You just made my list!

Want to know what to get me for Christmas? Just ask me to open a jar for you.

Nothing makes me happier than to hear “Can you open this jar for me?” You might as well have just asked me if I want to have a threesome, it’s that awesome.

There are so few chances in modern society to prove your dominance (I mean worth) as a man and, sadly, opening a jar for a female in distress is just about all that is left. Helping the cute girl in the office figure out how to add clip art to her PowerPoint presentation doesn’t quite give me the boner that opening a jar does. In my mind, hearing that little lid pop is not unlike killing a water buffalo with my bare hands.

This activity does not come without pitfalls however. As I approach my prey there’s always that nagging thought in the back of my mind saying “What if this is the jar I can’t open?” Luckily for you girls I will work a jar lid until my hands bleed, I will never give up and I will never fail. Yeah that’s right, if Hulk Hogan and Clint Eastwood had a baby and it was eaten by a gorilla, I would be that gorilla.

FYI, ask me to get something down from a high shelf and there’s a 98% chance we will be making love right there on the kitchen floor.

This is going to be a short rant for 2 reasons.

1) I spent the day in a 5 hour meeting. The kind of meeting where you aren’t the person doing any talking so all you do is sit there and conjure up the sickest sexual fantasies you can involving the women attending the meeting. Then someone finally turns to you and says, “What do you think?” and you blurt out “Baby oil!”

2) Does anyone really care what I have to say about anything?

3) I’m just kidding, I know I am worshiped by many.

4) I was going to write about Giada de Laurentiis and her crazy psycho smile but while looking for photos of her I realized I’m too hypnotized by her cleavage to say anything negative about her. “Baby oil!”

5) Finally, what can really be said about these people? Learn how wide your car is jackass. Should this bother me? Does it actually affect my life in any way? The answer is obviously yes. I hate these people! I also hate people who have no idea where their front bumper is and will cause me to die a slow death behind them in traffic because they REFUSE to simply turn their steering wheel and go around whatever obstacle is in their (our) way. It bothers me. A lot of things bother me.

Bullshit.

What’s worse than taking a nap? Not taking a nap! At least that’s how it feels at the time. And therein lies the dilemma, the catch-22, the reason I KNOW there is no God!

I hate naps. I HATE NAPS! I hate naps and yet I can’t stop myself from falling under their spell. It’s like naps are a super hot naked girl with every possible STD coursing through her perfect body and I’m the guy who says, “Well, I don’t have a condom but… maybe just a little oral, anal and vaginal sex. Possibly some needle sharing. What the heck, I’ll go ahead and drink some blood while I’m at it.”

I’m powerless when faced with the cozy, couchy siren song of naps. I think to myself, “This time it will be better. This time I won’t wake up wanting to murder my own family.” But no, I have never woken from a nap feeling anything other than miserable… miserable, confused, hot, cranky, angry, bewildered, sweaty, demoralized and filled with regret. I wake with my heart pounding and dullness that can only be described as abhorrent.

Oh, and look out world when I start my nap in daylight and awake to total darkness.

I would rather spend an entire day with Guy Fieri listening to Zoot Suit Riot than take a nap.

Yes, once again I have failed you. I had a long, busy weekend and simply had to choose between watching “Undercover Boss” or writing more bullshit about bullshit. Luckily I chose Undercover Boss because now I know the secret code for poop floating in a pool… AFR (Accidental Fecal Release). Who needs school when you have the TV machine to teach you everything you need to know.

Unofficially this post is about a link my friend who lives in the Stockton California area sent me. Good fucking lord, what the hell is going on in California? I can barely remember the last time I punched someone in the face for eating the last pork chop or burned my mother’s deceased body in the backyard BBQ pit.

So sit back and enjoy some of the scariest mugshots you will ever see. Don’t forget to read about their charming crimes too!

Oh, and fuck you Monday, I hate you.

Speaking of Lost…
ARE-YOU-FUCKING-KIDDING-ME-WITH-THIS-BULLSHIT?

What the fuck is wrong with me? Let me count the ways… I hated the show Lost, watched it for 7 years, was so angry at the show’s finale I almost killed myself for wasting countless hours watching time-traveling douchebags get chased in the jungle by smoke, and yet SOMEHOW I decided I should give NBC’s “The Event” a try because it was supposed to be the next Lost. I am the biggest asshole that has ever lived. I honestly hate myself.

As the opening credits rolled on the pilot episode last week, I thought to myself, “Listy (I now call myself “Listy” in my thoughts) what are you doing to yourself?” But then I was like, “Shut up Listy, this time it will be different!” Then I put myself in a headlock and gave myself playful noogies until I cried out “UNCLE” and peed my pants.

Little did I know how bad it was about to get. To make a long story short, The Event is about… drum roll… wait for it… OMG… A DISAPPEARING COMMERCIAL AIRPLANE!

Ha ha ha NBC and ABC, I’m slow clapping because I now realize you have joined forces with the sole purpose of making me so crazy that I jump off the roof of the nearest Taco Bell. I mean how else do you explain the fact that the show that is supposed to be the next Lost, a show about a disappearing commercial airplane, just happens to be about a disappearing airplane?!? Fuck me.

I’ll jump, I’ll do it!

Let me tell you something pal, if you say one negative thing about SkyMall I will hunt you down and I will cast a spell upon you with my Harry Potter® magic wand! SkyMall fucking RULES!

I hate flying. I’m not afraid to fly but I hate everything about the process. I hate getting up early. I hate airports. I hate huge crowds of cranky people dressed in their finest sweatsuits. But mostly I hate how cramped, uncomfortable and boring sitting on an airplane is. There is only ONE thing that I look forward to… the SkyMall catalog.

I’m not kidding, slowly soaking up every page is one of life’s purest joys. Forget your shitty wedding and the birth of your dumb kids, SkyMall trumps them all.

There is an art to reading SkyMall and when done properly it can easily provide two or more hours of entertainment. Only an amateur asshole would start flipping through the glorious pages of SkyMall while still sitting on the runway. Idiots. A connoisseur knows to wait until about 30 minutes into the flight, right about the time you begin to level off. Believe me, I know how hard it is to fight the temptation to sneak a peek before takeoff but you MUST fight it!

After about 30 minutes you are free to begin your journey through the greatest products known to man. I like to spend about five minutes just staring at the cover. This is like the foreplay or the romance, if you will. I think about how excited the inventor of the Floating Bar must have been when he learned he was that month’s cover product. Chills.

On the flight to my destination I like to spend most of my time concentrating on the photos, this way I can enjoy all of the product descriptions on my way back. This technique should give you about an hour of bliss on each flight. Smart.

I sit there and imagine how good my life would be if I just had some unsightly pipe to cover with a plastic rock or some snow to rake. Damn it, these people are so lucky! I wonder how I make it through the day without my own Indiana Jones leather bullwhip and why I have never thought to use a propane torch to kill weeds. I fantasize about the looks on my dumb friend’s faces when they are startled by my awesome garden statue and the girth of my incredible noodle. They are going to be so jealous, I hate them. But nothing makes me happier than this (you still have time to buy me one for Christmas).

You are probably wondering what the Holy Grail of SkyMall aficionados might be. I will tell you but I might get a little emotional in the process. Ahab had Moby Dick, Don Quixote had windmills but my white whale has yet to show itself in my presence. The day I get on a plane for my return flight and discover a new issue of SkyMall, not yet available on my previous flight, waiting for me in the seat pocket… I’m sorry but thinking about it right now has me in tears. That day will be the best day of my life.

I rarely (maybe never) personally call out people who leave moronic comments on this website, mostly because a majority of the comments I receive are pretty decent. When I say “decent” I don’t only mean people who agree with me, there have been plenty of intelligent comments that disagree with my opinions (even though I am always right). But the thing most of my readers do not realize is that I am flooded with comments on old posts on a daily basis. There are some crazy back and forth arguments that go unnoticed by most readers.

At this point I should admit that I LOVE hate mail, I honestly do. The hate mail I receive is some of the most entertaining reading material I get to experience and it usually just reinforces my awesome opinions on any given subject.

I realize it’s kind of lazy for me to write about this subject but I wanted to share a comment I received this weekend concerning those prancing, lip-syncing turds, Celtic Thunder. Actually I get a lot of funny hate mail on that one but this one really made me happy. It’s not the craziest comment I have seen but it still made my day. I don’t even need to explain why it’s ridiculous, just site back and enjoy…

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS PERSON CELTIC THUNDER ARE THE BEST SINGERS IN THE WORLD (ESPECIALLY DAMIAN AND RYAN) AND WHO EVER WROTE THIS ARTICLE I’M GOING TO HUNT YOU DOWN.!

YOU LITTLE IMMATURE FREAK SHOW GET A FUCKIN LIFE YOUR JUST JEALOUS BECAUSE THEY HAVE MORE TALENT IN ONE HAIR STRAND ON THERE HEAD THEN YOU DO ON YOUR WHOLE ENTIRE BODY. JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU SHIT HEAD, FUCK OFF, THEN GO AND EAT SHIT OUT OF A DITCH YOU SHITTY ASSHOLE!!!!!!……SUCK THAT…..WHAT!

Yeah, I masturbated to this novelty, disappearing clothes pen. Jealous?

I’m not proud of it (maybe a little) but it happened and I think we should all just acknowledge it and move on.

How was it that I found myself straining my eyes to masturbate to a tiny naked lady on an ink pen? That is a great question, thanks for asking. You see, the year was 1998, the Barenaked Ladies (ironically) topped the charts with their brilliant Canadian-comedy-pop-rap, Robin Williams turned the world of pediatrics on its red rubber balls with his touching portrayal of Patch Adams and thanks to pre-9/11 American bliss we were still innocent enough to masturbate to pens at work.

I was an optimistic young man working at a mid-sized company and occasionally I had a little extra time on my hands (ironically). Don’t get me wrong, I worked very hard (ironically) for this company but when I was between projects I had to literally stare at my desk. All you whippersnappers out there don’t know what it’s like to kill time at a job WITHOUT THE INTERNET but it was brutal!

Sure, I perfected the 20 minute walk around the office looking busy and the taking a nap sitting upright at my desk with my hand on the mouse (ironically) but that wasn’t always enough. Now, the following formula may seem foreign to you ladies but do your best to follow along…

Boredom + Time + Penis = Masturbation

The only unknowns in that equation are how and where. And in my case, which pen to bring along.

It was pretty simple really. I would bring my date, either the tall blonde in heels or the cute brunette with the big 70s bush, into the bathroom stall and quickly do my business. It had to be quick because the receptionist’s desk faced the entrance to the bathrooms and I’m sure she knew the time it took the average person to pee and/or poop. Any deviation from those two options would not go unnoticed so I really had to emulate the duration of a normal poo session. If someone walked into the bathroom while I was romancing myself I immediately ceased operations and switched to simulated pooping. It was the perfect plan.

Keep in mind, this only happened a couple times because usually I was too busy and the sadness of jerking off to a pen was not lost on me.

Deal with it.