Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Bob & Allah Approve of this Message

Have you heard about the new Muslim Lifestyle Network? I am sure it is flagship show "How did we only manage to kill 3,500 people on 9/11?" will resonate with the American public. Though, I am not so sure about "Talking Puppet Jihad" or their controversial reality show, "Suicide Bombers: The New Hebrew Holocaust." Then again, I don't have my finger on the pulse of America, or in this case a gun to our collective heads. One can only hope that it will be as uplifting as BET--the network that put the nig back into black. (Looping gangsta rap videos throughout the day that even the corrupter of all that is good--MTV--won't run.)

While on the subject of intolerance, I wanted to give a hearty congrats to South Park for tackling the controversial issue that is Paris Hilton. She is the most unfairly maligned of the psedo-celebrity whores. Can a girl suck-start a Harley and still be an untalented rich bitch? Paris Hilton proves both facts are not mutually exclusive, time and again.

All this talk about Paris Hilton reminded me of this article on abortions gone badly. Death--both that of the child and mother-- is an adverse side effect, obviously. But really, isn't the alternative much worse: To take responsibility for ones actions and give birth to a child. It is good to know that feminism is alive and well.

Go to Hell

This post is dedicated to Ken Jennings. The streak might be over (damn you H&R Block) but his legacy will never die. He will be forever known as the second greatest Mormon superstar. (Steve Young is first)

Human Ingenuity

The clock reads 2:35 am and I almost didn't poop. It is a common occurrence for Bob to wake up and take an early morning bowel constitutional. Usually it is a painless affair, or relatively painless--a diet consisting of Taco Bell and White Castle does tend to get a bit "messy." I had hoped to sit down, grunt a few dozen times and drop brown napalm on the porcelain jungle, however; that wasn't to be the case.

Earlier in the night, before going to bed, I had defecated and defecated well. I used the customary half a roll of toilet paper, as my hairy inner buttock requires heavy maintenance and eternal vigilance, unbeknownst to me this was not ordinary toilet paper, it was 2-ply. In other words, the sheets were double thick and, as I learned several hours later, much more likely to clog a toilet.

I am not one to be prepared in life; much of my existence consists of coasting by on my good looks, charm and rapier-like wit. Coasting is not the right word, actually. Drowning in my inequities would be more precise. Anyway, I never before saw fit to purchase a toilet plunger. A clogged toilet happened to other people--Democrats for example--but the porcelain god was full of tribute and ready to "give" back. I didn't know what to do, where to turn to, or who to call. I couldn't go next door and borrow/steal the parent’s plunger, it was too late at night and last time I came over after midnight, mom threatened to shoot me in the balls. I considered driving to Wal-Mart or Kroger to buy a plunger but it was cold outside and shitting my pants (at least partially so) isn't terribly uncommon, so I prioritized warmth over personal hygiene. You will be glad to know that it didn't come to splattering my undies, instead something far worse happened.

Here is what I mean by clogged: the toilet was filled with urine, brown sludge and the odd piece of corn; it was a cornucopia of the human digestive and excretory systems. I decided to think outside the box and endeavor how one man--sans a plunger--could overcome a shit filled flotsam. Then it hit me, I would use my toothbrush to push the excess toilet paper through the pipes. It seems that a toothbrush wasn't designed for this process as it broke in two. I was out of ideas, and the shock of cold water from the bowl considerably expedited my need to shit. It was now, never or in my pants. I decided to give it one last try and stuck my entire fist into the hole, which seemed to fit perfectly, and hoped to make a plunger out of my arm. It sort of worked. Ten minutes and three wet farts later I managed to unclog the toilet with only the aid of my child-sized fist. My colon was overjoyed.

The lesson from this incident: Don't shake hands with Bob.

Go to Hell