Archive for the ‘rants’ Category


Just something short today.

* ziiiiiip

You knew that was coming.

(that’s what she said)

My wife mentioned that she got behind a car with a vanity plate the other day.

Now – for those readers I’ve had for a while, you know I hate vanity plates.

Please disregard the fact that I’ve had TWO of them.

The first one was on my bitchin’ 1970 Oldsmobile 442 when I was 17.


It said:

“Rowdy”

Fuckin’ ay, that’s right.

It was originally because of Rowdy Roddy Piper…my name being “Rodney,” and the car all looking super badass and fast and OHMYGODAMIGONNAGETLAIDINTHISFUCKINGTHINGORWHAT and shit.

When I was thinking of what to get on the plate, I was asking around for some ideas.

Most of them were, ‘eh’..

And then my mother offered up this gem:

“Why don’t you get, “RODNEY”…?”

Ooooh.

Jesus H. Christ, mom.

Why don’t you give me a perm while I’m here?


I’m pretty positive that this type of recommendation is what drove the Menendez brothers to kill their parents.

Mom Menendez: “Well..you know, a license plate that says ‘Lyle’ might be nice..”

BAM.

I’ve digressed.

My other plate was on a screaming red car.

It said:

REDROD

Yep.

REDROD.

Ironically, that was back in the day where I had just met my wife and getting sex more than 12 times a year and my rod did – on occasion – get red.

Now it’s just black from personal misuse and a reaction to excessive use of makeup and polyester outfits.

Perhaps I’ve said too much.


So my wife says she’s behind a car the other day with a vanity plate.

Getting closer she sees that the plate says this:


Yep.

Di-Kids

Does anyone else here see:

DIE, KIDS!! DIE, KIDS!!

Why would you get this?

My wife has a similar plate, but she’s a teacher in a public school so it’s okay.

(they pass these out as bumper stickers to the Teacher’s Union)


I’m guessing the woman’s name was “Di” and she has “kids”…hence:

Di-Kids

I’m HOPING this is the case.

The other options are:

1) She likes dipping kids in varying food colorings:

Dye Kids


2) All her kids are lesbians:

Dyke Kids

The only conclusion here is that this actually says:

DIE KIDS

This makes me angry.

Angry that I didn’t think of this first.

Ugh.

“Rodney”

What the Hell was my mother thinking?

She’s just lucky I didn’t have a shotgun lying around.

I’m pretty sure that’s considered ‘justifiable homicide.’

Moog out.

Why I Pay for Happy Endings

Posted: August 18, 2010 in rants, wtf


Now I’ll have to travel pretty far to get a happy ending.

Well…farther than usual.

Let me explain.

I read in the newspaper the other night (YES! He reads!) that the local Friendly’s will be torn down to make parking spaces for a new grocery store.

For those of you not on the East Coast of the United States (read: losers), Friendly’s is a shitty little restaurant chain that specializes in…

…wait for it…

ICE CREAM.

That’s right.

A restaurant that revolves around hot fudge, whipped topping and nuts.

Just like a gay male orgy.

Don’t ask me how I know this.


I’m going to miss Friendly’s because it’s the only place that my family can get full bellies AND E-Coli poisoning for under $20.

You know, you just can’t find that kind of value anywhere else unless you pay a local crack whore for the ‘tossed salad special.’

I’ve digressed.

A lot.

How Friendly’s has remained outside of sexual harassment lawsuits, though, is still a mystery.

Why?

Well…let’s take a look at their menu:

Exhibit A: The Fribble

The Fribble.

I know what you’re thinking.

A fribble sounds like the technical term for a fat chick who spits.

Friend #1: “Dude…she swallow?”

Friend #2: “No, man. Bitch totally fribbled it.”


Fribble.

This is Friendly’s name for a milk shake.

Bet you never have one again now.

At least, not a vanilla one.


Exhibit B: Jim Dandy

Jim Dandy is a sundae.

Jim Dandy is fucking huge and has a banana.

* wink

If this isn’t some guy’s porno name right now, it needs to be.

WARNING: The next 6 inches of this blog contains a dirty picture. If you want to avoid cartoon porn, scroll down REALLY FAST RIGHT NOW!!

On a related note, it’s friggin’ hilarious.

K.

So, I went looking for a picture of a guy with a porn moustache to go along here.

Here’s what I came up with:


My apologies to people who didn’t want to see Shrek getting a blowjob.

Holy fuckshit, I’m still laughing.

You know, I’ve always wondered about that (like you’re surprised) – and some blessed soul out there had the talent to make it happen for me.

I thank you.

It’s nice to know I’m not the only twisted fuck out there.

Now, if the person could get me a picture of Donkey and Dragon trying 69, I’d appreciate it.

Thanks in advance.

Okay…

….back to Friendly’s porn menu.

Phew.

Exhibit C: The Happy Ending

No shit.

They sell “Happy Endings.”

Imagine my surprise when I went to Friendly’s and asked for a Happy Ending and the bitch brought me fucking ice cream.

Does the hand job come after I eat it?

No?

THIS is the Happy Ending?

I mean, I screwed it, sure.

But it’s just not what I was expecting.

Apparently, neither was security.


Helpful tip:

Never have sex with chunky ice cream. Sure, your dick may smell like peanut butter, but frozen chocolate chunks leave scars.

You’re welcome.

Gonna miss ya, Friendly’s.

Jim Dandy signing off.

Man.

Friggin’ Shrek picture…holy shit.

Screw Gampy

Posted: August 16, 2010 in driving, I'm an asshole, rants


I HATE DRIVING.

Do you know how you know that you’re going to be in for a shitty commute?

Here’s how:

You’re on a back road with a 30 mph speed limit.

(for those of you on the metric system, you can go blow monkeys, because I’m not converting this shit for you)

Anyway…

30 mph speed limit.

There’s a car in front of you.

It’s a Buick.

It’s a GREEN Buick.

Me: Oh. No.


You look at the license plate.

It’s a “Veteran” plate.

It’s a “Veteran” VANITY plate.

Me: “Why, God? Why?”


It’s a “Veteran” vanity plate that says:

“Gampy”

Yep.

Gampy.

Fuck all that is fuckable.

This ride is GONNA SUCK.


Seriously.

30 mph would have been doubling my fucking speed.

At one point, I believe a crippled turtle passed me in the shoulder.

The worst part was that all the while, I’m in my car SCREAMING:

“MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASS, GAMPY!!”

That’s right.

Move your fucking ass, Gampy.


If I wasn’t going to Hell before…

…screaming at the top of my lungs at a war-veteran-proud-grandfather affectionately known to his grandkids as “Gampy”…

…pretty much cements it.

Plus, I felt stupid yelling “Gampy.”

Fucking vanity plates.

I hate them.

And Gampy.

Fuck him, too….you know, for making me yell the word, “Gampy” accompanied by swear words.

He made me do it.

Him and his damn Buick.

At least that’s what I’ll tell St. Peter.

Handy Incapable

Posted: August 13, 2010 in about me, rants


From the archives of “This Moooooog’s House,” comes:

“You know you’re not handy when…”

Ladies…

Do you like your men burly and rugged?

Do you like your men self-sufficient and able to take on any task with ease?

Do you like your men with grease on their face, a dirty rag in their back pocket and a power tool in each hand?

Well, then, ladies…

You’re in the right place.

Because that guy sounds just like my contractor.

I’ll see if I can hook you guys up.

I’ll be in the living room playing XBox and eating Doritos.


You see, I’ve tried being handy.

Let’s just call that ‘Epic Fail’ and continue on with some examples, shall we?

YOU KNOW YOU’RE NOT HANDY WHEN:

1) Ten minutes into replacing a toilet seat, your kid knocks on the bathroom door and says:

“Hey…do you need help in there?”

Thanks, hon.

It wasn’t humiliating enough realizing that I’ve been in here for TEN FUCKING MINUTES trying to remove a goddamn toilet seat, so could you please come in here and help me remove these two bolts?

You’re a dear.


2) Your entire tool kit consists of a power screw driver that may or may not work, three different sizes of Robo Grips that your father in law gave you 12 years ago, and some speaker wire.

I have a giant Sears tool chest that houses these four items and something else that resembles some type of shiv.

I SHALL BUILD A VILLAGE!!


3) Your idea of ‘refinishing the hardwood floors’ consists of pouring a half gallon of polyurethane over the floor straight from the can and spreading it around with a Swiffer.

Sanding the floor ahead of time was not an option as I was unable to figure out how to do it using speaker wire and Robo Grips.


4) You are sometimes covered in your own feces.

This may also be the sign of a sick, sick fetish.

Don’t ask me how I know that.


5) You’ve paid a contractor to come and tighten your faucet.

I’m not proud.

I probably could have done that if I’d figured out how to use the damn Robo Grips.

I’d go try to find the instructions, but this XBox isn’t going to play itself.

Moog out.

Run, Mahatma..RUN!

Posted: August 6, 2010 in I'm an asshole, rants, work


My white sheet is currently at the dry cleaners.

Let me explain.

I don’t think it’s any secret that I don’t like foreign things.

Things like:

1) People who can’t speak English

2)
People who CAN speak English, but appear to be foreigners

3)
Actually, just other people in general. Forget #1 and #2.

4)
Champagne glasses in my anus

I wasn’t going to include #4, but the hospital report said it was a ‘foreign object’ so I felt obligated to add it.

On a side note, NEVER use a champagne flute when a shot glass will do.

But I’ve digressed.


The other day, I walked into the gym at work.

We have three treadmills.

There, on one of the treadmills was one of the guys who works in our tech lab. For the sake of argument, I’ll call him “Al.”

“Al Qaeda.”

He is middle-eastern.

He has the full beard/moustache/“I’m gonna kill you you unholy infidel!” look.

He wears a big, red turban.

Obviously, this tends to catch your eye.

Especially if you’re an Air Marshall.

There he was, on the treadmill…

…with that f*cker cranked up to at least 13 miles an hour.

(For those of you one the metric system, that means “hauling some serious ass” kilometers/hr.)


Now…is it bad of me?

Because all I kept thinking…

…watching this turban-clad middle-eastern guy running full bore on the treadmill was:

“Oh no. Terrorist in training.”

Apparently, Osama has infiltrated my company’s cardio equipment!!

Before you all start calling me a “racist” and “racial profiler” and “hot short guy” and “sexual chocolate,” know this:

When the shit comes down, and Al comes running at you at 13 miles per hour with a dirty bomb strapped to his chest, I warned you.

Of course, he could be just trying to get in shape.

Even terrorists get high blood pressure, you know.