You Steam me up, Kid, but it’s the kind of steam that makes me feel all warm and happy

I was recently inspired by one of my absolute favorite bloggers, Steam Me up, Kid.  I love her writing.  LOVE IT.  She’s not only incredibly funny, but incredibly insightful.  And her last post seemed to speak to me directly on many levels. It’s a must read, as are all of her posts.  If you like it here, then you’ll love it there. 

I very rarely talk about my life here or my problems (of which there are too many to list. ) In essence, I’ve built a playground to get away from them.  A place for my mind to entertain and ponder the ridiculous.  I want to make you laugh, sometimes I want to  make you think, and sometimes I want to tell you about my problems and even seek your advice.  I don’t because this is my playground…. and I want to swing.

That being said, I’ll give a little window into me because it’s relevant to the topic at hand.  I’m a good looking guy, intelligent, and I’ve been known to garner some laughs from the crowd or two over the years.  I’m not sure why I feel socially awkward.  I’m not sure why when I walk into a room of unknowns that I feel out of place… even nervous.  I don’t know why I feel like I can’t express my thoughts in a group of strangers for fear that the room will slip into an awkward silence after I interject what I believe to be either relevant or funny.  I don’t know why I feel that I don’t have anything intelligent or humorous to offer, and even when I think I do, why it too often gets filed under, “better not risk it and just stay quiet.”  I don’t know why I feel that everyone’s judging me, because as Steamy pointed out, they’re probably not.  And that may be the key to overcoming this. It has nothing to do with everyone else, it’s my own belief that people are intently paying attention to what I’m doing, when in fact they couldn’t care less.  Assholes.  No wonder I don’t talk to them.

Interestingly enough, I started to write a post last week called “The Man in the Corner.”  It was going to be about my social ineptness and about how many might even perceive at as snobbiness, when in actuality, it’s insecurity.  I hate small talk, not because it bores me or I think I’m above it, it’s because I don’t think what I have to say is interesting.  I decided against writing it, because as I said, I don’t want my life to invade my blog.  But after reading Steamy’s post and having wanted to dedicate a post to her, I thought this would be a good opportunity to write about her (which I’ve been wanting to do) and coincidentally, cover a topic that I’ve wanted to cover but ultimately decided against.  And the only reason I’m doing it now is because her insight has helped me to see my problem in a different way, maybe even solve it.  Also because she turned her comments off  and I couldn’t gush on her, so instead of doing it in a comment I did it in 1,000 word post.  Ha.  That’ll teach her to try and censor me. 

In all seriousness, I really just want to thank her for featuring a few of my posts on her blog, for being a very valued and regular around here (as are all my readers, except for those that somehow find me by searching “toy baby vagina,” and for you I have a special post in the wings, fucker)  for writing some of the funniest stuff I’ve ever read and now for writing something that may actually help me live my life.  Thank you, Steamy.

After reading her post and, as is often the case, needing more Steamy, I went to the comments section of her previous post so I could see her reply to my last comment about me cumming in her hand.  She didn’t say “No” *crosses fingers.  And then I read another reply from her to another  reader about going on a “Lord of the Rings” quest to destroy her old diaries in the fires of Mordor. Then I started thinking about how cool it would be to have a magic ring and how easy it would be to take one from a hobbit, especially that pussy Frodo.  Even if he had a few hobbit friends with him. And I wouldn’t need a stick or anything.  I’ve done the math and I believe I could beat up as many as 6 hobbits at once.  But this isn’t about hobbits or magic rings,  it’s about something else (I’m pretty sure.)  What that is you’ll have to figure out for yourself, and if you can’t, at least take comfort in knowing that if you and I are ever somewhere together and are attacked by fewer than 6 hobbits, we should be fine.

P.S. I’d also like to thank XUP, quirkyblogger (She’s back!) my sister Apryl, IzzyMom and The Bloggess for me even having a blog. They are all brilliant and each have inspired me to continue after almost pulling the plug more than once.  And none of them even know it. Ha.  And again, I thank all my readers and commenters who are incredibly funny. You all really mean a lot to me.  And I’m not turning my comments off because I do require validation.

If you only knew what I was going to say

I love when someone’s telling me a story about a conversation they had and then tell me something they said which totally kicks ass. And I’m like, “Oh my god!  Did you really say that?” and then they say, “No, but I was thinking it. I should have said it. “   Agreed.  Because it would have been so much more awesome than what you said.  And then when you tell me the story I won’t be disappointed in you, because what you actually said was lame and you know it.  That’s why you made up something else, because not only does it make the story exceedingly more interesting or even worth telling, but it also  makes you seem hardcore.  But like me, you’re not.  You’re probably one of those nice people that tries not to hurt other people’s feelings.  Because if you said what you wanted to say, it’s likely the person you said it to would be hurt or at the very least, you’d be in an uncomfortable situation.  Most people (like me)  avoid those because they’re (we’re)  pussies. 

Anyway, I’m now going to  list the things I was thinking and totally should have said in various situations I’ve had throughout the years.  I can’t remember all the contexts of the original conversations, but I’ll list what I said and what I should have said.  I think you can get the overall gist of the topics.

Said: You’re probably right about that.

Should have said:  I saw you scratch your butt and sniff your fingers at the grocery store once. That pretty much means that everything you say is dead to me at the exact moment it crosses your lips, which by the way, almost touched the fingers that were in your ass only a moment before.  I’m sorry, did you just say something? No matter, I’m not even sure why I’m talking to you.

Said: I’m not sure where it is. Did you retrace your steps? Don’t worry, I’m sure it will turn up.

Should have said: I stole it because I hate you and you don’t deserve it.  And worse, if you tell  anyone? I’ll kill you.  You didn’t appreciate it like I will, as evidenced by my willingness to end you if you try to separate us.  It’s exactly that lack of commitment that lead to you losing it in the first place. Think about that.

Said: Go ahead. No problem.

Should have said:  No, there’s a reason someone invented “the line.”  It’s what keeps you from going before me when you arrive after I do.  I think it’s a great system and when we adhere to it, I don’t want to kick you in the face. But if you’re one of those that feels that the line is just something for other people, then there’s really nothing we can do about my wanting to kick your face, even if you get behind me now.  I’m afraid we’ve passed that “point of no return.”

Said: I really should have been paying attention. I just looked away for a second…

Should have said:   Fuck. You just said ”watch him” not “keep him from doing stupid shit.”  And quite frankly, the attitude is going over like a lead balloon.  I “watched” the whole thing happen so I’m not really sure what your fucking problem is.  Just put some ice on it when he wakes up.  Then maybe you can teach the little guy about the dangers of electrical outlets (thought you would have covered that already, but whatever, parents do things differently in third world countries, too.)  I would have said something but that’s really something a parent should teach.  I didn’t want to step on your toes.  

Said: I completely understand.

Should have said: I completely understand you’re a tool and that it’s the entire reason you and I are having this conversation.  I can tell because of all the toolish nonsense flowing from your face hole that’s resulting in this riveting dialogue we wouldn’t otherwise be having.   I’m typically not violent, but I’m envisioning all sorts of devilish cartoon-pain for you right now.  For example, I’d like to peel your scalp off, set it on fire and see if I can throw it down the hall like a flaming frisbee of awesomeness, only to watch you chase after it in terror.  I’d like you to experience the full range of emotions from “Oh My God my head skin is missing” to “I cant believe I’m chasing my flying head skin” to most importantly, “Oh my god  I can’t believe I just stomped on my flaming headskin. Do you think they can put this back on? Oh my god, Oh my god.” Because in the end I believe you’d have no choice but to stomp it out. Hair burns quickly and the smell is awful.

Said: I don’t recall saying that. He must have misheard me.

Should have said:  Oh, that’s right. Yeah, I was lying about that because I sensed I was about to get into trouble. I learned how to do it when I was little and have become pretty good at it over the years.  But hey, remember that time I found goat porn on your computer?  Yeah, that was fun.  Anyway, let’s not worry about what I said, k?

See? I think the above alternatives make for way better storytelling and even give birth to whole new stories.  Because if you were to say what you should have said, it would just be the beginning of the conversation instead of the end.  And maybe that’s one of the other reasons we do it.  Either way, every once in awhile we should just say what’s on our mind and let the chips fall where they may. If for nothing else, to just once be able to tell the story how you’d really like to tell it.

Sometimes kids can be real assholes

I’m a germophobe. I’ve mentioned this before.  It all began when a man I used to work with had IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) coupled with perhaps the poorest hygiene I’ve ever witnessed.  I’ll spare you the gruesome details, but it became clear to me that I needed to wash my hands pretty much after I touched anything in the office.  And then I just became more generally aware of the nastiness that surrounded me, and now people make fun of me, as you soon will.

Birthday Cakes

Hi, I won’t eat you. Or anything that’s been blown on by anyone.  I’ve had the research team look into this and they’ve determined when you deeply inhale and forcefully blow out air on to something, there are particles of what scientists refer to as “your gross spit” that fly through the air and land squarely on my food.  This can lead to all types of things like, ”disgusting” and “I’m going to throw up now,” in addition to any lurking viruses.

With the new, “Hey let’s sneeze on your arm” thing going on right now, I’d like to propose we also put birthday candles in our elbow pit.

Double dippers

Open up! I’m just going to go ahead and get your mouth juice while it’s still warm, ok? I just want to scrape my chip along your tongue a little.  But why? I mean, you obviously want me to eat your saliva. Why bother mixing it with sour creamy goodness when I can just get it straight from your mouth bowl? Better yet, let me just lick your teeth.  Why even bother with the chip? After all, I’m not even going to taste it because as far as I’m concerned, your saliva has just become the only ingredient on which I’m focusing. 

Plastic glove sandwich maker

Awesome. That’s really considerate of you to put on those gloves before you… pick up that old mayonaisse and who- knows-what-else crusted dish rag to wipe down the cutting board you’re about to make my sandwich on.  That was close. You almost touched that thing with your bare hands. Icky.  But at least you were able to transfer some nastiness to the prep station before you placed my bread on it. I mean, at least what didn’t come off on your plastic hand protectors. Don’t worry, I’m sure the bread will clean them right off for you. Did I mention I’m a vegetarian? No need, I’m sure there are no various meat remnants on the communitysandwich knife… especially now that you’ve wiped it down with that… is that an old diaper?  Oh. Just looks like one. Anyway, proceed. Looks yummy.

Waitress who likes to carry my food on her shoulder

Wow. You’re strong!  How were you able to get all that food on one tray and over here? Oh.. I see… your hair resting on my potatoes was keeping everything balanced. I could tell you were a little brighter than the rest of the wait staff when I walked in.  And I have to say, you should really wear more gravy droplets on your split-ends. The way they shimmer as you float across the room is hypnotic.   Before you go, can I have one of those straws you’ve had nestled against your vagina all day? The one in that pouch that looks like someone masturbated on it. Great. Thanks.

Fast food Worker

I’d love some condiments. Do me a favor, you see those nasty hands on the end of your wrists? You know, the ones that just took my dirty money and handed me some other dirty money in return?  The same ones you just used to handle all those other people’s dirty money? Yeah, those.  Open them up and grab a handful of ketchup packets from the condiment vat… perfect… now open up the bag and toss them all over my fries.  Make sure one of them  has some disgusting and hardened ketchup residue all over it from when one of it’s little buddies exploded.  They’re usually sticky and perfect for picking up any dirt still left in your palms.  Good. You got one. Every handful of ketchup packets usually contains at least one and I’d hate for it not to end up in my fry container. Excellent.

Ok, you can make fun of me now.

Really? ‘Cause I think you’re the odd one.

Pooping. We all do it.  I don’t like to talk about it, but I’m going to address it here once and be done with it.  It’s a weird thing (pooping, that is) and a whole weird thing we’ve got about it.  And I’m one of those that are weird about it.  First, I don’t want to think about you doing it or hear about you doing it.  I know you do it, I’ve accepted it and we’re still friends.  But when you start describing it in detail, that’s when you and I are going to stop getting along.  Don’t get me wrong, sometimes there’s a great story behind the morning after a party bowl-winder, but like with anything, moderation is key.

That being said, I’m not going to describe my poop to you. I simply want to discuss what I do while pooping, which is reading. Yep. I’m a toilet reader. Guilty.  Over the years, I’ve been given grief about that from various people (those close enough to know what I do while pooping and only because I’ve told them, probably because they’ve been in my bathroom and have seen my book or instruction manual or whatever basically has words on it) and today I’ve decided to fight back. That’s right bathroom non-readers, today it’s time for my side and your side to clash in an epic battle to finally decide who reigns supreme in, “Who’s doing  better stuff while pooping?”

Let’s do this.

So Mr. and Mrs. Bathroom Non-Reader, I’ve heard your argument. Who wants to hang out in the bathroom and read, right?  I mean, hardly a place to read something. You’re there to poop, not relax. Read at the beach or in bed. I don’t know, seems like an odd place to hang out and read, etc.  (Hopefully, you’ll comment with the other arguments, which I promise I’ll address.  I like to argue.) 

I get that you think I’m a little odd for multi-tasking in this way. So…. what do you do while pooping?  Stare at the wall?  Because that seems kind of retarded to me, no matter what you’re doing. I want to be whisked away from the reality of squatting on cold porcelain and dispensing the previous night’s dinner. I like something to take my mind off the fact that there’s poop-air everywhere and I am breathing it.  I’d just as soon not poop and read somewhere else, but if I have to poop, I’ll be damned if I’m going to stare at the wall or think about pooping.  And is that what you’re doing, Mrs. BNR?  Thinking about pooping while you’re pooping?  Are you counting?  Humming?  Thinking about Bono? I mean, really, what the hell are you doing? Now I’m curious. Now I’m starting to think you’re the weird one. Doesn’t feel very good, does it?  Uh huh. Welcome to your nightmare.

Ok, so I think we’re getting somewhere. I read when I poop, and so far we’ve been able to determine that you either stare at the wall,  focus intently on the task at hand or are thinking about random stuff other than pooping. Let’s address each:

Staring at the Wall

This isn’t fun at all. I’ve done it and almost always am immediately bored. That’s why in fancier restaurants they’ll even have a little plexiglass display box for the newspaper right above the urinal. Those establishments have clearly determined that staring at words is better than staring at tile.  It’s the most awesome thing ever.  They’ll also pipe in music so you don’t have to hear other people going to the bathroom, and more importantly, so other people can’t hear you. 

In the slightly less fancy bathrooms, above the urinal you might see “For a good Blow Job Call Mitch,” and then you call Mitch and find out he didn’t write it at all and he’s totally pissed at some guy named John, so he gives you John’s number and it turns out John doesn’t want to give you a blow job, either.  Then you just become a pawn in their little ruse and worse, no blow job.  No matter how much you demand one or claim “false advertising.”  That’s why it’s better not to respond to bathroom ads and just enjoy them for for their entertainment value.

Thinking about pooping while you’re pooping

If you’re one of those that feels you need to focus on the task and be done with it, then you’re thinking about pooping. I find this both disturbing and humorous. ”Ok… push! Nice. That was a good one. One more. A little harder this time but don’t pop anything. You remember what happened to Aunt Sara. Focus.” Or maybe just, “Pooping Pooping Pooping Pooping…” I don’t know.  I can’t climb inside the head of the BNR, but  again, I’m going to have to go with reading here as a much more efficient and less odd way to spend this time.

Thinking about other stuff while you’re pooping

If you’re one of those that uses this time to reflect, then you’re really no different than I. You’re entertaining yourself while pooping, plain and simple. Sometimes I’ll do this when no reading material is available, so really “pondering” is my back-up system.  If you’re a thinker, then you and I are almost compatriots. The divide between us can be bridged.  

So there you have it. I poop. I read while pooping. And I will no longer be persecuted for it. I will not wear a scarlet “P.”  For you BNRs, I don’t mean to speak for you. My comments section is open for debate. Let’s openly discuss this in a productive way and maybe, just maybe, we can end the bloodshed between our two factions. I extend my washed hand in peace. I hope you’ll do the same.

This must have been what that John Mayer song was talking about

 

So, What does a father say that’s found his 18 year old daughter on a porn video?  More importantly, what can he say? how does one bring it up?  How did he find it?  What’s next?
Dad: “Honey! Get in here!”

Mom: “What’s wrong?”

Dad: “This is really going to upset you, so you might want to sit down.”

Mom: “You’re scaring me.”

Dad: “Just watch.”

Mom: “Oh my god. Is that… Is that Sylvia?”

Dad: “It is. Can you believe it? Is this who we raised? Get her in here now.”

Mom: “Ok, ok, but you’re too angry right now and this is delicate. Let me take the lead on this. I know how to handle it. Put your penis away and I’ll get her.”

Dad: “Ok, but don’t be soft on her. I’m staying and I can’t promise I won’t say anything.”

Mom: “Ok dear, be right back. Wash your hands.”

(Mom enters with Sylvia)

Mom: “Your father and I are a little disappointed by something he found on the internet while masturbating.”

Sylvia: “Ummm… ok…”

Dad: “Lose the attitude, young lady. This is serious.”

Sylvia: “Sorry. What is it?”

Mom: “Is there anything you would like to tell us?”

Sylvia: “No.. not that I know of…”

Dad: “Really? You know, lies by omission are still lies. But you know that already, don’t you?”

Mom: “Steven, calm down. We’re not going to get anywhere if we yell.”

Dad: “Dammit Ethel, you know how much I love to masturbate to internet porn.  And now that image has been emblazoned in my memory. Not only has she tainted my visual aid, I’m not sure I’ll even be able to fantasize anymore. And I just renewed my membership, too. Great. Just great.”

Mom: “Sylvia, your father works hard and he should be able to come home and masturbate while watching other men’s barely legal daughters having sex with multiple partners without having to see you doing it.  You know how much your father likes to touch himself.  Didn’t you think he might come across you and whatever those guys names were? And was that my scarf?”

Sylvia: “You… saw the video? Oh… This is embarrassing. I totally washed the scarf and I had no idea that dad was into barely legal…”

Dad: “It’s not about that, young lady. I shouldn’t have to update you on the ebb and flow of my fetishes because I expect to see you when I log on to watch people have sex. It’s true I’m more of a Cougar man, but from time to time I enjoy the… whatever. That’s not the point.  How would you feel if you saw your mother and I having sex on the internet? “

Sylvia: “That’s really gross.”

Dad: “And your mom has told you about borrowing her things without asking. What is with you lately? And what if your grandparents see this?”

Sylvia: “You think Nana and Bubby watch internet porn? I think I’m going to throw up.”

Mom: “You know, dear, once that’s out on the internet there’s nothing you can do. When you get out of college and you go to your first job interview, how do you know that the person who’s interviewing you hasn’t recently masturbated to your video? You don’t.  And then what’s he going to think about you?”

Dad: “I know what would happen if I was interviewing one of the girls I’d masturbated to. Next, please. Any girl that’s willing to have sex on video so that I can pleasure myself is not the type I want working for me. I mean, what if my customer recognizes her from when he was masturbating to internet porn? What kind of organization will he think I’m running?”

Mom: “It’s true. Just look at what happened to Paris Hilton and Britney. Their sex tapes ruined them. What are they even doing now?”

Dad: “Uh huh. Good point, Ethel.”

Sylvia: “Well, it wasn’t supposed to be on the internet…”

Dad: “Ohhh.. of course. That’s what they all say. Well let me tell you someting, young lady. Most of the sites I frequent make a mockery out of tricking girls to have sex with them on video. To us… I mean them, it’s just a big joke. When a guy or two guys or even four guys want to film themselves having sex with you, you can be sure it’s going to end up on the internet.”

Sylvia: “Wow, I didn’t know that. They said it was just for fun.”

Mom: “Men will say just about anything.”

Dad: “We absolutely will. Let that be a lesson to you. I can only hope you’ll learn from this and that I won’t come across any more of your work. Is that the only one?”

Sylvia: “Well, I did this foot thing once..”

Mom: “Oh dear. Did you at least wear a sock?”

Sylvia: “Well, no…”

Dad: “Dammit Syl..”

Mom: “Steven, it’s okay. Sylvia, we can’t make you not rub your feet on men’s genitals in front of a camera, but I think it’s fair that we can expect you’ll at least be safe. And now with the swine flu…”

Sylvia: “You’re right, mom. That was irresponsible. And Dad, I’m really sorry I ruined masturbating for you.”

Dad: “Well, you probably didn’t ruin it for me. I’m sure I’ll still do it, I just may have to seek some new interests. Of course, other than foot fetishes… (playful poke to Syl’s ribs.)”

Sylvia: “Yeah, you may want to stay away from lesbian sites, too.”

Dad: “What?”

Sylvia: “Gotcha!”

Dad: “You know, you’re not too old for some tickle torture.”

Sylvia: “Did you wash your hands?”

Dad: “Good one!”

(Group chuckle)

Mom: “Oh you two are too much. Ok, settled? Group hug.”

Sylvia: “I love you guys.”

Dad: “We love you, too. Anybody up for ice cream?”

You’re all going to die but I’ll be okay

I think I’ll begin by apologizing.  I’ve been misleading you. This blog, my message… everything.  Nothing more than a clever ruse to draw you to my pulpit.  I think there are enough people here now that I can unveil the real me and my purpose.

I’ve been given a gift, though it often feels more like a curse.  My entire life, it’s been an incredible burden for me and those  around me. I see things.  Things that are going to happen.  I know.  This is why I’ve never told anyone.  And unfortunately, I don’t have any proof because these are all things that haven’t yet happened, but as the end times approach, I know my visions will become reality.  I simply couldn’t live with myself  if I didn’t share it with the people I care about, despite the likelihood of being branded “insane.”  Once I share my secrets with you, you’ll understand.

I’m not the only one who’s seen it.  For centuries, people have foreseen the end of days.  Our fate is sealed and any attempts to change our impending demise is futile, at best.  I’ve seen everything and all we can do now is prepare as best we can.     

Like many prophets, I get visions.  Mine come in the form of extremely vivid and realistic dreams. Often I wake up screaming because I can’t tell the difference between the dream and real life.  It’s horrifying.  Their realistic nature is how I know that they’re just not dreams,  but an eerie picture of things to come.  And today I’m going to share my final apoctalyptic vision with you.

Despite what you’ve heard,  it has nothing to do with global warming, nuclear weapons, meteors, floods… at least not the way my visions tell the story.  First, it’s not happening in 2012.  It happens in a year called “Dave.”  Apparently, a couple of years from now, we get tired of numbers and start naming years (like we do hurricanes.) “Dave” comes right after “Jennifer.”  And Jennifer will be a total bitch.  I’ll cover that later.

At the end of Curtis (the year preceding Jennifer,) a major logging accident in the upper northwest will turn the  Pacific Ocean into delicious maple syrup.  In the months to follow,  the Canadian economy will collapse from within, leaving most Canadian citizens homeless and unemployed. 

As their entire population tries to migrate to the U.S., our border guards kill anyone that speaks French (we vote on that course of action and overwhelmingly agree.)  France sees it as an act of aggression and a prelude of things to come.  They respond by bombing Rhode Island with flaming donuts (though they’d call them “pastries,” which is one of the many reasons we don’t like them.)

As tensions mount, people begin walking around naked.  I’m also naked, but they’re all pointing and laughing at me.  David Caruso rides by on a unicycle yelling, “I like potatoes! You can too!”   A small indian man asks me if I’d like some string for my toaster. I tell him I brought my own.  My fifth grade teacher is there.  She’s wearing a t-shirt that says, “I’m with Stupid,” but with no arrow pointing to “Stupid.”  I find this very bizarre. “Where’s Stupid?!” I call out through the chaos, but nothing comes out but bubbles.

I've taken the liberty of depicting some other parts of my vision, but I couldn't fully determine their relevance so I excluded them. If anyone has any ideas about what these other images might symbolize, I'm open to your interpretations.

Inexplicably, you’re all sucked into the sky.  I’m the only one left.  There are peaches everywhere.  I see a plastic dog.  I ask if it’s seen my friend’s car.  I spring to consciousness in a cold sweat.

The rest is fuzzy, but I can only assume I’m the only one who lives through it.  It makes sense, as it’s the least I can expect for having to bear the burden of knowing.  If I’ve frightened you, I’m sorry.  It wasn’t my intention. I just thought you would like the opportunity to mend fences, right wrongs, and know that the time you have left to seize life’s opportunities is running short.  Good luck.

.

Batman: Inside the Cave – Edition 2

So… I’m on top of this building, scanning the street for crimes, organizing my iPod (which, by the way, if you haven’t downloaded Pearl Jam’s new album then you don’t deserve to have an iPod and yes, I will come to your house and take it from you)  and something occured to me: I can’t turn my head in this stupid outfit.  I have to turn my whole body when I want to look at something.  It’s so stupid.  I mean, a little lycra in the neck area would have been so much smarter.  Anyway, I decided I was going to change it, but the assholes in marketing at Wayne Enterprises   other crime fighters think it’s a bad idea.  “Branding” or something.  Whatever.  Don’t worry about me.  Just out there saving the city every night.  Plus, who needs to turn their head when they’re fighting eight super villain minions at once?  Sure, I’ll just swivel my entire body instead of my head.  Much more convenient.  Hate to tarnish the “brand.”  You’d think that getting stabbed in the side of the head would tarnish it a little more.  Assholes.  Fuck ‘em.  I’m doing it.

And fuck already.  Do we really still need the bat signal?  How about a text or an IM?  Or in addition to not being able to turn my head, would you also like me to stand at my window all fucking evening?  Jesus.  It’s 2009.  I think we can move beyond the Paul Revere warning system.  “No Batman, it’s so much easier to drive down to the station and climb up on the roof than to text or call.”  It’s no wonder you people need protecting.  Also, wouldn’t it be neat if the bad guys didn’t know I was coming?  I know, I know.  My safety and comfort aren’t really your concerns.  Sorry.

And another thing.  Why can’t we just have normal criminals?  Why does everyone have to have some kind of theme? (said the bat-masked man-lol)  But seriously.  I have Bruce Wayne  a secret identity to conceal.  But what about the Penguin?  That dude is soooo freaky.  I mean, he’s actually part penguin. WTF?  And then there’s the whole problem of me loving penguins.  How do I reconcile that? Yeah, he’s a super villain, but he’s also part lovable penguin. It sucks. All I’m saying is when he’s about to execute his city-wide plan of terror and mayhem, I may find myself a little conflicted.  Same thing if we’re ever attacked by kitten or hamster man.  I think they’re ok, but you never know.

Shit.  Almost forgot.  This is kind of important.  When the joker shows up and has another creepy parade with big floating balloons and is throwing out money?  He’s totally going to gas you.  Dumbasses.  I shouldn’t even need to tell you that.  So here’s a little rule:  When you see the Joker, run for your fucking life.  Think you can remember that? Here’s a mnemonic device if you can’t: WYSTJRFYFL.  Write it down and put it in your wallet or make a bracelet or something.  I swear, Batman or babysitter? Sometimes I just can’t tell the difference.

Butthole Wallpaper

Welcome to another exciting installment of  “Why are you here?”  And as always, I don’t believe this edition will disappoint. People are genuinely fucked up.  And it’s not like many of them are even looking for an answer, rather making a proclamation.  I’m not sure what most expect to find, but I guarantee they’re always disappointed when they end up here.  I’m not, though.  I’m glad they do, because they’ve become a great source of entertainment for me and my reader.  So let’s get this party started.

Butthole Wallpaper

Of Course.  Who hasn’t wanted to cover their walls with buttholes?  I mean, at least in the early nineties when butthole decor was all the rage.  As many designers will agree, the butthole is one of the most underutilized design elements in the industry today and will undoubtedly make a comeback by 2010.  Fashion is cyclical. You may have not noticed this, but I don’t sell butthole wallpaper here.  At least not yet.  Today all I can do is salute your design choice and offer some accessory advice,  like adding a papassan chair or two. Pink or brown, depending on how you like your buttholes and, of course, consider the other accent colors you’ve chosen.  Good luck and we’d love to see some pictures when you get done with the remodel.

squeezing “my penis” with my hands

Thank god.  I’m extremely glad you included quotation marks around “my penis.”  We wouldn’t want google to think you were gay.  But okay, I’m game.  You squeeze “your penis.”  With “your hands.”  I’m not sure what you’re after, but it’s in my nature to help those in need.  All I can do is relate my own experience.  When I squeeze “my penis” with my own or even someone else’s hands, I typically enjoy it.  I try not to squeeze too hard and advise those squeezing my penis to do do the same, as that’s when the level of enjoyment decreases.  It’s really all about attaining the right psi, and if you’re nervous about the right amount of pressure, better off just leaving it to yourself. Other people don’t have the benefit of feeling your penis pain. Remember that if you ever run into a situation where you’re squeezing “someone else’s penis” with “your hands.”

Do guys watch Grey’s Anatomy?

*Inserts hands in pockets, whistles and looks to the sky*  Shut up.  I only watch it for the articles.

Is this hamster testicles?

Put the hamster down and back away slowly.  Also, no one knows what the hell you’re looking at, but we are afraid.  If you don’t have a hamster, I’m going to say they’re probably not hamster testicles.  If they are and you don’t have a hamster, then I’m calling the police.  And if it’s your testicles you’re asking about, then I’m very sorry. 

men likes to lick its own underwear

It… does? I think you’re going to have to kill it.  I hate to be the one to deliver this news and lay this responsibility at your doorstep, but you made the discovery. You’re it.  I’d recommend doing it while it’s licking it’s underwear.  A) It’s distracted. B) It’s justifiable.  Maybe even self defense.  Anyone licking their underwear in close proximity to you is dangerous.  (Disclaimer: Mayo Pie and it’s affiliates do not endorse killing people, mostly.  Please exercise caution when dealing with those that lick their own underwear.)

Are we all going to die from robots taking over?

No. Not all of us. At least not all at once.  Some of us will be batteries, others will lead the futile resistance and some of us will become traitors and work for the robots (if they’ll have me.)  The point is, most will die, but not everyone.  I hope that makes you feel better.

before fuck urinate is better its true

If you needed any more proof that yoda reads my blog, here it is. And not only because it’s in yoda-speak, but the wisdom behind the statement could have been only put forth by a Jedi Master. 

yes, i really like your car. no, I don’t.

Fuck you, then.  I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.  My car is awesome.  And now that I know how you really feel, I’m never going to drive you anywhere.  Asshole.

im busy hating you

Back at you, fucker.  I still haven’t forgotten about the car remark.

my friends tell me I smell like urine

Well, at least they’re telling you rather than avoiding you altogether.  That’s what I do with my urine scented friends.  This search term just as easily could have been, “I have no friends because I smell like urine.”  You must have some other very redeeming qualities. Focus on those. 

how to make my penis glad

Penis depression is very serious and telling it to “pull itself up by the boot straps” never works.  It only marginalizes its sadness and can often lead to even deeper, sadder thoughts.  Often it’s based in self-loathing or a low self worth, so you might want to have it volunteer at a soup kitchen or take it to an assisted living facility so it can read to the old people.  Good deeds will make it feel better about itself.  Also, tell it how big it is.  They love that.  And if all else fails, buy it a little hat.  I can only speak for my own penis, and often it speaks for me. We’re tight like that.  But we both agree that a miniature hat for penises would kick ass.

That’s it kids, but only because this post is getting too long. There are some incredibly odd people in this world and I’ve apparently built a giant magnet. Awesome.  Until next time, David Caruso.  (Really wanting more David Caruso searches. Caruso. Sunglasses. Tilty head. CSI. Douche.)

Whoopi Goldberg is an idiot

Some of you already know this.  If you’re a fan, you shouldn’t be.  Why?  Well, she’s an idiot.  I was very clear about that in the title.  I know what you’re thinking, “but… Sister Act 2 wasn’t all her fault.”  That’s debatable.  But that’s not my problem.  At least not today.  My problem is with what she said on The View the other day.  Now,  I want to make it clear that I do not watch this show.  It coincides with Judge Joe Brown, for one.  For two, it has Whoopi Goldberg.  And for three, I have a penis.  That’s way too much to overcome to be a viewer of this particular program.

So… what’d she say? Well, you can watch the video here.  I’d also like you to read the post that accompanies it and the next.  You can do this now and come back.  I’ll cue the muzak.  But trust me, you’ll want to come back because I am really going to lay into this fancy eric in my most heated rant ever (Fancy Eric is a term I coined as a replacement for ”fucking idiot.”  It’s code and meant for use around children, co-workers, etc.  I’ve used it in this case because I love it.)

For those of you who didn’t listen to me and click the link, the gals were chatting about Roman Polanski and the charges against him of raping a 13 year old girl. “It wasn’t rape rape, was it?” said fancy eric. Now, she went on to try and clarify that she was just trying to determine the official charges. You know, so she could speak intelligently.  I’m kind of mad at the other women on the show for letting her believe she was capable of it. “Um… Whoopi? Don’t go there girlfriend, intelligence isn’t your strongsuit.” 

Right. The official charges.  *Whoopi holds her earpiece so the producers can feed her the information she requires.* “Yes, Whoopi, we’ve confirmed that it wasn’t officially ‘rape rape.’  Our research has uncovered that doesn’t exist and you are the only person in the world who has a rape scale (except for rapists,) and yours is weirder because many view it happening to a child as considerably worse.  In this case, I’d call it ‘rape rape rape rape rape, with a side of child molestation, contributing to the delinquency of a minor and stealing a child’s soul.’  Now please apologize and stop talking.”

So Fancy Eric tried to clarify things, and then it just got worse.  She went on to explain that everyone doesn’t look at things the same way. And  how in many parts of Europe, this is how 13 year old girls are viewed.  Thank you, Whoopi, for  reminding us that Americans don’t have all the answers and different cultures do things differently, and who’s to say that drugging and anally raping a 13 year old girl (yes, anally raped according to her testimony)  is, you know, wrong?  We need to consider the world view before we rush to judgment.

For example, we don’t stone women for showing their ankles.  After all, they do it in some parts of the middle east, so let’s reserve judgment for the guy that did it at the mall in Utah (that didn’t actually happen, to my knowledge, but when it does, Whoopi will be there, granted he’s a talented filmmaker.)  And in Thailand, little girls are sold into sex slavery all the time.  So let’s not be so quick to judge a man for taking naked pictures of a 13 year old girl, drugging her with a lude and champagne, performing sex acts on her while she asked him to “keep away” and then asking her if she wanted it “through the back” before prison raping her. I mean, this shit happened in Vietnam all the time.  Sheez.

Then she said something that confused me and I don’t even know what to make of it. “Does that mean I want my 13 year old to have sex? Not necessarily.”  I’m sorry, could you repeat that part about…. “not necessarily?”  Wow. Fancy eric. How about….”No?”

So, Nic  (whom originally brought all of this to my attention) over at MyBottlesUp contacted Sherri Shepherd with The View, and she responded.  If you’ve checked Nic’s post you can see the conversation,  but Sherri basically wrote the whole thing off to one misguided comment, instead of what it was: An ongoing  defense of a child molester/rapist that didn’t end with one misguided statement, but continued on in the form of a lecture about how our society views things differently from others.  And let’s not decide before we have all the facts and can define where it falls on Whoopi’s rape severity scale. Stupid fancy eric. 

I’m really quite sickened by this and her entire position, and I don’t believe I’ve misrepresented it.  I’d LOVE to find myself across the table from someone explaining to me why I’m being a little too harsh on Polanski.  One, so I could be close enough to slap it.  Two, so I could slap it again.

So, Whoopi Goldberg (if that’s even your real name,) you have won the Fancy Eric of the year award. First one ever. I’m thinking of even calling it “The Whoopi.”  You are the fanciest of all erics, and your position on this subject came through loud and clear.  Fucker.

If you’re easily offended, you should definitely read this.

So… I’ve mentioned before that I’m Jew-ish.  Here’s how I became so.  My family on my father’s side is Jewish.  My family on my mother’s side is… not so much.  So what happens when these 2 people get married and have children?  Well, according to jewish law, the mother has to be jewish in order for the kids to be jewish.  The only thing that can negate this is if a bad jew and a christian decide to completely ignore it and have a four minute conversation to raise the kids jewish.  Cuts through all the red tape associated with a lengthy conversion, scrutinizing from the family and community, etc. 

As it turns out, raising a bad jew is even easier and requires almost no teaching.  First, the pork thing only applies if you’re not fond of pork.  If you enjoy pork, don’t sweat it.  Pig is tasty and god (if there even is a god, according to bad judaism) wants you to lick it.  Second,  Hannukah takes too long and has no Santa, so feel free to celebrate Christmas provided you take out the Christ.  I call it “Hannamas.”  

Then you have days like today: Yom Kippur.  Today is the day when we don’t eat for some reason.  Good jews all over the world are starving today.  But a bad jew might have just polished off a pb&j in one hand while writing a sacreligious post with the other.  Said bad jew is probably even stuffing potato sticks into his mouth while being semi-careful not to get grease on his keyboard.  He’s probably even eyeing a Hershey’s bar right this second.

“So, Mayo, this religion of yours sounds awesome. What do I have to do to become Jew-ish?”

Done. Welcome aboard. The first order of business would be to leave work. You’re not supposed to be working today, and while a bad jew would, one of the benefits of being a bad jew is the extra holidays you get to take off.  And though leaving work seems like the good jewly thing to do, you’re really just using judaism as an excuse to not work.  This falls well within the confines of what a bad jew would do.  But if you’re feeling too good jewish, go eat some delicious ribs.

“So, if I begin to practice bad judaism, is there anything I have to do?”

Yes. Well, at least according to my father.  You must rent Schindler’s List.  Apparently, even bad jews must see this movie to maintain any type of jew status.  On the most holiest of days when we’re supposed to do nothing, my father will sit in his office nomming on bacon while lecturing your bad jewish self about not having yet taken the time to watch this film. If you have no jewish lineage whatsoever, this is a must to complete the conversion process.

“I’ve seen it.”

Not me, but only because I hate sad movies.  Also, bad jew gets worse with each generation.  If you decide to raise your kids bad jewish, they won’t watch it, either, but it won’t be a requirement.  All you have to do is tell them they’re jewish.

“Anything else?”

Hell yes. Here’s a list:

You get to use words like “schmuck.”

You are now amongst the most persecuted people in history. Use it to your advantage.

Mel Gibson hates you now.

You’ll probably start complaining more. It’s called “Kvetching.”  We do it so much we had to make up a word for it.

You should have more money now and an excuse to spend less of it.  If you don’t believe me, call your bank and check your balance, being sure to complain  kvetch about service fees to the manager before hanging up.

And there’s so much more.  Let me be clear: I’m not trying to convert you.  A bad jew would never.  We don’t care.  That’s what makes our religion so awesome.  I’m simply stating the facts and if you’re with us, great.  If not, great.  More Hannamus cookies for me.  Whatever you decide, may the force be with you. Vagina.