Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Behold My Majestic Bejeweled Crotch

Attention Hoboken Medical Supplies Inc. breakroom. Turn to he who stands stoically like the Colossus of Rhodes beside the vending machine. To he is who is mysteriously shrouded in a knee-length smock. I implore you; brace the living fuck out of yourselves. Buckle your about-to-be-utterly-gobsmacked asses to your folding chairs. I, Dale J. Turneur…Dale the "droopy-eyed insomniac from accounts receivable,"…Dale the "he's so damn boring he makes a conference call seem like a keg party,"…Dale the "seriously, don't you think it's at least a little odd that he keeps five Polaroids of his pet wallaby tacked to his corkboard?"…is about to offer you ultimate transcendence. Feast your weary eyes on he who now tosses the smock and unveils the everlasting divine glory of his midsection.

Behold my majestic bejeweled crotch. BOOM-SHAKKA-LAKA!
That's right. I see the shock on your stupefied faces and sense it ricocheting throughout the very cockles of your souls. These brown dress slacks should look vaguely familiar. Yes, these are the same 'ol slacks ho-hum Dale has worn every Monday and Thursday, and some Wednesdays, for the last six plus years. But no longer are they slacks by which one can set one's watch. Be aghast by how festive thy crotch has become. How glistening are thine loins?! How OG is thine crotch bling?! Dale has brought serious pizazz to casual Friday. "Casual" has never been so fucking awesomely bedazzled.

That’s right. Dale’s rockin’ with his cock in!

Behold, Janet. How does the meek psyche of a part-time reception endure the rarified grandeur of Dale's majestic bejeweled crotch? Recall thusly, Janet. Recall how casually you rejected my nonthreatening advances. Quivering and scared witless I suggest a noncommittal lunch at Quaker State & Lube. "Sorry," you say. "I'm behind in processing work orders," you say. Balderdash! You spent your lunch break munching on Hot Pockets and reading Mademoiselle. You squashed my poor heart nearly all the way down to my now brilliantly adorned crotch-eus maximus. But you know what they say about what doesn't kill you…it makes your crotch majestic and bejeweled? Well, how the fuck you like me now, Toots?! That's right! Bathe in the splendor of your rejected lover's majestic bejeweled crotch. HIYO!

Behold, Chad…Mr. Salesman of the Month, three months running. How your incessant petty hijinks have gradually led to mine awe-inspiring crotch transformation. I take a two-day emergency vacation and come back to the clichéd cat litter in the desk. But tell me, Chad. Tell me what is clichéd about the Mardi Gras surrounding my junk? By the way, that so-called "vacation" was to attend the funeral of my sweet grandmother. Oh how she must be smiling down on me right now, and how my majestic bejeweled crotch now gyrates like a child's party favor in your mystified face. Salesman of the month? I got something to sell YOU, my friend. A fuckin' crotch! HUZZAH! And keep the commission. Oh hey, by the way, thanks so much for super gluing my stapler to my desk. And putting my keyboard in the freezer. And making me do the Ice Bucket Challenge before it was a thing. I got a challenge for you, Chad. Good luck ignoring…THIS SWEET-ASS CROTCH! SKA-DOOSH!

Behold, Mr. Ludwig. Ye of middle-management. Let me ask, sir, how tired are you of being castrated by the brutes at the top of the corporate food chain, you pathetic bald nitwit? That's right, Dale J. Turneur, from accounts goddamn receivable, just called YOU a pathetic bald nitwit. Hey! I'm talking to you, boss-man. Quit staring at your Payless loafers. Look up. Look up, I say. Higher…a little higher…a little hiiigher. Too high! There. Now stop! Tell me what you see. Tell me. What's that? Huh? I can't hear you. Say it louder. LOUDER, so everyone in the breakroom can hear you. THAT'S RIGHT! A MAJECTIC BEJEWELED CROTCH, DIPSHIT! Now just stare at it. Let it sink in. Subject your feeble humanity to the crotch whose essence confines you. Hah! I crawl into your dumb little corner office and practically beg for a paltry 75 cent an hour raise? I just wanted to afford rent. Rent, Mr. Ludwig. You tell me, “Your production is stagnant.” Maybe, just maybe, that’s because I’m perpetually at the very fuckin' top of my game. Anyway, I was evicted last week. “Stagnant?” I scoff. Hey, you know what ain’t stagnant? My fucking crotch, that's what. As I swivel my hips before you, I see in your trembling pupils the reflection of the shimmering plastic gemstones pasted about my thighs. It's like the way the wondrous starry heavens reflect in a cesspool. Understand this, the "heavens" is "my crotch" and the "cesspool" is…guess whooo?...YOU. Anyway…BOOYAKA.

Bejeweled crotch commin' at 'cha, Mr. Ludwig! CAN'T FAKE THE FUNK ON THIS NASTY DUNK.

Behold Hoboken Medical Supplies Inc. breakroom. The Dale you once knew is dead. As Lennon sang in Come Together “One and one and one is three…No one rocks a mother fucking crotch like ME…Dale J. Turneur.” So next time you use the Xerox machine it won't be so easy to ignore everyone's favorite "walking snoozefest" cursed with sitting RIGHT. FUCKING. NEXT. to that noisy-ass shitty thing. Believe you me, from now on whenever you make copies of inventory reports or fax order forms it'll be nearly impossible to ignore the gleaming utopia merely inches from the farther reaches of your precious personal space.

Now, it's high time you settle your own pedestrian humdrum crotches back in your cruddy work chairs. But before you do, I reckon you take one final moment to allow every single morsel of your consciousness to be totally submerged in the breathtaking opulence of my majestic…bejeweled…crotch.

Hand me back my smock, Janet. Break time is fucking over.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

DemoCRAZY: A Bullhorn For The Witles

“Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that.” -George Carlin

Democracy gives everyone a voice. EVERYONE! That's the problem, folks.
How did Donald Trump escalate to Republican nominee for President of the United States? He didn't flip a coin into a wishing well, close his eyes and wish really, really hard. No, a too large segment of "everyone" escalated him to Republican nominee for President of the United States.

I don't harbor unique disdain for Donald Trump. I don't. He's a misguided shithead, sure, but so are countless others. He's just the most well-known misguided shithead. In fact, I think he's somewhat endearing: a caricature of a parody of a ham-fisted blowhard. He's akin to a classic Saturday morning cartoon villain, like Snidely Whiplash or Boris Badenov. For me, it's hard to rage against him because he seems silly and fake. I don't rage against Skelator. But in a way, Trump is fake. He's merely a physical manifestation of the most disgusting qualities of the hillbilly Sherpas who've lugged him to the peak of Mount Politico.

Remember the pink slime from Ghostbusters 2? (First, remember that there is a Ghostbusters 2?) The river of slime flowing among the abandoned underground subway system was a tangible symptom of the collective rage of New Yorkers. The slime grew in lockstep with every "Hey, I'm walkin' here," or "Get the fuck outta' my way, ass fucker". Donald Trump is the slime in Ghostbusters 2, birthed by of the collective rage of the "basket of deplorables" from sea to bigoted sea.

As long as the slime remains in the subway, it's harmless. Unfortunately, we're potentially months away from being swallowed.

Why? Because everyone has a voice, that's why. Every soccer mom who is afraid of being t-boned by an unlicensed Mexican driver, every unemployed Appalachian coal miner who refuses to accept that his old job is obsolete and it's time to plant a windmill, every white Kid Rock fan who sneers at the #blacklivesmatter hashtag…all those and their ilk have a goddamned voice. And they're speaking together. On November 8th witness a conga line of the witless--armed from brim to ball sac with concealed Glocks, Dixie flag Underoos, and IQs befitting a concussed wombat--strut into the neighborhood Catholic elementary school or Polish Hall and cast a vote to Make America Fucking Great Again.

These loudmouths are the ones to choke. They suffocate, and so does Dr. Claw.
Choke may be too brutal a tactic, but ridicule is not. Trump supporters deserve ridicule of the harshest variety. If you care the slightest about the future, you shouldn't have to ask why Trump supporters should face the most vivid distinctions in the Urban Dictionary. For instance, Trump doesn't even acknowledge the bleak science driving climate change, let alone plan to act. Whoever supports a candidate for President of the United States who proclaims climate change a hoax perpetrated by the Chinese is worthy of a barrage of derogatory kill shots.

I'm no tree-hugging peacenik, but I want my grandchildren to not worry about the riptide when they play in their backyard in Western PA. Shit, it's my duty as a parent to do what it takes, short of felony charges, to press the mute button on democracy. At least until Simon Bar Sinister perishes in a lab explosion.   

Thursday, September 15, 2016

New Ryde Self-Driving Cars Tell Drivers to Go F*ck Their Own F*ck Holes

(AP) Bentleyville, Pa.- Pull over Uber. New Ryde self-driving cars are here, and you won't want to cut off these mean machines. That is, of course, unless you want to know exactly where to stick it. Spoiler Alert: according to Ryde's automated Pyst Off Driver Insult System (PODIS), the answer is "directly up your lily-white stank ass."

Beginning Monday morning, Bentleyville commuters can opt to be picked up by one of a fleet of Ryde's brand new self-driving cars. What's more, once aboard a Ryde car, passengers can be driven to work with the peace of mind that goes with knowing that the car itself will automatically and reactively tear into the fragile psyche of other overly aggressive dick sucking piece-of-shit drivers.

Ryde commuter sedans are equipped with all the features of modern manually-operated and self-driving sedans alike, and with many luxury features too: heated seats, Sirius Radio, and rooftop cup holders to name a few. But what sets Ryde cars apart from Uber, for instance, is cutting-edge Pyst Off technology. Pyst Off operates in the same manner as...well...a pissed off manual operater. If the Ryde car is cut off in traffic, or has its fender bumped, or worse, the Pyst Off system automatically detects the infraction and engages with extreme prejudice. First, a two-foot metal telescoping pole projects from a slot near the driver's side window. Then a creepily life-like rubber human hand--attached to the business-end of the pole--extends a hearty middle finger skyward. The finger proceeds to violently thrust in the air three times. But that's not all. A pre-recorded demeaning insult--voiced by a celebrity of the customer's choice--is hurled at the offending motorist.  Such insults include, but are not limited to: "Fuck you, buddy," or "Eat my fucking shit you shitty fucking moron," or "I had your bitch-ass mother last night, dick fucker," or even "suck my fucking ass you fucking shit-eating fuck-bag. "  These demeaning insults are voiced by, but not limited to: Morgan Freeman (duh), 15th President James Buchannan, John Wayne, John Wayne Gacy, MLB Hall-of-Famer Andre Dawson, Howard Cosell, Maya Angelo, Bono, the real Elephant Man John Merrick, Ghandi, etc. The thinking goes, once a speeding cock-smoking motorist hears famed children's musician Raffi call them a "retarded ass-munching pud-fucker," they'll think twice about going 45 in a 25 zone.

Ryde is considering adding a new feature that allows the customer to log their own voiced insults in a recording device upon pick-up, to be played back if necessary. Ever want to call a tailgating fuck-faced cock-mobster a "snaggle-toothed cross-eyed fuck" but were too lazy? Just press the button beneath the window-winder and let 'er rip while you read your Facebook feed and sip on decaf Starbucks.

Test audiences have reveled in Ryde's new feature. Local textile worker and reputed family man Biff Webster says he loves the future of commuting. "To hear Margaret Thatcher tell the knock-kneed fuck-renegade who just pulled out in front of me to diddle his fucking tiny snatch whacker...shit, what a fun and relaxing way to get to the plant."

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

17 Easy To Recognize Signs That a Situation Has Officially Devolved Into a Fiasco

-The couch is soaked in cucumber brine.

-Chunks of the front lawn are in the neighbor's swimming pool.
-Said situation has caused every dog within three blocks to "go off".
-The roof is now over there.
-The nextdoor neighbors have "seen some shit go on at that place over the years, but nothing quite like this utter debacle."
-You come to after a blackout and suddenly find yourself face-to-face with what can only be described as "definitely not the pizza delivery guy."
-The FBI negotiator is present, but he has nothing left to offer.
-"Goddammit, the emergency jackhammer was RIGHT FRIGGIN' HERE last time I checked!"
-An ankle is sticking out of the garbage disposal.
-It looks like it's snowing outside, but something tells you that ain't snow.
-"Yeah, your air guitar slayed alright but how are you going to explain that giant fucking hole in the wall to your father?"
-Marsellus Wallace has sent Winston "The Wolf" Wolf to clean up.
-What was a board game closet a minute ago is now what appears to be a swirling inter-dimensional vortex. 
-Something happens that elicits a whispered "There is no god."
-You're STILL waist-deep in expired Crisco and those scaly things with the googly eyes are just 'round the corner.
-It's beginning to look like The Purge up in here.
-A mushroom cloud has replaced said situation.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Things More Worth Complaining About Than Colin Kaepernick Not Standing For The National Anthem

-Whoever finished off the coffee didn't clean out the pot...again.

-The weather guy said there's only a 20% change of rain but it's starting to look mighty dark out there and you didn't bring your umbrella.

-Your loafers are starting to become untied.

-Your new sweater vest is a bit frumpy in the midsection.

-That friggin' weed is growing back, goddammit.

-You know you heard your cat throwing up but now you can't find the damned mess for the life of you.

-The power went out for a second and now you have to re-set all the clocks.

-You’re a 49ers fan and your starting quarterback is Blaine friggin' Gabbert.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

I love you, Alice K 47

Dear Alice K 47,

I know this sounds crazy, but I think I'll in love. Yes, it was just one night, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the Union County Gun Show last Friday. Alice, baby, you are the most gorgeous semi-automatic gas-operated 7.62x39mm assault rifle in the entire world, let alone the wide world of fuckin' awesome firearms.

Sure, I was woozy after guzzling seventeen ice-cold Schlitz at the Funky Bumpkin Saloon when I asked Dale the arms dealer to roll out his wares. And suddenly there YOU were, resting between a Bushmaster M4-type Carbine and a Remington Model 522 Viper…a totally fuckin' badass rose between two totally fuckin' badass thorns. My heart stopped beating for a spilt second. (Of course, that could just be my stupid overactive thyroid, but anyway…) I knew the instant Dale placed you in my hands—after asking me if I was drunk and had proper ID, to which I answered, respectively, "not very", and "does the fishing license on my hat count?"—and I cradled your cold steel butt and smooth, smooth bolt assist mechanism that I wanted to blow the living shit out of something, anything, with you one warm sunny day.

Rush Limbaugh in lederhosen! Just thinking about that moment again causes my palms to sweat. (Of course, that could just be my stupid hyperhidrosis, but anyway…)

I'm convinced it was pure Manifest Destiny that intervened when Dale let me pawn my Make America Great Again camouflage fanny-pack-and-police-baton combo to whisk you away from the Bentleyville Fire Hall for one glorious night. I'll never forget the libido that pulsed through my patriotic loins as I hauled you like a cocked, locked and loaded newlywed back to my doublewide for a Schlitz nightcap.

What happened between us all alone, without the Putin financed NSA peeking around the corner, was sheer 'Murican magic. The way I slooowly removed your barrel jacket…How I geeently stroked your charging handle…When I teeenderly fingered your ejection port. I leaned in to deep throat your sight housing but nudged your trigger in the heat of passion and shot half my goddamn ear to smithereens. Ronald Reagan in a rickshaw, our fore fathers probably creamed in their graves! Who knew your safety was off. Mmm…that's so fuckin' hot! As I scrambled to McGyver myself a makeshift tourniquet to keep two galloons of blood from spraying out my earhole all I could imagine was running off with you to a shotgun wedding. (Ha, Ha. See what I did there, honey gunny.) But seriously, after the bleeding finally stopped and you'd shot your precious load, I pushed aside the empty bags of Cheese Curls and laid you on the futon beside my Glenn Beck Fathead wall decal, wrapped you in the quilt personally knitted by Chuck Norris, and quietly whispered the Second Amendment in your piping-hot greased barrel.

Two days later my mounting passion for you, like my right to keep and bear, well...you, shall NOT be infringed. 

I've been sitting here, alone, in my 1994 Chevy S-10 pickup truck listening to Godsmack deep-cut ballads and Clint Eastwood Reads The Old Testament, and thinking about you. All I got is my memories, and a permanently disfigured earlobe. Like the gunshot residue, I can't get you out of my head. I'm possessed by thoughts of our possible future. Imagine Alice…long walks on a beautiful beach and mowing down a majestic flock of seagulls...just because. Sneaking you into Arby's on a 5-for-5 deal day in case some shifty bugger tries a lil' funny business and we indiscriminately spray several rounds of metal peacekeeping darts all up in his shit and save other clientele from potential harm. Hiking through the park and stopping to instruct the children on the merry-go-round how to properly defend themselves when the government inevitably attempts to overtake the Upside Doodle Playground with their Boeing AH-64 Apache attack choppers and laser-guided bombs. Can't take no teeter-totters from us, Obama.

Shit, the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is you and me, Sugar Nozzle.

I miss you. I need you. The last few days without you have been torturous. I feel so vulnerable right now, like any ol' Allah-lovin' rapist gardener can piss on my freedom without knowing I can pump their shriveled nuts full of lead. Every single night that passes without you resting in my warm alive hands will slowly kill me anyway. What good am I with cold dead hands? Who will defend the G.I. Jesus statue or Sean Hannity nativity scene on the county courthouse lawn from the atheist lib-turd dingle-fuckers? Who, Alice? Not me. At least not without you.

I love you. Let me help you help me help myself by helping you in turn helping me to help America by virtue of making myself great again.

Be great with me, Alice K 47. Bang! Bang!

Sunday, August 7, 2016

The Sculptor

She is young. She is an artist. She has boundless dreams and steady hands.

The clay is fresh. The clay is moist. The clay is shapeless.

She places the clay on the wheel and presses the pedal that makes it spin. The clay is squishy between her fingers. It kinda' tickles. The clay slides across her palms. It feels good. She strokes the clay deliberately. She smiles as the clump begins to take shape. She is her own master. She will stop the wheel when the clay has become as defined as her boundless dreams.

As the wheel spins…Maybe she stumbles upon a nameless dude in a corduroy jacket amongst a million nameless dudes amid a late night freshman troll on Match. Maybe he finds her affinity for microwaveable teddy bears and the 1978 Dr. Strange TV pilot too irresistible so he speechlessly carves his feelings into her stomach with his finger. Maybe she drinks too much Southern Comfort and asks him "What do you think it would be like to be engaged?" while Jethro Tull's Thick as a Brick plays on vinyl pre-hangover. Maybe he buys a Whiffle ball and rubber bases and sends a group email to friends instructing them to wear shorts and a tee shirt to the reception, where Whiffle ball replaces a DJ. Maybe they exchange wedding vows beside a band shell hosting a puppet show merely 30 yards away.

Though the wheel spins she loses some sight of the clay. She caresses it with her fingers, but with less resolve. Small chunks spit onto her plaid shirt.

Maybe she sees an expecting woman in the infant section at Target and weeps with what she hopes will soon be empathy. Maybe he hides the Parents magazines in the basement because she weeps in her unexpectedly prolonged yearning to empathize. Maybe she weeps when the nurse hands her Uriah because her empathy is fully realized. Maybe he finally weeps too. Maybe they settle on outer space wall decals to decorate the baby's room while they haphazardly redecorate the walls in the new uncharted room in their lives. 

The wheel is spinning…spinning…spinning. She subconsciously weaves her fingers, purposelessly shifting the clay. She doesn't heed the forming cracks.

Maybe she scours the CCAC nursing program website, or nearly aces the PA Civil Service test, or peers over the bobbing head of a still-awake toddler to notice the clock slip to 1:04 AM. She continually strives to be a perfect mother. Maybe he "causes a scene" when Jordy Mercer boots a surefire double-play ball, or orders "one cheese, three craft beers, and an M&M cookie," twice a week, or walks his son about Greenfield to allow Mama the occasional breath.  He continually strives to be an adequate father.  Maybe she wakes up yet fifteen minutes earlier to accommodate a chaotic-er morning because he punched a refrigerator and can't lift more than twenty pounds. Maybe, just maybe, he actually punched a fucking refrigerator and broke his hand like an idiot. Maybe they…

She lifts her foot from the pedal, and the spinning wheel stops. The clay is dry like dirt and amorphous like mud. Her plaid shirt is covered in crust.

He joins her at the wheel. He lifts the clump and holds it in his hands. He wants her to know he's seen nothing so unique--all others are shooting stars, but in a meteor shower; nothing so beautiful--all others are sunsets, but in a world that doesn't rotate; nothing so forever--all others are diamonds, but better left in the ruff. Nothing so befitting an art show all its own.
He tosses a clump of clay--fresh, moist, and shapeless--onto the wheel, and presses the pedal that makes it spin.

...They are young. They are artists. They have boundless dreams and steady hands.