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by Paul
Jan 27, 2006 10:22
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I've noticed an increase in chronic debilitating conditions among the American public of late. When I was a kid, like one kid in the entire school had an inhaler; and that was because he didn't have any lungs. That's right, only gills. His name was Gill too, coincidentally. These days however, I swear every second or third person I talk to is either diabetic, or has a "mild" case of asthma.
For a while I was thinking "Wow, maybe our global warming and various methods of fucking up the planet is starting to catch up with everyone and we're all catching a case of bad karma." But then I thought, "How come I'm not Type A diabetic with a mild case of the asthma?" I am starting to feel left out.
Left out of the buffet line! Are you sure it's asthma America? Even a mild case? I'm thinking it's not a mild case of asthma, but a mild case of the fat. You don't have a diabetic condition, you have a donut addiction. No offense intended to any of the legitimate sufferers of either affliction, but you too can go the H-E double hockey sticks outside and walk your lazy ass around for a while. While you're at it, stop drinking 3 redbulls and a double mocha per day, and try getting some much needed rest. Filling your fat smoker's lungs with air is tiring you out, and you need all the sleep you can get to combat the energy it takes to breath. The same energy in turn tires you out, and the cycle repeats.
I'm sorry, I'm angry. It's not your fault. Wait I'm getting a text message... yes... yes it is your fault. Now get it together porky. |
| I am currently listening to: MF Doom - MM Food |
by Paul
Nov 29, 2005 10:17
Know that I'm right all the time. I can't really help it. By the way, IRL means uh... it's that show on MTV I think with the fruit cake who isn't the fruit cake on the show on Fox about music. Anyway...
Once in a while, I fully intend to be right, but my brain just stops communicating with my mouth. What happens is that I say something that might not be 100% accurate, because I'm thinking about eating cake or something.
Now I know what some of you are thinking, and that is to quote Michael Kelso's "BURN!!!" Probably, but to quote Captain Tenneal from mXc: "Well... you're wrong!" Silly rabbit. Of course I'm prepared for events like this, since I'm great at life. I'm in a generous mood today, so I'll explain to everyone what to do.
With one magic word I am able to circumvent any totally unnecessary confrontation that will no doubt start with the person I'm conversing with saying "Hey wait a minute, you're wrong!" or something similar. Anybody else, assuming they knew my incredible secret, might be able to explain how it works, but certainly not why.
All you have to say, is "Probably." That's it. Then you just keep on talking.
I'll pause while you thinking in a really angry voice, "Dude... that will NOT work."
Well... you're wrong.
Probably works because technically I admitted that you were right. However, I didn't come right out and say that. If done correctly, I fire off "Probably." and follow up with "...but the point is..." Now, if you're the jerk who tried to correct me, and you interupt again, you're an asshole. Probably, is a word that generally means there's more than a 50% chance. That means I gave you an almost 100% admission of guilt! What the fuck do you want from me? I already (kinda) said you were right (sorta)! Jesus I can't believe you're still dwelling on this. I'm trying to make a point here and you're getting all wrapped up in this one miniscule detail. If you choose to accept my "Probably." and not say anything, then you're still hosed because nobody is going to notice I was ever wrong to begin with, and evil wins again.
The key to this tactic, is you can't say "maybe." Maybe is just asking for an argument. You have to give your critic a bit more credit. Certainly you can't say "Of course." If you give them a flat out affirmation, you have lost all your credibility, because you just readily admitted you have no idea what you're talking about. That's why you give them the "Probably."Of course, if you're asking me if I know what I'm talking about, the answer is: absofuckinglutely.
by Paul
Nov 29, 2005 10:15
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Exceptionally abled placards that denote to other people that I'm so far away from disabled, that they had to give me a yellow sticker for my car's license plate. Instead of the wheel chair logo, mine has the outline of a head, with a halo above it.
I went with yellow because it's one of those "energy" colors so it denotes that I get up with the get down. Which is not entirely true, because I can't get up in the morning at all. Although I have no problem getting "it" up (am I right guys?!...wait I mean ladies?!... no not you, the hot ones.). I guess it's all about movitation and lack thereof. Either way, McDonalds uses reds and yellows to get you motivated to get the fuck out of their building by combining those "energy" colors with your deep seeded attention deficit disorder. If it works for Ronald, it can work for me.
Also, I want parking spaces that only a person with my placard can use. And not just regular parking like the disabled spaces which everyone abuses. My super parking spaces are going to have those tire spikes that they have in parking garages so that you can only go one way across them. That way when some fat fucks pull up in their 1983 Buick Roadmaster--while their kids the Michelin Man, the Pilsbury Doughboy, and the Stay-Puffed Marshmellow Man from Ghostbusters all sing "We scream for ice cream!" pile out of the wagon--and then shred their $25 Costco tires on the way out. Optionally, Fats McButterthighs can call the tow truck. When that guy gets there he won't be able to help them out because they don't have the halo. The only halos they have are the sweat mark halos forming around the neck of their shirt in the middle of the Green Bay winter. |
| I think I got a bit off track there, but instead of fixing it, let's just agree that I'm right. |
by Paul
Nov 8, 2005 10:12
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Well, I was talking, and she was nodding...off. Either way, that's a conversation in my book. The subject at hand was the nursery rhyme about Jack and Jill. For those of you unfamiliar with the anecdote, basically, Jack and Jill go up a hill, to fetch a pail of water. Jack falls down, and breaks his crown, and Jill comes tumbling after.
Now, I'm all for teaching kids morals with Aesops' Fables, and Kermit the Frog's various methods for advocating racial equality and what not. What I'm not for however, is lying to the children.
Clearly somebody's trying to pull the wool over my eyes on this one. Nobody writes nursery rhymes anymore. So that means, this was written like a hundred years ago. You know, before science could explain all the mysteries of life, and people relied on crazy shit like the bible and Old Mother Hubbard to explain its various intricacies.
Incidentally, this might be the first in a long series analysis. Featuring my expert man brain, explaining the various falicies implicit in these seemingly harmless stories we tell our children. By the way, when I say "our" children, I of course mean your children, because I know how to not have children; it was explained to me in a nursery rhyme.
So anyway back to the lecture at hand. Perfection is perfected so I'ma let 'em understand. From a young G's perspective. And before me dig in a bitch I have to find a contraceptive. See, a nursery rhyme taught me that. And you thought I was just making stuff up. Shame on you.
No but seriously. Alright so, Jack right... wait, let me back up. First of all, who puts a well on top of a hill? A hill is a raised piece of land. if there is water in the hill, then you could drill the well at a slant at the base of the hill, and eliminate the need to drill down like... 100 feet of hill.
Technically, whoever had the bright idea to put a well on top of a hill, is responsible for Jack falling down and breaking his crown.
What's really important in this whole story, is the motive. Fetching water, the last time I tried, is not a two man job. Or a two woman job. Or a one man and one woman job. Remember that one skank in the bible who Jesus saved from getting stoned? He was like "Yo... let this broad give me some water before you stone her." Then if I remember right, they tried to stone her, but they missed and Jesus said, "Haha, are you going to build a house with all those bricks?" Then they laughed together and built a barn. That's how the amish started. The point is, it only takes one woman to fetch water. Plus when this nursery rhyme was written in 34 B.C., women did all that work anyway. There's only one explanation as far as I see it. Jill must have lied and conned Jack up there with the promise of something else. Either she told him she'd show him her dust covered saggy (no bras in 34 B.C.) boobs, or that there was a big ass TV on that hill.
I could get into the history of women manipulating men, but let's not even escalate this post to that point. The bottom line is, Jill got Jack up on that hill, then she pushed him down the hill. I know this, because of the way the events played out. I submit the following potential scenarios to further my case:
Exhibit A: If the guy was trying to kill the girl, he'd just kick her in the face and throw her down the well. Nobody would find her because no dude is going up a hill to fetch water just for the fuck of it. Not without a promise of deflated balloon titties, or a television at least. Plus even if you went up there, the well is like a million feet deep because some idiot put it on top of a hill.
Verdict: It couldn't have happened because Jack fell and got hurt, not the other way around.
Exhibit B: If Jack fell down by accident, for any number of reasons, be it lack of coordination, an honest mistake by Jill or whatever, why did Jill fall down behind him? And when she did, why didn't she also break her crown? While possible, it's not very plausible.
Verdict: It might have happened in a million years, but man hasn't lived on earth for that long, so no.
Exhibit C: Jill intentionally lures Jack to the top of the hill. She is not a Viking so she can't throw Jack into the well. She promises to take her top off if Jack closes his eyes. At this point she pushes Jack down the hill to break his crown. In order to displace suspicion, she then follows him tumbling down the hill herself. "Conveniently" Jill escapes the terrifying ordeal unharmed. Incidentally, Jill convinced Jack to build the well 5 years earlier when she hatched this entire plot. If only Jack knew he was building his own gallows so to speak.
Verdict: Open and shut case Johnson. Let's sprinkle some crack on him and get the hell out of here.
Well folks there you have it. One of History's mysteries solved. It's not an easy job, but I do it anyway. For truth, justice, and for my own self. |
| By the way, even if Jack broke his crown, I'm pretty sure you can get that replaced. The porcelin work dentists these days can do is amazing. I wouldn't know though, since I don't have any fillings in my super human teeth! |
by Paul
Sep 29, 2005 10:09
And if I'm lucky it pans out into some coherent thought I can share. This might be one of those times. Why is a "Man's Man" a cool dude. It seems to me that another man's man, is in fact, a homosexual. In either case I guess the saying is in place, so let's just roll with it.
I am a man's man. Meaning I'm not a fruit. Paul likes the ladies. I have most of my conversations with them staring at their chest. I say goodbye with a firm smack on the ass. And yes, I do kiss my mother with this mouth, bitch.
Those of you who are unfamiliar with the Beach Boys should know that big girls don't cry. You might also know what doing a shitload of acid and hanging out with Charles Manson does for your surfer/stoner rock career. Anyway that's all beside the point. Big girls don't cry, and since I'm a man's man, neither do I.
Fast forward to today. By today I mean like last week, but it's today enough for our purposes here. Let's not get caught up in specifics. So today me, myself and my friend Brandon, who we'll call Eugene, because it's a funnier name, were going to a fast food drive through. Eugene is driving, and your's truely is riding shotgun.
Really, the fast food trip has nothing to do with anything, I was just giving you a little background in case you're in charge of some sort of unauthorized Paul-Biography.
What matters is Eugene had one of those little bottles of concentrated "New Car Smell" air freshener, which he decided to spray. Good idea I thought. This car smells like hot ass.
Unbeknownst to me... no, that's not true. Knownst to me, but unaccounted for were the number of climate control vents aimed squarely at my eyes. Once that New Car Smell hit the air, all 16 vents pushed it directly into my pupils. My eyes looked like that one lady who can pop her eyes out of her head, only I'm not ridiculously played out like she is.
The following is a hit or miss transcription of the ensuing conversation.
Paul: Thanks.
Eugene: Not problem. That bottle smells great.
P: I agree, but you just sprayed all that directly in my eyes.
E: ...
P: ...
E: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
P: Fuck you asshole, this shit burns!
E: Oh shit. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
P: I hate you.
E: That's hella funny. How did I even do that, I sprayed it down here (indicating a rough area; center console)
P: Yeah dick, but your vents are on. It came right up in my face. I can't even cry because I'm too hard for the radio. MTV won't even play my video. But right now as we speak, my eyes are on fire.
E: ...
P: I really can't quite explain to you how much this hurts. And consequently how much being a super man's man hurts because I refuse to cry.
Drive Through Girl: Hi. That'll be nine dollars and... what's wrong with your friend.
E: He's gay.
P: Fuck that son. This asshole just sprayed mace in my eyes.
Drive Through Girl: Oh my god! You sprayed mace?!
P: Yeah all girls carry mace, which is why this cock socket unloaded on me after I told him he put on a few pounds and he got offended.
Drive Through Girl: Oh my god!
P: That's what I said.
Give or take all or none of those words, I think that's how the situation went. Now I know how porn stars feel. One split second of bad timing, and BAM right in the face, and you're on hurt-mode for the next 15 minutes. I swear to god if that mother fucker ruined my vision and I have to get glasses, he's paying for them, AND I get to spray aerosol hairspray right into his face with his eyelids flipped inside-out.
In related man news, I man'd the situation up, and promptly recovered 100%. If anything I think my eyes are better now because I'm building up an immunity.
Today I'm listening to: Jimmy Cliff - I Can See Clearly NowIncidentally, the moral of the story is that I should get some smarter friends. Nothing funny here people. Keep walking.
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