Tutankhomen as a telemarketer?
Why not?
On Monday August 29. the Detroit Free Press ran a provocative article, titled: “Money is returning to help sex victims.”
According to the article, there is a super-secret place somewhere in Oakland County where sex victims were abused and then abandoned by a collection of exploitative currency. These poor women, children and nancy-boys, removed from society so as to avoid displaying their shame, were sequestered in a secret location somewhere in the bowels of this wretched suburbia and teased by a dollar bill, a twenty, two fives and six Benjamins, all of which continued the cycle of abuse by manipulating the emotions and bodies of the pour souls.
“K’mon, I really love you,” said one five dollar bill to Madison Stinson, a 32 year old stay-at-home mom recently admitted to the secret location by the Oakland goon squad, “you should fold me like you know you should, and everything will be OK. Like, I’m SO worth a jumbo value meal!”
The Benjamins worked together, telling their wards, “We can make you a star, take you to Hollywood. Just don’t spend us all at once…make us last, baby.”
But the sentiments were all a cruel illusion, as the money soon left, sated and satisfied, redundantly be-adjectived.
The money was eventually found, and was forced to come back to the super secret HAVEN facility and apologize to the wretched sex slaves contained therein.
I think its simply disgraceful that anthropomorphic paper moneys should be allowed to behave this way. I know its difficult to avoid graft when the bribery is being performed by the actual currency being slipped into greasy palms, but I can’t understand how the cash got past the guards at the HAVEN sex victim containment facility to begin with. But when the money was finally cornered, I think it was even more disgraceful that the victims were forced to stare down the bank notes yet again.
I’ll bet that the five dollar bill, complete with its presidential glare, intimidated the lasses and may have even gotten a second shot at getting its billfold stuffed, but who am I to say.
Really, when it comes right down to it, the French have a better time of it. They have a saying which I’ve used on this blog once before, “Mi Casa Es Su Casa.” Roughly translated, this means “Let the Buyer Beware.”
Even though, in this case, anyone interacting with the bills would technically be a seller because of the whole order-of-operation included with said transactions, I think the seller would be buying into the whole philosophy of rampaging rapatious filthy lucre.
Filthy lucre indeed! For what could be filthier than the mind of a twelve year old consumed with images of tight, stretchy pants tautly containing the quivering thighs of all those 1980′s era aerobics instructors? When did loose, comfortable work-out shorts and pants become popular? Thank god they still use sports bras, because along with sports drinks they are what makes sports worthwhile, in this man’s humble opinion. Sweating blue, green, purple, and sometimes orange, GatorAde addicts are easy to spot, and easier to smell as they go about their preposterously physically demanding activities and show off their preposterously physically exquisite bodied.
Shit, its enough to turn a man gay to see all those six-pack abs with rainbow sweat dripping down in slow motion on the TV. I think it should be banned along with all likenesses of the Fanta girls.
No, I DON’T wanna, wanna, wanna Fanta! Frankly, I’d rather guzzzle a gallon of Faygo, even if my peers in school used to tease me for drinking “Fag-go”. Screw you, guys. If the Insane Clown Posse can drink it with clown face on and no one accuses them of playing for the wrong team, then I sure the hell should be able to get away with it. I mean, just because I have a pleasantly lilting voice, and one paragraph ago I made an appreciative comment about men with six-pack-abs doesn’t make me gay!
I am completely secure in my sexuality, and I’m straight, as far as I know. But even if I weren’t, where do you think we are, Alabama? A guy can dig on guys without shame in this day and age, but I still think they should date at least a year or two before getting married.
See, my lesbian aunt is dating this one chick for less than two years and is already talking the big “M” word. I think its too soon, because my aunt is still on the rebound from her ex, who moved to Florida to take care of her sick mom and sent back a “Dear Jane” letter by postal mail. I mean, give the old licking post a break for a bit, right? I don’t care what orientation you are, there’s something to be said for giving it a little bit of time.
Which is something I used to think I have a lot of, but now realize I really don’t. The other day I set my watch to go off the precise moment I turned 33.3 years old. That’s because at that moment I was ONE THIRD of a CENTURY old. Fraggles, Mad Magazine, Howard the Duck, You Can’t Do That On Television, the multiple colors of the stupid “every breath you take” video, my first, second, third, fourth, fifth cars…
I remember being 20, going on a vacation with a 35 year old woman and thinking she was “hot for her age”. Now I’m only two years shy of that same milestone, and looking in the mirror tells me I already look WAY worse than she did back then. I guess I’m different..
..and All Done Now.
After my last set of posts the silence was deafening, and I felt it was possible that I had stepped across the invisible line (my collar did zap me, but I initially ignored it and chalked it up to impending erotic pleasure) so I ran the Pavlov-GAP post past my staff and they said,
”Thats my daddy!”
”Then who’s that?”
”It’s a butt.”
”Is it your daddy’s butt?”
”I think so!”
My interpretation of this conversation is that the post had inappropriate content. I hereby swear never to use the concepts of “grandmother” and “penile erection” in the same sentence. It will never work, unless it could possibly be structured as, “My grandmother, the retired proctologist, tells me I’ll never have a penile erection again due to the impending removal of my prostate.” Even then, I think I would soon come to regret making such a statement.
Speaking of medical concerns, this morning I speak to you with a small scab forming on the tip of my adams apple. Yes, I said tip. Why is this structure called an apple?
Exhaustive research reveals the following:
Shortly after their creation, human race progenitors Adam and Eve began having disagreements about dietary issues, with an emphasis on fruit consumption. Ultimately the charismatic Eve was able to bring about a consensus opinion that endorsed the experimental consumption of one (1) unit of fruit.
Furthermore, the newly formed Adam/Eve consortium also decided that covering their genitals would increase their safety and comfort and immediately developed a line of designer foliage-based body coverings. The regulatory authority in place at the time stepped in after the fact to advise that the decisions of the Adam/Eve consortium were unacceptable and, furthermore, amounted to multiple violations of the guidelines governing proper diet and attire within the Eden facility.
The bylaws of the Eden facility forced the hand of the authoritative governing body and the Adam/Eve consortium was evicted from the premises. It was at this point that Eve, despite her distinguished career, experienced a break-down of decorum and assaulted Adam with the uneaten portion of fruit. 
Pinning his big, stupid, man-body against the outside of the Eden retaining wall, she braced herself with a nearby decorative fountain stone (the grounds surrounding Eden were quite well appointed) and proceeded to force the apple down the throat of the struggling Adam.
Being ever-so-slightly too large to fit down his esophagus, the apple became lodged in the throat, where it miraculously became integrated into Adam’s genetic structure so thoroughly that the presence of the apple was recorded in every sperm he produced from that day forward.
Because of this incident, all males of our species have this pronounced apple thingy in our neck. While not all males have excessive hair-growth on their face and neck, I do. The combination of these two features greatly complicates my efforts at beard removal.
Oh, yeah. Did I mention that I have a small scab forming on the tip of my adams apple?
I just noticed I’ve gone past the 100 posts mark. I think I post too often…I haven’t really been blogging all that long. I need to make a new Safe Picks…the old one is a month out of date. But, if you missed the first few months, Safe Picks will help you skip over the crappier parts while perusing the back-issues.
Heather’s interview turned out to be a door-to-door charity book sales scam/pyramid scheme. Bastards! Wasting our time on this bull-crap. The initial interview made it sound like they were some sort of event management company. Lying bastards.
A dog salivates when dried meat paste is introduced into his oral cavity. The dog cannot consciously control it, it simply happens. It is an instinct.
When I look at an attractive woman whose posterior is properly framed by denim pants, I also have a natural and somewhat involuntary response.
That response is a helthy penile erection. My wife in capri style jeans, for instance, can take any social situation I find myself in and introduce a new talking point, if you know what I mean. This can be especially awkward when visiting my in-laws. A full erection in front of your father-in-law and his aging mother may be flattering in some cultures, but his kitchen is small enough that someone is going to get rubbed with firm man-flesh every time I try to squeeze through to get a drink from the fridge.
”No gramma, let ME get that. Oops, sorry to have inadvertantly brushed your flabby old ass-cheeks with my raging hard-on. I know, its your granddaughter’s personal beef-pole, but I like to spread the love around, right?”
What I am trying to say is that a shapely, womanly bottom wrapped in a nice pair of jeans is to my sex periscope what the aforementioned meat-paste is to dog drool. I’ve told you all this so that my next point is absolutely clear and needs little or no elaboration:
The GAP has 30-60 second advertisements in which two or three seconds of hot chicks pulling on jeans or dancing in jeans or bending over to show us their butts is interlaced with images of young children happily playing (while wearing wee li’l denim pants).
…friends, I have remained unaffected, but may be a statistical anomaly because of my instinctive dislike of television clothes models regardless of shapeliness. But we have no choice but to assume that the GAP is attempting to use Pavlovian behavioral conditioning to turn normal men (and possibly some lesbians) into pedophiles! Boycot the GAP today.
Driving and thinking about stuff:
Heather has yet another round two interview, with yet another company.
This one is a marathon session, expected to run from 11am to 8pm.
basically, you work a day for free, I guess. Employer version of “try before you buy.”
the GAP is trying to use Pavlovian behavioral conditioning to turn me into a pedophile. Their plan won’t work, but I may never think of denim the same way. Details later…
Head hurts in a way that indicates that it’s time to goback to sandpaper.
You heard right! The first new content for my sketch comedy blog since the end of June.
This marks my return to Second City writing, and its called Sunday Drivers in Love
This car is bound, and shall never escape. Tightly contained within the tight threads of bound bindings, it struggles visibly within this parking space of a local Taco Bell.
I nearly drop my precious bean burrito in startlement, cinnamon twist mid-crunch within my now-slack jaws. What should I do? Should I wait for the owner, to offer him my condolences and condiments, and to further offer him a sympathy packet of hot-sauce? Little would he know that I am holding, in reserve you might say, a packet of so-called FIRE sauce.
He could probably use the hot sauce, but that car is suffering enough for now, and I wouldn’t voluntarily subject it to the Taco Bell FIRE sauce. I honestly doubt he has enough insurance to cover the results. Lord knows I don’t. Geckos are pitilessly unsympathetic towards processed condiments scoring higher than 6000 on the Scoville scale. So, as a matter of fact, is my anus.
Anyway, I decided to depart instead of offering any materials edible or otherwise to the pilot of this supernaturally restrained mobile turd. I can only hope that, if it proves to be unspeakably evil, that this car shall never break free. Conversely (or possibly Addidasly) I hope that, if this car is an innocent prisoner of its magically charged stripes, it eventually becomes liberated in a way that I am not.
I frantically search under the seats of my car for a spare USB mouse to shove up the tail-pipe, but this task proves futile when all I find is a crushed tissue paper box and a depressingly empty box of lemon chewing gum.
As I pull out of the parking-lot, I throw one last wistful sneer at the rear bumper of the checkered vehicle with its probable checkered past. Toodle-oo, my bound and spell binding new friend.
Perhaps I shall see you again one day.
LATE BREAKING NEWS! I have been told by a local that this vehicle is owned by an employee of the Taco Bell, which just confirms my preconceived notions of what it means to work for the Pepsi Cola company.
I know, who doesn’t want to kill these spoiled, skinny, shallow, vapid, little rich girls, right? I am no exception to this nearly universal rule, but my reasons for Olsenocide may surprise you.
I don’t care that they are annoying, or vapid, or talentless, or fraternal, or possibly animatronic. I don’t hate them for that. No one forces me to see their movies, I never watched the damn TV show (primarily because Dave Coulier and Bob Saget make me itch and cast about nervously for automatic weapons) and I am not compelled by law to join their official fan club. No one forces me to deal with the Olsen twins of our time era.
But yet I want to climb into a time machine with a bent pipe, go back to 1992 and strike them about the head and shoulders repeatedly until they are dead. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no sadist; I wouldn’t do it happily, no. It would be hard on everyone involved, including their parents and myself. I might need counseling after I returned to 2005 with their Olsenite blood dripping off my hands and bent pipe.
But at least I would never hear the records they made in 1992 when they were seven years old. A lifetime living with haunting memories of their pitiful screams for mercy would be worth it to never again listen to…well…
See, we had this thing called Sirius Satellite Radio (we’ll have it again when Heather gets work) and amongst the music and news stations it offers is a children’s station called, “Kid Stuff.” It plays nice songs by the Muppets, School House Rock, the Animaniacs, and all sorts of kiddie music acts you may or may not be familiar with. I’m fine with them all. Sam enjoys it enough that she might not constantly whine when the car ride exceeds ten minutes, and I can sing most of those songs along with her for extra parental delightedness.
”Kid Stuff” has a dark side, though. Occasionally a painful exercise in tympanum torture emerges from the otherwise agreeable musical selection and you find yourself treated to *shudder* the Wiggles, Veggie Tales, or even Barney the Dinosaur. (I often fantasize about Barney and Dorothy fighting over the corpse of a Triceratops, but I digress.) The absolute worst thing I’ve ever heard, however, even when considering air-raid sirens and the mating calls of feral cats as logical alternatives, is the Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen singing “Brother for Sale,” “I’m the Cute One,” “Desperate for a Dog,” or “Identical Twins.” (The latter being filthy lie of a title, because Mary Kate and Ashley are actually fraternal twins. Lying little hussies.)
Sam, unfortunately, likes hearing their little voices tell us that their brother is only worth 50 cents, or lie about being identical twins. So I let Sam listen, and I slowly grind the enamel off of my molars and shake with barely contained rage.
If I had a bent pipe and a time machine……wait, found one!
…
…If I only had a time machine,
DaveCat - Shouting to…
That’s So Dos - Spock IS Enough
Kim Ayres - rambling beard
Zuba - A Practicing Moomin
Lyvvie’s Limelight - “Turn on your lime light!”
For the Love of Rocks - Maja in AU!
It is not the relish that makes this hot-dog so delicious, it is the zeal!
