January 23, 2009
Cutting Edge
There's something about seeing the phrase "a Web site commonly used by militants" in a news article that just bothers me somehow.
It makes me wonder what the Web page is called. "Jihad Today?" "Talking Points Fatwa?" "Little Green Suicide Vests?" "Insta-Martyr?"
January 22, 2009
Thrusters To Full!
There was a time when all mankind really wanted was a nice bottle of Vulva to get them through their day.
Alas, we men are always looking for the next great thing we can use to humiliate ourselves. With Vulva, we made it possible for us to smell like a woman's vagina all day long (now that I think about it, I guess there's no such thing as a MAN'S vagina, so I apologize for the redundancy).
Today, at long last, there's the Digital Thrust Counting Penis Ring, because if there's one thing a man ponders after rolling off his latest sexual conquest, it's "Man, I wonder how many times I thrusted THAT time."
Be advised, my fellow males, the eventual count may be considerably less impressive than you might think. You could be setting yourself up for a major disappointment here. Plus, if you've ever had to deal with the de-bonerfying effect of putting on a condom, I imagine slipping on a thrust ticking cock ring isn't all that much better.
The Continued Adventures of Boxles the Clown
When we last left our hero (our hero being me), I had just related my tale of the most explosive shart I ever experienced, complete with the ensuing aftermath and clean-up.
As an aside, I mentioned the pair of silk boxer shorts that I couldn't bare to part with, despite said boxers having been on the front lines of the diarrheal assault. I couldn't just throw them in the trash as I had done with my pants because A) they were silk and oh-so-luxurious to the touch and B) they were practically brand new, so it just didn't seem right to toss them. Instead, I soaked them in the bathroom sink at work in scalding water, and then gave them a fairly good cleaning and wringing before tossing them in my glove compartment.
And then I just kind of forgot about them, so they sat in my glove compartment for a couple weeks, where they went from the back of my mind to out of my mind completely.
Well, eventually it came to pass one evening as I got off work, I received an e-mail from a fellow journalism student, Molly, I graduated with that spring. She happened to be in town and wanted to know if I wanted to go out for dinner and drinks.
Understand, this wasn't really a date. Molly and I had been in several classes together and we worked on similar projects. It was more of a "hey, whatcha been up to" opportunity. However, I would not have passed up the opportunity to engage in mindless, angry sex with Molly if such an opportunity presented itself. Dinner and drinks struck me as one such potential opportunity, particularly since I was equipped with the knowledge Molly had broken up with her boyfriend shortly after graduation.
So, I left work and went to pick up Molly at her former apartment, where she was staying with her former roommates. Now, I should note here that I was working at the Winona newspaper, but I was commuting between Winona and my hometown of Harmony, having given up my Winona apartment after graduating. My point being, my '89 Cavalier had all the hallmarks of a vehicle that's practically been lived in. There were old McDonalds bags in the back seat, and frankly countless Diet Pepsi bottles. Basically, I was a slob. Okay, I AM a slob.
Molly, bless her heart, said nothing and simply hopped in and said "To the Hunan," which was the best Chinese restaurant in town. While I was driving to the Hunan, Molly took out her checkbook and started doing some impromptu balancing, when her pen just up and died on her.
"Damn it!" she said. "Do you have a pen?"
"Sure, check the glove compartment."
So, Molly checked the glove compartment.
And then there was this pause.
And then Molly asked "Why is there a pair of boxers in your glove compartment?"
I remember my mouth falling open slightly, as I experienced wartime-like flashbacks to frantically mopping my ass with paper towels, hovering over a sink in the Winona Daily News men's bathroom.
I turned my head ever so slowly to face the glove compartment. Sure enough, there they were; my blue silk boxer shorts, molded into the shape they dried into over the preceding weeks.
There are moments in life when you find it within yourself to be able to think and do things you wouldn't normally deem possible. For me, in that instant, I was able to think through the ramifications of all sorts of lies I could tell to explain the boxer shorts in the glove compartment, much like a chess champion thinking 18 moves ahead. I had to come up with a lie that was least likely to blow my chances of possibly scoring that night.
For example, my first thought was to say "Those aren't mine," but obviously that left me with trying to explain why I had someone else's boxer shorts in my glove compartment. No narrative short of "I'm gay" seemed sufficient to that task.
Then I thought "I keep a spare pair in the glove compartment," but that really would've just left me with trying to explain why I thought it was necessary to keep a spare pair so handy at all times. Somehow, in my mind, it didn't seem likely that Molly would want to have sex with a man who could have explosive diarrhea at any moment.
In a surprisingly quick move, considering the situation, I managed to spin a narrative about going camping with a group of friends a few weeks earlier and how a bunch of us went skinny dipping, thus leading to my boxers in the glove compartment.
Molly asked me all sorts of follow-up questions during dinner, such as "was it all guys, or were there girls there?" to which I responded "some of the guys had their girlfriends, and they went skinny dipping, too." In retrospect, my story sounded more like something you'd read in "Penthouse Forum." I could almost imagine myself writing it down, too: "Dear Penthouse, I never thought something like this would happen to me. . . "
Molly seemed delighted by my whimsical tale of camping debauchery, but it became pretty clear to me by the end of dinner that she wasn't all that interested in bumping uglies with a cavorting nudist.
Still, I like to think Molly is out there, somewhere, telling all her friends about this cool guy she knew in college who was totally into nude camping orgies. It's better than a story about some guy who shit his pants and kept the boxer shorts in his glove compartment.
Right?
Happy Mirth Day To All of Us!
I wrote a Mirth-Day post last night, but I want it to be JUST RIGHT. It's the boxer short sequel to the "Whoops I crapped my pants" post. Stay tuned!
January 21, 2009
Calling all cars
Ryan says: Working downtown is COLD!
Caroline says: Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrizzle
Ryan says: 2004 called; they want their jargon back.
Caroline says: 2000 called; it wants its lame joke back.
Ryan says: 1998 called; it wanted to inform you "lame" is sooooo 1996.
Caroline says: 1984 called; it wants you to conform.
Ryan says: Oooh, how very Orwellian of you.
Ryan says: George Orwell called; he's suing you for copyright.
Caroline says: Death called; wants to remind you Orwell is dead.
Ryan says: Copyright called; they want to remind you that, under current law, copyright applies until 50 years following the author's death.
Ryan says: Lots of calls coming in today. . .
Caroline says: The D-bag club called; wants to officially invite you to join.
Ryan says: 1998 just called me; they informed me copyright was extended to 70 years after death.
Ryan says: Pathetic called; the extension was called the "Sonny Bono Act."
Caroline says: Serious cat called; wants to ask "Are you serious?"
Ryan says: I don't respond to catcalls.
Caroline says: Hiss and boo.
Ryan says: Vaudeville called; they want their hiss and boos back.
Ryan says: Actually, Vaudeville probably telegraphed. . .
Caroline says: FAIL
January 20, 2009
Inaugural Liveblog
11:05 a.m. -- MSNBC.com reports, and I swear I'm not making this up: "The National Mall swelled into a vast, pulsing scene of expectation Tuesday. . ." A new president, or a freakishly awesome dildo? You decide!
11:10 a.m. -- Star-Tribune reports, and I swear I'm not making this up: "From Kenya and Indonesia, where Barack Obama has family ties, to Asia, Europe, Africa and Latin America, Obama represented a volcanic explosion of hope for better days ahead." Is the Media aware that it's pornofying the inauguration?
11:13 a.m. -- I feel compelled to "try my hand" at an inaugural lead paragraph, using current articles as a guide. *Ahem*
"The rapturous orgy of inaugural onlookers anxiously awaited the annointing of their new president, who promised to baptize them in a rolling wave of sweet Obama juice."
11:20 a.m. -- Rochester Post-Bulletin article headline, and I swear I'm not making this up: "Minnesotan still haunted by German invasion"
Wait. . . what?
11:28 a.m. -- Just in case you weren't aware:
11:40 a.m. -- Caroline says: So, there's an inauguration poem. Care to offer your own version of an inauguration poem?
Ryan says: Oooh, OOOH!
Caroline says: I KNEW it.
Caroline says: I'm listening to this poem now. It's not really poemy.
Ryan says:
It's rumored our President Barack
Is equipped with a 20 inch cock.
A dick so enlarged,
You KNOW who's in charge.
Other leaders just stand there, in shock.
Caroline says: Good God, man.
11:56 a.m. -- New President Stares Menacingly At Teleprompter
12:07 p.m. -- You wouldn't think the inauguration would lend itself to a baseball season opening day metaphor treatment. . . you'd be wrong.
12:27 p.m. -- MSBNC.com reports, and I swear I'm not making this up: "New first lady wears Isabel Toledo." Oddly, you can sing that headline to the tune of "Where in the world is Carmen San Diego."
12:42 p.m. -- For good measure, here's a simply awesome Fark PhotoShop thread.
2:47 p.m. -- Sorry for the light posting. Despite all the hope and change that's in the air, I'm still apparently required to do work. Damn.
It occurs to me
Keeping in mind the Internet is basically a haven for a lot of insane people, over the years I've read countless musings about how the Bush administration would declare martial law and seize power indefinitely; I've waded through more crap about "October events" and "moving to Canada" and "there will be no more elections," and just kind of on and on like that.
And yet, here we are, on the verge of yet another peaceful transfer of power.
Gosh, it's almost as if we have some sort of Constitution or something.
January 19, 2009
OMG, it's. . .
Caroline says: This make me lol: http://icanhascheezburger.com/2009/01/13/funny-pictures-finding-jesus/
Ryan says: This one's better: http://www.bookcaseangel.com/images/jesus.gif
Caroline says: WTF is wrong with you.
Ryan says: OMG! It's Jesus!
Caroline says: You punch that asshole, you're bound to get burned, son.
Ryan says: I think this is the first time, in all our years of knowing each other, you've finally asked: "WTF is wrong with you."
Caroline says: Because, deep down, I've always known that you're not quite right.
Ryan says: Butthole Jesus = rock band.
Caroline says: Kind of like Butthole Surfers, only more Goddy.
Ryan says: No way.
Ryan says: Yahweh.
Caroline says: sigh
Ryan says: Admit it: Butthole Jesus was the high point of your day.
Caroline says: Admitting that would only let on how sad my day was.
Ryan says: LOLO!
Ryan says: You didn't expect Monday to consist of dog butthole Jesus, I reckon.
Ryan says: Good ole DBHJ.
Caroline says: Monday? No. Maaaaaaybe a Wednesday. But not Monday.
Ryan says: I played the DBHJ card two days too early. Damn.
Caroline says: Rookie mistake.
Ryan says: Oh, man, your "WTF is wrong with you" comment almost had me in tears.
Caroline says: Then my work here is done.
Ryan says: You were thinking icanhascheezburger, and I slapped you with DBHJ.
Caroline says: That you did.
Ryan says: Awesomeness overload.
Caroline says: What surprises me is what little time you needed to respond to my Jesus link with the DBJH link. Did you have that on standby?
Ryan says: LOLO!
Ryan says: No, I just did a GIS search on "OMG it's Jesus."
Ryan says: A full page of just that one image.
Ryan says: So many to choose from.
Caroline says: Baby Jesus, bless the Internets.
Little, Yellow, Different, Better
Caroline says: Hey, have you caught any of the new Scrubs eps yet?
Ryan says: No, but Mel has a ton queued up on the DVR.
Caroline says: A ton? There's only been four eps.
Ryan says: Right, but we haven't seen most of last year's eps, either.
Caroline says: Ah, OK. Come to think of it, I don't think I saw many of last year's eps either.
Ryan says: You mentioned this year's eps aren't bad, IIRC.
Caroline says: They aren't bad ... they're different.
Ryan says: That sounds like a great marketing slogan.
Ryan says: Keebler Porn Crackers: They're not bad. . . they're different.
