Pork TornadoJust a sample. I highly recommend reading everything, but it might take you a little while. He is an Auburn grad that now lives in Atlanta. Not really an Auburn fan and he has some peculiar views on things, but most of the time, he makes me laugh.
I Figured I was Overdue for Something Like This
June 18th, 2005 by Dusty
How long has it been since I cut my face off, lit my arm on fire, poisoned myself, or otherwise provided pants-wettingly hilarious material for the heaving, sweaty masses that read this blog?
Too damn long.
If you have been keeping up with this site for very long, you know that I have a proclivity for the ungraceful. That is to say that from time to time I get myself into situations that require me to punch myself in the junk, or carefully scrape parts of my body off of things to which they have been glued.
Cool…this entry just turned into a clip show.
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Anyway, funny story about my arrival at work today, but first I have to get something off my chest.
Michael Jackson- Why does anyone act the least bit surprised that he moonwalked out of the courtroom without a scratch?
That’s what happens when you are rich and white.
Anyway, I won the office betting pool by being the only one cynical enough to believe that he would not be convicted of anything. My winnings are the dirtiest of dirty money, basically having been pulled from the rectums of innocent young boys.
Makes me wonder how Jackson’s lawyers must feel. Oh wait…they’re lawyers.*
Next, the runaway bride- if anyone can explain to me why I should give a sweet crap about another crazy bitch and her redneck husband, I’m listening.
This morning I saw a clip of an exclusive interview between this Wilbanks chick and Katie Couric, thus bringing the total number of reasons to hate Katie Couric to 832,324.
Sidebar: A few years ago I watched a rescue by a coast guard helicopter in which a man and his young daughter were plucked from the icy waters of a river somewhere. Pretty dramatic- they were the only survivors of a plane crash or something, and the camera cuts back to Katie Couric. With her trademark vacant smile and dipshit gaze, she exclaims, “Aren’t helicopters neat?”
Yes Katie. They’re neat. Neat like the fact that they keep putting you in front of a camera, you vapid douchebag.
She met her intellectual match with the runaway bride, from what I could tell. They exchanged empty stares and over-dramatized the dumbest fucking story in the history of the universe. About as compelling as unflavored jello, but I’m sure the ratings will be sky high.
Then on the way to work I hear on the radio that Wilbanks got a $500,000 television deal. If that is true, I’m going on a rampage with a lawn aerator, and I’m not stopping until everyone is dead and/or aerated.
Finally, another story that is as irrelevant as any other, but everyone seems to care about for some reason. Tom Cruise is marrying an actress who is 91 years younger than he is, and it’s creepier than watching video of Billy Bob and Angelina Jolie making out. It’s just a matter of time before Tom shows up at a movie awards show wearing a sweater made out of her pubic hair because his bizarro cult told him to. I saw clips from a talk show where the guy was jumping on couches and dancing around the stage in a nauseatingly juvenile attempt to appear smitten.
I guess if you have tried several times to convince the public that you have finally met your soul mate only to have it sprayed back in your face like so much penguin shit in relatively short order, you have to go increasingly over the top to make sure everyone really believes you this time. The problem is this: no matter how many back handsprings you do on Oprah, it is obvious to everyone that you are only trying to convince yourself.
*if you are a lawyer and are offended by that comment, see if you can rent a sense of humor somewhere by the hour or whatever. Just to get you through this.
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Okay, now I’m going to explain why I had to take my shirt off in the parking deck this morning.
The morning started normally enough. Wake up with my fat head on a pillow full of $100 bills, have an albino in a batman costume bring me my breakfast of foie gras and mango nectar on a tricycle, blah blah blah.
I got to work at about the same time everyone else did. As I was getting out of my car, I grabbed all of the crap I carry around with me- phone, camera, wallet, handgun, etc. I set most of it on top of the car and then put events in motion in a way that only I can. Locking the car door is a fluid motion- hit the lock button as I am stepping out, drop keys in pocket, dodge door as it slams shut (parked on an incline). Usually it goes smoothly.
This time, however, I locked the door, stepped out, dropped my keys in my left pocket, put a couple of handfuls of stuff on top of my car, started to dodge the door, noticed that my can of red bull had tipped over and was rolling away, and reached across the roof of the car to grab it.
The door caught the side of my shirt below the sleeve and closed on it, pinning me uncomfortably against the Honda with one arm on the roof. Naturally I tried to open the door with the other hand, and naturally it was locked. My can of red bull had rolled off the other side of the car and could be heard rolling further down the parking deck toward freedom, laughing at me the whole way. I briefly considered just pulling away from the door, but I didn’t really want to explain why my shirt was ripped when I got into the office.
“I’ll simply get my keys out of my pocket and unlock the door. My, but I am a bright young man.” I thought.
You have to be a registered contortionist to get anything out of your left pocket with your right hand, especially when you are stuck against an automobile and trying not to ruin your clothes. I tried until I started sweating. A woman finally pulled into the space next to me. The only thing I could think to ask her to do was to reach into my front pocket and get my keys. That thought made me laugh. I laughed so hard I couldn’t even ask her, so I just waved her on. I wanted to see if I could think myself out of this one without the age-old crutch of a stranger’s hand in my pants.
I realized I was going to have to lose the shirt. To me, this was like those stories you hear about the guy who got his leg pinned under a boulder and had to cut it off with a spoon to free himself. I was going to be in the parking deck during the busiest time of the day without a shirt, and trust me- no one wants to see that shit.
Luckily I had my back to most of the traffic, lessening the likelihood that someone would recognize me. I liberated myself from the shirt and tried to get my keys, which I dropped. They hit my shoe and slid under my car, of course, so now there’s a half-naked guy on his hands and knees next to a car with a shirt hanging out of the door and a perfectly logical explanation for anyone who cares to listen.
All’s well that ends well, though. I didn’t even get any car door funk on my shirt. I did, however, overhear someone in the lobby saying something about the guy taking his shirt off in the parking deck.
Yeah, that was me.
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