He makes me clean his navel with a wire brush.
- or -
It looks like he’s pushin’ one out through his stomach!
Author Archive for Todd
Remember that TV show Roseanne? You know, the one starring John Goodman and, uh, what’s-her-name? Darlene?
Whatever happened to Roseanne after she married Tom Arnold and they had that big falling out and she said something about him having a needle-dick?
In an interview with the London Independent (by way of The Week magazine), Roseanne talks about getting back on the stand-up circuit. She also talks about all the plastic surgery she’s had done in her 20-odd-year career:
It’s weird how your face looks after plastic-surgery-ized. You can’t smile so much and your eyes don’t blink. My nose dripped constantly. They even sewed one of my ears back on crooked. No one looks better after plastic surgery. Just pink and shiny. At the end of it, you look like an idiot.
Hear, hear. The boys at Awfulplasticsurgery.com won’t have Roseanne Barr to kick around anymore—not that they ever cared enough to actually feature her on their site.
Did somebody say “site”? Roseanne’s got one.
And did somebody say “kid’s singalong video”? She’s got one of those, too: “Rockin’ with Roseanne - Calling All Kids.”
08
Mar
Let Freedom Rock
My grandmother forwarded me this email today:
I’m told that there is a huge rock near a gravel pit on Hwy. 25 in rural Iowa. For generations, kids have painted slogans, names, and obscenities on this rock, changing its character many times. A few months back, the rock received its latest paint job, and since then it has been left completely undisturbed. It’s quite an impressive sight. Be sure to scroll down and check out the multiple photos (all angles) of the rock. I thought the flag was draped over the rock, but it’s not. It’s actually painted on the rock too.
Here’s the artist Ray “Bubba” Sorensen.
AWESOME Work, RAY…Thank you!
“God Bless America”
&
“Our Soldier’s & Vet’s”
This is the 2003 incarnation of Freedom Rock. Ray “Bubba” Sorensen II started painting it in 1999, cycling through a design every year or so. Freedom Rock has a website, as does “Bubba” himself.
I’ll resist the urge to be cynical—I think it speaks for itself. Instead, I’ll point out that this is exactly the kind of thing I love discovering on roadtrips. Whether you’re, like, totally down with the war shiznit or not, Freedom Rock is true Americana.
The overt Bush vis-a-vis Top Gun reference aside, I do take issue with the Thomas Jefferson quote: “We confide in our strength without boasting of it; we respect that of others, without fearing it.”
I don’t think the administration had much respect for the strength of others when they defied the will of non-coalition (i.e., almost all) nations worldwide by invading Iraq—not to mention severly underestimating the growing strength of anti-American sentiment there. And what’s this about not boasting of our own strength? Haven’t we been repeating ad nauseum that we’re the “greatest -slash- most powerful nation on Earth”—that it’s our “duty” as harbingers of democracy to “bring freedom” to the repressed corners of the globe? Humble pie, I suppose. Thomas Jefferson would be proud.
Suck it, T.J.
07
Mar
Yanni arrested!
From Yahoo! News:
Yanni Arrested in Alleged Domestic Dispute
[…] Yanni asked his girlfriend, Silvia Barthes, to leave his beachfront home in Manalapan on Thursday night, the police report said. Barthes, 33, told police she attempted to pack her clothing but the 51-year-old musician threw it on the ground.
She told officers he then grabbed her arms and shook her, throwing her on the bed, and jumped on top of her, according to the report.
Yanni told police Barthes kicked him, and he believed he injured his finger during the incident, the report said. […]
Y’know, taken out of context, this sounds less like a domestic dispute than some kinky, throw-you-down-and-choke-you fight-sex—all to the soothing, ephemeral whisperings of New Age piano spiraling from the heavens like rainbows made of butterflies. Erotic novel time!
As Silvia lay pinned to the bed, delirious with ecstasy, Yanni pressed his forearm against her larynx. A drop of sweat rolled off his majestic nose and into her panting mouth.
“I want you to sing for me,” he grunted as the salt spread across her tongue. “Sing for Yanni.”
“Sing!” he shouted, pressing harder against her throat with his rippling arm. “Sing for Daddy!”
Well, regardless of the cause for Yanni’s arrest, those dicks at the Betting Pool of Most Unlikely and Otherworldly Shit Imaginable owe me some serious cash.
From Deadbeat Dad:
This is the E-Zine dedicated to the Deadbeat Dad. That scorned individual hated by his family, ex-family and anyone else who gets caught up in his messy sad story. All you deadbeats know who you are. You’re the guy living out of the back of his car, living in a single room with a bathroom down the hall, living off of the value menu at the closest fast food joint where they know you by name. You’ve got so many bill collectors after you that you just laugh when they call you. You’ve gone direct to the child support agency that serves you and requested that they just go ahead and arrest you cause you can’t take it anymore. They just look at you from behind the bullet proof class and say “next”. You’re the guy that leaves a job, your apartment, and your state all in the same day cause you know that they started taking that money out of your check again and the rent, and the utilities won’t be gettin’ paid anymore. Your ex has left town with her new husband and changed the name of your kids to the name of their new “Dad” and they have been told you’re the one who took off and deserted them. Your ex has 3 incomes and owns a new home while lying to the Welfare board about income, and you live as a permanant camper. Your’e pretty beat up aren’t ya? This page is for you Deadbeat.
Perhaps this self-proclaimed deadbeat—a fellow Austinite—found inspiration on the cover of the April 2004 edition of the Texas Travesty. (”Deadbeat Dad Monthly” is one of my favorite—and sorely underappreciated—cover parodies.)
Now that the “deadbeats” have infiltrated the internet, it’s only a matter of time before they band together and revolt. Soon the suburbs will erupt like Bodega Bay in The Birds, and squawking child support-dodgers will dive from the sky and shatter telephone booths and pluck at our skin with their mighty hooked beaks.
What Hath God Wrought?
02
Mar
AugmentLauren.com update
I’m fascinated by this girl: AugmentLauren.com. As posted earlier, an SMU student is blogging to raise money for a boob job. Since then, she’s posted pictures of herself in a bikini (”No tape, no binding sports bras, just me…”), in a shrunken sweater (”Would you let me do your laundry?”), and scarfing ground beef. (Or is it?)
Entitlement. She must feel entitled to heftier funbags—why else would she expect the general public to subsidize her selfishness? Regular ol’ Daddy wouldn’t spring for ‘em, I guess, so now she’s turning to all the creepy, internet-lurking Sugar Daddies out there willing to drop a few bucks for some pics of skimpy swimwear and nipply sweaters.
This scheme lurks somewhere in the very large gray area approaching prostitution. While she’s not turning tricks, she is capitalizing on sex appeal to earn money. Models do it. Strippers do it. Where on this spectrum of sex-selling does AugmentLauren lie?
More self-worshipping pictures can be found on her Flickr stream.
From AugmentLauren.com, poor grammar and all:
I’m Lauren and I’m in search of a bit of help (a full cup actually). […]
Haha! What a funny, charming girl. She’s a proud man’s daughter!
[…] I’m lucky enough to have been blessed with a great metabolism, and an even nicer toosh. […]
And modest to boot!
[…] Despite those plusses, I’ve run aground with my taste in men and the size of my chest.
Considering I’m 22 and the chances of my having another hormonal growth spurt are slim to non, I obviously can’t count on nature helping me out. So, I’m turing to you… my adoring public.
And we’re hanging on your every word and breath, Lauren.
I’m a hard working college student who is trying to get through SMU. Since I’m paying all my own bills and trying to raise a puppy, I’m a bit over extended. So, I thought it would be fun to show the progression of my quest for a nice set of …(well you know) and chronicle my “misadventures in men”. […]
Here’s the deal, Lauren. You go to an expensive private university. You are raising a dog. Both of these pursuits are optional. And you’re paying your own bills? That’s pretty tough, considering you’re 22. (In some countries, you’d be a mother of six by now. And in some parts of South Texas, a grandmother.) Being an adult is, like, totally tough and stuff, you know? OMG. BFF.
This is a publicity stunt, right? Can a woman really be so vapid? There are cancer patients, Lauren, who have had their breasts removed and cannot afford prothesics—and you want to make yours bigger? Hurricanes ravaged the coast last year, leaving hundreds of thousands destitute; a massive earthquake in Pakistan destroyed entire cities, forcing middle-class government bureaucrats and farmers alike to shiver in crowded tents all winter; there’s genocide in Sudan, asteroids hurtling towards Earth, I stubbed my fucking toe—and you’re flirting with strangers over the internet for two-dollar PayPal donations?
Your giant titties better feed the homeless for fifty years. It’s the least you can do for humanity after they fork over hard-earned money so you can battle childhood trauma and crippling self-hate.
That said, can I have some pixxx? Plz?
From Yahoo! News:
DETROIT - Kid Rock has won an initial victory in his attempt to stop a California company from releasing an explicit sex video featuring the rap-rocker, former Creed singer Scott Stapp and four women. [Link: Kid Rock Sues to Stop Sale of Sex Video]
Oh, how the pious have fallen. Poor Scott Stapp, arrested earlier this month for public intoxication, can’t seem to get a break! If you listen carefully, you can hear the world’s Youth Group leaders dejectedly shaking their heads as millions of awkward preteen girls clutch their Build-A-Bears ever tighter.
Luckily, I have his number in my Cellular Telephone, so I gave him a ring. Here’s an Exclusive World’s Only Blog Interview with Someone Famous™:
STAPP: I’m Torn! What’s This Life For when My Sacrifice fails to take me Higher? I’ve Weathered so much temptation, often With Arms Wide Open to God, but I see now that I’ve built My Own Prison. Sins are like Bullets—it only takes One to bring you down. Since my sinful behavior has come to light, I’ve been forced to draw One Last Breath and wonder, What If I had been strong enough to endure in the face of temptation?
WOB: That’s fascinating. I really respect you as a Christian and an artist. How will the revelation of this sex tape affect your career?
STAPP: Don’t Stop Dancing.
WOB: Pardon?
STAPP: Oh, I’m sorry. I was talking to Luna.
WOB: Who?
STAPP: Luna. She’s my, uh, girlfriend. Hey, hold on.
WOB: Okay.
STAPP: [Muffled] Are You Ready to receive the body of Scott Stapp?
FEMALE VOICE: [Unintelligible]
STAPP: Don’t chew it. Just let it dissolve on your tongue before swallowing.
WOB: What incredibly witty sexual innuendo!
14
Feb
The 26 Riverside
The worst part about the 26 Riverside/5 Woodrow route is the Woman in the Motorized Wheelchair.
It’s clockwork: every day, 5:30 pm, on Guadalupe just past 15th Street. The driver clears the entire front section of the bus—both sides—folds up the benches, and buckles her in like an overloaded, strap-winched bed of a Ford Ranger.
Okay, so she’s not the worst part. It’s not her fault. She’s gotta use the bus to get home from work. The worst part is the agonizing awkwardness of watching all the other passengers stifle eye-rolls as the driver shoos them: “Okay, people. Clear out!” Then they shuffle around in tiny circles, jostling for a sliver of personal space in the aisles of the crowded bus. The Woman in the Motorized Wheelchair is the privileged elite. She’s a vassal lord saddled across a mechanical stallion, reining it herky-jerky through the almost-too-narrow folding doors. She’s come to evict the serfs.
Wait—I take it back. There’s something even worse about the 26/5: the Obligatory Homeless. If you ride it for at least half an hour, you’ll see one or two. They board the bus discreetly, heads hung low, and make open-palmed gestures to the driver under muttered breath. The driver listens patiently for a moment, then waves them on without having paid. They thank him and call him “brother.”
The Obligatory Homeless come in three varieties, each distinguishable by their unique scent: Beer-Drunk, Liquor-Drunk, and Sober-Stink. Of the three, Beer-Drunk is the least offensive. He emits a vague, malt-like aroma that, if one concentrates hard enough, can be mistaken for the pleasant odor of freshly baked bread. Liquor-Drunk is much more difficult to ignore. The harsh vapors of two-dollar vodka waft from every pore of his body. His hair, tucked into a once-black baseball cap bleached gray with sweat and sun, smells of cheap cigarettes. While Beer-Drunk keeps to himself, Liquor-Drunk is bold enough to start a rambling conversation with anybody who acknowledges his presence. Occasionally, one of them boards the bus smelling like pot, and all the cool people share a guarded smile. (You are cool, right?)
But Sober-Stink outdoes them all. He—I’ll use the male pronoun exclusively, as even the most belligerent womyn shouldn’t be offended by exclusion—breeds the toe-curling stench of taint after a week of rustic camping next to a sulfur vent. He is the Phil Spector of fetor: a pioneer of the Wall of Stink.
It’s a bit tragic, as he’s actually the nicest of the bunch. He keeps to himself and never rides the bus drunk. Sober-Stink is doing his damnedest to get straight, find a job, and climb out of poverty. But he reeks to high hell and fouls up the entire ride with his epic body odor, which sticks to the seats like hot, wet chewing gum.
(How do Beer-Drunk and Liquor-Drunk remain relatively inoffensive while Sober-Stink induces dozens to breathe through their mouths? Does the liquor they imbibe disinfect them? Or does the sun’s UV rays naturally destroy odor-producing bacteria as they wallow on the steps of churches too Christian to kick them out? Such are the unfathomable mysterious of Science. And God. But mostly Science.)
Wait (again)! There’s something more awkward than Motorized Woman, something more odious than the Obligatory Homeless: People Who Talk About CSI.
Yup, they’re the worst.
When the world is destroyed by nuclear war, only two things will survive: cockroaches and CSI franchises. Thankfully, everyone who’d wanna watch CSI: Peoria or CSI: Asteroid X847-B will be consumed by radioactive hellfire that melts their flesh like those dudes in Raiders. Remember when they opened the Ark of the Covenant and that Nazi’s face melted? Indiana Jones was all like, Hey, don’t look! and what’s-her-name was like, Why? but she trusted him and did it anyway and it saved her life? That was cool.
If you’re anything like me—dashing, virile, modest—you’ve got a flexing, clot-ridden hole in your heart that only advertising can fill. Television commercials especially. In fact, I anticipate commercials more than the shows themselves; “quality television” is merely the harbinger of well-scripted, high-budget advertising that breaks up its monotony of characters, plot, and conspicuous absence of compensated endorsers.
Last night, while watching the Most Intelligent and Dynamic Television Show Ever Concieved (American Idol), I was rudely shaken from my commercial-induced trance by a— Oh, what are those things? Ah, yes: a thought. The commercial I was watching, one of those ubiquitous stop-smoking campaigns, was brought to me by Philip Morris. Wait, Philip Morris? One of the largest tobacco firms in the world wanted to help people stop smoking?
Okay, so it’s not news. Big Tobacco has been advertising stop-smoking aids for years. We’ve all seen the commercials, and we all know they’re part of a transparent face-saving PR maneuver. Hell, they even admit it. Here’s an excerpt from the Philip Morris QuitAssist website:
QuitAssist is a voluntary effort by Philip Morris USA. We realize that to some it may seem contradictory for a cigarette manufacturer to help smokers who have decided to quit succeed. But, smoking causes serious diseases and is addictive. It can be difficult to quit smoking and many smokers who try to quit do not succeed. We hope that this QuitAssist resource will help smokers who have decided to quit be successful. (Emphasis added.)
But I think there’s something deeper—a brilliant marketing scheme swirling just beneath the surface. Bear with me:
- The lies and conspiracies perpetrated by the tobacco companies for generations have long been exposed. Smoking is no longer sexy. Americans are quitting at alarming rates.
- Big Tobacco has been hammered by lawsuits, punitive damage settlements, and legislation. They are rapidly losing political and legal clout.
- Customer loyalty is down. A generation ago, a smoker was a customer for life. Today, many smokers are quitting in their 20s, 30s, or 40s.
How are they gonna survive? Let’s take a look at that quote again:
We realize that to some it may seem contradictory for a cigarette manufacturer to help smokers who have decided to quit succeed. But, smoking causes serious diseases and is addictive.
Notice anything missing? Philip Morris acknowledges “contradictory” logic, but they make no attempt to explain themselves. They don’t explain why they’re offering to help their customers stop using their product.
Here’s why: tobacco companies have drastically altered their business model. Once upon a time, they wanted customers for life, but that’s no longer feasible. They realize that more and more of their customers will smoke for a few years—maybe a decade or two—before quitting. They’ve stopped grasping at the straws of the increasingly rare lifelong customer. Instead, they’re focusing on a different demographic: the young people who know that smoking is bad—but they’re young, so fuck it! They’ll just quit after a few years. It’s easy! And they know it’s easy because Philip Morris will help ‘em do it.
Brilliant, isn’t it? Instead of fighting popular sentiment, they’ve embraced it. Smoking is now one of those things you do when you’re young, like skateboarding and handjobs. And when it’s time to hang up the kneepads and graduate to oral, they won’t mind saying goodbye. They still got your money—even if it was only for a few years. Something’s better than nothing, right?
