He's Rough Around The Edges, Charismatic, Spontaneously Whitty, Charming, Strikingly Handsome And Not Narcissistic At All!! Let'em Hear it Ya Buncha Content Consuming Junkies! Put Your Hands Together For...
Thank you! Thank you twice, thanks three times even. I miss you too, really! Like an ingrown hair on my taint.
Kidding--that was the first joke! Ingrown hairs suck, especially when they're taint related--no joke! How'bout that introduction music?! Thanks DJ! Let'em hear it Hive! Put your hands together one more time for DJ 2Nuts&1Hammer!!
iheart Pink All ArtsWork created digitally by yours truly
Whoever says ingrown taint hairs don't suck can't be trusted--like diplomacy in Washington. Or was it duplicity? 🤔 Democracy?? D-something. Dammit! Dictatorship?! Whatever D-word the clowns are manipulating this time. Ain't the worst thing that could happen (ingrown taint hairs, remember?) but make no mistake, you're in for an uncomfortable couple of days--nothing funny about those bastages. Unlike 'Decaffeinated,' that's funny! The only D-word that makes sense in this whole paragraph actually--Decaffeinated.
In case the above example is tainted, I'll give you another one: Imagine yourself amongst a group of peaceful protestors anywhere we're currently protesting here in the United States of AmericanS. You're amongst a few thousand equally deserving, oxygen breathing humans and everyone's simultaneously chanting:
They're yelling at the fully-armed and deputized, vagina-birthed human beings who've been programmed to believe their authority
masks demonizes trump's (for lack of a second better term) anything and everything related to acceptable human behavior:
The crowd's all fired up and illprepared for an intoxicating dose of the notoriously war-banned (lawfully and acceptable, however, to unload radically unhealthy doses on American, tax-paying citizens by none other than American, tax-PAID citizens) substance known as tear gas when up steps a fidget (fuckin midget). Dude takes control of the bull-horn and the crowd of a few thousand peaceful demonstrators temporarily silence themselves in confusion with a genuine hint of concern when little man's voice echoes louder than everyone:
I think Welch's is the only manufacturer of grape juice and it's always purple. Seems venturing into strawberry juice is out of the question--can't find that
shit juice anywhere. Cranraspberry, Appleplum, Palmagrape, Lemonlime, Pineapplemango, Kiwipeachberry, yata yata and whatever other infinite flavors they got beautifully faced down the 1/2 mile long aisle of fruit juices--just gimme some fuckin Grape juice!
I don't remember that phenomenon being so widely accepted last time we were in the states. I say 'in the states' because nowhere else have we been is there a community of people so pressed for time they've normalized something as ridiculous as pre-call text messages--embarrassing.
You're kidding, right?? Please tell me only my friends are so soul sucked into the rat race they actually believe pre-call texting saves time.
Of course I have a minute, I got a shitload of minutes. Unfortunately, you just wasted 1n3/4 minutes sending me that pre-call text message which coincidentally required six minutes of my time to receive and all you originally allotted yourself was 4n1/2 minutes total conversation time--you're fucked! We'll have to reschedule this failed conversation attempt for a later date and, while I got you, I'd like to make a suggestion (if you have time). Call me next time you want to know if I have a minute. You'll be amazed at the amount of time saved. Tic.. Toc.. Tic.. Toc.
You know you got some California OG when you're face-timing a buddy on your phone about the ridiculous pre-call text you just received from a mutual friend. California has officially enlightened the mood in your veins when you go to read the pre-call text message word for word but you can't find your phone. 🤔
I remember when hearing about my wife's daily poops was awkward. She'd be all excited exiting the bathroom like "guess what!!" I'd prepare myself for the worst thinking 'here we go again! Gee--can't wait.' Please, gorgeous, please continue on! Please tell me how clean or not clean, double flusher, or whatever it is you're dying to tell me about your turd. No, really, I've been eagerly awaiting this moment since I woke up--fast forward to present day.
Not only are hearing about my wife's daily poops no longer awkward, after nearly four years of marriage and trying to properly diagnose her gut issues, I find myself genuinely concerned these days like 'nice! Good one!' Furthermore, I'm fully engaged in the conversation nowadays even regularly chiming in about my own toilet experience like 'Na! Na! I only used five squares this a.m, ka'pow!'
I don't care how drop dead gorgeous your wife is (mine's a show-stopper), partner is, spouse, fiancé, beneficial roommate, etc, whatever the appropriate term is today for 'person you fuck.' Put a tiara on her/him, whatever, Miss America ribbon--doesn't matter. I'm 100% confident I'll never get used to being the person responsible for clearing the area when it's blatantly obvious her first attempt at flushing last night's calorie consumption wasn't entirely successful.
Why are atheists so boisterous? 🤔 I never met an atheist who didn't feel compelled to tell me they're an atheist every time they open their mouth. Dear atheists: I heard you the first 50 times. Nobody ever heard a chick, "I'm a woman! I'm a woman! I'm a woman! I'm a woman!" Or some douchebag regurgitating his sexual identity every chance he got, "I'm a man! I'm a man! I'm a man!"
Thanks (again), atheist! For a fraction of a second there, I had this crazy ass thought we were engaged in conversation without having to hear you go into great detail about how confused you are:
Space Cadet iPad. Apple Pencil. Sketchbook-app. Yours truly
I always thought big, lifted trucks were cool. I'd see those massive 60 thousand dollar trucks on the freeway with 37 inch mud tires and lift kits like 'I gotta get one of those!' I wouldn't have to pretend to be nice or rich or anything, I could pull chicks all day just by rolling down the window. My wife squashed that theory. 10's have an extraordinary douchebag detector.
She's since made it hilariously obvious. I can't tell you many times now she and I have watched a short fella (short-short, not dwarf-short) hop out of a big, lifted truck. She's since gone on to explain how "he's probably got a little dick, too." Poor lil' fella! Add an off-center (cuz apparently he can't read a tape measure) Tap-Out sticker to the back window and dude likely stands reeeaaally close to the toilet--just sayin.
Living on Ocean Boulevard in Long Beach, California for many years, I've had the pleasure of being the recipient of not one but two hit and run's. There's a lot of bars on 2nd street where everyone parties and, unfortunately, drunk people aren't notorious for stickin around to file a police report after smashing into unattended, parked vehicles. That's "vehicles" as in plural--more than one.
The second time it happened, the three vehicles parked behind me took the brunt end of drunk guy's attempt at driving home and all that happened to my car was a minor scratch on the rear bumper and a bent license plate. The other three vehicles, however, not so fortunate. Next door to Pura and I were two college chicks, sisters actually (not twins, fellas, keep calm!), they were always real nice. The following morning, upon discovering last nights escaped, one of the sisters said "it was a lifted truck, you know, like a douche." I'm thinkin 'Shit the bed! It's not just my wife and all her smokin-hot friends who think that, apparently it's common knowledge amongst the entire female gender.' Well then, I'm glad I never had a douchebag truck. The reason for this long-winded description of douchebags and their douchy trucks will be explained in the next (or two'ish) paragraph.
Just yesterday a big obnoxiously loud, douchebaggy truck was rolling alongside us on the freeway. Pura pointed out how little man with tweezer-pinching genitalia had a "Ford" sticker on his truck rather than Tap-O.. whatever it's called. Totally original by the way! Nothing more prestigious than an off-center Ford sticker on your Ford truck that already says Ford across the tailgate, a few times on each front quarter panel, the door handles, and wherever else Ford previously identified their product prior to exiting the assembly line--throw an aftermarket Ford sticker across the windshield and/or back window, too, douchebag.
I said 'What's up with that?? Dudes are always out to impress chicks but so are chicks.' They never get all gorgeous'd-out to impress us, they get all gorgeous'd out to out-shine the (competition) other chicks. @Puravidaville does it too. She doesn't get all decked out to impress me, per se, she gets all decked out to out-shine the other chicks.
She said, with her memorizing blue eyes and gentle, soft and sexy voice, "cuz all we have to do to impress you guys is show up." ..........🤔
Touché! They (finest creatures to ever grace this planet, 'ladies') don't have to do shit to impress us--they just gotta show up! Add something as basic as a half-assed, off-centered glance in our direction and we're foaming at the mouth.
They (ladies) could be all raggedy lookin in pajama pants--hasn't frequented the esthetician for a number of weeks and, here we are, fresh cut and shaved with a stack of $1's in our pocket, rollin around in high-priced douchebag payments like we're swingin for the fences and we're still droppin credit cards to buy drinks. No wonder their only objective is to out-shine the other chicks in attendance--free drinks!
I recently caught a study claiming 29% of women are regularly prescribed anti-depressants. Question: Who's the quack responsible for misdiagnosing 71% of women?? 🤔 That was a joke! 'Ha-Ha-Ha' get it? 'Can I buy you a drink?' 🍹🍸🍷 (or three) Or however many you want! 'I got a big truck parked outside.'
You know that song Goody Two Shoes, "you don't drink - don't smoke - what do you do?" By Adam Ant? You should know it--it's the epitome of one hit wonder. I always thought that song would resonate with more listeners if the chorus was slightly altered: You don't drink - don't smoke - we'll never ever have anything in common ever!
Pura and I have numerous common interests. She likes to take showers, I like to watch. I like to take showers, she doesn't like to watch. She cleans our laundry, I wear laundry. She likes to cook, I like to eat. She says jump, I'm instinctually one-leggin a pogo stick like 'Mayday!! Gimme an extension ladder, stat!'
Another common interest of ours is neither she or I wish to breed additional humans into this safe and non-conforming, unregulated environment of over-populated humans eagerly awaiting the arrival of corruption, debt, air backed loans provided by centralized banking and.... ithink you get the (protected) point.
I'm at CVS the other day getting tampons (for her, not me). Plastic applicators don't stand a chance soaking up everything I barfed out so far. Something I've done countless times, by the way (grabbed tampons). I never barf long-winded rant style paragraphs. I've received numerous admirable-type comments over the years regarding my purchase by people whom I've never met.
The other day I'm waiting in line at the register with a box of non-scented Tampax Pearl's in my hand cuz I've done this before, I'm a professional tampon picker-upper, and I know wtf tampons to get. The lady behind me says "awe, that's so sweet" insinuating I'm the sweetest dude in the store because I'm buying tampons which, by the way, I'm not only the sweetest but undoubtedly the coolest as well. Her surprised look of enlightenment turned to a confused look of concern when I said: "Bet your ass--means she ain't pregnant!"
My buddy Michael always calls me on Christmas Day. Even if it's the only time I hear from him all year, I can expect his phone call on December 25th. He's in New York--forced to leave California when we were 18 but that's a whole different story. Anywho... Christmas Day.
'Merry Christmas, Michael!'
"Merry Christmas, bastard!" He continued "ain't like you got family, who the fuck else is gonna call you on Christmas Day?"
I laughed. Michael and I go way back, I expect nothing less. "Merry Christmas, bastard" is totally normal conversation. 'Thanks for always thinkin of me man, Merry Christmas, watcha got goin today?'
"I'm at the strip club @dandays but I didn't want you to think I forgot about you--Merry Christmas, I gotta go."
I laughed again, 'really, a strip joint?!'
"You know what kinda girls strip on Christmas Day, @dandays?!"
I had no idea where he was going with this one but I bit: 'What kind?'
Before abruptly disconnecting without saying goodbye, he said "the kind I'm fuckin!"