So I was hefting a liter at the bocal lar…shocking, dear friends, I know…
The five flat screens perched perilously above blurted visual ephemera whilst AC/DC rocked the juke. When flat out of nowhere, I saw it there plainly on the screen:
CALL NOW FOR YOUR FREE CATHETER!
Artfully designed, medically necessary health aid? Or sadistic sicknening schwanz reamer?
Yes, dear friends, it said FREE CATHETER. So many questions raced through my mind…
“You mean I’m not going to pay a dime, a penny or even a nickel to poke a GIANT needle up my tiny peehole with minimal training and virtually no instruction?”
No, fine sir, it’s free and easy to use.
“So I can just shove that sick ramrod unceremoniously right up into my vulnerable cockles and wiz?”
That’s what they’re there for.
So yeah…having the handy “Notes” feature on my iPhone is the best thing since the paper pad, plus I actually use the “Notes.” Despite the handiness, however, I gotta say the return results discovered long after the fact are sometimes…well…cryptic and/or frankly comical. Anyway, who am I fooling…this whole thing’s a lark…below, some of the finest random notes (edited for the masses) delivered from yours truly, sQuelchy’s iPhone.
“Power team. Kellogg Forum. Sympathetic drive. Highway 81 revisited. Paul Pond, Esquire. Eric Nelson’s. Subway, NUS, and the Feelies. Smoking wood ticks from a pipe. Ghost lady in the woods. I gotta stare at that thing. Randy Rooker makes poverty look elegant. I like to masturbate on a frozen lake. Beat my Dad at tennis. Flashing Blades Stang. Dad, you look like hell. Cutting our own Christmas Tree. In search of the sand dune: in search of BEBUS. Family vacation: Florida. The Astre and the Scottsdale: that’s not livin’. Why is my brother hijacking my birthday party? Bible Camp Showdown/How I got this Big Egg on my Forehead. We killed knucklehead. Watching the tail dance. The “Buildings.” My first “tattoo.””
“Appreciate every day. Create for. Look around the edges. Prove how special. Act once in a while. Picture life without.”
I picked up the mail today and, what’s this, a personal letter from Republican presidential hopeful Mitt Romney? I’m touched that a man of his pedigree would take time out of his busy day to write me.
So let’s have a look at this bad boy.
Okay, right there, off to a bad start. There’s no ‘h,’ and I rarely shorten my name. Really, I only allow it from close friends and family members. But this is Mitt Romney we’re talking about, so maybe I need to let this minor faux pas slide. Moving on.
“I am running for President of the United States and because you are one of America’s most notable Republicans, I want to personally let you know why.” Continue reading
WARNING: This post contains adult humor, crude language, drug references and fat jokes.
Okay, it’s clear after the first installment that this s@#t just writes itself. Below, for your reading, viewing, and thankfully not listening pleasure are more classic slabs of ridiculous wax.
FWAC Tasty Treat #3: Woody Woodbury Looks at Love & Life: Fun, Foolosophy and a Frantic Piano for Frisky Adults Only, Woody Woodbury, Stereoddities Records
"Reminds me of the old Sears catalog days..."
Well although the beginning of Woody’s selected record title implies thoughtful, philosophical meditations on our complex time here on this rock we call Earth, the artwork tells a different story. The only thing Woody is lookin’ at is some fine Granny-pantied ass. And, stunned to see such a fine specimen through what may symbolize the very keyhole of life, Woody’s attention is obviously growing larger by the moment. Perhaps that’s what the Wood-man means by ‘foolosophy,’ the higher order, enlightened realization that only one thing matters in this Godforsaken life, and that’s fine, fine poontang. Continue reading
I’m a bargain bin hunter, and when I’m hunting for snipe (rare old jazz or blues records) I come across a lot of…well…let’s say varied material. And while the prices at my local Goodwill store are indeed low, you gotta have a decent reason to crowd your place with excess wax. That said, my general rule of thumb is to purchase only LPs that I care to listen to or that I think may be collectible/valuable. But lately, I’ve been surprisingly intrigued by a third and often overlooked category–that of the sonically useless and wholly uncollectible but definitely sporting a hilarious cover genre. So my promise to you, dear reader, is that I will keep my third eye open for gems such as those below. When I uncover these rare slabs, I will periodically post them here along with some hysterical snarky commentary, all for your ultimate humor pleasure, in this newest STOTU series Fun With Album Covers (FWAC). Continue reading
As one of the millions of Americans ‘searching’ for work and finding the apparent pickings so slim as to even warrant a pick, I have, like my fellow millions, thus far failed to find much by way of constructive hobbies. Of course I could lay down that six album rock opera I’ve always dreamed of recording, the one about the misunderstood teenage computer gamer who gets his revenge against some vague negative life influences; or I could finally take up woodcarving, exposing my lack of patience and artistic flair in equally quick and conclusive manner; or I could (continue) to amass the world’s (okay, local area’s) greatest collection of golden era pornography (early 2006 to mid-November 2008). But none of these seemed anything less than a whole bunch of work. So instead, like my millions, I decided to medicate my dying brain with a little TV. Continue reading
WARNING: This post contains adult language and crude attempts at humor
I live on the northern fringe of a largish metropolitan area, just at the tipping point where urban civilization yields to rolling seas of forest and White people. Lots of White people. And that’s okay—shoot, I’m one of ‘em—but when they buy comically large F-350s, festoon (I’m pretty sure they’d call it ‘makin’ her badass,’ but I like festoon) them with silly stickers, detailing, and adornments, and then drive them right up my asshole—well, that’s not okay.
Not TTN's actual "poon machine" but you get the point.
Today I found myself tooling along carelessly in my little toy Corolla when some asshat I now regard as the Tailgating Turd of the North (TTN) decided my bumper looked ripe for some good old-fashioned vehicular rape. As his passive-aggressiveness morphed into pure rage, he got closer and closer, he and his shit-kickin’ buddy Cletus. Now shame on me for trying to prove some kind of point by maintaining an even-keeled but still above-the-limit speed. That was about the equivalent of trying to describe nuclear physics to a kitten or rocket scientry to George Bush. But still…dude…f-off already. Continue reading