WOO HOOOO!

Cover price of Playboy Magazine: $5.95

Price of discounted 1 year subscription of 12 issuues: $15.95

Having this information because your mailman delivered your neighbors Playboy to your house by accident:

Priceless!

My Celebrity Interview

After careful deliberation, 29 google searches, and a gallon and a half of Captain Morgan Private Stock, I've decided to play along with Ann Thrope (or whatever her new name is) over at Color Me Complicated. It's a happy little site. Frought with ponies, rainbows, crayons, and F-bombs.
Fun for the whole family. Check it out.

Here goes-

1. Your best friend is cheating on his wife. You think he's making a big mistake, but he's your BEST friend, so you keep your thoughts to yourself. Then, his wife calls you for advice. Assume that you admire and respect her. She asks you point blank if her husband is having an affair. What do you say?

I say attaboy! You only get one go-round on this big blue rock, so you gotta grab all the nookie you can get!
Actually that's a lie. But, would I rat out my best friend? No way.

2. Your children are extremely important to you. For the purposes of this question, assume your ex has taken you back to court and managed to get herself named the custodial parent. She then informs you she is moving across the country. What would you do? Would you pull up stakes and follow? Or simply wait for your visitation?

-AINT GONNA HAPPEN- (if you ever met "the beast" you'd realize how far off this question is)

3. You've been asked to be photographed for the cover of a romance novel. Give the name of the novel, the pose you like best, and what, if anything, you are wearing.

Being the hopeless romantic that consumes my innermost being...yeah right.

I'd have to call it 'Damons Deepest Desires- the laundry ain't foldin itself'-volume II-

I'd probably be posed in a bean bag chair, remote in hand, clad in my Darth Vader costume with gentle breezes flowing through my robes, like the tradewinds at a goat farm in eastern West Virginia. My image would be surrounded by scantily clad women, offering me roast beef sandwiches, washing my dishes, and scrubbing my floors.

TOURIST SEASON

Yes, it's that time of year again.

Time for that Canadian Mecca-like pilgrimage to my little hometown.

Now I'm a reasonable guy, (well, not really) but I'm gonna help you out with a few tips, pointers, and a few ground rules to smooth the inevitable tourist/local friction that accompanies your little uninvited ass.

Until Florida officially changes its state motto to "the come as you are state", let's keep in mind a few things. That 'black socks with sandals' look that is apparently so popular where you live, is no longer allowed here. Although hilarious to see, I took a vote, and you lost. 1-0.

And that neon Hawaiian floral print moo-moo?, that's out too. As a general guideline to save us all, if you wouldn't wear it at home, don't wear it here.

My rules. I make 'em up.

Consideration is key.

Keep in mind that just because your bright white, soon to be sunburned ass is on vacation, doesn't mean everyone else is.

Buy map, read map, study map, then proceed to destination.

Renting one of these stupid go-cart thingys does not mean I won't run your ass off the road.

As a matter of fact, I'm gunnin for you.

And just 'cause you see a pelican does not mean you can stop in the middle of the damn street to get a picture of it.

That's not the only pelican left.

I promise, there's more.

You also should know that all those shells and starfish on the beach are ours! They're there for our kids to find (and throw at you). Your shells are for sale at that brightly painted souvenir stand with the palm tree roof and the bathing suit mannequins with no heads.

Hey, and while you're there, hows about pickin up a coconut monkey, a rubber alligator, a seashell lamp, a shark tooth necklace, a 'life's a beach' towel, a new pair of flip-flops, and a 55 gallon drum of sunblock?

Our economy is a smidge tight, we need the dough.

Peep Show

Seems that reguardless of whether the chipmunk saw his shadow or not, spring is here.
Spring means Easter.
Easter means draggin out the grossest, marshmallow, sugar-coated nonsense confectioners could come up with...

Peeps.

Hate 'em.

Which means, by the end of the weekend, I should have every shape and color of these little bastards litterin up my house like Twinkie wrappers at the Rosie O'Donnel estate.

Alright. I get it. Ha Ha. I hate 'em and you keep sending me more. You got me.
Even this picture was sent to me.
I call it an e-peep.

Research has taught me that people do eat them. Fresh, stale, barbecued, fricazeed, or whatever. Even frozen. I guess that would be a peepsicle. There's even some sort of wack job fan club. Ooooh, i can hardly wait for the next peep rally and all the merriment that ensues from gathering all these idiots together.

Since I ain't eatin these things, there's only three uses I can come up with for the plethera of peepy stuff I am about to receive.
1. Sacrafices in some sort of satanic ritual.
2. Food fights.
3. Dropping them, millions at a time, from a Stealth Bomber over Iraq. (Which may be the fastest and cheapest way to end the war! Who has the will to resist us when there's peeps rainin down like hellfire?)

Anyway, I gotta go clear my in-box of all these e-peeps.
But one thing's still buggin me.

Is it a chicken?

humor-blogs.com/ is full of chickens!

Country Gold

It is officially official.
Nashville has run out of things to write songs about.

Not that I expect too much intellectual stimulus from country music, but come on guys, throw us a (ham)bone.

Gary Allen- I'm just sittin round here watching airplanes.
Rrrrrright. Okay then. So now you, Rainman, and Tatoo can all shout 'ze plane' together.
Just goes to show, three's company.
Especially in Tennessee.

Alan Jackson- The kids are gonna cry and the chickens gonna fry, you know it, Your car won't run, so your cousins comin by to tow it.
I smell Grammy! These brilliant, inspirational, lyrics are sure to get the nod from at least the Country Music Awards. Kids, chicken, and a towtruck in the family, that's the holy trinity of which redneck dreams are made.

Montgomery Gentry- You can work all day in the muck and the mire, dance a little jig, then stomp by the fire. I saw Deliverance too. (The pig part scares me.)

Brad Paisley- I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks, and I'd like to check you for ticks.
Well Brad, that's what happens you ain't made your move 'til ya hear 'last call'. Now you gotta drag her ugly ass out into the woods (so no one sees who you ended up with) and perform a quickie tick check before she sobers up. Judging by the quality of your date, might I also suggest a 'crab scan' while you're at it.

Kenny Chesney- Well, I won't let evolution make a monkey outta me, Oh Lord! I think I want my rib back. And who don't luv 'em sum ribs? I think evolution has taken it's toll already.

Soulja Boy- Soulja boy off in this OH, Watch me lean and watch me rock? Super Man dat OH, then watch me crank that Robocop?

.................................I got nothin.

-But apparently rap music's runnin a smidge low in the idea category too.
_________________________________________

Oh, and a HAPPY BIRTHDAY to one of todays best lyricists, and my most very bestest friend, Claudio. The big 3-O, oh, Oh, Oh, oh, Oh, oh, Oh, you're runnin freeeeeeeeee..

Almost a Genius...

Now that I am all compooter saavy,
I look back at how internetally illiterate I was in the infancy of my bloginess.
Thanks to all of you who have taught me the lingo of modern day e-communications, I am now much better off.

6 months ago I thought blog was the neanderthal with the bone in his lip that lives two huts down and over 1 cave. Now I know that a blog is a personal web-site where you can write out your feelings on different topics and where seemingly normal people, who usually hate being in traffic, become obsessed with being 'stumbled' or 'hit'. (Don't quote me on this.)

I had never heard the term entrecard before I mastred the intrenet. It sounds like something you'd swipe to get into the top-secret alien spacecraft lab. Best I can figure it's a worthless website giveaway. Given away to anyone who leaves you a comment, or writes the goofy caption for that picture you posted of your uncle sittin on Santas lap wearing nothin but a jockstrap and a pirate hat. (I could still be wrong on this one though.)

I used to think a web-host was some super intelligent geeky life form who sat in the darkness of anonimity. Like the bank offer guy on Deal or No Deal. His job was to make you feel like a jackass while he fixes your computer porn virus.
I now realize that a web-host is a super intelligent geeky company, which sits in the darkness of anonimity, and charges you ten bucks a month to come up with new and exciting ways to lose your postings and to keep track of how many times a google search for "gorilla pelican love" led to a hit on your site. ( I may be a tad off on this one too)

I'm still kinda in the dark about a meme. It's either what Arnold Horshacks little known sister yells out when she knows the answer, or some kind of chain letter you act like you didn't want, but secretly you enjoy being 'tagged' without being touched by some perv.

I still don't know what a blogroll is, or how to do it. The guy at the bakery didn't know and I haven't heard back from the National Lumberjack competition. So when I get the info, I'll add all of you.

For more stuff I can't do, click here. Or even better, click here.

Give it a second.
It'll come to you.

The Snowpimp

A Snowpimp just chillin, from back in the 'hood,
Three buttons, no shirt, green fur hat lookin good.

It's cold where he comes from, the snow gets real deep,

Too cold for real bitches, all his ho's was sheep.

The Gingerbread man, waits 'til dark to start creepin,

Thinks he's gettin a freebie, while Snowpimp is sleepin. A cat with no arms, had heard the assail,

He yowled out for help, (and no, that's his tail)

The G-mans been busted, he attacks on the double,

But my mans got no hands, so this could be trouble.

Aaah but Snowpimp stays clean, from his top to his bottom,
He don't sweat this punk, 'cause Blue-Pac mans got 'em.


Blue-pac and Snowpimp, still ticked from the fight,
Torched g-mans crib, in the darkest of night.


The thing to have learned, friends you must learn it quick,
My kids are great artists, and their daddy is sick.

Pimpin the funny at http://humor-blogs.com/