Blogiversary "Best Of" - The Honorable Mentions

Closing out my "Best Of" week of posts, I'd like to just give you a few posts that were CLOSE to the list but didn't make the cut.

Trust me, out of nearly 1,000 posts, it's difficult to weed through them and pick some favorites.

In no particular order, are some of the posts I considered...and some that were chosen by you, my readers, as some of my best.

I hope you enjoy them all.

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"Raisins are People" - a recollection of the very first time I chaperoned a field trip.

"What I Did in Child Impact Class" - which was mainly nothing.

"Homemade French Remedies and Grade School AA Meetings" - this has to be child abuse, right? RIGHT?!

"Taken" - a Shady Hostage Story - this marks the first time I realized I could mess around with my coworkers and get away with it. Awesome.

You say "Thank You" like this: mmfffmmfffff - (How a Woman Should PROPERLY thank you for a diamond)

"I'm so Confused I Don't Even Have a Title" - this one is simply mind twisting.

"Superior Testicles" - A heartwarming tale about seeing my boss' balls, and MY VERY FIRST MOVIE!!!

"Fatty the Snowman" - a whimsical tale about a fat kid and the mountain that tried to kill him.

"The Squishy Ride Home" - Note to self: When getting prostate exam, DO NOT RIDE THE MOTORCYCLE.

"Flickr Makes me Cross Dress" - I think this one is self-explanatory

"Bible Adventures" - My MOST POPULAR YouTube video and one of the reasons I'm no longer allowed to put my children in my videos.

"Seeing Red" (a Kristin story) - 92 comments on this one. A "Mental Poo" comment record.

"The One About Ruben Studdard Ninja Spiders" - this one should have made it simply based on the title alone. GENIUS.

"I Hate My Teenagers Already and the Oldest One is Only 9" - man..I was such an asshole as a teenager.

"The Hulk Reads Notes to a Teacher - Episode 1" - the first video that kicked off my super popular "Hulk Reads Notes" video series.

...and, last but not least...

"How One Man's Facial Hair Changed History" - because no 'best of' posts are complete without at least one Hitler picture dressed as a pirate.

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Thanks to all my readers out there.

Now, will one of you PLEASE get me a writing job?!

Thanks in advance.

Blogiversary "Best Of" - The Holiday Letter

Continuing my 4-Year Blogiversary extravaganza, I bring you the fifth installment in my "Mental Poo Best Of" series.

During my 4-year stint here, I've gone through some tough times, including a divorce from my wife of almost 15 years, who is also the mother (we think) of my two awesome children.

But shit like this happens when you get those stupid happy 'Holiday' family letters and, you know, you're not such in a great place and feel like reading that happy peppy bullshit. Statistics-wise, this is - by far - one of my most popular posts of ALL TIME.

The following post debuted on December 16, 2010.

Enjoy.

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The Moooooog Family Holiday Letter

So hot on the heels of my "Divorced Person Holiday Cards," someone commented that at least I didn't do or get those stupid holiday letters where people write about what bullshit they and their family did over the past year.

You don't have to ask me twice, people.

Enjoy.


Yep.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Unless you're Jewish. Then it just looks like a regular Friday.

Blogiversary "Best Of" - The Match.com Post

Continuing my 4-Year Blogiversary extravaganza, I bring you the fourth installment in my "Mental Poo Best Of" series.

This one is one of my personal favorites because after my divorce I tested out Match.com and realized that I was pretty much the only one doing it right. As such, I figured it was high time some of the other idiots out there got their shit together and needed to hear some advice.

The following post debuted on February 14th, 2011.

Enjoy.

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Undercover Brother - Do's and Don'ts of Match.com (Male Edition)

The Tweet I did kind of says it all:


After my wildly successful yet hard-hitting expose on epic Match.com fails that I found from women..

..there was a resounding call to not ONLY show portions of MY Match.com profile, but to also skew the hairier sex (males - except in Italy and the Dominican Republic) by showing some of their Match.com fails as well.

Since my own personal Match.com profile was - during it's short yet wildly expensive life - almost perfect, I decided I would use it as a shining example of what you men out there SHOULD be doing but, apparently, you're not.

THE BEGINNING OF THE EXPERIMENT

My first stop in searching male Match.com profiles was to pretend I was a hot foreign woman with giant cans and some weird fetishes.

Obviously.

Here's the female profile I made for myself:


Surprisingly, my penisreceptacle profile was rejected only one time and all I had to do was change the word 'labia' to '(censored).' A small concession, but it was for the greater good.

Also, for some reason, they wouldn't accept my photo on the first try.

Probably because it was of Steve Buscemi.

I have no idea who this broad is but she kind of fit the bill based on the profile and was the only good one that came up when I Googled, "Amazon woman."

What is actually kind of fucked up is that two seconds after this profile was approved, I got one 'wink' and then someone emailed me.


It's not unusual to find myself the target of wanton sexual advances but 9 times out of 10 the person trying to nail me doesn't have a penis.

"Penisreceptacle" Match.com profile ready, I began my search for my perfect match.

I limited my criteria to my surrounding area and really really tightened down on the height requirement:


Nice sliding scale there, Match.

So basically I was looking for elves or giant people who don't exist and everyone in between.

On a related note, being 5'4" myself, the only way I would come up in a woman's search is if they forgot to modify this setting. Good times.

Regardless, let's see what we came up with.

PHOTOS

Unless you're completely desperate you should probably do all your searches for people 'with photos' because the ones without photos are the ones you typically don't want to see any way.

So..since the photo is the first thing the person sees...

Do:

DO include a vast array of pictures that show all sides of you except for maybe your taint because I think they'll reject that anyway.


See? All those pictures show them that I like my kids, I like having fun, and I can make my pecs dance to any song of my choosing.

WIN.

DON'T:

Don't make the world want to punch you in the throat immediately upon opening your profile.


Guys. Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES does wearing a baseball cap sideways make you look like you're not an asshole.

Also, if you're going to do a 'shirt off' picture, at least try to make it look like you don't have to move around in the shower to get wet.

Likewise, whenever possible, try not to look like this guy:


There is so much going wrong with that ensemble I don't even know where to begin.

And, if you can help it, try not to be ugly.

Your Profile Headline

Right next to your photos is your 'headline.'

This is where you're supposed to come up with something that catches the woman's attention and then draws her in, kind of like a roofie at closing time but with less physical dragging after it takes hold.

I've said too much.

DO:

DO write something that's funny and quick which, honestly, sounds like having sex with me.


See what I did there?

Right then they probably laughed and went, "Oh! He's so funny and interesting AND I MUST HAVE MY WAY WITH HIM!"

*takes out vibrator

Let's see what the other guys are doing.

DON'T:

Don't do this:


No, dude.

Oprah is kind of a big deal.

Maybe even, like, Toby Maguire after Spiderman and Spiderman 2 was a big deal (we will neglect Spiderman 3 here as an anomaly).

But then, they don't need Match.com, do they? See any correlation here?

Yeah. Me either.

ABOUT ME

So this is the part where you describe who you are and what you do and like and who you want and blah blah blah. Basically this is where you sell yourself which should be easy to do if you grew up in a brothel like I did.

DO:

Do it like this. This is basically Shakespeare squared and put on a dating site, people:


I love jazz hands.

Ties it all together.

What not to do?

DON'T:

Don't write your profile if you can't spell or complete a sentence or, you know, be able to communicate without people looking at you and going, '???'


"Helllo ladies."

I want to say 'hi' to you so badly that I added an extra consonant.

"I can make you happy AND smile at the same time."

FINALLY, LADIES! Your search is over!

A man who can make you smile when you're happy - ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

Because, you know, usually when people are happy they turn emo and then go on depressed shooting sprees so thanks for clearing that up and not making me disappointment.

IT'S ALL IN THE DETAILS

Match.com gives you a ton of places to write little things about yourself so take this time to hone in on your dream girl, guys, and really lay it out there.

DO:

This is where people read and go 'blah blah blah' because you're so boring and then they go back to see if all this boredom is worth it and they see that you're in a cowboy hat with beads and a do-rag on and go, you know, 'fuck this shit I'm outta here.'

DO keep 'em entertained and intrigued:


The big thing here is to BE HONEST and not lie on anything because if you say crap like, "I'm okay with it if you are" just so you can get some lovin' then you are a big fat liar because two months into the relationship this new hot girl is GOING TO WANT TO HEAD TO CHURCH TO PRAISE THE LORD AT 9 AM ON A FRIGGIN SUNDAY when all you want to do is watch SportsCenter and, really, was the oral sex worth this? - PROBABLY NOT - and it will be ALL. YOUR. FAULT.

DON'T:

Don't pretend like you just stumbled into a hip-hop chatroom and you're PDiddy fighting off hordes of bitches:


I have to give this guy props for the sly, "in my bed" comment because he's pretty much putting out there that if you date me, we're bashing. End of story.

Although there is a reason that this guy is on Match.com and I'm guessing it's either that the girls he usually picks up are sticklers for good grammar, or the gang needs a new pass-around whore for their upcoming initiation.

THE BIGGEST DON'T OF ALL

Guys.

I'm begging you.

Pleading with you.

Whatever you do. No matter how desperate you are or what kind of bet you lose..

Don't ever. ever. ever.

Be this guy:


*cricket

I don't know what planet this guy comes from where it's okay to post on your DATING PROFILE that you're the MOMMY (not 'daddy'..no..that would make too much sense) of a kitten.

Add to the fact that he grew up on a farm and is obviously wearing a hat indoors and I'm pretty sure we are looking at the next installment of the "Silence of the Lambs" franchise.

All that's missing are sunglasses and a bead necklace.

Good luck, ladies. We're all pulling for you.

Some of us, obviously, more literally than others.

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UPDATE:

My 'penisreceptacle' profile has been online now for less than 24 hours as you see it above and get this shit:


Seriously, guys?

The profile says "I will burn you with my lighter.." for Chrissakes.

I WILL BURN YOU WITH MY LIGHTER.

I fear for my own sex.

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MY PROFILE:

Because some people actually asked for it, here is my full Match.com profile in it's entirety back when it was active.

Have at it, people. I'm sure I'll get some critiques.

But if you're going to fall in love with me, I expect at least dinner first.


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Blogiversary "Best Of," Year Three - A Fat Kid, a Skateboard and a Stupid, Stupid Idea

Continuing my 4-Year Blogiversary extravaganza, I bring you the third installment in my "Mental Poo Best Of" series.

This one is a recollection of my childhood. My fat, out-of-shape childhood. And also the day I learned some shit about science.

The following post debuted on November 12, 2009.

Enjoy.

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Fatty McFatShit and Physics 101


Trust me...this stupid title will explain itself in a minute.

You people are so fucking impatient.

But...sit down..this is a long one today.

(that's what she said)

Here goes:

When I was a kid, I was fat.

If the news ever would have run a story on obesity in children back then, the odds would be that the crews were at my house filming me from the neck down while the anchors were back in the studio going:

"Holy fuckshit...that kid's a goddamn porker! Look! He jiggles like Santa!! And now, in sports..."

I ate cookies and junk and didn't exercise and watched television and had little boy fat tits.

("Little Boy Fat Tits" would be a great name for a rock band)

So, yeah. I was fat.


But I had a skateboard.

I had a lime green skateboard, and my buddies and I would hang out during the day and do jumps and shit on them.

When I say I would 'do jumps' on my skateboard I mean 'did not do any fucking jumps.'

I was fat.

Jumping constitutes exercise.

The Gods of Nabisco frown on that shit.

("Gods of Nabisco?" Holy shit! I need to be a band manager.)

Whatever.

So, one day, when I was about 10 or so, my best friend Ed has this idea:

Ed: "Why don't we do this:

Someone starts across the street on his skateboard, and someone else shoots his skateboard in front of them...then they just jump from one skateboard to the other.

..and they'll just keep going, but on the other skateboard!"

Let me draw out the plan so you get a visual:


Oh. My. God.

FUCKING BRILLIANT!!

I imagined the moment of moving in one direction...then, suddenly, BLAM!! moving in a whole different direction.

It would be like riding those cars in 'Tron' except it would be skateboards and there would be no neon and I'm pretty sure I'd look like an overstuffed sausage if I ever tried to squish my fat 10 year old ass into spandex.


It was...

GENIUS.

So I volunteered.

This turned out to be a bad, bad idea.

Here's what happened.

I started out on my skateboard heading across the street.

Ed then kicked the other skateboard across my path of travel.

At the right time, I leaped.

Thoughts of pulling off one of the greatest stunts of my short, creme-filled life traveling through my fat little skull.

Until, that is...

I landed.

For, you see...

The absolute second my feet landed on the other skateboard, it shot out from under me like a fart out of Richard Simmons' gaping asshole and rocketed down the street.

I, on the other hand, went ass over teakettle in the air...

...landing with a *THUD* in the middle of the street.

Here..this should help:


THUD.

As my fat ass lay semi-conscious in the middle of the street, I can hear my friends discussing whether or not they should just up and fucking run.

I have good friends.

That's when I hear the car pull up.

With my eyes closed, I can hear a car stop in front of me, the door open and someone get out.

Great.

It's my little league coach.

Coach: "What happened?"

Ed: "He fell off his skateboard."

On a related note, Ed learned at a very young age that one should cover his own ass whenever possible.

(click to enlarge)


My mother opens the front door of our house (we were right in front of my house) and starts screaming.

So...my coach...in a fit of heroism unknown to any man at that time...

...decides to try to bring me inside.

Eyes closed, I feel him wrap his arms around my limp gelatinous body and...

"HMMMMPPPPHHHHHHH!!"

Nothing.

Didn't budge.

Again.

"HUUNNNNGGGPPPMMMPPPPPHHHH!!"

Then...

Reminiscent of the opening credits of 'The Incredible Hulk', my coach somehow manages to pick my flubbery fat shit carcass off the ground and make his way to the house.


All the time as he's carrying me, I can hear this:

Coach: "Jesus Christ...holy shit...mmmpphhh...oh my God...Jesus...hnnnggghh...fuck he's a goddamn heavy shit...gaaaa"

Nice guy, that coach.

On the bright side, I learned some new words that day.

In the end, I was fine.

But...see?

Had I never thought of jumping, that never would have happened.

Fat kids shouldn't exercise. It may lead to their death and/or hernias for their little league coaches.

But, whatever.

Nothing that a couple of Twinkies and Oreos won't fix.

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Blogiversary 'Best Of,' Year Two - The Rodent Post

Continuing my 4-Year Blogiversary extravaganza, I bring you the second installment in my "Mental Poo Best Of" series.

My kids got a hamster. That's pretty much the gist of it.

The following post debuted on January 29, 2009.

Enjoy.

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How Richard Gere Deals with This Shit I Have No Idea


Gently...softly...

I held it in my hand.

It was soft...

...it almost seemed...vulnerable.

Slowly and deliberately, my fingers stroked it's length.

It moved.

I bent down and kissed it gently.

It responded by standing straight up...

...and biting the shit out of me.

FUCK!!

Hamsters suck.

Yeah. Hamsters.

Why?

What were you thinking?

Jesus H. Christ, if I could kiss my own dick you think I'd be sitting here writing this shit instead?

I've digressed.


My kids each got a hamster for Christmas.

We made a deal a while back that said if the kids were good, we would get them hamsters in December.

On a related note:

Parents do stupid, stupid things.

When the authorities couldn't completely prove that the church arson was their fault, we had no choice but to get them the fucking rats.

Hamsters, sorry. The fucking 'hamsters.'


Here is what I've learned in the few weeks we've owned these hamsters:

1) No matter how many times you describe it, your 5 year old does not understand "NOCTURNAL"

Cam: "I can't wait to play with him!"

(that's what she said)

Me: "Cam, hamsters are nocturnal. Do you know what that means?"

Cam: "They sleep during the day."


(first day of owning hamster)

Cam: "MY HAMSTER IS SLEEPING!"

Me: "Cam...it's noon. They're nocturnal, remember? They wake up when you're asleep, okay?"

Cam: "Okay."

(...the very next day...)

Cam: "MY HAMSTER IS SLEEPING!"

This has been going on every day for three fucking weeks.

I may start dipping the fucking thing in my coffee in the morning just so I don't have to hear this shit.

Watch Starbucks take this idea and run with it.

Starbucks Cashier: "Would you like to try our new Non-fat Mocha Triple-Siberian-Dwarf Hamster Latte?"

Customer: "No...I'll stick with the regular coffee you make that tastes like Rosie O'Donnell's charred colon after a fire in an enema-testing factory."

Great. Make that TWO ideas I've just given to Starbucks.


2) Hamsters shit

Now, as a man, I enjoy pooping (with this ONE notable exception).

I enjoy pooping a lot. Maybe too much.

I sometimes try to poo even when I don't have to, just because it puts a smile on my face.

Sometimes it puts a grimace on my face, but that's usually only after I eat something pointy.


But, mother of Christ - hamsters poo like they've got a fucking quota to meet.

It's like their lower intestine is a goddamn conveyor belt.

I'm picturing that "I Love Lucy" scene with her and Ethel at the chocolate factory...

...except instead of chocolates, it's hamster shit.

This visual gets really gross when they start eating it.

I call it:

"Two Girls, One Cup - Rodent Edition"


3) Hamster balls are awesome

(that's what the girl hamster said)

No..no..different balls.

I'm talking about the little plastic balls that you put the hamsters in and let them run around the house.

(On a related note, because of lack of use, mine also feel like plastic)

Watching these little things book around all over the house while every once in a while is pretty funny.

It gets REALLY funny when your kid picks the ball up and bowls it across the floor.

I love my kids.

Then the hamsters start shitting in the fucking ball (you know...the hamster in Bolt didn't do this) and it turns into a disgusting display of a rodent running around the house in a ball filled with his own feces.


Which is exactly what it would look like if I ever went down a hill in one of those Zorb balls.

Just me...in a ball...

...rolling down a hill at breakneck speeds...

...covered in my own shit.

Like you ladies out there haven't had that fantasy about me.


4) Habitrails fucking ROCK

Each of my kids got their own hamster cage.

With some of their Christmas money, they went to the pet store (you're never too young to hitch rides) and bought some of those interlocking tubes and shit to connect to them.

For the next three days I stood there...

...designing...assembling...

...redesigning...reassembling...

The combinations I could make and the designs I could create were endless!


I was having a great time...

...until my wife poked her head in the room.

Wife: "Ah. I see you're finally putting your Architecture Degree to work."

* my happy fun balloon goes 'pop'

She's awesome sometimes.

Other times, she does this.

I'm SO pooping in her chocolates.

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Blogiversary 'Best Of', Year One - The Hershey Highway post.

This week marks the FOUR YEAR Anniversary of this stupid blog which has been through several vacations, 2 jobs, 3 dogs, a new Harley, a divorce, a stint in an apartment, 2 girlfriends, 2 hamsters (not the same as the girlfriends), some vacations and a new house/mortgage that I can barely afford.

To celebrate all this crap, I've compiled a 'Best of' series of posts this week that in my - and some of my readers' opinions - are the few posts that stand out above the rest of the nearly 1,000 other ones I've written.

The following post debuted on October 18th, 2007 and is one of my absolute favorites of all time.

Enjoy.

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Riding My Bike Through the Hershey Highway


Ex-lax is bad news for fat kids.

I know this from experience.

As a kid, I was a fat shit.

I was not “chunky”.

I was not “big-boned”.

I was fat.

I was fat before it was fashionable (as is evidenced now by young super-fat kids wearing crap that they should NOT be wearing. Honey, if I can see your belly button THROUGH your shirt, you need to buy a bigger shirt).

I only got my jeans from the Sears’ “Husky” department (today, in an effort to stay hip, this section is now called “Phatty Phat Phat Gangstas Yo”).

When I got home from school, I had roast beef sandwiches for a snack.

Yes…my “snack” was beef and bread.

My friend once looked at me eating after school one day and said, “What the Hell are you eating?”

I said, nonchalantly, “My snack.”

He said, “An Oreo is a snack. That’s not a snack.”

He was right.

So I had an Oreo after I ate my sandwich.

It wasn’t bad being a fat kid back then, really. I just couldn’t really do any exercise (not necessarily a bad thing since exercise tends to make me tired-ish with a side of swamp ass).

The worst part was having the fat nicknames.

My name is Rodney. I had a small group of close friends – maybe 4 or 5 really GOOD friends.

They’d call me “Round-ney.”

These were my GOOD friends.

On a related note: I'm not a very good judge of character.

Anyway, one of my friends had a sister. Every day, she would go bike riding and one day she asked me to go with her. I was excited (hey! my loins feel funny!), as normally girls wouldn’t talk to me.

Nowadays they just take out restraining orders those stupid VINDICTIVE BITCHES!!

Ahem.

Sorry.

So I was getting ready to leave the house, and was in the bathroom when I opened the cabinet.

There, in the top drawer, was a small box of chocolates.

I had never heard of “Ex-lax” chocolates, but there they were sitting in front of me…in all their chocolaty goodness.

So I ate some.

* num num num

I ate, like, four of them.

* NUM NUM NUM NUM

Four. Ex-Lax.

Keep in mind, I’m 8 years old.

…and I’ve unwittingly ingested enough laxative to completely evacuate the lower intestines of every inhabitant of Somalia.

But, with chocolate in my belly and a song in my heart (Bay City Rollers ROCK DA HOUSE!), I gleefully jump on my bike, and off I go.

About two miles from my house, my friend’s sister stops to talk to a friend on the side of the road. I don’t know this friend, so I’m sitting off in the background…my thoughts to myself…

…it’s just then that I feel the bubble.

*BLURGLE*

???

...again...

*BLURGLE BLURGLE ZIING*

“Wow,” I’m thinking. “This is going to be a big fart.”

So I back up a bit, and ease a cheek off my bike seat and try to squeeze out a silent toot.

…and I completely and utterly shit myself.

I shit like I was trying to put out a fire with it.


The poo wouldn’t stop.

The Ex-lax was hitting me like a gift that kept on giving.

Me: "…what the…?!"

I can only imagine my face…completely shocked and wide-eyed as this was NOT the fart I was expecting.…

…and now my face is also pale as all the blood has drained from it and is now concentrated around my ever-constricting bowels trying to STOP THIS POO...MOTHER OF GOD…FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY…MAKE IT STOP!!!

I managed to scream out, “I have to go home!” to my buddy’s sister.

She waved a “whatever” wave (she thankfully had NO idea I had just completely emptied the entire contents of my colon into my pants)…and off I went.

…two miles…on my bike…

...ass completely smeared in Husky-jean-trapped-poo…

…actually…I’m on a bike…and I’ve got TWO miles to go…so I’m sitting in it.

Damage is done.

No use standing to pedal – it will ruin my shoes.

So with every pedal comes a *squish, squish, squish*…

..ugh...

Completely humiliated, I arrive home probably smelling like an unshowered Rosie O'Donnell after yoga class.

I have no idea how my mother is going to take the news from her 8-year old boy that he has just shit his pants.

So I snuck into the bathroom, and chucked my shit stained pants down the laundry chute.

My underwear…completely destroyed and in poo-covered tatters…

…well…

…I threw those under my bed.

I have NO idea what I was thinking in doing this.

I think, early on, I pioneered the concept of biodegradation.

I assumed that the atmospheric pressure, environmental factors and my very own poo-bacteria would simply – and odorlessly – dissolve my Underoos.

I have no idea if it dissolved under there or not.

My mother NEVER said a thing to me about it.

Ever.

I can’t imagine her sheer horror in discovering (a) not only my poopy pants in the laundry chute but then (b) realizing my underwear was not with them…and finding them later on…under my bed…

…potentially alive.

Ex-lax and fat kids.

Please, ladies and gentlemen, keep them separate.

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