Tuesday, April 29, 2003


Today was an honorary Monday here at work. In other words, I've been running my ass off all day long and haven't had the few minutes of dick-off time necessary to post. That being said, I still don't have the few minutes of dick-off time necessary to post. I'm actually writing this feeble excuse before running off to a meeting with my boss where I will spout off more feeble excuses. Then I will get home to The Blondage late and launch into a veritable fury of feeble excuses before pouring myself a Scotch and making a few silent feeble excuses about why I can't go three minutes without drinking. I mean, when I soft-boil an egg, I think things like, "Men drink while they cook," or "Eggs and Beck's Dark go well together," or "Come on, it's breakfast!"

Seriously though, I gotta go, so I'll leave you with this:

In the immortal words of Socrates, "I drank what?"
--Real Genius

Monday, April 28, 2003

So I'm a Geek...Almost

I just took this "Geek Quiz." Here are the results:

You are 38% geek
You are a geek liaison, which means you go both ways. You can hang out with normal people or you can hang out with geeks which means you often have geeks as friends and/or have a job where you have to mediate between geeks and normal people. This is an important role and one of which you should be proud. In fact, you can make a good deal of money as a translator.

Normal: Tell our geek we need him to work this weekend.

You [to Geek]: We need more than that, Scotty. You'll have to stay until you can squeeze more outta them engines!

Geek [to You]: I'm givin' her all she's got, Captain, but we need more dilithium crystals!

You [to Normal]: He wants to know if he gets overtime.

Take the Polygeek Quiz at Thudfactor.com

Gasoline and Uphostery

The active members of the Fraternity that I belonged to in college asked me for a favor the other day. They had an old couch that they wanted to dispose of, and, being the fine, upstanding young men that they are, they thought this could be an excuse for a party. Being the responsible adult I am, I responded with "Hell Yeah, I'll burn anthing!" And so the date was set.

Saturday night, a swarm of college students invaded my homestead and gathered around the fire pit where we had set up and prepared the couch. By prepared I mean that, while no one else was around, I had poured 1 gallon of gasoline onto the doomed piece of furniture (After all, I am a Boy Scout, and I understand the importance of a fire that lights and stays lit. I just don't know much about fire safety). "Stand Back," I said as I flicked a lit cigar onto the cushins.

When the pieces of earth and sky fell back into place, I reached gingerly toward me face and felt around to make sure everthing was still there. Mouth? Check. Nose? Check. Eyes? Check. Eyebrows? Awww, shit. That's gonna be hard to explain at work this week.

The rest of the party was great, what with lots of beer and college girls. Of course, every time I was getting somewhere with a co-ed, The Blondage would walk up and say "There's nothing sexier than a grown man with no eyebrows" then walk off cackling and snorting as the girl flailed about insanely for some excuse to get away.

I'm a one woman man until the hair grows back.

Friday, April 25, 2003

I'm Baaaaack!! PART II
****WARNING**** Do not read this post unless you have already read yesterday's post. Dammit, this is "PART II." I shouldn't have to tell you this stuff.

So on the way back from the liquor store, all the pink elephants were standing along the road, welcoming me home. Many of them were weeping with joy, as they thought they had lost one of their best friends. Then we arrived at the beach house where we did the usual beachy things. You know, Margaritas, Daiquiris, Pina Colatas, Gin and Tonics, Beer, Flaming Shots of 151, whole meals consisting of nothing but 199 proof moonshine. Stuff everybody does. And we ate. Oh God did we eat. I cooked my sure-to-be-famous soft-shelled crabs one night, and figured out exactly why they are not famous yet. I consumed approximatley 36 lbs of shrimp during the brief stay. I swallowed sushi by the bucket. I had crabcake ceasar salads. I had seared tuna steaks. I downed more chowders, bisques, and stews than I thought existed. What I'm saying is that I am glad it was too cold to swim, because my suit would have bulged in a lot more places than usual, if you know what I mean (nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more). (Incidentally, this food oriented section is the fault of Skot at Izzle Pfaff because of the post I just read at his site. God I'm hungry.)

So finally, it came time for the ride home. The Blondage, expert cartographer that she is, decided that we should take a different route up the coast on the way home. She said that it would be fun (true) and wouldn't add much time to our trip (not quite so true). So we were off to virginia beach to cross the Chesepeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, or, as I like to call it, the most frightening human construct since Euro-Disney. 17 miles across the bay, with 2 (two) 1-mile long sections that suddenly shoot straight into the water and send you careening along the bottom at 55 miles per hour. And, like Euro-Disney and my favorite whorehouse, you pay an arm and a leg for a short ride. It was almost as exciting as that "take your own blood-pressure" ride at the mall.

After the excitement of the bridge/tunnel/monstrosity, I found myself in the coma inducing place known as Virginia's Eastern Shore. For about 200 cajillion miles, we drove through farm country, with the car top down, letting all the wonderful farm smells into the car. Finally, we arrived in D.C., a mere 2 hours later than my Uncle was expecting us for dinner. Normally, my Uncle is only too happy to apply a liberal dose of gin to a weary traveler. Today, however, his first question was "who is the designated driver?"

After dinner we drove another five hours home across the Appalachian Mountains. Crossing those mountains sober is terrifying, luckily I slept through most of it. Driving was just too boring to keep me awake.

It's good to be home.

Thursday, April 24, 2003

I'm Baaaaack!!

The Blondage and I left at 5:00 Friday night and headed to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. If you've never heard of the Outer Banks, then I'm sure you have at least seen the stupid OBX bumper stickers. Until this weekend, I thought that it was some sort of a dirtbike racing circuit, you know, like BMX for the alphabetically disabled or something. Well, I am here to tell you that this is not the case. The Outer Banks are actually a delightful set of Islands between North Carolina and the Atlantic Ocean. They are less than a mile wide, windier than hell, and they only have 1 road that runs through the whole lot of them. Also, we didn't have cell phone service in the place that we were staying, so the office couldn't get ahold of me. I guess what I'm saying is that it was virtually paradise.

Virtually, but not entirely. I don't know if anyone told you, but it is April. And I was in NORTH Carolina. This meant that with the wind chill, and the sea mist, and the fact that the ocean was actually about 55 degrees farenheit, I never really got into the surf. No problem, I don't like sand or saltwater anyway. Just point me to the closest tiki bar and pour me a rum runner. What do you mean DRY COMMUNITY? What the hell kind of beach is this? Didn't you get the memo?

So, within the first 30 minutes, I had taken in the stunning beauty of the Outer Banks, smelled the crisp sea air, lapsed into hypothermia, and been thrown into a sort of involuntary detox. Within 32 minutes I had ascertained the location of the closest liquor store, and within 37 minutes I was on the way to the "ABC Store" with a fat wad of cash in my sweaty, shaking hand. The thirty miles along the shore were the worst I've ever experienced. I knew the clock was ticking, as it wouldn't be long before my liver shut down from boredom and my brainwaves were fried by overstimulation. I had to get there.

I slid my car into a spot and jumped out. It felt like I was running through quicksand as I struggled through the haze of sobriety to reach the ABC Store. I fell through the door, and collapsed across the turnstile into the gin section. The room started spinning, everything faded into blackness, and I heard all of my organs screaming in unison as the delicate balance of caffeine, alcohol, and sleep dep. that I had maintained for so long came crashing the ground with a sickening thud.


The Void.

Then, I heard it. Far off at first, but gaining in volume until it drowned out the complaints of my pancreas and liver. I heard a glug. Then another. Then another. Glug...glug...glug. The beautiful sound of booze escaping from a freshly opened bottle. As I opened my eyes, I saw her, looking like an angel. The Blondage was holding a bottle of my blessed Tanqueray to my lips as I came out of sobriety and back into consciousness. Slowly, I got to my feet, and The Blondage and I began piling gallons and gallons of liquor into our cart.

$437.75 later, we were ready for our 3 day vacation. I'll tell you about the rest of the trip later, but rest assured I didn't dare risk another bodily shut-down and involuntary discorporation. In fact, I spent most of the trip trying to restore that delicate balance and writing comforting letters to the gin and scotch manufacturers promising that I was still alive and had no intentions of becoming a T-Totaller.

Those babies need constant reassurance.

Friday, April 18, 2003


I hate to leave you high and dry, so check these out while I'm gone.

My life as an American Gladiator

And the undeniable Anil Dash
Life's a beach

If life is a beach, then I am a shriveled, sundried jellyfish that has been tossed ashore by unmerciful tides and pecked by seagulls. In other words, I may look like, no, I am a haggard, miserable blob with little to offer to the world at large except maybe a free meal, but even though the currents of life have thrown me onto this barren shore to slowly dehydrate, I still pack a mean wallop. That's right, I may be down, but if you even think about touching me you will sting for hours on end unless you can find a nice passerby to drop trou and relieve the pain by relieving themselves all over your burning hand.

At least, that's how I feel right now, but then again, I'm at work where nothing goes right. In just a few short hours, I'll be a different kind of beach life. I'll be the guy sitting in the shade of a nice hut, watching bikini-clad girls bouncing in the surf as a drink something out of a coconut that is full of rum and little umbrellas.


Look for posts in the near future that say things like "Note to self: no one EVER has a four martini breakfast." or maybe "ouchouchouchouchouch...those neon lights sure do give off a lot of UV light." or perhaps "whatchoo mean no more drinkee? whatchoo mean no more typee. peeps wants ta hear 'bout stuffs frum da kottt...kutwnm...kotwf. i gotsta rite, doesn'nt eye? gimme nuther cocococonut. puta lime init. now mixum bot' up."

Brown as a peanut, red as a lobster, I don't care as long as I'm drinking.

See you next week,

Thursday, April 17, 2003

Getting in touch with my inner leech

So, I'm starting to come to terms with my leechiness. I've decided that I am going to do a few leechy things to help myself cope. So here is one of them...I am too damn lazy to write anything right now, so check out Matthew Baldwin's Bad Review Review over at Defective Yeti.

I swear I will be funny and original later. No. Really.
I'm a leech

Have you ever been confronted with your true nature? Have you ever looked yourself in the great reflecting pool of life and said, "What the fuck is that?" I just did. And after I said that I said "Wow, I'm a sort of amorphous mass who is long and slimy, with a suction cup-like mouth filled with a ring of razor sharp teeth. And my saliva contains anti-coagulant and pain-killer. I wonder what I am."

Then I wandered the face of the planet like Kane from Kung-fu, and everywhere I went I asked the simple question, "Are you my mommy?"

The lions said "No, you are not a lion."

The cheetahs said "No, you are not a cheetah."

The octopus said "No, you are not an octopus."

The platypus said "Shit, you ain't no platypus, you a goddammed freak!"

But the leech. The leech held me to her sticky, gelatinous breast and I suckled, because, hey, that's what leeches do, and she cried, "My son, my son!"

That's right....I'm a leech. I have taken to putting comments on every website I find in the hopes of getting 1 damn person to read this. Am I this starved for attention?

I loathe my blood-sucking, worm-like self.

Wednesday, April 16, 2003


I must be the most popular SOB on the face of the planet. I come into work every morning and am greeted by no less than 40 emails from people who DESPERATELY want to give me things just because I am so damn cool.

This morning, I had two different people begging me to let them teach me how to make money. Don't you see, they wanted to teach me THEIR SECRETS. Then, some foreign guy offered me several million dollars to let him put 20 million in stolen funds in my bank account. I must have a huge cult following overseas for someone to trust me so completely on such an obviously illegal activity. I'm going to take my couple million (tax free of course, because it is illegal) and put it in my brand new pasta pot (free) and hop a flight to Vegas (free).

Once I have my new penis I'll really teach those hookers something. God it's good to be me.

Tuesday, April 15, 2003


Here it is, your moment of Zen...
I Can't Make This Shit Up

So the blondage calls me from work. She was checking out this site and decided to e-mail me. So she clicked the E-mail button on my site and suddenly found herself at a porn site! At work! Where they monitor her internet usage! Constantly!

Needless to say, I am still laughing.

Oh, and I fixed the problem. Now you only get porn when you click "PORN!!!"
Insomniac Humor

Last night as I was lying in bed counting how many times President Bush said "evil" during his last speech, I came up with a few new jokes that were a lot funnier while I was half asleep. Here they are.

1) A group of cannibals started a confectionary shoppe in which they created many cannibal-oriented sweets. One of the most popular is their line of unborn human babies that they dip in different flavored coatings like chocolate and peanut butter. Their ad campaign is: "There's no wrong way to eat a fetus."

2) There is a famous matidor in Madrid spain. He has fought in, literally, thousands of bullfights. After each fight, he removes the testicles of the bull, carries them through the streets to his favorite restaurant, and has them cook them up for him. One day after the fight he walks into his favorite restaurant carrying a big old steak cut from the dead bull. "Senor," said the host, "where are the testicles from the bull you just killed?" "I gave them away," replied the matidor. "Why, Senor? You always keep the cahones for yourself," inquired the host. "Well," said the matidor, "Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't."

Thank you, Thank you. You're too kind. Tip your waitress. I'm the KOTWF, goodnight!

Monday, April 14, 2003

Monday Blues

As you are undoubtably aware, today is Monday. I, however, am announcing a campaign to change the name of this day of days to "Donotbothercomingtoworkbecauseyouknowshitisgoingtogetfuckedupday." I think it has a chance of catching on. In honor of this first Donotbothercomingtoworkbecauseyouknowshitisgoingtogetfuckedupday, I think I will spend my time cleaning up the area around the fan that I found caked in excrement when I got here this morning, and not bother to post.

Amuse yourselves with this shit:

Thanks to Matthew Baldwin from defective yeti for pointing out this site.

Also, one of my good friends just started a blog. I haven't checked it out yet, so visit at your own risk, but I'm sure it won't leave any lasting scars.

Gentlemen, start your drooling!

And for those of you who have not drooled enough.

Finally, if you actually have enough free time to look through all of my links, then you deserve this!

Friday, April 11, 2003

Actual E-Mail Conversation I Had With Some Friends This Morning...

From: Tim
Sent: Friday, April 11, 2003 6:17.02
To: The Group
Subject: Russian Women Really Do Not Shave!!!

Okay, I'm at a bar near my apartment last night and I meet this Russian chick named Irina. I couldn't understand a friggin word she said, but she was hot, so it didn't matter. After talking for over an hour, we decided to go back to her place.

We talked more...but who cares about that. I still didn't understand a friggin word she said.

Skipping to the comedic part of my evening...

Now, as I'm undressing her, the first thing I look for is a sign of hairy armpits...because of the rumors that Russian women are really hairy all over...and Jesus Christ...were those pits hairy. I mean, this was beyond having Buckwheat in a headlock! It was like having Buckwheat, Albert Einstein and Cosmo Kramer all in a headlock at the same time.

Then I thought...fine she has hairy armpits. I'm willing to let that pass. I mean, how often would I be looking at this chicks' armpits. Then I get downtown to the holy of holies and...My Lord...it was even hairier! I get down there and it was like, WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE! Now, mind you...we're in the dark and I'm trying to find the good stuff and it's getting a little difficult because this chick has decided to have a full grown beard covering her coochie! I started to get pissed because I couldn't find it...so finally, I turned on the light...saying I like it with the light on...she said something else that I couldn't understand...I took it as "We're all good," and returned to my search for The Holy Cooch.

Yes, I did find it and after the search, the rest of the night went well.

I don't know if I'll be seeing her again!


Sent: Friday, April 11, 2003 6:46 AM
To: The Group
Subject: Re: Russian Women Really Do Not Shave!!!


I am so disappointed in you...YOU OF ALL PEOPLE! You have always taught me that we should never judge people based on stereotypes and pre-formed thoughts. How dare you announce to the entire English speaking world that ALL Russian girls are hairy sluts when in fact you only have evidence to back up that at least ONE Russian girl is a hairy slut. And yes, she is a slut, because what kind of a girl would have sex with you if she had only known you for an hour, and couldn't even speak to you during that hour because she couldn't understand you and you couldn't understand her.

Of course, what kind of a girl would have sex with you if she had known you for more than an hour and had actually spoken to you. I'll have to give this more thought.

But I digress. As I was saying, you have not taken a large enough sample to be able to back up your conclusion. At present, your statement, that ALL Russian girls are hirsute, is mere conjecture and hearsay. AND, I might add, borders on being stereotypical, derogatory, and racist to commies everywhere.

I appeal to the group that they should disregard everything that our bigot friend, Tim, wrote, for the sake of international goodwill with those pinko, war-mongering foreigners. I mean, if left unchecked, he could start spouting off, without grounds, about those cheese-eating, frog-licking surrender monkeys known as the French. And none of us want that, do we? No.

I also hereby assign young Timothy with homework. You are now to seek out every Russian woman in the greater New York area, ply them with massive quantities of alcohol, and bed them. When, in your own heart, you feel that
you have taken a large enough sample to come to a truly scientific conclusion on this most pressing of issues, you must report your findings back to the group.

I think that, if we all take the steps I have laid out in this e-mail, then we will have narrowly sidestepped a serious, international incident with those hateful, Marxist people we call our Russian Friends.

Until this issue is settled...Tim, I now pronounce you a temporary member of the axis of evil.


From: Eric
Sent: Friday, April 11, 2003 7:37 AM
To: The Group
Subject: Re: Russian Women Really Do Not Shave!!!

Bravo, KOTWF. Tim's depilatory comments display as always his wanton disregard for people of varied ethnicity. And people with hairy pits, too.

I think Tim should also use a control group in his assignment. Tim, please select some Mediterranean women, some English women, a Scandinavian woman, some German women, and one of those Geisha girls. Basically anyone you can find in Times Square at midnight. To make it more scientific, of course. You should make your study double blind. This should be easy, seeing as you are already blind yourself.

We should also require some kind of physical evidence. Perhaps streaming video or hair samples in little baggies.


Thursday, April 10, 2003

I Dreamed About You Last Night

At least I think it was you. I couldn't really tell because your face was completely covered up with whipped cream.

And you were wearing one of those leather, full-body costumes.

And you were dancing around a fire, chanting a bizarre language, pouring the blood of freshly killed animals all over yourself.

And you were a lot shorter.

And you were white.

Maybe it wasn't you. Nevermind.

I went to koran.com today and performed a boolean search on the words suicide, martyr, holy war, and jihad.

None of them came up.
It doesn't add up

So I had a big family dinner last night, and I got to sit next to my baby brother. I got bored with discussing Great Aunt Agnus' new bunyon, and so I started quizing him about school. He said that they had started learning division that day.

Being the great educator that I am (I used to have a flea circus) I started quizing him on division. "What's 12 divided by 3?" I asked. "I don't know." he answered. "What do you have to multiply 3 by to get 12?" I asked. "Teacher doesn't want us to say that because she doesn't understand how people can think like that. Multiplication is an entirely different function, and is related to division in only the most cursory, tangential ways. She expressed her disdain for that line of thinking out of her own inability to grasp the concept of reversing multiplication in order to divide." he said (language classes have gone much further than arithmetic).


We now make our youth think only in ways that can be understood by their elders? The end is upon us. Look to this site for the latest information on water running red as blood, dead rising from their graves, etc.
The Good Life:
One man’s guide to making it look easy, always winning, and high-rolling on a shoestring budget.


“You’re such an asshole!”

“I know,” I said, “why do you think I always win?”

The following is your first lesson, and one of the most important. If you take nothing else from this blog, please remember this, it will save your life. The risk, of course, is that you may end up with something that’s not worth saving.


The person with the least to lose always wins, and the person who cares the least has the most power.

First, take the example of a prizefight. Personally, I wouldn’t step into the ring with an ugly man. What does he care if I bust up his face a little? I’ve got this pretty mug to watch out for and I’m a lot more likely to end up looking like him than he is to end up looking like me. Besides, all I have going for me is good looks, charm, and money, and I haven’t got a whole lot of the latter two. I need to protect my assets. Only fight people prettier than you. That’s why I always fight girls.

Now think about power in terms of a business negotiation. If you don’t care whether the deal works out or not, then you can stick on every issue and get exactly what you want. Drive the price up, so what if the other guy walks away? He wants a two-year contract? Nah, make it six months. If it works out, great, if not, so what? Now apply that to a relationship. If you don’t care whether you stay together or not, then the first time your partner says “You got to change your evil ways” you can say “I think not, actually.”

That was lesson one. If this material is over your head, or you don’t like the way I think, then bugger off. On the other hand, if you want to know more, then tune in tomorrow. Welcome to my blog. Welcome to my mind.