Archives For Humor

Search terms: WTF edition

February 18, 2013 — 170 Comments

I’ve got to switch things up around here.  My recent posts have been sentimental and/or introspective and frankly, I’m starting to annoy myself.  It’s time to break away from all that thoughtful shit and bust out a new batch of search terms.  For a refresher on the other mind-boggling search terms that bring people to my blog, please click here and here.

First, the newest members of my I Hate Alex Trebek club:
why is alex trebek such an insufferable prick
why does alex trebek think he’s hot shit
i fucking hate trebek
alex trebek isn’t a nice guy

I wish I didn’t like Jeopardy! as a game because I have such a hard time watching it with that smug bastard hosting.  I yell at the television at least once per episode, usually more:  “Fuck you, you little douche!”  “Shut up!  Stop talking!”  “Ass!”

What is WITH these people??
weebles boobs
weebles rack
weeble porn
weeble butt plug

Based on the disturbing popularity of these sorts of terms, I’m going to create a new literature genre: Weeblerotica.  There’s obviously an unmet need here.  A very twisted, baffling, unmet need.

Not quite the right URL, sorry:
heynicerack.com
loveyourtits.wordpress.com

If only I had thought of either of these for the name of my blog.  I could have been Madame Boobs.  Both of these domains are available, by the way.  I checked.

Some pressing questions that require answers:
can cats carry demons
Yes, but only if the demons are very small.   Cats can’t handle a big saddle.  Also, cats are pretty lazy.

what do i do i’m scared of weebles

Did they not read the title of this blog?  FEAR NO WEEBLES.

can i touch up my hair and raid it the same day

I suppose so, if you have a lot of bugs in your hair and you don’t mind that bug spray smell.  But you know, you may have more important concerns than your hair.  Just saying.

i wore pantyhose for halloween, now i can’t stop
I find this one particularly curious.  Is this person now addicted to pantyhose?  How does this happen?  What was their Halloween costume, anyway?

you see another brother in christ and you get nauseous
Whoa, is that any way to talk about a brother in Christ?  Let he who is without nausea-inducing qualities cast the first stone, dude.

Um, what?
prepare to fuck a new woman every day … but first read through our policies below

What the hell kind of organization is this?  I’m going to need to see these policies of theirs.  And is there a division for those who might wish to fuck a new man every day?

Variations on Fuck You:
fuck you american style
i fuck people like you in prison

Yes, well.  “American style” could mean so many things…  And although I’ve never been to prison, I watched Oz, so I know what’s up.  But if someone says, “I fuck people like you in prison,” does it mean that you’re a tasty piece or does it mean that you’re an obnoxious jerk who needs to become someone’s bitch?  It could go either way.

So many weevils, so many idiots:
how to make sure weebles aren’t in your food
what happens when you swallow a weeble
what to do if spaghetti has weebles in it

You mean like this? I usually just pick them out and lick off the sauce. It’s really no biggie.

If I had a dime for each search term where they obviously mean weevils and not Weebles, I’d be writing this post from my yacht on the Riviera.

My personal favorite:
geddy lee madame weebles in bed

Geddy, is that you????  Don’t be shy, baby.  Email me.

More search terms that would make great band names:
picturesque vagina
barricading the cheese
big pubes little dick
pantyhose ascendant
precocious tits
subway penis
dead marshmallow

A great injustice

January 18, 2013 — 221 Comments

I need to tell you about something that has bothered me for a long time.  It’s something that makes me want to start a grassroots movement to raise awareness and sensitivity about it so that people aren’t so quick to stereotype and condemn.  We all make snap judgments; it’s natural.  But we need to remember that our first impressions are not necessarily the truth.

I became aware of this particular issue when I was in high school.  I went to see Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home.  Great movie, even though Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan really is the best one.  This is the scene that triggered my epiphany.  Watch and listen closely:

Did you catch the accent on the one guy?  I’m sure it’s supposed to be New York.  The actor does a really crappy New York accent, but it’s evocative enough that I get the point.  He’s a blue-collar worker, so he has a blue-collar accent to match.  Despite the fact that this movie is set in San Francisco.

The other day I was watching a rerun of NCIS.  The episode involved mob guys in Virginia.  They had New York accents.  (Does the Mafia even operate down south?  I have no idea.)

Fonzie?  Motorcyle-riding greaser in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  New York accent.  Same for Lenny & Squiggy, Carmine, Laverne, and Mr. Di Fazio.  Apparently dumb punks and Italians have New York accents regardless of where they live.  It could have been the influence of Garry Marshall, a New Yorker with an accent so thick you could slice it, but still.

I won’t even get into all the other movies, TV shows, and commercials where the cop, bus driver, cab driver, construction worker, waitress, criminal, hooker, or [fill in your favorite non-white collar worker here] have New York accents—no matter where they’re supposed to take place.  You’re casting for a movie where one of the characters is a two-bit thug?  Make sure he sounds like he’s from Brooklyn, even though the film is set in Texas.

Everyone associates a New York accent with a certain type of person, with a certain socio-economic level and intelligence level.  People do it with other accents too—the southern accent, for example.  But southern accents aren’t often deployed like that in shows or movies set in non-southern areas.  (Or maybe they are and I just haven’t noticed them as much.)  And over the past 50 years we’ve had four presidents with southern accents: LBJ, Carter, Clinton, and W.  Not one who sounds like Joe Pesci.

I mean, there’s nothing at all wrong with doing blue-collar work, but we can do other things credibly too, you know.  Imagine hearing a hardcore New Yorker take the Oath of Office as president, saying, “So help me Gawd”?  Doesn’t that instill massive amounts of confidence?  Wouldn’t you go all dreamy and swoony if you saw a production of Romeo and Juliet in which the two main actors spoke the Queens English?  Just think of how reassured you would be by a doctor who spoke in a Bronx lilt: “Ya got KEEAN-suh butcha gonna be foin.”

So please, the next time you hear a New Yorker talk and automatically think, “What an imbecile,” remember that we’re people too.  It’s just a matter of appreciating the unique beauty and music of our cadences.  As Shakespeare said, If you prick us, do we not say, “What the fuck, asshole?”  If you tickle us, do we not say, “Whaddaya doin’a me, knockit ooowahff”?  If you poison us, do we not say, “Shit, what the fuck didja put in here?”  And if you wrong us, shall we not cut you?  If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.  Fuhgeddaboutit.

As many of you know, I have something of a hotline to the spirit world.  I know things.  And I sense many important and exciting events in store for the coming year, so I want to share my predictions with you.

Crystal ball

Jack Kerouac will return to earth in the body of a rabid dog and rip out the throat of the numbnuts who decided to crank out a tepid, unnecessary film adaptation of On the Road.  The casting director who signed Kristen Stewart for a role will be found with a copy of the novel rammed up his cold, dead colon.

Prince William and Kate Middleton will welcome a son who will bear an unfortunate and uncanny resemblance to his grandfather, Prince Charles—complete with giant ears and constipated countenance.  The front page of the Daily Mail will announce the birth with a photo of the baby and the headline, “A Royal Shame.”  The Times header will read, “Newborn Prince Healthy but Lost Genetic Lottery.”  And The Sun will simply declare, “BLOODY HELL!!”

In other celebrity baby news, the spawn of Kim Kardashian and Kanye West will have cloven hooves and will perform its own C-section.

The governments of the United States and Canada will jointly decide to banish Justin Bieber to an ice floe in the Arctic Circle.  He will never be heard from again.  The IQ of millions of tween girls will skyrocket shortly afterwards.

In sports, the New York Yankees will go 162-0, sweeping the playoffs and winning the World Series in 4 games. Alex Rodriguez will be out for the season, tormented by the ghost of Lou Gehrig yelling, “Suck it up, bitch!”  The NFL will be rocked to its core next winter when a meteor lands in the middle of Cowboys Stadium, destroying both the Dallas Cowboys and the visiting Philadelphia Eagles.  Americans will once again fail to give a rat’s ass about the upcoming Major League Soccer season.

Buoyed by the continued federal funding of PBS, the Children’s Television Workshop will introduce a new Sesame Street character, Bruce—Snuffalupagus’s boyfriend.

Sometime next month—or maybe later today—a woman in front of me will walk way too slowly, causing my blood pressure to rise until I finally go batshit crazy and push her in front of a bus.

President Obama will appoint Betty White as United States Ambassador to the World, which will usher in a new era of peace on earth.

There’s more, but my spirit guides just went for a cigarette break.  If you have any questions about the year ahead, please feel free to ask.  I will provide answers when my guides return.

I’ve had this cartoon for more than 20 years. Way before The Oatmeal, way before xkcd.com. I have no idea where it came from, but it’s a masterpiece.

Stab

It speaks to me on a profoundly deep and meaningful level.

The booty call

November 23, 2012 — 177 Comments

I didn’t know what would happen when he showed up.  I was nervous.  I hoped I would be able to control myself.  But he looked more fantastic than I remembered.  Dear God, why did he have to come back into my life just when I thought I was over him?  And why was I letting him come back??

So I begged him to leave.  We can’t do this, I said.  Please, just go.  You know how badly I want you, but I just can’t.  He was completely indifferent to my pleas.  He just sat there and watched me.  He knew he always made me weak in the knees and he was enjoying this.  I hated him for it.  I loved him for it.

Who was I kidding, I knew I’d submit to him.  More than once.  I always did.  And he knew it.

And ohh, it was soooooooo good.  I was shocked by my raw animal passion for him.  Before I knew what was happening my eyes were rolling back in my head and my toes were curling.  Primitive grunts escaped my throat.  Every cell in my body ached for him.  He rocked my world.  I couldn’t speak but in my mind I screamed “YES YES YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS” over and over.  He satisfied me utterly and completely.  He fulfilled primal needs I didn’t even realize I had.

I would have done anything for him.

I felt like I was in a fugue; I was intensely aware of the sensation of us coming together but it also seemed otherworldly, like an out-of-body experience.  Sublime.  And so right.

For a while I basked in the afterglow.  This is how it should always be, I thought.  What was I so afraid of?

And then, slowly, the glow faded.  I looked over at him and realized that these encounters of ours could never amount to anything more.  I loved him desperately.  But our relationship was obsessive—so intense, so all-consuming, it would destroy both of us if we stayed together.  With us it was all or nothing.  A healthy long-term relationship would be impossible for us.

With tears in my eyes I pushed him away.  I’m so sorry.  I wish I were stronger.

As I turned to leave, I looked at him one last time.  I snapped a quick photo of him so I would have a memento of this special evening.

Goodbye, my darling mashed potatoes.  My beloved spuds.  My delicious, buttery master.  You are absolutely wonderful, but I can’t be with you.  I lose control whenever you’re near me.  I’m afraid you can never be anything more than an occasional booty call.

Yeah, she paid us a visit. Dumb bitch caused a storm surge that flooded everything. Mr. Weebles and I had no electricity for a week and for several days we were trapped in the house.  Check it out: This was the scene outside my window the morning after the storm.  The Hudson River breached the seawall and ran apeshit.  We usually live about a half mile from the water.  I considered taking advantage of the opportunity to sell our house as a “riverfront condo” but the water eventually receded and ruined my plan.

For all of you living in the areas affected by Hurricane Sandy, I hope you weathered the storm safely and with minimal damage. May you all have much warmth, dryness, and comfort.

We were very lucky.  We had no property damage and lost power for a week—a loonnnnnnggggggg week, but still just a week.  There are many who are still waiting for heat and power, and I am incredibly sad and concerned for them.  Not to mention the people who experienced complete destruction of their property.  Awful.  Just fucking awful.

So my week sucked, but it could have been much worse.  And despite having no heat, I was warmed by the good wishes of you guys.  Margarita, Honie, Maggie, Nigel, Cathy, El Guapo, Mike, La La, Rollergiraffe, Sweet Mother, Michelle, Brian, Meizac, Fish, The Ringmistress, and of course, Le Clown—thank you so much for emailing. I was so moved by your kind thoughts and your offers of help and support.  And to all of you who posted to me on Facebook or sent along your good wishes via other bloggers—I can’t tell you how much the outpouring means to me.  It never really occurs to me that my absence might be noted, as pathetic as that may sound.  You are fantastic, caring human beings, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  As always, your kindness humbles me.

And you know, going through an experience like this teaches you a few things.  I want to take a few minutes to share some of the lessons I learned.

It is not a good idea to use your butane lighter to heat up your microwave popcorn.  Unless you really, really, really love those burnt kernels.  And setting your hair on fire.  And turning your house into an inferno.

Do not use your butane lighter to warm up your sex toys or your lube.  I cannot emphasize this enough.

It is considered rude to use a hospital ER waiting room’s outlet to recharge your laptop.  Okay, so they were on generator power.  But it’s not like I was pulling the plug on someone’s respirator or life support, for crying out loud.

Men really do need to have at least some light when they’re using the toilet.  If you choose not to heed this advice, do not go into your bathroom barefoot.  Consider yourself warned.

Pioneers weren’t better than we are, they were just bored as fuck.  That’s why they invented so much stuff.  Forget everything you’ve heard about our forefathers having enterprising spirits. These people weren’t driven by grand visions or a desire to create things to help humanity.  They were driven by mind-numbing, soul-crushing boredom.

Oh, little electrons, I will never take you for granted again.  Never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever.

NOTE:  Let’s all send our love and good thoughts to Brigitte.  She also experienced power outage, and it’s quite possible that she hasn’t had her power restored yet.  In this cold, snowy weather, I wish I could do more than send virtual hugs.  

In honor of Bloggers for Movember, I bring you a selection of Hot Dead Mustachioed Guys for your consideration.  (Special thanks to Joe Hoover for the suggestion.)

In the Classic Hollywood Dreamboat category:

Errol Flynn, Montgomery Clift, and Clark Gable (especially for you, Sandee!)

In the Handsome Presidential Assassin category:

John Wilkes Booth

In the Ultimate Sweetness category:

Walter “Sweetness” Payton (special thanks to Mr. Weebles for suggesting this one, I forgot he had a mustache)

In the I Was a Badass Until I Got All My Men Slaughtered at Little Big Horn category:

George Armstrong Custer

In the President Most Likely to Kick Your Head In category:

Theodore Roosevelt

In the Yet Another Smokin’ Hot WWII Flyboy category:

Benjamin O. Davis, Jr.—he gets extra badass points because he was commander of the first all-black fighter squadron, the Tuskegee Airmen

In the What Doesn’t Kill Me Makes My Mustache Bushier category:

Friedrich Nietzsche

In the Cloud City Cool category:

In the I Was So Good in Bed That Queen Victoria Never Stopped Mourning My Death category:

Prince Albert

In the My Father Was One of the Most Handsome Men Ever to Walk the Earth but I Was Okay Looking Too category:

John Cornelius and his father, Robert Cornelius (inset), the Greatest of All DILFs

All of these guys would have made sure to get regular prostate exams if they existed back in their day.  Even John Wilkes Booth—he was a fanatic but he wasn’t stupid.  And you just know Sweetness got himself checked out.

So gentlemen, get yourselves screened.  I know it’s not fun but it’s no worse than anything women subject themselves to during ob/gyn exams.  Please, take care of yourselves physically—and mentally, too.  And ladies, make sure the men in your life look after their health.

For more information on Movember, please click here, here, or here.

Folks, as you know, I’ve written at length about some of the serious issues that plague America today.  Specifically, them and them.  They’re a big part of why people think we’re all fucking idiots.

And as a nation, we’re at a crossroads; we’re still a superpower but our place on the global stage has changed.  The rest of the world perceives us as the big bully in the playground.  We no longer have the street cred we once had.  Our economy is in the toilet and shows no signs of recovery.  There is much reason for Americans to be concerned about their future.

But buck up, little campers!  I want to remind you about some of the things that still make us the Greatest Country in the World.  Writing this post cheered me immensely and I know it will make your hearts swell with patriotic pride:

  • We are the world’s leading producers, consumers, and exporters of pornography.  FUCK YEAH!
  • Coca-Cola has reached more people worldwide than Jesus.  Now you think about that.  There are literally more Coke drinkers than Christians in the world.  What other country in history can claim THAT kind of power?
  • There are more UFO sightings reported in the United States each year than in any other country.  We may not be popular with the other Earthlings, but ET knows what’s up.
  • Say what you want about America, we still make a damn fine cigarette.  And as a bonus, our cancer sticks have more carcinogens than cigarettes from any other country!  That’s some serious potency.
  • Americans have more plastic surgery than anyone else.  Sure, the Brazilians are catching up with us, but I’m not worried.  I have faith that my people will continue to lead the world in body dysmorphia for many years to come.
  • Our ongoing commitment to making the world safe.  We kill for peace, bitches.

So go forth, wear those American flag pins, and be proud.  We’re still number one.

You’ve no doubt heard of Crohn’s disease, a chronic inflammatory disorder of the bowels.  My heart goes out to people with Crohn’s because it can be very debilitating and difficult to live with.

However, there’s another condition with a very similar name, and this is the one I want to talk about today.  It’s not easy to discuss, but I need to face my fears and tell my story.

My friends, I suffer from Crone’s disease.  I don’t have full-blown Crone’s yet, but it’s just a matter of time.

Medical literature on the subject is scant; patients generally present with very vague signs and symptoms.  Because there are no tests for Crone’s, proper diagnosis can be made only when the disease is already advanced.

I vividly remember when I noticed the first symptom.  I was at a bar and the music was really loud.  Probably no louder than the music at other bars I had been to, but on this night the volume really bothered me.  I was seized by the overwhelming urge to tell the bartender to “turn down that fucking noise.”  This was accompanied by a strong desire to reflect loudly and at length on how much better the music was when I was in high school and college and how “bands today all sound the same.”

I had never experienced anything like that before.  It scared me.

Several years later, another alarming symptom reared its ugly head.  I was out with some friends.  We had a great time carousing but after so much debauchery I needed to call it a night.  I looked at my watch.  It was 11pm.  That can’t be right, I thought.  It’s got to be around 4am.  My watch must have stopped.  How could this be, that after only a few hours I was tired and wanted to go home?

I didn’t know it then, but I was in the early stages of Crone’s.

Other symptoms emerged recently. Not long ago I used the phrase, “Kids today have NO IDEA.”  I sometimes mutter under my breath at loud groups of young’uns in their 20s and 30s.  And when people discuss celebrities, I frequently have no clue who they’re talking about.  Blake Lively?  Who’s he?

I babble about how U2 was really great “back in the day.”  I bemoan the fact that people born in the 80s and 90s are co-opting The Breakfast Club and calling it a movie for their generation.  Yeah, well, I’ve got news for you, you little punks:  you can’t possibly know what it was really like back then.  I was there, bitches.  So why don’t you just run along and play with your Xbox or something?

Doctors don’t talk about prognosis when it comes to people with Crone’s.  But I’m not stupid.  I know what’s in store for me.

“Get off my lawn, you rotten kids!”

I’ll start saying “I’m too old for this shit” more often.  My joints will make odd cracking noises, like an old house settling.  It will take me ten minutes to get up after sitting on the floor.  Certain foods will no longer agree with me but I’ll insist on eating them anyway and complaining when my stomach hurts and I can’t sleep.  My glasses will crap out and I’ll be forced to read stuff by holding it either really far away or right in front of my eyes.

I won’t even get into the visible manifestations of Crone’s disease because they’re too numerous and horrifying.  But I will say this: grey hair is associated with an increased risk of Crone’s.  As you know, I already have a touch of hag.  My future is grim.  Eventually I’ll have to accept my fate.

For those of you who think you might have Crone’s, please know you’re not alone.  You shouldn’t suffer in silence.  Instead, you should bitch and moan to anyone who will stand still long enough to listen.  It’s the only way.

Since my last post on search terms, another crop of nutjobs has been hard at work trying to get the 411 on some deeply strange subjects.  Many are Weeble-related search terms so I’m grouping them according to Category of Weirdness.

In the “It’s Weevils, Not Weebles, You Pinheads” Category:
how to get rid of weebles
weeble spray
weeble bug killer
weeble bugs in flour

So this means that people truly don’t know the difference between bugs that infest flour and/or cotton crops, and small toys that wobble but don’t fall down.  I weep for humanity.

In the “Sweet Fancy Moses, What Is WRONG With You!?” Category:
pictures of sleeping weebles
weeble torture
weebles never spill the blood of christ
weebles dying under the skin of a horse
chick masturbates with weebles

Who ARE these people???  Sleeping Weebles?  Weeble torture?  What the fuck??  Are they aware that Weebles aren’t actually living creatures?  “Weebles never spill the blood of Christ” baffles me because I’m not sure how that’s possible.  I’ve been to Mass, and the eucharistic ministers were pretty good but they had hands with opposable thumbs.  How would Weebles be able to manage NOT to spill the blood of Christ?  Then we have Weebles dying under the skin of a horse.  I’m not sure if I feel sadder for the Weebles or the horse.  How do Weebles get under the skin of a horse, anyway?  What sick bastard put them there, and why?

And the chick who masturbates with Weebles.  Where do I begin?  Obviously she’s running the risk of getting Weebles lodged in some unusual places.  This is not an easy thing to explain to one’s ob/gyn.  Also, for the love of all that is good and decent, I hope she doesn’t let her kids play with those particular Weebles.

If these searches continue, I’m going to establish the ASPCW (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Weebles).  Because this is just wrong.

Now for the more random search terms:

redneck elevator
I think this would be a great name for a Japanese punk band.  Aside from that, I’m in favor of redneck-only elevators—this way the rest of us don’t have to be trapped with them.

if your vagina is as big as my hand
I’m curious.  Does this person have really tiny hands or freakishly large, acromegaly-type hands?

good day for a regatta if i was a douche
I’ll bet plenty of douches do, in fact, enjoy regattas.  I love this line because it can be adapted for use in so many situations:  “It would be a good day to talk at the top of lungs on my cell phone if I was a douche,”  “It would be a good day to wear Axe Body Spray if I was a douche,” and so on.

this is a law office we don’t use comic sans
I kind of like the idea of lawyers who use Comic Sans.  You know they wouldn’t take themselves too seriously.  They might not even really have law degrees.

america because fuck you
This should replace E pluribus unum as our official U.S. motto.