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I'm A Jew. A Lonely Jew. On Christmas.

So if you remember correctly, in the past few weeks I've put a few things up for sale. First is my 1963 Chevy Nova. I say "is" for sale because it still is -- no buyers yet. I've had a few offers, but nothing upwards near the bucks I'm looking for. Thankfully I'm not in any rush, as I realize that trying to sell what essentially amounts to a 'toy' during a recession isn't an easy job, plus it's the start of rainy season down here so who wants a convertible. But Nova aside, I also had my two Bad Ass Scooters (tm) up for sale. Don't worry Rich, this isn't about you. Anyway, I had no problem selling off these two little fuckers, although I admit I would have preferred to sell them together as opposed to seperately, but hey that's life.

The guy who bought the first one did so for his nine year old son, which I found to be an incredibly stupid move. The guy is divorced and shows up with his girlfriend, looking to pick up said scooter for said son. In my eyes, it was a clear case of paternal overcompensation for presumably getting less face time. I cautioned the guy, "Hey this thing gets up to 30 miles an hour. That doesn't seem like much, but if you dump it at that speed, you're going to know it. Plus it's 100lbs, which again isn't much to you or I, but to a little kid that's heavy especially if it's laying on your leg." So dad takes it for a spin and sure enough, has his heart set on buying the scooter for Junior. Well fuck, it's no my job to protect America's youth and his money was as green as the next guy's, so fuck him, out the door it went. The second one sold to, what I would call a "proper owner". That is to say it went to a woman in her 40's or so, who intended on using it to drive back and forth to work, which was only a mile away. I guess she just had foot surgery, so walking wasn't an option. Perfect. Mature rider, understands the basics... ultimately both scooters sold for more than I paid for them, so life is good.

I only mention this because of a question I recently received from James...

There's an old joke that goes scooters are like fat chicks - they're only fun until someone catches you riding one. But as gas prices jeep climbing and climbing, I think that scooter stigma is going to become a thing of the past. It's just a finally prudent thing to do for anyone who can resort to them... i.e. no kids, no cargo, no snow, etc.

I've had my Yamaha Vino 125 for about a month now, and I have to say I'm nothing but tickled pink with it. I know... pink... scooter... your imagination runs wild, but bear with me. I had some apprehension at first; it's certainly not the most macho thing on two wheels and I was a little worried about how it would handle traffic seeing as it's so small. But the first worry was quickly squashed the first trip I made to the gas station as had to fill up. It cost me less than two dollars. Seriously. I've averaged 87 miles per gallon in the 200 miles I've put on it so far -- and keep in mind that's only city driving, no highway. I've been sitting in traffic at a stop light, and I'll have someone roll down my window and with a patronizing look on their face, will ask what kind of mileage I get. And when I tell them almost 90, their jaw usually drops and that condescending look usually disappears. Everyone is tired of getting squeezed at the pump.

But I make no bones about a scooter is a scooter. I know I'm not going to get some ass at Daytona Bike Week or get invoted to join the Hells Angels, but take for example the above chart and consider this: it's more economical for me to ride this scooter to the grocery store seven days a week, than it is to drive my truck there once every three weeks. If I decide to run out for lunch, when I take my scooter it's almost like my lunch is free (assuming most lunch specials are $6.99'ish). I save over five bucks in gas every time I take my scooter to the gym instead of my truck, and three trips per week more than pays for the $21 monthly membership... and then some. Take the scooter to the doc? Free copay. And whenever you get to these places, you get the best parking... run that little fucker right up onto their sidwalk and under the store's overhang -- nobody gives you a second look.

And that's just a fraction of the potential, since I don't have a daily commute. But let's say I had one, and it was the national average... 15 miles one way. That would save me over $230 a month in gas alone. The longer the commute, the more I'd save. My neighbor Rob drops $95 a week into his Chevy Cavalier driving sixty miles down to Naples each day. The same commute on a scooter would cost him just over $29 per week. And the cost to insure my scooter? Yeah that's a whopping $82 a year for full coverage. Seriously. My running joke now is when I walk through the house and stumble across some silver change, will sweep it off into the palm my hand and declare, "Hey that's gas money for the week."

And let me be very clear about something to all your hippies out there. I'm not riding this scooter around town to save the environment; I'm doing it to save gas money. As it turns out, the scooter has a little catalitic converter and puts out so little emissions it's impact is almost negligibe. That's neat and all, but I really don't care. If I left a trail of dead birds and acid rain behind me, I couldn't give a rat's ass about them or my carbon foorptint. It's driving around all week and filling up the gas tank for under four bucks that gets my attention.

As for how it handles in traffic... much to my surprise, no problemo. But again, I only run around town and onto some semi-major roads that hit 55mph for short bursts at a time. Anything beyond that, and it's motorcycle territory. There are larger scooters that will do faster speeds no problem, but I'm focusing on my Vino. Around town, dare I say the scooter handles better than the V-Star simply because at one third the weight, it stops better and turns quicker. I can't accelerate out of trouble like I would on the V-star, dropping a gear and kicking it in the ass, but I've noticed people give the scooter a wider berth because I think they're almost afraid to come too close to it? I'm not saying it's not without risk, but so far so good.

Now before any of you run off to the local scooter store, let me air a few words of caution above and beyond the normal, "Hey you're on two wheels so watch your ass," rhetoric. Stay away from the Piece Of Shit Chinese Scooters (POSCS). I don't care if you get a good deal. I don't care if you get a warranty. I don't care if they give them away free with a fucking haircut. Under no circumstances are any of you allowed to buy a POSCS. I bought one brand new on April 26th of this year from a small dealer here in Cape Coral. A Diamo Retro -- it cost me $1,667 out the door and carried a two year warranty and two years roadside of assistance. Pretty neat eh? I know POSCSs have sketchy reputations but figured if this thing lived for six months I'd pay for itself -- which is true except it didn't last six days. No shit. After four days the ignition switch went. I took it back to the dealer and it took them four days to repair it. Then I had it for three more days before the engine was crippled by a bent intake valve. The repair for that was supposed to be rebuidling the entire top end of the motor -- a motor with less than 100 miles on it -- and be done in under a week. Well that repair turned into, "Okay we're going to have to replace the entire motor." And that turned into empty promise after empty promise. It took written complaints to the Better Business Bureau, the Florida State Attorney General's Office, the Florida Department of Motor Vehicle Dealer Licensing, and a letter from an attorney to finally get my money refunded twenty eight days later. So of the thirty four days I owned that POSCS on paper, I only actually had it in my posession for six -- six whole fucking days. So trust me when I say don't take the risk, no matter how good the deal seems.

Would I recommend a scooter to someone trying to keep a closer eye on their pennies? In a word: fuck yeah. Especially if your driving habits take you around town a lot. A quality scooter really will pay for itself in under a year. So I would highly, highly, highly encourage you to limit your scope to Yamaha, Honda, or Vespa. The Yamaha Vino 125 I have now you can buy out the door at the Yamaha dealer for around $3,200. That's a little steep for me, so I'd suggest keeping an eye on the want ads for a good used one -- craigslist or ebay. Mine is a 2008 and had only 63 miles on it when I bought it used through Craigslist from a woman who decided she didn't feel safe on it. I paid $2,400 cash, which is $800 less than she paid for it three months earlier when she bought it off the showroom floor. It's still under warranty until April of 2009. So you can find some good deals out there if you take your time and keep your eyes open. But for the love of all that is good and holy, don't buy a POSCS. And for the record, my two little Sundiro's had Japanese engines. Konichiwa bitches!

that's the doorbell, would someone get the door please? and that door? and that door, too?

ten things you didn't know about 'the king', elvis presley. uh-huh-huh.

Insert Your Favorite Boglyft Weekend Joke Here.

it's the weekend so here are the top ten quotes against work.

beadorkeyman - needadentist - onesadpuppy - showingoffthekid - twelvetits - twosoulmates

Awww, They Look So Cute Before The Blow Up.

You know, some of you people insinuated that I don't have what it takes to get Miranda Kerr, and quite frankly I'm a little offended. Both me and Mini-Me got it where it counts, baby! (you three up in your mouth a little bit there, didn't you?)

As you might guess, my stance on assault rifles surprised quite a few people yesterday, and some of the surprisees felt the need to write in. All intelligent dialogue, mind you, no "hey fuck you" types. Although lots of people presented valid arguments, they still couldn't sway me from my, "Aw c'mon, what the fuck do you need that for?" argument I presented yesterday. That is, except one -- here's a snippet of what Jon offered...

So there you have it, it would seem that I've been corrected as I had not factored huntin varmints (MUSKRATS?!) into my equation. Which may not seem like such a big deal if you're a city slicker like me, but I'm sure if you've had your horse break its leg in a prairie dog hole, or watched some of your cattle knocked off by a pack of coyotes, you might think otherwise. I'm not entirely sure this qualifies as carving out their own niche, but I'm open to think about it. Besides, I'm heading to his house at the first sign of a zombie outbreak. And we'll do some turkey hunting, too. At least the guy was honest -- and hey, honesty is the best policy especially when it comes to tattoos.

Michael? Michael are you out there? The good news Michael, is that you beat Abi yesterday, when you sent in your score of 13 under. The bad news is today Abi sent in a score of 14 under. Sorry dude. And that concluded our broadcast day. I'm off to grab a shot and two beers.

crude oil prices from 1861 to 2008 - seems to be some sort of a pattern here

the price of food from 2007 vs 2008. good news if you like cucumbers. not so good if you like everything else.

I Carry A Gun Because A Cop Is Too Heavy.

Ernie, what are your thoughts on guns? - Tom

Surprisingly enough, I bet it's not what you think. I have always strived to be -- all Spock jokes aside -- a fairly logical person. I'm a firm believer that guns don't kill people, people kill people. I mean fuck, if I blow a gasket and decide to go on a homicidal killing spree, I can drive my truck into a crowd of people just as easily as I can pull a trigger. But building on that analogy, we don't allow just anyone to drive an 800hp supercharged stockcar, or a 300mph dragster either. So let's take a look at the two opposing views of gun ownership, and to illustrate my point, I'll exaggerate things a bit. On the left side, we have the anti-gun peacenik hippies; all they want is peace and love, and believe a person shouldn't ever have any kind of weapon. These assholes wouldn't even let you walk around carrying a heavy stick, less you use it to injure another poor human being. Limp wristed pussies. And on the right side we have the yee-haw gun totin' redneck who believe that we should be able to have whatever kind of damn weapon we want; AK-47, bazooka, land mines, you name it. So I think we'll all agree both sides are too extreme, and the answer that everyone can live with is somewhere in the middle. The trick is finding a logical solution that makes supported by reason.

I'm not going to get bogged down on the wording of the Second Ammendment, "The right to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed," blah-blah-blah. Do I think we as American citizens have the right to own firearms? Fuck yeah, I do. But within reason. You see there have always been two bones of contention between the anti and pro gun sides; handguns and assault rifles. Handguns because they can be concealed and assault rifles because of their rate of fire. I state this only because rifles and shotguns haven't ever really been the hot topic. Even hippies make room for the weekend hunter who wants to go out and shoot himself a freezer full of venison. They may not want any venison sausage, but I don't see any anti-hunting protests, either. With that in mind, we'll see if our friend Good Ol' Common Sense can help us out in regards to handguns and assault rifles.

Question: Why were handguns made? Answer: For personal protection. Not in the way we look at them now, but dialing the clock back to when the country was new and still being discovered. Prospectors and frontiersman used the first revolvers to protect themselves from two types of threats: wild animals and wild Indians. Clearly, times have changed. We no longer shoot Native Americans, but instead give them our paychecks one playing card at a time. But I think the basic need for personal protection still remains, because as much as the hippies would like there to be otherwise; crime still exists. We don't live in a Utopia; there are murders and rapes and home invasions. And as the old saying goes, "When seconds count, the cops will be there in minutes." In short, I am all fucking for handgun ownership by anyone who isn't a convicted felon. Seriously. I'm all fucking for it. Joe Citizen wants a piece -- let him have it. But to be honest, I think it was a little too easy for me to get a gun in my hands here in Florida. I think I should have been required to take a handgun safety course first; or in lieu of that provide some other proof that I've some experience in firearm safety (i.e. military discharge papers). I wouldn't have been inconveinced in the least if I was required to pass a written test and show I can safely disassemble/assmble and shoot a firearm safely. But if I can satisfy those requirements, then there's no reason whatsoever that I shouldn't be allowed to own a handgun. In that regard, I view a handgun the same way I would a motor vehicle. So while we don't prevent anyone from driving a car based upon their location, or ethnicity, we don't just flip a 16 year old kid the keys to a new Corvette and say, "Have at it kiddo." Instead we make them pass a test to demonstrate they grasp some basic safety skills before turning them loose on society. I don't think it's too much of a stretch of the imagination, to suggest the same standard be true for firearms.

Before I turn my attention to assault rifles, I want to clear one thing up. When I think "assault rifle" I think automatic rifle. I think M-16s and AK-47s and Uzis and M-60s. I think of 30-round clips and belt fed ammunition. I think hold down the trigger and rat-a-tat-tat until the magazine is empty. I do not think of guns such as the AR-15, which for those of you who don't know, is the civilian look-alike version of the M-16. It looks the same, it smells the same, it weighs the same but it only shoots one bullet a time. I look at people who own AR-15's with the same sort of pity as I do when I see some slawk jawed yokel driving a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo with a big slanted "8" painted on each door and NASCAR stickers covering the rear window. That is to say; "You sad fuck." Because speaking purely from a logical stance; what's the fucking point?

Question: Why were assault rifles made? Answer: To kill lots of people very quickly. And if you think otherwise, you're a fool. But as much as gun nuts would like to theorize about; Red Dawn isn't going to happen and you're never going to be a Wolverine. So what else can you honestly use an AK-47 for? Home protection? Because your house is going to get robbed by a bunch of gooks in straw hats? Like at 3am you're going to call your neighbor on his cell phone and say, "Ed, I've got a squad of Charlie coming in at 300 meters. Circle around to their left flank and when they reach the brown sofa, I'm going to send up some flares so we can catch them in a crossfire. Be ready to wake up Joe and call in some air support." Of course not. You don't need an AK-47 to protect your house any more than you need an anti-aircraft battery. If you want to protect your house you use handguns and/or shotguns -- that's what they're for. What about hunting? No. Because what do you think is going to happen if you shoot a deer with fifteen rounds of high velocity copper jacket 7.62mm ammunition? "Hmmm, well, I've got an eye over here. And he's part of a leg. And I think this is his spleen, no heart, no wait, maybe kidney." So if you can't use assault rifles to protect your house or go hunting, what the fuck do you really need it for? Answer: realistically, you don't. C'mon gun guys, be honest, you know I'm right. The only reason you can honestly give me for owning an assault rifle is the thrill of shooting it. And while I'm sure it is one big kick in the fucking pants, so is shooting an AT-4 rocket. Or pulling the firing chain on a 105mm Howitzer. Or launching a Maverick missile. But I think we can agree those don't have any common place in Main Street, USA either. I just don't see any logical reason why the average Joe Citizen needs to have an assualt rifle, other than just to shoot it. And you know what you should do then? Join the fuckin Army. So where do you draw the line in the gun debate? Me, I draw it at assault rifles. Not because I think owning one makes you a freakazoid who's going to shoot schoolchildren, but because what the fuck good is it?

They say the sign of a good deal is when both sides walk away feeling they got the short end of the stick. I think if each side of the gun debate could nominate one person to be their end-all be-all spookesperson, and then get those two people in a room to hash out an agreement, this would be it. Gun nuts give up their assault rifles and peaceniks quit bitching about handguns.

And for anyone who wantes to see what my girlfriend Miranda Kerr looks like modeling some bikinis, look no further. But enough about me, let's talk about you. What do you think of me? I know what people think of Steve. Abi beat him by shooting a whopping 10 under par. And just when you thought that couldn't get any better, Travis shoots 12 under. So unless someone pulls a Tiger Woods by this time tomorrow, Travis gets it.

transcription from george carlin's last interviews, nine days before he passed away.

i've always found shipbreaking to very fascinating. i wouldn't want to swim, drink, or live there, but fascinating still.

They See Me Rollin'. And They Be Hatin'.

That's right. 10:30am this morning. My first road test since I began driving way back in high school. It's just me and the two wheeled fury that is... my scooter. That's fucking right, I took my motorcycle road test on my fuckin scooter. I am completely confident on my V-Star, but I figure eh, why not stack the deck in my favor? So when I get all gussied up in the gear required for the test -- helmet, eye protection, long sleeves, pants, over-ankle boots... riding through traffic like a complete bad ass on my 125 cubic centimeters of rolling thunder.

Anyway, all gussied up and sure enough, everyone is taking their tests in shorts with no helmet. And I was surprise at how physically small the course was. It all happened in the back parking lot behind the DMV, nestled in between a loading dock and a dumpster. I must confess that I didn't wear a helmet for the test, because I just find really low speed maneuvering easier that way. All cones were swerved, all stops topped, and no feet touched the ground. So all said and done, I passed. So you better watch the fuck out when you me rollin', which I'll be doing later today because I promised Miranda Kerr I'd pick her up no later than 5.

P.S. - Steve said the rest of you bitches aren't good enough to be his caddy.

how to save your wet cellphone. hint: order some chinese food.

shot! fifty famous people who have taken a bullet. fred phelps sadly absent.

Reach For The Sky, Partner.

Have you seen the pictures from Iowa, of the people looting the liquor stores, carrying away televisions from retail stores, sitting on the roof begging for someone to take care of them, collected in the baseball stadium complaining about the food and shelter being provided? No? Yeah, neither have I. It's called personal responsibility, people.

Okay, next game challenge. Actually had me so pissed off at one point, that I had to get up away from my computer, lest I be tempted to break my fucking mouse. That little mini temper tantrum happened on hole #17 of a little game called Minigolf. It's pretty straightforward right up until hole #8, then things get pretty interesting.

Watch out! That kid on the raft is drifting too far out! and building on the beach theme, here's Gemma Atkinson at the beach wearing a new yellowbikini, and hanging with a guy who looks like he could break me in half without even getting off his chair.

you may be cool, but you will never be dual wielding ak-47s open zipper cool.

top 10 george carlin quotes - you can see things turning a little dark as he gets older

Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker, and Tits.

I'll never forget the first time. My father had finally broken down and gotten us cable. My parents were out for the night, so I was home alone with all the glory that was uncensored television. Of course HBO was the channel to watch, because they had all the good shit -- cursing, boobies, and violence. I remember it was cold outside, because I was standing in the living room with my legs pressed up against the heat register in the wall. The HBO logo had come on -- the one where the camera seems to fly through a little miniature town -- and then a comedy special came on. Some guy named George Carlin came on, and he was performing live at some place in New York City, called Carnegie Hall. Any hopes I had of seeing a pair of tits dance across the screen quickly faded, but I decided to give this guy a shot because ya know, maybe he'll swear or something.

I got about five minutes into his routine before realizing I was going to have an aneurysm from trying to stifle my laughter. Everything he said had me in stitches. I tore myself away from his act and raced upstairs to my bedroom to retrieve the new tape recorder I had just gotten for Christmas. I popped in a brand new tape and ran back to the living room, leaping three or four stairs at a time. The tape recorder safely placed in front of the television, I returned to the warm comforts of the heat register and enjoyed the show.

This George guy was fucking hilarious. Dropping a good sized peach on his Rice Krispies. Wanna give me my fuckin' change please. Seeing a dog's asshole open up. And when he got to that long ass list of words on the rolled up paper... priceless. I remember I kept that tape for a long time. I used to listen to it with my blind cousin, Theresa. She had to explain the, "Did you get yours today, I got mine yesterday, that's why I walked this way" song.

As the years waned on, I tried to catch tidbits of George Carlin's performances whenever I could. Ten or fifteen minutes of some stand up here. An interview there. He was great in Jay and Slient Bob strike back. But his new stand up material? I dunno. His humor just seemed to get really, really dark; almost to the point of being depressing. When I was home for Christmas this past year I caught the last half of a performance he did somewhere and found all his light hearted beer fart jokes replaced with doom-and-gloom-humanity-is-fucked-we're-all-going-to-die jokes. While still as insightful as always, I just didn't find his latest stuff all that humorous.

Inevitably my ninety minute double sided cassette tape of George Carlin Live at Carnegie hall was lost; a victim of the confusion of growing up. But to this day, I can still recite just about any line at the drop of a hat. I laughed more than night than I have any other of my entire life. Both he and Richard Pryor paved the way for the best of today's intellectual comedians, such as Chris Rock and Dennis Miller. And so I choose to remember George not as the silver haired comedian we now see memorialized on the newscasts, but as the shaggy brown haired guy in a green long sleeve shirt, mic in hand and explaining that, "71 is doing 69 with two fingers up your ass." So long George Carlin, we hardly knew ye.

george carlin live at carnegie hall (six parts)

the best, the worst and the dirtiest dive bars in the united states - bikini joe's strangle absent

A Tasteless Tuesday From Way Back In September of 1999. This One By Vomit.

~ set wayback device to 1981 ~

Her name was Karen, and we first met in Psych 101. She was gnarled young thing; wheelchair-bound, head cocked permanently to her left, crusty fingers twisted into half-knots, long, atrophied legs, a seemingly endless trickle of spittle running from the corner of her mouth. Despite her physical curse (MD, compounded by palsy), she was intelligent and very funny, and always added lively, in-sightful input to class discussions. One might say she stood out from the crowd, in more ways than one.

About the third week in, I began to notice Karen staring at me from across the room. Each time our eyes met, she'd shyly curl her thin, purple lips into a smile -- the sort of smile that said "I know I'm a hideous, drooling freak but, please, Dear God in Heaven, won't you please smile back?" Out of pity, I smiled back. By mid-semester, Karen and I had become friends. I'd wheel her into the quiet hallways of the student center and we'd talk for hours about life's injustices, about our radically different childhoods, about health, about disease -- about the future. I often found myself weaving whole-cloth tales of my "hard" childhood, if only to buffer the sting of her heart-wrenching tales of a little girl with a incurable, crippling disease; the brutal taunts of the other kids, the endless hours of tests, treatments and therapies -- all of which she'd recount without a hint of self-pity.

As the winter passed and spring approached, Karen and I became exceedingly close, despite the suspicious leers of her roommate (a particularly bitter cripple named Jen) and the barbed guffaws of my beer-soaked buddies, who couldn't understand why I -- the most selfish, wretched womanizer on campus, would spend so much time with this diseased, rotting husk of a woman. We started studying and shopping together. I helped her pick out her clothes and try them on, cooked for her, even helped her in and out of the bathhtub and scrubbed her back. And, although she consistently referred to me as the "big brother she'd never had," I could see, very clearly, that she was pining for more.

Needless to say, the thought of making love to Karen had crossed my shallow, polluted little mind on occasion, but was each time snuffed by the inescapable mental image of her pale, twisted limbs, her labored breathing, the stringy, clouded saliva running from her mouth... the image of fucking a sideshow attraction. There were times when we were together that she charmed me to the point I wanted to take her in my arms and ravage her -- let her feel my hot, pounding heart against hers -- but the Images would flood as if through a shattered dam and submerge me in guilt-ridden disgust.

One hot night in July, my roommate, Captain Forehead, and I were hosting a keg party at our mobile home -- a gigantic, aluminum monstrosity we'd dubbed "Phi Kappa Trailer." The festivities were in full swing when I found myself, quite inexplicibly, thinking about Karen, undoubtedly sitting alone in her dorm room.With a few drinks under my belt, I put on my Good Samaritan mask and decided that she might enjoy herself, so I picked up the phone and invited her to come to the party as my "date." She giggled like a child, accepted, and I hopped into the old Dodge Charger to pick her up.

Once back, she asked Cappy (who, by now, had also grown quite fond of her -- tho' he stilled privately referred to her as "tire tread" -- don't ask me why) for a glass of beer from the keg -- the first time I had seen her show an interest in booze. After assuring Cappy that the alcohol wouldn't cross-fuck the effects of her meds, he tapped her a tall, frothy one. It would be the first of quite a few, much to my surprise.

As the party went on and the drugs and booze flowed, the usual antics abound -- a fistfight out front, a visit from the Carbondale PD, a complete stranger taking his squeeze into Cappy's bedroom for a quick shag, some drunken chinese guy going into our medicine cabinet in search of who-knows-what (ObSidebar: Cappy regularly mined the cabinet with a rat trap before such parties. Sure -- and audibly -- enough, the fucker got his fingers snapped just prior to Cappy literally *throwing* him out of the trailer and onto the front lawn, head-first). There I sat as the hours went by, getting drunk as a widowed Irishmen next to Karen, whose usually ashen complexion was now rosy with alcohol. She drank her fill, laughed at the jokes, flirted with the guys and did her damnedest to be a part of it all, but I could see her broken gaze eventually returning to the other girls at the party -- scanning their figures, studying their shapely, limber legs...

As the night began to give way to morning, the last of our guests stumbled out the door, and I found myself coked to the gills on the couch with Karen dozing on my shoulder. Cappy had long since passed out in the backseat of his Impala out front with some skanky local broad who'd wandered in, and our neighbor, Crazy Dave (RIP, old soldier), was busy throwing up in the kitchen trash can. I lifted Karen up and took her into my room, settling her gently on the bed. As I turned to leave, she stirred. "Checks?" she mumbled, "Let's do it."

I froze in my tracks, unable to turn toward back toward her -- waiting for those vile monstrous images to flush over me -- waiting for an excuse -- any excuse -- to get the hell out of that room. For whatever reason -- the booze, the dope, my conscience (perish the thought of the latter, eh?) -- the excuse didn't materialize. The images didn't come. Instead, I found my face flushed, my temples pounding, my cock swelling and throbbing in my jeans. God help me, but I wanted her, diseased, mangled, pathetic creature that she was...I wanted her. I turned around and faced her in the reddish glow of the sunrise, filtering through the two-dollar curtains and leftover cigarette smoke. My hands and voice trembling in perfect sync. "Karen -- you're drunk. Get some sleep, hon," I stammered.

"Checks," she said again, more urgently. "I need you to do this for me. Please."

"But, Karen, I...."

I saw in her eyes a precarious, triangular balance between desire, desperation and total defeat. I couldn't fight it. Somewhere between animal lust and human pity, I knelt over her and kissed her. Her lips parted wide, and my tongue slipped deep into her steaming, sour mouth. She gasped and pulled me down on top of her with her gnarled arms, running her twisted fingers along my temples, through my hair. Before long, I had wrapped myself around her atrophied frame, and was peeling her clothes off. She was grunting and panting like a coyote in a leghold trap, licking my neck, sucking my earlobes, whispering how wonderful it felt to be held ...

Fighting off an army of swirling psychological demons, I pulled her jeans and panties down with one, swift tug and tossed them to the floor. An instant later, I was licking and sucking her flattened, pasty breasts, trailing down her sagging, pock-marked belly with my tongue, forcing my face between her lifeless, white thighs, and kissing -- then sucking -- her mushy, reeking snatch. She reached up and tried to hold fast to the nightstand as I lifted her legs over my shoulders and dug in with my chin. My tongue, numb from the combination of cocaine and vaginal acids, ran wild circles inside her as her bushy pubes filled my nostrils. She began to shudder and sob for air as I ran my face under her ass cheeks and let my tongue part her sweaty black bunghole with wet, darting thrusts.

"Put in in my mouth," she whispered, as she lost her hold on the nightstand, and her arm, like a withered autumn tree branch, quivered and bounced to the side of the bed. I stood at the headboard and, cradling the back of her head with one hand and her chin with the other, slid my cock between her lips. A thin, sticky stream of spittle leaked from the corner of her mouth and onto the pillow as she drew me in, purring hungrily as I pushed the shaft in, running along the inside of her cheek and distorting her already twisted features. I stiffened as her teeth clumsily scraped a alyer of flesh from the head, and she looked up at me like a frightened child. Cock stinging, I pulled out and ran the bottom of it along her face and over her lips; she gently soothed and kissed it, then drew back, grinning up at me like one of Jerry's Kids at the telethon fireworks show.

I climbed back over her and lifted her bony white legs into the air. Slowly, I slid my cock into her and began pumping -- slowly and gently at first, as she smiled nervously up at me, then furiously hard as I felt my stomach knot and my throat close... I pulled out just in time to splatter her belly with jism -- to swat the divebombing demons from the air -- then collapsed in a drug-marinated heap beside her, panting for breath in the unbearably thick mixture of mildewy summer air and sexual stench... I layed there for an hour as the cocaine filtered from my system --cursing the dented, aluminum walls, cursing the demons... cursing myself... Cursing her.

....

That afternoon, As she waited in the car and I, pale and ill, folded her wheelchair into the trunk, Cappy stuck his head out the bathroom window and looked down at me with a wide-eyed, almost horrified gaze. "You *didn't*!, he whispered. "No," I fired back, "I didn't. Asshole." "Prob'ly could've," he sneered back, and disappeared behind the window. "Yeah. Probably could've."

....

Karen and I remained close for the next two years, until she transferred to a special school for the handicapped out east. We still exchange an e-mail now and again (Glub help me if she ever runs across this post). Her condition has gone, quite predicatably, from bad to worse -- though, as was always her style, she takes in all in stride, even joking about it. She doesn't have a boyfriend, but tells me of a lad in her physical therapy group that she's got her eyes on. We never really talked, face-to-face, about what happened -- which, to this day, leaves me to wonder what she thought of the whole experience... ... and who, indeed, was the one most deserving of pity. Cheers! Vomit(II)

in the film industry, guttenberg's law states that quality of sequel = (quality of original)/(number of sequel*2)

calculate your carbon footprint - the thunderous ol dodge ram isn't very earth friendly. tough shit, mother nature.

A Tasteless Tuesday From Way Back In July of 2001. This One By Snoch.

"Running a restaurant is about the most thankless job on earth. Every day you deal with the public and for the most part, the public is about 45 percent dick heads, 45 percent stupid people, and about 10 percent of the public is OK. I cannot for the life of me figure out why people have no consideration for others around them. You really have no idea how fucking arrogant, disrespectful, and just plain rude people are until you try waiting on them in a restaurant. I could go on and on telling you about some of the mind boggling things I have seen. But I'm here to tell you about my sweetie tard. It was late in the evening and the night had been a screamer, the kind of night where everything went wrong and everyone that came through the door was a fucking prick. I was done for the night and sitting at the bar having a few stiff shots to calm my nerves. We had finished seating for the evening but the dining room was still pretty full. I was fucking beat. I had been there about 14 hours at this point and all I wanted to do was...

1. get blind drunk,
2. get my dick sucked, and
3. go home.

About half way into my first objective there is a wail of horror coming from the dining room unlike anything I have ever heard. It was inhuman. It was like the primal blood curdling howl of some wounded beast. I almost, for one-second, felt pity for what or who ever was screaming like this because it was obvious that there was pain and suffering in this spinal tap of a screech. "What the fuck is that?", I asked the bartender. The pity vanished when I realized that my drinking time was about to be cut short. What amazed me was that the scream never ended. It just kept going on and on just like that fucking bunny with the battery up his ass. I half fell / half got off my barstool and staggered for the dining. Good God I was not prepared for what I saw. There at the top of the stairs was the largest tard I have ever seen. She was huge. She was scared, and she was still screaming. With her, were the wranglers of the tard and they were trying to coax her down the stairs. I made my way over to this three ring circus to see what in the hell was going on in MY fucking dining room.

The two stupid people, or tard wranglers, looked at me and said "Thank God your here can you help us." A rage swelled up in me unlike any I had ever experienced. I have already told you how I feel about stupid people, now I'm faced with two of them at once. Add in the fact that I hate noise in my dining room and I have a two ton tard screaming like someone was cutting her up and eating her raw. And I'm about half in the bag. Luckily for me I managed to fight back the urge to kill someone and got myself under control. I put on my best "I'm gonna eat your face like a sandwich'" smile and asked what I could do to help. Two ton tard is still screaming at the top of her lungs, hopping up and down and shaking her deformed hands and arms like she is gonna fly. Her wranglers informed me that she is terrified of stairs. Again I have to fight off the urge to punch someone in the face and I politely ask, "Well then, why is she at the top of my stairs then?" Their problem had just became my problem. "We wanted to take her out to a nice restaurant just once and we thought she might act differently here and not panic." Fucking great. They have just turned my life's work into a training ground for tards. And to make matters worse, these people were not even the tard's parents. They borrowed a tard for this, kinda like a loaner tard. I realized that there was nothing that these two idiots were going to be able to do (super tard had outsmarted them) and that I was going to have to handle this myself.

I put myself between the tard and the stairs and made eye contact with her and she stopped screaming immediately. Never in my life have I ever seen such an expression of love on any woman's face. I have given women multiple orgasms until they had tears of joy streaming down there faces but it was nothing compared to the look on this tards face. "Oh my God, I think she really likes you," piped up one of the wranglers. Her smile went from one ear to the other. She stopped hoping and trying to fly and reached out for me. Immediately I start backing up slowly, thinking that her love for me might be strong enough to lure her down the stairs. NOT! As soon as she got to the edge of the first step she started her "screaming eagle" impersonation again. SHIT.

I went back to the top and backed her up from the stairwell. "Maybe if you hold her hands" said one of the wranglers. "Would you like this nice young man to hold your hands?" "mnrrreeuussss" moaned the tard and shot me her best seductive smile. WHAT THE FUCK?!?!? I'm being pimped off on a tard! I swallowed all the rage felt by every person who ever lost a loved one to a drunk driving accident. All the anger known by the Jews during the holocaust and again I gained control of myself. I reached out and took the mangled hands of the tard in mine and she looked in my eyes. When I stood at the alter with my very beautiful, now ex wife, and looked in her eyes as she said, "I do," there was love in her eyes. You can see it and you can feel it, and anyone who says different is full of shit. My new found admirer had this very look in her eyes only it was ten fold. Slowly I backed towards the stairs with my new bride in hand. And once again she started freaking at the top like a chimpanzee who's found a bagful of bananas.

Now I'm about to lose control of my temper and that isn't gonna be pretty. I back the bitch up and turn around to let loose on the wranglers for bringing this drooling tard into my life, and the lives of all the other diners, when "Enlightened bitch with shit for brains" enters the picture.

"Excuse me but I think I may have the solution" she states.

"Oh fucking really," I think to myself, "knock yourself right the fuck out and try. I just smile and say, "that would be so nice."

Enlightened Cunt informs me that she has a PhD in child psychology, as she is taking the tards hands and slowly turning her away from the stairs. One thing that this over educated and under intelligence bitch didn't think about, was, that this was not a child, this was a tard. She now has the tard with its back to the stairs and is speaking softly to her and backing her up towards the stairs. When she gets the tard to the top of the stairs, she asks the tard if she would like to go down the stairs backwards. The tard was lovingly looking into my eyes when pandemonium broke out. This tard started freaking out big time. She lost all control of her bowels and her bladder at the same time. She must have been wearing a huge diaper because it sounded like someone was dropping creamed corn and Jell-O from a 30 story building onto a trampoline. There was piss and shit coming out of her pant legs and running onto the carpet. She had that funny look on her face that babies get just after having a huge movement. That warm look of satisfaction.

She started her tard run away from the stairs, shitting some more and leaving a trail of it anywhere she went then when she got a good distance from the stairs she sat down on her ass with a splotch. At this point I am insane. WHO IN THE FUCK DO THESE PEOPLE THINK THEY ARE?!?!?! BRINGING THE AMAZING SUPER SHITTER TARD INTO MY RESTAURANT?!?! WHAT THE FUCK?!?!? I looked at the tards wranglers and I was no longer wearing my smile. The time for smiles was long gone. "Get her out of my restaurant, NOW!"

y face must have been twisted with anger because the tard wranglers recoiled with shock. "I said NOW GOD DAMN IT!" The whore with the Ph fucking D (which I would have loved to ram up her ass with the fat end of a champagne bottle) looked at me aghast and said that I needed to learn to be more sensitive. Now I'm ready to unleash all the wrath of hell on these fucking people who have managed to interrupted my drinking time, and managed to cover my carpets with piss and shit. The tard wranglers, who now knew that I am Satan when provoked, ran to protect the rent-a-tard. They had her doing the crawl that dogs use to scratch their asses on the floor, towards the stairs, leaving a dark skid mark across my carpet. The Tard is aware that something evil is about to happen and starts her screaming again. The cunt ass bitch with her Ph fucking D is yelling at me for scaring the tard and all I can think of, is to push said bitch and the tard down the stairs together in a mess of shit, piss, unwashed hair and small glasses.

"Jesus Fucking Christ get her up!!!!" There was a wet splotch every time her ass hit a step.

Once she got to the bottom of the stairs she turned around and looked at her accomplishment with enormous pride. She looked at me with love in her eyes again and started her tard trod for the front door. One of the wranglers looked at me as though they were going to say something, but decided that it would be a very bad idea to stick their head into the lions mouth, and went chasing after the tard. The woman with dirty hair and small glasses looked at me as though I had just set fire to a box full of kittens, but was wise enough to not open her fucking mouth this time. After the amazing pooper shooter and her wranglers were gone (fuckers never even gave me so much as an "I'm sorry") we cleaned up the entire mess. After we accomplished this task I returned to the bar for a few double shots, still hoping that I might get a blow job before the night was over. Closed up the place and went to meet my girlfriend (who will remain nameless as she is a subscriber to E.H.O.W.A.) for some drinks at another bar. (love ya sweetie). I relayed my evening to her and some other friends and they all got a kick out of it.

And looking back now, it is kinda funny, but... To all of you God damn people who think the earth, moon, sun, and stars revolve around you and your tard -- be it your tard or a rent-a-tard -- go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut. I don't have a tard and I sure as hell don't want to have yours forced upon me. Thank you very much. Ps. I never did get a blow job that night, but I did get my brains screwed right out of my head. Take care everyone!" -- Snoch

indiana jones and the kingdom of the crystal skull: the abridged script

gas guzzlers from the 1970's -- my parents had a toronado and the big ass imperial does look cool.

Not All Of Us Are That Lucky, Kid.

Want a clear indication our dead economy? Look no further than the ebay auction for my '63 Nova. Keep in mind, this thing appraised last month at $19,500. Granted, nobody bids until the last day, but still a brotha ain't rollin in a Pinto.

On one hand I want to sell it to go to the highest bigger, no questions asked. But at the same time, I have to look at the car that's survived for over 45 years and make sure it's going to go to someone who's going to take care of it. By that I mean not some rich snot nosed kid bidding on daddy's bankroll. But hey, times are tough and money is green.

We always see guys doing their parkour thing -- sometimes gracefully and sometimes not -- but this is the first time we see... Parkour Chick. And the flexibility references are abound!

boston.com has really been the source for great photos lately - gallery on the iowa floods. that's a lot of cows.

the eight places you probably lost your virginity - i'm in at #5 baby.

Well. That's Some Disturbing Anime.

So i was right ont he money when I predicted Rambo would be an awesome fucking movie. I was right yet again with Ironman. Then I fell on my face with Indiana Jones 4. So let's see how I do with the new Death Race. It's got Jason Stratham, so you at least know it'll have some cool car chase scenes, and Ian McShane, so you know he's going to say 'fuck' a lot. I'm in.

Final thought for the day: OPEC sells oil for $136.00 a barrel. OPEC nations buy U.S. grain at $7.00 a bushel. Solution: Sell grain for $136.00 a bushel. Can't buy it? Tough! Eat your oil.

a blog following the unearthing by pistonheads.com member cy88 of the german bunker at the bottom of his garden.

google street mapping car gets a ticket. neener neener neener.

Hey Let Me Pick Your Brain For A Minute.

Do you think Kate Beckinsale has a fat ass, or no?

You know one fairly unknown celeb that I've always wanted to tool? Yancy Butler. No, not because of Witchblade; I saw the previews for that come out and wondered who the fuck cleared the pilot for that one. But after seeing Drop Zone with Wesley Snipes. I dunno, Yancy all done up in that body hugging wind suit just did it for me. That is ya know, until she started hitting the bottle. Now she looks like an old zombie at the end of the bar begging for free brains. So let that be a lesson to you girls: no matter how famous you are, we don't want to see you topless if you look like a scarecrow.

Because I've always made my living working with computers, people have always assumed I'm the biggest dork. Well I'm here to tell you that's simply untrue. The biggest dork isn't online, but is in the lane next to you. And I'm not sure which is worse -- the Star Wars mural, or the fact that he's driving a Pontiac. Because Pontiac's suck.

And yes, bloggers located the images from Judge Kozinski's porn stash. There's that naked-women-painted-like-cows image, and the standard-issue "transsexual or hot chick" quiz. But within 24 hours, the web had also unearthed Kozinski mauling a female contestant at the age of 18 on The Dating Game, and a recent email he sent begging a female blogger to include him in her "Judicial Hottie" contest. But the joke's on him - that's a man, baby!

at least someone at wal-mart knows awesome when they see it. yes, it involves rambo.

all the warning signs were there, but could anyone have saved 1st sgt. feff mckinney?

Happy Flag Day.

Flag Day, is a day for all Americans to celebrate and show respect for our Flag, its designers and makers. Our Flag is representative of our independence and our unity as a nation.....one nation, under God, indivisible. Our Flag has a proud and glorious history. It was at the lead of every battle fought by Americans. Many people have died protecting it. It even stands proudly on the surface of the moon. As Americans, we have every right to be proud of our culture, our nation, and our Flag. So raise the Flag today and every day with pride.

There is a right way and a wrong way to display the Flag. The American Flag should be held in the highest of regards. It represents our nation and the many people who gave their lives for our country and our Flag. Here are the basics on displaying the American Flag:

There is a very special ceremony for retiring the flag by burning it. It is a ceremony everyone should see. Your local Boy Scout group knows the proper ceremony and performs it on a regular basis. If you have an old flag, give it to them. And, attend the ceremony.

photos essay of veterans wounded in service to our flag.

a young woman dubbed "the new betty grable" is asking for the public's support in her efforts to brighten the days of those who serve.

I'm Going To Learn You Some Things.

Physics and mathematics appear to be less inclined to use the original concept of inertia as "a tendency to maintain momentum" and instead favor the mathematically useful definition of inertia as the measure of a body's resistance to changes in momentum or simply a body's inertial mass. This was clear in the beginning of the 20th century, when the theory of relativity was not yet created. Mass, m, denoted something like amount of substance or quantity of matter. And at the same time mass was the quantitative measure of inertia of a body. The mass of a body determines the momentum P of the body at given velocity v; it is a proportionality factor in the formula: [P = mv ] The factor m is referred to as inertial mass. But mass as related to 'inertia' of a body can be defined also by the formula: [F = ma]. By this formula, the greater its mass, the less a body accelerates under given force. Masses m defined by the formula (1) and (2) are equal because the formula (2) is a consequence of the formula (1) if mass does not depend on time and speed. Thus, "mass is the quantitative or numerical measure of body’s inertia, that is of its resistance to being accelerated". This meaning of a body's inertia therefore is altered from the original meaning as "a tendency to maintain momentum" to a description of the measure of how difficult it is to change the momentum of a body. Trouble understanding this theory? Perhaps this will help.

Wow, that poor dude is fucked up. I think the only person I've ever met with PTSD is Sgt. Pelletier back at the Medal of Honor ceremony in 2003. He was fighting alongside Sgt. Paul Smith and was literally next to him when he was killed. Let's be clear in that what I know about psychology and/or PTSD you can fit into a thirty second infomercial, but there just seemed something... I dunno, something heavy weighing on him. He seemed, haunted. And as it turned out, he lived in Massachusetts about thirty minutes from where I was at the time, so I had hoped to get a few beers and maybe establish a repoire with the guy, but he just didn't seem that interested. So either, I'm a boring fuck or he had some issues goes on. It's five years later. I hope he's okay. On a somewhat similar note, Daniel is up in Wisonsin (dont'cha know!)

I forwarded this article to my friend Puddy, a former A-10 driver, and asked his thoughts on what would have happened if the plane in question has been a Hog instead of an LGPOS. This was his reply...

The size of the holes would be 10 times larger. And there would have been no survivors. The fact that a jet got five hits on a truck, and two dudes walked away... well that's just embarrasing. Next time we talk, ask me about the F-15 AIM 9 shot and the Kuwaiti hardened aircraft shelters - both are pretty funny. Puddy

So those fine stories and more await you upon your next return to.... Dum! Dum! Dum! ...Ernie's House of Whoop Ass! And Eugene is in the winner of Grid 16 -- you fuckers got pretty good -- with Omal right on his ass. By the way, this is how to tell if your girlfriend is a true Evil Dead fan. Honey, you got real ugly. Not as ugly as Shauna Sand's mutant tits yesterday, but much uglier than say... Helena Christensen topless at the pool.

Shit, and I almost forgot, Happy friday the 13th. Thanks to Dave for reminding me in time.

a step-by-step guide to the gravity-defying donald trump combover.

angling quiz for the masters - pass this quiz and you can consider yourself a master angler

Which One Of These Girls Is Not Like The Others?

That's right... the second girl isn't wearing sunglasses! Were you observant enough to catch that, or were you too busy staring at something else? Use your eyes, man! I see London, I see France. I don't see Shauna Sand's underpants. But I do see her hanging roast beef lips and some weird mutant of a tit. And she used to be a Playboy Playmate, what the fuck Hugh?

No spaceship. No space suit. Just you versus the cold, empty vacuum of space. Find out about how long you could survive.

New leaders in Grid 16? Why that would be James with 7,886 followed closely by our old pal Daizan. Remember to send in non-cropped photos, boys and girls, otherwise I can't post em.

Remember the four baby finches that Alek set up his webcam for? Well here's an update. And hey, who knew Blue Jays were carnivorous? I sure didn't. Neither did Ma and Pa finch, evidently.

And remember, beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes right to the bone.

photos of abandoned exotic cars. my heart weeps for the pantera (scroll right... 39 pages)

photos of phone sex operators. good news: #3 looks a little like britney spears. bad news: #4 does not.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

Do you want to know how fucking lazy our society has become? During my morning news surf, I stumbled across this. So these assholes would rather shell out $15,000 to $20,000 of their hard earned money, before they're willing to put down the chocolate covered bacon and actually get a little exercise. Are you fucking kidding me? Have we honestly de-evolved that much, to where we consider it to be less effort to have someone stick a Shop-Vac into our gut, rather than employ a little self control? We're all fucking doomed.

So who is The Man when it comes to Grid 16? Well, Sean was the first person to beat me. But then Kade beat him. And I thought Kade was going to keep the lead all wrapped up going into this morning, right up until Dan sent this in. So there you have it... 6,641 is the high water mark. No offense, Wisconsin.

And while these two soccer fans have their shirts on, these pictures of Keeley Hazel do not.

the following are important safety features of the airtoons airboat a740 web site. take them to heart...

gasoline, gasoline, gasoline. who is paying, how much, where, and what percentage of their total income...

Awesome Leisure Suit, Dude.

You know who I really feel bad for? The designers of the new Dodge Challenger. Because just as they resurrect this mucle car icon from the 70's, it's going to be killed by the very same thing that killed the first rendition; high gas prices. You see, Dodge was a little late in getting the Challenger out the door in the pony car era; In the late 1960's, Ford and Chevy beat Dodge to the punch with their Mustang and Camaros. The Challenger was released in 1970 with the legendary 426 Hemi gazzling fuel by the tankful. Then things started going to shit between the United States and OPEC, and within two years the Challenger had been stripped of all its big block options for fuel economy reasons, making the most powerful engine available a little pussy 340 V-8 that barely produced 240hp. The oil embargo in 1973 crushed any hopes of keeping the Challenger alive.

That is until two years ago, hot on the heels of Ford's success with the throwback Mustang, when Dodge announced they were bringing the Challenger back. And sadly, this new icon is being reborn into the same fuel crisis that choked its older sibling out of existance. Now with gas prices once again crippling the ofther facets of our lives, people aren't as interested in having 435 horsepower as much as they are in travelling 40 miles per gallon. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Twice. That really sucks for the Dodge guys but its partially their fault too. Why? For offending the Muscle Car Gods by making that abortion of a four-doored Charger.

Anyway, new game challenge today. Remember Four Second Fury? Well Grid 16 is kind of like that, only with a slight variation. There are sixteen games that you play four seconds of, and each time you fail to complete one, it gets eliminated from the game pool. Once you run out of games (i.e. fail to survive each for four seconds), you get your final score. I'll give you one tip though: When you sucessfully complete a four second span and that game ends, it starts up right where you left off again on the next turn. Thus if you barely manage to survive a level and leave yourself in a certain death situation... that's exactly where it's going to start off on the next go 'round. Weird to explain, easy to understand once you're playing it. But leaving yourself in precarious situations REALLLY hurts your reflex portion of the score, trust me.

ashley dupress has faded into the background pretty quickly. but here she is with her very very MILFy mom

and this is precisely why you never fuck around with a shotgun just because you're bored.

watch out for a sneaky blackmailing virus that encrypts your data - i looked on snopes, but no dice. any ideas?

Don't Say I Didn't Warn You.

Horrific shark attack leaves a man with his ass chewed off. No, seriously. It's a guy with his ass chewed off. I would presume that has to be more or less fatal, yes? I mean how are you ever going to take a crap again?

Pan Am has been resurrected and announced a return to services to the Middle East. This week Pan Am announced it will begin regularly scheduled flights to Iraq, Iran, and other key destinations in the Middle East. Pan Am also announced it may consider adding North Korea to its routes at a future date.

Good skill to know - how to perform CPR on a dog. I still hate cats.

Abagail Clancy is a gorgeous English lingerie and catwalk model and these topless pictures of her at the beach are amazing. This chick truly has a perfect figure and it's no wonder everyone in England goes crazy for her. If you've never heard of her before I can assure you that after these boob photos you won't forget her. I guess to pick up a girl that hot, I'd better have some six pack abs.

are you a safe driver? what is your road rage potential?

grand theft auto iv + the naked gun intro = hella good fun.

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here.

five fish sticks on friday. eight famous sufferers of obscessibe compulsive disorder.

footage of the b-2 crash in guam. first plane has good takeoff. second plane... not so much.

aharddaysnight - danicapatrickcameltoe - erniestooltime - gimmemymilkshake - squirrelshit - youredoingitwrong

Today Is D-Day. Remember Thomas Valence.

I was the rifle sergeant and followed Lieutenant Anderson off the boat, and we did what we could rather than what we had practiced doing for so many months in England. There was a rather wide expanse of beach, and the Germans were not to be seen at all, but they were firing at us, rapidly, with a great deal of small-arm fire.

As we came down the ramp, we were in water about knee high, and we started to do what we were trained to do -- move forward, and then crouch and fire. One of the problems was we didn't quite know what to fire at. I saw some tracers coming from a concrete emplacement which to me looked mammoth. I never anticipated any gun emplacements being that big. I attempted to fire back at that, but I had no concept of what was going on behind me. There was not much to see in front of me except a few houses, and the water kept coming in so rapidly, and the fellows I was with were being hit and put out of action so quickly that it become a struggle to stay on one's feet. I abandoned my equipment, which was very heavy.

I floundered in the water and had my hand up in the air, trying to get my balance, when I was first shot. I was shot through the left hand, which broke a knuckle, and then through the palm of the hand. I felt nothing but a little sting at the time, but I was aware that I was shot. Next to me in the water, Private Henry G. Witt was rolling over towards me. "Sergeant, they're leaving us here to die like rats. Just to die like rats." I certainly wasn't thinking the same thing, nor did I share that opinion. I didn't know whether we were being left or not. I made my way forward as best I could. My rifle jammed, so I picked up a carbine and got off a couple of rounds. We were shooting at something that seemed inconsequential. There was no way I was going to knock out a German concrete emplacement with a .30-caliber rifle. I was hit again, once in the left thigh, which broke my hip bone, and a couple of times in my pack, and then my chin strap on my helmet was severed by a bullet. I worked my way up onto the beach, and staggered up against a wall, and collapsed there. The bodies of the other guys washed ashore, and I was one live body amongst many of my friends who were dead and, in many cases, blown to pieces.

the battle's fliers, the men who landed on normandy's beaches, and german soldiers tell their stories.

by the way, DANIEL and ROCKSTAR are in Bah-Hahbah, Maine. Headed out through VT and NY.

MILFs Drive Acuras.

Someone sent in a picture of their dog, but I'll be damned if I can see it.

All about the 1969 Daytona Charger from the movie Joe Dirt. Which I found hilarious, by the way.

Wow, that cabinet thing is pretty good kick in the balls. Surely your wife's cousin is very unpleased... she should have called George Brownridge instead. Ol George would have made you as proud of those cabinets as I am of these Airmen.

Alright, I gotta go update my Myspace page, I'm outta here. And if you don't like looking up that girl's shirt, then perhaps you'd rather look up Pam Anderson's skirt instead, eh?

average gasoline prices from around the world - sierra leone is bummin.

almost 2,400 neat ass pictures from google street view. including a post-it note car prank.

total recall: we count down the 50 most famous cars to drive across the silver screen. no mention of axel's crappy blue chevy nova.

Build A Better Mouse Trap.

First off, let's all check in and see how Daniel is doing in his cross country trip. He had a breakdown in Baltimore, so perhaps could use some loose change sent his way, eh?

"The Patriot Micro Chip is intended to be implanted in terrorists. The implant is specifically designed to be installed in the forehead. When properly installed it will allow the implantee to speak to God. It comes in various sizes, although the implantee may or may not be allowed to choose the size. Side effects are temporary and include some bleeding or swelling may occur at the injection site. Best regards, United States Marine Corps"

A bagillion years ago the Earth's crust cooled and Al Gore created the internet. People began surfing the web and enjoyed an popup free surfing experience. Shortly thereafter someone -- probably the same guy who crated X-10 cameras -- created the first popup ad. Then someone else created the popup blocker and the internet was popup free again. At least, for awhile. Until someone created a smarted popup that circumvented the popup blocker. Then there were popups again. And then someone created better popup blocker software. And then someone created a better popup. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. I know IE7 brought new popup blocking technology to the table, and I'm sure Mozilla does as well. So does the latest Google Toolbar (which I have installed) and I presume the latest AOL toolbar and Yahoo toolbar, etc. And truth be told they all do pretty much the same thing. One might stop a few different popups than the other, but I think the difference is negligible. When these latest generation popup blockers first came out, they stopped everything. Life was good. Then one of the advertisers out there found a flaw, and built a popup that defeated the popup blocker. Soon, Microsoft/Google/Norton will create the next generation popup blocker, which will defeat all existing popup technology. And then someone will just build abetter mousetrap, and we'll start this whole dance all over again.

So to answer your original question: in short, probably not. Popups and interstatials -- those sliding panel ads you're talking about -- are just a way of life on the internet. They happen on news sites such as USATODAY, porn sites such as (insert porn site here), and everywhere in between. As long as a site doesn't attempt to install spyware/malware, I can live with a few popups if they offer good content in return. You watch television, you see commercials. You listen to the radio, you hear commercials. You read a magazine, you flip past ads. You surf the internet... you get popups. It's just the nature of the beast, especially sith sites that offer free content as opposed to having subscription fees. The only thing I can guarantee you is no popups or interstatials on EHOWA itself. I had some about eh, two or three years ago, but they didn't last long. But as far as everyone else... it's the circle of life man.

dear crazy-as-bat-shit-lady: the fridge doesn't come with a pedigree!

just how smart do you think you are? take intuitor's basic physics savvy quiz and weep in shame.

Boy, Theplanet Sure does Have A Fight On Their Hands.

There's an old saying, "A bad day of fishing is better than a good day of working." But I'm not so sure this guy would agree. Ah Geeez, Too many Bud Lights in Minnesota dont cha know!

Be honest, would you give this chick a little kiss before bedtime? You know you would. Besides, she needs less food now.

Hey look everybody, I bought my own Golden Tee!

this sniper game is pretty fucking awesome. what makes it so? three words: enemy. counter. snipers.

where spam is born - where does all that malicious internet content come from? stupid china.

whenever you get a chance to see keeley hazel topless it is a treat and these topless pictures are absolutely gorgeous.

PFC Ross A. McGinnis, Medal of Honor Recipient.

Spc. McGinnis’ dedication to duty and love for his fellow Soldiers were embodied in a statement issued by his parents shortly after his death:

“Ross did not become our hero by dying to save his fellow Soldiers from a grenade. He was a hero to us long before he died, because he was willing to risk his life to protect the ideals of freedom and justice that America represents. He has been recommended for the Medal of Honor… That is not why he gave his life. The lives of four men who were his Army brothers outweighed the value of his one life. It was just a matter of simple kindergarten arithmetic. Four means more than one. It didn’t matter to Ross that he could have escaped the situation without a scratch. Nobody would have questioned such a reflex reaction. What mattered to him were the four men placed in his care on a moment’s notice. One moment he was responsible for defending the rear of a convoy from enemy fire; the next moment he held the lives of four of his friends in his hands. The choice for Ross was simple, but simple does not mean easy. His straightforward answer to a simple but difficult choice should stand as a shining example for the rest of us. We all face simple choices, but how often do we choose to make a sacrifice to get the right answer? The right choice sometimes requires honor.”

His unit deployed to Eastern Baghdad in August 2006, where sectarian violence was rampant. Ross was serving as an M2 .50 caliber machine gunner in 1st Platoon, C Company, 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry Regiment is support of operations against insurgents in Adhamiyah, Iraq.

According to the official report, on the afternoon of Dec. 4, 2006, McGinnis’ platoon was on mounted patrol in Adhamiyah to restrict enemy movement and quell sectarian violence. During the course of the patrol, an unidentified insurgent positioned on a rooftop nearby threw a fragmentation grenade into the Humvee. Without hesitation or regard for his own life, McGinnis threw his back over the grenade, pinning it between his body and the Humvee’s radio mount. McGinnis absorbed all lethal fragments and the concussive effects of the grenade with his own body. McGinnis, who was a private first class at the time, was posthumously promoted to specialist.

so long specialist ross a. mcginnis, we hardly knew ye.