Archive for August, 2008

Hi, Hitler.

August 25, 2008

I recently began growing a mustache. No reason really, other than to see what I would look like as a cop, or a seventies porn star.  So without further adue here’s me with a stash.

 Fuck yeah. Evidently God gave me the gift of a semi blond colored beard which contrasts with my hair in a really nice seventies porn star way. My new name is Thomas Woodbluff (Middle name/street where I grew up), purveyor of the Playa Vista porn ring.

I’m also getting a motorcycle and signing up to be a CHIPS officer. I’m gonna grow this thing to stardom.  This mustache could make me the ruler of the earth.

Oh snap, it just did. This is me, ruler of the fascist world giving a speech at a club med convention.

I’m pretty sure Hitler ruined this type of mustache for the history of human kind. It boggles the mind to think that no other person on earth can ever rock this thing again. Except for me motherfuckers, the fascist king of porn.

Brenda!!!! Brenda!!!!! You sleep with me now!!!!

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The Original Maverick

August 21, 2008

While watching the olympics tonight I was privy to seeing another one of John McCain’s triumphs in advertising. His tagline…The Original Maverick.

Being a writer I’m always intrigued by the meaning of words, and by the people who use words which most people don’t understand the meaning of. Words that sound really awesome. “Maverick” being one of them. We all know that Maverick was a Top Gun fighter pilot, that Maverick could disarm a nucleur weapon using a peice of gum and a paper clip, and that Maverick sounds like a good descriptor for James Dean. But what the hell does it really mean…

mav·er·ick (măvər-ĭk, măvrĭkpronunciation
n.         

  1. An unbranded range animal, especially a calf that has become separated from its mother, traditionally considered the property of the first person who brands it.
  2. One that refuses to abide by the dictates of or resists adherence to a group; a dissenter

The origins of this word can be tracked back to 1867, to a cattle rancher named Maverick, who was too lazy to brand his cows. Maverick thought that since most all the other cattle in Texas were branded, any cattle that weren’t branded, were automatically his. This included any and all cattle that roamed wild, or had been seperated from their mothers or herd. The other ranchers got pissed off and said, “Fuck you Maverick, this is not right.” And Maverick said, “Screw you, I’m an American, and a rancher and I can do whatever the hell I want. because I’m lazy, and because there’s a court system.”

This bullshit held up in court. Because of lawyers. Yes, there were lawyers back then. They carried guns, pissed in alleys, and shot people who didn’t agree with their hired opinions. So, now that I think about what this word means, it makes perfect sense. He was the “Original Maverick.”

John McCain is an unbranded range animal that was seperated from his mother, and could end up our next president. But most of the country will never know this. They’re just to lazy to look the word up. 

John McCain, “He is The Original Maverick.”

Oh, wait, maybe this is a statement regarding his liberal views on reincarnation.

“Oh John, you Maverick you.”

2,400,000 people and counting.

August 20, 2008

This book, first published in 1964, sold 2,400,000 copies in 13 languages.

The Drinking Man’s Diet is a book dedicated to the notion that having a few drinks during the day, every day, will lead to a more productive and healthy lifestyle and figure. The cover, void of photography is a masterpiece in copy.

The Drinking Man’s Diet, also recommended for Teetotalers.

Go China.

August 19, 2008

The Chinese have shown supremacy in all walks of life during these Olympic Games. A girl who can sing well, replaced by a better looking girl who was super good at mouthing the words even better than the girl who could actually sing them . A team gold medal in women’s Gymnastics, by way of photoshopped birth certificates. A CG fireworks show. And then there was that guy who ran around the stadium sideways. That was actually pretty sweet. So, in honor of China’s supreme supremacy, I have elected to provide another page from the best calendar of all time.

Judging by the young lady’s expression, I’d say she comes with the Egg FOO Young.

Sex Wax

August 18, 2008


When I was twelve, Sarah Morrows was my babysitter. She had long brown hair that flowed around a Charlie’s Angel face. She was also awesome at Pole Position, which increased her beauty ten fold. She was 18, I was twelve, and I was convinced that the two of us were destined to  I have sex under the stars.

The summer of 1988 my parents decided to bring me, my sisters and Sarah on a beach vacation in Destin Florida to a hotel called Jetties East. Sara was there to supervise my sisters and to make sure I didn’t find anyone to have sex under the stars with. “Ha”, I thought, “They’re playing into my plan perfectly.” On the six hour drive to Destin I day-dreamt about being independent, surfing a huge wave, living on the beach, and of Sara and I bedding down in a small grass hut on the sand, maybe raising some babies. Finally we arrived.

But, I didn’t have any money, Florida didn’t have any waves, I was going back to Louisiana in six days, and I barely knew how to masturbate.  So I did the best I could, and asked Sara to drive me over to a surf shop.  At the surf shop I looked at the boards with envy, $400 bucks. “No way I can swing that”, I thought. I searched the store looking for something more affordable but equally as awesome. Near the register I found a small wicker basket that contained numerous nice smelling bars of Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax. One dollar each. I had three bucks. Perfect.  Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax was really surf wax, but everyone on the inside knew that, and that made us “cool”.

Sarah said, “What are you gonna do with that?”

“I don’t know, it says that it’s good for my stick.”

Yeah, but you don’t even have a surf board.

“I know, but I only have three dollars and that’s the only cool thing I can buy for that amount.”

“How about this, if you swear to god not to tell your parents, I’ll buy you a Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax T-Shirt. Then, when you get a surfboard, you can get the wax.”

I thought, “You are for sure the coolest and hottest babysitter in the history of hot cool babysitters.”

The T-Shirt was was white with brilliant flourescent colors of reds, oranges, blues and yellows. “The best for your stick.” was prominently displayed on the back. Such a statement was sure to land me some play. Probably could even get me to second base with a fourteen year old from Alabama. She’d say, “I Like thaaaat t-shirt, and I’d explain, “Yeah I use this stuff on my stick, my big surfing stick.” Then we’d laugh and make out. Hopefully, go down to one of the sailboats and make out until our faces turned red. Then I’d explain to my parents that the redness was simply a rash from all the surfing I was doing.

I left Destin without as much as a peck on the cheek, but before I left, I managed to ride my bike back to the surf shop to buy a bar of Mr. Zogg’s surf wax. I remember it being something akin to Charlie going into the Chocolate store.

Two weeks after we got home, my dad, who was a sex education teacher in the Catholic Church, found the t-shirt and the wax hidden in my closet.

“What the Hell is this!” he said. “This is a disgrace, Sex Wax, you’re promoting sex? You’re twelve years old.”

“Dad, It’s surfing wax, for surfboards, if you rubbed that on your penis it would hurt.”

“Oh, really.”

Just as he said this, my dad ripped open the surf wax packaging, unzipped his pants, pulled down his underwear, and proceeded to rub the bar of wax on his penis like the damn thing was a loofa. After a few seconds his face turned from exasperated disgust and anger to something more like, “What the fuck?”. Then, quizicle turned back to anger upon his internal conclusion that he’d just rubbed surf wax all over his balls.

“YOU’RE GROUNDED.”

Now, after his test, I thought my dad might be convinced that Mr. Zogg was in fact a scrupulous surfing enthusiast who just wanted to make sure people’s feet didn’t slip on surf boards, but my father was convinced that Zogg was the four letter word for Satan. So the t-shirt disappeared. Gone forever. Sarah’s gift of love, that remotely related to her and I sex having something to do with sex together, was gone. I never dared tell my parents that she had bought it for me. I had made a promise, and I kept that. I cried for at least thirty minutes. Then I played some Pole position.

Six months after our beach trip, I got called into the office at school.

“Brett, you’re mom is coming to get you from school. Something has happened, and you have to go home.”

My mom picked me up, and delivered the news that Sarah had had an asthma attack at school and died. She had taken some aspirin which caused a freak asthma attack, and she didn’t have her inhaler with her. She suffocated to death in the school’s hall before anyone could figure out how to help. On the way home my mom and I stopped for nachos at Mr. Cooks. I couldn’t eat them. The cheese felt cold, like death. At twelve, I had no real way of understanding what had just happened, but I knew my connection to Sarah would never be tangible again.

Fifteen years later I was set to be married, and at the rehearsal dinner my dad gave a speech. He spoke about how he loved me and how happy he was for me. Then he pulled somethng out of a brown bag. It was the Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax tank top. He had kept the damn thing for 15 years. “Brett, now that you’re getting married you can have as much sex as you want.  Just don’t rub this stuff on your penis. It hurts.

I had Sarah back. Proof that she had existed in my life.

When Brenda and I moved to the beach I began surfing in earnest. In some way I think the tank top t-shirt pushed me back towards the waves. 

Now most days before work I drive down to the beach wearing that t-shirt. I walk down to the waters edge with my 7′ 4” stick and rub sex wax all over the thing.   Then I go out into the waves and think about what really matters.

Driving Miss Brenda

August 16, 2008

Today we enjoyed an amazing beach sunset, and taught Anna how to drive.

She’s got a pretty heavy foot, but seems to be adapting well to the lack of power steering in the 63′ Ford Falcon convertible.  Gabe, don’t worry, we added collision to the policy and she’s asked to be enrolled in drivers ed next week. We’ll also be cutting the hair around her eyes, as she kept saying, “I can’t see shit.”

Toodle-oo!

Bit-O-Nothin

August 15, 2008

I’m allergic to nuts, shellfish, bananas and honey. It’s been this way since I was two years old. These allergies are not the worst thing to be born with, better than having a short leg or a siamese twin, but it’s pretty shameful being that I’m Cajun, and that Cajuns are known for being champion shellfish eaters.

Nuts make me throw up. It usually takes about twenty minutes after eating any sized portion of any nut for my projectile vomiting to begin. Almonds, cashews and pistachios are the worst. But I can eat peanuts, due to the fact that the peanut is actually a bean. Not many people know this fact, being that it’s a legume with the word “nut” in it’s name. Honey makes my throat itch like crazy, as do bananas.  

Eating shellfish will kill me, so I try and avoid eating the Red Lobster buffet. I can physically handle crawfish and crabs, but shrimp make my hands itch. I’ve also found that I can eat corn and potatoes that have been boiled with crawfish. None of this makes any sense to me and no doctor has ever been able to explain any of it. 

Today I decided to test my allergic limits once again, by eating a Bit-O-Honey. Immediately after eating the Bit-O-Honey I went to Wikipedia and found the following.

Bit-O-Honey first appeared in 1924 and was made by the Schutter-Johnson Company of Chicago,IllinoisUnited States.  The candy consists of almond bits embedded in a honey-flavored taffy which makes for a long-chewing candy.

Fuck. Those Bastards. It should be called Bit-O-Almond and Honey.  So I cursed myself for being stupid enough to eat something called Bit-O-Honey, but my thinking was that it was just a bit of honey. No one said anything about almonds. So now that I know it contains almonds, I’m waiting to barf. Ten minutes, nothing. Fifteen, nothing. No metallic taste in my mouth that signals something bad is about to happen. An hour, nothing. So I ate another Bit-O-Honey. And nothing happened.

Which leads me to the conclusion that I can eat Bit O Honey because it probably doesn’t contain jack. Almonds are expensive, honey is expensive, sugar and artificail flavorings are cheap. 

Shit, my throat just started to itch.

A Thought

August 14, 2008

Any guy who drives a Buick is a Gaylord.

Hard Work

August 8, 2008

Last night I worked out really really hard. Especially on my shoulder lifts. I also shot up with 300 cc’s of anabolic steroids which seemed to work well, until I discovered that my brain shrunk to the size of my nuts, and my nuts shrank up inside me, so now I look and sound like a eunuch. But I can lift heavy boxes really well.

HOT

August 7, 2008

So today I decided it would be cool to do a few print ads for Taco Bell’s new Volcano Taco. The Volcano Taco is extremely hot. Like, dare your friends to eat one then laugh at them when their ass catches on fire hot. The Volcano Taco is so hot that it registers 50,000 units on the Scoville scale which I’m told is roughly 20 times hotter than a jalapeno. Thus the tagline “50,000 times hot*”