Screw Gampy

I HATE DRIVING.

Do you know how you know that you're going to be in for a shitty commute?

Here's how:

You're on a back road with a 30 mph speed limit.

(for those of you on the metric system, you can go blow monkeys, because I'm not converting this shit for you)

Anyway...

30 mph speed limit.

There's a car in front of you.

It's a Buick.

It's a GREEN Buick.

Me: "Oh. No."


You look at the license plate.

It's a "Veteran" plate.

It's a "Veteran" VANITY plate.

Me: "Why, God? Why?"


It's a "Veteran" vanity plate that says:

"Gampy"

Yep.

Gampy.

Fuck all that is fuckable.

This ride is GONNA SUCK.


Seriously.

30 mph would have been doubling my speed.

At one point, I believe a crippled turtle passed me in the shoulder.

The worst part was that all the while, I'm in my car SCREAMING:

"MOVE YOUR GODDAMN WRINKLY ASS, GAMPY!!"

That's right.

Move. Your Goddamn. Wrinkly ass.

Gampy.


If I wasn't going to Hell before...

...screaming at the top of my lungs at a war-veteran-proud-grandfather affectionately known to his grandkids as "Gampy"...

...pretty much cements it.

Plus, I felt stupid yelling "Gampy."

Friggin' vanity plates.

I hate them.

And Gampy.

Screw him, too....you know, for making me yell the word, "Gampy" let alone yelling it with swear words.

He made me do it.

Him and his damn Buick.

At least that's what I'll tell St. Peter.

Try it at Home: Thinking of You

Just a short one today.

- Bob Dole

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

In yet another episode in my "Try it at Home" series, I give you today's lesson:

How to Immediately Make Someone Uncomfortable

(don't worry..this has nothing to do with inserting things in one's anus)

Here's the premise:

We've all had conversations start when someone...

(a friend...a coworker...acquaintance...transexual prostitute, etc.)

...comes up to you and says:

"Hey..I was thinking about you the other day."

They then go on to tell you some goddamn boring story you couldn't give a shit about but now you have to listen to them because you were stupid enough to go, 'Oh, really?'

Like..

The guy's grandmother called and told him about how her colostomy bag popped off accidentally and he thought immediately that the bag HAD to be full of shit and when he thought about things that were 'full of shit' he thought of you and now you just want to stab the guy in the ear with a pen.

Moral of the story:

NEVER SAY 'OH REALLY.'

Just..you know..run away.


Here, my friends...

Here is how you stop them in their tracks.

Or at least make them stutter a bit.

Timing is key here.

Person: "Hey...I thought about you the other day."

At this point, they are fully expecting you to say, 'Oh really?'

But you're smarter than this now.


Instead of 'Oh Really,' they get...

This:

Person: "Hey...I thought about you the other day."

(dramatic pause)

You: "Were you masturbating?"

* blink

..aaaaaaaaaaaannndd....

Scene.

I do this all the time.

It's funny when it happens during meetings.

Everyone laughs except for the person running to get Human Resources.

Friends will laugh or play along (or, in some extreme cases, grab your crotch).

Acquaintances will either:

1) Get nervous..maybe chuckle...then walk away

2) Say, 'Yes, I was masturbating...and I totally had my (vibrator/electric vagina) on full throttle.'

If they go with option 2 there, immediately get all up in that shit.

Same sex or not, you're gettin' somethin' somethin'.

Wow.

I sound like my uncle.

Speaking of my uncle, I thought about him the other day.

Ahem.

Try it at home, kids.

Moog out.

Even my subconscious is an asshole

Well..I'm back after my summer hiatus.

So, to ease you back into my blog, I give you just this simple little ditty.

Enjoy.

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

Dream I had last night:

I walked into a Macy's looking for jewelry. 

Please note that I would never buy jewelry from Macy's in real life. I blame this part of the dream on a bad grape I may have ingested.

That said, as I walked around the counter, a salesman looked at me and said, "I'm sorry, sir. But we only sell expensive jewelry here."

I looked at him and said, "Hey. FUCK YOU, dude."

He began to promptly walk away from me when I said, "You know what? Take me to your manager."

He continued to walk away from me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Jaclyn," he said.

I stopped.

"Jaclyn? Seriously?"

"Yes," he said, as he continued to walk away from me, quickening his pace.

"Did your parents hate you? I assume that's why you're named Jaclyn. Because I can see how they couldn't stand you after seeing you for only a minute."

And then Jaclyn disappeared, and I remained satisfied in the resolution.

Fin.

Little Ball Sweats

BEFORE I START TODAY:

I have a $50 Amazon Gift Card giveway going on until July 11th at midnight.

Go here to enter: http://t.co/ivP8wAmi4Y

GOOD LUCK!

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There comes a time in every man's life when he has to look deep inside himself and although sometimes this requires the use of a pretty big mirror and some really good pre-internal inspection stretching, that man must decide whether or not putting lipstick around his sphincter and posting the pictures on hotornot.com under the pseudonym "The Real Sarah Jessica Parker" are really worth the effort and potential for internal bleeding.

But this is not one of those times because today I'm going to talk about two sweaty guys playing ping pong.

I figured if you've read past the opening paragraph without going 'I AM RIGHT THE HELL OUTTA HERE', then you can stick with a post about ping pong.

I hedge bets.


Just outside the gym at work, is our recreation room which includes a pool table and a ping-pong table.

Why there is no big screen with a stack of porn is beyond me.

My idea of recreation may be different than most people's.

I've digressed.


Regardless...every frigging day there are two assholes who play ping-pong there.

Every day.

EVERY. DAY.

And every day when they're done..they walk into the locker room..

SWEATY.

They're sweaty.

They're sweaty from PLAYING PING PONG.

Yes..the game with the little paddles and shit.


And they're not just a little sweaty...they're wetter than Tila Tequila in a threesome with Jessica Alba and Channing Tatum.

* blink

SOMEONE GET ME THAT TAPE!!


Seriously, though...

They're SOAKED.

Honestly this shouldn't surprise me because anyone who has played the game of ping pong (or it's lesser known table-top inbred-cousing version, "Gnip-Gnop" OMG OMG I'm just realizing that is 'ping pong' SPELLED BACKWARDS...GENIUS!) knows that ping pong requires the utmost in cardiovascular fitness because at times you may be required to MOVE SIDE TO SIDE for up to a foot at a time while simultaneously holding a teeny tiny paddle that weighs a bicep-stressing three ounces and if - by the grace of GOD - you manage to actually figure out how to get that stupid ball over the two inch net without smashing it into the eye of some stupid bystander just coming down there to grab a Pepsi because the soda guy forgot to restock the Diet Pepsi (ASSHOLE) there is a chance that the other guy MIGHT HIT IT BACK to you requiring you to start the entire 'moving one foot, waving one arm' thing ALL OVER AGAIN.

God, I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

But seriously, guys.

It's ping pong.

So I've got little tip for you (that's what he said):

If you get that sweaty playing ping pong, maybe it's about time you PUT THE PADDLES DOWN AND HIT THE GODDAMN TREADMILL INSTEAD.

Just wait til I'm out of the locker room before you come in.

I don't even want to imagine that shit.

Stuff It

Today, as a service to the readers of Mental Poo...

I present to you the following "Clip N Save" section:

"What the stuffed animals on your car's dashboard say about you."

Much like people analyze the content of their dreams, I have also come up with a way to determine someone's personality:

By looking at the number and type of stuffed animals they have displayed inside their cars.

You're welcome.

Here we go:

***** Cut here *****

Your Personality Profile based on the NUMBER of stuffed animals displayed in your car:

One stuffed animal:

You may have a forgetful child.

Either that, or you are simply a loser.



Two stuffed animals:

You have TWO forgetful children who obviously need some sort of discipline in their lives not counting what they have to endure on a nightly basis listening to you yell at the contestants on "Wheel of Fortune" and I HATE TO BREAK IT TO YOU, Mr. Belvedere, but the answer is NOT "Johnny Come Lastly" which is NOT ONLY the wrong phrase but the friggin' category is "European Countries."

Most likely, you eat TV dinners alone.

Although I do this same thing (more Salisbury Steak for me!), I have the benefit of not compounding my pain with toys on my dashboard.



Three stuffed animals:

Seriously. What the Hell is wrong with you?

Don't forget your therapy appointment at 4 o'clock, you freak.

You're adopted.

You might also want to dispose of that body in your trunk. It's starting to smell funky.


Your Personality Profile based on the TYPE of stuffed animals displayed in your car:

Cat (Also see "two or three animals" above):

No one likes you ... not even your cat.

Which is kind of obvious since cats don't like anything except apathy.

If it weren't for the regular supply of kibble you give it, it probably would have killed you in your sleep by now.

This would be a welcome release for you. Your kin would dance at the showing of the body - probably to something by Beyonce'.



Dog:

You're simply sad, because your dog truly is your only best friend.

On the bright side, though, at least it's not a cat.

There's actually hope for you, unless that IS actually your dog on the dashboard.

Having a real dog in your car's back window indicates that this is the "bait" you use for attracting children.

You probably should be committed.



Mythical Animal (unicorn, dragon, Paris Hilton's virginity, etc):

If you are displaying a unicorn, dragon, etc., etc., then you're a 6 year old girl and shouldn't be driving.

It's either that, or you're a female Goth who puts out for guys in long robes and Robin Hood boots.

You often attend Renaissance Faires and have a "list" of people you want killed.

If you have a tongue ring, please call me.


***** Cut here *****

There you have it.

Hope it helps.

Next week we unveil the mystery behind people who wear their goddamn sunglasses indoors and those asshats who wear their hats sideways.

Losers.

Run, Mahatma..RUN!

WARNING: This blog post contains a lot of racial profiling.

You're welcome.

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My white sheet is currently at the dry cleaners.

Let me explain.

I don't think it's any secret that I don't like foreign things.

Things like:

1) People who can't speak English

2) People who CAN speak English, but appear to be foreigners

3) Actually, just other people in general. Forget #1 and #2.

4) Champagne glasses in my anus

I wasn't going to include #4, but the hospital report said it was a 'foreign object' so I felt obligated to add it.

On a side note, NEVER use a champagne flute when a shot glass will do.

But I've digressed.


The other day, I walked into the gym at work.

We have three treadmills.

There, on one of the treadmills was one of the guys who works in our tech lab. For the sake of argument, I'll call him "Al."

"Al Qaeda."

He is middle-eastern.
He has the full beard/moustache/"I'm gonna kill you you unholy infidel!" look.

He wears a big, red turban.

Obviously, this tends to catch your eye.

Especially if you're an Air Marshall.

There he was, on the treadmill...

...with that thing cranked up to at least 13 miles an hour.

(For those of you one the metric system, that means "hauling some serious ass" kilometers/hr.)


Now...is it bad of me?

Because all I kept thinking...

...watching this turban-clad middle-eastern guy running full bore on the treadmill was:

"Great. Terrorist in training."

Before you all start calling me a "racist" and "racial profiler" and "hot short guy" and "sexual chocolate," know this:

When the shit comes down, and Al comes running at you at 13 miles per hour with a dirty bomb strapped to his chest, I warned you.

Of course, he could be just trying to get in shape.

Even terrorists get high blood pressure, you know.

Perfect fit.

Email conversation about someone wanting to guest post on this blog:

Haven't heard back yet.

Weird.

I caption because I CAN

My tattoo witch friend, Lisa, posted this picture on Facebook for whatever reason.

I don't question what Lisa posts because:

a) She puts tattoos on me and you NEVER want to piss of THAT person, and
b) She is an actual witch and - you know - fuck being a newt, right?

Regardless, if you're my friend on Facebook then you know I will put stupid shit on things you think are serious whenever I can.

This was no exception, so - upon seeing this - I just started throwing captions at it:

There.

Don't worry, I'm fully prepared to have a ladybug or some shit put on my body next time I'm at her tattoo studio.

Gonna be tough tattooing a newt, though.

But she's a witch. They can do anything.

This is why my portfolio sucks.

I was on Twitter when I noticed that my 'suggestions' on who to follow included Scottrade, the online brokers.

The following exchange followed:

It's been a few days now and I still haven't heard from Scott.

Like I'm going to invest my $35 with THOSE guys. Right.

The Cheese and Cracker Incident

Just in case you were wondering why I was divorced I present you THIS text conversation between my ex-wife and I.

I posted it on my Facebook page and women were completely siding with my ex on this one but, just in case you missed it, ENJOY:


I sent my son with the store-brand crackers because I didn't feel like asking if that was okay.

Plus I saved some money that I spent on the pre-sliced cheese.

WIN.

Ron hurts, Facebook people. Ron hurts.

I was sitting in my house drinking alone and watching football because that's what you do when you're a single dad when it's winter and you just dropped your kids off at their mom's house and you're out of Celexa.

Great. NOW I'M SAD. Mainly because I'm at work, but whatever.

So I was sitting there in my all-alone stupor when I heard the faint *bling* of my Facebook Messenger pop up on my laptop.

So I got up and waddled over to find a message from one of my Facebook friends who I've never met and - honestly - have no idea who this person really is other than a fan, I'm assuming.

So, of course, this happened:

Poor Ron.

Someone should go cheer him up.

But not me. I'm drunk and still out of Celexa.

..and yet, somehow, my Facebook Friends count keeps going UP. ???

After the success of my "Facebook Friends Posts", I give you yet another entry into what is becoming one of my more popular series here on this blog.

Plus. It's easy to do and I'm wicked lazy.

So this is what you're missing if you're not my friend on Facebook.

Enjoy.

Shit like this is primarily why I don't get anything done at work.

I like it better this way, actually.

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

Find me on Facebook here.

Find me on Twitter here.

Find me in the ceiling tiles of random women's restrooms here.

Voices in my head and kielbasa software

I have a love/hate relationship with the software developers where I work.

You see, my job is to find bugs (flaws) in pre-released software and report them to software developers so they can fix it before it goes out.

Yes. I'm responsible for product quality. I DO see the irony in this.

Case in point, this IM conversation between me and one of them - Larry - recently, where I had to tell him that a bug I approved as 'fixed' was actually still broken:


Larry didn't seem amused at that.

Go figure.

Shortly afterwards, though, I had a bug to look at where I needed to test the Polish language version to see if it was right.

I'm not Polish.

I don't speak Polish.

Hence, this:


Then he assigned the bug to some guy in Poland to see if it was fixed, clearing the way for me to write this post because that would have taken up, like, 15 minutes of my time.

Small miracles, people.

The Girlfriend Chronicles - Take 4

After the success of my previous "Girlfriend Chronicles," posts, I figured I'd share some more excerpts with you guys of some chat conversations between my girlfriend and I.

It's okay to be jealous.

And you should probably send Kerri a sympathy card or something after reading these.

She puts up with a LOT.

Enjoy!

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











...and then Kerri turned 40!!

Gah.





To preface this last one, be advised that Kerri has a 3-year old daughter nicknamed "Ash" but not because she's on fire. We put that out before it got to that point.

PHEW.


Truer words? Never spoken.

So, to all you single ladies out there, remember:

Sure, you may die alone. But it could be worse.

You could be MY girlfriend.

Red Bull Gives you (scene of unimaginable violence)

Was in the cafeteria at work getting my fifth cup of hazelnut coffee with two Splenda and half-n-half when OMG I JUST REALIZED I'M GAY.

Sorry.

Was in the cafeteria getting my (insert manly type of coffee here) when I noticed this poster:


Red Bull: Recharge Wednesday!

Really?

This is supposed to get me to want to drink Red Bull so I recharge and then next thing I know I'm a 40-year old man riding a Razor scooter with my tie flung over my shoulder going "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" through the hallways while wearing an expression like I just got my report card and I DIDN'T flunk remedial English?

Because all I want to do when I see this poster is to run up and shank this guy in the kidney with a homemade shiv.


There. That's better.

Because, seriously....

If you're this happy at work, take the day off asshole because you're making the rest of us miserable people look bad.

Happy Monday.