Entries from October 2005 ↓

“That’s ridiculous!” I said, “I don’t even know where Bulimia is.”

I Mapquest-ed it and found out it’s actually a small country right next to Hungary and Low-self-esteemia.

I could fly a woman to Eastern Europe but couldn’t I drive a woman across the Atlantic Ocean? Come on, that’s crazy talk.

When I look at porn online, I find myself watching a girl having sex with six other guys. I don’t know why this turns me on, but in some sick, perverted way it does.

I have to ask myself, “Am I a closeted misogynist?”

Personally, I’d never want to be in that situation because I wouldn’t know what position I would take. I’m too passive-aggressive.

“Okay…you got top…alright…bottom goes to Joe…great…Gary has the left hand…good choice…”

I’d end up being the guy kissing her, who always looks so sad and pathetic.

Then some guy would muscle in to get blown.

“Oh…you want her to do that…okay…I guess I’ll massage her feet. Oh…you want to have sex with her feet…by all means, please go ahead…I’m going to step out for a bit. It’s her Mom’s birthday and I want to buy her a card. If you guys want, I can come back and we can all sign it. That would be swell!”

Super Unleaded is 93 octane.
Special Unleaded is 89 octane.
Regular Unleaded is only 87 octane.

They should re-think their labeling system considering that the average IQ of a human is about 100.

93 octane should be Regular, 89 octane would be Borderline, and 87 octane would be “Special”.

Every time I perform in the South, somehow I manage to get surrounded by NASCAR fanatics meeting for the first time.

Ritualistically, they start asking each other in a droning redneck mantra, “Who’s your favorite driver? Who’s your favorite dryy-ver? Who’s your favorite dryyy-ver?”

Then every goofball starts sounding off:

“Rusty Wallace’s my man!”
“Man, I love Jeff Gordon!”
“I’m a Mark Martin Man!”

This is confusing because these quasi-homoerotic proclamations are always given by very “heterosexual” men who smell like WD-40, stale Budweiser, and campfire smoke.

There are millions of closeted NASCAR fans, trying to get out.

This is what they really are saying:

“Mark Martin’s my man, I used to like Kyle Petty but he wouldn’t shave his moustache and it kinda hurt when we kiss and stuff and Ernie Irvin broke my heart in 93’. That’s why I’m a Mark Martin Man, now! I tell you what boy, every time I see a Number Six, Viagra car, I get hard as a can of Copenhagen!”

This is my impression of a NASCAR fan in Ancient Greece:
“Who’s your favorite diety? Who’s your favorite dee-ahh-tee? Who’s your favorite dee-ahhh-tee?”

“Zeus is my man!”
“Man, I love Apollo!”
“I’m a Bacchus Man!”

“Bacchus is my man, I used to like Apollo, but we had to write poetry and shit and the Church of Aphrodite was fun but then I got gonorrhea. That’s why I’m a Bacchus Man, now! I tell you what boy, every time I see a fat guy surrounded by a bunch of drunken centaurs I get hard as a column at the Parthenon.”

The pharmaceutical company Hoffman-La Roche Inc. has created TAMIFLU (oseltamivir phosphate), a drug designed to combat the ominous Avian Flu which originated in Asia and has become a global threat.

Employees of Roche can’t wait to comeback to the U.S. after their mandated relocation to Mexico in the early 1990’s. The FDA had put a ban on their very popular Rohypnol (flunitrazepam) or known on the street as Roofies. Forcing college fraternities, Marines, lawyers, professional athletes, ravers, rappers, motorcycle gangs, used car salesmen and Mike Tyson to buy their beloved date-rape drug from dealers who had smuggled it over the borders.

TAMIFLU is a derivative of Rohypnol, it’s most affective when consumed by naïve, underaged individuals with Malibu® Coconut Rum and Orange Juice. It enables the patient’s white blood cells to sedate the influenza virus and rape them.

…unless she has an abnormally large ass.
Then we have to ladle.

♫Oh, ladle, ladle, ladle

This is how we lay

And when she’s round and ready

Then, ladle will we lay♫

My friend Ben is extremely overweight—over 400 pounds. He’s always on some ridiculous diet to shed his excess fat. Right now he’s only eating apples and canned tuna fish.

I told him if he really wanted to reduce his “weight” just wait until the Moon was directly overhead and he would “weigh” less because the gravitational pull of the Moon would be pulling up on his body.

“That’s awesome!”, Ben said then asked, “How much would I weigh then?”

I answered, “Oh…about…three hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine eight.”

“Oh—not enough to make a difference,” he gloomily responded as he bit into a over ripened green apple.

“Hey man, just think. In twenty years, I’m sure NASA will have a lunar colony. If you moved there, you would only weigh 67 pounds. You would still be big as fuck, but have the weight of an eight year old.”

“Fuck you!”

When I was in Virginia, I drove by a Friendly’s® restaurant and noticed that the marquee claimed, “Free Happy Ending Sundae with Every Entree”.

My Uncle Ed was in the Marines and had told me as a teenager that happy endings was code word for oral pleasure at a massage parlor.

The temptation was too great to pass up. I went in and looked for the hottest waitress in the place. Not an easy thing to do in Leesburg, Virginia on a Sunday. I found one that looked like Flo from Mel’s Diner except a little plumper and not as sexy. Her name was Rose.

I ordered a Buffalo Chicken Sandwich and an iced tea. While smacking her gum, she scribbled, B-C-H-I-X and a happy face on her writing pad, winked at me, and said, “Comin’ right up, sugar.”

My face turned red with embarrassment. I felt like I was an eighteen year old GI from WWII in front of an aging prostitute.

Rose brought out the sandwich and the ice tea. She smiled and said, “Pumpkin, lemme know when yer done, so I can bring you yer dessert.” I felt awkward looking at her fifty year old, apple ass swish back and forth like a cat’s tail.

I ate my meal, made eye contact with her, and beckoned her over.

I coyly said, “I guess, I’ll have my happy ending now.”

Rose disappeared into the kitchen, and came out with a serving tray with a sundae on it. She cleared my plate and placed my complimentary dessert in front of me. Confused, I ate it.

When I was done, she asked me, “Do you want anything else, sugarplum?”

She pointed at my empty bowl and my chest region in a circular motion and said, “Do you want me to clean this up?”

That’s when I got it.

The secret password wasn’t happy ending it was clean this up. So I put my hands behind head and said, “Yes, I would love for you to clean this up.”

Rose said, “Sure thing, sweetie”, and she clapped her hands together and yelled out, “Enrique, can you clean this up?”

Morale of the story:
If you want a great chicken sandwich and love being blown by a Mexican, go to Friendly’s®.

My ex-girlfriend called me and left an annoying voice mail.

Without thinking, I retaliated back by texting, “You define the word bitch” (SEND)

I make about 50 text messages a day with my T9 WORD software, so my thumbs punched out the word B-I-T-C-H by memory—2-4-8-2-4 (SEND)

The next day I felt bad about my shitty response so I called her back to apologize.

She immediately started to yell at me and I regretted I called but I told her I didn’t mean what I texted yesterday.

She calmed down when she realized I was calling to say, “I’m sorry.”

She then asked, “Do you really think I’m fat?”

And I said, “What are you talking about?”

“Your message said, “You define the word chubi…C-H-U-B-I”

“Oh no, the stupid T9 software screwed up my words, I don’t think you’re chubby, I think you’re a bitch.”

(click)

“Hello…hello…”

and…koala bears are immune to AIDS.

That’s great news for those cuddly, snuggly, eucalyptus-eating teddy bears!

Unfortunately, truck stop bathrooms in the Outback are becoming unprotected marsupial orgies and now that the fear of sharing needles has been lifted, Melbourne morgues are becoming overwhelmed by dead koala bears overdosed on heroin.