Alas, still a purveyor of dick jokes. The process for article submission to Cracked is using a list format, which is not necessarily an issue, but does require the proper amount of time allocated to 'creativity' in order to make my point in that format. To give you an idea of the way my brain works, take an image of a person with poop all over their face. Underneath the image is the caption "Immortal?".  Now , from that visual gem, formulate a well researched article in list format (i.e. Top 10 myths about Survivalism).

Poop is funny!

I'm on my waiting list to be promoted to 'purveyor of dick jokes" on the Cracked.com writer's tank. While I wait, I'll leave you this:

You can't shampoo a shampooer.

Clam-fucking -tastic..a ding-along-ding-dong

So,

A coworker forwarded me an old mail I sent to announce that one of my peeps decided to change sexes.It's pretty awesome I broke the ground when it comes to this sort of thing in my decades old company. Enjoy!

__________

All,

I’ve already briefly reached out to you regarding XXXX’s pending status change. Night shift guys, you’ll get the run down in your mail when you get in.

I don’t believe in pussy-footing around so I wanted to get the ball rolling with getting everybody on the same page. I have the thumbs up from Citizen XXX  to let everybody know we can start referring to XXX  as ‘YYY’.

I could be very safe with the rest of this email, but frankly the SOC is not a sterile corporate environment. No Operations unit ever is, which is one of the reasons I will always be an ‘Ops guy’. We are far more close knit than most environments. We’ve all known XXX a long time, and at least a handful of us (myself included) are just as much friends with the artist formerly known as XXX, as we are co-workers. This is a pretty personal thing and I  figure it warrants more of a personal address than  a sterile email that reads like a shift report with HR overtones.

That being said, let me put a bit more of a personal spin on this mail and share with you how this all panned out…

Never let it be said that a  XXX does not come without an impeccable sense of timing. I got the big news news right after I asked Darrin to inform my Boss I was missing his meeting due to  a ridiculously long spontaneous customer meeting. Said customer was on line “A” of my phone. While I was trying to explain to Darrin what to tell my aforementioned Boss regarding my absence, the STRANGEST thing happened! Line B rang in and a rather exotic British accent told me that I needed to be on another phone call right *now*.   I began the dual conference call two-step. I was doing just fine until my cell phone rang.  Wielding my cell phone like an Excuse Shield ™ , I  put off several more requests for meetings, input, pieces of my soul, etc…

And then my Communicator window popped up.

Our favorite Tipping Point expert pops up with “We should talk, bring a pack of smokes”.

With visions of recent resignations dancing in my head, I put myself on mute, IM’d BT folks on two different continents stating that I needed to excuse myself from both of their concalls for a few minutes and got outside for the dreaded phone call.

After a sigh of relief and what could have been considered an inappropriate burst of laughter had I been talking to anybody but XXX, I immediately responded with , “we are totally going to screw up and call you XXX. We’re dudes, we’re obtuse and generally inconsiderate”.   I also implied  those traits would need to be worked on if there was ever to chance to be officially inducted into the cool kids club. After some more laughter and friendly off-color jokes I won’t commit to this mail, I came back in and feigned attentiveness to my two concalls while I wrapped my head around my narrow escape from what I was sure was going to be a conversation of the “I quit” variety.

The long winded point of this mail is that we should get used to using ‘YYY’ as opposed to ‘XXX’ 

It’s a definitely a bit of a new situation for all of us. That said, I’d like us all to keep the following in mind:

·        We still have our same old Tipping Point guru

·        You don’t have to walk on eggshells

·        Using the wrong name is completely  expected, we’ll get there and it’s understood everybody at some point is going to drop the ‘XXX’-bomb.

·        No Josh, this does  not mean it’s now cool to get into fistfights with YYY over philosophical differences regarding Tipping Point configurations. Savvy?

Now I’m  gonna go head onto the COMPANY-Z Intranet and find out which training module I missed to prepare me for this sort of thing.

Have a good evening folks.  May your future days here be just as interesting as mine.

Ooo, la la......he's dead

With Thomas Kinkade and Vidal Sassoon safely stuffed away in whatever bolgias of Hell are reserved for painters of light and mussers of hair... the time has come. I can finally laugh quietly at my keyboard and leisurely unfurl my wings.

Triumphant return?(you may ask)  

Are you into Frotteurism?(I may answer in the form of a question)

Well dear readers, the answers to both can be found in the knowing smile of a harlequin. Oh, he knows. As sure as the sun baby-laughs at Tele-Tubbies each morning, that fucking clown knows. He knows what I'm doing. He knows a thing or two about rubbing his circus junk all over your upper thigh / chin / nursing child's forehead. 

Harlequin clown don't care.....bitches

Hey Now!

Well, it's been a while.

I've decided to stop slacking and start writing the kind of stuff that glistening drops of retcin won't fresh out of your brain.

First things first. I'll need to migrate some stuff off of my pederast- space page, because it's still relevant, despite all the magic Obama has performed for this great nation.

And with that, I give you this gem from 2007:

[06 Jun 2007 | Wednesday]

Here's to you Mr. Zombie Chicken Farmer

Category: Food and Restaurants

My partner in crime went on a lunch run today and took orders from all the rest of us slack-asses in the operations center. Today's carrion du jour was Arby's.

With fond memories of Jamocha-shakes-past dancing in my melon, I looked to the online menu and ordered the one item that looked as though it contained at least a few of the same letters as the word "healthy". The grilled chicken sandwich seemed least likely to make my heart as'plode. Grilled chicken it was.

When the grub eventually got there, I opened the bun to kind of check her out.....and I was fucking horrified.

It was as if millions of cartoonesque digital Arby's hats suddenly cried out in terror and blinked out of existence. The meat was gray with little drops of unspecified dew all over it. It sure as shit didn't look like chicken, more like somebody cut the meat off a zombie who happened to be sweating from heavy calisthenics.

First of all, my prayers really go out to the zombie chicken farmer who had to core sample that disgusting chunk of fuck out of what used to be a chicken.

Second of all, let me offer some suggestion for Arby's to unfuck themselves:

1. Stop using flesh from undead poultry and serving it to the unsuspecting public

2. Barring that, at least cook it on an actual grill.

3. Barring that, at least have the common fucking courtesy to break out a sharpie and paint me some grill marks.

I ate the sandwich and I'm beginning to feel very cold.

BAWK-BUH-BRAAAAAIIINNNSSSSS!!!!!

Lemon Tree Oh So Pretty

I was recently horrified by what appeared at first glance to be a strand of kelp I found on the Internet. Please understand, seaweed doesn't spook me under normal circumstances, no sir.

You see, I think that what was really creeping me out was that this particular strand of seaweed was draped over a rolled up newspaper and being pulled out of a toilet.

Check it:

http://www.drnatura.com/colon_cleanse_pictures/colon_cleanse_lg100.jpg


That's right. That's like 30 years of poocus (poo / mucus) that had coated the inside of some poor slobs guts.

Here's a slightly more festive one jauntily perched on what appears to be a Ticonderoga No 2 pencil:


http://z.hubpages.com/u/115517_f260.jpg



While this last one is a bit more light-hearted, and has a snazzier presentation, I still don't like knowing that I and everybody I know may be harboring such a thing inside them. Apparently up to 5 or 10 pounds worth.

And yes Sanchez,, I was googling 'poop' when I found this.


Suddenly poop is far from funny.

Farts are still pretty funny though.

By God, I AM THE PUMPKIN KING!

I finally remembered my credentials for logging on to this thing, so I thought the least I could do was post a quick funny. There will be more substance later. But for now, quietly reflect on the above.