Slinging It

Did you know that you can paid to blog? Really. All you have to do is sign up with a service like payperpost.com or Blogitive and post about selected products. I was dumfounded when I realized how much I could and should be making from this otherwise fruitless endeavor. Thus, I have accepted a commision from the tourism industry to promote international travel. Now don't get the idea that I've sold out. If I wasn't 100% behind this product, I wouldn't even consider doing this.

It's summer, which is the time for taking vacations. Wouldn't you like to take your family somewhere unique? What could be better than giving your children memories that will last a lifetime. This is why you should consider taking a trip to the gorgeous seaside paradise of Dildo, Newfoundland :



Not only will you enjoy Dildo's picturesque scenery, but you can also help the Dildotians celebrate their heritage in their annual Dildo Days celebration. Of course, no Dildo party would be complete without the venerable Captain Dildo:



So, don't delay--book your reservations immediately for the most memorable vacation your family can take. Because once you've been in Dildo, you'll always have a little Dildo in you.

And I Thought SnackDouche Was Bad

Remember back in 2004 when George W. Bush and his handlers were desperately searching for an excuse to invade Iraq. It's interesting that nobody of any significance has yet to ask why we're really there. Regardless, part of the "justification" that was provided to the American people was that Iraq was trying to obtain WMD. Of course, none we're actually found, but one of the myths that were perpetuated was that Iraq was attempting to obtain uranium ore from Niger. Consequently, the Neo-con logic goes, Iraq would have been able to produce fissile uranium hexafluoride (UF₆) to use in weapons. This also was a complete fabrication, but it does seem to make a valid case for being very careful with your UF₆.

Per the Department of Homeland Security, the country is at Yellow or Elevated risk of terrorist attacks. Regardless, as I'm driving home on the outer loop of I-695 in rush hour traffic, I was able to snap this picture of a truck in an adjacent lane:


If you look at barrel's labeling closely you can read the words: URANIUM HEXAFLUORIDE, FISSILE. It gets better though. We were stopped due to an accident, so I was free to help myself to as much as I pleased. There were no escort vehicles, helicopters or armed soldiers in sight. In fact, there were two trucks carrying the same cargo.



The only thing dumber than transporting uranium hexafluoride in bumper to bumper traffic, may possibly be driving while photographing someone transporting uranium hexafluoride in bumper to bumper traffic. However, in the trucker's defense, he wasn't driving in the left lane.

The Wedding Planner

It appears that I've become quite the matchmaker lately, since things between Sassy Blond and Doodoo Brown have gotten serious. Consequently, as an ordained minister, I will be the officiant at their wedding and have prepared the following vows:

Reverend TFG: Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness an event of an unparalleled holiness: The matrimony of myself and the reception's open bar. But first, I probably ought marry these two horndogs, Sassy Blond and Doodoo Brown, so that we don't have yet another bastard kid on our hands. To celebrate the spirit of the day, Sassy and Doodoo have selected the following inspirational poem reading:

There onces was a man from Degrass.
His balls where made out of brass.
when he clang them together
They made stormy weather
And lightning shot out of his ass

Who gives this woman's hand in marriage today today?

Convenient Homeless Guy: I do.
Rev TFG: Give?!? Gas, grass or ass. There are no free rides. Do I hear 20,20,20-20 in the front. 25?25? 30?30? Sold to Mr. Brown. OK, Doodoo. Do you promise to lay the pipe only to Sassy, minimize Dutch Ovens and to keep her basement leak free.
Groom: I do.
Rev TFG: And Sassy, do you promise to uphold the covenants of matrimony such as cooking, cleaning, changing the diapers of the little Doodoos and not bitching when Doodoo blows his paycheck at the nudie bar?
Bride: I do.
Rev TFG: Well, isn't that just the cat's ass? I pronounce you two hot monkey lovers--now go get a room. Where in the hell is the buffet?

By the way, if you've got a upcoming summer wedding, my calendar is suprisingly open.

No Sale

I consider myself to be an honest person, sometimes brutally so. I have a deep dislike of people who lie to me and I usually know when this is happening. Thus, most salespeople are already pre-qualified for my personal Douchebag Bin sight unseen. The reason why I mention this is that I've spent the last two days car shopping.

In my mind, the customer/salesperson relationship is one of pure mercantilism; two parties negotiating to maximize their respective self interests. The part of this process that I despise is when the salespeople try to circumvent these boundaries with slimy attempts at making personal connections with me. I've got plenty of friends--business is business.

Nevertheless, I go out of my way to be polite and appear generally innocuous, at least until it's time not to. Yesterday, I was at a dealership when I was approached by a saleswoman. She was a drop dead gorgeous, blond, 25 year old, who was wearing an expensive form-fitting outfit. In other words, she was dressed to promote Bad Penis Syndrome (BPS). BPS is a very common male affliction, where the gigglestick overrides the brain and causes poor and often expensive choices. As we were looking at the cars, I noticed that she was being evasive about the prices, preferring to discuss monthly payments instead. This is Financial Assrapery of the Highest Order, because it involves lengthening the loan terms to reduce the payment amount without reducing the actual principal. It only benefits the dealer and it leads to borrowers getting upside down and higher interest rates. Regardless, I took her flirting and attempts to rook me in stride and chalked it up as par for the course. For awhile, anyway:

Saleswoman: I'm sure we can get your payment down to around $475. You could take it today.
Me: That would be a definite improvement. Are you talking about a 72 month loan?
Saleswoman: Yes, with A1 credit you'll get a low interest rate. Most of our customers do at least 60 months with no problem. We can start the application now.

As she made the last statement she did the intolerable--she placed her hand on my back. I absolutely detest strangers, beautiful or otherwise, touching me. If I know you or touch you first, it's different. This changed the tone of our conversation somewhat:

Me (wriggling away): Cool it, sugartits. (Yeah, I really said that). I wouldn't pay $475 a month on a borrowed kidney. I'm sure as hell not going to spend it on a vehicle that's guaranteed to depreciate faster than I can pay it off. Getting upside down is for suckers.
Saleswoman (stunned): I..um..uh..I didn't mean to insult you. I..uh..just thought...
Me: You thought you had a live one. Here's the news: If you can't tell me what the prices are and how you're going to reduce them substantially, we don't have a lot to discuss.
Saleswoman: Let me talk to the manager and see what we can do.
Me: You do that. In the meantime, I'm going to the next dealer. See ya.

This exchange had me thinking: Maybe there is a way that I can avoid such misunderstandings in the future. Here's what I came up with on Cafe Press:

Front

Back

Taking the Keys Away

Yesterday, I was talking to my father on the telephone. True to form, we covered one of my favorite topics; the state of my inheritance. Despite the fact that I constantly remind him that daily eating is unnecessary and that doctors are for pussies, he still manages to squander my fortune at an alarming rate. In this instance, he informed me that he spent approximately $600 on lawnmower maintenance. There are several problems with this.

The lawnmower in question is a Snapper Hi-Vac Rear Engine Riding Mower. Incidentally, it also happens to be red, allowing me to make clever statements like, "Dad, what do the neighbors think of your red snapper?" Considering that this mower is barely a year old and retails for about the book value of my car, there is no way that it should require $600 of repairs so soon. Delving deeper, we had the following discussion:

Me: How did you manage to spend $600 fixing the lawnmower? It's fairly new.
Dad: The front steering linkage is broken. Plus, it needed a new blade and the blade's driveshaft was bent.
Me: Bent? That takes some doing. When did that happen?
Dad: When I drove the lawnmower down the hill in the front yard.
Me: The hill covered with rocks?
Dad: Yeah, that hill.
Me: The rocks are large and white. Grass is green. How did you mistake the two?
Dad: Well, lawn mowing is kind of monotonous. So, I thought I'd take a little nap.
Me: You're telling me you fell asleep on the lawnmower?
Dad: Hey, I woke up. Right after the blade broke off.
Me: Hysterical laughter.

If you've ever used a riding lawnmower, you know that it's not a terribly relaxing proposition. Due to the lack of suspension, the operator is subjected vibratory forces that are only rivaled by some of Cham's more potent sex toys. Furthermore, my father assured me that he was not under the influence of alcohol or any other mind altering substance. By the way, there are circumstances when the best strategy is to claim complete intoxication. Had my dad said, "Yes, son. I was ripped to the tits on MD 20/20 when I wrecked the lawnmower," I wouldn't be nearly as worried. Thus, I was forced to inform him that his days of independence are quickly waning and that we should start shopping assisted living facilities. Since he's only 62 and I've been suggesting the same for the last 15 years, I doubt he's going to go for it.