THe FReCKLeD FINGeR

The latest audio from the 33 trapped Chilean miners proves they may getting just a bit stir crazy:

I've never gotten a hooker.  Had many opportunities to have sex with them, but funny enough, they've all said basically the same thing to me when I approach them:

"Nuh-uh baby, I don't need money that bad."

Yea, they're probably just a little tired.  I mean, they certainly did look tired, so I understood.  Maybe their feet hurt from walking around on heels for all hours of the night.  Maybe they were just being courteous and did not want to give me the cold they may have had.  Under the semen caked all over their cheeks and neck, these women are actually very nice, selfless people.

Anyway, I've always had this thought:  Why is it called a "date" when money is exchanged for sex with a hooker?  I've never understood where and when that was decided.  Why is "date" one of those words that is allowed multiple meanings?  I think "date" should be consistent when used in everyday vernacular... but rather than use the actual word, how 'bout we use what the word actually represents?

In highschool, boys should ask girls if they would be their prom date dry-smelly-over-a-condom-blowjob-in-the-front-seat-of-a-Ford-Escort.

Or how about when a girl meets a nice young man on an online dating handjobbing-on-a-high-school-baseball-field site, they'll go out on a date leaning-on-a-bunch-of-trash-cans-doggy-style-sex-in-an-alley-behind-the-Korean-BBQ-but-it's-not-very-good-because-years-of-sexual-abuse-has-left-the-girl-unable-to-naturally-lubricate-her-own-vagina-during-intercourse, then come home, receive a call from her mother, and she'll inevitably ask her about her date toothy-meth-mouth-cock-sucking-from-a-girl-who-just-wants-the-money-to-get-the-bugs-off-of-her-skin.

Just a suggestion.

Doing drugs is usually a bad thing, right?  I tried really hard to be addicted to drugs, but much like everything else I attempt in life, I fuckin' stunk at that, too.  I come from a pretty drug heavy area of Philadelphia and at this point of my life I've amassed so many prayer cards from the funeral of friends that OD'd that I can and have, used them to play poker with.  The vocabulary is a little different, however.  In this case, 'the river card' has to be the one friend who was actually found in a river.  Also, though science is working against me on this one, but with a little luck, in the near future I hope to be able to attach a friend's prayer card with the term 'Pot Limit'.

Anyway, through television and other outlets, I always hear and see how drugs are supposed to be this slippery slope to awfulness?  How did I not do this right?  I failed at something I put my mind to and worked extremely hard to accomplish.  Did I not have it?  I know that one day I am going to be one of those dads that tries to live his dreams through his son.  I'll be goddamned if my son doesn't overdose... you heard it here first people: I will not rest easy until I bury my son.  I've already made a nice sign to hang over his bedroom door: BELTS ARE NOT JUST FOR HOLDING UP YOUR SLACKS!  I'm fantasizing that he will smack this sign everytime he leaves his room in the same fashion the Notre Dame football team hits PLAY LIKE A CHAMPION TODAY before going through the tunnel.

I got into drug experimentation strictly for the purposes of productivity of writing.  The countless distractions that come with daytime were too much, so I had to wait for night to try and get busy.  And as we all know, with the darkness comes the sleepiness... a battle I still face this very moment as I write this dog shit.  From my first experience to my current relationship with them, here is the slippery slope of a retarded man (me), without the proper guidance and sufficient peer pressure, of drug use.

Cocaine

Speed

Adderall

NoDoz

Herbal Supplements

5-Hour Energy

Red Bull

Organic Energy Drinks

Espresso Shots

Large Coffees

and now, and most pathetically, Tea

It is extraordinarily hard for a straight man to say tea and even harder to come to the realization you actually drink it.  Earl Grey had to be a raging homosexual.  I think it was eventually named Tea because his T(ea) cell count was so low from HIV.

Your kid stinks and here's why:

• Your kid should be standing up on his own but you let him use the side of the table.
• Your kid should be a good soccer player but everyone gets playing time at that age.
• Your kid should be making his own lunch but you buy him Lunchables.
• Your kid should be a good artist but he uses Paint By Numbers.
• Your kid should be going to war but he plays Modern Warfare.
• Your kid should be learning how to play an instrument but he plays Guitar Hero.
• Your kid should be having sex with a girl but he fucks a Fleshlight.

Your kid stinks and soon he'll offer nothing to humanity because you're a shitty parent.  Bravo.

Just got an email response from the Washington Nationals about my application to be Assistant Locker Room Attendant.

I know what you're all thinking: 

But what about your super fuckin' potential to be a multimillionaire as the world's greatest cartoonist?  What about that private island that'll be only inhabited by tigers and Playboy Playmates that you are absolutely going to obtain because you are so talented?

Don't worry everyone.  I will still do cartoons on the side but you have to understand, this is more than a job to me... it's about preserving my legacy.

I feel that with this new gig as Assistant Locker Room Attendant, I will eventually have access to the uniforms of the Nationals, as one of the core duties of the Assistant Locker Room Attendant is to collect and clean the used uniforms.  Now, with all of these CSI-type shows on the air, it's hard not to pick up a few things which, since they're on television, have to be true, right?  Semen.  Even if there is no sexual element, semen gets everywhere and it's always used to find the guilty... so I thought to myself:  Semen.

Get Stephen Strasburg's semen.

My plan is to perform my duties as Assistant Locker Room Attendant for the remainder of this year, ya know, get in good with the management, my co-workers and of course, the players on the team.  Over the winter, I'll go to either Arizona or Florida with the team for Spring Training to try and buddy-up with the team as to not appear a creep and not make anyone suspicious of my plot.

Eventually, over time, by this time next season, I believe I will have gathered enough semen out of Stephen Strasburg's pants and or sliding shorts to try and create a life with it.  At some point, I plan to get married and I imagine there's a woman out there that's foolish enough to go through it with me.  Obviously, with my physique and looks and talents and everything that makes me me, she will not want to take my sperm when trying to pass traits down with children.

Ah, starting to put it together now are ya?

On the night up conception, I'll swap Stephen Strasburg's sperm with my own and BINGO-BANGO, nine months later, I'll have one of the greatest pitching prospects to ever breath as my newborn son.  When he is signing million dollar contracts and buying his father a mansion (his idea), he'll thank me for taking away his childhood for early morning long tosses and evening curve ball classes for such success.

OK.

Today's reason why God is a piece of shite.  Ready?

Though I've never been around a dying person long enough to witness whether or not this phenomena exists, but I hear an awful lot about how your bowel moves right before you die.  Apparently, at death, your body is in such a state of relaxation, you shit.  I found it on the internet which means it is 109% TRUE.

So... What about babies?  With all the awful stress and worries that come with being a new parent in the first place, you now have the added terror of thinking the shit in your baby's diaper might be it's last?  All babies do is shit!  Can a baby shit while it's asleep?  Will it wake up if it shits while it's sleeping?  And what about this 'Sudden Infant Death Syndrome' or 'crib death'?  God is such a prick he invented a way for babies to die that we, as humans, can't even figure out why or how it happens!  If a baby shits while it is in it's crib, is it about to die of crib death?  Is it just crib death or can it be anything it's lying on death?  Couch death?  Carpet death?  Cutting board death?

Is your penis currently in a vagina while you are reading this?  Well if it is and your a long and a few pumps away from basting the cake, know this:  Any shit your baby just had, might be it's last.  Do you really want that fuckin' headache in life?  Believe me, you don't.  PULL OUT!

But don't worry, there's one last reason why God is a piece of shit.  Oh, you thought a dead baby was everything?  No, no... it gets worse.  Oh yea, all this shit business goes full circle, baby!  Forget about freaking out about whether that last diaper full of feces is the only warm thing between it and your dead baby, there's a bonus shit-stress that comes with this awful life God supposedly made for us:  Your parents reaching that ripe age where they begin shitting their diapers.  Though it does kind of work the same way, but in this scenario, you are hoping that every shit they perform in their diaper is their last because they are grown people shitting themselves.  Baby poops are one thing but holy shit, who wants to deal with that?  Is there such a thing as 'driveway death'?  If they are accidentally pushed out of the car and I run over them, can that detailed forensic investigation and autopsy not be explained either?  Another medical mystery?!?!  Who'da thought?!

I hate how quickly some folks are just diagnosing themselves as depressed.  A little down are ya?  Feelin' kinda blue?  Rough day at the office?  Been working on the the final draft of that suicide note?  Then just fuckin' off yourself already.  We're not sympathetic to your so-called 'shitty' situation.

So what?  I know a lot of people that have muscular dystrophy.  It's not that bad.  I have this one friend who has found tens of dollars in coins while lying face down on his living room floor for the better part of his 28 years.

Cancer?!  Do you even know how good you will look... especially now that it's bikini season?!  Besides, you'll get to wear a really cool purple bandana which combines both the blue of the Crips and the red of the Bloods... that way, you can slowly walk crutch be pushed in a gurney wherever you want without fear for your life!  Score!

Your house burnt down?  Well that's more deserving of a congratulations than a sorrowful hug I say!  Fire means firefighters.  Firefighters means dalmatians!  I've never even seen a dalmatian in real life... that's like seeing Lochness!  And you may even get to pet it.  Ooooh, remember to take a picture!  FACEBOOOOOOK!

You really want to know what it means to be dealt a bad hand in life?  Do you really?  It's pretty de-goddamn-pressing.  Fine.  Pull your wheelchair over here and listen... don't forget your oxygen tank thingie over there.

Imagine you step into a freezing cold shower because you cannot afford the hot water in your run down building.  The weak stream of this frigid cold water, which is more like a drip at this point, beats off the top of your balding head.  You have to use your off hand to hold your belly up so that you can trim your red pubic hairs, with a jagged scrapbooking scissor mind you, with the other hand because your penis is beginning to look like that one Christmas ball that went too far into the tree.  You step out of the shower only to have to use a regular toothbrush because your electronic is out of batteries.

Now... what were you saying about depressed?

Wanted to show my girlfriend some of my Irish roots so I took her out to a rough-and-tumble kind of pub where everyone is either angry or angry.  I like to think of myself as a bad ass.  Like this one time while at a Phillies game, there was a Mets fan who was trying to fight a group of Phillies fans near his seats.  Well, when the security guard finally grabbed the Mets fan and escorted him out of the section, boy did I give him an ear full.

"You're not very cordial, you know that!!!"

Bad.

Ass.

Anyway, so I get up to the bar at this pub and order my drink.  Most of the other patrons are ordering their dark lagers out of dirty glasses, but I said "Hey, you know what, let's not let this atmosphere and bartender intimidate us into conformity and subject ourselves to their beers, let's drink some delicious and bisexual-sounding cocktails!" I did, I said that.  I swear to god, just ask my girlfriend... in fact here, you can email her: imaginary@doesntexist.com

Awkward look from gorilla bartender upon hearing this order.  Against his best wishes and natural instincts to tie these two drinks to the back of his truck and not let them legally get married, he makes them and hands them to me.

A couple of nearby lesbians, and not the dirty tissue lesbians, no these were the softballing, zero-blade fade hair, penis wanting, does this sock in my crotch make me look fat, lesbians.  Well upon hearing me holler my order and ultimately receive and daintily sip at my drink, they snicker to themselves.  Lesbian laughter is music to my ears so I instinctively glance over to them.

"What ya got there?" they ask.

"What, these?  Just a couple of Blueberry Stoli and Sprites.  What are you two *ahem* lovely ladies drinking this evening?"

"Polar bear saliva and rattlesnake poison." they rudely lied to me... I'm a wise guy so I don't think it was that but I do think it was beer.  In high school they used to call me Nancy Drew.

"Oh."

For the next few moments things escalated to an almost shouting match about toughness and manliness.  During this time my girlfriend was in the bathroom so she came back and noticed the commotion.  Our argument quickly turned to how well we are able to please a women and with my girlfriend, now within earshot of this discussion, witnessed our arguments and guess what ladies out there.....

I'M CURRENTLY BACK ON THE MARKET!!! 

(Those who enjoy orgasms need not apply)

Saw a dog get hit by a car today.

Saw the dog's owner grab the driver by the throat.

Saw a police officer come over and break up the altercation.

Saw the police officer talk to the owner.

Saw the police officer write the driver a ticket.

Saw the police officer hand the driver the ticket.

Saw the driver get back into his car.

Saw the driver angrily speed away.

Saw my bank account today.

HOW THE FUCK AM I GOING TO AFFORD THIS TICKET?!?!

Welp.

Just watched the Chicahhhhgo Blackhawks beat my Philadelphia Flyers to win the Stanley Cup.

Second year in a row my team has lost in the championship.

BUT!

Before I begin to shed more tears, I'd like to share with you that with every sporting death, an opportunity to preserve life thus arises.  Eight months ago, the Phillies lost to the Yankees in the World Series.  Faced by the sheer numbers in front of them and the impossibility to know the outcome, printing and clothing companies begin to produce t-shirts representing both teams' victory so that distribution can begin immediately following one of the two teams winning.  Now, given the masses of shirts and hats that are made for the losing team, something must be done with them, right?  Surely they are useless...

... to regular humans.

Those 'Philadelphia Phillies 2009 World Series Champions' shirts and hats were sent down to the recently earthquake riddled Haiti so that the residents had something to wear to their proms and weddings.

Regarding the tens of thousands of tons of cotton that collectively make up the 'Philadelphia Flyers 2010 Stanley Cup Champions' shirts... well those will be shipped down to the oil-drenched Gulf for the pelicans and otters.