Right now, I'm sitting on my back porch swing, sipping a beer. Sitting only inches from the jasmine, and I cna still smell fragrant garden incense burning, citronella candles, and "...ain't got no woooories, 'cuz I ain't in no hurry..." is playing through the sreen door.

Every once in a while I hear a heavy buzzing, but it's not a bumble bee. It's a hummingbird coming to feed. Me, I wish it was a bee, because it would be pollinating the zucchini and cucumber plants growing in the garden. Don't get me wrong, I totally see the benefits of city life. I can walk to my local grocer and some million-dollar homes in the same outing; but I crave something quieter.

One day, I'm going to have enough dough saved up that I'll be able to buy a small farmhouse on two or so acres in northern Georgia or Arkansas - yeah, the middle of nowhere. And I'll be able to sip a beer on my back porch, listening to a few rows of zucchini, some cukes, 'maters, push sprouts through the black wet dirt. Fuck this working for a living bullshit. I've never understood it, and I never will. Work sucks. I dare you to try and argue the point.

Imagine my surprise when I learned the guys were gonna be telling fortunes for free! I can already see all the lucre I'm going to be saving. Not to mention those grueling trips to Philly. Woo-HOO!

So I have a few questions for you guys:
1. The Wife keeps bugging me about having babies. How much longer do I have before my life is ruined by the birth of my own spawn?
2. Further, is there anything I should know about my future spawn beforehand? Is there something that I should avoid at all costs in order to insure their success?
3. Who dies first, me or The Wife?

Got into another fight today over the greatest movie ever made.

Citizen Kane, Gone With the Wind, On the Waterfront, The Godfather, et al.

I’m sorry. There all fine films and everything, but the greatest movie ever made is fucking Borat. It’s a goddamned masterwork. Anyone who can’t see that is too stupid to debate with.

Case closed.

Alerted to a forgotten state ban, Philadelphia authorities have closed at least 16 storefront fortune-tellers.

This is beautiful. And they never saw it coming? I go off on this a few times a year because I can’t believe the nitwits who fall for this shit.

Alerted to an obscure state law banning fortune-telling "for gain or lucre," the city's Department of Licenses and Inspections is closing storefront psychics, astrologers, phrenologists and tarot-card readers who charge money for their services.

I guess it’s cool if you’re not in it for the lucre. Can someone please explain to me why these “psychics” can’t pick red or black in a casino? Why they can’t pick the powerball numbers? Why they can’t pick a winning stock? Why don’t they live in Vegas and sit in the sports book all day? Oh wait, I think I know why. Because they’re crackpots, mental deficients, frauds, swindlers or any combination thereof.

Most so-called psychics, he said, "are not little old ladies with kerchiefs on their heads" but clever con artists capable of stealing large sums - even life savings - from grieving or otherwise vulnerable people.

No shit? There’s a palm reader on my way home from work and the parking lot is always full.

One guy they interviewed had this to say:

"They're discriminating against Gypsies," he said, although he said he was born and raised in Philadelphia. Finally, he noted that critics "considered that Jesus was a psychic, a fortune-teller, and they crucified him."

I don’t see the parallel. On this one I’m going to have to say…crackpot. No—mental deficient. Hell, I’m not sure.

But there was a time when Will and I told fortunes on our respective blogs. Go ahead; ask us a question about the future. We’re at your disposal. We’re okay because we’re not accepting lucre.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I am happy to report that the state of my prostate is excellent and should be far into the future, barring something like, well, cancer. However, the way this conclusion was reached was less than perfect, I am sorry to say. Before I tell you about the actual exam, I have a simple question? Why is my prostate in my ass? Isn't it for peeing and jizz-shooting? Shouldn't it be in my penis? I don't profess to know what a prostate is or what it really does or what it looks like or even what it feels like, thank God, but I figure a prostate is like real estate - it's all about location, location, location and I think mine is in a very bad neighborhood. Who thought it was a great idea to put it in my ass. I mean really.

That being said, when I went in for my annual checkup, the doctor asked me if a medical student could observe the exam. I, being a man of science and learning, agreed. Because I'm an idiot. I figured he'd send her out of the room when butt-probing time rolled around. Oh no. Not only was she watching when he greased me up and jammed his gloved hand up there, he explained everything he was doing. What he was feeling around for, what he was touching. Everything. I was half expecting him to ask her to grab a glove and join in. "Hey sweetcheeks, wanna give 'er a poke?" And then came the best part - he removed his finger from my ass and told me I could wipe. Spectacular. Have you ever wiped goo out of your ass while two strangers watched? No? Oh, you haven't lived. Good times!

But he did give me a lollipop, so I got that going for me.

There seems to be a general consensus that I suck. And not just in a general way, I have a gift for sucking (shut up, Skank). This has been perpetuated for some time and it's unfair. It was unfair when I had my old blog and it is unfair now. Repeat it often enough and it becomes true. Perception becomes reality. I guess if you perceive me to suck, I do suck. In your tiny, rotten brains.

I'm not exactly sure where it started but I know a few people who gave it legs. One is a cranky little prostitute from Wisconsin. Or maybe it's Iowa. It doesn't matter. All midwestern states are tornado-prone dustbowls that might as well belong to Canada for all their usefulness. And then there is someone who blogs on this very site. You know who you are. And then there is another person who blogs on this site who was instrumental in sticking the suck label on me. You also know who you are. There are many other bloggers, too numerous to mention here, who jumped on the bandwagon or just honestly thought I sucked. But I digress.

My point is - I'm not really that bad. Look at Instapundit. Yawn. All he does is link to articles and blogs that are more boring than his. If you think he's boring, don't dare click his links. And if he talks about his friggin' camera one more time, I'm going to gouge out my eyes with a melon-baller.

And how about Frank J.? Illiterate. Mind-numbing. Arrogant. Overrated. You see what I did there? Get it? Come on! That's both funny and clever.

Well, I think I clearly and concisely laid out my argument of why, not only do I not suck, but why I'm better than most of the bloggers out there. Did I mention that I've been quoted in the NY Times? And I was praised in some Tennessee newspaper about my extensive coverage of Hurricane Whoever It Was That Year. What more proof do you need?

Don't beat yourselves up. You retards know not what you do.

Apology accepted!

PS: Also, I believe I used the word "milieu" correctly in the title. Further proof that I don't in fact suck.

So I noticed the new blogger called me 'skank' the other day. Not that I really give a shit if someone gets my pen name wrong (I mean, how can you be pissed if someone misspells your fake name, only further obscuring your identity?), but I figured this was a good chance to throw out some snooze points since only three people read this blog and the person in the points lead is Pixy.

A name which puts me off a bit, considering whoever that is can smite any of us at any time. And that it's a dude. I've heard it's a dude. What kind of guy goes by Pixy? For real man, at least be Pixy The Beastmaster, or Pixy the Terrible or something. You're fucking giving me goosebumps with your pervasive androgeny..

So I humbly propose to you that from now until May 8th, SBD will be taking submissions for what we should call our new blogger. Honestly, the name 'Will' does no justice to The Suck to which we have all been exposed; and I think it's time we put a definitive name to such a blogger. He's been around for quite a while, mediocre-ing it up, and I think he needs a fitting and proper title.

You can submit them here or via email at my address to the right. On the 8th, I'll post up the entries, and the 3 or 6 or 8 or whatever most fitting, and hopefully figure out a polling script.

My submission? -> Janine.

So The Wife came home last Tuesday night dry-heaving and pissing about some serious abdominal pain, "I think I have appendicitis," she groaned. I mean, women can really bitch about the stupidest shit sometimes, and me being your typical sensitive but super-intelligent male; I was like, "You probably just need to fart really bad."
"Just go get my old nursing text and read the part about appendicitis!"
So I read her some shit about abdominal pain in the right lower quadrant, and god knows what else. She's convinced she's going to fucking die; and I'm sitting there calculating the odds that tonight is the night my perfectly healthy counterpart gets stricken with some acute but deadly syndrome. I beg her to shut the fuck up and sleep on it.

Okay, so I have to negotiate this for several minutes, plead, and finally beg for her to come to bed and we'll reconoiter in the AM.

Eventually she went to sleep (thank God, this cracker has to get up early, know what I'm sayin'?). Anyways, she calls me the next morning at about 11am, on the verge of tears, talking about abdominal pain. Now, she's finishing nursing school in about ten days, and she had a test that evening. We rationalized that there was no point in going to see the PMD or an Urgent care center because they wouldn't have the diagnostic capability to tell use if she actually had appendicitis. She goes to the Emergency Department.

Which is nice, because I work at the hospital and I could come check on her every so often. You know, between building the $200 million capital budget that was due the next day. Just a little thing I had going on, and The Wife wants to piss and moan about a fucking fart she can't get rid of.

I wanted to do my part on this important day, so Saturday night I ate two bowls of chili with kidney and black beans, 3 bowls of lentil soup and two generous helpings of black bean salad with corn and jalapenos. With extra beans. Sunday I spent the day outside spewing methane gas into the atmosphere, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

If you want to do your part for global warming, go to a Sheryl Crow concert. The more people we can get to attend one of these pompous-assfests, the bigger the carbon footprint. Sheryl Crowe's busses may run on soybean juice but I bet your SUV doesn't!!

And don't forget to exhale when you breath, earth-rapers!! If Sheryl and the jackasses that go to her global warming concert were serious, they would all kill themselves when the concert was over. Viola! Eternally carbon neutral!

How about I say this to you instead: I'd really love to "always be there when you wake", but that requires actual waking on your part, ya friggin' junkie.

In response to Skank's earlier post, I must say, I just don't get guys' fascination with cars. I mean, they can be fast. So what? They can be loud. Why would you want that? And the fascination with engines. What's a V8? What does that mean? What does V stand for? Velocity? Vector? What's torque? Why do you need it? What's the point of a spoiler? I hate everything about cars except the whole not having to walk thing. I'm not sure I could change a tire. I have no idea where the tire-chanaging tools are in my car. Probably in the trunk but I can't find them. I don't know where the oil goes or the brake fluid. I just found out about two weeks ago that brakes needed fluid when my oil light or one of those lights went on and it said, "Add brake fluid" in the manual. So I had my wife do it.

The only thing I can identify when I open the hood, and by the way, it took me about a half an hour to figure out how to open the hood, it's not that easy, where was I? Oh yeah, the only thing I can identify in the engine portion of the car is the battery because some guy pointed to it once and said, "That's the battery". I don't understand why the car doesn't explode when the "spark" hits the gas? Is that even what starts the car? By the way, my engine light has been on for about six months and the car runs fine. I'm assuming the light is defective.

I learned everything I know about cars from my father when I was driving with him one day when I was about twelve, and there was a loud banging noise coming from the engine and I said, "Dad, what's that noise" and he turned up the radio real loud and said, "What noise?". So far, I haven't had any loud banging in my engine but if I do, I know how to fix it. Oh, and one time I blew the engine on my brother's 1970 Chevy Nova because I was doing 70 mph on the Garden State Parkway (Exit 144) in 2nd gear. I had the radio so loud I didn't hear it whining like a nine year old girl who just got pushed down a flight of stairs. Only when black smoke started pouring out of the engine did I realize something was wrong. Whoops. It was his fault for having such a kickass stereo. As a matter of fact, that's the only thing I do understand about a car - the radio.

But I am an excellent driver. Except the time I drove into a friends' parked car and flipped my car over. But that doesn't count because I had been drinking.

Go Hokies!

I want a new car. Not that there's a single thing wrong with my current car (quite the contrary), I just kind of get bitten by this bug every so often.

It all started when my buddy got one of these '07 twin-turbo Beamer coupes. He's crazier about cars than I am, and they had to bring this thing over on a boat direct from Germany. He paid 52 g's for the car and he's already got 12 more in mods planned. Seriously, I don't think I'll ever be rich enough and stupid enough to buy a BMW; but I have to amdmit that thing is retarded.

And then there's the weird trend. A lot of the enthusiasts I hang out with who drive the same model car I do, have all sold their cars and bought an S2000. Like ten or fifteen people I know have done this. I think they're great cars, but I don't see myself taking my kids to school in one.

A nice ancillary twist is that The Wife probably needs a new car before I could ever honestly propose that I get one. Her car has close to 100,000 miles on it and isn't very comfortable (though it's been more cost-effective than my own).

But none of this stops me from dreaming about the TL Type-S, the STi, the EVO, or others. I just can't help it.

If I was a real ass, I'd tell my wife she could drive my car, and I'd get a new car; but she's not dumb. Dammit. Then I wonder if we traded in her car and mine; we could get her something with a low payment and I could drive our beater truck for a year or two. I could save money driving the paid-for beater, and in a while I'd be able to buy something nice at a low payment too. It'd be kind of hard to let go of my car though, but if I knew there was something better waiting for me, it would be worth it.

Have you ever wanted to have a drink at say, 11:00 in the morning (who hasn't) but you feel guilty because it's too early and you use that old chestnut, "It's 5:00 somewhere!"? Me too!

Well, why can't you use that same excuse for work? I'm giving it a shot.

Did I ever tell you about the time I almost got my right nut bit off in a freakish dog encounter? It was Friday the 13th about 30 years ago (cue ominous pipe organ music). The sky was black and the winds howled. Actually, it was a pretty sunny afternoon in picturesque Newark, New Jersey. I was playing football with a few friends. Claude, who we used to call Matt, because that was his name, threw me a long pass...

Interesting Aside

Matt (Claude) is the drummer for Ween, not to name drop. I taught him how to drum. Really. Impressed? Why I'm not a famous rock musician, I'll never know. You think he sends me a check every now and then in appreciation for all I did for him? Hell no. He won't even return my calls, the prick. That bastard wouldn't know a drum set if it bit off his right nut if it wasn't for me. Do I get free tickets to his concerts? No. When I try to sneak backstage because "I know the drummer", do I get free food and booze? No, I get kicked in the nads and tossed into the street by one of the Ween goons.

Also, Ween Goons is an excellent name for a rock band.

End Interesting Aside

So the rotten prick throws me a long pass and I make this spectacular, over-the-shoulder catch, keeping both feet barely in bounds. Very Lynn Swann. Maybe we weren't playing football. I don't really remember. What I do remember is dog fangs ripping through my underwear and into my flesh. Okay, I don't really remember that either. But I do remember standing in my neighbors front lawn with my pants in shreds. Then I remember running home in my underwear crying because there was blood all over them. I get home and my mother lays me down, takes off my underwear and does a nut check. Both were there but about a half inch from my right one are teeth marks and ripped flesh. Enough to warrant stitches, which I'd never had before.

My Dad takes me to the doctor who proceeds to give me 4 stitches. Under the watchful eyes of a nurse, who thought that my 8 year old, inch and a half penis was hilarious. As a matter of fact, everyone had a good laugh - the doctor, the nurse and my Dad all thought the whole thing was hilarious. Me and my tiny penis just laid there and endured the laughter and humilation.

Now, every Friday the 13th at about 6pm, I do two shots of tequila while I gently rub my right testicle and sob quietly to myself.

"That nappy-headed ho is a big fat liar", NC Attorney General says*.

*If the NC Attorney General was Don Imus.

Virginia Beach has hit the big time. And all because of a homicidal drunken illegal alien. I mean 'undocumented worker'.

O'Reilly: Virginia Beach Mayor and Police Chief responsible for death of two teens.

Undocumented Workers - 2
Virginia Beach - 0

It couldn't have happened to a nicer town. I'm so proud.

Tonight, on this Holiest of nights, I'll be going to a sacred place. A place where men and women gather to express their faith and reverence for something far greater than themselves. That's right - I'm going to a hockey game. To some this may seem like blasphemy. But if you think about it, church and a hockey game have many similarities. You go to both places to root for your team, or your god. A preacher stands in a pulpit guarding the Eucharist, wine and candles, and a goalie guards the net. Parishioners are trying to get into heaven, and the players are trying to get past center ice and score. Church has hymns that praise God, hockey has We Will Rock You by Queen.

There are many rules and traditions that must be followed in both places; kneeling, skating, holy water, ice, signs of the Cross, icing, Amens, calling the ref an asshole, roughing, saying rehearsed shit back to the priest when he says some prayer, beer, wafers, pretzels, wine, confession, penalty box, five minute major, Hell, Rosary beads, jockstraps, violence, violence. You get the picture. They're almost exactly the same except one is fun and the other...not so much.

Which brings me to my main point - could Jesus have played hockey? In my opinion, and to be brutally honest, I'd have to say no. Based on my knowledge of J-Lord, he was a little too effeminate. And he was a hippy. And he wore sandals. Three strikes and you're out, J. Whether any of that is true is anyone's guess but I have to tell you, whoever came up with his image could have done a little better marketing the guy. Jerusalem - 32 A.D. or San Francisco - 1968, he fit in both places. And if the former was anything like the latter, I would have crucified him too. Only I would've made sure it was a slower, more painful death. That is how much I hate hippies.

Now I'm sure J-Lord was a great guy and all; turning wine into water, loaves into fishes, preaching at the Temple Mount 24-7, carpentering and chatting up the whores, but really. Even if he was the son of God, and I'm not saying he's not, all that means is that he was born. So was I. So were you. It's not that big a deal. Someone squirted him out. Which brings me to my real main, main point, which is, I have a limited amount of placenta from the birth of Jesus. That's right! And it can be yours for the low, low price of only $19.95. It comes in a 1 oz. decorative vial and is available in a wide variety of colors. And His placenta has many uses! Use it as an energy drink! Rub it on a wound! Clean out your colon! Or use it as a lubricant with that special someone you want to pork this Easter Sunday! Act now! Supplies are limited!

Send check or money order to:

J-Lord's Authentic Placenta
Rent-A-Placenta, Inc.
P.O. Box 666
Styx River, WI 53207

how's that for upper-decking...

That title doesn't match the post. I'm 45 minutes into a 15 minute conference call to launch an application update into the wild, wild world and that phrase scampered jauntily across the sleep deprived fundament of my mind. Immediately following the effervescent bunny farts thought was another thought that Bunny Farts would make a fantastic name for a rock band and I better share it before I'm once again drawn into this update call in a role beyond my standard verbal nods of "Hmmm", "Yes", and "Uh-huh" and I lose the entire "Bunny Farts" stream of conscience. So here I am, guaranteeing that Bunny Farts is preserved for all of posterity.

That's all I've got. It's 7 minutes to midnight so the synapses are not firing on all cylinders. I had to explain that - as if you didn't figure that out already based on the preceding paragraph.

Oh, wait. I do have something to share. The application update I'm up way past my normal bedtime to shepherd home is none other than PROJECT BLACK WIDOW. The bitch is in Beta with a very large customer on it. The project is essentially wrangled back on track, mostly through brute force. Yay me!

Last note: Do you know why the Easter Bunny hides his eggs?

Well, here we are again - Ash Wednesday, the only Holy Day in the Calendar year when you can smoke in church. And two days before Christ is beaten up by the Italians, spit on by the Hebes and then crucified by his own father. His father then forsakens him as well, adding insult to injury.

But it is also a happy time. A time for spiral hams, peeps, dyed hard-boiled eggs, patent leather shoes, frilly bonnets, jelly beans, pastels and polyester, bunnys, and of course, your annual visit to church. Ah, happy times indeed. Except the church part that is. But once you're done with all that blathering voodoo, what better than a few cocktails and a nice brunch. And to start off that brunch, or as a light snack while you get drunk, try a little Cheeses Christ. Enjoy!

Cheeses Christ

1 pkg. Cream Cheese
½ c. Sour Cream
½ c. Ricotta Cheese
1 pkg. Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix
1 Tbs. Chives
¼ c. Pimentos Chopped

Mix all ingredients thoroughly. Form into the shape of a cross. Serve with a light Eucharist, unleavened bread or Ritz crackers.

Alternatives

Cheeses, Mary and Joseph

If you’re feeling creative and have some artistic ability, double the recipe and, using your favorite picture of Joseph and the Virgin Mary, sculpt the cheese mixture into a likeness of the two. Closely place individual kernels of corn around their heads to form halos!

Update: By the way, Snooze Button Dreams doesn't have a monopoly on the "cheeses" thing. I was doing that shit years ago. Yes, I just stole from myself but that's not the point. The point is, SBD is stealing from me...from 2002. You think you assholes are so fucking clever. I guess you are - stealing five year old shit from the master. Nice!

And you're welcome.

Some moron actually spent a (relatively) considerable amount of time and effort developing paint that blocks wireless signals.

That's a wonderful idea if you live in a windowless building; ya dipshit. Do I need to paint the ceiling too? I'd bet a finski that it comes in a range of vibrant colors with oddly similar sounding names: deep charcoal, moonless midnight, and Wesley Snipes.

It also seems to have slipped by this forward-thinking product development department that houses have interior walls. So there you are painting your entire house one color, fervently preventing the hordes of hackers at your virtual gates (because your home network is, apparently, the best in the universe); and you can't even get signal in your own living room because the three rooms between your dumb ass and the antenna are covered in Information Age prophylactic. You dickass!

Still, this is probably the best alternative you have. Honestly. I mean, until someone comes up with a way for you to protect your network with a key...or maybe a password...if only there was a way!

Bill is too busy listening to Indigo Girls bootlegs, getting his asshole fingered by strangers, and studying yet another of his voluminous bowel movements to talk to you people.

So instead, I'll offer you a miracle. I'm not one to forward emails that have been forwarded to me; an offense that usually results in the offender being cussed out (in person, if possible). But I got a real gem of a heartwarming email this week that really brightened my day. It's below the fold, and I don't want you to read it unless you promise to share this post with ten of your friends.