Friday, December 4, 2009

Show Biz Outer Monologue

Come on come on come on. Gimme corn, Larry. Corn. CORN MOTHERFUCKER! Enough to fill that bowl. No, the smaller one. Well where the fuck do you think it is? Yes I know one cannot be "less equal" than any other one. Try not to be so mathematical. My Yoga teacher whispered that to me while she was licking my nipples. My wife gave me Yoga lessons for the Holidays. The universe is filled with magic! It's like the sun and love and happy and children and my BMW.

Now my bikini wax is at four today and I want to listen to that Suzanne Vega song during that session. Make sure you put it on my iPod. No, the old Nano. What, you think you can pull my dick? That bowl is only half full - AND I TOLD YOU I WANTED THE BOWL FULL. Don't pull my dick!

SUCK MY DICK IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT ENOUGH CORN IS! YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN AGAIN. I know good corn when I see it. That's nice corn! Probably from Indiana.

Frank, see this report? Are you fuckin' stupid? WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH PEOPLE LIKE YOU WORKING FOR ME YOU WORTHLESS LITTLE COCKSUCKER! I DON'T GIVE A FUCK IF YOU'RE GAY, YOU TRY ME, MOTHERFUCKER, YOU FUCKIN' TRY ME. My lawyer went to Oxford. How about yours, Jimmy? TRY ME! Where'd your lawyer go? You like your job, Frank? Huh? Kids eating okay? I want you to do this whole report over. You won't have time? Well then fuck you I guess, right?

Wait, you're not Frank, you're Jimmy! Sorry Jim. JIM! JIM JIM JIM. Remember those whores in Cabo, Jim? Oh, Jesus Christ! Nice report Jim. Yes. Fucking great. Oh, the fuckin' Powerpoint on that was brilliant. Work with me here Jim. Jim! Can I hire her to do the art? How much is she? TWENTY an hour? Fuck her. Brilliant art, Frank. No Jimmy! They were all laughing. Think of all that fucking money! I really like that tie, Jimmy, where can I get one? No I couldn't lube it up this morning but I will on Sunday night. Oh, sure sure sure. Love ya babe. Asshole.

Larry where's my fucking latte you fucking idiot?! You're fired! I said extra hot. I want it here in five minutes. Where the FUCK is my iPod?

You want this corn to burn my mouth? SUE YOU YEAH I'LL SUE YOU. YOU TRY ME. Jim be with you in a second. Love you babe. ASSHOLE! A FULL BOWL. YOU KNOW WHAT A FUCKIN' BOWL IS DICKHEAD? My lawyer went to Oxford. Yeah you get health insurance after a year but that's not even my fucking job to know that. You do your job, I'll do mine. Can't you read? I still don't have my latte. No latte, no happy. Know what that means Frank?

Friday, October 23, 2009

The Way the Wind Blows

Why is there a "Brazilian Fart Fetish"? Viz.:

There is an array of questions I need answered, please:
  1. Does a Brazilian fart smell differently from, say, one produced in Alberta? Or Maldives?
  2. Does a lesbian fart executed in Brazil have a distinct and erotic sound, worthy of placement on the international fetish stage (e.g. Youtube)? If not, why aren't there things like "Kansas City Fart Fetish" and "Chocolate Fart Bitches" or "Asian Gas Hoze # 37"?
  3. What about the same lesbian executing the same fart in Argentina, or Colombia? Any change in timbre or smell? Would the same lesbian's partner notice a change of context? Argentina and Colombia are at much higher altitudes. What affect does this have? Is it dangerous to sniff a lesbian fart at five thousand feet?
  4. What about Central America?
  5. Would a devout Christian be committing a sin by masturbating to these films? Would he or she need to convert to Judaism to avoid eternal damnation? Or would you need to become a Hindu?
  6. If you made a film where Angelia Jolie climbed to the top of Machu Picchu, ate four cans of baked beans and a head of broccoli, then bent over and sprayed a seventy-five thousand liter fart onto Lindsay Lohan's face, would the resulting sound and explosion be so overwhelmingly awe-striking that tens of thousands of indigenous South Americans would willfully commit ritual suicide?
  7. Pursuant to 6. and 3. and 2. above, if Jim Jones had known about Brazilian Fart Fetish, would he have had to spend all that money on Kool Aid?
  8. Pursuant to 6. and 3. and 2. above, couldn't the Brazil Fart Fetish become an effective weapon in The War on Drugs?
  9. Is it possible that Rosie O'Donnell enjoys Brazilian Fart Fetish films, but her partner prefers Rwandan Fart Fetish films, hence producing strife and discord in the marriage?
  10. If a lesbian I know has amassed a large collection of Brazilian Fart Fetish material, but I am concerned that the activity contributes to global warming, what should I do? Has the government of Brazil produced a pamphlet that I can have as a safety guide?
Thank you in advance for helping me with my questions!

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Our Condolences

The guy that did the balloon hoax is:

Richard Heene
5434 Fossil Ridge Drive West
Fort Collins, CO 80525-3822
(970) 204-0482

This guy apparently loves attention and publicity, so after the police put charges on his fuckin' child-endangering ass later today, why not give him a call and say "hi!"?

Friday, October 16, 2009

It's okay to endanger children to further your status as a web celebrity!

I know that its de rigueur for the media to be all squankled, flimmixed, and asunder these days, so to point out something truly and wickedly fucked to the max is a bit like mentioning that Joan Rivers’ cooter looks like an Arby’s double-decked roast beef sandwich about to pass through a black hole and into another dimension.

(If you don’t get that comparison / image / whatever, I’m really sorry, okay? When I came up with the notion of Ms. River’s fuzzbox having a multi-dimensional form factor, if you will, the phrase I typed seemed right and true and obvious, like a Quebecois haggling with a barista over the price of a latte. Going back now to read the description and to try to piece it together, however, I can see several different ways to put it better, and quite frankly I think that whole paragraph sux horse cox and is off topic, but what the fuck, right? I mean the thing about America is that if you said you done it, and you done it, you done it, it’s there, it’s done, and you done did it, and you done better move on to the next thing you want done.)

(Oh, sorry, Joan Rivers and Arby’s. I’m sure all of you have really nice shiny cooters and beef and are wonderful people who would never in a million years think about passing through a singularity, and are very sympathetic especially to Cambodian infants born addicted to crack.)

Here’s the thing: The day after the great hoaxy-hoax I’ll-do-anything-to-become-a-web-celebrity-even-if-means-endangering-my-kid balloon incident, ran the following headline:

Dad grateful 'balloon boy' still among us.

People love lists of ten, so here is a list of nine hypothetical headlines of precisely equal relevance:

Chimpanzee thinks about Jesus Christ.

Kitten perplexed with other kitten's piss.

Grandmother despondent over rhombic cookie dough deploy.

Horse excited at prospect of releasing gas through asshole.

Chicken pleased it is not dead.

Earthworm contemplates T.S. Eliot as ancient Egyptian service animal.

Girlfriend reminded of last night's orgasm while taping Fed Ex box shut.

Retarded factory worker reminisces about time he pounded own pudding to Gilligan’s Island episode.

Author perplexed by fact that “Gilligan” is apparently in Microsoft Word dictionary, strongly reconsiders prospect of recreational drug use.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Parakeet Enorme

If Celine and René had any business sense, they'd make a Pay-Per-View event out of the birth of their next child. I mentioned this to the dickweeds over in advertising and marketing, and they said they were going to need to get a team in there to start doing concept sketches and storyboarding this... which is an excuse (in the advertising business) to fire a few pounds of coke and Comet up the nose, sample some gonorrhea from a former Eastern Bloc country, and get so smashed you'd make Charles Bukowski look like Bill W..

Actually, fuck the team, none of those things are very much fun. Also, last week, I went into the bathroom and one of the people that works in advertising was just coming out of one of the stalls and I said "hi" and they said "hi" and I had a lot on my mind and I then used the same stall but when I opened the toilet seat there was a little biscuit floating around in there still and I can't be around that person without that event preoccupying me anyhow. I think I'll just do the sketches myself. Thumbing through my copies of "The Inferno" and listening to Joan Rivers read "The Bell Jar" on tape, it'll put me close enough to the other side of the Styx that, pretty much, the drugs and whores and booze can all go get fucked, innit?

My parakeet Marcus escaped this morning. This made me very sad, so I took a bath. I heard a pecking at the window a few hours later when I decided to get dressed to go shopping for razor blades, and it was Marcus. But he was seventy-five feet tall and was wearing a t-shirt that said "If you thought parakeets were green, wait until you see my enlarged gonads." Confused, I said "Marcus, what does your tee shirt mean?" He said "Fuck you, asshole, you're not the boss of me. Anyways, you tell me, what does
your shirt mean?" And I said "it means what it says." And he said "what does it say?" and I showed him the tee shirt I was wearing which said "It says 'Fuck you, asshole, you're not the boss of me.'"

Then I said, "have you seen the back of my tee-shirt, Marcus?", and he said "No." I turned around so he could read the back, which says "If you have wings and you're wearing a tee-shirt, you cannot fly." Marcus stood, perplexed. It's funny, a seventy-five foot parakeet's expression of perplexosity is the same as in a parakeet only four inches tall.

The dictionary doesn't confirm that "perplexosity" is a word. But the dictionary is wrong. If the right word is "perplexion", and you're perplexed, you would use an acne cream to feel square about it all again, huh? That can't be right. The correct adjective is

That reminds me: The book Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand needs less sex and more giant parakeets. Especially every time Dagny Taggart gets her cooter fluffed afresh, which seems to happen every chapter in that book. Also to illustrate philosophical points. Like a monsterkeet pooping on a train track in New Mexico would pretty much condense forty pages into a paragraph. Ayn Rand was a tree-killer and produced more greenhouse gas than any other writer in history.

While Celine is giving birth to Le Enfant de Income Stream Nouveau, I want to hear and see Oompa-Loompas singing and dancing "I Want Candy" by Bow Wow Wow, I want neon and argon lasers, I want the best visual effects artists in the world, the guys who work for Pink Floyd and Rush. I'd also like to see Julio Inglesias skull-fuck Joan Rivers somewhere in the background, but I don't think that would play well in the latin countries, so fuck that idea. Only when the Oompa-Loompas are doing the episiotomy should the music change... to I dunno. This is where web comments and radio phone-in segments are useful. Call me at (877) 555-1515 to complete this paragraph. If you don't get me on the first try, keep dialing until I answer.

Maybe Marcus can make me some new t-shirts, like "I saw Celine's new baby before she did and it only cost $49.99" and "parakeets rule" and "parakeets rule especially when they are seventy-five feet tall and
you try switching from seeds to krill and see if that doesn't fuck you square."

Don't forget, boys. If your date can spell "Chlamydia," she probably has it.

♫♫ I want candy... ♫♫

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Letter To The Editor

July 1, 2009
Watermelon Abacus,

When sharply eaten have been to pounding lemonade chickens with warnings coming from mirth and wine slumberings shaped by teeth, it suggests that flat is best. Humps sometimes are good, but from sideways the turn is making three to four amounts not sanctioned by Phyllis or Henry.

Sometimes this puts much harmony within the bee-straps, but for why they are not having a simple hovercraft for these kinds of tasks? Isn't the money of the taxpayer finding too much of a layover in the buttock-shank of the city official and Phyllis and Henry? For smearings:
  1. Make a pie bouncing at Jeremy.
  2. If sometimes I think this is too large, there are creams and books.
  3. Yes, if only juices could be produced on time, Phyllis and Henry have latex which might last a year at altitudes above five thousand feet.
It was from many moons that Wolf made corn which communicated with the Sky Monkey, thereby enabling concrete ladling the likes of which were seen best by your grandmother and some of the ladies with whom she discovered what butter was for. This is not to insult Henry, but it thrusts new fluxotine balloons at Phyllis. Frog piston launches upon fedora willingly when the sledded Pollack have sickings with the shitake mushroom. Splash banana fifteen? History will make a decision, for certain, but if the bull has porcelain kneecaps, should we really care that much?

I would pull caramel into spiral growths for the sake of my grandchildren. But when my eyeballs fall to protect the job of the scythe and the spoonings of Henry and Phyllis, is there that much apoplexis for which Mandrove the Quigglethrax will in future shave fur off?

Yours Sincerely,
Dimitrios F. M. Pleanthquinklouchanimpousilousinapapadalodauformithikaskasthrax

Monday, June 15, 2009

Thank You Note for Aunt Milly

Dear Mrs. Ashtoefore,

Thank you for the wonderful porcelain fruit bowl from Spain! It was well crafted and Jennifer didn't "have an accident" when she saw it like last time up at the lake. I can see it was crafted by experts and that you paid a lot of money for it. The bowl was smashed up when it arrived, though, and we were wondering if you intended for us to receive it this way? What should we do with it? Do you want it back? We're very confused and hold you responsible. I was shaking the package and a few pieces fell down into my face and cut my eyelids, cheeks, nose, and lips... I was cut and bled for about three hours. But it was okay because I put on some Willy Nelson and drank three-quarters of a bottle of mop-n-glo.

Remember our gerbil, Phyllis? She committed suicide! Yup. Electrocuted herself with two toothpicks and a nine-volt battery. I didn't think that was possible. My old literature professor says that it's a metaphor for defiance against necessitated societal power structures... I say sometimes a gerbil just goes over and there's no looking back, no matter how many prayers you've said, even the ones you say when you're gettin' pounded from behind.

I have worms again, but the pictures are in color this time! Jennifer made cole slaw for dinner and is out late every night getting her cooter flossed by the Smith boy, the one from over Bayfield. The parrots have loaded the trebuchet with that mixture of suet and goat beer and can't wait for the home game.

We miss you so much... But we are so happy you aren't visiting because pretty honestly you're a really dirty old slut and we don't want the kids to look up to you or be influenced by you in any way! Whore.


Thursday, March 12, 2009

If you don't think French Canadians are irritating, you need psychotropic medication

I wrote a computer program to translate Canadian French into American English.

I wanted to automate this process because listening to most French Canadians speak English is approximately as relaxing as having Barbara Streisand freebasing an 8-ball while performing simultaneous root canal therapy on three of your front teeth while Heinrich Himmler solders your jewels to a car battery.

To test out my computer program, I used "Paul Revere" by the Beastie Boys as an input. For reference, here are the lyrics as originally written:

Here is the output of my computer program:

Paul Revere’s

You got your story, I gonna tell dis one.
These guy are very popular, Quebec province…
These guy are call Adrocks, MCA’s and Mike D’s.
You got your horse, you got your beer...

Dey are riding around, the police look for these guy…

He got very lonely, dere no other Beastie…

I am under the sun in my hat, baseball.
The sun get very intense, the beer is going down.

I am running into this guy, I say “Howdy’s” he is saying “Hi.”

He say dis t’ing,
I t’ink he tell dat to a bunch of different guy…
This guy run for four day and he got t’irsty.

He don’t got no beer, but I got mine.
His t’roat sound sandpaper, he say he want dis beer.

Dis guy got a gun, shot.
He is putting dis one near my faces and he say:

My name, M.C.A.’s, I can kill dose guy
You got your ill, your got your outlaw, you got your beer.

I am the senior here, I say what happen.
So he got dis gun, I t’ink t’ing will be on party or somedinlikedat.

Now I am having the gun
You got this beer
You don’t need t’ink dis hard on dis one
You can get shots or you are being my partner
Dis guy say he is being my partners if I am getting him to Ontario.

This police don’t like what happen to his daughter,
You got your ball, you got your bat, you got your wiffle, I am doing all dese t’ing.

I say my name Adrock's, this one is my names.
I know this place where dey got a good booze.

We drive, many hour den we get dis place
Dey got a good music in dere, Celine Dion is playing

I t’ink this one guy know us, we are sitting next to this guy.
M.C.A.’s is sayings if I know dis guy,
I say I don’t know dis guy!

This guy say this is very dramatic, I am Mike D’s and I take you one million dollar.
He pull this gun, he shoot, sky,
He yell “put de hand, this side!”, he shoot two time.
He kill dese guy who run away.

I’m Mike D’s and you got your respect
I need your one million dollar, tabernac!

M.C.A.’s, I like dis guy, so I hit this guy on face, hard, fuck, tabernac.

This guy go down, the Celine Dion stop to play.

Mike D’s got one million dollar, tabernac!

M.C.A. got the gold, fuck.
I got more beer, TABERNAC!

Friday, March 6, 2009

Fiat Lux Proboscidea

Not many people know this, but Thomas Edison did a lot of work designing the stage shows for Pink Floyd concerts in the 1970's. Viz.:

Thursday, January 29, 2009

For Further Meditation: Haiku, Yore

Rescued from the archives, still more joy of sex... Sorry, did I say sex? I meant Haiku. Viz.:

Frogs chew gummy bear
Antelope walks north toward Rome
Popcorn with butter

Toast tastes nice with jam
Eggs bacon sausage or spam
Orange, nothing rhymes

Nostril hair, goat, fish
Florence Henderson deep throat
My feet hurt slightly

Rhythm swoons with red
Gentle motion, zephyr, silk
Infant worm is starved

It is very hard
For seven to follow five
Six still feels quite odd

Suzanne Vega sings
My cellular telephone
Rings I’ve got to go

Yore Twitter Number One

I spent most of the morning spooning my fiancé. This was, of course, just after I'd forked her. I'm so happy... One day, she will be my knife.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Haiku Centrifuge Donkey Preparations

Saint Vitus twitter

Synaptic dither
Matters not wither

Erotic Nostril
We'll make a blanket for Dave
Knit with me, Jenny

Meet me at the store
Meditation's such a bore
More soy sauce, Dennis?

Todd Bridges Murder
Diff'rent Strokes for Diff'rent Folks
Dana Plato, Dead

Yaks eat soup for fun
Monkeys don't like cummerbunds
If fruit, then exit

Haiku Centrifuge Donkey Preparations

Saint Vitus twitter
Digital synapse dither
Matters not wither

Erotic Nostril

We'll make a blanket for Dave
Knit with me, Jenny

Meet me at the store
Meditation's such a bore
Dennis! More soy sauce?

Todd Bridges Murder
Diff'rent Strokes for Diff'rent Folks
Dana Plato, Dead

Yaks eat soup for fun
Monkeys don't like cummerbunds
If fruit then exit