Category: Blogging
5 Notorious Lines That I Always Get Stuck Waiting In
Maybe it’s the Yankee in me, but I absolutely hate waiting in lines. See, I have this uncanny, superhuman, x-men-like ability to subconsciously locate and endure the absolute worst possible line in the history of checkout lines wherever I go. Someone please contact Guinness. It’s world record wait. Every. Single. Time.
Tip: if you ever happen across me standing in line someplace, even if you really wanna talk to me or get my autograph or something like that, don’t do it. I’ll mail you an autographed picture of my bare buttocks – whatever you want – just do yourself a favor: go stand in the next checkout line over. Even if its twenty senior citizens deep. Trust me.
Here’s a brief list of typical scenarios that I face on a regular basis:
“Hey Coach, I don’t feel so good.”
Dairy Queen
Baseball Team: sextuple (seven) scoop hot fudge brownie boat with sprinkles, half-fat caramel chocolate-mocha frappe drizzle, every single nut known to the Dominican Republic, freeze-dried watermelon rind puree, cat liver, fucking onions, and whatever else you got, lady. After three bites, the kid doesn’t like it or throws it up all over the floor, or on my sweet tennis shoes, and it goes in the garbage. What a surprise…
Grocery Store
Extreme Couponer: Suddenly surrounded by Cameramen emerging from behind counters and repelling from the ceiling by mountain climbing harnesses. Price check on every item strategically packed into four carts. Persistent, overly assertive TV-like drama and bickering with the underpaid juvenile checkout kid with a bone through his nose about the four pennies that should have been saved on twenty eight bags of egg-free noodles that will eventually be placed in a doomsday prepper bomb shelter in order to conduct a shelf life experiment. All I wanted to buy was this stupid Carrot for my Salad. And some cigarettes. And maybe a pack of gum (impulse buy).
The Movies
Popcorn or Pretzels? Butter or Salt? Or both? Or neither? Frozen Coke or Regular Coke? Jumbo or Mini? Hot Dog or Pretzel? Snowcaps or Twizzlers? Eeny Meeny Miney Mo Catch a Tiger by His Toe, if he Hollars Shut the Fuck Up Already and Make a Decision, dummy.
The Bar
Extreme Couponer. Seller Beware.
Dude with a credit card buying a round of the most fantastically complicated shots known to man for every single douche bag in the entire Saloon except for me. Turns around frequently to test the effectiveness of my eardrums by yelling to someone standing on the other side of the bar, which happens to be located somewhere in Paris, France, in order to let the person know that they are having a fucking insanely crazy-fun time getting loaded and preventing me from ordering my very simple Coors Light in a bottle which the bar doesn’t stock because not that many people drink it. Credit Card decline in 3…2…1…
Eat a pile of it, putz…
The Fitting Room
Every changing stall filled with sophomore high school girls partaking in their daily after school fashion show. Yes, please, keep teasing me (not like that, Chris Hanson of Dateline) by making me think that you’re finally done trying on every single halter top on the clearance rack when stepping outside of the stall every ten minutes only to provocatively strut toward the congregation of groupies standing in front of the trapezoid mirror, all simultaneously shifting their half-A cup boobs in front of the people that they ironically find *creepy. I hope all your homecoming dates forget your tickets at their other girlfriends’ houses…
Oh, and a note aside: Next time I’m gonna wait in the parking lot for you little cornballs to pack into the minivan at the designated pickup spot, then drive by you with my car that I am allowed to legally operate with my driver’s license. All while fist pumping into the hot summer air. See you at the movies…
*****
You know, I still have the right to bitch… \m/
- Happy Blogging…on your iPad…while standing in line someplace.
Fotoshop Cameo.
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ChowderHead: A Formal Introduction
Of all the great Rock and Roll acts to ever grace the stage during our time and times prior, never once did behemoths like The Who, or Led Zeppelin, step out into the lights before the music started to formally announce that they were about to play a gig. No sir. Save all that fluffy introduction crap for The Ed Sullivan Show.
Instead, they would lay in wait, denying the crowd the gratification that it desperately wanted, long enough to build up that certain cosmic energy that music is made of. These artists understood the powers that they possessed, harnessing the mystery and mystique behind the sound. And then, right when the audience was on the verge of blowing the roof off the stadium, the amps ignited, the vocals cracked the sound barrier, and the drums blasted a city-wide hole through the motherfucking ozone layer.
That’s how a Rock and Roll show begins, and how ChowderHead began here. Well, sort of.
ChowderHead is as much an art form as it is a conversational hub. It’s an oddity really – a fantastically bizarre, mysterious, dark, unpractical, senseless, anything-but-itty-bitty Rock and Roll ditty. Fart. (I just threw that fart thing in there for comedic effect.)
Moving along.
The stories and articles that you’ll read (or avoid) here are meant to draw you out of body, cradle your undivided attention, then backhand you across the face when you’re least expecting it. It’s an exploration and exploitation of all of the five senses through the creative assemblage of words. Sometimes you’ll laugh. Sometimes you’ll cry. Sometimes you’ll fart.
Sorry, I’m done with the fart joke thing now.
The subject material is supposed to be compelling, engaging. It’s supposed to make you think. Speaking of thinking, around here, cliché is an unwelcome guest. ChowderHead is about originality, weirdity, and taking that gut-ripping ride down the neural highway and into the deepest depths of the mindscape. And after you get there, you’ll probably far-
Ah! See, I caught myself that time. Fart.
God dammit…
So climb aboard the winding snake with me and let us slither together along the frayed edges of the human condition…
…with a fist in the air.
Salute. \m/
***Fart tracker: the word fart was mentioned or implied a total of 42 times throughout this post and comment section. Well done people. Well done.
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ChowderHead: The Beginning
…so I’m sitting in this cafe, slumped over a piss-warm cup of dark roast coffee, casually tossing ashes into the tray at the end of the table. The lighting is inadequate where I’m seated, making it difficult to study the entrees on the menu.
I pick up on a one-sided conversation coming from the booth adjacent to me, involving a pig-headed suit and tie, yammering into a phone about a stock deal gone sour. The woman seated in front of the man appears emotionally detached, which is indicated by her body language. She ignores the man and blankly stares off at a young female clearing the surrounding tables.
I’m overcome with remorse for the woman and her situation, finding myself privately analyzing the dysfunctional correlation between the two. Clearly, she’s numb inside; another wandering soul, financially bound to some corporate meat head.
The murmur throughout the diner adds to the endless chatter taking place in my head, but the humming is abruptly halted when, without warning, an explosive discharge of profanities and pent-up rage erupts out of the woman.
The man immediately stands up and begins violently shouting back, exchanging threats with the fragile aggressor. The conflict quickly escalates, and I find myself growing increasingly discomforted by it. My gut screams of something horrible about to happen, yet I’m unable to flee. I can’t move. I’m stuck.
My instincts are validated when the women reaches into the cleavage of her blouse and draws a concealed pistol from it. My anxiety is now at a rolling boil. Her hands tremble as she extends the cold, steely weapon in front of the man’s face at point-blank range. Her lips quivering, tears streaming down the crevasses of her swollen face.
With her finger firmly pressed against the firing mechanism, she stutters off an impromptu eulogy. From what I can recall, it went something like this:
“You see this? I traded in my wedding band for it. I couldn’t stomach looking at it anymore. It was nothing but a constant reminder of what a cold-hearted pig you are. This…this right here? This is all you do: pretend to be some big-shot with your fancy suits and loud-talk. I’m sick of it. I’m sick and tired of you dragging me around like some kind of a god damn trophy. You don’t respect me. You don’t care about me. Today is the day that it ends, Norman. Today is the day that I make everything right. But before I do, I want you to know this: you’re a lousy, selfish, half-witted creep that ain’t even worth the cost of that napkin dispenser…“
The last thing that came out of her mouth:
“…Eat lead, Chowderhead.”
And that’s when I woke up…
My Right to Bitch Facts and Fallacies
Look at me goin’ all Prince up in here…
This informal name blogging contest thingy is getting fun! Thank you so much for all your suggestions. Honestly, you guys are a clever brand. I’m in good company. Oh, and Calahan, stop being so damn funny.
Anyways.
I always wanted to do this. This post is like a magic trick explained – debunked. I’m blowing the mystique of David Blaine so to speak. Of course, I’m only assuming that you too think he has mystique. If not, disregard the comment.
Today is a continuation of this whole cleansing/purging ritual that I’ve succumbed to. I wanted to take this opportunity to present to you a list of fallacies about me and this page which you may or may not have mistaken for fact. If I were a famous musician this might be something you’d find in the “box set”. Some of it you may find shocking. Some of you might even hurl. So, grab a bucket and keep it close.
Behold, MY RIGHT TO BITCH unmasked:
MRTB Fallacy #1 I Loath Hypothetical Questions.
In two of my past posts, Hypothetically Speaking, and Still Speaking Hypothetically, I spewed off about how much I loath unanswerable questions. This a fabrication. I actually love ’em. Find as many as you can and I’ll find a disturbingly creative way to answer them.
MRTB Fallacy #2 I’m Not Into Small-Talk
In another post, 5 Creative Ways to Avoid Small Talk, I played the role of a social-phoebe. The truth is, I’ll talk to you until your ears bleed. There’s nothing in this world I love more than chillin’ out on a patio, in the middle of the summer, drinkin’ beers and yackin’ it up with good company. I’ll even pay. However, if The Bragger, Story Teller Steve, Religious Rick, or Political Pete show up, the party’s movin’ indoors, followed by a deadbolt. Oh, and I am Too Much Information Guy. But you knew that already…
MRTB Fallacy #3 I’m a Picky Halloween Candy-Eater
Back in October, Don’t Be a Halloweiner included a list of sucky candy not to pass out to trick-or-treaters. I told a white lie. There are three items on that list that I actually love: Mounds, Almond Joy bars, and Raisinettes. Whoppers still actually do suck. As a kid I never liked any of them, however. I think all kids are genetically hard-wired to hate those candies. That much is true, so don’t pass them out. Seriously, this is science talking. Never argue with science. Unless you’re catholic.
MRTB Fact # 1 The Fruitless Pursuit of an Anonymous Hacker is a True Story.
I do dumb shit like this all the time. I get riled up about something, then drive around trying to figure out a plan to right all the injustices of this world. I usually give up soon after departure, and head back with my tail between my legs. Then I end up sitting down someplace to chain smoke and mull it over.
MRTB Fact # 2 Suze Orman is One of My Role Models.
Yes, you read that correctly. She’s kind of turdy most of the time, but the chick knows personal finance better than you. And me. Although, despite her financial wizardry, she’ll never be protected from future Fotoshopping efforts. Ever. It’s too easy. Speaking of, she’s also not really missing a tooth, but I think I mentioned that already. You gotta admit, it was a seamless Fotoshop-job.
MRTB Fact # 3 I Voted for Bush
Both times. I can already see the comments…
MRTB Fact # 4 I Love Reading Books
The problem is that I rarely finish any of them. I’m not that big on novels, however. I don’t think I’ve made it past the fourth chapter of any of the so called Classics. Go ahead, blast me. The problem is that I get sidetracked when people speak in fucking Olde English. I’m sure it’s a classic, however, I found the first forty pages or so to be extremely uninteresting and confusing. Plus, I would much rather make up my own stories. Side note: I have to credit my Grandma for teaching me how to story-tell. When we were little kids she’d always make up bedtime stories on the fly. They were all better than any of the crap I write.
MRTB Fact # 5 I Do Poetry and Short Screenplays
But you won’t find any of it here because it’s not for prying eyes! I’m not Spielberg or Edgar Allen Poe by any stretch, but I dabble in both from time to time. Scripting is actually the reason I started the whole blogging thing in the first place. See, a lot of people that write scripts (not me) are really fucking snooty. They act like they’re all carrying around the next Forest Gump Screenplay. Give me a break. I always wanted to make a Short Film, but it’s virtually impossible to network with people in the trade. Ah bite me. Now I write blog posts instead. It’s funner. More fun, I mean…
Anywhoozle, I feel better. If you have any deep, burning questions for me, ask now or forever hold your peace.
In the meantime, I’m gonna go grab another espresso. With some vodka in it.
- Happy Blogging, Rock Stars \m/
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The End of My Right to Bitch…
What?! You’re pullin’ my leg! Say it isn’t so, Adam?!
I’m sorry. It’s true. After the week has concluded I will have purged every last ounce of negativity and whining out of my frantic fingertips, and My Right to Bitch will be no more. Bankruptcy has been declared. Liquidation has begun. The podium mic unplugged for the last time…
Bonnie Raitt has absolutely nothing to do with this post.
Ok, let’s not get all overdramatic about this. I’m not going anywhere. Yes, I’m a bit choked up about the decision, and it’s a bittersweet one, but it’s time for a rise in consciousness. Sort of. The direction of the vortex has been reversed, and new and exciting horizons are on the…uh, horizons. Wait, that sounded stupid. That doesn’t even make sense?
I’ll come back to it.
Here’s the deal: Daddy needs a new name for this domain. The catch? I’m not gonna be the one to pick it. That’s your job. I know, I know – like you give a rat’s ass about naming my blog, and probably wondering out loud, “what’s in it for me?”
Oh-Ho-Ho! I’ll tell you what’s in it for you!
The winner of the name my blog contest will win an all-expenses-paid trip, including airfare, hotel, and deluxe accommodations, for a 6 day, 7 night trip to Cancun, Mexico. You will be stayimg in a presidential suite at the fabulous Mayan Palace resort, furnished with a golden toilet and lots of chocolate and berries and stuff.
Hahahahahaha! Yeah right! Who do you think I am, fucking Oprah Winfrey?
Yeah, you’re definitely not going there on my dime…
Ok, for real this time: The winner of the name my blog contest, as it is will be officially known by, will earn a guest of honor spot, right here, where you will be Comedy Central-style Roasted by yours truly, and become part of the last ever My Right to Bitch rant. This will probably be in history books one day…
I’ll be experimenting all week long with some sucky titles that I had in mind already, as well as revisiting some memorable posts and interactions with a ton of faithful followers.
Keep in mind, we ain’t ditchin’ the parties around here, and my brand of humor ain’t part of the liquidation process either.
Here’s the new tag for a little bit of inspiration:
“Rooftop Keg Stands. Pyrotechnics. Unruly House Guests. An Occasional Orgy, and Rock and Roll. Grab a Cup. Five Bucks at the Door.”
So, put your thinking caps on and drop your best ideas in the comment section throughout the week..
I’m counting on you. Tick, tock…
- Happy Blogging \m/
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The Potential Highway to Happiness
Photo Credit: Le Monde D’Oneirosia, WordPress.
I’ve had this one particular scenario in my head for awhile now. It’s a fantasy, for lack of better terms, that involves me packing up my car with nothing but the essentials, getting on the road, and driving as far away as I can from the place I live.
I don’t know where it is that I’m going, I don’t know how long it will take before I get there, and I don’t know what will happen after I arrive. I do know one thing: it’s a better and happier place. Actually, it’s the perfect place for me, and one far away from the monotony and melancholy that keep my feet fastened to the ground.
The people in this dream of mine are friendly; they smile with meaning and purpose, and have good intentions. They love life – not the busybody, pretend kind of living – they truly cherish it. They bask in it. Nothing like here. Here is dead. Hopeless. Gray.
Every time I see the movie playing in my mind’s eye, another small bit of color appears in the composition – one that wasn’t there before. It’s becoming less black and white. Maybe it’s a sign that the dream is moving closer to becoming a reality. The energy inside is massive. It’s bubbling and ready to boil over. It’s waiting to explode, and jettison me from this place and onto the highway to happiness.
And then I snap back. I’m forced to shelf it for the time being. What time is it? Oh, good. Only three more hours left. The day’s almost over. Focus on your work, Adam. Stop daydreaming. Forget about it for now. Dream on your own time…
Most mornings I don’t even want to open my eyes. The first thoughts that enter the stream are to just close them again, and somehow be magically whisked away from the bad dream. Hit the snooze button. Alarm. Snooze. Alarm. Still there. Same thing as yesterday. Same people. Same routine.
Another grueling day passes, and I find myself standing under the warm water pouring from the shower head. Numbness. The comforting blanket quickly dissipates, sending a subtle shiver through the core. The warmth never lasts long enough…
As I stand in front of the mirror wiping the steam from the glass, there appears a face from beyond the fog. I recognize it only faintly. The expressionless mug staring back appears tired, drained, lonely. Who is this person? What happened to his dream? His excitement? His energy?
The monologue ends with one final plea; God, or whatever rules this construct, just let me have one glimpse of that happy place before I close my eyes again and dream of nothing.
*****
See, I loath this blog as much as I love it. In some ways it’s completely me. In other ways it’s the byproduct of me trying to thrive in a toxic environment. I’ve become this. The title alone is one of the fasteners that keep me pinned to misery. Sometimes it makes me cringe, and I find myself whispering quietly under my breath- beneath all the image and ego – what have I done?
The mask I hide behind obscures all of the features that identify the real me. It pollutes the compassion and empathy, and the deep longing for a world of forgiveness and understanding inside. It forces me to be something that I don’t want to be anymore – something that is destroying me inside and out, and keeping me from turning into the butterfly that I so desperately want to become.
But how do I take off the mask and break the cycle of fear? How do I expose, once again, all of the most vulnerable aspects of myself to a world that has been so ruthless and unforgiving in the past and present? How do I separate perception from reality? How do I forgive and let go? Is the world really out to destroy me? Or is it just another insecurity or deep-seated fear?
Photo Credit: wallpaperpicture.net
What if, upon exposing my vulnerable throat and belly, I’m slashed a stuck instead of hugged and loved? What if it’s an utter failure, one that leads to my demise, and I find myself face down, consciousness fading, watching the blood flow into the drain? This could be the end of me…
…or it could be the beginning. It could be the start of something bigger. Something better. Something grand and meaningful. And best of all, the evolution might not only bring the daydream to me on demand, but could potentially uproot that dream from the mindscape, and project it onto the dull, uninspiring canvas that I’ve painted myself so rigidly onto – replacing the grays and shadows with brilliant, colorful hues and beaming light.
For now, it’s just an idea, and an idea without an action is just a thought. Thoughts are fleeting. They form and pass like clouds. But without thoughts we’d have no ideas, and without ideas we’d have no dreams, and without dreams we’d have no happiness.
I guess it all comes down to how badly you want to experience life and happiness. How desperate are you to immerse yourself in a dream, rather than settle for watching it on TV? How willing are you to get on the highway, leaving behind the old definition of yourself and reality, and for the first time ever create your own definition? How far are you willing to drive?
I guess that’s what they mean when they say, potential. The will is there.
The action awaits.
-Happy Blogging \m/
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Le Clown and Me in the Dirty D
Yes boys and girls, you read that right. The Ring Leader of the wackiest circus show on earth popped in for a day long tour of the Motor City, and guess who the lucky shmuck was that had to babysit his ass?
It’s been a week and I’m still recovering…
I’m convinced there was no way of preparing for the unexpected visit. In less than twelve hours, the powdery little freakshow turned my hometown into a raging dumpster fire. See Exhibit A.
Exhibit A. Le Clown *beautification project.
To find out more about all the ridiculous antics, outbursts, and clowning around, check out my guest post today on A Clown on Fire: http://clownonfire.wordpress.com/. It’s a goody.
If you’re really bored, check out http://www.theimpersonals.com. At 10am EST, they’re gonna be featuring that goofy Fotoshop post of mine from last week. Drop off a rock star salute!
Oh, and I just watched Bar Refaeli make out with the Godaddy nerd For the first time. Wow does money talk…
-Happy Blogging \m/
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Welcome to the Writer’s Block Party!
Let’s try visualization: Imagine that this pencil is your writer’s block. And then snap it in half and go ape-shit crazy. No, just kidding. Go back to visualizing.
It’s been recently called to my attention by a voluptuous, Strawberry-locked friend of mine, that many are experiencing a serious bout of writer’s block at the moment. Throw me in the mix. However, I’m not ready to hit the panic button just yet.
I have a solution.
Let’s put our heads together and have a Block Party for Writer’s Block — A Writer’s Block Party!
Another good idea that you can thank me for later.
Here’s the scoop:
I just realized the other day that everything that I post requires a hell of lot of work. All of it a testament to my perfectionistic (I know it’s not a word, bite me) personality. So for tonight, and tonight only, I’m shutting off the internal monologue. I encourage you to do the same.
I’m finding it difficult to sit in front of a computer night after night– trying to write. Key word: trying. I’ve noticed that sometimes it works, and other times it doesn’t When the words are flowing and sentences are writing themselves, I know that what I’m writing about is something that I feel strongly about. However, when I’m forcing it, someone else may as well be writing for me. It’s not the authentic me speaking, and authenticity, to me, is really important.
Trying to write something is like trying to pinch a loaf on a low-fiber diet. It’s straining and could potentially cause serious health problems. This whole thing is supposed to be fun – not work, but sometimes it feels like just that. If things aren’t flowing (pun intended), maybe it’s best to step back and have a casual writing session.
Enter: Stream of Consciousness.
Last one in the pool’s a rotten egg! Dur.
I made a personal goal for myself tonight: free write. Just write for the hell of it, and not for any other reason. I don’t care if two people or a thousand people read this. I’m just writing for the fun of it. A random thought popped into my head and I’m running with it.
If you do pop in and join the Writer’s Block Party, I’ll be around to hash out all of our frustrations in the comments. After that, try free-writing, yourself. It’s a liberating feeling. Remind yourself tonight that this all about having fun, and do just that. Write for the sake of writing — not for any other superficial reason.
Let’s get a brain storming session going tonight.
And then, let’s all do the hokey pokey together, because in essence, that’s what it’s all about.
Let the fiber be with us.
-Happy Blogging \m/
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Still Speaking Hypothetically…
I can’t think of a better way to kick off the MRTB 2K13 Campaign then by drop-kicking a few more Hypothetical Head-Spinners into the dumpster — along with a lit match.
Le Clown, I don’t want to have to stop the tape again. Please stop doodling on your name screen.
If you weren’t here for the last Q and A shit-show, make sure you check out Hypothetically Speaking (Part I) for the rules of engagement. Otherwise, sit back and relax while myself and a MagnificientTM friend of mine launch another list of stupid questions into space orbit where they belong.
Cut the lights. Fire up the Amps.
Pyrotechnics standby.
Head explosion beginning in 3…2…1
Round Deux:
…Would you be willing to have your left middle finger surgically removed if it somehow guaranteed you immunity from all diseases?
I’d rather get coughed in the mouth by someone with the Ebola Virus than have my left middle finger removed. It’s the second most important extremity on my body. If I were left handed it would be number one.
If man evolved from apes why do we still have apes?
Easy question. Because the Zoo would suck without the monkey exhibit. Watching a rabid Chimp spaz out and fast-pitch a stinky, banana flavored hand full of monkey dung at some dude eating a sandwich? That’s what I call money well spent.
Well worth the price of admission.
Le Clown: Who gives a fuck. Le Clown evolved from man, so why do we still have man?
Why do we wash bath towels? Aren’t we clean when we use them?
I don’t know about you but I’m not that eager to wipe my face with the same towel that I dry my dinner exit with. After the first use you’re playing with fire.
Standardized Post-Shower Drying Procedure:
Zone 1: Head Zone 2: Shoulders Zone 3: Knees & Toes Zone 4: “Area 51″ Zone 5: Hamper
Does pressing the call button on an elevator multiple times really make the lift come quicker?
If you’re pushing the call button from the lobby and trying to reach your bathroom on the 85th floor after drinking 14 beers, no. If you’re pushing the call button from the lobby and trying to reach your bathroom on the 85th floor after eating a plate of undercooked wet burritos, definitely no. In any other circumstances, yes.
“You’re gonna wanna make sure you’re bundled up around mid-week because we’re expecting some heavy snow accumulation, and temperatures dropping all the way down into the Cold as Fuck range.”
If the temperature is zero outside today and it’s going to be twice as cold tomorrow, how cold will it be?
In order to answer this one we’ll need to use a little weather math:
Equation:
If 32º F is freezing… and 32º F minus 32º is… 0º F… carry the 1…
Take the |absolute value| and multiply (x) by the derivative2 of the fractal binary equation. Multiply that value by the Square Root of (y)…
…According to my calculations the answer is Cold as Fuck.
Anything below zero is cold enough to make snow come out of your nose when you sneeze. That’s all you need to know. Welcome to January in Michigan. Our State Welcome Center Sign should read: “What the Hell are you Doing Here?
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
The first egg was invented in a lab by a Hungarian scientist in 1968. The first attempt was a miserable failure, and resulted in the accidental creation of a plastic-shelled egg filled with jelly beans. After several tries, the first chicken was hatched in an incubator a couple months later. The lab technicians named the hen Erzsébet. The first Easter holiday was celebrated the following year. Sadly, Erzsébet died before the party, but her offspring Piroska, and György were present.
They were dropped into a deep fryer later that afternoon.
Le Clown: Wrong. The answer is Le Clown, and his ego. Or did the ego come first…
Is there a time limitation on fortune cookie predictions?
Yes. It expires when you break the cookie open. Most people don’t know this, but in order for the fortune to be fulfilled, you have to suck on the cookie until it dissolves – including the little piece of paper. It’s a messy and horribly uncomfortable procedure. Give it a try.
Send pics.
If someone with multiple personalities threatens to kill himself, is it considered a hostage situation?
Le Clown: No. It’s considered another fuck-up by Big Pharma. Fuck you, Big Pharma.
Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but checks when you say the paint is wet?
Because it takes roughly thirty seconds to wash paint from your hands, and about 3000 years to count to four billion. How desperate are you to validate this claim?
If you try to fail, and succeed, which have you done?
Le Clown: Fuck you, Yoda.
How does the guy who drives the snowplow get to work in the mornings?
This one’s actually a tough question. There are countless transportation options for getting to work in the morning. Let’s try putting it into a multiple choice format:
A.) Cross Country Skies B.) A Pair of Stilts C.) A Pogo Stick D.) Flying Saucer E.) Shovels a path and walks there on his hands
The multiple choice format did not help.
If Felix Baumgartner farts while breaking the sound barrier and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Le Clown: I don’t know. But farts jokes are funny. Pull my finger.
Why is it that on a phone or calculator the number five has a little dot on it?
The purpose of the dot is to remind the user that any finger is a viable option for calculating or dialing with. You can even use your thumb to push the buttons if you’d like.
Erzsébet’s offspring: Piroska, and György. Photo taken at the first annual Easter party.
There’s probably a former Press Operator reading that’s not finding this very funny.
Sorry dude. You still rock. \m
Oops.
Where do people in Hell tell other people to go?
I’ve never been to Hell personally, but if I had to guess, the angry residents there are probably telling jerk-offs to go to the DMV to get their driver’s licenses renewed. If said Hell resident really wanted to insult the jerk-off in question, he’d probably tell them to go on a Saturday afternoon. That place sucks.
*********
Alright. Time to clean this place up. I gotta head next door to my neighbor’s house and try to explain to him how his car started on fire. This should be interesting. Wish me luck.
One last question for you:
What if the hokey pokey really is what it’s all about?
*Rimshot*
- Happy Blogging \m/
P.S. Go check out the Post of the Week by Sunny Days in D.C.
And That’s How My Mom Ended Up On The Stage With The Male Strippers. I Swear.
Good stuff.
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Champagne, Warm Lube, and a Blorgy the Size of Times Square
I’m so excited right now. I can barely contain myself.
Originally, I wasn’t even gonna post anything for the New Year, and then I thought: how could I pass on the perfect opportunity to recap, rock out, spread some lovin’ butter, and announce all of the cool shit that I have planned for 2013?
Buckle up.
Ready. Set. Launch.
2012: The Year of the Bitcher
First off, this has been such an incredible past four months. Getting all of this stuff out of my head and onto paper has been nothing short of orgasmic. What a silly word. Whatever. Creative writing is something that I’ve always wanted to do in one capacity or another, but I never really had the discipline or support that I would have liked in order to pursue it. It’s hard to imagine that only three posts into it I almost quit.
…I’m glad I didn’t.
“I’m feeling a little farklempt. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll give you a topic.” Photo Credit: johnjohnsaidit.com
I owe it to all of you insanely cool people that have jumped on board and backed me up. You’ve stood behind me each and every wacky post. I’ve never in my life had this kind of unconditional support. Ever. I’m getting a bit choked up.
No. Fuck that. Hold it in.
I know it sounds kind of cheese, but it’s the truth. Your readership, participation, and encouragement have inspired me in ways greater than you’ll ever know, and it’s you that continues to inspire the evolution of this raging monster that I call: MY RIGHT TO BITCH.
I don’t just write for me. That would be boring as hell if it were the only reason. It’s not interactive that way.
I write for you, too, and that’s why I love blogging. It doesn’t just get put into a drawer in some shitty, pleather-bound journal — it gets launched into cyber space. And after it goes live, it becomes a full-contact sport. Anything goes.
Every time I send something out there, within minutes, you guys are already chewing it up, twisting it, breaking it, spinning it, smashing it, lighting it on fire, and barfing it back onto my screen. That’s the coolest part for me. That’s the pay off. To put time into something that I love so much, and to have it all come back to me like that makes me want to keep doing it.
And for all that, I love you. There. I said it.
The Awards Shit Show
Thanks to all the people that went out of their way to drop an award off. I don’t get into all of the question answering stuff, but I greatly appreciate the recognition. If you nominated me for an award over the past month, check out the Trophies and Stuff tab, and scroll to the bottom of the page. There’s a little thank you note for each one of you guys. I can’t promise that it’ll be a love letter. You know me. I also included a link back to your page as well. Thank you.
Now please don’t send me any more fucking homework assignments.
Post of the Week
You probably noticed in the sidebar an image with the title: Post of the Week. There’s also a new tab at the top of the screen with the same header. This is a new, totally rad thing that I’m gonna be doing from now on. Fuck being Freshly Pressed. Post of the Week is way cooler.
Every week, as usual, I’ll be trolling the blogosphere in hot pursuit of one standout post – one that I think deserves to be read and recognized. There are no genre limitations. Check back often. Whether you’re here or not, I’ll be sure to let you know if you got picked.
See, this is just another one of those reasons why I should be getting a Christmas Card from you.
The Bitchin’ Blogroll
The Blogroll is finally up. Scroll to the bottom of the sidebar. Hopefully I didn’t make any glaring mistakes or leave anyone out. Call me out on it if I did. After all this stuff my brain is officially toast — mistakes are likely.
It’s kinda like checking to see if you made the basketball team, isn’t it? Many more to follow…
Guest Panel Shenanigans
Easily, the coolest picture that I’ve ever found online. Period. Watch, now I’m gonna get sued. Photo Credit: Luuux.com
Now for the big announcement. This is going to be off-the-hook. At the top of the screen you’ll see another new tab titled: Join the Guest Panel. Click it.
Read it. Sign up.
Don’t be intimidated.
I’m gonna need some help throughout the coming year. I’m putting together a series of Blogger Panels that will become part of some interactive blog ideas I have in the hopper. I can’t go into details. It’s top secret for the time being, so don’t ask me to tell you about it. If I told you I’d have to kill you. Well, maybe not that extreme. But I’d definitely have to break your fingers.
All *auditions* need to be submitted in the comment section under the Join the Guest Panel tab at the top of the screen. Please. Keep this organized. I’m sitting on top of Mt. Laundry right now. Make it easy for me.
*****
Lastly, a few personal shout outs: thank you to The Cheeky Diva for her help in getting me FP’d (sounds dirty), and to Le Clown for the guest blogging opportunities on both Black Box Warnings, and A Clown on Fire‘s Christmas Blogroll Extravaganza. And finally, thank you to Mr. Radar Nelson for the guest blogging spot on Seasons of Insanity. Nancy Grace is a Pig.
*****
Alright.
Are you excited? I’m jacked to the max. I can’t wait to start the New Year.
It’s gonna be a big one. It’s gonna be a fun one. And it’s gonna be jam packed with more profanity, shenanigans, and water-based lube than ever before. I’m glad to have you all aboard. Let’s rock and roll…
-Happy New Year, and Happy Blogging \m/
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