Monday, October 27, 2008

Me and my BIG mouth!

So I head out to my local McMall today to do my duty as a patriotic consumer of worthless goods; maybe pickup a Motorhead CD or two and get a bite to eat. Right on the edge of the food court there is a micro-branch of my bank. Nothing fancy, just a couple of teller stations and a loan desk. What a bonus- I'll inquire about an auto loan while I'm here. Right after my usual three Snappy-Dogs and tankard of Mountain Dew, of course. I polished it all off and went to talk to the loan gimp. This guy looked like he jacked off all over the Wall Street Journal every night for gratification. I mean a real pencil neck. I spilled all my info and signed on the line; he told me to come back in an hour to "hash out the details". The Mountain Dew was circulating well so I stopped off at the restrooms at the back end of the food court. (the location makes sense; they don't have to pump the swill very far to Applebee's) SO...

I enter an empty restroom and retreat to the far stall. I just prefer a stall for some reason- don't ask me why. I settled in for a long, fine whiz and had just finished up when I hear somebody come in whistling a tune and mumbling to himself. He doesn't realize I'm in the stall as he stands in front of the urinal and rips out a brisk fart. BRRRAAAAAAPPPP-PPPP! I couldn't resist. I piped up "Speak again! O wise, toothless one!" -now I really love that line and it never fails me to get a laugh, but this time nothing. Not even a snicker. I sheepishly waited in the stall for the poor sap to leave. Oh well, they can't all be gems.

About an hour later, my shopping is done and I'm back at the loan desk. Pencil neck greets me warmly and outlines the details of the loan including tons of other facts, figures and offers that I don't need to hear. He's proud of his financial wizardry so I pump him a little: "Gee, you seem to know everything there is to know."

"Well I should, for I am the wise, toothless one."
Oops. I think I'm going to shop for a loan somewhere else...

Friday, October 17, 2008

The Barney Incident

Hey jeez Dr.Whoopee here to turn you on to another fractured fairy tale!

I used to know a friend who had a 3 year old son. One day he calls me to ask if I would don a Barney the Big Purple Dinosaur costume and act as entertainment for his boy and 30 other screaming, loud-ass kids..

The fateful call came and it went a little something like this:

"So Rob, can I depend on you to do it?"
"Can you be there at 5:30?"
"That's great! How about we just pick you up. Ok?"
"Fantastic! I'm so glad you could do it!
"No." (click)

Well, I finally caved in and said I would do it. They had me get in costume, which was king hell hot in the middle of August. Anyway, I started by goofing around with all of the kids. Some of the little dickheads took to punching me in the kidneys, while one seemed to be focused on my crotch. I had to dodge his attacks by giving him a couple of wacks in the puss with a Wiffle bat. It was time I thought, for a beer. I hid behind a truck and sucked down a Beck's in seconds flat.

Anybody who knows me knows I'm a vegetarian, so my friends wife thought it would be funny to try and feed Barney a hot dog ha ha. She stuck it through the mouth-hole and I started flapping around and squirming trying to flush this thing out of the costume to no avail. Oh great, I have to finish the gig with a greasy piece of beef wedged between my legs.

I ended up snapping and biting the head off of one of the kids, causing some people to faint while others looked on in horror. Fuck'em. Serves them right for sticking a weenie into my costume! Nah, that part never really happened. But wouldn't it have been a total gas if I did it?

Wine, Women and Whoopee...Your #1 source of bullshit on the web!

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Potcrackin'-- the hottest new musical genre!

"With some bugs in our hair and our big flat feets Me 'n Dish Machine pump da rockin' beatz

Flab's on the back porch suckin' on a 40 Call her anything- but don't call her shorty

Homies in the swamp come from miles around 'Cuz they c'aint get enough of that dishwasher sound

Gotta blunt in my mouth and a belly full of whiskey I need to piss in the out-house but the snakes make it risky!

We're potcrackin'... potcrackin'... ah crack-crack-potcrackin!'"

-from "Potcrackin' " by Grand Master Jet-Dry & The Dismal Dish Machine. One of the greatest and lesser-known musical legends of Virginia resides right here in The Great Dismal Swamp. Yessir, it's home for potcrackin' phenom Grand Master Jet-Dry and The Dismal Dish Machine. But just what is crackin'? What are it's roots? I'll let Jet-Dry explain:

"Ya see, it's like this- back in '49 Granny Flabs won a gas-powered washin' machine in the t'backer spittin' contest. Some city boys delivered it here in the swamp, but they didn't leave no 'structions. I figured it was useful for something, so I loaded it up with plates and dishes and things and fired it up. You never heard such a racket! Crashin' and smashin'! Flab's best china was breakin' to pieces! Hell, we didn't know no better, the damn thing was for washin' clothes, not dishes! Well, I've always been handy with a wrench so I rigged it up to the old Victrola so we could listen to our records without having to crank so much. The sound of the cracked pots and the music together was... why, it was just heavenly!

Jet-Dry and his prized gasoline-powered 1949 Potcracker- It turns out that Jet-Dry has been making music for years- he was once a member of the psychobilly "Booger and The Pickers" group, and he toured as lyricist for the tiki-themed and x-rated "Nicka-Knocka-Nookie and The Kumquats". There were some failures along the way- "Kingsford and The Briquettes" were a power trio that combined speed-metal with the resonant frequency of charcoal. In Jet's words: "We sucked, plain and simple." These days, He uses a modern Feebleman dishwasher to power his turntable as he rocks the mike. As Granny enjoys some fine malt beverages, the FeeblemanJet has the rest of the family in on the act too. Baby El-bow and adopted Five-bux round out the percussion section, and they each have their own dishwashers that add a thunderous rumble to the total Jet-Dry sound. "I just start the washers and turn the kids loose with hammers!" he says.
I ask about the name, "Dismal Dish Machine". Jet tells me that "Have you ever seen two water-headed infant babies try to wash a dish? It's pretty fuckin' DISMAL!" Potcrackin' has it's own legion of rabid fans and hangers-on. I met Dizzy and Spleen who explained the strange ritual of "slamming"; It's how they ready themselves for a Jet-Dry show.

"We lie on the floor in front of the dishwasher and beat ourselves senseless with the door" Dizzy says. "After nine or ten slams it turns into a real rush." Spleen tried to speak too but he sounded like a bobcat caught in a blender, the result of many, many "slamming" sessions.

It gets dark quickly out here deep in the sticks so I wrapped up the interview early in order to make it out of the swamp alive. I did however, have one more question for the king of dishwasher rap: "Jet, your adopted son's name is Five-Bux. Why Five-Bux?""Because that's what I paid for him, dang it! Now git yer ass outta here Dr. Whoopee before I crack your head like a pot!"

Monday, October 13, 2008

Royal Balls of Blue!

Ok, Peabody! Set the way-back machine to 1983 and listen up. As a teenager I had a real "I hate the world" vibe going on so I followed a strange bent to rebel against the harsh society of reality. My plan: I decided to never wear underwear again. Ever. That'll teach 'em- I don't wear any fucking underwear and I used to randomly bring up the subject at partys and other bad times like family get-togethers, all the while drawing stares from everbody. And comments like "I'll see you later, I have to uhh.... Oh yes, go scrub my toilet".

The rub? Denim makes your jewels itch like a bastard. I took this girl I used to know to a movie one night and it was hell on toast only after 10 minutes into the flick. I had to put down the popcorn and drop the Skittles and shred to the restroom seeking relief. I found an empty stall and dashed in and slammed the bolt, dropped my pants and scratched my ass off. Joy! No more itchin'! That is, until ten minutes later, when the same thing happened again. I was running out of excuses to go visit the head but screw it, I was a rebel without a clue.

Soon after the movie incident I got tired of picking blue lint off of my balls every night so I reverted to wearing boxers. The point: If you're going to show the world you're a rebel, don't do it by not wearing the proper undergarment.