Tuesday, April 24, 2018

We Can Rebuild Him, We Have The Technology

Congratulations ladles and jelly spoons! Eureka! We did it! You can pack up all your shit and go home now. The job is done. Science has achieved the unachievable! Obtained the unobtainable! Postered the preposterous!

Forget living on other planets! Screw aliens! Spare nary a thought on time travel, nor perpetual motion machines. The Matrix? Child’s play. And don’t even get me started on those damn hoverboards. All of those things are as a house made of sticks, to the stone house science has just created!

As I’m sure all of you knowledgeable, well-informed people have already heard, good old-fashion American SCIENCE! and KNOW-HOW! gave us the first attempted (and successful) full-on junx transplant!

Last month at Johns Hopkins Hospital (MOTTO: Forget about Ben Carson. We sure have.) An American service member underwent a 14-hour operation to replace some…body parts. It turns out that dude had his whole area blown way the hell off by a bomb in Afghanistan. This was a major deal. This explosion wasn’t like the plethora of times that Bugs Bunny has blown up Daffy Duck. This is more like…hmmm. Well, the closest thing I can compare it to is having a bomb explode your crotch into many small chunks scattered around a 25-foot radius.


It turns out that a majority of soldiers who are wounded in battle (or from Karaoke Night at Gus’s Saloon and Spittoon) and wake up in the hospital immediately ask if their twig and berries are still intact. Now that’s how proper priorities work!

Private Deacon: Uhh, hello?

Nurse: Sir, you’re awake!

Deacon: How long have I been out?

Nurse: Eight days. We were losing hope. The chaplain came by and spent two days praying by your side with your best friend. We flew your entire family out here in hopes that their very presence would somehow radiate hopefulness and good vibes. Bono and U2 wrote a song for…

Deacon: How’s my dick?

While there have been two previously successful johnson transplants, those were just the wangs. This soldier got a new dick AND balls. Both of dude’s legs were blown to hell right above the knees, but it was his manhood that really got him worked up.

“That injury, I felt like it banished me from a relationship,” he said in an interview last week. “Like, that’s it, you’re done, you’re by yourself for the rest of your life. I struggled with even viewing myself as a man for a long time.” * Of course this dude’s keeping his identity a secret. He probably wants to avoid the groupies and whatnot.

But the real question isn’t can we do this surgery? The question is should we do it?
The answer is a resounding: Nahhhh

Being the elite journalist that I am, I spent the day querying how people would feel if they either were given or interacted with transplanted genitalia. Naturally, this is both a delicate and serious topic. So I made sure to approach people and asked them with tact and discretion their thoughts. It went like this:

Me: Yo man, could you spend the rest of your life with somebody else’s DICk and BALLS between your legs?    

Invariably, most of the guys’ answers were quite similar. They ranged from “I can’t do it,” to “If my own shit was blown off I would have to set off another bomb for the rest of me.” Some guys simply sent me rude and offensive pictures and one gentleman even took a swing at me.

The women, on the other hand, were far more openminded about having interactions with relocated schlongs

Me: Yo, would you DO IT with a guy who had a phallus transplant?

“I probably would be ok with it as long as it works. It might be a little weird at first, but it’s not like I’m staring at it,” said one lady person.

Another responder answered “I mean, it doesn’t matter as long as he’s disease free and it’s consensual.”

So there you have it. Something happened and people think stuff about that something. They have opinions and beliefs and prejudices, and gingivitis. We have only scratched the surface of this topic here today in this column. There’s still a million questions to be resolved. Such as:

Is the dick the same color as the guy its attached to?
How do you bring a dead dick back to life?
Does it work?
Whose little soldiers are swimming around in that ball sack?
Can he get a chick pregnant?
Is it possible to get “phantom limb” syndrome with your dick?
Will the previous owner’s personality take over the new host and he’ll end up killing and/or making love to a lot of people?

All these questions and more were probably answered in the news article I just skimmed, but I’m too lazy to go back and read. So let’s just assume that science is magical and beyond our mortal comprehension. Science works in mysterious ways and we should all be humbled to be in science’s presence. **

*If he dated any of the women I‘ve dated, he’d consider himself lucky to not have to deal with relationships, amirite guys?!

**Ha! I made it through the whole thing without saying “penis” once!...Oh, wait.

Saturday, April 21, 2018

Eighty-Four Glyde Libs

For those of you who are unaware, or had terrible childhoods, Mad Libs was a word game for rambunctious kids during road trips. They were books that contained a couple dozen short “stories” a few paragraphs long that had certain words missing. The goal wasn’t to try and figure out which word was supposed to fit into the sentence, in fact, the kid guessing the word didn’t even know what the story was. One kid would have the book and every time there was a blank in a sentence, the book would altruistically tell you what type of word fit there, such as “noun”, or “adjective” or “part of body”, and the other kid just picks a noun or adjective at random. At the end the kid with the book would read the entire story with the words inserted and both younglings would laugh uproariously at the gobblety-gook they had created. Fun for everybody!

But who said Mad Libs are just for kids*? What happens when a group of fun-loving adults get together with some incredibly adult libations, decide to give in to their immature yearnings and do some Mad Libs?

You get Eighty-Four Glyde Libs, of course!

Spies speak their own SLIMY language. Common terms include:
Target—a person or an APPLE of interest whom a spy watches come and CREAM.
Surveillance—to monitor or observe a FIRE with visual, listening, or FASTING equipment like cameras, satellites, or long-distance BALLS.
Bug—a FUNKY device that can be placed on an object such as a car, remote control, or CARphone to listen in on a target’s SWEATY conversations.
Alias—the name a spy uses-like Ronald McDonald or ASHLEY-while undercover.
Mole—a BLACK HOLE from one spy organization who gets a job within a rival STUMP organization in order to obtain inside information or other secret APPLES.
Classified—sensitive and DUSTY information that only certain levels of CHIPS have authorized clearance to access.

When I turned 15 years-old, my mom and ASS threw an AVUNCULAR spy-themed birthday party for me. I invited ten of my closest TURTLES, and we spent a HAIRY afternoon doing cool spy stuff. We slipped black sunglasses on our TOES, grabbed MEANDERING toy cell phones, and practiced our surveillance techniques with a game of hide-and-SQUATING around my backyard. We decoded COMFORTABLE messages that my parents had written on colorful BACTERIA. We pounded on a CHAIR-shaped piñata with a wooden HUMAN FLESH, and we put spy tattoos like binoculars, computers and micro-YURTS all over our EYES. Later my mom served cake and ZITS, and everyone sang “SPARKILY Birthday” to me. I got a ton of HEROIC gifts, but my favorite was the motion-activated MEAT that would alert me to any UVULAS about to sneak into my room. Every good spy needs one of these!

To Agent JOSH: At this morning’s SCRAPPY management meeting, it was decided by Agency Chief SNOOP DOGG that you are being assigned to the case known internally as Operation MILKING WART. This memo will provide the MOIST details of the case, and you will be briefed further in the coming week. As you may know, this case involves a band of FLAKEY thieves who stole the blueprints to a top-secret robot GOITER that threatens the security of our LUMPY country. They have hidden the prints somewhere in a STIFF location on the outskirts of the SAVAGE LANDS. Their leader’s name is Uno Ojo, which translates to FLEXIBLE COCK. You will know him by the black eye patch he wears over his TAINT. Be advised that he and his group of evil STARS are armed and BUMPY, so use extreme caution if you come face-to-HEMMEROID with any of them. As any good spy knows, you’re of no use to the agency if you’re PUNGENT.

*Mature adults who don’t understand the concept of fun and who sit in their depressing office cubicles trying to buy Crocs for their dogs or some shit. That’s who!  

**Yes, these are all spy related.

Monday, April 16, 2018

The Dungeon

Most of us live relatively normal lives. We work, we play, we raise younglings, (who we must sometimes chop down with lightsabers to prove ourselves to Lord Sidious and the Dark Side). All and all, a pretty typical, monotonous existence. That’s probably why people do stuff like sky-dive or eat Tide Pods or experiment with veganism. It’s understandable.

But for some people, that’s not enough. They go where we dare not tread. They like to skulk in the shadows, the shady underbelly of society, (no, not Arby’s.) Living the deviant lives of which we can only dream. You know, like being a pizza delivery guy in a porno movie.

I speak of…The Dungeon.

A few years ago, when I wasn’t busy filming Vines and doing the Ice Bucket Challenge or whatever, I was a manager at a warehouse that assembled beauty and make up kits for ladies and bros who like to look pretty with voluminous hair*. My duties and responsibilities at the warehouse were varied and important and only slightly involved ogling women in an unprofessional fashion. But that’s a subject for another day, (and for my lawyer to deal with.)

The warehouse where I worked was part of a large complex of buildings and businesses. There was a landscaping company, a guy who would make you tee shirts and towels (or something like that, it was all pretty janky) a delicious-smelling bakery and…The Dungeon.

How do I describe this place without coming off like the naïve puritan that I so obviously am?

As far as I can tell, the Dungeon is a place where people film music videos, record songs, enjoy alcoholic beverages and engage in sexual dalliance with each other…possibly while filming videos and listening to music**. It’s kind of confusing what that place was about. Even the business’ own set of rules is vague on the concept.

I only encountered the Dungeon after it was abandoned. My boss needed more warehouse space, and since that section of the complex was recently vacated (I think it had something to do with an FBI sting, or maybe INTERPOL) he was able to get it for cheap. And when we went to explore it, it really looked like the Dungeon had been abandoned in the middle of the night, because there was an odd assortment of items scattered about. Like a sex swing, (don’t Google that one kiddies, Big Brother is watching!). I’ve never used a sex swing before, so I’m not entirely sure how they work or how people get introduced to them. Who commits financially to buying a sex swing unless they know they’ll get plenty of use out of it? And if you were dating somebody who already owned one, wouldn’t that set off some alarms in your head?

I also found this:

Yes. Latex polish. A real product being hawked by the freakiest superhero mascot with a porn-‘stache since Buttplug Man. What is latex polish? I assume it’s something one uses to polish their gimp suit. I didn’t know that was an issue people had, but then again, I don’t own any items of clothing made out of latex, I dropped the ball on that one, sorry. My favorite part of "Black Beauty" latex polish is the name of the distributing company. I think it’s quite apt.

The owners and patrons of the Dungeon weren’t just sexual heretics (great band name). They were also accomplished artists as exemplified by the bathrooms. There were surprisingly few used condoms in the trash. Although I do believe the roaches probably had herpes.

My only regret is that in the years I spent working within a stone’s throw of a sex club, I found out about the Dungeon too late. It’s like…finding out you live next to a sex club the day after it closes. 

Well, I guess the only thing I can do is create my own place for people to get down and dirty. What should I call it?

*I’ll never know the feeling of hair such as that. I weep.
**2LiveCrew always does it for me.

Monday, April 09, 2018


These are dark days. Murky clouds gather above us and blot out the bright light of the Esoterica. The light has been shut out to those who thrive in its radiance.

Basically, what I’m saying it’s no fun being into obscure or old stuff right now. Especially 80s stuff. That nostalgia shit is everywhere and will only get worse instead of better.

The 1980s were a decade. New decades seem to come around every ten years or so. It’s mysterious. That particular decade is similar to ones that came before and after it. People existed, they wore clothes, listened to music, had extremely specific hairstyles that were instantly outlawed by the following decade and they probably ate food.

So what makes the 80s different/special?

Well, in a way, nada. In other ways everything (I’m nothing if not specific). The 80s saw the dawning of the computer age, as exemplified in movies like Tron, War Games, D.A.R.Y.L. and Explorers. It was also the heyday of cocaine, as demonstrated by Scarface and everything that Stephen King was involved in.

But while I could easily write multiple columns about how tits the 80s were, they’d be incredibly boring to anybody who considers hip hop from 2000 to be “old school”. The question isn’t “why are the 80s so popular?” it’s “why are the 80s popular now?” Easy.

People who, as children, suckled on the teat of the 80s, (me and most likely you if you’re reading this) are the leading generation. We’re in charge now, and that means that all the garbage we grew up on is now, by law, bodacious and relevant again. No matter how obscure (or, let’s be honest, in retrospect --terrible) the pop culture of yesteryear was, it was ours goddamn it and we will drag it, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century and shove it down everybody’s throats like a hot dog at an eating contest, (just sit there and picture that scenario for a minute.)

This isn’t fair for other generations, but too bad. I had to grow up living under the nostalgia umbrella of Generation X (motto: Our music can only be written in minor keys and all our rappers must have ‘MC’ in their names.) And they were forced to deal with their hippy drippy parents’ cultural memories. It is, as my friend Elton Jonathan once called it: “The Mobius Strip of Life”, never-ending and very unsatisfying.

The problem for people like me, those who swim in the waters of incredibly specific and pointless things from the past, is that the market has been saturated. Thanks to schlock like Ready Player One and Stranger Things, you can barely take a step without bumping into She-Ra or Hacksaw Jim Duggan.* There is no room for people like me. We used to gather in the secret places (comic book shops and bars) to discuss things like who would win in a fight between Airwolf and Blue Thunder. Because to let people know what geeky stuff we were into branded us as pariahs to our peers. But no longer. Now that which was niche is mainstream. But at what cost!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a butthurt fanboy, mad that the rest of the world is finally being introduced to stuff I’ve been into for decades. I’m all about sharing the wealth. So far, my boy Mr. Brooks is the only dude I know who can rank Duck Tales episodes with me based on how spectacular Launchpad’s crashes were. I’d love to bring more people into the fold. That way my sister won’t look at me like a crazy jerk anymore. But let’s give the 80s a break, shall we? No more reboots, remakes, re-animators or rebuttals. We don’t need any of our beloved (and objectively bad) movies turned into tv shows, or our choking-hazards masquerading as toys turned into movies with three sequels. The let past go. Or pick another decade.

I’ve heard good things from my southern friends about the 1860s.

*And I feel cheap for even making those references.

Wednesday, April 04, 2018

For a Good Time, Call…(Or, What’s the Number for 911?)

*Ring, Ring, Ri*

“Hello Mr. Hunt. Your mission, shou…”

“Wait. Wait, Hold on..Gotta…gotta catch my breath here…Whew!”

“What are you doing Mr. Hunt?”

“I’m catching my breath. I’ve been running around the whole goddam city!”

“You ready now?”

“Sure, go for it.”

“Thank you. Now, Mr. Hunt, your mission sh…”

“Wait a minute. Don’t you want to know why I was running around the entire city?”

“Not especially. Mr. Hunt. What you do on your time is your own business. Besides, from I’ve heard, you’re an avid runner. You practically never walk.”

“Well, that’s true, but…”

“May I finish please Mr. Hunt? I Don’t have all day. I need to brief 007, in ten minutes, Spy Kids in 45 minutes and Austin Powers in an hour.”


“Now, as I was saying, Your missi…”

“Let me stop you right there, friend.”

“This is highly unprofessional!”

“You want to know what’s unprofessional? This whole thing here. Who was the jackass who came up with the idea of calling me on a payphone?”

“I’m quite sure I don’t know and I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“It sure as shit is, Mister Phone-Voice Guy. Do you know how many payphones there are in Toledo?”

“I have no idea, 300?”

“Twelve! Twelve damn phones!”

“Well, Toledo can’t be that large, it is Toledo, after all.”

“It’s 84.12 square miles, with a population of 287,208! This place is too big to pull these shenanigans on a guy in his early fift…, uhh, mid-forties.”

“Mr. Hunt, the Impossible Mission Force does not partake in shenanigans. Now if I can just get this over with…”

“’Get on this over with’ my scrawny, Scientologist ass! I busted my kidney with all this running! And you don’t even want to know how raw my nipples are right now.”

“Sigh. Look, I’m sorry Mr. Hunt, but that’s really not my department. Now if we can…”

“Shove it. Take a wild guess as to how many payphones there are in America.”


“Wanna know? I looked it up, because this whole thing is bullshit. In 1995 there were more than 2.6 million payphones in this country. Know how many there are now? One hundred thousand! That’s quite a drop, wouldn’t you say? You’re more likely to get hit by lightning on the day you win the lottery than find a phone!”

“I told you, Mr. Hunt, it’s not my department to come up with these things, we have a whole section devoted to that. You’re lucky the call wasn’t in a submarine.”

“You people spend all day on your bulbous, fish belly-white, flabby buttocks, ordering us field operatives around like we’re frickin’ trained monkeys. Not giving a damn what we have to go through on a regular basis. I had to physically touch Philip Seymore Hoffman! Imagine having to lay hands on that doughy physique. I practically dipped my hands in lava afterward, just to feel clean.”

“Enough of this! We need to do this before the damn phone self-destructs.”

“Smart move guy. Let’s make it 99,999 payphones in this country. Is this all part of your sick scheme to rid this great nation of all our coin-operated telephonic devices? I’m on to you.”




Monday, April 02, 2018

Message In A Bottle

It’s Spring Break time again, (so I’ve been told by MTV) which means that it’s time to put away my winter caribou pelts and sacks of whale blubber, and unleash my Adonis-like gorgeousness upon the world, for all you pathetic mortals to see and covet.

Usually, for Springapalooza, this nation’s (United States of America) youth migrates to southern shores, to bask in the sun, wear revealing bathing suits near bodies of water (yet rarely going in said water. Scientists have yet to explain this phenomenon.) and drink extremely sugary fruit-based cocktails with names like I Don’t Remember Eating That, The Dangling Participle, Busta’s Lament and the always popular Englebert Humperdinck.

I’m too old and world-weary to partake in such juvenile behavior. But there was a time not so long ago* I used to hit the beach to boogie board and get stung by every jellyfish in a hundred-mile radius. And as I reminisce on Spring Breaks past, one memory stands out to me. The time I made a fascinating historical discovery that would change my life.

It was December 8, 1998, (I take my Spring Breaks whenever I damn well please. In this I will not apologize nor compromise.) and I was walking along tranquil (and frigid) Avery Road Beach, in scenic Silver Springs, FL., which is odd, because I’m pretty sure that town is landlocked. All of a sudden, the big toe on my left foot, in its never-ending quest to stub itself on every possible object, came across an unidentified object buried in the sand, although this was Florida, so it was probably 95% sand and 5% cocaine. After the requisite three minutes of me cussing out my evil toe and threatening dismemberment, I removed the object from the sand. To my surprise, I discovered that it was an 18th century bottle of British port. Even more interesting was the note I found inside.

It went, a little something, like this…
Captain’s Log: 8.12.76 Day 47
The men’s morale is low. We are down to the final barrel of limes. Poor Bosun’s Mate Smyth had a third tooth dislodge itself from his mouth, last eve. I fear a sudden, ship-wide onset of scurvy. Even worse, weevils have been found in the flour. The cook is having a devil of a time removing them in totality. Many a sailor on this fine vessel has found a portion of these vile worms in their meager ration of bread.

To make matters worse, we have not had a favorable wind in almost a fortnight. We are left in the hands of the Lord our God, and the winds of chance.

Captain’s Log: 23.12.76, Day 63
And still our dire straits continue. I had hoped and prayed that the upcoming Christmas Time would be a cause of joy and merriment amongst the hearts of this beleaguered crew, but I fear it is for naught. It is a bad omen and does not bode well. All I can do is pray to the heavens and beseech God for mercy upon his humble servants.

Captain’s Log: 13.1.77, Day 84
Huzzah! Success at last! A wind, heaven-sent I am sure of it, has finally filled our formally barren sails! As the hundreds of tons of strong and stout English wood, christened the HMS Falcor, strain under the pull of the wind, the men rejoice to once again feel the salty spray on their withered old sea-dog faces.

We can only hope the winds carry us, in the ocean’s embrace, to a most well-received locale. I have ordered the First Mate to have the crew trim the sails properly. A task they were quite eager to undertake, to wake themselves from the tediousness of days of inactivity. Only fortune and hope guide us now.

Captain’s Log: 15.1.77, Day 86
The abundance continues! We are blessed by the Lord Almighty. Our nets overflow with all manner of sea life, some of which I am sure have never been seen by the eyes of white, Christian men.
The only unfortunate report is that our man Smyth was accidentally knocked overboard whist pulling up the netting. But we can take solace in the fact that his death will mean larger rations for the rest.

Captain’s Log: 2.2.77, Day 94
Land ho! We have not yet sighted any native life, but from the crow’s nest, we can see a lush, verdant countryside: trees, bushes, birds and wildlife. A veritable Eden! Tomorrow I shall lead a group ashore for further exploration! God’s mercy be with us!

Captain’s Log: 3.2.77, Day 95
Oh shit! Aaaah! Ruuuuuun!

And it just ends right there. Kind of weird, right? Was this guy dictating his log entries? Who takes the time to write while running for their lives? Who was he? Where did they land? So many unanswered questions. I didn’t know where to start!

So I just wrote DEEZ NUTZ at the bottom, shoved it back in the flask and threw it back in the ocean. Let’s see what future Indiana Jones makes of that!

*Bullshit. It was a LONG time ago. Possibly even never. Who can say?