Part I is here

So I think you get it. It was a freak show. And here, I hate to make a sweeping generalization but, lesbians are a fairly progressive bunch. You know, left-leaning. Wildly. I know - shocking!! The band that came on before The Indigo Girls, I can't remember their names fortunately, was 3 black guys and a black chick who was the lead singer. She didn't appear to be a lesbian but who knows. This band "had a message" and "the message" was, their ancestors were slaves and don't you ever forget it. And guess what? We are all slaves under the current Bush administration. I had no idea. I was wondering why there were all those dead black people hanging from trees all over my backyard. Now I know.

This, to wild cheers from the crowd of misfits - these 'slaves' who were singing, dancing, downing vodka tonics and tonguing each other. Apparently, they got a few hours off the plantation, toiling in the fields, for a little R&R. Nice of Massa Bush, no?

And then came The Girls. Looking a little tired and a lot gay. Would a little makeup kill them? It was just them playing guitars and those teeny guitars, what are they called? Not ukuleles those other things. Mandolins? Doesn't matter. They had no band. And they were great. Perfect harmonies, perfect clichés about the right, perfect little liberals. At one point, I think I heard these lyrics - We'll stop the wars, 'cause we're lesbian whores. More wild cheering from the audience. I couldn't cheer because I'm not a lesbian whore. I felt so isolated. So alone. They weren't being inclusive at all. My self esteem was at an all time low and I was supposed to be having fun. So I took out my frustration by picking on a midget dyke in a baseball cap who kept sticking her (his) hands down this other dykes pants. I told little Froda to get a room. Froda became very angry and my wife had to get involved and calm the dwarf down. The show went downhill from there. What you have to put up with to hear a couple of harmonizing lesbians.

I know - your question is - why did you go to an Indigo Girls concert in the first place? Do you really like progrssive lesbian folk rock?

The answer is - yes, I like the Indigo Girls. And I knew they were lesbians. But I didn't realize how hardcore their audience was.

So I give the actual music part of the concert - 3 1/2 tongue studs.
I give the overall experience - 1 1/2 sad, oozing vaginas.

You've been warned.

Firstly, if it's called a timeshare how come I have to buy it? Why won't they just share it with me?

Here’s a piece on ten of the best April Fool's Day hoaxes.

In 1996, American fast-food chain Taco Bell announced that it had bought Philadelphia's Liberty Bell, a historic symbol of American independence, from the federal government and was renaming it the Taco Liberty Bell.

How do you think that went over? Aside from the astounding fact that many, many people believed it, you have to wonder who signed off on that one. Some say there’s no bad publicity, but I envision pickup trucks and molotov cocktails converging on Taco Bell. You can never reckon what you’ll get from the “we’ll teach them a lesson” crowd in suburban America.

In 1998, a newsletter titled New Mexicans for Science and Reason carried an article that the state of Alabama had voted to change the value of pi from 3.14159 to the "Biblical value" of 3.0.

I’m pretty sure that most evangelist types are wholly ignorant of pi, but at the mere mention of the bible I bet a bunch of them jumped on the bandwagon out of faith. Regardless, when I was in school they didn’t even use the decimal form. When I was a kid pi was 22/7. It’s been brought to my attention that some people (virgin, male comic book readers) can recite upwards of three or four thousand decimals of pi from memory. My initial reaction is to set up a BB gun firing squad for these folks.

And here’s my favorite:

Noted British astronomer Patrick Moore announced on the radio in 1976 that at 9:47 am, a once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event, in which Pluto would pass behind Jupiter, would cause a gravitational alignment that would reduce the Earth's gravity. Moore told listeners that if they jumped in the air at the exact moment of the planetary alignment, they would experience a floating sensation. Hundreds of people called in to report feeling the sensation.

I simply cannot fathom the idiocy most people. These are the same people that feel better when they wave a magnet over an injury. The same people who send cash to Nigeria. The people that scald their balls with drive-through coffee.

It’s a large pool to draw from. New age hippy types, frequent customers of palm readers, people who look directly into the hose when there’s a kink in it, “Jackass” impersonators, Bermuda triangle aficionados, the “black helicopter” crowd, unemployed poets, urban myth spreaders (excluding the dog & peanut butter story), ad nausium.

On an unrelated note, the only thing that’s ever been up my ass are a doctor’s fingers. I don’t want anything in my ass. If Angelina Jolie was begging me to stick her finger in my ass during sex I would decline adamantly. It’s a personal choice—do whatever you want, just stay away from my ass. Aside from not relishing the feeling of any type of probe, no matter how many times she washed her finger I’d be consumed with watching that finger all night long and keeping it away from me. Who knows, it could put me off for weeks.

And while we’re at it, leave my balls alone too. They’re fragile.

DATELINE: 3/27/2007 - Dykes Against The War Rally, Berkeley, CA

Part I

As much as it felt like that, it was actually an Indigo Girls concert in Norfolk, VA. I can't begin to describe the freakshow that I witnessed last evening. But before I begin, let me just say that I am not the slightest bit homophobic. Or is it lesbophobic? Whatever it is, I'm not. My sister is gay so I automatically get a pass. Plus, my sister is an acceptable lesbian in that she's attractive and has attractive partners that I would sleep with. That's my litmus test for "acceptable lesbians". If I'd sleep with them, they're okay.

The lesbians last night, I wouldn't even call lesbians. It was a Bull Dyke-fest. Big, fat, tattooed, pierced, scary, smelly Bull Dykes. And they were everywhere. I was the most effeminate person in the hall of 1000 people (shut up). At first, the freak-watching was interesting but then it just became obnoxious. Why do women who hate men go out of their way to look so much like us? If they're not big, scary Bull Dykes, they look just like 14 year old boys. With tattoos and face piercings of course. Everyone had either a stud through their eyebrow or through their lip. At one point, just to fit in, I wanted to rip off my shirt and scream, "Look at these, you freaks! One lousy eyebrow piercing??? I got two friggin' nipples mutilated!!" I didn't of course, because that might've caused the big 'Norfolk Lesbian Nipple Riot of '07'.

To be continued...

And he comes out of the gate with the old favorite, “What have you had up your ass lately?”

I’ll admit it’s a solid, if not predictable, start. I fear he may follow up with what’s been up his ass, which at the very least includes a couple of male fingers.

So, what’s next? Any guesses?

Hello, I'm Senor Poopy also know as Bill, formerly of Bloviating Inanities...

(Pause for wild applause)

Thank you. I've been invited by the lovely folks at SBD to blog here and of course I took them up on it. I'm not sure why they want me here but here I am. The only rule I was given was no "upper-decking". I had no idea what "upper-decking" was, so I looked it up. Apparently, it's a practical joke whereby one takes a crap in the tank of the toilet instead of the bowl. So when the unsuspecting victim comes by, uses the toilet and then flushes, well, they get, uh, "beef stew" in the bowl. Frankly, I don't see what's so bad about this. And if the folks at SBD were so concerned about upper-decking, I wouldn't have been the first choice since Bloviating Inanities was two full years of nothing but upper-decking.

Still, here I am. I'm sure if I cross that magical line, I'll lose my password faster than you can say "Dinty Moore". Get it? They make beef stew. It was a joke. Nevermind.

Anyway, here goes. Oh, you thought I was done? I'm just getting started. Shut up.

Anyway, I went to the doctor and found out I have high cholesterol. I didn't want to take Lipitor or Gigantor or whatever the hell that stuff is because you can't drink while taking it. And if you haven't guessed yet, I haven't stopped drinking. On the contrary. So I decided to get healthy and go the diet and exercise route...except for the drinking, smoking and occasional Meth binge. So I bought a bike and started eating healthier. I'm on a - say it with me - "Heart Healthy Diet!" Low in cholesterol and saturated fat. High in fiber and anti-toxicants and Omega-3 fatty lucopenes. That's right, I'm takig fish oil pills.

Since I need a lot of fiber I've been eating high fiber cereal every morning with my vodka. And I saw this commercial for Kashi Go lean Crunch. It was this fruitball running along the beach in slow motion with his fruity dog as they frolic and splash in the waves. I guess they were healthy. And maybe they were frolicking so much because flax seeds are delicious.

I bought it anyway because it is, "a delicious combination of crunchy honey-sweetened 7-grain clusters, sliced almonds and whole flax seeds". Don't ask me what's in the fucking clusters or what a flax seed is. It's high in Omega-3's, whatever they are, and high in protein and fiber. It's $4 a box. If you'd like to re-create the taste of Kashi Go Lean Crunch with Honey Almond Flax for a fraction of the cost, here's how:

Go to your couch and remove the cushions. Gather up the lint, the 4 Planters peanuts that have been there since 2003, the 14 cents in loose change, that dust-covered raisin, assorted paperclips, rubberbands and fruity pebbles.

Put it all in a bowl. Add a dollop of honey and some soy milk and voila!! You have your own home made Kashi Go Lean Crunch with Honey Almond Flax.

Your welcome.

Lastly, have you ever stuck anything up your ass? Anything at all? If so, we here at Snooze Button Dreams would like to know about it. We know the where, now tell us the why! That's what the comments are for, people. Of course everything will be completely confidential. Our comments section is completely secure and absolutely no on can read them except other people. So what do you say? Tell us what's been in your ass lately!

Update: That last paragraph was by no means meant to shock or outrage. I've been accussed of being juvenile and a potty mouth, but those days have passed. The reason for that last paragraph is that I'm writing a piece for The New England Journal of Medicine called "Wacky Anal Insertions". Hey, NEJM does fluff pieces too. And if all goes well, they might turn it into a show on Discovery - Health. Cross your fingers!

Once there was a man. An incompetent, totally inept in all things, who decided to blog.

It was a train wreck in every possible way. Yet we could not look away. He stole material from me and just about everyone else. He’d steal ideas, links…you name it. He had no shame.

He became known, simply, as the king of suck. He got absolutely no respect.

He and I became ordained ministers on the Internet and then blasphemied all over the place simply because we needed material.

And one day this man disappeared. He left no note and no forwarding address. He was simply gone. Until today. He has risen from the ashes like the Phoenix.

SBD readers, please join me in welcoming the great Bloviator himself, Bill.

Go ahead, Bill. Stink the place up.

I shall be making an announcement some time today that will rock the walls of this place.

Have I found the Templar gold?

Is Shank in jail?

All I can say is that it will make you laugh. Or cry. And probably make your bowels twitch.

The Clues:

1. The phoenix rises
2. Internet ordained
3. Rodney Dangerfield

Don’t touch that dial.

I've had a banner Monday; and it all started in the most bizarre fashion.

I take plastic Tupperware-ish containers of leftovers to work each day for lunch. Well, today I took my soup out of the microwave and for some strange reason, the container imploded; bathing my crotch in hot soup. Seriously, I opened the door, slid my container out; and I shit you not, the entire thing sucked in on itself until it just gave way, all over my new pants. For the life of me I still don't understand it.

The Wife was kind enough to bring me a change of clothes; but I'm pretty sure the people in my office think something strange happened. None of them saw the soup incident, and I'm sure they noticed I changed pants; but no one asked any questions.

Then I took my car to the shop to get inspected. It passed inspection($40), but the mechanic found a motor mount that needs replacing ($250), the rear rotors needed to be turned ($135), the front brakes need to be replaced ($220), the brake fluid needs to be flushed ($45), the power steering fluid needs to be flushed ($89), the clutch slave cylinder needs to be replaced, and that "shouldn't be done" without replacing the master cylinder too ($450). I asked them if, considering my frequent sizeable contributions to their bottom line this past year; they might consider profit sharing or maybe a percent stake in the business. I don't know why, but they started laughing.

It was at this point that I decided I'd better go the hell home, before something really bad happened. I took care of a bunch of chores around the house; and everything seemed to be going well. However, Monday was not through punishing me yet. I pulled a load of laundry out of the dryer, and an empty chapstick container came with it. Apparently, the chapstick container leaked oily residue all over the back of one of my work shirts; leaving it looking like a debutante from some Ron Jeremy production.

Then I burned myself on the stupid iron. I cannot wait to see what tomorrow brings.

We've got this guy at work who fancies himself to be some kind of stand-up comic. The fact that he's actually an AA and not a stand-up comic by trade is totally lost on him. At any rate, I try to avoid eye contact at all costs; but I made the mistake of getting into a conversation with him a few years ago, and that decision has haunted me ever since.

See, I showed up early for a meeting (another small mistake that has lead to years of pain) with one of my directors. I'm sitting outside the director's office in the same room with this guy and he strikes up a conversation (A red flag if there ever was one; I must've been tired that day) wherein he proceeds to tell me about this horrifying roommate situation he had going on. Apparently, the guy he was leasing half of his place to was keeping his own piss in five-gallon gasoline jugs and saving cigarette butts and ash in several of those large terra-cotta flowerpots. The 'real problem' (!!!), however, was that the roomie was paying his rent, not destroying the property or breaking any laws; so there was no legal way to evict him. I was shocked that he'd share this info with a total stranger, and privately humiliated that I had somehow been selected as the ideal confidant for this freakish bullshit. I tried to be as off-putting as possible. I chortled dryly, shrugged, and mumbled out one or two handy platitudes. From that day forward, the guy has never passed me in the hall without stopping to spit some corny-ass deadpan one-liner to me. This happens at least once a week. Sometimes they're funny, but more often than not they're unforgiveably crappy. Imagine watching the worst sitcom ever written (you know, the one where you see the characters' punchlines coming); except that it's written by a third grader with a chronic meth problem. I know he's going to say something he thinks is funny and creative; but it'll only end up
bombing. If this guy went to amateur night at the Apollo, he'd be beaten to death by the audience before security had a chance to throw him out of the place.

We're doing this employee appreciation thing this week, and part of the promotion is employees recognizing eachother. So there are all these 'Thank You' placards on the walls with the person's name and something they did that was helpful or beyond the call of duty. And I mean, these things are everywhere; there must be hundreds. So I'm walking down the hall and here comes the guy. I thought about jumping through a window, but decided to take it like a man. He makes eye contact from twenty feet away and smiles. I'm thinking; Oh shit, here we go; what's it going to be this time? And he let's this abomination loose:
"You know, heh, I've been telling everyone that you can't overuse the phrase 'donated a kidney to his neighbor's dog' on these things [tapping one of the placards papering the wall]. HEH!"

Time slows. I try not to stop walking and give two nervous laughs. I'm smiling with my mouth, but my brow is furrowed like a Kansas cornfield. I'm laughing because I'm afraid that if I completely ignore him, he'll spend the night under my desk and slit my Achille's tendon when I sit down tomorrow morning; but I'm frowning because I'm repulsed. In what universe is that funny? I think I understand what he's trying to get at, but I also think it would have been funnier if he just said it instead of coming up with some wild left-field pun. A second later, as time returns to it's normal pace, I'm practically sprinting down the hall away from him.

How do I cure this problem? I understand I did this to myself, but how do I get out of having to suffer this lunatic's sense of humor?

I had been shanghaied into attending an afternoon “party” at my mother-in-law’s condo, which is populated by exclusively by people older than Moses. My wife laid down the law, that we were stuck there for at least two hours before I could “come down with the flux” or pretend to have a fever, thus extricating myself from the affair. It was rough.

As soon as I walked into the clubhouse I became depressed. Gaudy furniture, wood paneling and the smell of death. As we made our way to an empty table I looked around and took in the scene. These people were fucking old. You know what I mean. Full grown adult women shrunk down to the size of leprechauns, every third person had a walker and scattered about were a few with portable oxygen tanks.

A buffet was being set up that contained “pot luck” dishes made by the attendees. Let me first say that I don’t eat things other people have prepared behind closed doors. I will eat dinner at friend’s houses because I have known most of my friends for twenty years or more. I know their food preparation habits. I lived with some of these people and they’re clean and smart. However, under no circumstances will I eat pot luck food at work or anywhere else. Especially not shit that’s been prepared by these old bags. They looked like they could have voted for Lincoln. I couldn’t even identify some of the shit they cooked and I was sure it contained rubber gloves and morphine patches and cotton balls and who-knows-what-else.

I did drink a glass of “wine” which came from a bottle with a screw on cap; only because it was the only thing I could find to anesthetize myself from the whole affair. And if that wasn’t enough some old bastard was setting up a PA system and trying to fix the reed on a tenor saxophone. I am not making this shit up. Meanwhile I was being introduced to people as fast as they could shuffle by, which wasn’t very. It was 2:00PM and they announced that the food would be served at 3:00. That meant I had to sit there for an hour with the pre-dead. Just then the guy with the saxophone cranked up his karaoke machine and started singing along with it as if that was a fucking acceptable thing to do. And it was bad. Very bad, and very old. I felt a part of me die as belted out “Quando, Quando, Quando.” He couldn’t get with the beat, probably because he was listening to the Angel Gabriel calling him home.

I started to feel light-headed. I had another glass of “wine.” And every once in a while the old guy singing would start blowing into his saxophone and it would cut through my head like a hot knife through butter. And then the food was served.

I was determined not to get up any reason but then my mother-in-law asked me to get her a plate of food. The worst part was I knew that I could not possibly fulfill this request to her exacting specifications. So I got up and walked over and stood in the line. It was peaceful enough for a minute or two but soon the old folks realized they had forgot to push and shove and when they realized their mistake they made up for lost time with gusto. I kept getting jabbed by some guy’s walked, the leprechaun women were moving in under my arms and the whole thing was just too much to weather. Since they couldn’t see they were dropping food all over the floor and meanwhile the old bastard was blowing into his saxophone and I freaked out and went back to the table and pleaded to my wife to please, for the love of God, help me before I became wholly undone.

By the time I got home I went right to the bottle which is where I find myself still, some hours later. Forsaken.

So I planted the garden last weekend. We planted watermelon, lettuce, cucumbers, carrots, zucchini, and three varieties of tomatoes; and fenced the whole thing in with some chicken wire and a few posts. It was kind of fun to make something and all; and if I had to do it again, I'd make it bigger. However, there are some serious drawbacks.

Firstly, chickenwire is some incredibly dangerous shit. It comes in these tightly rolled bundles, secured by a thin wire. When you snip the binding wire, the twenty foot roll of fencing springs open and literally tries to kill you. It's like a reverse bear trap. If I knew building a fence with chicken wire was such a clustefuck, I would have laid brick or something.

Secondly, no one told me these shits take like three months to grow. We got the lettuce and 'maters as seedlings, but everything else we sowed. I'm going nuts staring at the dirt waiting for a seedling to poke through. Good Lord, how I hate waiting. No wonder people invented grocery stores; fucking waiting until June or July for a bloody watermelon is retarded.

Had buffalo meatloaf for dinner tonight and it was pretty damned good.

On an unrelated note, the next time someone at work uses the phrase, “Think outside the box,” I’m going to punch them in the windpipe and no one will be able to stop me. People think they’re so cutting edge with that, when in reality, it’s like fifteen years old.

When I hear that phrase I almost can’t control myself. I will become violent.

I keep thinking that saving for retirement is probably not a good idea. In all seriousness; the chances seem high that nuclear holocaust, world war, and/or collapse of the global economy will occur before I ever have the opportunity to see the maturation of such a fund. Honestly, I think I'd be better keeping my spare cash under a fucking mattress if that's the case, because doing so would make me the richest dude on the block.

Everyone else would've lost their ass in the ensuing chaos, stock market crash, etc.; and I'd be the only one with real money. I wouldn't use that money to pilot my way to the top of the miserable heap that humanity had become, though. Doing so would only make me a target, and I don't own any guns or feel like hiring security. I'd take my cash savings, and move the hell out to the country. Buy a big plot of land, raise crops to feed my family. Oddly enough, that sounds really relaxing.

Except for the whole 'civilization plummeting into chaos', 'collapse of global economy', 'nations reduced to warring tribal factions' thing. I just figure if I get far enough into Kansas I'll be alright, because people will forget the midwest even exists.

It's that line of thinking upon which we've based our decision to start a garden in the backyard. Okay, well it wasn't that line of thinking, but I like to imagine it was. We want to grow muskmelons, watermelons, cucumbers, tomatoes, squash/zucchini, peppers, spinach, lettuce, broccoli, carrots, herbs, and an attempt at Muscodine grapes. Yeah, I know. But we both grew up in families that had large gardens, and I come from a decently long line of farmers. I'm not kidding, when I was a kid, we had a 12x30 in the backyard of our suburban home, and my grandfather had one in the front yard of his suburban home that dwarfed ours.

I don't have the nuts to put ours in the front, I'd probably get attacked by these yuppies that live in my neighborhood. Hey, I thought yuppies had died off too; but let me tell you, those motherfuckers are alive and well. Remember the rant from a couple days ago? Friggin' the exact same scenario happend on Saturday night. It's not very often I call 'em blind; and I have to admit I was a little disappointed that things turned out the way they did.

We had some friends over for the night, and we all sat on the porch enjoying the nice weather and the fire burning in the backyard. Apparently, my neighbors were having a little soiree of their own, as we could hear groups of people coming to their back porch for the occasional smoke. Eventually the man of the house hops the fence (which is to say, he damn near busted his drunken ass trying to get through the hedge, climb the fence, and make it to the other side; a fairly quick, graceful motion while sober but a rather palsied and clumsy operation for him), to come over and introduce himself. This is the truth, he fucking walks into my backyard wearing a pair of black, flatfront slacks, shiny black leather shoes, a belt (seriously, who the hell wears a belt on the weekend??), and this collared, button-down shirt that looked like it was made out of satin or something. "Yeah, we're just drinkin' a shitload of wine [I fight to keep from rolling my eyes], hangin' out." He introduces himself as a mortgage lender/writer, hangs for a few minutes, shooting the breeze, and then says, "You guys should totally buy this place." He was a nice enough guy, just totally vacuous. It's fucking Saturday night, 11pm, you're hammered, and you still can't avoid trying to make the sale. How terribly depressing.

It could have been worse though, he could have been a total prick. He was friendly enough, which I must say I'm thankful for. I could be living next to someone more like myself, which would either result in mutual (but unspoken) disregard or monthly fisticuffs.

As an MBA, I'm always interested in new and creative ways to increase income, protect investments, and minimize expenses. However, I never ever thought I'd learn anything about that from Al Gore.

To recap: First, one of these Learjet Liberals has the gall to tell us all that we're all ruining the environment. Then we find out that he's actually one of the top offenders, gobbling up over 220,000kWh a year; about 20 times the national average. Such usage is defended by the claim that he purchases carbon offsets to counter the damaging effects of the coal burning plants that supply his power.

Well check this shit out, via Ecotality:

Frickin' genius! So not only does he get to run his fucking mouth about how we should all use less while he uses a metric shit ton more than average; but he gets to justify his position by boosting his investments, and maybe even garnering a wage as co-founder and chairman. The mind reels.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised at the discovery that a politician turned out to be an utter prick; but it just burns me up. Here I am using compact flourescents, burning approximately 30 gallons of gas (in total, for both of my automobiles) a month, keeping my thermostat at 68 degrees; right? Just cruising along, being mindful of what I use; and my efforts are completely negated by one person: the dicksmack who made a movie about how much I was consuming.

Al Gore can kiss my red state ass.