...And Don't Call Me Shirley

Leslie Nielsen sadly passed away last night at the age of 84. His brand of comedy can never be duplicated, and his classic roles never outdone. He will be missed.

-B
Break up the concrete

Sometimes the Hardest Thing and the Right Thing Are the Same

"So tell me now if this ain't love then how do we get out?
'Cause I don't know

That's when she said I don't hate you boy
I just want to save you while there's still something left to save
That's when I told her I love you girl
But I'm not the answer for the questions that you still have"

-B

Even God Hates Glenn Beck

It is 4 am, and I cannot sleep. I fear that this is not medically nor psychiatrically related, but merely a case of Glenn Beck haunting my worst nightmares. Let's face it, he does not have the eyes of a sane human being, and that chalkboard haunts my dreams. Freddy Krueger would kill me, but I think he as well fears the chalkboard of madness drawn from the clawed fingers and melted mind of a true sociopath. I am going to try and sleep now. Maybe Freddy and I can take him if we work together, me with my murderous rage and him with his claws and one-liners. If we fail, I fear the Ragnarok shall occur. If this happens, I am sorry, please forgive me and do not kick my ass while we all burn in hell for eternity.

-B
Stand in the corner and scream with me

Tickle My Elmo

Somewhere, right at this very moment, two grown female parents are punching each other in the face; or the baby maker. Either way, this makes me happy. The Christmas tradition that has now become the economic clusterfuck of materialism and Touch-Me-Here dolls has reached staggering levels. It is because of you psychotic bitches that I cannot leave my house today. Not even for a cup of coffee, due to the fear of some crazy soccer mom assuming I have a hot new toy stashed in my truck and she is going to impale me with a stir straw to get it if she has to. I hate this day, but bitches are boxing each other out, and that does kind of help. Guys, just heal the hangover, watch some porn, eat leftovers and prepare for the heart attack you will receive when your next credit card bill arrives.

-B
Hush my love a train now, but it takes me away from you

Handyman

I think I gave my new soap dispenser a handjob yesterday. I'm not completely sure yet as to what transpired, but for some reason I feel like a whore. I bought a new soap dispenser, whom I would have named but he probably would have given me a fake name anyway, and filled it with liquid soap. I sort of have a thing with washing my hands; like all the fucking time.

Anyway, once I filled it with its joy juice, I had to pump it a few times to get the "soap" up the "tube" and out the "spout". This took far too many pumps than should have been necessary. So I began to pump harder and faster. This is where the "Dear Penthouse, I never thought it could happen to me" moment occurred.

As it finally blew its load of what I still pray was soap, I swear I heard a sigh of relief from somewhere in my apartment. My bathroom stank of sex and shame, and I washed off what I now doubt was really soap and more likely millions of tiny swimming dispensers. I then turned around and noticed a lit cigarette in its spout. I don't smoke, I live alone, and there are no cigarettes in my house. There was also what appeared to be cab fare on the counter.

So I did the only thing I could; I hung my head and did the walk of shame out into my living room, and I left my number on the counter. I doubt he'll call.

PS - This is the first, and hopefully the last time I will ever have to Google "Funny Handjob".

-B
I created the sound of madness

They Just Keep Getting Better

-B
Sing it for the world

Thanks For The Dysentery

So as everybody but me knows (I am seriously the last to know anything), Thursday is Thanksgiving. My family has decided to have everybody bring a dish, that way we can all share the workload and/or all get food poisoning. Now my parents, my sisters and my brother (ok, more specifically his wife) are good cooks. My job, as it was described to me in my message that would self-destruct in 5 seconds once I chose whether or not to accept the mission, was to bring something not made by my hands.

Now they probably didn't mean biscuits made by God or Gordon Ramsay or the Swedish Chef, but they sure as hell know they don't want to eat anything I attempt to concoct. Simply put, I cannot cook. Not even Top Ramen. And I don't want to go to Safeway and have to pull a 'Is-Wayne-Brady-Gonna-To-Have-Smack-A-Bitch' to some poor woman over a can of generic cranberries. So what am I going to bring? I have but one idea;

Fritos. Fuck yeah!

-B

The only thing that I still believe in is you, if you only knew

Coconut Monkey Balls

I have a coconut monkey...let me explain. No, there is too much, allow me to sum up. Throughout the past few years, this coconut monkey has shown up, on my desk or TV stand, wearing the following: 3D glasses, Mardi-Gras beads, a woman's bra and panties on top of his head (which I am sure did not belong to one of my sexual conquests), an earring, a money clip, a bottle of beer and a keg tap handle, a gun and possibly an STD.

I have no idea how, but my coconut monkey seems to have a better social life than I do. I fear one day I will wake up and see him standing over me with my ATM card and the keys to my truck, no doubt heading off to Ensenada for the weekend. He has a slot for money, but I assume his belly is filled with girls' phone numbers, drugs, sun glasses and possibly a pager for his bitches & ho's.

I used to joke that my 'balls ride shotgun', but I am quite certain he has an invisible pair of man-berries too big to fit into a wheelbarrow. He is either the coolest coconut monkey in the world, or he is a demon drawn straight from my worst nightmares. If I die mysteriously, I guess we will know.

-B
Another station, another mile

Danger Days

When the new album by My Chemical Romance, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys comes out on Tuesday the 22nd, buy it! MCR is a band that started out as the cut-of-the-mill emo band style much like their contemporaries, but managed to turn The Black Parade into A Night at the Opera meets The Wall. And now, they managed to top themselves again. The record is cut like a final transmission from a post-apocalyptic desert wasteland, and you feel as if you are on the dusty-road journey with them every step of the way. Congrat's guys, you proved the critics and nay-sayers wrong, and did it with talent, not distain and ego. Keep up the good work.

-B
Gravity don't mean that much to me

Wonder Bread

Have you ever dried yourself off after a shower, only to later wash your face and dry it using the same towel and ask yourself "Was my dick just there a few hours ago?" Obviously for you females, feel free to substitute 'dick' for 'sweater-puppies', 'muff', 'ovaries' or whatever the hell else goes on down there.

-B
Don't lose touch

IT'S ALIVE!

Sorry I haven't written lately, been through a lot of emotional and medical shit in the past few months. So, how do I start? How do I pick up where I left off? I don't. I am just going to throw this up there to remind you all that I am still here and plan on writing a lot more often now. Until then, check out the video and stop touching yourselves.

-B
If you needed me so much then why did you leave?