Shut Up And Make Me Some Tacos

Here's the set up. I decide to get lunch at Taco Bell today, and had my usual battery of four spicy chicken burritos, four classic hard shell tacos, two Mexican Pizzas and a Nacho Bell Grande. Plus, a large Mountain Dew. I grab a seat with my back to the wall -- you know, in case anyone's trying to get the drop on me -- and dig in.

That's when I noticed the constant stream of chatter coming from two tables over. It was the store manager, some 20-year-old punk, giving a performance review to one of the Bell's employees. Which is fine, but this idiot peppered everything he said with money cult codewords like "sensitivities," "challenges," "goals," "opportunities," "going forward," and the like.

But not a single goddamn word about tacos.

Next thing that kid knows, my monstrously fat hand is slapping the Taco Bell hat right off his head. Then I pulled him up by his collar and growled:

"Listen, meathead. You work at Taco Bell. Got it? Taco. Bell. There are neither challenges, nor opportunites, at this level. Now shut the hell up and go make some tacos."

Mission accomplished, I hightailed it out of there before the pigs showed. But not before grabbing a to-go bag for the remainder of my meal. Hey, a man's gotta eat. Especially one as fat as me.

You're Looking At Jeopardy!'s Next Big Winner

Bank on it. 'Cause in less than 15 minutes, I'll be taking Jeopardy!'s "Online Contestant Test."

I just hope I make it to the "Showcase Showdown" once I qualify. I wouldn't mind getting an up-close look at those knockers on Barker's Beauties, if you know what I mean. If you don't, I mean I want to ogle their tits. A-oo-gah.

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UPDATE: Looks like I had my game shows mixed up. Apparently they just ask you a lot of hard questions on Jeapordy!, without any boobies in sight. Much less any exciting prize packages. They can go to hell.

Speaking Of Big Pussy

Say, when is Redd Foxx going to do another season of Sanford & Son? I just started catching the reruns on cable, and that shit is out of sight! Hopefully Redd will stop being crazy and work things out with Comedy Central so we can all get back to the funny.

I'll tell you what's not funny on Comedy Central, though: that new Daily Show reporter, Dan "The Hack" Bakkedahl. His jokes are stale, he's physically repulsive, and his complete and utter baldness makes me look like Fabio by comparison. Bakkedahl, feh. He's no Redd Foxx, that's for sure. Or is that Cedric the Entertainer I'm thinking of?

Sweet Success

The rumors are true; I tracked down a copy of '74 Jailbreak earlier today. I had to go into the city to get it, and as always the urban record store hipsters did not let me down.

"Have it?" scoffed the burly counter boy. "We got loads. And by the way, March is Mustache Madness Month."

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked.

"Means if you had a 'stache, you'd get a dollar off every fifteen dollar purchase you make. But you ain't got no 'stache, so you're out of luck." He then stroked his own mustache condescendingly.

Whatever. At least I got the album, and I've listened to "Jailbreak" so many times in a row I'm ready to go punch a cop. Wish me luck.

Damn You Sony, Damn You To Hell

Here's the word: I have a fever, and the only prescription is AC/DC's "Jailbreak." Not a live version, not a cover, and not the Thin Lizzy tune. I'm talking about the studio version off of '74 Jailbreak, and I'm not accepting any substitutes.

No luck finding it at any local record stores, or even Best Buy or Circuit City. And I'm not wasting my time going to Wal-Mart or Target. No. Being a man of the 21st century I said to myself, "Self, let's buy it online."

So to iTunes I went; no go. Then I got desperate, scanning through hundreds of pages of Google listings. I found a weird German techno version and picked up three pieces of easily dispatched spyware, but still not the real thing. Unless I'm willing to trust my credit information to an obvious pirate outfit that uses hundreds of fake "redirect" sites. Seeing as I'm not a retard, I'll pass.

All of which indicates that Sony's music division is still stuck in the neoplantationary record company mindset of the mid-to-late 20th Century, for which they deserve the finger. And if any of this blog's readers wants to slip me a copy of "Jailbreak" on the sly, the RCAA certainly won't hear about it from me. Or will they?!?

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UPDATE: You can't even buy it from Sony's "Connect" store -- the only AC/DC they offer for download is something called "Maximum AC/DC," and it's a spoken word unauthorized biography. Screw you, Sony. Screw you.

I'm Not Wearing Any Pants

It's true, I'm not. Intrigued yet, ladies? You should be. I'm talking about 350 pounds of love meat poured into a leopard skin speedo, waiting to give you pleasure unlike any you've ever imagined.

Tell me you're not getting hot and I'll call you a goddamn liar. Drop the charade, your inhibitions, and your pants; we're on a collision course with amore. Toot toot!

Viva Mexico

Today was my first day back at work after a three-day weekend. Not fun, to say the least. So I decided to take the edge off by having lunch at El Toro, the best Mexican eatery in town.

I gotta say, I love all things Mexicano: the language, the food, the liquor, the super-shady hats, the crazy pistol shooting, the masked wrestlers, the cultural significance of naps, the donkeys, the works. Not to mention how easy and inexpensive it is to get their women into the sack. But I digress.

Right, El Toro. I had two double burrito platters, and chased each one with a shot of the house's hottest hot sauce. The kind you have to ask for special if you're a gringo. But I never have to ask; they know me there.

Sometimes You Have To Stop, Smell Roses

I won't lie to you; I would normally be at work right now. But I took today off. Mind you, I didn't call out "sick." I don't abide that kind of un-American behavior. No, I put in for this day over a month ago, well within my company's vacation guidelines.

I was going to do a lot today. You know, run those millions of little bullshit errands that just can't be done on a weekend. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, I took the biggest shit of my life not five minutes after waking up. It was majestic, an epic act of personal cleansing and renewal unlike anything I'd experienced before. In fact, a number of feces-centric cultures are already creating songs, paintings and other works of art in my bowel movement's honor. It was that good.

That said, the whole ordeal left me with such a sense of accomplishment that I can't be bothered to do anything else today. If you need me, I'll be taking in a marathon Playboy TV session from the comfort of my vibrating chair. Ta-ta.

Pigs Suck

Guess who just got a speeding ticket? Here's a hint -- you're reading his blog right now.

The pig "caught" me doing 63 in a 45 zone. On a six-lane, non-residential roadway. What bullshit. Especially considering that the only people who drive slower than 60 in such conditions are old women and retards. Of which I am neither.

At any rate, it's $80 down the drain. Guess I'll have to forego my usual Saturday night prostitute this week. In the meantime, here's hoping that pig catches cancer from his radar gun. Testicular cancer.

Just Bag My Groceries, Moron

"Paper or plastic, sir?"

I did a double-take when the bagboy said this... because he was former Miami Dolphins "head coach" Dave Wannstedt!

"Dave Wannstedt?" I said. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm, uh, working," he said, sheepishly. "Uh, paper or plastic?"

"Plastic," I said. "But seriously. Why are you here? I thought you were 'coaching' at the Pitt?"

"Uh, yeah, I was. But they, uh, they fired me."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"Why?"

"Uh, they read about how current Dolphins Head Coach Nick Saban got the world's most monstrous, terrifying, explosive quarterback, Daunte Culpepper, for a second round draft pick."

"What? Why would a college fire you because an NFL head coach was able to get a franchise QB for a song?"

"Because, uh, when I was 'head coach' of the Dolphins, I used a second round draft pick to get, uh, A.J. Feeley. Who was a, uh, second- or third-string QB for Philly at the time. And, uh, hadn't even played a full season."

"Eww. Ur... wow."

"Yeah. So the Dean pulled me into his office and fired me, saying he didn't want an idiot as big as me anywhere near his school."

"Well, I can certainly understand that," I said, laughing. But as it turned out, the laugh was on me; Wannstedt was just as bad at bagging groceries as he was at coaching football, leaving me with squished bread, broken eggs and food that tasted like bleach and chemicals.

What a tool.

I'm Badly Constipated

Dear sweet lord in heaven, it's like my bowels are locked tight with super glue. I've tried everything: greasy food, hot sauce, liquor. Nothing works. I'm doomed.

Then again, maybe a rim job from one of Madame Ching's skilled masseuses would do the trick. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Where's The Next-Gen Aerosol Cheese?

I'm tired of hearing about "next-gen" video game systems, cellphones, computers, etc. Never mind all that. It's time to get serious. It's time to bring Cheez Whiz into the 21st century.

It was created in what, 1942? Wasn't it part of the war effort or something? Regardless, we're long overdue for a successor. Hell, isn't that why we have scientists? To invent bigger and better things? Shit or get off the pot, you eggheads.

Come Back C.C.C.P., I Miss You

Remember the Soviet Union? That cool hammer-and-sickle flag? And the uniforms? Not to mention their nuclear capabilities. That's what I call an appropriate enemy for the good ol' U.S. of A.

Not like these goddamn Islamic terrorists. Just a bunch of bearded nuts living in caves, blowing the shit out of school busses and whatnot. They don't even have their own country, for christ's sake -- they're homeless! And Osama bin Laden? Well, let's just say he's no Josef Stalin and leave it at that.

We should see about bringing the Russkies back. I bet Vladimir Putin would be up for it. Glasnost never would've happened under his watch, that's for sure.

Hitting A Child Isn't Necessarily Abuse

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

This was a dumpy, middle-aged woman, presumably the mother of the young boy I had in a half-Nelson. We were standing in the dairy aisle of my local grocery store.

"Giving this brat a long-overdue lesson in manners," I replied, landing another sharp blow across the back of the child's head. Then, to the boy: "That'll teach you to call attention to my girth, you little shit!"

Next thing I know I'm being dragged away by a squad of cops and booked on some trumped up child endangerment charges. My attorney will quickly deal with that nonsense, but you can bet that kid will never forget the feel of my fist on his noggin. Especially when you consider how fat I am.

I Just Ate A Baby

At least, the equivalent of one. Picture it, if you will: a four-pound N.Y. strip steak marinated in garlic and whiskey, seared to a perfect medium rare. It was served with a fully loaded baked potato, a half cup of horseradish and an entire loaf of buttered bread. Moreover, it was preceded by a caesar salad and topped off with cherries jubilee, a glass of brandy and a fine cigar.

But enough of that. Time for me to lay on my stomach for the next hour or so, then go find a whore who doesn't mind a bit of the rough stuff. Cheers.

Good Old-Fashioned Fun

Heh. Heh heh.

That's three nights in a row I've crapped in my neighbor's lawn.

Stop Snitching

Right. So I was looking at some online porn at work today, just like I always do after lunch. That's when I heard someone gasp behind me.

"Oh my god!" This was Gus the Copyboy, who promptly dropped the stack of papers he'd been holding. He was white as a ghost, and did some sort of weird, cross-like voodoo ritual over his face and chest.

"What's a matter, boy?" I asked, retrieving his dropped papers. Recognizing them as work orders, I promptly placed them in the circular file. "Ain't you never seen a woman go down on a horse before?"

Long story short, he hadn't, and the end result was him taking an unfortunate tumble down the emergency stairs before he could make it to HR's offices. Word to the wise.

Who Doesn't Like Hooters?

Not me, that's for sure. And I'm not talking about the low-rent restaurant chain with the tackily dressed call girls working as waitresses; I'm talking about nice, round, fleshy boobs. Hurray!

Show me a person who says they don't love boobies, and I'll show you a liar. Men love them. Women love them. Children love them. Hell, at least half of all homosexuals even love them. I mean, shit; it's a proven scientific fact that babies who aren't fed via the hot tit injection turn out to be psychopathic killers! So... Viva la Boobies!!!

Incidentally, if any of this blog's female readers would like to send me pictures of their hooters, they certainly wouldn't wind up in my junk mail folder. If you know what I'm saying.

Get The Hell Out Of The Left Lane

Seriously, what is it with you retards? Puttering along, sometimes not even doing the goddamned speed limit, and god's holy bunghole forbid you should ever get the hell out of the way of faster traffic, no matter how wide the football field is to the right of you!!

Schmucks. One of these days I'm going to toss a firebomb right through your windshields. Then we'll see who's playing it safe, you worthless speedaphobics.

You Cannot Exceed My Need For Jerry Reed

Seriously, you can't. Reed -- or, as I like to call him, The Pabst Blue Ribbon Of American Music -- is hands down the single most overlooked, underrated musical genius to bridge the 20th and 21st centuries.

Think his story begins and ends with Smokey and the Bandit's "East Bound and Down?" Then allow me to direct you to such eternal classics as "Amos Moses," "Guitar Man," "When You're Hot, You're Hot," "Another Puff," and my personal favorite, "Uptown Poker Club" -- not to mention countless others.

Bottom line is, if you don't have any Jerry Reed in your music collection, odds are you're an idiot.

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P.S. I can't take credit for this post's headline; it's lifted from former punk-country rocker/current Sirius "Outlaw Country" DJ Mojo Nixon. None of which diminishes the veracity of the statement.

Formula For Happiness

Me

+

Saturday Night

+

5 Vietnamese Whores

=

A very relaxed Sunday morning. As soon as I get all these whores out of here, that is.

My Left Nut Itches

Just thought I'd share that with you. Peace out.

My Local Girl Scout Troop Is Cruising For A Bruising

Here's a question for my local Girl Scout troop: What do I look like?

More to the point -- do I look like a bitch?

I'm talking about the Girl Scouts' Samoas cookie. Which I refer to as Samoans. You know, the vanilla cookie smothered with toasted coconut, caramel and chocolate. Yeah, that one.

Well guess what? A couple months ago I put in an order for 2 gross of Samoans with my Girl Scout Cookie dealer, just like I do every year. Today, he comes around to my job and drops off my order. But he didn't have 2 gross of Samoans. No. He had 2 gross of something called -- I shit you not -- "Caramel deLites" (sic).

Turns out that Girl Scout Headquarters offers my favorite cookie in two varieties: the original Samoas, and the knock-off "Caramel deLites." And for whatever reason, the local troop decided to go with option 'B' this year.

Think it's just a difference in names? Think again (from Wikipedia; emphasis added):

Samoas or Caramel deLites: These consist of a circular vanilla cookie about 2 inch in diameter with a small hole in the center, covered in caramel and toasted coconut and then striped with chocolate. This is one of the only cookies in the group that has differences depending on the bakery. The reason there are two names is because while similar, the cookies have some differences. Samoas are made by Little Brownie Bakers. They are circular, with an orange colour and are thicker from top to bottom; usually they also contain more caramel per coconut. The Caramel deLites, made by ABC Bakers, are actually hexagonal, with a more yellowish tinge, and a more of the biscuit comes through in the flavour because of the lower caramel content. Overall they are both very popular, and most people never notice the differences. Both varieties come in purple boxes.

Uh-huh. "Most people never notice the differences." I call bullshit on that, bullshit on ABC Bakers, and bullshit on the Girl Scouts. They can all go to hell.

Christians Can Go To Hell

That was a bad move on the part of the local Jesus Freak outfit. I hadn't been home 10 minutes when two of them showed up on my front porch, ringing the bell like nobody's business.

"Whaddya want?!" I barked, throwing the door open with one hand while balancing a glass of Dickel and a stogie in the other.

"Good evening sir," said the first one, a dude.

"How are you tonight?" asked his partner, a fat chick with a mustache. Then they launched into some crazy shit about Jesus.

Having no other choice, I whipped out my pecker and pissed on both of them. That's how we deal with Christ-lovers around these parts. Bank on it.