House Rules (And Things You Should Know Before Visiting)

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.

Happy Thanksgiving and Thanks For The Small Pox!

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.

Photo Phunk: Rocks, Condoms and Balloons!

I sure hope her climbing cables were made in China by overtired, angry, underpaid workers

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Half Past The Cow’s Ass: A Marketing Analysis

T-Bone, America's favorite meat-eating mascot wants you to feel comfortable with the fact that most of his life was spent in a small wooden stall with no other purpose than to please his white abusive masters.

Ah! The creative engine at work. I stand in awe before the man who first placed a cow statue in front of a Steakhouse and said, Bon Appetit! After all, whose appetite wouldn’t be whetted by the appearance of a filthy farm animal swatting flies off its ass with its own tail? The logical extension of this would be to film a commercial where a bull yanks his balls, burps and says “Eat Me.” I can’t even imagine how much money would change hooves for that ad campaign. It’s udderly ridiculous.

As a restaurant entrepreneur, I would consider it imperative to disassociate the served entree from its animal source. This is particularly true, when the source has been known to eat its own feces out of sheer boredom. I mean, I’ve had many a boring day in my life but only occasionally considered such a thing as a means of entertainment. Certainly never more than 2 or 3 times a month, tops.

When I eat prime rib, I simply want to savor the flavor. I don’t want to visualize a lumbering beast dragging his ball bag behind him picking up splinters off the barn floor. Sure, that might add a hickory chip smoked flavor to the meat, but I could still do without the mental imagery. So please, promo guys, don’t try to entertain me with cartoon animals and life-size sculptures representing my dinner. It’s too close to reality for my taste. If I had my way, sirloin and chicken breasts would be punched with a cookie cutter to resemble hearts, clubs, spades and diamonds. I’d take a royal flush of protein over chicken clits and donkey dicks, any day.

Thankfully, most American food is mulched and processed beyond recognition, anyway. Pork pudding and chicken paste is just fine with me. I just don’t want to sit down for a feast and see anything as natural as an eyeball staring back up at me or a foot that wasn’t quite quick enough. So please, call it secret sauce if you want to but don’t tell us you had to squeeze the nut sack to get it. Bon Appetit!

Mayor McCheese Lashes Out At Voters After Losing Election

Mayor McCheese returns to Hamburger Patch where his political career began. The burger-brained politician lost by a landslide to Charlie Chicken-Dick of PeckerHead Farms.

Among the political casualties of Tuesday’s big election is none other than Mayor McCheese of McDonaldland. The ousted Mayor was considered unstoppable among fast-food politicians. The burger-headed  public servant had harsh words for the changing political landscape. “You know all this backlash started with that SuperSize Me movie. I mean, everybody dug cheeseburgers before that (hiccup.) Then suddenly, everybody is a pussy and won’t eat meat. They’re bitching about cheese not digesting well and then it’s the fucking carbs in the bun. You know…  Just stay home and cook then, you boring losers! See if I care!” McCheese spewed drunkenly towards reporters.

Despite the volatile tone of the outgoing Mayor’s statement, polls show that there is some truth to his claims. 65% of fast-food eaters are more likely to eat chicken or fish than the overly processed beef-ish burgers that McDonaldland has become famous for. This could explain the quick political rise of the Poultry Party and the shocking victory of their candidate, Charlie Chicken-Dick. The Mayor-Elect ran on a solid platform of weight-loss and clean arteries. Chicken-Dick commented on the political power shift, “The day of the cow is over. The red meat regime is finally dead. Healthy leadership will shape our future and lower cholesterol levels. That is my promise to you” Even political upstart Felicia Fish-Smell  performed strongly as an independent capturing a respectable 12% of the vote among McDonaldland late lunch-goers and early-bird seniors.

Mayor McCheese’s campaign advisors will likely be blamed for what was ultimately a conscious decision by diners on behalf of their health. Lead strategist for the McCheese campaign, HamBurglar pulled no punches concerning his candidate’s loss, “robble, robble, robble, robble” he muttered unintelligibly. The comments were translated for the press by political ally and gay-rights activist Grimace, ” He said, I love meat in every possible way. I worship meat and I support meat. Meat deserved to win this election. Meat, meat, meat.” Experts speculate as to whether or not HamBurglar’s criminal background might also have contributed towards the political demise of Mayor McCheese. In 2008, criminal charges were dropped against the infamous beef-patty pilferer in a scandalous case accusing him of funding piracy for none other than Captain Crook.

The soon-to-be retired Mayor McCheese wouldn’t speculate as to the integrity of his cohorts but did have some parting words for the people of McDonaldland who put him out to pasture “You people may think you’re so (hiccup) smart giving that Chicken-Dick my job, but it ain’t gonna matter no how. Everything here is shot up with hormones (hiccup) and steroids and then fried. So, you ain’t changed a thing with this farce of an election. Enjoy your heart disease, suckers.” McCheese also hinted that his political career might not be over. “I hear that the Burger King’s constituents aren’t real happy with that freaky plastic mask he’s been wearing. I don’t blame ‘em. Fucking thing gives me nightmares (burps.) But there might be an opportunity there for me to (hiccup) swoop in and take the crown. We’ll see. It’d be nice to govern somebody other than the goddamned ingrates of McDonaldland. (pause) You know, I think it should go to my credit that this experience hasn’t made me bitter.” McCheese proceeded to throw members of the press out of his room so he could sulk and finish his bottle of Jack Daniels.

Signs The Recession Has Affected You

1. You’re pushing a full shopping cart and you’re miles from any store.
2. Your clothes haven’t been washed in so long, your jeans crunch when you walk
3. Your stomach grumbles when you smell cat food
4. The park bench doesn’t seem all that uncomfortable anymore.
5. The supermarket’s clearance cooler is tempting you towards the sale on graying meat
6. You’ve stopped making jokes about Big-Lots.
7. Your tires are bald… on your new house
8. You’ve switched from Reynolds Wrap to the no-frills brand of aluminum foil… for  your TV antenna
9. You’re finding new and exciting uses for duct tape, some of them medical
10. You’ve switched back to AOL dial-up for 20 hours of monthly internet use

 

Snapshot of the Ant's Rants Financial Investment Portfolio

It’s Not Easy Going Green

 

Consumers will buy anything that's green these days even if it's moldy bread.

 

Disclaimer: This blog is all-natural and eco-friendly. Its green and brown packaging is organically produced and completely harmless to anyone of importance.

If you believe that, I’d like to sell you a new ass with all the accesories. Our world is plastered with these purported badges of good health and earthy goodness. Am I really expected to believe that human beings care about their bodies and environment? How the hell has centuries of self-indulgence, gluttony and ecological rape led to monkey-piss facial scrubs and mint flavored toilet paper coated with honeybee jizz?

Under the pretense of benevolence, the marketing gurus are whoring out Mother Earth to gullible consumers in desperate need of a self-image makeover. The color Green is being sold as the standard bearer of all things good and healthy. I beg to differ. In fact, I just ate some  greened-over, fuzzy-looking fried rice from Chin Lu’s day-old buffet bin and now I feel awful. The only thing Green indicates is a shift in strategy. The glossy blister-packs and flashy packaging of yesterday have morphed into fecal-brown boxes and mucus splattered wrapping for today’s “more aware” shopper. Are we really so dense to think that brown and green Styrofoam is somehow better for the environment? Bland color schemes don’t save trees or rescue animals. Nor does it save our colons from periodic bouts of flare-shooting flatulence. Cancer isn’t attracted to flashy colors like a shark to a diver’s wristwatch. Green is just another ink made in China. It has no soul and it wears no halo.

Perhaps more offensive to me than the gullibility and chicanery involved with all of this is the cost. These supposedly healthier foods and eco-friendly products are more expensive than their preservative packed and chemically enhanced counterparts. I realize that natural cleaning sprays do little more than smell fruity and leave streaks but shouldn’t they be cheaper without the laundry list of chemical additives thrown in? By the same rationale, organic vegetables should be more affordable without all the pricey pesticides sprayed on. Besides, both people and animals walk, piss and shit on the same earth that food grows in. If you can deal with that, a little toxic bug spray ain’t gonna add nothin’ but flavor to the dining experience. You might as well belly on up and enjoy your broccoli with a little Black Flag and mustard sauce!

Most of these so-called natural products aren’t much different than their forebears. For example, the advent of brown coffee filters just leaves me limp. They accomplish the same simple task that the Wonder whities do; they keep my coffee from getting crunchy. The fact that they were ever bleached like a porn star’s asshole in the first place was just someone’s way of pandering to the fears of White America. Wanna impress me? Stuff your soiled undies in the filter basket and brew your coffee with some genuine anal essence. Think of it as the ultimate form of recycling.

Green brands of toilet paper are an even bigger joke. If you wanna be natural about wiping yourself, try using some poison ivy leaves. That way, you can ponder your progressive stance while dribbling calamine lotion down your itchy ass crack. And while we’re all pretending to care so much, let’s indulge in some extra-nicotine cigarettes with a whole wheat filter. That’ll make it okay. How about downing a bottle of Jack Daniels infused with Omega-3 antioxidants? Can I offer you some multi-grain cotton candy? How about some low-sodium heroin? The majority of these products serve no other purpose than to make self-obsessed people feel better about themselves and the piggish lives they’ve led.

Embracing the color of snot and crap will not redeem anybody’s soul, save a single tree or grant another day of life. The illusion of caring has trumped any true love affair with nature that humans might once have possessed. Extolling  these products is like going to church to show off your new clothes. Happy Sunday, everybody.

 

Crap-flavored coffee filters can add an interesting zest to your morning java.

 

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Travelogue 2010

 

A few guidelines for getting along with each other while traveling.

 

7:55 PM
I sit back and await takeoff. The seat is cramped but it is undeniably mine. My ticket says so. I know this, without question. Unlike the woman next to me, I required no assistance in finding my assigned place. I kick my bag beneath the seat, clutch my book and try to relax. The masses file in, many of them brushing heavily against me with their carry-on luggage and steamer trunks. My head is clipped by a large cumbersome object which I can’t identify.

8:01 PM
The man several rows ahead appears confused. He has blocked the aisle, stopping the flow of traffic. Ever so slowly he turns clockwise in place to view every angle of the passenger area. The rotation reverses as he scans the plane from the other direction. Time has stopped. He is looking for something. But what? The number on his ticket should correlate to the numbered tags posted above each row. He does not understand.

8:13 PM
Breathing anxiously, I gag slightly at a horrid realization. The old woman next to me is emitting an unsavory odor. A sour milk and urine mix has been personified in Seat 19B. I shield my face with my open book and discreetly enjoy the smell of its musty yellowed pages.

8:17 PM
Yet another man has stopped in the aisle, albeit only briefly. He has quickly stowed his luggage in the overhead compartment and courteously sat down. Less than a minute later, however, he has decided that he doesn’t need to wear his coat on the plane. He is on his feet again, inducing gridlock as he stashes his outerwear up above. Inadvertently, a woman in the aisle gets smacked in the face with a swinging parka sleeve. The man is unaware.

8:24 PM
My attention turns back to the first confused man. He was ultimately seated by an attendant who responded to his distress call, allowing other passengers to once again pass by. He looks comfortable and relaxed, now. His wife is whispering in his ear. She needs something. The man looks up towards the storage compartment. The object of her longing appears to be in their suitcase. He stands up obstructing the narrow aisle. The line of people backs up so far that the attendants cannot close the airplane door. The man stands on his toes as he rummages through the luggage in the overhead storage compartment. He is looking for something of vital importance. Minutes later, a bottle of water is drawn from the bag. He sits down.

8:31 PM
The passengers have stopped stirring and appear settled. At last, the pilot has announced our imminent departure. Time to buckle up. Upon hearing this, the woman with the water bottle stands up. She looks first towards the front of the plane, and then the back. Excusing herself, she steps into the aisle and looks around yet again. She has chosen the restroom towards the rear of the plane. A fine choice, I am sure. Eleven minutes later, she walks slowly back to her seat. She appears ill. Her soiled bottom leaves vapor trails by the nose of each seated person she passes. I cringe and bury my face further into my book.

8:35 PM
I close my eyes and ponder the feasibility of international bus travel.

Photo Phunk: Guns, Poses and The New Stooges