Napolean's Last Campaign

Over the weekend, I had an enlightening conversation with a woman about the male psyche. Her theory was that most men suffer from multiple personality disorder. She stated that the first personality is controlled by the brain and the second is run by a part of the male anatomy known as the Little General. She went on to say that during dating the Little General is in command until intimate relations take place. It is during this phase that the male appears to be charming, charismatic, and romantic. Once the horizontal hokey-pokey has been achieved, she claimed that the man's real personality emerges, usually with a cavalcade of belching and flatulence. Her agitation grew visible as she described her frustration with this phenomenon, but I couldn't think of any soothing words. In fact, if you ever find yourself involved in a similar conversation, believe me when I tell you that the proper response is not: "So, I guess this means that a blowjob is out of the question?"

After I left, I pondered her theory because I had to admit that it had some merit. I have always known that most guys act differently when they first meet someone, as do many women. But, I had never considered the possibility that the Little General had unrestricted autonomy. This lead me to conduct a detailed appraisal of past behaviors to determine whether there had been occasions when the Little General had usurped complete control. The results were disturbing, to say the least:

1. The Little General has caused me to exaggerate slightly while conversing with women. Therefore, I hereby apologize to any ladies out there who are under the mistaken impression that I am the King of England, John Holmes' long lost twin, or the inventor of the female orgasm. While I do hold multiple patents on the latter claim, I didn't actually create it.

2. The Little General has joined a local knitting circle. Apparently, he has been a long time member because I found all sorts of little scarves, hats, and jackets that he has made himself. As I am need of a new set of pot holders, I am inclined to allow this to continue for the time being.

3. The Little General filed my taxes for me this year. I found his arithmetic to be flawless and I must admit that he does have a keen eye for qualified deductions. However, I did find some troubling items. Specifically, I'm thinking that writing, "Just try and screw with this, you candy-assed nancyboys" on the face of the tax return in red crayon is not the shrewdest of tax strategies. It's all fun and games until someone is calling you their prison bitch.

4. The Little General has been negotiating with foreign governments without my consent. Not only am I legally bound to a 15 year mutual defense treaty with Guatemala, but he also signed an agricultural trade agreement. Thus, there will be serious diplomatic and legal reprecussions if I can't deliver 35 million bushels of winter wheat to South America by June 1st. As I look around my apartment, I'm beginning to fear that I may come up a little light. On the bright side, at least someone got something out of the Spanish class that I took last semester.

5. The Little General has taken the liberty of changing my will and final arrangements. I have found that my estate is split evenly between The Lusty Lady Gentleman's Club and "that double-jointed ex-gymnast from Topeka." Although I wholeheartedly agree that some type of memorial is deserved for the ex-gymnast, I was thinking more along the lines of a new bridge or renaming a planet after her. Also, as part of my final wishes, I had directed my estate to perform cremation. I had specified that the ashes were to be used to cut a pound of pure cocaine, so that my friends and I can make parallel heavenly ascents. Thus, you can imagine my disappointment when I found that the Little General had surreptitiously arranged for this:




In retrospect, I may have been a little harsh in dismissing the woman in such a rude manner. She did open my eyes to an aspect of my psyche that was not receiving nearly enough diligence. Time permitting, I have every intention of unceremoniously demoting the Little General. For now, that will have to wait until I've prepared for the IRS audit that I feel is imminent. So, if you happen to know any good tax defense attorneys, let me know. And by all means, send any spare wheat that you might have lying about.

Charity

At Fanfare from the Common Wombat, Wombat reveals that he will be participating in the 10th Annual Maryland State Police Polar Bear Plunge. In this event, participants don swimwear and run into the Chesapeake Bay, in the middle of winter, for the benefit of the MD Special Olympics. The Plunge takes place this Saturday at 2:00 (Jan. 28) at Sandy Point State Park. Undoubtedly, you will want to sponsor Wombat's hypothermic demise and can do so by clicking here.

After reading Wombat's post, I thought to myself: What do I for my community? Aside from the sporadic, yet copious, contributions that I provide to local reproductive clinics, I couldn't think of anything. Thus, I have decided that I need to give something back to my community. No, I won't be plunging into the icy Chesapeake Bay because that would be kind of totally fucking insane. Instead, I have compiled a list of activities that I can be sponsored to perform with all proceeds going to a personally handpicked charity.

Charitable Activities w/ Sponsorship Rate

Watch strippers $1/dance
Watch elderly strippers $2 /dance
Watch midget strippers $3/dance
Watch elderly midget strippers $4/dance
Babysit children $40/hour/child
Father children $250/attempt
Spank NFL Cheerleaders $5/swat
Spank NFL Players $7.50/swat
Spank John Madden $20/swat + cost of degreaser
Keep Keith Mills out of your house $50/repelled entry
Go to supermarket for you $15/visit + groceries
Go to work for you $30/hour + liability release
Go to proctologist for you $300/visit
Go to MD MVA for you $350/visit
Teach your children profanity $20/new word
Teach your grandparents profanity $40/new word
Track down embarassing photos of you on internet $50/picture
Put embarassing photos of you on internet $25/picture
Fix your computer $70/hour
Fix your cat $100/hour
Fix your inflatable party doll $150/hour
Take care of your plants $25/day
Take care of your marijuana plants $75/day
Teach your wife or GF to speak English $25/hour
Teach your wife or GF to speak German $45/hour
Teach your wife or GF to speak Greek $15/hour

As you can see, I am just as devoted as Wombat, with respect to charitable matters. So, open your hearts and checkbooks and help me help others.

Baltimore Driver's Guide (2/2)

Mom's Taxi

The minivan offers a paradox in behavioral forecasting because there are two distinct subgroups that may be operating it; the mommy subgroup and the daddy subgroup.

If it is driven by a female driver, you are assured that it will be doing considerably less than the speed limit and that the driver is oblivious to any occurrence external to the vehicle. This can be directly attributed to children that are present who require incessant entertainment, supervision, and breastfeeding. Oddly, the same behavior is also observed without children present due to cell phone use. Apparently, safety is expendable when compared with the need to communicate information such as: "You won't believe how smart little Reginald is getting. Just today, he got into the cupboard, found some matches, and set Mrs. Jenkin's head on fire. Isn't that just precious?" These drivers are perfectly aware that they are bad drivers, but being regarded as good mommies consistently outweighs these concerns.

If the minivan is driven by a male, the driving behavior is apt to very different. The male minivan pilot will usually be travelling at an unsustainably high rate of speed while weaving in and out of traffic. Aggressive tailgating, horn honking and angry gestures are the norm. To comprehend the reasons for this, a bi-leveled psychological model must be employed. On the superficial level, the male driver is attempting to compensate for the lack of manliness that is inherent in minivan operation. On a more subconcious level, the aggressive driving is the response to the cognitive dissonance created by the situation. (Cognitive dissonance is a convoluted way of saying that stress occurs when you realize that you have been blowing smoke up your own ass.) I imagine that the driver's thought pattern goes something like this: "If I go home I will have to spend another night hearing about how the Joneses are vacationing in Aruba, while we are only going to Busch Gardens. On the other hand, a fiery car wreck will result in weeks of opiated solitude in a hospital bed and maybe even death. Christ on a crutch, why won't this piece of shit do 125?"

The Lord's Tool

It comes as no suprise that the same mentality that thinks that God talks to Billy Graham and publicly wishes for the assasination of Juan Valdez (Jesus hates Colombian Dark Roast), has difficulty operating heavy equipment. Ironically, the driving patterns of the christian fundamentalist are nearly identical to those of the liberal activist: The left lane is monopolized at exactly the speed limit and none are allow to pass on the right. This stems from the fact that the speed limit is a Law (Jesus loves laws). And anything that promotes the regulation of others must be good. Another problem whith Christian drivers is that they never seem to know where they are going. Invariably, they will be so busy doing God's work in the left lane that their exit completely suprises them. God may be the co-pilot, but stupidity (Jesus thinks stupidity is the bomb) is the navigator .

Assclown At Large

The '93 Camry is the vehicle of choice for competent, alert, and extremely well-endowed drivers. You will typically find these drivers devoting their undivided attention to vehicle operation and traffic awareness. When you see this vehicle in your rearview mirror, you should yield the right of way immediately. While this car is passing, all female passengers in your vehicle should immediately remove their tops and undergarments while bouncing up and down in their seats.

Baltimore Driver's Guide (1/2)

One of the things that I miss about the Midwest, aside from sluggish sheep, is bumper stickers. Although I find bumper stickers tacky, they provided invaluable insight for predicting driving habits. In Maryland, I found that bumper stickers are rare, which initially hindered my ability to instantly categorize my fellow motorists. However, after a year of driving in Baltimore, I've learned that there are subtle visual clues which can be elucidated. Consequently, I have assembled a list of the types of drivers that I frequently encounter and their typical driving behaviors.

Mobile Nursing Homes

The primary difference between elderly drivers and drunk drivers is that elderly drivers vote, which hampers any legislative effort aimed at restricting their ability to obtain operator's licenses. When a Maryland citizen reaches retirement age, they are state-issued a lifetime supply of Metamucil and a Buick. Although most makes of Buick feature powerful V6 or V8 engines, you will rarely see one exceed 50 mph, regardless of the posted speed limit. This is due to the fact that Buick drivers are normally preoccupied with considerations like: "Where am I?," "Why aren't I wearing pants?," and "Why does it smell like poop in here, again?"

The left lane is very popular with the elderly since Maryland makes no attempt to enforce any type of passing lane restriction. Apparently, these drivers feel it is their duty enforce the speed limit, without consideration of the danger that the subsequent backup creates. The only known way to cause them to accelerate is to attempt to pass them on the right or to tell them that the Wehrmacht is invading the bingo hall.

H1B Visa Express

As a result of a shift in focus in national immigration policy, all new immigrants are provided with an American's job and a 4 cylinder vehicle. The Maryland MVA will gladly exchange the immigrant's driver's license, from their country of origin, for a Maryland Operator's permit, without regard to the fact that the original license was for oxen or rickshaw operation. Immigrants tend to gravitate towards vehicles that are on the low end of the scale: Ford Aspires, Toyota Tercels, Chevy Cobalts, Kias and Hyundais are typical. In traffic, foreign drivers are easily detected by the fact that they usually driving at 1/2 of the speed limit and have a look of utter terror on their faces. Fortunately, these drivers rarely venture into the left lane but they do like to engage in erratic lane changes and random braking patterns. Honking or tailgating only compounds the problem, causing more fear and, consequently, more deceleration. An important subgroup of this category is the Asian Immigrant Driver. Biochemists have actually isolated the Asian Bad Driving Gene, which diverts driving skill into mathematical aptitude or carryout restaurant management savvy. The redeeming quality of these drivers is that it is statistically proven that fatalities rarely occur at 0.7 mph.

Peace Train

Yet another benefit of living in Maryland, the Democratic utopia, is the liberal activist. They commonly drive aging Subaru outbacks, Volvos or other imports and are easily identified by the myriad of political stickers on the rear of their vehicles. These drivers will inevitably be found in the left lane driving at exactly 5 mph below the speed limit. This can be attributed to the fact that these drivers know that the rest of us aren't as environmentally conscious as we should be. They correctly assume that we are blissfully unaware of recent Greenpeace research that suggests that the extra 0.4 nanograms of CO₂ that are produced by driving at 65 mph, instead of 50 mph, are predicted to cause the total extinction of the Serengheti Striped Pissant within the next 800 years. Thus, they will fiercely resist any attempt at being passed because, after all, everyday is Earth Day. One successful strategy for passing is to quickly turn all exterior lights on and off. The resulting psychedelia will induce brown acid flashbacks, which will cause them to pull over and await the arrival of Jerry's ghost.

Barbie Goes to College w/ Makeup, Cellphone and Valtrex Accessories

In Maryland, the Volkswagen is the preferred vehicle of the campus sorostitute. The interior of these vehicles are normally very busy places, with vehicle operation not ranking highly on the priority list. It's not that these drivers are intentionally being dangerous, it's just that they are unaware that they are operating a vehicle. Unpredictable vehicle operation results from the difficulty imposed by simultaneously making tanning salon appointments, applying makeup, reading Cosmo, scheduling pregnancy tests, and complaining about that bitch sorority sister who keeps stealing boyfriends with her new boobs. Speeds will vary from ±15 mph of the posted speed limit and often include drifting into other lanes. These drivers can be found in any lane, but are most dangerous when they are behind you. In the event of a rear end collision, try to remain calm when you hear things like, "Oh, gee. Sorry about your car. Do you think this swelling makes my butt look big?" and "How long is this going to take? Because wrecking is just like, you know, sooooo totally boring." Also, be sure to get their daddy's name, address, and insurance carrier because that is invariably who you will be dealing with.

This post is in two parts. Part 2 will follow in the near future.

Christ, They've Crapped In My Corn Flakes

I am a simple man. I don't ask for much from my breakfast cereal. When I open a box of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes, all that I am expecting is corn flakes that have been frosted. Sure, I don't mind the occasional bonus toy, but I don't consider its absence a dealbreaker. Normally, I pay little mind to these toys. They get tossed in a junk drawer, never to be seen again. Unless, of course, they bear a striking resemblance to beaked, beady eyed, bobbleheaded, pantsless, pieces of excrement. That changes everything.

As a shareholder, I wonder how many Kellogg's MBAs, at $90k/year, it required to hatch this masterstroke of marketing genius. I'll bet the marketing strategy meeting went like this:

MBA1: "You know, our Frosted Flakes product is not aligned with our new Value-Adding Constraint Maximization Paradigm Shift."
MBA2: "I agree. Do you think that we should add a plastic turd?"
MBA1: "Precisely. But give it a beak and beady eyes, because demographics have shown that our customers want their plastic turds to have personality."

Someday, maybe I'll bask in the enlightenment that a MBA degree provides. Until then, I will have to have to settle for the mystification that is symptomatic of being an undereducated clod. If nothing else, at least I have gained a clearer understanding on how this happened:

Coming Out Party

I am constantly amazed at how open-minded the American public has become. On TV, we have Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Will and Grace. Celebrities such as Ellen DeGeneres, Elton John, and Rosie O'Donnell have openly admitted their homosexuality. Some states even recognize the civil union, which is the homosexual equivalent of marriage. Now, we have a popular film that explores the relationship of two gay cowboys in Brokeback Mountain. It would appear that this country has accepted, if not embraced, alternative lifestyles at an unprecedented level. I must admit that this crescendo of public focus on the homosexual culture has caused some deep stirrings inside of me. I feel that there is something deeply personal that I need to share with all of you: I am a lesbian.

I must confess that I have suspected that I was a lesbian for a long time. Most of the telltale signs have been present all along. For one, I can't remember the last time I wore something "girly" like high heels or a skirt. Instead, my typical outfit consists of standard lesbian garb; either slacks and a button down shirt or jeans and a t-shirt. Secondly, I have always opted for short hairstyles and I even insist on going to a barber instead of a beauty salon. Moreover, I don't find the spectacle of naked women kissing repugnant, in any way. In fact, all of my prior romantic relationships have been with females. If you sum that with the fact that I know how to arc weld and change my own oil, it just doesn't get much more butch than that. (With the possible exception of the LPGA.)

Now that I have come out of the closet, I am determined to do what is necessary to further the lesbian cause. For instance, a recent survey by the CDC found that bisexual experimentation by women (18-44), is at an all-time high. We all know that these initial experiences when discovering one's sexual identity can be traumatic. As a veteran lesbian, I feel compelled to reach out and offer my guidance and nurturing to these women. I will be able to provide a stabilizing force for the psychological rollercoaster that they are on. Together, we will revel in the emotional peaks and rub out the valleys of depression.

Now, you might be thinking, "Hold on there, Assclown B. Toklas. Don't you need to be female to be a lesbian?" This is precisely the narrow-minded, homophobic discrimination that my lesbian sisters and I are determined to stamp out. In fact, earlier this week, New York City Councilwoman Margarita Lopez designated Mayor Michael Bloombeg "an honorary lesbian," for his contributions to local gay and lesbian community. Clearly, our culture is progressing to the point where gender roles are no longer applicable . Thus, I will continue to keep my nose to the figurative grindstone and I encourage all females to join me in celebrating our Lesbian Pride.

Party In My Pants

This morning there was somewhat of a crisis at the TFG household. As I was getting dressed for work, I realized that I had no clean boxers.There was no time to wash and dry a load of laundry, but luckily I remembered that I had an unopened package of boxers in my closet. I donned a pair with little cars on them, finished dressing, and left for work.

Traffic was fairly heavy which demanded my undivided attention. Somewhere on 83 between Padonia Road and 695, I was dimly aware that my right leg was itching. During the winter, I get dry skin and sometimes it can get itchy right after a shower, so I paid it no mind. As I continued driving on 695 towards 95S, I realized that the itching in my right leg had become more pronounced. I assumed that I'd missed an "Inspected by 681" sticker, in my new drawers, and that I would remove the offending article at work. I drove on. By the time I get to 95/895 split, both legs are itching profusely and I'm getting a burning sensation from my butt. And I don't mean that happy kind of butt burning sensation. At this point, I'm getting fairly alarmed, but there isn't a good place on 895 to stop and investigate trouser-based emergencies, so I accelerated my pace towards work.

When I got to the office, the itching had become so severe that I was fantasizing about Brillo pads and sulfuric acid baths. There is only one bathroom in the building which can provide the privacy required for the detailed inspection that I was planning to conduct. Of course, it was occupied by our resident Serial Shitter, who spends the majority of his workday in this bathroom. I called the receptionist on my cell phone and had him paged on the PA system, thinking that might smoke him out. Nothing doing, the man is devoted. Defeated, I went to my office while wondering just what the hell was going on in my pants. I had already deduced that it had to do with the new boxers, but I was unsure if any permanent damage had occurred to my favorite appendage and the dynamic duo.

There aren't many things I can do at work to get terminated, but getting caught without pants in my office is probably one of them. My office is in a high traffic area, so I estimated the odds of being able to de-shoe, de-pants, de-boxer, re-pants, re-shoe, and tuck my shirt without interruption as being too small to risk. So I shut the door, snatched a pair of scissors, unzipped my fly, and made two strategic cuts in the boxers. This allowed me to extract them via the fly and stuff them in a desk drawer. To my relief, the itching began to ease. I waited 15 minutes and went to the restroom to see what was what. Upon inspection, the parts of my leg that were in contact with the boxers were beet red with small welts. You'll be relieved to know that Excalibur and the Orbs of Opulence escaped unscathed.

The only thing that I can figure is that I had an allergic reaction to a chemical that the boxers were treated with on the manufacturer's line. Either that, or the boxers got contaminated with some type of glass fiber in the packaging process. Regardless, the remaining new boxers were discarded and I think that tomorrow is going to be a commando kind of day.

I Am So Tired of Shallow Women

I have to admit that I am getting a little frustrated with the Baltimore dating scene. It seems that every date turns out the same way for me. Once I meet the lady in person, she loses interest. These women don't come out and say that they don't like me, but a guy can tell. Body language, facial expressions and tonality always give away the fact that they don't find me attractive.

I know from what you read here that it may seem like I can be insensitive. Let me assure you that, in real life, I am a kind and compassionate man. I know how to be attentive to a woman's needs. I realize that trust, honesty and understanding are the building blocks of a successful relationship. I would never take a woman for granted. Instead, I try to make time for the little things that keep things romantic. Additionally, I've been told that I'm intelligent, witty and just fun to be around. I have a decent job and feel that I could be a successful provider. I even think that, with practice, I would make good father material.

I am aware that I may not the most handsome or fashionable guy in the dating arena. I have to think that there is at least one woman out there who doesn't have to have a Brad Pitt or Matthew McConaughey. Thus, I have included my most flattering photograph with the hopes that some single female reader can look through the exterior of this regular guy and see the sensitive guy that lies underneath.

The Hoo-Ha Sisterhood

Sometimes, I think that I don't appreciate the difficulties of being female. Recently, it has come to my attention that being the owner of a hoo-ha is a tricky proposition. For example, Karla gives us the following account of a typical baby shower:

Anyone attempting to strike up a conversation that's not related to the pain of pushing a human head out of one's hoo-ha is swiftly punished, as the other ladies close in on her and pummel her about the head and neck with their handbags.

First of all, I have to say that I was surprised to learn that baby showers were permitted in women's prison. Secondly, and more importantly: Why in the name of God would you want to project human heads from your hoo-ha? It is bad enough that you have decapitated another human (hence the jail sentence), but show some respect for the dead. To be fair, I have witnessed the projection of objects like champagne and ping-pong balls from an asundry of hoo-has. But these were the hoo-has of skilled professionals, who were undoubtedly under the supervision of a veteran hoo-ha coach. I'm sure that years of practice and training were required to learn these skills. Ladies, while I do appreciate the versatility of your hoo-ha, it's utility as catapult is questionable, at best.

At Living in the Big Time by Jen Gaffney, I found the following:

We also don't carry our instruments everywhere with us. Or stick flutes in our hoo-has.

Just the other day, I was listening to a professional violinist lament the decline of the symphony orchestra in American society. I believe that Ms. Gaffney has found the solution. I am certain that I would attend more classical concerts if the musicians played their instruments with their hoo-has. For certain, instruments like the cello and xylophone would present a challenge. As a Big Picture Guy, I haven't worked out the logistics of it, but these are precisely the types of problems that organizations like the Peabody Institute were designed to tackle. I look forward to hearing a stunning rendition of the Monistat Concerto #7 in the near future at my local metropolitan orchestra.

I also found a rather disturbing warning regarding hoo-ha maintenance at I'd rather be having a beer :

I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone. It's a very good conversation starter - "So, my butt and who-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!"

Since this is an Alaskan blog, I believe that who-ha is an alternate spelling that can be attributed to dialect. Regardless, Arctic Skipper has a lengthy essay that warns of the dangers inherent in waxing ones hoo-ha. Ladies, I'm going to let you in on a little secret here: The male attraction to your hoo-ha is based primarily on its functionality. Seriously, take a look at your hoo-ha. (If you are at work, your boss will understand, because after all, it's in the name of science.) Are you looking? Good. Now ask yourself this: If my hoo-ha was a flower vase or a Pez dispenser, would any guy want to look at it? I am afraid the answer is no. Consequently, you don't need to engage in behaviors that risk your hoo-ha's ability to perform its primary mission. In the throes of intimacy, I assure you that you will never hear the following: "You know, I just don't find your hoo-ha as aesthetically pleasing as I was hoping to. I'm going to go change my oil." Of course, there are exceptions. For example, it would be perfectly understandable to tattoo the following on your hoo-ha: "Mayor TFG Welcomes You To Hoo-Ha City." Other than that, I think that we can conclude that activities involving your hoo-ha and hot wax, sharp objects, or tattoo guns are simply not worth the risk.

In closing, I'm going to have to say that hoo-ha ownership looks much tougher than its male counterpart. Thus, it is probably a good thing that men are hoo-haless. I know that if I had a hoo-ha, I would have broken it irreparably years ago. Probably while trying to use it as a bottle rocket launcher, paint mixing vessel, or some similar foolishness. While I certainly enjoy visiting hoo-ha land, I don't think I could live there. For now, I'll stick to borrowing when it comes to filling my hoo-hicular needs.

Helpful Driving Hints.

Open letter to Baltimore metro morning commuters.

As you may or may not have noticed, there is a fiery, yellow orb in the sky that can usually be found during daylight hours. It's a little something that I like to call the Sun. Here's how it works: Every morning it rises in the east. There are no exceptions to this and haven't been for the length of human history. It's just like herpes; it comes, it goes, but you can't get rid of it. Thus, nobody will fault you for taking precautions against its anticipated return tomorrow. So, if you drive in a eastbound direction of 695, shortly after sunrise (7-8 AM), bring a fucking pair of sunglasses with you. I have included a diagram to demonstrate why this is necessary. Distribute it feely to your Living With Lobotomies support group:

As you can see,there is an angular sector in which the sun's rays can pass below the sun visor and obscure your vision. Your sun visor is solar powered (hence the name sun visor) and requires at least an hour of direct sunlight to charge before it will work its magic. It is during this warm up period that you need to be wearing your sunglasses. This will prevent you from becoming utterly incapacitated en masse and stopping traffic. You see, when you are performing your mechanized tribute to Helen Keller at 4 mph, you are causing the people behind you to wreck. More importantly, though, you are causing me to spend an hour traversing the 10 mile stretch of 695 E from 83 S to 95 S, which I'm sure you'll agree is absolutely unacceptable. So carry your simple ass down to Walmart, Target, or wherever the hell that you suspect sunglasses might be sold and invest in a pair. Happy motoring.

Breakfast of Champions

I've noticed that many bloggers have resolved to lose weight in 2006. I commend their decisions to take action and change their lives for the better. Dieting is never an easy proposition, it requires one to change behaviors that have been ingrained over the course of years. Willpower and constant diligence are required to maintain the discipline that will allow long-term dieting success.

It is estimated that 70% of dieters relapse, regaining the weight that was lost through eating moderation. That is why it is imperative for dieters to realize that there is nothing shameful about seeking assistance in their struggle. Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, and Nutrisystem are all professional organizations that can help. Other services, such as the YMCA or a personal trainer can also be invaluable in establishing a pattern of fitness. But, there is one dietary resource that stands out in its proven ability to maintain significant weight loss. A resource called cocaine.

There are no convoluted food-intake tracking tabulations to worry about with cocaine. Nor will you waste valuable time scrutinizing nutritional data in grocery store aisles. If you've got a nose, you've got a calorie management program. You'll never worry about whether you're eating too close to bedtime. Or even bedtime. Or even eating. Relapses will be a thing of the past because cocaine is the weight loss program that is self-motivating. From the moment you wake up, your only thoughts will be about immediately resuming your diet. Plus, the exercise provided from carrying your kid's toys to the pawn shop will help keep those pounds off for good. Without a doubt, cocaine puts the fun back in dieting.

Now, I'll bet that you are concerned about the social stigma that has been unjustly associated with cocaine. This is due to a few thoughtless, irresponsible users. It is not absolutely necessary to snort it from the midriffs of topless gogo girls. In fact, once you start using cocaine you'll be a member of an elite club that includes the company of supermodels, actors, and current presidents. Cocaine is not just for crackheads, anymore.

Maybe you're thinking, "Well, this cocaine stuff sounds pretty good. But won't I end up destitute, forced to sell various bodily fluids, in seedy inner city clinics, for fractions of their retail value?" Clearly, this possibility can't be ruled out, but, remember, bodily fluids have mass. Through the magic of a complex scientific phenomenon known as density, every cubic centimeter of donated fluid is a cubic centimeter of lost weight. I think that we can agree that this is a win-win scenario. Perhaps you're worried that you will have to turn to street-level prostitution to maintain your daily recommended cocaine intake. This is another urban legend unfairly associated with cocaine. Success in the field of street-level prostitution is not predicated solely on cocaine use. There are factors such as pricing, product quality, and advertising effectiveness that must also be mastered before this trade can be plied profitably.

In closing, I wish you the best of luck in your fitness endeavors for 2006. I strongly urge you to select the weight loss program that you feel is most appropriate. And when that fails, cocaine will be there for you.

Fan Appreciation Day

Last week, I ran into a problem at work that I thought could be solved with a large fan. Or to put it in technical engineering parlance; a big ass fan. I logically deduced that the best place to look for a big ass fan would be at the Big Ass Fan Company. On their website, I noticed that they have a section titled, Genius NOT At Work, in which they have various alternative applications of their products submitted by customers. The application that particularly caught my eye was entitled "Personal Big Ass Fan." For those too lazy to click, I have swiped the photos.



The submitter chose to remain anonymous but judging from the second picture (I didn't photoshop his trousers) his contribution was most timely. I have nothing but admiration for the contributor's technical prowess. In fact, I was inspired to create concept drawings for the next generation of cutting edge Asswear:

Personal Big Ass Fan O' Generosity

Are you a Giver? Do you get a warm feeling of satisfaction from sharing with others? What better gift is there than the gift of oneself? We, at TFG Industries, understand this and have designed a revolutionary product with you in mind. The Personal Big Ass Fan O' Generosity (PBAFOG) combines form and function in one labor saving device that allows the distrubtion of your very essence to your friends and coworkers. Never again will you waste hours going from cubicle to cubicle spreading backdoor bliss. Through improvements in fan positioning and blade design, the PBAFOG is designed to maximize outward diffusion reducing your task to a matter of minutes. You'll find that the PBAFOG increases the quality of almost every aspect of your life. Crowded subway cars, long DMV lines, and the elderly can all be dispatched with the flick of a switch. Additionally, the PBAFOG is powered by an explosion proof (Class 1, Div. 1) motor that allows you to enjoy that extra burrito supreme with confidence. So, order today because we know that you have so much to give.

I'm Too Stupid to be Jewish

For the record, let me state: I am not now, nor have I ever been Jewish. And from what I'm seeing, it doesn't appear that it will ever be one of my options. I have had many Jewish friends, several Jewish girlfriends, and I've even been to a Passover seder, but, until recently, I never realized what a complicated proposition it is. My first inkling that I was too feebleminded for Judaism came from The life of a rabbi in Yehupitz. In this blog, I found the following post:

Being stood up

I hate being stood up.
A balebos makes an appointment and then just doesn't show up! It happened twice this week alone! I mean with two balebatim.
Forget kovod harav. Where's kovod?? Just a sense of respect for another human being!
I am seriously upset over this.

I, too, would have been seriously upset about this, except for the fact that I had no idea what he was talking about. Fortunately, Yehupitzer Rov spelled it out for me in his comments and I'd lay odds that words like stupid, gentile, and schmuck were going through his head while he did it. If so, it would be hard to argue with him. It gets worse. At Gil Student's blog, Hiruhim Musing, the first thing you see is this note:

Caution: This blog is la-halakhah ve-lo le-ma'aseh. Consult your rabbi before following any practices advocated here.

Again, I was at a loss, but I figured that such a stern warning could only indicate that serious Hebrew naughtiness would follow. It may well have. I wouldn't be the one to ask. If it did, it didn't resemble any of the forms of naughtiness that I am familiar with and I am well versed in these matters. However, reading Hiruhim Musing was not a total loss. I did find this post informational:

Kashrus Alert

I called the Vaad HaRabbanim of Flatbush and confirmed the alert below. The restaurant technically also has supervision from Kehillah Kashrus but I suspect that it has been removed also.

FYI, I had dinner from there Monday.
Kashrus Alert
The following kashrus alert is from the Vaad Harabbanim of Flatbush on January 3, 2006.

Effective immediately the Vaad of Flatbush has terminated its hashgacha at Nosh Express Restaurant located at 2817 Nostrand Ave., Brooklyn, NY for kashrus reasons.

I'm not real sure about Vaad Harabbanim but I will definitely be crossing the Nosh Express Restaurant off my list. A terminated hashgacha just doesn't sound like the type of thing that I should be fooling with.

This may be one of the few times that I have appreciated modern Christianity. If nothing else, it's tenets are easy to comprehend: If I don't send a check to the preacher on my TV, I go to Hell. It's just that simple. I may not agree with it, but unless I get a whole lot smarter, I'm afraid it's the only option that I've got.

Single Ladies -- Look What I've Got For You

In order to put this post in the proper perspective, certain facts must be established. Namely, I am a bit of a prick. Well, perhaps more than a bit. In fact, it might be more accurate to say that I am the High Priest of the Temple of the Exalted Prick. In other words, if we were invaded by space aliens from the planet Prick, they would elect me their new leader. Thus, advancing the above arguments to their logical conclusion, we arrive at the following result: I am a prick.

Hopefully, any ambiguity associated with the aforementioned situation has been dispelled. It is critical in your understanding of the next point. I have read many blogs over the last 3 months. The blogs that I read regularly are always well written, usually funny, and often contain relevant points about contemporary society. However, I had not run across any blog that absolutely compelled me to read every entry in it's entirety at that very moment--until Sat. night. I was up until 4:30 AM reading the blog of a man who is the answer to every non-shallow, non-materialistic, marriage-minded woman's prayers. If you are a nice, single girl who is discouraged because you only find jerks, I have the solution. I have found the blog of the Nicest Guy on the Planet and he is available.

What makes maxipad-boy think he knows what women want? Because women tell me. Single women say they want some one who is honest, kind, attentive, hardworking, passionate, and sensitive. I don't know him personally, but I know people. I'd lay 50-1 odds against him doing any of the following: cheating, lying, stealing, ignoring your needs, failing to provide for you, abandoning you, taking you for granted, or acting in a condescending manner. A common complaint among married women, that I hear, is that everything changes after marriage. The guy they were dating is not the same guy they married. After reading his entire blog, I don't think that he is even capable of this kind of deception, or even deception at all. I was amazed by the innocence of it.

Hell, if I was gay, I'd be all over this. But I'm not so, go get him ladies.

(Don't start getting any ideas that I'm going soft here. I may have to directly plagiarize Common Wombat to compensate for this post.)

10 Minutes to Wapner

Typically, when the medical industry comes out with a newly discovered "disease" I am skeptical. As far as I am concerned, the bulk of medical "research" is horseshit designed to increase the revenues of the research sponsors. Yet, when I read the symptoms of Adult Attention Deficit Disorder they describe me almost perfectly. I don't actually think it is a disease and I don't anticipate doing anything about it, but sometimes it tries my patience. Like tonight.

Earlier, I determined that my head was going to explode if I didn't get a cheesesteak sub. So, I grabbed one of the many carryout menus that are delivered to my door and called my favorite cheesesteak store. They tell me it will be ready in 15 minutes, so off I went. When I got there, I gave them my name and they didn't know what I was talking about. There was no cheesesteak for TFG there. Apparently, I wasn't listening when they said the name of the shop I had really ordered from. I reached in my pocket to retrieve my cell phone and check the call log. I had forgotten the cell phone in the car. So, I headed back to the car to find that I had actually left the cell phone at home. I didn't want to stiff the shop I had ordered from, so I went home to look at the phone. Once home, I found the number and started comparing it to the stack of carryout menus that were on the table. No dice, I had misplaced the carryout menu that I had ordered from. My only remaining option is to call the number. I called hoping to recognize the name of the place so I don't have to ask any stupid questions. Again, I was S.O.L because I had never ordered from them before. Instead, I got to ask things like, "Do you really have an order for TFG?" ,"Where are you located?" and "How much was that again?" Having a definitive destination, I get back in the car and drive to the other sub shop. I go to pay the cashier and discover that I left my wallet at home. Fortunately, I had enough dollar coins in the car to pay for the sub.

All I can say is that it is damned good thing the sub was excellent. If it wasn't, I probably would have had to spend the rest of the night trying to figure out where it came from, so I could complain.