the darker side of @drunkbastard

One Star Hangover (*):

No pain. No real feeling of illness. You’re able to function relatively well; however, you are still parched. You can drink 5 sodas and still feel this way. For some reason, you are craving a steak & fries.

Two Star Hangover (**):

No pain, but something is definitely amiss. You may look okay, but you have the mental capacity of a staple gun. The coffee you are chugging is only increasing your rumbling gut, which is still tossing around the fruity pancake from the 3:00 AM Waffle House excursion. There is some definite havoc being wreaked upon your bowels.

Three Star Hangover (***):

Slight headache. Stomach feels crappy. You are definitely not productive.  Anytime a girl walks by you gag because her perfume reminds you of theflavored schnapps shots your alcoholic friends dared you to drink. Life would be better right now if you were home in your bed watching Lucy reruns. You’ve had 4 cups of coffee, a gallon of water, 3 iced teas and a diet Coke —- yet you haven’t peed once.

Four Star Hangover (****):

Life sucks. Your head is throbbing. You can’t speak too quickly or else you might puke. Your boss has already lambasted you for being late and has given you a lecture for reeking of booze. You wore nice clothes, but that can’t hide the fact that you only shaved one side of your face.  (For the ladies, it looks like you put your make-up on while riding the bumper cars.) Your eyes look like one big red vein, and even your hair hurts. Your sphincter is in perpetual spasm, and the first of about five shits you take during the day brings water to the eyes of everyone who enters the bathroom.

Five Star Hangover (*****):

You have a second heartbeat in your head, which is actually the annoying employee who sits in the next cube. Vodka vapor is seeping out of every pore and making you dizzy. In fact, you are probably still drunk. You still have toothpaste crust in the corners of your mouth from brushing your teeth in an attempt to get the remnants of the poop fairy out. Your body has lost the ability to generate saliva so your tongue is suffocating you. You don’t have the foggiest idea who the hell the stranger was passed out in your bed this morning. Any attempt to defecate results in a fire hose like discharge of alcohol-scented fluid with a rare ‘floater’ thrown in. The sole purpose of this ‘floater’ seems to be to splash the toilet water all over your ass. Death sounds pretty good about right now!

THINGS THAT ARE DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN YOU’RE DRUNK:

Indubitably

Innovative

Preliminary

Proliferation

Cinnamon

THINGS THAT ARE VERY DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN YOU’RE DRUNK:

Specificity

British Constitution

Passive-aggressive disorder

Loquacious Transubstantiate

THINGS THAT ARE DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY WHEN YOU’RE DRUNK:

Thanks, but I don’t want to have sex.

Nope, no more booze for me.

Sorry, but you’re not really my type.

Good evening officer, isn’t it lovely out tonight.

Oh, I just couldn’t. No one wants to hear me sing.

1.   “YOU GET THIS ONE, NEXT ROUND IS ON ME.”

(We won’t be here long enough to get another round.)

2.   “I’LL GET THIS ONE, NEXT ONE IS ON YOU.”

(Happy hour is about to end… beers are now a dollar, but by the next round they’ll be $4.50 a pop.)

3.   “HEY, WHERE IS THAT FRIEND OF YOURS?”

(I have no interest in talking to you except as a way to get your attractive friend into a compromising position.)

4.   “WHAT DO YOU HAVE ON TAP?”

(What’s cheap?)

5.   “I’LL HAVE A GLASS OF HOUSE WHITE.” (FEMALE)

(I’m easy.)

6.   “I’LL HAVE A GLASS OF HOUSE WHITE.” (MALE)

(I’m gay.)

7.   “I’LL HAVE AN AMARETTO & OJ.” (FEMALE)

(I’m really easy.)

8.   “I’LL HAVE AN AMARETTO & OJ.” (MALE)

(I’m really gay.)

9.   “DO YOU HAVE ANY SAMBUCA?”

(I want to make my friend really sick so we can all laugh at him in the morning.)

10.  ”EVER TRY A BODY SHOT?” (MALE TO FEMALE)

(I am even willing to drink tequila if it means I get to lick you.)

11.   “EVER TRY A BODY SHOT?” (FEMALE TO MALE)

(If this is how wild I am in the bar, can you imagine what I’ll do to you in bed?)

12.  ”CAN I JUST GET A GLASS OF WATER?” (FEMALE)

(I am really annoying, but cute enough to get away with this.)

13.   “CAN I JUST GET A GLASS OF WATER?” (MALE)

(It’s 6:00 am and I just stopped drinking an hour ago. Hell, probably spent half my paycheck in here last night, it is the least you can do for me.)

14.   “I DON’T FEEL WELL, LET’S GO HOME.” (FEMALE)

(You’re paying more attention to your friends than to me.)

15.   “I DON’T FEEL WELL, LET’S GO HOME.” (MALE)

(I’m horny.)

16.   “WHO’S GOT THE NEXT ROUND?”

(I haven’t bought a round in almost 3 years, but I am an expert at diverting attention.)

17.   “EXCUSE ME.” (MALE TO MALE)

(Get the hell out of the way.)

18.   “EXCUSE ME.” (MALE TO FEMALE)

(I am going to grope you now and blame it on the crowd.)

19.   “EXCUSE ME.” (FEMALE TO MALE)

(Don’t even think about groping me, just get the hell out of my way.)

20.   “EXCUSE ME.” (FEMALE TO FEMALE)

(Move your fat ass. Who do you think you are anyway?  

You’re certainly not all that, missy, coming in here dressed like a ho.. And get your eyes off of my man, or I’ll slap you like the slut you are, bitch.)

21.   “THAT PERSON LOOKS REALLY FAMILIAR.”

(Did I sleep with him/her?)

22.   “I DON’T HAVE MY ID ON ME.” (FEMALE)

(I’m 16.)

23.   “I DON’T HAVE MY ID ON ME.” (MALE)

(I don’t have a license since I got pulled over and blew a .4 

after my last visit here.)

24.   “NO, REALLY, I’M OK TO DRIVE.”

(I’m wasted, and I’m too embarrassed to have anybody see who I’m going home with.)

25.   “I’M NOT USED TO THESE DARTS.”

(I can’t throw anything smaller than a pool cue when I’m this bombed.)

26.   “LET’S GO OUT TO MY CAR AND GET SOME CIGARETTES.” 

(MALE TO FEMALE) (You would look great face down in my lap.)

27.   “I’VE HAD LIKE 10 BEERS ALREADY.”

(I’ve only had 3 but need an excuse to behave this way.)

Twenty-five lines from the “Star Wars” films that would have benefited greatly from the strategic substitution of the word “pants”:

1.  A tremor in the pants.  The last time I felt this was in the presence of my old master.

2.  You are unwise to lower your pants.

3.  We’ve got to be able to get some reading on those pants, up or down.

4.  She must have hidden the plans in her pants. Send a detachment down to retrieve them.  See to it personally, Commander.

5.  These pants may not look like much, kid, but they’ve got it where it counts.

6.  I find your lack of pants disturbing.

7.  These pants contain the ultimate power in the Universe.  I suggest we use it.

8.  Han will have those pants down.  We’ve got to give him more time!

9.  General Veers, prepare your pants for a surface assault.

10.  I used to bulls-eye womp-rats in my pants back home.

11.  TK-421…  Why aren’t you in your pants?

12.  Lock the door.  And hope they don’t have pants.

13.  Governor Tarkin.  I recognized your foul pants when I was brought on board.

14.  You look strong enough to pull the pants off of a Gundark.

15.  Luke… Help me take… these pants off.

16.  Great, Chewie, great.  Always thinking with your pants.

17.  That blast came from those pants.  That thing’s operational!

18.  Don’t worry. Chewie and I have gotten into a lot of pants more heavily guarded than this.

19.  Maybe you’d like it back in your pants, your highness.

20.  Your pants betray you.  Your feelings for them are strong.  Especially for your sister!

21.  Jabba doesn’t have time for smugglers who drop their pants at the first sign of an Imperial Cruiser.

22.  Yeah, well short pants is better than no pants at all, Chewie.

23.  Attention.  This is Lando Calrissean.  The Empire has taken control of my pants, I advise everyone to leave before more troops arrive.

24.  I cannot teach him.  The boy has no pants.

25.  You came in those pants?  You’re braver than I thought.

The following advisory for American travelers heading for France was compiled from information provided by the US State Department, the Central Intelligence Agency, the US Chamber of Commerce, the Food and Drug Administration, the Centers for Disease Control, and some very expensive spy satellites that the French don’t know about. It is intended as a guide for American travelers only.

General Overview

France is a medium-sized foreign country situated in the continent of Europe. It is an important member of the world community, though not nearly as important as it thinks. It is bounded by Germany, Spain, Switzerland and some smaller nations of no particular consequence and with not very good shopping.

France is a very old country with many treasures, such as the Louvre and EuroDisney. Among its contributions to western civilization are champagne, Camembert cheese and the guillotine.

Although France likes to think of itself as a modern nation, air conditioning is little used and it is next to impossible to get decent Mexican food. One continuing exasperation for American visitors is that the people willfully persist in speaking French, though many will speak English if shouted at. As in any foreign country, watch your change at all times.

The People

France has a population of 65 million people, most of whom drink and smoke a great deal, drive like lunatics, are dangerously oversexed, and have no concept of standing patiently in line. The French people are in general gloomy, temperamental, proud, arrogant, aloof, and undisciplined; and those are their good points.

Most French citizens are Roman Catholic, though you would hardly guess it from their behavior. Many people are communists, and topless sunbathing is common. Men sometimes have girls’ names like Marie, and they kiss each other when they hand out medals.

American travelers are advised to travel in groups and to wear baseball caps and colorful trousers for easier mutual recognition.

Safety

In general, France is a safe destination, though travelers are advised that, from time to time, it is invaded by Germany. By tradition, the French surrender more or less at once and, apart from a temporary shortage of Scotch whisky and increased difficulty in getting baseball scores and stock market prices, life for the visitor generally goes on much as before.

A tunnel connecting France to Britain beneath the English Channel has been opened in recent years to make it easier for the Government to flee to London.

History

France was discovered by Charlemagne in the Dark Ages. Other important historical figures are Louis XIV, the Huguenots, Joan of Arc, Jacques Cousteau and Charles de Gaulle, who was President for many years and is now an airport.

Government

The French form of government is democratic but noisy. Elections are held more or less continuously, and always result in a run-off. For administrative purposes, the country is divided into regions, departments, districts’ municipalities, cantons, communes, villages, cafes, booths, and floor tiles.

Parliament consists of two chambers, the Upper and Lower (though, confusingly, they are both on the ground floor), whose members are either Gaullists or communists, neither of whom is to be trusted, frankly. Parliament’s principal preoccupations are setting off atomic bombs in the South Pacific, and acting indignant when anyone complains.

According to the most current State Department intelligence, the President now is someone named Jacques. Further information is not available at this time.

Culture

The French pride themselves on their culture, though it is not easy to see why. All their songs sound the same, and they have hardly ever made a movie that you would want to watch for anything but the nude scenes.  And nothing, of course, is more boring than a French novel.

Cuisine

Let’s face it, no matter how much garlic you put on it, a snail is just a slug with a shell on its back. Croissants, on the other hand, are excellent, though it is impossible for most Americans to pronounce this word. In general, travelers are advised to stick to cheeseburgers at leading hotels such as Sheraton and Holiday Inn.

Economy

France has a large and diversified economy, second only to Germany’s in Europe, which is surprising because people hardly work at all. If they are not spending four hours dawdling over lunch, they are on strike and blocking the roads with their trucks and tractors. France’s principal exports, in order of importance to the economy, are wine, nuclear weapons, perfume, guided missiles, champagne, high-caliber weaponry, grenade launchers, land mines, tanks, attack aircraft, miscellaneous armaments and cheese.

Public Holidays

France has more holidays than any other nation in the world. Among its 361 national holidays are 197 saints’ days, 37 National Liberation Days, 16 Declaration of Republic Days, 54 Return of Charles de Gaulle in Triumph as if he Won the War Single-Handed Days, 18 Napoleon Sent into Exile Days, 17 Napoleon Called Back from Exile Days, and 112 France is Great and the Rest of the World is Rubbish Days. Other important holidays are National Nuclear Bomb Day (January 12), the Feast of St. Brigitte Bardot Day (March 1), and National Guillotine Day (November 12).

Conclusion

France enjoys a rich history, a picturesque and varied landscape, and a temperate climate. In short, it would be a very nice country if it weren’t inhabited by French people.

The best thing that can be said for it is that it is not Germany.

If you drop a buttered piece of bread, it will fall on the floor butter-side down. If a cat is dropped from a window or other high and towering place, it will land on its feet.

But what if you attach a buttered piece of bread, butter-side up to a cat’s back and toss them both out the window? Will the cat land on its feet? Or will the butter splat on the ground?

Even if you are too lazy to do the experiment yourself you should be able to deduce the obvious result. The laws of butterology demand that the butter must hit the ground, and the equally strict laws of feline aerodynamics demand that the cat can not smash its furry back. If the combined construct were to land, nature would have no way to resolve this paradox. Therefore it simply does not fall.

That’s right, you clever mortal (well, as clever as a mortal can get), you have discovered the secret of antigravity! A buttered cat will, when released, quickly move to a height where the forces of cat-twisting and butter repulsion are in equilibrium. This equilibrium point can be modified by scraping off some of the butter, providing lift, or removing some of the cat’s limbs, allowing descent.

Most of the civilized species of the universe already use this principle to drive their ships while within a planetary system. The loud humming heard by most sighters of UFOs is, in fact, the purring of several hundred tabbies.

The one obvious danger is, of course, if the cats manage to eat the bread off their backs they will instantly plummet. Of course the cats will land on their feet, but this usually doesn’t do them much good, since right after they make their graceful landing several tons of red-hot starship and pissed-off aliens crash on top of them.

And now a few words on solving the problem of creating a ship using the aforementioned anti-gravity device.

One could power a ship by means of cats held in suspended animation (say, about -190 degrees Celsius) with buttered bread strapped to their backs, thus avoiding the possibility of collisions due to temperamental felines. More importantly, how do you steer, once the cats are all held in stasis?

I offer a modest proposal:

We all know that wearing a white shirt at an Italian restaurant is a guaranteed way to take a trip to the laundromat. Plaster the outside of your ship with white shirts. Place four nozzles symmetrically around the ship, which is, of course, saucer shaped. Fire tomato sauce out in proportion to the directions you want to go. The ship, drawn by the shirts, will automatically follow the sauce. If you use T-shirts, you won’t go as fast as you would by using, say, expensive dress shirts.  This does not work as well in deep gravity wells, since the tomato sauce (now falling down a black hole, perhaps) will drag the ship with it, despite the counter force of the anti-gravity cat/butter machine. Your only hope at that point is to jettison enormous quantities of Tide.  This will create the well-known Gravitational Tidal Force.

Plato: For the greater good.

Karl Marx: It was an historical inevitability.

Machiavelli: (1) So that its subjects will view it with admiration, as a chicken which has the daring and courage to boldly cross the road, but also with fear, for whom among them has the strength to contend with such a paragon of avian virtue? In such a manner is the princely chicken’s dominion maintained. (2) The point is that the chicken crossed the road.  Who cares why?  The end of crossing the road justifies whatever motive there was.  (Actually, that might be Kant, but I have to check…)

Hippocrates: Because of an excess of light pink gooey stuff in its pancreas.

Jacques Derrida: Any number of contending discourses may be discovered within the act of the chicken crossing the road, and each interpretation is equally valid as the authorial intent can never be discerned, because structuralism is DEAD, DAMMIT, DEAD!

Thomas de Torquemada: Give me ten minutes with the chicken and I’ll find out.

Timothy Leary: Because that’s the only kind of trip the Establishment would let it take.

Douglas Adams: Forty-two.

Nietzsche: Because if you gaze too long across the Road, the Road gazes also across you.

Oliver North: National Security was at stake.

B.F. Skinner: Because the external influences which had pervaded its sensorium from birth had caused it to develop in such a fashion that it would tend to cross roads, even while believing these actions to be of its own free will.

Carl Jung: The confluence of events in the cultural gestalt necessitated that individual chickens cross roads at this historical juncture, and therefore synchronicitously brought such occurrences into being.

Jean-Paul Sartre: In order to act in good faith and be true to itself, the chicken found it necessary to cross the road.

Ludwig Wittgenstein: The possibility of “crossing” was encoded into the objects “chicken” and “road,” and circumstances came into being which caused the actualization of this potential occurrence.

Albert Einstein: Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road moved beneath the chicken depends upon your frame of reference.

Aristotle: To actualize its potential.

Buddha: If you ask this question, you deny your own chicken-nature.

Howard Cosell: It may very well have been one of the most astonishing events to grace the annals of history. An historic, unprecedented avian biped with the temerity to attempt such an Herculean achievement formerly relegated to homo Sapien pedestrians is truly a remarkable occurrence.

Salvador Dali: The Fish.

Darwin: (1) It was the logical next step after coming down from the trees. (2) Chickens, over great periods of time, have been naturally selected in such a way that they are now genetically dispositioned to cross roads.

Emily Dickinson: Because it could not stop for death.

Epicurus: For fun.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: It didn’t cross the road; it transcended it.

Johann Friedrich von Goethe: The eternal hen-principle made it do it.

Ernest Hemingway: To die.  In the rain.  Alone.

Werner Heisenberg: We are not sure which side of the road the chicken was on, but it was moving very fast.

Schrodinger: Chicken? Chicken!? Where’s my cat?

David Hume: Out of custom and habit.

Saddam Hussein: This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it.

Jack Nicholson: ‘Cause it (censored) wanted to. That’s the (censored) reason. Pyrrho the Skeptic: What road?

Frank Perdue: I breed the finest chicken I know how, and it crosses the road as part of a vigorous fitness program to raise the leanest, plumpest birds anywhere. Besides, I was chasing it with this axe at the time.

Ronald Reagan: I don’t recall.

John Sununu: The Air Force was only too happy to provide the transportation, so quite understandably the chicken availed himself of the opportunity.

The Sphinx: You tell me.

Mr. T: If you saw me coming you’d cross the road too!

Henry David Thoreau: To live deliberately … and suck all the marrow out of life.

Mark Twain: The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated.

Molly Yard: It was a hen!

Zeno of Elea: To prove it could never reach the other side.

Gilligan: The traffic it was getting rough, the chicken had to cross, if not for the plumage of his fearless tail, The chicken would be lost, the chicken would be lost…….

Moses:  And God came down from the heavens, and he said unto the Chicken, “Thou shalt not cross the road.”  And the Chicken crossed the road, and there was much rejoicing.

Fox Mulder:  You saw it cross the road with your own eyes.  How many more chickens have to cross the road before you believe it?

Richard M. Nixon:  The chicken did not cross the road.  I repeat, the chicken did NOT cross the road.

Jerry Seinfeld:  Why does anyone cross a road?  I mean, why doesn’t anyone ever think to ask, “What the heck was the chicken doing walking all over the place anyway?”

Sigmund Freud:  The fact that you are all concerned that the chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying sexual insecurity.

Bill Gates:  I have just released the new Chicken Office 8, which will not only cross roads, but it will lay eggs, file your important documents, AND balance your checkbook.  Unfortunately, when it divides 3 by 2 it gets 1.499999999999999.

Oliver Stone:  The question is not, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” but is rather, “Who was crossing the road at the same time, whom we overlooked in our haste to observe the chicken crossing?”

Louis Farrakhan:  The road, you will see, represents the black man.  The chicken crossed the “black man” in order to trample him and keep him down.

Martin Luther King, Jr.:  I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross roads without having their motives called into question.

Grandpa:  In my day, we didn’t have to ask why the chicken crossed the road.  Someone told us that the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.

Colonel Harlan Sanders:  I missed one?

The following concerns a question in a physics degree exam at the University of Copenhagen:

“Describe how to determine the height of a skyscraper with a barometer.”

One student replied:

“You tie a long piece of string to the neck of the barometer, then lower the barometer from the roof of the skyscraper to the ground. The length of the string plus the length of the barometer will equal the height of the building.”

This highly original answer so incensed the examiner that the student was failed immediately. He appealed on the grounds that his answer was indisputably correct, and the university appointed an independent arbiter to decide the case. The arbiter judged that the answer was indeed correct, but did not display any noticeable knowledge of physics. To resolve the problem it was decided to call the student in and allow him six minutes in which to provide a verbal answer which showed at least a minimal familiarity with the basic principles of physics. For five minutes the student sat in silence, forehead creased in thought. The arbiter reminded him that time was running out, to which the student replied that he had several extremely relevant answers, but couldn’t make up his mind which to use.

On being advised to hurry up the student replied as follows:  ”Firstly, you could take the barometer up to the roof of the skyscraper, drop it over the edge, and measure the time it takes to reach the ground.  The height of the building can then be worked out from the formula H = 0.5g x t squared. But bad luck on the barometer.

“Or if the sun is shining you could measure the height of the barometer, then set it on end and measure the length of its shadow. Then you measure the length of the skyscraper’s shadow, and thereafter it is a simple matter of proportional arithmetic to work out the height of the skyscraper.

“But if you wanted to be highly scientific about it, you could tie a short piece of string to the barometer and swing it like a pendulum, first at ground level and then on the roof of the skyscraper. The height is worked out by the difference in the gravitational restoring force T = 2 pi square root (l / g).

“Or if the skyscraper has an outside emergency staircase, it would be easier to walk up it and mark off the height of the skyscraper in barometer lengths, then add them up.

“If you merely wanted to be boring and orthodox about it, of course, you could use the barometer to measure the air pressure on the roof of the skyscraper and on the ground, and convert the difference in millibars into feet to give the height of the building.

But since we are constantly being exhorted to exercise independence of mind and apply scientific methods, undoubtedly the best way would be to knock on the janitor’s door and say to him ‘If you would like a nice new barometer, I will give you this one if you tell me the height of this skyscraper’.”

The student was Nils Bohr, the only Dane to win the Nobel prize for Physics.

Rules for Choosing a Superhero Name:

• Don’t call yourself by your real name:

  Mr. Fred Pinchuk

  The Amazing Stevie Foster

• Don’t call yourself by someone else’s real name:

  Mr. Teddy Kennedy

  Captain Dean Martin

• Choose a name that suggests power, heroism, and prowess:

  Captain Power

  Thunderman

  Mr. Invincible

  Justiceman

• But don’t labor the point:

  Mister-So-Fucking-Powerful-Don’t-Even-Think-About-It-Buddy

• Don’t be too modest:

  Mr.  Pretty Good

  Captain So-So

  Fairly Incredible Man

• Don’t choose a name detrimental to your crimefighting image:

  Captain Spongecake

  Mr. Asshole

  Yellow Streak

  Purple Helmet

  Captain Evil

  Dr. Shit-For-Brains

• Don’t choose a name with a sexual double-meaning.  For example, AC/DC Man is not a good name for a man with electrical powers.

• Don’t choose the name of an existing Superhero unless you have lots of money and enjoy fighting litigation instead of supervillians.

• It’s no use calling yourself Captain Invincible if your only power is control over Hostess Twinkies and you suffer from a congenital hole-in-the-heart condition.  It’s just asking for trouble.

• Don’t call yourself The Invisible Boy… if you’re not.

• Don’t call yourself The Invisible Boy… if you’re a girl.

• Don’t call yourself The Invisible Lady… if you’re a man - even if you do feel like a woman trapped in a man’s body.

• Don’t give away any important information in your name:

  The Glass Jaw

  Captain Vulnerable to Strontium-90

• Don’t call yourself The Green Avenger if you wear an orange costume, you’ll confuse people.

Good and Bad Things to Keep in Your Crimecave:

Good:  Robot doubles  Bad:  Rubber women

Good:  Presidential Hotline  Bad:  Mickey Mouse or Garfield phone

Good:  Detailed map of the city  Bad:  Color poster of The Backstreet Boys

Good:  Crime library  Bad:  Stash of stroke mags

Good:  Your Crimemobile on a turntable  Bad:  Skateboard and ramp

Good:  Sickbay and Auto-Medic Center  Bad:  Tin of Band-Aids

Good:  Spare costumes  Bad:  Basques and peep-hole bras for the rubber women

Good:  Computerized intruder detection system linked to multiplex alarm  Bad:  Piece of cotton stretched across door tied to small bell

Good:  Forensic analysis laboratory  Bad:  Whiskey still

Good:  City in a bottle, shrunk by your archenemy  Bad:  Jar of candy

Good:  Teleportation tube  Bad:  Bus timetable

Good:  Scale model of the galaxy showing life-sustaining planets  Bad:  Model railroad layout

Good:  Trophy room to display crimefighting and bodybuilding awards  Bad:  Trophy room to display bowling awards

Good:  Computerized crime files on SD card  Bad:  Collection of Anthrax CDs

Good:  Secret emergency exit  Bad:  Doggie door

Good:  Weapon calibration tester  Bad:  Pinball machine

Good:  Gym and fitness center  Bad:  Fridge full of TV dinners, cold pizza, and ice cream

Good:  Mainframe crime computer  Bad:  Sony PlayStation

Good:  Hi-octane jet fuel storage for Crimemobile  Bad:  Minibar stocked with beer

Good:  Self-contained power generating system  Bad:  Electricity meter and pile of loose change

Good:  Combat simulation area  Bad:  Trivial Pursuit set

Sidekicks:

Advantages of a Boy Wonder

• They can watch your back in the thick of a fight.

• They can carry your accessory belt if you’re feeling lazy.

• They can make you look taller and hunkier by comparison.

• They’re small and supple enough to wriggle out of their bonds and free you from Puffinmaster’s diabolical death trap - just in time!

• They’re just about the right height for headbutting or biting a supervillian in the nuts - which makes them a force to be feared in the criminal underworld.

• They’re someone you can explain the plot to for the benefit of particularly slow readers.

• They can give your comic a vital sales boost simply by getting themselves killed.

• When they die, you have an excuse to go on a protracted frenzied rampage of violent revenge - and keep your sales figures high.

Disadvantages of a Boy Wonder:

• They’d much rather stay in and play Tekken than go out on patrol.

• They get shy and awkward when confronted by a female supervillian.

• They pick their noses when you’re with the Police Commissioner.

• They want to wear their iPod into combat.

• People talk…

• A 13-year old boy is no match for a 210-lb. criminal sociopath with death-ray glare.

• They go into a sulk if you won’t play a 12-day game of Dungeons and Dragons with them.

• They embarrass you by whistling at girls out of the Crimemobile.

• They never tidy up after themselves, so the whole Crimecave quickly gets littered with dirty t-shirts, comics, skateboards, apes, discarded bubble gum, catcher’s mitts, smelly socks, half-eaten candy bars, half-finished model cars, long-forgotten packets of condoms bought in a moment of supreme bravado and overconfidence, dirty plates, CDs out of their cases, stroke mags, tubes of acne cream, and crumpled tissues.

• They don’t wash, so they smell.

• They think it’s funny to suddenly fart in public.

• They can easily be taunted by supervillians into bursting into tears and running off simply by pointing and shouting, “Virgin!  Virgin!  Look everybody, there’s a virgin Boy Wonder over here!”

• They’ll quite happily play stickball in the middle of $20 million worth of criminology lab equipment.

• They get carsick in the Crimemobile.

• In the midst of battle, it’s futile to yell, “Battle maneuver 18, buddy!” because chances are they can’t count that high.

• They call you things like “The Big Enchilada” or “Super-Dude.”

• They get zits and look really unsightly.

• They think your bald spot is hilarious.

• They talk crap.

• They make you feel very old.

Advantages of a Girl Wonder:

• They look much better than a Boy Wonder.

• People don’t automatically assume that you’re, uh, you know, that way…

• Overall, they’re much more intelligent and mature than boys of the same age.

• People think you must be OK to be seen in the company of such a hot babe.

• Supervillians get dead jealous of you.

• You might get lucky.

Disadvantages of a Girl Wonder:

• They’re always holding slumber parties in the Crimecave.

• One tiny zit and they’re out of action for at least two weeks.

• They insist on having a dozen different costumes to wear.

• They won’t fight crime if The Backstreet Boys are on MTV.

• They won’t fight crime if they’re waiting for a phone call.

• Other Superheroes will try to steal her away from you.

• They kill people during their PMS.

• They jam up the Emergency Crime Hotline with calls to Tammy, Samantha, Jo-Jo, Mindy, Mandy, Shelly, Bernice, Pam, Tina, Linda, the Berkowitz twins - and Jim.

• If you receive an emergency call at 2 a.m. and their hair is in curlers, forget it.

• They’re no use for fighting Tarantula Man or Rat Master.

• Their approach to fighting supervillians tends to be strictly limited to pulling their hair, slapping their face, or hitting them with a shoe.

• They get crushes on your archenemy because “he’s like so totally dark an’ mysterious an’ mean an’ moody but that’s only because someone musta rilly hurt him bad one time.  I can tell…” blah blah blah.

• They won’t watch your back in combat if you failed to notice their new hair style.

• They get upset if you and your archenemy start shouting at each other during battle.

Good Things to Put Down Your Tights Before Battle:

• Titanium steel plating.

• Electronic groinal defense shield.

• Socks (to sexually intimidate insecure supervillians).

• Acid-resistant gonad shroud.

• Asbestos fire blanket.

• Electromagnetic scrotal forcefield generator.

• Love Blob auto security system.

• Genital-seeking missile repulsor unit.

• Bulletproof penile shaft armor.

• Your Girl Wonder’s hands.

• Your Girl Wonder’s head.

• All of the above, simultaneously.

Bad Things to Put Down Your Tights Before Battle:

• Glass jockstrap.

• Epileptic lobsters.

• Bear trap with a dodgy spring.

• Napalm.

• Five pounds of wriggling cockroaches (unless it intimidates supervillians).

• Four gallons of quick-drying cement.

• Your barbed-wire collection.

• Genital-seeking missile.

• Your Boy Wonder’s hands.

• Your Boy Wonder’s head.

• A piece of modern sculpture consisting entirely of razor blades.

Supervillians You Want to Tackle:

• Fishpaste Sandwich Maker

• Baron Scaredy-Cat

• The Crochet Master

• Mr. White-Knuckles

• Nosebleed Boy

• Dr. Scared Shitless

• Bondage Damsel

• Sissy Man

• Fellatio Lass

Supervillians to Avoid:

• Emitorr, the Nuclear Radiation Man

• Thargorr the Planet Crusher

• Dr. Slaughterhouse

• Garth, the Gonad Detonator Supreme

• Dr. Disemboweler

• The Slasher from Beyond The Stars

• Krisparr the Incinerator

• Sun-Up the Solar Sodomizer

• Fellatio Lad

• Mr. Rip-Your-Nuts-Off-And-Eat-Them-In-Front-Of-You

I was dating this girl in 1993, I was 24, she was 18. Anyway, one day she informs me she is pregnant. We were engaged, because I do really stupid shit, and yada yada yada, we split up. She threatened me with paying for medical bills, etc.

Now, it would be a good thing to note at this juncture that I, at the tender age of a few days, had an operation to repair a hernia with which I had been born. Inguinal. All that shit being so bunched up down there as it is in something as small as an infant, and surgeons having the tools they did in 1969, well, the rumor ‘round the water cooler was that any furthering of the family tree was gonna have to be through a branch other than mine.

So, she called me one day going on about she wanted money for this and money for that. I replied, “I will pay for whatever you want, but I want a DNA test.” When she asked why, I told her about my hernia thingy, and that I had found out she was fucking AT LEAST three other guys at that time, which she of course denied, and saying I was responsible. She hung up on me.

A few hours later she called me at work. “I called four doctors, and all of them said that just because you had that operation doesn’t mean you can’t have kids.”

My reply was seamless, without pause, as if it had been scripted. “If you hadn’t been fucking anyone else, you wouldn’t have had to call anyone.”

Pause. *click*

We agreed verbally that we would never speak to each other again, she’d go her way, I’d go mine.

Fast forward to 1998. A week before I’m to go to San Diego for the Over The Line Tournament, I get a letter from Arizona DES saying Laura Ruth Crook is filing against me for paternity of her son, Cody. Five years later. THE KID IS FUCKING FIVE. My hearing date was scheduled when I was to be gone, so I called the state and asked them to reschedule this bullshit hearing. I’m on hold for a few minutes when the clerk comes back: “We dismissed this case because paternity was already established with another father.”

So, let me get this straight, cunt… baby daddy wasn’t keeping up with the bills so you thought I’d just pony up some extra cash? How many dads did you think you could tell the state that this fucking kid had? You stupid fucking cunt. No offense, Cody, but I hope your mom is fuckin’ dead.

So, there’s MY two cents.

After a beer, a bowl, and a conversation with one of my neighbors - and learning what a bunch of fucking idiots live around me - I wrote this little ditty for them, and thought I’d share. Hope you enjoy.

—————————————————————

As your neighbor, I’d like to clear up a couple of things:

1) When all of you assumed I was arrested for heroin trafficking a month ago, it was ACTAULLY because my asshole of an ex-boss had me arrested because I was going to blow the whistle on him for his illegal doings.

2) We are not terrorists.  Can I PLEASE find out who the COMPLETE RETARD was who, when we moved in, saw the cable guy doing an installation and thought we were terrorists trying to take down the nation’s power grid?  Seriously?  What kind of retards are you?  You are such complete morons that it makes my head spin.

FORTUNATELY, not a single one of you douchebags has ever taken the time to get to KNOW us, or maybe you would have been a little less ready to make such retarded Goddamned accusations about us.  But, that’s what we get for living around a bunch of retarded backward-assed rednecks such as yourselves.

So, if you would be so kind as to go fuck yourselves for the rest of the time we live here, that’d be just great.  If that is a problem, please ring my bell, and I will be more than happy to tell you, in so many more words than you were willing to hear, exactly what I think of you small-town jackoffs.

xxoo
you know who

I ended up drinking last night with some of the people with whom I work, and of course the shop talk started, and with it the stories of how useless this person or that person is.  So, the best time to write an open letter to the people you work with is ALWAYS Friday at 2 a.m. after ten Jager bombs.  I decided to put a little rant up on Schedulefly, which is an online scheduling tool for restaurants (in case you didn’t know), and posted it for all staff to read.  I didn’t remember it until the next afternoon when someone told me how awesome it was.  I had to go on the site and read it, because I couldn’t remember what I wrote:

I am 42 years old. I will turn 43 in June. I have a hernia, one bad knee, and two bad elbows. I was kicked in head five times trying to break up a bar fight. There are other injuries to which I will not attest.

If I am running rings around you while you are apparently STANDING STILL, there is a problem. Either you are holding up your end of the deal - ‘doing your job’ - or your aren’t. If this is a hobby for you until you graduate grade school, feel free to move on. If this ISN’T, then I expect my next shift to be executed with the flawlessness of a Cirque du Soleil show. My rent, car payment, et. al. are derived solely from my employment at [name withhheld]. I will help you in any way I can, but believe me when I say I will ruin your existence on terra firma if you prove yourself worthless. Just stand motionless next to the high chairs on a Friday night again, Princess, and see how that plays out. I will have your back, or your hide. It is up to you.

I’m assuming I meant it…

Look, kid, I heard I hurt your feelings because I yelled at you. I’d like to apologize.

…I’d LIKE to, but I’m not a 21st century cunt kinda guy, so here’s how we’re gonna handle this.

You suck. At your job. The rest of it, I don’t know. Normally, I wouldn’t give a rat’s hairy beanbag how you handled your life, in work or not, but YOUR fuckups that you have heretofore considered the planet’s price to pay for allowing you to tread upon it are now fucking with me and affecting MY livelihood. You are a constipator. You’re plugging up my shit and I don’t like it.

So here is how this shit is gonna work. You are gonna show up to work an not be a fuckin’ idiot crybaby. Because I am gonna remind you at every step that you’re fucking up. I don’t want to. Believe me. I have so many better things to do than help you get better at your job. For instance, stare at a fucking wall for 73 days. Unfortunately, my bill payment schedule doesn’t allow for such frivolities. If you go to a manager again and cry about me being mean, I will tell all your friends on Facebook that your mother still sponge-bathes you. You’re gonna do your job properly. You’re not gonna try and seat seven North Carolina-sized people at a table built for five. You’re gonna remember things from one second to the next. because every single time you fuck up, I will be RIGHT GODDAMNED THERE, making you feel really really bad about yourself, you fragile little twat.

And why should you listen to me? Because I was doing this since before you were born. Because I am assuming your parents are loaded because YOU’RE allowed to be a fucking moron in obviously every aspect of your life, and, unlike your parents, I actually care about what you do, if only in the microcosm of how it affects me. Because when I go to a table, I know I am making a MINIMUM of a 20% tip, and when YOU go to a table, you’re hoping they don’t stiff you. Because I get people that want to sit in my section and YOU get people that DON’T wanna sit in YOURS. Because I, at 43 years old, can still run rings around your sorry spoon-fed sorry ass at anything.

So stop crying that I’m being mean and think that maybe, just MAYBE, YOU are the fucking problem. And, maybe, if you’re NOT such a fucking little cunt, you’ll actually learn a fucking thing or two that you can drag kicking and screaming into the rest of the hapless fucking mess that must be your life.

Now stop fucking crying like a little cunt and go do your job.