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

No way.

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference cell topography makes!

Top 5, June 1, 2009:

1. The spleen beat of the Kaline tympani
2. Poetic references to Turkish sausage production
3. Pillsbury roadkill at a Ghanaian wake
4. Data that do what they should (yes, I said do!)
5. My name is Mephistopheles but you can call me “Sugar Tits”

Top 5 prior to Jennifer Biel’s last BM:

1. Stegosaurus dreams and the resulting mixed fruit pies
2. Black market vinyl atop motorcade tribute bands
3. Crotch grabbing rubberneckers in the heat of fluoridation
4. Pamplona “Eat me’s” during playoff years
5. Whatever it is that keeps sliding into Rafa Nadal’s butt crack before he serves

Why Guys with Phony Accents Don't Like May

"Eet's Seenester! Eet's Seee-nester!"

A Floridian visits Disney

All right readers; let’s get this over with so we can move on to something more important. Navel lint, for example.

Here’s all you need to know about the 4 parks.

Magic Kingdom: Creepy oversized characters and a roller coaster that would be tolerable were not all the suspense removed by placing it under a darkened dome. Oh—that other ride where they strap you in so an alien can spit on you? Pass.

Hollywood Studios: Another unlit roller coaster (what’s the deal?), only this time riders get to hear Aerosmith filler songs at a volume level of distortion as they twist along undaunting loops. All told, this park is about as Hollywood as a NASCAR double-wide.

Animal Kingdom: Sort of like a zoo, but without any real proximity to animals.

Epcot: The front is dominated by a giant Titleist that houses the slowest park ride in captivity. The back has an international flavor, provided you believe that Denmark borders China.

Tune in next time readers, as I give this column a truly international flavor!

Chicago City Streets/Bad Lyrics

Dearborn/Guilty feet have got no rhythm

Michigan/If they say I never loved you, you know they are a liar

State/I had a dream, I had an awesome dream

Balbo/If a picture paints a thousand words then why can’t I paint you?

Rush/What you say about his company is what you say about society

The Mag Mile/Told my girl I’d have to forget her; rather buy me a new carburetor

Ohio/And then he went and he ate up all of my corn

3 x 3

Places I’ve never been
1. Flat Top, WV
2. The set of “The Kallikaks”
3. Salvador Dali’s arcuate fasciculus

Concepts divorced from baseball
1. Neighborhood association presidents who dress their wieners in Barbie clothes
2. Deviled street urchins
3. An Elizabethan beach squat

Nothing in particular
1. The use of condiment metaphors to accentuate sex tapes
2. “More corn turds, your Excellency?”
3. Valedictorians who display spit stalactites every time they mimic Nat King Cole

A New Yorker Visits New York

I was recently forced to visit the fair (as in average) city of New York. Quite a place, this metropolis—sort of a Toledo in drag. What follows is a run-down of my excursion.

On a recommendation of someone from whom I will never again take advice, I dropped by the Museum of Natural History. The animal exhibit was really something—for anyone who has never seen actual animals! Hey, New Yorkers, it's called a zoo! It has real creatures and they’re alive!

Getting out of the museum as quickly as possible, I walked through a field of barren trees and hookers that the locals call Central Park. From there I took a filthy subway to FAO Schwartz, thinking a toy store might be fun. And it might have been, had any of the overpriced exhibits worked. As it was, I witnessed such an abundance of overacting and saccharine cutesiness that I contracted diabetes.

No worries; I was hungry anyway, so I dined in a real New York deli. And let me tell you, it was some of the finest stale bread and indiscernible meat I ever gagged down. Actually, "dined" may be the wrong word to use for food that becomes projectile diarrhea that quickly.

The locals are quite proud of a large statue in their harbor. What the hell, I thought. Why not?

I'll tell you why not: 1200 people in a boat that could comfortably seat perhaps 35. From there it gets worse, a combination of water, cold, wind, and stairs that lead to basically the same view I had from the ground. Oh yes, then another boat ride.

All in all, a miserable experience, though not an unexpected one. Remember, readers, to find me next week when I visit some backwater known as Disney World.

More Good April Fool’s Pranks

Induce nightmares in your children with midnight swirlies.

Speed down the highway at 125 mph. When a cop pulls you over, eat a spoonful of mustard and vomit all over his uniform.

Put mashed banana in your girlfriend’s sunscreen. When you get to the beach, release the chimps.

When your roommate falls asleep, nail one of those stupid Razorback hats to his head.

Marinate Grandpa’s stool softeners in taco sauce.

Add some ketchup to a dirty Sanchez. Tell her she better get to the proctologist pronto!

Put a non-orange ‘Whorns’ shirt on your child and drive him to Austin. If you live too far away, just put him on the short school bus.

Leave a bottle of Scope and a turd in the coffee lounge. See what sort of interesting interpretations your co-workers come up with.

Join Facebook in your friend’s name. Describe in great detail your career in porn.

St. Patrick’s Day Events in Your Area

Kissimmee, FL: Green Snot Bubble Contest, Amphitheater, 3 pm

Norman, OK: O’Connell’s Breakfast Beer Brawl, 8-9 am

Cleveland, OH: Corned Beef Vomit Exhibit, Lakefront Park, 12-5 pm

New York, NY: Urine Sword Fights, Every Stairwell in Manhattan, all day*

Lincoln, NE: Mr. Potato Head—and Shaft—Contest, Memorial Stadium, 6–10 pm

Flagstaff, AZ: Beach Ball Throw—Speed Gun Reading Closest to Sinead O’Connor’s IQ Wins, Fairgrounds, 11 am

South Bend, IN: The Greatness of Us Lecture Series, part LXVIII, Central Quad, 12-8 pm

Carbondale, IL: Cabbage Turd Open Competition, 10 am (length) and 1 pm (girth)

Mount Pleasant, MI: Klaas Van Vanderhooven’s “Pretend Anyone Gives a Crap about the Irish” Parade, Van Kooi Street, 10 am – 2 pm

Boulder, CO: The Irish Gourmet, Foothills Mall, 5 pm until the potato boils

Crapcakes, ND: Snow Peeing Likenesses of Hollywood Character Actor Brian Dennehy, Main Street, 1-6 pm

Amelia Island: Bono Preach-Alike Gala, noon until a winner is declared.

Pocatello, ID: ISU Student Taste Test: Guinness vs. Pennzoil, 8 am

Burbank, CA: Colin Farrell Quality Film Festival, Palm Theater, 12:30–12:45 pm

Winston-Salem, NC: Class Action Lawsuits Against Conan O’Brien Reunion, Wake Forest Law School, 7 am

Mobile, AL: A Celebration of Celtic Music and Other Annoying Noises, Bear Bryant Park, 10 am–10 pm




*Event not limited to St. Patrick’s Day

The Replacement Coach and the Provisional Administrator

“There any asswipe on your side?”
“Hey pal, why the hell didn’t you check before taking a—wait a sec! PA, is that you?”
[giggle] “Oh you! I was trying to disguise my voice!”
“Never mind that—what the hell are you doing in the men’s room?”
“It’s quicker.”
“But you can’t be in here.”
“It’s quicker.”
“It’s not for you!”
“It’s quicker.”
“Never mind. Just—”
[ppppp ppppp pppplack]
“—What the hell was that?”
“Sorry—poultry.”
“Whoa! Smells like roadkill. What did you eat-a raw chicken?”
[giggle] “Come on. It’s not supposed to be, like, lemony fresh, now is it?”
“Jeez, I got to get out of here. We have a game in 15 minutes.”
“You’re a tennis coach.”
“So?”
“I’m no expert, but I remember them being called matches.”
“Here’s a match: your face and my—“
“Just give me some TP. Please.”
“OK, here.”
[ppppppppppplllaaaacckkkkk]
“On second thought, never mind.”
“Oh come on RC!”
[ppp ppp ppplack ppplack]
“Forget it. I’m not putting my hand any closer to that crapfest than necessary.”
“Well what am I supposed to use?”
“Got any turds?”
“Uh, of course.”
“There yuh go.”
“I’m supposed to wipe my ass with a turd?”
“Why not?”
“Well, just off the top of my head, it would seem that I would be augmenting, as it were, the very substance I’m trying to remove, thereby—”
“Just do it!”
“OK, OK. Keep your pants on.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry, figure of speech.”
“Look, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that if you really believe something is true, then it is. It’s called visuali- victuals-, vaginal-... It doesn’t matter what it’s called. Just grab the turd and start wiping!”
“Fine! I’ll do it! Never let it be said that I won’t do exactly as I’m told!”
[splash]
“Uh…PA…you OK?”
“This is icky. It fell apart in my hands.”
“Hmm, sounds like you need more protein in your diet. Try a Power Bar.”
[plop]
“Oh yuck!”
“Now what?”
“I made a bigger mess than I started with.”
“You didn’t believe, did you?”
“I did believe!”
“But did you really believe? ‘Cause if you had really believed that turd was toilet paper, you’d have wiped your ass clean.”
“I did, I did believe! I swear!”
“Just get dressed and get out of here.”
“But what about the skid marks up and down my vertical smile?”
“What about them?”
“For one thing, they smell.”
“Nobody will notice.”
“They won’t?”
“Not if you want it bad enough!”
“Oh, OK. Thanks!”
[flush]

February Discussion

I'd hate to go the entire month without an entry. So what do you guys want to talk about?

A Science Writer Who Really Wants His Butt Kissed

The argument over intelligent design reminds me of my years as a young scholar, wanting desperately to be taken seriously by the intelligentsia, despite having published only a handful of experiments in minor research journals. So kiss my butt.

“Show us you belong,” said the greats. Now, years later, I realize what they meant and furthermore, why they were absolutely correct in their admonitions. Their point was simply this: Young promise does not an intellectual make. And kiss my butt.

Such is the case with Intelligent Design, please kiss my butt. Taking into account the scientific method—form, test, and modify a hypothesis—one can envision a scenario whereby a scientist concludes that a complex process such as, say, cell division must have been designed (as opposed to random, kiss my butt). Hence, a hypothesis has been formed. Can it be tested and modified? Perhaps, although I cannot think how, I beg of you to kiss my butt. That, however, is beside the point and you really should kiss my butt. You see, it has not yet been tested, as any scientific theory must be. In other words, at this point in time, it is, scientifically speaking, mere speculation (regardless of its ultimate truth), not evidence-based theory. It is no more equal to reputable theories than my once-novice self was to established scholars. Come on, just once kiss my butt.

The Legend of Tim Tebow

It’s a cryin’ shame that the mighty Tim was robbed of the Heisman. Yes, a shame—and here’s a short list why:

• Tebow put the team on his back after their undeserved loss. Percy Harvin and the rest of the untalented stiffs simply tagged along for the ride.

• Tebow will head butt a wrecking ball if that’s what it takes to inspire his lazy-ass teammates.

• Tebow actually coaches his team behind a cardboard cutout of “Urban Meyer”

• Tebow never pees in the shower. And if he did, drains would unclog, I’ll tell you that right now!

• Tebow is Santa Claus.

• Tebow solved Lost and knows all the secrets of the island.

• When Tebow shakes hands, metacarpals turn to dust.

• When Tebow takes a dump, fields of lilies wish they smelled so good.

• When he’s in a bind, Jack Bauer calls Tebow for advice.

• Tebow collects for the Salvation Army while simultaneously playing Flight of the Bumblebees on a bass trombone.

• Obama prayed daily that Tebow wouldn’t run.

• Tebow satisfied your girlfriend like she’s never been satisfied before.

• Tebow pulled Pete Carroll’s pants up and chased him off my porch.

• Tebow prosecuted OJ.

Bad Santa 2008

As has been custom for many a year, a collection of prose, for the season, from a different point of view....

Twas the month before Obama
and all through the land
Democrats and Republicans
Joined in the F**k you America, band.
F**K fannie, f**k freddie, f**k AIG;
F**k Citi f**k Morgan and screw Goldman with glee!
Most of all, f**k Lehman and f**k old bear stearns;
With the largest f**kstick, probe till they yearn!


Silent night
Holy night
All is calm
All is bright
Looks like I'll be jerking off again.


Dear Johnnie:

Thanks for your letter;
(But I liked the way your Mom sucked my d**k much better!)
You asked about elves
and to this I reply,
Yes, I have them
until they all cry.
As the reindeer; of course they can fly!
The secret ingredient? Mrs Claus' pie.
How can I make that trip in a night?
Wild Turkey and Red Bull until I'm higher than a kite.
As for your present, you ask, in your Christmas sock
Of course, you shall have one! (next line too graphic...)


Dear Santa:

I left you a salad instead of Milk and Cookies. I'm worried about your cholesterol. Signed, Martha S.

Dear Martha S:

Thanks for the salad. I left you a big black dildo for you to go f**k yourself. Santa

Dear Santa:

Could you get me outta here before the 25th? Signed, Orenthal S.

Dear Orenthal S:

No problem. You should be meeting Johnnie C. soon - I'll set up an appointment for you.

Dear Santa:

I'm sick of this place. Signed, George B.

Dear George B:

I guess so! You sold it to a f******g ******!
(illini)

A Holiday Poem

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

Lights and shit.

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference turnip odors make!

Top 5, November 11, 2008:

1. Eau de Kaline Spleen toilet water
2. Lost Medusian cuss words
3. The cheese decaying under Orson Welles’ love handles
4. Bread tribute groups undergoing male-to-female surgical procedures in lost solar systems
5. Going to battle with Digger Phelps’ nose hairs

Top 5 if my hand-held maguppy-meter read only D’s:

1. Holding an Anabaptist’s garden hose in provocative positions
2. Liz Taylor’s wrinkly-ass uvula
3. Reincarnated images of 13th century cleavage
4. “All my short stories involve popping zits, Professor.”
5. Uriah Heep LPs encrusted in cockapoo boogers

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.

Second Division Disney Characters

Chip & Dale: I know most consider them heavyweights, but consider the following scenario. You’re waiting in line to get your picture taken with Mickey or Minnie. The rodent in question goes on break and these useless twins show up to take his or her place. Listen and you will hear all ages, races, creeds, and nationalities come together as one—to groan their misfortune.

Winnie the Poo: This is a sad one, given that Winnie was once the headliner of his own little band of animated dullards. When he went up to the big leagues however, he found he was no Mickey. Hell, he isn’t even Donald.

Aladdin: Dude looks like a lady. OK, some do. But why accentuate it by dressing like a belly dancer?

Oliver & Company: It’s tempting to compare them to comets flashing across the ‘80’s sky, but given the dullness and swiftness of their popularity, they were actually more like cap guns.

Christopher Robbin: Never a biggie, but since coming over to Disney, this twit has even lost his supporting role to some forgettable chick whose name I don’t feel like looking up.

Pluto: As a Disney dog, his only competition is that certifiable idiot Goofy. And yet, because he was not granted the gift of speech, Pluto’s the one who sleeps outdoors.

Woody: He was the star of the original movie, not Buzz Lightyear. But his former backup has since left him in the sawdust. At least he knows how Thurman Thomas feels.

Gaston: In Disney flicks, the handsome dude always gets the girl, right? Not this clown. Even his right hand would have likely chosen that horned gorilla thing that ended up nailing Belle.

Tigger: This obnoxion fared best among the former Pooh characters; he has risen to the level of Winnie. As noted above, however, this makes him purely second division.

16 Activities that are no Dumber than Some Olympic Sports

Balancing a beach ball on one’s foreskin
Cultivation of arm pit juice
Estimating the correct circumference of Ashlee Simpson’s butt pimples
Spork tossing
Molding Cheez Whiz into the shape that best approximates a tortoise pancreas
Vomiting handkäse on the side of a stagecoach museum
Sucking navel lint (judged per poundage)
Molecularization of ear wax
Measuring J’s with a straight edge
Dancing around drops of urine on a rusted shower drain
Blowing spit bubbles sans milk
Turning textbook pages with the blade of a scythe
Making Disney jokes in the vapid netherworld of space
Stare downs with crotch rot
Goin’ all “Sal Muncy” at square dances
Making lists of activities that are no dumber than some Olympic sports

Submissions to Reader’s Digest

Life in These United States

Even respected brain surgeons get leaky roofs, I unfortunately discovered one day. Luckily, one of my patients was a handyman and agreed to repair the structure for free.

“It’s a slow leak into the living room,” I explained to the crusted strongman.

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Guess I’ll get started.”

Humor in Uniform

Deciding to spend my hard-earned leave back home meant boarding a DC-9 for the Deep South. To pass the 4 hours of required travel time, I brought along the latest Beverly Barton thriller. I was so overjoyed when we finally touched down in Biloxi, however, that I deplaned quickly—without my book!

As I was conveying my thanks to the pilot, I heard a commotion behind me. When I glanced back, I saw my trusted flight attendant, holding my lost paperback and pushing her way to the front of the line.

“Lieutenant!” she yelled for all to hear. “You’ll love the ending!”

All in a Day’s Work

Returning from a sales conference, our driver was clearly lost, although he was not the type to admit it. Fortunately, a quick-thinking associate requested that we pull off the highway in order to procure a much needed meal. Once this task was completed, my colleague began asking the locals for directions. His first victim was an elderly gent atop a motel porch, seated on a rocking chair and whittling.

“Which way to Decatur, old timer?” he asked the grizzled veteran of life. The man pointed south.

My buddy was flabbergasted. “Now we’ll have to make up an hour’s driving time!” he cried.

The man did not even looking up from his carving as he answered, “Good luck.”