Tag: funny

Punny You Should Say That (An Owed To Joy)

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funny-pun-photos-9

I heard someone say that puns are the slowest form of humor yet it takes a remarkably quick wit. Actually I think I may have heard slowest wrong but after being stalked by corny jokes for so long my ears hear colonel when its really kernel. I get it, they really said it’s the lowest form of humor but I’m still in limbo as to how low to set that bar. At any rate, puns are a play on words that can make a kid kid another kid or make a grown man groan so I want to pay my respect. I normally write in my boxers but I’ll try to keep this in brief.
When I was all of six years old I discovered the power of a pun. We had a gas station named Citgo and one day in the car, with Dad driving, Mom in the front, my little sister between them in babyseat and me squished in between my four older brothers and I made a bold statement. I said “Hmmm, Citgo, where you can sit and go.” Meaning getting gas I raised my arms to pantomime driving. Apparently my driving imitation looked more like someone moving their bowels and the family roared with laughter. That’s when I realized I could use English language to get noticed by pretending to have irritable vowel syndrome if I really pumped up the the puns I could keep them giggling consonantly. I had discovered the lowest form of humor and it lifted me up.
If puns are low its because they are the foundation of clever of humor. They’re black and white and read all over, they’re the reason the chicken crossed the road having its intentions come into question, It’s why it takes three pole dancers to erect a light bulb, and the basis of the omnipresent schoolyard knock knock jokes. All great comedians are pun practioners and are adept at sailing double entendres at triple warped mind speed leaving us land lubbers rolling in the Isles. Whether it’s a three act play on words, a homophone, which as it turns out is not a gay cellular device, or just a simple unmarried Miss direction puns take sharp and fast tongues to verbalize a stream of consciousness quick as a lick. Many punsters, myself included become almost obsessed, trying to twist everything they hear. Someone introduces me to Isabelle and I hear is a bell and feel combelled to chime in with a ringing endorsement about jingle jangling word association. A Pavlonian response that has me salivating at the a peal of making someone smile. If there is a low form of puns it cums from the perverse endless sexual innuendo punster. Those who chuckle and plan at the mention of such easy target words like woody, erect, hole, or the mention of Master Bates. It’s a favorite of that uncle who continues to play pull my finger well past its age appropriateness. For me sexual in your endo jokes are just too easy, like your mom was last night. But it will always have a place in punditry because like splinter religions, sects sells. A truly great pun takes an extraordinary amount of cleverness and thought using one ability to instantly see verbal connections where others see mere words and plugging the pun in before it sinks in. Great puns are like hand grenades because you pull the pin and wait for it to blow up. That’s why I pay homage. That and the fact that I still owe Homage a lot of money. I’m a self proclaimed lover of all things punny. Puns are a part of everyone’s daily life these days and no news story is complete without slinging some puntastic zingers.. Here’s a somewhat exaggerated example:
This just in from Know News is Good noose:
FRUIT LOOPY
A cereal killer is believed on the loose in General Mills campgrounds and campers experiencing in tents fear. Police canvassing their tented community in search of the frosted wheat whacker who is making the campers snap, crackle, and pop. They believe the perp is Cuckoo for Cocoa puffs so The Cap’n is putting the crunch on by running background Chex on all adults using hare brained tricks because every bunny knows that Trix are for kids….

But news stations really do use puns to make their point as in headlines such as “Chickens Cry Fowl” or “Locksmith Plays Key Roll In Bakery Break In.” Another area often engaging in punnery is just about every TV show and movie ever made. The best bantering between actors are scripted with artistic puns. It takes an artist to draw laughs from sketches. Without puns the artist draws a blank but looking around in a room packed with punsters the artist can draw a crowd. So much for a low form, it takes a highly evolved mind to come up with such clever comedy. Dimwitted humor pales in comparison. Slap stick falls flat, bathroom humor smells, and I suck at self deprecation. Sarcasm can be a little bitter, but not much better.

Today puns are significantly more evolved than the early days. I grew up with lines like “Take my wife. Please!” or “I just flew in from Baltimore and boy are my arms tired.” Today it takes much deeper thought because once jokes are use they become less funny. Ten years ago we had Bob Hope, Johnny Cash, Eddie Money, and Steve Jobs, and today all we have this worn out and tired old joke format. Take my wife is now I married Miss right, but I didn’t know at the time her first name was always, and flying in from Baltimore gets morphed to I can’t leave because I was on the third floor of the airport with someone else’s stuff and came down with something. There are a lot of people in the airport so I hope its not terminal or the only thing flying out of here will be rumors. Anyway, IMHO, like rock and roll the puns colors are true so punnery will never dye.
Thanks for taking the time to read this pun praising piece. This thoroughly enjoyable (for me) excursion was inspired by a high school English teacher of mine whom I have had the fortune of reconnecting with on social media. Professor Jim Zeitler shares my profound love of the English Language and our abilities to twist, invert, dissect, misdirect, turn inside out or upside down the words that make up our language to make others smile, laugh, or most important, to think. Jim sent me a book by John Pollack called “The Pun Also Rises” which delves into the history of puns and its impressive how deep and rich the history of witty wordplay is and how long it has been an art form. I dedicate this post to him because while my high school daze are way behind me his dedication to instructing and constructing minds is still going strong and I assume he will forever teach many of us new things. He has once again taught me things dispelling the age old cliché “You can’t teach and old dog new tricks.” And trust me, this old hound dog learned things he can sink his canines in and I’m not peeling the bark off the wrong tree. Okay no more, I’ll stop, I’m bushed anyway! Thank you Jim Zeitler, your wit an wisdom continues to reach out and inspire minds both young and old. … PEACE

Thunder Road Trip

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Man I still remember my first motorcycle and the years my life was lived on two wheels. When I got my first Harley Sporster I had so much to learn. Life on a motorcycle is a different lifestyle, not merely a choice of ride. In the years that went by I learned how to shop light so I didn’t have to much shit to tie down with bungee chords, how to approach a red light without stopping completely, and how to dress for the particular ride of the day. Like if its getting to get cold, or if rain is in the forecast. But on my first bike trip I found my self unprepared in many ways. Being unprepared was mandatory for my naïve stoned ass back then so I planned my trip the way any self respecting weed smoking hippie would. Procrastinating. And procrastinating was something I was an expert in. If they gave an award for procrastinating I would win and send someone else to pick it up in a few weeks, I’m that good. So it was just me, a backpack of clothes, my “Motorcycle Mama” a road map, and a notion that set out on a Friday afternoon for a run up into the mountains for a weekend of two wheeled nirvana.
We began that trip from Long Island which was a great placer for riding. Jump on your scoot and head out east where traffic is sparse and other bikers are plentiful and it was motorcycle mania. Many a day spent just cruising from Massapequa to Montauk and back just for the ride. But I wanted to go on a mountain road trip. I’d been to the Catskill mountains by car many times but now that I am a two wheeled menace I wanted to think bigger. Hell I was a baddass in a leather jacket and motorcycle boots, not some wimp ass hippie in a Volkswagen anymore. Catskills? Childs play dude, I was heading up into the Adirondack Mountains. A friend told me about a place up past Amsterdam New York where there was a giant mound of earth called Jiminy Mountain in a town by the name of Castlerock not too far from Plattsburg. The mountain is uninhabited by humans and often people camp out there. True campers, with tents and shit. I wasn’t planning on roughing it that much, there’s a motel close to Castlerock and that’s where we would be staying. Then we could make a full day trip up the mountain the next morning, stopping off at the halfway point to a place called Cricket Falls. Normally the ride took about five and a half hours and I was stoked.
I’ve heard it said that getting there is half the fun and on this point I must disagree. It started out quite awesome, circumventing traffic jams in between lanes. Not a tactic I would recommend now that I am a seasoned rider, but when I saw the long line of cars all with the same notion, to get the fuck out of town for the weekend, it was just far too tempting. I slowly crossed the Throggs Neck Bridge in illegal but effective fashion, and once past all the tri city congestion the real adventure begins. With my girlfriend on back we breezed across the Tappan Zee Bridge and were on our way up to the country. As we crossed over into Rockland County the first bad omen appeared on the horizon. The sky was darkening up ahead and not because the sun was going down. It looked as though there may be a storm up ahead and the darkness had an evil grin. We continued up The New York State Thru-way an that’s when it began. It was a mere drizzle but it made me realize something quite important to a motorcycle rider. I had no raingear, no windsheild, and my backpack was unprotected from the oncoming onslaught of raindrops.
Raindrops can be so romantic, Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head, I saw her sitting in the rain, raindrops falling on her, Oh it must be raindrops, so many raindrops, sweet romantic raindrops. If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops. Cute little innocent raindrops. But when you’re traveling at 65plus MPH out in the open those raindrops band together like a soggy convention of bullies and while some slap the shit out of your face, hands, and torso, the others form aquatic conspiracies and loiter wherever they can because they’re bent on soaking one right trough to the bone. The rain was fast, wet, and hard because in a matter of seconds we were both drenched and uncomfortable. As if that weren’t bad enough many of the raindrops that missed the all out assault on us directly gathered on the road in front of us to extract as much traction as possible from the two tires. Lesson, riding in the rain is dangerous, and always pack raingear. Too late for that I had to get creative.
We stopped at the first rest stop available. “Two cups of hot coffee and two large garbage bags please.” The waitress looked confused at first but as soon as she saw the puddles forming under our soaked bodies she got it. We sat down sipped our coffee and began to dry off. After five minutes the waitress came back with two large plastic garbage bags meant for the jumbo trash cans in the kitchen, “Here ya go honey, this aughta keep ya dry for a bit. How far ya headed?” I took the bags and thanked her, “We’re headin’ up to Jiminy Mountain in Castlerock.” She gave us a worried glance, “This ain’t gonna be near enough honey, lemme see if I can talk the chef into two more bags for ya’s”. She disappeared and as we finished our coffees she returned with two more bags, “Here ya go Hon, good luck now.” and with a wink she left earning herself a five dollar tip for two cups of coffee.
“Why did you leave her five dollars JT? And what are we gonna do pick up garbage along the way? You were flirting with her weren‘t you?” Note to self, never travel with a jealous girlfriend. “I wasn’t flirting with her I was thanking her, she gave us some protection from the rain. We can cut holes in the bags and wear them like raincoats.” Satisfied but still suspicious of me flirting she relented and we put the plastic bag raincoats on before gassing up and headed back out to the thru-way. Driving on the wet road is dangerous enough, but with the big eighteen wheelers kicking the rain off their tires its twice as dangerous and ten times as annoying. I was passing them and they didn’t like it, and before long I found myself in a game of cat and mouse, one truck passing me and getting right in front of me, me passing it only to find myself challenged by another asshole in an eighteen wheeler. I envisioned them on their fuckin’ CB radios, “Hey big buddy, we got us a wise ass biker looking to play hide and seek.” “Back atcha big buddy, lets fuck this two wheel shit to pieces, mon back. Big ten four buddy, eyeballin’ the little bastards now, taking them to the curb.”
At first it was just a pain in the ass but it rapidly escaladed to road war. I was getting more and more pissed by the minute but not much I could do, it was still raining and our garbage bags were shredding. I pulled ahead of all three of the asshole truckers and snuck into the next rest stop to top off the gas tank, have another coffee, and let the three amigos find someone else to terrorize.
Fully caffeinated, slightly rested, still soaked but freshly bagged we set back out on the road. It was a matter of minutes before another trucker started playing games with us. Joined by one other big rig I wondered if they laid in wait for us but that wasn’t possible, this was two new assholes, maybe heard the other trucks talking about us on their CB’. Now I was getting real pissed but they kept playing their game, boxing us in then taking turns passing and cutting us off. I could see them smiling as I passed them which only inflamed my already heated temper. I had enough and decided I was just gonna blow past them. The rain had slowed down and I felt like we could make a get-away. As I was passing the lead truck the dickhead driver broke the camels back. The asshole rolled down his window and flicked a cigar but at us just as we were passing. The stogie struck my breast and the red ambers scattered both sides behind me. I was livid now, and in the spirit of Easy Rider, just like in the last scene, I drove up along side his cab, waited until he turned his fat redneck face at me and stuck my middle finger out as clear as I possibly could. I didn’t want to leave any doubt that I was saying “This Fuck You is all yours!”
I felt vindicated, I felt euphoric, I felt free, free and wild like Billy in Easy Rider telling him and every other trucker fucker what I thought of them. I also felt petrified, because as I remembered the last scene Billy was shot and his bike was spread across the highway. I was petrified because I now realized that my cigar flinging nemesis would be so indignant from my salute he would be on the CB in touch with every trucker fucker for a hundred miles, telling them about some long hair hippie and his biker babe messin’ with all truckers. The stakes of this stupid game had just gotten too high. I rode as fast as I could avoiding as many trucks as possible until we reached the next rest stop, about thirty miles from Castlerock where I parked the bike in the back. We sat down and ate and drank coffee for two hours waiting for everything to blow over, the rain, the truckers, and my angry Mama.
When we finally did get back on the road, we filled the tank, talked another waitress into two more garbage bags, and set out for the last of the run. 25 miles of highway and 6 mile of local side road left, we were both exhausted and in dire need of sleep. We planned to go straight to Motel Jiminy Cricket, where they also leave the lights on, and hit up into the mountains after a good nights sleep. The rain had stopped and the ride on the highway was much safer and uneventful. The last part of our run was a six mile winding road down Osh Kosh Avenue, of Buttfuck boulevard , or lost canyon New York, where hicks are raised ala Appalachia. Not much around but nature and lots of space. We didn’t see another vehicle the entire six miles and the monotony was lulling us into complacency. I felt my girlfriends head get heavy on my back and knew she was falling asleep. On the back of a moving motorcycle!!! I tried to shake her awake twice, but then suddenly my headlight went out and my engine stalled. I popped the clutch and it started back up, but for two seconds that acted more like five minutes I had no headlight on a windy and very dark road, my Mama asleep with her head digging into my back, and a feeling like I never wanted to ride again. We got to the motel both of us awake, drenched, and exhausted. I took out the battery which was soaked and shorting out, and got a room for us and the battery where we dried out overnight.
The rest of the excursion was phenomenal, riding trails meant only for bikers and hikers and saw a huge pond at the very top of mount Jiminy, a sight only a handful of other human has ever has the pleasure to behold. We rested in a natural rock tub atop a waterfall at Cricket Creek watching the fierce water arc outward and onward into the rapids, and enhanced the enchanted excursion by convening with as well as smoking Mother Nature. Sights and sounds so remarkable and spectacular the trials and tribulations of getting here dissolved in the wind. I continued to ride for another ten years having to end my riding tenure because of injuries and responsibilities and I look back fondly on the years I rode. One year my beat up VW was shot and I rode my two wheel wonder through a difficult and harsh New York winter, complete with an ice storm and two blizzards, but I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. As far as the first mountain road trip I admit I was shitting pickles after the cigar stogie middle finger incident, but I gotta tell ya looking back it was one of the most liberating and proud moments of my life when if only for a few short minutes I stood up to a convoy of testosterone laden asshole truckers and said, FUCK YOU!

I Really Dig The Big Wheels Can I Take It Out For A Testosterone Drive?

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monster-truck

An Average Joe May Be Above Average
“Check out how much power this bad boy has.” I think that’s what the truck salesman was screaming over the obnoxious babbling engine but it may have been distorted. When the roar took short break I queried, “Do you have anything a little less phallic and a bit more practical?” I was looking to buy a small truck, not make a statement of overcompensation but this salesman was bent on selling this huge truck with huge wheel and a huge roar that screamed ’don’t look at my small bulge but check out this monster extension of my inadequacy.”
OK really, what’s up with that? Are women in general turned on by loud greasy engines? I mean I’m not a ten inch stud or the owner of a powerful crank case of grinding gears but I have sufficient equipment and what’s more important I know how to use that equipment to get the most out of it. I think back on how idiotic our high school days were, and how we believed we could compensate for our awkwardness of dating by playing a guitar, or driving a muscle car, or something else that formulated a false sense of manhood. But I couldn’t carry a note, couldn’t play an instrument, was uninterested in sports, and lacked self confidence. But I did have a job in a restaurant so at least I had some money, plus I was learning to cook.
My ever helpful Mom suggested I take Home Economics where I could hone my culinary attributes. But back then a class in Home Ec only assured a male of a daily ass kicking and constant public humiliation. I gave it two seconds of thought after Mom assured me I would be in a class full of females. But I had done that by taking typing last year without achieving any carnally enhancing benefits. I made many suggestions to the young maidens but the girls were only interested in my carriage release or ribbon spool, not my nimble typing technique. I didn’t become adept at typing or even get a phone number from that class. Although I admit it was my favorite class and being one of only three guys it was uplifting to garner the attention I so craved.
So I didn’t go to Home Ec, but I did continue to learn to cook at the restaurant while the chicks were all dating the guys in rock bands, the guys with GTO’s, or the football team (No, not the whole team pervert). So those artificially enhanced materialistic dudes all fought over the plastic popular chicks while us average Joes dated the average Jill’s, which in the long run was better anyway.
The funny thing about the football stars, muscle heads, hot car owners, and wannabe rock stars is when they got into the thirty something’s that’s all they really had. I on the other hand could cook and when I reached my thirties that was what the ladies found sexy. Keep your monster truck dude, I am serving sautéed Chilean Sea Bass with a Beaujolais saffron sauce, asparagus macadamia, and Pomes Anna with a perfectly chilled Gewürztraminer wine and the ladies who enjoyed that were intelligent, sophisticated, and beautiful with very little interest in the size of my pick up or biceps. So who’s chuckling now?
I had a small studio apartment in New York City near Madison Square Garden and one of the intricacies of my crib, I mean aside from having my bed right there in my kitchen/dining room, was a nice view for people watching. On one particular evening as I was entertaining, my date and I watched as people who had parked their car near by headed out to The Garden to attend a Monster Truck Rally. We watched and it took all my self control not to point at some overweight, sloppy looking thirty something’s on a mission to get inside, and I can’t be 100% sure but I think one dude with a bad haircut and beer belly that would make Buddha cringe was the star quarterback of my high school. Walking alongside him no longer cheering, was his high school sweetheart. I couldn’t help thinking how much they deserved each other both now and back in the day.
I asked the salesman to shut off the engine so he could hear me good when I said no thanks. I decided I didn’t even want the stupid truck at all because it just isn’t me, and being myself was better revenge than I could possibly have planned even if I had wanted to. Now every time I see someone in a pick up with wheels better off on a tractor with spikes on the rims, or a ridiculously oversize Hummer style vehicle, or any other car designed to take attention away from the owners “short comings” and place the focus on their ride I smile and give them the thumbs up, because they need more reassuring than an average Joe like me.

The Nutcracker Not So Sweet

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beach

Life’s A Beach

Another typical Friday night in Huntington Village where things have been hopping all night. Bar hopping that is, one of our favorite sports back in 73. From Canterbury Ales to Chelsea Square Pub to Sportmans pub in the bowling alley. I think we hit just about every bar, even the “old man” bars and it was no longer Friday night, but early Saturday morning. What better way to finish all the revelry than by walking into straight into the Lions Cage. The one on New York Avenue that is where they make the best Harvey Wallbangers in town and may offer our last shot at “scoring“. Truth is I knew I wouldn’t be picking up anything but my tab and I was feeling pretty buzzed. Missed opportunities aside we were on a roll anyway when we heard that all too familiar phrase which effectively stalled our rambling conversations. “Last call for alcohol!”
“Damn, last call already?” It was the same thing Shadow said every time we heard that “time to get your ass home” two minute warning but tonight, I mean this morning, Shadow was seriously not ready to call it quits. “Guys, lets grab a bite at Colonial Diner then pick up a few brewski’s and head out to The Hampton’s.” The five of us looked at each other and knew in an instant what a bad idea that was. “I’m game.” “Me too, I’ll go”. Okay, maybe not all of us because so far Shadow, Mario, and T-Bone were ready to go for it and it was up to me and Willie to avoid the poor decision. “Far out let’s go. You in JT?” My lone voice of reason was all that was standing between five idiots driving out to The Hampton’s and making the rational decision to go home and avoid what would more than likely be a huge mistake. “Hell yea I’m in man, lets go for it.” Holy shit was that me that said that?
To late the bad judgment call was made so we ate, stopped off at 7/11 to fill up our cooler, swung by our homes to sneak out our bathing trunks and a towel, and headed for a weekend in The Hampton’s. Mario was behind the wheel of my car because he was a good driver an the least impaired. Actually that’s why we called him Mario, after Mario Andretti the racing car driver. Mario hung those curves like a damn surgeon even when he was, lets just call it impaired. Once we breezed past the Walt Whitman Mall I knew there was no turning back. Of course knowing better now we would have never even considered such a ride but back in those days bad decisions were all the rage.
We had a half baked plan to head out towards The Hampton Bays and find a discrete place to park so we could sneak off into the dunes to have a quick nightcap and grab a snooze. In the morning we would scour the beach for a party because The Hamptons was one big ass party on the beach. Each of us had a favorite place to go at night and sometime to night we would be on our mission to hit them all. Mario was a big fan of The Cave, probably for the ladies dancing in the cages. Willie loved the Barge which wa boring and made no sense to me but to each his own and of course Shadow was all about alcohol so we had to go to OBI East for the “Long Island Iced Tea’s.” T-Bone met this killer hot chick at The Mad Hatter last summer so he wants to go there hoping he’ll find her again. Me? My favorite place was Cat Ballou with the deck out back but to be honest The Mad Hatter was a close second. It was wall to wall bikinis in that place. We would try and hit them all in the hopes of seeing The Good Rats or Otter Creek. Both bands play the Hampton’s a lot so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. Truth told the real reason any of us go there is for love and maybe a little sex. Okay mostly in the hope of sex but we were strapping young boys.
We cruised own the highway with Jim Cameron of WLIR radio promising some Santana and Canned Heat coming up next. “Hey man, crank it up when Canned heat comes on bro” I sat shotgun because it was my friggen car, and I would be more than happy to honor Willies request. “You got it Willie boy” Then I added a chorus of “Little Willie Willie wont,….go home” just cuz it pissed him off. I looke over at Mario who seemed almost sober as he got us to Sunrise Highway staring intensely ahead. The great thing about the overnight trip is so little traffic.Of course going home would be different, 495 would be on the Sunday evening Hampton evacuation crawl as so many tired and sun burnt people left weekend paradise to return back to their nine to five worlds in shades of mediocrity. Be we were almost there as the signs for East Quahog and The Hampton Bays faded behind us. Time to go local and find a place to stash the car.
It took about another twenty minutes but we finally found and old gas station, a run down Esso where Mario parked the car in the back among a bunch of other cars most of which were in even worse shape than my half dilapidated Simca. Willie was our resident analytic so he would have the street names committed to memory as we headed out with cooler in tow. We quietly negotiated the residential roads to find our sandy sanctuary while the beautiful early morning sound of waves tickling the shoreline set a placid tone. Once secure in the dunes we each had one beer then slipped off to sleep all snug in our sandy beds while visions of bikini clad ladies danced in our heads.
It was a beautiful Long Island summer morning and the sun had shaken off the last of the evenings darkness. I woke up hearing the commotion of people migrating towards the shore in search of their perfect spot to set up their blankets and chairs. But something else brought me rapidly alert. Something, or more accurately a bunch of something’s were biting my legs, arms and face. Horseflies! Holy shit there must have been a thousand of those bloodsucking flesh ripping winged pests nipping at my body with their murderous mandibles. I began a very spastic interpretive dance designed to quickly rid me of the parasitic miniature beasts. The boys also woke up to the annoying flies the size of bats. Okay, baby bats, but the suckers were big. And mean! I had brought a towel which had now become a weapon, Willie had tears in his eyes as he cried “Ow ow, ow.” I looked at Shadow’s interpretive dance just realizing how graceful he could be but when I saw T-Bone I nearly fainted. His bathing suit was a bit tight and was showing way too much for my virginal eyes. I pointed to his crotch and said, “T-Bone, either put that thing away or cover it up” T-Bone stared at me through groggy all night drinking confused eyes. Once he saw my finger he followed the trajectory to the image I was attempting to wash away and let out a blood curdling scream. He reached his down into his shorts and yanked out a live squirming snake which he sent airborne.
Instinctively the four of us grabbed our crotches and immediately began inspecting our trunks for any unwanted creepy crawlers. The wonderful sound of the Atlantic ocean waves crashing on the shore became overshadowed by loud giggles and some out and out laughter. I looked over still confused to the beach which was filled with those bikini clad images all pointing and laughing at five boys peppered with horsefly bites and each openly ravaging his own crotch. The blood shot up to my face accentuating the fly bites and coloring so deep red my embarrassment couldn’t possibly be mistaken for sunburn.
We enjoyed our day at the beach, some Frisbee and swimming, but it was hard to get past all the pointing and smiling as the story of the five clowns from Huntington circulated no doubt getting embellished at each retelling. Each of us had lost our dignity but we were in The Hamptons so who really cares. We did go out to some of the clubs, No Good Rats or Otter Creek, none of us scored but we all five had a great time anyway. At one point I was involved in a nice conversation with a gorgeous redhaired foxy babe and it was going pretty well until a friend of hers whispered in her ear and she politely told me she had to leave.
Oh well there always next time and next time we’ll be a lot wiser. Not smarter, more Budweiser because we are perfectionists o we keep repeating our mistakes until we get them perfect. None of us drink and drive now and if the weekend taught us anything its to be careful where you sleep and how you wake up because humiliation seldom results in sex. That there is much truth to the proverb you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Next time We’ll be prepared.

Samsung And Da-liar, episode 4..Rated IA (Immature Adult) Not recommened for ignorant prudes

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betrayed800

just a little off the top please
Da-Liar was at one time a true dominatrix with men she walked around on leashes, drinking vodka from bowls, and very often licking her boots. Samsung was different though, Samsung was the only man who had ever returned sexual pleasure to her without complete direction and much work. It was like he had a magic flute that played beautiful love tunes in her labia. His touch on her skin was so enticing her body fluids boiled over and stained the walls. Now however she was in a difficult position, in a pickle over his pickle. If she extracted the secret of his success he would be taken prisoner by King Davey and she would lose the most ardently skilled lover she had known. She had more orgasms from him in one night then she had previously gotten from anyone in fourscore. Although there was that one time when she was in a va-jay-jay jamboree with Trixie and Crystal, but that was one of her darker secrets. On the other hand, if she doesn’t break her stallion and turn him over she not only loses all the promised bounty but the non trustworthy king would surely take his anger out on her.
The constantly copulating couple had found a bed of bliss in Da-Liars bedroom and if the stained walls could talk they would blush as they described the explicit events which occurred within them. The walls woul be barely able to contain themselves. Samsung was not quite at the boot licking stage but he did feel the grip of the vulva wrench when she tightened her velvet glove on his one eyed monster and could be willing to give away trade secrets in the heat of heated moments. Reluctantly Da-Liar began using her never fail coital confession inducing tricks on the big guy. She spent a lot of time on dressing just right. Jet black strappy pumps with stiletto heels, an excruciatingly tight teddy that revealed every curve and muscle in her body, a heavy dose of eye make up and burning bright red lipstick. Samsungs gonads went ga-ga at the sight of her sexiness.
As if that wasn’t enough, in her hand was a bottle of very expensive champagne an two glasses. She walked up to Samsung gently allowing their groins to touch, peered up at him teasingly and asked him if he would like some champagne in bed. At the height of arousal his hardened giant redwood pointed the way in affirmation.
The moment they arrived at the love cushions she began to polish the purple helmet bringing Samsung to near vein popping ecstasy. “Slow down Da-Liar, I feel like I’m already about to explode.” Knowing she needed to stretch it out she let his muscle rest while she paid attention to other parts of his body. As soon as she had him at the breaking point again the bedroom talk began. “Oh my god Samsung, you are so big and strong, and wow what a lover. How is it you are so much stronger than any other man?” Samsung flipped her over and got ontop of her, “Oh I have been given a special steroid from God himself that gives me my strength.” Wham Bam thank you maam the jack hammering began and Da-Liar had difficulty staying on point. The harder he thrust the more she gave in to him and finally it was she who could take it no longer as she came to a screaming orgasm. Da-Liar collapsed in exhaustion both of their bodies throbbing, heaving, and pulsating. She knew she would have to continue her quest manually.
After regaining the ability to breath normally the two lovers finished the first bottle of champagne, then the next and one more after that. Sufficiently drunk Da-Liar began phase two of her sexual extraction. She skillfully reached down under the sheet and Samsung responded quickly. Not thirty seconds had passed and his soldier was once again at attention awaiting command. Da-Liar positioned herself so they could enjoy mutual exploration and as soon as she felt his pulse raise to the right point, and his breathing to increase to the right speed she made her move. Samsung laid in anticipation as Da-Liar used first her feet and next her hands bringing him once again to the breaking point. “Tell me Honey, someone told me you have another secret about your strength, that there is one way you can lose it. Is that true?” Her fingertips began working overtime and she placed her mouth close enough to his unit that he could feel her warm breath on his muscle sending goosebumps through his loins. Promise her anything but give her……ANYTHING!! Da-Liar kept the teasing to an all time Guinness record until Samsung couldn’t hold out any longer and as she finished him off he blurted out “Its my hair. My Mom said I can never cut my hair or I’ll lose my strengths!” Even though her lips were locked onto his throbbing phallus he still didn’t feel her lips curl up into a giant smile.
Unaware he had been infiltrated during infiltration Samsung returned the favor with an equally skilled hand and mouth combo until the couple once again collapsed wrapped together in a love embrace. When they had recuperated they finished off three more bottles of champagne, laughing, chatting, and what would one day be called drunk texting. They simultaneously either fell asleep or passed out from the excessive amount of alcohol and sex. Hours went by the walls hearing nothing but snoring now and Samsung slept so heavy he didn’t notice Da-Liar getting out of bed. It would be anther two hours before he woke up from his champagne and shag induced sleep.
When he did wake up he was feeling sick and hung-over. He reached to his nightstand in search of some aspirins and steroids but the steroids were missing. Frantically he jumped up and headed toward the bathroom not noticing the locks of curly hair strewn about. He made a bee line straight for the bathroom to look for the pills and the image in the mirror caught his eye. He stared at it curiously at first, then in confusion and mystification which descended rapidly into anger. It was at that point he realized the unfamiliar figure in the mirror he was looking at was his own image. “What the? Did she? What? That’s me? No! How could she? I can’t believe this……… she cut my hair into a mullet!! That bitch cut my beautiful golden locks into a God damn mullet! I’ll fucking kill her. Her and every fucking Philly-Steen I see. They’re dead! All of them! DEAD!!”
Never before had Samsung felt so much anger and rage. Betrayed twice by sexy beauties of the same family. That slutty Semedar and the God damn greedy Da-Liar. Samsung thought back to the lion he had slain and decided that was what he would be the fate of the entire Philly-Steen nation. But first he had to do something about the hideous haircut.

Searching For The Lost Ark

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Lost? Are you kidding me, the bitches stole that Ark
Raiders of the lost ark, the ark of the covenant. A piece of religious artifact so important and so powerful I sit in awe wondering how the fuck do you even lose something so precious? Did someone put it down somewhere and forget where they left it? Perhaps it was placed in someone else’s chariot by mistake? Did someone actually grab the wrong ark, one that looked similar. What if we look in the cusions of a very large couch? Or was that shit stolen? Its not the lost ark of the covenant it’s the stolen ark, and its nowhere to be seen because lets face it….Where the hell do you fence something like the ten commandments etched in stone and Torah scrolls? That’s one big ass haul but who can you sell it to?
So I’ve been mistaken for many years because as it turns out the lost ark isn’t Noah’s animal filled floating zoo but some kind of a box filled with religious stuff. My guess is that maybe it was an early Christian suggestion box or something. I expect it’d be filled with papers asking for shit like cushioned pews, refreshments in the confessionals, maybe some cool pictures in the bible, hymns with a better rock beat, and red vodka to replace the cheap wine at communion. That’s the sort of suggestions I’d make anyway. But back to this “lost” artifact. The story goes that the ark is a like a treasure chest filled with the actual stone tablets which the 10 commandments were etched in. It also contains Aarons rod, which it turns out is not Moses brothers porno flick but an actual walking rod owned by his brother said to have miraculous powers, a jar of Manna (an edible food kinda like an Israelite Slim Jim), and the first Torah scroll. Aside from the Slim Jim things these sound pretty important. You’d think exceptional care would be taken with this chest.
Of course that’s not the case, the Ark of the Covenant was either lost or stolen but the prudent thing to do is retrace its steps. The Israelites carried the ark around as they “Wandered about” for some forty odd years trying to locate the Promised Land. No GPS back then but still, lost for forty years? Maybe they should’ve stopped and asked for directions but guess who was in charge of driving? A man of course! When they did finally get it to Jericho they paraded the Ark around the city for seven days like they were rubbing it in the faces of the Jerichonians. However, when Benjamin defeated the Israelites he took the Ark from them. Here’s when things get a little dodgy. The Ark apparently exchanged hands between the Philistines and the Israelites a few times both claiming ownership at one time or another. And as if that shit wasn’t complicated enough some knock off Arks began showing up which looked remarkably similar to the original and were sold on the Lower Eat Side of the Fertile Crescent.
The last known authentic sighting of the Ark was in Solomon’s Temple atop ole Mount Zion. But Nebuchadnezzar came to town and wise old Solly got his ass kicked by the Babylonians who took over ownership. That’s where we completely lose track of it for ages.
Now of course something so intriguing would lead to much speculation. Like the modern UFO sighting craze the ark even has its own Area 51 and assorted plausible locations boasting of its existence. It may be buried in a cave at Mount Nebo as the Jordanians claim, or hidden away in Ethiopia being guarded by ganga crazed Rastafarians, or it could be in the Dubhe mountains in Zimbabwe where the locals call the chest “The Voice Of God.”
Even Europe gets into the act claiming it was taken and protected by The Knights Templar and resides now at an undisclosed location in the south of France, or in Rome at the basilica of St. John. Maybe the freemasons or the Illuminati have it stashed away inside The Dan Brown library or some pyramid with a giant all seeing eye in it. Even Britain, Scotland and Ireland lay claims of ark sightings answering to the ornate chests description stashed away in the mountains of the UK. But we know where it really is, in a Hollywood lot along with hundreds of other arks.
Videotape evidence is indisputable and they had no security cameras back in the ancient times. In fact they had no cameras at all and had to rely on sketch artists who were mediocre at best. I have seen with my own eyes footage of Indy Jones finding the original hiding place in Cairo, surrounded by snakes. Clearly the most plausible explanation is this. Nebuchadnezzar kicked ass and took names, and in the confusion the ark of the covenant was taken back to Babylon. It seems Nebby had his ass kicked a few years earlier in Egypt, where he lost a lot of Babylon’s wealth and the respect of most of his followers. In an effort to regain his peoples admiration he destroyed the temple of Solomon then forged a deal with Pharaoh Hophra who took possession of the ark in exchange for all the shit he stole when he kicked Nebby‘s butt a few years back. The Pharaoh hid the ark in a sort of tomb overrun with mean poisonous snakes (yea, I hate them too) and a strange set of rituals combined with perfect timing of the sun as a code to reveal its resting place.
Fast forward to 1936 when Indiana Jones begins a quest to find the ark before the Nazi’s get their hands on it. Suffice to say when the Ark is finally opened its revealed that the stone tablets and the scroll have turned to sand (its been a long time and even the Slim Jims didn’t make it) What remnants were leftover were cleverly edited to became some great footage of really cool special effects. Long story short there was nothing left inside that miraculous chest but the sand but at least Adolf doesn’t have it and we think we know where it is. In the final scene of the Raiders of The Lost Ark the ark is placed in a warehouse, or more accurately a Hollywood studio lot along with crates and crates of knock offs. So that’s where The Ark Of The Covenant resides today thanks to the efforts of Steven Spielberg and Paramount studios. In the end it was never really lost , just misplaced for a few thousand years…..PEACE

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Samsung And Da-Liar pt2..(A Sick Bastards Bible Selection)

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Samson_Jawbone

A Lion In The Streets But A Wildcat In The Sheets

As a young adult Samsung was the strongest, smartest, and to hear the fair maidens tell it the most well hung man in town. He was being raised by Raven who harbored vengeance in her heart and did her best to fill Samsungs up with anger as well. It wasn’t enough that the ugly and smelly Philly-Steens imprisoned them but one of the church leaders, Mike Duggle-Ass often had Raven brought to his quarters against her will where he performed a variety of sex acts with her. He made her exchange oral pleasures over and over for hours at a time. Her only solace is in knowing she had given him throat cancer.
So it was much more than mere anger it quite literally went much deeper than that. Raven had Samsung trained with a Hattori Hanzo sword, sent him to Crouching Tiger Shulman’s Hidden Dragon Ninja Academy, and study Patton’s Home Correspondence Battle Training Course in his spare time. Raven had fashioned a skilled and very adept lean mean killing machine. His only weakness was being a man easily manipulated by his third leg.
Samsung was also very intelligent and graduated magma cum loudly of Canaanite U, majoring in telecommunications. (which at that time was the donkey express) He knew he would one day find a better solution to information gathering but first and foremost he must set out to avenge his people. He set out on his ass (The donkey) to find a way to free the Israelites, who have a predestined love of all things free. While traveling he met a Philly-Steen hottie named Semedar walking with her younger sister Da-Liar. After a fair amount of flirting with both ladies he got off his ass and gave Semedar his most charming eye flirt and said, “I think I’ll invent a new alphabet so I can put U and I together.” Obviously just as smitten the sultry Semedar smiled seductively, gently traced her finger down his chest barely brushing her hand across his groin and answered, “Why don’t you just put the U in Me instead.” She parted her thick lips ever so suggestively and allowed her pink moist tongue to reveal her intention.
Sparks flew. No literally, I mean real sparks were coming from Samsungs cellular region as it rose to the occasion instantly. His LAN was on fire and Semedar was the server of choice. His sexual wiring was shorting out sending messages everywhere. The sultry and very horny Semedar gave her sister Da-Liar ten bucks and sent her off to town so the two hopeful lovers could allow the sparks to bring each other to a satisfying conclusion.
The two lovers found a perfect spot in the forest and went at it with all the energy his mother and biological father had on that fateful night on which he was conceived. The huffed and puffed and puffed and huffed and each brought new and exciting techniques to the sensual explosion. When they were finished the ridiculously satisfied Samsung couldn’t stop singing her praises and asked her right there on the G spot if she would marry him. Nary a second of hesitation wasted the beautiful Semedar still feeling the warm blood flow everywhere accepted his vow of love and sealed it with a slurp. The two became engaged and made love once more to celebrate. Now the hard part, time to tell both families about the unity of an Israelite and a Philly-Steen.
Raven and Manoah were extremely unhappy with the news and Raven warned Samsung that consorting with the Philly-Steens would bring him only heartache an displeasure. Pleasure was the reason Samsung had become betrothed to begin with so he cleverly convinced her it was part of the higher powers plan for him to marry the sexy Philly-Steen. He announced that his intentions were as stiff as his……never mind, his intention was solid. Being a Nazirite he felt compelled to ask Semedar’s father for her hand in marriage and he set off to do just that.
He jumped on his ass (donkey again) and headed out as fast as the stubborn burro would bounce. Two hours and two days later the ass lazily limped to a clearing just outside of Boldface, the town of his sultry fiancé. There he would practice what he would say when he met Semedars father Bob Barian. Bob Barian was actually Semedars step father who was a warped, frustrated old man. He lost the sight of his right eye during a battle with the Huns when Attila himself reached into Bob Barians eye socket, yanked out his eyeball threw it at Bobs feet saying “You see where you stand?“ before laughing and squishing it into the ground. Not a single one of his slaves lifted a hand to help him and many even snickered and made Cyclops jokes. He became a more ruthless and vindictive slave-owner after that and he was all too aware that a stinking Israelite was on the way to ask for his daughters hand thanks to a heads up from his daughter Da-Liar. Bob Barian was even less enthusiastic about the union than Raven was. In an attempt to avoid having the entire race of Philly-Steens making him the laughing stock of the Fertile Crescent for being a slaves father in law he bought a lion from the Coliseum of Rome to slay the hapless Hebrew. He got a good rate on an aging lion that had killed over 50 Christians which had acquired quite a reputation. It was said the old but fierce feline had not a sliver of fear or humility. In fact the carnivorous cat had swallowed his pride, each and every member. He turned the bloodthirsty lion loose in the path where Samsung would surely be and assumed that would be the last he would hear of the Israelite again..
Samsung rested in the clearing because his ass was sore.(the donkey again) It was tired from all the walking and in pain so they stopped to give his asses a rest. His thoughts wandered to the sexually charged encounter he and Semedar had and the ones they would have in the future and the only thing on his mind now was copulation. His hand involuntarily began a soothing feel good massage as he day dreamed about his carnal desires when a strange noise broke his concentration. First he heard the gentle rustling of leaves but it was followed quickly by a loud ferocious roar. He remove his hand from his loincloth in alarm. A lion attack? Holy shit! His first inclination was to get his ass outta there (this time his!) There wasn’t enough time because old as the lion was it still had a lot of zip in its hip and came charging at Samsung with killing in it’s eyes and heart. Samsung having to react quickly grabbed his ass by its jawbone (you figure it out) and ripped it clean off its head. He then took that old jawbone and cracked it across the head of the charging cat killing it in one swift chop. The adrenalin rush from the fear compounded from his daily steroid shot was still raging and he tore the lion apart with his bare hands.
I wish you could have seen the face of Bob Barian go from smirking smile to frightened shock as he witnessed Samsung toss the gruesome shredded carcass at his feet. Eyes still wild and bugging out of his head Samsung looked Bobby Boy directly in his good eye and said, “I came here to ask you for your daughters hand in marriage but now with this lion carcass as a show of my worthiness I will insist we marry and our love will bond!” Shaken but not stirred the mean mister Barian agreed immediately. He would have agreed to just about anything at that point with Samsung staring at his good eye with wild rage and lions blood still dripping from his hands. There was little he could do the marriage was set. De-Liar had also witnessed the incident with a tingling in her slightly damp groin paying particular notice of how Sammy bulged as well. Instinctively she knew what his weakest link was, or at least she thought she did. To herself she mumbled, “One day Sammy boy, I will use that divine rod to coax you away from my bitch sister and you‘ll moisten only my lips. (your choice)
The wedding was epic. Israelites in formal chains on the grooms side, all the ostentatious Philly-Steens on the brides side. Senedar had 30 groomsmen who took care of her wardrobe and make up. Samsung decided to tease them thinking them to be stupid gay Philly-Steens. “If any among you can figure out my riddle, I shall give you a fine Italian suit in the color of your choice.” The groomsmen were all fashionista’s so of course were intrigued. Samsung had no intention of allowing them to figure out his riddle.” If two Roman chariots collided on the border of England and Persia in which country would survivors be buried?” The slow witted groomsmen scratched their heads and struggled for hours in moral and ethic debates and the legal ramifications of responsibility not a single one realizing the easy answer. Da-Liar knew the answer and told the groomsmen that survivors don’t get buried on the condition they tell him Semedar gave them the solution. Each one went to Samsung and answered his riddle demanding a tailored suit from Italy. Infuriated Samsung promised he would fulfill his obligation in a week. He asked them how they figured it out and as promised they told him Semedar had given them the answer. Samsung was crushed by the betrayal.
For the first time the sex between Samsung and Senedar was unsatisfying because only one of Sams heads was into it. He was clearly pre occupied but lied that he was only deciding where to get the 30 suits. His pain turned to anger over her revealing the answer to the groomsmen putting him in such a shitty position. Semedar was sexually frustrated and unsatisfied too so as soon as Samsung left to get the suits she snuck into the bedroom of her secret lovers. Yes that’s right, its not a typo this time, she had multiple lovers. She slept with four of her Philly-Steen neighbors getting attention from all four simultaneously. Da-Liar promised she would warn Semedar if her new husband came home so the fivesome went at it with unequalled enthusiasm. Reverse cowgirl, motor boating, jack hammering, the ninja vacuum, the bus ride, they even Sutra’d the Kama out of each other one chapter at a time. The moans and groans could be heard throughout the entire hall.

Totally unaware of his back stabbing brides infidelity Samsung set out to keep his promise. He decided to kill two birds with one stone so he went into town and found 30 well dressed Philly-Steens who he easily slaughtered then took their clothing. He went back to Semedars home three days earlier than expected with the dead men’s suits and dropped them off. He explained to he couldn’t get a plaid suit because dead men don’t wear plaid and none of the contributors wore pink suits. It was as if he were bragging about something. He dropped off all the suits, many of which still had blood stains on them. Then as he walked down the hall he saw Da-Liar who stopped him and whispered, “I love my sister but I can’t bear to see this happen to you. I’m sorry Samsung but she’s in the room at the end of the hall. That’s when he heard the familiar sounding moans. “Semedar?” Samsung broke into the bedroom finding his bride in what could only be described as the final scene from the popular porno flick “Romancing The Bone.” Four Philly-Steen men simultaneously pleasuring his wife in one place or another.(The ear thing was kinda creepy) He grabbed his sword and cut off all eight of the four men’s heads turning to Semedar, “I think I’ll be going back home now. I’ve murdered enough stinking Philly-Steens for one day.” He left her stunned in a room full of bloody body parts while Da-Liar secretly watched it all unfold with a smile.
Samsung went home to his Mom and Dad crying. Raven wanted badly to say “I told you so”, but opted to wait for another time. She made him a pot of chicken soup and enhanced it with more steroids than usual because “He looks like he hasn’t ha a roid in weeks” as she would put it. Things were not so hunky dory in Philly-Steen either. A warrant for Samsung was put out with a reward if taken alive. King Davey wanted to make a hard work slave of the murderous Israelite would be savior. He would employ any means necessary including using Da-Liar. He wanted Samsungs battery completely drained at any cost. Samsung had a price on his head.

Shit My Dad Says (When He Trips On My Acid)

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Alan didn’t say a word. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a can of beer, popped the top and walked out the door in silence. He got in his Volvo and sped off without ever looking back once. Somehow I knew he wouldn’t be coming back but I ran to the door hoping I was wrong as he pulled away. Sadie looked up from the sink, the sink that held her prisoner for the last eighteen years every evening after dinner. “What’s the matter Honey?” It was as though she hadn’t even noticed, “Where’d Dad go?” Sadie had a puzzled look on her face which gave way to a Stepford wife smile, “Oh he’s probably gone out to get some beer or cigarettes. I so wish he would quit smoking.” She looked up at the ceiling as if it was where life’s answers hid. Mom was clueless and I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.
Alan wasn’t going out for beer or for cigarettes. He was just going out, probably not certain himself what he was in search of. One thing I was certain of is my Mom and Dad would not be living the American Dream anymore. That dream began to crumple three days ago when he went out to mow the lawn. That’s when this whole sorry situation began. I know this because when I got back to my room I could tell Dad had been snooping and missing from my desk was the hit of LSD on a life saver. Holy savior on a stick Alan was getting fucked up!
Frantic at first I thought I had been busted by my old man but when I went outside to confront him about it I could tell. My dad is tripping on my Orange Sunshine. I studied his face as he alternated between laughing at the lawn and scowling at it then looking around confused. “Oh fuck, the lawn is communicating to my old man.” That’s when I knew it was all over.
The rest of the night was surreal. He couldn’t possibly have known what was going on and the shit spinning in his head had to be freaking him the fuck out! Nothing good would come of this. That was some powerful LSD and it was gonna take my fathers brain out and rearrange in ways he’ll never understand. He’ll see things that make no sense, and make sense of things he never noticed before. I wasn’t sure if I should just watch and enjoy or intervene somehow. Either way profound changes were in store for sure. I’ve heard many a story of people that flipped out and ended up in hospitals or bunt out for life because they were giving LSD without their knowledge. This didn’t seem to be the case here, Alan was digging it. He probably thought the grass clippings were messages from God and now his life has some obscure esoteric purpose. Tonight he is acting on whatever he believes those messages meant.

Is That A Bazooka In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To Invade My Country?

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War Makes Me Sick
War is a concept of death and destruction that exists so we can exist. Peace is a more desirable concept idealistically but war is essential to human existence for a number of reasons. War lowers populations and creates a plethora of jobs both during the battles and afterwards to rebuild the area’s destroyed. Some say its an economic boost, that’s for the experts but it does level the job hunting fields. War also forces us into making faster technological advances like GPS and drones. Most importantly it pretty much guarantees that our planet will be destroyed forcing us to look for multi planet alternatives, which we will nee eventually anyway. It also serves an ego-maniacal need. War helps asshole leaders overcompensate for their own diminutive sexual weapons by building bigger cannons, bazookas, and missiles.
Its no coincidence that they forge weaponry in the shape of a penis because the country with the biggest dicks in charge are usually the winners. War is historically waged between Alfa male leaders of countries they rule like sheep. They hoist their flags on the largest phallic poles they can find, and it always come down to who can still get it up after the battles are over. The flag that is. The alpha that gets his pole to stand highest in the end wins. Then they can parade their big flags and wave it in everyone else’s face. Of course they don’t do the actual sacrificing, they enlist the use of the less fortunate to lay their lives down. But that helps eliminate poverty so what the fuck, lets kill the poor. That way the leaders will be more than happy to brag about the sacrifices made and condemn any who don’t beam with pride as they wave that big flag someone else defended for in the name of freeom.
Bottom line is that war is a paradox that destroys families, generations, and countries, and spreads diseases. This brings me to my another point about war and human beings. The very second we’re born we are engaged in a war of microorganisms. Today I am suffering from a nasty cold. My head aches, my nose is runny, sore throat, fatigue, the works. Basically I feel like shit. In truth I cannot in good conscience attest to how shit may actually feel but I would guess having to be shit in and of itself would suck big time and that’s how I feel today. Why? Because there is a major war being fought inside my body. Your body is wonderland. A wonderland of microscopic battlefields.
From the day I was born troops set up inside my body and prepared for battle. My immune system employs a defense system poised for attack because relentless microbial warriors strive vigorously to destroy me via viral warfare. These warriors are so advanced they have learned how to mutate to look like the harmless germs in an attempt to sneak in unnoticed. They are able to unscramble complex codes my immune system has in place and enter further into my system to wage assaults on my lungs, my sinus cavities, and if permitted they will enter the hemoglobin hemisphere and cause extreme damage. I can fight this because I adopted my mothers immune system when I was born. The very second my chord was severed and I was on my own hundreds of thousands of micro-organisms began looking for a biologic bivouac in which to wave their tiniest of tiny flags. Just my luck a host of overcompensating microbes looking to impress. That’s why my Mom equipped me with her with anti-bodies, so when these aggressive nano dicks begin their assault on my newborn biological battlefield I could counter attack with a swift and certain response. But the biological war wage on without end and one day this week the bastards planned a sneak attack and sucker punched my ass good!
I have always been a man of peace, believed in the doctrines of Saint John Lennon and Saint Robert Marley and despite my size (no not my flag, I mean my actual size, 6’4”) I don’t believe in violence. And despite the fact I believe war is a necessary function of survival I will not now and would never have engaged in a war myself. I am an existentialist and as such believe in the live and let live law of nature, not the follow me or die laws of organized religion which in truth is the main instigator of wars. I am however taking up arms against the current war, or conflict if we are being literal, inside my body. I’m enlisting some mercenaries to fight the good fight in the form of either Zicam, Robitussin, or Mucinex… War really is unhealthy for children and other living things…….PEACE

Devil Dog Day Afternoon

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I’m Stoned, Lets Go On A Hunger Strike ( are you gonna eat that?)
I’m Stoned, Lets Go On A Hunger Strike ( are you gonna eat that?)

Legalize marijuana. Simple enough concept but due to the fear of repercussions it wasn’t getting much support back in the day. I’m talking back in the olden times when we had to walk barefoot in the snow uphill in both directions just to buy rolling papers. In the days when carrying Visine got the red out and confirmed your status of stoner. Society deemed marijuana to be the devils weed back then. It was a weed alright, but a weed that turned into a flower in our minds. It was okay for fathers to numb their dull lives with an afternoon martini but smoking pot was a crime of grave concern They also complained that pot was an evil drug and was the gateway to heaven. Oh wait, I have that wrong, the gateway to heroin is what they thought. My bad!
It was hard back then to get people together to take a stand on legalization. Cops were arresting stoners and sending them away for as much as 15 years. Near about everybody puffed the magic dragon but we inhaled the heavenly herb hidden in corners or behind trees and the like. We ruined many a buzz straining hard to look not stoned and we came up with very creative ways to hide our baggies of bliss. Punishment for enjoying a joint was pretty harsh and no one wanted to get locked up in jail with rapists, child molesters, murderers, mother-humpers, father-humpers, or any violent shits.
But god damn it man we were the generation that lifted protesting to an art form. So a bunch of us got together and formed a think tank to come up with some ideas for a proper protest rally. Once together the first thing we did was light one up. A soon as soon as we got tanked in the tank we were able to think clearly. Sort of. It was T-Bone that came up with the best idea. A hunger strike for the legalization of marijuana. Brilliance to the tenth degree. We smoked another J to celebrate and decided we would start the strike tomorrow. Right now we needed to find a box of Devil Dogs.
The next day we started the strike in the cafeteria in school at 12:15. No eating until pot is legal, or at least decriminalized. Some more of our friends joined in and before long we had a band of 25 stoners all starving ourselves in protest. The movement was growing so we snuck out side and lit up a few bowls. When we returned to the cafeteria we were all smiles, or shits and giggles whatever that means. Its now 12:45 and we had a full fledged protest going on. The bell rang at 1 o’clock and in force we all walked out of school in unison bound by the determination of changing the culture surrounding that magnificent Mary Jane. We were now 40 strong all stoked up on determination and a shitload of THC! At 1:10 an ice cream truck passed by ringing a bell and like Pavlov’s dogs the majority of protesters began to salivate and then chased after the truck in search of some sweet munchables. Feeling dejected and deserted we were now only five left standing strong to make pot legal. T-Bone suggested we jump in the car and head to 7-11 for a box of Devil Dogs and by 1:20 the hunger strike was officially over.
We protested many things back in the day, Viet Nam war, nuclear weapon disarmament, civil rights and a whole slew of unethical activities that we were forced upon an innocent nation of humans. We arranged sit-ins and rallies of all sorts but we learned one very valuable lesson that day. If you’re smoking pot never-ever for even one second engage in a hunger strike. Oh yea, and always keep an extra box of Devil Dogs nearby cuz ya never know when you’ll be attacked by the munchies on a Devil Dog Day afternoon…PEACE