Another fun one.

Fucking pickles, man. Fucking pickles.

Do yourself a favor.

From one of the brightest minds of our generation:

Tinted.

A friend recently told me a story about his driving experience on the highway in which he saw a bumper sticker reading "Gay Pride."

Now, this isn't necessarily an uncommon occurance in Minneapolis. While we're not necessarily San Francisco, a city in which rimjobs are giving Rice-a-Roni a run for their money in redefining the meaning of "the San Francisco Treat," Minneapolis is pretty liberal with respect to their homosexual population. I mean, after all, we have Sex World and Gay 90's; both establishments which cater to the homosexual demographic. So, in that respect, seeing a "Gay Pride" sticker was fairly inconsequential.

The interesting part about the car, however, was that all the windows were tinted, front to back, rendering the phrase all-but-ineffective.

Gay pride? Eh... not so much, apparently.

Of course, I understand the backlash that can accompany any sort of homosexual agenda. Death threats, ridicule and every other form of negativity are just par for the course, and well-known Matthew Shepherd story is just an example of the lengths to which people will go to suppress ideas.

But homosexuals have options. Besides hiding behind a veil and waiting for all the old conservatives in government to eventually die, they can own their lifestyle and put themselves completely out there.

This goes for any underdog opinion, thought, or lifestyle choice. If you have a belief, stand up for yourself. Defend yourself. If you're proud enough to hold that belief, odds are the majority of the free-thinking, liberal population will be inclined to respect your viewpoint, and the world will be better for having another person who's not afraid to shout "I'm gay!" in the face of social malaise. If you believe it, you should believe it enough to say it loudly.

And if not, you can just be a guy driving around with tinted windows, having a blog written about you for meekly proclaiming, "go gay people!" Your choice.

Life after death.

So, recently I’ve been thinking about death.

The way I see it, there are only a handful of things that can happen upon dying.

One of these, of course (if you choose to base your entire life around a book and erase all memories of the garbled messages that resulted from playing “telephone” as a kid), is the Bible’s version of death; that upon dying, you’ll descend to a fiery inferno, spending eternity shackled to a charred column and being forced to shove piping hot items into your orifices. I’m not terribly excited about that.

But, that got me thinking… if there’s a “Hell,” is it personalized? I mean, sure, being used and abused in a hot room is probably something that the majority of the population would view as a nightmare. But, for those select few that choose to insert massive plugs into their ass, drink bodily fluids and mutilate their body, it’s a different story.

I can just see G.G. Allin walking into Hell, checking out the place, and saying, “Wait, they have anal rape here? I LOVE anal rape!”

I mean, if you’re a sado-masochist, odds are you’re going to love dying either way.
On one hand, you go to “Hell” and are treated the exact same way you would have treated yourself on earth anyways. If you go to “Heaven,” you spend your days eating Fig Newtons and sipping on Tang. Or, if you want to keep with the sadomasochism theme going, I’m sure there are a few golden-crusted columns that you could snap off and sodomize yourself with in-between meals.

For the rest of us, however, we have to cling to the hope that there’s something worth dying for.

For me, it’s the tally list, or in other words, the hope that upon death, you are presented with a comprehensive list of everything you’ve consumed, done or felt in your entire life. In the same way that a new hybrid car owner feels the need to tell you every single statistic that makes his car superior to yours, I feel the need to tell the world that I ate 500 pounds of catfish throughout my life, or that I logged (pun not intended) 2,965 hours of toilet time in my time on earth.

You know… just a little something classy to impress the folks that I’m going to be hypothetically spending the rest of eternity with; something that I was best at… something that I could rub in everyone’s face knowing full-well that I couldn’t be bludgeoned to death for braggery because, well, JC apparently frowns on that kind of shit.

Zipping around the fucking galaxy.

Don't get me wrong; I think time-travel is a great idea. I can only imagine the thrill of being able to step into a time machine, dial the clock back to 1962 and hang out with John F. Kennedy. Maybe, you know, go back in time to see what my parents were like growing up. Maybe taste a hot dog at Yankee Stadium when it first opened.

Yeah, time travel would be great. But, of course, there would be some problems. You can't work out the kinks of zipping around the galaxy on an assembly line. You've got to work that shit out through trial and error; through practical application.

I think the biggest problem with time travel would be taking credit for the invention of the time machine. You know, you have your shit all set up, ready to go, and the second the machine is out on the market and you're ready to start collecting checks, a homeless time warrior with a grudge zooms in and suffocates you with a urine-soaked handkerchief.

And I mean, it'd be a recurring thing; the history books being written and re-written as each bold time adventurer travels to claim that he was the first to invent it.

I mean... imagine the Mexican-American border. Some kid jumps a fence, runs into town, breaks into someone's house, hides in a machine, spins the time-dial, and the next thing you know, scientists are chipping the remains of a Chalupa out of a Brontosaurus. History as we know it changes.

Maybe pesos become the national currency. Maybe the dirty sanchez becomes standard fare in the bedroom. All because some guy saw "Back to the Future" too many times and decided it sounded like a good idea.

It’s not all hover boards and Michael J. Fox, folks.

It's an interesting life.

So… in nature, different types of animals have different types of markings to fend off predators and to ensure that they remain safe. It’s an internal thing; an evolutionary adaptation to predator-and-prey relations. In this camouflage, animals know with whom they may mate, and with whom they may not.

Take the poison dart frog for example:



Sure, he's got the look of a friendly frog from the waist up, but once you hit those turd legs - you know trouble's a brewin'.

Now, among humans, mother nature has gotten a bit lazy. There are no distinguishable markings upon first glance that say “don’t touch me;” no neon stripes or poison secretions. Of course, this is with the exception of the Elephant Man and those circus freaks with their wandering appendages and full-female beards. Clearly no one’s fucking them.

But … for the rest of the throngs who spin the wheel of chance any time they take someone home from a bar, crossing their fingers that in pulling down their pants they will neither be exposed to a nostril-flaring extravaganza, nor a cauliflower-esque genital area, it’s a real crapshoot.

There are, however, a group of people who are hit exceedingly hard. Shunned by society and relegated to the seedy underbelly of society, these people are, to put it bluntly, the animal-fuckers.

I can’t even explain the sheer terror that they must feel every time they take a trip to Africa, comparing photos of Tom Hanks in Philadelphia to each monkey until they feel comfortable enough to find one they’d like to rape. It’s a real tragedy.

I mean, it’s mother nature’s fault, but it’s ours as a society too.

Seriously… we can invest millions of dollars a year into developing a newer, hipper one-dollar bill, yet we can’t invest a few bucks into ensure a disease-free monkey rape adventure?

Priorities, people. Priorities.

Unique marketing concepts.

You know, there's a large portion of companies out there who aren't capitalizing on their potential for sophomoric jokes.

Take Hostess for example. Purveyor of all things sweet and addicting, Hostess has capitalized on people both old and young by selling a loveable, down-home image.

See: Twinkie the Kid


Now, Twinkie the Kid may be the biggest pussy in the history of advertising, but is he marketable?


The Michelin Man, his twin sister, and 1 billion fatasses across America would lead me to believe so.

So, to be sure, Hostess has the food avenue covered. They're raking in millions of bucks on fatty snack cakes, and revelling in the cholesterol-clogged chortle of their loyal fanbase. But is there more they can be doing? More avenues to pursue for marketing?

I've come up with two which I'm certain would do well were the people at Hostess smart enough to return my phone calls and numerous emails.

#1) Twinkie the Hormonal Adolescent. "Twinkies with Attitude" could be the catchphrase. Far divorced from the kids who come home from a day of snacking on Twinkies, getting lost in the folds of their peers and generally just being obese are a newer, hipper crowd; one which doesn't fuck around with heart scarves or cute sombreros.

No, they need something 2006. Something with some pizazz.

A bisexual, leather pants-wearing Twinkie mascot is the answer; hawking everything from the the latest Linkin Park CD to nu-metal "heartagram" attire.

Call me, Hostess.

#2) Hostess Bra for the "larger" crowd: With the tagline, "It's a Hostess Frisbee Bra for your Ding-Dongs!," the BBW crowd could revel in the comfort, protection, and shimmer of a smooth-riding undergarment.



An understated classiness, to be sure.

I'm crossing my fingers.

One down.

So, now that you can feel the excitement of my having landed a job at Red Lobster, let it be known that henceforth I will be rocking more wads of dollars than a stripper novelty-prop act.

Bank tellers will fear me; laundry change machines will not be able to handle my wrath; dollar bribes will pave the way to better restaurant seating and a more enjoyable lifestyle; pony rides; fake moustaches... you know, the usual stuff that results from employment in the food service industry.

But, to be completely serious, I'm very happy that I finally have a job. As exciting as sitting around playing video games in my boxers all day is (and no, I'm not being sarcastic), I feel as though my brain could be best employed in something more productive than stealing sigil stones from the lands of Oblivion. After all, I'm nearly 25, and there's a hell of a lot more to life than being shut-off from people.

The other night, Terri and I went to a comedy show at Acme. We watched an amateur show where it became quickly apparent that the group of people on stage had somehow gotten trapped in some sort of joke barrier; where delivery and punchlines were sacrificed in favor of goofy glasses and crazy proclamations about oral sex.

So, being that Acme has further applications for amateur stand-up comedians, I've always wanted to try my hand at it, and I'm far too curious to ever reject a shot at doing something I could be good at, I think I'm going to apply. Whether it will go well, who knows. But I feel like it's something I need to do before I get too old to step on stage.

Not a career move, just something I'd like to try. And hey, who knows, I could be better at it than I think.