Conan Calls Bullshit On Sick Day

If only we could pull this with (name withheld for legal reasons), one of the bartenders I work with.

Creepiest Tattoo Ever?

Dick Cheney vs. The Hippies

Now, I'm as liberal as the next guy (hell, I voted for Gore and Kerry) but that doesn't mean I'm knee-jerk. See, I can tell when someone's being an asshole no matter what side of the aisle they're on. Like this next clip: I know we all should be cutting down on gas consumption, perhaps riding our bikes more, but that's a personal decision. What we don't need is a bunch of unemployed hippie-fruitcakes riding around on their bikes blocking traffic to tell us this. So sue me if I take a little personal satisfaction from this old fart saying "screw you" and barrelling through 'em like so many unwashed bowling pins.

Crazy Anti-Car Protesters - Watch more free videos

Hell On Wheels

Ever wonder Stephen Hawking might be like if he was less Albert Einstein and more Charlie Sheen? Neither had I until I stumbled onto this story.

The Spanish newspaper Ideal Gallego reports today on one of the strangest traffic offences ever to be seen in Spain. It happened last Friday when drivers on the motorway in Ferrol were surprised to see a disabled man travelling along the road in his motorised bed. The paper says that 42 year old Antonio Navarro, who is 95% disabled, and who drives and controls his motorised bed with his mouth, had got drunk and was intending to visit ‘Jade’ a local whorehouse, but took a wrong turning off a local roundabout.

To Go Where No Midget Has Gone Before

Perhaps you know John and Greg Rice from the TV show Real People, as do I. Or from those annoying real estate "You, too, can make $$$" infomercials. But what you may haven't known is that, until Greg died in 2005, they were officially the world's shortest twins (now that title has apparently passed to Mike and Pat Short of Creswell, Oregon). Which brings me in a roundabout way to today's post. One Halloween, in college, I was witness to the Short boys donning their infamous good Capt. Kirk/evil Capt. Kirk costumes. After spending several years in therapy I thought I was cured. Until, that is, I witnessed this...

This Won't Hurt A Bit

I knew there was a reason this kind of hippie, new-age, alternative medicine crap scared me.

Telemarketer= Rapist, Life Destroyer

This lady has obviously had it with all the telemarketing calls she's been getting. Oh, and I think she's stopped taking her medication.

Thanks again to Russ.

m-i-c-k-e-y m-o-u-s... DIE INFIDEL!

I guess I shouldn't be surprised at this, but it's disturbing nonetheless:

DUII Sobriety Test Tip #23

Don't deride the state trooper's "pussy-ass" tests unless you're damn sure he isn't taser happy. Better yet: if you're gonna be a smart-ass, just save yourself the "arrgghh" mess and wear some "arrggghh" adult diapers.

Wine + Connoisseur = Swirling Asshole

I wrote this rant for the Oregonizm but it didn't make the cut. Therefore, I've submitted it to Modern Drunkard Magazine. Here's your preview. (My apologies to Max and all the other swirlers out there).

Is it just me or are wine drinkers fucking annoying? They sit there all smug and superior, sipping their glorified Kool-Aid like they're better than the rest of us alcoholics.

"It's not about the buzz at all," they slur red-toothed. "It's about the bouquet of a fine vintage, the experience of it."

Bullshit. Why do you think those most dedicated of our brethren are called winos? Because swilling fermented grape juice is the purest form of alcoholism. It doesn't require a mixer or carbonation or even refrigeration. All you need is a paper bag, a bottle and an affinity for wallowing in your own filth. How do you think Skid Row's Neck Lump Willy started out? That's right. The exact same way as these assholes.

"Hmm… yes," he smiled all those years ago, swirling his girly glass. "I can taste the caramel and the woodchips. Oh, and is that just the slightest hint of panda scrotum?"

Yet now he's eating week-old deli castoffs and shitting in the bushes behind McDonald's. Oh well, at least he's still clutching a bottle of his beloved vino in that filthy little hand of his. Although this one more than likely has a train on the label and a screw top. Not to worry, though, Merlot Boy. It's still a great future you've got ahead of you. So keep right on swirling.

And speaking of swirling, what about the way these cocksuckers insist on holding their wine glasses? Pinkies raised and dainty wristed like they'd just come from buggering the houseboy in the water closet. Who do they think they're fooling? You know in private all these pretenses go away and it's simply glug glug glug from the gravy tureen like the rest of us. But in public? Goodness, no. Nothing so barbaric for these pompous pricks. It's all eyes-closed sniffing and swishing and swirling like God Himself had jerked off in the bottle.

"Oh, Martha. This vintage is so divine I think I've soiled myself."

Give it up, Little Lord Fauntleroy. You're not fooling anyone. We all know it's only a fucking act. That you're just farting around so you can feel better about yourself while you get your buzz on. That no matter how much you'd like us to think otherwise, your shakes are only a misplaced corkscrew away. But what you've failed to grasp is that nobody fucking cares. No one. So go ahead. Grab the bottle, tilt your head back and pour it on down, for fuck's sake. Live a little.

Still not convinced of the hypocrisy of it all? Of the disconnect in these miscreants' brains? Of the utter stupidity it takes to think that you can obsess over an alcoholic beverage, consume copious amounts of said alcoholic beverage, and yet still claim it's about something else entirely? Well then, why not visit one of their homes? What you'll find are wine bottles stacked like cord-wood on every surface. On the counters, the fridge, even the kids' fucking dressers. And those are only the visible bottles. There are also ceiling high racks of 'em in the pantry, cellar and laundry room. Christ, and I thought I was bad with my kegorator and well-stocked wet bar. It's like these closet drunkards got a call from Nostradamus and are now stockpiling for the end of the world. But that's not what they'll tell you. Hell, no. They'll say it's an investment. That this bottle is worth this much and this one goes for that. Yeah, right. And I've got a kilo of heroin in my crawlspace 'cause I wanna diversify.

So, seriously, wine boy. Drop the act. Take off your panties, roll up your sleeves and a grab a real drink. Enough with the kiddie shit already. It's time to stand up and admit proudly you’re no better than the rest of us drunkards. And if not. If you're still sticking with your bullshit story that you could care less about the alcohol content. Then, here: I've just shit in this chalice. Start swirling.

Screw Grizzlies; Bring On The Terrorists

Awhile ago I brought you Troy Hurtubise (You know, the guy who built the grizzly bear-proof suit). Well, he's now entered the 21st century and invented the first armored, exo-skeleton suit for use in combat. Bring on Al-Qaeda (or the Chinese if they happen to be your "fear du jour").

Thanks again to Russ' labour force.