Happy belated President’s Day, beautiful babies and gentlemen. I have some festive words for you to ponder: We hold these truths to be self-evident! When Thomas Jefferson committed these eight words to paper* (Parchment? Stone?) in 1776, who is to say what he intended them to mean? Historians? People that read books? Not being a “historian” or a “person that paid attention in school” myself, I don’t know. I speculate it was something about how rad it was to wear a wig, or how dead-sexy a good pair of knickerbockers and a puffy pirate shirt looked together. If I were to take those words under my wing and explain to you what they mean to me, what “truths” would I hold to be “self-evident?” They are as follows:
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Hey man, what’s your name again?

Mr. CooL ICE. I think the capped L at the end of CooL is somehow necessary, like he would have had to especially request that - “Make the L big! No, keep the o’s small. Now make some awful skulls! Hey, how much for a bikini top on the back of my head?”

That thing does look like a tiny bikini top to me, but given the general artistic tone of his ink work (and by “artistic tone,” I mean things Middle School boys - and the girls who play softball - draw in their notebooks during class) I would have to say they’re sunglasses. On the back of his bald-ass head. Maybe I’m completely wrong and it’s actually the silhouette of a phone handset. Or a travel sleep mask thing. I don’t know! What I do know is he was probably super pissed when he saw that the L on his back “CooL” wasn’t capitalized. Look closely at that poor sonofabitch getting tattooed in the lower right corner - “All right, I get it - you’re fucking Mr. CooL ICE. Please stop flexing at me?”
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“Because those people are fucking stupid.“

Was that Slater holding the microphone?

I dunno. Made me laugh when I found it.

***EDIT - I like Drama Prairie Dog too.***

***DOUBLE EDIT! I found a Drama Cat with no shitty promo for Loose Change. You can thank teh Wez.

***TRIPLE EDIT! Greg Giraldo had to go first in a recent Comedy Central roast on Flava Flav, he said some ballsy shit and still totally killed. What a great comic. One that should be more well-known than he is, for sure.

Just today, someone from Laredo, Texas found my website because of Google. They found me because they were conducting a search for “smelly pubes.” A while back, someone from Brooklyn, New York found me because they were Googling “cannot find tampon in vigina.” (sic)

That’s the power of the internet! Right there - kapow! People finding me in my little corner of this tangled web, by looking for shit that’s important to them. Things that are close to their heart. And they find me! And they’re probably disappointed. I don’t have a lot of content or pics devoted to smelly pubes (ok, I don’t really have any), and I’m more or less unable to answer where a plug of cotton with a string attached has absconded to in that unholy maw between their legs.

One thing about the Brooklynite with the lost tampon in their “vigina” - do you think Google was their first choice? Or did they finally come to Google after trying something shittier, like Ask Jeeves? I’d wager a guess that Jeeves would be horrified by that question, and perhaps a touch judgmental. Does MapQuest have her vagina (sorry, vigina) in its database yet? So many questions. I wish my website here had more answers. I’m pretty tampon ignorant, and this is why my website fails. From what I can find on the comments on a post from cheesedip dot com, The Case of the Missing Tampon might be a common one. And most clues point you to the Gynecologist, Nancy Drew.

I drove out to a friend’s house on the other side of town Saturday, and on the way there, sitting at a light, I could feel the person in the left lane looking at me. You know how that is? You just know they’re looking! And you have to make a choice - do you turn and face them, or try to act like you don’t notice they’re looking and let that feeling burn your skin until the light changes? That day, I made the choice to look. I was greeted by a grizzled-looking 60-something Hispanic man leaning over to the passenger-side window of his rust-peppered white pickup. He was smiling broadly and gesturing wildly at me. I could hear nothing over my music. I turned the CD off, and asked what he had said.

“I said, do you want to buy a 30-gallon aquarium,” he shouted, jerking his head back to the bed of his pickup, where there was a rather unkempt-looking aquarium nestled in a bed of yard debris, hay, and crunched beer cans.

I took a moment to gauge whether he was serious or not, and decided by the crazed twinkle in his eyes that he was serious like Yahoo.

“No thank you,” I yelled back, cursing myself for not having bags and bags of habitat-less fish back at my place. How perfect would that have been?

In case that’s not exciting enough for you, here’s a video of a guy falling so fucking horribly his SHOES BLAST OFF HIS FEET! And he walks away from it smiling and hopping up and down and shit! PCP is awesome! (Thanks Gene):

A few days ago, I stopped at the Quality Dairy on the corner to get gas. Fun story, right? Wait - there’s more! You impatient fuckers. I go to the Quality Dairy to get gasoline because it’s close to my abode, and if I want some… dairy… I can get it there also. I always pre-pay inside because their pumps are collossal relics of a bygone era, and they have no credit/debit card reader built into them. This bothers me, so I always prepay. I like to hang up the pump and drive away when I’m done fueling, not stand behind some jackoff that’s buying 30 dollars worth of scratch-off lottery tickets and being really indecisive about which ones to get at nine in the fucking morning. Sure, when I prepay inside, there’s always the off chance I’ll wind up behind that guy - but I digress, the scratch-off lottery ticket guy is a whole other story entirely, I could go on and on. Sadly. This story is about this particular fueling trip, and this trip was blissfully douchebag lottery-guy free. I paid my bit inside, told them what pump I was on, and boom! I’m ready to gas up my whip, yes?

Remove nozzle, select grade, begin fueling.

WAITING FOR AUTHORIZATION

Hang up nozzle, remove nozzle, select grade, begin fueling.

WAITING FOR AUTHORIZATION

Well, damn. They forgot to actually add the money I’d just paid to the pump I’m trying to use. I know this because it happens roughly every third time I get gas at this place. They have one of those buttons to call the inside with, but it’s absolutely frozen with white paint from the last 10 times it’s been painted over when they “snazzed up” the pumps. As I start to get annoyed, I notice the balding guy in the SUV next to me gabbing away on his BlackBerry and effortlessly beginning his fueling. He was coming in to the commerce area as I was coming out, and he was talking on that goddamned phone back then, too. Probably talked while he paid for his gas! They remembered to give him his gas.

As I look at the screen on my pump with a slight touch of contempt

WAITING FOR AUTHORIZATION

I notice that Captain BlackBerry is opening his driver-side door and talking on a cell phone while his gas is faithfully pumping away. I figure he must be getting in there to find a pack of smokes to light one up and complete the explosive ball of fire trifecta. Maybe bottle rockets or a road flare, who knows? I glare at the store window to see if an employee maybe somehow remembered that they forgot something, and my view of it shimmers through a haze of gas fumes coming from Captain BlackBerry’s big yellow shitmobile.

WAITING FOR AUTHORIZATION

I have a flash of a fantasy that this was somehow meant to be, that I was supposed to have this happen so I would have to go back inside to get my pump AUTHORIZED when the explosion erupts and engulfs the pump bay I’m sharing with this sweaty piece of middle management in deadly flames. Divine intervention. Fate. I try to resist an urge to run as I head back into the store.

Thank you, Louis CK.

I saw the goddamned Transformers tonight, and I have to at least say something about that. I mean, I can’t sit here and blog about a cat that’s not even mine - how 40 year-old virgin (woman) is that? Quite a bit. So allow me to do it some more, if only to explain his role in my domain. He’s my roommate’s, but I still pet him and talk to him and stuff, so we’re cool. Sometimes the act of jumping his (substantial) girth down from the bathroom sink - his preferred daytime nest - forces a loud cooing noise out of him, like a pigeon racing after a scrap of bread a peasant threw down. It’s really pretty rad. Anyway, about that movie I saw…

Transformers. I was scared of this one. I mean, I’m fucking 30. Think about it. I watched the shit out of that cartoon. My parents paid the baby bearded Jesus only knows how much for all of the Transformers toys I had. I remember setting up a courtroom-style presentation on why, exactly, my parents needed to get in the car right fucking now and go to Service Merchandise to get me a Dinobot. The Dinobot that my stellar presentation (and my parent’s lack of courage to tie me up in a burlap sack and toss me in the river) awarded me that day was Slag, the Triceratops Dinobot. How fucking cool was that? So cool, I accidentally broke one of that motherfucker’s horns off the first day I had it! Remembering back on breaking Slag’s horn, I think you could equate my horror of having just done that to that of someone who had just accidentally ran their baby over with the car. What I’m trying to say is, Transformers were something that made me who I am: a nerd that likes to collect shit he doesn’t really need, per se. They hold a special place in my heart. So does THIS sound. I wish with every ounce of my being that when I de-pantsed myself, THAT sound would play. It would be so cool, the WORLD would IMPLODE. Fo’ reals.

About the movie? I loved it. It was fun. I wanted to have sex with the CG more than I did Megan Fox, plus it had the same guy doing the voice for Optimus Prime as in the cartoon, which was a pleasant surprise… oh, and John Turturro was in it, which is always fun. Though I can never not picture him as anybody other than Jesus Quintana now. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Anyway, I don’t want to go into specifics on it, I think movie reviews diminish the potential value of what you are going to see. But I dug it. I could almost even partially suspend my disbelief of the computer shit they showed in it. And the fact that it was a huge GMC/Apple/Mountain Dew/Xbox ad. Fun movie (yes, I know how much I’m over-using the word fun), nice eye candy. And the sound. My childhood did not feel like it had just been ass-raped with a garden rake. (See Star Wars Eps. I-III or Star Wars Special Edition Eps. IV-VI for this.)

It’s late. I’m going to bed. And I’m probably gonna make the sound with my mouth when I take my pants off. Sue me.