Seemingly Innocuous Phrases That Seem Suggestive When Followed by a “This” Response

We’re going to vacation in Palm Springs. (“Palm this.”)

Just a lick and a promise. (“Lick this.”)

Plants feed via the process of photosynthesis. (“Photosynthesize this.”) (Admittedly, this one makes no sense.)

Get a grip. (Grip—oh, you get the idea.)

You just want your ego stroked.

Rise and shine!

Want some gum?

Son, you’re getting mouthy.

Don’t bite off more than you can chew.

Think you can handle it?

Close the clasp.

When life presents you with an opportunity, grab it!

Shortest Poem Ever

Is?
‘Tis!

An answer to those who think writing a regular blog requires filler material

No way.

A Holiday Poem

Strolling the snowy streets, her and me,
My gaze falls about and what do I see?

Lights and shit.

Bad Arizona Metaphors

Suzie’s wonderbra turned the Twin Peaks into the Grand Canyon.
But she was hot: Think Tucson in July!
Unfortunately, her pap smear was an out-and-out Montezuma’s Well of sea life.
Moreover, after marriage she was the peak of Snow Bowl below the waist.
John McCain is Fillmorian, in stature. And age.
The force of my fingers turned an ordinary blackhead into Meteor Crater.
Lute Olsen’s helmet of hairspray has been deemed acceptable for use by the NFL.
Every night, the Florida Marlins play in a veritable Goldsmith Ghost Town.
Slide Rock’s river bottom is slippery: I mean KY slippery!
With another nearly to above average season or 2, ASU might one day become the Purdue of the Pac 10.

Never-Ending Redneck Dialogue

“Got me a new dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I ain’t called you dog, Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause you done called me dog, Dog.”
“But why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I just done tell you, Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“You mean that last time?”
“Why you call—uh, yeah.”
“I done tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Why I call you dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I dint that time.”
“But before.”
“I done tell ya!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause you done called me dog! Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause I did. And don’t call me dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Answer me: Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Answer me: Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“I say why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I ain’t call you shit”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Dog?”
“I just say: I ain’t call you shit!”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“No one say dog ‘til I done it.”
“Why you say Dog?”
“Dunno.”
“Me neither.”
“I knows!”
“Wha—?”
“Got me a new dog.”
[Return to line 2]

Ode to Solar Inspiration upon Individual Leisure

The sun
Is fun.

Bad Arizona Similes

Phoenix: That ol’ town’s hotter than morning wood in ultratight skivvies.

The Grand Canyon swallows hikers like Suzie Hanika took in wrestlers in high school.

Driving the Apache Trail is sort of like how drops of water negotiate skid marks in a porcelain bowl.

The ears of a desert hare are not unlike racquetball racquets, but without the handles or strings.

The Lost Dutchman Mine is as mysterious as those vacations where you don’t take a dump for several days.

Route 66 resembles the song about as much as my nipples bear likeness to Antarctica.

Brushing your teeth before a Navajo burrito? That’s like wiping your bum before a major slosh!

Superstition Mountain rises in solitude, like the tit of a Cyclops.

Valley of the Sun? Valley of my red ass is more like it!

The cacti grow across Sky Harbor like zits on the face of a teen.

Tom Cruise’s head is as void of gray matter as Medusa Castle is of residents.

Sedona traps tourists like backside hairs ensnare dingleberries.

Frat Boy Gossip Columnist

Greetings from the Chi House! We rock!!

I tell you what, we got so ****faced last night it wasn’t even funny. I almost missed my friggin deadline! But here I am, with news of celebrities and ****.

Hollywood **** Lindsay Lohan is reportedly planning a birthday bash. Should be one drunken whorefest. Sweet piece of ***, but at this point I wouldn’t tap that skank with your ****!

Speaking of skanks, Jessica Alba is gonna marry some NSync faggot. Man, she sure went from piece of *** to piece of **** in the time it takes to popcorn ****!

Another faggot band, New Kids On My ****, is back together. Most of the guys here in the house think they suck, but sometimes I like watching a group where I know I could kick any of their *****.

Must be the week for wuss musicians. Bon Jovi was on that news show with all the old *****. He’s a cowboy, all right. Riding straight up my ******* leg!

The new Indiana Jones movie is out. I hear it kicks ***, even tho the star is like 90. On the plus side, that makes him a good match for Karen Allen’s wrinkly ***.

There’s a rumor of a CHiPs movie, sort of like that Starsky & Hutch piece of **** from a few years back. What I heard is that Carlos Mencia is set to play Ponch. Guess the role called for pretend edgy but not remotely funny.

That show Lost is taking a 2-week hiatus. With so much time off, aren’t they worried their audience will get confused? Ha ha! I mean like, what the ****?!

American Idol finally ends this week. Since it’s 2 dudes, they should have them fight it out. MMA, man! That would absolutely rock! On the same bill they could match that political show guy who used to do Sports Center versus the ****head who’s all over the web yelling at his producer. I hear those 2 ****sticks hate each other!

It’s also 2 dudes left running for President. Tough choice. One’s a hard ***, the other actually knows some music post-Dave Clark 5. Too bad Eddie Vedder ain’t running. Or Will Smith! That dude kicks ***!!

In the world of sports, John McEnroe is again gonna be the color commentator for the French Open. So once more, we get to hear that dip**** tell us how to win a title he never sniffed.

Finally, Big Brown won a race or some such ****. I don’t follow horse racing, being that I’m under 70.

A Paragraph of Sentences That Have Never Been Uttered

Fondue forks may well investigate the mental hygiene millers of Flat Top whilst tube socks milk forests of guava melts. Moreover, those magnets of lint, they force derivative destinations into twilight. Bingo hails indubitably across the blue dwarf. Conversely, occupations that taste like ink can be utilized on the scabs of plaid duffel bags. Horse meat, of course, just holds the Flaxin cards. It follows, then, that clandestine diseased fruit cannot be tried for murder within a vacuum. Catch the filibuster now, Saint Weatherhorse? I believe you and 17 tapirs roundly assonate! Furthermore, saving the table scraps of Revolutionary War widows is unethical toward pleasing Forrest Whitaker. I mean: “Banks in your shoe?” cold cocked Grady’s stand-in. With that in mind, oatmeal toast is forever Carl Jung. From this argument, one can opine that corn soup would likely have a backhand that scatters municipalities. And I don’t need shuttlecocks of spearmint in my gruel! In other words, smegma cannot be sold at hockey games in Hell. So why, you ask, is dinner served in the void of consciousness? Well, maple dung hairs notwithstanding, there is conclusiveness surrounding Frisbees. And admonishments are clarity personified. Therefore, bullies fornicating on ice are neither sea dwelling lint nor should I amble about. However, traces of mastication arrive daily in fonts of oak. This particular argument proposes clambake justice for French Open qualifiers of modest girth. In essence, tribal sensibilities inherit Formica ball returns toward louder farts. Climb it on Topcat’s ear, I hear you justify. That said, guppies traipse sideways in transfer functions alluded to by Diffenbach. But “hold your placenta!” screams the wayward youth of mooring scabs. Indeed, strangeness oil, forgotten as one, banters about with Ms. Pac-Man. To clarify, bale sandwiches mark the drainage of certitude. Pour crayon welts atop flow cycles, you ask? Well, payment of frosting accelerates doors hidden via Millard Fillmore’s phallic cloud formations. More specifically, mountainous, gelatinous, pendulumous breasts clarify the auction sites without ever once leaving Cleveland, eh? Those who can’t wax holidays feel it like bass gurneys. In conclusion then, tapestry cinderblocks revolutionize the needed objectives of youth, despite fantastics who can’t say otherwise. Neither, of course, does Larry Storch’s irritatingly frightened muffin tops.

Emily Dickinson and Andy Sipowicz visit Boston

“Copley is a veritable ruby, lathed in restaurants, drawing me as a clasp secures.”

“Clasp this.”

“Oh my! Would food not you partake at present? Then perhaps Fenway beckons.”

“I wouldn’t go to that craphole if you lined up shots with your t*ts.”

“Where then—St. Charles in its spotted splendor?”

“Sure. And after I p*** in that toilet, what then?”

“Forest Hills, my good man, as yea matches beauty to the wreckage of solitary lives.”

“Sounds like a riot. Walking on dead guys. Why don’t we find a pool hall in Formaggio and ask a couple of punk locals to step outside?”

“Violence is purple, killing my soul! The sun and forest know but an adder’s tongue.”

“Uh, sure thing, genius. If it helps, I’m sure the guys in the pool hall will give you something to tongue.”

“Malevolence! Your boggy lack of cordiality welts in me the sadness of distant memory!”

“Does that mean you want to do it?”

“Sir! Your utter crudeness…uh, actually, OK sure.”

A Review of "The Remarkable Millard Fillmore"

Whatever happened to David Huddleston, star of The Kallikaks? How many quarterbacks (e.g., Jeff Komlo, Tim Rattay) were promoted as the next Loebig, only to dissolve into anonymity?

And when was the last time you saw neon letters announcing, “In Concert Tonight: Ronnie Montrose!”?

Apparently, author George Pendle never considered such questions. Or, if he did, he didn’t bother to explore them in his new book on the great Millard Fillmore. What’s even more remarkable about Pendle’s omissions is that he notes in his preface that 1) Fillmore’s manuscripts were written in ballpoint pen and 2) ballpoint pens were invented more than half a century after the man’s death. He attributes this supposed inconsistency to the president being ahead of his time rather than delving into the explanation more consistent with known Internet accounts; of course, I’m referring to time travel.

Now obviously I’m not suggesting that our 13th president could trek through time. That would be asinine. A far more plausible explanation is that post-mid 20^th century minor celebrities found a tear in the space-time continuum that led them to the 1850s. Those who dared journey (Huddleston, Komlo, Montrose, and so many others) soon found themselves in the presence of Fillmore which, by all accounts save Pendle’s, is a rather intimidating place to be. Let’s just say that the spells of their “celebrity”, not to mention several of their facial bones, were soon broken.

And that’s another thing. Pendle portrays Fillmore as a dense, naïve, and delicately sensitive fruit basket of a man. Time-travelers, of course, tell a different tale. They speak of a coarse and terrifying individual who would use his lateral incisors to rip the faces off his enemies, or even his subordinates if he needed to get someone’s attention (Note: He killed some of today’s celebrities in this very manner, although they do not make the trip to the 1850s until after this review is published).

The representation of Fillmore as some sort of 19^th century Barney/Colonel Klink hybrid (and, by the way, what do you suppose ever happened to them?) is particularly odd given that Pendle provides us with a detailed and spot-on characterization of wife Abigail. Correctly, she is noted to be intelligent, insightful, and relatively funny in a Carol Leifer sort of way. But the author stops short of explaining why such a woman would marry a dullard like the Fillmore he depicts. The implication, I suppose, is that Abigail was roughly as desirable as a pack mule, but my guess is Pendle knows better. After all, his very first day of research would have surely uncovered the famous quote by Zachary Taylor (whom Fillmore succeeded into the presidency):

“Members of the cabinet, I congratulate you upon the high state of prosperity to which the goodness of Divine Providence has conducted our common country. Let us invoke a continuance of the same protecting care which has led us from small beginnings to the eminence we this day occupy. By the way, before Fillmore gets back from his squat, did anyone happen to see Abigail in that new Victorian number? I swear to God, her ass never quits!”

There are other instances too in which Pendle displays remarkable research skills, then fails to deliver the entire story. He describes, for example, the Anti-Masons’ hidden chamber in the New York statehouse, but never connects that to (or even mentions) Fillmore’s later and quite similar White House room for sentences that have never been uttered. Later, the author touches upon Fillmore’s experimentation with cross-dressing, but neglects its obvious association with Flip Wilson’s 1987 “groin pull”. Finally, Henry Wells is referenced briefly (primarily as a vehicle for Pendle to mock those with disabilities), but the public ass-kicking Wells received from John Melendez is conveniently ignored.

All in all, I would have to say that Pendle employs an interesting take on some elements of the Fillmores’ life. Had he simply followed his investigative leads, however, his account could have been so much more.

Notable Essays, Part MCXXVII: Grappefroot

The following excerpt is from an essay, entitled “Republicans and Democrats,” written by Stanley Grappefroot, the only American writer known to simulate bodily noises every 13 syllables.

Perhaps I was naïve, but as a young adult, I—sniff—viewed American political parties far dif—ah-choo!—ferently than I do today. My mental image—BRAAACK!!—of Democrats was an idealistic son, full—[grunt]—of ideas and wanting desperately to save the—ack!—world, if only he had the money to do so. Re—BLAH! LURCH! SPLASH!—publicans, on the other hand, were the dad with the—hack!—checkbook, saying, “Son, I respect your goals, but we sim—ssssssss… “Ah, the pause that refreshes!”—ply cannot afford them all. Let us choose some and re—squeek—visit the others later.” To my way of thinking— Ptttt!—both were needed and both needed each other. Nowa—“Oof! Uh!” [Ker-plunk!] “Ahh!”—days, however, the GOP stands for power, as—Wah! Wahh!—in accumulating as much as possible, damn—ptui!—those in the way. But, unlike the Dems, at least they stand—zzzzzzzzzz—for something.

The Lost Writings of Shakespeare

The Bard’s early attempts at coachspeak:


Strut your effort 110%
And failure ne’er we’ll meet.

We toil to take
What the defense bequeaths us.

When others cry havoc
Must you then dig deep.

Mine preference is for luckiness over goodness.

Rough-hewn this contest will unfold;
So strap it on and play nobly as hell.

Losing grandly is not a sin.
But neither is to win ugly.

Play flat and fortune’s fool shall you be.

Oft’ times ‘tis less the skill of the warrior
Than whose desire is greatest.

Aggression can be but a shadow of life.
Allow thus the contest to come to you.

Be not a coward in pursuing greatness,
But instead be all you wish to be.

Play together as a band of brothers:
Battle ye with alacrity
And chemistry.

Attempt not to grasp unreachable stars
Rather, play within thine own self.