Archive for the 'racism' Category

I am not a Mexican

Contrary to popular belief, I am not a Mexican. However, due to the high per capita Mexican/Latin population in my surrounding 500 sq miles, I have begun teaching myself Spanish at work, for 30 mins a day.

I just started 2 minutes ago. I’m on my second lesson from the BBC wesbite. It’s free. Let’s see if I can do it.


ps- I didn’t say “Hispanic” because that is a word that white people made up to call people who are from South America.

Update-  After 5 minutes of doing the BBC site, I quit. It was weak. I listened to Spanish talk radio for about 20 minutes, but it was too boring. Now I’m getting down with a music/morning talk show, which has a better mix. After a month of this, I bet I will be able to hold my own a lot easier down at burrito line.

I like Mexican music, always have.

there’s nothing i can add…

… to roughty’s masterful la blog.  absolutely nothing omitted that i feel worth mentioning.  in fact, he went into detail in places i would have left out completely — namely, my vomiting incident.  you loyal readers (who are apparently enthralled with pegasii {search term}) had grown accustomed to seeing me stone sober, cradling lovely trout, perch and bass in my adept fishing (and masturbating{search term}) arm.  this is only half the real suityourself.  the other half is the drunken, light-weight puking on stoney’s roof.  by the way, i doubt seriously that stoney has bothered to drag a hose up there and wash that shit off.  hope those infamous la pigeons were hungry for roast beef sandwiches, bong ashes, whiskey, coca-cola and half-digested xanax(sp?) {search term} pills, cuz that’s what they are eating off the roof right now.

did i say there was nothing i can add to roughty’s blog?  well, nearly nothing.  i would feign go into some detail about the culture — if it can so be called — in los angeles, califreakia.  let me start (as i do every day) with the weed sitch.  it is, as i stated earlier, all true.  you can buy it if you have a prescription.  i don’t have a prescription, so i could get busted out there as easily as i could right here in good ole virginny.  stoney, on the other hand, is immune.  he’s legit.  too legit, in fact, to quit.  leave it to the rich blond fucker to have all the luck that the rest of us working men (just me) really deserve.  i have these pictures of ornately arranged bongs {search term}, blunts {search term}, rolling papers {search term} and big, fat, kine bud nuggets {search term} that i should post as soon as possible.  not today.  no camera.  you can continue to wait in vain.  the weed is chron-drizzle-fo-shrizzle.  the youngsters out there are just how they were when george harrison {search term} described them some 40 years ago.  dropouts and losers.  while sir roughtonious and i were traversing the boardwalk one morning, we walked past this band of raggidy fucks who were between the ages of 16 and 22, probably.  they were “protesting” in some way i guess.  they all had some shitty cardboard signs that read, “give me money for prescription weed!”  these busted-ass looking fuckers all had some mangy white-boy dreads {search term}.  you know the kind.  they’re dreaded at the ends, but just real teased-looking nearer to the scalp.  this is because white boy hair doesn’t naturally dread.  you have to either put some wax or something in it or work really hard at it consistently for a long while (see Dankkkkkkkkkk’s dreads from long long ago), and these kids had either run out of wax or motivation, cuz they had these fucked up looking dreads, and coupled with their sweat-stained, tie-dyed greatful dead {search term} t-shirts, they suited out as one of the mottliest crews i’d ever seen.  i smirked at one of them (see “pffffft,” and he asked me for a dollar.  news flash, asshole, if you can’t afford a weed-card, you’re most definitely not going to have the money to support your fledgling tree-habit.  here’s an idea for you.  try cutting that shit off your head, taking whatever money you begged so far and buy a new shirt.  after that, how about getting a job?  this has been the bit about the youth culture.  i didn’t see too many other “kids” around.  most of them were either sleeping under cardboard boxes on the street or eating at restaurants where appetizers cost 400 beezies.  needless to say, i did not fall into either category.

now for a little bit on the rest of the society out there.  service industry is made up almost entirely of mexicans.  as i said before, the kids are either filthy rich or lazy as shit and worthless in both cases.  this leaves a huge void in the marketplace for service industry people — people who know how to work for a dollar even if it means messing up that fresh hair-do or breaking a nail.  mexicans fill this void.  yussir.  all the mexicans i saw were pretty nice to me.  i didn’t try to bust out the spanish on them.  i’m sure they get that enough from tourists just like me, so i just grinned at some of them, exposing my yellowing teeth and my blazed-out red eyes.  surprisingly, lots of them grinned back.  i am not the most sophisticated guy on the block, but i think their grins were, in general, sincere.  could it be that they were happy to be in america and making those big green american dollars?  i dunno.  i like to think so, but who knows?  maybe they just thought if they grinned at them, i’d give them some money or something.  maybe they thought i was a movie star…  yeah, that’s probably it.  yup, that’s the one i’m going with.  as far as other people in the la working world, i didn’t really see many.  again, most of them are either much too rich or much too poor to be seen in any of the places i visited.

a note on commerce in la, they have pretty much the same type of stores there that we have here.  grocery stores, liquor stores, clothing stores, drug stores, electronics stores, home furnishings stores, etc.  as always, some of these places are over-priced, and some are more reasonable.  however, the most reasonable one out there was much more expensive than the most over-priced on in virginia.  likewise, the cost of living is steep.  housing is hardly affordable, even for two gainfully employed folks like roughty’s and my hosts — stoney and lady t.  just like nyc, la is a place i’d love to live so long as i was dirty-rich.  for regular middle-class people, it’s a nice place to visit.

the physical environment was everything i had hoped for in some ways but not as cool as i had hoped in other ways.  temperature was perfecto!  never too hot.  sun always shining.  cool in the morning and evening.  perfect.  sandy beaches and lovely palm trees.  some good looking women — maybe a slightly better ratio than virginia.  however, i didn’t get to see too much of the country, not-developed areas as i had hoped.  i know they exist, because when we went to the greek theater, it was sick-to-deff.  lots of wildlife possibilities and such.  i feel like cali. is as wild as they say, but i just didn’t get a chance to see it.  we stayed in the suburbs of the concrete jungle.  next time, i plan to check out all the wild places and make a better judgment after that.  as far as animalia goes, i saw some lizards, some pigeons and sea-gulls, a bunch of dogs, a cat inside a window, a crazy shark/ray and that is about it.

enough, for now, on la.  now onto more pressing matters — baseball.


braves {search term}are poised and ready to strike out at roughty’s shitty mets (who blew the hell out of that 5 run lead roughty alluded to in an earlier post).  dankkkkkkkkkkkkkkk’s redsux are pulling the usual choke-job.  stoney’s dodgers have fallen off a little bit.  the rest of you need to pick a fucking baseball team, cuz you’re missing out on the best season in generations.  get ready, because in two weeks i’m going to be writing about how my beloved braves are in first place and roughty’s favorite player has broken his leg or sustained an equally devastating injury.  all i hope is that pedro martinez gets called up to the bigs soon.  i cannot wait to see him get shelled by the big bats of the atl braves.  it’s going to be dangerous for him, though, so roughty ought to kneel down and say a prayer that pedro doesn’t get killed by a line-drive off chipper’s bat.

speaking of sports, stoney has been awfully silent lately about

michael vick {search term}.  maybe he feels bad for always being such a fucking racist who hates all black people.  he should.  michael vick has been framed, and everyone with half a brain knows it.  it’s just that the white man can’t stand a talented black man having any money, so they’re framing him.  michael vick is the shit. 


if he gets suspended, he’ll just go into seclusion for a couple years and work on his skills like luke s. did in one of the star wars {search term} movies with yoda on degoba.  after this, he’ll just have to win three superbowls instead of the 2 he was planning on before.  there’s no way he’s going to jail, and if he does, i can smell a “longest yard” three-quel.  yall need to stop being jealous of michael vick.  just because you’re racist doesn’t make him guilty.  if i were vick’s attorney, i would use the self-defense ploy.  after all, pits are dangerous.  


“if mike got bit, you must acquit.”

now, back to one of my fav. topics — john from cincinnati.  as i mentioned before, the show takes place in one “IB.”  imperial beach is the southwestern-most city in the united states.  i thought maybe it was in la, but no.  it’s nearer to san diego, i guess.  no wonder stoney and the rest of his idiot friends had no idea what the fuck i was talking about.  anyways, the show’s first season is over.  the finale was anti-climactic, to say the least.  in fact, it was close to a let-down.  no secrets revealed, no aliens, no death, no jesus christ, no nothing, really.  just dylan mckay and zach morris dicking it up like they did in the early 90s.  they are setting us up for a second season, so i hope the numbers allow this to happen.  john from cincinnati is the best show you’ve never seen.  trust me.  how about one more clip just for good measure?

(look close for zach and dylan)

peace out squabblerinos.


i’m playing a little catch up on the blogggg today.  have been derelict for a few days as real life has gotten in the way.  since i’ve been gone, there have been some good posts and some terrible posts.

best post winner — roughty for #1 in da hood, g.

worst post winner (loser) — roughty for the horrendous mets.

blogger definitely going to hell — stoney for the retard post.

anyway, good work.  i agree that dankkkkkk is in serious jeopardy.  he needs to contrib or face the …


he was doing a solid job there for a minute, but fell off in recent times.

to further prop my boy roughtonious, i will add something from the athf vault which i am afraid he has forgotten…

(disregard the master shake.)

remember the moth man?  aka reverse vampire bus…  memorable quote:  “yeah, i laid 10,000 of my eggs in his esophagus, and he was being a baby about it.”

ok, back to business.  what the fuck is the deal with publication of bloggers’ first names?  i thought it was an unwritten law that we would not do that sort of thing, but if it’s gonna happen, just let me know, and homey can play that.  i’ll out you guys like elton fucking john.

so, some of you know i live in norfolk.  norfolk is the land of black pedestrians walking slow as shit in front of your car while you’re going 60 down a 25 in order to minimize your time in the ghetto.  i like this city, because i was born here and have been riding on these streets for years, but i mean this is ridiculous.  i have almost run these fucking darkies over on purpose just on principle.  my thousand pound metal driving machine is more powerful than your 6’5″, 88lb. cracked out, basketball playing, sneeker ganking ass, so get the fuck out of the way.  i frequently use the “n-word” (nigger) during this type of encounter and hope that i will never get shot for doing so.  so far, i have been lucky.  if i ever get “run up on” for using “their word” i’m just going to play the albino card.  be like, “yo, blood, i be one of you.  i jus got dis pigment disawdah.”  these guys aren’t generally among the sharpest knives in the drawer, so they’ll probably buy it… right? 

i’m trying to do my part to keep these statistics intact.  look, they even drew the stick figure the right color.  for once, government work is efficient and effective.

ok, there’s my racism for the day.  you like that?  aww yeah.

so, besides narrowly missing brown people crossing the street, i have also been fishing my balls off — like ev-er-y day.  here’s some of the fruits of my labor.


biggest smallmouth of my life.  on the new river — right down the road from the site of the massacre (ethnic cleansing) in b’sburg va. 

tonight, the all-star game is upon us.  i am predicting an NL win, and in order for this to come about, i will need to support the hated ny mets.  while i am very uncomfortable with this prospect, i will do it for tonight and only tonight.  the braves are closing in on them like a domerman running down one of the retards from stoney’s last post, so i’m not too worried.

enjoy the game, bitches.

ps — as the time approaches for me to travel on the magical mystery tour to la, i am beginning to prime my lungs for the excessive cheeeefage that must surely occur.  i am doing some deep breathing exercises and am only smoking like 3 packs a day instead of the usual full carton.  all i know is, those yahoos in cali better be ready to see some real east coast flava.

finally, enjoy this bit of savagery.  brought to you by some crazy redneck bird.

The Retard Factory/ Aunt Jackie

I used to work at a retard factory in Texas, outside of Dallas. I lived in Texas briefly, where I did lots of D-rugs and got arrested. Texas is where I met my boy Twitchie, and I worked with him at the retard factory. Twitchie’s mom, the Nice Witch of the West, worked there first, and she got promoted, and then we got jobs there. A lot of people could come up to me and say all this stuff about how you’re not supposed to call them retards, or that “retard factory” isn’t a nice thing to say either.

I’ve got 2 basic things to say to people who get upset when I talk about the retard factory or what went down there. 1) The scientific name for someone whose IQ is less than 70 due to developmental problems (aka happened before the age 18) is retarded. These people are, by scientific technical definition, retarded, and therefore, individually, they are retards. 2) Before you talk about being mean to retards, come wipe a retard’s ass in the shower, because that’s what I was doing at the retard factory. For $7.50 an hour.

I don’t even know where the fuck to begin with the retard factory. Think about a giant dorm room full of retarded people, living together in a building that was significantly funded by the state. These tards didn’t have family to take care of them, or their families couldn’t take care of them, so they got sent here. What I’m talking about here, people, is a state-run retard factory for retards who don’t have anywhere else to turn.

I think I’m going to use people’s first names, because I’m not getting into exactly where the place was, so there shouldn’t be any privacy violations.

Darrel- Darrel was a 40-year old retard who had the mind of an 11-year old. Darrel was one of my favorites. A southern gentleman, he would always ask me, “You my friend?” or just “Friend?” One of the control tactics of the factory was the “Coca-Cola note” system. If a retard did something good, you would give him, or promise him, a written note for a free Coke. I would joke with Darrel that I wouldn’t be his friend unless he went to the manager and got a “Friend note” so that I would be his friend for free. Otherwise, I wouldn’t.

Andrew- Andrew was an 18-year retard who had the mind of an 8-year old. He was also one of my very favorites at the factory, even though he could catch a sour attitude. He loved anime and cartoon trivia. His parents never came to visit, even though they lived nearby. When I got there, he refused to take showers and clip his nails. Through niceness and non-abuse, I got him to start taking showers and brushing his teeth.

That’s pretty much all the names I want to get into. Those 2 guys were pretty much my favorites though, Darrel and Andrew.

I would try to teach Darrel how to write his name, over and over. He would write D then A, then he would just draw ooooooooooooooo after the two first letters. Day after day, that’s all he could do. He was pretty fucking retarded.

I’d say the worst part about the whole thing wasn’t the retard ass, it wasn’t trying to feed someone who was retarded AND parapalegic, it wasn’t anything except how shitty the staff treated the retards.

It was weird being a recent college graduate, working around people who didn’t have GEDs who were working for minimum wage, just like me. Me and Twitch didn’t need to work there, we could have easily gotten different jobs.

The other people working there were motherfuckers to the retards. They would steal their old shitty stereos, presents from their forgotten families. They would put retards in choke holds and take them down when it wasn’t really necessary. They would sexually assault and abuse retards when they took them out to the movies.

It was a very sad situation, to see all those people in that place, getting basically no love. I did my best to have fun with them, and be a cheery little stoned fucker. I think I did a great job of taking care of them. I went back to TX about 6 months after I left, and when I visited the factory, all of my old retard friends were so happy to see me, and I was so happy to see them. Friend.

To top it off, there was this old motherfucking retard named James. James was an old white guy, and he was nuts. I think the 2 main things he had were dementia and Alzheimer’s, but he was retarded too, which was a triple whammy. James what was commonly known as a “digger.” Diggers are easily spotted because their fingers and fingernails are dirty brown, like they have been scraping bowls out for resin hits or something. Except really, they’re dirty because they have been digging up the spicy sauce from their butt crack. Retard butt crack.

Never shake a retard’s hand. Ever.

Bonus Clip: The Aunt Jackie

Rubber Matches, Growing Up, Other Reflections and another Roll Call

the first category tag i clicked was worthless friday, cuz that’s what i’m in.  it’s fantastic.  finally some time to interact with the tech-junkies, alcoholics and weed-fiends who read this link-laden, anti-american, diaperlicious bloghole. 

has anybody noticed that politics are continuing to play a large role in our blog?!  i can’t believe that shit.  if you knew, (and most of you do), the authors, you’d be as surprised as me.  four years in the burg, and we never talked about it.  now it’s all over everything.  i think that comes along with growing older.  things we never cared about before are starting to look more and more important.  we’re all realizing our global citizenship, and i think it’s pretty encouraging.  now all we have to do is change the minds of all the fuckos in general society *(see stoney’s note about the a&f models on the airplane… these are the dipshits to whom i’m referring.) 

on another very different topic, there’s this issue going on in the baseball world.  my boy john smoltz won his 200th career decision last night.  i don’t need to remind any of you who the braves defeated.  i don’t need to tell you that they beat the metropolitans.  further, i don’t need to explain to any of you that this win brough the braves record against the mets to 6 wins and 3 losses on the season.  no, i don’t need to mention any of these things.  why am i talking about it then?  to hurt your sensitive yankee feelings?  no.  to rub salt into your still-smarting wounds from last october?  of course not.  well, i’ll tell you why.  the braves are currently recruiting new fans, and if you all have been converted over the past few days, just let me know, and i’ll be happy to provide a letter of recommendation.  no guarantees, but it’s at least a 50-50 they’ll accept you.  last night’s prodigious victory over the hated mets was a rubber match.  “what is a rubber match?” all of you except the sport-savvy roughty might be asking yourselves.  again, i’ll explain it for you.  in a 3-game series, if each team wins one of the first two games, game three is the rubber match.  in a 7-game series that’s tied at three games each, game seven is the rubber match.  check out this helpful wiki article on the topic.

what’s the point of this discussion? it’s not just to make fun of the sucky mets.  in fact, i want to bring it back to politics.  since i’ve been old enough to think about politics, there have been two presidents.  (during bush the elder’s administration, i didn’t understand anything at all about it.)  these presidents have been billy clinton and george dubya bush — a democrat and a republican.  in 2008, we’ll have the rubber match between these two political powerhouses.  as in sports, this rubber match will play a big role on the way our generation will be viewed.  will our generation be defined by the shitty republicans or the shitty democrats?  lord only knows.  i got a guess, but it’s just that — a guess.  so i won’t even mention it here.  in a baseball rubber match, all we can do is drink beer and root for our own version of the good guys.  last night, my team won, and i was happy.  roughty’s team lost, and i’m sure he drowned on his tears.  in politics, however, we can play the game and get involved.  we can be the shortstop who turns the double play, or we can be the asshole who lets the ball roll right between his legs.  (by the by, what team was he on again?  hahaha.)  either way, in politics, we don’t have to sit on the sidelines.  we can cast our votes and join in the action, right?  here’s the other big difference.  if i make a throwing error, and the winning run scores for the other team, the game is over and i immediately know who won.  if i hit the walk-off homer, it’s conclusive.  i’m the big winner.  with politics, it’s not so cut and dry.  i might cast my vote and be all happy for a couple years after my selected puppet wins.  then, out of nowhere, he blows some country off the map, and my walk-off homer turns into a “you-blew-it” game ending error. that’s why, when this year’s political rubber match comes along, i’ll be drinking beer and watching from the sidelines.  the punchline of this discourse — do yourself a favor and don’t vote.  vote for your favorite amer. idol.  vote for which of the stars dances best.  vote for the best apple pie you ate at the county fair.  don’t vote for the president.  you’ll invariably be sorry!

thus ends the politics of this post.

i’m still going to school.  it still sucks.  i also work at a school.  that, too, is no good.  i am trying to learn about the material required for my degree, but all i keep learning about is that everybody only cares about money.  the only question my peers and superiors ask themselves is, “how can i make the most money off this situation?”  it’s sad to think that this is the world we’re trying to earn membership into.  maybe the solution is to drop out and move to an island and try to grow coconuts for food and decorative brassieres.  my ridiculous boss’s boss’s boss’s boss volunteered me today to take part in some terrible task around the office.  my autonomy is non-existant.  i don’t decide what i do at all.  they tell me what to do, and i do it.  it’s bad for one’s psychology.  you’ve all been there.  i guess the right thing to do is just grin and bear it until retirement… in like 60 years.  one more thing about work, i had to make a presentation yesterday to a room full of suits.  i wore a rainbow colored (ambiguously androgenous) plaid shirt untucked and my oldest, rattiest pants.  i gave a great presentation.  (probably because dank wasn’t there flicking his damned zippo to distract me.)  after this, i got an email from my boss’s boss who told me that i should have dressed nicer.  this is a big old problem in our society.  why in the world do people still judge you based on the clothes you wear?  i’ll tell you.  it’s because they’re terrible idiots who don’t know any better.  and these are the people who i’m scrambling to compete with as a peer…  sad.

well, mr dank nuggets is in, so let the fun begin.  in honor of him, i’m taking this opportunity to post yet another savage roll call.  feast your eyes on the following collection:

most savage cartoon character:  Monterey Jack — he’ll whip your ass and then console you in a lovely aussie accent.

honorable mention:  Nermal — fresh off the boat from abu dhabi

least savage cartoon character:  Rita and Runt — an ill-fated space-filler in an otherwise exceptional show

most savage world leader:  Queen of Jordan — rules with an iron fist and a lovely pair of jumblies

honorable mention:  Stalin — (translation of caption:  respect the moustache.  fear the moustache.  obey the moustache.)

least savage world leader:  Jacques Chirac (someone either just snuck up him, or he was presented with a lovely quiche.)

most savage cereal mascot:  Sonny (cocoa puffs) — this guy has “junkie” written all over his face

honorable mention:  Andy Milonakis (fruity pebbles)

least savage ceareal mascot:  Tony (frosted flakes) — why don’t you find a gayer bandana.  we’re not all convinced you’re a homo yet.

most savage car model of all times:  AMC Eagle (no competition)

honorable mention:  El Camino (the original cross-over vehicle)

least savage car model of all times:  ford tempo (my first car)

most savage blogger:  suityourself (no photo available)

least savage blogger:  you (look in the mirror and recognize your inferiority.)

finally, most savage drugs:  steriods

least savage drugs:  whipits (you’ll freeze your lungs)

Is there anything the Chinese can’t do?

Seriously, is there?  Take a look at this kid who was recently crowned king, at the world yo-yo championships.

Simply, astounding.  I bet this kid is pulling all sorts of ladies with his skills.  Apparently, he shoots out his yo-yo like Spiderman, and wraps the string around the girl’s waist.  When he pulls her back, she comes twirling toward him, and she is instantly his.

For some reason, the Chinese have the uncanny ability to take things we see as novelties such as, yo-yos and Dance Dance Revolution, and completely master them to previously unheard of levels.

We used to think we had basketball superiority over Asians.  Well, somehow they manufactured a seven and a half foot Yao Ming, and sent him to the US to play ball.  In an unrelated piece of news, apparently this Chinese giant has gained the ability to give birth.




(For those of you not in the know, that is Nate Robinson Yao is giving birth to.  He is the 5’9 New York Knicks point guard who won the dunk contest in 2006.  What an adorable family this will be.)

All this however, pales in comparison to what they are cooking up next.  Now, Chinese scientists are planning on controlling the weather.  Through a process dubbed, “cloud-seeding” the Chinese are planning on inducing rain before the 2008 Beijing Olympics to ensure fair weather for the competitors.  I, for one, believe they can do this.  When it comes to the Chinese and seeding, they are light-years ahead of the rest of the world with a population their size.   

They are also attempting this feat as a means to clean their air.  Beijing is one of the world leaders in air pollution, making it an obvious choice as a venue for elite athletic competition.  I hear the IOC is planning to use an active volcanic crater as the site for the 2012 Summer Olympics.  It makes the Olympics fun, adding environmental factors for increased drama.

So to answer my previous question, no, nothing is impossible for the Chinese.  Whether you want yo-yo superiority, weather control, or a 7 1/2 foot man to dunk and give birth. 

blog production…

so, with the exception of roughty’s insightful and always poignant posts, this blog is falling off big-time.  what the hell is going on, stoney?  i wanna know…

i’m ’bouts to chop yo ass.  after all, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander…

hey, i heard some really funny jokes the other day… (racism, AHOY!)

1.  Did you know that there will only be 49 contestants in next year’s Miss Black America pageant?…  Did you know that?…  Did ya?…

Yeah, nobody wants to wear the banner that says “I-da-ho.”  (This one is perhaps much better when delivered orally, but hey, oral is always best…)

2.  (This one is really pretty bad, indeed.)  What do you call an African-American on water skis?

 Give up?

A top-water jig…  (EWWW!  No you didn’t…)

3.  I don’t remember the joke, but the punchline is very funny…  Here goes…

“The vet said not to worry unless he shits out 2 dimes and a nickel.”  (Maybe you had to be there.)

4.  This is a real joke. 

This rich guy had just retired and decided he would devote his twilight years to philanthropy.  So, in his quest for the perfect cause, he went to this modern new hospital, told the boss-doctor that he wanted to invest in the hospital’s future.  Before he did, though, he wanted a tour around the hospital to make sure everything was legit.

So the doctor said, “ok,” and they started walking around the hospital, looking at new equipment and checking in on patients.  They enter this one room, and there’s this guy in the hospital bed and a nurse sitting next to him whacking him off.  The rich old guy was taken aback and asked the doctor, “What the hell kind of hospital is this?”  The doctor said, “Oh, that gentleman has a condition that requires him to ejaculate every two hours.  The nurse was just helping him out a little bit.”  The old man was pretty much ok with that, so they continued the tour.  They walked into another room, and there was another man in a hospital bed.  Beside him, a nurse sat giving the patient felatio!!

The old investor said to the head-doctor, “This is just too much.”  The doctor replied, “You don’t understand!  This patient has the same condition as the last guy.  He’s just got better insurance.”

Long story short, the old man decided to invest in the hospital, but a few days later, he came down with a rare and debilitating disease (can you guess which one?) and lived happily ever after.

OK, that’s all for the jokes.  See, this is what you guys miss out on by not having any red-necks in your family. 

So, what’s going on with me, you ask?  Well, good question.  I’ll tell you.

i am almost done with the current semester, and i haven’t blown my brains out just yet.  this is a moral victory.

fishing season is going great.  i fish every day and have caught lots of fish so far this spring.  based on my fishing expeditions, i have started a fishing journal.  every time i fish, i write a couple pages about what happened, what i caught, what i saw, and that type of stuff.  this is big fun for me, and it’s good to keep practicing writing.  i was thinking about posting an entry on this blog but thought better of it.  if stoney’s knight’s tale didn’t get much play, i doubt the fishing log would either.

the braves are dominant.  they can hardly lose (except for last night) and will win their division, the pennant, and the world series this year.  i’ll bet 50 bucks on it with anybody who’s dumb enough to take that action.  the heat and the nuggets aren’t looking good, so my basketball season is pretty much over, barring some miracle.  i don’t watch hockey, cuz i can’t ever see the puck on my antique tv.  i don’t care at all about the NFL draft.

my garden is going off!!  i’ve only planted a couple early things so far — potatoes


and asparagus. 

they are all growing fast, and i think i’m going to pick the first potatoes in 2 weeks.  the nice weather and a little rain have made for a perfect spring.  gardening is a great hobby, and i highly recommend it to anyone who needs some relaxing pastime.

i’m going to cackalacky next weekend for a 12 day trout fishing expedition!!  aww yeah.  that means no blog production from me, but lots of fun and liquor drinking and swimming and catching fish until my arms hurt.  hooray!

Finally, my savage of the day…

you know him from The Byrds and CSNandY.  He’s a junkie and has appeared on such comedy shows as Family Guy and Futurama.  Stoney told me a story about this savage coming into the recording studio with a brown paper bag full of blow.  that’s what i call bad-ass.  just the same, here is our winner — David Crosby!  Congratulations, Mr. Crosby.  Keep tooting.



Deddog, III$, III Dogg….you are done. Unlike my short-lived obituary for Suit, this post contains no personal vendetta or slap against the wrist.

One of my closest weedlings, I take full credit for peer-pressuring you into smoking buds for the first time. I cannot tell about 80% of our mutual stories due to flagrant content, blog laws in place and because I was too stoned to remember most of the time.

A habitual and fundamental denier of common laws of decency and respect, I commend III Dog fully in deed, manner and form. A true example of against the grain savagery, I chop you with the utmost respect permissible.

I invite you to post any of your random thoughts and rants under your name on this blog.

Without further ado, CHOP, BIYITCH!

With props and respek to all-

Double Threat

Here is the battle. (click it)

This guy was a gay black guy who got into an email exchange with an Army recruiter.  The guy gets into a huge argument, and then acts like it was part of his “master plan” to get the Army in trouble for being bigoted and racist and shit.

Well, I blog about saying the word “gay” and being racist, so I thought I would at least call your attention to this shitstem.  First of all, I think that the whole thing is fucking hilarious.  One, that the guy is like “I’m gay, can I join,” and two, the fact that the recruiter acted like such an asshole.  The first thing I thought when I saw this, was that it was fake, and that the whole thing was made up.

The Army lady’s racist and homophobic remarks are fucking hilarious.  This is the shit that people make millions of dollars thinking up and selling to high-schoolers as a movie. I guess the only difference between funny, crude movies, and what this lady said to this guy, is that the movies aren’t real, and this is. (I think).

My favorite quote is the highlighted one, “You go back to Africa and do your gay voodoo limbo tango and wango dance.” Priceless.

I also particularly like the section when they compete for who’s “roots” are deeper in the history of American culture.


Right. It reminds me of a midget battle, two little fucked up retarded midgets battling to see who gets to have sex with the old, blind dog. That shit is fucked up, right?

an homage

for my pal, danknuggets.  this was stoney’s idea, but he’s been writing a bunch of bitchy, whiny blogs lately, so his vag is probably too sore to type a real post right now.  that means, it falls to me.

danknuggets — the name alone conjures images of neon-greenish ganga trees blowing in the rastafarian jamaican breeze.  that’s the image that comes to mind when i consider my friend danknugs. 

danknuggets resides in a suburb of one of our nation’s largest and most fucking ridiculous cities.  this city is diverse, but dank’s town is nothing of the sort.  you can walk around for hours and never see a non-white.  the results of this phenomenon are simple.  instead of newspapers flooded with stories about black-on-black crime, they’re flooded with stories about white-on-white crime…  also, you don’t even need to take your keys into the convenience store with you when you go buy some blunts.  just leave your car running, and walk in, do your shopping and walk out.  your car will be there, and some white stranger may even have tightened the lug nuts on your wheels.  anyway, that said, the town is lovely.  it features rolling hills, lovely fields of grain, big-ass houses, a whimsical train station and several fine dining/drinking establishments.  this is the town in which our hero grew up and first spread his wings…

beneath the placid exterior of this town, however, lies a heart of darkness.  there are weed-heads, coniving-ass hoes and tons of coke traffic — or so the story goes.  this seedy underbelly is where Dank (DN) really spent his teenage years.  after four years of ripping huge bongs and captaining his soccer team, DN was honored with the title of Mr. (DN’s state of residence).  he had played by his own rules and had bested his peers.  he graduated high school with honors and went on to a lovely little southern college.

it was at this college that DN and i first met.  it was the first week of the freshman year.  he was pimping a hoe, and i was pimping a hoe.  both of us had just met these hoes, so we were flexing out proverbial muscles to try and impress these hoes as best we could.  i noticed in DN a worthy adversary and decided to take him on — like two worthy knights trying to slay each other for the sake of proving their verility to the courtly maidens.  no need to go into needless details, so i’ll just say that the ensuing verbal fist-fight concerned marijuana.  he thought he knew most, while i thought i knew most.  SIDEBAR:  had i known anything at all, i’d have known not to try and battle DN when it comes to any ganga-related issue.  either way, the auditory fisticuffs came to an abrupt end.  both hoes in question were, if i recall, sufficiently impressed, and DN and i parted ways, exchanging squints and snears as if to say, “this ain’t over.”

as we lived in separate dormitories, i did not run into DN for quite some time — about a month.  during that time, stoney had befriended me, and i had been invited to a mystical place called the gazebo (known to deddog as the GAZ) to partake in a ritual blunt-smoking.  after a few rejections, i finally accepted and walked over there with stoney.  on the way, he told me about the dude who would be meeting us there and, consequently, providing the herbage.  his name was — you guessed it — danknuggets.  i didn’t know who this was, but when he arrived, i immediately recognized him from our first meeting.  what he was feeling, i cannot say, because we never discussed it.  rather, he sat down, bid us hello, lit a fat-ass kine cone and proceeded to blaze the shit out of it with stoney and myself.  after that, there was rarely a day that we did not replicate this procedure exactly.  it was a scientific experiment.  our research question — how much weed can some dumb-ass white boys smoke before they flunk the fuck out?  the answer — apparently more than we were capable of smoking.

mentioning every idiosycracy of DN’s character would not be a good use of time, so i’ll merely highlight some of the finer points.

first, DN is a rasta.  he is white, but his soul is black — black as bob marley’s i swear to god.  he hosted a reggae radio show.  at this show, lots of people showed up, and it was a weekly social event.  we drank beers down there and even, if you believe the lore, smoked a couple joints down there.  in addition, this rasta man introduced me to real bob marley music.  you may be saying to yourself, “i know bob marley music.”  well, fuck you.  you don’t know shit.  you own the Legend album.  you close your eyes and rock back and forth listening to “no woman no cry,” and you think you know about reggae.  you, motherfucker, don’t know shit.  during my four years of knowing DN he introduced me to more scratchy, vinyl reggae than i could have properly processed in a life-time.  in addition to this, he taught me about reggae history and rastafarian culture.  lastly, he taught me about how fucked up a white boy’s dreadlocks can look.  and let me tell you, they can look pretty fucked up, indeed.

DN is a weedsly dude, too.  he knows all there is to know about the sticky green.  from his youth, he smoked on the reg.  he taught me how to find it, how to procure it, how to prepare it and how to smoke it.  i had nothing but some rudimentary high school knowledge, but after four years of DN’s expert tutelage, i can say that i have a motherfucking weed ph.d.  believe that shit.

DN is a musician.  he played guitar on the back porch of his woodshire estate with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes squinted from the smoke, ashes floating down into the guitar’s body at all hours.  if you were ever looking for dank, just follow the sound of out-of-tune acoustic (or unplugged electric) guitar chords, and you were sure to find him.

that’s a rough sketch of my pal, DN, but i have a motive.  that lazy son of a bitch won’t lower himself to writing on this blog.  i wrote this blog in the hopes that, knowing what you now know about the man, you’ll write enough harrassing posts to provoke him into our cesspool of electronic sewage.

this has been an homage to Danknuggets. 

and finally, the benediction: 

hey, hey, hey, hey,

smoke weed every day.