Kids suck

I think that we can all agree that in every single aspect imaginable, dogs are better than kids. A dog can be trained to “sit” “stay” and “hurry up and do your business so I can go back inside” whereas a child can not be trained in any of those things. Some of you will probably say, “That is an unfair comparison and you shouldn’t make kids poop outside in the yard.” I am quite sure that even more of you will argue that your own child is “special” and “gifted” and will sit and stay on command and even shake a paw. Then you’ll go on and on about how your 3 year old can already read at a grade 2 level and how their stupid drawings are really artistic and junk. Then you’ll whip out some sappy picture of them holding up a fish, looking all proud like they just won the Nobel Prize. You parents just make me sick.

Not that any of you sanctimonious know it all parents will ever agree with me, but the facts about dogs vs. kids is plain as day. Sure, dogs have their drawbacks, but let’s stack those side by side and see who comes out the winner.

Doggie Drawback: A dog cannot communicate with words.
Kiddie Drawback: A kid cannot communicate with words and doesn’t even have a tail that they can wag.
Doggie Drawback: A dog can bark at anything, at anytime.
Kiddie Drawback: A kid can pitch a fit at anytime, anyplace and if they do it long enough, onlookers will call social services on you.
Doggie Drawback: A dog can have a “mistake” in the house.
Kiddie Drawback: Anytime a kid goes potty in his pants, it’s a mistake that someone else has to clean up and it smells a hell of a lot worse than a dog’s mistake.
Doggie Drawback: A dog will sniff a stranger’s crotch.
Kiddie Drawback: A kid will loudly exclaim in front of a stranger, “Mommy, what’s wrong with that lady’s face?!?!”

So far, even with the dog’s bad points, they still come out on top. Before I elaborate even further with iron clad arguments, let me explain the reason behind this post. I was witness to even more proof to my theory as a woman was walking with her snot nosed little brat beside her and a man was walking toward her with his harmless little doggie. As the two pairs met, the man and woman began to chat about something and suddenly the little doggie grasped the woman’s leg and attempted to, well, hump it. The woman screamed and I attempted to help by pointing and laughing. The woman then shook the dog off, sending the ball of fur tumbling away in unrequited love while the she-devil woman screeched to the man, “That dog tried to rape me!!!!” Then her adorable little whippersnapper in Oshbegosh coveralls began to wail like a demented little Satan and ran off down the street. The woman then pointed her evil finger at the man and yelled, “Look what you did to my son! He’s so upset!” She took off after her son, who was probably going to the store to yank stuff off the shelves and stomp on them while I went across the street and patted the dog on the head, “Good Dog” I said.

It could be posited that while dogs are cuter and better behaved than children, that dog will never grow up and become another Einstein. But let’s face it, your kid will probably never grow up to be another Einstein either, no matter how proud he looks holding up that stupid fish that some adult probably helped him catch. No, a dog will not grow up and solve world hunger or cure cancer, but so far, no grown up kid has done that either.

Truly, the list of positives that I could summarize regarding dogs and how they basically kick kid’s asses is long and would involve many humorous anecdotes but let’s get right to brass tacks: let’s talk money. A dog will cost you about 50 bucks a month, while a kid, assuming he plays a sport well enough to gain admission to college, will cost you roughly 15,000 a month, not including legal fees and bail money. It’s simple economics.

Before you angry parents out there write me long winded letters stained with peanut butter and jam about how great kids are, let me just brilliantly conclude this post with a simple pat on your head, “Good parent, who’s a good parent, why you are, oh yes you are!”

Next post: Why the next generation are a bunch of morons and the world is doomed because all they know how to do is spend their parent’s money, obsess about celebrities, deal dope and tweet on twitter.

Give till it hurts...

I’m a very charitable person. The other day while I was walking to the homeless shelter to hand out orphans or something, it occurred to me that I may be too generous for my own good. One time I bought a can of corn and put it in the food bank bin and was feeling pretty darn good about myself until I got home and suddenly had a real craving for some corn. But instead of enjoying some quality canned corn, I had to do without while some hungry homeless person was chowing down. Obviously that isn’t right. So I ordered a large pizza, ate a couple pieces and threw the rest away. I did that to balance out the universe so our world wouldn’t be thrown into chaos. No thanks are necessary.

My generous spirit was once again made manifest when I performed my twice monthly ritual of staring at my pay stub and weeping bitterly. Apparently, in some mad fit of charitable goodness, I decided to give away a third of my money to the government. I don’t remember offering, but I must have, because if someone takes your money without asking that is called stealing and obviously the government wouldn’t do something like that.

I got to thinking about taxes and you may think that this lead to more weeping and possibly gnashing of teeth and the odd blood curdling scream, but no, it all made sense to me. The pieces all fell into place. Taxes make sense. I mean, I really should pay the government as a way of saying thanks for letting me work, sometimes up to 60 hours a week.

When we elect a government, we are essentially saying to them, “Congratulations, you now own the country and everything in it. Thanks for letting me live here.” So if you use gasoline, you have to pay tax on it, because the government owns the ground and everything under it. If you use their stuff, you have to pay for it. Fair is fair.

Whenever I buy something, I have to pay the government, because it’s theirs. Even if it was made in China, which nowadays, everything is. Because when that stuff hits Canadian Soil, ownership reverts to the government. Which, of course, is the natural way things work. Like when you were a kid and you accidentally kicked your ball into the neighbor’s yard and the crotchety old lady who lived there said, “It’s my ball now” and then slithered back into her house to add the ball to her collection. Same principle.

And they tax my cigarettes a lot, like really a lot, because that helps to pay for all the sick people that my cigarettes are hurting, like that guy who was hit by a car. I suppose that’s a bad example, a better one would be all the people who are over 70 years old who live in various parts of the country, accounting for 70% of all health care costs because they go to the hospital once a week, which of course is caused by my second hand smoke. The government is looking out for its people and makes sure that everything is even steven and believe you me, looking out for every single person in the country ain’t cheap.

So if you think about the thousands of taxes that we pay, don’t get upset and try to figure out a way not to pay them. If you don’t pay your taxes you get arrested and thrown in jail where all the other tax payers have to pay to keep you fed and stuff. That wouldn’t be fair to the other people who don’t get to go to jail and have to pay taxes.

Plus, the government gives you money back every year at income tax time. Unless you didn’t give them enough, then you have to pay them more, but whatever. The fact is, the government has invented this option that will allow you to OVERPAY them every cheque and they’ll hang on to that money for you, keeping it safe and sound for you until April and then they’ll give some it back to you. I think that’s a very sweet gesture, because you, being the idiot that you are, would probably just squander that money on useless luxuries like food and shelter.

So when you think of taxes, think of all the good stuff that it brings about, like more government. If a little works, a lot will work a lot better. If you still feel a little down, remember that without a whole mess of taxes, we wouldn’t have wonderful things like:

1. A strong military to keep foreign people safe from other foreign people in foreign lands.
2. A health care system that allows you plenty of rest and relaxation during your 4 hour emergency room wait time.
3. A hockey arena in a city that you don’t live in.

That’s only 3 exquisite things and I bet if you try, you can come up with hundreds, maybe even thousands of other examples! So don’t despair over the privilege of paying taxes, because you know that all that money is being spent to make your life better.

a shelter from the storms

I believe it was the poet Longfellow who wrote, “Ere the season ends, I shall grill my steak under the cover of some kind of shelter, to keep the snow off my food.” Like the poet Longfellow, I too have a weird name. But that wasn’t going to stop me from constructing a shelter over my BBQ. I wouldn’t allow Mother Nature, Old Man Winter, Jack Frost or the Easter Bunny to stand in my way. I was committed, I was prepared, I was driven by that pioneer spirit that burns in all our breasts, thighs and wings.

Someone once said (perhaps it was Longfellow) that a plan is just a list of things that can go wrong. Well said Longfellow! My plan was more than a list of things that could go wrong, it was a list of things that did go wrong and then went even wronger. Much like the word “wronger” everything I was doing was incorrect and as poorly thought out as my grammar.

First, I made a list, which is never a good idea. The list was far too detailed to begin with. It began:
1. Write a list
2. Get a pencil

And so on. I didn’t even get to the shelter until the 17th item on my list. So I decided that a list was a terrible idea and no architect ever began a great project by rooting through my junk drawer looking for a pencil, holding up a bunch of elastic bands and asking, “Why do I keep these things? When will ever need a bunch of elastic bands? And what the hell is this? A single paper clip! Why would I feel the need to keep a single paper clip, hidden away in the back of the drawer under a grocery receipt from 2008? Why would I keep that? For tax purposes? Did I think that I could write off a bottle of ketchup? Or was I somehow dissatisfied with the ketchup and hoped to return it?” As you can see, building a shelter can be a long, drawn out process, fraught with many rhetorical questions.

As you may recall, the shelter had a flat roof, which would not work at all. So I took a few boards off, just to see if I could reconstruct a beautifully shaped gabled roof with the current layout. It wasn’t quite clear to me, so I took a few more boards off.

After much deliberation (a few days, possibly more than a week) I decided that the roof would have to be completely rebuilt so I took the remaining boards off. After it was off, I decided that without that strengthening support, the shelter was pretty wobbly. So I spent a few moments shaking the shelter, testing its structural integrity. We get a lot of snow here in the winter and I was concerned that all that snow could send my roof crashing down on my steak and by extension, my head. Using complex formulas, I calculated the weight per square foot of snow by climbing on top of the shelter and hanging off the end, impersonating a bunch of heavy snow. Y’know, just to see. It was then that my nosy neighbor called out to me from the other side of the fence, “Whacha doin’ there?”

I won’t record the conversation because obviously anyone who uses the word, “Whacha” is not going to offer any insightful contributions to a project of that magnitude. After 45 minutes of me not listening to his helpful advice which came in the form of, “Whacha wanna do is put that support beam on the top of the…” So that was one day wasted. I couldn’t very well go back to work after being told in no uncertain terms where to place a support beam and having absolutely no intention of following his directions. This was MY project after all.

The next day (or maybe it was a week later) I decided that the current layout of the walls wasn’t quite right so I decided to take down a few boards. Once those were put aside I pondered the walls again and took down a few more boards. My shelter had to be just perfect and I would brook no short cuts, no design errors, no single board out of place. So I took a few more boards off.

As I stood there looking at the gutted remains of the shelter, it occurred to me that the whole thing would need to be rebuilt. So I took a few more boards off. Before I knew it, I had no shelter and a big pile of lumber and the clouds overhead were threateningly black with snow. I quickly took a few more boards off.

With the shelter completely taken apart it occurred to me then that perhaps the most important aspect about having a BBQ that burns wood as fuel is that it requires wood. I also noted that I happened to have a big pile of wood that used to be my shelter. Using more complex mathematical formulas, I figured that if I just burned the shelter I could grill a lot of steaks. Sometimes, failure is a lot easier to stomach when said stomach is filled with steak.

an ambitious project

Those of you who know me are well aware that my two passions in life are: 1. Building things and 2. Complaining about building things. History has shown that this is called, “The cycle of life.” Even way back in caveman days, Neanderthal Man would stomp around in his furry toga exclaiming, “I’m tired of living in this cave! I need to improve my life by building a house!” And then his nag of a wife would shriek at him, “Quit stomping around and build it already because this moist cave air is causing my hair to go all fuzzy and it’s clashing with my toga!” And so the cave man would build a house with primitive tools (Philips screwdriver) and for each step of the project, he would complain bitterly about various mishaps that slowed the project down like rampaging Mastodons or the neighbor’s saber toothed tiger that poops on his lawn. Thus, as history tells us, those Neanderthal houses were never built and normal dwellings did not appear until the 1950’s.

If we fast forward to today, we can see that things have not changed all that much and Life will throw you many curves and occasionally a fastball just outside the strike zone. What I’m alluding to is the fact that I recently found myself faced with the need to improve my living conditions by building something. I built a shelter just outside the back door on top of my huge throbbing deck. The purpose was to have a “smoking shack”, a place where I could go to smoke a cigarette, protected from the elements. Before you envision some grand Taj Mahal of smoking shelters, let me dash those foolish visions before you get carried away. It was a shack. I built it out of left over lumber from other, more ambitious, projects. It was made from 4x4 posts and 2x4 studs and it had a flat roof. Now, as many of you with architectural knowledge can attest, a flat roof poses many challenges. For instance, when it snows, that snow will stay there until someone, like the idiot who built it, has to climb on top of a bench or a chair or his tiptoes and attempt to shovel it off. Another challenge is that the stupid squirrel who lives in my backyard loved to run across it, back and forth, back and forth, BACK AND FORTH with his noisy little feet and driving me crazy. Plus, the dog will stand there, fur bristling like a caveman’s toga, barking at the squirrel like a banshee (I know banshees are known for screaming but their bark is equally annoying).

Another problem with the shelter is that it was built right next to the house, and coming out of the house was my newly installed furnace’s vent pipe, shooting out carbon monoxide and napalm and agent orange and whatever else the building inspector said. So, unless I wanted to turn my shack into some kind of noxious gas hot box, I could not use it for its intended purpose.

I had 3 options: 1. I could dismantle it. 2. I could move it to a nearby location. 3. I could drag the 600 pound monstrosity across the deck, remove the walls to “lighten it” to a manageable 599 pounds, get it onto the gravel driveway, around the fire pit to the BBQ area. Yes, number 3 was the way to go! I did so not because I love torturing myself, but because like my caveman friends, I love to BBQ, even in the dead of winter. I thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be great to have a shelter to keep the snow off my precious BBQ, thus enabling me to perform my culinary acts all year long?”

Before you nod your head in sage agreement, perhaps you ought to be told that my BBQ is not some Home Depot propane unit. My BBQ burns wood. Some time ago my neighbor (who is a gifted welder) made me this meat grilling beauty and I have indulged myself in this timeless pursuit faced with nature’s elements. A shelter from the rains and winds and snows and squirrels was what I needed! In fact, BBQ shelters are sold at fine retailers, proving that many outdoor chefs have a need for these products. So resume nodding your head in agreement, ignoring the fact that the shelters sold at quality retailers are made out of metal and have a practical sloping roof.

In case you didn’t know, burning wood gives off sparks and heat. Having a flat, wooden roof directly over the sparks and heat could have posed some safety concerns. (Oh, did I mention that the roof was only 6 foot 5 inches high? Coincidentally the same height as me on my tip toes and not exactly a safe distance away from the sparks and heat.)

Because of my bad knee, I never jump to conclusions and I am a firm believer in the scientific method, where experimentation should first occur before attempting an action plan. I positioned the flat roofed shelter over the BBQ area and then lit the fire. I built up the fire nicely and stood there, squinting at the roof (squinting because even with the walls removed, my shelter was filled with smoke) and noticing that when I placed my hand on the roof directly over the flames that yes, it was indeed pretty hot to the touch. As the minutes passed, I kept checking the roof in various places, alternating between hanging myself over the flames and almost falling onto the BBQ at least 7 times. When the fire was at its apex, I couldn’t even hold my hand near the roof because of the intense heat. Because of my scientific nature, I was prepared for any conflagration with an array of fire fighting tools (a metal pokey thing that is used to stir the coals and my dog’s water dish, which was a solid block of ice). I let the fire (and my temper) burn down as I stood there pondering my options.

The sensible thing was to abandon my plans, that much is clear to me now but I was undaunted, filled with a burning (no pun intended) desire to have a roof over my BBQ. I could shell out the $500.00 for a properly built metal shelter but that decision would rob me of the joy of building it myself and since my neighbor won’t build me anything anymore because of the “leaves on the lawn” incident (which is another story altogether) I was on my own.

I decided that I would simply raise the roof and make it gabled (sloping) and that would require me to build some trusses (things that hold up the roof) but since I had more leftover lumber (from removing the walls) I was raring to go, filled with enthusiasm and what not. So after a few days consisting of doodling intricate roof truss drawings, watching TV, napping and snacking, I was ready to make my to-do list:

1. Remove old roof
2. Install new roof

(to be continued)

it's not nice to be nice

The other day I was at the post office arguing with the clerk about paying duty for Swedish pornography when all of a sudden the guy standing beside me coughed really loud and I said, “Bless you.”
He said, “I didn’t sneeze.”
I replied, “Sorry?”
And then he said, “I didn’t sneeze. I coughed. You don’t say “Bless you” to someone because they cough.”
So I said, “Maybe I was just saying “Bless you” because I wanted you to be blessed. Dink."

OK, the truth of the matter is, I thought he sneezed. But the lesson learned is that it doesn’t pay to be nice to people. It doesn’t even pay minimum wage, so why bother? I went away from that encounter an enlightened man. I would no longer be nice to anyone at any time.

You may think that is a terrible way to live, not being nice to anyone at any time. That’s where you’re wrong and you’re probably an idiot too. See what I mean? It’s cool not to be nice. The burden of societal mores was lifted from my handsome shoulders. I could go through life not giving a fig (I’ve never owned a fig but if I did manage to get my hands on a fig, you can bet I wouldn’t give it away. And who would want it anyway? “Here, have a fig.” That’s a good way to get socked in the nose. Isn’t a fig a fruit or something? It’s in Fig Newton’s but that’s it, you never hear about figs in any other context aside from the one I just mentioned. Makes you wonder about figs, doesn’t it? Figs: the red headed stepchild of the fruit family.)

Anywho… I thought about all the times that I’d been nice when I didn’t want to be and thought, “Boy, it would have been swell to not have been nice to that jerkwad.” Just imagine how great it was when I was on the crowded bus, enjoying my bench seat all to myself when this little old lady stood there looking at me with sad, pleading eyes and I said, “You can shuffle those rickety old bones on down the aisle, because I’m not giving up my seat.” HAHAHAHAHA! K, that never happened. I never ride the bus.

Being nice is for suckers. The old saying, “Nice guys finish last, or somewhere around the middle of the pack, probably not first, unless the nice guy is really fast” has never been more true. Nice sucks. Also honesty. Honesty is a terrible policy. If someone asks you, “Does this dress make me look fat?” You should never say, “Dude, why are you wearing a dress?” Because then that transvestite will be heart broken. So obviously being nice and being honest are mutually exclusive. Pick one or the other. Unless the guy wearing a dress doesn’t look fat at all but really good and you tell him so and you’ve already paid the $100.00 bucks and then you get the shock of your life when his package leaps out at you like a crazy jack-in-the-box and you end up screaming and running for your life down some God forsaken alley swearing that you’ll never ever… hold on… that never happened either. Seriously. I honestly never ride the bus either. While I’m being forthright I might as well add that I would never deny an old lady a seat. If you tried something like that, they’d whack you with their cane. Old ladies on the bus… man, don’t mess with them. Anyway, hurry up and read my concluding paragraph which sums up this whole mess nicely:

The moral of this story is that being nice is way over rated and honesty is a dish best served cold. Revenge on the other hand, is just plain good sense.

Please support my sponsors you cheap bastards

Thank you for visiting my blog, please support my sponsors.

That’s what I would say if I had sponsors. Every webpage ever created needs sponsors because in case you didn’t know it, hot single women from YOUR town want to talk to YOU! Even if you’re married, ugly or even a heterosexual woman – they still want to talk to YOU! And even if you aren’t shopping around for a Russian bride (hot single Russian women want to marry YOU!) you should always support my sponsors. But like I said a few sentences ago, I don’t have any and this poses not only a problem, but a philosophical dilemma.

Like many of you, I draw many important life lessons from NASCAR. The most important of course is that there are corporations out there that will pay you good money to plaster your car with decals advertising their products. Those same kooky companies will pay famous athletes to appear in commercials, endorsing their products. Some companies will go a step further and pay you (you being the famous athlete) just to walk around wearing their product (if their product is something that you would wear). One of the greatest things about being a famous athlete is not only being beloved by strangers, but that you get a ton of free stuff and lots of money for using that free stuff. Sure, there is a downside to being a famous athlete (aside from being contractually obligated to say “um” twenty times in a sentence) and that is people will judge you mercilessly while at the same time adoring the very earth that you walk on. If you become a corporate shill, people will call you a “sell out” (while simultaneously worshipping you) but don’t fret, because you can always dry your tears with stacks of twenty dollar bills.

The point of all this (in case you were looking for one) is that even though I’m not a famous athlete, my goal is to be a corporate sell out. I’m willing to put aside my staunch ethics and bohemian nature in order to make a few bucks. Like, if BMW wants someone to drive around in their product, extolling the virtues of that product, I would be willing to accept their product in exchange for said services. I bet if people saw me driving a BMW they would say, “That’s a nice car!” and I would say, “Yes, you should go out and buy one”. Thus, earning the right to drive the car through an exchange of services. That’s how capitalism is supposed to work.

Of course after that, I would be willing to accept other sponsors’ offers by plastering their decals on my BMW. If the fine people who make M&M’s want me to put a big decal on the hood and maybe throw in some bags of M&M’s to “sweeten” the deal, I would be OK with that. I would happily put all kinds of sponsors on my BMW, enough so that the entire car would be covered in them, even the windshield! Then I would drive around blindly and crash into things – thus giving all my sponsors more coverage when the news helicopter follows me around and the reporter says things like, “We’ve got us another traffic jam caused by that BMW crashing into stuff. It’s the BMW with the big “Hooters” logo on the roof.”

I wouldn’t stop there. No sir (or ma’am)! I would cover my clothes in decals! I would wear name brand shoes, socks, pants, shirts, baseball caps all covered in corporate logos! (Just like we all do for free – what a bunch of suckers we are!) I would paste logos on the front of my house and put my dog in one of those awful doggie sweaters that demented dog owners buy for their hairless mutts that evolution would have made extinct if evolution and its buddies had anything to say about it. I mean come on, if that 3 lb rat-like dog had any pride it would commit suicide out of embarrassment by wearing a stupid sweater! If nature didn’t provide you with the basic covering to survive winter then you have no business being alive in Canada!

Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh yeah, I would make the dog wear one of those sweaters covered from nose to paw in advertising. Hell, why should famous athletes get all the free stuff and bags of money?! Attention Corporate Sponsors: I will tattoo your logos on my magnificent, blemish free skin! I would walk around as a living, breathing commercial for you!!!! If somebody stopped me in the street to ask me why my dog and I are covered in corporate logos, I would say, “Because I love these fine products and so should you.” Look, the bottom line is that I WILL sell out! I WILL lie, steal and cheat for you!!! I WILL be your whore!!!

I have no choice, since I have a hot young Russian bride to support.

watch what you eat!

Like many people my age, I’ve decided to focus on two main priorities in my life:
Watching what I eat
Maintaining my street cred

Some of you may disagree with my priorities but it’s true, you really do have to watch what you eat. PS: Why you always be dissing me? Fool, stay outta my biznatch!!!

I discovered this new found obsession for my diet because a girl told me, “I’m always very aware of what I eat.” And I said, “I’m always very UN-aware of what I eat, because I like surprises. Like, sometimes I’ll be having a snack and I’ll look down and exclaim, “Oh my God, I was just eating a rolled up newspaper!” So be advised that being extremely witty and downright hilarious is not the best method for picking up chicks.

You may think that you can get away with eating anything you want, but that’s where you’re wrong. You can’t go on eating the same scrumptious foods that your body craves like sweet sweet heroin and not suffer the consequences. A poor diet will lead you down the sumptuous path to obesity and all sorts of other health issues, like chronic dandruff and possibly gingivitis.

For instance, when you were young and virile, you could have a cinnamon roll slathered with gooey icing and it would have no adverse effects, however now you have to eat a raw potato or a handful of sawdust in order to maintain your optimum cholesterol level.

One thing you have to be painfully aware of is that there are two kinds of cholesterol, good cholesterol and bad cholesterol. Good cholesterol can easily be spotted by its white robes and halo and is usually perched on your left shoulder, whispering things like, “Be kind to old people.” Whereas bad cholesterol (you guessed it!) has horns and a pitchfork and dresses in red, the hue of which is much like a spicy marinara sauce. Bad cholesterol is a lot more fun at parties and usually listens to cooler music than good cholesterol. To figure out your cholesterol level, you can follow the simple formula below:

(pi "r" squared) Where “r” represents delicious bacon. (I bet you thought that pi would represent pie but that’s far too obvious! Cholesterol is too sneaky for that kind of lame joke!)

Besides cholesterol, you also have to count calories, which is very difficult because calories never sit still so sometimes you end up counting the same calorie like 4 times before you give up and have to start all over again. Calories are tiny but flavorful objects that make up food. For instance, a piece of chocolate cake has 19,000 calories and a hunk of yucky broccoli has negative 5 calories. Using those examples you can then figure out the calories of any dish on where they sit on the chocolate cake/broccoli line. As strange as it may sound, a slice of pizza is closer to the cake side, where your aunt’s Christmas cake, the one jammed with those sour red chunks that are supposed to be some kind of fruit, is smack dab next to broccoli. Go figure.

For a grown man with average looks, the proper caloric intake is about 57,000 calories or 12 kilojoules a day whereas that woman in Wal-mart who wears tight XXXL yoga pants and drags her 14 kids around with her should only have 3 or 4 calories a day until her big ass stops looking like a Glad garbage bag filled with basketballs.

Anyway, you should watch what you eat, because if you’re not careful, you might end up eating a rolled up newspaper. HAHAHAHA I just can’t get enough of that joke!

My new furnace

The new "it" item for consumers this year is a furnace. It's what every cool person wants because, well, they're cool. They need to warm up. A furnace will take care of that coolness problem. Since I'm the coolest person around, I decided to get a furnace because the old one broke. It was approximately 50 years old and ran on emeralds, which is why my utility bills were so high. Plus, the ducting was taped with asbestos, which as you all know, causes hiccups, water on the knee and then death.

At first I was mad at my house for trying to kill me with asbestos. I take that shit personally. I hired a crack team to remove the asbestos for the low, low price of 6 hundred thousand million dollars. Even though they carted in 48 tons of special equipment, I knew that the second my back was turned, they just yanked the tape off and stuck it inbetween the cushions of my couch.

My old furnace was an "Airco" furnace, which was, to all you furnace afficionados, the best furnace ever made. It was green. Two shades of green actually, which means that it was efficient and earth friendly. It was so eco-friendly that it refused to run. My furnace was designed to burn no fuel at all, leaving the home's occupants (me and the dog) shivering in joy, for we knew that our carbon footprint was getting tinier by the second.

Of course, like all radical, suffering environmentalists, I began to feel smug and self righteous and then my modest nature rebelled, screaming out (in a fine soprano) "You smug and self righteous jerk! Quit feeling so smug and self righteous and get a new furnace so you can stop shivering!!!" So I shopped around diligently (called the first furnace company in the yellow pages) and being the shrewd consumer that I am, immediately bought their most expensive model. I'm no fool, I know that the best model is always the most expensive, which is why I only wear designer socks.

The new furnace is super high efficient, which means that it not only burns 97% of the fuel, it also does the dishes and spends quality time with the dog. It comes with a super duper air filtration unit that the salesman told me will remove 100% of all the dust mites in the house. Dust mites, in case you didn't know, are microscopic particles that float in the air and whisper to you that you're fat and your hair is a "train wreck". So naturally I was glad to be rid of them. The salesman spent a good half an hour explaining all the evils of dust mites and how they will collectively gang up and beat the snot out of you (or beat the snot in you, something like that) they will, in the end, be the cause of my death. I asked, "What about when I have to leave the house for work or grocery shopping or perhaps to visit a friend?" The salesman replied that if I did any of those things, it would void the warranty.

So, after my furnace was installed, I was so overcome with joy that I began to feel light headed and had severe joy induced nausea. The joy, it turned out, was due to a gas leak. Apparently the installers decided to play a little joke on me by not sealing the gas lines. ha ha! So after calling the furnace company, they sent a guy out to refit the lines. Suddenly, the joy was gone and I exclaimed, "I just paid 7 thousand bucks for a new furnace!!! What the hell was I thinking?! I could have just bought a parka and a few pairs of designer socks!!!"

Buyer's remorse is a terrible thing. It's an experience that I usually reserve for my drug and prostitute binges. But there's no turning back now. The new furnace is here and it's humming along happily, which is more than I can say for me, because my humming days are over. No self respecting radical environmentalist can sell out AND shell out (7 thousand bucks) and still hum like they're all pleased with themselves. I'm not cold anymore, but my bank account has frost bite. Or something like that, because it's empty. I guess that analogy doesn't really work. How about, "I'm not cool anymore, but my bank account is hot, because it's been, like, emptied." I dunno. Anyway, I have a new furnace.