I watched the Golden Globes last night until I couldn’t physically stomach watching them anymore.  Then I decided to hastily throw this together.  Also, I’ve moved most of my writing over to a site called www.thesefriesaregood.com, which is updated daily.

Oh my God, I’m not surprised at all but am pretending to be because it makes me look humble!  Here are two or three fragmented sentences to show that I am genuinely unprepared and wasn’t not planning to win!   Wow!

(PUT ON MY SERIOUS, “PASSIONATE ABOUT MY WORK” FACE)

There’s no way this movie could have been made without a whole bunch of Jewish names, so here they are, in order of most likely to give me future work.  I’d also like to thank my non-Jewish co-star in the film, who I probably had sex with.

(CAMERA CUTS TO SHOT OF CO-STAR, PRETENDING TO BE HAPPY BUT INSTEAD WONDERING WHY THEY DIDN’T WIN FOR THEIR ROLE)

Here’s how you can tell when you’re really in to a show; everything you see reminds you of that show.  For instance, my wife sees my dog being dried off after a bath, I see Ned Stark from Game Of Thrones warning me that winter is coming.  (Also, full disclosure: The show I was writing on just got the shit cancelled out of it, so I have some time on my hands.)

I don’t get to spend as much time with my father as I once did, and he’s not the type to call me up just to shoot the breeze.  So when I receive calls from him I know it’s either my birthday, I pissed him off, or the world has pissed him off.   Yesterday was one such day.

            “Hey Dad,” I said, answering my phone.

            “I just read on the internet that you’re a talentless piece of shit,” he said.

            “What?”

            “Yeah, I was on the internet trying to find that picture of you from your college baseball team where you look real skinny and gangly like a circus freak, and so I type your name in to Google, and I see some comment about you that says you’re a talentless piece of shit,” he said.

            “Why were you looking up that picture of me?”

            “Cause you look funny in it and it makes me laugh.  I wanted to show your brother.  That’s not my point though.”

(the pic he’s referring to)

            “Doesn’t it bother you that people can go on the internet and call you a talentless piece of shit, and never have to say it to your face?,” he continued.

            “I don’t know.  Doesn’t really bother me.  I got my break by writing down things you say.  I think just karmically speaking I deserve to hear that on occassion,” I said.

            “I’m not talking about you.  I’m speaking fucking globally.  If you can’t handle some pissant writing something nasty about you, then I failed as a father.   What I’m trying to say is, don’t it trouble you that there’s a whole generation of people growing up that just say whatever the fuck they want, without any consequences?

            “I don’t know.  I mean, that’s just the internet,” I said.

            “Don’t you get what that means, though?”

     ”Not really.”

            “Jesus H.  You’re a bright kid but you sure like to wear an asshole’s costume every once in a while.  It means that the future leaders of your country, I say your ‘cause I’ll have long decomposed, are gonna be people that have absolutely no experience with actual confrontation.  Thirty years from now the President of the most powerful country in the world is going to be some little shit who sat at his computer and hurled insults three feet away from his mommy’s tit like it was no big deal. I don’t condone fighting, but when a human being understands that his or her actions might result in a giant fist up his or her ass, he learns a thing or two about acting before he speaks.  All I’m saying is, I’m glad I’m gonna be dead.  Also, Happy birthday.  That’s why I called.  

Whenever I’m in the grocery store, I always tend to look at someone’s cart and then immediately make a judgement about that person based on the contents of it.  I think Webster’s dictionary defines that as “Being an judgmental asshole,” but so be it.  Anyway, after one such trips to the grocery store I went home and fired up the ole’ photoshop machine and did this.

The only thing more awkward and weird than being at a work party, is if it’s not your work.  I wrote this a couple years ago after making a huge ass of myself at my wife’s work party.  

When can I eat the food?  Why is no one eating it yet, it’s out there, it’s been laid out, and no one’s touching it.  Why the fuck would you put food out on a table, and then not serve it?  It’s buffet style, that means I can help myself, right?   I’ll just head towards the food, and pick something up and eat it, and it’ll be fine.  Okay, here we go, going to just grab a piece of bread and a slice of salami and- OW! WHO THE FUCK PINCHED ME?!  My wife?!

What the?  Don’t mouth “don’t embarrass me?”  It’s not like I pulled my pants down and jacked off on to the fruit platter, I just want to eat a slice of fuggin salami god dammit.  Screw that shit, I’m not going to be bossed around like I’m a child.  I’ll show her, I’m going to raise my eyebrows at her, and make a slightly angry face.  There, now she knows who’s f-in boss.   Jesus Christ, there’s so many old people here. 

When I’m old, and my wife is old, am I going to want to have sex with my wife?  Cause right now, old people are fuggin gross.  Oh, here comes my wife’s friend who she hates.  Do we really have to hug hello?  I’ve met you three times, one of which you got wasted and told everyone you liked the taste of semen.  Ha, that was hilarious.  I’m going to remind my girlfriend about that time.  Whoa, DON’T FUCKING PINCH ME!

So I received an email today from my wife that said “The dog’s anal glands are full and need to be manually emptied.”  I emailed back and said “You just made me so hard right now.  Also, what in the hell does that mean?”  Apparently the reason dog’s sniff each other’s buttholes is because there’s some sort of gland in there that fills up with this nasty fluid that gives off a specific smell to them.  

That might not be 100% accurate, but I refuse to google “dog, anus, smell,” so just go with that basic concept for right now.  Anyway, sometimes that gland gets blocked up and fills with fluid, and that fluid has to be taken out manually.

(It’s a bad sign when i looked at this and WISTFULLY thought to myself “Why couldn’t it have been something with the dog’s retractor penis muscle?”)

So, I sort of saw how this movie was ending, but tried to prolong it by asking my wife what “manually” meant.  My wife informed me that that meant someone (read: me) has to reach my hand in to the dog’s asshole, and retrieve fluid that literally is what gives the shit it’s shit smell.  I immediately started going through the seven stages of grief.  

Denial: “Maybe the anal gland’s aren’t full.  Maybe they’re not even full enough. Maybe you should think about that before you go haphazardly emptying anal glands.” 

Anger: “Fuck this dog.  I never wanted this dog.”

Acceptance and hope: “Maybe this will be the last time I ever have to stick my hand in a dog’s asshole.”

Etc…

(immobilisation was TOTALLY my favorite.)

But then my wife tells me “there’s an option.  We can pay the vet twenty five dollars to do it.”  Twenty. Five. Dollars.  You know that game you play where you’re like “Hey, how much money would it take for you to do (insert terrible thing).”  Well, if anyone ever asked you “Hey, how much would it take for you to stick your hand in to a dog’s asshole and milk shit glands empty” I’m guessing you wouldn’t be like “Eh, maybe twenty five bucks.”  If you did answer “25 bucks” then you probably followed that answer with  ”Okay, it was fun playing this game,  now I have to go back to blowing homeless guys for crack.  I’ll talk to you later.  Good seeing you.”

I attended San Diego State University, and although I actually really enjoyed it, when I was a student there it was not considered cream of the crop.  If you got over a 2.0 and had never fucked a dead body, they’d basically let you in.  Anyway, I made these a couple years ago mostly because I was bored and I like to piss off people who went to USC.

5. The San Diego State Worthless Degrees

4. The West Virginia Birth Defects

3. The North Dakota State Absolutely Nothing Who Gives A Shits

2. The Humboldt State Killer Hydroponics

1.  The University Of Southern California Date Rapists

As soon as I learned photoshop I started doing a lot of dumb stuff.  This was one of the first dumb things I did.  I think the only reason I’m reposting it now, is because of the pride that Elliot Spitzer displays at the fact that he’s found a clever way to show people he sleeps with prostitutes pleases me for some reason.  The rest of these are pretty bottom of the barrel jokes. 

5. ELLIOT SPITZER

4. MEL GIBSON

3. JENNA JAMESON

2. MILEY CYRUS

1. BILL CLINTON

I wrote this a couple years ago.  I worked in restaurants for about ten years before becoming a full time writer, and this is definitely one of the top three grossest moments I witnessed.

When I was 19, a Hooters opened up two blocks from where I lived.  My roommate and I needed a job, and also had penises, so we decided to apply as cooks there.  It was basically us, and 8 hispanic guys that didn’t speak a word of english, or have any clue what Hooters was.  I know this because during our orientation, which was the ten guys and 75 girls, one of them leaned over to me and asked, “Why there is much pussy?”  When I explained best I could that that was sort of the theme of the restaurant, he turned to the other seven dudes, translated it into Spanish, and then collectively they all went, “Aaaah.”  Then there was silence for a second and then one of them went “estabien guey!” and they started high-fiving each other.

Anyway, about a few months into it, I realized that it wasn’t that awesome of a job.  Hooters is a lot like a Michael Bay movie. It’s loud, everybody in it is stupid and you spend most of your time expecting someone to take their top off…but you never do. 

My job was to work the fryer.  Basically I’d go get wings from the walk-in fridge,  take them out front, batter them, flour them, then dump them in the fryer.  You may say this job was so easy a mentally challenged person could do it.  You have no idea how right you are, because the other “fryer” guy that worked alongside me had been hit by a car a few years before and was dropped off at our work by a special bus each day. 



So one day I pull the wings out, and they’re green and nasty, and smelled like a homeless dude that had (for some reason) rolled around in paprika.  Sort of spicy and sour.  So I go to throw them away and all of a sudden I hear, “WHOAAAA Buuuuuddddy.  Watcha doin’ J?”  I turn around and it was my manager, who was actually a really good guy, but a stickler about food costs.  So I go, “The wings are rotten,” then I make the homeless comparison I just made to you, to him, and he goes, “Let me show you a little something I learned in trenches.”  He grabs a white bucket, like this one:

And he fills it with water, about half way.  Then he dumps the rotten wings into the water.  Then he looks at me and he goes, “Here’s the magic.”  He grabs a bottle of bleach from the supply closet, and he pours a cap full of it, and dumps that cap into the water, with the wings.  Then he grabs a wooden spoon and he stirs the wings, like a witch stirring a secret spell.  Then he looks at me and goes “The bleach kills the smell, and then the fryer kills everything else.”  Then he went to the front, battered, fried, and served those wings. 

Hey, really attractive girl in front of me in line at the grocery store, you probably don’t remember me, but I was standing behind you.   Anyway I just wanted to say, when you told your joke at the checkout counter, about how “it’s super weird that like, Chex mix, is just like mostly Chex, and pretzels, so it’s not even a mix.  They should just call it Chex pretzels,” and everyone laughed, in reality, none of us actually thought it was funny.

To be honest, I don’t really even get what you were trying to say, and the bag boy that laughed only speaks Russian.

I know, I know, it seems weird because I’m sure later in the night, when you recounted that story to your boyfriend, he also laughed.  He doesn’t think it’s funny either.  We just all really want to f*&k you, and in some alternate reality our penis thought that if we laughed at that joke, you’d immediately bend down and put it in your mouth.  I have no idea why my penis would think that, since it’s never happened before.  But then when you had your groceries in your cart and tried to push it and the wheel spun around and you said “This wheel is so funky!” and made a weird face, our penises thought that maybe it might happen this time, and we all laughed again.  It’s not really “funky.”  Shopping carts are pretty notorious for having problems with their wheels.  So, anyway, to conclude,  sorry for laughing.