Not a morning person!

Maybe it’s just the overcast this morning, or maybe I didn’t get enough sleep, but I woke up feeling misanthropic. It utterly amazes me how many genuinely stupid, wretched people are on the road. My list of peeves this a.m.-
Cyclists. Yeah, I know you guys are doing us all a service by not stinking up the air with your emissions and I should thank you for it. I know that you have chosen a healthier path for yourselves and I should follow your example, but you guys piss me off. You whizzing through stopped traffic between cars, blowing through stop signs, and then holding the rest of us up because you cannot pedal at the speed of traffic when it moves, fills me with contempt. We, in our cages, as you so affectionately call them, should not have to straddle lanes at 15 mph to avoid hitting you stupid, thoughtless ass holes. Find a street with a bike lane, carpool, take the bus, whatever, but do not expect me to tip my hat to you. I paid good money when I bought my car to have the privilege of driving on the street. Highway improvements, and RTD tax are enough to choke a damn horse, and you paid none of those at the bike shop, and are not entitled to make up your own traffic rules on the streets you share with us. And, with very few exceptions, you look like shit in spandex. Suck my exhaust pipe.
Speaking of exhaust—
Soccer moms—with 2.5 kids, wearing your adorable little Wal-Mart leisure suits, getting impatient for every one to move out of your way when YOU have finished dumping your maggots at school, you piss me off. Maybe the line of cars would be shorter in front of the school if you did something useful and brought some of the neighborhood kids with you this morning. Your vehicle is the size of a school bus any way, and don’t act like you have something important to do, or somewhere pressing to be. The cookies will still be there when you get home, you over fed hussy. My damn car overheats waiting for the line of cars to move, and you don’t see me freaking out and honking, you manicured former suburbanite princess. You’re driving in the city now, so consider your title rescinded, Highness.
Harley riders, you know which ones. You guys piss me off. Where do I begin. First, let me congratulate you for being awake at this hour. I have no idea where you work with all those tats, the filthy damn clothes and the ZZ Top facial hair, but the fact that you are a productive member of society despite looking like a vagrant gives me hope. However, that earsplitting noise from your beloved machine makes me want to strangle you with your own beard, especially when we are forced together in traffic and there is no escape from you. I know, the noise helps keep you safe, because we morons in our cages have difficulty seeing you, and you want to make us aware of your presence. Believe me buddy, you are noticeable. The outfit makes you stand apart from the crowd. And think on this…at least the ass hole in spandex pedaling like mad is not screaming at the top of his lungs to make sure we know he’s there. He’s too busy getting his cardio workout in the exhaust heavy air to even attempt screaming. You should take a page from his book, you beer gutted troglodyte, and get some exercise.
Have a nice morning

Kicking it-HNT

Hi guys, I know that tomorrow is Thursday. I also know that there will be no possible way for me to post tomorrow, so once again, here is HNT early! I would like to thank YOU for last night! What a ride! Cheers from an undisclosed location. (Hint, it is an island)

Intervention

I have a confession to make. I can not kid myself or you any longer. I am tired of living a double life, a lie. It is time to come clean with you all here and now. I am an addict. A week person who has succumbed to temptation, blinded to what is right and what is wrong. Yes, I am an addict.

I do not know what it is or why, but I feel the need to order every single stupid invention or gadget that they show on those “As Seen On TV” commercials. Is it the stellar narration? Is it the presentation? I have no clue. What I do know however I am the proud owner of every little stupid invention known to man. Every time one of those commercials comes on, I dive for the remote in hopes to change the channel. It is always too late. Once I here that familiar cheesy announcer voice, I am hooked like a crack head waking up for the morning score. Normally I am one with an incredible sense of willpower, but when it comes to these items, I am helpless. I have even found myself roaming the isle of the “As Seen On TV” products in the local Rite Aid.

I own the “Microwave Caddy”, the “Deli Pro Knife” and even the “Magic Dryer Balls”. I had ordered the “One Touch Can Opener” the “Magic Duster” and even bought some “Oxi Clean”. I have fought the urge, but broke down and called to get the “Roller Slide Abdominal Roller Exerciser”, the “Squirrel Scatter” and even the “Drain Buster”. The worst part is, I know before the item even arrives it will consist of some cheap plastic, molded together in some third world country and I will also know that it will not work. Yet I continue to order, I continue to buy. I need help.

Just recently, one of the evil spots ran and I was doing great, fighting the urge. I was really proud of myself until the “But Wait”. It was all over but the crying. Now I have a “Pasta Express” and I must tell you I have never ingested that much starch at one time in my life. Please, someone help me. There has to be others like me. There must be some Twelve step program or something. At this point I am thinking about refraining from television all together.

Please, if you are the person on the phone when I place the call to order, turn me away. Do not allow me to charge the 19.99 plus shipping and handling to my credit card so that in six to eight weeks I will come down from the high once again. Not even the 30 day money back guarantee will save me.

Yes, I am an addict.

I am hitting the road once again. My girl Jessica will be watching the place for the next week. Anyone who would like to post please email me!

Airport security-is this legal? Guest blogger

I am a 28 mother with a new born that I breast feed, I am also very well endowed. Last night at the airport I was pulled off the line by a security officer, who said that he noticed I was breast feeding my baby. He told me to follow him to a private room and told me under the new regulations he must taste my milk for explosives. He then opened my blouse and exposed my breasts and started sucking on them, when he finished he said they were safe. My complaint is that he drained me completely and I couldn’t feed my baby for two hours.

For Sale

Up for sale one gently used but still in good condition boyfriend (1980 model, all parts in good working order).

No need to buy batteries! Boyfriend recharges by attaching his hands to the keyboard of your computer where he will spend at least 6 hours a day, 10 hrs on weekends playing video games. Decharging is easy and is required daily for boyfriend to stay in good working condition. Simply remove your panties let him plug himself in, and after 2 minutes he will be fully decharged and will promptly fall asleep.

Purchaser must be:

Financially stable -Not only to make purchaase, but because boyfriend works menial job and you will have to pay the rent, his bills, and mantenence fees.

Have high pain tollerance – boyfriend is a visual creature and you will be expected to wear high stilettos at all times, when going out, when cooking his meals, when doing his laundry, even when jogging (jogging is a must as you need to be so thin as to be almost invisible when you turn sideways, other than, of course, your double D boobs).

Have tattood on make up – to avoid owner confusion you, like TV actresses, must look perfectly made up and beautiful when you wake up in the morning, when working out, and even during a shower. Otherwise boyfriend may get confused and may end up in the bed of someone else.

Have patience – while boyfriend is house-trained he occasionally feels the need to pee outside to mark territory (even when not drinking)

Warning: Improper following of any of these instructions can cause heart problems (most commonly breaking) in the owner

Reason for selling: Want to upgrade to a better model

Those were the days farting etiquette

I am back. The trip was a blast and I will post pictures.

I turned on the computer and opened “Windows Exploder” and headed to “ Not Touching You” formerly “Mike Or Michael” and realized that it has almost been one year since starting the blog. I decided to peek into the achieves and take a walk down memory lane. The first thing that I noticed is how I have been really slacking when it comes to the posts. Some of the old ones had me cracking up! I decided to check the stats of all of the posts

So I am going to re-post and share with you the “Most popular post” and make a vow to get back to the posts of old and hopefully make it another year. Thanks for dropping by!

Farting Etiquette – 2005-09-17 @10:46:07 am

Why is it wrong or rude to fart?
I was in a meeting this week. In this meeting there were about eight or nine others that looked about as interested in this meeting as I was. Who calls a fucking meeting at 7:00 AM? I am tired of hearing “Well it is 7:00 PM in China”. That is who was on the phone in this meeting. As my mind pondered as to this early hour and why the hell are we doing business in China it started! That undeniable pressure beginning to build deep in the bowels. It makes perfect sense to me as normally I would be on the shitter taking my morning dump at this hour, but instead I am here listening to concerns and issues about getting product from Asia and the cost of doing so. “It’s a cost savings,” I say to myself. Then again the pressure, a bubble just churned inside me. I need to release it. Can I sneak it out? Will it stink? Will they know it is me?

I hate situations like this. Why must we have to hold in and endure the pain of what is natural. Why is it that my fart would be offensive? We have come so far in today’s world. When are we going to say it is OK to fart? I know that you all agree with me. Why must people look at you like a maggot because you farted? It is not like one can control his or her bodily functions.

I look at my watch, 7:45. Through watery eyes, I look over at Anthony. Does he have to fart, I wonder. I listen to Chung Chang on the phone. He could fart if he needed to and we would never know. Is farting OK in China I wonder? My cheeks are clenched as I hold back the massive pressure within my crack. I begin to sweat. Elisabeth looks across at me. I must be white or something. I wonder if she knows I need to fart. Maybe she is holding back a wet one as well. 8:00 am. My mouth is bone dry. I have chills. I now can hear the fart churning in my bowels. I wonder if they know. Maybe they think it is my stomach.

Why must we as a nation suffer like this? I would love to be in the isle at the grocery store and just rip one. If it were acceptable, you’d have people say, “Good one”. Instead, if we fart in public we embarrassedly say, “Excuse me” as if we committed a crime. Imagine how liberating it would be to squeeze one out on a bus, or in an elevator.

8:30. I had my chance. Too late. This once harmless fart is now a raging shit I can no longer deny. With my bung puckered, my only concern now is weather or not I can hold out and not shit my pants. That would be offensive! But if I could have just farted when I needed to all of this could have been avoided. I get up. Everyone in the room is now looking at me. Of course, the door is across the room. I make my way toward it, excusing myself as I bump into people and their chairs. Martha looks at me as if to say, “I knew you wouldn’t make it”. I free myself from the anti farting session and make my way down the hallway. I see the place, my freedom. It looks to be miles away. Do I run and risk premature bowel release? No, act like everything is OK. I get to the bathroom. I head for the stall, drop trou, and before I hit the seat, a stream of liquid shit explodes from my anal canal.

I say that we petition to make farting acceptable in this great land. I am sure that the president can fart anytime he wishes and no one says a word. Just once, I would like to be able to fart in a public setting and hold my head high, be proud that I released my butt demons and was not ashamed. Think of a world where farting was the norm. A whole new world of topics and conversations would evolve.

There I sit. Spent, tired and weary. The stench of what started as a harmless fart has ended as a wet soupy mix in the bowl beneath me. I wonder what they are saying in the meeting. I wonder if they are relaying what has occurred to Chung Chang on the phone. I clean up with the pitiful excuse of toilet paper the company provides to wipe my ass with savings, and compose myself for the re-entry into the meeting. I exit the stall and notice the look on the other users faces in the room. A look as if I have somehow violated company policy by shitting such as I did. I go wash my hands and notice how they quickly pee and get out of there. As I wash my hands and look in the mirror amongst the stench that was once a harmless fart, I feel proud. I rise up and push my shoulders back as if I just scored. Yeah, that was me, I think to myself as I strut back up the hallway to my 7:00AM meeting.

Those were the days

I am back. The trip was a blast and I will post pictures.

I turned on the computer and opened “Windows Exploder” and headed to “I’m Not Touching You” formerly “Is It Mike Or Michael” and realized that it has almost been one year since starting the blog. I decided to peek into the achieves and take a walk down memory lane. The first thing that I noticed is how I have been really slacking when it comes to the posts. Some of the old ones had me cracking up! I decided to check the stats of all of the posts (Blogsome does a really good job in this area).

So I am going to re-post and share with you the “Most popular post” and make a vow to get back to the posts of old and hopefully make it another year. Thanks for dropping by!

Farting Etiquette – 2005-09-17 @10:46:07 am

Why is it wrong or rude to fart?
I was in a meeting this week. In this meeting there were about eight or nine others that looked about as interested in this meeting as I was. Who calls a fucking meeting at 7:00 AM? I am tired of hearing “Well it is 7:00 PM in China”. That is who was on the phone in this meeting. As my mind pondered as to this early hour and why the hell are we doing business in China it started! That undeniable pressure beginning to build deep in the bowels. It makes perfect sense to me as normally I would be on the shitter taking my morning dump at this hour, but instead I am here listening to concerns and issues about getting product from Asia and the cost of doing so. “It’s a cost savings,” I say to myself. Then again the pressure, a bubble just churned inside me. I need to release it. Can I sneak it out? Will it stink? Will they know it is me?

I hate situations like this. Why must we have to hold in and endure the pain of what is natural. Why is it that my fart would be offensive? We have come so far in today’s world. When are we going to say it is OK to fart? I know that you all agree with me. Why must people look at you like a maggot because you farted? It is not like one can control his or her bodily functions.

I look at my watch, 7:45. Through watery eyes, I look over at Anthony. Does he have to fart, I wonder. I listen to Chung Chang on the phone. He could fart if he needed to and we would never know. Is farting OK in China I wonder? My cheeks are clenched as I hold back the massive pressure within my crack. I begin to sweat. Elisabeth looks across at me. I must be white or something. I wonder if she knows I need to fart. Maybe she is holding back a wet one as well. 8:00 am. My mouth is bone dry. I have chills. I now can hear the fart churning in my bowels. I wonder if they know. Maybe they think it is my stomach.

Why must we as a nation suffer like this? I would love to be in the isle at the grocery store and just rip one. If it were acceptable, you’d have people say, “Good one”. Instead, if we fart in public we embarrassedly say, “Excuse me” as if we committed a crime. Imagine how liberating it would be to squeeze one out on a bus, or in an elevator.

8:30. I had my chance. Too late. This once harmless fart is now a raging shit I can no longer deny. With my bung puckered, my only concern now is weather or not I can hold out and not shit my pants. That would be offensive! But if I could have just farted when I needed to all of this could have been avoided. I get up. Everyone in the room is now looking at me. Of course, the door is across the room. I make my way toward it, excusing myself as I bump into people and their chairs. Martha looks at me as if to say, “I knew you wouldn’t make it”. I free myself from the anti farting session and make my way down the hallway. I see the place, my freedom. It looks to be miles away. Do I run and risk premature bowel release? No, act like everything is OK. I get to the bathroom. I head for the stall, drop trou, and before I hit the seat, a stream of liquid shit explodes from my anal canal.

I say that we petition to make farting acceptable in this great land. I am sure that the president can fart anytime he wishes and no one says a word. Just once, I would like to be able to fart in a public setting and hold my head high, be proud that I released my butt demons and was not ashamed. Think of a world where farting was the norm. A whole new world of topics and conversations would evolve.

There I sit. Spent, tired and weary. The stench of what started as a harmless fart has ended as a wet soupy mix in the bowl beneath me. I wonder what they are saying in the meeting. I wonder if they are relaying what has occurred to Chung Chang on the phone. I clean up with the pitiful excuse of toilet paper the company provides to wipe my ass with savings, and compose myself for the re-entry into the meeting. I exit the stall and notice the look on the other users faces in the room. A look as if I have somehow violated company policy by shitting such as I did. I go wash my hands and notice how they quickly pee and get out of there. As I wash my hands and look in the mirror amongst the stench that was once a harmless fart, I feel proud. I rise up and push my shoulders back as if I just scored. Yeah, that was me, I think to myself as I strut back up the hallway to my 7:00AM meeting.

Garage Sale

Are you out of your high-priced mind? Have you ever heard of the Dollar Store? You watch me, eagle-eyed, fearing that I may want to abscond with your lovely “Once You’re Over The Hill, You Pick Up Speed” coffee mug, rather than pay the oh-so-reasonable sum of two dollars. Again: have you been to a Dollar Store? Ever?

Are you aware of the dot.com bust? Nobody wants your CrockPot, priced handsomely at ten smackers. Here’s a hint: I have already seen seven CrockPots in my journeys today; you aren’t getting rid of that thing unless you pay someone to make it disappear. People who have the time to meander down serpentine suburban tracts in search of a house with a garage door open and balloons on the mailbox do not need to slow-cook their turkey chili all day long. Oh, I guess a few may want to; It all feels so trendy and housewifily efficient, but they already have two CrockPots, then. They don’t need your old avocado green model, circa 1972.

Those of you with a husband home to help sell your overpriced crap: send him back to work! He makes me nervous, trying to convince me of the usefulness of all that Windows95 compatible software that he’s pushing. Garage sales are chiefly the territory of old women, young mothers, middle-aged mothers, Russian immigrants, Vietnamese immigrants, nameless Eastern European country immigrants, and creepy guys of an undetermined age who haunt the sales looking for camera equipment and the possibility of cheating someone out of valuable antiques. Your young ambitious fathers and husbands try to run garage sales like a Fortune 500 company, what with the computer-generated price tags and all. I hate you.

Furthermore, where is all the good stuff? Did it go to those damned retiree early birders? The slackjaw yokels in the truck jampacked with three rooms’ worth of oak furniture? Why continue your enterprise when all that is left is musty camping equipment and your son’s hockey paraphenalia, scent included? You could at least put a warning flag out for those of us who wish to not waste our time!

Finally, those of you selling “All Baby Crap, Nothing But Baby Crap”, please just stop. I have no more babies to clothe or lavish with toys. I don’t need you putting an enticing ad in the local Penny Saver, drawing me fourteen miles out into the wilderness, only to be met by liquor box after liquor box filled with Onesies and baby socks. You make my blood boil. And no, I don’t want to purchase a cup of questionably-prepared liquid from your crumb-covered little darling. If I were the Health Inspector, I’d shut down your damn kitchen.

Thank you,

A Concerned Shopper

is my rebuttal to Andi’s review of last night’s Rock Star

Before I give my Rock Star rebuttal, let me just say, yes, I agree Janelle should have, could have, but they all need to chill on my woman. Each of their pussy asses could have done the same. Hello, James? Kayser? Enough said. Will is a dick, but he knows how to play.

Now on to my ROCKSTAR review and rant…

I think that it is clear by now Dilana is and will be the lead singer of Narcotics Anonymous. She has the look (for them, not sure I would want to wake up next to that in the morning) the sound and the presence. Did you see Gilby drool as she hit the Axl like scream? Yes, girlfriend, you are on your way to stardom.

For the dudes, I at first thought that Toby had redeemed himself and had the best chance of kicking Dilana in the tits to knock her out of contention. Then along came Ryan. Not only is that the greatest song, but the whole solo thing playing the keys…. “I” wanted to spoon with him. Great job. Dilana, get to work because he is your biggest threat. Throw a voodoo spell on him or some shit.

Other noticeable mentions where;

Patrice. She looked good even with the “There’s Something About Amy” hair gel look. Dave gave her shit, but he hasn’t been getting any since Carmen bailed. Honestly I think her biggest problem was she was afraid of offending Gibly. Not trying to grind or push up on anyone. Either that or maybe Tommy was hanging out and she was in awe. She was good.

Storm was good. I think that she Cha.. Cha.. Cha.. Changed… One too many times in each verse, but what do I know. Her voice is awesome, and although I do not want to eat the corn out of her shit like Andi does, She looked hot. But you have to admit, the eyes were like just dying to bug out! Her face was contorting trying to hold them back.

Josh…I have to agree with Ms. Thang. What the hell is your problem boy? Did you have one too many Starbucks enemas or what? I have some advice for ya… You want to be that soulful artsy musician? Go buy a 12 gauge and pull a Cobain. You wanna front Narcotics Anonymous AKA Super Nova? Pull your ego out of your ass and bring it.

Magni, You suck and look like one of the fag clowns from ICP. Next time make sure you have your can of FAGGO. Enough Said!

Jill, I was feeling you at first. But murder one of the best 80’s songs ever and I am kicking your ass to the curb Ho. Save that “I want to be an American Idol, Christina Agulara, gettchi, gettchi, ya ya shit for Karaoke.

Lukas – Good job. I was feeling you and your “Days of Our Lives” missing your family shit, but you sounded just, OK? How does the biggest Musician from Poland or Iceland or where ever the fuck you’re from just sound “OK”? You got the pity vote and the guys are bringing you family over for you, so you better release the nut and start singing. (Did anyone notice Tommy say that his kids were there with him last night? That is because “Ms. Hepatitis C” AKA “Tits on a stick” is off screwing the KID after one of their many marriage ceremonies).

Dana – I loved ya. I love you and I want you! I got the 8 ball and the lube. You bring the box wine.

Last but not least, I have saved the best for last. However in this case with my head down I must concede,

Zayra, what in the FUCK? Dude, you looked like a scanky vampire whore. What is up with the whole Guadalajara super hero shit? To top it off, you have the nerve to try 8675309? Bitch Please! Have you ever even heard that song back in the shanty’s of TJ? Bitch, you need to give it up. You might be hot in a 100-peso, around the world, escort kind way, but you’re no singer, you’re no performer and Canada already has Celine, so you’re fucked. Word of advice, learn English, turn on the radio and listen and find a gay man to dress you.

As Always, love ya Andi. Give me a number and I will call to reconcile my bill. Still waiting on the couch thing.

Oh and real quick, back to Big Brother All-Stars:

Diane, I know that you may get the boot soon. I hear that you’re broke and homeless. I would hate to see ya tricking down on sunset, so give me a call. I have a place for you to sleep and I will put your “Getting Lucky In Kentucky” ass to work.