tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55913784838926139132024-03-12T23:34:43.803-07:00mytacotruckGreghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-29846226812572907372013-01-23T20:57:00.001-08:002013-01-23T20:58:34.005-08:00The OceanI was watching this show on the Discovery Channel and they were saying that besides humans, dolphins are the only other animal on the planet that have sex for pleasure so I started thinking that if I could somehow pull off fucking a dolphin, it might just be the best sex anyone or thing could ever achieve.
But it's really bumming me out because the logistics seem too hard to overcome.
When you think about it, there are a lot of obstacles:
For example; Have you ever tried to swim in the ocean with a boner? It looks way easier than it actually is. Your dick just drags you straight down. And if you get stung by a jellyfish, just how the hell are you supposed to pee on your own dick? That means, you gotta find a really good friend to pee on your penis but not for pleasure. Ya know, just to save your life.
Then there's also the issue of leverage. Dolphins seem pretty slippery and I'm sure I could drown really easily.
And another thing, I'm not completely confident that I know exactly where a dolphin's vagina is located. I don't think they have pubes, which by the way is super hot, but I think they would significantly help me locate it. Plus knowing dolphins the way I do, they would probably set me up with a gay one and I would probably only find out after he blew me.
I guess there's also the fact that I'm barely turned on by dolphins.
Speaking of the sea, who the Hell came up with the idea of a mermaid? I know, let's have a totally hot chick, get her topless and make her impossible to fuck. It was probably some obnoxious dude's obnoxious wife's idea. I guess I kinda like the fact that you can't hear her complaining underwater. Gregory, I am sick and tired of handjobs. Gregory, why don't you leave me alone and find a nice girl. Gregory, you can try all you want, but I don't even have an asshole. But all you hear is "bbbbbllllluuuurrrrrbbbbbbbbb". Wait, do mermaids have assholes? They hafta right? Or else they would totally get fat and no one would ever want to fuck them but not be able to.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-76581153107467705992012-02-01T10:10:00.000-08:002013-01-23T20:56:32.231-08:00Novel ConceptSo, I'm working on a book. Here's an excerpt. If you like it, tell a friend. If not, you are John Banks.<br /><br />It’s 5:59. I grab my report and head to the conference room. Can I just say that I am not making this shit up? It’s 5:59. In the AM! And I am supposed to present my personal “5-year Business Plan of Success” in front of the entire team, Frank, and his boss, Emile. Fucking french motherfucking fucker that requested an exit interview upon passing through his Mama’s vagina when he was born. Not to mention, he’s the guy that looks 25 and is 52. Perfect abs, arms, v-shape, you actually kinda gotta hand it to him really. <br /><br />Trevor catches me along the way, “Yo Andy, you ready for this?”<br /><br />“Yeah, I guess...”, I start.<br /><br />“Jesus! What the hell happened to your face?” <br /><br />“Is it really that noticeable?” Unnerved and sarcastic. <br /><br />“Dude!”<br /><br />“Do you have any Vicodin?” I'm jonesing.<br /><br />“I really think it’s a good look for you,” he chortles. <br /><br />“I was too beat to go to the ER last night.”<br /><br />“Did your nose actually get bigger too? I didn’t even think that was possible?” <br /><br />“C’mon man, I know you at least have some Xanax,” I plead. <br /><br />“Don’t you think it’s weird that your body just provides extra skin when you need it? Like when you get swollen, your skin’s all sqwoooosh! ‘Here I am.’ You’re whole face is fucked...”<br /><br />“Asshole, I have to give my report in thirty seconds. Make with some pharmaceuticals!”<br /><br />Trevor reaches into his messenger bag and pull out 4 George W. Bush pez dispensers, “Here take the blue one, I’m pretty sure it’s Percodan.”<br /><br />I snap W’s head back, grab one and whince as I swallow, “Fucker! This is blueberry.” <br /><br />“I hope you learned a lesson here Andy,” he sneers. <br /><br />“What, that you’re a dick? I already knew that.” <br /><br />“No that blueberry is delicious.”<br /><br />“Thanks Trevor,” as I nut punch him. We make our way through our bullpen (grey carpet, grey cubicles, grey drop tile ceiling). He tries to punch me back but I tagged him pretty good and he can’t follow through as hard as he would like to. I keep my head down as we make our way past Jorge, Dennis and Lucas. <br /><br />“Can I ask you a serious question?” Trevor whispers as we enter our 1970s style boardroom. Complete with wood paneled walls, shag green carpeting, and high-back leather swivel chairs that surround a 6 inch thick, 5’ by 16’ table constructed out of Genuine Honduran Mahogany that easily robbed the rainforest of half an acre (but it was well worth it...it looks amazing!).<br /> <br />“What?”<br /><br />“How are you speaking without a lisp?” <br /><br />“I’m Canadian dummy.”<br /><br />“That’s your answer to everything.”Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-64225597386817526212011-11-29T16:18:00.000-08:002011-11-29T16:22:53.403-08:00If Don Draper was zapped to 2011, here’s some shit he would NEVER do:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNToOtb3X5B0NwIYpXQrGp8myRd11mkoXo12sJcfDmOBAxQbLmNvRVbmpeMRrozDtDKL2tHuEp9hii9YnOX3XR7DaOByvV7CgWb9j0z5o-uRBvlz5m54BQ9mzN4162Ldeg3cIuZnA3Kuy/s1600/don-draper-sunglasses-091310-xlg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNToOtb3X5B0NwIYpXQrGp8myRd11mkoXo12sJcfDmOBAxQbLmNvRVbmpeMRrozDtDKL2tHuEp9hii9YnOX3XR7DaOByvV7CgWb9j0z5o-uRBvlz5m54BQ9mzN4162Ldeg3cIuZnA3Kuy/s320/don-draper-sunglasses-091310-xlg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680577638803849426" /></a><br />Carry around a bottle of spring water.<br />Listen to Nickleback.<br />Recycle.<br />Wear a helmet under any circumstance.<br />Be self-deprecating.<br />Assimilate.<br />Skype.<br />Text. Unless while driving.<br />Not, not have a lot sex.<br />Tweet.<br />Chew Nicorette.<br />Line dance.<br />Reconsider objectifying women.<br />Drive a Kia Sportage.<br />Manscape.<br />Wear a Tommy Bahama’s shirt.<br />Sport a beanie.<br />Apply Axe Body Spray.<br />Pull out (fuck you, you’re preggo).<br />Comprehend why he got arrested for driving with a blood-alcohol level of 0.18<br />Sudoku.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-8174349680093915802011-11-10T21:34:00.000-08:002011-11-10T21:43:07.770-08:00VegannieIf chickens were smart they would eat big ass sticks of dynamite and as Farmer John's axe dropped and lopped off their heads it would detonate in his face and kill him and his dog Roscoe in a poultricide so vile and hellbent, it would serve as a warning to all the heartless, selfish meaters from Atlanta to San Diego and make them think twice before they assume that they are top of the food chain. But chickens are stupid so the explosion would probably just make them taste even more delicious.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-43280070476644772452011-07-22T10:58:00.000-07:002011-07-22T12:13:58.431-07:00This is what happens in the locker room.<span style="font-weight:bold;">To be read with an English accent.</span><br /><br />Jordan: Indeed sir. Well it’s nice to make your acquaintance kind bedfellow. <br /><br />Garrett: Likewise, yes indeed, indeed again, yes indeed. Why I have never, if I may be so bold, I say, I have never engaged in this fine activity know as, how does one say? Indeed, I believe it to be referred to as, ASSPLAY. <br /><br />Jordan: Really, my oh my, okay, let’s get started. <br /><br />Garrett: Oh my word. I never could have imagined. Wow, fine young man. That is a tough position you have put me in.<br /><br />Jordan: Well, that does appear to be the object my good man. If perhaps, Mr. Man, I can get you to hold still a moment longer, I will “wash my hands as it were.”<br /><br />Garrett: Oh, indeed I hope this doesn’t offend, but the pleasure/pain threshold is being compromised at this very moment, good sir.<br /><br />Jordan: What’s my name BITCH???<br /><br />Garrett: I’m sorry kind sir, can you please repeat?<br /><br />Jordan: Oh, the apology is all mine good neighbor, I’m afraid I broke character for a brief moment.<br /><br />Garrett: Quite alright. Indeed, I understand. You found yourself in a position of power. Who could blame you in this circumstance?<br /><br />Jordan: Quite, quite.<br /><br />Garrett: May I interrupt for the briefest of moments?<br /><br />Jordan: Naturally.<br /><br />Garrett: Is it normal to be losing this much blood? I hate to appear selfish, but I must insist that we cease all activity, for I feel light headed and nauseous.<br /><br />Jordan: I can assure you kind sir, that all you’re feeling will go away in a moment, once I, as one does in this particular circumstance, I believe it is known by some as, um, “drop the hammer”.<br /><br />Garrett: Okay then good chap, proceed forthrightly with all good intentions.<br /><br />Jordan: Just one moment kind sir, for this cannot be rushed by any means or I may be obliged to start the entire ritual from the start.<br /><br />Garrett: My sincerest apologies.<br /><br />Jordan: Not at all. Do not give it another thought.<br /><br />Garrett: Well, you were the one making a whole big thing of it.<br /><br />Jordan: My sincerest apologies. Oh NO!<br /><br />Garrett: What, may I ask, happened?<br /><br />Jordan: I seemed to have ejaculated prematurely. Now it is I who must apologize.<br /><br />Garrett: FUCK YOU JORDAN! That is gross!<br /><br />Jordan: Now onto the salad tossing.<br /><br />Garrett: Fine.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-67179954322270692672011-07-20T11:03:00.000-07:002011-07-20T11:07:56.898-07:00Probably should not say when you get pulled over by The Police:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedYKX6L5fMBH5R-Ly-kBvvBlSvqbP1Ctjz4pmfbhJP423aMAkZKDyy4Z85JXGa5AIRmjetAhyphenhyphenGqTPyQGU6bMSBiJqXdjj3CbM5Tp-kfW8YuQ3FZykzoYIGxXyFrSGaQ_zO3GJWfGok9Yk/s1600/The+police.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedYKX6L5fMBH5R-Ly-kBvvBlSvqbP1Ctjz4pmfbhJP423aMAkZKDyy4Z85JXGa5AIRmjetAhyphenhyphenGqTPyQGU6bMSBiJqXdjj3CbM5Tp-kfW8YuQ3FZykzoYIGxXyFrSGaQ_zO3GJWfGok9Yk/s320/The+police.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631497454959924066" /></a><br />-How rude of me. Would you like a cold beer too?<br /><br />-So how does that zipper work there fella?<br /><br />-Remember that scene from Fargo when Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare got pulled? Did not end well…just sayin’.<br /><br />-What’s that big stick on your belt for?<br /><br />-You didn’t happen to find that crack rock I dropped out a sec ago did ya?<br /><br />-Now I bet you’re gonna tell me that there’s a law against masturbating in front of high schools. Really. Oh.<br /><br />-I bet your mom is a really good kisser.<br /><br />-Of course I’ve been drinking. If alcohol impairs your judgment, how should I know any better than not to drive?!<br /><br />-Is this going to take a while? I gotta let that kid in my basement out of his cage for a potty break.<br /><br />-Can you give me a police escort? I gotta get home for Bob’s Burgers!<br /><br />-You’d be swerving too if you had a car full of sado masochistic midgets smoking hash while a cop was following you.<br /><br />-So…you are not gonna give me back my pot then?<br /><br />-I really think it’s a bad idea for me to open my trunk especially given the judgmental disposition you’ve displayed thus far.<br /><br />-Can you make change for a ten? There’s no way I bribing you more than 5 bucks.<br /><br />-The thing about my license is that I left it in my other pants…that are on the floor in your daughter’s room. You want me to call her really quick?<br /><br />-Open container? My bad *GULP*, more like empty container. Happy now?<br /><br />-Don’t tell me I left my kid in his car seat on the roof again. That’s twice in one week!Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-86966233843231857502011-07-15T14:00:00.000-07:002011-07-15T14:05:30.499-07:00Twisty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPuINWj5bA9Kdl_Gib-olYfN4z6-KESCWZeRk55_19-J9SWWxQYsAU0RpZFxXWMTsgGN1dn-6P1zhtysIsG5JV-zwPXMLrb7gMg-0HYK-HZGO1gl4wnTfbfI8v6rwWhuZ5y8t5PTU7Dtqa/s1600/Rx_symbol+%25281%2529.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPuINWj5bA9Kdl_Gib-olYfN4z6-KESCWZeRk55_19-J9SWWxQYsAU0RpZFxXWMTsgGN1dn-6P1zhtysIsG5JV-zwPXMLrb7gMg-0HYK-HZGO1gl4wnTfbfI8v6rwWhuZ5y8t5PTU7Dtqa/s320/Rx_symbol+%25281%2529.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629688079883810594" /></a><br />I’m in a perpetual state of panic. Here’s what happens. Every morning I wake up and take stock. Okay, I don’t think I’m dead. I count the bed shakes to measure my pulse. Find my appendages numb and tingly from a long night of being prone, it must be MS or ALS. I’m now imagining a growing tumor in my pituitary gland. I look over at Her, She rolls away and I unscrew the Klonopin bottle just as deftly as I unscrewed her last night. <br /><br />On this morning 2.0 MG is gonna do just fine. I sit up and immediately fall back down. Vertigo. Again. Wonderful. Better make it 2.5 MGs. I know it sounds weird but panicking doesn’t even make me panic anymore and this is making me concerned. Is there a finite amount of adrenaline the body can produce (when I was 13, I used to hope there wasn’t a finite amount of sperm swimming around the nut pond)? If so, I must have hit the wall. I’m already an hour late for work but I’m not going anywhere until my head stops spinning. I check the droid. Fuck, eight missed calls, 65 emails (60 spam), four text messages. I press on my Twitter icon but put the phone down because I can only read it when it’s exactly 12.5 inches away from my face and I can’t manage to get the distance right. I turn on the TV and can hear the cast from The View kvetching about weight loss struggles. I keep my left eye shut to focus, catch my reflection in the mirror and thank god I never got that tattoo on my shoulder (what would have started out as a ripped hockey player taking a slap shot by now would be a hairy fat fuck spilling out all over me). <br /><br />Instinctively I reach down to adjust myself and I can’t feel my johnson. I pull up the sheets, look in my Hanes and I see what appears to be a dead fish-well, minnow. Klonopin side effect? I hope. I pull the head and tug it out but it slowly goes back into its repose like a 90 year old spent Stretch Armstrong. <br /><br />I look back at Her to see Her eyes darting beneath their lids and feel happy and resentful. I reach for Her right tittie and squeeze gently. Look down, nothing. Great, now I’m sure I have dick cancer. Against my better judgment I get to my feet and into the bathroom. I empty my bladder but don’t feel a thing. My stream is weak and sporadic but as a benefit, it’s going in 8 directions at once. I get in the shower and immediately shart. At least I’m in the right place. The pipes squeeze and spring, finally relenting a brown unsteady offering of cold sharp water. No shampoo, no conditioner just a razor thin slither of Irish Spring. <br /><br />I get it wet and sniff it imagining I’m a stocky Irishman on a prairie with my choice of sheep. The soap slips loose and after spending 3 minutes trying to grab it, I give up only to see shooting stars as I lift my head too fast. I towel off thinking I need a shower and see Her sitting up pulling her ear plugs out. She points to my thighs and appears to be mutely screaming. This confuses me so I look down to notice a yellow stream running down my leg. I guess I’m peeing again. That’s when I realize my hearing is gone. I get dressed (knock off Dockers, and unlogo’d golf shirt), grab a banana and get in the hybrid. I’m looking for a very large cliff to plunge from and this goddamn city doesn’t offer anything but gentle rolling hills. I step on the gas and head right into an oncoming garbage truck. Just before my head hits the windshield I wake up with a start. Jen looks over at me sympathetically and I tell her I dreamed I was John Banks again.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-17362018274657436352011-07-13T21:01:00.000-07:002011-07-15T19:00:59.801-07:00Sorry Marc!<span style="font-weight:bold;">J.to the Lo July 4, 2011 8:25PM</span><br /><br />Fucking douche thinks he can make it all up to me with sparklers and piccolo petes. I NeeD u GReggy!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J. to the Lo July 4, 2011 11:13 PM</span><br /><br />Now he thinks he can serenade me while we're in line at Jack in the Box. He really knows how to treat a lady. Rescue me in your big jewy arms my Greg<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J. to the Lo July 5, 2011 2:57 AM</span><br /><br />So he puts on some uglyass skyblue Guayabera shirt that he thinks makes him look like Scarface and told me to pee on him. Fucking troll. 143<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J. to the Lo July 10, 2011 11:35 AM</span><br /><br />I seriously can't take it any longer. Did you know his music is total shit? plus he told me that I can't talk to STyler anymorre unless I'm working? I'm like what? NO! Did your swelling go down? Tell Mr.Man that I'll make it all better XO!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J. to the Lo July 12, 2011 4:22 AM</span><br /><br />Greggg I can't believe how you make me feel. I just keep looking between my legs and pretending you are still there. btw, I <3 your bald spot<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J. to the Lo July 12, 2011 4:23 AM</span><br /><br />Oh yeah, Dumbass McGee forgot to flush his baby M.A. in the toilet.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J. to the Lo July 14, 2011 12:00 PM</span><br /><br />I just ordered a footlong at Subway...thinking of you!! XOXOXO JL<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J to the Lo July 14, 2011 2:15 PM</span><br /><br />So M.A. sends me a text saying he feels a distance falling between us but I had to read it like 50 times because he even types in a Puerto Rican accent (and you know I'm PR too!) Fuck that puto. Can't wait to see you again.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J. to the Lo July 14, 2011 2:15 PM</span><br /><br />Greg, I know people think my ass is perfect but your's makes mine look like a dude's.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J. to the Lo July 14, 2011 11:40 PM</span><br /><br />I'm sooooo over this shit Greg. He's taken me for granted for the last time. I can't believe he forgot my cousin Maria's quinceanera (I'm kinda glad...he looks so gay when he sings anyways).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">J. to the Lo July 14, 2011 3:33 AM</span><br /><br />He finally got home reeking like cheap hookers and tried to cover it up with old spice. Can I move in tomorrow?<br /><br />You guys know the restGreghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-41689439109564302672011-05-02T21:44:00.000-07:002011-05-02T23:06:11.846-07:00This Just InI was poking through what was left of the kid's easter (sorry, I can't capitalize e's) baskets when I got the call on my 1984 Sports Illustrated football phone-free with 12 month subscription. God dammit what the fuck could he possibly want now? Always after I've just settled in with a little triple D (that Guy Fieri can eAT!). "Yes, Mr. President?", I sang.<br /><br />"Mitchell? Barry. We gotta situation, grab Banks and K-Fed and get your asses to Dulles pa-ron-to", he barked. Usually I would tell him to chillax but he sounded serious. "This better be go-time?", non-plussed. <br /><br />"Yea motherfucker! Grab Jack's Flip and get to the situation room", he was losing patience.<br /><br />"Fine, but tell Joe if he sits in my chair, he's, he's, he's...aw, fuck it, I don't care. Let the baby have his bottle", I ran out steam. In retrospect, hash was probably a bad idea but things were supposed to be mellow, especially after the correspondence dinner display. Trump is such a loser. <br /><br />I jumped in the hybrid, scooted out to echo Park, woke up John with a tickle and we headed to Bob Hope Airport. It ain't easy rushing when you're a hipster but John took the news in stride and voluntarily skipped on lacing up his Chucks. I double checked his beard symmetry while he took the wheel and looked at his sunglassed mirrored reflection in the reflection of the rearview mirror. It was the perfect distraction for me to smoke through my GWB pez dispenser (cowboy-booted carb). I sure as hell wasn't gonna drink Jet Blue's idea of a Bloody Mary sober.<br /><br />Once airborne, my Droid stopped co-operating so I commandeered the cockpit and called Kev c.b. style at Johnny's to let him know operation Tarzan and Jane commenced. At this hour he had no choice but to travel by blimp. Lucky!<br /><br />We hooked up on the tarmac 35 minutes later, John complaining about wearing Levi cutoffs and an off white muscle shirt. Personally I thought our uniform was pretty badass. Maybe someone shoulda been doing more shake-weighting and less spinning and he wouldn't have had a problem. Kevin was getting pumped up with some Bonnie Prince Billy and I had In the Air Tonight on repeat. We gathered our shit and cabbed it to the West Wing.<br /> <br />Once there, it was pure bedlam. Apparently Biden shit the bed and was blaming Bill Daley. I couldn't concentrate and told B I wasn't doing anything until we got some french toast and diet Squirts. Once accommodated, he broke it down. Turns out they finally discovered that dude Osama bin Laden's lair. We were to drop in from some blackhwaks, lay down the shit and exit stat. It wasn't until we were chopping in over the Abbottabad compound that it dawned on me that none of us had any formal military training in the slightest (save Barry's insistence of us watching Spies Like Us). This suddenly seemed like a bad idea. But fuck it. <br /><br />What you know: bin Laden was KIA. Body ID'd. DNA matched. Buried at Sea. No U.S. military casualties.<br /><br />What you don't: Kevin, John and I were decoys. Our guns only shot Skittles (taste the rainbow motherfucker!). I pulled my quad on my right leg leaping from the chopper. Kevin severed the tips of 2 fingers on each handed when he gave the victory sign a little too close to the blades. John got laid. I guess I'm just proud to be part of it all but I caught a ton of shit for taking a personal day from the lumberyard.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-80183555405823965982011-04-14T21:40:00.000-07:002011-04-14T21:45:12.790-07:00Things I May Say on my DeathbedAfter I die, put my hand in a bucket of water and see if I pee.<br /><br />I was totally joking when I said to donate my eyes to science.<br /><br />I can’t believe I never got around to watching Mad Men.<br /><br />Don’t let your mom find my porn collection.<br /><br />I never used soap in the shower.<br /><br />I like dudes.<br /><br />Thank God I never lived to see the Leafs win the cup.<br /><br />I am a double black-belt in puppeteering.<br /><br />I once fellated a komodo dragon. I was in college and experimenting.<br /><br />Trudy and I used to make out while watching Happy Days in the basement.<br /><br />I used to eat Crisco. By the can. Daily.<br /><br />I think I’m dying.<br /><br />Fuck, I think I’m still double-parked.<br /><br />That paramedic had a blond mustache.<br /><br />My favorite movie is Blame it on Rio.<br /><br />Of course I’m not scared, I frequently involuntarily shit myself.<br /><br />How do I look? Liar.<br /><br />I would do anything to trade places with you.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-62103197680816300992011-03-25T20:42:00.000-07:002011-03-25T22:13:01.967-07:00This Really Happened 7After the debacle that was my Magic Mountain employment, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, assessed my worth and got a job at Jack-in-the-Box. <br /><br />What could go wrong? I'd learn about the culinary arts and commerce. I guess I should have known something was up 5 minutes into my interview when I was handed Jack Jeans and a spatula. Ten minutes later,I replaced a dropped, frozen, burger patty onto the grill with the smiling approval of Felix. Of course, the smile was probably from his getting it on with some ditchweed in the backseat of his Tercel. I dressed burgers with the focus and steadiness of an oral surgeon. I learned to deep-fry tacos, fish patties and potatoes with the efficiency of an apathetic teenager. Anyone that's ever worked in a restaurant knows that burns are badges of honor. I eventually built callouses so thick, I could put my hand on the grill for 8 seconds. Nothing fazed me. My customers came in drunk, naked, tweaking, vulgar, and Republican. I met them all with indifference but dedicated service. Felix and I decided it was time to make a permanent commitment so he walked with me next-store to the Cut-Bait Tattoo salon where we had Cleanliness, Friendliness and Quality inked across our backs in French Fry font. <br /><br />Upon punching back in, Manny told me that Stephanie (drive-thru operator) asked about me (code for was looking for the secret-sauce dispenser). This was JIB go-time. I slipped into the restroom, popped a nose zit and straightened out my hairpart. Was I ready? I wasn't even a Shift-Leader yet. How I played this out would affect (effect?) my entire future. I washed my face, pulled out my penis and closed my eyes (I have a really hard time looking at my cock when I address it, "It's just you and me Pinky, time to get laid." (I used to be succinct).<br /><br />Feeling good, I walked straight through the store, approached Steph and told her it was time to get it on. She smacked me across the left cheek so hard, I had time to piss my Jack Jeans before my knees buckled. Goddammit did that sting. Fucking Manny. What a 1st day!Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-70071024663742718982011-02-09T14:47:00.000-08:002011-02-09T14:52:51.360-08:00FACEBOOK STATUS UPDATES THAT GOT REJECTED:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKsB0hERn6jutuRCgu-99RSB5bvOftcDa1A5aa2dpJ4tznpeMm6BUEdKR2WWrpZTjoVMMQtjVrU3RSI5etryjwJgHTJYkljkfRcDNxlBrZ5May_Nmi1f8VtPmMCRhyzkOcv51RRlGfbpD/s1600/facebook-logo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKsB0hERn6jutuRCgu-99RSB5bvOftcDa1A5aa2dpJ4tznpeMm6BUEdKR2WWrpZTjoVMMQtjVrU3RSI5etryjwJgHTJYkljkfRcDNxlBrZ5May_Nmi1f8VtPmMCRhyzkOcv51RRlGfbpD/s320/facebook-logo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571825743061267042" /></a><br />I hate when I’m watching porn and just as I begin to nut, there’s a 15 second close up of the sweaty, mustachioed dude. As I avert my eyes and notice the dog watching me, he says, ”Nice timing faggot”. I cannot believe my dog is homophobic!<br /><br />I don’t regret the banana because it was soft and pleasant. In hindsight, sending in the ferret was perhaps unwise.<br /><br />A tremendous amount of satisfaction is derived from sitting on the couch naked watching The Biggest Loser. Until you sober up and realize the fat stoner you were laughing at was in the mirror.<br /><br />If I could do it all over again, I probably woulda paid back Italian Express and avoided the limp.<br /><br />When I die and go to Heaven, I hope God has a room full of all of my duty. I’m having a difficult time trying to visualize it and it’s the least he could do for killing me.<br /><br />I’m sorry but maybe I wouldn’t have to be a martyr if you people just cleaned up after yourselves for once.<br /><br />I don’t understand people’s fascination with history (specifically pre 1970). I wasn’t even alive yet!<br /><br />I wonder if Alexander Graham Bell knew that someday we’d all be beating off to pornography on our telephones. <br /><br />Last night while Jen was sleeping I attached a harmonica to her coochie. Now every time she queefs, I’ll think she’s Bob Dylan.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-91651239752458291132011-01-27T20:10:00.000-08:002011-02-02T20:32:35.256-08:00UnfunnyRemember The Swimmer (http://shortstoryclassics.50megs.com/cheeverswimmer.html)? I think I might be turning into Neddy swimming my way back home. Mental illness notwithstanding, I really am sick of cookie cutter culture like Kurt Cobain was sick of cookie cutter song structure. There’s so much new technology and I‘m so back-dated on futureshock that I suffer from pastshock. It’s not that I feel I’m missing out so much as I don’t care. Is it good for anxiety to transform into apathy? Guess I’ll probably live longer.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-32846334917393577942011-01-14T19:26:00.000-08:002011-01-14T19:42:15.866-08:00Buddy Holly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2Zkss2_nQafL34ac8P4vuvohssl_laJFdwSKR9KQZ2uxVyAPAgDod49ZJUKrbMhh0TgUb4v7FFh5KrahNY-gW5DkLEEihHYAqCfJ9eJanCsEllFPT-jNa13koXhyphenhyphenKXC-0ZaZ-n1Up70G/s1600/colossus3.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2Zkss2_nQafL34ac8P4vuvohssl_laJFdwSKR9KQZ2uxVyAPAgDod49ZJUKrbMhh0TgUb4v7FFh5KrahNY-gW5DkLEEihHYAqCfJ9eJanCsEllFPT-jNa13koXhyphenhyphenKXC-0ZaZ-n1Up70G/s320/colossus3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562251086889768098" /></a><br /> <br />DILEMMA:<br />When I was 16, I wanted to buy some shit and since my parents were no longer willing to actively/passively participate in my freeloading adventures, I needed to gain some form of employment. With little alternatives in Awesometown, I dropped my hat into Six Flags Magic Mountain’s ring of opportunity. <br /> <br />INTERVIEW:<br />I arrived 3 minutes early to my scheduled interview only to come upon 6 fellow hopefuls twitching on hard chairs with blank resumes on their laps. My competition. Good thing I smoked a bowl in the Fiat or I woulda shit a brick. We were all called into a large office where a crusty, bald man in a red jumpsuit and white Reeboks introduced himself as Jim, our “interviewing coordinator”. He called my name first and I felt my heart start to pound. Jim looked at his paper, squinted at me, looked back at his paper, muttered something about my appearance and began. Work Experience? The Signal Newspaper Delivery boy (do you have any idea how difficult it is to collect money for a free newspaper?). Education? So far, Wm S Hart High School sophomore, Newhall Calif., sub-par work ethic, poor sense of balance and indifference towards anything beyond Pre-Algebra comprehension (in general ignored by teachers and popular kids alike). Interests? Going to the Mann 6 Theater (with Lenny, wishing I could avoid all of the anxiety that came with trying to publicly pick up girls while wearing pegged Levis and a boner). Jesus, when I read it back, it is way more pathetic than I remember. Result: HIRED! Fuck you suckas! I knew they were wasting their time. I later learned that they were all hired too. Turns out, a pulse and willingness to work for $3.05 an hour was all one needed to get a uniform and free access to Valencia's finest amusement park.<br /> <br />DAY TO DAY:<br />Two things you can count on during SoCal Summers at Magic Mountain: Chicks and weather (both hot as fuck). I worked at “Head Gear”-foreshadowing? We sold hats and hat apparel. Our big draw was sailor hats that could be personalized with the assistance of an industrial sewing machine. I say industrial because there’s no other way to masculinize the fact that I used thread to cursively spell names. I didn’t mind. I chatted up so many goddamn hot chicks, my spank bank was full of deposits by noon daily. Since this is a coming of age tale, I guess I had better get to it. <br /> <br />COMING OF AGE:<br />One midweek morning as I watched the new employees touring the park I wondered if I would finally get a decent co-worker. Out of the mass of primary colored uniforms came a vision I’ll never forget. She was blonde, tan and thick. BAM POW! The sunlight prismed through her cascading locks as if she just stepped into daylight for the first time. I simultaneously panicked about my acne, potentially visible boogers, and parted/feathered hair. I took stock of my lack of muscle mass and abundant body fat and felt sick to my stomach. But it was too late (I wished I could freeze time and do another hour of aerobics). She headed my way, I sucked in my gut and stuck out my chest. She introduced herself as Alex and said she was excited about getting started at Head Gear (that's what she said) I was turned on. Male names for women have always turned me on. She was from Green Bay, Wisconsin. I was turned on. I taught her to sew names, give directions to Colossus, and get away with 200 bucks a day from the register. She taught me to feel insecure, needy and wanted. I spent every waking minute in her company for 18 days. On the 19th day, she was picked up for shoplifting stuffed monkeys and got deported back to the Midwest. It was for the best, she had a dick.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-12400164561670411802010-12-17T12:21:00.000-08:002010-12-17T12:25:09.251-08:00LOVE!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjA2Ot-5I0ONBK9i-zC-EXj09vvkZ3QqbfJDk35ud49Zm0NazzA6eJlpSCpndxFhx9xRDEej1M67XUxwQX5Vnz5xgtDHL_efy8vU5_rg7iiOOoVfFuSPVtKeBXYkAsFKGTAPV5YL-mSiv/s1600/phone.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjA2Ot-5I0ONBK9i-zC-EXj09vvkZ3QqbfJDk35ud49Zm0NazzA6eJlpSCpndxFhx9xRDEej1M67XUxwQX5Vnz5xgtDHL_efy8vU5_rg7iiOOoVfFuSPVtKeBXYkAsFKGTAPV5YL-mSiv/s320/phone.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551749817245962290" /></a><br /><br />7:05 Hi Jen. It’s me. Just calling to say “I love you”. Call me. Bye.<br /><br />8:18 Hey Jen, you wouldn’t believe what John just ate for breakfast. Musta been that new Egg-Sausage-Ass sandwich from the BK. Call me back this time K.<br /><br />9:54 Jen. Greg. Where the fuck are you? I’ve sent you like 10 texts and left like 10 messages. Call me BACK. NOW!!!!<br /><br />11:39 Jen. I’m sorry, I think I had low blood sugar or something. John and I were talking in the bathroom and we both agreed that you are the best thing that ever happened to me. When you get a free minute, please call. I love you honey bear! John and I are going to HomeTown Buffet!<br /><br />1:15 Okay, Jen, this shit isn’t funny anymore. Instead of banging the GODDAM mailman while I’m working my ass off to support your uneducated, lazy, boney ass, how about putting down every cock in the neighborhood and getting back to me or we are OVER like a SOBER ROVER! <br /><br />1:16 Wow Jen, I definitely crossed the line on that one. I am really sorry. Really! It’s just that I love you sooo much baby. You know how crazy you make me. HAHA! I’m your passionate stallion! Neeeeiiiiggghhhhh!!! HA! But seriously, if you don’t call me back soon, I’m afraid I’ll cut myself again. Okay, bye. Call me. Bye. Don’t forget. Okay bye. Okay?<br /><br /><br />2:12 JEN PICK UP THE PHONE!!! There was a HUGE EARTHQUAKE and John dove under his desk like a giant pussy. But get this, all of his stupid Salesman of the Month trophies blocked his way out and guess who saved him? Me! HAHA! I got this huge adrenaline rush and saved his limp-dicked ass. The guys think you are totally gonna blow me now! Haha! Okay. Talk to ya soon. <br /><br />3:33 I gave you your chance and you BLEW IT Jen! You are such a passive-aggressive fucking ungrateful fucking whore. GeT THe FUcK OuTtA MY LIFE!!! UNDERSTAND ASSFACE?! WE ARE THROUGH!! I HATE YOU!!! HOPE YOU DIE!! Why, oh why did I waste my life with you? You have brought me nothing but pain and misery! I have been nothing but honest, loving and heroic. You owe me more. I owe myself more than this. I’ve been talking to John and we both think you have been using me for a looong time. He should totally know on accounta his gayness. We gave it a good run I guess. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, my heart was never really into it all the way anyways. I took pity on a poor little helpless girl. I did you a huge favor and got nothing back. That’s the last time I think of someone else first. Good riddance skank!<br /><br />3:34 Oh, HAHA! I just found that little reminder note you left in my attache. Whoops, I completely forgot you were taking my mom to the Camarillo Outlets today. Hope you had a great time. Should I pick up some dinner on the way home? Love you! We’re good right?Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-72981527603934839092010-12-13T21:45:00.000-08:002011-03-26T10:01:09.816-07:00I knowWhat exactly is the downside to convalescent living again? Where do I start? You can literally fall asleep anytime you want, even while in mid-sentence if it feels right. There’s the never worrying about shitting yourself because, get this, you are supposed to shit yourself. You can yell at the Flintstones, yell at your herpes, yell at your eyebrows and then yell at the nurse because someone keeps fucking yelling. I don’t even have to think about chewing anymore- food comes in liquid form, it’s like being a baby bird in a warm nest- I asked them to take the rest of my teeth out and guess what...they did. Natch. <br /><br />Don’t even get me started on the all-day pajama wearing. For the last 3 months, I’ve been Sponge Bob Squarepants bottoms and Spiderman tops and not a one has said a goddam thing about it. Last yesterday, I lost my socks and then I realized I was looking at the wrong feet?! Go figure.<br /><br />Then there’s the experimental drug ingestion. You literally can have all you want all the time. I spent all of Mayvembery in a haze so thick, I thought I was Ryan Seacrest auditioning for the role of Jimmy Smitts in NYPD Blue. I only made it out because the can of Spam Jen force fed me on her last visit must have been contaminated with the right mix or mercury and piganus. <br /><br />Can you keep a secret? Good. Sexual orientation is a thing of the past. Once you get over the initial stage fright I guarantee you won’t believe how many cocks you can suck at once and not even break a sweat. Vagina isn’t even the same animal anymore either. Not that I ever really understood all those moving parts, but now it’s more like a sideways roast-beef sandwich hold the cheddar or maybe not. Good thing I’m here ‘til I’m dead cuz you couldn’t pay me to leave. I’d never make it on the outside again anyway.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-20010477818467583142010-12-13T21:11:00.000-08:002010-12-13T21:12:57.945-08:00VeganI am turning into someone I barely recognize anymore. I used to be able to stick a motherfucker, ya know. Now I’m full of regret and even worse, self-loathing. I’ve never been the quiet, introspective sort. More like the quiet, I got nothing to think about kinda guy. Lately it seems like shit has just been getting to me. What’s particularly troublesome is that the denial that has been my go to emotion for so long is no longer working. From ignoring my gum disease to believing that my Axe body-wash will eventually get me laid, I’m starting to think it might actually be me. Jesus, the thought of me being depressed is super depressing. I guess prison really fucking works. Plus I miss Whole Foods.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-744710654473658872010-11-11T12:30:00.000-08:002010-11-11T12:33:28.760-08:00Pants on Fire<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOuWqO-fnaQx2iBUsSBO4_pFTeNyG26MXldC3Mh4Do_EESOYD9J4Rk8_S9PpRG7dZim3eGhHGqSjZZ7Og8oVK-xBAa5vgu4iluPu5uFhYECfPy9534qbQGktp5pfzVIOgq5m7T2XcUeV8_/s1600/archer.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 146px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOuWqO-fnaQx2iBUsSBO4_pFTeNyG26MXldC3Mh4Do_EESOYD9J4Rk8_S9PpRG7dZim3eGhHGqSjZZ7Og8oVK-xBAa5vgu4iluPu5uFhYECfPy9534qbQGktp5pfzVIOgq5m7T2XcUeV8_/s320/archer.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538392940237278994" /></a><br />I have a 10 inch penis.<br /><br />I once blessed the Pope (then he sneezed).<br /><br />I can out stare the sun.<br /><br />Clint Eastwood once made my day.<br /><br />I chop down trees on Arbor Day then replant them.<br /><br />I talk shit about Perez Hilton.<br /><br />When Google wants to know something, they call me.<br /><br />I die on Good Friday, come back on Easter and give Jesus the credit.<br /><br />I was a model for Abercrombie and Fitch but got fired for looking too good.<br /><br />I don’t know what my ring tone is because I answer my phone before it rings.<br /><br />I caught the most interesting man on Earth reading my journal looking for ideas. I gave him a dos G’s because I don’t hate.<br /><br />They make number one pencils for me exclusively and instead of lead, they are filled with a diamonds. <br /><br />I am the reason Mike Tyson got fat.<br /><br />I will solve the conflict in the Middle East after I finish watching Season 1 of Archer. That shit is just funny.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-35731968439802621822010-10-29T23:13:00.000-07:002010-10-29T23:17:43.779-07:004-Year-Old Can Be Sued, Judge Rules in Bike CaseOctober 26, 2010<br /><br />What took so long? Just the other day, I seized upon a golden opportunity to not only quench my thirst but also help out some industrious little fuckheads and bought some “lemonade” from a local stand. Talk about tart! In fairness, I’m not exactly expecting Hot Dog on a Stick quality, but Jesus Country Time Christ, is nobody on my block responsible for quality control? That’s 50 cents I’m not getting back. Or is it? I just found out, it’s now open season in a new litigious world and anyone north of fetus status is game. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure you can sue an embryo at conception if you are crafty enough and still hung over. I’m all in favor of letting kids be kids but that doesn’t mean those little dill munchers are getting a free pass if they fart when I tickle them. God forbid they piss on me too and they may as well be punching my ticket to a South Beach vaca. <br /><br />At this point you may be asking what’s the point of suing a shorty. I agree, it’s not exactly like these snot faced bastards are rolling in duckets but they have other valuable resources: If you’re both a Lego fan and a Harry Potter fan (and who isn’t, really) the Lego Harry Potter Hogwarts Castle is a must have. It’s not only huge, but with 10 minifigs, kids can practically film their own animated movie with it! All you gotta do is trip on a block and that motherfucker is yours fair and square. And how about this? Imagine if a skate board and a Razor Scooter had a baby (I’m sure you can sue it too). The result would be something called the Razor Sole Skate. Holy shit, I can’t wait for my next visit with my reckless nephews. That bitch will be in the garage.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-43315644006560755812010-10-22T20:51:00.001-07:002010-11-11T15:49:04.930-08:00Pandering<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzmUYYN3r6taQmkS2pqtSuYnRt3Cveyc7Nu9zA0p9m8RNKpSUWzvuIZG2jSRsVoiceXSLd5XcNqz02GoKI1Z4z2mtQQ_m9RD4X_aDyfmEe-sMe5-JhTIFyvY55n-rTCEdNyUfz9xv4x-6/s1600/malta.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzmUYYN3r6taQmkS2pqtSuYnRt3Cveyc7Nu9zA0p9m8RNKpSUWzvuIZG2jSRsVoiceXSLd5XcNqz02GoKI1Z4z2mtQQ_m9RD4X_aDyfmEe-sMe5-JhTIFyvY55n-rTCEdNyUfz9xv4x-6/s320/malta.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538443304516718258" /></a><br />If you are reading this in Malta, I love you.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-50234102973859792192010-10-16T20:25:00.000-07:002010-10-17T09:10:38.155-07:00L.A. County Sheriff Lee Baca says deputies would enforce marijuana laws even if Prop. 19 passesOctober 15, 2010 | 1:12 pm<br /><br />Los Angeles County Sheriff Lee Baca wasted no time responding to reporters' inquiries regarding his take on Prop 19, California's controversial attempt to make recreational use of marijuana legal. "Goddam hippies think I ain't the law! HA! Wait 'til I see some stupid punkass smoking a lid! He'll be hearing nothing but his Mirandas' while the shit hits the fan", Baca lamented as he popped a couple of Percocets out of a Jon Stewart Pez dispenser.<br /><br />"It's days like these makes me wonder why we let anyone over 21 the right to vote!" he continued, "There should be a law restricting these frivolous propositions from getting on the ballot. I mean if there was a proposition that ended stupid propositions, it sure as Hell would have my vote" he said as he flawlessly injected a hypodermic needle into each of his temples while this reporter watched in awe his wrinkles magically disappear.<br /><br />"I mean, look how far we've slipped as a society. It's bad enough with the homos flaunting their same-sex destruction of 'marriages' all over West Hollywood but we also have stem cells that, I'll admit are helping people with debilitating diseases live more comfortable lives, not being given the proper Christian burial that they deserve" apparently oblivious to his surroundings he started kicking strollers and sucker-punching babies (is there any other way to punch a baby?)."<br /><br />Asked if he ever smoked marijuana, Baca unstrapped his 45 mm, pushed it into this reporter's forehead and as this reporter's life flashed before his eyes, he surprised himself about how much focused regret he had at never successfully orgasming a partner. Baca replied," Are you fucking kidding, you fascist Leftie! I oughta send you to your maker where you'll learn the manners that your Momma shoulda taught you but she was too busy toking up with your sperm donor." A little too spot on, this reporter was becoming a little concerned that maybe he had done some kinda background check, then it dawned on this reporter that is was probably the bowl he smoked in his Miata on the way to the press conference that made him a little paranoid, but then a second dawning revealed that it was probably the big ass gun still aimed at this reporter's frontal lobe that was more the likely the source for impaired thinking ability. Nah, it was the bud.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-77154634005602656142010-10-11T20:48:00.000-07:002010-11-11T15:43:19.620-08:00Wednesday is target for extraction of Chilean miners to beginIn a dramatic shift of events, negotiations have been resolved granting the Chilean government permission to evict 33 bloodsucking leaches. The settlers believed to be occupying the luxurious, deluxe low-rise, previously rent-controlled apartments located 2000 feet below the surface of one of the shittiest countries on the planet. <br /><br />The obnoxious, gibberishly named "Los 33" have been squatting for the last 2 months seemingly abandoning family members, friends, and generous former employer Chilean Mining and Pedicures, without care or concern. Video feeds displaying giddy, drunken, slender men engaging in lewd acts have in recent days resulted in sending the nation's citizenry into a panicked frenzy attempting to join them. A few copycat groups such as the shiftless lay-about, Los 32 have been caught digging into random mud fields in desperate, vain hopes of riding the wave of a newly awakened culture. No longer can Chileans be accused of being a group of self-indulgent caffeine addicted misanthropic surfers. Sure, they have had a few distractions along the way, like some Pinochet dude and his cocksucking policy about hippie hating, but is that an excuse for the general population to namby-pamby around the underground and fuck up the best neighborhoods with their reverse gentrification? <br /><br />In my opinion, you can't get those motherfuckers outta there soon enough!Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-18240094335146792472010-10-01T20:57:00.000-07:002010-11-11T15:47:08.503-08:00'bout time<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidO1WckWwuzkUaxVXW8IOROz1NuSHm_dwPsuidJmxCCKcOA18ueTD0EoZKat6Gc5b4sHUD9iK7jIMdVvEw28yZHeTJRKXWNpRSICHZi6W-P36hy0S2O2Ma3GPYdj3hGnATfB38C3MIN7_g/s1600/bill_murray.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidO1WckWwuzkUaxVXW8IOROz1NuSHm_dwPsuidJmxCCKcOA18ueTD0EoZKat6Gc5b4sHUD9iK7jIMdVvEw28yZHeTJRKXWNpRSICHZi6W-P36hy0S2O2Ma3GPYdj3hGnATfB38C3MIN7_g/s320/bill_murray.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538442833911173378" /></a><br />I’m thinking that upon achieving super-stud status (happening any day now, btw), I’ll be employing the semi-controversial Bill Murray S.O.P. for dealing with everyday situations: FUCK EVERYBODY!<br /><br />I have been far too accommodating to the pedestrian individuals I am forced to interact with on a daily basis; the passive-aggressive geriatric Walmart greeter whose singular, disposable use to me is directions to the boxed Merlot. Then there's Floyd, my overzealous, self-righteous, self-entitled landlord. Not to mention Cynthia at American Express with her droning, judgmental questioning of my purchasing habits (maybe I want to charge my entire team’s hockey fees before declaring bankruptcy!). But how do I respond? I swallow my hate and burp, "Yes sir, yes ma'am, you are right. I guess I was in your way!" Screw that shit, it's tea-bagging time. I am a white, male for fuck'sake. Why am I stuck nurturing and dish-washing? Well, no longer will I sit passively by as my country turns into a huge cesspool of a Hitler-loving-Stalin-following-perfect-storm-of-fascist-communism. Polar opposites, my ass. It's not like I put myself in this dilly on my own. It's time for America to be American again. If I can't eat it, I sure as hell better be able to fuck it.Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-37318235121703736352010-09-22T19:26:00.000-07:002010-11-11T15:50:39.077-08:00Netflix Hires Actors to Pose as Its Canada Fans<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2uKcLbTI3aA1C46oM3iRc9uFaV2mcmwP5iD3gLQDd73V4diby3r1xnkFC76ZJcJXEALNCsTVgusMaFA_VscHqhUJvUgRLlbR3xsxfRcOXtX-Jy6hpEwVvnbp4zAUoAy-II4vjockLhwu/s1600/strange-brew.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2uKcLbTI3aA1C46oM3iRc9uFaV2mcmwP5iD3gLQDd73V4diby3r1xnkFC76ZJcJXEALNCsTVgusMaFA_VscHqhUJvUgRLlbR3xsxfRcOXtX-Jy6hpEwVvnbp4zAUoAy-II4vjockLhwu/s320/strange-brew.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538443787608625298" /></a><br />By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS<br />Published: September 22, 2010<br /><br />Not having an overabundance of confidence in legitimate Canadians is becoming an increasingly annoying practice by arrogant American companies. First, there was the whole debacle when I didn’t get hired by KFC after testing perfectly well for their Double-Down commercial. Some bullshit about a pre-existing heart condition, my bum, eh! You hosers were too afraid to admit that you are all Canadian-phobic. The only exception you Yanks make is when we are hot as Hell. Sure Pamela Anderson and Alex Trebek are exciting and dynamic eye candy, but there is substance below the surface. Canadian substance. Well screw you, don’t make me take back Evangeline Lilly or Anna Paquin, because I will and we’ll soon see who comes crawling back, boners and hat in hands. <br /><br />Looks like Netflix is the most recent fuck up in what’s already a litany of embarrassing American greed. It wasn’t enough that they sent me an altered, sad copy of Juno (which stared one amazing Canadian: Ellen Page). I cannot believe that they actually reshot the entire movie with that pussy Michael Cera playing the role that Michael J. Fox executed perfectly to the delight of tens of tens of Canadians. Now we find out that they actually paid people to pose as Canada fans! Like there is a shortage of Canada fans in Canada?! Show me a self-loathing Canadian and I’ll show you an asshole that moved to Southern California because he couldn’t handle a diverse climate! <br /><br />Alright, enough for now, I gotta go to hockey, if that’s alright with you Halliburton. Mooooom wait!!!!Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591378483892613913.post-803803636319326552010-08-25T22:03:00.000-07:002010-08-26T08:03:03.475-07:00Late for Pro-Am, Furyk Is Ineligible for the Barclays<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbtmDngC3y6lp4Jjp5JiHQSw7k8GjkD7o2_GYB4r_lxySfjAfBiReX0zNGwGIlUUEszSICD0aA6RijJCWfoBWQ1DIghfP5Y0L9LvnY-ZyzVSrPNx9hauKk10ePe2wnerygEqMQ58E0mxon/s1600/amd_jim_furyk.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 221px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbtmDngC3y6lp4Jjp5JiHQSw7k8GjkD7o2_GYB4r_lxySfjAfBiReX0zNGwGIlUUEszSICD0aA6RijJCWfoBWQ1DIghfP5Y0L9LvnY-ZyzVSrPNx9hauKk10ePe2wnerygEqMQ58E0mxon/s320/amd_jim_furyk.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509734247294905618" /></a><br /><br />GREG MITCHELL/Associated Press<br />Jim Furyk, the sixth-ranked player in the world, took full responsibility for the cellphone fiasco.<br />11:57 a.m. | Updated<br /><br />Looks like a typical day at the office for Jim “Fuck up” Furyk with another notch on the belt for the guy that has been a major disappointment for throngs of young, impressionable followers.<br /> <br />Asked how in the Hell he could possibly over-sleep for a job that most people would eagerly give their left nut to participate in, Furyk responded, “Look Greg, when we were in Vegas last November did I give you any shit when you accidentally killed that albino midget with my fairway wood?”. Well, this unbiased, unflappable reporter cannot be flapped, “Sure we can make it all about me but how do explain the simple fact that because you obviously require more beauty rest than most, you lost out on a chance at a million dollar purse?”<br /><br />“Sure Greg, 1 million dollars right? How about the time you complained to me after shelling out a million dollars ordering the entire inventory of your wife’s experimental vegan-porn DVDs just to get it off the open market?” Furyk moaned. <br /> <br />He was starting to get on my nerves. I really should never have confided in someone with such a fucked up backswing. Furyk continued, “And how about explaining last night: crashing the Furyk man-cave at 4AM hopped up on God-knows-what Jonesing for a go at my 1977 Playboy pinball machine and you didn’t even freaking leave until you got the high score.”<br /><br />I have to admit I must have blacked that one out (even though it happened like 6 hours ago). And though it probably explains his late wake up, it was still a low blow.<br /><br />Okay, apparently my persistence was really bumming him out but this relentless reporter was not about to relent. After all, I owe you readers answers. “Jim, do you think maybe you can answer ONE simple question without projecting unto me?”<br /><br />“Fine. What?” Furyk asked while removing his Johnny Walker cap to reveal a swastika I just now remembered Sharpie’ing to his oblong dome.<br /><br />“Hey, can I borrow your car again tonight? I promised Jen that I would show her what the ceiling of the Trans-Am T-top looks like. Wacka wacka.”. While pantomiming thrusting and slapping motions for emphasis. <br /><br />“Fuck you Greg, this interview is over!” he snarled.<br /><br />“So, that’s a “no” then?” I was genuinely disappointed.<br /><br />He tossed me the keys, “Nah, I can’t be a hater”.<br /><br />Well, I can sucka!Greghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18026548101886609189noreply@blogger.com0