Can suicide not be painless in your case?

As part of the Humorbloggers.com Fight Against Injustice month…

Here in my older, less angry years I find suicide to be a senseless act with no redeeming qualities, so I don’t advocate it.  Except for one particular area…

Financial industry fuck-cancers.

It’s well documented here at Renal Failure that I long for the day most of the financial talking heads on CNBC and Fox Business try to hitch a ride on the Hale-Bopp comet on camera (I don’t get the Bloomberg channel here, so I can’t say whether they should all take a ride to Jonestown and try the fruit punch).   So when ex-CEO of CitiGroup John S. Reed who engineered the creation of Citigroup (which is now 32% owned by the US Treasury) and helped repeal the Glass-Steagle Act that helped create the economic fuckstorm we’re currently in pops up to say he’s sorry for doing all those things… well,  I lament the fact he didn’t punctuate his apology with his lips around the barrel of a shotgun and his toe propped on the trigger.

(Side note: There is no truth to the rumor that two kids killed themselves while listening to Feather Healer.  No way do you want to kill yourself when you’re rocking that hard.)

This choice quote from Johnny Fuckstain infuriates the shit out of me:  “When you’re running a company, you do what you think is right for the stockholders. Right now I’m looking at this as a citizen.”

Like you weren’t a citizen before, you pap smear.  You don’t stop being a human fucking being just because you run a company.  The stockholders could think using dead kittens as condoms while ass-raping orphans is a smart business move, but no one will applaud you when you strap poor dead Mittens to your cock and hold down little crying Abigail on a dingy mattress in your basement.

If this was Japan we’d be seeing John S. Orphanfucker hanging himself from the branch of a cherry blossom tree or plunging a cermonial knife deep into his stomach.  Japan has an epidemic of businessmen killing themselves.   Why doesn’t America have this?  Why aren’t Goldman Sachs assholes disembowling themselves?  That would open up some jobs and allievate unemployment.  Golden guns, not golden parachutes.  Your severance package is a revolver with a chambered bullet and a check for your family that can be cashed upon that bullet going through your skull.

I leave financial fuckwits as my exception to my anti-suicide advocation stance because they cannot do penance for what they’ve done, even if one of those psychopaths can get it through their heads that they royally fucked up.  John S. Reed is sorry for what he did, but what can he do about it?  What sort of contrition can he do to atone for his transgressions?  Nice guy?  I don’t give a shit.  Good father?  Fuck you. President Lyndon Johnson kept his ass out of Hell for the Vietnam War by getting the Civil Rights Act passed.  What does John S. Destroyer of Futures have up his sleeve?  Not a damn thing.  What’s Alan Greenspan going to do for realizing too late the fundamental flaw in his asshole philosophy that even an underachieving drunk like me could fucking see from a mile away?  Not a damn thing.  Because financial fuckwits only know one thing: how to be financial fuckwits.  And raping orphans with dead kittens on their cocks.  Okay, two things.

I think our economy will only revive upon the mass suicides of financial fuckwits like them.  Only then will people feel confident about spending money again.  So come on, financial fuckwits!  You love the free market so much, how about dying for it?  I’ll buy a flatscreen TV if Ben Stein will slit his wrists on it.

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

If God is Watching, Even He’s Cringing at This

It’s been a while since I’ve hung out at the Bisquotech, our soup-themed dance club in town.  Not that I’ve ever been much for clubs or dancing in general, but sometimes you just gotta go where the people are.  And sometimes you’re just in the mood for soup and Euro-dance (or you just need a reminder of why this is not your scene).

So I’m at the bar with my Captain and Coke and a bowl of lobster bisque and I’m scanning the dance floor for fine-looking women and their slightly less fine girlfriends with lower self-esteem who are sort of awkward in this setting but got roped into coming because they’re never going to find a guy just sitting around the house.  The trick is when flying solo or with a wingman is to find pairs of girls, not large groups of four or more.  Large groups of girls usually aren’t out there looking for guys.  They’re out there for themselves.  And even if they are on the hunt you’d need to bring a squad with you.  Never go in alone.

This brings me to some poor soul I see doing just that, trying to dance his way into a iron circle of eight girls.  His interest may be genuine but their indifference to him is so obvious it translates into other senses.  You can smell, taste, and feel the desperation and failure, and the more you watch it the more pungent, sour, and piercing it becomes.  Yet you can’t turn away from it, like it’s a one-car wreck on the highway.  You just stare at the twisted wreckage and wonder how the hell that came to be.

I don’t know who that poor soul prays to, but every higher power I can name looks to have forsakened him.  If he came with friends, they’ve abandoned him too.  They’re probably walking away towards the bathrooms, shaking their heads and saying “There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

The bartender just sighs as he pours a set of shots for some customers,  silently dedicating them to that poor soul out there who hasn’t taken the hint.  I’m trying to send him telepathic messages to abort the mission.  Punch out, Maverick.  It’s over, Johnny.  Game over, man.   It was over before you stepped on the dance floor.  Hell, it was over before you pulled that bland powder blue shirt out of your closet for tonight’s festivities.  You’re just the last one to know it.

Eventually he leaves the circle of disinterest and goes to get another beer at the bar.  I don’t know if he tried it again, because you can only watch a fiery catastrophe like that for so long before your emotions shift from pity to disgust.

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

This is why they spend so much time away from their districts

Our reluctant Congressman Matt Rotary-Phone (D) held one of those town hall meetings about health care reform recently.  I don’t think he’ll be having another.

“Obama will destroy the constitution with his health care plan!” proclaimed one of the people at the town hall. 

“Yeah!  We’ll have to quarter British soldiers in our homes!”  said another, referring to the 3rd amendment.

“Tag Larkin gives no quarter!”  says Tag Larkin, exercising his civic duty as a concerned citizen.  Also these town halls are one of the few public forums that Tag Larkin has not been banned from.

“Alcohol will become illegal again!  And then fourteen years later become legal again!”  says someone else, referring to the 21st  amendment that repealed prohibition and the 18th amendment that enacted it in the first place.  “You know, if Obama decides to dismantle the Constitution in reverse order.”

“Pay raises for congressmen and senators could take effect before an election of the House of Representatives and not after!”  says a member of the audience, mentioning the often overlooked 27th amendment.   “That’s bullshit, man!  We don’t live in Stalin-Hitler-Al Qaeda Land!  This is America!”

“US Senators will no longer be directly elected by the people, and instead be elected by state legislatures!”  says another citizen, referring to the 17th amendment.   “And then Obama will strangle my grandmother in the night with piano wire!”

“The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to Tag Larkin,”  says Tag Larkin, interpreting the 10th amendment in a way that only Tag Larkin can.

“Poll taxes would be legal, blacks and women would not be able to vote, the voting age would be raised back to 21, and federal income taxes would be abolished,” says the president of our community college’s Young Republicans club, or at least that what his button says.  “Wait… that actually works out all right for us…” 

“If the 7th amendment gets repealed, we won’t have to do jury duty anymore,” says a not-so-concerned citizen.  “That means I won’t have to miss work in two weeks…”

“And if slavery were legal again it would definitely reduce our unemployment numbers and help the local economy,” says another citizen.  “Well, if that’s what the free market wants…”

“Maybe Obama dismantling the Constitution with his dirty IslamoMarxoFascist hands with government healthcare might work out great for us,” says someone else in the crowd.

“But what about the right to bear arms?”  yells someone with a mustache.  “You can have my phallic overcompensation when you pry it from my cold dead insecure-about-my-manhood hands!”

“You have the right to bear Tag Larkin,”  says Tag Larkin who then punches  that person in the jaw in a patriotic exercise of what he believes to be his 2nd amendment rights.

The town hall became a riot at that point, which Congressman Matt Rotary-Phone did not see because halfway through everyone’s arguments he put up a scarecrow at the podium and slipped out the back without anyone noticing.  We still don’t know where he stands on a public option for health care, and at this point it probably doesn’t matter anymore.

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

Sinisterly Dexterious

I read a story in Newsweek saying that people ”associate the side of space where we’re clumsier with bad, stupid, dishonest, unhappy and other negative qualities,” according to a recent study.  This means if you’re right-handed you equate things situated on the righthand side of things more positively than the things on the lefthand side.

This poses an interesting dilemma for me because I’m a half-breed of sorts when it comes to handedness.

I throw lefthanded.  I bat lefthanded.  I kick soccer balls left-footed.  I hold my hockey stick lefthanded.  I golf left-handed.  My natural fighting stance is lefty.  If I played guitar I’d do it lefthanded.

But I write righthanded.  I use utensils like spoons and forks with my right hand.  My forehand is on the right side in tennis.  I shoot guns and wield knives righthanded (the world of Portuguese Intelligence is a hard one).

It’s seems as if anything I need to do that require strength and power comes from my left, while things that require precision are home on my right.  So what would I be considered?  Lefthanded or righthanded?

I say lefthanded.  Used to be in America if you were 1/8th black you were considered black, and I’m more than 1/8 lefthanded in a righthanded dominated world.  I’m like the Barack Obama of handedness.  He had a white momma and black daddy.  In my case, a righthanded egg and a lefthanded sperm collided in a petri dish and I was the result (because I don’t have parents, I was born in a lab, and the people who say they’ve met my parents and they’re wonderful people are dirty fucking liars).

The study says righthanded people are more likely to order items on the right side of the menu,while lefties are more likely to order from the left side.  Now I’m not sure what I’m inclined to do when faced with a menu, but I do know that if I’m out and about and someone’s walking right at me I will usually break to my left to avoid running into the person.  But usually that person is righthanded and so he’s breaking to his right and we’re still in front of each other and we do that stupid little dance of trying to get around each other.  Most of the time it ends with me doing a headfake and jumping around the person before his part in the dance puts him in my path again.  Other times it ends with a thrown elbow and a split eyebrow because damn it I’m a busy man with places to go.

So I guess if you put two girls in front of me I’m more likely to pick the one on my left.  Well not if the one on my left isn’t wearing shoes, because directional preference does not trump my disdain for flip-flops or any sandal anchored around something wedged between toes.  That shit is just nasty.

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

Haiku Friday 07/24/09 – Marlie

Marlie wrote this one years ago after being banned from the local football/soccer league…

Back in me home land
Chewing off a man’s ballsack
Is not a Red Card.

Shortly after that, she wrote this one after being banned from the local rugby team after an unfortunate scrum…

If it helps my case
I thought I was biting down
on his ring finger.

So remember, in the heat of athletic competition don’t put anything near Marlie’s mouth that you want to keep.

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

The Fog of Shut The Hell Up

Regular Renal Readers will recall that one of my favorite phrases to yell is “Shut the fuck up, Colin!”  This is mainly because former Secretary of State Colin Powell knew the war in Iraq was a dumb idea and went along with it anyway, giving it an air of sensibility that tricked others into believing it was a good idea (just like my man-slave Tony Blair, who does whatever an American tells him). 

But I was so busy telling Colin Powell to shut the fuck up and telling Tony Blair to insert things into his ass that I never got around to calling up Vietnam War architect Robert S. McNamara and telling him to shut the fuck up.  Now he’s dead.  Sure, I could still tell him to shut the fuck up but it’s just not the same. 

What I find interesting is that after leaving his post as Secretary of Defense he found immediate work running the World Bank.  I mean, Tag Larkin has trouble applying for jobs because of his blatant drinking in public.  McNamara’s cock-ups were responsible for 58,000+ American deaths in Vietnam during his years as Secretary of Defense, yet he gets a nice cush job at the World Bank while Tag Larkin has to slum it at Chickensian Dystopia, dishing out Tale of Two Cities Chicken Strip combos and Nicholas Nickleby Nuggets for shit wages.

Then again, deputy Sec. of Defense during the Iraq War Paul Wolfowitz got a job at the World Bank too (which he fucked up as well).  I guess the lesson here is either the World Bank will hire fucking anyone or if you’re going to screw up do it huge because then no one will think you’re capable of screwing up that big again. 

Perhaps it’s something in American culture that rewards royally screwing up.  Might be a Protestant thing, like how it doesn’t matter how much you’ve fucked up in the past as long as you find Jesus and are Born Again.  It’s a big cosmic eraser on the whiteboard that tallies up your transgressions against the human race.  It sure explains why Newt Gingrich still shows up on television. 

(At least the Jews make you fast for an entire day for the same effect on Yom Kippur.  Come on, work a little for that clean slate.)

But screw up big enough and not only do your sins somehow don’t count against you, they are handsomely rewarded.  CEO’s run companies into the ground and are given golden parachutes. No one from any cable business channel like CNBC or Bloomberg of FoxBusiness lost their jobs (or committed suicide) after utterly failing to see the economic fuckstorm that hit us last year and continues fuckstorming (or stormfucking) us today.  No one paid any price in the Catholic Church for their complicity in covering up priests buggering children for decades.  And to this day Sherri Shepherd still draws a paycheck from The View after saying on national television that she doesn’t know if the world is round and that no one pre-dated Christians.

There seems to be an undercurrent in all these cases that these screw-ups were in service to a status quo that rewards allegiance to tenets like financial greed, militaristic lust, and devolving people’s intelligence for the good of some outdated authority.  Devote yourself to this cause hard enough and you’ll never have worry for work.  Case in point: the majority of political pundits on TV and in print.  The fact that Peggy Noonan is not starving in the streets is proof of this.

So if anyone asks why Avonia the Wiccan Pimp is over my house having a seance, it’s so I can tell Robert McNamara right to his ghostly face to shut the fuck up.  And then I’ll make him tell Colin Powell to shut the fuck up for not learning from the past.  A past he was there for, ass.

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

Quitting is just participating from a distance

So Sarah Palin is quitting being governor of Alaska at the end of the month.  Or I think that’s what she’s doing.  I watched her speech on the matter and really couldn’t understand what she was saying.  At some point during her rambling I was under the impression she was joining the WNBA as a point guard, or that her Down’s Syndrome baby Trig was going to be given the governorship, or that she too was going to fly down to Argentina to bang some other woman.

(side note: this is just another example of why you don’t pick fights with Tag Larkin by stealing his question answering technique and naming your kids Trig and Track, because not only does Tag Larkin always win, he will win the shit out of you.)

So for further insight I hit up someone who has experience in leaving political office early: the pimptastic senator from Mississippi Trent Lott.  He left the Senate  in 2007 after winning reelection in 2006 to go into lobbying, and because being in the minority party is just no damn fun.

“Fuck if I know what she’s doing,”  T-Lott says.   “When I left office I didn’t say I was gonna change shit.  I said, ‘Fuck y’all, I’m makin’ money.’  That’s what I did.  Chickenhead here is talkin’ crazy.”

“She’s pretty much saying the best thing for Alaska is for her not to be in charge of running it,” I say.  “I’m not sure how you can spin that in your favor, but doggone it she’s going to give it a try.”

“She’s not even out of her first term,” says T-Rizzy.  “I had three full terms under my belt before leaving in the middle of my fourth.”

“Her basketball analogy doesn’t even make sense,” I say.

“A good point guard drives through a full court press, protecting the ball, keeping her eye on the basket… and she knows exactly when to pass the ball so that the team can WIN. And I’m doing that – keeping our eye on the ball that represents sound priorities – smaller government, energy independence, national security, freedom! And I know when it’s time to pass the ball – for victory.”

“But she’s not passing the ball,” I say.  “She’s walking off the court and quitting the sport.”

“So she’s looking at the basket and the ball at the same time?”  says Trent Dogg.  “No, no, sorry but my years hustling ballers out on the blacktop have taught me that you don’t look at the ball when you’re dribbling because some chump’s gonna strip you clean and make you look dumb.”

“Then there was her line about when she visited the troops in Kosovo,”  I say. … we can ALL learn from our selfless Troops… they’re bold, they don’t give up… “Unlike her who is giving up at a press conference on a Friday afternoon right before Independence Day.”

“I just hope with all her free time she don’t come looking to hang out with me,” says T-to-the-Rizzent.  “Because Ol’ Dirty Bastard- God rest his soul – ain’t got nothin’ on Sarah Palin when it comes to crazy-ass shit.  I see her number come up on my cellie, I’m making like the Frank family.  Your ass ain’t gonna see me.  Fuck it, I’ll flip that shit.  I’ll make like a Nazi war criminal and hide in Argentina like my cracka Mark Sanford.  Get us some phat drinks and some Argentine hotties.  Represent the dirty south in South America, ya feel me?”

“So what the hell is she going to do now that she’s not governor?”  I say.  “Does she need all this time to get ready for the 2012 Presidential election?  Does she think she’s Nixon?  At least he spent four years in the House, three in the Senate, and eight as Vice-President before going into the wilderness for eight years.”

“Palin ain’t got shit on Nixon,” Notorious L.O.T.T. says.  “Nixon was the motherfuckin’ game.  Nixon ran his shit from the windows to the motherfuckin’ walls.  Nixon shits on Palin.  Nixon’s left nut’s got more savvy than Palin, and that nut’s been dead and buried for 15 years.”

“Nixon also thought abortion was all right regarding interracial pregnancies,”  I say.  “And that Jews had a death wish.”

“Shit, dawg, Palin can’t even pronounce interracial,” says Trent-Pac.

We’re not sure what Sarah Palin is going to do in the near future, but we’re pretty sure it will be incomprehensible. 

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

Pour me a Jack Rose, hold the GHB

Holly was a girl that Anonymous Doug knew from a time known as the 90’s, when hair stopped being big and music was no longer fun to listen to.

Anyway, Holly had a problem with roofies, in that she kept getting roofed by date rapists.  Constantly.  But no matter where she woke up the next day, whether it was on a lawn or in a back alley or in the trunk of her car, she’d be right back at the bar the next night, ignoring the clear signs of trauma that had been inflicted upon her.  Doug couldn’t tell if it was because Holly had no self-esteem to speak of or if was because she was just dumber than a toilet brush, but there was hardly a night that went by that didn’t see Holly sitting at the bar chatting with a man who spiked her drink with the purpose of violating her unconscious body.

But eventually getting drugged so often built up an immunity to roofies in Holly.  This came as quite a shock to her, as now she was no longer missing long stretches of her nights to deep chemical-induced unconsciousness.  But it came as even more of a shock to the dirtbag guys trying to rape her.  They’d sit at the bar with her, listening to her prattle on about her life, nodding as if they had the slightest interest in her as a person instead of a fuck box,  wondering when the hell the roofies were going to kick in.  Sure, doubling the dose worked for a while, as did tripling it, but that didn’t last long.

Unfortunately now that Holly wasn’t getting roofed she was able to drink a whole lot more at the bar, which was a big problem in itself because Holly had never developed much of a tolerance to alcohol due to her always getting roofed up before getting a buzz on.   So the people soon discovered that Holly was a really annoying drunk.  Always wanting to dance, despite the fact that she gyrated like she had muscular dystrophy.   Always singing along with whatever song was playing on the jukebox, despite the fact that her voice made whales commit suicide.  And at some point she’d scream at someone and then break into heaving tears.

“Yeah, we all liked Holly more when she was getting raped,”  says Anonymous Doug.  “Total drama drunk.”

Eventually the bar in question closed down, everyone went their separate ways, and Doug lost touch with Holly.  Some say Holly began wandering the Earth, going from bar to bar and protecting women by drinking their roofie-laden cocktails for them like a guardian angel against date rape.  Others say Holly just went to some other bar and annoyed the piss out of them too.  And this one guy said Holly died in a hit and run accident in 1999.  Yeah, he’s the county coroner, but what does he know?

(for Nursemyra, our number one fan, who wanted a post about a girl who developed an immunity to roofies)

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

Abercrombie and Christ

“Black Jesus,” I say to the risen Christ as we stare at this picture of a sculpture entitled “Jesus in Jeans.”

“Yes…” says Black Jesus.

“Does this sort of thing make you want to forsake the human race and doom humanity to burn eternally in Hell?”  I say.  “I mean, the saying goes, ‘Jesus saves,’ right?  So couldn’t Jesus un-save too?”

“I’m seriously considering looking into that,” says Black Jesus.

“Because, damn, you look like such a fucking douchebag in this sculpture,” I say.  “The hair, the billowing loose shirt, the baggy jeans with no shoes… you’re not Jesus of Nazareth, you’re Jesus of the OC.”

“I’m surprised I’m not wearing a visor or a hemp necklace in this atrocity,” says Black Jesus.

“You’re not giving a Sermon on the Mount, you’re giving a Sermon at The Gap,” I say.

“Shut up,” says Black Jesus.

“What kind of parables does Douchebag Jesus in Jeans give to people?”  I say.  “The story of the Good Samaritan who shops at Aeropostale?”

“I said shut up,” says Black Jesus.

“Did Judas betray you for a good deal on khaki cargo pants from Old Navy?”  I say.

“Damn it, why haven’t you been struck down by lightning yet?”  Black Jesus says.  “I’ve been summoning a bolt to hit you since that Aeropostale crack.”

“I’m an atheist,” I say.  “You can’t harm me because I don’t believe in you.”

“If you don’t believe in me, how can you be talking to me?”  says Black Jesus.

“Because I’m also insane,” I say.

“You win this round,” Black Jesus says.

“Don’t be so bitter,” I say.  “At least they didn’t pop your collar.”

Then I offer to take Black Jesus to the mall so he can roam around an Eddie Bauer store.  That prompts the Son of God to backhand me in the balls.  Behold, the risen DoucheChrist.

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

You Got Leaf Shield and Bad Fashion Sense

There are many things I don’t understand. Like Crocs, or toe rings, or why people wear flip-flops with jeans. But I do understand why women wear UGG boots. They are really into Mega Man.

This is Mega Man. For the benefit of those who aren’t as socially-stunted as me, or who are over 40 and didn’t live with a Nintendo permanently wired into their cerebral cortex, Mega Man is the protagonist of a long series of video games bearing his name going back to 1987. He’s a robot who fights other robots of differing traits like Ice Man or Magnet Man or Quick Man (there’s a Hard Man in Mega Man 3, but he’s not at all what you’d think he is).  After defeating a robot he  then takes their special weapon to use on other robots until they’re all dead and all that’s left is the main antagonist Dr. Wily and his giant skull castle of robotic villany. Stuff blows up, justice is served, and gamers then wait for the next game and subsquent new batch of robots to blow up.

Now that you know his back story look at his feet. Very Ugg-like, right? The defense rests.

Yes, the Aussies have had Ugg’s years before the first Mega Man came out, but they only became big in America in this recent decade (the aughts? the double-zeroes?). And as we all know nothing is relevant until America gets ahold of it and swallows it in its all-consuming gaping maw. And clearly the American assimilation of Ugg’s combined with nostaglia for Mega Man and thus an unfortunate fashion fad was born.

I like my explanation better than the alternative: that women wear them because they think they look flattering. Because they’re not. No way has the phrase “You know what would round that outfit out nicely? A pair of Uggs.” been uttered unironically or without sarcasm.

There’s always the comfort excuse, but then again that’s the excuse people have for wearing Crocs. So if you really want to lump your precious Uggs into the same ugly boat as Crocs, go ahead. Or you can piggyback on my Mega Man theory and save yourself a lot of indignity.

I’m still working out the kinks in my theory regarding furry boots and women’s secret love of Chewbacca. That I can understand more than the desire for toe cleavage. Seriously, what’s that supposed to do?

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog