You're Putin Me On

Plans change all the time. I had originally intended on bringing you the story of the Jewish school basketball team who gave up a shot at the championship because the game was on Shabbat. First, its pretty amazing to find a basketball team made up of Jews. We're not tall or athletic. Its true. The most athletic thing we've ever done is build the pyramids. Its impressive but keep in mind that we were slaves in Egypt - avadim hayinu.
Instead I came across a brilliant story brought to us by the great journalistic minds at CNN.com. The headline is promising enough "How Putin Cultivated Strongman Image" until you click it and realize its a photo gallery of Putin in his most casually badass moments, most of which are bare-chested. I have painstakingly assembled my top three to share with you, along with my customary snarky comments.

3.

Here we see Putin examining a tiger, possibly looking for its weak point. The official caption claims that the tiger is tranquilized, but I believe it simply surrendered when it saw Putin. Another fun fact about things surrendering to Putin, he's not actually balding. His hair is simply retreating out of fear.

2.

Here we see Putin firing a crossbow at what I assume is either a 17th century pirate ghost ship or a kraken. Most people in this situation would use the biggest gun they could find, maybe a cannon or something. I think we can all agree that the horrible hell-beast he's aiming at is lucky he decided to use a weapon at all.

1.

Wow. If this were anybody else, I would spend the next paragraph commenting on the homo-eroticism of this photo while inevitably comparing it to Brokeback Mountain. But I honestly am afraid that he will find me and do something horrible to me with his Judo skills. Instead I will comment on how this looks like he's posing for the cover of a romance novel. Here is a sample passage from that novel, ostensibly called Putin on the Ritz

The man called Putin removed his shirt, revealing his taught rippling old 

man chest. The afternoon sun beat down on him as he took a break from

chopping wood to wipe the sweat from his prominent brow. He looked at 

her with wanton eyes that seemed to say "I want you like capitalist pigs 

want more money". She dropped the bucket of fresh milk and went to him, 

embracing him like the West embraced decadence.

I'm not a religious man but I think I need to go to Synagogue to pray that Putin never reads this. Who am I kidding though, Putin doesn't read this blog. Nobody does. And thats the only thing keeping me alive right now. I appreciate it when you share this blog with others, but please make sure Putin doesn't read it. I value life. 

Cute to The Power of Adorable

In general I try to keep my personal life out of this blog. Not because I'm an intensely private individual, but because to be honest, nobody gives a shit about my personal life. Hell, I barely care about it. Today's post is going to get personal in the most adorable way imaginable. I do not hide the fact that I love puppies but this has nothing to do with puppies for once.
I have a five year old niece. She is precocious and adorable. While checking the inbox of a long forgotten email address last night I stumbled upon a video that her father put on Youtube. It would seem that, like her uncle, young Kylapants is a fan of Nicki Minaj. In particular the song Superbass. And much like her uncle, she likes to sing along to it but doesn't actually know the words besides "boom-ba-doom-boom boom-ba-doom-boom something something Superbass". However, when she sings along, its cute. When I sing along, its a bit creepy.

In case you're wondering, yes she is that cute in person too. Some might question my heterosexuality when I start fawning over how adorable she is. She was a bridesmaid for my good lady wife. She used her wand to "magic you away Pop!" after my dad told her no. Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with the cutest child ever, even cuter than me when I was her age.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do manly things like hunt a bear with only my wits and a bowie knife. Once I finish that, I'll probably be tired so I'll quickly chop down some trees with my brawn and build a log cabin. Might decorate it with a Mediterranean theme.

Headblade and Shoulders Above Them All

I spent most of today doing two things, mackin' ho's and crushing capitalism. And by that I mean I was looking all over the internet (4 websites) for something to write about while waiting for a package to arrive. I could find nothing that I wanted to share with you all and nothing but time as I waited until 5:30 for my damn package to finally arrive. What was in that package you ask?

The bow is fake

I trembled in anticipation as I cut open the brown box it came in and then spent twenty minutes trying to remove the bow before I realized it was fake. Secure in the knowledge that no bow or ribbon would impede me any further I opened the box to reveal the contents I had been waiting for. Nothing short of the greatest invention in hair care since the birth of hair itself. I'm referring to the Headblade. I ordered the Headblade Sport package, despite not being an athlete.

On the top right is the Headblade itself. Next to it is the stand and underneath are a small selection of shaving creams and head lube. Yes, its actually called head lube. I could hardly wait to use it so off to the bathroom I went for its inaugural shave.

I don't have giant hands, that's the actual size

I slapped on a thin coat of Head Slick and went to work. At first I was totally amazed. I couldn't feel a thing! Then I realized I was using it backwards so I flipped it around and tried again. This time I could feel it working and was still amazed. The last time I shaved my head was yesterday so there was just a bit of stubble. However, I could see the difference immediately.
After a few minutes of rubbing my head with a razor sharp...razor, I stood back, wiped off the rest of the Head Slick and have been rubbing my head in awe ever since. The most amazing thing about the Headblade is that there is next to no irritation and even less blood. As the saying goes "you can't shave a head without shedding some blood". Its a saying. I've said it.
Anyway, my head is super smooth and free of nicks. I like to keep things ridiculous on this blog but honestly, the Headblade is too amazing to mock in a public forum. If any of you out there shave your heads, buy this thing now. I should have bought it years ago. I know you want to see what it can do. Check out this baldie right here.

Now thats a quality bald

Follow Up: Get Mich or Die Trying

After almost 8 minutes of trying, I've come to the conclusion that my knowledge of rap and hip-hop is too deficient to come up with any pun headlines for this post. Is it because I'm whiter than then British royal family? No. Well maybe a little. But since I can't think of any good ones, I invite you to post in the comments section any that you might have.

Walter Monday At Last

Its Walter Monday! Yes I just made that up last night in response to Oscar Sunday. The Artist won big which I would care about if I was into silent movies, black and white movies, French movies or getting punched repeatedly in the crotch. Did I watch? No, of course not I played video games.
More importantly, Ukranian security forces have foiled a plot to assassinate Vladimir Putin. Chechen warlord Doku Umarov had planned on killing Putin in Moscow after this coming Sundays presidential election. First of all, I want you to re-read that last sentence and let the innate awesomeness of it sink in.
Back with me? Good. I'm going to point out the one major flaw of Count Doku's plan. He tried to kill Vladimir Putin, the baddest ass Russian since Zangief and The Black Widow had a fictional baby. Putin can't be shot, and not because he can dodge bullets. He doesn't have to dodge bullets, bullets dodge him. Bombs won't work because we all know badasses never look at explosions which will keep him safe for some reason. Can't stab Putin for a reason I haven't made up yet.
Possibly most foolish of all is that the plan was to kill Puty-Put on his home turf. Seriously Count Doku, don't you realize that he probably has guns and samurai swords hidden all over Moscow? Have you forgotten that he was head of the KGB? Hell, he probably has an umbrella that shoots ricin pellets. The point that I'm trying to make is that Vladimir Putin is too much of a badass to assassinate. He will only die when the planets align and produce a cosmic energy beam powerful enough to rip the fabric of reality long enough to make him mortal.
While I'm writing about actual current news, I want to share the Huffington Posts headline from today regarding the upcoming Republican debate in Michigan.

Its 99 Cent vs Middle-Age Dirty Bastard

I'm going to take a lunch break and come up with a list of alternate headlines. Hopefully I'll remember to share them with you.

Oscar Sunday Come's Before Walter Monday

Well its Oscar Sunday and once again I'm not nominated for anything, despite my tear-jerking role in last years sleeper hit Dave to the Power of Drama. I played myself in a semi-autobiographical telling of the time I went to Space Camp and learned about gravity...and love. So instead I present you with the nominees for why I'm not watching the Oscars tonight.

• I'm Bitter About the Aforementioned Oscar Snub
• There's A Repeat of The Simpsons Treehouse of Horror 
• I'd Rather Play Video Games
• I Just Don't Care
• In Soviet Russia, Oscars Watch You!

And the winner is, drumroll please, I Just Don't Care! This is the third nomination and the first win for I Just Don't Care. Accepting the award on behalf of I Just Don't Care is Mr. Tony Danza.

Seriously though, I saw none of the nominees for Best Picture, nor do I have any interest in seeing them. First off, I think it's a terrible idea to have so many nominees. Its like giving everybody a trophy for participation. Second, I could not possibly be less interested in The Artist. I don't mind black and white, but I don't want to read a movie. Besides, its French and its got dancing, two of my least favorite things. 

Instead I bring you good news out of Nepal. Everybody's favorite tiny dude, Chandra Bahadur Dangi has officially been declared the worlds shortest man at 21.5 inches. But it gets better, for him at least. He has also been declared the shortest man ever measured. Granted, these measurements haven't been taken for very long, but its still impressive. So here's to you Chandra Bahadur Dangi. 

He has two more certificates than me

How Do I Avoid Making a Fart Joke?

Don't you just hate it when you're playing a video game and you get through a particularly challenging section only to die shortly after. And then you reload the game to discover that you now have to do it all over again, even though you did it so beautifully the first time. Now I'm super frustrated that I have to do it again and hope that I can get as many headshots. So I figured I'd take a break to bring you this story of ridiculousness out of, where else, China.
Last week reporters in Shandong got wind of an unusual occurrence so they hiked out to an oil field to discover locals filling up huge plastic bags with natural gas directly from the field valves. They watched as an old lady inflated a 6 meter long plastic bag with natural gas and walk away with it tied to her back. I know what you're saying: no way is that true, Dave. How could that be true? Are people really filling up giant bags of gas like a clown at a spoiled kids birthday party? Did you already forget that there were reporters on the scene?

Reporters carry cameras like this lady carries bags of gas - frequently

Yep, that's real. It looks like a giant blue hotdog, or the worlds biggest condom. It looks like a giant clown is going to make it into a puppy or a giraffe or something. I sure hope nobody smokes around that thing. Part of me wants to pop it but I'm afraid of the potential explosion. I assume it would explode cause thats what awesome things do.
I think it's related to another story coming out of China, this time in the southern part. It would seem Shanghai is sinking under its own weight. It should be noted that China didn't even place in the top ten of the most obese countries so its not sinking cause of the fatties. You see, Shanghai is an awesome city, one that I've been lucky to spend a bit of time in. It has some seriously huge skyscrapers that are popping up like weeds. Actually, growing like bamboo is a more fitting analogy, and not just because of the abundance of it in China. Bamboo grows ludicrously fast; so fast that it was used as a torture method in WW2 and proved by the two men with the best jobs ever, the Mythbusters.
I'm getting off track here. Currently in Shanghai, fault cracks are radiating outward from what will soon be China's tallest building, the Shanghai Tower. The entire city is sinking at a rate of 1.5 centimeters a year, which might not sound like much until you consider that that is a rather large block of land. In fact, Shanghai has sunk over 2 meters in the last hundred years. Finally we have empirical proof that China is overpopulated. Proof besides looking at all the people and census data.
So how are these stories related? I believe that the gas is being siphoned into bags to attach to the ground in Shanghai to help lift it back up. Imagine a city held afloat by flammable bags of gas. You know what, thats even too ridiculous for me. I can barely comprehend the sinking of an entire city, unless its during a hurricane under the Bush administration.
I invite any engineers out there to speculate wildly in the comments section on why this great city is sinking. Before I go, I'm going to drop some knowledge bombs on you. Shandong province, located in the northeast of China, is one of the most oilrich areas of China, second only to Xinjiang, located in the northwest. Most petroleum engineering graduates in China go to either Shandong or Xinjiang, working primarily for Sinopec, China's largest petroleum and natural gas company. See, theres more to me that just being a hilarious wordsmith with the body of an adonis.

Ridiculous to the Power of Three

I'm faced with a terribly difficult decision. I usually spend some time each day looking around the interwebs for news stories that I can write about in a derisive and sarcastic manner. Yesterday I was crippled with indecision.  You see, I found three equally ridiculous things to write about and no way to choose which one. Therefore, I'm going to try a triple threat of ridiculous. Deep breath, here we go...
1.
The Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development recently released a list of the 10 most obese developed nations. According to their figures, roughly half a billion people on this planet are obese, which accounts for the wobble in the Earths rotation (you try spinning on an axis with all that chub clinging to you). I'll spare you from having to read the entire report and skip straight to what you want to know. Once again, the USA comes in first in fatties. USA USA USA!!! I hope there's an award show for this cause I want to see our official fat representative waddle up to the stage to accept his statue in the shape of a McNugget. As a nation, slightly more than 33% of us are obese. That's too many people to blame solely on Wisconsin. If we had a fat person convention, it would have to be held somewhere in the plains states. So many chunk-a-lunks concentrated on one coast would cause the entire continent to tip into the sea.
Most surprising was the breakdown of obesity by gender. Looking at my own family, the men clearly outweigh the women. But as a nation, we have the highest percentage of fat chicks in the world. Freddie Mercury must have known this when he wrote his submission for America's new national anthem. I thought all women regularly starved themselves and threw up to maintain their figures. Of course, I don't know anything about women, so I'm obviously wrong. I also thought women laid eggs and puffed out their hair when startled but that apparently is birds and cats respectively.
For those out there who are reading this, rest assured that I myself am overweight, despite being wrapped in muscle like steel. I'm not some skinny guy sitting at a keyboard making fun of fat people. I'm one of you. I can say fattie cause that's our word for our people.
2.
Earlier this week, a Maryland high school girls swimming team had their championship retroactively stripped (get your mind out of the gutter) due to a, wait for it, illegal shaving violation. I'm just gonna let that sink in for a minute.
Back with me? Good. It is well known that swimmers shave themselves down to be more aerodynamic, or hydrodynamic as the case might be. They also do it because have you even seen a hairy fish? Not only does this shaving make them move slightly faster in the water, it distracts their opponents who no doubt catch a glimpse and stare in awe of their smooth skin.
Normally, this shaving is done ahead of time, due to the appearance of razor burn. The little bumps that constitute razor burn will slow them down in the water. But apparently theres another reason. The National Federation of State High School Associations has an obscure rule dictating the timing of shaving. There can be no shaving done on-site before a competition, probably to ensure that nobody is forced into the awkward position of walking in on somebody shaving their entire body.
So one girl showed up to a competition and realized that she hadn't shaved her legs in a week and it made her look like a satyr. So she did the only sensible thing; bust out that lady Schick and go to work.

She needs to shave her legs more often

The officials say that this rule is to prevent any accidental blood contamination or razor sharing, two of the most common problems in the sport of swimming. I think they were just trying to ensure a level swimming pool for all competitors. Which brings me to two key questions. First, is waxing in the locker-room ok? And second, are people with alopecia banned from the sport because of their natural advantage?
3.
I'm going to wrap up with my favorite article. The Huffington Post put together a slide show of Russian Prime Minister and general overall badass Vladimir Putin with various dogs. It would seem that, much like me, Puty-Put loves dogs. He has a couple dogs himself and is always willing to take a break from crushing capitalism, or whatever Russians do these days, to play with a puppy. This isn't so much ridiculous as it is awesome. Many badasses have a soft spot for dogs. In fact here is the top five dog loving badasses I can think of.
5. Robert Neville (I Am Legend)
4. Mad Max, prior to the whole Jew-Hating
3. John Snow (look it up and read the damn books already)
2. Me
1. Vladimir Putin

The Long and Short Of It

I have decided that I will be moving to Nepal. Some may call it a spiritual journey, others a quest to find the Yeti, still others might call it bull$#!+. They are all wrong. I have no spirit and the Yeti currently lives in New Hampshire and works as a tax auditor. As for the BS claim, ok they're right. I'm not actually going to move to Nepal. I just want to visit for a day so I can feel like a giant.
What the hell am I talking about? I present you with Chandra Bahadur Dangi, potentially the shortest man in the world. The man claims to stand 22 inches tall, or 22 inches short in this case. For reference sake, that is roughly the size of my femur. For more reference, you could get a set of 22 inch chrome rims for about $1500 or just clone Mr. Dangi a few times and put him to work. Considering that due to his height, he can't find a job, he might be willing to. Hell, he'd be able to move out of his brothers house. 

He looks like a regular dude with his legs buried in the ground

I'm not here to mock Mr. Dangi, I'm sure he gets enough of that. Yes, he does look like a tiny Pete Postlethwait. And yes, he could be mistaken for a garden gnome except for the fact that he lives in Nepal, not Argentina. 
The people from the Guinness Book of World Records will be meeting him in Kathmandu on Sunday to measure him before officially declared the littlest person. Personally, I would live in constant fear of housecats and getting accidentally kneed in the face, but he's in good spirits. Not only is he in remarkably good health (72 years old) but he is really looking forward to being officially declared itty bitty. 
Mr. Dangi is not the first Nepalese gentleman to be declared so short. A former record holder was also Nepalese. Now normally, I would be reluctant to make any sort of wide declarations about an entire country based on such a small sample group (seriously no pun intended), but I think its safe to call Nepal the shortest nation in the world. Ironic when you consider that most of Mount Everest is located in Nepal. I guessed they used most of their allotted height on the mountain instead of its people. 
Just for contrast, the Maasai people live mostly on the plains of Africa and are very tall, reaching an average height of just over 12 feet. Might be less, I didn't feel like doing much research. 
So anyway, good luck to you Mr. Chandra Bahadur Dangi and I'd like to welcome you to the totally fictional Dave Samson Book of Awesome People. 

The Dutch Are Masters

Its Presidents Day. In honor of that, I"m going to not give a $#!+. Seriously, it was fairly arbitrarily chosen based on its general proximity to the birthdays of a couple presidents. Meanwhile, about 40 of the other ones get shafted on the celebrations. Its not that I don't care about the president, I voted Obama and I intend on doing it again (he needs more than four years after Bush broke the world).
Instead I think I will honor the badass citizens of the most unlikely place, Rotterdam. First of all, I didn't even know where Rotterdam was. I had to Google it to find out that its in the Netherlands. I also learned that its the second largest city in the Netherlands and apparently does not consist fully of white people. Most importantly, the voice of Scrooge McDuck is from that great, badass city.

His nephews were Belgian scum though

Recently, some of the criminals from the awesome haven of drugs and prostitution known as Amsterdam have moved south (or whatever direction it is) to Rotterdam, figuring that they were easy pickings. One such robber learned the hard way not to funk with a Dutchman's beer drinking. I recommend watching the video below in full but I'll give you the gist of it. Basically, a dude walked into a pub with a gun and demanded everybody hand over their money, valuables and any Vermeers they might have. I assume that all people in the Netherlands carry original Vermeers with them at all times. The patrons responded by not noticing him and instead continuing their convivial drinking.

I learned that not only is Rotterdam the sister city of Baltimore, but its residents are among the least caring most baddest asses in the world. One dude even politely taps the robber on the shoulder because he was blocking the bar. The best part is that once the patrons realized that their favorite pub was being robbed, they gathered to chase the bastard out of the bar and down the street, catching him over two kilometers away. I don't know how far two kilometers is cause I'm American, but I'm guessing its way farther than I can run. And considering I don't run at all, its not as impressive all of a sudden.
This reminds me of the time I was hiking and a bear tried to attack me. I was on my phone so I held up one finger, finished my call, smoked a quick cigarette, and then chased the bear away by yelling quotes from Tron. Ah who am I kidding, I don't hike.
So on this Presidents Day, I honor you fine badass citizens of Rotterdam. You are truly the Presidents of Badassville and we salute you.

The Weakening of Me

This is gonna be a long night. Earlier on, my good lady wife and I went to a local bbq joint called Fireflys. I ordered the pulled pork platter, cause well its a platter of pulled pork why wouldn't I order it? What arrived at the table was a plate covered with pulled pork, mac and cheese, and rice and beans. I made sure to breath between bites, but it wasn't long before all that delicious flavor was inside me. My stomach! It was inside my stomach you perverts. Anyway, my good lady wife and I debated about ordering dessert. Fresh apple pie was on the menu but I for one was incredibly full. The arrival of a party of 17 (seriously) kids and parents helped us decide.
So now I sit with all that flavor working its way through me. Basically, my digestive system has rebelled against me. Make no mistake, this meal was insanely delicious and I intend on going back, much to the chagrin of my bowels. Honestly, I would recommend this place to anyone, cause it was amazing. But my stomach isn't what it used to be. Time was I could eat half my body weight in ribs and fried pickles before consuming the other half of my body weight in cheesecake, all accompanied by an 18 year old scotch and followed by a vigorous session of welding and carpentry.
Now I'm afraid to be more then 8 inches from the toilet. No, I'm not writing this in the bathroom, but I probably could be. Now my stomach is weak and frail. For gods sake I had a salad for lunch. What happened to me? It should be this weakness that is making me nauseous, not the amazing food I ate. I honestly fear that I might start horg-gorging at any minute.
I need some ginger ale and pepto S.T.A.T.

The Spirit of Vengeance is Within Me

I originally had big plans for todays post. In honor of the release of Ghost Rider 2, I planned on watching five Nicholas Cage movies in the days leading up to its release. I got through one. I tried watching the cinematic mess that was Season of the Witch. Thankfully the dog had to go for a walk and I accidentally locked myself out of the building. By the time I got back in, the movie was over and I was spared. I took it as a sign that, despite the presence of the awesome Ron Perlman, continued watching of this movie would give me either migraine headaches or cancer.
I am more convinced than ever that Nicholas Cage needs to go away. Even his hair is trying to escape him, as his hairline has been steadily moving farther from his face. I've seen plenty of his films in the past, not always by choice. The Wicker Man was one of the funnies movies I've ever seen, though I don't think it was intended that way. It was basically 90 minutes of Cage running around punching women and screaming about bees.
A couple years ago I was strapped to a chair, my eyes were held open (with the occasional drop of visine to keep them from drying out), and I was forced to watch Lord of War. I was shocked to discover that it didn't suck. In fact, it was even kind of good. I'd call it the best Nick Cage movie but that's like saying being shot in the groin in the best way to get shot. It's still painful.
Even Mother Nature is rebelling against his latest cinematic excretion. Over the past few weeks and months, over 100 dolphins have beached themselves to death in Cape Cod, I believe in protest of the release of Ghost Rider. They too cannot understand how or why this sequel got a green light. My only guess is that the producers behind it never saw the first movie, having spent the last 20 years locked inside Nick Cage's personal dungeon, being released only once Stockholm Syndrome had fully set in.
It's not just aquatic mammals that are preparing for the worst. Recently, the town of Keene, New Hampshire purchased an armored personnel carrier, presumably to prepare for the impending apocalypse that is signaled by the continued release of Nick Cage movies. Sure, residents of Keene aren't too happy about the expenditure now, but wait until after the release. Once the flaming $#!+ hits the fan and people begin openly revolting on the streets, Keene will be one of the few towns to remain standing thanks to its unnecessarily formidable arsenal.
Sure, he might claim otherwise, but Nick Cage is clearly an immortal and endless fountain of suck. I continue to hope that he'll just go away, but if he made it through the Civil War, both World Wars and Vietnam, I don't think he's going anywhere anytime soon.

Its time to finish this post on a high note. Please enjoy the following video of a bear cub and a wolf cub wrestling as my way of apologizing for dredging up any painful memories you might have of watching Nick Cage films.

The Day After

My good lady wife is a frickin genius. She posited an interesting idea today that I will now share with you. she started by reflecting that Valentines Day is stereotypically for the ladies and that guys have to go so far out of their way to please their ladies on February 14th.
So she proposed a second holiday for February 15th just for the girls to make their guys happy. On the 14th, guys run around getting flowers and chocolate for their ladies. On the 15th, ladies get video games for their men and take them to sporting events. Frankly brilliant. She took it for a test run today by surprising me at lunch with Wendy's famous Big Bacon Classic and then bought me some Lego's. Yes, I still play with Lego's, I wont apologize for it.
So far however, we don't have a name for this awesome new holiday. Any Suggestions? Please post your hopefully brilliant ideas in the comments section.

Love, sex, and sharks

V-Day. No, not the day I was declared Victorious over my many foes. I'm talking about Valentines Day, one of my least favourite days of the year. Its not that I'm single and resentful, I just don't buy into the BS. I find it idiotic that love only matters for one day a year. Maybe I'm a bit sappy, but I love my good lady wife every day, not just on February 14th. If anything, I might love her less on Valentines Day. She didn't do anything wrong, I just don't like being told what to do. Might be why I was dishonourably discharged multiple times.
Quick side note, my computer (which I fixed cause I'm awesome) must be British because spell-check keeps highlighting things that are spelled right...in America.
So moving on, Valentines Day is good for one thing: Valentines Day sex. Though technically its not any different from sex any other day of the year, its somehow better because you bought some chocolates. Thing is, my good lady wife isn't really into chocolates or flowers so I got her a copy of Hangover 2 and made cookies that went horribly wrong. But the fact that I tried means that I got to giggidy her gashmoygan. I can't go into any detail because she reads this, or at least she says she does.
Crap, I've kind of written my self into a corner. Quick look behind you, theres a mechanical spider flipping you off!
Let's talk about something awesome, like sharks eating sharks. National Geographic just released what might be the most awesome photo of the year, perhaps ever. A researcher in Australia was doing whatever researchers do, researching I guess, when she noticed a shark with very incongruous colors (big word huh). As she got closer she realized that it was one kind of shark eating another.

Not pictured: my mind being blown

I don't know much about either of these species of shark so I'm going to assume that each is no less than 15 feet long and features both razor sharp teeth and permits to carry a concealed weapon. I'm pretty sure the luckiest underwater shark researcher ever just came in at the tail end of the most epic shark vs shark swordfight of the last 10 years.
I think it is time to retire the phrase "dog eat dog world" in favor of the clearly more realistic "shark eat shark ocean". Do I really need to explain why?

Defcon Something

It had to happen. My computer doesnt want to connect to the internet. I think it knew that I was looking for a new one. Im not getting rid of it, I just think we need another.
My good lady wife is addicted to Facebook games. This bothers me cause she also plays real video games (Fallout high five). We need another ao I dont have to trick her into letting me use it, often times by faking my own death and she doesnt fall for it like she used to.
So here I sit with no computer, unable to even apply for jobs or surf for naughty things. Its gonna be a boring day. I might as well work on this Fridays post in honor of the release of Ghost Rider 2. Also Walking Dead is amazing.

Man-Hugs: An Examination of the Male Psyche

So Whitney Houston died, no word on if crack was involved yet. The point is that I needed a hug and the only people around me were guys. I got my hug, make no mistake, but I noticed for the first time that it was different from the hugs I get from my good lady wife or my mom or my niece. I scratched my metaphorical head and decided to get some more man hugs to compare. They were all identical in style. Therefore I present you a profile of the Man-Hug.
The Man-Hug is a curious thing. It is something that occurs only between two men. Any more participants, regardless of gender, transforms it into a group hug. Anyway, when two men hug, it is a special thing. Men will hug for a few reasons, primarily to celebrate a sports-related accomplishment. Other Man-Hug worthy occasions include welcomes after a long absence, extended goodbyes, prison galas and of course experimentation which they only do a couple times in college so it doesnt count as gay.
Anyway, the reasons for a Man-Hug are less important than the structure of one. The classic Man-Hug consists of equal parts handshake and hug. The right hands are clasped in between their bodies while the left arms reach up and over the right shoulder. Sometimes, the upper left arm is clasped instead, but there is debate about whether or not this counts as a Man-Hug. The important thing to note is the angle of the left arm, which is almost always held up at a 20 degree angle. Trust me, I'm a fake scientist, I know these things. The upward angle is used to indicate both feigned excitement at being part of a Man-Hug as well as dominance. The man with the arm closest to a perfect 20 degree angle is seen by his peers as more virile and therefore is declared king (this is how many of the early kings of Prussia were chosen).
Deviation from the 20 degree angle is often seen as a character flaw. If the man holds his arm below 20 degrees, he is seen as being too weak to hold his arm up. If he holds it above 20 degrees, he is either overcompensating or has poor muscle control.
Rights hands clasped, the left arm in place, the participants give a firm squeeze while holding their crotches at an outward angle so as to avoid any junk rubbing. Its not a gay thing, its just awkward. The Man-Hug will typically last anywhere from 8-10 seconds and is often used to whisper secrets of threats in eachothers ears. I learned of my adoption during a Man-Hug from my father and I personally have threatened many mens lives while engaged in a Man-Hug.
Man-Hug's are curious things. I wish I had diagrams to help illustrate these quirks, but alas I'm too lazy to draw them and I dont know any guys well enough to hug them on camera. Well, maybe David Boreanaz.

People Mourn In Different Ways

I just realized its been a couple days since I wrote a gusher about the New York Giants winning the Super Bowl, which they did. In all my selfish fandom, I've been focusing on the glory of victory while ignoring the toil of defeat.
Patriots fans have been in somber silence this week. Nobody makes eye contact with me when I have Giants gear on, which is always. Its like people are too depressed to pick fights with me. I fought one Pats fan and he cried the whole time. Didn't even land a punch on me, just cried for his mama. I thought toddlers were scrappier fighters.
Pats players however have had a more positive reaction. So far, no word on how many Patriots have accepted the Aruba Tourism Authority's offer. Thats right, MVP Eli Manning gets to go to Disney World and the losers get to go to Aruba all expenses paid. It's almost worth losing the Super Bowl of you get to go to Aruba for free. Almost. Not really though, I'd rather have the ring
Not all the Patriots players are taking the loss as hard as some quarterbacks supermodel wives. Tight end extraordinaire Rob Gronkowski was spotted tearing it up Sunday night at a post-Super Bowl party.

Gronk is the shirtless one on the left, I think

I'm ignoring the pictures of Matt Light partying with him cause they're not as fun. Instead I want you remember that like 3 hours before this picture, Gronk was busy losing the biggest game of his life. While most of his teammates are crying themselves to sleep, Gronk is partying shirtless with LMFAO and some random skinny dude who clearly idolizes the tight end next to him. how the semi-mighty have fallen.
But I think we have the greatest post-loss burn of all time. We all saw Wes Welker drop what could have been a touchdown. In a situation such as this, the culprit is commonly compared to a delicious, tooth-destroying, crunchy, chocolatey candy bar. A candy bar that reflects what might cause a person to drop something he might otherwise handle easily.

900 pounds worth of failure

Pawngo, an online pawn shop, dumped about 8,000 Butterfingers in Boston. I presume they did so to thank Wes Welker for blowing the game, resulting in millions of dollars in lost bets. And what happens when you have a debt to pay? You pawn your wife's jewelry before the Tibetan Mafia finds you, that's what. Pawngo was just thanking Wes for his contribution to their quarterly sales revenue. 

By the way, Wes Welker has a history of poor life decisions. Have you seen his mustache?

Before I end this, I just want to post something my good lady wife wrote a couple weeks ago. Its a good thing I love her...

After we moved half the furniture we are quiet tired. We are settled in on the couch watching the Giants play the 49ers. I think the 49ers will win but if i voiced that a divorce would be threatened. The Giants are amazing but their running game this year is AWFUL. I feel if its another Giants Pats SuperBowl the Pats are sure to win.  

The Red Menace Is Starting Young

I thought I'd take a break from the victory celebrations to talk about something different. Make no mistake, I'm still riding the championship high but I thought I'd deviate from the wave of awesomeness that is the NY Giants to instead talk about how the Chinese are already breeding a race of super soldiers to destroy us all.
I'm not talking about your standard racism here either. I'm talking about documented proof of methods the Chinese are using to create what in Chinese is called a 巨人, translated as "superman" or "Giant". First I present you with the story of baby Chun Chun, born recently to a 29-year old host body. Chun Chun weighs in at an impressive 15.5 pounds, or about as much as my extremely muscular right forearm. I don't know how tall the kid is, mostly because he hasn't learned to stand up straight yet, but also because the article doesn't list his height. However, I believe that this child is currently two feet, five inches tall. That might not sound like a lot, but consider that he's about a week old and it sounds more impressive. By my carelessly calculated projections, I expect Chun Chun to stand 7'11" and weigh in at 320 lbs by his twelfth birthday. I may be off by a few pounds, I'm not a mathematician. If this kid wasn't bred to be a behemoth super soldier, capable of tearing a tank in twain, then I don't know what to think.
I'm less concerned about the future of the world than I am about this poor kids mother. Frankly, if a fully grown and armed Chun Chun is coming my way, I'm just gonna surrender no matter who I'm fighting for. But his poor mother is the true victim. We've all heard about the rigours and horrors of childbirth. It's painful and messy for a normal-sized child. Women like to use the analogy of passing a grapefruit through your urethra (editors note: been there, done that, not as bad as I expected). In Chun Chun's case, I'd say its closer to passing a Buick through that narrowest of dong-passages. 
Obviously, she had a C-section because nobody's vagina is big enough to pass that child through, save for the Statue of Liberty's. I can only imagine her scar. It probably starts a few inches under her chin and extends down her front, under her lady bits, and a third of the way up her back. I'm just picturing a doctor unzipping her and having a gigantic baby Buddha roll out. She will clearly have no more children for two reasons. First, her vagina is obviously completely wrecked. Second, Chun Chun is actually three babies all mashed up into one huge one.
So we have proof that the Chinese are giving birth to Giants (yes I'm capitalizing that). But once they're born the real training begins. Its good to be really really big but what use is a gigantic warrior if he's a teddy bear? Can baby Chun Chun wipe out the decadent imperialists with hugs? The answer is yes, cause his future hugs could crush a Silverado. But imagine the damage he could do if he was trained to feel no pain and only dish it out. 
Thats what this father intends. Though his son was born sadly undersized (or normal size as its also known), the man now known as Eagle Dad decided that waiting 4 years to start his sons training was too long. He has his son running in the snow in nothing but stylish yet gaudy tightie-yellowies. If you can stand a child's crying, I recommend watching the video. 

For those of you who don't know Chinese, the kid is begging for his mom while Eagle Dad tells him to run. We all know that Chinese mothers are especially kind and gentle with their children. Oh wait, I forgot, the exact opposite is true. To prove this, Eagle Dad's son's mother instead encourages the child to do push-ups in the snow. I'm going to gloss past the kids terrible push-up form (keep your back straight kid!) and instead refer you to the manliest of men, Mr. Bear Grylls. When he was freezing in a Patagonian ice field, he stripped down and started doing push-ups. Don't believe me? Watch this then smart guy. Wow, this kid is destined for a life of badassitude and psychotherapy. 
While I'm on the subject, I might as well point out the obvious that this future badass is the son of Eagle Dad. That's right, THE Eagle Dad. I'm assuming that's his given name. I assume his parents named him that knowing that he would eventually raise his kid the way he was raised. I also assume that Eagle Dad has the power of flight and is a master of, what else, Eagle Style Kung Fu.
Giant babies, 4 year-old Bear Grylls and a man named Eagle Dad. We're all funked. 

The Aftergeography

The celebrations continue. I led my own victory parade in the tub this morning with my rubber ducky standing in for Eli of course. More importantly, its been two days since the glorious victory and I'm still alive. Given that I live in Massachusetts, this is a tense time for me. I travel only at night and I've constructed a crude dead-mans switch just in case I'm caught. Supplies were running low so I had to venture out during the day. Boomstick in hand, I picked my way to my car.
 I'd say that this is the kind of car that could survive the apocalypse but the apocalypse isnt even here yet and its already contending for the worlds biggest paperweight. Therefore I was little surprised when I turned the key and the battery started coughing up blood before keeling over. Obviously that didnt actually happen, I'm just being colorful.
So I strapped on my +2Backpack of Holding and made for the nearest auto parts store. My legs thought it was about 2 miles away, my head thought it was 10 minutes, and my bladder didnt think anything cause its a bladder. I soon had a new battery for my 2001 Chrysler P.O.S. and was on my way home. But now I had to install the battery. I broke out my tools, and using my brawn and iron arms, I wrestled the old battery from its casing.
Having freed the rotting Autozone corpse, I shoved a brand new Napa one in its place. Then I closed the hood, turned the key and listened to that baby cough to life. I felt so manly. I was out in the cold with my tools working on a car. Successfully too. I took an immovable iron hulk and brought it to life again. Testosterone was coursing through my veins, a thousand years of ancestors were calling my name, cannons thundered in my ear! Thats when I realized I was having a stroke. I wont bore you with the details of it, but suffice it to say, I needed to go to the grocery store. Having done something manly I felt the need to balance it with something more feminine. So I made cookies.

Clearly I have a lot of time on my hands when I'm not celebrating the NY Giants winning the Super Bowl and Eli Manning winning his second, not his first, Super Bowl MVP title. I'm starting to run low on ways to celebrate their glory. 

The fries of champions. Not pictured: onion rings of glory

The Aftermath

Its the day after. 24 hours since kickoff. 24 hours since the NY Giants began winning the Super Bowl and I'm still in a state of shock. I love the way Two Time Super Bowl MVP Eli Manning sounds. If I change one letter in that last sentence it completely changes its meaning and I still love it. Take a look: I love the way Two Time Super Bowl MVP Eli Manning wounds. The state of Massachusetts is in silent mourning, a deep pall hanging in the air. I thought it rained overnight cause the ground was wet when I walked the dog this morning. Turns out it was just the tears of Pats fans.
The edible spread yesterday was fantastic if I do say so myself. All that remained of the wings was a macabre pile of bones, heaped halfway to the ceiling and reeking of buffalo teriyaki flavor. Following victory, I stayed up all night constructing a crude bone armor for my dog Flexxo. He looks so badass.

Not pictured: Dog in Bone Armor

There was so much sauce that we had to be hosed down afterwards. Well the sauce wasnt the only reason we had to be hosed down! Hiyo! Sex joke! As truly slendiferous as the wings were, they were clearly not enough for the Super Bowl so nachos followed shortly thereafter.

Its hard to see because I did a crappy job but I spelled out NY in salsa on the top layer. In the future I can think of several ways to improve these nachos like the inclusion of pulled pork, more cheese and beans that have been refried so masterfully as to make the eater question if they had not been fried yet a third time. Heres looking forward to next time.
So anyway, all of that truly amazing homemade delicious flavor was tremendously enjoyable on the way in. Once in however, the combination of wings, nachos and tension has left my stomach in such dire shape that I am unable to make any more Macbeth references. Theyre in there...or are they?
But I carry on, despite my considerable gastric distress because I am a NY Giants fan and the NY Giants are champions. When a NY Giant is injured on the field he injures himself further trying to get back on the field damnit!

A partially destroyed knee joint isnt enough to stop Jake Ballard and horrible gas and buffalo farts arent enough to stop me. Super Bowl Champion NY Giants.

Giants Got My Back

Two Time Super Bowl MVP Eli Manning!

I think we can expect an increase in posts in the wake of recent events. I have mentioned before how I'm a big-mclarge-huge fan of the NY Giants. I even mentioned a tattoo of mine that reflects this level of fandom. Its a heart-warming story that was recently repeated but is still worth remembering. Imagine if you will, the year 2007.....wavy lines wavy lines wavy lines.........
Its a crazy year, 2007. I'm living in China, doing my best to spread the glory of football and the NY Giants. Bush is still president, technically. I'm forced to stay up all night to listen to the web-radio broadcast of Giants games but its worth the exhaustion and incoherence in class the next day. Nobody believes in the road warrior NY Giants. I tell my Chinese friend, who I shall call The General, not to worry. A true fan sticks with his team through thick and thin. I then spent the next few minutes explaining what the term "thick and thin" meant to him. I'm the kind of man who makes outrageous declarations and then is forced to stand by them so as not to lose face. So I declared early in the season that if the NY Giants win the Super Bowl, I will commemorate them in tattoo form. The General asked what "commemorate" meant, and then promised to hold me to my word.
I don't need to retell the immortal glory that was Super Bowl 42. I don't need to remind everyone of David Tyree's mythic catch. Nor do I need to recount all the times the defense hit Tom Brady. I don't even need to mention the 17-14 final score or Eli's first Super Bowl MVP title. I just dont need to, we all know this stuff already.
I revelled in the glory until The General gave the order to get the tattoo. I love the Giants and I have many tattoos, I just dont like the needle part of it. Frankly, tattoos hurt and anybody who says otherwise is a filthy liar who is trying to impress you. But the pain is manageable and it passes in time. So we found a tattoo guy. He just happened to be the best tattoo guy in all of Wuhan, maybe all of Hubei so I ended up going back to him a few more times.

While I was getting worked on, I watched Family Guy on my Apple brand iPod and grit my teeth. All told, it was the most painful tattoo I've gotten. As you can see, my back is gross with little moles and birthmarks and whip scars. Turned out it hurts more to get a tattoo over those which has since led me reconsidering the full length mural of Michael Strahan wrestling a lion with his bare hands.
It took nearly two hours, including the 10 minute break I needed. It had nothing to do with the pain though. I was sitting backwards on a chair (the single coolest way to sit) and my crotch went numb. I tried using that excuse the other night too but it didnt fly. Anyway, I got up to stretch my legs and have a smoke. Two hours later, I was presented with everlasting glory, inked onto my living skin.

I will forever be reminded of that glory. I might not be able to see it without a complex arrangement of mirrors but I know its there. This brings a new question to mind. Do I get another commemorative tattoo? Perhaps it is the right time to get a touch-up, repaint the ol' thing, give it a new set of tires, other term for repairing something. The color is a bit faded after four years.
Thoughts? Comments? Questions? Concerns? Queries? Conundrums? Quagmires?

Super Bowl Champion New York Giants

I need to say this out loud and in print, Super Bowl Champion New York Giants led by two-time Super Bowl MVP Eli Manning. Oh my god, that feels so good. I want to get that phrase tattooed backwards on my forehead so that I can see it again every time I look in the mirror, which is pretty frequently.
I had a quick post at halftime about Madonna. I will follow that up next time cause the New York Giants just won the Super Bowl. There I said it again. I'm gonna keep saying it too cause it feels good. I dont even know where to begin. How about by recounting how Justin Tuck forced a safety on the Patriots very first offensive play. I enjoyed Chase Blackburns surprise interception. I will never be able to comprehend how Eli managed to thread the ball so many times to Nicks and Cruz. I need to take a minute and breathe into a bag.
During the fourth quarter, my stomach was churning and bubbling. I decoded the low pitch sounds that came from my gut and it was a warning about the forrest moving to the castle and I think I heard the phrase "no man of woman born". Point is, I've learned that buffalo wings, nachos, and a thrilling conclusion to the biggest game ever is a bad combination for my stomach. I've also learned that the cure for this is to douse it in the glory of a Super Bowl Championship.
The real challenge was keeping my voice down. As you probably dont remember, I now live in an apartment building. Of course its the freaking Super Bowl and the home team is in it so I'm sure that everybody is watching. Everybody that is except the two year girl across the hall. Its bad enough that she'll be crying for the next few weeks, I dont need to get that started early.
Honestly my biggest concern is that this is the second time in the last five years that the New York Giants have defeated the New England Patriots in the Super Bowl and Massachusetts fans are not known for their forgiveness. The Red Sox/Yankees thing is bad enough. I'm just lucky I dont dig baseball. But now the Giants are the spoilers again and that is something I care about. To illustrate how big a Giants fan I am, I have the NY logo tattooed on my back. I also shaved matching NY's into my dog Flexxo and my hair. That last one may or may not be true.
So here I live in enemy territory where I proudly flaunt my Giants gear. My good lady wife just completed her order at NFLShop.com. I can never return to the local Taco Bell now which really sucks cause the Crunchy Beef Burrito is amazing. But last time I was in there we exchanged smack talk in good jest. Now I fear the jest shall be no more.
But why live in fear when I should be living in glory! The New York Giants are the Super Bowl Champions and Eli is their MVP!!! This is far from over...

Halftime As A Full-time Position

Normally I hate Madonna and wish she would go away but that halftime show was pretty incredible. More to come after the game, assuming I havent celebrated myself to death or attempted suicide. Could go either way. Go G-Men!!!

Countdown to Glory

Today is of course Super Sunday. Is there anything else I need to say? I'm such a huge Giants fan that when they won the NFC Championship, my mind exploded and starting leaking out my nose. Yeah, the doctor said it was hayfever, but I know how I felt man.
So of course the second best thing about Super Sunday is the food. I plan on making nachos once the game is on, complete with homemade tortilla chips and homemade salsa. You read that right. My good lady wife and I are just that good. She had wings in her sights and I am nothing if not a supportive husband. So off we went to the supermarket to get supplies, obviously wearing our Giants gear proudly. Did I mention that we live in Massachusetts, the heart of Patriot territory?
We strolled through our local Price Chopper, each wearing NY Giants hats, personalized NY Giants jerseys, and/or NY Giants hoodies. In other words, we are walking around covered in targets, insulting a bunch of probably 3/8's drunk Patriots fans. As the saying goes; if looks could kill, our bodies would have never been found and there would conveniently be no witnesses either. More than a few people said good luck. But the way they said it clearly meant "Good luck making it to your car cause theres a gauntlet waiting for you in the parking lot". Some creepy dude got on the store P.A. and started clinking bottles chanting "Warriors, come out to play-i-yay".
I am always prepared to defend both my team and my good lady wife so I made sure my impressive arms were on full display. With free tickets to the gun show being distributed liberally, we strut to the car, dodging only one would-be hit and run driver. NY Giants logo stretched across my rugged muscular chest and decorating my good lady wifes truly glorious bosom, we emerged unharmed and triumphant from our foray into enemy territory on Super Sunday.
But the glory of the day didnt end there, and the game hasnt even started yet. My good lady wife went to work immediately on the wings. She laid out and prepared buffalo and teriyaki wings. Covered them in their respective sauces, whispered encouraging things to them and put them in the oven. The love didnt stop there though. Every 15 minutes or so, she would remove the wings to flip them and reapply sauce. When the wings finally emerged, they were so chock full of delicious flavor that my mouth nearly seized. 
So now I sit, wallowing in my own crapulence, awaiting the glory that will rain upon the NY Giants and therefore myself. 

Cold Feet: More Than A Feeling

When I'm tired and cold, I hide my feet in music, forget the day. Man, that already sounds trite. Moving on, I was recently made aware of a "woman thing" that has nothing to do with Cosmopolitans (the drink and the magazine) and pink. I honestly dont know how popular that stuff is among women but as an average American man, my head is up my ass when it comes to women. I knew I should have brought a camera with me but I'm waiting for the chance to do it in NY (see, a reference to a previous post. Continuity, aw yeah).
I was privy to a conversation between two women about cold feet. First of all, when I say privy to, I mean unable to shelter myself from. Second, I mean literal cold feet, not the sudden fear of marriage. My friend was in a state of clear alarm and disarray due to the sudden and unexpected application of cold female feet to his bare skin. A look I've seen on myself all too many times. Well I didnt literally see it on myself as we dont have mirrors about the bed, much to my chagrin. My good lady wife just wont let me put them up. Probably doesnt want me to see when she takes her sub zero feet and applies them to my bare thigh, which muscular and built like an anvil as it is, does not like the sudden cold.
This is a problem I have tried to solve preemptively many times. I tried presenting her wife socks (What are wife socks you ask? I dont know either but I'm gonna run with it and ignore the typo). Then wool socks. Then pulling her sweatpants cuffs over her feet. Then putting a space heater by her feet. Then by wrapping her entirely in multiple blankets until all that remained was an air hole near the her mouth. These are all solutions that I have tried and have even photo-documented. If I didnt think it would get my cut off from the marital bed both literally and figuratively, I would upload photographic proof.
For me the best bet is to wait until  she's been asleep for a while and under the covers before getting into bed. That way, her feet have had plenty of time to warm up on their own.
You know, as long as I'm on the topic of cold feet, why does it mean sudden fear and apprehension of an impending event, most often applied to weddings? I recall that at my wedding, my feet were quite comfortable. I mean by the end of the day the hurt like they had been used as the sole steel drum at a Bobby McFarin tribute band tournament. Thats when I learned the stark truth of the wedding night. Its not a night of giggidy giggidy at all cause you're both so damn tired and sore from wearing uncomfortable but super-stylish clothes and acting like you're happy to see everybody there which of course you are just in case they read your blog.....hold on, I have to catch my breath.....ok, the point is you pass out before the gashmoygen instead of after it.
I have no idea where this rant started or how it ended where it did. I think its best to call it a night and hope for the best under the covers. Ice feet here I come.
I close my eyes and I slip away.......

May Day!

Im here in NY with my wife at my friends house and were stuck watchinf project runway all stars. Its after 11 and she wont let us leave until its over.
I have no problem with being gay, but this austin guy would make oscar wilde uncomfortable. No i kid of course but another guy looks like he has a portait of himself in his attic thats fetting uglier. See i can make literary referances smaht guy.
I hope you will forgive my many many spelling and grammatical errors for i am writing this on my phone. If you are reading this please send help before i leave my good lady wife for a guy named Raul. I lovet you Bender, I mean Flexxo.

One More

Ok I thought of another one: Iron Man My Ass Hurts After That Colonoscopy. That is all

The Worlds Third Most Disturbing Contest

I enjoy watching Jeopardy. I make no secret of this. I like trivia games and getting answers right makes me feel smart. I had just gotten a particularly tricky question right (the answer was "usurp") when they went to commercial. Normally I take this time to pee but I was riveted to my seat by the most memorable commercial of the last 8 years.
Ozzy Osbourne comes on screen so I figure I'm in store for either an awesome rock ballad or some mumbling followed by falling down. Either way, I'm not turning away. Imagine my elated surprise to hear Ozzy tell us his dream - to fly to New York and get a colonoscopy. Thats right, the Blizzard of Ozz, the Prince of Darkness lays awake at night imagining his perfect weekend getaway to New York and it includes sticking a camera up his ass.
Frankly this has resulted in an overload of ass-related puns that I just dont know how to process. After much contemplation (4-7 seconds) I have decided to present a list of these puns. I will now break from my standard format to present Ozzy Osbourne Colonoscopy Puns:
Crazy Train with a camera on the front going up my ass
Bark At The Moon (The moon being my ass and the bark being a camera)
Back on Earth, To Get a Colonoscopy
No More Tears - he hopes
Paranoid, about bending over in a hospital gown
Goodbye to Romance because youre sticking a camera up my ass
I Just Want You To Stick A Camera Up My Ass
Mama I'm Coming Home To Get A Colonoscopy
Mr. Crowley Just Stuck A Camera Up My Ass

I can probably keep going with this but so far none of these have technically been puns. The level of incredulity is too high for me to even truly understand the meaning of the word pun. For those of you who dont believe this is a real thing I present to you a link to the official contest website. Note how the first line says that this is an actual contest. Clearly I was not the only person to question its veracity. Of course its not just about flying to NY and shoving a camera up your pooper, the winner also gets to stay in a luxury hotel and even bring a companion. There is no mention about if your companion also gets a colonoscopy.
I mentioned in the title that this is the third most disturbing contest. Because I know you're curious here are the number one and two most disturbing contests. Second is Readers Digests 1989 contest where the winner gets to fly to Burbank to get kicked in the nuts 12 and a half times by Dick Clark. And the number one most disturbing contest of all time goes to the Czech Republics Pravda Magazine's 2004 Most Inflamed Goiter Contest. It wins because of its promise to inflame the goiters of all its participants.
Anyway, now that I've managed to gross myself out, I think I'm going to go throw up for a bit and then submit my name for CBS Cares Colonoscopy Sweepstakes. Hmm, I wonder if Ozzy performs the procedure himself.

My my, how shocking

Fish have to swim. Birds have to fly. Dogs have to bark. Unless they live in an apartment building that is. Thats right, our recent move brought us to a nice ground floor apartment. The dog, who for the purposes of this blog shall be called Flexxo, likes to bark. He hears a noise and he wants to bark to tell us about it. He sees a person and he barks to say hello. He sees a tree and he barks in recognition (get it? a tree has bark).
Anyway, apparently this is frowned upon in an apartment building so we had to take steps to prevent Flexxo's barking. We tried beating him unmercifully when he barked but that just made my arm tired. We considered removing his vocal cords but then we'd lose the tenor in our a capella group. Also the surgery is really expensive unless you want to forego things like anaesthetic and clean instruments. So we were left with only one choice - an anti-barking collar.
Basically, it works by sensing the vibrations in his vocal chords and giving him a little static shock. I tested it on myself before hooking him up. When I woke up several hours later, I put in a smaller battery and tried again. This time I got a little jolt that made me question if I wanted to bark but didnt hurt. So we strapped it on the little monkey dog and let him loose on the world. He let out a couple barks and stopped abruptly with a confused look plastered on his adorable face.
After nearly a week with the collar (or less, I have trouble telling time) its been pretty effective. He hasnt stoped barking altogether, but its been cut to about 10% of former bark volume. Thats a big difference for Flexxo. Now when he hears somebody come in the building he gives a harumph bark and stops. He gives the door a quizzical look and gives us a confused one. Then he moves on with his life.
Yes, there is the constant guilt of knowing that my beloved Flexxo is getting shocked just for being himself, but these are the sacrifices we have to make. Perhaps in the spirit of fairness and solidarity I will get a collar for myself. I'm sure my good lady wife would appreciate a few moments of silence from me. Either that or I will become addicted to the electricity and become some sort of super-villian. You know, this is suddenly seeming like a really great idea.

Generic Post Title #2812

Well its been a long week and a silent one at that but I swear I have a good reason. After a year of living in what is generously called a hovel, we have moved on to better digs. It wasnt that the old place was ugly and terrible. It was more the fact that it was built in the late 1970's and hasnt been touched since. The carpet was one step below shag and the wall panelling was clearly inspired by my dentists old office. There was a serious lack of insulation so during the winter we either froze or had to sell our bodies to pay for propane heat. The lack of insulation should have been great during the summer but for some reason, the place turned into a dutch oven, even without farting. I struggle to call the kitchen a kitchen because it was more of a closet with a stove. I wont terrify you, dear reader, with the details of the bathroom. Needless to say, I'm glad that I will no longer have to duck when I take a shower.
So we spent the week moving. It turns out moving takes a lot longer when all you have is a 2003 Nissan Sentra to ferry everything to the new place. We rented a Uhaul for a day and blitzed the furniture which resulted in the total collapse of my rather impressive musculature. By the end of that day, my arms and legs felt like ribbons. I drove back and forth over the next couple days; filling the car, emptying it, fixing up the old place, doing supply runs.
All told, this was the most exhausting move I've ever done and it also happened to be the shortest distance too. Moving to China and back was easier. Mostly because all I had was a trunk and a duffel bag. Now that the move is done we are able to settle in. We finally have TV and internet. Never thought going 5 days without internet would be so hard.
Anyway, Now that I'm back online I can continue posting to my wildly popular blog. Future topics include colonoscopy contests, awkward pimples, cookies, shock collars, and robotic velociraptors.

GGGGIIIIAAAANNNNTTTTSSSS!!!!

Let me get this out of the way. GIANTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SUPER BOWL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok, Thats better. So anyone who knows me knows that I'm a hugely gigantic Giants fan. Its hard to quantify how big a fan I am so I'll use the completely scientifically objective 1-10 with 1 = I'm not much of a fan of those gentlemen at all, and 10 = This is so amazing that I'm forced to punch myself in the crotch repeatedly for reasons that make no sense. With that scale now established, I would rate myself at about an 11 on the NY Giants Fan Scale. 11, in this case is equal to roughly six thousand megatons of holy-ass-in-a-handbasket.
Now we get a rematch of one of the greatest football games of all time. I know my G-Men can make it happen, its just what they do. The reason Eli isn't considered elite is because he doesnt have a super model wife or an endorsement deal with Ugg Boots. But he doesnt complain, he just goes out onto the field and wins. Then he goes home to his wife in his Ferrari made out of pure gold. True story, I was on a plane with him and he sneezed and the most mesmerizing diamonds came out of his nose. They sparkled like nothing else. Typically, a poet would compare these gems to the stars in the sky but those are inadequate to describe their breathtaking beauty.
Where was I? Oh yeah, Giants rock, Pats can suck it. This is going to be an interesting few weeks as I live in central Massachusetts and I proudly wear my Giants gear constantly. I'd better be careful.
Long Live Eli! Eli for MVP of Life!

A Real Conundrum

Here I sit at 11pm playing NFL Blitz on XBox 360. My wife is asleep, after having an exhausting day (giggidy) with the dog snoring at her feet. I'm playing as the Giants of course. Right now I'm on defense and I'm ready to blitz. I break through the line and come like a freight train at the quarter back. A cartoonishly proportioned Antrel Rolle is bearing down on poor Josh Freeman. One thing is for certain, he's about to get pounded into the field. He tries to shuttle pass the ball away but succeeds only in tossing it into my hands as I launch into the air to flatten the QB.
INTERCEPTION!
and a sack. I'm watching the replay and all I want to do is show it to somebody to prove it actually happened. I cant deal with the guilt of waking her up, so I reach for my phone. Alas, it is in the bedroom with her! There will never be proof of this awesome event! Please trust me dear reader, it actually happened.

Nicotine Patches, A Nationwide Concern

Holy handshake with a marmoset, I really want a cigarette. That has been the theme of the past week or so. You see, I promised my good lady wife that I would quit smoking and unfortunately shes holding me to it. So last week I picked up some nicotine patches and while they have been effective, I still really want a smoke.
When will the brainboxes at Big Tobacco invent a cigarette that doesnt slowly kill you? Even better would be a smokeless one so I can enjoy a guilt-free smoke anywhere. While I'm on the subject of smoking anywhere, why are there still ashtrays on airplanes? Its such a mindsex (editors note: I cleaned up the language). When you're 7 hours into an international flight and you still have 6 hours to go, its just painful to look down at my armrest and see that ashtray all welded shut. Its like the airlines are mocking my addiction.
I started smoking for 3 reasons. First, I was in China, where over 60% of adult males smoke. You try standing up to that kind of peer pressure. Thats roughly 400 million smokers. I was enough of an outsider, I didnt want to make it worse. The second reason was to change my voice. I always wanted a deeper more gravely voice and this was my best shot. Well, I'm happy to report that it worked as I know have the manliest voice this side of the Rio Grande.
The final and perhaps more pertinent reason was to slowly kill myself. You see I'm only a tiny bit suicidal. I wanted to die, but not immediately, I mean theres still stuff to do. For example, I've never seen Memento. I've never gone cliff diving. I would like a chance to rekindle my professional mud wrestling career. These things are very hard to do when you're dead. Except the cliff diving one.
You could say I'm suicidal but lazy and smoking was the easiest way to go about things. But now that I'm almost a week without a smoke, I have to find another way to slowly kill myself. Perhaps trans-fats are the key. Or maybe I should use my mobile phone more so I can court ear cancer.
I just realized how morbid this post is. Let me assure both of my readers that I'm not actually suicidal, I just talk a good game.

Alf – Hate Mongering Furry Tyrant From Behind

Being unemployed and spending my days searching for jobs leaves me a lot of time to ponder the deeper things in life. For example, it occurred to me that Eighties sitcom Alf was really an allegory for the cultural obsession with Asia during the 1970's. Kung-fu movies were gaining in popularity, sushi was discovered by the West and idiots everywhere ran their lives by what they found in fortune cookies. Despite all of his seemingly Asian features however, Alf is still clearly Jewish.

Alf rose to popularity as a thinly-veiled caricature of a typical Asian, representing several of the worst stereotypes about Asia. First and most obviously he's an alien. The creators didn't have to go literal with this but I applaud them for their courage. Having spent time in China I can say that they are a fairly alien people and that's why I love them.

The second argument is that Alf eats cats, a culinary practice commonly associated with the far east. This is not a totally unfair stereotype as there is documented proof of the consumption of cats in Asia. OF course Alf is never seen on camera eating a cat in its entirety but I seem to recall more than once seeing Alf with a cat tail hanging out of his mouth.

Even Alf's physical appearance is suspect. He is clearly very short, standing little more than four feet tall, a common belief about Asian people. I recall seeing people with a full range of heights but heels were as popular among men as they were among women.

As for his religion, I have three very strong arguments as to why Alf is Jewish. He has a big nose, a huge nose even. Combine the size of his honker with the amount of his body hair and his short stature and he couldn't look any more Jewish if he was wearing a yarmulke full-time. What really gave away his religion was the episode where he had a crisis cause someone told him that cats weren't Kosher.

Clearly Alf is the most offensive of all television characters. He offends equally the east and the west. I, for one, am thankful that Alf would not make it on TV with todays television watch groups. I am a member of one television watch group. Its myself, my wife and our dog. We meet on the couch and watch TV as a group. Betcha didn't think I'd end on such a weak pun?

Sometimes Life Happens

For the last couple months my wife and I have been debating about whether we should stay in Massachusetts or move back to New York. That decision was made for us when she got an insanely good offer from a company in Mass. Too good an offer to say no to.
What this means for me is two things; one: I have an awesome sugar-mama, and two: I just applied for 100 jobs in NY that now don't count. But my sugar-mama is, as I said, awesome. She has encouraged me to write and go back to stand up. Sure, I may beat her at Trivial Pursuit but she kicks my ass at life.
In the meantime I've been a great house-husband. Right now I'm looking around and laundry I have to put away and the bed I have to make and what to make for dinner and clean up the table. I've decided my ideal job is one that allows me to write from home so I can work and take care of the house. In the evenings, I can do stand-up.
It just occurred to me that this is the least funny of my blog posts and if I want to drum up traffic, I'll have to finish strong.
Did you know that a glorfindell is a small hammer used by dwarves to make jewelry? It must be true, I only just made it up.

Proof That I'm a Sadsack

Picture all of this in your head. If you dont know what I look like, picture the worlds smallest giant and you're almost there. Anyway, I get up off the couch, declaring its time to walk the dog. Its cold and windy by the lake so I put on my Long Daves (I dont see the point in calling them Long Jons since I'm not Jon), undershirt, fleece vest, and denim jacket. I'm wearing sneakers instead of my usual slip-on driving shoes. I have little bags in one pocket and cigarettes in the other because since I'm doing something healthy, I must negate it with something unhealthy.
I rouse the dog from his fourth nap of the day and get his leash on. We are ready to go. We step to the front door, confident in the success and expected glory of our forthcoming adventure. The door opens. Not by itself, I did it. Huge fat gobs of rain are falling at a speed known only by the mathematical symbol L speed, short for Ludicrous speed.
There we stood, hearts broken. I looked like an orphan asking the cruel Orphanarium Manager for more gruel. The dogs tail stopped wagging altogether. I hung my head, shut the door and stared with guilt at the dog, now more confused than anything. I didnt want him to think I was playing some cruel trick on him so I showered him with Beggin Strips (EDITORIAL NOTE: Dogs goes apespit for Beggin Strips).
Now to sit in the dark, like a dog. With a dog.