Q: Why write the book, Bubbles?

Bubbles: “Well, I wanted to clear up the misconceptions. I mean, Michael Jackson was my best friend and a great playmate. You know, he’s the only human who ever defended me when I was referred to as a monkey. I mean, apes have been around since the beginning of time. How can people not tell one species from another? I thought you skin-bags were supposed to be educated. So many times I held my tongue when I just wanted to yell, Dude I’m a f***ing chimpanzee, okay? Do you see a tail? I didn’t think so! Michael was smart though and always defended me as best as he could with that squeaky-ass voice of his. Nobody put me down when MJ was on the scene. He was good to me like that. He was big-hearted.”

Q: Big-hearted in what way? Did he help others as well?

Bubbles: “Well yeah, actually he did. One time he even helped my Uncle Bonzo get cleared of rape charges after a drunken night in the gorilla tank. Uncle B always did have a thing for big chicks, ha ha. Michael saw to it though that the charges were dropped. Musta paid a grip. It meant the world to me. Michael knew the value of a smart ape by his side. That’s why I stuck with him for so long… even during his stupid Elephant Man phase.”

Q: What did you two do for fun together?

Bubbles: “You know, everybody assumed that I just followed Michael around like a stupid monkey getting dressed up in costumes just to watch TV with him or have our picture taken. The fact is, Michael was very giving of himself. He respected me and my culture. He was always asking ‘What would you like to do today, Bubbles?’ It meant a lot to me that he was willing to partake in my simian customs. We’d each run to a corner of the room and masturbate madly until our hands fell numb. Other times, we’d throw feces around for hours just for shits and giggles. I used to kid him about picking up his own poop but he insisted that he didn’t mind. I’d say “Michael, it’s ok to use a glove. You’re human, you know” but he was fine with it. People don’t realize it but that single white glove thing that he did on stage began as a private poop-throwing joke between the two of us. It was his way of winking at me and letting me know I was his best friend.”

Q: What type of revelations can we expect from your book, Bubbles?

Bubbles: “Well, that Moonwalk that people always credit him with, was actually something I came up with. Yeah, he needed a signature move so I showed him how I used to defecate in the jungle while walking backwards so I could scope out the scene for predators. I mean, he made it his own, don’t get me wrong. The original idea, though… That was all about the Bubbler, bro.”

Q: What else? Was he really as shy as he seemed?

Bubbles: “That assumption always bothered me. I mean, when Michael was around his own skin-bag species, he played the bashful card in a big way. It worked well for him, too. But, believe me; he was a guy who really went after what he wanted. With me, he was always forward… VERY forward.”

Q: Did you ever see Michael angry or upset?

Bubbles: “Michael was pretty affable as long as he got what he wanted. Although, one time… well, he did bite me once.”

Q: He bit you? Michael Jackson, greatest artist of our time bit you… a chimpanzee?

Bubbles: “Hey! Watch it with that tone, buster! I got attorneys on speed-dial, you know. I’m connected! Look, it was my own fault anyway. When the King of Pop asks for the red crayon, you damned well better give it to him. Okay? Next question.

Q: What about drugs, Bubbles?

Bubbles: “No, but thank you. I’m clean now, 11 days sober. Thank you Dr. Drew!”

Q: I mean, did you ever see Michael use drugs?

Bubbles: (pause) “I mean…you… you’d have to define, ahem… drugs (cough) for me to effectively answer that question. I mean, I’m a friggin’ chimp, what do I know?”

Q: Let me rephrase that for you. Did you ever see Michael take prescription pills? And did he ever offer you any of those pills?

Bubbles: “Look, I slept in a locked crib in the guy’s bedroom. He didn’t tell me everything. I mean one time he offered me some uppers but I refused. I was already having problems kicking the blow and didn’t want my heart to explode in my sleep leaving fur all over the guy’s satin pajamas. I’m good about stuff like that. ”

Q: Did you know his family?

Bubbles: “Not really. I mean, we’d met but weren’t close. The brothers were all envious of me. They refused to see me as their equal, they had species-bias. I could’ve schooled those jerks on evolution, you know. Jermaine and Tito kept coming around trying to get Michael to do reunion tours with them, but my man was too content wiping my crack and cleaning my urine off the walls. Marlon and Jackie were just pathetic, though. I had no respect for them. I put them on par with the two youngest kids from the Partridge Family. Good for nothing but smacking on tambourines and triangles.”

Q: What about LaToya?

Bubbles: “Nice rack, but I wouldn’t touch her… and I’m a friggin’ monkey”

Q: Chimpanzee

Bubbles: “Whatever.” (lights cigarette)

Q: Bubbles, what do you know about this dermatologist who might or might not be the father of Michael’s child?

Bubbles: “Well, he ain’t much of a dermatologist that’s for sure, ha ha. I mean, if Michael faded anymore, he’d have looked like a shower door. I’d have fired that skin guy years ago.”

Q: And the children?

Bubbles: “Hey, who knows? A lot of people worked under the Big Top, know what I mean? Sure, I’ve heard things, lots of things. Chapter 7 in my book is called ‘Ear Of The Ape.’ Let’s just say that people talk very candidly in front of you when they see you as a lower primate. I learned to use that.”

Q: You slept in Michael’s bedroom, Bubbles. Did you ever witness sexual relations between him and Debbie Rowe, mother of 2 of his children?

Bubbles: “Dude, please. I may be simian but I can still puke. I already told you, Jacko yanked his banana with the jungle’s pimp-daddy on a regular basis. No one in their right mind would trade that in just to rock the double-wide, get my drift?”

Q: Not really, but we’ll move on. Bubbles, in 2001 you moved out of Neverland Ranch for reportedly aggressive behavior. What’s the story behind that?

Bubbles: “Aggressive, my ass. I’ve never hurt anybody who didn’t deserve it. The PR people threw you guys a bone with that bogus story. In actuality, Michael and I had a falling out. He was bothered by my newfound admiration for Justin Timberlake. I mean, JT was a young upcoming star with a style not unlike Michael’s. What was not to like? Michael was sensitive though. He felt rejected. It got ugly; he even called me a racist baboon. I knew it was time to go.

Q: Did the friendship ever recover?

Bubbles: “Yeah, a couple years later we bumped into each other at Emmanuel Lewis’ birthday bash. We clicked right away as if nothing ever happened. It was amazing. I actually moved back in with him about two years ago. We kept it off the radar, though. You media monkeys were being pretty cruel to Michael at that point. The guy didn’t need the publicity. MJ needed my support and I’m proud to have been there for him.”

Q: So do you miss Michael now that he’s gone?

Bubbles: “Well, sure. Of, course. I mean, it was a great gig. I loved it. He’d always take the time to play Hide The Banana with me. He tucked me into bed ‘bout every night. We shared a toothbrush. He was great. Michael brushed my fur as if I was a woman’s head. He’d go on tour and bring me back exotic cigars and good cognac from around the world. What ape wouldn’t miss that?” (snivels, wipes tears)

Q: Do you think Michael might be looking over us now?

Bubbles: Oh Geez, I hope not! I crapped in his glove drawer this morning. Oh, ah… as an homage, I mean.

Q: Bubbles, some critics say that you are capitalizing on Michael Jackson’s death. How do you respond to these charges?

Bubbles: “Well, they can all bite my furry ass! Until they’ve walked in the shiny silver shoes Michael bought me, they have no right to judge me. Instead, they should buy my new book “Hiding Bananas: Life With Michael Jackson” available now through Cheezee Books. I’m in talks with a major Hollywood studio concerning a film adaptation of my journey. Meanwhile, I can be seen weekly on VH1 in my reality-TV dating show called “Blowing Bubbles.”

Your humbled blogger getting his ass groped by a true star.

The Jurkis Bill as it’s known is a multi-pronged approach to revamping the state’s public toilets and changing the way citizens move their bowels outside their homes. Research and development plays a major part in the public-porcelain proposal. High up on the Jurkis hit list are disposable toilet seat covers. The bill describes the current paper variety as “highly inefficient, downright dangerous and goddammed disgusting.” Jurkis’ street team has helped induce a groundswell of discontent over Kimberly Clark’s staple product. An anonymous Circle K shopper sounded off on the effectiveness of the veil-thin potty rings, “What the hell is that thing made of, anyway? That’s the same crap my wife uses to stuff gift bags with! My kid traces comics through that same shit. Paper don’t stop no damned syphilis! Hell, I could go outside and rig me up a wreath from twigs and leaves, sit on the damned thing and feel more safer-er!”

An organized group of Texans known as Ringers have rallied behind Jurkis in support of the paper protector’s abolition. The decades-old group opposes the disposable bacteria borders on the grounds that they fail to keep buttocks free of disease and rim streaks. Ringers can be spotted daily in downtown Dallas with a full-blown personal toilet seat either under their arm or slung across their back with a length of rope or chain. Ringer veteran, William Terdzik insists “You gotta carry your own seat. It’s the only way to protect yourself from all the skanky glutes parkin’ their funk everywhere they go. Until a proper seat cover is invented, you might as well be sharing your underwear with a thousand of your closest neighbors.” The concept has been a natural evolution since the early nineties when the movement’s earliest pioneers would line the toilet seats of Texaco gas stations with their flannel shirts to avert germs. Needless to say, the results weren’t always as hygienic as intended and led to a fair share of flushed plaid.

Jurkis also cites engineering flaws in the paper covers as an impetus to the proposed bill. As a frequent restroom user, the congressman has tried and failed repeatedly to use the Kimberly Clark disposable ring. As with many others, he finds that the paper cover far too often falls into the watery abyss before he can even sit down, “It’s goddamed capillary action, that’s what it is. The flap hangs in the dang water, soaks it up and pulls the whole thing in before you can even mount the damned porcelain. It’s godammed ridiculous. I’ve damn near pulled a cheek muscle trying to pop a squat before the paper slips away.” As part of the proposed law, teams of scientists and researchers would be commissioned to rigorously test the “automatic disposal system” currently incorporated by Kimberly Clark disposable covers. New engineering-grade materials would be developed to provide a non-slip grip to the toilet seat and to effectively protect everyone’s  posterior from one another.

Seat covers aren’t the only thing bothering Billy Jack Jurkis about public restrooms. According to the congressman, stall doors swinging inward make exiting very difficult for overweight individuals like himself. “Hell, I can barely get out of that damned death trap pulling the door towards me. Even as I’m scootin’ backwards, there ain’t no room! Last month, my wife fell back into the toilet at the Hess station as she was trying to get out. Helluva mess that was. Had to throw away her clothes afterwards.” According to OSHA, the doors swing inward as to not strike other restroom users that might be close to the stall’s exterior. Jurkis argues that nobody should be standing that close to somebody else moving their bowels even if there is a door between them. “Ain’t nobody need to be sniffing around the door jamb while I’m passin’ a T-Bone, I can tell you that much. What we need is two-way hinge like in the old saloons. I should be able to fling a door open when I want out, goddamit. That’ll be next. First thing’s first and that’s getting anti-septic toilet seat covers that can stop a .22 from ten feet away. Now that will be something I can sit on and feel good about, goddamit.”

Giant turd harmlessly enjoying a good buzz in the park.

Dozens of area drug dealers have banded together to formally protest the mass quantities of un-scooped dog shit littering city parks. The group insists that their livelihood is being threatened by the minefield of  turds that pepper the pathways on which they conduct business. Although irresponsible pet owners have long abused liberal ordinances concerning pet clean-up, this is the first time an organized front has been formed in protest. As the city’s largest economic contributor, dope peddlers could prove to have considerable sway in the matter.

A mid-level pill pusher speaking on the condition of anonymity spoke openly about the movement’s core issues, “It’s a big turn-off for our customers, see? Especially these uptown honkies slippin’ out after dark to get their meds. They ain’t used to the smell of piss and shit everywhere, and it makes ‘em real uneasy, ya dig? Well, that’s bad for business. I like my clients relaxed and comfortable so I can do some up-sellin’, yeah. Instead, they’s gagging coz somebody’s pooch ate some grapes and sprayed diarrhea all over da park. Mother fuckas need to clean that shit up, see?” The complaint has validity, as statistics show illegal drug sales dropping sharply. This, in turn, has city coordinators in a panic as their revenues are intrinsically tied with the success of local dealers. Until recently, smack vendors in particular have proven to be a great ally to the Parks & Recreation Department. This relationship cannot afford to be strained come election season.

One of the city’s top merchants of crack cocaine cites other problems with non-scooping dog walkers “Yo, I’m Big G, 555-2106. You make the call, I got it all. But, yeah. Ya’ll gots to start baggin’ them dog shits, man. My main man, B-Rock got grabbed by da Po-Po coz they found the trail of brown, bro! Sucker left dog shit foot prints halfway through the park, couldn’t even hide. That’s some selfish-ass PetSmart shit right there. Mother fuckers never heard of a pooper scooper? Man, I’m tryin’ to provide a service here!” The mayor’s office responded to Mr. G’s concerns with the following statement, “We here at City Hall are very concerned with this matter. Business entrepreneurs like Big G and his Blow Factory need to be protected from reckless and uncaring citizens. It is the position of this office to nurture the efforts of him and other businesses such as Crystal Meth-Mart. Pet owners need to understand that they are only hurting themselves by inhibiting the work of these outstanding economic supporters and social servants.”

Civilians have complained about doo-doo in the parks for years, but to no avail. Instead, they were forced to hopscotch down the paths in hopes that they didn’t pounce on a softie. Surveys have shown that most people would rather buy new shoes than pick shit out of their sneaker treads. Although that has benefitted businesses like Payless Shoes, local government receives no kickback and therefore has ignored the issue, until now. With economic stability at stake, it seems that some resolution must come out of this matter. Big G took a parting shot at pet-owners and regulators before commencing with the night’s business, “Bad enough I can’t sell during the day ’round here. Least when the sun’s out, I can see turd piles and swarms of fuckin’ flies. Can’t see nuthin’ at night, man. Y’all want da good shit, ya best pick up da bad shit.”

Today's job market practically demands sexual favors from applicants.

1. A shot of whiskey helps get the smell of beer off your breath
2. Ask your interviewer if pants are required by the company dress code
3. Suggest Wedgie Wednesday as part of Theme Week to help boost employee morale
4. Dress for Success: denim cut-offs, rope belt and riding boots are a must!
5. Compliment the female interviewer, “Nice caboose! What time does the train leave?”
6. Refuse to answer any questions without your lawyers present
7. Really loud flatulence never fails to break the ice and ease tensions
8. Avoid mentioning the pending lawsuits you have against your previous 5 employers
9. Show the interviewer naked pictures of your spouse from the county fair freak show
10. Use industrial-strength, high-impact knee pads

I promise to cut down on glue-sniffing in the new year.

Happy New Year, suckers! It’s New Year’s Day, the official bullshitter’s holiday. On no other day of the year do more people shovel shit than on the first day of the year (or the last day of the year, if they planned ahead.) Who is shitting who, you ask? Well, anybody that reserves a special day to express an intention to change is clearly rolling turds uphill.
The very concept of a personal resolution kicking off on a specific day at a specific time is ludicrous. Anybody serious about doing something is just gonna do it. The only time for change is Now. I can’t take it seriously when somebody says “After the New Year, I’m gonna tear down my crystal meth lab, quit using and open an orphanage.” Empty promises are useless even when made to ourselves. So, if your treadmill and weight bench spent more time as a clothes hanger for your dirty drawers over the last twelve months, chances are the coming year won’t be much different. Just be real about it and don’t bother telling yourself and everybody else that you’re gonna be the next Jack LaLanne when in fact, you consider tying your shoes to be exercise. Chances are, you never even tried that Juicer that you got for Christmas last year.
The same applies to the other pseudo-goals we hear people talk about at the end of the year. Quitting smoking doesn’t sound feasible in the new year when the person decides to triple-up on cigarettes in the current year to make up for lost cancer cells in the future. Going on a diet in 2011 sounds great but if you’re ending 2010 by breaking into a Carvel and devouring their inventory, you’re heading for failure. Tomorrow never comes when it limits indulgence.
As it is, the concept of a New Year is merely a marker in our lives. There is no physical change that affects us directly. New Year’s resolutions are just concocted promises to make ourselves feel empowered. Life is an evolutionary process. Live it, change it, do it. If your dream is to become a lens cleaner on the set of  XXX films, then go for it. Waiting for a year-end pseudo-holiday to declare it so, only wastes time and energy while annoying the people who have to listen to you. So unless your resolution is to shut up about your resolutions, do us all a favor and just do it.

How much rejection can one deer take?

Damn those Christmas Carolers!  Have they no clue what they are even singing about? They cluelessly croon along to Rudolf, The Red-Nosed Reindeer without a shred of remorse. Either they are completely aloof or they are part of the grand conspiracy to marginalize the less desirable members of our society. One of our nation’s most popular holiday ditties clearly reeks of bias and prejudice. Rudy’s story is a perfect metaphor for the social imbalance existing in America today.

Let us examine the poor unfortunate soul known as Rudolf. We have a perfectly normal reindeer that happens to be freakish in appearance thanks to his halogen honker. For this reason alone, the poor animal was ridiculed and persecuted by the dominant male heterosexual, Type-A personality stags. Dasher and Dancer used to beat up Rudolf in the locker room and pull his underwear up over his head. Prancer used to poke his antler tip up the rectal regions of Rudolf as he ate his hay. All this because he was different. Yet, the aspect that differentiated him is totally irrelevant. We see the same type of rejection every day in our society. Just replace the neon nose with a dark skin tone, a curious accent or a bizarre rambling way of ranting about absolutely nothing. We all have friends, neighbors and family members excluded from reindeer games simply because they don’t fit the bill as society deems proper. Non-conformists both natural and decided are all seen as outcasts by the Donders and Blitzens who happen to graze on the acceptable side of the tracks.

The disgrace of all this truly comes when Santa Claus, the epitome of all white men ultimately needs this rejected little reindeer to help his racist ass out. The crusty old man realizes that he wants Rudolf, not in spite of his oddity but because of it. Somebody that he once saw as disposable was suddenly seen as key player in the Kringle hood. Yet, who could forget that Santa stood idly by when Vixen dipped the poor kid’s hoof in bear shit as he slept. Santa even chuckled when Comet planted the rat traps in Rudolf’s food trough. Naturally, Rudolf takes the opportunity to be accepted by his persecutors just as his human counterparts generally do. Much to his credit, he does a bang-up job for the jolly ‘ole jerk. Next thing you know, all of those two-faced, horn-headed bastards wanna be tight with Rude-Boy. It goes to show that the non-conformists and minorities of our society are expected to overachieve and outgun the masses just to get a molecule of respect from the bean-counting corporate mammals. Rudolf The Red-Nosed Reindeer celebrates, supports and revels in this gross inequality and I am sick and tired of the ignorance and innocence surrounding that fact.

Now, pick a fucking key or get off my porch you ignorant, Glee-watching, caroling assholes!

She's talentless and she knows it, let her cope with it any way she can.

Sorry Wes, this isn't just one of your bad movies. You fucked up for real.

Apparently, Captain Kirk still has an appetite for acting... and everything else.

Sarah will kill you too, if you challenge her belief system.

Your safety is important here at Ant's Rants Central. For that reason, management suggests you party responsibly with a hard hat, safety goggles and knee pads in place.

1. Please evacuate your bowels before entering my home. There is a port-a-potty at the construction site two blocks down, I’m sure you passed it on the way in. If nature calls while you’re here, at least use the amply supplied Courtesy Spray and turn on the Electric Fart Fan. Thank you.
2. If you bring Schlitz to the party and I catch you drinking Guinness, you’re getting bounced.
3. Nothing legal may be smoked under my roof.
4. If you’re fortunate enough to be dining here, don’t ask to have your food prepared in a special way or to have certain ingredients left out. It’s all cooked the same for everyone. This ain’t a Diner and my name ain’t Mel. Allergic to something? Suck up a Benadryl or scratch your itchy ass. There’s a McDonalds next to the port-a-potty. Pick-up, Dingy!
5. Don’t park on my lawn unless you plan on grading the soil and laying new sod in the morning.
6. Yes, the dog bites but don’t worry, he’s never killed on purpose.
7. Unless numerous cell phone conversations somehow pertain to your visit, please don’t use my home as a phone booth. You’re not as popular as you think you are and unless you’re a drug dealer or a bookie, your business should be conducted during normal working hours far the fuck away from my hearing range.
8. Unless your next paycheck covers the cost of a leather sectional, I suggest you avoid my furniture while showing off how much wine you can drink on an empty stomach.
9. If you’re here to party, don’t ask me to turn on the TV. Stay home if you want to lounge out, watch the game and scratch your balls with a turkey leg. Fact is, I really don’t care if  “your team” is playing. Besides, unless you own stock in a bunch of guys in tight pants with low IQs, they are not really “your team.” Trust me, they don’t care how YOU spend YOUR Sunday.
10. Happy drunks are always welcome to party here. As for the others, I have a locking broom closet that doubles as a drunk tank. It holds enough oxygen to sustain you for 41 minutes. I suggest you settle down quickly.

Does one day of gratitude really make up for a year of selfishness?

What does it say about a society when it designates a solitary day to express gratitude? If all of our thankfulness is being condensed into that 24 hour block of time, surely that means it is socially acceptable to be a selfish asshole for the other 364 days of the year. The math doesn’t lie and the evidence is certainly all around us. In fact, some butt-nugget at the gas station recently proved it wasn’t quite Thanksgiving yet by stopping at the first available pump as opposed to pulling all the way up to the furthest one forward. I can only hope that they were thankful that I didn’t smack into them as I inconveniently maneuvered around them to gain pump access.

I truly believe it would have behooved the founding fathers to flip the script when they were mapping out the American holiday calendar. That way, everybody would have been oozing with gratefulness every day of the year except for one. On that particular day, we could all temporarily suspend our good graces, act like selfish pricks and let our dickishness run wild for 24 hours. We could call it Thoughtless Day. Sure, that day would really suck but the rest of the year would be smoother than the ass of an under-aged supermodel. I realize of course that this is a very progressive idea that embraces logic to a degree that would frighten society’s key players but I’ll embrace it as a utopian ideal, nonetheless.

As far as the origins of Thanksgiving goes, I’m calling turkey-shit on the whole story. The history book fables of Pilgrims and Indians partying and gangbanging together just don’t add up. Fact is, our European ancestors invaded the home of Native Americans, raided their casinos and raped the women on camera and sold it as online porn to freaks with a feather fetish. They gifted the Injuns with disease-ridden blankets sealing the fate of future generations in a fine example of early bio-terrorism. Whitey proceeded to bombard the natives with shitty store-brand liquor like a dealer in the schoolyard. Believe me when I say that nobody should drink something called Deal-Mania Budget Rum with Bargain Spices .

Of course, I realize that it isn’t realistic to expect people to appreciate each other every single day. We are far too busy downloading porn onto our cell phones and spraying cheese out of an aerosol can for that. I also realize what a bunch of teepees would do to property values in my neighborhood. It’s just that I can do without the white-washing of history and designation of a feeling that should be the norm to begin with. So, let us all enjoy a dry-ass holiday dinner together and pretend that turkey meat doesn’t soak up our saliva like a maxi-pad doing its business. Turkeys up, bitches.