Observations of the Unemployed

January 5, 2015


10. Employers don’t seem impressed with the Linkedin profile pic of me laying on the sofa in my underwear scratching myself with a turkey leg.

9. Meow Mix doesn’t leave my breath as fishy as other leading brands.

8. Those chicks on Springer really need testing. I mean scholastic… bacterial, whatever.

7. Wednesday matinee strippers have the sex appeal of Rosie O’Donell teaching nude aerobics.

6. The liquor store lines are pretty short first thing Monday morning.

5. My proposal to become the inaugural Wal-Mart sniper tasked with cleaning up the customer base has apparently been rejected.

4. There’s a bar downtown that’ll serve me in my bathrobe and slippers.

3. The woman next door must be expecting a large package because the mailman seems to stay there for at least a half-hour or so each day delivering it.

2. At least 60% of the dog’s ball-washing is purely recreational.

1. Apparently, HandJobs.com is NOT an employment website despite the hours I’ve devoted to it.

Road Journals: Excerpt I- The Toilet Pages

May 13, 2014

Straight from the Ant’s Rants travel log comes the sordid tale of a man on a quest. He seeks no gold, no fame, no worldly wisdom. The only treasure sought along this road is the mighty Porcelain Throne. Enjoy the ride…

Road Journals: Excerpt I- The Toilet Pages

Hundreds of miles lay in my wake. The hours of cross country trekking were finally catching up with me. My gut was grumbling and my bodily functions were screaming for action. By the time I hit the backwoods of Georgia, my Hanes were in danger and my fountain was on the spritz. As much as I hated to push a nugget in the porcelain jungle of a public piss pen, it seemed a far better choice than inside my $30 American Eagles. Problem was, it was about three o’clock in the morning. Any clean and respectable establishment was closed until the AM. Technically, of course it WAS morning but not the time generally suited for bacon and eggs. This hour was ripe for hookers, cocaine and curious clergyman… possibly all as part of the same transaction.

I’d been fighting my inner needs for the better part of two hours and I knew I’d never make it until the cock cried. If my eyes weren’t already brown they sure would have been after the level of urgency rose as high it did. Let’s just say things can really back up on a guy driving for hours on end with nothing but Slim Jims for sustenance. Waiting any longer was just out of the question. I’d simply have to settle for less than ideal conditions. Sure, in a perfect world I would calmly place myself on a heated velvet toilette and gracefully let nature take its course but that seemed like a rather tall order that time of night. I mean, a scantily-clad French maid to mop my crack with a silken cloth would have been stellar but equally as difficult to obtain on such short notice. Especially, with the wages I was offering. Besides that, I hadn’t seen any kind of man-made structure in fifty miles. Anybody actually living in the woods I was driving through was bound to be a white-tail deer rapist. All I knew was that if I didn’t take care of business within the next few minutes, I’d have to renege on my personal oath to never again poop in the woods. Decades earlier, the Scouts taught me to wipe my ass with leaves, but not how to identify poison ivy when I see it. Needless to say, several youthful days were spent dripping ice cubes down nature’s valley for relief. A debilitating addiction to Calamine Lotion ensued. Eventually, I was weaned off the sauce with bacitracin and cold cream. Since then though, I’d held my vow to never drop my drawers in a non-tiled room. Miraculously, that promise would remain intact as the opportunity soon arose for me to complete the most fetid of bodily functions. Salvation stood alone in the middle of an otherwise uninhabited roadway and came in the form of a rundown gas and food-mart. I would later find that the gas came about an hour after eating the food.

My eyes saw the Gates of Heaven and its sign said Fuel. That building contained everything I needed to feel complete again; sugar, caffeine and most importantly Porcelain. Of course, the dirty deed was top priority and not to be delayed. I careened into the parking lot driving at highway speed with my foot dragging outside the door in anticipation like Fred Friggin’ Flintstone. I hobbled as fast as I could over to the store, swung the door open with full force tearing out the bottom hinge and knocking over a newspaper rack. Standing in the doorway amidst the broken glass, not a soul could I see. As if no other words or action were necessary, I barked out the lone word “Bathroom!” to the open air in the center of the store. Pause. Nothing. As I prepared to paint the place brown, a head slowly popped up over the counter from underneath a wrinkled newspaper. Without ever actually looking at me, the head’s owner mumbled, “outside” while holding out a key tied to a 2×4. I grabbed the pebble from his hand and left the temple posthaste. Outside again, my head spun around like Linda Blair on a coke binge, but I failed to see the bathroom anywhere. In fact, I found no doors at all other than the store entrance. I felt panic setting in as my underwear feared the worst. After circling the perimeter twice, I scratched my head and pondered aloud, “Where the fuck is the damned crapper?!”

Minutes later, something caught my eye at the far end of the rear parking lot. It was a tiny shed-sized building standing alone in the darkness. Surely, this must be the place for which I seek. Indeed it was. It was a cold, dark, and damp little shithole in the middle of nowhere. A thing of beauty, indeed. My chapel. My church. My saving grace. Tears of joy welled in my eyes as I waddled across the lot with my legs squeezed tight and my arms stretched before me like Herman Munster on his way to the parlor.

At first, the door seemed locked, stuck or rusted shut but with a few sharp kicks and a pulverizing head-butt it scraped open to reveal my soiled savior. Moments later, I remembered the key in my hand and decided to keep it as a souvenir. The only light inside came from the moonlight shining in through the vents in the roof. That luxury skylight was probably the only reason the smell in there wasn’t worse than it was. The sensation was gag-inducing. I cringed in Poe-ish horror as I imagined being entombed alive like Fortunato. That stony crypt could easily have become my final place of residence if I hadn’t used my emergency pocket shoe horn to prop the rusty door open. If it came to pass that I got trapped in there though, I’d be forced to live on toilet water and excrement until someone found my decaying remains still trying to claw their way out of that Walnut Grove hell-hut. All my mail could be forwarded to the rooftop air vent and dropped below. The thought was almost enough to initiate retreat, but at that point there was no way I could turn back without shitting to regret it. I’d come too far to walk away with funky undies.

Shunning the darkness and all its horrors, I unfastened the butt-flap in the back of my Michael Landon long-johns and mounted the porcelain pony for that joyous ride to Relief Town. Sure enough, pulling open the chute doors allowed ten years of life to return to my broken body replacing the buckets of junk food that just departed through the Southernmost exit. I unleashed weapons of ass-destruction never before thought possible. I slumped forward in post-orgasmic satisfaction unfazed by the fact that I hadn’t even covered the seat with anything protective. If I hadn’t been so pressed for time, I probably could have fashioned some type of sanitary wreath out of mud and twigs. Surely that would have blocked at least a few germs from getting in through the out door. Nevertheless, as I sat on that toilet in the Georgia outhouse at 3:00 A.M., I thought to myself, “I can’t believe I’m sitting on a toilet in a Georgia outhouse at 3:00 A.M.” As comfortable as that sticky ass-ring felt on my tired backside, I knew it was best not to rest there for too long. As dark as it was, there was just no telling what kind of matter might me festering beneath me. Besides, I would only get more tired if I rested there longer. Worse than that even, I would procure an unattractive oblong indentation around my posterior. Nope, not for me. It was best to buckle up and clean up… although not necessarily in that order.

As I stepped up to the basin, I encountered yet another unpleasantry. Not at all to my surprise, there wasn’t a single drop of water running in the little prison style sink with which I could wash my hands. Nothing but rust stains from the corroded faucet covered its chipped porcelain skin. The shadowed moonlight revealed what might have been a roll of paper towels lying in a rain puddle on the floor, but I couldn’t be sure. It could just as easily have been the slumped cadaver of some poor animal that got trapped inside while seeking shelter. Or perhaps, some drunk the night before stumbled in and missed the commode after bingeing on Captain Morgan and Cool Ranch. Too chancy. Just as my Aunt Jemima always told me, “Never touch unidentifiable objects in dark Southern outhouses without rubber gloves, tongs and a friend that works in the germ ward.” For lack of a better idea, I washed up by way of the ole’ Denim Dry Rinse Method. Thanks to dark jeans, nobody would ever know my dirty little secret, sans the smell. It was just me and the open road, anyway. With my intestines contracting back to normal, I split that concrete hellhole as quick as my rubber legs could carry me. Problem was I was still exhausted and now famished. I hadn’t eaten anything of consequence all day. Let’s just say the quality of snacks that went into me was similar to the way the snacks came out. I needed food. I was starting to feel as hungry as the Olsen twins look. In the middle of nowhere, I had no choice. Fuel.

Al Gore Reverses Stance on Global Warming, Warns of “Cold, Serious Fucking Cold.”

January 12, 2014


In the years since he’s held office, former vice president Al Gore has made quite a name for himself doing two things, espousing the dangers of climate change and shaming millions into recycling yogurt cups. Recently though, his credibility has come under fire as temperatures around the country have plummeted far below the pointy-nip range. Even his own supporters have been taken aback by such frigid conditions. In fact, many of his self-professed Gore Whores are now crying bullshit and disparaging Al’s doomsday theories on global warming.

According to Gore’s award-winning documentary, An Inconvenient Truth, rising atmospheric temperatures are chiefly caused by the abundance of fossil fuels burned by human beings. The film foresees flooding, disease, glacial retreat and shitty beach movies as a result of the warmer climate. But instead of melting in our shoes of late, billions of Americans have been buried under arctic conditions and forced to snap icicles off of our gennies.

Retired field hand, Ernest Keep spoke candidly about his record of supporting Al Gore’s cause “You know, I bought that there Incontinent Truth video at a yard sale coz I really like the earth and it was only a buck. Fell asleep for a bit in the middle but the rest was really good. It made me care more, I think. But yeah, I totally believed in that big old Tennessee boy.  He seemed honest and it’s not like just anyone could run that giant slideshow. Can’t trust him anymore, though. He made it sound like we’d be running around on burnt toast by now and here I am like Jack fuckin’ Frost trying to find my goddamned carport on the ice planet Hoth. I mean, what the shit? I was saving my beer cans for that guy and everything.”

The former vice president rejects the notion that he was wrong, misleading or deceitful in any way. In fact, he insists that recent sub-zero temperatures actually support his theory of earth as a flaming hemorrhoid. Gore insists “Science is full of variables, it’s not perfect. Everything I’ve predicted is coming true, wacky weather and all . The only difference is the temperature itself. So, I was off by a few degrees. Big deal. Go make a snow angel. You still shouldn’t throw your Slurpee cups out the car window. Everybody’s jumping on me like I lied to them or something. I didn’t lie. I’m a good man. I played football, you know.”

Despite such justifications, nature’s cabana boy continues to draw criticism in the wake of record shattering low temperatures. Former environmental fund-raiser,  Alberto Denaro pulls no punches when it comes to these recent climatic shifts “I raised a millions of dollars for Al to stop it the global warming. It all look it like horsey shit now, and all the hottie womans are burritoed up in the wool and down. Alberto no see nothing now. Maybe  real global warmings mean skimpy bikinis because parka and mittens shit not so sexy. Fuck him this Al Gore.”

When we caught up with Mr. Environmental Savior himself, he was clearing his driveway with a custom built plutonium-fueled atomic snow dematerializer. Gore concedes the weather hasn’t been quite as he anticipated, “So yeah, ok. It’s cold, seriously fucking cold. I get that. I didn’t say it would never be cold again, just said that the planet would eventually implode like a marshmallow in the microwave. What am I, the cracker Al Roker? Maybe, it’s just not time yet. Be happy. What do you want me to do, update my PowerPoint every time it freakin’ snows?” In defense of his character, Gore adds “I don’t know why you all don’t just trust me on this. I’m honest as they get. Why else would you have almost voted me President, second only to George Weasel Bush?”

Things I Should Have Left Off Of My Resumé/Job Application

August 12, 2013

resume_exclusions10. Job History: Four years as an exotic wood dildo-whittler

9. Social Work: Veteran volunteer of experimental drug testing

8. Picture of myself running the Annual Winter Nude-A-Thon FootRace

7. Awards: 2010 All-State Beer-Funnel Champion

6. Gaps in Employment: Can’t recall a single day between February 2008 and April 2009 but I apparently moved from a 2-story townhouse to an alleyway dumpster

5. Objective: To bang every hot chick in the office

4.  Hobbies: Collecting celebrity belly-button lint

3. Accomplishments: Inspiring worker unrest and inciting management-overthrow at my last two jobs this month

2. Arrest Record: Convicted of roughing up a Glory-Hole Attendant for letting somebody cut in line ahead of me

1. Special Skills: Verbally dismantling authority figures and making them cry

A Traveler’s Guide To Rest Area Shopping Sprees

May 25, 2013

tryptophan_air_freshenerAs summer approaches, U.S. travelers both legal and illegal will be hitting the highways of this grating nation to rest, relax and spend time with family and friends. As we traverse those long, lonesome miles of nothingness, we’ll undoubtedly find ourselves refueling and recuperating at those lovely bastions of human freakishness, the truck stop rest area. Where else could we so justifiably gawk and point at our fellow humanoids as if they were extras from the cantina scene in Star Wars? With our bladders joyfully emptied, we’ll proceed to drop coin on the most trivial dung since Ashton Kutcher was permitted on film. Our pockets shall overfloweth with snacks, pills, trinkets and a variety of bacterial strains. We’ll buy anything and everything to help amuse, distract and indulge ourselves while annoying, pestering and prodding those around us. Such is the road of the weary traveler. Let us hope that good taste will prevail as we present:

(Least?) Favorite Truck Stop Purchases

  1. Ass-flavored chewing gum to improve road-breath
  2. Extra-Large Expanding Nicotine Suppositories with super-soft ramrod
  3. Map of Middle Earth Whorehouses
  4. Candy coated arsenic tabs
  5. Replacement teeth- Now in Yellowish!
  6. Snortable sugar packets with family size straw assortment
  7. Donger Dave’s Little Doo-Doo Drops (from the makers of Turdinets)
  8. Anthrax-soaked (but otherwise, sanitary) Handi-Wipes
  9. Underwear Realignment Kit
  10. Sour Hitchhiker Balls

Beer & Loathing in Supermarket Hell

September 1, 2012

I think there should be a special line at the supermarket for problematic customers. Anybody who remembers the Puppy Chow only after unloading their cart onto the conveyer, clearly doesn’t belong in the same line as me. The road to the register is a sacred place, man. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s the transitional point between pushing around a heavy shopping cart full of beer and going home and drinking a… shopping cart full of beer. Point is, if you have to run back to Aisle 3 for anything once you’re in line, whether it be Kool-Aid or extra-small condoms, you’re a prime candidate for lock-up in Retail Jail. Follow decorum or spend the afternoon locked inside the frozen fuckin’ broccoli closet with all the fruit-fondlers and turkey bowlers. And anybody who knows that their check won’t clear… or for that matter, anyone still writing checks 2000 plus years after the death of Christ needs to be excommunicated to the flunky lane along with all those suckers still buying video tapes and flash cubes for their fucking camera.

Meanwhile, I can assure Lady Alpo in front of me that the cashier does not need to waste valuable time discussing a customer’s avoidance of bran products. Unless your therapist is moonlighting at the local friggin’ Food-Hut, there is no reason to converse in depth with the grocery clerk. These people are there to wave noodle bags over the scanner and slide Cheez Whiz down to the bagger. For many, this is more than enough of a challenge. Cashiers are far too busy for asinine drivel and don’t get paid enough to multitask. Let’s let them focus on the task at hand so we can all move on to a more pleasant activity far the fuck away from the barcode jungle.

Oh, and let it be known to baggers everywhere that plastic is always fine. Don’t bother me with choices, they’ll only confuse me. This is the 21st century, though. We’ve killed enough fucking trees it’s a miracle we can still find a shady spot to loaf in while pretending to be at work. Paper bags are no more relevant than burlap friggin’ sacks. This ain’t Little House On The Fuckin’ Prairie over here. I’m not visiting a feed store where my purchase will be delivered via shovel. I won’t be carrying grain by the pound or a rack full of animal pelts any time soon, and I certainly don’t have a donkey tied to a post in the parking lot. Plastic should suit the bagging needs of anyone living in this century, which is pretty much everyone that I know. Bottom line: Paper bags are an impractical product of a bygone era. They don’t have handles, they don’t scoop shit well, and they’re far too difficult to suffocate in. And, of course, I realize plastic bags are effectively made from Iraqi blood but I refuse to politicize an issue of personal convenience.

Finally, cashiers need to stop telling me to press the green button as if I’m still in my third year of kindergarten. I slid the card, I can follow the prompts. I’m not a kid punching his busy box waiting for something to happen and I’m not crackin’ a fuckin’ safe here. And if I want cash back… I’ll just take it!

Once a Dick, Always a Dick

April 19, 2012

Today we mourn a death, but shall also ridicule a life. Or perhaps a career would be a better term although I’m not so sure that Dick Clark really did anything resembling an actual occupation. A human life has passed and with that comes the inevitable weight of sadness even as many of us had assumed that he died decades ago. Perhaps, just professionally. As his spirit passes to a place of peace, let us look, examine and pick apart the sham of a legacy that he left behind.

In his heyday, Dick Clark could be heard by anyone flipping around the radio dial at any given time. His inane Top Ten pop rock snooze-fests were practically unavoidable. They’re the shows that celebrate the singers that were most willing to trade in their musical integrity for fortune and fame. Granted, Dick’s over trained phony-ass voice provided the perfect narration to showcase bands whose lameness equaled his own. If ever shoe polish graced a hearty turd, it came in the form of Dick Clark proudly announcing the week’s number one song to kill yourself to. Far worse than his ability to puss-ify the airwaves was his weekly presence on the American Bandstand TV show where viewers were subjected to his pasty face as he played records and represented rock ‘n roll rebellion while wearing a suit and leaning a phallic microphone against his lips.

It is Dick Clark’s celebrity and iconic stature that I call into question not his place as a human being. I’m sure his wife loves him; possibly him and Ed McMahon at the same time. Those two guys probably split a Viagra every Valentines Day when their old ladies start beggin’ for their bloopers. It’s just that Dick Clark’s cultural relevance is totally unbeknownst to me. All of my life I’ve heard this tommyrot about the guy being so young for his age. The phrase “America’s oldest teenager” seems to pop up every New Year’s Eve like the inevitable hangover and herpes rash. Lemme tell ya… plastic surgery could de-prune his testicles for him but it wouldn’t make him any younger. He’s had more facelifts than Cher’s ass, doesn’t smell as nice and doesn’t have any tattoos.  How uncool is that? Besides, any significance the guy had half a century ago has long since terminated. In fact, his freshness date expired about 15 minutes after his emergence as a “personality.” He was a lousy disc jockey on his best day. No technical ability was ever evident. He didn’t even cue up the records that he announced and sure as the hell couldn’t scratch like Jam Master Jay, that’s for sure. His place in history should be noted as nothing more than a precursor to Wolfman Jack, who in turn served as the blueprint for ditto-heads like Casey Kasem and eventually Ryan Seacrust. I pray these tomato cans won’t be the next batch of pseudo-celebrities heaped with undeserved idolatry for the next fifty years (open mouth, insert gun.)

Besides, it’s not as if Dick Clark was a musician at all. Sure, he’s played the skin flute and pink clarinet, but never professionally. I’ve heard his name uttered as being “synonymous with Rock ‘n’ Roll.” I feel embarrassed for him whenever I read that phrase. The fifties ushered in icons as diverse and talented as Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley. Their names will be lionized for eternity for their impact on the music world, and deservedly so. All because those guys had the balls to muster some attitude, pick up a guitar and change the world. All the while, Dicky Boy did nothing more than squeeze his lemon on their groupie leftovers. He’s the kind of guy who as a kid always “managed” the local band because he wanted to get laid but had no talent and couldn’t rock. He probably trimmed his crotch hair just to make his microphone look bigger, too.  Doesn’t sound like an worthy legend to me. Dick’s head would probably explode if he listened to any music newer than his first hairpiece.

And let us not forget Dick’s other meaningless claim to fame, New Year’s Rockin’ Eve when once a year he proves that he can count from one to ten backwards. Impressive way of showing the world he’s still a vital force in pop culture, eh? He’ll be waving at the camera and flashing his capped teeth, all the while cursing the wind for giving flight to his toupee. And I’m not convinced for a minute that he’s wearing earmuffs because it’s cold. Those bad boys were hiding a hearing aid and reinforcing the rug. I can’t believe the guy never graduated to coffee commercials. Decaff, of course. Yet, he continued to prop himself up and dangle over a microphone as if it were Pat Boone’s schlong. Dick Clark dry-humped the rock ‘n’ roll cash cow for fifty years and gave nothing back. Rest in peace, dude. I’m sure you were a great guy in your private life, worthy of a mother’s love and a buddy’s handshake but as a celebrity, you’ll always be a Dick to me.

New Year’s Resolutions… and other fairy tales

January 2, 2011

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.

Happy Thanksgiving and Thanks For The Small Pox!

November 24, 2010

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, does that mean it is socially acceptable to be a selfish asshole 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 they were thankful that I didn’t side swipe their inconsiderate ass as I inconveniently maneuvered around them to gain access to the pump that they so clearly rejected. They’re damned lucky Count Malachi wasn’t trying to gas up!

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 spewing and 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 (or NOT act, depending on who you are) 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 a photoshopped 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 released the videos as Squaws Gone Wild in HD. The heavily armed friendly visitors, who can be referred to as “the oppressors” from here on out to avoid confusion gifted the Injuns with disease-ridden blankets sealing the fate of future generations in a fine example of early bio-terrorism. American ingenuity at its finest. Whitey proceeded to bombard the natives with shitty store-brand liquor like a soda vendor in a kindergarten 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. The insurance companies would cream their corporate jeans writing premiums for those flyaway homes! 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.

Half Past The Cow’s Ass: A Marketing Analysis

November 16, 2010
Half Past The Cow's Ass

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!