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.

Lavender Wiggly and Coconut Balls

My testicles smell like a goddamn fruit basket.

Actually...now that I think about it...

...the scent of Kiwi actually makes sense.

Let me explain.

I was taking a shower the other night, as I'm sometimes wont to do, when I realized that it was my monthly duty to use some type of soap product.

Now, a man's typical prerogative (you go Bobby Brown!) is to wash his hair only.

He then lets the soap clean the rest of himself off via gravitational pull.

(Mental Poo: Funny AND Scientific! Where's my NOBEL PRIZE?!?!?)

The theory is that the soap cleans as it goes...

...scrubbing away as it drains down his body...

...towards the sperm-clogged drain.

(hey...first thing's first)


I looked down at the soap dish in the shower...

(after five minutes of trying to remember where it was)

...and saw a simple, sad, soap-Chiclet sitting there.

"This won't do," I thought. "There's barely enough there my sphincter."


After stuffing the soap-chip up my anus, I began rummaging through the endless bottles of crap in the shower looking for some type of soap-substitute.

Body washes.

Shower gels.

Washing-Gel Body-Shower Gel-Washes (now with Retsin!)

Lube.

Sorry...sorry.

The lube is for something else.

HEY! The Chiclet came out!!

I've digressed.

I now had approximately six bottles of crap to choose from in which to suds myself up.

Here's where sharing a bathroom with a woman rears an ugly reality:

WOMEN LIKE TO SMELL LIKE FRUIT.


I'm not sure WHY women like to smell like fruit, but the bottles of shit I had to choose from included the following scents:

1) Coconut

2) Lavender (I actually think this is a flower..but the last time I checked I wasn't gay, so I'm not entirely sure)

3) Green Apple

4) Icy Pineapple

Icy Pineapple.

I have no idea what a fucking icy pineapple is.

I'm sure that where pineapples actually grow, there's no ice and, as such, the inventor of "Icy Pineapple" is just making this shit up.

All I know is that, personally, I don't want to smell like an Icy-Pineapple-Apple-Lavender-Coconut-Jackass when I go play poker with the guys.

In fact, I'm not sure why anyone would want to smell like this...

I mean, don't you attract BIRDS?!?

Regardless, I made my decision that day, based on the fact that I didn't want to smell like potpourri...

...and decided to go with the Chiclet.

No Icy Pineapple for this guy.

No sir.

Today, I smell like sphincter.

Run, Mahatma..RUN!

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

You're welcome.

********************
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.

Things I Would Rather Do Than Eat Light Mayonnaise

I like mayonnaise.

Please note that this is not a euphemism for what you think it is because I'm totally not into the gay thing unless it's maybe Mike Rowe from "Dirty Jobs" because there's just something about that guy.

I've digressed.

Being a single dad I figured I'd try to spruce up my already spectacular physique by purchasing "Light Reduced Calorie Mayonnaise" at the grocery store and save myself a few calories.

NOTE: If you like regular mayo, light reduced-calorie mayo is a TERRIBLE TERRIBLE IDEA.


But I've spent, like, $2 on this shit so I can't just throw it out and say goodbye to a week's salary so now I'm struggling through the jar one disgusting sandwich at a time, but would much rather be doing anything else.


Please note that #8 originally said "Be Ron Jeremy's personal fluffer" but after much consideration I felt there was way too much gay in this post already.

There's probably more, but right now Dirty Jobs is on.

They should make him eat light mayo.

Why I Pay for Happy Endings

Now I’ll have to travel pretty far to get a happy ending.

Well…farther than usual.

Let me explain.

I read in the newspaper the other night (YES! He reads!) that the local Friendly’s will be torn down to make parking spaces for a new grocery store.

For those of you not on the East Coast of the United States (read: losers), Friendly’s is a shitty little restaurant chain that specializes in…

…wait for it…

ICE CREAM.

That’s right.

A restaurant that revolves around hot fudge, whipped topping and nuts.

Just like a gay male orgy.

Don’t ask me how I know this.


I’m going to miss Friendly’s because it’s the only place that my family can get full bellies AND E-Coli poisoning for under $20.

You know, you just can’t find that kind of value anywhere else unless you pay a local crack whore for the ‘tossed salad special.’

I’ve digressed.

A lot.

How Friendly’s has remained outside of sexual harassment lawsuits, though, is still a mystery.

Why?

Well…let’s take a look at their menu:

Exhibit A: The Fribble

The Fribble.

I know what you’re thinking.

A fribble sounds like the technical term for a fat chick who spits.

Friend #1: “Dude…she swallow?”

Friend #2: “No, man. Bitch totally fribbled it.”


Fribble.

This is Friendly’s name for a milk shake.

Bet you never have one again now.

At least, not a vanilla one.


Exhibit B: Jim Dandy

Jim Dandy is a sundae.

Jim Dandy is frigging huge and has a banana.

* wink

If this isn’t some guy’s porno name right now, it needs to be.



WARNING: The next 6 inches of this blog contains a dirty picture. If you want to avoid cartoon porn, scroll down REALLY FAST RIGHT NOW!!

On a related note, it's friggin' hilarious.

K.

So, I went looking for a picture of a guy with a porn moustache to go along here.

Here's what I came up with:


My apologies to people who didn't want to see Shrek getting a blowjob.

Holy shit, I'm still laughing.

You know, I've always wondered about that (like you're surprised) - and some blessed soul out there had the talent to make it happen for me.

I thank you.

It's nice to know I'm not the only twisted bastard out there.

Now, if the person could get me a picture of Donkey and Dragon trying 69, I'd appreciate it.

Thanks in advance.

Okay...

....back to Friendly's porn menu.

Phew.

Exhibit C: The Happy Ending

No shit.

They sell “Happy Endings.”

Imagine my surprise when I went to Friendly’s and asked for a Happy Ending and the bitch brought me ice cream.

Does the hand job come after I eat it?

No?

THIS is the Happy Ending?

I mean, I screwed it, sure.

But it’s just not what I was expecting.

Apparently, neither was security.


Helpful tip:

Never have sex with chunky ice cream. Sure, your dick may smell like peanut butter, but frozen chocolate chunks leave scars.

You’re welcome.

Gonna miss ya, Friendly’s.

Jim Dandy signing off.

Man.

Friggin' Shrek picture...holy shit.

Slip Your Feet into these Comfy Royal Labias

How timely.

I was watching the news the other day and of course there's some bullshit about the Royal Wedding like anyone outside the Royal Family actually gives a shit so they end up showing this crazy woman in England (redundant? discuss) who has shit tons of Royal Family crap and OMG GET A LIFE, LADY.

But during the story, these little beauties caught my eye:


Prompting me to Tweet this:


Well, 'had' for Diana.

I'm guessing Charles still has one.

It goes by the name, 'Lady Camilla.'

Not like I give a shit, though.

Dear Steve Jobs: You're Welcome

Since Steve Jobs is out on leave these days, I took the liberty of coming up with some rejected spin-off games following the 'Angry Birds' craze.

Enjoy.








Weird shit in my head?

There's an app for that.

Hitting the Shiny Blue Spot

Dear Scrubbing Bubbles,

Please put a disclaimer on your "Toilet Gel" product that says:

Not recommended for use in households where males are present.

Thanks in advance.

* Disgruntled customer cleaning up piss all over his fucking bathroom

***********************
* not a paid endorsement

Let me explain.

Scrubbing Bubbles makes these little gel toilet things that you stick to the inside of your toilets in an attempt to keep these things clean in there which I'm not sure how that works exactly because there's NO WAY a tiny little blob of blue gel is going to stand up to the aftermath of a burrito dinner especially if I've had a cerveza (Spanish for "minimum wage").

It's like David fighting Goliath except instead of a stone David has a little blob of toilet gel and Goliath is an enormous pile of shit.

Worst. Analogy. Ever.


The instructions say:

"Simply use the dispenser to stamp a gel disc onto the inside of your toilet bowl. The discreet gel disc sits just under the rim."


UNDER. THE. RIM.

This is important, people.

Because the problem here is that Scrubbing Bubbles has neglected to take into consideration that these things may be used in houses where there are males present.

And any male will tell you this:

If there's something in the toilet, it automatically becomes A TARGET.


A guy needing to shoot at stuff in the toilet with his piss stream is as ingrained in his DNA as jerking off or wanting to bang Jessica Alba or jerking off while thinking of banging Jessica Alba or wanting Jessica Alba to jerk you off or (insert some other combination here) or laughing at farts.

How do parents potty train their sons?

They throw Cheerios and shit in the bowl and make the kid AIM FOR THEM.


So what happens later in life when a guy walks up to a urinal and there's a booger stuck on it?

He tries to shoot it down.

BAM! KAPOW!

Men are hunters.

This is true even when the hunter has just had three cups of coffee and is holding his penis.

GENES, people. It's IN OUR GENES.

So, Scrubbing Bubbles, when you have someone stick one of these fucking things under the rim...

..this is what happens:



So now, instead of just aiming for the water where nothing is floating there and focusing on the hole in the bottom (that's what she said) my son and I find ourselves fixated on this shiny blue gel thing sitting an inch from the top of the toilet and although I have been peeing professionally for about 40 years or so and have the aim of an Army Sniper (I could kill Osama with a four-cup-of-coffee piss shot, trust me) my son has NOT had so much practice so this is pretty much what happens:


It's like a can of silly string exploded in there except instead of silly string OMG IT IS URINE EVERYWHERE WHAT THE FUCK and now what was supposed to be a nice shiny sparkly toilet has turned into an afternoon of repainting the bathroom and trying to get pee out of the tile grout.

Awesome.

So thank you, Scrubbing Bubbles...but no thank you.

I'll stick with the Ty-D Bowl man.

At least we can aim for that guy.

Hunters people. Men are hunters.

John Wayne Gacy Gets a Vanity Plate!

WARNING: This post contains a picture of a penis dressed in an outfit.

You've been warned.

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


Just something short today.

* ziiiiiip

You knew that was coming.

(that's what she said)

A while ago, my ex-wife mentioned that she got behind a car with a vanity plate.

Now - for those readers I've had for a while, you know I hate vanity plates.

Please disregard the fact that I've had TWO of them.

The first one was on my bitchin' 1970 Oldsmobile 442 when I was 17.


It said:

"Rowdy"

Fuckin' ay, that's right.

It was originally because of Rowdy Roddy Piper...my name being "Rodney," and the car all looking super badass and fast and OHMYGODAMIGONNAGETLAIDINTHISTHINGORWHAT and shit.

When I was thinking of what to get on the plate, I was asking around for some ideas.

Most of them were, 'eh'..

And then my mother offered up this gem:

"Why don't you get, "RODNEY"...?"

Ooooh.

Jesus H. Christ, mom.

Why don't you give me a perm while I'm here?


I'm pretty positive that this type of recommendation is what drove the Menendez brothers to kill their parents.

Mom Menendez: "Well..you know, a license plate that says 'Lyle' might be nice.."

BAM.

I've digressed.

My other plate was on a screaming red car.

It said:

REDROD

Yep.

REDROD.

Ironically, that was back in the day where I had just met my wife and getting sex more than 12 times a year and my rod did - on occasion - get red.

Now it's just black from personal misuse and a reaction to excessive use of makeup and polyester outfits.

Perhaps I've said too much.


So my wife says she's behind a car the other day with a vanity plate.

Getting closer she sees that the plate says this:


Yep.

Di-Kids

Does anyone else here see:

DIE, KIDS!! DIE, KIDS!!

Why would you get this?

My wife has a similar plate, but she's a teacher in a public school so it's okay.

(they pass these out as bumper stickers to the Teacher's Union)


I'm guessing the woman's name was "Di" and she has "kids"...hence:

Di-Kids

I'm HOPING this is the case.

The other options are:

1) She likes dipping kids in varying food colorings:

Dye Kids


2) All her kids are lesbians:

Dyke Kids



The only conclusion here is that this actually says:

DIE KIDS

This makes me angry.

Angry that I didn't think of this first.

Ugh.

"Rodney"

What the Hell was my mother thinking?

She's just lucky I didn't have a shotgun lying around.

I'm pretty sure that's considered 'justifiable homicide.'

Moog out.

Handy Incapable

From the archives of "This Moooooog's House," comes:

"You know you're not handy when..."

Ladies...

Do you like your men burly and rugged?

Do you like your men self-sufficient and able to take on any task with ease?

Do you like your men with grease on their face, a dirty rag in their back pocket and a power tool in each hand?

Well, then, ladies...

You're in the right place.

Because that guy sounds just like my contractor.

I'll see if I can hook you guys up.

I'll be in the living room playing XBox and eating Doritos.

You see, I've tried being handy.

Let's just call that 'Epic Fail' and continue on with some examples, shall we?

YOU KNOW YOU'RE NOT HANDY WHEN:

1) Ten minutes into replacing a toilet seat, your spouse knocks on the bathroom door and says:

"Hey...do you need help in there?"

* testicles retract

Because it wasn't humiliating enough simply realizing that I've been in here for TEN FUCKING MINUTES trying to remove a goddamn toilet seat, so - sure fragile member of opposite sex - could you please come in here and help me remove these two tiny bolts?

Oh...and could you do it WITHOUT taking pictures of me sweating through my shirt?

You're a dear.


2) Your entire tool kit consists of a power screw driver that may or may not work, three different sizes of 'Robo Grips' that your father in law gave you 12 years ago, and some speaker wire.

I have a giant Sears tool chest that houses these four items and something else that resembles some type of shiv.

I SHALL BUILD A VILLAGE!!


3) Your idea of 'refinishing the hardwood floors' consists of pouring a half gallon of polyurethane over the floor straight from the can and spreading it around with a Swiffer.

Sanding the floor ahead of time was not an option as I was unable to figure out how to do it using speaker wire and Robo Grips.


4) You are sometimes covered in your own feces.

This may also be the sign of a sick, sick fetish.

Don't ask me how I know that.


5) You've paid a contractor to come and tighten your faucet.

I'm not proud.

I probably could have done that if I'd figured out how to use the damn Robo Grips.

I'd go try to find the instructions, but this XBox isn't going to play itself.

Moog out.

The Ball Shedder

Dear Dickwad,

No, I do not know your name.

Nor do I know who you are.

But I know WHAT you are.

You're an asshat.

Why do I know this?

Because every time I go into the men's room to launch my little brown canoes, I can tell when you've been there.

How?

Three words:

Ball. Hair. EVERYWHERE.

Mother of Christ.

It's like four hundred little Magic Pube Fairies came in overnight and sprinkled short curlies all over the toilet and toilet seat.

*** SIDEBAR ***

Magic Pube Fairies: Fact or Fiction?

Discuss.

*** END SIDEBAR ***


Dude.

I have to poo.

I do NOT have the time to sit there and try to blow them off the seat...

...or wipe at them with a little fragment of toilet paper...

...hoping...NO, NO...PRAYING TO GOD that they're not of the 'wet' variety.

As this will require physically wiping them off.

And, no...

...I'm NOT going to just leave them there and sit down.

If I wanted to know what it felt like to sit on your pubes, I'd call your mother.


Do you not know this is happening?

Based on the sheer amount of curlies that are sitting here, I would imagine that your penis - right now - looks like Charlie Brown's Christmas Tree...

...all mange-looking and shit.

(For my Jewish readers, replace 'Charlie Brown's Christmas Tree' with 'Dreidel' or 'Minotorah' and you should be all set with the above analogy. You're welcome.)


I have found this hard to believe, but you're actually WORSE than that other guy.

You know the other guy.

The guy who USES HIS ELECTRIC RAZOR WHILE STANDING OVER THE TOILET without putting the seat up.

Awesome.

Looky what we got here!

Little tiny whiskers all over the goddamn seat.

Asshole.

Dude, if I wanted to know what it was like to sit on your face, I'd call pube-guy's mother.

She's a dirty, dirty mommy.

(mom...call me)

So, instead of a toilet seat covered in little whiskers (not the cat food)...

...I get a toilet that looks like Epstein from 'Welcome Back Kotter' is resting his head on it.


In closing, you prick, check for your nut hair before exiting the shitter.

Or shave your balls.

Either works for me, but with the latter, I have less work to do.

Until I start pooping.

Then I'm nothin' but business, baby.

Thanks in advance.

Signed,

Epstein's Mother

**********************
Also...

DON'T FORGET TO ENTER MY HARD ROCK CAFE giveaway contest that features pictures of Kathy Griffin in a bikini!

Two winners will be picked Friday and all you have to do is comment.

You're welcome.