Astrology Watch: Gemini

You will be alert today, Gemini! But remember to bring out the BAD TWIN on the pretense of being in a “fog” so you can innocently and merrily stomp on the toes of others while going about your business for the next 24 hours. And anyway, who really gives a shit who you demolish? Not you! It’s time the rest of the world learned that YOUR daily schedule is hectic enough without hundreds of ugly, un-pedicured feet getting in YOUR way – always holding you up in your race to “what’s NEXT”!

Besides, most of the cretins who will be mowed down by the “twins” today deserve it! Admit it – aren’t there at least one or two idiots who have irritated you long enough with their “turtle’s crawl” pace and stupid questions? Use your nervous and irritable mood to your advantage and pull a “Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” on them, get them all flustered and scared – this will keep them off balance. THEN in a “coup DE grace” move, remind them it is YOU who are important, not the rest of the LOSERS. For that extra added touch, SMILE, then tell them to FUCK OFF!

geminirude

Astrology watch: TAURUS

taurus dump

OK Taurus-the-Bull, cut the crap. I know that one of your sign’s “positive traits” is that Taureans have a “fixed” outlook on life and the world. Although Taurus would like the rest of us to believe this means they have a ”stick to it-ness”, as far as making and meeting successful goals are concerned, it usually means something else:

It’s more than likely that your “fixed outlook” means that you are the 4th generation backwoods, product of a trailer park family tree that does not BRANCH, and are stuck in the traditional family rut. This usually also means that just like your Daddy before you, you AIN’T climbing out of this rut, and going anywhere upward, anytime soon.

But cheer up! This doesn’t mean that living life in an incestuous, smelly ditch has to be TOTALLY depressing. It is true that most Taureans do not possess the “accessibility to change” gene that has made some of the smarter zodiac signs millionaires. However, there are scattered reports, here and there, of some of you that have actually climbed out of your rut high enough to become gainfully employed – making enough, at least, to be able to afford your Marlboros and Yoo Hoos. And have done so all by yourselves!

Good places to start a career and realize this dream would be one stop gas shops, Wal Marts, or recycling centers. Go for the Gold Taurus, and one day it might be yours!

I have a belly-flattening exercise for you

fatbelly

One that doesn’t require you to lay supine on your back and try, in vain, to connect your hoohaa to your lower jaw by limping through a series of stupid “crunches”. AND, my exercise is so much more effective, AND you can do it anywhere…

It’s called VOMITING.

That’s right. PUKING. The ultimate stomach flattening exercise. Its so easy to begin too! Just contract the stomach flu from an annoying child. OR, better yet, eat a lot of vegetables and then get shit-faced on cheap whiskey. Not only will you see faster results as far as beginning and completing the exercise, but by being drunk you won’t remember how many repetitions your stomach made you do before you were finally allowed to pass out!

As far as results go, if you follow my instructions on a daily basis, for about a week, you are sure to see a tighter, more toned stomach in no time!

A word of warning: Remember I told you that “vomit-toning” can be done anywhere? Well, you may soon find out that it is not YOU controlling WHERE the exercise begins and ends. So, before executing this routine, make sure you are in an environment where you can freely “work out” – and not somewhere like Sears, where people just don’t get “staying in shape” by whiskey…

FACEBOOK: To de-friend, perchance to block

 

With modern technology the way it is, there is a whole new way to tell someone you used to be friend’s, or lover’s with, to go fuck themselves.

It’s sneaky and covert, and all it takes is a click of a button to oust that person from your public life forum!

It’s happened to me several times already.

Some were former “partiers” I knew in high school, who, having found Jesus late in life, decided that I was a sinner who wasn’t worth having as a friend because they read some risqué quote on my wall. Others were former co-workers that were cutting down their lists and must have decided that we had nothing to say to each other (which was probably true when I worked with them as well – as boring now as they were then). An ex boyfriend whom I broke up with – that makes sense. Once, even my own sister because we had a disagreement about my lifestyle.

Although I sometimes scratch my head and wonder why a certain person all of a sudden decides I’m not friend material, I usually don’t give a crap when I see I’ve been deleted.  After all, it gets tiring trying to come up with cute, yet supportive comments for someone’s ongoing posts regarding their chronic halitosis, and if I no longer have to participate in shit that I could care less about, so much the better.

I too, have ousted people from my list, but for good reason. So far, these people have been psychopathic men who kept sending me suggestive messages, even when they knew I was seeing someone. (Hard to miss because I posted my relationship on my wall!)

But when I oust someone, I choose to block them. I do this for a couple of reasons. First, if you simply “de-friend” someone, you run the risk of them messaging you asking why you de-friended them. I HATE confrontations, and if some loser I ousted doesn’t realize that I was getting sick of his “I know you want me” messages, then I am not going to waste my time cluing him in.

Secondly, there will be none of this “friend/de-friend/friend” drama for me. If I block you from my page, it is an absolute certainty that I have decided we will be having no more conversations in the future, and therefore, I am willing to let you go completely.

I have seen so many cases of “rational” grown-ups who choose to have an “on-again/off-again” face book friendship with people they share nothing but a passive-aggressive relationship with – and it’s retarded!

In my opinion, if you don’t like each other enough to work through your issues without the assistance of the add/delete button, then you really aren’t friends to begin with, are you?

So, have fun with your chronic halitosis updates and  your lewd suggestive messages, I WON’T be seeing you!

Welcome to Menopause…

I am irritable, yet, I don’t feel like picking on others anymore.  What in the world could be wrong with me?  Usually, when I feel like this, I have lots of things to cheer me up.  People with herpes, Wal Mart fat asses, dorky B movie celebrities –  all of these pathetic people (who have more problems than I ever will) usually cheer me up in a New York Minute.

But, not anymore.  Now, when I see a giant woman in stretch pants, I want to cry.  Herpes no longer brings a chuckle, it makes me MAD!  Dorky B Movie celebrities make me want to wave a white flag and yell, “I surrender!” (OK, bad example, they have always elicited this response from me)…. But most of you will know what I mean.  Most of you women, anyway.

It’s simple…I am getting closer to entering the land of the female moustache, the universe of the stomach that is getting impossible to lose, the (EGADS!) city of surprise chin hairs!  Yes, I am speaking of menopause.

For those of you men, who will never know what it is like being female, will never have to go  through MENOPAUSE, and has yet to come up against a woman in the throes of it,  let me give you a visual example…

If one day, you come home from work, and your sweet little woman is standing at the door with shave nicks on her chin, a butcher knife in her hands, murder in her eyes, holding an “ABS of STEEL” DVD, and muttering “I don’t KNOW what’s wrong with me today”,  you’ve just met MENOPAUSE…

RUN as fast as you can….!

I’d rather pick YOUR nose than pick one more damn potato! (Memories of Shrivel)

Thanks to Face Book, I recently got back in touch with my childhood best friend from Maine, Melissa. (Hi Melissa!).  She and I were as thick as thieves when we lived on the now defunct Loring AFB – WAY back in 1970’s.

Maine was, as it is now, a beautiful place  – and is also home to some of the poorest people in the nation.  But,  since Maine has always been the largest producers of potatos, the poor had a yearly opportunity to make some extra cash by signing up at one of the many potato farms, and volunteering to do the back breaking work of picking those spuds.

Now, because this was a state-wide event, even the schools closed down for a month – this so the CHILDREN of the poor could also take to the dirt and pick potatos, and help their families make even MORE dough.  When Melissa and I were in school at Limestone High,  I remember us being thrilled at the upcoming month of November because we thought WE were going to be FREE to do whatever we wanted for a whole 30 days!  And of course, why wouldn’t we assume this? Both OUR dads were in the air force, and hell, our families weren’t struggling, so BRING ON THE PARTY, right?

WRONG.  I forgot which set of parents started the process in motion, but to make a long story short, Melissa and I were informed that our plans had been changed for us.  Yes, instead of goofing off for 30 days, we would be picking potatos from 5 a.m. to dusk, EVERY DAY for the month of November – just like the common folk!  After bitching about all those cool prank calls we WOULD’NT be making while our parents were conveniently out of the house, and out of our hair, all month,  we decided potato picking just might  be FUN – IF we did it with a bunch of our friends, of course.  At this point, I recall Melissa, myself, boys named Lance and Mark, and another girl named Jaime SOMEHOW getting lucky enough to all be hired on by Thompson Farm.

And, s0 the fun and games began.  (Back then, the experience might start out, and end up, like this):

4 a.m. – Get rudely awakened by Mom to “get ready” to meet the bus. Curse your little sister for being too young for the torture, as you searched around for a clean pair of thermal underwear. Then, half asleep, being zombie-walked to the car so you could be driven to the “bus station”.

5 a.m. – Get on a bus driven by a grumpy woman who must have been the original idea behind the “Sit Down, Shut Up” bird lady of South Park fame.  And, since finding an empty seat next to someone who DID’NT already  have B.O. that early in the morning was nearly an impossibility, you had to somehow hold your nose, and learn to breathe through your mouths during the drive.

5:30 a.m. – Arrive at the farm in time to be hauled like cattle to the frozen fields to collect the potatoes where they lay – which was wherever they landed after being “dug up” by the guy on the tractor.

5:31 a.m. – Already getting sick of the “fun” of potato picking, because the barrels you had to fill were HUGE, and throwing in rotten potatos – or those with “eyes” – didn’t count towards your barrel’s quota.

6  – 7 a.m. – Wondering if the barrels were actually hollow, or if it just seemed that way because it was so damn COLD!

8 a.m. – Listening to the french-canadian people, AKA those who were actually there to WORK so they could eat, bitch about  “spoiled, lazy asshole kids” in French.

9 a.m. – The dawning realization that you now WELCOMED trouble – screw the potato picking at 40 cents a barrel. And more importantly – Screw your parents!  What were they going to do, reward you by GROUNDING YOU?

9:30 a.m. – 5 p.m.  Beginning a group hunt for the nastiest, most rotten spuds you guys could find. Why? To build up an arsenal, of course. And what was that arsenal for, you ask? Why to throw at your target, of course. Your target being the sadass man driving the tractor.  A wrinkled-up,  toothless, glimpse into your doomed future as a decrepit, angry old person who only had sags, pains and the grave to look forward to.

OUR target in our situation was the poor pathetic tractor driver I thoughtlessly christianed “SHRIVEL”.

This halloween mask closely resembles SHRIVEL

Poor Shrivel – whose name was probably really Obama or something like that – he probably never stood a chance. Over the years, he must have gotten pelted by so many rotten potatoes that he eventually came to resemble a geriatric pez dispenser that had been dipped in putrid marshmallow cream.  In hindsight, it was an atrocious thing to do to an old man who was probably just praying for Jesus to take him. Imagine coming to work to a job you had had, and HATED, all your life.  There you are, all bent over with arthritis and bound up bowels, ill-fitting dentures half dangling from a mouth that hadn’t had a good thing to say about life since you were 9 or 10 years old.   Imagine, starting up that old, piece of shit tractor for yet ANOTHER thankless potato season in an endless sea of them, only to have GROUPS of spoiled brat teenagers pelt you with smelly, slimy GARBAGE – just because they were BORED!

Poor Shrivel.  It’s a wonder he never went postal.  And, I wonder how many times a day he thought about exacting revenge on us prepubescent assholes?  But now that I come to think of it, maybe he didn’t NEED to do this, simply for the fact that he already knew that one day, each and every one of us would come to know what it was like to be SHRIVEL, in some way.  For some of us, it may looking into our mirrors in our latter years, and gazing in disbelief at a mouth that’s now caved in from tooth loss.  Others may see SHRIVEL every time we look down at a saggy belly or baggy knees – body parts once firm, but not anymore.   Still more of us may think of him every time we go to take a crap – and can’t – because our bowels don’t work so well anymore.

And, Shrivel was probably also aware that at least a few of us would at one time in our lives, play the role of Shrivel in some capacity, to a future generation of bored, spoiled-brat teenagers.  Helpless elderly pawns in their games of “just because”.   So, in the end, maybe Shrivel did get his revenge without having to lift a single finger.  After all, there is nothing sweeter than the revenge of taking in the smug faces of the “know it all-ness” of youth, and laughing because you realize the spoiled brats have NO idea of  what is in store for them…

Reasons NOT to join Match.com if you’re a woman

Meet Brad:

Match.com profile #1:

“Hi, I’m Brad. I’m a successful executive in the gaming industry.  Not only do I DESIGN the games for virtual online playing, I also market them all over the world!  I am into my health, I’m hygienic, and I believe in the sanctity of the body. I am looking for a woman who is sure of herself, believes in her own inner beauty, has a plan for the future, and is looking for a one on one relationship with a quality human being.  I love dogs, children and living life in general.  If this is you, I want to meet you as soon as possible!  All beautiful women of every size and shape are welcome to reply – I love them all!”

MISmatch.com #1 profile reality:

“My name really is Brad, I’m 26, and I live in my Grandmother’s basement.  I am into playstation 3 games, and I play them ALL day, while I’m telling that old bitch I’m online looking for a pizza delivery job.  I only WISH I had the talent to design the new arrivals, like Call of Duty, but SHIT! I can’t even spell my last name!  In fact, I don’t really even know what my last  name is. My Grandma justs keeps referring to my father as that “transvestite bastard”, and tells me…Carla, SHUT UP and quit asking questions!.  Anyway, I’m healthy enough to sack away a dozen donuts every morning and I even remember to take a shower once in awhile.  I am looking for a woman – ANY WOMAN – to get with me so we can “go steady”  I don’t have much experience in the intimacy department- except for that time with my grandmother’s poodle Coco, but then he ran away. (Kids don’t like for some reason, but I can’t put my finger on it!) Please, ANYONE! Call me! as you can see I LOVE breasts and have my own! So, even if yours aren’t so great, we can kill time playing with mine!  Hope to hear from you soon!

Don’t GO GET a donut, make the donuts come to YOU…

Are you basically lazy, but love your donuts? Does the thought of having to move your fat ass off of the couch one more time in order to trudge the fifty feet down your driveway to the mailbox just to  collect your welfare check, so you can go “pastry shoppin'” piss you off?  Does just the mere mental picture of wasting MORE time driving your unregistered car to the bank to CASH that welfare check so you can spend 10 minutes or more in line at Dunkin Donuts make you want to stuff Little Debbie’s into your mouth, a box at a time?

Well, your problem may have just been resolved!

From the makers of that groovy sleep attire/casual out-door wear -Pajama jeans – comes a NEW, convenient – and fashionable – way for the lazy asshole to once again, acquire what he or she wants without ever having to DO THE WORK to get it.  Introducing….

THE MAGNETIC DONUT SHIRT!





It’s a shirt AND it’s a MAGNET!  It’s a shirt that attracts DONUTS with a fat-target magnet!   That’s right!  Just put on this cheap-ass TShirt, with the handy built in (but hidden) magnet, and watch the donuts as they are DRAWN to you!

Imagine!  With the Magnetic Donut Shirt covering your blobs of fat, you will NEVER again have to:

Wait in line at the donut shop, hoping that there are still 2 dozen cruellers available for your mid-day snack, because they will be within your fat grubby hands five seconds after they are out of the oven!

Sneak into the the office breakroom – for the third time in fifteen minutes – just to grab the 3 remaining bear claws!  Nope, just sit in your cubicle as you normally do, reading online JUGS magazine and pretending to work – don’t worry, the donuts will soon be at your fingertips!

Trick little Suzie or Johnny into thinking Santa has made a surprise visit in their living room in the middle of July, and sending them out of the room to CHECK – just so you can grab their donut holes!  That’s right, for this manuever, all you need to do is fart, and play pull my finger, and those holes will be in your gaping maw before the kids have even realized their goodies have disappeared from their plates!

That’s right! You won’t have to move an inch you fat asshole! Because as long as you are wearing this shirt, all pastries within a 50 mile radius will be just as drawn to you, as you are to them!  So, order this shirt now – sit back on your couch, relax, snarf up them donuts – and continue to get fatter and fatter until you have a massive heart attack and die!

Weener Kleener Soap – Rub a dub dub, just stay in the tub….

RUB-dub-dub, think I'll stay in the tub!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weener Kleener Soap is a superlative gift for the tired spouse of that “still horney” middle-aged husband, a god send to the next door neighbors of the mid-40’s pervert who can’t keep his eyes off of their cat, and a blessed a relief to the adult children of those GrandDad’s who are  prone to showing ” just a little too much affection to the grand kids”.  How so?  Glad you asked.

Weener Kleener Soap ensures that the user will now have a nifty, unique way in which to “wash” his weener!  His lower gentalia will stay sweet and clean because he’ll be sure to wash down there EVERY day  – hell,  he might even attempt it three or four times a day!  Why?  Because of the numerous hours of  fun and entertainment he will have “cleaning his own house” –  so to speak.  How is this possible?

Well, with Weener Kleener Soap, the user not only has a safe cleansing agent with which to wash, but the cake of soap is also designed with it’s very own “donut” hole.   A hole in which it’s perfectly acceptable for anyone to  place, and get down to the business of “washing”, his own weener.   And, since the user will now actually  have access to a  HOLE all his own – and one that’s custom made for slipping the weener in and out of the  suds – this means that all YOUR holes – and those of your children and pets – will stay pristine, untouched, and in working condition – the way GOD intended! And, again – all thanks to the soap’s ability to provide a legal diversionary venue in which the user can act out his unwanted “hide the weener” games during bathtime!

So, order one now!   Or Hell, order two or three! (Don’t forget the mailman and Uncle Ned).  Then relax – knowing that you and your loved ones will be safe at home, out and about in the neighborhood and at various  family functions from now on.  And all  because someone’s weener is now being cleaned – and polished – by himself, the fun way!

Pajama Jeans – The ULTIMATE in apparel for the lazy asshole….

Ever wish you could just hop out of bed after sleeping in ALL day,  and hit the bar in time for the end of Happy Hour – and in high fashion to boot? Well, NOW you can!  Thanks to the debut of Pajama Jeans – the Ultimate in apparrel for those people who are too lazy to waste even 5 minutes changing for bed, and don’t ever want to think about what they want to wear for the day again!  Think about what YOU could do with that extra time you’ll save and the benefits it will bring you!  Here are just a few examples:

You will now have time to pick your nose thoroughly BEFORE you leave the house, therefore doing away with  the danger of being seen digging for gold while stuck in traffic on your way to Wal-Mart!

With an extra few minutes, you will be able to cram down TWO more Dunkin Donuts, instead of just the usual 850 calorie bear claw. Plus-thanks to the “unbeatable” fit of your combo night/day wear, it appears that your Pajama Jeans are EXPANDABLE too!  So it won’t matter if you gain a “few” pounds over time, as your new “attire” is able to grow right along with you!

And think of this – because these pants are made of “Dormisoft fabric that doesn’t tug or bind and is as soft as cotton”, those of you who are too lazy to even pull them down to take a shit or piss, can simply ADD a pair of Depends – and do away with those pesky bathroom trips that take up so much of your time. And, what this means is that if your Depends happen to SOAK through from overuse, the soft cotton of your Pajama jeans will act as an absorbant filler, preventing Adult Diaper Rash!   DAMN!

Move over SNUGGIE, you’ve been replaced!  The King is Dead! Long Live Pajama Jeans!

 

 

Never waste time changing your clothes EVER again!

 

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