"I can't understand why more people haven't added you as a favorite. You are one rad fucker!" -- uridium15, diaryland

Thursday, June 30, 2005

Why I Don't Usually Remember My Dreams

Last night I dreamt I was humping former '70s Wonder Woman actress Lynda Carter on the floor in the Rose Center at the Museum of Natural History in New York and nobody even batted an eye, except for Alex Trebek who stood there firing Jeopardy questions at me while I tried to shoo him away like an annoying mosquito. Lynda finally got fed up with me because I couldn't answer any of his questions, pushed me away, pulled up her star-spangled short-shorts and stormed off. I said, "thanks Alex, thanks a lot. You've driven Wonder Woman away. Are you fucking happy now?"

Is this normal?

Monday, June 27, 2005

The Biggest Little Man In The Canoe

Have you ever been sitting around - you know, just scraping the cheese from under your toenails with an old rusty Robertson screwdriver, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, it pops into your head, "Hmm, I wonder what the size of the largest clitoris in the world is?". No? Just me? Okay, fine. You prude.

Still, when something like that pops into your head, you have to act upon it. After all, you never know when you're gonna get a shot as a contestant on Jeopardy - Playboy Channel Edition.

So, with thanks to that messenger of all things inconsequential, Google, I am proud to say, here is the lowdown on the Biggest Little Man In The Canoe:

Munich researcher Theo Lang in The Difference Between a Man and a Woman mentions a recorded instance of a woman with a 3-inch clitoris "when fully erect". Now, I'm not one to discount the fully-erect part. After all, a three-inch clitoris is rather impressive. It might even be noticable if the pants are tight. You know, like them spandex deals you see at the gym. Which brings to mind, if a camel-toe is...well, what a camel-toe is, then what would you call a bulging clitoris? I think I'd like to hear it called a frog's pimple myself.

Anyhow, this, I found, was nothing.

The 18th Century Swiss biologist Albrecht von Haller is said to have discovered a clitoris atleast 7 inches long. Well, guess what Doc, that's not a clitoris. That's a dick.

Well, ya can't blame the guy - it was the 18th Century after all...I'm sure Doc von Haller had to come up with some sort of excuse when the boys down at the shipyards all hopped up on whiskey and testosterone confronted him about his suspiciously bossy-voiced and bearded "girlfriend" with the astounding bulge in her skirt. Well, they didn't always have parades for that kinda thing, ya know.

However, nothing beats W. Francis Benedict's account in The Sexual Anatomy of Women, when he stated one particularly gifted female had 12 inches of genitalia. That's a full-length album, people. Talk about Aladdin's lamp. I'll bet genies flew around the room when that thing was rubbed.

Wow. What would you do with a thing like that? I mean, besides the obvious.

I think I'd be scare of something like that. Not because of the freakish nature of it. Not even because next to her clitoris, my normal-sized penis would look like a shrunken cheese doodle. No, I'd be scared because I'd be paranoid I wouldn't be able to satisfy the woman. I mean, what if you couldn't? It would be traumatic.

Hell, if you can't please a woman with a 12 inch clitoris...I say, brother, its time to give up fucking altogether.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

Not That I'm Complaining...

Watching Toronto's Gay Pride Parade today, I couldn't help but notice that people will most certainly do anything for beads.

I'm not sure what it is but people will risk falling off rooftops, out of trees and tackle eachother for anyone taunting them with cheap, plastic neck jewellery.

Women are the worst offenders. Many of them will unflinchingly flash their breasts for the prospect of these beads. Yet, if I walk up to these same girls any other day and offer them a few dollars to see their chest, suddenly I find myself rolling around the garden screaming with a shot of mace in my eyes. Is there something I'm missing?

After all, these are worthless novelty toy bead necklaces, no? They're not real jewellery to be worn. I mean, atleast it's not like I ever see people in public wearing these cheap necklaces otherwise. One night the seemingly placid office secretary is screaming and flashing her breasts to hundreds of men atop a parade float for beads, the next day, she's back sporting a baggy sweater with no sign of her prize jewellery.

Which brings to mind - where do all these beads go the day after Mardi Gras or Gay Pride Parade? Are they in safe keeping somewhere? Did I miss the memo where Nostradamus prophecized that the economy will fail and money will become useless in the next 5 years, and that the only manner of currency in the new world will be these fake plastic beads?

I kinda like to hope so. Because surely there are better reasons for women to flash their breasts.

After all, I say everyday is a celebration...

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Retarded Expression Of The Week

"Shit Is Gonna Hit The Fan"

Ofcourse, we all know this saying, which is mainly used to describe a situation that has either grown out of control or represents one who is in serious trouble, as in "If you take this tumbler full of my saliva, walk up and throw it into that policeman's face...I betcha shit is gonna hit the fan".

The confusing thing about this expression is that presumably shit alone, is in itself seemingly harmless, but shit being tossed into the spinning arms of a fan is much, much worse. Which presents another interesting question. How did this saying ever come up? Shit is gonna hit the fan? It has tone of presumption, doesn't it? I mean, for this to work, shit had to actually hit a fan before anyone knew that it would actually cause trouble. So what happened?

I like to think some soft-headed cheesedick was sitting around one day, you know, just watching daytime television and shitting into the palm of his hand. Well...sometimes the couch is just so damn comfy...

Anyhow, you can't just sit there watching Sally Jessy Raphael with a Dr. Pepper in one hand and a turd in the other. You gotta get rid of that thing. And what are you gonna do - wait for a commercial break? No way, brother. You wanna rid yourself of that potato while it's still hot. So, taking it upon himself, the truly brain-injured treestump must have launched the dookie across the room aiming to hit the wastebasket. Sadly, I imagine he overthrew, landing the ass nugget directly into an oscillating fan essentially spraying his livingroom with fecal matter and thus, the saying was born into our universe.

But then, don't take my word for it - that's just what I like to think might've happened.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

The Sperm Count

So, health professionals have discovered that for men with low sperm counts, sexual abstinence -- but only for a day -- increases semen quality.

Among samples classified as being low sperm counts, peak sperm concentration occurred after 1 day of abstinence and declined thereafter.

Normal sperm also peaked at 1 to 2 days of abstinence for low-count men.

Samples with normal sperm counts showed a slight decline in sperm concentration during 2 days of abstinence, followed by a gradual increase to a peak on days 6 and 7.

Seven days of abstinence will improve sperm quality among men with normal semen, the researchers add, but abstinence beyond 10 days is not recommended.

And if you find that a little convoluted, here's the real male point of view: "honey, wake me up if you wanna hump."

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor...

Scene opens: a scraggly, bearded Saddam Hussein sits on barcolounger in sweatpants looking somewhat glum. He’s watching re-runs of the Golden Girls with a bowl of stale ripple chips in his lap.

Hey! You!

Saddam looks over into the camera, and makes a “who me?” gesture with his hand.

Yeah, you! Tired of the same old boring snacks?

Saddam looks down at the chips and nods disparagingly.

Greasy pork rinds just TOO darn greasy for your germophobia?

Saddam nods again into the camera.

Well, then maybe it’s time to try new Doritos!

(in broken English)

Yes, Doritos.

A bag is thrust into the frame towards Saddam. He looks at it quizzically.

Hmm...okay, I try. America must die.

Saddam pulls a chip from the bag. He sniffs it for an unrecognizable scent, like for instance, poison. He then pops it into his mouth. His face lights up.

Wow. Zippy.

Betcha can’t have just one!

Give me bag infidel American pig.

Saddam tears bag away and starts voraciously forcing the Doritos into his mouth.

Whoa, slow down there, Mr. Crimes-Against-Humanity! You don’t wanna get a bellyache before they go and fry ya now.
Saddam continues shoving Doritos into his mouth, his beard quickly filling up with nacho dust.
Boy, you sure do like those Doritos though, don’t ya? Tastes like freedom, I bet.

Me not understand you. America will pay, this I promise you.
(fade to black)

Monday, June 20, 2005

In Case Of Emergency...Pull This.

I noticed on the subway this morning an emergency alarm on the subway train.

It is a strip that you push on and it alerts the stoned-but-cautious subway driver that you are indeed in the midst of some sort of an emergency.

Beside it is posted a sign that reads, "emergency stop - penalty for misuse - fine or IMPRISONMENT".

Imprisonment? Holy shit, i feel sorry for the poor bastard who gets locked up in the big house and has to instill fear into his anal-fetishing bunkmate by explaining he's in for "hitting the brakes on the subway all because he thought some Aunt Bea might be choking on a chalupa".

Don't fuck with me, Bubba. I brought public transit to a halt, muthafucka.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

Famous (Re-Written) Movie Scenes # 17

And now a famous scene from CASABLANCA:

Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake.
I don't know what you mean, Miss Ilsa.
Play it, Sam. Play "As Time Goes By."
Oh, I can't remember it, Miss Ilsa. I'm a little rusty on it.
I'll hum it for you. Da-dee-da-dee-da-dum, da-dee-da-dee-da-dum...[Sam begins playing]

And now the original scene before it was edited:

Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake.
I don't know what you mean, Miss Ilsa.
Play it, Sam. Play "As Time Goes By."
Oh, I can't remember it, Miss Ilsa. I'm a little rusty on it.
I'll hum it for you. Da-dee-da-dee-da-dum, da-dee-da-dee-da-dum...
Sorry Miss Ilsa, can’t place that.
Come on, Sam…you know… Da-dee-da-dee-da-dum, da-dee-da-dee-da-dum...
Oh, do you mean…”De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da”…the one by The Police?
No!! Listen close… Da-dee-da-dee-da-dum, da-dee-da-dee-da-dum...
Da-dee-da-dee-da-dum, da-dee-da...
I don't know it okay. How much you been drinking tonight anyhow?
Play the song, asshole!!!
Look, would you step off bitch! Are you gonna pick another song or just stay here skitzin’ and trippin’ on my ass? I get paid by tha joint so if you’re not here to make a request or put some scrilla in tha jar, then jet, yo! Y'all is stinkin’ up tha joint with yer skanky ho-cake anyhow, bee-yotch!

Friday, June 17, 2005

Gravy For Dogs

I just saw a TV commercial for Iams Savoury Sauce for dogs.

It's basically what looks like a bottle of salad dressing that you pour all over your mutt's dry dog food and the canine gobbles it up like...well, like a damn dog.

Okay, enough treating our pets better than our fellow human beings, alright - they're fucking dogs. I've seen people refuse to give apple cores to homeless people out of spite, but now they're willing to add gravy to their dog's chow to enhance the food experience for an animal that eats its own asshole. Somehow I don't think a dog is really appreciating the effort of a condiment on his food when he's likely only going to puke it up on the linoleum and then re-eat it again. Yum! Savoury!

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Retarded Expression of the Week

"Who died and made you boss?"

Why is it that someone has to die for this expression to work? Seems a bit extreme to me. In fact, it's not even very realistic. When was the last time you got a promotion because someone croaked? Wouldn't it just be more sensible to say something more practical and realistic like:

"Who's been found expendable to the parent company's directive during a time of fluctuating market instability, corporate restructuring and downsizing and were therefore unfortunately and ill-timely laid off only to be overqualified, underachieving and too old to do anything else...and made you boss?"

Monday, June 13, 2005

More Hollywood Bullshit

Dear Entertainment Media,

I’ve got a favor to ask you.
I’m not even sure you’ll be able to do it, but I’ve have to ask anyhow.

Can you please, please, please…

Please, just stop talking about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie for 2 minutes? Oh sorry, I mean Brangelina.

Which is something else we need to stop – no more morphing names of people together. It began with Bennifer. Now we have Brangelina. And the latest is that abominable Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes-combo TomKat.

TomKat. Ya, after that appearance on Oprah, I’m thinking maybe this TomKat needs to be neutered.

But did you ever notice they only do this ridiculous morphing of names with cutsie Hollywood couples? You’d never catch Ted Koppel on the 6 o’clock news calling the Russian president and his wife Vladamilyudmila.

Now unless you’ve been living in the cave next door to Osama bin Laden for the past 2 months, you know what I’m talking about.

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie keep getting spotted by photographers together all over the world. Beaches in Kenya, at posh hotels in L.A., bartering with the Amish in Nebraska over a bag of turnips…you know, places where stars hang out.

But for whatever reason they haven’t admitted to being a couple.

So why, do you ask? Why wouldn’t a pair of Tinseltown’s two most gorgeous film stars come out and get all gushy for the cameras, especially on the verge of one of the most anticipated hits of the summer movie season?

Hmm, let’s see. Maybe we should go to the experts. I'll bet Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez have an idea why it may not be a good idear.

The bottom line is, we really need to get our minds off of whether or not Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are fucking. Who cares? It's not like you have a shot so forget it. And if they are screwing, so be it. Seriously, how anti-climactic will it be when or if they ever admit they're schooping each other?

But what will we do then? Who will we talk about?

Well, I dunno about you but I'm getting an early start on the next Hollywood rumor:

Psst, guess what? George Clooney was seen porking Phyllis Diller on a nude beach in Hawaii. Pass it on.

Friday, June 10, 2005

Re-Writing Forrest Gump

Some of you may have read this on SaucyMonk Lite, but I thought if I spread this piece of screenwriting gold around enough, I'm bound to get a call from Jerry Bruckheimer...

And now... a famous scene from Forrest Gump:
Forrest Gump
Will you marry me? [Jenny turns and looks at him] I'd make a good husband, Jenny.

Jenny Curran
You would, Forrest.

Forrest Gump
But you won't marry me.

Jenny Curran
You don't wanna marry me.

Forrest Gump
Why don't you love me, Jenny? I'm not a smart man, but I know what love is.

And now the scene they edited out:

Forrest Gump
Will you marry me? [Jenny turns and looks at him] I'd make a good husband, Jenny.

Jenny Curran
You would, Forrest.

Forrest Gump
But you won't marry me.

Jenny Curran
You don't wanna marry me.

Forrest Gump
Why don't you love me, Jenny? I'm not a smart man, but I know what love is.

Jenny Curran
Ya, well do you know what crabs are? How about gonorrhea? The Clap mean anything to you, Forrest? Is that what you want? Or maybe it's the herpes you're after, is that it Mister 'I Know What Love Is'?

Forrest Gump
Oh, I see. [pause] Momma always said you were like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Fudgesicles Across The Atlantic

Another boring news day. Just another dude’s body parts falling into a someone’s backyard after falling from the wheel well of a South African Airways jet. (Yawn).

Sure, this whole “stowaway-in-the-wheel-well-of-a-transatlantic-plane” thing was pretty interesting the first time I heard it, but come on – this is getting as commonplace as Dr. Phil at a dickhead convention.

Just what is it that inspires some soft-boiled egghead to “stowaway” in the wheelwell of a jet anyhow? Are you telling me someone has actually ever made it? Ya know, if I’m a budding refugee and I’m looking at a plane, I’m not likely thinking, “hmm, the wheelwell – perfect! My escape!”.

Then again, I’m an individual who just doesn’t enjoy avoiding a ball of rubber spinning at 500 miles an hour only to find myself being hauled across the Atlantic inside a cramped container hugging a chunk of metal at extreme sub-zero temperatures. Ya know, I’m just kind of a weird cat that way.

Ofcourse, I’m speaking from the perspective of a spoiled middle-class North American male whose worst lifetime experience of an oppressive government is tax on one donut, none on a dozen, so you know, you can take that into account.

But stowing away on essentially the exterior of a plane? Wow. I’m pissed when I get a middle seat.

Most of these ‘stowaways’ don’t end up in a pile of chunks in someone’s backyard though. Most seem to make it, only they end up on the other side as their very own ice cube. Sure ya made it Mogambo, but you’re a Fudgesicle. Ain’t got much use for a Human Fudgesicle in America.

I say quit looking for an easy ride. Quit trying to take the quick and lazy route riding in a jet wheelwell. I’d like my refugees to show a little work-ethic before I welcome them into the country. Is that too much to ask?

If you wanna find sanctuary in my country, I say do it the old-fashioned way. Floating aimlessly on a piece of lumber for 30 days starving and dehydrating under a debilitating sun, surrounded by hungry sharks while the saltwater tortures you’re open weather-beaten sores until you’ve lost your mind completely.

Now that’s what I call a good work ethic.

Monday, June 06, 2005

Girl With The Louis Vuitton Tattoo

I just saw some chick with a tattoo on her lower back. No big deal right. However, this particularly enamoring tattoo was the logo for Louis Vuitton.

Great idea, Miss Independent Thinker! I’m all for tagging myself as long as its on behalf of something special. Why not the vacuous and meaninglessness of consumerism. In fact, although I don’t currently have any tattoos, I have now found inspiration for getting one. Tonight, I’m off to the swarthy biker dude at Sal’s Tattoo and Barber Shop to ask for a tattoo of the K-Mart logo on my inner thigh.

Why should I stop there? I sometimes buy my ginch at the Gap. How about a Gap tattoo on my ass cheek? Seems to make sense. Then I’ll always know where to put my underwear if I’m ever in a situation where I have experienced serious brain damage.

I also like an occasional Whopper. Do you suppose it would be too presumptuous of me to tattoo the Burger King logo on my throat, you know, because getting a tattoo on my esophagus…come on, well that’s just plain silly.

Then ofcourse there’s the Hugo Boss logo. The ultimate in cool. I don’t own any Hugo Boss, but that doesn’t matter does it? Nothing will emit ‘cool’ more than a big black Hugo Boss tattoo in the middle of my forehead. And just think – no dry cleaning!

Oh, I got it. Reebok on the soles of my feet. No, no…the Nike symbol on my ankle.
Hot shit.

Boy, thank Lord Mallrat I saw that girl with the Louis Vuitton tattoo. Now I can finally show the world who I really am.

Oh wait, I just thought of the perfect tattoo to summarize this entire exercise: I think I’ll get the Target logo surrounding my asshole.

Friday, June 03, 2005

On The Subject Of Bras And Wieners

A recent study showed that the average North American bra size has jumped from a size 34B in 1991 to a 36C today.

Nice work ladies.

Now I’m surely not adverse to this growing trend, but I must say the fact that people are actually keeping score of the development of boobies as an ongoing study just emphasizes society’s obsession with the mamm.

Ofcourse, a study like this isn’t surprising. It’s not even unusual. In fact, wherever men are – whether its on the beach, at swap meets, even church bake sales - all over the world men have an on-going study of the female breast. See, it’s not that I’m gawking at your chest. I’m exploring scientific data. Ya know, for science. Now would it possible to have a feel…ya know, um, for science?

But ladies, when was the last time you read a comparative study like this of the Schwanz? Not lately I bet.

So…aren’t you curious?

Aren’t you just wondering now if the North American wiener size has followed the same trends as the female breast? I’ll bet you are. Why, I’ll bet some of you may even be wishful...

...but certainly no more than any man who was in his prime in 1991. That's for sure.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Names To Ruin A Life By

David Arquette and Courtney Cox named their kid Coco.
Gwyneth Paltrow called her daughter Apple.
Actress Lisa Vidal named her kid Crumpet.

What is with these celebrities and these fucked up baby names?

Ok, I get it, you’re a celebrity. You got fame. Money. Beauty. I guess the only thing you're now missing is proof to the world of your authentic and crafty ingenuity. So, to establish said genius, you've decided to name your new infant child something special and so you've decided to do this by apparently, looking around your kitchen and picking out some inanimate object.

Well, don't worry. It’s okay. You still got the fame, money and beauty.

Jason Lee named his son Pilot Inspektor. That’s just plain weird.

It also begs the obvious question, why not name him Sailor Detective? Or whatever happened to a nice old-fashioned baby name like Light-Armoured Combat Vehicle Driver Investigator? Don’t nobody name their child Light-Armoured Combat Vehicle Driver Investigator anymore?

Hmm. Times they are a changin'.

Well, listen up, if you happen to be in the market for a baby name and can’t seem to find yourself one as creatively cool as those oh-so clever celebrities you hopelessly worship in those glossy overpriced magazines and on Access Hollywood...fear not, I got a few ideas for you...

Just don't hold me responsible for how it affects the poor little bastard’s upbringing.

Broken Femur
Rad Gnarly
Tuskan Raider
Hash Pipe
Optimus Prime
Cunnilingus (Cunny for short)
Malpractice Suit
Salmon Salad Sandwich

Or simply...

The (that one's my favorite)

And lastly, for those who'd like to follow the long-standing tradition of naming the newborn after themselves:

Pretentious Cocksucker Jr.

Sounds about right to me.