paired next to FWTDB.

FWTDB = (fat, white-trash disgusting bitch)

To say that this woman looked like a walking colostomy bag would be to heap vast amounts of praise on her.

400 pounds of acne-riddled, slick-haired, Jerry-Springer-watching trash.

Ugh.

How do I know that she was white trash?

Let's go over the finer points:

1) She appears like she hasn't washed her hair in weeks.

I believe, at one point, I saw a chipmunk poke it's head out.


2) She was wearing a "Mark Martin" NASCAR shirt.

Now, there's a fine line here that needs to be drawn.

A woman who wears a "Jeff Gordon" shirt may be wearing it because Jeff Gordon is cute (I would bang Jeff Gordon).

However, Mark Martin bears a remarkable resemblance to my right nut.

Additionally, he's not a household name and doesn't have cardboard stand-ups of him peddling chicken pot-pies in my supermarket.

This means that she's a true fan of WATCHING PEOPLE DRIVE CARS.

Personally, I would rather eat the fucking chipmunk in her hair then to watch people drive.

I do enough of that shit on my commute every day.


3) She brings "Grandma" to bowling.

This also, in and of itself, does not brand her as "white trash."

However, what DOES clue me in to the fact that this woman may live in a single-wide is this fact:

GRANDMA HAS HIPPIE HAIR.

Now, my grandmothers both went to the hairdresser.

They cared how they looked. Even if it meant that they looked OLD.

White trash granny?

No hairdresser.

Grandma has been letting her gray hair grow straight...

...down to the length of her waist...

...and is wearing it with a nice part right down the middle.

Mmmmm....

SEXY.

She was also wearing a "Coors" windbreaker.

And, apparently, she shares the same hair-washing schedule as her daughter.


Now...

Amidst all of this greasy display of trashitude is her son.

Her son is running rampant around the bowling alley - more specifically in and out of my fucking bowling lane.

All the time he's doing this, he's making shooting/explosion sounds:

"PSSSHHHH!!! PFPFFFFTTT!!"

In between this lovely cacophony, he stops to cough without covering his mouth:

"CAAACKK!! CAARRCKK!"

Great.

Me (pointing up): "Look, son! An actual hepatitis germ!"

Awesome.

I'm never. Bowling. Again.


Her son (I'll call him "Fuckwad Dipshit") is the same age as my son.

This means, that they're now best friends.

As such, they're sitting together at the scoring table, playing.

For some reason, Fuckwad Dipshit is making explosion sounds, even though they're playing with little plastic seahorses.

Dipshit: "PPSHSHSH!! CAAAACKK!! PFFFFTTSS!!"

Seriously, kid.

They're FUCKING SEAHORSES.

What the fuck is this kid doing?

I look down.

The entire scoring table is COVERED IN FUCKWAD DIPSHIT'S SPIT.

Awesome.


My son then does a little "Pfffsshshtt!" explosion sound...

...at which point I say:

Me: "Cam, try no to do that. YOU'RE GETTING SPIT ALL OVER THE TABLE."

*hint*

*hint*, mama fatass, *hint*

FWTDB continues to bowl.

She says nothing to Fuckwad Dipshit.

Nothing about Fuckwad Dipshit's coughing and lack of mouth-covering.

Nothing about him slathering my bowling lane, and also my son, in a thick layer of double-wide saliva.

Nothing.


At one point, my wife came over.

Me: "Don't be surprised if Cam wakes up with Ebola tomorrow."

Wife: "Why?"

Me (loudly): "This kid is spitting and coughing all over the place. It's disgusting."

FWTB hears this (my point)...

...and she and I make eye contact.

She could, in all honesty, kill me with one swing of her arm flab.

But she doesn't.

She tells her kid to stop. Finally.

She doesn't kill me.

NO...I think she's saving THAT for our appearance on Jerry Springer.

I hope she brings Grandma.

I got a thing for old broads with ponytails.

Charles Collins Wants to Send Me Money!! Hoolay!!

OHBOY OHBOY OHBOY!

I can't wait for the money to start rolling in!

Here's what happened:

We all get these stupid fucking emails about transferring money and all that bullshit.

Here's the latest one I got:

(click to enlarge (that's what she said)):


If the image didn't come through, here's what it says:

**********************
From: charlescollins200911@yahoo.co.jp

HELLO My name is Charles a Banker please i want to transfer money to you get back to me for more details

- charles collins

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


I let this thing stew in my inbox (that's what she said, again) for a while...

...one finger on the 'Delete' button.

But decided, instead...

...to reply.

Here, in it's entirety, is my reply to one Charles Collins of Japan.

Enjoy.

**********************
To: charlescollins200911@yahoo.co.jp

From: midgetmanofsteel@yahoo.com

Well, shit. This seems totally legit. Why the fuck not?

Thanks, Charles. It's not very often that someone with very little knowledge of the American language and/or typing skills contacts me and wants to send me money out of the blue.

Usually, letters like this come to me from Nigeria...and you know how those Nigerians can be.

They cannot be trusted!

Maybe we should buy bombers and shit with this money and blow them up.

Maybe then I wouldn't have to spend so much fucking money on Spam filters and shit.

Pesky Nigerians! They be crazy, fo shizzle.

Luckily yours made it through! How fortunate for me!

Hooray!

Woops...I see you're from Japan.

Hoolay!

You should be able to understand that one.

How much money are you talking here, Chuck?

Should we split it? Go halvsies? What's your cut?

Can I buy hookers and shit or do you want me to just deposit it?

If I CAN get hookers is there a per-hooker limit, or can I just go hog wild and have, like, really really expensive ones who will let me put it in their bum? I've always wanted to put it in a bum.

So dark. So mysterious.

Like Adam Sandler says:

50 million Elvis fans can't be wrong.

Helpful tip now that we're talking about Adam Sandler:

Don't rent 'BedTime Stories' unless you have kids. The guinea pig makes the movie.

That one's free.

Where was I? Oh, yeah....hookers who like things in their ass.

Let me know - because if the bum thing is a deal breaker for you, then I'll have to pass.

Forever your soulmate,

Barack Obama.

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

Then I sent it.

I have not heard back.

I got one thing to say to you, Charles Collins from Japan:

You're a fucking tease, Chuck Collins!! A fucking tease!!

I had hookers and lube lined up and everything.

Asshole.

My Big Fat Hog has no Fashion Sense

The Gods of Rain shined down upon me that day.

And no, not just because I look friggin' awesome with my shirt off in the downpour...

...all glistening and muscly and shit..

Wow. Look at that.

Gave myself a boner.

No...the Rain Gods came and washed out the local soccer fields.

Dutifully canceling my daughter's soccer game.

This, in and of itself, is worthy of one of those manly Marine shout outs:

"COOCHIE COOCHIE COOCHIE!"

How Charo got kicked out of the Marines with that magnificent set of cans, I'll never know.


Regardless, the cancellation of her game freed up my Sunday.

Doing shit around the house is pretty much out of the question, as I'm not really very good at anything.

Me: "Honey...you know how I suck at doing things around the house?"

Wife: "What did you do?"

Me: "You might want to pack. I think the lawn is on fire."

Stupid sprinkler system.


So, instead, I took the kids to the closest Harley Davidson store.

That's right, bitches...I'm a Harley man.

All five feet of me.

Moooooog: Not being even the slightest bit menacing since 1968.

Regardless, I had a $50 gift certificate from Christmas (thank you baby Jesus!)...

...and told the kids I would get them new shirts if they came with me.

Bribery: Making kids do shit they don't wanna since forever.

Jesus H. Christ.

Today is turning into "Mental Poo: Tagline Edition."

I'll stop now.

Moooooog: Stopping his irritating tagline shit since two seconds ago.

Fuck.

Sorry.


My wife wanted to go with us, but she didn't come back from the gym in time.

So, as we were leaving, I left her this note:

(click to enlarge...that's what she said):



On a related note:

My wife sometimes just cries out 'WHY!?'

So, we get to the Harley store and my kids pick out their shirts.

My daughter has a wonderfully tasteful pink short sleeve shirt, with 'Harley Davidson' embroidered around some flowers.

Yes, I know what embroidery is.

Don't judge.

My son?

Here's what my son picks out:


Awesome.

Totally appropriate for Kindergarten class.

Me?

I can't find shit.

Every fucking shirt in the rack is XL, XXL, XXXXL....

Jesus H. Christ.

I'm five-foot-two...160 pounds...

(of sheer muscle-filled shortnicity!)

..and there's not a single fucking there here to fit me.

Me: "Jesus H. Christ. Apparently, I have to be six-foot-eight, 720 pounds to ride a fucking Harley."

This went over well with the six-foot-eight, 720 pound guy who was working the service counter right behind me.

Giant: "Ahem."

Me: "No offense."

Fuck.

Like I want to die looking for a goddamn t-shirt.


So, I employ the kids.

Me: "Guys...go through these racks and find anything that says 'MEDIUM.'"

30 seconds later, my son comes around the corner.

Cam: "I found one!"

He's holding this:


Me: "Um...thanks, buddy. But daddy would never ever ever wear that."

Outside of the bedroom.

Ahem.

Then my daughter comes up:

Payton: "I found this."

Me: "Oh...what did you fi.."

She found this:


Me: "Now we're talking!"

I mean...um...

Me: "No, honey...no."

Maybe I should have been more specific when I said 'find a medium.'

I probably should have waited for my wife.

Stupid untamed Harley spirit.

Motivational Filler - Kids and Feuds

Before I start today...

..got a new movie review of "Up" over on Moog's Movie Reviews.

This movie has two great things going for it:

1) Talking dogs

2) Ben Stiller's not in it.

Carry on.

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

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 posters (that's right, bitches - I gots me TWO!) for you (click to enlarge (that's what she said)):



The alternate:


Great.

Now I'm hungry.

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.

The Disappointed Sociopaths

Just a quickie today.

Like I'm capable of anything else.

Stupid ticklish frenulum.

(Go ahead...I'll wait)

I check my blog stats pretty regularly.

I have a saying:

"Before you crap...check your stats."

On a related note:

The people I work with hate when I talk to myself.

Thanks to this mantra...

(which, until I Googled the word 'mantra,' thought was one of those things that swim...you know with wings...and tails...and they kill Australian animal show hosts from time to time)

...I check my blog stats about 5 times a day.

My boss thinks I'm working.

I'm usually going poo poo.

Spastic colon?

Probably.

Get it fixed?

Fuck no.

Then I'd have to fucking work.

Screw that shit.


So I check my stats and - HOLY SHITFUCK...

I hit almost 1,200 visitors one day.

A new record!


The most I've EVER had prior to that is 700 visitors.

And that was the day I went full frontal here.

Now I can check off 'display small penis on Internet' off my Bucket List.

SUCK IT, Morgan Freeman!

So, I decide that I'll click to see WHERE these people come from.

Here's where they all came from:

(click to enlarge...that's what she said)


"One of our members added your page to the Mental Health topic on StumbleUpon."

Um.

The...um...

"Mental HEALTH" topic?

So...let me get this straight.

('getting it straight' usually requires the assistance of a pill)

Roughly 600 people needing sound advice on Mental Health issues like:

1) Depression
2) OCD
3) OCD
4) OCD
5) OCD

..I CAN'T STOP!!!...

6) Anorexia
7) Obsessions with short yet sexy sexy men

All these needy, helpless souls...

...instead...

...fucking landed on "Mental Poo."

* twitch

Mental?

Absolutely.

Health?

Well...um...

Unless you were looking for therapy after getting your vasectomy, need to cleanse your soul after seeing your bosses testicles, or learn the art of mastering sexual harassment during your 12-step program...

You came to the wrong fucking place, my friend.

Now...

Not ONLY did they land on Mental Poo...

...but the day that they did land here was the day that I posted "The Stinky Trombone is in Ohio."


If there ever was a day when a crazy prick shouldn't have clicked on a link...

...that was probably it.

Those poor, depressed, suicidal and potentially dimwitted crazily defective bastards.

So much worse now than they were before.

That's what you get for being mental.

Welcome to my world, brethren.

Welcome to my world.