Toys in the Attic Part Two

I went back to which ever "mart" to finish the damn Christmas shopping. By shopping, I mean following my wife around wining because I don't have an Ipod. And looking and pointing at girls with big boobs, to my wife's dismay. And, for you, taking pictures to report on the strange and wonderful things my mind attempts to process each day. Not the boobs, though. We have enough boob pictures on the Internet. I found more creepy toys, and creepy toy pictures. I want to say again (did I write about this?) that even though most toys are made in the Asian countries, the photos of kids/parents are not. They know Americans would not buy toys with a picture of a nice Cambodian family playing with them. So, they go to places like the Ukraine, or others that I will not attempt to spell, and arrange the photos. That, to me, is funnier than the Cambodian family, because the Ukrainians (or whoever they are) try to look American. The first two shots are to highlight the fact that, in the Ukraine, they think ALL American boys have a crew cut. Or, whatever this strange "high and tight" cut is supposed to be. The rest are just freaky ass toys and stuff that I photographed. Enjoy!

In Amerika, all boy are having military style hair fixing. Top Quality!!





Is it just me, or is this a "posing seductively Santa" and why?

This "rocket" looks like one I saw in an adult store. It even has "soft tapered head"



This one says "hand gesture mold is a great gift for any friend or family member". I agree. You could mold just about ANY body part to send home to your wife or girlfriend!!

This pale, Eastern European mother and son just look wrong. I should have read the suggested age area of the box. It probably says "ages 2 to 18" Nasty.

The last is just another "White Christmas" toy. I just wonder how much longer that is going to go over, and why we can't just say, I'm dreaming of a Snowy Christmas?

Toys In The Attic

Took the long walk around Target the other night, looking at toys and all this. I know (as you do) about the whole Chinese toy recall and all the drama around that. First, I want to say to you what I have been rambling on about, to the chagrin of anyone who will listen. The Chinese have been made to look like the villain on this lead paint/parts deal, and its bull. China does not supply the materials to build shit in this world. Not one thing. They do not have materials to build a thing. What China has is labor. That's all they ever had, and that's all they do. The big toy makers pointed the finger at China for the use of lead paint and materials, which really confused the little bowl-cut bastards. All they do is receive the materials and specs for the toys or whatever they are assembling, and whip the shit out of a crowd of line workers to fill the order. Anyone who has tried to buy rubber, wood, concrete or steel lately can tell you that I'm right. The prices shot up after the sleeping dragon started building a lot a year or two ago. This happened because all of the materials that we just expect to find at Home Depot were being shipped out to China. My point is, the lead crap was given to them, along with all the other parts and pieces of the toys, by the American toy companies. Now- back to the story. Toys look creepy. Not the actual toys, but the pictures on the boxes. I think it may have to do with Target being a foreign company? The pictures are foreign people trying to look like typical American schmucks, and it gives each one a funny, slightly odd effect.

I call this one "Weekend Dad" because that's just how it looks, and the whole weekend dad thing is funny to me anyway. I know a few of these guys, and I apologize to you ahead of time for anything I ever say about the subject. I don't know why its funny to me, it just is. The guy in the shot is all sported up, trying so hard to hang on to the boys while Mom's new friend "uncle Dave" is staying over more and more every week. Wow. Awkward moments at the breakfast table. Anyway, its sad.

This one is "Drunk Dad" and I think the photo says it all. He looks like he knocked back a few shots while he assembled the crappy toy, badly. He didn't need all those parts anyway. He just needs another drink, and some God damn quite time. Stop crying, your being a big girl. It's no wonder your Mom left us.

This one is just strange. They (those who do) have apparently replaced the dirt in an "ant farm" with some sort of wonder gel, that the ants both eat AND drink. I think its like when you eat jello, and you slush it around your mouth until it converts to slimy Kool-Aid. I don't really feel for ants, but I still think its a shitty thing to do to them. Imagine if one or two got out of the farm, and outside. Born and raised in the jello world, they would be really let down having to tunnel through regular, stinking dirt. And as far as the kid in the photo, well- you know. You cant put green shit that you can possibly drink, that close to a little black kid without him at least tasting it. Telling his Mom that he didn't, with green ants on his face. That shit looks like apple drink. What was he going to do?

Is it Just Me?

This one is a shorty. Look at the picture above, and then at the picture below. You know what
the items in the top picture are. The pictures in the lower photo are just shampoo bottles from
the shower. Is it just me? What is the deal with the new ultra phallic bottle designs? Is this art imitating life, or life imitating dick? I just don't know. No wonder they are in there so long.

Grab your Beanie Babies, its almost Pay Day!!!

Well now, In all my life I have seen a lot of stupid crap, but one thing really let me know where we stand as a nation of free thinkers. That was the invention and mania that followed the "Beanie Baby". I will never forget the countless arguments I started (was it just me?) with the scores of (mostly) large woman over these painfully worthless trinkets. Round about the time they hit the high note, I was doing security in a hospital. The local Omega Moo chapter of the nurses went into a frenzy like sharks to blood every time a new "Beanie" was placed for sale in the gift shop. They would get out the volumes of value books (produced by the toy maker, of course) and squawk for hours about how the very toy they just paid five dollars for, was actually worth hundreds and even thousands if the production of that model stopped. I would fire them up with my ignorant questions like, "How can it be worth 500 bucks, when its for sale NOW at 5 bucks retail?" "Well sit down smarty pants, and I will open the book and show you" they would say. I would then point out that the book bore the same label as the toy, and get the same dull stare that the manufacturer was counting on. Mind you, this was in the mid nineties. I happened across a hilarious value book at the thrift store the other day, which reminded me of the whole phenomenon, so If you own a garage full of this junk, I will take this time to throw more salt in your wound.

If you bought that very special blue bear in 94, then next year in 2008, it will be worth 4,500.00 dollars!!!!!! Now, you and everyone else bought it for 5 bucks. But, if you have a big box of these little jewels, you ARE RICH!!!! Just kidding. They sell at yard sales now for a quarter. They are still crap, and your still dumb if you thought anything that mass produced would gain in value. But, what do I know, see what your beanie book says about it.

Nasty Ass Commercial

I was going to start by asking "am I the only one who hates the God damn Charmin bears?" but after going on a picture search, I know I'm not alone. I hate those bears, and Charmin so much. I would wipe my ass with a cactus before I would purposely use that product. I don't know what it is about it that makes it so vile.


Maybe its the way their faces pinch up and blush, then they reach for the paper. Maybe its the way they shake their asses after, to show you how clean it is. I remember when Charmin had Mr. Whipple, who would just act like a bitch about weirdos squeezing the toilet paper. Well, I didn't really like him either, but at least the company had some dignity about the product. Now, they want to come on TV while your trying to eat dinner, and make you think about shit. My family started turning off the TV at dinner time, and turning on music instead, while sitting at the table. I wish the rest of America would turn the TV off every time that damn commercial comes on. That would make the good folks at Charmin bring Whipple out of retirement, and park the shitting bear campaign. But, its hard to get everyone together on a cause like this. I mean, I always thought people would bitch about "Angel Soft" toilet paper, but they never did. They let a company get away with saying that using this paper would feel like wiping your asshole with an angel. You know, Gods most perfect and closest creations. Angels. On your ass. Now that's soft! Like an angel, fluttering past your taint. I hate TV.

Grilled Grill Meat, and Other Advertising Wopdingers-

The other night, I lit the grill and whooped up some of that "carne asada" that you here so much about these days. It was awesome, and if you want to try Carne Asada for yourself, you just need the following: meat, and grill. You see, "carne asada" means grilled meat or steak. The ad folks just thought the name was catchy, so they started the "now with carne asada steak!" or grilled steak meat. This is not the first time they have busted out some catchy crap that swept the nation. I know you remember Certs with retsin. Folgers with flavor crystals, and so on. I just hate it when some new word for a new anything starts swirling, and people get all caught up in trying to say it more than anyone else. Or sell it more. It just shows how simple we are as a species. Lets go get a sandwich, made on CIABATTA bread. Lets ask for ARUGULA on it. Lets pour on some CHIPOLTLE sauce. No, I'm not that hungry, lets just have TAPAS. If you don't know one, or any of these words, don't feel bad. I suppose that once you have re-wrote the menu at "Fridays" a thousand times or so, you have to come up with new descriptions for the same old shit. It goes further than food though, and pretty well reaches every part of daily activity. I was listening to someone talking about PILATE'S this morning. Ten years ago, at least where I grew up, it was called Yoga. And, ten years before that, stretching. Don't fall for advertisers crap.

Ladies, can we use our big girl voices?

Alright, I got to throw this one out and see if anyone can feel me. The other day, I was sitting in the living room, on the computer (shocking) and my wife had a cooking show on. It's always amusing to me how much she loves cooking shows, because she absolutely does not cook. She would boil a Pop tart, and thus, is not even allowed in the kitchen. So, I'm working and listening to the show. I hear this incredibly annoying voice that just drones on and on, and will not stop. It sounds like an eight year old girl, with a cough drop in her mouth. Not just in her mouth, but teetering at the back of her throat, as though she wants to hold it there, but not quite swallow it. I finally look up to see what this pixie looks like, and it is (big surprise) a two-fifty plus, thirty something girl of Asian ancestry, wearing pig tails. I listened some more, now sickened by the reality of the situation, and realized that this voice I was hearing was one that I hear quite often.

I don't know what it is called, if it has a name. It should be identified, like a virus, and destroyed. I don't know what makes a woman in her twenties, thirties, and even beyond, want to TRY to sound like a little girl. I know they know they are "doing it". They are told by people on the phone to "put their Mommy on please" and are delighted to hear it. I think that it can maybe be sexy, in the bedroom and such, but not in the boardroom. And I hate to even get started on the whole "up speak" phenomenon. If you don't know, that's the label fixed to the strange way of speaking that the kids are using today, in which every statement sounds like a question? Stacy and I went to the mall today, and like, saw these two boys? And they were like, trying to talk to us and stuff? And we were like, shut up? I trip out when I am listening to the news on the radio, and they cut away to some expert on a subject, or a field journalist in Baghdad. I'm expecting to hear some serious shit, then she opens her mouth and out pops Cindy Brady. Or Betty Boop. I have seen actresses who speak this way ( Joey Lauren Adams, the Lawyer girlfriend in Big Daddy/w.Adam Sandler) and it drives me nuts. And not in the good way. If men did it, we would be laughed at, and it surely would NOT get us a job at Hooters. Now go spit out that damn cough drop, and start using your big girl voice.

Aim High!

Around my house, my older daughter and I have an understanding about her education. She is very bright, and figured out early to ignore the constant stream of TV advertisements for what we call (I call) "fake ass colleges". Every time we see them come on, we just laugh and laugh. I have taught her to recognise them by the heavy use of words like "career" or "technical" in their names. They always have some abbreviated name like ICT, TCT, PCP, or some shit like that. The "C" is always for career. These alleged schools, we say, are almost colleges. You will earn a degree, almost. You will have a rewarding career, almost. The truth is, you will earn a certificate. You will become someone who went to a real school's assistant. Now, don't start getting ready to fire back at me in my comment area, the last thing I need is a bunch of dental hygienist pissed at me. I'm just saying. If you are currently "enrolled" in one of these schools, you are probably being ripped off. Most of them will sell you a certificate (remember, not degree) that you do NOT need to get the job you are shooting for. Colleges, and employers do not recognise these courses as true credits, and if you read the small print on the advertisement, it even tells you this. I saw one the other day for I.T.T. that said at the bottom, "transfer of course credits not likely". Not likely. Now that's funny. I'm not calling anyone who has fell for this an idiot. Hell, I once went to one. I remember telling a potential employer that I was enrolled their, and him and the other management all laughing. They told me that If I got the job, they would train me and give me their own certificate, I didn't need to spend a year or two and waste a Pell grant to get one. These schools go after people who have no real plan, and a lot of dropouts. They try to make you feel like your family will be proud, and you will restore your dignity by completing the course. They show clips of a graduation scene, with everyone in gowns and shit. I hate them, but I love them? We get a big kick out of the new "Construction Management Degree Program" they are selling these days. Now that, my friends, is comedy. They show some poor minority woman (picture enclosed) holding plans and wearing a hard hat, like she's running the show. She's like, "Get to work Mofo, don't make me pull out my certificate on your ass!" And there all standing there, going along with it. God bless her. My point, if I have one, is this. Know that it wont be enough to get where you want to go. If you want to be a dentist, don't stop at hygienist. If you want to be a nurse or doctor, don't stop at medical assistant. Want to be lawyer, don't work for a paralegal certificate. Get that school under your belt, and get that God damn job. If you want to run a construction site or crew, don't even bother going to school. Get a job doing construction, be the one person on the site NOT smoking weed, and pay attention. It wont take long. Sometimes, just having a valid license or knowing Spanish will push you to the top of that heap. That's not a joke, that's the truth.

Im Calling Them Out

That's it. I don't want to be told about how or why I need to save anything, anymore. I don't want to hear about energy. Or trees. Or whales. I am sick of being told one thing, and sold another. It seems to me that, every thing I'm asked to conserve, I'm God damn tripping over. I drive past a car or truck dealership, and the vehicles for sale have gotten so big that the trucks look like tractor trailers. The cars all have shit loads of horse power, and the speedometers go to 160. They are getting 16 miles to the gallon, while I'm being told to save fossil fuels, and get a hybrid. I got filthy hippies telling me that I need to help save the whales. Get yourself a marine radio, and tune in to the chatter during the day. Every ten minutes, some asshole is calling in a whale floating around, in danger of being hit by a ship or boat. And don't get me started (again) on the Manatee. I work in one tiny spot near the water. Every day, I see a Manatee. Every day. The damn things are just now being considered for removal from the endangered list. It would be like you walking around in your office, and all day long, you kept hitting your head on giant Redwood trees. After about the 300th tree you hit, you would want to smack anyone who told you to give a shit about them. And speaking of trees, here we go. How am I to be told that I need to go out and plant trees every year, when the entire cleaning product industry has decided that you can clean a whole house with a paper towel? Every one of them have some shit ass commercial, depicting a kid spilling red liquid all over the damn house, and his oddly happy go lucky Mom cleaning it all up- with a God damn paper towel. They actually show them wringing it out in the sink, and going back to the scene of the crime to get some more shit up with that SAME paper towel. They got woman mopping the entire house's floors with a paper towel on a stick, sold under various stupid names. They clean the toilet with it, then sun dry it, fold it up nice, and put it in a hope chest to pass on to their daughter one day, when she has a hyper active ass kid of her own to follow around with the paper towel all day. I hate that shit. Get a damn rag. If I come to your house and catch you trying to reuse a paper towel, I'm leaving. If you catch me trying to do the same, go home and get the whole roll. You will need it to clean the kitchen after I blow my brains out.

Crack for Comfort?

"Yall got any hot chocolate!!!????" The crackheads voice rattled and shrilled like it was coming from a loud speaker wrapped in an old rusted mailbox. I don't know how they throw their voices so well, but you can hear a crackhead over a freight train, if they want you too. The cashier and customers of the local gas station /convenience store I was in all began laughing and looking at each other in disbelief. You see, I live in Florida. And at the moment in question, it was around 85 degrees with a hundred percent humidity. Miserable. The cracky was, as usual, freezing. Anyone who has lived, worked around, or just studied crackies in general knows that this is one of the boldest traits of a hard core crack cocaine habit. When its 35 degrees outside, and even the damn plants have been covered in case of a frost, you are very likely to see a crack head strutting around butt-ass naked. When its 102, and old folks are dropping from heat stroke, the cracky is looking for a ski-suit to put on. I have told you in the past of my considerable girth. Like most "big boys" I am very sensitive to heat. My wife will tell most folks that the thermostat is pretty well the only thing we ever fight about. I am ALWAYS hot, and she is ALWAYS cold. So, I have decided that America needs to stop looking for a cure for crack addiction. Stop entirely. And start trying to isolate and identify the causes of the crack heads amazing disregard for weather, and ability to control the temperature within his own body. Think of all the energy and marriages we could save with this technology! Create a pill that isolates and manipulates the crack heads secret weather control. Imagine- turn off your heat in the dead of winter, and just take two tablets of "Crack-Cozy". Hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk? Take two tabs of "Crack-Cool" and shut down that noisy-ass window unit. Its time to start looking for the good in this epidemic, and stop trying to make it seem so evil. We could all be asking for hot chocolate while standing in line behind three guys buying Gatoraid. We just have to open our minds. I got to go, I'm hot as hell.

Hooking for Candy

Went out with the girls today, out shopping for school project crap, and Halloween decorations. We went into a couple of places that were selling costumes, for kids and adults, among all the other skulls, bats, and whatnot. I got a problem I want to throw out on the table. I saw two little girls looking at a costume that, like most of the ones for adult woman, looked like a hooker get-up. One told the other "we cant wear that" as the lesser disciplined of the two gave her a sharp "whatever", and they walked away. The next isle over displayed all of what is allegedly acceptable for the young pair. Here's the problem; the costumes for the girls were mostly the same as the hooker wear, only smaller. I covertly pulled out the old camera phone, and took the two pictures you see here. Sorry for the low res. I noticed that, for example, the Police Officer costume for boys looked like a tiny cop, down to the gun. But for girls, the "police officers" uniform included a slutty short skirt, with a pair of fish net prosti-stockings. The same followed for the "school girl" scenario. Now, I don't know a man that isn't turned on by the school girl outfit, and that's my point. A little girl should not be dressed this way, with the fucking fish nets, and turned out on the street to go door to door for candy. I wont rave on about this, because once I get started, we could be here all night. But God damn it, that shit should be taken to the counter of those stores, and explanation should be demanded.

Where are all the Cops and detectives that are supposed to be looking for this type of thing? According to the media, they spend all day on the Internet pretending to be "Tabitha, the 13 year old soccer player who likes boy bands and chatting online". What the hell is up with that? I'm sure they spend lots of time "researching" these characters they create, and even pop in these chat rooms at home, when they are off, late at night, to try and bring down a scumbag. This operation has been reported to be working, though I don't know how. I never met a Cop who fit in in a God damn parking lot, much less a chat room for young girls. Seems to me that, the ones who are the best at luring the pedo into a trap, know the most about the ways of a young girl. And to be the best at it, may mean he is spending too much time studying the role. This was pointed out to me by a friend who has a sort of second site for these things. I suppose the problem is that, even I knew I should have taken that costume up to the counter, and demanded an explanation. And instead, I kept quite, and came home to write about it -like a bitch.

Aint nothin' Casual about Friday

Brothers and Sisters, I had the pleasure of doing something that I now believe we should all schedule at least once a year. No, it wasn't a colonoscopy, or a trip to the Keys. It wasn't getting up at dawn to watch the sun rise. It was sitting outside an insurance building on Friday afternoon, waiting to pick up my wife. Now, she doesn't work in insurance, but her company has an office in this large corporate hive downtown. I pulled up at the requested 4:45pm, and eased my seat back to take in one of the most entertaining and purely frightening shows I never knew existed. The mass exodus of the office cubical dweller. I have said many times that I could NEVER have such a job, toiling away in obscurity all day- nameless, faceless etc. It seems that the folks who are dealt this lot feel the same way. So, to balance out the universe, and keep from shooting up a mall food court somewhere, this is how they roll. Years ago, several big companies decided to ease the ho-hum by relaxing the employee dress code on Fridays. They figured this would help the employees feel more human, and express themselves. If you felt more at home, maybe you would be less likely to try and break out early. In the old days, it just meant necktie optional, or later, wearing a golf shirt instead of a button down. Like every other bend in a set rule, it has been pushed to the absolute limit. You get to come in to work and see just how flaky the flakes you thought you were working among can flake. You never asked fatty next cube over what his interests are, so now you will have them rammed down your throat. I saw so many brands of undercover freak, it made my head spin. The first I would like to outline, is my all time favorite. Its "white guy who thinks he's an Indian". This sad humanoid could only be detected during the rest of the week by a slight hint of patchouli in the air, or maybe a "medicine bag" around his neck, tucked down in the shirt. But on Friday, holy shit. A pair of skin tight 87' wranglers with a turquoise belt buckle, and the inevitable Wolf head t-shirt, tucked into said wranglers. Leather everywhere, and anything you can paint, stamp, screen a wolf onto. What is it with the wolf crap? I will go farther out of my way to avoid this type person than a man holding an axe outside a methadone clinic. He has an appointment in a sweat lodge somewhere this weekend, so don't get in his way. His Indian name is "Dances with white guys dressed like Indians" and his white name is Herbert.

The next person in the parade of sadness, is the black woman dressed like she's high stepping on the Serengeti. She has never been to Africa, and does not want to go. But on Friday, she is the ebony queen of Kenya, the mother of the whole planet, the black descendant of all things sparkly and royal of Egypt and any other thing Disney ever made a talking lion movie about. She also wears this get up to gamble in Balouxi, and eat shrimp cocktail at Red Lobster. This specimen usually requires a large hat of some sort, which will more than likely be gold or silver to represent the pillaged wealth of the Mother Africa. Or a head wrap with fruit on it, to represent Chiquita Banana.

Lastly, you have my least favorite brand of closet freak, the portly "Vampire Goth" girl/boy/thing. I don't think you really have to assign a gender to this type because I have never really seen any evidence of such characteristics displayed by them. The boys look sad, and weak. The girls look sad, and weak. Both wear makeup, lacy crap, and ugly silver jewelry. Both hang out in the same places where only Vampires dare to go, like the mall. They smell like cloves and failure, and have cool names like Ravensblood, Wrath, and Fatty Fatty Fat-Face. I don't think they have sex, or dreams, or a point. They buy junk trinkets at the Vampire supply store, Hot Topic, which I have recently learned is owned by the Gap. I want to see a Gap-like commercial for Hot Topic, with a bunch of sad Goth kids all swing dancing in their pointy shoes. But, enough of my needs, this is about them. Its Friday. Wolfe's will howl. Bats will flap. Africans will sing. Come Monday though, leave that shit at home- you got work to do.

Pit Bulls, the Great White of the Ghetto

Magoo ole’ boy, you’ve done it again! I think I may have killed two birds with one stone. You know, the only thing I hate more than seeing some ignorant ass turd strutting
around with a pit bull on a piece of chain they had cut at Walmart, is the God damn “Save the Breed” emails that I keep getting. That and bulletins posted on Myspace and
other such alleged social networking sites. You’ve seen them, the emailed slide show that is supposed to warm your heart with multiple shots of Pit puppies in shoes, and bath tubs,
playing with babies and all this. Now, let me start by saying that I do indeed know of Pit Bulls that are well raised, and quite lovable. However, for every dog that fits this description,
there are a couple thousand that are completely out of hand, and usually off the leash. I refer to these poor creatures as the “Great White of the Ghetto” or the idiots Pit Bull. You have seen
these guys, walking a twenty pound Pit pup with twenty pounds of weight around their neck. These sorry SOB’s will spend big cash on the dogs pimp chain, or even a chain and charm, but not
two dollars on a book about how to raise the damn thing. It makes me sick and I can’t even figure who to try to run over first. Home owners insurance has began shit-canning policies if they
find out you have one of this and a few other breeds in residence. That’s funny to me, that someone thinks these type jackasses own homes. So, without further ado, here’s the
solution. Permits. In order to own any one of the breeds that the insurance companies are trying to outlaw, including the Pit, the Doberman, German Sheppard, Chow, and lets not forget
the Rottweiler ( also known as the “Rock-Whilah”) you would be required to submit an explanation of why you require the services of such a breed. Then, you’d have to pass a state administered
exam to determine your knowledge of the selected breed, and training. Next, a code enforcement agent would go to your address and make sure you had suitable confine for the animal.
Finally, you would show proof of home owners or some other type liability insurance for the dog, in the event of an unavoidable accident. That’s it! You would then go down to the state regulated
breeder, not an open trunk in the Home Depot parking lot, and get your healthy puppy. The best way is rarely the easy way. I just feel like you should hold the owner responsible for the action
of the animal, within reason. I own a Jack Russel that I wouldn’t trust as far as I can kick it. So, I keep his ass locked up, or on the leash so he can’t destroy anything that I can’t afford to fix. There you are-
We found a way to save the breed, and the neighbors.

Beer or Shotguns, Part Deux

Just a quick thought folks. Took my daughter to the gun show today. Wow. We saw things I never knew you could run into on this planet, and I don't mean the weaponry. Anyhoo, all that freak and gun made us hungry, so we jumped in line at the concession stand. I saw a big ass Budweiser sign, and well, you know. I got up to the front and tried to order a hot dog and a brewski, and got flat denied. The nice lady told me that the gun show was the ONLY event that ever graced the fair grounds where they could not sell beer. She said that the "law" says that guns and beer don't go together. I said some crazy red neck something back to her, which at least made me laugh, and off I went with a giant Coke. My point was, again, that I could walk in or out of there with a gun that could literally take down a jet liner, but not have a beer while I shop. That is the last time I will bitch about it here. Thank you.

Floridas Missing "Kids"

Alright, alright. I admit, im completely talking out of my ass on this one because I have not been there. But I just have to comment on something that has bugged me for years. I have been married for around 16 years now, and I have kids. So, I think I can at least get on the required frequency to throw this out there. Every now and then, I have to go to Wal-Mart. And when I’m leaving, I always stop and check the “Florida’s missing children” wall to see if I recognize anyone. I have not yet, and I always walk away from that bulletin just a bit disturbed. It amazes me to see how many of these “kids” looked a lot like prostitutes before they went “missing”. I mean, it appears that they may not be so hard to find, if they wanted to come home. They are shown with six pounds of makeup on their face; tattoos all up their neck, cigarettes, etc. You feel me? If the kid had on a scuba mask and snorkel, I would look around the beach for them. If they had on a John Deere hat, and a piece of straw in their mouth, I would head to the heartland. However, the way these kids look, I would have to head down to the local “stroll” to maybe pick them up off the job. Its just that, I feel like if a kid has been so over exposed to the evil ways of the world, either by there own hand, or the cruelty of others, there’s just not much of a child left to be looking for. We have all known some kid that had great parents, loving siblings, and a better than fair start at life. Often, you can watch that child suddenly shift into some Hollywood avenue, heroin fiend piece of shit right before your eyes, without any visible cause. I guess im saying, some of these kids stopped being kids, and just left. Here’s part two of my pointless ramble. IF A CHILD IS WITH HIS PARENT, EITHER PARENT, HE’S NOT MISSING. Just because you had a shitty lawyer that totally flubbed your divorce and custody issues, it’s not the same as a kid stolen in the night by some psychopathic asshole. Don’t use my tax dollars, or ask for my time to help Wayne find Wanda and get little Cody back. Lets find the kids that are really missing, and in danger. In danger that THEY didn’t put (or keep) themselves in. The military says that at 17 years old, a kid can join if he has his parents co-sign. He can fight, kill, and die, and even be a hero. So, it seems to me that a seventeen year old who wants to be a prostitute has made their choice too. Now, go be pisssed at me, and keep your eyes open for those kids, the real missing kids.

All that glitters isn't gold, not even a Sacajawea dollar

First off, I have to give special thanks to my technical advisor, Bob Milam, for helping me center and stabilize my abstract thought process on this one. Here's the thick of the plot. One day last week, I was walking out the door to go and get some things we needed for dinner. My wife asked me to get a few bucks back for my daughter to take to school, to pay for lunch. When I got to the register, the smiling snapper head told me he was low on ones, and asked if I could take a couple Susan B. Anthony's, and a couple "Sacajawea" dollar coins. I was immediately intrigued with the idea of my daughter being forced to explain the "legend" of Sacajawea to the disgruntled lunch lady. You see, I am always trying to get her to be more assertive, and push her point across. Now, she likes to eat as much (or more) than i do, so I knew it would be a challenge that she would be FORCED to take to the next level, as they say. I based this idea on the fact that many (most?) folks have no idea what the hell a Sacajawea is, not to mention a Sacajawea dollar. When we got home, I immediately asked my wife if she knew, and as expected, she did not. I asked many other people, including Bob, and they did not. So, the stage was set. Now, Sacajawea was also known as Pocahontas. She was the servant, guide, and sex slave of the famed Lewis and Clark expedition. Of course, Disney didn't tell it like that. She was sold to the pair like a piece of meat, and quickly put on the job. I think she even had a kid or two with one or both of them. So, for some reason the mint decided to make an ugly ass, brassy looking dollar coin, possibly to commemorate her being such a swell sport about the whole thing. My buddies all laughed about the idea of my daughter spitting words and quoting facts like a coked up car salesman on the last Sunday of the month, trying to school up the lunch lady, and score her Sloppy Joe. I know, the whole thing was cruel. Funny as hell to me, but cruel. While standing there with my work Bro-hams, we started talking about the fact (?) that, unless the person you are bartering with appreciates the value of your currency, it really has no value. The truth is, there is NO real value of any currency, depending on the situation of the market. You always hear these assholes on the street and on TV talking about gold, and how it never loses its value even if the cash market fails completely. So, I like to pipe up and bait them by asking "say, what is the value of an ounce of gold right now?' They fall right into the trap by saying something like "89 dollars an ounce", and then I got em. I got em right where I want them. 89 what? 89 WHAT??? 89 DOLLARS FOOL! Your gold has NO value when it is based on the dollar, in a time of market collapse. Guess what, even a diamond has to be appraised. In a market crash, no value what so ever. Here's how you find what is true value in a crunch. Can you eat it? Can you cook on it, or warm your kids with it? Food and water, blankets, guns, nails, and batteries. Chickens, rope, plastic, milk. That's your gold. Maybe you could trade a chicken for some gold to fill a tooth. Maybe you could trade diapers for a sack of diamonds to put in the gold tooth. You get the point. Anyway, my Baby talked that lunch lady into getting on board with Sacajawea, and handing over the Joe. I guess that's another valuable commodity in a mess, the power and command of bullshit. If so, I must be rich.

Explain to your kids- Beer or Shotguns?

Yesterday, I finally got to fulfill a dream I have had for eleven years. I have waited for the day that I would take my daughter out into the Florida wilderness, and teach her how to use the family firearms. I was so proud as she stood there, so nervous and excited, pointing that urban combat 12 gauge shotgun at an old bucket. Then, pulling the trigger on my old Colt 45 auto, and watching it nearly come up out of her little hands. I wondered who she was seeing in that dirt mound she was destroying, and hoping it wasn't me. She did so well, I was glowing with pride. She is not a Tom boy, so I really didn't think she would go through with it. I will try to figure out how to get the camera phone video I shot onto this site for all to see. Now, here's the funny thing. Later on, she clearly expressed her new love of all things Ka-boom when she started asking about when she could hope to get her own guns. I told her of how I got a job, and bought my first Combat shotgun when I was only 18 years old, and how she could do the same. She asked "Daddy, how can you buy a gun at 18, but you have to be 21 to just buy a beer?" Well, out of the mouth's of babes, as they say. I then had to attempt to explain to her all of the ridicules laws we maintain in this country, even though they do not begin to make sense. She was so cute. I told her that, when she is 18, I will take her to get her own shotgun. We will blast the living shit out of something with a power of pure destruction that few folks will ever know. Then, I will stop off on the way home and get myself a cold one, and her a Pepsi, because even though she can own a tool capable of annihilating the store cashier, she sure as hell can't buy a can of beer from him- Draft age, drinking age, voting age, gun age, driving age?

Those days are over, part 1

Here's a little ditty I like to call "those days are over". Its a phrase I use when I see or hear a person or group trying to ignore the current state of affairs, and mix an ounce of ignorance to explain a situation. This weeks episode begins with the Teamsters and others trying to demonize the people of Mexico over the proposed opening of the border to truck drivers. About a year ago, I was on my way home from Atlanta, and stopped for gas in some tiny, south Georgia gas station. I saw a shitty looking tractor trailer park outside the store, and the door open. I then watched as an entire family of Mexicans climbed out of the truck to stretch their tiny Mexican legs. Mama, Papa, and about four little seesters were living in that God damned truck. I knew when I saw this, that the Mexicans had found trucking. So, we have established that they are working now as truckers. Twenty years ago, my father stopped doing floor covering for a living for two reasons. One, his knees were going bad. And two, Mexicans started laying carpet. My Pop got out of that biz and began learning a new, more lucrative way to earn money. Here's my point. Mexicans don't set prices. They accept the pay they are offered to do what are known as blue collar jobs in America. A truck driver has to be payed to deliver what they are hauling. Americans need to seek out the corporations that are cutting their throats, and stop blaming the Mexicans. Ten years ago, a company called E-Trade posted a billboard along a busy highway in Atlanta that read, "If your boss could pay you less, he would". The truth is, he would pay you less, and so would anyone for any service you could offer. People used to pay a little more to help out the folks they knew and lived around in this country. Those days are over. Here's my advice- learn to do a job that an uneducated 19 year old Mexican can't do, and learn to speak Spanish.

Something like Shabbot

Well, its Labor day, the holiday to celebrate the working man. I celebrate it like most folks- on my ass. Is this like Sh abbot? If any of my Hebrew Bro-hams care to help me out on this, please do. God Dammit Dude, I don't roll on Shabott!!!!! I'm sitting in front of the TV (total void) watching "Age of Love".I can feel my breakfast rising in my throat, as these shallow, soulless whores all compete to be the first one to be pumped and dumped by some fake ass "rich guy". I just watched as one of the hookers, or contestants as they are called, broke her leg trying to swim out to a yacht. I'm pretty sure that when a whore breaks their leg, like a horse, you are expected to put them down. I hope the producer does the right thing. It would be cruel to have this limping whore struggling to get around the dining area at Hooters. Its more humane to calm her down, and put her out of her misery. Say a few kind words about her life, then roll her in carpet and dump her by the railroad tracks. Then, in my perfect world, the producer, creator, and any person involved in making these kinds of "reality" shows would be rolled in their own little carpets, and laying next to her. Well, I got the Ghetto Bird flying over my street in the hood again, so I guess I will get up, violate Sh abbot, and go outside to see who died. Hollah-

Florida billboards- turns out old people still fuck.

Rolling down any highway in the state of La Florida, I have noticed a trend in the billboard clutter along the roadside. It seems that the story that is most often told is that of the future of our elderly. I have, after getting fine tuned to a frequency only insects could hear, noticed that all of the photos seem to be sexual in nature. They show your grandparents in a way that you yourself may have never seen them. You know that they perhaps have separate rooms, or at least separate beds. You know that they have their own agendas, and scream at each other all day. And, you know that their junk has not been activated since your uncle came home from "Tha Nam". But the owners and builders of the countless old folks villages, villas, vistas, and so forth advertise these joints by showing grampy all pushed up on grammys cool-locks (spelling?) and sitting in a canoe or some shit. They stand in groups, two men, two woman all scantly clad looking back at you like some shit is going down after bingo tonight baby! They got them on a beach all locked up, or on a trail in the woods, or a million other places you would never really find them. The message is always the same. Move away from your kids, get a tan, and start fucking. Welcome to Florida, Grampy.

The Invasion has Begun

Am I the only one that has the buh-jesus (yes, I changed the spelling) scared out of them every time the "E Harmony" commercial comes on?Lets just call a spade a spade- those people look fucked up. The only thing worse than the front view is their profile. They look alike beyond just a coincidence. That Mr. Roper looking spokesman is the devil, and the devil wants you to marry your sister, apparently. You cant force fate. Get out there and meet your mate the old fashion way, in a bar. Or in church if you are really desperate. Paying someone to hook you up is called prostitution. I'm going to start a service called E-Discord. I will pair you up with someone you will hate beyond belief. You will hate them so bad, they will look like you. You will hate the same shit, AND each other. I'm drunk.

Zsa Zsa

I was standing in line at the grocery store and started scanning headlines on the various magazines they post in that area. I noticed that they are mostly the celebrity worship type crap, not to much real info. I wondered if cows had magazine racks in the slaughter line, then something caught my eye. It was a nice close shot of Valery Bertonelli's ass. It was in need of some repair, and wearing a bikini. Just above that, was some word of a new zany mishap that Zsa Zsa Gabour's husband had got into. I looked at Valerie's ass again, and after reading the header about how she was in horrible shape and needed to think about NOT walking on the beach for a while, I thought about the schmuck that hid out in the dunes with a zoom lens camera for hours, waiting to get that life changing picture that saved the world. We are in trouble. Next time you stand in that line, look at the magazines on the side that the conveyor is on, then look on the other side. See if you notice anything odd. I did today, but it took a lifetime

Hot?

I want to know who decided Sarah Jesica witchy Jew face Parker was hot? And after I get that info, I want to know who also thought that Uma footface Thurman was hot. Those bitches are NOT hot. They are a couple of butterfaces (body looks good butter face needs work) that got really lucky. I saw SJ Parker on a commercial and thought for a second it was an SNL skit. I think she was dancing for chicken. Dont get me started on Renae ratface Zelwiger or however you spell her fd up name. Bitch could nibble the cheeseout of a combo. Word?