No, it’s not the “Oprah” studio audience. It’s Shark Week!

For those guys who are so unbelievably effeminate that you don’t know what Shark Week is, stop reading my blog, set down your white zinfandel, and go
look up the lyrics to some Enya songs. Fairies.

For those of you who are female, I will explain what Shark Week is, and what it means to a man.

Every summer, the Discovery Channel takes a break from its inane programming of giving trivia quizzes in a taxicab to people who were too stupid to hire
a limo, busting the myth that holding an Alka-Seltzer in your mouth while administering oral sex will make your partner squeal with anything other than
revulsion and pity-laughter, and trying their best to make grimy, illiterate fishermen seem like they are doing something adventurous with their lives
(when, in fact, we all suspect that after being out chasing their deadliest catch for about two weeks with no women, they probably start trying the
Alka-Seltzer thing on each other), and dishes up an actual MANLY series of programs that actual MEN are interested in: the fury of nature’s perfect
predator, the shark, with semi-pornographic voice-overs by Sigourney Weaver.

Why do men love sharks? Because we envy them. They eat the way we wish we could eat. They mate the way we wish we could mate. Then there is the
tiny, rudimentary, prehistoric brain. The sharks wish they had one. Like mine. Sharks are the briny equivalent of ninjas, and you KNOW how men love
ninjas. If you happen to walk into the room while the man in your life is watching Shark Week, and he is grimacing, it isn’t because he is disgusted by
what YOU perceive as a repulsive, gory, frenzy of destruction. It’s because he is practicing making a shark face to use with you later in the bedroom.

Granted, most of the videos shown during Shark Week were shot in the late 1980s and feature men with tufts of gray chest hair that are so long they stick
up out of their wetsuits against their throats, like geriatric chinterbush, but we tolerate that in order to see the sharks, man, the SHARKS!

To guys, sharks represent freedom and rebellion. Sometimes, in a fit of shark-like frustration and rage, I will gnash my teeth, thrash my head wildly from
side to side and make a noise that I think sounds like a shark*. This rarely makes the waitress bring my petite bruschetta appetizer any faster, but it does
usually make my wife agree for us to leave the antique shop/jewelry store/nail salon sooner.

Since women are not so much into sharks, they really don’t understand them. Here are some shark facts to bring you ladies up to speed:

Other fearsome creatures that a shark would beat in a fight:
Bull rhino
Bengal tiger
Ryan Seacrest

Things that a shark would say at a cocktail party:
“wrorrrrragh!”
“blubglupbuhlup”
“Does this Ryan Seacrest taste funny to you?”

Things you could make out of a shark’s extremely rough skin, if you could kill one:
Scary wallet
Ferocious underpants
Truly unpleasant condoms

So, let your man revel during this year’s Shark Week. Let him dream. Let him indulge his inner shark.

Just don’t let him near you with an Alka-Seltzer.

*According to women, it actually sounds like I am choking on bad clams.

(Just kiddin’, guys, I only put that up there because I figured your wives were reading over your shoulders right now. At this point, though, I think it’s safe to assume that she is off attending to some important cleaning behind the refrigerator, or ordering ridiculously expensive “window treatments” (what you and I call “bed sheets”), so we can now talk openly.)

Don’t get me wrong, I love women, but there is a sure-fire indicator that a wife has driven her husband totally nuts: he starts sentences by saying “Don’t get me wrong, I love women, but…”

As far as I can tell, there are only two problems with marriage:

1. There are too many women involved.
2. Those women are reluctant to wear the sexy Little Bo Peep costume that you rented from “Whores D’Oeuvres”.

Mickey seems to have a big problem with the fact that wives can become ex-wives, at which point it costs you half of your hard-earned money. But when you consider that women make up over half of the work force, half of every penny that you currently earn and spend goes straight to them anyway. The women then spend that money on purchases from diet and fitness infomercials featuring Suzanne Somers. The difference appears to be that when you hand your money to a cashier (or waitress, or stripper), you get satisfying goods and/or services in return; whereas, when you hand your money to your ex-wife, you get stories about how her new boyfriend Todd managed to convince her finally to try anal sex, and now she can’t get enough of it.

As far as grounds for divorce goes, Florida appropriately treats it like car insurance: we’re a no-fault state. We should thank God for this, guys, because, in other states, your wife can divorce you for using the ice dispenser while Grey’s Anatomy is on, or for not refilling the potpourri containers in a timely manner. In those states, YOU, an innocent bystander in your marriage, can have the blame placed squarely on your shoulders for not seeing mediocre, quarterly sex as sufficient motive to get out of bed at 3am to check the house, because your wife dreamed that lawn maintenance workers had invaded the living room and were putting their muddy feet up on the chaise lounge while smoking cigars with no ashtrays.

Mickey’s vision also contains a crapload of paperwork. I hate paperwork more than you will someday hate Todd.
I went paperless in 1998 and, apart from some bathroom scenarios that I’m still working on, it has been smooth sailing ever since.
My solution is simple: don’t get married by a minister with a bible, get married by a judge with a video camera. This way, if there is ever any question about what the expectations were going in, you can just call up the judge and say “Your Honor, did she or did she not agree that it is perfectly allowable for me to throw my boxer-briefs NEAR the hamper, not necessarily IN the hamper?”
Case closed.

My best advice to you guys is to wait before getting married. This means two things: you should wait until later in life, when your schedule is not so much driven by which Playstation games were released that week; and that ,you should wait until later in your relationship with a woman before deciding to get married. Remember, every day that you are with her and DON’T get married is another day that you have at least a CHANCE of saying or doing something right for once; a day that you have at least a CHANCE to convince her that a threesome with the hot, busty receptionist at her office would really be a treat for HER; a day that you have at least a CHANCE of discovering a reason that you two should go ahead and break up now, while it’s still free.

I’m going to let you guys figure out the rest on your own. I’ll be over here hacking Todd’s Facebook to make fictitious posts saying how much he likes little boys. And lawn maintenance workers.

…I was awakened from my idyllic vision by that sound that every married man has come to dread: the crisp rustle of parchment as my wife unfurled her “Spring Cleaning Chores” scroll that she had painstakingly compiled all winter while I was snoring in my cave accumulating body fat and trying not to expend a calorie.

She was already dressed in her combat fatigues as I groggily pulled on my sweatpants, the sweet smell of sizzling pork and smeared lipstick from my dream now just a mournful memory.

I have to give her credit. She never shrinks from taking on the toughest jobs first. This year, the festivities began with The Biggie: cleaning out the two-car garage. Or, as she calls it, written in calligraphy on her scroll, “Operation: Get Rid of All of J’s Unused Athletic Equipment And His Beloved Technical Books That Are Too Ugly To Display in our Luxuriously Appointed Living Space Because They Were Not Written By Oprah Book-Club Favorite Nicholas Sparks, So We Can Make Room to Store More Bins of Scrapbooking Supplies”.

As I surveyed the vast expanse of crap we’ve accumulated over the past year, I realized that, even though it was piled from floor to ceiling, it was nonetheless still organized. Near the front was the “paint brushes that never got washed out and two thousand screwdrivers, not a single one of which is Phillips-head” pile, the stack of “unworn women’s shoes that were on sale but don’t match any outfits made since 1989″ and the continuously-growing area for “Things Made with Green Tea”.

Little Known Female Consumer Fact: Women will pay extra for any product, including motor oil and nasal spray, if it contains Green Tea Extract or Cucumber Oil.

Off to one side, I uncovered what I thought might be the parts for building a dog house or small wooden shed. Plywood, metal, tools…but I knew we had never planned to build a dog house because we spend most of our monthly gasoline budget in driving our stoopit yappy daschunds out into the wilderness, dropping them off, and hoping they will learn to forage, instead of always finding their way back to our house and pooping on our welcome mat to show their displeasure. Finally, I realized what this pile of construction materials was, which leads us to:

Widely Known Teenaged Son Fact: Any object, regardless of shape, size, construction, monetary or sentimental value, that gets relegated to the garage for more than three days will immediately be fashioned into some sort of skateboard ramp. My last “yard sale” was a disaster, mainly because nobody is interested in purchasing things like a bust of Voltaire with a sheet of plywood nailed to his head.

So, I lifted and carried and stacked and sweated and cried and swept and boxed and whined and loaded and smoked and drove to and from the dump, all day long and well into the night.

Finally, exhausted and covered with sticky patches from where the paramedics had applied the EKG sensors after I had tried to lift a box marked “Don’t ask J to lift this”, I stood back and surveyed my handiwork, satisfied with the knowledge of a job well-done.

And also with the knowledge that there is still no way in hell that we will ever be able to fit even ONE car inside that %*#?@! garage.

I eat too much junk food.
I drink too much.
I smoke too much.
I have too much sex. What? Shut up.

I get winded making the bed.
I have to take frequent rest breaks while riding an escalator.
When using a ladder to hang Christmas decorations, I have to establish a “base camp” on the second rung.

What I’m saying is: it came as no surprise to me that I almost died from the killer “Captain Micks” flu virus that Mickey gave to us all.

What DID surprise me was how quickly, and completely, the disease disabled me, and how long it lasted.

I’m recovered now, and I really appreciated all of your “Get Well Soon”, “We miss you”, “OMG it turns out that you really ARE the source of the SomaCow funny, get your ass back there!” emails, but I thought I would give you a private glimpse into my two weeks of suffering, in hopes that it might at least garner me some sympathy b00bie pics.

A Day on my Deathbed

11:00am – Wake up. Open left eye. Rest briefly. Open right eye.
11:15am – Ask someone to please wring out my pillowcase and replace it with one that is neither dripping nor off-green.
12:00pm – Wish that I could remember what food tastes like.
12:30pm – Take the ninth and tenth Nyquil ComaCaps of the day.
2:00pm – Wake up lying on the cold bathroom tile, wondering whether I was headed there to pee, barf or re-apply my hair gel.
3:00pm – Wish that I could remember what cigarettes taste like,
4:30pm – Insert a ShamWow into each nostril. Try to sleep on my back.
6:00pm – Enjoy a hearty dinner of Afrin Nasal Spray and Cherry Hall’s.
7:00pm – Watch “Friends”. Hey, I’m not DEAD.
7:30pm – Wish that I could remember what sex tastes like.
8:00pm – Collapse into a restless slumber for the night, with fevered dreams of Jennifer Aniston rubbing Vick’s Vap-o-Rub on my pompadour, which causes sparks to shoot out and collect into a rectangle that begins to burn my head.
8:15 – Wake up long enough to realize that what is actually happening is that the heating pad has ignited my hair gel.
8:16 – Decide that putting out the fire can wait until tomorrow.
zzz…ZZZ…zzz…ZZZ…

I wouldn’t wish this miserable virus on anyone. Please, please, please, dear listeners, get your flu shots.

And never, never, never purchase butane hairstyling products.

Well, don’t YOU look foolish now.

For some reason, I could never quite get the hang of talking dirty during sex. While some guys can be quite comfortable ordering their sexual partners to “Take it like a dirty whore! I’m gonna rip you to shreds!”, the nastiest thing I have ever managed to say to the Mrs. was “I hope this is equally unpleasant for YOU!”.

Once, when she was out of town on business, we decided to try having cyber-sex chat on our computers. I sucked at it, because of my tendency to always crack jokes at exactly the wrong moments:

[SomaCowJ]: Oh, baby…yes, baby…do it just like that…a Priest and a Rabbi walk into a bar…
[MrsSomaCowJ]: gah

So, I turned to my good, good friends Geoff and Mickey for some guidance on this topic, and asked them for their best dirty-talk lines.

(You know how, in cheesy horror movies, everybody in the WORLD except for the stupid person on-screen knows that it would be a terrible idea to open that closet door, because there will undoubtedly be an axe-weilding homicidal maniac inside? I was like that stupid person.)

Geoff, having control issues, is very demanding in his budoir babble: “You dirty girl, I’m going to f…why is there no coffee ready?! I’m risking a heart attack to give you mediocre sex, and you can’t even have a pot of WaWa brewing for afterward? Put a dollar in the jar! UHHNNNGH! Whew! Ok, I’m done. That was GREAT!”

Mickey was little help, since the only time he talks to people is while we’re recording the show: “Oh, baby, you are like a cascading style sheet that functions perfectly across multiple websites without debugging”. Yeah, I wish I could help him.

On a related note, I was recently researching my family tree, and was quite surprised to discover that several of my great-great grandparents had been porn stars in the late 1800s and early 1900s. I was able to track down some of the “dialog” from these early attempts at silent moving-pictures which CLEARLY demonstrate that my dirty-talk deficiency is genetic. Keep in mind that the language in these films was considered a vile and filthy obscenity in its day:

Yeah. That explains THAT.

If you have any ideas to help me improve my pillow talk, please let me know.

Until then I’ll be boning up on my Priest and Rabbi jokes, as it were.

By “streamlined” I mean that we don’t actually bother to count a lot of the votes, resulting in fewer tax dollars being wasted on luxuries such as accurate election results. I am certainly no political pundit, but I suspect that part of the problem with the voting system here in Florida may be due to the fact that most of our election officials, as well as election day volunteers, appear to be employed by bait shops during the rest of the year.

So, today I joined the ranks of Americans who gather, once every four years, to engage in that uniquely American pastime of voting on important government offices and issues that we know nothing about.

Fortunately, the media, and crowds of overzealous patriots at the voting locations, are quite happy to educate you on the issues under consideration, via the techniques of mindless speculation and blatant lies.

You can easily spot the McCain propagandists by the dollar sign insignias on their chauffeurs and the filigreed chains on their eelskin wallets. They also frequently wear t-shirts printed with pictures of themselves. They quickly informed me that I should vote for Senator John McCain for President, rather than a candidate who, they say, is known to enjoy poking babies in the eye and pushing old people down stairs, due to lack of political experience. How they say this with a straight face is beyond me, although I suspect that their faces have been pretty much straight since birth. I decided to test this hypothesis by seeing how one of these wild-eyed morality-dictators responded to a simple joke:

Me: Do you know the difference between Sarah Palin and an auto mechanic?
Rich, white McCain supporter: I’ll make sure you are never allowed to wear a thong in the privacy of your own back yard ever again. Or have sex in your bedroom with the lights on.
Me: No! It’s “dipstick”!

Well, so much for that.

The Obama supporters were just as fervent, if a little less stodgy. They merely accused McCain of having harvested the organs for his last five personal transplants from unborn fetuses, ripped from the wombs of middle-class mothers. Then they sang a medley of Barbara Streisand songs. Badly.

But, armed with my driver’s license, since my voter registration card is probably tied up in some kind of bureaucratic bait shop red tape, I strode confidently up to the “Our Lady of Iniquity Catholic Church and Spa” (the voting location for my precinct) and proceeded about the task set forth by our founding fathers: finding out where the refreshments were located. After failing to locate any orange juice, fruit punch or cookies, it occurred to me that I MIGHT have confused voting with giving blood. The two processes are similar in that when you’re finished with either, you’re a little bit pale, sort of dizzy and you try to get out of work for the rest of the day.

But I got through it. I cast my secret and sacred ballot for the individuals and issues of my choice. I even voted for one constitutional amendment that was particularly trickily worded:

“Do you support the reversal of restrictions preventing the legislature from lifting the ban on allowing the negation of existing prohibitions of re-instating the policy of not allowing the State to decline recognition of currently rescinded vetos of the law supporting the denial of applications for coastal easements?”

Knowing me, do you think I voted for or against this amendment?

Yeah, I couldn’t tell, either.

Geoff and Mickey are always teasing me about being “old man on the show”. I secretly suspect that this is merely because I was born a long time before they were. But now I guess I can’t complain, because I have finally committed the ultimate old-person act:

“*GASP*”, you gasp, “You have purchased white Sans-a-Belt slacks?!?!”

No, don’t be ridiculous.

I have registered to vote.

Registration, and the whole voting process, conjures up images in my mind of my grandfathers who, after watching fat, old, white men in black suits on the evening news for two hours, causing me to miss the crucial opening minutes of “Sanford and Son” where the whole premise of the episode is established, would grumble and cuss and kick their pale, veiny, spindly grandfather legs at the TV, and swear that they were going to vote against that sonofabitch whom they just voted INTO office during the previous election.

See? Old people actually CARE about what the valueless, ineffectual politicians say and do. Kids, like me, see the world with the clarity of youth and realize that it is far more important to eat Fruity Pebbles, watch Scooby-Doo and put baseball cards in the spokes of your bicycle because it makes a cool noise that sounds exactly unlike a motorcycle.

What’s more, I can PROVE that no elected official in history has had the slightest impact on this nation, or on me, or on you, or on our families as Americans. Ask the Republicans where the problems of today came from, and they will say “From the Clinton administration”. They realize that George Washington Bush has done NOTHING during his eight years in office that impacts us in any way. Next, ask the Democrats where the problems of the Clinton administration came from, and they will say…(ummm…hang on a second while I look up who the President was before Clinton…OH!..OK.) They will say that George Harvey Washington Bush (no relation) was the source of all the misery, completely negating anything that Clinton may have pretended to do while in office. And so it goes, back and back and back through Presidents Ronald Reagan and John Fitzpatrick Kennedy and Benjamin Franklin. None of them, if you ask their party, did anything wrong and none of them, if you ask the opposing party, did anything right.

Net effect: zero.

So, for years I just ignored Washington (the city, not the actual d00d, because I believe that he may be deceased) hoping that it would lobby and spend and impeach itself out of existence, and we citizens could all get back to the REAL American business of hating foreigners and manufacturing sub-standard cars.

But, I finally realized that participating in the election process gives me the ultimate power as an American: the power to vote AGAINST more fat, old, white men in black suits on the evening news for two hours, causing me to miss the crucial opening minutes of “The Office” where the whole premise of the episode is established.

How to describe Kingdom of Loathing? It’s an adventure game, to be sure, but it is a “minimalist” adventure game. No sounds. No animation. No “Gore Level” settings. No warning that it might induce an epileptic seizure from flashy-lights. You just click on things to do, or places to go, and you are presented with a description of the results, along with a picture of what happened. Well, “picture” is not exactly the right word. More like “sketch”. No. More like “Etch-a-Sketch”.

“ZOMG, J, that sounds more boring than that time you blogged about your trip to Mitten World!”, you may be saying. But, as usual, you would be wrong.

Don’t let the simplicity fool you. This is probably the most clever and creative game since “Victoria’s Secret: The Stubborn Understains”. The characters are funny. The weapons and armor are funny. The places are funny. I guarantee that you, the player, will be the only possible unfunny aspect of the whole experience.

Let me give you an example of how a mighty battle might take place.

Let’s say that you have combined your “Fortune 500 Cookie” with a “Glorioski” in order to create the “Fortune and Glory”, an object which allows you to pass through the “Glory Hole” into the “Unsanitary Toilet Stall”. You are armed with the mighty sword “Formercalibur” and wish to engage in combat with the “Flagrant Homosexual”:

“A garishly-clad man with a hypnotic ascot leaps guiltily up at your approach. He draws his Meat Sword, but you counter with your Sly Wink spell. You have vanquished the fairy, but the aroma from the toilet does not promise treasure. It promises a prescription for antibiotics in your immediate future. You gain 2 GayBashiness.”

What could be more fun than that?!

I was a little frustrated, at first, that I played and played and played and could not progress above level three. But, then Mickey pointed out that what I was playing was actuallythe instructions for the game, so that was my fault, really.

Try KoL out for yourself. I promise you’ll love it.

And if not, you can kiss my “Glistening Mushroom Cap of Swollenness”.

I am especially conscious of this fact when I travel. I recently had occasion to fly out of state, which means: I had to pass through airport security.

I understand that the fine men and women of the TSA (Passenger Harassment Authority) are there to keep us safe. Especially, they are interested in keeping us safe from dangerous grooming products, as you will soon see.

I was making my barefoot, unbelted-pants way through the security checkpoint. I must have looked like I was wildly caressing myself as I made a last-second check for anything metal that might make the detector beep. I always make the detector beep. I suspect that Geoff has implanted a microchip in my skull in order to steal both of my funny ideas, and that must be what sets off the alarms.

Nervously, I approach the electronic gate of Purgatory.

*BEEP*

Dammit.

They asked me, as always, to check my pockets and then step back through, but I am pretty sure they only do this to rub it in my face that I will always make the metal detector beep.

*BEEP*

“Step this way, sir.”

This time, they took me, and my carry-on bag, over to the side. They didn’t use the metal detector wand thingy on me. They just questioned me directly.

TSA Nazi: “You’re sweating. A lot.”
Me: “Yes.”
TSA Nazi: “Are you nervous?”
Me: “No, I am fat, in Florida, in August.”
TSA Nazi: “Do you always sweat this much?”
Me: “Don’t make me have to speak to you in a stern voice.”
TSA Nazi: “I’m going to open your bag.”
Me: “I’m going to sweat on your podium.”
TSA Nazi (going through my bag): “Hmmm…hmmm…uh-HUH!”
Me: “What?”

He pulls out what is clearly a highly explosive, fully charged, aluminum-plated can of armor-piercing shaving cream. He shows it to me, with a look on his face as if he expects me to confess to a crime.

Me (trying to be helpful): “It’s for sensitive skin.”

He drops it into the blast-proof hazmat disposal container on the floor beside him.

Me: “Ok, sorry for the trouble. I’ll just be…”
TSA Nazi (still rummaging through my stuff): “What is this?”
Me: “Laser fluid.”
TSA Nazi: “What?”
Me: “Hair gel.”
TSA Nazi: “You can only transport 3 ounces of gel, in a clear container!”
Me: “Well, that’s an eight-ounce bottle, and it’s a little over half full. Can you just squeeze some out?”
TSA Nazi: *silence*
Me: “I mean it. I’ll speak VERY sternly.”

So, they finally let me through, after confiscating half of my toiletries.

I put my shoes and belt back on, and moved quickly out of the way, because…well…

The woman in line behind me had a jar of Noxzema.

With a laser scope on it.

As we all pull together the shattered remnants of our lives in the wake of the carnage and destruction wrought by TropiCane Fay, I look back and see how I could have better prepared to withstand Mother Nature’s onslaught. Though the misadventures I report below may be nerve-shattering, I hope that they might help you fare better than I did through future stormy disasters.

• Ensure that all playing cards are stored securely in their cases! I overlooked this obvious preparation, and stood helpless as I watched several cards whisked away by the fierce winds. I now face the reality of enduring whatever may come, in the form of nature’s fury, bereft of the Six of Clubs and the Jack of Diamonds.
  How the hell am I supposed to play Texas Hold’em with no Six of Clubs or Jack of Diamonds?!
• The floor lamp on my patio will never again shed its warm, comforting light on me.
  At least, not until I replace the bulb that was shattered when the lamp tipped over and smacked against the side of the house.
• At one point, my son opened the French doors in order to check on the unspent fury of the storm. Though the doors were only open for a brief moment, it was still long enough to blow the pages of my desk calendar ahead by four days. Those are four days of my life that I will never get back.
• Why, oh why, did I not bring inside the People magazine with Christina Applegate on the cover.
  Now, her beautiful face is blurred by the pelting rain, and the cologne sample cards inside are of no use to anyone.
• Our beloved family pets, dachshunds Blitzen and Riley, whom we now lovingly keep outside because they lovingly pissed all over the carpet when we had them inside, may never be the same. Long-haired Blitzen was slightly dampened, resulting in an unsightly matted ear, while Riley was devastated by the loss of part of an old trash bag that he had been chewing on. Lovingly.
• The coupon, left on my front door by Mama Mental Pizza, is no more. The anguish of that missed opportunity is unbearable.
  Maybe we could order Chinese. See? Already I am looking bravely to the future.
• The little red plastic flag on my mailbox was blown from the up position to the down position, despite the fact that I have outgoing mail.
  How will I communicate with the outside world?!
• At one point, as I endured the fierce gales, my hair moved.
  I have no words.

PS: Does anyone have instructions on exactly how to go about unhunkering down?

For example, people who really enjoy Scrabble should never be trusted to place a 911 call:

911 Operator: Nine-one-one operator, what is your emergency?
Scrabble Whiz: Incipient recalcitrants have acquired perfunctory ingress to our zayat!
911 Operator: I’m sorry, I am not authorized to dispatch emergency personnel in order to provide a triple word score.

On the other hand, if your girlfriend is out partying with her hoes and needs a ride home, there is nobody safer than a guy who is interested in LARPing (Live Action Role-Playing, with fake swords and armor and stuff), since he will spend the entire drive talking about his hand-sewn leather gauntlets instead of trying to feel up the carload of drunk chicks.

We here at SomaCow have our own preferred games, too. Of course, our favorite is the “Fire J” game, in which, oddly enough, I actually hold the high score.

Geoff, being the cerebral type, likes a mentally-stimulating challenge. His game of choice is the “Rubik’s Cube”. He even had one custom made, complete with Scratch-n-Sniff technology, and regularly astounds us by solving it in record time (clicky each pic-y):

Mickey, of course, is a more “hands-on” kind of guy. It should come as no surprise that he is a big fan of the game “Twister”, although he puts his own personal spin* on it:

Me? I like the classics. No, not chess or card games. More like “Ker Plunk”, “Don’t Break the Ice” and “Ants in the Pants”. But, for bringing out the artist in me, only one thing will do:

*Spin! Ha! Twister! Ok, that’s not funny.

Don’t get me wrong, the hosts and staff here are great, as far as that goes. They just aren’t well-acquainted with ego boosting. Rarely have I arrived at the studio to hear Mickey say “Have you been working out?”, primarily because I have not been working out. But that is not the point. Would it KILL Geoff to throw out a little ass compliment from time to time? Nothing earth-shattering, just a “You know J, I could walk behind you all day without getting bored” or something.

Well, an organization that DOES know how to toot a man’s horn is Playgirl (”Want to connect? We’re semi-erect!”). And I am immense and proud to announce that Playgirl has selected me as their “Man of the Month” for August of 2008.

Hurry and go download a bunch of different web browsers until you find one that will show you the picture below without screwing up the whole WordPress blog page, including our archives on the off-line servers.

Click the picture for a more biggerly picture.

But they…it’s just…they can’t…they always have to…

WHY CAN’T THEY MAKE UP THEIR FREAKIN’ MINDS?!

So, you buy a house. By which I mean you visit every one of the 1,800 model homes in your area, pretending to be interested when the woman says “I love the vaulted dormer soffits” or “this would make a perfect breakfast nook!”. Look, I’m a man, I have no idea what a “breakfast nook” is. It sounds like a kind of English Muffin.

Then, you move all your furniture and crap in, which is a seven-week process, during which you nearly lose a finger in the footrest of the recliner and, even if you never set foot in the attic, you somehow always wind up with fiberglass insulation in your hair. The point is that you haul your years of accumulated “treasures” into your brand new house. Then, exhausted and most likely bleeding, you collapse onto the chaise lounge (for which the cushions have not yet arrived) and you think to yourself “Finally this is over!”.

Ha! You are a foolish little man.

Why? Because, what is the very next thing the woman in your life wants to do?

“Christen” the house by having sex in each and every room, including the closets, pantry, attic, garage and various crawlspaces in the ceiling?

No.

She wants to redecorate and remodel!

You can plan on spending every Sunday for the rest of your life moving furniture in a circular pattern around each room, until it finally winds up back where it was to begin with. The tons of furniture that you moved in by hand will, of course, immediately need to be replaced with more expensive furniture because your college beanbag chair “looks ratty next to the elegant armoire”. Hey! When we loaded up the trucks, there WAS no armoire. Suddenly, one has appeared, complete with knick-knacks (which she will now complain about having to dust). Men don’t have knick-knacks! We have old copies of Playboy! I have never dusted mine once and they are just fine!

Now that you’re $24,000 in debt with “The Home Furnishing Decor Salon Parlor and Bistro”, you can finally relax and enjoy your new home, right?

Seriously? You’re going to fall for that again?

No, now you have to open an account at “The House-Fixing Depot” because the “perfect love nest” that SHE chose has inexplicably become a “fixer-upper”. Dammit, woman! The house is only eleven hours old!

I just don’t know how to cope with the standard female trait of never, ever being satisfied with anything they have.

You want to know what I would do? You want to see my idea of “redecorating”? Do ya?!

This is a diagram outlining the most convoluted redecorating plan I could POSSIBLY ever concoct, even after twelve beers (click the pic for full-sized image):

A man’s man; a guy; a d00d.

As such, I am cursed with a very simple, rudimentary brain, a very short attention span and a trouser-dwelling companion who thinks he’s running the whole show from down there.

I’m not complaining, exactly. Most of us men eventually learn to adapt to these limitations. It becomes second nature, like parallel parking or being able to kill a spider without standing on a chair screaming. Or not caring when people at the mall catch us scratching our junk.

But it sure would help us out in the bedroom if you ladies could see your way clear to not complicating matters for us.

I’m talking about your G-spot.

Where the hell do you women keep your freakin’ G-spots?!?!

Do you always bring them along, or do you sometimes leave them in your purse? I have personally found the legendary Holy Grail four times already (including once in a castle in England and once in a Sharper Image store), and I can tell you where Waldo is in an instant (he’s usually behind the concession stand), but locating the apparently migratory G-spot is usually way tougher. Is there any adequate device for achoring the G-spot into position? Having to chase one around the living room during foreplay is not very romantic.

Maybe you sometimes forget to provide a G-spot, and are then too embarrassed to mention this to your partner. Have you ever locked your G-spot in your car? Did you have to call Triple A? Triple G?

I have no idea what proper “G-spot etiquette” is. Is it poor etiquette to be the only partner having a G-spot? My Mom always used to say “If you didn’t bring enough G-spots for EVERYbody…”

If we go out to dinner first, do you expect me to open your G-spot for you, check your G-spot with the coat attendant, or pull out your G-spot for you as we’re being seated? A tiny little clue would be nice.

I think you women perpetuate these mysteries as just another tool in your “Convince Men That They are Inferior” toolbox, which I find highly unfair. Men will give YOU a four-page, double-spaced script, with notes in the margins, diagrams AND a PowerPoint presentation describing EXACTLY what we like, what we want you to touch, and PRECISELY where it is located. We leave nothing to chance. We don’t ask you to guess. I think this is very generous of us.

So, if you would like us to be your knights in shining armor in the bedroom, a trail of breadcrumbs leading to YOUR own personal Holey Grail would be very much appreciated. Or a trail of tater tots. Or Fritos. And bring some dip too, please. And some beer. In fact, let’s just go out to the sports bar.

Umm…what were we talking about?

I repeat:

WTF?! (This will become a recurring theme in this post)

I got mail this week from freakin’ AARP (formerly the American Association of Retired Persons).

WTF?!

AARP is for old people. People like Senator John McCain and my Mom. And Ted Danson. It says, right in their mission statement, that AARP is “delivering value to people age 50 and over through information, advocacy and service.”

WTF?! I’m nowhere NEAR 50!

I’m in my thirties. Ok, I’m in my extreeeemely late thirties, like, thirty-twelve, or something. Still, they have totally jumped the gun on this. I don’t need to know about retirement communities in my area. I have no need for colonoscopy coupons. I couldn’t care less which restaurants serve dinner at 3pm. I have no idea what a “truss” is.

WTF?!

I can clearly demonstrate that I am still too young and cool to be contacted by AARP, for the following reasons:

• I am down with the hippity-hop music.
• On the dance floor, I can still bust out a mean “Cabbage Patch”.
• I know who Milly Cyrus is.

Although, to be fair, I can also think of some reasons why I might SEEM old enough for AARP membership:

• I have received four traffic tickets for driving 10mph, or more, below the posted speed minimum.
• I used to be able to drink a 12-pack of beer before having to pee. Then, a few years later, I could only make it through a 6-pack before “breaking the seal”. Nowadays, it seems like I have to go after each mouthful, and I have, on two occasions, actually consumed beer while standing at the urinal.
• I also have to stand closer and closer to the urinal each year. Shut up.

So, a big SomaCow EFF YEW! to AARP, and to anyone else who thinks I’m old.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to slip into some support hose and enjoy an evening with a good, vintage bottle of Phillips Milk of Magnesia.

WTF?!

How’s THAT for an introduction to get you all het up about homemade pron?!

What I mean is, I have a lot of time to reflect and come up with new ideas.
Often, these ideas have sex as a central theme. I’m a guy. What am I gonna do? Whittle?

To judge from the interwebs, every guy and his brother (and sometimes every guy WITH his brother) are making their own good ol’ red-blooded American versions of pron. Typically, this ranges in quality anywhere from “Are they on a ferris wheel?” to “So THAT’S what a cervix looks like!”. Either way, it’s about as hot as Tori Spelling giving a Microsoft Word demonstration.

Well, I’m here to change all that.

As a guy, I love electronic gadgets. At the moment, I own four digital cameras and three digital video cameras. Just because I have never gotten to actually use them to make homemade pron doesn’t mean that I can’t give you the benefit of my potty-time ponderings. If you follow my advice below, I am CERTAIN that you will be able to produce your very own pron that is worthy of worldwide distribution, or at least worthy of being sent to j@somacow.com

I. The Subject
The most crucial element of quality homemade pron (HMP) is: have a hott chick in it. If a hott chick is not readily available to you, one can be obtained at your local nightclub for about the cost of seven Jaeger shots. It is CRITICAL to make sure that your hott chick is over the age of eighteen, otherwise your work may only
be downloaded by undercover members of the FBI and by Republicans. Once you have your wife, girlfriend, or Jaegered-up barfly, you are ready to move on to:

II. The Plot
AHAHAHA! Yeah. Whatever. As long as you dorks don’t succumb to the desire to recreate your favorite “Star Trek” episode in XXX format.

III. The Action
You already know how much women like to be told what to do in regular life. Just IMAGINE how thrilled they will be when you start telling them what to do/rub/hold/exfoliate when the camera starts running! In general, if you can just prevent them from making a face that looks like they have just smelled the business end of an NFL linebacker at halftime, there is a chance that you may actually produce an erotic masterpiece. (FYI, “erotic” is the female term for “controlling the feeble man-brain”)

IV. Post-production
Even if your starlet is not a prominent celebrity, politician or masculine-looking and revenge-seeking former figure skater, she will probably not relish being recognized, should your private video ever fall into the wrong hands. This can be easily accomplished by using video editing software to cover her face. Many entreporneurs simply place a black square over the girl’s features, but it’s really only limited by your own creativity. If I ever get to make my own pron, I think I would cover her face with a picture of a plate of warm biscuits. This way, a year later when the video has become boring, there will still be something in it for me to get excited about.

V. The morning after
I hope you have your Home Depot account paid up, because, in exchange for granting your fantasy video wish, the woman in your life is going to have you working harder around the house than Ty Pennington after a bucket of Viagra Smoothies. This is why most men can only dream about HMP. And pie.

With this information in hand (HA!), you are ready to tackle an exciting new hobby.

Just remember that I am the ONLY person who can tell you whether your work is hott and creative, or would make even Pee-Wee Herman want to walk out.

ACTION!

I don’t mean just common sense education, like teaching them not to eat what looks like a giant Sweet-Tart that’s freshening the toilet bowl, or to stop petting the puppy’s tummy if its “belly button” starts to poke out. I’m talking about real life education about the harsh and terrible world around them. How will they cope with all the hate in the world, and still become successful in their lives? It’s up to you, Mom and Dad.

So, the first books you choose for your newborn can make the difference between your child growing up to be a doctor, astronaut or engineer, and growing up to be a rodeo clown, truck stop shower stall cleaner or lawyer.

I went shopping for books for the little ones in my life, and found a few that I may recommend to Geoff and Jen for the SomaCalf. I include some excerpts below, to help you decide which books are best for YOUR little genius:

My First Book of the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Junior
“See the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Junior.
The Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Junior is a good man.
The Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Junior is a smart man.
The Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Junior likes to help people.
Oh, oh! Here comes Whitey!
Whitey is not a good man.
Whitey is not a smart man.
Whitey likes to keep people down.
Bang, bang, goes Whitey!
Down, down, goes the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Junior.
Now everyone is sad.
Jesse Jackson is extra, extra sad.
Don’t be like Whitey!”

Children’s Dietary Health
“Spaghetti is good. It can make you happy!
Pizza is good. It can make you strong!
Cheeseburgers are good. They can make you run fast!
Asparagus is garbage. If Mommy and Daddy make you eat
asparagus, you have been bad. Bad, bad, bad!
Brussels sprouts are a punishment sent from the really mean man
who is in charge of Hell.
If you have to eat squash, try to throw up right after.”

The Impact of the Petroleum Industry on World Economics, 2nd edition
“Vroom, vroom, go the trucks! Beep, beep go the cars!
Slurp, slurp go the SUVs! Sputter, sputter go the hybrid engines!
Which would you like to play with today?
Better decide fast, because little Timmy el-Had has all the oil,
and he doesn’t like to share. He will make you give him your
best Hot Wheels car AND your iPod for enough oil to make two drops of gasoline for your toys. Timmy el-Had laughs at you when you give him everything he asks for. Sometimes, when people are mean, you have to go into their country and blow them up. But make sure Mommy and Daddy give you a viable exit strategy.”

Sociology in the 21st Century
“Today I visited my neighbors, Sherman and Nate. Sherman is a nice man. He lets me pet his dog. Nate is a nice man, too. He makes good cookies. Sherman and Nate like to practice wrestling all the time. Sometimes I can hear them next door, practicing and practicing. They must be very good wrestlers! They have many pictures on their walls of other wrestlers. Mommy loves Sherman and Nate. She thinks they are very funny. Sometimes, she drinks wine with them. Daddy does not like Sherman and Nate. He calls the police many times when Sherman and Nate go out into their swimming pool to wrestle. Sherman and Nate have a nickname for my Daddy. They call him “Breeder Home Phone”, or something like that. This makes Sherman and Nate laugh and laugh, but it makes Daddy’s face get all red, and he whispers something back to Sherman and Nate that I never get to hear. Then Sherman and Nate go back into their house and wrestle extra loud. Hmmm. Maybe my Daddy is really their wrestling coach!”

MP3 Streaming Over the Internet (with applications)
“I love songs! Do you like songs?
Some songs make me dance. Some songs make me sing.
Sometimes, I need a special song to be played at a certain time.
But when I go to The Hopper, it does not have any songs for me.
‘Oh, Mickey!’, I cry, ‘there are no songs in The Hopper for me!’
‘Just a second, I am looking at a boobie!’ says Mickey.
‘Ha ha ha’, I think to myself, because I know that Mickey is really
looking at Charlie Sheen memorabilia on eBay.”

Obviously, nobody wants to be there. Normally it means that a loved-one is suffering, and you sit surrounded by other people suffering. That’s why I always try to make the best of a bad situation and liven things up a bit. By following my tips below, you too can turn a dull, uncomfortable, interminable E.R. wait into a dull, uncomfortable, interminable E.R. wait where everybody stares at you like you just consummated your gay marriage on the gurney by the entrance.

Strangers are just friends you haven’t annoyed yet. I like to go around to each adult and ask them if they have change for a hundred dollar bill. If someone does, I stare at them with squinty eyes for a few seconds too long, then say loudly “I THOUGHT you would!”, pretend to write down something on the back of my visitor pass, and leave without exchanging any money. This doesn’t happen very often, of course, because rich people don’t wait around emergency rooms. They merely purchase new limbs/organs and have them installed at the salon. The people whom you usually find in E.R. waiting rooms are more likely to be wearing ratty houseshoes and beads in their beards. Even the men.

2. Make friends with the security staff early

These guys can make or break your visit, so it’s important to establish a rapport with them as soon as you walk in. I usually pucker up when they take the picture for my visitor pass, so they know that I am a fun-loving jokester. These guys don’t carry weapons, but at the hospital I went to they each had a can of antiseptic hand-foam in their holsters, which they made everyone use before they could go back to the actual emergency rooms. If a crack-crazed addict were to run amok and attack us while we waited, at least we would all die with nasty-smelling, germ-free hands.

3. Helpliness is next to Godliness

Once you finally make it back to the room where your loved one is stretched naked on a table, except for their socks, with the curtains wide open, be sure to offer any assistance necessary to the E.R. doctors and nurses. I try to speak their language, to let them know that I am on their side, by saying things like “If it’s a subdural hemoglobin infarction, we’re gonna sue you for every penny you’ll ever make for letting him lie here naked, except for his socks, with the curtains wide open for 14 hours”. I also offer to hand them anything they need during their examinations, mostly because I like to check out all the cool hospital shit they have in those unlocked cabinets. Will an arm-sling help reduce my loved one’s blood loss? Probably not, but you can also wear it around your waist and put one leg behind you in the sling and pretend to be a one-legged pirate. I have forgotten for the moment how this was supposed to be helpful.

So, as you can see, the Emergency Room need not be a tedious, dreary place.

And, it’s very convenient, since you’ll need to be treated there yourself after the foam-squirting guards get through with you.

Being well-versed in the ways of child-rearing (which is the creepiest parenting term ever invented) as a result of raising the twenty-eight kids in my house (including the eight Vietnamese kids), it is only natural that Geoff would come to me for advice for the new Dad. What is not natural, is that he now calls me every three hours, including 1, 4, and 7 am. I don’t mind the 1am and 7am so much, because I’m up at those hours anyway, watching “Matlock”.

Don’t get me wrong. Geoff will make a fine father. It just takes a little bit of breaking in, at first.

One of the most

*brrrrring*

Oh, hang on. Geoff is calling me right now.

Me: Yello?
Geoff: Hey, J.
Me: What’s up, d00d?
Geoff: Oh, nothing. I’m just wondering…I’ve tried several different farming implements, and she can’t seem to operate any of them.
Me: Maybe a rattle or stuffed toy would be more appropriate for, say, the first six months?
Geoff: Ok, thanks. *click*

You’ve got to give him credit. He tries so hard.

But I was going to say that one of the most important things about

*brrrrring*

Hang on…

Me: Yo.
Geoff: Hey, J.
Me: What’s going on?
Geoff: Chunky peanut butter, or smooth?
Me: No peanut butter, Geoff. No peanut butter at all.
Geoff: Ok, thanks. *click*

Ha! He’ll get the hang of it, don’t worry.

And along the way, he will learn that one of the most important things about being a father is to always

*brrrrring*

BRB…

Me: What up?
Geoff: Hey, J.
Me: Whatcha got, man?
Geoff: Well, is there any situation in which sparks should be shooting out of the baby’s rect*click*

I gotta go.

But, sometimes, my mouth works faster than my brain.

This has happened to me many times in my life, and I am unclear on why I haven’t been shot yet.

About an hour ago, I was driving to the grocery store. I’m in the left lane, and a big-ass pick-um-up truck pulls up behind me, riding my car’s ass.
I look down and see that I’m doing 50 in a 40. I can’t get into the right lane without speeding up even more to get ahead of those cars,
and given my recent traffic citation issues, I am loathe to do that, so I stay where I am.

I miiiiiiiight have even slowed down just a tiny bit.

So the guy continues riding my ass. I turn left at the light.
He turns left at the light.
I turn into the grocery store. He turns into the grocery store.
I pull up into a parking space. He pulls up behind me.

I get out of the car, pretending that I don’t see him, and that I haven’t been watching him the whole trip.

He rolls down his window, and says “If you wanna drive slow, you need to do it in the right lane.”

Helpful, informative, succinct.

But then I say to the guy “d00d, I was doin’ 50 in a 40. If you need to go faster than that, you might need to choose an alternate route.”

He starts to say “You ain’t…”, but I interrupt.

“In fact”, I say, “I’ll even find another route FOR you”, and whip out my cellphone, flicking it open and pretending that I have GPS and am pressing buttons.

I say “Yes, here it is, right here. It says…you can go to hell.”

I flick my phone shut and walk into the store.

True story.
WTF is wrong with me?

With gas prices soaring to over $22.00 per gallon, Florida is going to have to come up with something new and different this summer if they expect to remain “Tourist Rip-off Capital of the World”.

Fortunately, Florida…I’m there for ya, bro.

I’ve devised a series of theme parks that offer something for every member of the family. Something new. Something fun. Something expensive. Something that you will take pictures of, to put on your MySpace pages.

Li’l Rollers Casino

Kids will be kids, and now, they can also be kids with serious gambling addictions!
Recharge the HandyCam, Dad, your little man just went craps! Children love winning a bet as much as grown-ups do, so they will enjoy hours of playtime fun at our “Will This Fit Up Your Nose?” booths (located near the Nickel Snot Machines), our Texas Poop’em tables, and in the exciting “Will Mommy and Daddy Get a Divorce as a Result of This Vacation?” stations. And, while junior and little Cyndy are enthralled by all the brightly-colored plastic chips they have eaten, Mommy and Daddy can enjoy some Baccarat (which I believe is a delicious Greek dessert) in the “Migraine Lounge”.

Parents’ Paradise
Parents today have driven cross-country with the kids, gone on cruises with the kids, chased the kids around day spas, yelled at the kids across sugar-white tropical beaches and ridden thrill-rides with the kids until the kids throw up or Daddy has to tighten up his truss. Finally, there is a place that knows just what Mom and Dad need. “We know just what Mom and Dad need!” is the slogan of this all-inclusive resort for parents. While the kiddies are being tended by caring nurturers, who are themselves being supervised by law enforcement personnel, who are overseen by actual, sexually frustrated nuns, parents can get exactly what they’ve always wanted! Dad can choose to actually watch an entire ballgame from start to finish, in the luxuriously appointed “Den”; take a lengthy, relaxing poop without anyone knocking on the door asking “Ummm… is… ummm… Dad?… ummm… is… ummm… Dad?… ummm… is the kitchen sink spraying water on the ceiling because of the Pokemon I stuck in the faucet?” at our various “Throne Rooms”, or even enjoy a game of cards with no little-people throwing up on people’s shoes under the card table.

Mom? We haven’t forgotten about you! Imagine the luxury of making a ONE-HOUR-LONG phone call to your best Ya-Ya girlfriend…completely uninterrupted! Or, how about eating ice cream and watching “Sex and the City” without having to wipe anybody’s nose or bottom! Or, for the daring, try one of our special Bath Houses, where you will be allowed to…TAKE A BATH! A LONG ONE! WITH CANDLES IF YOU WANT!

Finally, Mom and Dad can end a day of excitement in one of our soundproof, triple-locked “Happy Time” rooms, with unlimited free condoms, spermicidal foam and IUDs from the fully stocked mini-bar.

Senior Pavilion
“Support-Undergarment Junction”, “The Bran Depot” and bingo, 24-7. ‘Nuff said.

So, join us this summer, won’t you, in sunny, carefree Florida, where our motto is:
“We won’t charge you a penny more, if we can charge you $75.00 more and get away with it.”

It’s not that I can’t muster a thought, it’s that I muster eighty thousand thoughts at the same time. I blame my ADD. ADD is widely why dont i ever see any fireflies in florida misunderstood, so, in an effort to increase your awareness of my affliction, I have recorded the entire, UNEDITED thought process I went through i dont understand why guys want women to shave down there its like a built in bib in writing this blog. Think of it as a trip into my mind, except without beverage service. And no that guy on that sitcom looks exactly like i picture mel gibsons dad would look concierge.

TV or not TV, that is the question

I don’t watch TV much anymore. I don’t yeah baby take it oprah take it have time for it. How can I sit there and stare chickens have really scary feet where did i hear that at the TV for a couple of hours at a time when I have so much to do? I have my Invasion of Grenada Re-enactment Club meetings to attend, people krispee chrispy krisspea krispy chrispee to correct on the internet, and I have started seeing a speech pathologist in order to learn how to roll my Rs youre from south fucking carolina stop trying to sound fancy british or gay by saying everything in meters instead of feet.

Plus, it’s a big pain was i married dora the show where dora was a witch or was she the latino housekeeper in the ass. I have three Universal remotes. One for the TV, one for the DVR and one for the DVD player. Why? yeah baby take it charo take it I don’t know why. Apparently “universal” means “versed in operating one unit” avoirdupois.

There are so few new shows that entertain me. i hate those white tube socks with colored stripes around the top they are made out of zigzaggy material how do they do that Everything is a reality show these days, from “So You Think You Can Farm?” to “America’s Next Top Mime” to “Whittlin’ With the Stars”. I don’t like game shows, and gambolPUDDY gambolPUDDY gambolPUDDY I flat out refuse to watch any show with an ampersand in its title, so there goes Rob & Big, Will & Grace, Hope & Faith, Dharma & Greg and Sex & The City (which doesn’t really have an ampersand, but if I pretend that it does then I don’t have to watch Sarah Jessica Parker’s unfortunate facial tragedy). yeah baby take it mrs cleaver take it

Reruns of the older shows holy shit i thought that was a spider that I did like are never on when I can see them. And my DVR is full, so I can’t record them. We have, i wish i could paint as well as wile e coyote so i could paint a mural of a tunnel that looked so real that people would try to walk into it and smack their faces against the wall like, 500Gb of surgery shows, baby shows, wedding shows and home improvement shows starring hot gay carpenters, so there’s no room for me to record “Columbo” or “Whose Line Is It Anyway?”.

So, I guess I just hang out on the interwebs with you guys. and maybe they were running really fast when they smacked their face into the wall and they collapsed flat and then slid down the wall and then stood up and when they walked away their body went up and down like an accordion

As long as you let ME hold the universal remote. yeah baby take it Sharon Puckett former wftv news anchorwoman in nashville back in the 80s take it

That’s right, this past weekend we gathered all the loose change out of our sofa and hit the long, thin parking lot that is Interstate 4, bound for the fabulous Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Tampa.

If you’ve never been to a Hard Rock property before, it’s like going to a rock concert and somebody decides “Hey! We should build a hotel here and never stop partying!”. And then somebody else yells “Yeah! And we could get the Seminole Indian tribe to run it for us!”. And then everybody kind of mopes around because cheap cigarette prices are not enough incentive to hang out with Indians for any length of time.

But there is music everywhere! Even song lyrics posted around the hotel. Like, when you pull up out front, huge block letters proclaim “Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends… – Emerson, Lake & Palmer“. And over the the front lobby exit doors it says “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. – The Eagles“. And on the movie-ordering screen on the TV in the room it says “We’re sorry, but you have reached the daily limit for ordering porn. – The Management“.

One thing that was really cool, to me, was the display they had of actual costumes worn onstage by KISS. You cannot consider yourself a real “player” until you have come face to face with the stains on Gene Simmons’ codpiece.

We gambled until five o’clock in the morning, primarily playing the Tabasco videoslot machines. Imagine the electric excitement of putting money into a flashing, beeping, throbbing slot machine, pressing the “Bet Max” button, waiting five seconds, and then doing it all over again! I can finally understand how people get addicted to gambling.

Speaking of which, the casino very responsibly offers a “Self-exclusion program”. This allows people with gambling addiction issues to say “I am unable to control myself, please do not allow me to gamble at your facility”. Then, if you try to gamble there anyway, armed security guards gently and respectfully escort you away from the gaming tables and shove your face in Gene Simmons’ crotch. The program has a 100% success rate.

The hotel also houses “Floyd’s Nightclub”, one of the most popular hot-spots in all of southeast Tampa. You can tell how good a nightclub is by the number of women’s nipples you get to see during your visit. I stopped counting at twenty-three, although I assume there must have been a twenty-fourth nipple that I was too drunk to notice, otherwise somebody there was a freak of nature. Most of the girls at the club must have been professional gambling instructors, because they would leave with a guy, then come back about thirty minutes later with a whole bunch of the guys’ money, and the guys seemed very happy. I think it’s very decent of these ladies to try to help out such obvious beginners.

The dining was excellent, if a little pricey. Dinner for two at the seafood buffet was seventy bucks, plus gratuity, but that was still less than the cost of the King Size Snickers I got from the mini-bar fridge in our room.

Would I recommend the fabulous Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Tampa to you, dizzy reader?

Oh HELL yeah.

I think the “gambling lessons” alone would be worth it.

10. Finding out the name of that chick who was in that movie with that guy who was in that other movie with that other guy.

9. Correcting people who say “your” when they really mean “you’re”.

8. Finding the “Schnitzel Hut” location nearest you.

7. Getting really good deals on Viagra, Home Mortgage refinances and Viagra.

6. Purchasing a radish on eBay that looks just like Howey Mandel.

5. Getting rid of pesky acquaintances by forwarding them 1,800 emails that threaten to render them impotent, homeless and audited by the IRS if they break the chain by not forwarding them to 10 friends by midnight tonight.

4. Ordering the GREATEST consumer product EVER invented: Mighty Putty!

3. Using Google Maps to look up the exact spot where you lost your virginity:

2. Watching/Listening to SomaCow, live on Sundays from 2-5pm eastern, podcast on M-W-F.

And the number one Most Valuable Use for the Internet OTHER Than Porn:

1. Finding pictures of nudist camps, birthing videos, bra and girdle catalogs, breast augmentation before and after pictures, topless feminist protests and animal husbandry videos that, technically, are NOT porn.

10. Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede

9. Kelp, Kelp, Kelp!

8. Sinkholes of the Rich and Famous

7. The Central Florida Dermatologist’s Association art exhibit: The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World Modeled Out of Peeled Sunburned Skin (May 19th – 25th at Regent’s Hall)

6. Sandal World (merging soon with “White Sock World”)

5. Confederate Flag Mart (next door to ‘Splodin’ Stuff fireworks stand)

4. Central Florida Zoo Exotic Animals Pavilion (this month’s exotic animal: Weiner Dogs, Canines of Mystery)

3. ‘Possum Junction

2. Ted Bundy Memorial Park & Petting Zoo

And the number one Worst Central Florida Tourist Attraction:

1. Sweaty City Aroma Experience

I love the piña colada scented suntan lotion on drooping, bronzed grandmothers; I love the lycanthropically hairy  European men in their mini-Speedos; I love the snowcones.

Ok, mostly I love the snowcones.

We had a family outing at the beach this past weekend. Despite my recent weight loss and increased fitness, I still found myself trudging through the white-hot sand with feet that felt like calloused snowshoes. If I lived at the beach, my daily exercise regimen would consist of carrying a towel to the edge of the water
and back to the house. I figure I would lose around nine pounds per day. And it would have to be a very light towel.

Everyone except me experienced second-degree sunburns, because women, in particular, can’t be bothered to apply any more sunscreen than it takes to make them smell like a delicious tropical beverage. I, on the other hand, spent roughly an hour and a half applying mayonnaise-thickness SPF 170 to the 4.2 hectares of body surface with which I grace the alluring beach environment. I would just keep my shirt on, but that is tantamount to having a “Can you believe how amazingly fat I am?” tattoo across your whole abdomen.

I got to frolic in the typical, east coast, half-foot surf, which is not even enough to knock the prescription sunglasses off of my head, even without one of those little neon-colored dork-straps to hold my glasses on.

I tried to body surf, but I appear to have major buoyancy issues. I believe this to be due to the density of the mayonnaise-lotion I had applied, but others have suggested that it may actually be due simply to my gross tonnage. Those are the people whom I retaliate against by offering to apply suncreen to their backs, then,
when they turn around and hunch their shoulders over in the “ready to scream from the cold lotion” position, I quickly shove my lotion-sticky hands in the sand and give them an unexpected exfoliation.

I can’t think of many things that I do (without being naked) that tire me out as much as pitting my body against the aquatic forces of mother nature, unless it’s the dragging of my waterlogged, respectably knee-length swimming-trunked ass out of the surf and back on to terra barely firma. This is the point in the beach trip where the snowcone guy makes his fortune.

As usual, I was so exhausted that I slept most of the 100+ miles home.

The passengers whom I was driving were so tired themselves that they barely noticed.

I’m referring, of course, to team SomaCow.net’s recent victory in the Gameshow Radio “Titans of Trivia” contest, hosted by Curtis Earth, a man who is to trivia what David White is to old TV sitcom bosses.

I don’t get out much in the mornings, so the drive to the radio station was exciting for me. I passed a strip club whose marquee advertised “Spring Blowout”. I don’t know what that means. I guess I don’t get out much in the evenings, either.

Joining me in delivering the trivia ass-kickery were our own producer Ross, and the flight-worthy Bill, a loyal, if distant, fan. Combined, we felt we outweighed the competition by as many pounds as IQ points.

Our opponents were a trio of punk-ass bitches young men preparing to graduate from Rollins College. Their team name was “Potty Trained” (or something like that), so you get an idea of the high academic standards of that fine educational edifice.

The youngsters chided us for our advanced age, suggesting that we might win if most of the questions were related to vaudeville, The Great Depression, or “tv and film star Kitty Carlisle”. We returned their good natured ribbing by replying that Potty Trained might win if the questions concerned how to pwn n00bz for phat lootz in World of Warcraft, having adults buy beer for you, or “getting your ass handed to you by hot, witty guys much older than you”.

We took our places at the microphones for the first round of questions, which was “mano a mano” (spanish for “mayo with mayo”). Ross did well, I didn’t totally suck, and Bill rocked, too. At the end of this first round, the score was tied at four, sending Potty Trained into fits of celebration “(”Dude!”, “Whoa, dude!”, “Dude!”) accompanied by much heartfelt dapping.

The second round consisted of five questions. Each team wrote down their answers, and were allowed to confer with their teammates. Bill surprised Ross and me with his vast aquatic knowledge, Ross surprised Bill and me with his intimate familiarity with rich guys’ wives, and I surprised everyone by remembering to spray the Renuzit after I used the studio restroom.

When the dust, and my Rooty-Tooty-Fresh-n-Fruity from IHOP, had settled, team SomaCow.net emerged victorious by the unbelievably manly score of 24-9. Twenty-four to nine. XXIV vs IX. Our score was nearly three times theirs. I told them I wouldn’t rub it in. Twenty-freaking-four to a measley, quite feminine, nine.

I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, and hope to go again someday when I am allowed time off from my day job again, which I estimate should occur sometime before the sun swells to engulf the Earth. In the meantime, we plan to send Mickey in to bat cleanup.

We hope to God they have some questions about hunky stud movie stars and Miley Cyrus.

<This is where the picture of us would have gone if Ross had sent it to me>

<Oh, no, wait, here it is…>

There are other similarities, too. On St. Patrick’s Day, we drink thick, bitter Irish beer and pretend that we like it. On Cinco de Mayo, we drink excellent Mexican beer and thank God that we aren’t drinking thick, bitter Irish beer.

I wanted to add some authenticity to the holiday, by calling an actual Mexican family in my neighborhood and wishing them the compliments of the day. Unfortunately, my neighborhood is so prestigious that the closest I could find to a Mexican was Stanley Jacobson, who employs several Mexicans and once watched a
donkey show in Tijuana. He has slides of it.

Me: Hola, Stanley!
Stanley: Huh?
Me: Feliz Cinco de Mayo, amigo!
Stanley: What?
Me: Bye bye.

Next year I will just go down to the day-labor office with a piñata in the form of an I.N.S. agent.

A local Wing House, which shall go unnamed, was having its Cinco de Mayo festivities nearby, and I decided to attend. Nothing says “fiesta internationale!” like construction workers and bikers swilling down Bud Light with buffalo sauce in their beards and on their work boots. The wait staff, known for their skimpy
outfits and inability to make their knees touch, was decked out for the occasion, all in varying degrees of not looking like Salma Hayek. It was fun, but it was too crowded and too noisy and too NASCAR. I took my party back to the house.

Nick at Night was playing its “Cinco de Lopez” marathon of “George Lopez” episodes. Now, I understand that George Lopez has done for Mexican-Americans what Rosie O’Donnell did for annoying, fat, unfunny women, but anybody who claims that they are watching that show for anything other than the hot Mom (if you are over 18) or the hot daughter (if you are under 18) is either lying or is confused and is actually watching “Chico and the Man”.

I drank more cervezas (beers), took a siesta (nap), and got Loco en la Cabeza (porn). It was a good day.

So, here’s to you, Pablo, and Juan, and Paco and Jesus and Rrrrramone and Manuel.
But, especially, here’s to you Salma. OLE!

Now, don’t get me wrong. Ross is a great guy, who does a fine production job. I only have two problems with him:

1. When we come back inside from breaks, he opens the sliding door and walks in. If I am behind him, I then have to open the sliding door MORE in order for ME to be able to walk in, which calls attention to my larger size. I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.

2. He gets paid more than any of the “talent”.

So, I’m suggesting that we cut costs by replacing Ross with:The SomaTron XXL-69 Remote Show Control

It may not bake yummy pastries or give back rubs, but I think it is the next best thing.

Hmmm…come to think of it…we wouldn’t really need show hosts anymore, either.

Well, then…

Welcome back, Ross!

So you may be quite surprised that I’m going to teach you how to take on such a massive project. But I am confident when I say that I am quite surprised, too. The information below was gathered by watching some of my in-laws build a “deck”. Note that “deck” is in “quotation marks”.

What you will need:

40 1×6 boards, 15 feet long
10 2×8 boards, 15 feet long
1 hammer
1 chalk line
Some screwdrivers
All the screws in the world
1 pair of long-handled grill tongs
1 case of your favorite brand of beer
3 friends who don’t like your favorite brand of beer

First, decide where to build your deck. The driveway, the attic and the liquor store are all really bad choices, take my word for it. When you have selected an area, check carefully to see whether it is outdoors. If not, choose another area.

Remove any debris from the area. Remove any trash. Remove any life forms. Remove your shirt, because you foolishly started this project on a sweltering July day. Drink one of the beers now. You’ve earned it.

Hammer the 2×8 boards into the ground, from west to east. Be sure to place one of the 2-inch sides down (very important, take my word for it). Stand at one end of the boards and kick over the ones that are not lined up with the others, because they will not provide adequate support. Drink two beers and proceed to the next step.

Place the 1×6 boards across this foundation, from north to south. Carefully screw the top boards to the bottom boards. After two or three boards, look thoughtfully at your work, then fake a groin pull. Hand the tools over to your three friends and ask them to continue. Drink several more beers.

When the work is about halfway completed, stand on the boards, testing their support. Stoop over and examine the amount of space between each board. At this point, your cigarettes will fall out of your shirt pocket and down between the boards. Retrieve them with the long-handled grill tongs.

More beers, please.

When the final board is attached, stomp on the deck and proclaim that your friends are the finest craftsmen since <insert name of any craftsman you might think of here>. Finish the last of the beers.

You may very well be wondering why you needed the chalk line.

I don’t know why you needed the chalk line.

Take my word for it.

Thanks to Geoff and Mickey for keeping the elderly jokes down in the triple digits.

d00d, I’m NOT all that old.

One way you can tell that I am not all that old is that I just spelled “dude” in the vernacular of “the kids today”. That is because I am a baller who is also dope and, possibly, fly.

So what’s up wit all dat old-people stuff directed at me, yo?

Word!

Crib!

Posse!

Just because I drive at speeds inversely proportional to my age, such that, should I live to be older than 70 I will actually be driving in reverse; and just because nearly every gift I received this year contained some form of bran; and just because I got flashed by a young hottie during my birthday visit to Burlington Coat Factory, which caused me to exclaim “My GOD! These coats are on clearance for only $29.99!”…doesn’t mean that I am getting old.

Good lookin’ out, dawg!

Iced-out grill!

Badonkadonk!

I can still hang with the younger crowd. I can still shake my grooved thing. I can still make young, twenty-something girls gasp when I pass by, and whisper excitedly to each other “You have mace in your purse, right?”. I can still bust a movement, thanks to all that bran.

Sure, maybe I DO wear my pants pulled up so high that my belt more closely resembles a push-up bra. Maybe I DO like to fall asleep at 8:30pm to the phat breakbeats of Fox News commentator Bill O’Reilly.

And maybe I DO have a tiny bit of a middle-aged spread around the tummy department that makes my cellphone ring in my front pocket every time I bend over. None of that makes me OLD, bitches!

Don’t make me bust a capsule of laxative in yo’ ass.

Someday, you might just find YOURSELF staring down the business end of a bran birthday cake.

Peach out, my brothels.

No, not Walt Disney World.

No, not Universal Studios Islands of Motion Sickness and Vomit.

I’m talking about: Flea World

Flea World, or, as the locals call it, “The Mall”, claims to be America’s largest permanent flea market. I have no reason to doubt this claim, as I have visited it off and on for 17 years now and I have seen only about one tenth of it. Granted, the one tenth that I have visited was the only part that was contained in air-conditioned, prefab buildings, but I can’t help that. That’s where all the discount Armenian and Slovak porn is sold.

The atmosphere at Flea World is much like that of a country fair, except not in this country. The chiaroscuro (the interplay or contrast of dissimilar qualities) of aromas exceeds my meager language skills to convey to you. The closest I can come is: one part hot car engine parts, one part funnel cakes, one part 1970s head shop, and forty eight parts unwashed foreigner.

In order to project a family-friendly image, Flea World provides beer-stained baby stroller rental for the day. The beer itself can be also purchased on the grounds. For a southern, redneck/mexican marketplace, the selection of beers is astounding, consisting of BOTH Budweiser AND Bud Light.

One of my favorite types of dealer booth is the incense vendor. Here you can purchase oils, sticks and cones that will make your home, and your hair, for the next three days, smell like such diverse scents as “Climax”, “Bitch” and “Wet Leather”.

The most amazing part, to me, is the degree of variety in the products offered for sale by any one vendor. It is not in the least uncommon for a single booth to sell both chinese throwing stars AND Beanie Babies, or fake designer sunglasses AND fake designer power tools, or lingerie AND auto upholstery protectant. Ok, that last pair actually makes a creepy kind of sense.

It’s not just the products that keep the tourists coming back for more. It’s also the services offered. Where else in the WORLD can you get a gruesome tattoo, a haircut (choose from “mullet” or “buzz”), prepare your income tax return, have a root canal, ride bumper cars, and file divorce/inheritance paperwork, all in the same hour?!

If you ever have a chance to visit Flea World yourself, by all means do. You may even see me there, drinking a Bud Light in the Armenian porn booth. Be sure to stop and say “Hi”.

I’ll be the guy whose hair smells like “Climax”.

The Blue Collar Comedy Tour and Blue Collar TV show have proven extremely popular with the American public. We hard-working, lower middle-class Americans love to watch rich entertainers pretending to be awkward southern bumpkins.

But what about the elitist? The upper class? The financially driven, clueless executive types?
What would THEY pay money to see?

Well…

The following is a very good reason why there is no such thing as a White Collar Comedy tour.

(A crowded auditorium with three rich, corinthian leather executive office chairs on stage.)

(Geoff, Mickey and J enter stage right and recline in plush luxuriance to thunderous applause.)

Geoff: Thank you, thank you. Here at the end of the show we like to come out together and just tell some stories of our many adventures, all of which end with “and then J finished off the rest of my plate.”

(laughter from audience)

J: (lighting expensive cigar) Ha! Damn you, Geoff, I should reveal to the general public your offshore diversified investment account information!

(laughter from audience)

Mickey: (looking down at his ascot, with which he is having trouble) Is it supposed to go like THIS or like THIS?

Geoff: Oh, Mickey, always with the bourgeois profiling.

Mickey: I might as well have bought off the rack!

(laughter from audience)

J: Oh, Geoffrey, we should tell the story of our greatest success.

Mickey: Yes, quite.

Geoff: Well, a few years ago we decided to increase our capital gains subsidy in order to bolster our portfolio, when it dawned on us, I think it was Mickey’s brilliant idea, that we could lease the studio equipment back to each show, and let them finance it through the network, thereby netting the fiscal depreciation, the expenditure AND the gross yield for tax reduction!

(laughter from audience)

Mickey: It WAS one of my better hairbrained schemes.

Geoff: What about our tragic boating mishap?

J: Ah, yes. We had taken the SomaCow II yacht out for the day in the Caribbean. Imagine our shock when we, and the two dozen topless coeds tanning on board, discovered that the entire ship had been stocked with DOMESTIC scotch!

(laughter from audience)

Geoff: That, sir, is an oxymoron.

(laughter from audience)

Mickey: Ah, but this makes it all worth it. Thank you for joining us tonight. We have to go now and fire six members of middle management, then replace them with eighteen more-expensive “offshore” consultants, just because we can.

(laughter from audience)

(Roll credits)

But, as we mentioned in Episode 153 below, the internet has brought to our attention a wide array of zany fetishes that we had never heard of (and at least one that we believe can only be enacted in a zero-gravity environment with animatronic American Presidents), that serve to demonstrate that there is nothing so weird that men, somewhere, won’t receive a fresh shipment of prime deforested wood from it, IYKWIM.

We had all heard of a branch of foot fetishism known as “Crush”, wherein a woman, wearing stiletto heels, crushes things like peaches, hot dogs or extremely hairy European men underfoot. Sometimes they do it barefoot and squish yogurt, containing active cultures, between their toes. I don’t know about you, but I have spent many hours in the Athlete’s Foot remedy aisle at the drug store, trying to PREVENT active cultures from squishing between my toes.

Then Mickey stumbled across a fetish website wherein women drivers get their cars stuck in the mud, sand or snow, and have to repeatedly pump the gas pedal in what I assume is supposed to be a seductive manner. These women are also wearing stiletto F-me pumps, but the way I understand it, the ATTRACTION is based on the fact that the women are caught in a situation where they are helpless.

After the show, I looked up some other such “women helpless in a troubling situation” fetishes, since it lets me look at porn and get to call it “show-topic research”.

For reasons that I don’t understand, these fetishes are always named after famous verbs.

Tangle: Typically, this fetish centers on a young woman getting ready for work, college or a date, when her hairbrush suddenly and unexpectedly gets snagged in her hair. She yanks and yanks on it, leaving her hair sticking up quite unfashionably all over. Extra horned-up points if this winds up making her run late for her appointment.

Chill: In this cult phenomenon, women are depicted in movie theaters, grocery stores and drafty houses where, no matter how much they adjust the blankets, nor how many pairs of scrunchy socks they put on, they just can’t seem to get warm enough. Often, the women are photographed with their arms crossed, shivering and complaining about how cold these places always are.

Debit: Picture it: A crowded Old Navy store on a Saturday afternoon. An attractive woman is about to pay for her purchases when, out of nowhere, she forgets the PIN number* for her bank card. Her distress, and therefore hotness, apparently, mounts to orgasmic heights as the line of impatient shoppers gets longer and longer behind her, while she struggles in vain to call her husband or boyfriend’s cellphone to get the PIN number from them. Hot stuff!

Chunk: After being married for a few years, a woman puts on her favorite dress and discovers, to her horror and our excitement, that it no longer fits her well, as she has put on a few pounds. Outfit after outfit, tight jeans that ride up her ass after tight jeans that ride up her ass, culottes after culottes, her frustration grows as nothing she owns fits to her satisfaction anymore. Practitioners of this fetish often follow it up with a hot session of “Debit”.

*Why yes, I DO know that “PIN number” is redundant.

I’ll tell you what we would do without you. We would eat flamed beefs. All day, every day. But, as good as that would be, it would still leave a large empty place in our hearts, though not our thighs.

What would be the point of us getting actors’ names mixed up, making up ridiculous news stories or tickling fatties on the webcam if it weren’t for you, and the time you spend with us?

Everything we do here at SomaCow, we do for our listeners. Whether it’s giving away a free iPod Touch (no purchase necessary, some restrictions apply), scouring the Interwebz for things that
might interest you, or coughing into the mic during Mickey’s Life Coaching segment, the point is: you complete us.

And what is our reward? What’s in it for us? It’s the growth of our show, our network and ourselves (for which you listeners are not ENTIRELY responsible, see flamed beefs above).

So thanks to each and every one of you who has downloaded our podcast, or listened to us live on Sundays from 2-5pm EST, or watched our video stream on ustream.tv, or donated funds or commented our blogs or entered our contests.

THIS JUST IN:
Ok, one of you listeners has gone completely nuts. And we love it!
Candy, our favorite stripper from the midwest, has captured the very ESSENCE of the personalities on the SomaCow show with her masterful and insightful rendition of: The SomaSims. Wonder how J would look if he were skinny? Want to know what’s REALLY under Mickey’s omnipresent trucker cap? Dying to see how Geoff plans to knock off Mickey and J so he can be the sole heir to the empire? Visit Candy’s The SomaSims site. Leave her a comment, and the lap dance is negotiable.

THIS is why we do what we do.

And we would cuddle every one of you.

He said that what would please him most of all is if I would write and illustrate a children’s book that he could read to the baby.

This just goes to show that nothing good can ever come from talking to other humans.

Ha! No! I was actually extremely moved by his request. Children really are our future, and I would love to have a small part in stimulating their tiny minds. So, I immediately started coming up with ideas for the children’s book. Of course, I have never written a children’s book before, and I can’t even draw a picture of a circle that you would recognize as being a circle, but I am determined to give it my best shot.

Let me know which idea YOU think would be best.

Georgie Throws a Whiz
During his potty training, Georgie learns that there are a very limited number of places where it’s socially acceptable to pee.

Who Cut The Cheese?
A mystery story that encourages analytical thought and deductive skills.

But Daddy Said I Could Pet the Bees
Sometimes new parents can be inconsistent. Through simple examples, this book helps children learn to sort out conflicting information from their parents by teaching them that Mommy is always right.

Real Estate Law in a Foreclosure Market
With interest rates climbing and record numbers of Americans losing their homes, your child can be prepared to succeed regardless of industry-wide financial trends.

101 Standard Household Items That Will Fit Into Your Mouth
Rainy day activities that will keep EVERYONE on their toes!

Breastfeeding: Leave Some For Daddy
A child should feel very important in its parents’ lives. But sometimes, Mommy and Daddy need some alone time.

Let’s Build a Plastic Bag Fort!
Don’t throw away that junk in the garage! Hours of creative, fun projects to work on TOGETHER!

Goldilocks and the Three Carnivorous Ursine Antagonists
Some parents favor imagination and creativity. Others prefer a more practical, no-nonsense approach. Burst your child’s bubble early with this gritty, intense, psychological thriller.

April Fool’s Day? The day when jokes are king? I’m like turmeric oleoresin in your Post® Fruity Pebbles, man: I’m all up in it!!

Even when I was a kid, I would celebrate this day by making prank phone calls. My favorite was to call someone at random, then hang up before they could answer the phone! I don’t recall at the moment why this was considered a prank. I would also sneak into the kitchen when Mom was cooking supper, and turn down the temperature on the oven by 5 degrees, so it took about eight minutes longer for the food to cook. I’m not sure what the point of that one was, either, but I had a great laugh!

Later on, though, my April Fool’s pranks grew more sophisticated and clever. One year, my friends and I went downtown and put quarters into all the parking meters. Ha! We never got caught! Then we went to one guy’s house and smeared grease all over the tracks of his garage door so it opened really smoothly and quietly. He never found out who did it!

As my sense of humor matured, my April Fool’s Day pranks become more subtle and devious. A group of us decided to freak out the employees at the local library, so we all returned our overdue books on April 1st, and we each paid our fine with a twenty dollar bill which they were unable to break, so they had to keep all the change! Then, that afternoon, we went down to the main drag and stepped off of
the curb, bringing traffic to a complete standstill, every time the light turned red or the crossing guard helped some school kids across. We nearly got busted on that one!

Now, as an adult, some people think that I should be above all this tomfoolery and/or shenanigans. Nothing could be further from the truth. Already today, I have tricked the new clerk at the convenience store by buying a different brand of cigarettes than the ones I actually smoke, and when I went through the drive-thru at the bank, I replaced the bank’s ballpoint pen with one of my own. I wish I could see their faces when they realize what happened!

I hope you all enjoy pulling your pranks today. I gotta run, because I’m about to go and unzip all the ZipLock bags in the box in the kitchen cabinet. Then, when somebody takes one out, it will already be unzipped and they won’t know what hit them!

So watch your back today. You never know when YOU might be the victim of one of my over-the-top pranks.

MUAHAHAHAHA!

When I say I took notes that night, I don’t mean that I meticulously documented all of the evening’s activities. My “notes” are more like “Plug up my hole!” or “Guinness darts” or “inflatable hat nookie”.

The “Plug up my hole!” note refers to the fact that any American can become an “Ugly American” after nine beers. We met an actual Irish couple at the first bar we went to, and they tried to teach us some traditional Gaelic greetings and drinking toasts. The only one I could remember was probably spelled something like “Phlugh ohm mahaole!”, but in my hops-induced stupor it sounded way more like “Plug up my hole!”, so that’s what I yelled everytime someone new walked into the bar. I think it means “We drink to your coffin. May it be built from the wood of a hundred year old oak tree that I shall plant tomorrow.” Those Irish are so…earthy. I might add that if you accidentally stumble drunkenly into a gay bar later in the evening, yelling “Plug up my hole!” will get you a ton of free drinks.

The “Guinness darts” reference is kinda hazy, but I think that at one point we were attempting to shoot darts when we overheard a nearby celebrant explaining to a patron, who was uninitiated in the ways of thick and greasy Irish beer, that you could tell that Guinness beer is good because you can stand a spoon up in it. There were no spoons handy, however, so I helpfully dropped one of my darts into his glass. It stood up! And so did he! And then, at some point, I awoke and was not standing up anymore.

“Inflatable hat nookie” should be obvious to you. I think I was referring to the fact that, at one point, a guy walked into one of the bars wearing a gigantic, green, inflatable novelty hat. I’m talking about a really big hat. No, like seven feet wide and nine feet tall. Biiiig hat. And women ran from all corners of the bar to nestle against him under his giant hat. He left with about twelve of them. You know what they say about guys with big hats*.

So, I would give the festivities a nine on the one-to-ten scale this year. I had to subtract one point because the next morning I awoke to discover that my hole had been…well…you know.

*They have big hatboxes.

I, being very realistic, think I’m hot, too. But the key is that I realize that I am RELATIVELY hot. I’m hot when compared to some people, but not so much when compared to others. Compared to the Reverend Al Sharpton, I am on FIRE, but compared to, say, any of the professional male dancers on Dancing with the Stars I am…ummm…well, at least I’m hetero.

At the beginning of 2008, I determined to regain some of my former hotness that has been lost over the years to a sedentary lifestyle, a plethora of fine pilsner treats, and numerous mexican food products.

I want to lose an astonishing SEVENTY pounds, get a tan, and beg, borrow or steal an ab.

So, as I progress through my Journey to Hottness, I’ll keep you posted on how relatively hot I am, using this convenient Journey to Hottness thermometer:

On an unrelated note: a wart can be an embarassing and unsightly blemish. I have a small wart on my right hand, and I decided to get rid of it before little kids started calling me Old Man Wartmonsterhand (kids are not very creative in these times of talking sponge cartoons), and avoiding my house at Halloween.

To this end, I purchased a product called “Compound W One Step Invisible Strips”. “Great!”, I thought, when I read the box. “Now I don’t have to use some nasty ointment that looks worse than the wart itself, causing women to flee in alarm and disgust, which they hardly ever do now!” Continuing to read the label, I was delighted at the part that said “New Invisible Strips to Hide the Wart!” I was flushed with patriotic consumer pride to be using this new, state of the art, stealth-wart-pad technology that would not call attention to my one, tiny bodily flaw.

Below is a high-resolution picture of an actual “Compound W One Step Invisible Strip” applied to my actual hand. It is absolutely undetectable to the naked eye! Who says America no longer leads the world in the design and production of quality consumer goods?!

Three stalwart (by which I mean “overweight”) men have taken up the quest to rid the world of Icingfroth of the Oreo, Unslim, Booty Elf and Tootsie Troll invaders.

United, these brave souls alone have the courage to speak their mind, in a land where speech, and quality snack products, are rarely free.

(click for larger picture)

But, unbeknownst to their enemies, these three men, the Truffle Trio, the Knights of SomaCow, have a secret weapon with which to appease the masses, known only as: The Hopper

(click for larger picture)

Smiting the Corporate Radio Whored, The Three succeed in driving them from the shores of Icingfroth, so that free commerce can again flourish between the peaceful races

(click for larger picture)

Alarmingly bloated on the spoils of their victory, the Knights of SomaCow stand ever vigilant, obese and steadfast in their protection of the greatest treasure in the world: entertaining radio

(click for larger picture)

This would be mine.

1. Find a girl. If you ARE a girl, stop reading this immediately and go outside so we can find you. Sheesh, do we have to do ALL the work?!

2. Take the girl to a bunch of expensive places that you will never want to go to again when you’re married. This is known as “courting”, because you will point it out later as an example of what a great guy you are when you are in divorce “court”.

3. Make sure that at least one of these expensive places plays the song “Sometimes When We Touch”. You will need to refer to this song in a future step, “How To Appear Romantic Without Appearing Gay”.

4. Invite the girl to your apartment. Have dinner by candlelight, toast marshmallows in the fireplace, read poetry to her, anything you can think of to keep her from finding out that your electricity has been turned off again.

5. Have sex with her. This is the most crucial step of all because, if it doesn’t work out, you still got laid and you can go back to step #1 with a different girl. Make sure you have dropped many clues that your previous girlfriend was on fire in the bedroom, so you can tell this new girl that she is even better, when the time comes and she doesn’t.

6. Agree to meet her parents. This is your chance to get the proverbial preview of the daughter’s future hottness by checking out the Mom. Also, you can get a good idea of her father’s salary so you know how big a wedding you can promise her. If you have any favorite baked goods, this is the time to let your future mother-in-law know. Greet her father with a firm handshake, and a knowing wink, so he realizes who the boss is now.

7. Wait two to three weeks, then give the girl a key to your apartment. Make sure you have safely concealed all of your homemade porn and Britney calendars. Invest in some air fresheners with names that include the words “Mist”, “Spring” or “Morning”. Avoid air fresheners containing the words “Lockerroom”, “Bacon” or “Black Love”.

8. If you do not kill/psychologically torture/swear out warrants against each other after a month, it is time to plan your proposal. Here is the standard formula for calculating how expensive an engagement ring you can afford: take three months of your salary. That is how much it is going to cost to bribe the jewelry guy to show you the non-ghetto rings, which are the only ones that she will find acceptable. The actual ring itself will be so expensive that you will never pay it off, so it doesn’t really matter how much it costs.

9. Take the girl back to one of the expensive places, preferably the one that played “Sometimes When We Touch”, and tell her that you want to spend the rest of your life with her. Do this with a straight face. Otherwise, she will call every girl in the world and ruin your chances of going back to step #1 with ANYONE for a long, long time.

10. Ask her father’s permission to marry his daughter. The sappier you make this, crying if possible, the more he will spend on the wedding for his little girl, and the better you will look in her eyes. Nobody is going to fetch you beers for the next forty years if she had to get married at a flea market, zoo pavilion, or, worst of all, over MySpace.

That’s all there is to it! Try to show up on the same day as the wedding, sober enough to avoid hitting on her Mom or sisters, then honeymoon your way to wedded bliss.

It’s what every man dreams of.

Ok, I laughed at that part, too.

A big ol’ bingo-playing n00b.

We recently visited some elderly relatives in South Florida, where the sky is as blue as the hair of the old ladies who are driving 15 miles per hour in front of you with their left blinker on the whole time, and the streets are lined with banners proclaiming “GO OLPHI S!!”.

These particular relatives must have some kind of grudge against us, because they insisted that we accompany them to a day-long bingo session, at the local VWYNHO*. I naively equated this to actual gambling, so I agreed to give it a try.

When we first walked in, I thought “Oh, it’s mostly guys here, so I won’t feel too out of place.” Then I realized that it was actually 95% old women, who only looked like men because their ninnies were hanging out of sight under the tables.

Bingo is like The Rocky Horror Picture Show for old people.
The caller announces the numbers, then the players mutter things back at him:

Caller: “B-4…”
Old Person: “Before what?! Ha ha ha!”
Caller: “I-19…”
Old Person: “U not 19, U 77! Ha ha ha!”

And they absolutely lose their MINDS when he calls O-69.
I swear I could hear rusty genitalia creaking from the risque stimulation of it all.

So we took our seats, amidst the regulars who have their playing areas cordoned off by dozens of bottles of ink (”Marqueurs de Bingo”, the labels say) in neon colors with colorful chromed globular tops that make them look like nothing so much as dildos that would be handed out if you went to a P-Funk party at Bootsy Collins’ house in 1975.

Of course I was familiar with the basic n00b games, like regular 5-in-a-row bingo, or 4-corners bingo, but they had dozens of the most convoluted games I had ever seen, many of which boasted of being “Wild” or “Crazy” or “Regis Philbin”.

So, I sweated and struggled through the first session, trying vainly to keep up, playing my tiny, girly pack of 6 bingo cards, while sitting sandwiched in between 80 year-old women who were playing 96 sheets of cards at once, AND playing gin rummy with the person across from them in between numbers being called, while simultaneously crocheting and applying denture adhesive.

I didn’t win anything, and break time finally came. I dreaded waiting in line for the men’s room, but the line actually moved very quickly, because it only takes about 10 seconds for the old men to unhook their plastic pee bags and dump them into the urinal. This was just as well for me, because I know how those old-timers just LOVE to whip out their massive World War II schlongs, just to intimidate my generation.

The second half passed very quickly, since I nodded off to sleep, lulled by the soft, rythmic whooooshhhh-whooooshhhh of a thousand personal oxygen machines.

I accidentally won $50 dollars, though, so it wasn’t a total loss.

All in all, I highly recommend a vigorous day of bingo, whenever YOU are visited by relatives whom you hope to never see again.

*Veterans of Wars You’ve Never Heard Of

Well, just as I predicted on the show, the LoLTruckerz craze is sweeping the nation!

Now, whenever I drive on the interstate, truckers see my SOMACOWJ license plate and give me the “We’re number one!” sign. With their middle finger.

Click the lil pitchers to see the bigger pitchers, good buddy.

Each of us, in our misspent youth, has tried to use a terrible pickup line to get a woman’s attention.

Normally, we simply fail. Occasionally, we fail AND get kicked in the nads. And, at least once in our lives, we have used a pickup line that was SO bad that we required immediate paramedic assistance and an oxygen tent.

What, that never happened to you?

Why do we do this to ourselves? The answer is simple: we are stupid and horny.

Keep in mind that WE are the gender who thinks that fake vomit is hilarious. We are the ones whose idea of “formal wear” means actually wearing socks to the wedding. It is we who can wear a beer hat to a football game with no shame. Well, unless it’s a Miami Dolphins game. Then we just pretend that we are rooting for the visitors.

In my never-ending efforts to save you, my foolhardy brothers, from making the same mistakes I have, I’ve compiled a list of pickup lines that you should never, under any circumstances, not even if a panicked, scantily-clad Playboy Playmate shows up at your front door because her pet poodle “Cokie” has suddenly burst into flames and you have just perfected the world’s first successful Dog Extinguisher, even ATTEMPT to use on a woman, unless your HMO does not require authorization in order to see a specialist.

Keep in mind that all of these lines have actually been used in my presence by actual men hitting on actual women with actual vaginas.

“Well, YOU don’t look like you’ll spend all of my money on clothes.”

“You may not believe this, but I know Mickey from SomaCow…”

“You know, I’m a sensitive guy. I would only put the first nine inches in.”

“Do you like NASCAR? No? Greasy fried chicken? No? Hmmm…I guess we’ll just have to be f*ck-buddies, then.”

“Do you put out on the first date? Oh, not until the fifth? That’s ok, I’ll be back four more times in the next half hour. Have your purse ready.”

“Excuse me, is this your big, fat wallet full of cash? Well, it could be, if you play your cards right, baby.”

“You know, anatomically, we were made for each other.”

“I’m not a neat-freak or anything, but I’m going to have to insist that you don’t get lipstick on my zipper.”

“You may not believe this, but I know J from SomaC…HEY! Where are you going?!”

Ah, Tennessee. Home of my youth. Birthplace of “the blues”. Oppressors of “the blacks”. Smarter than “the Kentuckians”. Famous for its beautiful horses that are taught to walk marching-style by having razor-wire attached to their fetlocks*.

Some Tennessee facts:

Population: 6,038,803
State Motto: “I didn’t know we was kin when we was doin’ it, Your Honor.”
State car: 1975 Plymouth Duster with a trash bag duct-taped over one broken window
State Flag:

I grew up in the shadow of The Grand Ole Opry (website: www.ThemAintViolinsThemsFiddles.com) and of Graceland (www.WorstSideburnsEver.com). In fact, people often ask me “Why do you have no sideburns at all, dude? That’s weird.”, to which I normally reply “Shut up and get The Hopper loaded.”

Obviously, these two edifices of musical artistry formed the basis for my life-long hatred of country music, despite all the characters with colorful names, such as ”Boxcar” Willie and “Conway” Twitty. The closest I ever got to enjoying country music was when I thought Shania Twain was sexy in a slutty sort of way for a year or two.

Other than that, my childhood was quite normal. My Dad wore a wife-beater, and my Mom wore on his nerves. We had our satellite dish mounted on top of our outhouse. People listed “whittlin’” as a prior occupation on unemployment forms. I personally knew a guy who had his eye put out while practicing casting for a fishing tournament by tying a dart to the end of his line and casting it at a dartboard on his carport, and a guy who, during Boy Scout archery practice, stood aiming at the target with perfect form and suddenly managed to shoot himself in the back of his leg with the arrow. If either of you guys are reading this, congratulations on the Adult Literacy courses!

Now that I live in Florida, I swear to myself that I have no accent, Tennesseean or otherwise, when I speak. Until, that is, I get a phone call from back home. Then, much to my shock and horror, my usual refined “Hello, how wonderful to hear from you. I trust that everyone there is well?” turns into “Hey, Skeeter! Man, I ain’t heard from you since Ned was a pup. Y’all makin’ it awright up ‘ere? D’jew ever git that car started?”

But I always enjoy it when family comes to visit. I really miss those guys.

Gotta run. It’s family music night, and I’m playing lead jug. *whooooom*

I am a stripper from Illinois (yes, there are four of us here) and I love your show. Recently, you mentioned that you had lost 21 pounds in 26 days.  Way to go! What diet are you using, and is it still working? Something like that could really help my career, if you know what I mean.

Keep up the good work!

Candy

I am not using any of the “named” diets, like Atkins, or South Beach, or Iron Forge. My current diet is mostly just a “Hey! You know you COULD stop stuffing so much crap down your pie-hole and maybe even get off your ass and walk around every once in awhile, or something. And why do you use so much gel in your hair?” diet.

But, if you think you might benefit from it, I’ll give you a brief rundown of what I’m doing:

Diet: I have eaten so much steamed green stuff, that the resulting gas lets me inflate balloons at children’s birthday parties as a lucrative side-job. I eat 28 small meals a day, so my body doesn’t attempt to store very much. I am not sure which of my bodily organs stores steamed green stuff, but I am certain that, if it were to rupture, there would be broccoli for six city blocks. In addition, it helps if you remove all food products from your home that could tempt you off of the straight and narrow, and cause tremendous embarassment when your family discovers you sucking E-Z-Cheese straight out of the can.

Exercise: This is the hardest part for me. The problem with exercise is that it requires you to lift and move parts of your body that weigh more than a standard military vehicle. Stick to aerobic activities such as opening junk mail, playing lottery scratch-off tickets and changing hard-to-reach light bulbs.

Daily routine: It really helps if you have a very highly stressful, highly detailed, high calorie-burning job. I spend most of my workday on the phone, yelling rudely at people just because they are humans who are far away and not calzones who are in my left hand. I don’t do butt-clenches at my desk, or anything wacky like that, except as necessary to keep all the steamed green gas in place. I also drink enough water during the day that I can now pee over a six-foot, board-on-board privacy fence and get nothing but net.

Weigh-in: I only weigh myself once per week, otherwise the battery in my digital scale runs down. Weigh-in time is “the moment of truth” when you get to see the cumulative results of your weeklong hard work and occasional backsliding with blueberry muffins. I have heard people say “I always weigh naked” or “I always poop before I weigh”. Amateurs! In order to weigh as little as physically possible, I take the following additional steps:

*weigh at high altitudes
*shave and trim nails first
*fully exhale
*clear my mind and think of helium
*wash (and thoroughly dry) my hair to remove the aforementioned weighty hair gel

Motivation: Like most guys, I enjoy being complimented by members of the opposite sex. There is nothing that will boost your ego like sweating your ass off for an hour a day for six months with a heart defibrillator handy, and eating food that most livestock would turn down, and then finally, going out to a nightclub and having a beautiful woman approach you and talk to you for a few minutes and then say to you “Wow! You’re really funny! Can you introduce me to your buddy? He’s cute!”

Bitches.
 

But one internet phenomenon appears to be here to stay: LoLCatz!

If you have never seen them, for example because you are a Republican and have no time for such frivolity when there are poor people to be hated, LoLCatz are pictures of cute kitties (or sometimes other animals) with captions of what the kitty might be saying in the picture.

At first, I could not get on board with the LoLCatz craze, because cats, as it turns out, have the worst grammar and spelling skills EVER.

But once I got past that obstacle, I soon found myself absorbed in this counter-culture world, to the point that now I dream about what we here at SomaCow would be like if WE were LoLCatz…

Try to guess who is who in the pics below, and I’ll post the answers in my next blog.

Assuming I am not too winded from the Numa Numa Dance.

For me, that age was seventeen, when I realized that I would probably live out my entire life without ever getting to sleep with Jamie Lee Curtis (back when she was a chick).

But more recently, I’ve been wondering about my last joke. My last words. My farewell salutation to the world at the time of my passing.

I’m talking about what I might like to have written on my tombstone. I know it’s kinda morbid, but my mind wanders sometimes between episodes of “Wings” and “She’s The Sheriff”.

I’m not positive yet which one I like best, so none of these are carved in stone.

That’s when it dawned on me: Mickey’s the Life Coach, but where I excel is in giving really, really bad advice.

So, I asked you Loyal Listeners to send in your questions and problems, to j@somacow.com, and you flooded my inbox (thanks a crapload for that, by the way).

So here are your submissions and my terrible ideas for solving your problems. Seriously, if you actually try any of these suggestions, SomaCow Media Inc., and I, personally, cannot be held liable.

A: Preheat oven to 400°. On an ungreased cookie sheet, place your daughter’s head, gum-side-down. Bake for 5-12* minutes or until the gum softens its hold on your daughter’s hair and sticks to the cookie sheet instead. WARNING: Be sure to brace the oven door from beneath with some books or something, otherwise your daughter’s weight on the open oven door may cause damage to the hinges or the door itself.

A: Well, this just goes to show that no good can ever come from being outdoors. My advice is to leave the hook in place. Put a six-pack of Coka Cola in your tacklebox. Whenever you get a hook in the finger, just open a can of Coka, insert your finger through the opening, and leave it there. The acid from the “beverage” will painlessly dissolve the fish hook in 3-5 days. If you don’t believe me, you can try it with some drywall nails first. Be careful not agitate the carbonated contents of the can or clothing stains may result.

A: There are many, many porn sites on the internet, so it would be impossible for you to monitor all of them. Instead, find a website that specializes in what is known as “MILF” porn. There, you can upload pictures of yourself naked in the shower, naked on the sofa, or naked at your son’s soccer game. If your son ever stumbles across these pictures, he will be unable to contain his disgust and embarassment, and will come to you pleading that you take the pictures down. This is when you bust him. NOTE: in order to avoid unwanted attention from internet undesirables, never post your nude photos under your real name. Always use an alias, like ”JeremyLederman’sHotMomInCleveland6969″.

A: After he returns from the next “bowling night”, load him, yourself and your baby up in the car, under the guise of a “family outing”. If you happen to live in Central Florida, as I do, you can tell your husband that you want to go to Gatorland, which is always a favorite. While your husband is driving, pay close attention to whether he weaves across lanes, hits any other vehicles, or careens off of the road into an embankment causing injury or loss of life to you or your baby. If he does, get him into AA or a fancy rehab center as soon as possible. CAUTION: Never place an infant in a forward-facing car seat.

Take my advice…never, EVER take my advice.

*Or more, depending on your altitude

You can now officially forget about all the South Beach diets and Atkins diets and Paris Hilton cocaine diets and veggie burgers and veggie possum nuggets and veggie rack of lamb. I have discovered that every one of us has within them, at this very moment, a built-in diet known as the BMR (Basal Metabolic Rate).

This is not to be confused with the BMX (Basal Motocross) or the MXC (Basal Cool Show on SPIKE TV). No, your BMR is the number of calories you would burn if you just stayed in bed all day.

Read that again: IF YOU JUST STAYED IN BED ALL DAY!

Using such highly personal factors as your age, gender, height, weight, addiction level to Asian porn and political party preference, dietary scientists have been able to calculate that you are wasting your time dragging your fat ass to the gym. Just plunk it down there on the sofa, Jumbo.

My own personal BMR is 2382.8, which appears to indicate that I am either: A. 118 years old, B. nine feet eleven inches tall, or C. I am a Republican freak who can’t stay off of www.kinkychinkies.com

When you consider that you have to burn around 3,500 calories to get rid of one pound of body fat, that means that I could eat 1,000 calories a day and still lose over 2 pounds per week, all from the comfort and safety of my own luxuriously appointed, assemble-it-yourself futon!!

Of course, with this information in hand, I was able to extrapolate many other Basal Rates that I could enjoy while lounging and napping my way to fitness:

BTCR (Basal Telemarketer Call Rate): The number of annoying sales pitches for concentrated squirrel repellant pellets that I could avoid by simply telling them “Sorry, can’t talk now. I’m busy dietinZZZ…zzz…”)

BTSER (Basal Three Stooges Episode Rate): “See that? *bonk* nyuk nyuk nyuk…”

BVGTICACFR (Basal Video Games That I Could Actually Complete, Finally, Rate): Brotherhood of the Blade (part 2), you are my Mt. Everest!

and on and on…

Calculate your own BMR here and be sure to let us knoZZZ…zzz…ZZZ…zzz…

Well, that’s happening to me right now. But not with a breakup.

With my diet.

As I sit down to a sumptuous feast of fat-free animal by-products and steamed green things covered with Mrs. Dash, I flick on the radio to a pop station. Suddenly, Colbie Caillat starts singing to me and calling me “Tubbly”. Then Fergie chimes in, talking about ”Clamsauce”. Even Natasha Bedingfield has to make sure she remindsme of a “Lunch Like This”.

Alarmed, I seek solace over on a classic rock station. But, sure enough, the first song outta the box is Led Zeppelin taunting me with an “Eclairway to Heaven”. Then the Stones have to remind me that “(I Can’t Get No) FattiesAction”. Great. Then, “House of the Raisin Bun” and “Pizzaful Queasy Feelin’” and “Won’t Get Food Again” and the freakin’ Beach Boys and their “Good Libations” and Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ on the Chocolate Bay” and that stoopit Paul McCartney donut song “Maybe I’m a Glazed” and “I Heard it Through the Grapejam” and “Life in the Fat Lane” and “Bacon it to the Streets” and…and…and…

Thinking quickly, I switched over to some good old, American, unrelated-to-me-because-I-am-so-painfully-Caucasian, urban rap and/or hiphop.

Of course, Playaz Circle busted out “Truffle Bag Boy” right off the bat. Then Plies, with “HipsSoWide” and on and on. Followed by a flashback to Boyz II Men’s big hit “Motown Philly Cheesesteak”.

Panic stricken by this time, I threw my fiber and roughage into the trash, and I fled to downtown Orlando, and collapsed onto a stool to listen to Jeff Howell play.

To listen to Jeff Howell play “Brownied Girl”, surprisingly enough. AAAAAUGH!!

I gotta go now, I can’t stand it anymore. “Wayne’s World” is coming on Comedy Central. I’m hoping against hope that they edited out that Queen song “IceCreamian Rhapsody”.

I need a hero.

With ham, mayo and swiss, please.

I am to politics what Britney is to wearing panties in public: I’m just not interested.

In the immortal words of one of those stoopit LOLCatz immediately after having been given a bath, so that they come out looking like something you might poop out if you ate nothing but pipe cleaners and cashmere sweater lint for a month: DO NOT WANT!

I am interested in people, not in politics, so here are my, for lack of a better word, “lies” about the combatants in the 2008 Presidential arena:

The Democrats:

Dennis Rodman Clinton: I thought you couldn’t be elected to a third term as president. Ms. Clinton is knowledgeable, she just has no imagination or vision. Otherwise, she would have figured out to swap Bill’s “special” cigars for the exploding kind. Plus, no matter what she may ultimately do to benefit America, I refuse to ever refer to it as “The Ovum Office”.

John Edwards: Really would be much better as a game show host than as Commander-in-Chief. Not of a “Jeopardy!” type show, more of a “Hollywood Squares”, or maybe “Match Game 2008″.

Mike Judge: Being a political satirist through cartoons and movies does not qualify you to lead this great nation. Beavis and Butthead were never funny.

Dennis Kuchinich: Who?

Barack Obama: Even though he is about as African American as Michael Jackson, there will always be suspicion toward him by the 82% of the American population who are racist rednecks. This is not his fault, of course, it just gives me another opportunity to bash racist rednecks.

The Heartless Bastids Who Want to Rule the World and Your Adult Activities:

Rudy Giuliani: I am 100% certain that he goes by “Rudy” instead of “Rudolph” because of that movie where the nerdy, runt, football playing underdog finally wins the day. 9/11? Sure, he lived it in the front row. Without him, no rebuilding would have taken place at Ground Zero. Oh, wait. And thanks for suspending the tolls on 9/12 so people could get out of the city faster. My advice: answer a question occasionally!

Mike Huckabee: I think you see the problem here.

John McCain: He’s like the second Darrin in Bewitched. The original John McCain was much more like John McClane (from “Die Hard”). The current John McCain is like the dad, Red, on “That 70’s Show”. He’s not impassioned, he’s just bitter and pissed. And there is a very good chance that it is Americans that he is pissed at.

Mitt Romney: I just can’t shake the uncanny feeling that Mitt is just Sam Malone from “Cheers” with better political handlers. Mitt. Mitt. Mitt. It sounds extra funny when you are high.

Fred Thompson: I freely admit that I dislike him for the wrong reason. Namely, he is guilty of uttering one of the most inane lines of movie dialog of all time: “Stack ‘em, pack ‘em and rack ‘em.” Plus, he obviously likes hott chicks, so the Democrats would impeach him faster than you can say “Newt Gingrich? Seriously?”.

Not since Bruce Wayne constructed his super secret Bat Cave in which to invent belts that let you climb buildings past cameo celebrities’ heads and belts that let you put any enemy to sleep instantly while they remain upright and belts that help you to allegedly sexually molest Robin has any location been steeped in such secrecy.

The actual function or purpose of The Facility is even more closely guarded. As you may know, I am compiling a database of information, from clues that Mickey has dropped before, during and after our shows, that I hope to use someday to determine, once and for all, which database software is the most affordable.

Many of you have emailed me with your own questions regarding The Facility, claiming that, when you email Mickey directly, he never gives up any useful information, but often replies with unsolicited pictures of what appears to be a Haitian boy trapped in some kind of denim knapsack from Hot Topic.

Below are some of the questions or ideas you have submitted. Perhaps if we all put our heads together, and analyze the data carefully, we will someday be able to deduce whether I should buy Oracle or SQL Server.

Q: Does Mickey work at a Starbucks?
A: Mickey does consider coffee to be the perfect sports drink, but I am certain that if he worked for Starbucks they would have been offering SomaCow t-shirts at the cash register for nearly a year now.

Q: Yeah, I’ll bet Mickey works at a Starbucks.
A: What did I just say? Don’t make me stop this blog and come back there!

Q: Does “The Facility” produce a product, or provide a service?
A: Finally, an insightful question! After reviewing over one hours of previous podcast, I noted that Mickey frequently uses words such as “do”, “be” and “have” rather than words like “make”, “manufacture” or “sell”, so my own instincts are that The Facility is some type of service provider. For what government or industry I cannot guess.

Q: Have you ever gone through the drive-thru at the bank, and driven off with the little canister tube thingy, and then the person behind you has no way to send their transaction inside to the tellers, and they KNOW that it must have been you who was stupid enough to leave with it, and you can feel their eyes on you, mocking you as you have to drive around and get back in line to return it? I did that twice last week.
A: I don’t want you to play our games anymore, ok?

Q: Why are Geoff and Mickey always belittling and demeaning you?
A: They are just jealous, Mom.

So, in summary, I think we can safely conclude that: The Facility is a secret location at which a service may or may not be provided to some customer base that we have yet to determine.

It’s very much like talking to Mickey about most subjects.

It’s a brave, new year!

We here at SomaCow Media Network wish to thank our listeners for giving us such a wonderful 2007. We’ll be stepping it up to give YOU an even better 2008!

At this time of year, we pause to reflect on the past year, and make our plans for the future. Geoff, Mickey and I have made our resolutions and although I have already broken four of mine, we wanted to share them with you in hopes of bringing you some inspiration, or, at least, letting you feel superior to us because the resolutions we picked are too hard.

Geoff has resolved to harass me incessantly about my smoking and remains steadfast in his efforts to become my Mom (You can hear how passionate he is on this subject in tomorrow’s podcast).

Mickey is going to give his best effort toward not cutting his own hair so he doesn’t always have to wear hats in the studio.

I plan to effect a dramatic weight loss by subsisting entirely on Rice Krispie Treats for one year.

The three of us, actually, are planning to lose weight this year. We are just waiting for Mickey to work out the details of how he will somehow get paid by Geoff and I for doing this.

If you’d like to throw your weight (and support) behind one of us, to help us reach our health goals, you can email us at:

jeof@somacow.com or
milky@somacow.com or
j@somacow.com

Whomever receives the most supportive emails gets to ridicule the other two, so get busy emailing so we can get busy harassing!

Thanks for everything!

Oh, and we nailed Old Man 2007 to the wall with the following great music:

Drench – Texas
Mad Caddies – Villains
Straight Outta Junior High – Me First and the Gimme Gimmes

Clearly, I have no idea how to use an electric beard trimmer.

I make this claim based on the bloody clumps of slightly grey highlighted goatee currently in my bathroom sink.

It started out as such a wonderful Christmas morning. My martini hangover from the marathon “some assembly required” session the night before was nearly gone. I think “some assembly required” is false advertising. The box should actually say, in giant red letters “NO TWO PIECES OF THIS CONTRAPTION ARE CONNECTED. THE ONLY CHANCE IN HELL YOU HAVE OF SUCCESSFULLY ASSEMBLING THIS YOURSELF IS IF YOU HAPPEN TO HAVE THE CUSTOM GEODESIC-HEXAGONAL-TETRAHEDRON ALLEN WRENCH, WHICH IS AVAILABLE FROM US FOR $189.99″

The kiddies were all up early, happily breaking the battery covers off of all their new toys and, when those ran out, breaking the battery covers off of all the TV remotes. I had my traditional artificially flavored watermelon Pop Rocks (do not use in the bedroom!) from my Christmas stocking, and all was right with the world.

Then, I opened the gift from Hell.

The problem, as with most high-tech devices today, is that they cannot decide on what their primary useful feature should be. So, in order to compensate, they build in forty two useful features. Here I am using the word “useful” in the sense of “dangerous”, and I am using the word “dangerous” in the sense of “I’m sorry, this emergency room does not accept your insurance, sir”.

This is not a beard trimmer. This is an electric personal-hygiene grooming apparatus system. (I should not be allowed to own any device purporting to be either an “apparatus” or a “system”) It consists of a rechargable handle to which you may attach any of the following “useful” implements:

*beard trimmer
*nose bloodier
*ear mangler
*meat tenderizer
*pube yanker
*tire pressure gauge
*tazer (for those hard-to-reach areas)
*cheese/acne grater
*toenail extractor
*bikini waxer

I have not yet decided who I am going to sue, but you may rest assured that I have an “apparatus system” with which to torture them into giving me whatever compensation I want.

Of course, Nostradamus’ writing was always a little dense, so I’ll guide you through an interpretation of some of the more pertinent stanzas.

Well, you can’t get much more accurate than that!
Of course all the piggys are cowering. They know that Geoff is about to kick the crap out of them. And although Nostradamus called it “the Coffer”, instead of “the Hopper”, he was right on target in predicting that it would always be full of music when Geoff called for it.

This next part, where Geoff is referred to as “the King” is probably either a reference to him being the CEO of SomaCow Media Network, or a stray reference to Elvis, with whom Geoff shares several qualities.

The tales of experimentation that draw blushes, in my interpretation of this quatrain, refers to all the weird stuff Geoff did with/to/on his Unit in his childhood.

Don’t tell ME that Nostradamus is all vague and shit…

Ok, this is just spooky. If ever anyone was “from the fleet” (i.e. “in the Navy”) it is obviously Mickey. And he is “Teh Maker” of our show, in that he makes our live-streamed shows into podcasts and he spells “The” wrong.Nostradamus even appears to know that Mickey will be born in a town up north, near the town of the Pets (the original says “the northern burgh”, i.e. Pets Burgh).

If you have ever listened to Mickey tell a story, there can be no question in your mind to what the “heavy treading” of his ponderous “tales” refers.

The most amazing part to ME, though, is how close Nostradamus got to telling us that Mickey is henpecked (”ruled by”) The Chick That He is Dating!! Screw “hister”, this is right on the money!

Clearly, this quatrain indicates Nostradamus’ belief that in the spring of 2007, I would be added to the show, and I (The Hyena, associated with laughter) would immediately be relegated to the corner by Geoff (The Panda, associated with high-carb diets), even though we would rise together in the ratings on PodcastAlley.com
 
Nowadays, my intro consists of “going inside” of Geoff: “…annnnd, putting the ‘Hai’ in my ‘Karate’…we have J…”Nostradamus was also aware that the “explosive events” (i.e. the NewsBombs), and in particular, MY NewsBombs (the funny ones, i.e. “in mirth”) would get longer and longer until Geoff and Mickey actually began to read the latest Tim Dorsey novel during them.

He may have been the first Mac user.

The Christmas season has officially arrived!

Needing a break from my arduous task of busting on rednecks, white trash and inbreeders, I loaded up the family recently, drove “across the tracks” to a seedy town near ours, and attempted to lose myself in the festive spirit of the traditional City of Sandfurd Christmas Parade.

I wove my way through pungent clumps of citizens who were bedecked in every imaginable variety of festive holiday wife-beaters and flip-flops.

Another note: throughout this narrative, whenever I use the word “festive”, which will be a million times, it will be in the sense of “not the slightest bit festive at all, really”.

I parked my ample backside on a bench in the front row, using my SomaCow press credentials to elbow my way past children who were too short to see the parade anyway. What? They can see Santa at the mall all month, sheesh.

Nothing puts me more in the yuletide mood than a dozen fire and rescue vehicles with their sirens (or, as we say in Tennessee “sigh-reens”) blaring. Every baby within 100 yards of me, whether held on Daddy’s shoulders, or clutched to Mommy’s bosom, pooped simultaneously as the sirens passed, lending the proceedings the festive aroma of warm apple cider with poop in it.

Since “open containers” were allowed in the streets, I can’t actually remember much about the order in which the floats passed by me, so I will just point out those which caught my attention most.

The first float that I can remember seeing was a camouflage-green airboat, being pulled on a trailer. It was not decorated, except to have the word “Sherrif” painted festively on the side of it, nor was anyone riding in it. It was pulled slowly past us as if to say “You’d better make goddamn sure those fishing licenses are up to date, Christmas or not! Ho ho ho!”

The local hospital charities were represented by a float from which the celebrants tossed free condoms into the crowd. They were closely followed by members of the Some Souls Catholic Church, whose members went around taking back all the free condoms.

Lots of other churches participated, many having floats portraying the nativity scene. At one point, a guy near me held up his one-year-old son and announced loudly “This here’s your baby Jesus right here! Whoo-hoo! Baby Jesus!”. His baby-momma blushed to the very roots of her professional-wrestler-white-bleached hair.
 
There were lots of local “celebrities” driving in, or riding on, cars and smiling and waving broadly. I felt a little bit sorry for “Miss Sandfurd 2007″, who was obviously enjoying our hoots and hollers, not realizing that she still had one large hair curler clinging in the back.

Local small business owners, the backbone of our economy, were out in force as well. The extremely festive Sceptic Tank Pumping Vehicle gave me a moment of patriotic pride when it passed, causing me to reflect on the blessings of indoor plumbing, which I often take for granted.

There were school marching bands, of course, but since I couldn’t identify any of the songs they were playing I am merely going to comment that it takes YEARS to master the concept of stepping forward on the same foot as the person next to you.  YEARS.

Many private groups were represented as well. The Shriners, The Lions Club, The Royal Order of some animal whose banner had gotten twisted so I couldn’t read it, and one guy, walking alone, wearing a fez, carrying his own banner which read simply “Carl”.

Santa and Mrs. Claus closed out the parade, much to the delight of the dirty-faced children and probably also the bench that I was sitting on. A woman behind The Clauses with a megaphone gave us repeated Season’s Greetings of “Thanks for coming to our Parade! Rock on! Are you guys ok up there? Rock on! Can we pick up the pace a little bit? Rock on! No, Mommy can’t pick you up right now, darlin’. Rock on!”

All in all, it was a fine effort to kick off the Christmas Season. I would however, like to suggest that if nobody throws me any candy again NEXT year, I am very likely to use the town’s REAL name and publish its address and home phone number.

Rock on!
Also, here is a picture of a Santa hat:

This was the all-time “WTF?” Christmas carol to me, so I had to look up what it meant*.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I, personally, had wassailed in the past, and had even combined several of the word’s meanings in actual practice. Specifically: I have Christmas caroled while drunk.

I do not recommend this, unless you have a friend or relative who is a judge or attorney and can help get the charges reduced.

But I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

Christmas time back in Tennessee was much less sedate than the ones I have now, here in Florida. For one thing, we often had snow during the holidays. This was a cause for much rejoicing among those in the auto collision repair industry. I have personally assisted hott chix in tight sweaters, skirts and boots (that most savoury of female winter outfits) in extracting their compact cars from underneath fully loaded 18-wheelers.
Also, I can write my name in the snow with both hands in my pockets.

So, one year, my group of friends and I had indulged in slightly too much 80-proof Christmas cheer, and decided that we would share our Christmas spirit with the unfortunate neighbors of our community.

We bundled up, unbundled, peed, re-bundled and headed out with glowing cheeks and noses, again, from too much Christmas cheer.

The first home we visited had a snowman in the front yard, which we took as an indication that there would be kiddies whom we could delight with our songs of joy.

As we began our surprisingly unpolished version of “Jingle Bells”, an elderly woman opened the front door and smiled as she watched our festive antics. Then she stopped smiling. Then she frowned. Then she slammed the door shut. Then Lester stopped humping the woman’s snowman when we pelted him with snowballs packed with gravel. We had also failed to notice that Tina was doing her best to make anatomically correct snow angels by pulling her sweater up and lying face down. You could have stored food for the whole winter in those two deep, spherical impressions. I miss Tina.

Obviously, the solution to the unpopularity of our caroling was to drink more. This led, however, to the traumatic event which the rest of us simply refer to in whispers as “Bill and Ted’s Mistletoe Adventure”. This sufficiently dampened our spirits to put a premature end to our plan of musical mayhem. Both the egg and the nog were all gone, and we returned to sit slightly less merrily around the fireplace, and to try to save Tina from a case of double-D frostbite. I miss Tina.

I look back fondly on these Christmas memories, but they do not compare to the amazing times I have now, carrying nine tons of shopping bags around the mall for six hours.

I think it’s time to make some 80-proof, anatomically correct snowangels.

Sincerest wishes for a wonderful holiday season!

Love,

* http://www.woodlands-junior.kent.sch.uk/customs/Xmas/wassail.htm

a. breast augmentation scar
b. tramp stamp
c. feet
d. heart? Women have no hearts!

The surprising answer, according to these periodcentric publications is: c. feet

I don’t mean, like, weird foot-fetish stuff with whipped cream and flavored Dr. Scholl’s insoles. I mean the single act through which a man has any chance whatsoever to influence a woman’s behavior: the foot massage.

Reflexology, from the latin “reflexus” meaning “fat chance that even this will help” and “ologium” meaning “No, seriously”, teaches us that women’s feet have a bazillion nerve endings that are connected to various other, more interesting, areas of their bodies (if you know what I mean) and also to their brains.

By applying pressure, or, if you’re gay, “accupressure” to various points on a woman’s foot, all kinds of miraculous results can reportedly be achieved.

One man claims that, through simple sole-manipulation, he was able to watch an entire Sunday football game without once being disturbed with questions about new draperies or hardwood flooring.

Another man, and this is really the crux of the matter gentlemen, is said to have found his wife’s “b-spot” which, when stimulated by thumb pressure, caused her to offer him oral sex TWICE  in the same year.

Maxim, and other men’s magazines, have seized upon this phenomenon and have attempted to explain how men can use it to their advantage. The chart below shows my interpretation of the foot reflexology data, with a little male optimism thrown in for good measure.

Good luck guys!

Last time it was “poultry seasoning”.

The time before that it was “minced something-or-other”.

That’s right. 11am on Thanksgiving Day and I’m on my third emergency trip to the grocery store. “Emergency” should be in woman-quotes, by the way, because to men, it’s not an “emergency” trip unless you are buying a tourniquet and sterile gauze.

It’s not that I don’t like shopping.

Wait, yes it is, what the hell am I saying?

But I especially don’t like last-minute shopping during the holidays. That’s when the crazies come out. There was one guy buying Turkey Jurkey and tater tots, a woman who had apparently decided “to hell with it all!” and had a cart full of turkey pot pies with a single Idaho potato balanced on top, and numerous other husbands squinting at a list of items like “hydrogenated monodextrose flakes in broth” and looking too embarrassed to ask a store clerk where something like that might be found.

So I finally bring home the final magic ingredient, everybody shows up, we eat until we are large enough that the family gathering photographer has to stand across the street to fit us all into a group shot, then everyone scatters quickly to their homes, lest they fall asleep in the driveway. Not in the car. In the driveway. You know who you are.

IMPORTANT THANKSGIVING BEVERAGE INFORMATION: There is really a brand of wine called “Fat Bastard”. No, seriously. http://www.fatbastardwine.com/

So now the guests are gone, the food is 1/3 gone, and the women are racing furiously to remove every scrap of evidence that there was ever a feast held here, almost as if they are ashamed that we have just eaten like kings, and must conceal this fact from any drunken neighbor who might stumble over to knock on our door and announce “Haffy Thagsgivick! Damn, you’re a little hottie…”

Let me just say that Thanksgiving is done right at my house.

Let me also say that this is in no way thanks to me.

You should all really stop by and feast with us next Thanksgiving, and we’ll enjoy a huge platter of crystallized ginger, poultry seasoning and minced something-or-other.

Art bumpkins rejoice! It’s time for the 32nd annual Bithlo Art Festival and Tractor Pull!

I had the questionable good fortune of attending this highest of the lowbrow events last year, and this year’s offering is sure to surpass it.

We arrived at the cow pasture behind City Hall, where the event is traditionally held, a little before noon on the first day. The ground was already festively littered with Miller Light bottles (a proud sponsor of the event), and many lively festival-goers were already eagerly engaged in various phases of passing out with their ass-cracks showing.

The art exhibits were tastefully arranged in a circle around a temporary man-made “lake” and “fountain” which, later in the day, would also host a demonstration by the Ladies Auxilliary Mud Wrestling and Junior High Wet T-shirt Teams.

We strolled leisurely around through the exhibits, stopping at a few of the more noteworthy displays.

One sci-fi artist was displaying sketches of his high-tech vision of life in the future: a quadruple-wide trailer. I don’t know if such pipedreams will ever come to fruition, but if they do, you can bet that the fine citizens of Bithlo will be first in line to have their pictures made beside them while holding up finger-horns behind their buddies’ heads.

Of course there were purveyors of trendy fashion apparel, too. At one booth you could purchase black Rush concert t-shirts, black Van Halen concert t-shirts and black Black Sabbath concert t-shirts, as well as various naughty items of lingerie made entirely from the plastic that holds six-packs together. Also, camouflage condoms pre-treated with deer urine.

But don’t think that this is some stodgy event for sophisticated adults only. The kiddies will have a blast at the petting zoo, where they can interact with an astounding variety of pit bulls. Also, a local retailer had provided sandboxes for the toddlers. The sand was removed and replaced with mud, and each lil tyke got a Tonka truck with which to build his or her imaginination by pretending to be “muddin’”. Children really are our future.

There was much furor over the Bithlo Baby Beauty Pageant, when it was discovered that every female resident of the town, from age thirteen to seventy eight, had entered their own newborns in the competition, and it was determined that there would not be enough “Gerber Creamed Possum and Squarsh” prize-packs to go around.

The evening culminated with the much-anticipated tractor pull. Instead of taking turns attempting to pull the heaviest load, the contestants were paired up and chained together, tug-o-war style. When the flag dropped, you had to try to pull your opponent’s tractor across the red line centered between you. These fierce competitors used every weapon in their arsenal, including having their granny flash their opponent, in order to distract him by inducing vomiting, and using their wives/sisters under the wheels for extra traction. Eventually, of course, the pulling devolved into racing, and we lost sight of the last tractor headed into the woods, in a cloud of snuff, camouflage and John Deere hats, around dusk.

If you have a chance to attend the festival this year, I highly recommend it.

For free V.I.P. admission, tell ‘em Skeeter from SomaCow sent you.

When the authorities find my body, tell them that it was Geoff who killed me with his toasted pumpkin seeds.

It was a typical Sunday evening after the show. We sat by the pool, smoked, and discussed plans for upcoming episodes. I noticed a container of pumpkin seeds that Geoff had prepared. He had toasted and seasoned them to perfection, so that it was impossible not to sample their earthy goodness. I ate a handful or two as we talked, then I set out for home.

Halfway home, I began to feel some significant discomfort in my midsection.

You know those little balsawood gliders that you can get for a dollar at any cheapo store, with the little metal weight thingy on the nose? The kind that break up into kindling the second time you throw them? Well, imagine crumpling one of those up into a splintery wad, eating it, and then feeling it lodge in your esophagus* and not go down. Before I could reach my house, it had become moistened inside me, and was expanding and contracting with each breath I took.

I tried to burp to dislodge the spikey mass, and a single, razor-edged  pumpkin seed shot out of my (edited for the squeamish) and splatted onto the windshield, where it stuck, mocking me defiantly.

I was burping like crazy when I finally pulled up to the house and hurried inside. Thoughts raced through my mind: Why would Geoff want to murder me? Did Chris, the chocolate-obsessed psycho-fan put him up to this? How come some people pronounce the “t” in “often”?

For the next four and a half hours, I camped out in front of the toilet, waiting anxiously to see whether the shrapnel nuggets were going to come up or go down. I passed the time by imagining how much money we could make by selling those pumpkin seeds to our nation’s spies, who would carry a small pouch of them on their belts, and who would gulp down a handful whenever they found themselves facing a situation where they were forced to choose between revealing secrets of national security or taking their own lives. I think we would market them under the name “Sugar-free Suicide Pumpkincinerators”, or something like that.

During this time, I was periodically chugging from a two-liter bottle of Coca-Cola. The carbonation was greatly increasing the volume, frequency and “productivity” of my burps and was, I hoped, helping to dissolve the pumpkiny wasp-nest I had ingested.

Finally, a little after midnight, I felt a distinct, downward-scraping motion ocurring in my stomach. If you were to swallow a hamster with extremely long claws, and it made one last desperate scrabble to get out of you before being plopped unceremoniously into your stomach acid death chamber, it would feel much more pleasant than this did.

Exhausted, I collapsed into a weary slumber on the bath mat, which was disturbed only by the recurring dreams of having been force-fed a box of staples in some bizarre “new guy in the office” hazing ritual.

I awoke the next morning with a sense of “urgency”, if you know what I mean. I climbed weakly onto the toilet, where I spent the next two hours attempting to give birth to the pine cone that had finally dropped to my colon.

I won’t say that I screamed like a little girl, but the Department of Child Protective Services responded to a call from our neighbors to see whether one of our children was being beaten beyond recognition.

I think I have learned a lesson from all of this: When Geoff says that my NewsBombs are running too long, I should really, really listen to him.

I mean, you know…if I should happen to somehow survive.

*Or uterus, if you’re a woman.

Riddles have a special place in my heart because they combine a joke (or at least an answer that makes you laugh at your inability to solve it) with a “brain-teaser”.

 I told my son that I, his omnipotent father, know the answer to EVERY riddle, and he hasn’t stumped me yet. I mean, except for the riddles that he made up when he was seven.

“Dad, what has four legs and goes moo?”

“Ummm…I assume it’s not the obvious answer so…ummm…I give up.”

“A cow with diarrhea”.

“Well, don’t ALL cows have four legs and go moo, whether they have diarrhea or not?”

“Ha! That’s what makes it a riddle!”

Silly me.

So here’s my favorite riddle for you to solve. Leave your guess in your comment below, please.

“You throw away the outside and cook the inside. Then you eat the outside and throw away the inside. What is it?”

I’ll give the answer in my next blog, along with whatever kind of prize I can come up with for the first person who solves it without looking it up.

Click here if you are clueless

Click here for the solution

There, I said it.

I just don’t get them, they don’t “click” with me at all.

Why am I going to watch “The Amazing Race” when I just had more trouble getting to and from the home office in Nashville than these people have in circumnavigating the globe?

But I understand that the TV viewing public goes crazy over these shows. If I put a webcam in our laundry room, I guarantee you that people would watch, just in hopes of catching the occasional skidmark in some undies or to see whether we use liquid fabric softener or dryer sheets.

Then they would form internet forums to discuss the show, which I would probably call the “Stubborn Understains with J” show. These forums would contain sections such as “Accidental Downblouse Shots in Front of the Dryer” and “My God! What The Hell Was The Person Who Wore THOSE Drinking?!”. There would also be a betting pool on how much longer until each elastic waistband finally snaps.

Sound thrilling? No? Well, that’s exactly how thrilling “Survivor” and “Big Brother” and all those other reality shows are to me.

But, since the American public eats this drivel up, I figured that other countries must have their own reality shows, too. Of course, no other nation eats, sleeps and breathes TV like we Americans do, so their shows are probably not as successful as ours.

A little bit of research revealed the following FAILED international reality TV shows:

The Biggest Loser – Ethiopia: “Mbulu TkchkDk from the Red Team…you lost…FIVE OUNCES this week, taking you down to sixty eight pounds, two ounces. Way to go, Red Team!”

Moscow Big Brother: Though rumored to be highly entertaining, the tapes of this show have never been released by the government, and the participants were never heard from again.

The Bachelor – Iraq: “And the rose goes to…Woman In Burkha #3! Why her, Akbar?” “Well, she has the least amount of facial hair visible through the eye slit in her face-cover.”

Survivor Auschwitz: Ok, STOP! Not even SomaCow would touch THIS one.

Geoff tells us that if you want your website to get picked up by Google, your site should include the phrase “Top 10“. Google’s search engine looks for these, and places them high in the results list.

Hmmmm…if one “Top 10” will make you show up in Google…then…

Welcome to the Top 10 of the Top 10 lists that I would post here, if I could actually think of 10 things to write about each Top 10 list.

10. Top 10 Actors Whom Mickey Confuses with Other Actors

9. Top 10 Fat Guy Noises That J Makes During Every Show

8. Top 2 Things Geoff Won’t Eat at a Buffet (well, some lists don’t go up to 10)

7. Top 10 Navy Stories That Will Induce a Deep, Restful Sleep

6. Top 10 Ways J Manages to Step on Geoff’s Hilarious Punchlines

5. Top 10 Finger Gestures That Geoff Gives J For Stepping On His Hilarious Punchlines

4. Top 10 Body Parts That Mickey Would Cut Off Rather Than Get Married

3. Top 10 Cigarettes That J Consumes During a Single Music Break

2. Top 10 Disturbing Childhood Stories That Geoff Insists on Telling Us

And the number one Top 10 Top 10 list:
1. SomaCow’s Top 10 Top 10 Top 10 Lists (if I do THIS list 9 more times!)
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This has been a busy and stressful couple of weeks. My mother-in-law is in the hospital, my son is busy injuring himself in Xtreme Sports, and I’m working on a side-project for you, our loyal fans.

So, I’ve fallen a little behind. Not only on my hilarious blog-writing, but also in answering your voluminous emails to me at j@somacow.com

Things are still crazy around here, though, so I’m going to have to answer your emails here all at once. My apologies for any confusion this may cause.

* You can try, but The Chick That He Is Dating will cut you.

* It’s more frothy, really, than creamy.

* Only once, but I was really, really drunk and he was Canadian, so I don’t really count that.

* I think it’s available in a cream AND an ointment, but either way it’s better than that rotten Cheetos smell. Good luck!

* I understand your parental concern, but her profile said that she was 21, and you can’t really see any bush.

* Not that I know of, but I have seen them fish the car keys out of each other’s pockets after the show.

* No, it really only works with one of those bendy straws.

* It is SomaCow’s ongoing intention to clearly establish journalistic responsibility as well as political impartiality relative to the dispensation of criticism in any matter related to affairs of State and/or national security. Can we see your boobies now?

* Your Mom.

I went out to my luxuriously appointed patio and lit the first cigarette of the day, enjoying the beautiful Florida weathARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF!

Around the corner of the house, under my chair and straight through my legs came a brown blur, followed closely by a fluffy blur, followed immediately by a dappled blur.

The latter two blurs were my stoopit dachshunds, Moron and Birdbrain. The former blur was a rabbit that had squeezed through the gate in my privacy fence.

I’m not saying that they scared the shit out of me, I’m just saying that Scotch Guarding the patio furniture cushions was a GREAT idea.

When I realized what they were chasing, I immediately commanded them to STOP IT RIGHT NOW, YOU BASTIDS! The dogs immediately showed obedience by chasing the rabbit to the far side of the yard, so as not to be distracted by my annoying yelling. I might as well have been asking Mickey to stop surfing porn during our show, for as much attention as they paid me.

Now they circled back, and I jumped up on top of our large gas barbecue grill to avoid them.

I am not a sissy. I am also not dying of rabid rabbit bites, thank you very little.

The dogs chased the rabbit for nearly a minute, snapping at it but not, so far as I could tell, actually injuring it in any way. Still, the rabbit slowed, then stopped, then lay panting, then lay still.

Poor bunny! I understand that it is a dog’s instinct to chase rabbits, but when you consider that my dogs are normally so lazy that they are often mistaken for speed-bumps, I felt nothing but contempt for them.

My immediate problem, however, was how to get rid of the big ole nasty dead rabbit from my backyard.

Remembering that my cellphone was in my pocket, I called information and got the number for Animal Control, forgetting, in my eagerness to have my yard remain roadkill-free, that they are employees of the county government.

Me: Is this the right place to call if my dogs have killed a rabbit in my backyard and I need it removed?

Govt. Employee: Is this a domestic or imported rabbit, sir?

Me: Hang on, I’ll check his papers. Can you get over here?

Govt. Employee: Does the rabbit have a tag?

Me: Yes, it has two long, floppy tags sticking out of the top of its head. Can you please get over here, now?

Govt. Employee: Is the rabbit injured?

Me: Well, he was filling out insurance forms a minute ago. Are you on the way yet?

Govt. Employee: We’ll send someone right over.

“Right over”, of course, in government employee terms, means “possibly before Letterman is over”.

When the truck finally arrived, I was a little bit surprised to see that they had dispatched a female employee to do the dirty work. I guess I’m just used to women who shriek and faint at the sight of dead flies in the bug zapper.

She immediately took control of the situation: “Sir? Could you come down from the grill now, please?”

I did, and I lead her over to the rabbit carcass.

“Why didn’t you pick it up?”, she asked.

I looked at her as if she had just asked me why I didn’t hold my son’s head under water until the bubbles stopped.

“Because it is a dead animal, Miss MinimumWagePants”.

“You could have just put it in the trashcan”.

“Ah, but is it not possible that that would result in my having a dead animal in my trash can?”

So, she scooped it up and hauled it away, the best tax dollars that I have ever spent.

I returned to my chair and lit another cigarette, the dogs grinning up at me with the same blank, stupid expression on their faces that George Bush must have had on the day of his SATs.

Next time, I’ll just shoot the dogs and place the gun in the rabbit’s paws.

No furry jury in the world would convict him.

Until recently, that is, when I had to venture into that late night quagmire of commerce myself.

It was about 1:30am on a Saturday morning. I won’t say why I was there, except to mention that when a woman tells you to buy the kind with wings, she really wants you to buy the kind with wings.

I was amazed at how many people have an overwhelming need to purchase hunting rifles at such a wee hour. I know that I have personally bolted upright in bed in the middle of the night many times screaming “GODDAMN YOU DEER!”. Unfortunately, on these occasions, I am speaking rather than typing, so my wife can’t see the spelling of the word “DEER” and tells me that I am sometimes no bundle of joy, myself.

I am no GQ model, particularly at 1:30am, but I felt like one in that gruesome company. Apparently there are many ethnic women in my neighborhood who have just arrived this very moment from their country of origin and need to purchase some western consumer goods at discount prices. I say this because regular old American women have been taught two very important lessons about hairstyling:

1. Curl your hair with hair curlers.
2. Do not, under any circumstances, let any other human see you with hair curlers in your hair.

The ethnic Wal-Martian women not only didn’t care that I saw them with curlers in their hair, they also didn’t care that I saw them with many other items in their hair, masquerading as curlers, including, but not limited to clothespins, garbage can twisty ties, toilet paper rollers and, in one case, something that looked like wads of that old, shiny kind of fax machine paper.

The men were not much better. Most of them, like me, were not there voluntarily, and they were apparently quite annoyed that they had to come to the store so late at night, and yet were not allowed to buy hunting rifles.

One such man was in front of me in the checkout line. We looked at each other sympathetically, or maybe just pathetically, as we shuffled through the line. Then he turned back around to me, saw what I was purchasing, and his eyes widened. “WINGS!” he said, as he slapped himself in the forehead, V-8 style, and bolted back to the shelves.

At least the employees were pleasant at this time of night. Employee, singular, actually. 32 cash registers and one cashier. As I entered my second hour waiting in line, I leaned over to the impulse purchase shelves, grabbed a bottle of water, and splashed it onto my head, much like a marathon runner might do. Of course, this only lengthened my sentence in line, since Negrita (the actual name on her actual name tag) had to stop ringing up our purchases and mop it up herself.

She was quite displeased with me, as were the other customers behind me in line.

Some of them looked at me with expressions on their faces which said “Asshole! You could have soaked the shiny fax machine paper in my hair!”

I think they could have used some winged products, too.

I open it up and, BWAHA!, it is filled with completely blank pages!

OhHoHoHo. AhHaHaHa.

But it did get me thinking that there are a TON of celebrities who could write their own book full of completely blank pages:

“Desserts I Have Never Tried” by Oprah Winfrey

“The Qualities That Make Me a Superstar” by Paris Hilton

“People I Haven’t Totally Creeped Out” by Michael Jackson

“Fans Who Still Remember Me” by David Hasselhoff

“Leadership: How I Brought Us Forward” by George W. Bush

“Parenting in These Trying Times” by Britney Spears

“Differences Between Me and Corey Haim” by Corey Feldman

“The Role of Animal Cruelty in Corporate America” by Michael Vick

“Enough is Enough: When to Call it Quits” by Wayne Newton

“Look What I’ve Eaten This Year!” by Nicole Richie

“All the High Notes I Have Hit” by Bruce Springsteen

“People Who Could Replace J on SomaCow” by Geoff, host of SomaCow

“Engaging Stories That Will Keep You on the Edge of Your Seat” by Mickey, co-host of SomaCow

“My Time Spent Out of the Corner” by J, co-host of SomaCow

No problem is too large or too small, and though I am an extremely busy man, I will personally take the time to answer all email that I receive at DearFlabby@ItsAFakeEmailAddressStoopit.com

I am a 37 year old man and my girlfriend is 35. Recently, while walking through the mall, my girlfriend busted me staring at an extremely hot, and very much younger, chick. My girlfriend shot laser pointers out of her eyes as she glared at me and asked “What does SHE have that I don’t have?!”. My mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words would come out. Flabby, is there a correct answer to this scariest of all questions?

Signed,
In the Doghouse

Dear Canine Condo Resident,

Yes. The correct answer would have been “a birth certificate from the 1990s”.

Who cares?

Signed,
Pessimist

Dear Pes’t,

I care, that’s who! I am always here for you, and for the paltry sum of only $4.99 per minute (local surcharges may apply) you can hear an extremely long recording of me caring on many topics, which may or may not apply to you personally, by calling 1-900-IMAGOOBER.

I actually have THREE problems that I need help with, all relating to the same person. The person is my friend and business partner, whom I shall call “Rickey”. We co-host a wildly popular internet radio show, along with an absolute comedic genius who is not part of these problems.
My first problem is that “Rickey” has an extremely gay obsession with actor David Hasselhoff. The second problem is that “Rickey”, during the music breaks in our show, often returns from the men’s room without having washed his hands. And, finally, the third problem is that “Rickey’s” birthday is coming up soon, and I have no idea what to get him. Can you possibly advise me on all three problems? Help, help and help!

Signed,
Bay B. Propagator

Dear Geoff,

Off-air, we have developed our own lexicon to describe the various aspects of our on-air performances. See how many you were already familiar with, then feel free to use them in your comments on this blog. Maybe you even have a few SomaCowlianisms of your own!

Mickeyllaneous: mik-ee-LAY-nee-us
The hodge-podge of obtuse references that Mickey confounds us with regularly.

Jalienate: JAY-lee-uh-nate
This is what J did to Geoff and Mickey when he said that he would eat Salma Hayek’s placenta.

Geofflatulate: je-FLAT-choo-late
The fake fart noises that Geoff can make under his man-boobs.

Mickeyster: mi-KEY-ster
Where we want to kick Mickey after each meandering Navy story.

Javiation: jay-vee-AY-shun
When J makes a joke that flies over Mickey’s head, and Mickey doesn’t realize how funny it was until later when he’s editing the episode.

Geofferinarian: jeff-er-in-AIR-ee-un
Tending to the needs of the pack of feral dogs who roam the halls of the SomaCow studios looking for partially eaten Slim-Jims.

Mickeymistry: mi-KEY-mis-tree
That undefinable quality that Mickey has that makes twang flock to him.

J-string: JAY-string
What Geoff and Mickey call J’s swimming trunks that go from just under his man-boobs to just above his ankles.

And, finally, one for our producer:
Jensing: JEN-sing
An audio atrocity that we have, so far, prevented from going out over the air.

Why a woman would drag a man on a baby-accessory shopping expedition is beyond all reasoning. We don’t ask them to traipse around the auto parts store with us. There are similarities in both cases, of course, as we each go up and down the aisles holding up bizarre apparatus for our spouse’s inspection, exclaiming “What in the world does THIS thing do?!”. I have learned through this method that everything at The Baby Gap that is not clearly a rattle or clothing is mostly likely to be a breast pump. But, unlike at the auto parts store, you will hardly ever overhear a customer at The Baby Gap speaking to a sales associate saying “I blew a gasket on this pump. Can we grease her up and pressurize her to see where the leak is?”.

I will attempt to describe The Baby Gap in terms that men can understand.

In area it is somewhat larger than Soldier Field, home of the Chicago Bears, but with much more available parking and way fewer beer vendors.

It is generally packed with pregnant women, many of whom are buying two of everything in sight, because they haven’t even found out the sex of their baby yet. One woman was merely browsing because she was comtemplating going out on a date in the near future.

FYI, you would be better advised to shove your scrotum into a box fan (turned up to 3) than to attempt to smoke a cigarette within four miles of the entrance to this store. The female customers don’t even bother lecturing you in the parking lot, or giving you disapproving glances. They just pull the rip cord on one side of their nursing bra and squirt your cigarette out from distances of up to 30 feet.

At least I was already familiar with my role on this shopping trip, which was, as always, that of “complaining pack mule”. In this capacity, I get to determine when it’s time for us to leave the store, based on the time at which I can no longer see over the top of the boxes and bags that I am carrying.

The only point of interest for me was the vaporizer aisle. The modern industrial revolution has led humanity to develop an astounding 1.2 million varieties of devices for adding moisture to dry air. To me, this is in stark contrast to the mere three devices we have invented for adding moisture to a dry beer mug. All of the vaporizers were turned on and spewing various aromatic fragrances into my face, ranging from “Medicinal Mentholated” to “Calming Forest Essence” to “Baby Oil with a little bit of Vomit Mixed In”.

IMPORTANT NOTE: When the bib steward approaches and asks what customized message you would like on your bib du jour, she, and the surrounding shoppers will not be amused when you suggest “Show Your Tits!”.

Near the exit is a suggestion box. On my visit, the box had been left open, so I took the liberty of examining a few of the entries, in order to distract myself from the beep-booboop-beep sounds of my bank account being depleted. Every one of the suggestions was written by a pack mule such as myself, since women consider The Baby Gap to already be the perfect store. One of my comrades-at-tired-arms had suggested weekly wet t-shirt contests in the vaporizer aisle. But the last one I read was by far the most moving, and I could genuinely empathize with its overwhelmed author, who had scrawled simply: HELP!

Why am I re-bitting, you ask?

Because, much to my delight, some d00d on the internet found my original post and decided to play along! I love it when you guys do that! This is the kind of interaction with our fans that makes SomaCow YOUR network. Hats, and panties, off to Mr. ratboy! His reply and my response are also reproduced below.

I appreciate everyone who takes the time to comment and play along.
You make this even more fun for me. Thanks.

Problem: I am unable to identify all the parts.
Solution: You are the exact reason women made us develop this user’s manual.
Please refer to Figure 3B for a detailed cross-section.

Problem: It doesn’t look like I thought it would.
Solution: Purchase our sleek and sexy Velveteen Blindfold (Item #42824).
Also available in Pleather.
Note: Remember to remove blindfold prior to operating a motor vehicle.

Problem: I am having difficulty causing my new vagina to self-lubricate.
Solution: On a cold day, you may have to leave your car running for a few minutes before driving in order for the essential fluids to circulate throughout the engine. The same principle applies here. From a cold start, please ensure that you provide adequate warm-up time, referred to in the industry as “foreplay”. This may take up to 17 (seventeen) hours to fully enact. But your vagina will thank you!

Problem: Whoo-hoo!
Solution: This is not an actual problem. This is the desired result of using the product properly. Feel free to submit your own product testimonial.

Problem: I am really thoroughly dissatisfied with your product in every way. TTFN!
Solution: You are gay. Please return your vagina in its original packaging for a full refund, or credit toward one of our fine penile products.

Problem: After significant use, my vagina now appears to be housing some form of unexpected human offspring.
Solution: This is one of the many hazards of frequent vagina use.
Please visit our website for an explanation of your, and our, liability.

Unsolicited Product Testimonials:

“I love your product! I can’t get enough! I even collect and trade with my friends!” – Charlie Sheen

“Your product caused me to lose all touch with reality.” – Kevin Federline

“Really, I don’t think I am your target market.” – Richard Simmons

“I have had your product for many years. I fully enjoyed it both times I used it!” – J, SomaCow host

“I am still waiting for your product to arrive, but I am very excited!” -Clay Aiken

“Finally, a product that we women can use, too!” – Rosie O’Donnell

Further, I did order the Australian model Vagina, but I seem to have received the American model. Although it seems to be easier to become familiar with intitially, upon repeated use it seems to be overly demanding in service requirements.

I should inform you that in regards to the question of off-spring with repeated use of the Vagina, there is an after-market accessory available called a “condom”. I must say there are some pretty wild claims made about that product!

I have heard that you have a new model of vagina coming out soon called the “Paris Hilton easy-to-use”. Please send me a brochure regarding same.

Lastly, I don’t know that it was such a good idea for me to to share the vagina with all my friends, but they were thrilled and are going to buy Vaginas for themselves. Well Done!

Ratboy -
http://www.trivia-wiz.com/thinktank/

We stand behind our claim that one size fits all, under normal circumstances. However, we have been made aware that certain minimum or maximum size parameters may be exceeded by our customers in China, Japan and parts of Alabama.

Production has been delayed on our Paris Hilton EZ-2-Use model, although many pictures of it can be found on most standard websites. Until this product becomes available, we are happy to offer you a pair of identical Olsen Trimline models for the same price.

Enjoy your fine GodCo Products!

More or less sincerely,

J
President, North American Distribution

The executives at SomaCow saw the need to bring the two camps closer together. They, in their finite wisdom, conceived the following brilliant plan: Let’s have a four-martini lunch and play golf!

When they were finished, they hatched the following harebrained scheme: Let’s send the “talent” out on some “sales” calls, so they can develop some empathy, or at least some migraine headaches and heat rash.

Today it was my turn to sell.

My first sales call of the day was to a picturesque vendor of aquatic attraction devices.

Ok, it was a bait shop.

I strode confidently into this establishment, and asked the first camouflage-cap-wearing jackanape that I bumped into if the manager was in.

Over his massive dip of Skoal I was hardly able to decipher his response, but he turned and spit toward the rear of the store, so I headed in that direction.

The manager was a Mr. Bubba “Bubba” Henderson. Bubba looks very much like Hagrid from the Harry Potter movies, except bigger, less attractive and more pungent.

Me: Bubba, I’m J from SomaCow Media, how are you this afternoon?
Bubba: Soma whut?
Me: SomaCow Media. We are an internet entertainment network, and I’d like to show you how advertising with us can improve your sales.
Bubba: Whut? We ain’t gonna sell no bait on no innernet.
Me: Yes, well, you wouldn’t really be selling it over the internet, you would be advertising it over the internet, and people would come here to buy it.
Bubba: Whut? People already come here to buy it.
Me: As well they should. I have never seen a finer display of live insects and segmented arthropods.
Bubba: …Whut?
Me: Umm…is there someone else I could speak to?

My keen instincts told me that I was wasting my time with Bubba, so I thanked him for seeing me, spit on his desk in a friendly manner and headed out for my next sales call.

This was to a place called “Mr. Stephan’s House of Groom”. Mr. Stephan is a very…umm…”flamboyant” hairstylist. He is SO flamboyant, in fact, that his wrists appear to be double-jointed. He looked me up and down and asked if he could take me in the rear. We went back to his lavender-upholstered office and he offered me his seat. I politely declined and took a chair instead.

Me: Mr. Stephan…
Mr. Stephan: It’s pronounced “steFON”, actually.
Me: SteFON, certainly. How, may I ask, do you currently advertise your excellent salon?
Mr. Stephan: My marketing efforts are primarily…oral.
Me: Ah, word of mouth. Well, that’s not the most reliable method of getting customers to come.
Mr. Stephan: I haven’t had any complaints yet, sweetie.
Me: I’m sure you haven’t. Let me lay it before you.
Mr. Stephan: Well, you certainly wouldn’t want to lay it after me. *giggle*
Me: The main…what?
Mr. Stephan: Nothing, darling, please continue.
Me: Ok. Where was I? Oh yes! The main thing I wanted you to see was our marketing package.
Mr. Stephan: Mmmmm…yes…show me your package, please.
Me: Certainly. The first thing you’ll notice…is…that your hand is on my leg.
Mr. Stephan: Does that bother you?
Me: It does make me a little bit trepidacious.
Mr. Stephan: I’ll assume that means “rigid”, big boy. ROWRR!
Me: Umm…is there someone else I could speak to?

So, I guess the SomaCow executives are not so stoopit after all. I certainly have a newfound respect for our salespeople.

So much so that I may even give them each one of my free coupons to “Mr. Stephan’s House of Groom”.

Just in time for the early end of summer pre-Christmas rush, China has shipped over a new batch of toys that will keep young American boys and girls in stitches!

SomaCow got a sneak peek into Chinese Santa’s gift bag…

The first man was a devil, come from half a world away to threaten me, my wife, my children, my country and my way of life, though he had never seen any of us before. The devil killed over three thousand of my friends and neighbors that day, in order that I should see that he was in deadly earnest. He scowled and called US the devils, and swore that he would continue to kill, indescriminately, savagely, with animal ferocity and lack of mercy or conscience until, someday, he could get at us and all we held dear and destroy it utterly. We wept: out of fear, out of lack of comprehension, that such inhuman carnage should be directed our way.

The devil gave his oath that no place on Earth would be safe from his machinations.

The devil spoke the truth that day.

The second man arrived as a saviour. He entered with solemn bravado, and attempted to assuage our fears. A man of immense power, he took me and my family under his protection, and swore that he knew the devil’s lair, and that the devil would find HIS justice on our behalf swift, resolute and inescapable. He sent forth his minions, who slew the devil’s disciples across the world, suspects all, but again and again his boasts were shown empty, for the devil remains, to this day, untried, unpunished, unfettered.

The saviour gave his oath that no place on Earth would be safe for the devil’s machinations.

The saviour lied to my face that day.

Tonight I shall, as I do every night, stand guard over my family, as many others do for theirs, and look expectantly into the night wondering which of the two men’s faces will be the first to loom at me out of the gloom, smiling broadly, content that his work is done.

At the time of this writing, there are three primary ways to break your own computer, but tons of lesser ways exist, too.

#1 Install America Online (AOL)
This is by far the most foolproof method for breaking your own computer. As the world’s most widely supported virus, AOL is guaranteed to be impossible to uninstall once it has gotten a grip on your computer. As a former computer security consultant for the Department of Defense, I was once tasked with removing AOL from a standard PC in a timed exercise. I ran the uninstall program twice, deleted the folders containing the AOL programs, and formatted the hard drive. I then removed the hard drive, dragged it across wool carpeting, immersed it in boiling salt water, microwaved it on “defrost” for one minute and twenty seconds, poured sand into it, and loaded it with chewed bubblegum. Finally, I stuck a powerful electromagnet to the back of it and gave it to a child of two to play with for five minutes. The test timer buzzer went off. I pressed <ENTER>. It said “You have mail”.

#2 Visit any MySpace website
If I said to you “Hey, Larry” (assuming that your name is Larry, of course) “Hey, Larry, is it ok if I stick a whole bunch of homemade experimental software widgets and gadgets into your computer? They are not certified, but they worked just fine for a few minutes for my neighbor’s daughter, right before her computer crashed. They will, of course, accumulate to the point that your computer will no longer be able to perform such useful functions as turning on or running programs, but if I do this, and you leave the computer running forever, you will be able to take online polls and listen to bad country music and see enough baby pictures to make Anne Geddes want to punch an infant in its cute widdle froat, and keep up with whether Chad and Bridgette are breaking up or not.”…you would think that I was crazy. But when MySpace does it without even asking you, you practically tinkle yourself with excitement. You are stoopit, Larry, and I’m not talking to you any more.

#3 Let another human touch your computer
I can’t even explain this one. Your computer can work just fine and/or dandy for years, but let a buddy check his fantasy football stats online, or let a bored child play with MS-Paint for a few minutes, and things will never be the same. Your desktop icons will all go away. You will no longer be able to connect to the internet. Your printer will never again run out of ink because it will never again print a single word, although it WILL print “&&&&&&12pt/z+++++” over and over again. Don’t ask to use my computer when you come to my house. If you do, I will install AOL on YOUR computer. That’ll teach ya.

I’m sick as a dog right now, but it’s not the weak and miserable feeling that I hate. It’s not the apologies I have to make when I blow snot onto someone’s Chik-n-Pattee with cheese, no mayo, at lunchtime, although that is the part that THEY hate. I don’t even mind the rectal thermometers so much, as long as I can make their use into a game of some kind:

“Vee haff vays of making you talk, Meester Bond!”

“Do your worst! I’ll never give you the microfilm!”

No, the most unbearable part to me is how really, phenomenally bad the cold and flu medicines taste.

I’ve tried capsules, and caplets and liqui-gels and cap-gel-pak-ettes and everything, but the only thing that will touch my symptoms is the dreaded tiny 2oz. plastic cup of gagging elixir.

They, meaning the boneheads at the pharmaceutical companies, try to pretend that they have gone to great lengths to give their vile concoctions a pleasant flavor. A few flavors that I have tried include:

Mint-o-burst: tastes like Jaegermeister, which I also can’t stand. Gets me more drunk than Jaeger does, though.

Golden Vanilla: reminiscent of ‘Nilla Wafers soaked in warm Evil, then dipped in artificially flavored vanilla goat turds.

Cherry: yeah, if the cherries are bursting with pus and septic tank residue. FYI, if you’re wondering whether it would taste just a tiny bit less foul if you put it on toast or a biscuit, sort of like cherry jelly, the answer is no.

So it’s time to take another dose right now, and I thought I would share the experience with you. Tonight’s aperitif is a fiesty little vintage from the Beaujolais region of Satan’s anus called “Contak Severe Cold: Extra-Putrid flavor”.

Here goes…

*gulp*

*ermphhhh*

*urlguhhhhack*

Well, I’m going to have to stop writing now and clean that up.

Then, I’m going to drink some “Mint-o-Burst” transmission fluid and go back to bed.

Wish me luck.

Scene I:
Commissioner: I am at my wit’s end, men. Much like the narrator mentioned. Something must be done to stop this clever gang, and it must be done now!

Chief: As you well know, men, all over the city, delicious, but dangerously-high-in-carbs snacks are turning up everwhere. The salad bars have all been mysteriously converted to eclair stands, the smoothie vendors find their stock replaced with Mrs. Butterworth’s, and the donut shops…well, the donut shops still have donuts, but still…

Commissioner: Not to mention the third armored Hostess truck hijacking this week!

Deputy #1: Chief, we just don’t have the manpower!

Deputy #2 (sadly):Â I wish J had written some lines for me.

Deputy #1: Yeah, but then he would have to pay you.

Commissioner: I think it is time we called on our crime-fighting comrades, the heroes of Ho-Ho’s, the truffle trio, the “boy, we really like waffles” guys. Gentlemen…it’s time we brought in: SomaCow.

(Everyone freezes, looking expectant)

Commissioner: Dammit! Carl!

Carl the music guy: Oh, sorry.

(dramatic music) DUN DUN DUHHHHHHHH!

Chief: But how can we contact SomaCow? They never answer their cellphones. When we shined the SomaCow signal into the sky they thought it was the grand opening of a car dealership. And nobody knows the location of their secret underground lair.

Commissioner: Blog comments, Chief. Blog comments.

Narrator: Meanwhile, in their secret underground lair, The Martini Room, SomaCow were preparing for their upcoming shows.

Scene II:
Geoff: It’s not so much a lair, really, as it is a niche.

Mickey: Carlos Santana!

J: Dammit! I still can’t come up with my own theme song for when Geoff introduces me on the show. Do either of you have any connections with that Carl guy from Scene I?

Geoff: Seriously? No, SERIOUSLY? Can you do that AFTER we put a stop to this crime wave, please?

Mickey: Why do you hate justice, J?

J: (frustrated sigh)

Geoff: Ok, guys let’s suit up. We’ll see how this McCarb Gang stands up to the overwhelming force of Mr. Meaty, ObscureReferenceGuy and Can’tQuiteTouchHisToesMan!
Narrator: This is the part where we would normally show the guys changing into their superhero outfits, but there was some kind of mix-up at the costume shop, and everybody’s leotards came in “adult medium”.

Scene III:
McCarb: Ok, you lazy carb-wranglers, get those crates unloaded from the van!

Crenshaw: Boss, you want I should unload the fat-free potato chips?

(A sudden silence. All eyes turn to McCarb.)

McCarb: Sure, Crenshaw. Why don’t you just place them down…HERE!

(McCarb pulls a lever, a trap door fails to open, and everyone looks kind of embarrassed.)

McCarb: Stoopit low-budget independent films…

(SomaCow busts up into the room)

Mr. Meaty: Not so fast, meretricious recalcitrant!

All the bad guys, in unison: SomaCow!!

ObscureReferenceGuy: Driving Miss Daisy!

McCarb: So, we meet again, SomaCow! (eyes tray of conveniently placed poisoned Rice Krispie Treats lying on the floor, and slides it over in front of our heroes.) Take that!

Mr. Meaty: Fiendishly clever, McCarb! (bends over and helplessly begins to devour the knock-out treats, then collapses, senseless)

ObscureReferenceGuy: Charles Nelson Reilly! (leans forward and stuffs treats into his mouth, then falls over)

Can’tQuiteTouchHisToesMan: (straining) Must…reach…yummies…

McCarb: Curses! You are too fat to reach the snack tray on the floor!

Can’tQuiteTouchHisToesMan: That’s right, McCarb. The jig is up!

McCarb: “Jig”? I was thinking it was “gig”. You know, like a job, a performance, whatever. You think “jig”, though?

Can’tQuiteTouchHisToesMan: I think it’s probably “jig”, yeah.

McCarb: Ok.

(everybody just stands around awkwardly)

Can’tQuiteTouchHisToesMan: Oh! But you are thwarted, you mastermind of marshmallow mayhem! Everyone, into the van!

Narrator: Our other two heroes eventually regain consciousness, and J explains to them how he saved the day.

Geoff: Yeah, it’s definitely “jig”.

All three: Ha ha ha!!

(cheesy freeze-frame)

fin

I don’t consider myself even a “shadetree” mechanic. I’m more of a “look up a car problem on the internet, stumble across pictures of busty chicks sitting on the hoods of sports cars, and then forget the original thing I was searching for” mechanic.

But, for some reason, even here in the 21st century when our toolboxes consist primarily of iPods and a GPS, we guys feel like we have to prove to somebody or other that we are manly enough to try to do our own car repairs.

Some people translate “manly enough” to read “stoopit enough”.

I, too, have fallen victim to this macho paranoia. So, in the interest of sharing my knowledge with other guys similarly afflicted, I have prepared this guide to breaking your own car.

I. A poor craftsman blames his tools
There is only one tool that you MUST have in order to give the illusion that you can tell the difference between a lug nut and a beer nut: a torque wrench.

If you have one of these nifty devices handy, you can easily convince women, small children, and the mentally handicapped that you know your way around a car’s…ummm…you know…the stuff under the hood. Whenever anyone asks you how a torque wrench works, just say “It doesn’t! I spent $300 dollars on this deluxe model, and it broke the first time I tried to set the timing on my exhaust manifold! Cheap piece of crap!” Then offer the person a beer and steer the conversation toward pictures of busty chicks sitting on the hoods of sports cars.

II. Terminal illness
Once people become aware of your exceptional automotive repair prowess, the most common thing they will ask you to do is to jump off their dead car batteries. Be prepared, because they will often ask you to do this at ridiculous hours of the day or night, such as Sunday afternoon when the game is tied at 14 with 7 seconds left on the clock.

The only tools you need for this are a set of standard jumper cables and a standard cellphone with “9″ and “1″ already dialed, just waiting for the last “1″ when you electrocute yourself or the battery explodes.

Hooking up the jumper cables is very safe and easy if you connect them to the battery terminals in the exact order and configuration shown below:

III. The oily bird catches the wormgear
Eventually, the chick that you are dating will ask you why you can’t save the two of you some money, for Burberry purses, or something, by changing the oil in her car yourself. When this occurs, DO NOT PANIC! Also, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CHANGE THE OIL YOURSELF!

The concept is pretty simple. Oil runs through your engine, through a filter, and back to the engine. Removing a small plug in the oilpan allows the oil to be drained out onto your neighbor’s driveway, you replace the dirty oil filter with a clean one, put in new oil, and put the plug back in.

Easy right?

You, sir, are an idiot. Do you have any idea where that oil filter is, in her car? I will give you a hint: it is not under the hood. It is most likely in the passenger seat headrest, where it cannot possibly be reached by anybody with hands larger than a newborn’s. I know what you are thinking here, but believe me, the newborn’s parents will not be pleased with your plan. Also, the plug that actually keeps the oil in the engine is not even located on her car. It is located in Detroit. So do what I have done. Tell your significant other that you have to go buy some oil. Meanwhile, you drive straight to Quik-E-Loob and let them do the job right, then you come home and lie under the car for an hour listening to the game on earphones and scatter empty oil containers around. Be sure to curse out loud periodically, for authenticity. If you are listening to a Miami Dolphins game, this will occur naturally.

And that, my friends, is just about all there is to it, really. Anything else you need to know can be found online at www.BustyChicksSprawledAcrossCarHoods.com

They bathed and dressed, and hurried downstairs for breakfast.

Father, having already eaten, was reading his newspaper and smoking his pipe in his big armchair.

“Good morning, children”, said Father, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Good morning, Father”, Ned and Sally replied.

In the kitchen, Mother had prepared bacon and eggs and toast and juice.

“You will need to keep your energy up, on such a big day as this, children” said Mother, smiling.

An hour later, the children were on the front porch, pulling on their coats and gloves and bidding Mother and Father goodbye.

“I think Father has a surprise for you, children” said Mother.

“Yes” Father said, adjusting his pipe with a twinkle in his eye. “Here is an extra dollar for each of you to spend in the City”.

“I shall buy a new ribbon for my hair!”, Sally exclaimed.

“And I shall buy eleven root beers!”, Ned chimed in.

“Stay warm children, and be back early”, Mother called from the doorway as the children ran to the bus stop.

“And stay out of trouble!” scolded Father, playfully, over his pipe, with a twinkle in his eye.

“The children shall have a fine time”, Mother smiled, ascending the stairs. “I hope that you shall penetrate me deeply”.

“Yes, and from the rear also”, Father grinned, gripping his pipe more firmly in his teeth, with a twinkle in his eye.

It was a fine spring day, and Father knocked the bottom out of it for many hours, using a surprising variety of latex devices and lotions, his pipe gripped more tightly than ever in his teeth, with a twinkle in his eye, until Mother was so sore she could barely move.

“Gosh”, moaned Mother contentedly, wiping her brow with the remnants of her apron.

At five, the children arrived home, bustling with excitement.

“I bought a ribbon for my hair!” exclaimed Sally, displaying it proudly to Mother.

“And I finally had enough root beer”, Ned moaned, looking a little bit ill.

“Fine, children, I’m glad you had a good time” said Father, over his pipe, with a twinkle in his eye.

The children looked at each other in surprise.

Mother was not wearing her apron!

“Mother…”, Sally began, timidly.

“Now, now, children”, Father interrupted. “I think you should wash up for dinner.”

“Yes, I have a pot roast”, Mother boasted.

“And after we have eaten, you may tell us all about your big adventure in the city”, Father smiled, over his pipe, with a twinkle in his eye.

Granted, I haven’t really watched TV since Eb was on “Green Acres”, but even if I’m passing though a room with a commercial on TV I’ll mute that bitch faster than a cheated pimp.

Every single mundane product or service is built up to be the most orgasmically indispensable creation in the history of the world.

Every beverage served chilled is “crisp and refreshing”.
Every home decor makeover is “rich, warm and inviting”.
Every beef, chicken or pork product is “tender, thick and juicy”.

It’s only a matter of time before you read about me in the papers, showing up in a clock tower on Madison Avenue with a new and improved Komfort-Fit high-powered rifle*.

So, I’ve made up my own ridiculously hyped-up commercial copy for some everyday products.

See how many you can identify from their overblown descriptions:

* Solid hardwood construction! “Sur-Grip” surface won’t roll away if you set it down! Tapered on not one end, but TWO, for maximum comfort! Make this a part of your personal hygiene ritual today!
(answer)

* Bling-up your next family gathering with our flashiest accessory yet! We have increased the number of piercing mechanisms from three to four, to serve you better! Your guests will use this product over and over and over again! A big hit at birthday parties, picnics, camping or just WHEREVER! Then when you’re done, just throw it away! Avoid messy cleanup today!
(answer)

*Protect those important documents! Never again be caught off guard due to missing paperwork. Our solid-construction device has no moving parts to wear out, giving you years of low-maintenance security! A real lifesaver at income tax time!
(answer)

*Need reliable transportation? Concerned about the environment? Solve both problems simultaneously with the new green-friendly Roadmaster XL! State-of-the-art suspension system provides the smoothest travel ever! Don’t let the XL’s rugged and stylish exterior fool you! Inside you’ll find luxurious comfort for your travels! Our customers are so pleased with the XL’s performance, even under grueling weather conditions, that many of them purchased two!
(answer)

*A breakthrough concept in security surveillance technology! Imagine being alone at home one night, when an unexpected knock comes at your door. Is it friend or foe?! With our new Hyper-View technology, you can relax! Monitor the exterior of your home or office from the comfort and safety of your armchair! Great for families with kids or businesses with valuable merchandise! Call now and we’ll ugrade you to the new Hyper-View wideangle model free of charge! Provides a full panoramic 180º sweep of your property, yet is so simple to operate that a child could use it!
(answer)

*Note to authorities: Any premeditated acts of violence portrayed on this website are for amusement purposes only.**

**Another note to authorities: The previous note didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean that shooting people with a high-powered rifle would be for amusement, I meant that I am only joking.

Yet another “incident”** with the freaking heat-shield tiles.

It chaps my ass to think of all of my tax dollars that would have been spent on this bogus technology, had I ever paid any taxes.

You remember, back in the DAY day, all the troubles they had even getting the tiles to stick to the orbiter?

NASA CapCom: “4…3…2…1…0…we have liftoff…”
Spectators: “Amazing! Incredible! *whack* *whap* *ptannnnng* Aauugh! Run! Heat-shield tiles!”

Now the tiles apparently adhere ok, but if the one hundred twenty two foot tall, ninety ton technological epitome of American engineering genius hits a damp seagull on the way up, *BAM* we’re out one more team of astronauts.

Now, in the current mission, NASA has determined that an ice cube or three may have struck the space shuttle during liftoff, ripping a groove through the tiles that may require a special repair mission to fix.

As filled with patriotic pride as I am every time I see one of our shuttles launch successfully, I am equally ashamed and embarassed at how we have been duped by the manufacturers of the heat-shield tiles.

I can just picture the sales demonstration:

NASA Director: “Ok, MaxTekTile Industries, a Limited Liability Company, what do you have for us?”

MaxTekTile Charlatan: “Thank you, sir. Each one of these $23,000.00 tiles are composed entirely of space-age polymers, can withstand heat transfers up to 4000° Fahrengrade, with only 0.000000028% expansion ratio.”

NASA Director: “And what would happen if I were to smack them with a plastic wiffleball bat?”

MaxTekTile Charlatan: “They would be instantly vaporized to dust, sir.”

NASA Director: “Great! We’ll take ten thousand of them!”

MaxTekTile Charlatan: “I think it’s only fair to inform you, sir, that we also market these tiles as a party snack, under the trade name ‘Rye-Krisps’…”

So, I’m tired of it all. I urge you to join me in writing our congressmenAndOrWomen and demanding that we quit being taken for a ride.

Because someday, I might like to be taken for a ride. And I don’t want some orbiting dust-bunny to cause an “incident”.

**downgraded from an “issue”

With trembling fingers I remove the last layer
Between your supple roundness and my yearning mouth.
I press you to my lips, and a fire ignites your passion.
Dizzy, I take you all in, and hold you for a moment
Then release you, only to take you again and again.
Your burning touch unfurrows my brow and soothes me inside.
Though our time together grows shorter and shorter,
Your peaceful glow remains a constant in my life.
When finally you are spent, and I am satisfied, I lay you gently
Down in your warm bed, your burning ache extinguished
As is our custom, when we come together day after day after day.

My God how I love thee, sweet cigarettes of mine.

J was alarmed, appalled and a little bit curious to hear about Geoff’s frothy boob-lather, although he is unclear whether it refers to a commercial hygiene product or an organic excretion.

J appeared a little bored during the discussion of Chinese Commercial Warfare, which is typical when the topic is not food or boobie related. J misses some of the BEST discussions because of this.

J had numerous opinions on workaholics at the Russian Sex Camps who are struggling with the concept of shark-proof netting on the beaches where fat men emphasize their obesity by packing it into a Speedo in spite of the fact that they can’t get a tan. Take THAT, Mr. EfficiencyPants.

J can’t carry the show alone, though, so Geoff explained to Mickey why he hates strip clubs. And why he hates freedom.

All-in-all, this episode delivers some of the best J for your money.
I give it an enthusiastic five Js.

“Over there in the corner”, indeed…

The J-approved music for this episode included:

The Notorious MSG – Straight Outta Canton
Me First and The Gimme Gimmes – GoodBye Earl
Former Fat Boys – Shake Your Ta-Tas
Turbonegro – Stroke The Shaft

My son talked me into seeing “The Simpson’s Movie” last night, though.

I’m not a Simpson’s fan, and I’ve never seen an entire episode, even though I bought The Simpson’s Season Six on DVD because Geoff and Mickey threatened to do stuff to me with toothpicks and alcohol swabs if I didn’t.

I’ll save the movie review for the show tomorrow, although I DO have a spoiler, if you’re interested.

NOTE: DANGER! SPOILER AHEAD! KEEP OUT! IF YOU DON’T WANT A SPOILER, TURN BACK! THIS MEANS YOU!

SPOILER: Quagmire doesn’t even appear ONCE in the whole movie.

But, it’s the movie-attending experience that I want to talk about.

I follow a clearly-defined theatre etiquette on those rare occasions when I do go to the movies:
1. Bring large bills to pay for concessions.
2. Find a seat that does not have a puddle of goo on the floor in front of  it and does not have teenage make-out residue on the back of it.
3. Finish all snacks before the houselights go down.
4. Watch trailers for upcoming movies.
5. Sleep soundly until peppy credits-music wakes me up.
6. Dispose of all candy wrappers, paper cups, cardboard boxes, feminine hygiene products, paper towels, condoms, foil wrappers, styrofoam plates, latex gloves, plastic dinnerware and personal lubricants into approved waste containers.

What I’m saying is, I try to be considerate of those around me.

People, by which I mean people other than me, suck though.

There were the “families” who attended. “Family” means a mother and four to seven preschool kids. A child’s mind is thirsty for knowledge at that young age, as evidenced by the following conversation that went on for the ENTIRE movie:

Snot-nosed Brat: Mommy, what’s that?
Failed Mother: That’s Bart.
Snot-nosed Brat: What’s Bart DOING?
Failed Mother: Just watch and you’ll see.
Snot-nosed Brat: Mommy, what’s that?
Failed Mother: That’s Bart’s “doodle”.
Snot-nosed Brat: What’s Bart’s doodle DOING?
Failed Mother: Just watch and you’ll see.
Snot-nosed Brat: Mommy, what’s that?
Failed Mother: That’s a man whose movie-going experience you are ruining.
Snot-nosed Brat: What’s the man whose movie-going experience I am ruining DOING?
Me: Just watch and you’ll see. *WHAP*

There were also scattered groups of hormonally-enhanced ADHD teenagers in attendance.
The reason they were scattered is apparently so they would have to yell across several rows to ask “AHAHAHA! Tisha, did you SEE that?!” and Tisha would have to yell across several rows to answer “No, Jason is still trying to unhook my bra!” a dozen times before the usher, who is also a teenager and has already successfully unhooked Tisha’s bra on many occasions last week when HE was dating her, finally comes and brings them all free Cokes from the concession stand.

Then, there was one guy way in the back who, whenever anything the SLIGHTEST bit interesting happened, would yell out in a totally surprised voice “OH MY G…”.Â

He never once completed the word “God”. Just “OH MY G…”. I want to punch him in the scrotum.

Finally, there were the stereotypical people who talk back to the characters in the movie. By “stereotypical”, I mean “ethnic”.

These people have been the subject of jokes for many years, so I won’t bore you with one here, except to say that if you whisper in their ear “When my friend comes to pick me up after the movie he will have a really big pit bull in the car with him…” they will shut up for nearly five minutes at a time.

So this is why I have never seen any of the movies that Geoff and Mickey are always on about.

“But J”, you say, “you could still watch them at home when they come out on DVD.”

Shyeah. Are you kidding me? The audience at my house is worse than the audience at the theater.

Also, at my house, there is more goo on the floor.

I was surprised then, recently, to find myself invited to a local dog track for the day. I had been once before, but had confined my attention to the dogs being served at the concession stand.

If you’ve never been to the greyhound races, here’s how a typical race goes down.

The pawiers (I just made that term up!) bring the eight dogs out in front of the patrons (also known as the “suckers”) and stand there while everyone tries to decide which dog will lose them the most money. A large tote board stands over the track, with the current odds of each dog winning clearly displayed in giant numbers. This is so the dogs know how to get their revenge on us humans by winning only when nobody has bet on them.

Then the dogs are loaded up into the starting gates, and the track announcer comes over the PA to start the race with a very enthusiastic “Heeeeer commmmmmes Fluffy!!!”.

“Fluffy” is a mechanical rabbit which the dogs have been trained to chase. It flies around the track at the end of a long pole on its own little metal track, and the dogs obviously hate it with the heat of a thousand suns. I can easily picture the dogs getting together after the race and plotting Fluffy’s bloody and slobbery demise. Fluffy looked to my untrained, non-canine eye much more like a dirty tube-sock stuffed with old newspapers than a rabbit, but I of course am a mere human.

So the dogs chase Fluffy around the track, cursing him bitterly, to the finish line. I think I even overheard one of the dogs refer to Fluffy as a “flea-bitten varmint”, but I might have just been having a Yosemite Sam flashback from the warm beer.

I got a race program, sat down, and pretended to understand all the gobbledy-gook in the program about each dog. As far as I can tell, they mostly describe how many times the dog has won when he has peed immediately before a race. Dog-peeing apparently carries lots of weight with the track regulars.

Well, I had seen the number four dog pee for about nine minutes straight, right before the race, so I decided that he was sure to win. I marched up to the betting window, plunked down twently dollars and confidently announced the name of my dog: “I’d like twenty dollars on DontBetOnMeJ to win, please.”

He came in last.

Well, he came in dead, actually.

The other dogs stood around morosely, peeing solemnly in mourning.

All in all, it was a good way to pass a Saturday afternoon. Maybe next time I’ll pick a non-exploding dog and win a big chunk ‘o change.

OOh! Or maybe I’ll bet on Jai-Alai!

I remember trying sculpture in kindergarten, but the stuff they give you to sculpt with tastes too good to waste on sculpture.

Then I tried making one of those pictures where you hammer a bunch of nails into a board in an outline of Mount Rushmore, or something, then you wind thread all around between the nails. The end result of that more closely resembled a threadworm orgy than Mount Rushmore, but I didn’t give up.

Finally, I tried painting. Ahhh! I had found my niche! I had never had any formal training in putting palette to canvas, but I did watch that Bob Ross “Joy of Painting” show where he would always paint the “happy little trees”. Unfortunately, Bob’s voice was SO soothing that I fell asleep faster than if I had been watching golf, which is to say I fell asleep before he had finished announcing what the painting was going to be. So I don’t really count that as “training”.

The first work that inspired me was done by an anonymous nature artist and was titled “Polar Bear Trapped in Snowbank”. I include it below for reference, so you can see how my own talent progressed thereafter.

(click to enlarge)

Having quickly absorbed the artist’s concept and techniques, I tried to improve upon them. My first serious work attempted to capture the truly global scope of racial prejudice. It is entitled “KKK Rally in Antarctica”.

(click to enlarge)

Fascinated by “still life” settings, and, of course, overwhelmingly thinking of food, my next work was a mouth-watering, all food montage which I call “Mayonnaise, Oreo Middles and Marshmallows on Clean Linen Tablecloth”.

(click to enlarge)

As my skill increased, I began to take on ever more challenging subjects. Turning my attention to the world of political satire, I spent one entire election season creating a piece that I felt reflected how little factual information was being reported by the journalists on Capitol Hill. The result was my widely-acclaimed “Newspaper with no Words”.

(click to enlarge)

Despite my remarkable talent, I try not to take myself too seriously. For example, at the SomaCow Media barbeque earlier this year, I amazed the attendees with how deftly I was able to recreate on canvas how pale Mickey was at poolside. It’s called “Mickey on White Beach Towel”.

(click to enlarge)

And just to be silly, last weekend I spent a few hours poking fun at one of my critics with the hilariously artistic “Results of CAT Scan on Fred’s Brain”:

(click to enlarge)

All in all, painting is a very satisfying hobby for me. My son has even begun to display some rudimentary expertise. He surprised me just today with this little gem, to which he gave the name “All the Money Dad Has Made With His Talents”.

(click to enlarge)

Children truly AREÂ our future.

 For limited edition numbered and signed lithographs for your own collection, please email me at j@somcow.com

 And after you think about whatever it is, what do you DO about it?

I…am a man of action.

I…am a man of deep thought.

I…am a man spending too much time on the toilet.

Clickez-vous below.

Sure, some of them are incarcerated felons, and some of them don’t actually speak english or know what we are saying, and some of them are dating other members of our show, but each and every one of them is appreciated!

Let’s address their questions and concerns, shall we?

J: I have already asked you to just contact Mickey directly, Mom.

J: I first met Mickey in the spring of 1973. He was busy being a fetus at the time, but even then I had high hopes for our future in radio. Years later, Mickey introduced me to Geoff. Geoff and I immediately became fast friends when we discovered our mutual interest in breaking the world record for human cholesterol levels. Since then, the three of us have gotten together regularly to discuss which one of us would be considered “Curly” and which would be considered “Moe”.

J: $49.95 + shipping/handling. It will arrive in an unmarked wrapper.

J: Thanks, we love you, too! It’s really kind of weird how the funny works on our show. Each two of us are SO unfunny that it makes the third seem hilarious by comparison. I can’t figure out how that’s possible, exactly. It’s like an enema wrapped inside a condom, or however the saying goes.

J: Those are the ferrets, yaks and badgers from the petting zoo that Geoff runs outside the studio, just to have something to fall back on in case we don’t all become millionaires from doing the show. They get rowdy and loud sometimes, but at least we always have fresh milk!

Why do they insist on using certain expressions in conversation when they don’t know how the actual expression goes?

You may remember our illustrious leader Dubya screwing up this old saying in a speech on teaching American history and civic education:
“fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.”
(Video here: http://politicalhumor.about.com/od/bushvideos/youtube/bushfoolme.htm)

Being a language buff, stuff like this has driven me crazy for a long time. The first time I can remember noticing it was in school when one of my history teachers was trying to suggest that some historical military leader had absolute command over his troops, and that they gave him immediate and unquestioning compliance. The expression that she used was this:
“When he said ‘jump’, they asked ‘how high?’ ”

Now clearly you aren’t receiving immediate and unquestioning compliance if you issue an order to jump and, instead of jumping, your troops start asking questions.

My teacher had gotten the expression wrong. The correct expression is “When he said ‘jump’, they jumped, and asked ‘how high?’ on the way up.”

Now THAT is some immediate and unquestioning compliance.

Anyway, many times since then I have heard people butcher old sayings and expressions. In the past month alone, I have heard each of the expressions below used in actual conversation. See if you know what the speakers in each case meant to say: (answers at the bottom of this blog entry).

1. “You nailed it on the mark.”

2. “That guy is an asshole. I hope somebody cleans his lunch.”

3. “I don’t think he has all his marbles in a row.”

4. “Tell the bartender to cut Larry off. He’s three shades under the wind.”

5. “To me, it’s six of one or the other.”

All I ask is that people give a tiny bit of thought to what they say.
I certainly try to do this. Otherwise, that would be like a black kettle calling out the pot.

Answers:
1. “You hit the nail on the head.” (This is the most abused phrase I have ever heard.)
2. “That guy is an asshole. I hope somebody cleans his clock.”
3. Either “I think he has lost his marbles.” or “I don’t think he has all his ducks in a row.” I can’t tell which.
4. “Tell the bartender to cut Larry off. He’s three sheets to the wind.”
5. “To me, it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other.”

Then I got my instructions on what NOT to do. Click the pic below and you’ll see.

Grrrrrr, etc.

I’m off to the big fiesta! Wish me luck!

Click the lil picture below to feel my pain.

Many of you have emailed me at j@somacow.com and said “Oh, J! Not only are you a perfect specimen of male pulchritude, but your command of the English language makes me tingly in my nether regions. Please let me sit at your feet and absorb your wisdom and possibly fetch you drinks topless.”

I am paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

So today I will answer one of these emails in hopes that we can all learn the differences between nouns, proverbs and geriatrics, in order to communicate a little more clearer.

Tina, from Wisconsin, writes:
“I always have trouble with those words that are pronounced the same but mean totally different things. Can you help me with this?”

Well, Tina, I appreciate your question muchly.

The words to which you are referring to are known as “homophobes”. These can be tricky to master at first, depending on the area of the country where you live at.

For example, if your from my home state of Tennessee, there are homophobes there that you might not find elsewhere.

For example, in Tennessee, the words “tire” and “tar” are pronounced the same (tar’) but have very different meanings. “Tire” is the rubbery doughnut that surrounds the wheel of your car, whereas “tar” is the stuff that those politically incorrect babies are made out of in the deep south.

The same goes for “fire” and “far”, of course.

They also have words in Tennessee that have no actual meaning, such as “tote”, “strowed” and “galluses”. These are mainly used to make small talk seem to last a little bit longer when you are talking to boring people (i.e. “yankees”).

I hope this clears up any misprescriptions you may have, Tina, and I look forward to communing with you in the future.

Now get that halter top off and bring me a beer.

As you may know, I’m a software engineer in my day job. My support staff is taking a long July 4th vacation, so I’ve been handling some of the support calls.

Today, an accounting-type chick calls in with a problem. She says that she has a particular file missing from her computer that one of my applications requires.

She goes on to say that she knows the name of the file she needs, but doesn’t know how to go about creating it.

I tell accounting-chick how to invoke our command processor, so she can use our BUILD utility to build the file she needs.

“Yes ma’am, just type in the word “BUILD”, and then a space, and then the name of the file you need.”

“Ok, hang on, let me try it.”

Dum-dee-dum. La la la LA la la laaaa.

“No, that didn’t work. It told me I was not using a valid command”, she said.

“That’s ok, just try it again, and make sure you type “BUILD”, then make sure you type a space, then the name of the file.

“Nope, still doesn’t work.”

So, I had her tell me the name of the file she needed to build. The file name was correct. I had her try several more times, with some different settings in place.

No luck.

I was becoming convinced that accounting-chick somehow didn’t have access to our BUILD utility, so I prepared to email it to her.

But, just in case, I gave it one last try.

“Ok, type it in one more time, please, and tell me each keystroke you type as you type it.”

“All righty”, she said, still cheerful, “I’m typing B-I-L-L-E-D…”

And then my brain exploded.

“What are you”, he slurred over his Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, “some kinda professional smart-ass?”

“Well, actually”, I replied, “I am being scouted by some Fortune 500 smart-ass headhunters at the moment, but I’m thinking of retaining my amateur status so I can go for the gold in the next Smart-Ass Olympics.”

Blank redneck stare. Such a senseless waste of valuable comedy molecules.

But he did get me thinking about how awesome a Smart-Ass Olympics would be, so you can thank Hoyt or Cletus or whatever his name was for today’s blog entry.

The first event in the Smart-Ass Olympics would be the Cheap-Shot Put. I would dazzle the judges with such low blows as “Sure, homeless guy, I can spare a dollar. Got change for a fifty?” and “Hey! Brad Pitt! I guess it really IS ‘out of sight, out of mind’ instead of ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ huh?”

Next would come the Hurdles. This is where your wise-cracks have to repeatedly leap over the heads of the dull-witted and/or NASCAR-inclined. I wouldn’t even break a sweat. “My word, that one soared right over their heads”, the British judge would say. The Russian judge would comment “Meh, he’s sassy, but he’s no Olga Korbut” . And the French judge would just say “Alors! I do not get eet, zee joke.”

The events would be capped off with the Hundred Waiter Dash. In this test of smart-ass endurance you have sixty seconds with each of one hundred waiters to piss them off so much that they spit in your food. First competitor to cross the one hundred loogie finish line wins.

In the spectacular closing ceremonies, the overall winners of the gold, silver and bronze would taunt and torment each other until a clear victor emerged. I can imagine the ceremonies lasting for days.

I would be proud to represent America in the Smart-Ass Olympics, but the competition these days is getting awfully tough.

In fact, I know two guys at SomaCow who could give me a run for my money.

That’s right, I’m already beta-testing the Apple iThought, scheduled for release in late 2009.

The iThought is an amazing device that allows you to wirelessly receive the actual thoughts of anyone in a 100-foot radius around you. Want to know what that chick you’re flirting with at the bar is really thinking about you? (hint: no you really, really don’t) Ever wonder what your potential employer at a job interview thinks about your heavily falsified resume? The iThought digitally reads their minds and displays their words and then their thoughts on a beautiful 6″x3″ LCD plasma screen, which it can then automatically forward to your email for later review.

Unbeknownst to Geoff and Mickey, I recently brought my iThought along on an evening dinner outing. The results were…well, you can see for yourself:

Mickey: Umm…uhhh…I’ll have the ten piece wings, medium, with extra celery, please. And unsweetened tea, with a straw.
iThought: boobies

J: Lemme get the buffalo frimps, medium, ten piece wings, also medium, and a basket of curly fries and a Corona, without a straw, please. Ha!
iThought: you know when you drink through a straw you think you’re pulling the liquid up through the straw but really you’re just reducing the air pressure at the top of the straw and the difference in pressure at the bottom of the straw pushes the liquid up from the bottom into the area of lower pressure at the top god i really miss dennis miller on monday night football i wonder if anybody ever notices that gallon milk jugs are right handed because if you hold it by the handle in your left hand the label is facing away from you and you cant read it

Waitress: Ok, anything else for you gentlemen?
iThought: i can tell just by looking at your sorry asses that you would never take me anywhere and would always be off with your derelict alcoholic friends leaving me and the baby home alone seven nights a week and you would never have time to discuss our relationship and you wouldnt remember our anniversary or even valentines day you stupid worthless pieces of shit

Mickey: Nnnnope, I think that’s it.
iThought: boobies

Geoff: And make it fast, ma’am, my horse is double parked outside.
iThought: god i cant believe i went with the lame retarded horse joke why cant i pay more attention to j he always brings the funny i hate myself

J: Oh, and bring extra napkins, please.
iThought: god i cant believe geoff went with the lame retarded horse joke cant he pay more attention to me i always bring the funny i love myself

They were so cuuuuute when they were given to my kids as Christmas gifts. This lasted for almost the entire morning, after which The Dogs settled down into their roles, as Mother Nature intended, as incessantly-howling, furniture-chewing, leg-humping, yard-digging poop machines.

[note to self: insert cute doggie picture here when daughter emails it. Also call the bank, check the mail and pick up maxi pads.]

If we could somehow harness, in a car engine, the production efficiency of the dachshund colon, wherein you put one ounce of food in and get eighty-eight metric tons of poop out, America could dominate the automotive industry until the end of time. Our worries about the ozone layer and global warming would come to an end. We would only have to concern ourselves with building all of our houses on forty foot stilts, keeping ourselves and our families safely above the rapidly forming poop glaciers for over a year.

The biggest problem with The Dogs at the moment is that they absolutely refuse to STFU*. Our next door neighbors are moving, politely assuring us that this is NOT due to the 3am yowling of The Dogs expressing their glee over their discovery that a large glowing ball appears overhead on most nights. I’m not referring to the moon, I’m referring to the glow-in-the-dark Nerf basketball that I throw at them from the back door while groggily yelling “If you bastards wake me up one more time, there’s gonna be two fresh dirt mounds at Yappy Acres pet cemetary!”

So, the neighbors call me each time that potential buyers are scheduled to come and check out their house, so I can bring The Dogs inside. We put this plan into place because the first young couple to attend the open house was traumatized by The Dogs, who, hearing strange voices next door, leaped the six foot privacy fence and conducted an extra loud emergency security inspection of the couple’s shins, and possibly foreheads based on the way the woman screamed, with their amazingly disproportionately large dachshund winkies. They are called “weiner dogs” for a reason. I am sure they would command eight-figure paychecks if the porn industry were run by dogs instead of by Democrats.

I’ve been an animal lover all of my life, but these current wildlife ambassadors leave quite a bit to be desired. Currently, they leave me desiring a .22 with a silencer. Ahhhh…silence.

If you have an annoying pet story, or cute puppy pictures, please forward as many of them as you possibly can to mickey@somacow.com

*STFU is an internet euphemism for “please stop that @#$&% barking immediately, or I will cut you”.

These words, as always, are directed at me by my in-laws when they come over for the monthly poker game we host.

The funny part is: I know how to play poker. I know how to play 5-card draw and stud, 7-card, Texas Hold’em, etc. All your standard Fritos and beer poker games. But my in-laws don’t hold to this kind of kindergarten nonsense. Oh, no, they have very different games in mind.

I always give in, trying to forget the last time they cleaned me out while “teaching” me. I reluctantly grab my beer and some Tostitos with a Hint of Lime and sit down at the table. I always feel like Daffy Duck when that giant bulldog would look at him and Daffy would turn from a duck into a porterhouse steak, in the dog’s mind.
Except I’m not a steak. I’m a stack of twenties.

“Ok, new game!”, is how it usually starts. “We’re gonna play ‘3-speed, on the tree, down and dirty, jack ‘em up, high spade in the hole, no rooftops, ladies choice, all tabasco’. Everybody ante! J, pay close attention, and you have to double-ante for the first hand.”

So, I watch, I marvel, I plunk down my money, as everybody else at the table seems to know exactly what to do, as if this isn’t really some made up game that they use to separate this fool from his money.

At the end of each game, it’s always the same. “See, J, now if you had gone all in with your four-nine showing, and tapped to your left, you would have gotten half the pot. But you’re learning, you’re learning. Ok, new game!”

It’s a fun way to pass a Saturday evening, but I think it would be much simpler if I just handed my in-laws each a twenty as I greet them at the front door.

“Hey, Uncle Slappy! Here’s your twenty! You guys have fun, I’ll be out on the patio filling out loan applications for next month’s game.”

Ante up!

1. How can I get a SomaCow t-shirt?
2. What is Mickey, a freakin’ tard?
3. No, really, how can I get a SomaCow t-shirt?

And wouldn’t you know, there was even one chick, a Rachel something-or-other, who forwarded her own version of a WOMANifesto, a BLATANT ripoff of Mickey’s magnificent male magnum opus, which I reproduce below without her worthless permission:

The WOMANifesto

I am a woman.
I have a vagina.
I rule the world.

This, is my WOMANifesto.

We are complex creatures, us women. We need men getting kicked in the nuts when we laugh, Oprah when we cry, and a rigid rogering rod when our little festos get that twitchy itch and begin to ooze yellow cream cheese.

When we bitch at you to get off your worthless ass and go out and get a job to support us, it is not a malicious attempt to demean you, we’re just nagging whores…and self-centered…and illogical. … and Uhm…high-maintenance.

We sit high on the pedestal that you built for us, and we can look down on your bald spots and your back-fat and your flabby asses. We are not critics. We are goddesses. We are your superiors. Get with the fuckin’ program, Costello.

Look, bub, YOU might not be Brad Pitt…and YOU might not be able to knock the bottom out of a thimble…and YOU might come faster than ExpressMail…but your greasy Leaning Tower of Peesa is like the plague to us and we will goddamn do anything to avoid that mangy mole pinky. If we could find a way to detach your decrepit dung-digger from your fat, lazy self and run that shriveled dork rind through the garbage disposal…we sure as hell would.

Women struggle to maintain control of the world because we fear that if we let you losers hold the reins for fifteen seconds, you would start to brag about how you are “the man” and start asking “who’s your Daddy?!”

We also like vanilla hazelnut mocha ice cream (lowfat).

I think you will agree that I speak for most guys when I ask the Rachels of the world: What size t-shirt do you need, baby?