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/

Happy Hour?

I don't think I like being told by my local drinking establishment when to be happy.
Sometimes I go in, not happy at all.
And 2 for 1 draft beer and well drinks, ain't gonna change that.

#1. I hate draft beer.
#2. They call them 'well' drinks, because, well, they suck.

I, for one , am not putting the timing of my oh so fragile emotions in the hands of an industry that purposely sets their clocks wrong, and calls 4pm - 7pm happy 'hour'.
That's three hours, and if you drink well drinks for three hours, well, you won't be happy, you'll be sick.

Or maybe, you're lucky enough to find a bar with "happy hour" all day Sunday. Once again, what the bartender wrings out of a rag and serves up as half priced, all day on a Sunday, will have you yackin clear through Tuesday.

So, in Damons Drunkatorium, (that's my bar name, if I had a bar) we're gonna cover all the reasons you're in a bar. Happy or not.

"Slightly Peeved and Perterbed Hour" - You get 60 minutes to drink your way into a memory lapse to forget the weeks stupidity. I got to go with Captain Morgan & Coke on this one.

"Emphatically Euphoric and Delighted Hour"- We'll serve up that fu-fu garbage happy people all love. Pitchers of 'fuzzy navels' or 'sex-on-the-beach' should shut 'em up.

"Crazed and Out of Your Freakin Mind Hour"- Tequila shots aaaaaalll around. Buenos noches, mi amigo.

"Anxiety and Paranoia Hour"- I figure an Irish Coffee should fill the bill. I'm pretty sure the alcohol and the caffeine cancel each other right out. Just like the voices in your head. And if it doesn't, you won't worry about being seen leaving the bar with who's left at 2 am.

"Lonely and Depressed Hour"- Just for fun, I've decided to 2 for 1 draft beer is painfully appropriate. You know, that tear in your beer thing. Oh, and each table will only have one chair, so you can sit alone in all your solitary pathetic glory.

"Totally Ticked Hour"- This could be scary. I'll have to post a disclaimer (and an armed guard). With a bar full of angry workin stiffs and enraged alcoholics, I'm servin, you guessed it, Jack Daniels and Grand Marnier. Just wind 'em up and watch 'em go.

Note : Dart league cancelled during "totally ticked hour".

COACH DAMON

Well, my posts have been a little sparce this week, but dammit hey, I been busy. Between the kids insisting that I feed them every day, and the general lack of common sense at work, I am more frustrated than a cross-eyed hippo tryin to ride a three wheeled skateboard.
And to top it all off, now I'm coaching my sons t-ball team.
Not because I have extra time on my hands.
Not because I have some skills to pass on to future baseballers.
It's because I answered the phone.
And I know better.

If you've never experienced 5 year old baseball, oh, it's a must see. I'm sure if the concession stand sold Pabst Blue Ribbon, we could easily get this thing on ESPN. Couple of drunk guys screamin at little Timmy because the grounder went through his legs. Or maybe some dude comes stormin out of the stands when Alex Jr. gets a hit and runs straight to third.

I'm sure Vegas could find a way to lay odds on this stuff.
4-1 odds that the right fielder sits down and starts singing "Puff the Magic Dragon."
Even money that at least once during the game, some kid drops his glove, grabs his crotch, and sprints to the bathroom yellin, "I gotta go potty!"
5-1 odds for a parent fight ending with 'police assistance'.
No bets on the final score though.
After all, it's not about winnin or losin , it's about the children having fun.
We'll see.

I'll update you on our teams progress. Meanwhile I'm off to practice my pitching . I've got two days to learn how to throw a fast ball - 1 foot off the ground.

GOTTA GO

I can honestly say that I have never seen a squirrel taking a dump.

Nope, not once, never.

I also don't know anyone who has witnessed this little mystery of nature.

Never in my life have I heard, "Hey! watch it! don't step in the squirrel crap!"

In 38 years, you'd think that at least once I'd have seen something that sets my mind at ease on this matter. But, no. Nothing.

As far as I'm concerned, women and squirrels just don't do it.

I also have never seen a dead squirrel that wasn't roadkill.

Nope, never seen a really old lookin squirrel, sprawled out in the 'last gasp' pose.

You know, diggin in the dirt, maybe got a little ringworm.

Maybe, got hold of some tainted cheese.

Could've choked, trying to impress her boyfriend with how many acorns she can hold in her cheeks.

Possibly even stepped on a bare spot while runnin across a power line.

But no, the only surefire way for squirrels to die is squirrelicide.

Poor little varment, no access to prozac, loses his desire for nut hunting, darts into traffic like a ninja. Jumping back and forth as if unable to decide to actually go through with it, until.......SPLAT.

I have my own theory theory though.

I think squirrels just eat and eat and eat, until they get so full that they just explode, POOOF!

Death......by constipation.

That's What Friends Are For

I should be a millionaire by now!

If only I would have put more thought into this site of stupidity, I could be planning my early retirement. But nnooooo, I used it for for my own amusement and selfish therapeutic needs....dammit.

I have been listed at blogcatalog.com for about 2 months now. On any given day, I receive anywhere from 15 to 25 e-mail alerts letting me know that some one out there has added me as a friend! Now, just to do a little math here; 20 new friends a day X 60 days = 1200 wonderful, kind, caring, fellow blog people, who would gladly be clickin ads and buyin blog spaces to secure the financial future for my kids. Hey, college ain't cheap!

Well since I screwed all that up, I have come up with some other ways for me and all my new friends to come together and form long lasting, meaningful relationships;

My yard is a mess. I figure 20 to 30 of my new buds would be happy to help me rake up all these damn leaves from my neighbors tree. If we get done early enough, maybe we could cut down the freakin thing.

My house could use a fresh coat of paint. If I could get about 30 to 40 friends to lend a hand, we could have my little shoebox lookin good in about an hour. A small sacrafice for such valuable comradery

I really need a vacation. Maybe like 2 weeks in the Bahamas. So, I'll need about 15 of the most patient, kindest, caring friends to watch my two little monsters while I'm away. Don't worry, I'll bring you back a souvenir ashtray, or one of those coconut monkeys.

I may, or may not, be moving soon. I don't know. But the true friendship test is who shows up on moving day. I figure if 50 of you can either bring your pick-up or borrow daddys', you could help drag all my crap cross town. Then I won't need to rent a u-haul.

Since I don't make any money posting, I'm a little short this week. So when we go to dinner, I'm gonna need a solid from my homies. A true-blue doesn't mind pickin up the tab once in a while. Don't panic, I'll get the tip. (But since it's on you, I'm gettin dessert.)

I'm really looking forward to spending quality time with all my new friends.

Thanks in advance, -d

If you need my help I'm at http://www.humor-blogs.com/

Gettin' TIREd

Turns out, I am a daredevil.

No fancy cape or nothin, just a normal guy risking his life by driving around with bad tires.

This according to the shmuckface non-mechanic who you first meet when you walk into the tire store.

Tony Shmuckatelli (the mechanic) is never happy with his customers. They are all at his shop because they have abused their cars to the point where just puttin in gas won't solve the problem. So you must sit in the car-abusers time-out room. The duration of your time-out is directly proportional to the amount of abuse you've inflicted on your poor Hyundai. Driving over a nail gets you one hour, while forgetting to have your radiator flushed gets you a whole day. So you will sit and watch the Static Network or read the maintenance brochures of what you should have done to avoid your punishment. Either way, you're screwed.

I got a screw in my tire. Not a huge to-do. The tire wasn't flat. It just made a clickin sound everytime it rolled around atop the screwhead. Like a high hat cymbal, only louder. I kinda liked it. Anyway, I figured they'd pull it out, plug it up, and send me on my patched up little way...

I was wrong.

First off, my wiper blades were beginning to show signs of wear. And as we all know, wiper blades are the first thing you check when you are patching a tire.

I also was getting close to needing an oil change. And if I was a good car owner, I would want to take care of this , NOW!

He was kind enough to drag me out to mechanicland and point out that I should not be driving around on these tires, and today was my lucky day! They were having a sale on my size tires!

And if I didn't have the 9 bills up front, they would finance me up to my poorly oiled door hinges.

The idiot then makes sure everyone else in the oil smellin holding tank, hears my problems and how I just don't love my car enough to pay his guilt-ridden ransome.

I walked out with my $13 tire patch receipt, head hangin a little low, and got into my truck feeling like the most neglectful car owner on the planet.

Thanks for the guilt trip, pinhead.