Bruce!!!

Frankenvisions!!!

 What Pat Robertson sees in the satellite imagery of the mighty storm, and what caused it to attack the gay liberal east coast...

Mr. Ball Goes to Washington

Excerpt from day 2 of Congressional testimony by disgraced cyclist Lance Armstrong's removed cancerous testicle.

Senator: Mr. Ball, were you aware that Mr. Armstrong  was pressuring his team mates to receive weird blood transfusions in almost completely unsanitary hotel rooms, take performance enhancing injections, and consume the hearts of young Afghan orphans?

Ball: Good sirs, I was removed from Lance's protective satchel well before he began these strange rituals. Though I was present for the steroid usage. I threatened to report him to the Tour officials and he had me forcibly ejected under the false pretense that I was cancerous. I assure you gentlemen, I have never caused any malignant trauma to any other living thing. I was blackballed, pardon the pun, for being honest.

Senator: Are we to believe that you were falsely labeled a "banana seat behemoth" by medical professionals and surgically evicted from Mr. Armstrong's nut huggers against your will?

Ball: That is 100% true, Senator. He coveted that yellow jersey and no person or spherical flesh wad was going to get in his way. I paid dearly for his ten speed bloodlust. I couldn't work for five years, my wife left me, and I was stripped of my license from the Texas Bar Association.

Senator 2: Mr. Ball, were you present for Mr. Armstrong's lascivious romance with horse faced pop singer Sheryl Crow?

Ball: Yes, Senator, I was. While not in the actual scrotal domicile, I was being kept in a jar for possible reintroduction to the groin should I comply with the team's objectives. It was my "probationary period".

Senator 2: And did you witness any sexual relations between these two ghouls?

Ball: Yes I did. Senator, I fail to see how this is relevant.

Senator 2: Just answer the questions, Mr. Ball. Did she or did she not shoot Malibu beach seawater across the room from her "rehearsal space" into Mr. Armstrong's mouth? This is relevant, sir, because Mr. Armstrong tested positive for female hormones and beluga semen. We just need to know if Ms. Crow was involved in this conspiracy.

Ball: Yes, Senator. I did witness this projectile moistening. It got all over the walls and Mr. Armstrong's collection of autographed yellow bracelets.

Senator 3: Mr. Ball, were you ever present for oily homoerotic wrestling sessions between Mr. Armstrong and sub par Hollywood actor, Matthew McConaughey?

Ball: Yes, Senator, I was. They would shoot anabolic steroids, run on the beach, touch penises and then say "no homo". It was a disgusting sight, gentlemen.

Senator 3: Well, I think we've heard all we needed to hear. Thank you, Mr. Ball for your testimony. We wish you success in your future endeavors. The process of stripping this spandex clad charlatan of his titles could not have been possible without you.

Ball: Thank you, gentlemen. I just want the most popular sport in the world to remain pure and for people who abuse the public trust to pay for their misdeeds. I hope that all this suffering and subterfuge wasn't all for nut, er, naught.

Great? Moments in Idiot Voting

 As the election draws ever nearer, I am reminded just how unfit the American public is to pick the leader of the free world. These people, of Jay Leno viewership and Coors consumption, are the last people who should be charged with such an important task. Just look at some of the other brain dead decisions they've made:

Skinny Elvis on the US Postal Service stamp. Come on. We all know fat Elvis is the REAL Elvis. Pill popping, banana sandwich eating, tv shooting fat Elvis. You blew it, America.

 The Artist gets the Oscar. While not left to the public, but their Hollywood delegates, this is still a joke. A silent movie, seriously? The best part of watching movies is listening to them while you steal music and porn on the web. I'm not going to peel my eyes away from hot goth baby sitters bouncing on fat old men just to read subtitles from a movie where French dudes tap dance to swing music.

 Taylor Hicks.

 Kasich. Ohio elects this drunken Wall Street has been as governor? Sure Strickland was a dope, but this is the best we can do? The man can hardly make it through a budget meeting without reaching for his flask full of Kentucky bourbon and Dr. Pepper. Don't be surprised if this lying sot needs a liver transplant next year. He'll probably make it a state law that everyone has to get blood tested just so he can find an appropriate match. He's the worst thing to happen to Ohio since the west Nile virus.

 A-Rod selected for any all star game after 2002. This roided up underachiever is the ugliest thing to ever strap on a batting glove. He LIED to Katie Couric's face about taking steroids. You don't lie to Katie. Plus, he looks like a rotten farmer's market brown egg. I also hate Derek Jeter, but at least Jeter shows up in October. Bronx Bomber? I think not. How about East River Floater?

Getting back to American Idol, how do you not vote for this guy? He was a national treasure in the making. Clearly, America is not up to the task of choosing anything other than what NASCAR t-shirt they are going to wear on election day. JUST STAY HOME!!

Ink Blotter

 So, we're all aware of "singer" Chris Brown's domestic abuse woes concerning fellow "singer" Rihanna. And the latest wrinkle in the story is Brown's new neck tattoo which people claim is of a beaten Ri Ri. But the warning signs were there a long time ago that Brown has anger issues with women. Let's get a closer look at some of his other tats.

Bonnie and Clyde death car with special detail paid to a bloody Bonnie.

Joan of Arc burning at the stake.

Manson murder victim, actress Sharon Tate.

 








The 1911 Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in NYC. Some 140 female garment workers lost their lives in the disaster. Particularly gruesome.

Johnny B. Perv

Hi rock n roll fans out there! I am rock n roll hall of famer, platinum recording artist, innovative guitarist and watersports enthusiast, Chuck Berry. As you may or may not recall, I was busted in the 80's for secretly video recording women using the powder room in my southern restaurants. Let me tell you good people, nothing gets the ladies on to the pot quicker than Chuck's down home Southern Comfort platter(cornbread, greens, ribs and sweet tea). Anyhow, I was approached by some white folks with money from Los Angeles who wanted to use my old footage in a photo retrospective.

 I went back and photo processed some of my favorites using cutting edge computer technology(Windows XP). I now proudly present a sample of my body of work. And I cordially invite you to the Mendocino County Community Center Coffee Room Art Gallery to attend the gala opening of my show, the Chuck Berry Ladies' Room Surveillance Photo Exhibition. Please enjoy and feel free to swing by the gallery anytime. I will be there playing my hits and maybe working on some new artwork provided some fine sunshine state senoritas need to use the bathroom. Roll over, Annie Liebovitz!

yours truly,   
 Chuck Berry

Candlelight Vigils Throughout History

 Hiroshima

 Thomas Jefferson  (mostly his grandkids).

 FDR

 Obi Wan Kenobi

 Michael Crichton

 Last episode of Cheers(mostly white people).

That grunge guy.

Let Your Fingers do the Dying

 Texting while driving has been banned in states nationwide. It is a dangerous and foolhardy habit. That I do every day. Sorry. Maybe these are my famous last words(or perhaps as in the tv spots, the last words the recipient of my texts will ever read). Wambulance. Guess what. People will die in car accidents until they figure out how to make cars out of pudding or they stop letting people other than me drive. Nevertheless. I feel it is important to provide proof this activity can lead to an early death. Phone battery death(unless you have a car charger. If so, text away.) These are texts sent to people who died in grizzly mva's because they were distracted by reading them. These are provided by the Institute for Vehicular Vigilance and Digital Danger Assessment Bureau Institute of Research Department. Drive safe peeps :) YOLO

And make sure to share this on Twitter while on the freeway.

Your New Favorite Memes!

You're Not Going to Make it After All!

Attention future baristas of America, leaving Cleveland(or any other culturally rich enclave of the flyover) to head for the east coast is less of a pipe dream and more of a toilet aspiration. We all know them. The bright shining stars who think riding the subway is some sort of magical ride on the back of a mythical graffiti covered dragon, who think hailing a taxi is akin to fighting a bull in Madrid, who think dipping one toe into Harlem grants them a ghetto pass. They tire of their menial office jobs, their boring friends who don't watch the Sundance channel, and their crappy apartments that run them a whole 600 bucks a month for above third world living conditions. They long to blog about their exciting adventures using wi fi in a Greenwich Village coffee shop(without even buying a drink, those rebels!), smoke a joint with a weird hippie in the shadow of the Lincoln memorial, or subsist on nothing but naan and Nutella in their squalor ass apartment that they share with five other lost souls. They schlep their barren, cobwebbed wombs all over town wishing they could meet a "real man"(not the sports obsessed workaholics of Ohio, but a hetero version of McDreamy prancing around Ground Zero). To them, life is an Amy Adams movie where a scone given to them by a wise old Jewish woman unlocks the secrets to their true boundless potential. Then when you come to visit(which they practically beg for every time you talk to them) they can act like a big shot who knows where they sell the really authentic Azerbaijani peasant soup(not like the fake crap in Ohio) and act so bored by all the tourist traps they take you to. Yes, these ex pats are the most annoying people in those big cities. They ask how things are back home(even though they just came home for Christmas last month so mom and dad would give them money) and say, "yeah, I just couldn't be ME there." Fucking twats is what they are. And here is your come uppance, twats.

They are mostly delusional girls reared on SATC or gay boys( whom I don't blame one bit. I know that homophobic strongholds like Minneapolis, Austin and Denver can be stifling to that dream you have of creating the best set design ever for Mama Mia ). Though I have known a handful of straight men to leave for greener pastures, it is usually for a woman. Which is acceptable. So is moving for a job. But moving to a coastal city just to be part of a scene is sadder than showing up underdressed at a fancy party. You look pathetic. This kind of behavior was very prevalent in my early twenties. Back then I watched everyone come back home with their tail between their legs in utter defeat some four years later. Now there is a new wave of thirty somethings who want to chase that checkered cab fantasy, because they can't stand being an adult. Nothing worse than someone trying to hang out in a scene they are too old for. Ever see pics of Tony Bennett at Studio 54? Yeah. That's you. Sorry folks, grown up life is pretty routine. Running away to Brooklyn(how tired is that place anyway?) or Frisco or Boston isn't going to change that. Unless you plan to go into porn. And most of you aren't attractive enough to even be in porn. They think if they knock on the front door of the White House, Basketball Barry will just usher them right into their corner office at the Department of Girls Smarter than their Grandma. "Would you like to try a larger size, maam?" Get used to saying that. That English degree you earned at Backwater University isn't going to land you that dream job at Cosmo.

They post pics of themselves in front of CBGB's(which I could hardly be bothered to look away from the porn I have open in another window to even care about). They post(to them) deep haikus about their revelatory life(or more often quote indie rock lyrics) in said megalopolis. They come home every three months to soak up the novelty of their home towns just so they don't "lose themselves" in the dizzying kaleidoscope of craziness they see in the "big city". Oh shit, a tranny fight outside of  Subway or some guy playing Beethoven on his keytar app outside of Yankee stadium! How. Utterly. Fucking. Amazing. I am in so much envy right now I can hardly stand living in my affordable house. Your Ipod has so many songs about your new life. "Tenement Girl", "Finding my Way in the Maze", "Metamorphosis f/ Rihanna and the L.A. Philharmonic". Omigod, you saw Freddie Prinze Jr. at Walgreens!! Let me just fasten my noose right now.

You might say "sour grapes, eh Mau?" "You're just mad that you're stuck in Cleveland." I say, lick my shaft, loser. I have travelled the whole country. The WHOLE country. From LA to Dallas to Hannibal to Richmond to Philly. You know what I found out? They all have Targets. Well, not Hannibal. They all have illiterate local news anchors, cool neighborhoods(and gentrified yuppie hell holes), and amazing food! And also shitty food. Lots of shitty food. And lots of shitty bands. Just like Cleveland. So why uproot myself to go live almost the same life somewhere else just because I saw it on the Travel Channel(the dumbed down app of cable networks)? But shouldn't people follow their dreams? Sure, if you have the talent or perserverence to make that dream reality. Here's the sad truth. 99% of you don't. If you want to really matter, and I mean MATTER...grow up, get real, and contribute to the place you're from(except for Detroit, get the fuck out of there). Or else get used to packing that IHOP uniform when you come home to dullsville to do your laundry.

And just remember, when you leave Cleveland, you're the same as this guy.

Auto Neurotic Ass Fixing n Aching

Just caught this episode of Married with Children where Al tries to keep his beloved rust heap alive. It reminded me, in this sweltering July, of the countless beyond countless hours I spent helping my hardheaded dad work on crustbucket Delta 88's and other ancient models of American made nightmares of the open road. Some of my least favorite memories(but in hindsight, ridiculously funny) of dear old Pa were forged in the garage. Well, halfway in the garage. We had so much crap in there that the cars usually only fit just enough into it so that I constantly had to duck or smack my greasy teenage forehead against the bottom of the garage door.

 It wasn't the way one saw the Beaver or Ricky Nelson working on cars with their dads. No lemonade from a doting wife, no precious life advice passed down from father to son, no purring of a finely tuned engine. It was swearing, cigarettes, beer and or coffee, sweat, farts, swearing, tears, and holding stuff in place in lieu of clamps(all the while wishing I was in my room watching Mtv, or more likely exploring my hormone saturated teen body). And ultimately utter failure. I got yelled at for not being able to distinguish metric sockets from standard ones(why the fuck did American cars have metric parts?), I had to test drive cars with no brakes around the block, go to the autoparts store for parts(not a real hot chick hang out), or go out for more cigarettes. Marlboro Red, hard pack. You don't know how often hearing my friends order that same kind of cigarette brings back flashbacks. It was either brutally hot when doing something as complicated as a brakejob, or pretty near freezing and dark around seven at night in November(when I probably should have been doing homework or, you know, eating my dinner). The relief I felt when the job was finally over is still greater in my mind than when I punch out of work now as an adult. Dad was my first asshole boss.

In the end, the knowledge I gleaned from dad about fixing cars is next to nothing. I know you are supposed to cuss, ask God why he saddled you with such a worthless child, or mutter something about wd40 with a smoke dangling from one's lips. Do I know how to change a sparkplug now? What the fuck does a sparkplug even look like? I think it's like lightning bolt shaped or something. Can I change a tire? Sure. But that's something I learned myself. Do I loathe the smell of gritty degreasing hand soap? I would fill my worst enemy's mouth full of that crap before I lower a 1990 Caprice full of fishing tackle onto their heads as they lay unsuspecting on a mechanic creeper. What a fitting name for  that usless un- skateboard. They probably named it that, because mechanics always slide out from under a hot babe's car on one to catch a quick glimpse of her panties as she hovers nearby in desperation to get her car back. Do I want to shoot automatic weapons fire into oil filters when I see them? Duh.

Yet, despite all this unpleasantness, I would not trade those experiences for anything. Not being a rich Romneybot who probably never had to touch a wrench in his life, not being a closeted teen homosexual who would duck dad by just living at drama club practice( and going on to later success as a major Hollywood star), nor being a msicreant child who would completely ignore their parents' requests. Because....it made me a MAN. With a capital fucking M. You learn dad is pretty much full of shit, but he means well. You learn that mechanics are crooks to never ever be trusted, and that swearing is probably the greatest free pleasure we still have as Americans. That driveways are where real men bond(not golf courses). That  dad has lots of cool stuff you can use to steampunk your boring action figures. That the neighbors are all supreme buttholes. That food tastes a million times better after starving through three hours of boredom and frustration trying to install a new exhaust. Man shit. Thank you, Pa(and Al Bundy) for those times. And for teaching me ways to swear I had never even dreamed of.

Perverseverse

 So I broke my smartphone the other night. Don't ask, my temper tantrums alone could fill a whole other blog. So I was forced to take up an old hobby at work last night. Drawing pervy surrealist landscapes. You might remember some I posted last year.





The recurring themes seemed to be pregnancy, bananas, octopi, winged things, shemales, Easter and basketball.


Work of Art, I await your call to be on your show. Is 35 to old to make it?