You know what confuses me? And this just really swirls my brain and baffles the utter shit out of me?


It's a metal. It's just a shiny, white metal. And by the thousands, there are shitheads who can barely afford to put food on the table who are coughing up hundreds and thousands - and in some cases, hundreds of thousands - of dollars for links of this medal connected to more links of this medal, all of which are connected to some sort of emblem - in most cases, the logo of a car or clothing manufactuer (and that's a whole other topic of conversation. Paying for the privledge of advertising? Come on...)

These kids are scrambling to buy an object who's sole purpose is to show how much money one paid for it! It's utterly redundant! If you are truly that concerned with showing someone how much money you make or are worth, take out a 10 dollar ad in the paper and publish your tax returns! Humans have so much potential, both physically and mentally. We are capable of just about ANYTHING - and there are people on this earth who squander that potential chasing after METAL.

Rap Star Du Jour will come on television or have a picture taken of him wearing some gigantic platinum chain with a platinum model of an automobile rim that spins around - what the FUCK? These rap guys... they have the ears and minds of millions of people, most of them youth. They could spread any message they want, and it would not only be received, it would be acted upon. So, with such amazing power, what do these guys say? What is the message they spread to the hoarde of eager minds waiting to hear the word?

"Hey Shorty. It's your birthday."

Yep. And you know what else? "We're going to party - like it's your birthday." In fact,"we're gonna drink Bicardi - yep, you guessed it - like it's your birthday."

Come on.

These guys have the power to educate and direct lives, and all they're saying is that you can rhyme the word "Birthday" with the word "Birthday." IT'S THE SAME GODDAMN WORD, YOU FUCKING MONGOLOID.

And the guys spreading something worth hearing - Common, Cee-Lo... these guys get overshadowed. With what? "We're going to the club." You know, you fucking rap assholes, With one song, you could hit 1,000,000 kids with a message. 100,000 would listen - and that's a CONSERVATIVE estimate. With that message, you could say "Yo, put that fucking gun down. if you want real power, EDUCATE yourself and take the world over. End the game. Stop wasting time, it's what the powers that be want you to do. You could, as a race, as a social strata, vote into power representatives who ACTUALLY represent you."

But NO. What do you say?

You say "It's hot in here."

You know WHY it's so hot in here? It's because you are so full of festering, steaming, fetid SHIT and it oozes out of your mouth with every word.

So, enjoy that 8 miles to the gallon you're getting in that escalade that sports rims more expensive than the money your 'BROTHER' is making at McDonalds a year. Because, after all, you gotta shake yo' ass like a salt shaka', and you can't read a book while shaking like an epileptic. Can't focus.

And why fucking bother?

Shake it like a polaroid picture... and meanwhile, the powers that be are shakin' each other's hands and making deals that lock you down.


There's nothing wrong with it. I'm pretty much used to it. I'm okay. I've accepted it and deal with it, day in and day out.

Trust me. It's okay.


So begins the 15 part story over on Mentally Incontinent.

I've actually had this story in mind for over a year now, I just had no clue how best to tell it. And to be honest, I still don't. I'm kinda just going for it, and I hope it works.

So, the other day, I'm driving along and suddenly I hear a loud smack against my passenger side door. I stop the car and get out to examine what the heck just happened. I walked back a few paces and there, laying on the ground, was a Bull's horn.

I was nowhere NEAR a farm.

So I pick up this bull's horn and ponder it a second. Could this be what hit my car? I looked around and there was NOTHING else which could have flown at my vehicle, so I surmised that this was the object which clattered against my vehicle. As I stood there puzzling over the situation, I heard snickering from behind a few empty oil drums in a yard nearby.

So I go and investigate, and there are three mischevious-looking children ducked behind these drums, laughing their little louse-ridden heads off.

"Let me guess," I said, "One of you three chucked this cow's horn at my car."

"NUH UH!!!!" they all said, then resumed snickering.

"Hmm... what if I knocked on that door up there and asked your parents?" I said.

"Go ahead," One of the little hellions said, "We don't care!"

"YES WE DO!" another of the hellions said. "No, please don't do that!"

I stroked my goatee and pondered the situation. "No, I think I'd better have a talk with your mom and dad," I finally replied, knowing that when I was that age, it would have been the one thing I dreaded. So I marched up to the door and rapped on it a second. An ENORMOUSLY overweight woman came to the door, clad in a pink bathrobe (which may very well have been bedsheets - nothing less than Queen) and hair curlers.

"Yah?" She said, the cigarette dangling from her bottom lip.

"Excuse me, madam," I said politely, "But I do believe that these three just flung a bull's horn at my car."

She stared at me a second. "Eh, doesn't matter," She said, and slammed the door in my face.

I was naturally in shock. Back in the days of my youth, had someone approached my mother with this information and evidence - especially something as ludicrous as a COW HORN - I'd have had the living shit beat out of me, and that's before I even told her my side of the story. So, I knocked again. She opened the door again.

"What now?" She said through phlegm-coated vocal cords.

"Doesn't it disturb you that your children are lobbing foreign objects at passing vehicles?" I asked.

"Well, sure, it bothers me. I have to break away from my soaps to deal with it."


"Lady, your kids whipped the horn of an animal at a passing car and the only thing you're concerned about is your soaps?"


Then she slammed the door in my face again.

To be honest, I don't know which was worse - the dent in the side of my passenger door created by the flying bovine horn or the laughing of the three children as I trudged defeated back to my car and headed on to work.


Ok, I'm confused. Admittedly, it's not a difficult state in which to place me - and usually, I can battle my way out of the haze of confusion quite easily. But this... This just blows my mind.

Let's say you have a food product (a case of classic bubble-gum-flavored Extra chewing gum, perhaps). And that food product has a "Good By" date - a date which, by all rights, one is to assume that this food product is good until. And that date is written:


What the FUCK day is that?

How am I supposed to interpret this cryptic piece of data? What is it, a stardate? Is it good until the day the United Federation Of Planets launches a 5 year mission to seek out strange new worlds and boldly go, split infinitive and all, where no man has gone before? It's GUM! It's meant to be enjoyed, not pondered over!


My wife is going to kill me. But alas, the truth must be known.

I am secretly in love with Kylie Minogue.

Now, this isn't a dirty, nasty animalistic love. It's very innocent and very plutonic, I assure you. For instance, I wouldn't lick her shoes clean or anything. But if she offered to let me clean her pool while she sat and got some sun, I wouldn't say no.

Or like, if she said "Joe, would you drive me around town so that I might shop for a new laptop", I'd do that, so I can be like, "No, Ms. Minogue, you don't want a Dell. You want to stick with the Toshiba." I just want to pour glass after glass of sweetened tea for her. With limes, not lemons, because that's how she likes it.

It's something I can't explain, especially to my wife. She doesn't get it. It's not a lusty thing, not at all. I don't wanna go ravish her body or anything. I don't even think i want to hug her (although I would allow a handshake). I just wanna stand near her and be like, "Ah, Kylie. You are so pleasant to be in the company of."

It's embarassing to admit, because she's all pop-princessey. She's like a 40 year old brittney spears - but dammit, I don't care! she's magnificent! I want to help her try on shoes, maybe be the person that tells her "Oh yes, that's THE look" when we go to the hair salon together - and she could do the same for me. I want kylie minogue to rely upon me.

Perhaps it's odd.

And perhaps you don't understand. But that's okay, as long as Kylie does. And calls me.


I just love how the chicken in my chunky soup is "savory."


I've been writing for Broken Newz A lot lately.

Some of my recent articles there include:

Television Reality Shows Cashing In On Ugly America

ABC Poops Out "Be My Baby"

and the most recent one : The Iraqi Prisoner Photos has successfully supplanted ABC, CBS, CNN, FOX, ETC at the top of the search heap at Google News. See For Yourself.

This is awesome. Crazy shit happens in life, we write articles about it, and it comes back Numero Uno at Google News. They should rename it Broken Google Newz.