Just So You Know. . .

It is quite possible that there is not one single person on the entire planet more masculine than me. Well, it is possible that a half-shaven soldier standing in a desert in Iraq, holding an automatic weapon, smoking a cigarette is a little more manly. Also, a fireman, that just saved an entire family from a burning building, and responds to the frantic mother, "I'm just doing my job ma'am." That guy, I can't compete. The cowboy who spent all day ranching (or whatever modern-day cowboys do) and comes in for the night telling how he just helped birth a calf. That guy is a bad-ass. Whatever, you get the point. I am more manly than most, and for one reason. Allow me to elaborate:

Last night I went to get a beer. I have a second refrigerator in my garage. It is not one of those puny, dorm room sized, refrigerators. It is a regular, big ass, refrigerator. In the freezer, I keep only ice, chilled beer mugs, and liquor. In the regular refrigerator part I keep beer. I have every different kind I like. So, I went to get a beer about 7:30 pm. (I'm telling you the time to give you a sense of mood and setting - I am a great story teller - what can I say) I got a Corona out, and reached for the bottle cap opener that I keep on top of the fridge. It had somehow gone missing.

I want you all to know that a lesser man would have panicked in such a situation. However, I kept my cool. I went to my make-shift tool bench and pulled out a pair of needle nose pliers. I grabbed hold of that bottle cap, and ripped it from the bottle with a pair of pliers. At that moment I became a complete man. I found the bottle opener this morning, but think I am going to keep opening my beer bottles with the pliers. Now, all I have to do is get a girl to observe the opening, and I'll be set. Because that is the kind of thing that turns women on - beer and tools.

Working

It is 11:32 on Sunday night, and I am working. What is the world coming to? This isn't my life. What have I done to deserve this?

In happier news: I just created a Playlist I called "Uncle Tupelo and Its Progeny". It contains 236 tracks of Uncle Tupelo, Jeff Tweedy, Jay Farrar, Wilco , Son Volt and Loose Fur.

Remember the book that begins: "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters." I think that Chapter ends: "Then God looked over all he had made, and he saw that it was very good! And evening passed and morning came, marking the sixth day." My Playlist is about like that. Upon its completion I looked at my iPod and said, "This is good! Look at what I have created!" I know I didn't actually write the lyrics, or compose any music, or do anything creative, but I did organize some songs that I like into a neat list so I can play them in an order that pleases me.

Three things:

1) If you don't know who those bands/artists are, go look them up and then you can be cool too.

2) I know that screwing around with my iPod and blogging is not really working. So, I am procrastinating. Screw you for judging me.

3) Did that sentence in the Bible begin with the word 'and'? Am I missing something? I thought that was a no-no. You would think a book like the Bible could get the grammar correct. I blame those Gutenberg people.

Okay people. Remember - it is not about who you are on the outside. It is about who you are on the inside.

BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND!

As you can tell from the many, many, many comments below, people have missed me and have been begging for me to write. I have been getting, literally, hundreds of e-mails and comments from people asking when I am going to post again. When New York Times reporter, David E. Sanger, texted me saying, “Dude, WTF?” I knew I needed to get off my ass and do something. Well folks, let me just say that “I am sorry.” I have let you down. I know you are disappointed in me, but really you should just get used to the feeling. I let people down all the time. More often that not really. Eight months ago when I asked my friends, family and ex-lovers to use one word to describe me, I most often got “unsatisfactory” (especially in the ex-lover department). I also got “douchebag,” “fuck face,” “tool” and “cunt.” Although I got to point out to my dear sister that “fuck face” is two words, and I had to sternly tell my grandfather I never, ever condone the use of the “C word.”

My sabbatical (by the numbers - as they say in the industry)
17th - the last time I had a post
26th (of September) - the last time I had a post that was any good.
10 - number of days I have taken off work since the 17th.
9 - number of days I spent off work doing nothing but watching daytime TV and porn.
28 (give or take a couple) - number of times I have masturbated since the 17th.
4 - number of times I masturbated looking at Britney’s bald box.
6 - number of pounds I have gained (apparently masturbation does not burn that many calories).
4 - number of large pizzas delivered to my house.
1 - days at work since the return form my vacation that I have spent actually doing work.
5 - number of days at work since the return from my vacation that I looked really busy at work (including today).
4 - number of women I flirted with at the video store/grocery store.
4 - number of women that looked at me like I was Charles Manson when I flirted with them at the video store/grocery store.

There you have it. What I Did with My Time Off . . . by Garrett Reid. (Forward by Garrett Reid).

Here is the deal (my excuse). I took two weeks off of work. The week of Thanksgiving and the following week. I came back to work this week. I didn’t tell you that I was going to be gone, well, because I am lazy and I forgot to. I didn’t blog while I was off work because I am lazy and I was on vacation. About day four I decided I needed to write something. After that much time away I thought I should write something really good and really funny. However, I couldn’t think of anything really good and really funny. So I didn’t write. Time continued to pass and I still kept thinking the post had to be bigger and better since even more time had passed. Then guilt started to set in. I didn’t read my blog e-mail. I didn’t look at site meter. I didn’t really read anyone else’s blogs. All because I felt guilt when I did so.

See how much I love you. I felt as if I was betraying you, and so I turned my back on you. That is true fucking love. I loved you so much that I ignored you. You should appreciate that. You should love me more. You should send me nude photos as a result of how much I love you.

As you can see, I eventually gave up on the idea that this post should be really funny and awesome. I opted instead for - just write a bunch of stuff and tell people they should love you.

Maybe I should try and do better. However, in my defense, naked breast pictures would have really motivated me. So this is really all your fault.

Welcome Freaky Porn People!

If you have found my blog because of a search for “midget penis” or “porn” or “midget porn” or “ass peeing pics” or “porn vagina” or “Kristi Yamaguchi” - Welcome! It is great to have you. My blog hits have doubled the last few days because of a certain post I wrote regarding midgets and their penises. If you are here because you are looking for pictures of pornography, midgets, vaginas, or Yamaguchi’s then you might be slightly disappointed at first. However, I want you to know that you can stay if you like, take a look around, read some stupid thing I wrote and then tell me about your life in a very detailed e-mail.

Seriously, within 15 minutes of posting the midget penis post the hits started coming. What is up with that? They just kept flooding in by the twos and threes. I appreciate that there are many people out there looking for porn on their home computer so they can easily masturbate to the fetish of their choice, but I don’t really understand whey they would actually click on my blog. My suspicion is that there is a guy out there looking for some hot “ass peeing pics” (whatever that may be), and is sitting as his bedroom computer, boxers around ankles, lube at the ready. He begins his search for “ass peeing pics” and then sees This Blog is Not Funny. “Hmm,” he says to himself, “very interesting.” He clicks on in and starts reading about the stupid drivel I write about. He quickly realizes this is not the blog of an "ass pee-er" and goes someplace else.

One more thing, If you are the 15-20 people who have clicked here by searching Blogger for “porn” you need to narrow your search, my friend. Who searches the internets for “porn?” Isn’t that a little generic. What kind of porn? Lesbian porn? Gay porn? Bondage porn? Monkey porn? American-Indian Transvestite Porn? You need some specifics, buddy.

I’ve written “porn” so many times now it is starting to not look like a word. Porn. Porn. IS it a real word? Porn. Hmm. Very interesting.

I promise I will try and write about something better later. I suck, I know. God help me. How about this, everyone that is reading this - e-mail me and tell me about yourself. Not in the “where you work” and “whether you leave your bedroom blinds slightly open,” but more like in the “I like bunny rabbits and singing in the shower” way. We’ll converse. I’ll write something embarrassing about myself, you’ll tell me it is “okay” and not to be embarrassed. We’ll bond. We’ll become life long pen pals that never meet, until one cold day in autumn when you will find me outside your Upper West Side apartment with some flowers and my Golden Retriever at my side. You’ll say “I wanted it to you be you,” and I’ll say “Don't cry, Shopgirl. Don't cry.” Then we’ll walk through the park, happily whistling “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

Is there anyone out there NOT creeped out right now?

Midget Porn

I spent a good portion of last night looking at midget porn. (I’m not exactly clear on the correct terminology. It might be “little person porn”, or “dwarf porn.” While this distinction might matter to some, I don’t think it matters to the three foot tall girl doing a gang bang in an abandoned warehouse). Some of you (but not all) may be inquiring of yourself at this very moment, "Why is Garrett, whom we have come to know, love and trust to be a decent, respectable, God-fearing member of the human race looking at something so degrading as web sites with titles such as "Bang A Midget" and "Midget Sex Mania"? Well, it is all in the name of science my dear friends.

You see, I watch a little show that I love with all of my heart entitled Nip/Tuck. If you don’t watch it, turn to FX right now and catch a glimpse because it is awesome. For my female readers, there is at least one bare male ass in every episode. Basically the show features two wealthy doctors who have a lot of sex and engage in a tremendous amount of immoral behavior. I know - right up my alley. Anyway, this season Dr. McNamara’s wife, Julia, begins having an affair with the male dwarf-nanny, Marlowe (I know, I know - there really couldn’t be a better name for a dwarf-nanny!) So this lead to a discussion with a co-worker. I now pose this question to you in the hopes of finally reaching a rational conclusion: Can a relationship between a regular-sized woman and a midget/dwarf man ever be fully satisfying to the woman because of the midget/dwarf sized penis?

I posed that question to my co-worker. The ensuing, sometimes confrontational, conversation went like this (for ease of reading I will use letters to symbolize who is speaking. "M" will represent me (because I am too fucking lazy to type the "e") and "F" will represent my friend - I would use his real name, but he is a lawyer and God knows he will probably sue me:

M: Can a relationship between a regular-sized woman and a midget/dwarf man ever be fully satisfying to the woman because of the midget/dwarf sized penis? (I know we already covered this- fuck off and keep quiet during the conversation)

F: Are you serious?

M: Uh, yeah. Midget man equals midget penis.

F: You are an idiot.

M: What are you talking about?

F: Midgets have normal sized penises.

M: Shut the fuck up. That is impossible, they would hang to their little midget knees.

F: Trust me, dude, midgets do not have "midget sized penises" (said with derision in his voice)

M: It just stands to reason, is all I am saying. If a 6 foot tall man has 6 inch penis, then 3 foot tall man must have 3 inch penis. That’s just basic logic and math skills. Third Grade man. Editor’s note: The numbers used herein are for example only. I have a penis much, much bigger than 6 inches. Just ask your mom. Zing!

F: Why do I even talk to you? (Looks at me in disgust and turns and walks away)

As soon as I got home from work I started looking me up some midget porn. This has led me to the following conclusions:

Conclusions:

1) Man midgets are vastly underused in porn. I looked at many websites and I saw the same man midget on every site. There is only one man-midget in porn. This means that if you are a midget and into doing many, many girls on camera, then there is a potential market for you.

2) 99.5 percent of all midget porn sites are pictures/videos of girl-midgets getting fucked by some big-penised guy. I have a theory that these sites are popular because regular joes would like to have the intercourse with a midget to make them feel like they have huge, giant-sized penises.

3) Although most midget porn sites are straight sex (regular guy/girl midget), there exists every other possible variety: a) full-sized girl/girl midget, b) girl midget peeing on guy, c) dominatrix midget, d) midget girl on midget girl, e) mature midgets.

4) I was not able to ascertain the penis size of the average dwarf/midget. The one midget I saw had a regular sized penis. However, in regular guy porn they use the guy with the biggest penis, usually at least 8-10 inches. Therefore, it stands to reason that they would use the midget with the biggest penis, so maybe the rest have small penises. I decided it was not a very scientific endeavor to seek to determine the penis size of the adult male midget by looking at porn.

5) There is not an article on Wikipedia addressing midget penises. Could someone look into that.

6) I felt like an idiot going to medical websites and typing into the search engine: “Dwarf penis size”

Okay that’s it. I don’t know the answer. I really wanted to come into work this morning with some medical literature and hard core midget-porn printouts to support my arguments. Does anyone out there know the answer? Can anyone help?

Write me if you are:

1) actually a midget/dwarf and are still reading this post after being so obviously offended by my insensitivities.

2) a girl and have had sex with a midget.

3) a guy and have had sex with a midget (yes I did look for gay midget sites - none).

4) know a man midget and are willing to ask him the length and girth of his midget member.

5) just like to talk about sex in general and don’t mind if you immediately become the subject of my masturbation fantasies.

Lets get those e-mails going. I need an answer by lunch. Keep the faith and walk the walk.

Oh Baby, Baby

For those lucky few citizens who read the last post, thank you for your many thoughts and prayers. After I wrote that post, the Coors sightings stopped. I think they figured out that I was on to them, and ceased their scandalous activity. I am safe for now.

Now our attention turns to the biggest news of yesterday. Britney and K-Fed .

To K-Fed: I’m sorry, yo! I didn’t mean for mine and Britney’s relationship to interfere with your marriage. After all, it is purely sexual. What can I say, she likes to get herself some of this, yo! She just likes to play, “pet the magic monkey” a lot. I’m sorry that she told me you have an unusually small penis, and oblong-shaped testicles. In conclusion, keep it real, yo. Keep rappin’

The best part of Britney/K-Fed news is the story headlines they come up with. My favorite so far: “K-Fed is Now Fed-ex After Britney Files for Divorce.” Simply hilarious.

Also fun to observe is the different treatment the divorce of Brit/K-Fed gets from the Reese/Ryan split. When you tell people about Reese/Ryan, they give a little tilt of the head, a little sigh and say something like, “I always liked those two, I thought they would go the distance.” The reality is that they did go the distance, but only by Hollywood standards. The stayed together long enough to create little blond-headed babies who would grow up to be Oscar winners. Isn’t that what life is all about anyway - creating other beautiful people so that we have someone to leave our money to besides charities, homeless people and starving china-people. So when I broke the news to my secretary about Britney/K-Fed, her exact words were, “It is about damn time, she should have kicked him to the curb a long time ago.” When I told her that I saw this article saying that K-Fed may have found out by text message, she laughed gleefully. Actual glee! That women hates the K-Fed. I just feel sorry for him. It must be tough to go through life with oblong-shaped testicles.

I am not really certain, but I think texting your spouse to tell him he will now be poor and divorced has to be the saddest thing possible. Apparently he had no idea since a few hours before the divorce was announced he was quoted as saying, “I've been away from the kids for like a week right now. It's killing me inside, you know, but, baby, I'll be home soon [yo]” That really has to hurt. I don’t know if you know anything about lawyers, but it usually takes them longer than a couple of hours to draft the necessary paperwork, etc. Britney probably had those lawyers draft a set of divorce papers to keep on file, just in case. She had her lawyer on speed-dial and as soon as K-Fed pissed her off, she had a lawyer on the way to the court house. My guess is that she had the papers drafted when she heard the rap album. I mean, if I had a spouse, and she started rapping, I would hire a lawyer too. Who wouldn't?

Well folks, you have once again wasted some time reading this pointless stuff. I can’t believe I just wrote over 500 words about Britney. Pathetic and sad. Please forgive.

Danger!

I may be in a small amount of trouble. Well, to be honest I don’t know how "small" the trouble is. My life may be in danger. I want to tell you all because, um, I don’t have anyone else to tell. I think the Coors Brewing Company may be out to get me.

On Tuesday I posted a little bit about me drinking a Coors Banquet Beer. (It is, after all, like a banquet in your mouth). Within the hour, there was a hit on my blog. I notice the hit because, well, when they come in ones and twos by the day, you tend to notice them. This one especially caught my eye. The location was Golden, Colorado. If you are not familiar with the glorious city of Golden it lies at the mouth of Clear Creek at the edge of the foothills of the Front Range. It was founded on June 16, 1859 and named for Thomas L. Golden. (I just stole that directly from Wikipedia). Golden is known for being the home of the world’s fifth largest brewing company, Coors Brewing Company.

When I saw the City of Golden on sitemeter, I got excited. "What a coincidence!" my naive, silly self thought to. . . uh. . . myself. Then when I clicked on the statistic, I became concerned. The ISP was from Coors Brewing Company. Obviously, they have some kind of sophisticated software that allows their spies to see when anyone on the entire internets types the word "Coors." I was concerned at the sophistication and technology being employed by Coors, but this concern had not yet reached the level of fear.

I am just a worthless blog guy. I have nothing to offer to the world, and the words I type mean little to anyone, especially since they are read by so few. Why would the world’s fifth largest brewing company care what I have to say about one of their products? Unfortunately, I may never discovery the answer to this dark secret. When I left the office yesterday and entered my car in the parking garage, I noticed the unmistakable scent of hops. Surely you are familiar with what hops are. Hops come from the flowers of Humulus lupulus, and contain several characteristics very favorable to beer: (a) hops contribute a bitterness that balances the sweetness of the malt, (b) hops can contribute aromas that are flowery, citrus, fruity or herbal and, (c) hops have an antibiotic effect that favors the activity of brewer's yeast over less desirable microorganisms. While hop plants are grown by farmers all around the world in many different varieties, there is no major commercial use for hops other than in beer. (I also stole that from Wikipedia).

Did you hear that people? No other use, other than beer. I’m fucked.

So then I get home and I see a white van parked near my house. I swear to god it had a refrigeration unit on top, like someone that is transporting beer might have. Got to keep that stuff cold, you know. The van was parked there for about 20 minutes after I got home, and then drove away and out of the neighborhood. I couldn’t see anyone inside the van from my angle, but I suspect it was a Coors operative. I have now stopped logging on the internet from home and stopped talking on the phone because I suspect that my computer and phone line may be bugged.

There is little say now. I am probably endangering my life by writing this to you, but I love you. I feel I must share this with you, lest anything undesirable occur. May God have mercy on my soul. If I am back with another post later, just ignore this stupid little rant. If not, tell the world my story.

Beware of Women in Skirts!

Check out this article.

This is scary stuff. “Women dress to impress when they are at their most fertile.” I don’t know about you, but I am now avoiding all women dressed in sexy attire, because, according to cnn.com, they may be unintentionally trying to get themselves impregnated. “They tend to put on skirts. . . and dress more fashionably.” So when you are out walking around today, if you see a “sexy lady” out and about, beware! She is trying, desperately, to get knocked up. Signs that a woman may be on the hunt for your sperm: (according to cnn.com) 1) She is “dressed to impress,” 2) “more fashionable” clothing, 3) flashy jewelry, 4) skirts, and 5) showing some skin. Avoid fashionable women in jewelry at all costs.

Who funds this research? What is going on in the world today? Teams of researchers hired a panel of men and women to look at photographs of young college women in an attempt to ascertain if those college women were ovulating based solely upon their fashion choices? Am I alone in saying, “WHAT THE FUCK?” Is this study going to do anyone any good? I know there is that one couple out there who is struggling to get pregnant, and they just can’t seem to determine when the missus is ovulating. One day she will wake up, slip on a skirt that is above the knee, pick out the cubic zirconium ring, and, in a moment of divine realization say to herself, “Fucking A! I’m ovulating! Lets Fuck!” (Or more likely since it is the woman saying it - “lets make sweet love and conceive a child to bless us. ”)

In other news, I am not going to any Halloween parties this year. I am not dressing up, and I will not be trying to bed a slutty nurse dressed up as a slutty nurse. I don’t celebrate Halloween because it is a pagan holiday honoring Satan. Instead, I will stay at home, watch the Charlie Brown Halloween Special (I wonder if the Great Pumpkin will be seen this year?) and read the Bible.

Actually, I will be handing out candy to those Trick-or-Treaters that come to my door. I will be dressing as Guy Drinking Can of Coors Banquet Beer Handing Out Fun Size Snickers. What is ideal about Coors Banquet Beer and Snickers is that they both really satisfy. However, only one of them satisfies intense feelings of loneliness and self-loathing.

Happy Halloween everyone! Remember to have your parents check your candy for needles.

An Enlightening Conversation with My Boss Regarding Hispanics

Something Ace Cowboy wrote yesterday reminded me of a story. My story is in no way funny, and you should probably stop reading here. You will be disappointed. What Ace said:

. . and for the first time the Mexican assistant and I locked eyes and telepathically agreed: what the fuck? [ed. note, I'm not racist on that last point, the dude actually is from Mexico, the World Cup brought us together.].

About four years ago, I was in my boss'’s office sitting across from his gigantic, dark, rich wood desk. Interestingly, his chairs are kind-of extra high-back chairs. The back of the chair looms what seems to be about two feet above your head as you sit there. The effect of this is that the chair feels huge, and in turn, you feel small. It's all about the mind-fuck with the executives. So I am sitting there feeling very small as this 65 year-old man is leaned back in his chair asking me about my weekend.

He asks, "“Reid, How was the weekend? Anything exciting?"

"“No sir, just attended a wedding."

"“Well, son, that'’s something exciting, isn't it?"

It actually was kind of fun. It was the wedding of my brother'’s wife'’s sister. The groom was an Hispanic gentleman, and the wedding was full of traditions I have not since seen. The groom is also from Mexico. Mexico City to be exact. Soon after the wedding the bride and groom moved to Mexico City. During the conversation with the boss, I referred to the Groom as a Mexican. This, apparently, makes me a racist. The conversation continued:

"“Well I guess it was a little exciting. It was my brother's wife'’s sister getting married to a Mexican man, and . ."

"“Whoa, Reid. I am certain you meant to say '‘Hispanic'’."

"“Well, actually sir, he is from Mexico."

"“I don'’t care where he is from Reid, we do not use that term here."

"“We don'’t use the term 'Mexican'’?"”

"“Exactly, the proper way to refer to them is '‘Hispanic'’."

I sort of sat there staring at him with a dumbfounded look on my face. My first thought is that the entirety of my education in political correctness had somehow gone awry. I looked across the desk at the Boss'’s furled brown and disappointed expression. I thought about it for about 10 seconds. He clearly wanted me to apologize and admit my faux pas.

I slowly stood up. Walked over to his big fucking desk, put both hands down, looked him in the eye, and said, "“Listen you old fuck. The man is from Mexico. That makes him a Mexican. He is a fucking citizen of Mexico. He lives in fucking Mexico City for God'’s sake. He is Mexican. It is not derogatory to refer to him by the county of his citizenship. I mean, what the fuck?"”

Actually, what really happened is that I nodded my head in agreement as I said, "“I a’m very sorry sir, I certainly meant no offense. It won'’t happen again."” If there is one thing I have learned in my 6 years of working in the corporate world is that you don'’t get very far pointing out other people's stupidity, questioning the boss, or asking any type of question at all for that matter. You kiss ass. That is why they pay me the big bucks now.

The next week a booklet was circulated regarding "“diversity in the workplace."

So my little friends, what have we learned? 1) The boss is always right. 2) Sell your soul if you can get a little extra in Christmas bonus. 3) The more money you make entitles you to bigger chairs. 4) If you can't leave the bar with the one you want, just drink more until you don't know the difference.

A Few Moments Ago, I Almost Died

A few moments ago, I almost died. 15 minutes ago, to be exact. I don’t really want to write about this because of the subject of my last post. Some might begin to think I am morbid. However, I feel the need to write about this because, well uh, I don’t have anything else to write about right now. I was going to write about something, but I can’t remember it as I sit here. I have a small amount of memory loss. I think I do anyway. It is hard to be certain about the memory loss because I can’t remember if there was something I have forgotten. Maybe I didn’t have anything to write about, and I didn’t really forget - I just think I forgot. Great! I am now a fucking rambling and babbling idiot. The pain is killing me. It is intense. It is hard to type because I keep having to hold a rag to my forehead to curtail the bleeding. Fuck - why am I typing this? Why do I have a blog again? It is not funny, no one reads it, the people who do read it don’t really like it, it is not getting me laid, I haven’t received one e-mailed photo with a naked woman in it, and no woman has said she will blow me because of this blog. (Note: notice I said “no woman” - To the guy from Waynesboro, Georgia and the guy from Elkhart, Kansas I sincerely appreciate the offers, but 1) I don’t even own a sex swing, 2) I don’t see how that is anatomically possible, and 3) I am not really all that gay.

What was I saying? Oh, I hurt myself. I nearly killed myself. I may have a small concussion. I was in a supply closet. I dropped a box of staples. I bent down to pick them up and hit my head on a filing cabinet. Blinding fucking pain. Seriously! I hit it hard enough that I saw stars and split my head open. Blood running down my forehead right in the middle of my office. All of the “motherly” women in the office immediately began to care for me in my weakened state. The bad part is that none of the non-motherly types wanted to care for me. They looked disgusted at the blood and slunk away making comments like “Sorry Garrett, that sucks” and “that must have hurt” and “fucking asshole, serves you right”

Now I am sitting at my desk in pain. I am starting to feel nauseated, and I can’t stop the bleeding. I am actually starting to feel a little light headed talking about it. I am going to stop this post for now. If you don’t ever hear from me again, I love you all. I think of you as my family (except for my female readers - I think about you in naughty ways).

Dogs and Cats Living Together - Mass Hysteria!

I just got back from my little local Starbucks. Do they have those everywhere or is that just a HERE thing? Anyway. While there I observed several disturbing things that made me believe the world is coming to an end TONIGHT. First, Fat White Man and Skinny Black Girl couple. This is a combination I cannot figure out. Let me just say that there is no one more racially sensitive than I (not true), but I don’t get it. Very rarely do you even see the Fat Guy/Skinny Girl couple in real life. It only happens in TV sitcoms, and with rich guys. I bet you can't name one couple that you actually know that has the Fat Guy/Skinny Girl combo. I am not talking about the guy that has a few extra pounds to lose - in his late 40s. I am talking about the morbidly obese guy with the half hot dog stuck between two of his chins and the pack of ding dongs rolled up in his sleeve in case he gets weak while taking a shit. It just doesn’t happen. Also true of the White Man/Black Girl combo. I base this on years of scientific anthropological research and studies. Black girls just don’t dig the white guy. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it, its not logical - but it is reality folks. So, when you see Fat White Man and Skinny Black Girl its like finding a five leaf clover. Either you are one lucky son of a bitch or there is some nuclear mutation shit going down.

So I’m standing there waiting for my Chai Tea, observing the human aberration, when I observed the Second Sign: Preppy Girl with Goth Guy. When I saw this I looked to the sky fully expecting the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. What is this about? I would try and describe what the girl was wearing, but I am terrible at such things. I would guess she was 17, and if she were at my high school she would have been the hottest, most popular girl. She was a little edgy. She was wearing a little yellow T-shirt with a girl skateboarding while smoking a cigarette, but she was definitely not Goth. I would say she was a burgeoning Hipster Chick. However, the guy with which she was holding hands - Dyed black hair, black lip liner, eyebrow piercing and lower lip spike. I was astounded. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. I can only assume that she was desperately rebelling against a rich, lawyer father and Goth guy had a big penis. I wanted to grab Goth guy by his unusually long bangs and tell him to live in the moment because she will soon see that her Daddy’s money is way more valuable than her sense of rebellious youth.

To end this stupid and sordid story - the Final Sign of the End Times: Starbucks Girl took my order, smiled at me, told me to have a good evening, and generally seemed pleasant and kind. I at once began confessing my sins (there were many) and preparing to be swept away to the sweet by and by (I don’t know what that means - but it sounds like a nice folksy way of saying we’re fucked).

Its possible that the End is coming a little later tonight. That is the reason for this post. I just wanted to warn you people. You have been coming to this site rather irregularly and haphazardly for several days now, and I feel that I owe you this. It has been fun. Go do whatever it is that you want to do in the last few minutes of your life. I am going to masturbate to the Girls Gone Wild Commercial. Good night and good luck.

My Drunken Weekend

I swear to God you folks are killing me with the incessant e-mails about when am I going to tell the story, how long until I post, and on and on and on. I do have a small life outside of this thing and reading other people’s things. I seriously have received at least 2 e-mails about the post. Anyway. Sorry for the delay, but I found a website with every original Nintendo game online for free playing. Awesome.

As you surmised I drank some this weekend. Well, “some” is not really the right way to describe it. You know that one Nicholas Cage movie where he plays the guy that drinks himself to death. Well that was me. Only I wasn’t hanging around a hooker the whole movie, it wasn’t in Vegas and I didn’t die in the end. It all began on Wednesday when some friends said they were getting together and going to our college town for some drinking, debauchery, decadence and some other cool word that I can’t think of which starts with ‘D’ that means roughly the same thing as those others. Hotel rooms were booked. Alcohol was purchased. Driving plans were made. Road trip was on. Let me just say that I am not proud of the things that I have done. But what is done is done. I can’t take them back now. All I can do is tell you all about it so you can laugh at me as my best friends in the world have done.

As I lay in my little bed on Wednesday night dreaming of good times, I devised two goals for the weekend. 1) Drink - a lot. 2) Do my best to have the sexual relations. If number 2 failed, I at least wanted to either make out with a hot girl that was a little out of my league (most are) or achieve orgasm in a way that didn’t involve my hand and a circa 1992 photo of Kristi Yamaguchi.

Let me just get right to the good stuff because this post is already too long and I have lost most of you I am sure. So, we got there we looked around the campus. I don’t think I have been there in 7 years. Some things changed, some stayed the same. You get the F-ing point. Then we hit the bar. The same bar that I hit for four of the best years of my life. If there is one piece of wisdom that I would like to pass on to the next generation below me it is this: Don’t ever, ever leave college. College involves very little real responsibility, much sex, much drinking and sleeping until noon on days when you don’t have class. Could there be any better life than that?

Much like every small college town, this bar had a drink special. They had these 24 ounce cups that they were selling full of nasty cheap beer for $2. That’s pretty unheard of I think. I, at once, slunk into predator/neanderthal mode. Must get as much beer as possible before it runs out. I bought three immediately. This damaged the lady prospects some since I was carrying around three gigantic plastic cups with both hands, and looked like a complete idiot. We couldn’t find a place to land so I was stuck holding those three beers for about half an hour. When I tried to drink from one, the other two would slightly spill, getting my hands and sleeves wet. Classy, I know. So I drank. And I drank. And I drank. Goal Number 1 in the bag. Unfortunately the harder I hit Goal Number 1 the harder it was to hit Goal number 2. This was fully realized by me when I was standing around my group of friends (consisting of three other guys and two girls - one girl was the wife of one guy and one girl was the girlfriend of the other guy - got all that?) and I was trying to convince them of my attractiveness to the opposite sex. Finally I decided to demonstrate said attractiveness by baring my ass, giving it a little slap and proclaiming, “what lady wouldn’t want some of this?!” This was after my 6th beer, at approximately 1:00. They turned on the lights 45 minutes later, after I had attempted to drink the beer in the bar dry.

As my friends led me out, I think I was saying to women, “I am Leo DiCaprio. I am fucking movie star!” At the time it seemed kind of funny since I, in no way, resemble Mr. DiCaprio. So as we got to my car, and I proclaimed how much I love my car - I vomited on my car. Yes, it’s a lovely site to see a man completely humiliate himself in front of his closest friends. Normally, I am not one for huge hangovers. This day was the exception. I began heaving and did not stop until the heretofore mentioned McDonald’s incident.

I did not achieve goal two, nor either of the fallback goals. Sad really. However, the highlight of the evening came when we all got back to the hotel. As we (the group minus one couple who had left earlier) ate some Taco Bell on the way to our rooms we paused before we went to our separate rooms. It was then that we heard something. We stopped. We listened. We strained our hears. There it was, coming from room 417. “Mmmmmm. [Pause] Mmmmmm [Pause] Mmmmm, Oh My God. Mmmmmm.” You get the point. We heard the sounds of sex. 417 belonged to the missing couple. What we heard was my friend Justin and his girlfriend having the sex. More importantly, we heard Justin’s girlfriend enjoying the sex. My first thought was “good for him, he is making a woman moan. Fucking lucky bastard.” Then a second thought crossed my mind, Justin had given me his second key earlier so that I could run back up to his room to get beer we forgot. It was then that I devised my evil genius plan. I was going to accidently walk in on them. Brilliant. Hilarious. Brilliant.

I communicated the plan, and got the go ahead from the others. The plan was for me to pretend that I thought it was my room, and they were following me in for some reason (we really didn’t get that far). What I saw was one of the funniest sights I have ever witnessed. Justin wearing nothing but a pair of socks. His girlfriend on top of him. Justin’s hands tied behind his head with some kind of scarf and both of them with a look of horror on their faces, looking at four drunk people in their doorway. The joy I felt in that moment will likely never be surpassed.

So that was Saturday night into Sunday morning. I sill hurt. I am exhausted. But it was all worth it because I got to drink heavily and see two people having sex. Maybe my life is complete now.

Teaser

Tune in tonight for a rare prime-time post. I am too tired to think this afternoon. Still hungover from Saturday night where I attended a college reunion of sorts. Highlights of the evening include: 1) Me showing off how good my naked ass looks since I began a) working out and b) shaving it; 2) me puking on a) the hood of my car; b) a trash can in the lobby of my hotel; and c) the bathroom of the McDonald's while waiting on a sausage McGriddle; and 3) me accidentally-on-purpose walking in on a friend having sex in his hotel room. Awesome times.

By the way, those things above aren't multiple choice, they all happened, but not necessarily in that order. You'll just have to come back tonight to find out the order. I bet the suspense is fucking killing you.

Blog Whoring

You may have noticed that I updated the Links on the sidebar here. These are several of the blogs and such that I check daily. There are others, but I am embarrassed to tell you about them. Some that I didn’t link to are Girl Blogs. They write about their boyfriends, wine, menstruation, and Grey’s Anatomy. For some reason I keep going back to them. I keep telling myself it is because I want to understand the opposite sex so I can get women. However, (and I have never shared this with anyone) I am worried these blogs are turning me gay. If you leave a comment on a blog about how you wish George would find his soul mate or about how Meredith should totally pick McDreamy, does that automatically make you gay, or is it just a factor in turning you gay. I haven’t decided yet, but I am trying to wean myself from those blogs before I suddenly find myself in Williams-Sonoma buying monogrammed linens.

So, anyway, go to these blogs. While there, tell each person that Garrett Reid reads their blog. Tell them that he is your hero, and that they should link their blog to his. Tell them how he won you over, and made you fall in love with him. Tell them to write and entire post about how pathetically sad he is, yet devastatingly charming. Tell them the story about how there is a small African community that worships him as a deity. (Is that a racist thing to say - I hope not) Tell them about how mesmerizing it is to read a blog from a guy that has nothing to say, no good way in which to say it, and spends most of his posts insulting entire classes of people. Tell them that he is, in reality, a 12 year old boy with cancer who wishes only for a lot of traffic to his website before he dies.

There it is. I am a whore. I am throwing myself at other blogs with my shirt unbuttoned and my hairy chest exposed. I am flexing my ass as I bend over to pick up a paper clip that I “accidently” dropped.

Garrett Reid - Accused Plagiarist

It was pointed out by Ace Cowboy in the comments to my last post that the last post may resemble a Seinfeld episode. Well, to be honest he didn't really say "resemble" he said "lifted straight" from Seinfeld. He even linked me to the transcript of the episode. I did watch Seinfeld back in the day, and I can't say for sure that I have seen that episode, but I bet I did because that was high school/college and what else did I have to do besides drink heavily, try and have sex with freshmen and watch TV.

In my defense - I didn't mean to steal shit straight from some old TV episode. Secondly, that was a long ass time ago. That episode was on 11 years ago for Christ's sake. 11 years ago! Do you know what I have done in the last 11 years? I can’t remember every TV episode I have seen, especially ones that I watched while (allegedly) doing X. On the other hand, my post was pretty similar. Even the percentages were close. They said 4-6% undatable. I said less than 5% good looking. Although I did say that people drink out of depressions from hooking up with ugly people, and they said people drink so that they can hook up. In reality, these differences are so far apart that no one can compare my post to the episode. I also talked about nipples in my post. You don't see Seinfeld talking about nipples do you?

Here are the exact lines from Seinfeld:

JERRY: Elaine, what percentage of people would you say are good looking?

ELAINE: Twenty-five percent.

JERRY: Twenty-five percent, you say? No way! It's like 4 to 6 percent. It's a twenty to one shot.

ELAINE: You're way off.

JERRY: Way off? Have you been to the motor vehicle bureau? It's like a leper colony down there.

ELAINE: So what you are saying is that 90 to 95 percent of the population is undatable?

JERRY: UNDATABLE!

ELAINE: Then how are all these people getting together?

JERRY: Alcohol.

I don't want my adoring fans (and by that I mean the 4 people that seem to keep coming back here from time to time) to think I am plagiarizing Seinfeld. Keep it real I like to say. Also, sometimes I say “power to the people.” From time to time I say “Black Power” (although I am not black so I don't know if that is allowed - so I just say it in the privacy of my own bedroom). Thanks to Ace Cowboy and his astuteness. Sorry to Tom Gammill & Max Pross who seem to have written the episode. Sorry to Jerry. If you are reading this I am sorry for the pain I have caused you and your family. I hope you and Jessica are doing well, and those three little ones are staying out of trouble. Most of all, I say I am sorry to my family. Mom, you raised me better than this. Dad, well you didn't raise me at all, but what the hell, sorry anyway.

To the readers: Let me just assure you that someone from my writing team will be immediately fired. His/Her house will be burned down, and several unsavory comments will be made about his/her spouse in internet chat rooms.

If you would like a refund. Please print out the front page of this blog and scan it in. Circle the 4th, 17th, and 19th words, underline every other "T", diagram every forth sentence and then e-mail it to me.

Please tune in for tomorrow’s post when I write about how my best friend’s wife left him for a lesbian, and I’ll update you on the two girls who live across the hall from me named “Ronica” and “Machel”.

Nipples, Ugly People and Ugly Drunks

A couple of hours ago I took a little walk around the building. I haven’t done that for a few days. One, I have been a little busy with some work stuff. Two, taking a walk around the building isn’t as much fun since the onset of Fall clothing. Can’t someone design a sweater that will provide comfortable warmth and still show copious amounts of cleavage? I’m not into clothing design too much, but I do know one thing about the world: Men like women’s breasts. It took me a long to figure that one out. I mean, I always knew that I liked breasts, but I thought I was alone in my desire to get a quick peaky peak at some nipple. It turns out that many, many men in the United States, as well as, in some cases, around the world like the mammaries of a woman. Go figure. Anyway, men like breasts. Where was I going with this. I started thinking about nipples and lost my train of thought. . .

. . .

Oh yeah. I discovered something. There are not very many attractive people out there. My guess is that less than 5% of the population (maybe less than that) is above a 6 on the 10 point scale. When you count out anyone ten years older or ten years younger than you, that leaves very few people. That leads me to my next point: How are these people that are 3s or 4s getting the sex? I understand that society puts on us certain standards of what beautiful is. So if I am a guy that is a 3 wouldn’t I still be attracted to 8s, 9s and 10s? If that is the case, then I would be greatly settling for the 4'11, 250 pound girl with the stubble on her chin. This led me to my third thought: I know why so many people are alcoholics. They settled for a woman with stubble on her chin. If there was a woman that would have sex with me, I think that I would have no problem imagining that she was Jessica Alba. However, 250 Pound Chin Hair Girl can never be transformed into Jessica Alba, even in the mind of greatest of fantasizers. It just can’t happen.

I would drink too If I had to worry about scruff burn from kissing my girlfriend.

I think I will spend the rest of the afternoon looking online for a sweater design that shows some boobies. Fucking turtlenecks. Listen ladies - it doesn’t matter how tight it is, if it don’t show me some skin, it don’t do me no good.

So to summarize:

1) Men like to see breasts, and in turn, nipples.
2) People are generally ugly.
3) People drink because they are ugly and they hooked up with another ugly person.

Aren't you glad you come here for these important life lessons?

Go Tell it on the Mountain

I know many of you have been sitting at your office desk saying to yourself, “This Garrett Reid guy is the funniest mother f-er I have ever read in my entire life! How can I tell my family, friends, and neighbors about him?” I understand. We here at This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide get hundreds of e-mails a day from readers with questions like:

“Dude, you are funny. Are you gay?”

“My wife had a heart attack from reading your site. My lawyer needs your address.”

“You are deeply disturbed and need professional help.”

“This is the most stupidest site I have ever visited. Kill yourself now, please.”

Okay, some of those weren’t questions, but you get the point - People love the blog and want more of it. I have composed an e-mail which you can forward to your friends, family, neighbors, etc. so that you can tell them all about the newest blog sensation, Garrett Reid. Just circle where appropriate:

Dear *Mom/Dad/Mustache Guy at the Liquor Store/Gynecologist/Hooker from Last Night:*

I know that you *raised me/stare at my ass/stick your finger in my vagina/let me have butt sex with you* but I also know that you are a fan of quality humor at an affordable price. I would like to take this opportunity to share with you what has been a large part of my life the last couple of months: This Blog is Not Funny.

Remember last *Thanksgiving/week when I called the cops because you were staking me/month when you checked me for herpes/night when I spanked your ass and told you to call me “Captain Charlie of the Cock Police”* I knew then that I needed to tell you about this exciting new sensational website: This Blog is Not Funny! I can’t even believe I am about to write this, but when I read this guy’s stuff I *get hot down below (if you know what I mean)/pop a little woody wood*. Its just that funny.

Sure the guy can’t spell. He has terrible grammar. He is offensive to the point of embarrassing himself, and I heard from someone that he pees himself a little when he laughs really hard. But he is still a little funny. I mean, he is slightly funnier than The Three Stooges reruns. He is not nearly as funny as Alf Reruns. If he were a character on a TV show he would be Antonio Scarpacci from the hit show Wings. If he were a fruit he would be a cantaloupe.

Please take the time to go to his website. It will change your life forever. By that I mean it will completely waste your time and probably cause gastrointestinal difficulties.

I love you very, very, very much. I hope to see you *at Grandma’s funeral/at the police lineup/next week (I have a little burning when I pee)/never again (I have a little burning when I pee).

Peace be with you.


So there you have it - your dream come true. An easy way tell everyone you care about what you have been doing for 2 minutes and 32 seconds during your lunch break every third day.

Keep it real - and remember, Power to the People.

My Informative Take on the Rep. Mark Foley Scandal

Let me begin this post by saying that I would never make light of the terrible, scandalous, inappropriate, lewd things Rep. Mark Foley has done. I mean, have you seen the IMs?

What I don’t get is the discrepancy between what the Teen is writing and what they say he did after having the IM conversation. Later he calls Foley “sick, sick, sick?” What is the deal? I probably would not have long conversations about male orgasms with an old guy, and then say, "wow - that guy is sick." I mean, he obviously is sick - but I would try and recognize that up front and say it then. Just a thought.

I have some experience with old men hitting on me. Well, lots of experience (lets be honest). Mostly is has been with Uncle Ralph wanting me to come and “sit on his lap and chug a brewski” or with that old, homeless guy at the park who keeps offering me a half eaten Quarter Pounder if I will “show him my ding-a-ling” behind the bushes. But I also have experiences from when I was a teen too. Like the one time that my best friend’s dad wanted my friend and I to “help rake leaves.” Yeah, I knew what he meant. Sick Bastard. He even offered to pay me $5. Can you believe that? I screamed, “my body is not for sale. Its not for sale!” As tears streamed from my face I ran and ran. I just ran. Whew, this is really an emotional post for me. I can get through this.

There was also the time when I was 10 that my Mother’s friend from across the street offered me some “milk and cookies.” What a sicko! I was 10! Even at that young age I knew what was going on. After I suppressed my growing erection, I told her, “I’m sorry Mrs. Morris I am just not into that kind of scene.” Interestingly, her daughter (who was 3 years younger than I) turned out to be a crack whore. So I guess we know where “milk and cookies” parenting gets you - sucking the dick of methed out drug dealer behind the 7 Eleven. Let that be a warning to you parents out there.

Here is how the situation would have gone with me and Foley:

Maf54: Did you spank it yourself this weekend

GR: Dude, I’m not talking about that with you.

Maf54: What are you wearing right now?

DR: I’m not gay. If I were, I would not be interested in you. You are old.

Maf54: You get me so hot.

DR: Seriously - Not gay! Why am I even IM-ing you? This is not cool.

Maf54: I think about you all the time

DR: You are obviously a child molester. Do you think I would ever hook up with a child molester. Leave me alone you sick old son-of-a-bitch.

Two general rules (with three sub-rules) I follow in my everyday life: 1) Only talk about masturbation habits with hot women, and 2) Only talk about masturbation habits with a hot woman a) that you have had sex with many, many times, b) that is about to demonstrate her masturbation habits for you, or c) is in prison and has fifteen minutes on the phone with you every other week.

Sorry for the lack of timely updates. I have, for some unknown reason, been having to work at work this week. More on this later.

Stay cool.

House Cleaning and 11 Year Old Boys.

Last night I had to clean my house. I have some people coming in town and they plan on staying there. I say, “they plan” because I sure as heck-fire didn’t invite them. Sure, they are old friends from college, and sure I plan on drinking myself to death with them this weekend, but letting them sleep in my two spare bedrooms is just a little much. For one thing, the last time they stayed it took me a week to get the smell of stripper vagina out of the house. They don’t really advertise a cleaning product that will accomplish that goal. (“Try Formula 69 - for that nasty skanky smell your hooker left behind”) For another thing, I don’t really have much food in my house. I really only eat dinner there, and it mostly consists of odds and ends that I am able to gather up together. Like skittles and pop tarts or ranch dressing and stale crackers. If I do ever have a woman over, why in the F would I feed her? I operate under the theory I like to call “The Hungry Lady Syndrome.” It is a scientifically proven fact that when you are hungry you have an overwhelming desire to put things into your mouth. When it is just me and a lady-friend alone, why would want to take away that desire? I figure God put this desire there so that I would have a .001% greater chance at getting Mr. Wiggly The Wonder Worm a little tongue bath. (I just made that name up on the spot - wow, I am a super-creative creature devoid of any redeeming social value)

This theory has never actually worked yet, but I am staying the course. Most of the time the woman I have lured to my house ends up saying, “Okay I am here, so what is this dying wish you were talking about, and oh, by the way, if you don’t give me something to eat soon I am going to leave - then I am going to tell everyone I know how you “accidently” exposed yourself in the KFC parking lot.”

Where was I with this stupid story? I have so many non sequiturs it is hard for even me to keep up sometimes. I wish I was better at this for you my dear reader, but hey - you get what you pay for I guess. Okay, so I have friends coming over, I had to clean up. I’ll write more about the friends’ adventure another day. The point is, I clean up rarely. I haven’t done dishes in two weeks. The place is a pig’s anus. Seriously. Something has to be done about this. By “something” I mean, something has to be done about this other than me actually cleaning on a regular basis.

I’m thinking of adopting a Malaysian boy. Angelina did it, didn’t she? Surely she adopted for some good reason like cleaning her mansion and stuff. If I adopted a Malaysian he could clean the house up and have my socks ironed for me when I get up in the morning. Before you say anything (and really it is not okay to judge me - I don’t go to your blog and judge you do I - asshole), its not that different than having a real son to cook and clean for me. I remember from American History that farmer’s often had large families so as to have an abundant source of labor. Do you think anyone protested the American Farmer when he worked his 11 year old in the fields all day picking cotton or doing whatever it is you do to tobacco plants? Hell no. It’s the picture of America. So I am thinking about an 11 year old Malaysian Boy. I immediately nixed the idea of a girl. That would just be too weird and people might start to talk.

His life would probably be better than my childhood. Do you know how many times I had to stand next to the TV, switching stations, while my dad sat with his beer can balanced on his belly, saying, “not that. . . next. . . next. . . goddamn it boy why can’t you find M.A.S.H. on TV?” I have a remote control for my TV. So, I promise never to do that to my little Malaysian. Unless, I lose the remote. Or my thumb gets tired from changing channels. Or if I can’t find M.A.S.H. on the TV.

Remember, don’t judge me. Just love me. By “love me”, I mean “send me pictures of your naked private parts.”

Tears for T.O.

To my dear friend T.O.:

"When the day is long and the night, the night is yours alone,
When you're sure you've had enough of this life, well hang on
Don't let yourself go, 'cause everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes

Everybody hurts. Don't throw your hand. Oh, no. Don't throw your hand
If you feel like you're alone, no, no, no, you are not alone

Well, everybody hurts sometimes,
Everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes. So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on"

Listen to Stipe, man. Listen to Stipe.
Come over some time - I'll cry with you. We can hold hands and sing together.
And by the way - can you lend me some of that pain medication - I mean, if you aren't using it anymore.

Dear Lord I am going to hell.

Toothpaste and Socks

I noticed something last night. I had to go out to my local Wal-Mart to pick up a tube of toothpaste and a pair of black socks. That is, by the way, the beauty of the Wal-Mart. You can get just about any combination of “stuff.” I bet the cash register girls just have tons of fun telling their husbands (after they get home from their job holding those little orange “slow” signs on the side of construction projects) about the interesting combinations. For example,

Register Girl - “Hey Billy! You ain’t never gonna guess what I beeped in this afternoon!”
Orange Sign Guy - “Bitch! Tell me after I’m done with my fuckin’ quarter pounder!”

20 minutes later

Register Girl - “Okay Billy! Listen to this. This girl comes up to my register. She totally looks just like that Jessica Simpson. I just hate that fuckin’ Nick Lachey for what he did to that poor girl. Anyway, this Jessica girl bought herself some Preparation H and a pink lace bra! Can you believe it? I wanted to say to her ‘Girl, you ain’t gonna be needin’ no pink lace bra to show off to no man with those hemorrhoids comin’ outta your ass!’”

Orange Sign Guy - “Was she hot?”

And . . . scene.

So the point - I was there buying stuff. I wish I could write that I had to buy cooler stuff like a new drill bit and a 72 pack of Trojans, but I just needed the toothpaste and socks.

None of this is what I wanted to write about. I noticed there is no one in the store who has any money. Seriously. Where do rich people buy their toothpaste? Do they go at some special time? Is there an upscale version of Wal-Mart? Do they have happy hour for people with gross annual incomes of greater than $150,000? I am not talking about the super rich people that have maids and butlers and what not. I am talking about the average very-well-off-guy. Where are those people? I just don’t get it. I bet there were only 10 people in the whole store with all of their teeth.

Is Target where I should be going? K-Mart? Is there some trendy little place where you buy hair gel and a fishing pole at the same time? What if you need a gallon of milk and a tire iron? I don’t care where I go exactly. As long as I can buy my toothpaste without standing in line behind a 17-year-old girl and her boy-friend/husband/baby’s daddy, with their two screaming kids, while they buy a 30 pack of Miller High Life, a US Weekly magazine, a pack of “smokes,” and some formula. God help me.

2d Haiku

Writing haiku can be fun. I have composed a second. An ode to what I love with The General’s Chicken:

my god, Mountain Dew
dancing naked in underwear
green cans get me hot

Chinese Chickens

I love The General’s Chicken.
I mean really love it.

You never really know what you are capable of until the time comes,
but I think I could murder someone for a plate of The General’s Chicken.

You know that scene from American Beauty where the naked girl is laying on a bed of rose petals?

I dream of naked girls in The General’s Chicken. (And there was once where I dreamt of a naked chicken on a bed of The General’s Chicken - but that was just plain weird).

I wrote a haiku:

The General’s Chicken
Oh, delectable delight
The tongue longs for you

Jesus God I need to eat before I write these posts.

Word to your mother.

Mexican Food

Okay folks - I don’t want to get crazy here, but there is something I need to talk to you about. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. For that, I am sorry. This is a touchy subject, and it may get a little messy. (So to speak). Don’t worry about it too much though. It won’t be as bad as the time that your daddy set you down to tell you that he likes other “daddies” and not just mommy, nor as bad as when mommy and daddy set you down to tell you that your new “uncle” Raul would be moving in to share mommy’s and daddy’s bed.

What I have to talk to you about is - Mexican food.

One day a long time ago (last Wednesday evening) I went out to dinner. I tried a new little Mexican restaurant. Usually when you go to a Mexican restaurant in a strip mall you can expect a little nervousness. I had heard good things about this place though. I have a motto that I try to live my life by. This motto has gotten me through some tough spots in this life: Judge Mexican Food by Both its Entrance and its Exit. Rosarita can bring you free queso all day long, but if those two things aren’t good then never look back.. At this place, I was swayed by the strength of the margarita and by the free, mouth-watering sophapias. For me, the entrance was good, the exit was bad. If you know what I mean.

So I get home about 9 o’clock at night. I head straight for the commode. 9:45 rolls around and I am able to start moving again. I felt so bad that when I turned on the TV, and left the remote across the room, I was too sick to get up and turn the channel from Golden Girls. Man, that Sophia is one feisty old gal. And Blanche, well don’t get me started on that whore.

So fast forward a few more hours. No sleep. Many trips to The White Throne of Truth. Stomach pain. At one point my ass waved a little white flag begging me to surrender to death. I decided that Pepto and sleep was the way to go. To get the sleep I doubled up a dose of the NyQuil. Then I headed for the Pepto. Unfortunately, I was out of the old “pink stuff.” To make a long, uncomfortable story short (too late). I hop it the ol’ convertible to drive to the nearest Walgreens. The only thing stopping me from ass relief was that stupid guard rail, which came out of nowhere as I was dozing off, dreaming of solid poo.

This is where things really hit rock bottom for me. I got a bit of a knee injury. When I say “bit of” I am playing it cool so that women will still think I am tough and want to have the sex with me. (Although I am not sure if that will ever happen again after any read this little post). My knee swelled to the size of a grapefruit, and turned purple and black.

Okay my little comrades, what do you get when you cross bad, bad Mexican food with an inability to walk. That’s right. A night spent sleeping on the floor of the bathroom. I made a little bed on the cold white tile, and called it a night.

Please forgive me for the lack of updates. I am back at 50% strength now, and will be back to writing about inappropriate subject matter in no time. Keep it real.

At Least It Is Something

My deepest apologies for the hiatus on posting. It seems there is a small amount of truth to that old wives tale, “don’t drink NyQuil before driving at one o’clock in the morning.”

Please don’t fret over me though. The guard rail got the worst of it. I am back at work now, and will resume regular activities after I check my e-mail, drink four more cups of coffee, read sports news, read the 30 blogs I read daily, and get a little (and I mean a little) work done.

Expect something around 1ish. I love you all (more than you will ever know).

The Post About My Job

I haven’t written much about my job on here. This is because my job could be written about in two sentences or less. I have one of those jobs most people dream about. Not in the super-star actor or professional golfer kind of dream. Rather, I make a lot of money and do very, very little. I once took a two week vacation, and when I came back I had no voice mails, an inbox with only spam, and no work on my desk. I decided then and there I could never do that again. If people noticed that this place could function the same without me here, then I would be out of a job. I go to meetings every day about important things, and I spend the meeting scribbling three dimensional boxes on my notepad. My standard answer when asked a question about something in the meeting is to say, “I agree. I agree totally. I think we should put together a committee to look at this item in much more detail.” This is what my graduate degree has done for me.

Okay, I realize that was longer than a two sentence description of my job. Give me break people, and quit harassing me. Assholes.

So today, my standard comment backfired on me. My boss put me in charge of the committee. Can you believe it? When we left the meeting I asked if I get extra pay for having to be in charge of something. He laughed like I was joking. The thing about this job is that everyone loves me. I mean really, really loves me. I don’t know why. I have done nothing to deserve it. Mostly, I smile a lot, tell the secretaries they are doing a good job, and tell jokes at appropriate and opportune moments. I counter this good stuff with things like leaving every day for an hour and a half sometime between 2-4. Usually, I take a poop break for about 20 minutes. Then I go downstairs to the newspaper/book store and rummage through magazines like Stuff and Maxim for about 30 minutes. Then I walk around the block slowly as if I am out for a Sunday stroll. It is the highlight of my day. Well, that and when the assistant from the Fourteenth floor brings me something to my office. (One day I’ll think I’ll respond to her statement of, “here is the package from accounting” with a lovely, “close the door behind you, and I’ll show you a package of my own.” - However, getting fired for sexual harassment doesn’t seem like a good “career” move.)

I am now in charge of a committee looking into a $750,000 project. There will be 15 other “team” members, and we were asked to meet weekly for the next 3 months. I need a Xanax (and some liquor to wash it down with). God help me.

Sins of the Flesh, etc.

So I stumbled across this site today:

www.mysecret.tv

It is seriously, but unintentionally, cool. By cool, I mean cool in the - you should stroll on over and take little look-see - sense, and not the cool like the time my two female former roommates made out for one full minute to avoid having to go on the next beer run. Of course, both things are cool, but only one of them haunts you nightly in your dreams as you wonder why you ever moved out of that house, and if you ever missed a crazy impromptu lesbian kissing session after going to bed for the night.

Anyway, the premise of this website is to confess “sins”. It has been set up by a church group or something, and people write in with their anonymous confessions. When I went to the site, I went straight to the “addicted to pornography” section. What I found stopped me in my tracks and may have changed my life slightly for the better for the rest of my days. This revelation is so great that I cannot stop giggling like a school girl before the season premier of Gilmore Girls. Women look at porn. Wow. Just wow. Some claim to be “addicted” to porn. There was one post where a woman said that she sneaks on to the computer after her husband has gone to bed to look at porn and masturbate. Oh my God.

As I was strolling through these confessions, a thought came to me. I know how to make this church (and the Lord in turn) some money. They should market this as a confession site/dating service. I would pay at least $298.54 (because that is everything in my checking account at the moment - I looked it up) to get the e-mail address of the woman that can’t stop herself from looking at porn day and night. Yes, yes I know I am going to hell. There is no need to remind me.

I know you are saying, “this Garrett guy is one low-life MF.” Well, it is no worse than the time I joined the local sexaholics anonymous group. Not because I had a problem, but because the women there make me so happy that I want to skip joyously along singing that Yankee Doodle Dandy song. I only fell off the wagon eight times before they kicked me out of the group. Hypocrites.

Okay people, peace out.

P.S. I swear this is my last post about porn for a few days. I am starting to look like a psycho.

Double Penetration and the Super Mario Brothers

Okay people (and by people I mean the three people who seem to have stumbled upon this thing), I was just sitting here in my office looking out upon the sea of cubicles when a thought crossed my mind: How do those people look at porn when they work in a freaking cubicle? I mean, its not like you can be sitting there scrolling through double penetration sites when Judy from Accounting walks in to talk to about the new Purchasing Invoice forms.

As this thought was passing from my head, a guy walked by my office door. He was wearing these overalls that were some sort of green color, and he was rocking a big, thick mustache. That is when another thought entered my mind, and this one I would like to talk to you about: What is the deal with those Super Mario Brothers? They weren’t really “super” in the classic sense were they? It has been a long, long time since I have picked up my old Nintendo controller to give the Red ‘A’ and ‘B’ buttons a little rap-a-tap-tap, but I don’t remember them being able to do anything really “super”. I’m talking about the original SMB - not those other weird versions. I know they could do all kinds of strange things in the other versions. Sure they could break big blocks that were floating in the sky, and they could shoot fire if they ate that flower (or rubbed it all over their naked Mario Brother bodies - I don’t know what they did with it). The point is, that was really the flower with the power, not the Brother. As far as breaking blocks, that’s not much of a super power. They basically went through all of these various worlds, with some dumb song playing the entire time such that it was probably stuck in their heads for the rest of their lives, and killed the bad guys by jumping on their heads. I’m not certain about this, but I am pretty sure that you could name any other video game character in the history of video games, and they could kick one those Brother asses.

Okay, I have that off of my chest. Now its time to finish the MacGregor file (Of course I mean - after I review the Double Penetration file).

Formal Apology

On behalf of This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide, I would like to formally issue this apology to the French as a result of my inflammatory and offensive post yesterday. You have made your point with the hundreds of e-mails and well as the threatening phone calls. My statements regarding the “French Fry Mafia” were not meant to imply that the French people are involved in organized crime in any way. I know that this stereotype has been following the French for many years now, and I, for one, did not intend to perpetuate the stereotype by speaking of the French in the context of the mafia, mafioso, or organized crime in general. I know, personally, of the burden dealing with stereotypes may cause. I know France has been fighting other stereotypes that just will not seem to go away, such as “being totally full of bisexuals” or being “cowardly bisexuals” or being “cowardly people of a homosexual nature” or being “croissant kissing gay people”. Let me just be the first to say that when I say something unintentionally offensive I will stand up and admit my mistake. I am sorry French people. Please forgive this troubled soul for my terrible and degrading comments regarding organized crime.

Tater Tots and the French

Why is it that tater tots are universally similar in size, shape, color and taste, yet french fries vary from restaurant to restaurant. If I go in to a Coney Island in Poughkeepsie, FL I know my order of tots will taste exactly the same as those of my local burger joint. Sure, sometimes the tots are undercooked for overcooked slightly, but overall pretty universal. I think I have the answer to this age-old question. It is because the "tot" industry is not controlled by the French as is the "fry" industry. If it were, we would be getting all kinds of hokey, half baked (no pun) versions of tots - like "crinkle cut" tots or "tot wedges" or "waffle tots". Damn the French and their "French Fry Mafia".

UPDATE: I was just informed by an interested reader that in Australia, the tater tots are known as "potato gems". My God, you have to appreciate the Aussies and their sense of histrionics.

By the way - to my many readers in the United Kingdom (or "U.K." as I like to call Her) - what are the tots known as there?

A Hot Girl in the Stairwell - A Romantic Interlude

Sometimes it is the little things in life that make it worth living. Take today: I walked down eleven flights of stairs to get some lunch because the elevators in my building are broken. You read that right. Elevators. Plural. From my floor we have 6 elevators. All of them were inoperable. How can that be possible? I thought about sending an intern, but management frowns upon forced humiliation towards interns. Humiliation doesn't begin until after you are a full-timer. Anyway, as I was passing floor 6 there was a very hot girl walking up the stairs, coming toward me. She obviously worked in some other department since I had never seen her before. When we reached one another, and passed, I made an attempt at humor, saying, "I hope the company updated the life insurance policy to include death from stairs" ha, ha - I know. The point is, she responded, "you look like you are in pretty good shape to me." That was it - then she just kept on walking. Did I mention how hot she was?

There is no point to this story. I just wanted to share that with someone since no one was around to hear it. Hot girl said I looked good. She looked me up and down and thought to herself, "I must have him - tell him he is incredibly sexy and breathtakingly handsome!" Now that I think of it though, no one is around to read this either. If no one hears a hot girl say she wants your body right there in the stairway, did it really happen?

So I walked 22 flights of stairs (11 down - 11 up (try and keep up with the story)). I saw a hot girl. Hot girl and I almost had sex on steps 3 and 4 of floor six.

Good Luck and Good Night

I have a theory that good luck and bad luck occur in cycles - much like the phases of the moon or that thing that happens to women's vaginas every month. Basically, the theory goes like this - when you are up you are up, and when you are down. . . well you get the gist of it. I have been on a down cycle for about 2 years (approx.) During these past two years my car broke down on the side of the road three times, I have had the flu four times, I got evicted from my apartment, I "accidently" caused a hooker to OD, and my dog died of a rare genetic disorder that generally only affects cats (damn the irony).

Anyway - back to my theory. This week - good luck started rolling in. I got a raise! I am now the proud owner of an extra 50 dollars a month. Hello strippers and triple X pay-per-view. (If only it were $75 I could afford both at the same time - although I don't know if my heart could take the bliss). Second, it turns out the DA's office is not going to file charges. I have been advised by my lawyer not to talk about it, but let me just say that the bastard got what was coming to him and I'll be damned if I am going to let "society" tell me what I can and can't do in the privacy of my own bedroom. Third, and I know you are going to think these things are made up when you hear this one - my credit card is sending me a refund check - saying I overpaid my balance. I am certain this has never happened in the history of the modern free market economic system. Needless to say I will find something entirely self-destructive to do with that money. Perhaps I should use the money to hire a mercenary that can track down the bastards from the credit card company that have been on a steady campaign to ruin my credit and my life for the last five years. I don't have proof of this yet, but I believe they are even calling ex-girlfriends of mine to gossip with them about what a low-life I am. Fuckers. I will get even. Even if it ruins both my credit and my life. I will get even.

Back to the theory. When something goes up - it usually goes back down. With me it usually goes back down within 1-2 minutes and way, way before anyone is "satisfied". So, I have had three good things happen to me. That is usually the limit. The last good luck streak was in July 22-28, 2004 when I won $20 from the lottery and got a blow job in the same week. That never happened before, and will probably never happen again. (I mean the blow job part, not the lottery part - winning lotteries is easy - getting blow jobs, well, the odds are against you by far) Now we can expect a fall so great that I will be lucky to survive with all four limbs. I predict impotence, death or mental retardation (of course I am about half way there on each already).

If I am alive - expect another post soon. All my love. . .

This Blog is Not Funny

This is what you need to know: This blog is not funny. There is one primary reason for that: I am not funny. Something else you might need to know: I think I am awesome, but I am probably not really very awesome. Actually, now that I think about it, I AM probably awesome. At least more awesome than you. If you think about it, I am only writing this to myself right now. There is no one reading this. So, of course, I am more awesome than YOU. YOU are some guy/girl who wondered upon this blog and read the first post. If you don't have better things to do with your time than read this crap, then I KNOW I am more awesome than you. Then again, I don't have anything better to do than to write this crap - so we are back to square one.

My god, can I use the word "awesome" a few more times. I really suck at this. But at least I am honest, right? Not funny at all. But probably still funnier than you.