ILLUSION EXPLAINED

Original, in all its misunderstood glory.

..and for those who saw the lamp, boobs, or Elvis at a gas station..

Just wanted to Bee sure to clarify any misunderstanding.

EENIE, MEENIE, MINEY....

....... I ..uhh ..got nothin. (nyuk nyuk)

It's Hip To Be Square

The weather has been absolutely great.

Which means two things.

Time for the sun-worshippers to hit the beaches

and time for dustin off the Hog.

That's right, every middle-aged, balding, overweight, yuppie who owns a Harley will soon be cruisin the streets of Mytown, U.S.A. in all their wanna-be glory.

The transformation begins at the local Harley dealership. Where polyester suit and tie are traded for the trademark Harley 'mandana' and a pair of leather chaps.

(Don't want to get frostbite on your legs ridin around in Florida)

They then, I assume, check your credit, check you for the grey/black goatee, and check that you are truly having a mid-life crisis.

You will then straddle 1600cc's of American made roarin' steel, with a saleswoman telling you just how wild and free you look on there and how young and dangerous you must be to be considering the 'Harley' lifestyle. And let's face it, since you've never ridden a bike before, you are gonna need the heaviest bike with tons of horsepower.

Consider this, pinhead.

You are old.

You are lame.

We are laughing at you.

You'd be better off driving around in a convertible, with the top down and the windows up.

And why not buy one of those cool helmets with the horns or the big spike on top?

That would make you the coolest guy on your block.

Don't get me wrong, the bike is bad-ass. Please, park it where I can check it out.

But then hide, so I'm not distracted by the walking stack of dork.

One question though, lame-o,

What is the penalty for riding a Harley without wearing a Harley t-shirt?

It must be pretty stiff, because no one rides without sportin the logo.

Wonder if it's safe to drive my truck without a Ford shirt.

Just wonderin.

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!