There are some words in the English language that convey profound meaning through their sheer ambiguity. Assclown is one of them.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Tonight, I finally finished unpacking my suitcase from my Midwestern Christmas trip, which contained some gifts that I'd forgotten about getting. Somehow, I overlooked what is clearly one of the better gifts that I received:
As you can see, it's a Pooping Sheep by Midlon Foods. Given the level of sophistication of my sense of humor, they correctly assumed that I'd find this to be the height of hilarity. After all, it's a sheep, it poops, and it even comes with its own ammunition. What could be funnier? Moving on.
Although the package's verbiage is correct, I noticed a few peculiarities.
I find it odd that the Christmas tree is touting the inherent yumminess of the sheep's deposits. Now, I'm not going to say that I've not seen a talking tree before, but it was usually preceded by seeing Jerry and his brethren perform Sugaree or the like. Here is another oddity:
If you look directly right of the couch, there appears to be an ewe in the midst of either a pelvic exam or an unspeakable sex act that rhymes with zunnibingus. Of course, they leave us hanging by masking the identity of the mystery diner behind the couch. Regardless, as a man who is in his element in Midwestern culture, I realize that certain allowances must be made with respect to amorous intentions towards the species. However, I final this final item rather disturbing:
Notice the line that states: Not suitable for children under 36 months due to small parts. I can't argue with this, the toy could constitute a choking hazard to a small child. Apparently, though, it's acceptable to teach 3 year olds that animal excrement can provide hours of fun as well as a tasty snack. Following this logic, I will be looking forward to receiving a Litterbox Lunchbox next Christmas.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
I'm Such An Ass
Our company has PA system that is tied to the speaker of every deskphone and a series of loudspeakers. It is typically used for paging employees or making company-wide announcements. This morning, I'm sitting at my desk, conveying the image of productivity, when I hear a conversation being carried over the PA system. Apparently, an employee had inadvertently let something rest on the PAGE button of his phone. I recognize one of the voices, which belongs to a rather outspoken production manager who is quite proud of the fact that he eschews underwear. To his detriment, it was noisy enough outside his office to prevent him from getting feedback from the loudspeakers.
Do I call him and tell him he's audible throughout the plant? Not exactly. I called his cell phone and had the following discussion. Bear in mind the entire company is hearing his side of the conversation:
Capt. Commando: Hello
TFG: Employee 2 and I have a bet. He says that you never wear underwear and I say that's wrong.
Capt. Commando: It's true. Everyone knows I don't wear underwear.
TFG: I didn't know. Why is that?
Capt. Commando: Because I like to feel the breeze blowing on my junk.
TFG: That's filthy. What if you tear your pants?
Capt. Commando: Then the women get a thrill. Everybody loves my tool.
TFG: Uh-huh, that's a sitcom, isn't it? I'm guessing that I'd need a microscope to be offended, anyway.
Capt. Commando: Shit. You'd like it, too. My wife makes me shave down there, so it's all smooth and shiny.
TFG: I'm not so....(interrupted)
Capt. Commando: You are such an asshole. I can't believe you did that.
TFG: Hysterical laughter.
It looks like I won't be making Employee of the Month, again.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Cherish My Memory
It is my solemn duty to inform you that my death is imminent. One day last week, I awoke and found that I had pronounced facial swelling and a high fever. At first, I thought I was coming down with the flu, but when I looked in the mirror I saw otherwise. A small scratch had evolved into a sizable head wound and both eyes were swollen nearly shut. I hadn't seen my body react to anything like that since the Dirty Needle Dodgeball Incident of '98. Thus, I proceeded directly to the closest ER at high speed. Upon arrival, they determined that I had a staph infection. I'll spare you the details of how these things are dealt with, but let it suffice to say that it was only somewhat more pleasant than a Gerbilectomy. I found the following article in an AP article on Yahoo! later in the week:
WASHINGTON (Reuters) - A nasty staph germ circulating in and out of hospitals produces a poison that can kill pneumonia patients within 72 hours, researchers said on Thursday...
Although I don't actually have the pneumonia part and the wound appears to be healing, I know that God won't resist such an opportunity. Thus, I have compiled my Last Will and Testament:
To Common Wombat: I leave my most trusted household contrivance - my commode. Rest assured that this is one of the finest pieces of machinery that I've ever known. It has carried me through many dark and troubled times. I feel that this bequest is analogous to placing a Stradivarius in the hands a virtuoso. I have no doubt that you will be able to use it to.....Wait, I really don't want to know what you're going to do with it. Really.
To Karla: I bequeath my antibiotic collection. Since most medical journals refer to your nether regions as the "viral Disneyland," I'm certain that they will come in handy. Moreover, I've included my Pez penicillin dispenser, so that you can discretely consume the massive volumes that it takes to get you through your busy day.
To Dyckerson: I leave you my most precious possession: my crotch. If it brings you with half of the pleasure that it has brought me, you will die a satiated man. With all of the perks and privileges that come with this gift, please don't forget the responsibilities. Speaking of which, if any attorneys contact you about a small herd of illegitimate Haitian children, pretend that you don't speak English. Also, please continue my regimen of loving care. Remember to Turtle Wax it every Wednesday, but no matter how much it begs, do not feed it from the dinner table.
To Kalleigh Hathaway: To you, I leave my job. In life, I didn't have much use for it and I doubt that death will improve upon that. The fact that you have no formal training as an electrical engineer shouldn't impede your success and eventual advancement. Merely use industry jargon like "volts", "amps", and "zappy-thing" often and nobody will be the wiser. Trust me, I've been doing it for years. Additionally, since there is a scant number of attractive women in engineering, you can most likely set fire to the building hourly with no fear of repercussion.
To ACW: I leave you my laxative stockpile. With your known propensity for consuming inedible substances, such as candle wax and soap, I'm sure that you can put them to good use. I was also going to give you the Dongstar, but I fear that you would inevitably find a way to ingest that, too.
To Standing Cheese: Although I haven't agreed with some of your posts, particularly with respect to blogger etiquette, I enjoy your blog nonetheless. You don't care who you offend or how how many "precious" comments an offensive opinion might cost you and you've got to respect that. Thus, I bequeath you my favorite monogrammed T-shirt. Wear it with pride, I certainly did.
To Geisha: I leave my Hewlett Packard 6234A DC Power Supply. This apparatus is capable of delivering 250 milliamps of direct current at 24 volts, which equates to 6000 milliwatts of hoo-haa blasting goodness. Compared to the meager 9 volts provided by your beloved Mr. Battery, this gift is 2.67 times more potent and will never die at an inopportune moment.
To Malnurtured Snay: I leave you my Lego collection and all of my first edition, autographed Battlestar Gallactica DVDs.
OK, maybe I don't really have any of that stuff, but if I did and was actually dying (honestly, I plan to live forever), they would be yours.
To Cham Green: It is difficult to express the depth of my disappointment of not being able to fulfill my childhood dream of making sweet, sweet, Monkeylove to you on the pitcher's mound of Camden Yards on Opening Day. As a mechanism of consolation, I leave you my Winnie the Pooh sheets. Please honor my memory by using them whenever you're entertaining your teeming Hispanic he-harem.
Sadly, I must close in order to prepare my Final Arrangements. I've requested cremation and that the subsequent ashes be used as cut in a kilo of pure cocaine that is to be distributed in selected day care centers to commemorate TFG Day. In lieu of flowers, please send copious donations, in one dollar bills, to Our Lady of the Happy Ending, 7541 Pulaski Hwy, Baltimore, MD, 21237.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Am I A Bad Man For Wanting To Have Peyton's Baby?
Saturday, I called a friend of mine who also happens to be a sporting probability broker. It was well before the kickoff of the Ravens game, so I was still able to place a wager. I don't gamble on sports much anymore - this was the first game I bet on this season. To my defense, I did compare the teams' stats during lunch on Friday and suspected that Baltimore's offense would probably flounder under the pressure. Also, Baltimore played a cake schedule this season, while Indy did not. Regardless, I hadn't actually planned to do anything about my hunch, but, apparently, I was well overdue for some filthy, fiscal stupidity.
So, is this me? Except for the beads and bad haircut, it fortunately is not.
My broker is an enormous Russian guy that we'll call Enormous Russian Guy or ERG for brevity. He doesn't actually need to be enormous for his brokerage duties, it's only a part-time job and he only takes bets from people he knows, so everyone pays. Half of the fun of being around ERG is the fact that despite his 20 years in this country, he still can barely speak English. Last night, I went to the Russian Place and have the following conversation in pseudoEnglish:
Me: Hello, ERG
ERG (refusing to shake my hand): You are traitor. You go against your city.
Me: Fuck my city in the ear.
ERG: No, no. You cannot. You are shit-man.
Me: I know. I even have the cape. Where's my money?
ERG: There can be no money for traitors.
Me: I'm going to have you deported to Dundalk, again. Where's your green card?
ERG: It is on your ass. (sometimes on = up)
Me: Don't you mean that it's over my ass?
ERG: Yes, it will be over your ass, too.
This went on for awhile, to my amusement and that of his friends who actually speak English. Then he went somewhere and retrieved an envelope. Here's me:
So, in conclusion, I am a traitor to the city of Baltimore for taking Indy and +4. I didn't actually see the game, which is good, since I can't stand to watch games that I've bet on because I am transformed into a raving idiot. But if I had, I would have most likely been howling for the Colts. I am well aware that I should be bound and gagged atop Federal Hill while being flogged by Capt. Chesapeake and then forced to play "Maryland, My Maryland" via a non-traditionally located kazoo. Nevertheless, I'm up $500 and that's not too shabby, particularly for an established shit-man.
Monday, January 08, 2007
He's a Bad Mother--Shut Your Mouth
But the most wonderful thing about tiggers is that they will put the smack down on your simple ass:
Here is the video:
By extension, this means you obviously shouldn't mess with guys who have Tigger sheets, either.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
I read the following in an article on Yahoo News tonight:
TOKYO - Toyota Motor Corp. is developing a fail-safe system for cars that detects drunken drivers and automatically shuts the vehicle down if sensors pick up signs of excessive alcohol consumption, a news report said Wednesday. Cars fitted with the detection system will not start if sweat sensors in the driving wheel detect high levels of alcohol in the driver's bloodstream, according to a report carried by the mass-circulation daily, Asahi Shimbun.
Consequently, I am developing a fail-safe system for thwarting the sweat sensors of Toyota's DUI detector. My design is still in the concept stage, but I'm thinking about calling my system "Gloves."
Seriously, I doubt that Toyota's system will see the light of day in the US. Although it will be rejected under the guise of protecting civil liberties and personal privacy, I expect that it will actually be the US state judicial systems that will prevent its implementation. While drunk driving is idiotic and dangerous, above all its profitable. You heard it here first.