Sunday, June 28. 2009
POP-UP SHOWERS OF CRAPOLA
I was actually in the middle of writing this entry when the feeder bands of crap began to rain down as Michael and Farrah died. And somehow, all of the other pop-up showers of crapola still seemed important enough to finish chatting about Jon & Kate and midgets and Southern gentlemen horndogs. First of all, why must we live in a world where D-List actors posing as common douche bags in so-called reality TV shows suddenly become vaulted into "celebrity" and admit they are really actors portraying everyday people, but deserving of celebrity treatment? What's more, how can legitimate news services such as CNN and Fox News and USA Today devote any attention to a scripted promotional scheme as this entire Jon & Kate bullplop? For starters, who gives a shite about anyone with kids period, much less eight little half-breed pus buckets? Why is that worthy of any attention whatsoever? Even if this were truly reality TV and not scripted garbage, why would anyone care? And to allow publicists and production companies to invade legitimate news is just mind-blowing. For shame. If nothing else, maybe this recently scripted big announcement about splitting up will put an end to couples breeding for the opportunity to host their own reality show. If I wanted to be "entertained" by irritating children, I'd drop a load of my own. Of course, they'd probably be midgets.
Which, coincidentally, brings me to my next boner of contention. I'll be honest with you, I don't like midgets. It's probably not PC to call them midgets, but that's what they are and I find them just plain creepy. I don't want to watch them wrestle, see them drunk and disorderly, I don't even want to know that they can have sex, and I'll be dipped in shit if I want to watch a TV show dedicated to their creepy little lives. When you think about it, our civilization has tried to destroy itself over the past 20 centuries based solely upon what God one chooses to worship. It's amazing that these evil little bastards even survived over time. There had to be some crazy-ass King somewhere who said "kill these evil trolls" and sent them scurrying under woodsheds throughout the Black Forest in search of quality ham products. How can we burn suspected witches, but spare midgets? O.K., I know they're human beings, too. But just barely. You have to think that anyone giving birth to one of these evil spawn just kind of slithers out the back door of the maternity ward without their half-bundle of joy. I'll be the first to admit it, none of my friends are midgets. I'd be willing to give one a chance, but only half a chance at best.
What is it about politics in South Carolina that makes you a horny bastard in the quest for the holy snatch? First there was John Edwards, who not only cheated on his wife, but waited until she'd been diagnosed with cancer! Dear God, why has thou not smited this dickhead? I have to confess, I'm a little tired of seeing Elizabeth Edwards on TV as well. I admire her for her "fight" against cancer, and I'm more than happy to listen to her story in regards to that journey. But she's hardly a role model to women or any other minority for her "bravery" in standing by her horndog husband. There is no such thing as a hero when stupidity and submissive behavior is involved. Don't tell me how brave you were in your marriage...the guy is nothing short of a raging douche bag. If you elect to stand by his side, you can only be doing so to bask in the public limelight or cash in on that which accompanies your self-perceived bravery. Otherwise, you're no different than any asshole submissive woman on COPS who "don't want my man going with the Po-lice because I loves him so." And now comes another South Carolina politician on the prowl...the Governor who wandered onto the Appalachian Trail and wound up in Argentina with a whore. I've never been on the Trail, but I had no idea it extended south through Tennessee and into South America. Apparently this dumb ass has never cheated on a chick before because no one ever invented a story so damned stupid. You went out for a six-day solo walk in the mountains? Why don't you just tell us you're a Basketball Hall of Famer who has AIDS, but has actually gained 100 pounds through prayer? Have you never seen "Deliverance?" No one survives six days in the hillbilly backwoods of the South without getting pinned up against a log and buggered at least once. Of course if the rest of you intend to go for a hike in Tennessee, it's probably not wise to park your state-owned vehicle at the Atlanta Airport and take your passport. What was even funnier about this entire charade was that the citizens of South Carolina were living in fear without their leader. As if something was going to happen to South Carolina while he was away eating Argentinian beef. Nothing of any significance has happened in South Carolina since they seceded from The Union in 1861. And nothing good has come out of there since we let them back in either, with the possible exception of the Grady Squash Festival.
I'm spent. It's been a challenging week to say the least. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to search for the Northwest Passage with a Brazilian transsexual.© Curt Boster, 2009. All Right Reserved
(Editor's note: I believe midgets are now referred to as "little people", or as being ""height challenged")
Friday, June 26. 2009
THIS AIN'T NO PARTY, THIS AIN'T NO DISCO
I knew that life after 50 was going to be tough, but damn! After a week of walking on egg shells and hanging out in hospitals, at least my story has a happier ending than Michael and Farrah and a live-in chick dismembered, scattered, smothered, and covered by that Predator/Alien dude. Allow me to begin this entry by stating that I found nothing particularly funny about the events of yesterday. However, I do find it somewhat odd that the reaction of the huddled masses of sheep is, as usual, self-centered and short-sighted. Let's begin with The King of Pop. First of all, WTF is up with that moniker? Secondly, for the most part, I really liked Michael's 1980s music and the early Jackson 5 offerings. As sad as it is that a 50-year old with actual talent living in a new order of people who have no such offerings perishes at the age of only 50, lest we forget that for the last few years this wingnut has been the source of our jokes as the King of All Things Creepy? As cool as his music may have been, he was still a diddler. Come on, the guy was a handsome young black man who had his face reconstructed to look like Diana Ross, an equally handsome black man. With every news clip shown on TV, I'm just imagining what plastic surgeon stood back after this botch job and said "Perfect...you look fabulous?" That's probably why Michael wrote that "Man In The Mirror" tune. One look after surgery and he probably just shit himself. The news coverage has been just awful, as one might expect. No one dares to mention that this freak used to sleep with young boys at his haunted homosexual fun-house/estate. All day yesterday, every newscaster made mention of his "love for children." Yes, we know all about that. In fact, it's O.K. to love children, just don't LOVE children. That hick diddler from Mansfield who rode that blimp of a human out to SoCal with her four-year old daughter last week loved children, too. Few dare to remind us how Michael was raised by an overbearing wingnut of a father who looks like a Mr. Potato Head with a regular boys haircut. And when in doubt, the news media always find it necessary to solicit the opinion of the average douche bag on the street or the fat hillbilly chick sitting around in a housecoat dipping Nilla Wafers in their Tasters Choice whilst awaiting the instructions from Oprah on how they are supposed to feel right now. Don't get me wrong, I fully understand the hypocrisy I am offering at this moment, but who gives a rat's ass what anyone's "reflections" are about Michael Jackson? I suppose if nothing else, it takes the attention from this whole Jon & Kate scripted nonsense that, for some odd reason, is suddenly worthy of so-called legitimate news headlines.
So Michael is gone and everyone wants to know why. Well, if I understand anatomy correctly, his heart stopped and he died. Oddly enough, that happens to a lot of people on a daily basis though I'm happy to say it was avoided in my family this past week. Unless he rises from his tomb in two days and walks among us, that's pretty much the end of the story. But his death does not make his duet with Paul McCartney on that "Say, Say, Say" God-awful abortion any better. Nor does it dismiss his obsession with little boys and all the freaks he surrounded himself with. Which, by the way, how can I get one of those jobs where I walk around shading some guy with an umbrella all day? WTF is that all about? So allow me to summarize this "American tragedy" in a quick and tidy package. It's sad...he was truly talented, but a total freakazoid and a potential pedophile who looked like some kind of 1960s Disney fairy tale character vacu-formed Halloween mask. And now he's gone. End of story.
Unfortunately for Farrah Fawcett, the producers of her piano-laced video montage had just completed their loving tribute when the news of Michael sent her flying to the back pages of the headlines. Again, it's indeed sad that such a lovely woman met such a terrible ending. I mean, if there were ever two words that didn't belong in the same sentence together, it's "anal" and "cancer." But again, I am reminded by the media how celebrities and athletes "battle" disease while the rest of us commoners just contract it and die. However, despite this tragedy, everyone seems to have their blinders back on to protect themselves from bad karma. Remember all the crap Farrah took for being drugged to the Holy Bejesus during public appearances as she rambled incoherently about, well, nothing? Remember how she doffed her duds for Playboy at the age of 50? O.K., where was she when we actually needed that 25 years earlier? And for some odd reason, no one wishes to acknowledge that Farrah's condition could possibly be attributed to excessive anal sex. I know, it's an ugly thought for most, but a turn-on for others. I probably ran off a batch or two staring at that poster thinking to myself, oh yeah, that's where I'd like to park. Not recently, mind you, but before her diagnosis. I'm not a totally sick bastard. But no one wishes to man up, so to speak, and state that perhaps this isn't such a good practice in the long run. I guess if AIDS doesn't keep people from entering the tunnel of fudge, a little thing like asshole cancer won't bother them either. So again, allow me to summarize the first "American tragedy" from yesterday's headlines. A once beautiful pinup chick died in a very painful and sad manner. But her death doesn't make her a better actor for that crappy "Charlie's Angels" nightmare, nor does it make her any kind of hero for the cause. There is no such thing as "raising awareness" since nearly all of us have been exposed to the perils of cancer and are fully aware of the results. Farrah didn't cure cancer, she just died from it. And if you find that to be a seemingly harsh assessment, then I'm sorry, but it's the truth. I mean if you think about it, everyone of us is going to die somehow. So why not start talking about how great people are now while they are alive, instead of waiting until they have departed?
© Curt Boster, 2009. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, June 15. 2009
A LITTLE OFF THE TOP
Since TV stations ended analog service and switched exclusively to digital service two days ago, more than 300,000 people have contacted the FCC in a panic as to why their 1965 Philco black-and-white sets aren't working properly. Holy Jesus, have you paid any attention to what that little box with the moving pictures has been telling you for more than a year? How can you not know what just happened? And these brain-damaged pinheads are allowed to vote and operate heavy machinery? If 300,00 made the effort to phone home, that means another 300,00 probably couldn't figure out how to dial their Princess rotary phone to report the trouble. And another 300,000 were probably too busy being abducted by flying saucers or hiding in the root cellar from Soviet missile attacks.
Kung Fu's friends and family are all upset that his death was called a suicide. Apparently, the evidence points towards accidental death due to autoerotic asphyxiation. Yeah, like that's less embarrassing to the surviving family. Everyone in Caine's camp claims he would never commit suicide, but apparently a pre-dinner choke and jerk was never out of the question. Hey, don't get me wrong, I've done my share of jerking, but it never involved tying my sack up in the drapes. You have to hand it to the guy...72 years old and still jerking strong. I'm already running out of gas at 50.
Pulled pork at White Castle. Allow me to repeat this sentence for those who thought they were reading some kind of typo. White Castle...pulled pork. The beauty of comedy is that sometimes the punch line just writes itself.
Speaking of pork, how's that swine flu pandemic going? Apparently, the Great Plague of 2009 is over with U.S. casualties numbering, well...one. Which is tied with the same number of deaths caused by angry old white men shooting up museums. Who goes to a museum of suffering simply to inflict more suffering? If you really want to prove a point, shoot up a happy place like a petting zoo or one of the 258 festivals held each weekend in Columbus. Of course since Otto von Fuehrer, or whatever this freelance douchebag's name is, entered The Holocaust Museum this week to "shoot up Jews for electing Obama," this will automatically label all white people as angry, hot-headed killers. Which I guess isn't straying too far from reality. We'll probably be exposed to racial profiling at the airport for a few months, taking off our shoes to see if we have schnitzel. Technically speaking, aren't all 88-year old men skin heads? Alles klar Herr Kommissar?
It's only mid-June, and we already have the first report of an Ohio State football recruit appearing on "Cops." Getting a head start on his term paper "What I Did This Summer," Jamaal Berry has already handed in his paper with just one word written on the cover page...weed. Coach Tressel's response yesterday was something to the effect that he should have this problem cleared up by fall quarter. I'm sorry, what? Apparently, 18-year old recruits getting arrested for possession of a controlled substance in another state is no big deal so long as they don't fumble in practice and can learn the words to "Carmen Ohio" by the first game against Marion Franklin.
After months of revelations involving corruption and kick-backs and politcial favors and sexually harassing fat chicks, former State's Attorney General Marc Dann paid a fine of $1000 and all hands are clean. Wow. Where's my state automobile? When do I get to bang waitresses in the break room? Of course that fine is roughly the same amount that the remainder of us were assessed in increased property taxes so that prized students like Jamaal Berry could earn their GED, extend their athletic career, and/or begin a life dedicated to home invasions. Justice is not only blind, it's completely retarded.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm dining this afternoon at an urban chic, Pacific rimjob fusion bistro specializing in eclectic goat cheese entrees. Might I remind you, goats are for buggering, not for milking. If one truly wishes to offer "eclectic" fare, try serving breast milk cheese...with pulled pork.
© Curt Boster, 2009. All rights reserved.
Friday, June 12. 2009
THE MAN-HUG
As one might expect, I'm pretty much uncomfortable with any expression of affection, mutual admiration, or accomplishment. That being said, you can only imagine how inconvenienced and annoyed I might be by someone attempting to hug me. First of all, what the Hell? I'm still not that crazy about the whole handshaking thing, and now you wish to embrace me as a means of saying hello? Luckily, it appears that Americans have pushed aside the European method of the cheek peck introduction...except for chicks who can recite every line from "Sex and the City." But now we must strive to rid our culture of the hug. I'll be honest with you, I rarely feel the desire to hug those whom I actually care for. So one can obviously understand my reluctance to embrace a casual acquaintance or perfect stranger...unless, of course, I'm paying her by the hour. And should I be bamboozled, Shanghaied, or otherwise snowballed into hugging another human, then I need to contend with the length of said hug, the PSI of the embrace, and the fear of sporting a diamond cutter in my shorts.
The New York Times recently reported that "hugging" is the favorite greeting of today's teenagers. And here I thought it was "anal." Sadly, this means that in usual sheep-like fashion, hugging is only going to worsen...especially if white kids observe that black guys think it's cool. Thus introduces the current evil sweeping the nation--the man-hug. After pondering this for days, I can now reveal that scientifically (in my mind, anyway) there is no reason for two men to EVER hug each other. None. Period. So stop it. Again, I believe or at least assume blindly that this new behavior can be attributed to rappers and athletes. Especially the trendy shake and hug whereby the hand is extended for the traditional shake, then pulled in like a tarpon on a 30-pound test line until the man-hug has been completed. Again, it's just another tidy little piece of prison culture that we are being asked to accept. First, the baggy pants thing, then the man-hug, and soon we'll be tossing another guy's salad and mixing up a batch of pruno in our toilet bowl as a means of introduction and acceptance. I envision a day when we meet and greet using the pug dog ass sniff technique. Which, if you are currently texting, is the pdas.
I recently encountered the man-hug and, like everything else any white guy attempts to imitate, I was inept and awkward. After 40 years, white people still haven't adapted to that whole dancing thing, so the man-hug might take a little longer to achieve. I was hosting the Touchdown Club of Columbus Awards Banquet in February and one of our honorees was a very polite and super cool athlete/scholar, Myron Rolle from Florida State. Since we had hosted him previously, he assumed that a repeat appearance warranted a man-hug when we met again. Looking back, I suppose this was a very cool and respectful thing to do on his part and, as both an athlete and a human, he is class personified. I'm guessing he perceived that I was equally cool enough to properly complete the man-hug. And yet, I was not. He was my first. I botched it terribly. I couldn't get the shake and pull forward, the lean to the side hug, the push off...like a cheerleader with a yeast infection at prom time, I was a total train wreck. And I really sealed my envelope of stupidity when I kissed him on the neck. O.K., that didn't really happen, but as a virgin of the man-hug, how was I to know whether this may or may not have been one of the steps in proper man-hug etiquette? Of course Myron probably dismissed the incident as just another awkward white guy who had yet to master the man-hug. But I will never forget my failure. Thankfully, I have never had to repeat my vain attempt. Just like the first time I met a female friend out for cocktails one evening when I lived in Miami. She was merely doing the good-to-see-you cheek peck, and I slipped her tongue instead. The remainder of the evening was brief to say the least...especially when I massaged her breasts as we parted. Hey, that's my way of saying goodbye.
For those who fear the man-hug, or any kind of embrace as a form of greeting, I have the solution...as you may have guessed already. Whether it's a dude or a chick, when you do the hug/embrace dealy, just slide a hand down the back of their pants. If it's a chick, give a firm upward tug on her thong. If it's a dude, just ease a couple fingers down the top of his crack. You might think this is a bit forward and somewhat unacceptable behavior, but sometimes it takes the extreme to put an end to problem trends. My tests indicate that these are particularly effective methods to attempt during funerals. Better still, if hugging a chick just pull away and ask her when the baby is due. Or with a dude, just ask him "did you feel me against you?" With enough effort and continued vigilance, we can put an end to this evil. After all, only you can prevent forest fires.
© Copyright 2009, Curt Boster. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, May 31. 2009
WEDDING DAY IN FUNERALVILLE
I was under the impression that as I aged, and having so few friends, I would be attending more funerals than weddings. After all, funerals are usually more fun primarily because there is no dancing and most of the chicks wear black hosiery. And yet somehow I forgot that my friends who weren't in the mood to die just yet elected to breed several years ago thereby producing offspring who would eventually grow old and become betrothed. In accordance with being a good friend, I would be invited to said matrimonial unions and be asked to pretend to care. Thus begins my journey upon the 2009 Summer Wedding Tour.
My first observation is how such close friends have established satellite networks of other friends. One would think that, given that your friends are such a meaningful part of your life, any other friends they acquired along life's quest would have to be greater than or at least equal to the relationship you have with this person. The sad and confusing fact of the matter is, the majority of these outsiders are just plain dicks. Another stunning observation is that, despite everyone's claim that "some of my best friends are black," they obviously aren't wedding worthy. You never see a black dude at your friend's wedding, unless he's filling a water glass at the reception or he's with one of your daughter's white friend who still thinks it's somehow taboo and radical to date a black guy.
So the wedding service begins, usually in a church in front of Gawd who is referred to as "the third party" in any marriage. This heavenly menage a trois is a new inference to how no marriage can possibly succeed without the Holy Spirit being present at all times. Since almost 50% of marriages now culminate in divorce, apparently some third party that shall remain nameless is too busy attending Super Bowls and World Series games to make certain that athletes perform at 110%. So the preacher reads some randomly selected template Bible verse, inserts the names of the blessed couple, some candles are lit, vows exchanged, badda bing, kiss the bride, done. Then comes the all important receiving line where you meet the couple and their family, just to confirm that you were there and you left a gift. Your friends have to explain to the other parents who you are and why you are there as if you're one of the three Billy Goats Gruff trying to get across some bridge. I think each guest should print up some sort of wedding resume to hand to everyone so that it's easier to determine if you want to go on speaking to this person or just brush them aside.
Modern technology has made weddings so much more amusing. Who hasn't been sitting around the house five years after their wedding and decided to whip out the DVD of the ceremony? There really isn't much difference in watching the highlights of the magical union and viewing the first time the two of you thought it novel to make your own amateur sex tape. Either way, five minutes into the viewing you're thinking Dear God, this was not a good idea. Ditto for wedding photos. Somewhere in the future you're going to dust of the old album and think man, did I look like a tool. There you stand in that powder blue tuxedo sporting a mullet while your blushing bride is crammed into a wedding gown two sizes too small oozing arm fat out the side like an over frosted cupcake, and exposing the lovely tattoos of some Chinese proverb or the name of some guy she used to slop during conjugal prison visits. The worst part of wedding photos is that, should you decide not to simply divorce your mate but choose to cause their sudden demise, you're going to have those photos pasted all over newspapers and shown ad nauseam on Nancy Grace. Nothing like watching an accused killer doing "The Chicken Dance."
So it's off to the reception where crappy food is served, hot chicks are licking their fingers and double-dipping vegetables into the dill dip like swine, cut the cake, smear the face, listen to some lousy toasts, I've seen enough...gone. Of course, unlike other people in attendance, I accept the fact that this day is designed specifically for the couple and their family. Otherwise, why bother going through the expense and headaches? Apparently, some people still think that this entire production number is essential to their life's mission, and that's a seemingly wonderful thing. But I find it horribly taxing to make any wedding into an all-day sucker. It's been almost eight hours since you exchanged vows, and here you are dancing with G-Ma to some Tony Orlando song while sporting a wedding day boner that looks like an aerial map of Long Island. Personally, I've always believed that if you must make the mistake of going forth with marriage, you fly to Vegas, drop a couple hundo for a quicky ceremony, and get on with banging your chick as you press her face-first in front of a hotel window along Las Vegas Boulevard. But hey, call me old fashioned.
Sadly, I now have an additional three weddings to attend this Summer. I'm not in any of the weddings. Come to think of it, I have never been asked to be in a wedding. I've actually been a groom more than I've been a bridesmaid, or whatever they call dudes in a wedding party. With one down and three more to go, I must develop a thought process which enables me to survive the religious googaw, the wedding bliss, and the less than sincere happy mask I must wear to the ball. And here is just a sampling of what's going through my noodle during the ceremony. First, how many of the chicks in the audience are wearing thongs? Secondly, what percentage of the crowd has an amateur sex tape tucked under their mattress at home (or for that matter, how many even know that they do?). Next, if the CDC claims that two out of every five people has herpes, then that means at least two members of the wedding party from each side are infected. My task is to figure out exactly who they are based solely on appearance. Similarly, how many guys in the crowd have previously plowed the bride? They are somewhat easier to spot because they are usually grinning as they witness their former conquest become someone else's problem. Then things get a little muddier. One moment the bride is slow dancing with her loving father, and just two hours later, his precious little angel is getting her buttocks whipped with a car antenna and getting pushed around an Airport hotel suite like a wheel barrow. But for most of us these days the thought process is based solely upon profit and loss. As in how can I recoup a $50 wedding present from this congealed entree offering at the reception? Perhaps a few more alcoholic beverages will assist the balance sheet, or maybe some extra canapes stuffed into my sport jacket for breakfast tomorrow. And that's when your brain gets you into trouble...as you are caught stealing miniature bars of soap from the country club restroom to justify your investment.
©Curt Boster, 2009. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, May 30. 2009
AND ON THE SEVENTH DAY...
...God rested, because he was out of
cash. Lately I have become obsessed with watching the 24-hour Jesus
channel simply because I am totally fascinated with the claims and
promises and outright lies which are vomited on those who partake of
this nonsense. Of course the official description of these snake-oil
salesmen is "harvesting" and "anointing." One
can "sow their seed" (meaning give us money) to secure
their "harvest" (meaning a new car for the pastor), and
thereby be "anointed" (stripped of their cash with no
visible reward, a.k.a. "swindled"). What blows my mind is
not that people cough up their cash to their church--I suppose
everyone needs to believe in something--but that these suck holes are
permitted to perform their "miracles" of embezzlement and
tax evasion with complete arrogance and no fear of retribution. They
are protected not by Gawd himself, but by our government and, most
importantly, the fear and damnation that religion promises to those
who object. In fact, it is the pastors and preachers and a-holes
wearing some fancy-ass robe who originally convinced me that there
can be no Almighty power. My God would not permit such behavior in
his name. Talk about your false idols and graven images.
Forgiveness shouldn't come with an invoice attached.
Allow me to give you an example from
last night's inspirational TV lineup. Some heavily medicated
preacher with a head the size of Sputnik was mumbling incoherently
about anointing and Jesus and other key buzz words that really had no
significance to his "message." I'm no biblical scholar,
but I really couldn't figure out where he was going with a message
that was completely void of logic, or even verbs. And then the true
spirit of Gawd's message surfaced...this melon headed nitwit just
flat-out asked viewers to phone in a donation of $900 each. He
offered up some unintelligible explanation about 2009 being the year
of the Lord's forgiveness from debt, and quoted some biblical passage
which had no relevance. But just like the oil companies, who used to
at least offer up some lamo excuse why fuel prices were increased
every weekend, this tool didn't even provide a valid explanation as
to why the donation was being requested. And when the phones didn't
light up in accordance with Gawd's will, he started speaking in
tongues and revealed that he had just spoken personally with God who
demanded the tithing and offered up a limited time offer that the
first 40 people who gave $900 would be guaranteed a seat at the right
hand of God in Heaven. Right next to the guy who sells the Sham Wow.
Holy craponzolly, now these sporeheads are even selling front row
seats for the ultimate sky box! What happens when the buyer presents
his ticket and finds out the scalper on the street sold him a ticket
for a seat that never existed? I want the names and addresses of
these 40 nitwits so that I can stop by their house dressed as Jesus,
and see if they have any extra crap they want to tithe to me so that
I can sell it on eBay. So my question is, why can't I offer to sell
something that doesn't work or doesn't even exist? I can't do the
boner pills, because that's already being thrust upon the face of
America. And there are too many flim flam men hawking the Jesus
story, getting out of tax debt, and shiitake skin creams. I have so
many quality ideas, I just need to figure out how to be protected by
a church and the IRS. Perhaps starting my own church/religion is the
way to go. I'll call it the Church of WTF. And we'll sell boner
cream during our anointed harvesting come-to-Jesus boot camp
salvation dealy.
So I have developed an easy plan which
will not only send these vermin scurrying from the baseboards, but
will also assist in the management of our national debt. Once
religious organizations are taxed, the problem will solve itself.
O.K., so I know many of you will pull a Limbaugh on me and start
quoting the U.S. Constitution and the separation of church and State
and all that rubbish. Well woopty frigging do. These churches and,
in fact, most "charitable" organizations are nothing more
than well-camouflaged corporations designed to make big money for
those in charge while dicking the general population not once, but
twice with each transaction. Tithing? Get the flock out of here.
Are you trying to tell me that a guy who created the heavens and the
earth in six days hasn't learned how to print his own currency?
Perhaps God is really that homeless guy working the off-ramp at I-70
and West Broad who just can't seem to manage his finances due to a
crack addiction. He'll give his attention to that rapture thing just
as soon as he gets back on his feet and gets clean. We already
"tithe" the majority of our paycheck to Social Security,
and the State in which we reside, and the funding of Federal programs
that probably don't even exist. And what's in it for us at the end
of the rainbow? A big steaming harvest of bullshit.
Wait a minute, it just came to me. A
commemorative 99.9% pure gold coin set depicting the image of Jesus
crying over each Detroit auto plant. And the denomination can add up
to negative numbers.
©
Curt Boster, 2009. All Rights Reserved
Friday, May 22. 2009
...BIRTHDAY WISHES FROM MOTHER NATURE
Dear C.B.:
Just wanted to send my best wishes along on your 50th Birthday by completely wiping out your saltwater fish tank in less than 48 hours. Sorry about the time you'll need to remove all of the death I reaped upon you, but please note that reef fish and invertebrates belong in my ocean...not in your living room. I would have thought you understood my message a few years ago when I turned your home into a walk-in freezer and wiped out everything you owned. But, being the stubborn failure you have always been, I knew you'd come back for more pain. You must admit, at least I allowed everything to live and grow fruitfully until I just decided, what the Hell, let's pull the rug out on him and see how he reacts this time. Hopefully you will finally accept your futility and give up.
Oh, and by the way, I just heard that the Roto Rooter man was out to your house to dislodge your favorite sailfin tang from the shitter. 'Tis a pity that you raised him from the juvenile size of a 50-cent piece all the way up to flapjack size in the three years before I reaped his tangy ass. But you should have known that he wouldn't flush down the crapper like an ordinary clown fish. So you really can't blame me for the $159 Roto Rooter bill. I just wish I could have seen the expression on your face when the auger pulled out his decaying corpse on the end of that metal screw dealy. Good times, indeed.
I really do appreciate you taking the time to plant those very lovely lillies on your back porch. And do you know who else appreciates them? Peter F. Rabbit, that's who. Yeah, I sent him by your house last night and told him to help himself. Man, was he hungry. And I told him to make certain that he stood right in front of you and Pookito and munched away in clear view of the window. By the way, how is Pookie? She should be pushing about ten years old by now. Perhaps I'll wait until you get back on your feet, build up some self-confidence again, and then pay her a visit.
What are you planning to do for your birthday? Hope it involves some golf and/or outdoor activity, because I'll be sure to provide a big old birthday fuck you. Well, gotta go see if I can destroy some shit in Oklahoma or Kansas. But I'll be back whenever you make another vain attempt to keep something alive. Happy Birthday loser.
Your pal,
Mother Nature
© Curt Boster, 2009 All Rights Reserved.
Editor's note: As the song goes, “That ain't nothin' but buzzard luck.”
Tuesday, May 19. 2009
CHILDREN ARE THE FUTURE
Children, Children...Future, Future. Everyone out Reynoldsburg way is all hot and steamed about the failure of a school levy and teachers being fired and our kids growing up to be idiots. Well boo freaking hoo. For once, democracy worked. If you've ever had the pleasure of driving past the neighborhood surrounding Reynoldsburg High School, you'd clearly see that few of these students are too concerned about learning anything except the lyrics to the new 'Lil Bow Wow tune (which, I'm certain, mentions Biggie and Tupac as all rap songs are required to do). Now call me a dick, but I don't have children, so I fail to see why I should pay for these evil spawn to attend school. I made the decision not to be a breeder and should get some kind of tax incentive for doing so. After all, I don't ask voters to pick up my hotel/prostitute tab when I go to Vegas so why should I be required to pay for their dumbass children? The big stink out here is that the school board has decided to do away with music, art, and sports at the elementary school level in order to save money. Please say it ain't so. How are children supposed to decorate an orange juice concentrate can with paper mache and call it a Mother's Day present? When will they ever have the opportunity to paint a hand-turkey with those stinky tempura paints, or know the joy of a tasty school paste snack break? And God forbid parents should have to miss those precious moments when their little pus bucket appears in the parrot chorus of the school play. Where would we be without third-grade music or tee ball practice? Be honest people, your kid only spends an entire eight-hour day at school because you're either too cheap or too lazy to provide proper child care or tolerate them. A child should be a well-planned lifelong obligation, not just something that you dump onto others because you didn't have the sense to pull out and leave a big opalescent puddle on some chick's back. You made that choice, so don't make it my obligation.
Of course if one believes all of the bullshit contained in the Ohio Lottery advertising about 125 gazllion dollars raised for Ohio education, you'd think our children were eating prime rib Johnny Marzetti with a select Bordeaux red and riding a town car to class each morning. The only education the Lottery pays for is the schooling of politicians' kids who can attend a private school so they can avoid having to deal with the daily swirlies and fruit bowls presented by public school dregs. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about education. I cringe each time I try and check out at some restaurant or retail store, and the braindead teen-douche has to consult a calculator before they can subtract my five, five dollar, five dollar footlong from a ten spot. Better still is there nothing more mind numbing then to watch them stare like Scooby Doo at the cash register when you dare to deviate from what has already been programmed for them? But our future doesn't need to break in the middle of the day to sing show tunes. They don't need to be in the middle of learning about the War of 1812, then change into some baggy ass white gym shorts for a quick game of dodgeball. If your child wants to play in a band, then take him or her for private lessons on your own time...not on mine. Kids can either paint purty pictures, or they can't. In making your child do stupid crap that they don't want to do or cannot do, you're only preparing them for future resentment and failure. For example, if a kid has no interest in music, he gets dumped on the tambourine or triangle. If he or she has no athletic skill, they get dumped in right field. If they can't act or sing, it's the audio/visual club for them. Little girls might not want to make finger sandwiches or create shiny, studded pinafores with a Bedazzler. In fact, I really don't want my kid attending a school where a 12-year old has unlimited access to ovens and fire and a lathe. Public schools are providing no service to you or your child except setting them up for sociopathic behavior and the distinct possibility that they could, at any moment, get stabby or shooty some afternoon in the cafeteria.
So here is my plan to "save our schools." Provide education, not just some kind of eight-hour day care so that parents can stop for a cocktail on the way home from work while simultaneously trying to tap into Mindy in accounting. Eliminate kindergarten immediately. For one thing, the word is simply annoying. And most of kindergarten is spent sleeping or vomiting. Kids can do both of these things at home...no sense in infecting the rest of the population. Recess? Out of here. Unless kids need a smoke break. Kids need to learn about reading, some basic math skills (not calculus or trigonometry), how to write a letter and/or blog to complain about shit, maybe some science googaw, and American history. Not the politically correct American history, but the REAL stuff like Dillinger's enormous genitalia, Confederates buggering dead soldiers during the Civil War, Gacy, Whitman, Speck, Bundy, Elvis, Shatner and our President who dropped a double gooey on some chubby Jew-girl's forehead. If you want your kid to play sports, then pay for them to play. This will eliminate all of those stupid sports that parents try to force down their clumsy, sexually confused kids in order to live out their own failures through their equally ungifted children. Come on, would anyone really play soccer if they had to pay a fee to do so? Jocks can be jocks, band nerds can be band nerds, and the world is a better and more balanced place. More importantly, I have cut the school day down to about four hours instead of an all-day affair. This frees up time for your kid to cruise the Internet or play dodgeball on their own time, and at no cost to yours truly. Your precious little Josh or Austin can go get a part-time job, earn some money, and go buy his own music appreciation. And sweet little Cayleigh/Britney can free up time to go to the mall and learn all about home ec, and fashion, and sex ed by purchasing a big old Aunt Amy's pretzel, shoplifting a tube top, and giving some teenage shoe salesman in a referee shirt a reach around in the public restroom. It all works under my revised plan. More importantly, it costs me nothing as a taxpayer and overall unconcerned citizen. If you really want to teach your children something, do it yourself. They belong to you, not the community. Stop teaching them how to sponge off others who never ask for this responsibility. It may "take a village," but I don't need to be accountable for your village idiots.
©2009, Curt Boster. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, May 18. 2009
FINGER LICKIN' SICKENIN' (or wash your hands, you nasty ass)
So where's all this swine flu I've been hearing about? Another guaranteed apocalypse down the drain.  How strange that the same media who warned us of impending doom has turned their attention back to what is really important in our lives...Jon and Kate's scripted infidelity and the remaining "American Idol" finalists. Of course we did everything we could as a species to secure our demise. As bipeds go, human beings are probably one of the most disgusting animals walking upright. When Colonel Sanders coined the phrase "finger lickin' good," it was designed as a marketing tool, not a recommendation. He wasn't even really a colonel and, just to be blatantly up front about it, he was from Southern Kentucky where it's always been acceptable to bugger your cousin or finger your sister, and lick just about anything that walks or crawls. Go ahead, try to make it through a day without observing someone licking their fingers. Dear God Madge, do you have any idea what fingers are used for? They come in contact with everything one confronts in a normal day, which means they share surface area space with every other Tom, Dickhead, and Harry-ass who occupied that space before you arrived. And now that the swine flu pandemic has succombed to media bullshit, most folks have gone back to not washing their hands after they've had a squirt or stopped by the Play-Dough Fudge Factory to slice off some crescent moons . One might as well just pick up a wad of Big League Chew deposited on the sidewalk and pop it in their mouth, or drink your own crotch squeezings. Oh, I'm sorry, am I being disgusting? Well now you know how I feel. Even if you elect to ignore the obvious bacteria and filth involved in licking your fingers, consider that the rest of us are just plain nauseated when you partake of a good finger licking. You look just like the helmet-wearing kid in elementary school--the one who arrived one hour late each day aboard the shorter bus--who used to scratch his ass and then sneak a whiff of his own finger.
And everyone is licking fingers these days. Go ahead, try to make it through any Food Network program without "celebrity chefs" constantly licking their fingers as they prepare gourmet meals...Y'allll. Apparently, they were all absent the day the instructor discussed kitchen hygiene and poop cramps caused by bacteria. Obviously "eclectic fushion" is the mixing of primordial goo with saliva-based poultry and fish. Bam! And I don't mean to pick on Rachel Ray, but have you seen this tubby lately? She looks like a Weeble. She's always licking her fingers and you just know that she farts during sex and laughs about it. So it makes you wonder how many chefs, grill cooks, or teenage mutant fast-food employees are licking their fingers every time a little gravy oozes off your plate or some renegade ketchup flows freely from the edge of your burger. This is exactly why Cornelius Bounty invented the paper towel, yet the licking continues.
Most people lick their fingers and don't even know they are doing so. Have you ever visited a Vegas buffet? Holy Hell, these people are pigs. First of all, they live in mortal fear that somehow the constant guaranteed flow of crab legs and shrimp will diminish or become extinct. Then, they pile various crustacean into an unmanageable tower of bait held in place only by a strategically positioned opposable thumb, commence with the tight-rope walk of shame back to their table where the booty spills out like a salty pinata, then they finalize the deal with a couple of good sucks on their fingers. Some of these nitwits don't even wait until they are out of sight...they just start licking while on line. The phrase "finger food" was designed as two nouns, not a verb and a noun. Why bother to visit the restroom when you can just throw down a steamer right here in the chow line, then sniff it like the family dog? I've even witnessed the same meat tools taking food into the shitter with them! It's a small miracle and a mighty testament to the human immune system that we aren't spending half of our afternoons bringing out the dead to a waiting undertaker's cart. The same dough heads who are wearing masks and rubbing anti-bacterial soap all over their gelatinous bodies are enjoying a lovely dessert tray of germs and funk as they sit and lick their fingers like a distempered house cat.
What more can be said other than a simple plea from someone who cares, but not as much as I previously thought...for the love of all things holy and the continuation of the human race, please stop the finger licking. Feel free to pick your nose, or sneak in a quick crotch dig or a well-timed ass scratch, just don't lick the cherry off the top when you're done. Perhaps this would be a good time to market my invention--the finger condom. I originally designed it for those who frequent strip clubs, but it's basically the same principle. Who wants wings?
© 2009 Curt Boster. All Rights Reserved
Editors Note:
Wonder if Loree has had her car licked lately?
Thursday, May 14. 2009
TORTURE ME
With all of the nonsensical chatter and political positioning about torturing prisoners at Gitmo, the real torture is being thrust upon those of us who simply don't give a rat's ass. Do I really care that human garbage intent upon the destruction of my fellow Americans is being forced to listen to country music while being stacked into naked human pyramids for our You Tube enjoyment? The answer is no. Allow me to offer up a quick history lesson for those who are so eager to listen to Bono songs, ride around in their "green" automobile, and make everyone aware that they are running in a 5K race to show their idiotic support of human rights. Remember that little event, affectionately known as 9/11? Think back, if you can remove your blinders for a moment, about two giant cans of lighter fluid with humans simply riding along to their job or to visit loved ones and then, oops, a group of douchebags who look like Cat Stevens handjob the wheel and delay your flight for eternity so they can hang out with 72 dead virgins who probably each have a Yemenite bush like a chia pet. So allow me to reiterate my concern for anyone intent upon the destruction of my fellow countrymen...screw 'em. I don't even know why we bother to feed these tools. Besides, we've been killing each other at a much greater pace than these Achmeds could ever hope for. And we do it like a man...with superior fire power and a cache of all the ammo we can carry into a classroom.
Now the world is all bollixed up about our violating human rights with torture. Boo freaking hoo, you underfed, stinky, uncircumcised, pasty bastards. These are the same a-holes who developed rules for conflict. It's O.K. to disintegrate your enemy with nuclear weapons, just don't drip water on their foreheads to gain strategic information about where to place said nukes. WTF? I guess the rules of engagement call for a quick annihilation as opposed to a slower dismissal. And that certainly makes all the sense in the world. And what are these goofy bastards complaining about anyway? As an American, I can't vacation in Cuba if I want to. These guys get to live there for free. Of course they'll be doing some waterboarding...they live by a beach. They'll probably get to do some snorkling, hand gliding, and many other fun watersports as well. The weather is always nice, they get fresh fruits and Cuban rum, plus loads of tropical butt sex. No wonder we can't find Osama. Nobody's talking because they're having way too much fun. If this is torture, I'll be visiting my travel agent soon.
Of course the ultimate torture would be to make each prisoner set up and maintain a saltwater fish tank. Give them unlimited funds and a day pass to visit the local Petlando, allow them to purchase said fish and invertebrates, then force them to obsess over keeping them alive every day like I do. You don't even have to piss in the tank or run fabric softener through the sump. Just let Mother Nature work her grim reaping magic, sit back and watch the fun. And if that doesn't get you the answers you desire, make them play Texas Hold 'Em with a bunch of Jewish poker stars. All-in my ass, just shoot me now.
So after weighing the issue--and again, I really don't care--I've developed the ultimate means of torturing prisoners into submission. First, force them to watch a "Keeping Up With The Kardashians" marathon or any one of those god damned cake competitions on The Food Network. After 30 minutes, they'll be spilling their guts about the 19th hijacker and bin Laden's Facebook page. If that doesn't work, blindfold them and drop them off at any social gathering, festival, o'rama, or sporting event in the U.S. where the highlight of the moment is chicks showing their tits, sticking out their tongues when doing so, and screaming "woooo" at the conclusion of every incomprehensible sentence. Mix in some douche bag drunken guys with their shirts off in order to properly display crappy tattoos while simultaneously making some kind of retarded hand gestures, add a generous dose of "doing some shots" while scantily clad whores dance around like clumsy epileptic strippers, and wrap it all up with some fist fights and the igniting of anything flammable, and you know what...it's a small wonder these ragheads want us dead. From this day forth, you can call me Al.
© Curt Boster, All Rights Reserved 2009
Wednesday, April 29. 2009
MUCH ADO ABOUT SWINE FLU
I opened the door, and influenza. This time last week the huddled masses of herding sheep knew nothing of swine flu. But now, thanks to the media and the basic laws of induced panic, we're all suddenly doomed. As of this morning, there could be one death attributed to this "catastrophic outbreak." Allow me to reiterate...one. That's probably the same number of individuals who died from choking on a pot pie, having an anvil dropped on their head by a coyote, or accidentally locking themselves in an abandoned refrigerator. And yet the remainder of us do not fear a similar calamity confronting us. Thus far, our fearless leaders have responded to the new and improved Black Plague '09 by instructing us to wash our hands a lot. Wow, thanks. Oddly enough, more people probably need to heed this advice. But how sad is it that we need to threaten people with impending doom before they realize that washing their hands after taking a big steamer might be a good idea? Maybe if we tell them they are being "green" they'll follow the plan with some soap and water.
Personally, I'm all for a thinning of the herd. I've been a proponent of a new and improved pandemic for quite some time. By the way, how can we decide when an epidemic has reached pandemic proportions? I'm guessing this probably occurs right after we've had more than one reported casualty. Without going into detail, let's just describe a pandemic as a big ass epidemic stretching over several continents, or roughly 14,000 football fields. Thus far, we've been exposed to epidemics caused by bird flu, mad cows, and now swine. I'm thinking the barnyard is rising up to screw with us. Can goat flu be far behind? Those goat bastards have been giving us the stink eye for far too long. This could be the perfect opportunity to make their move. especially with everyone's attention focused on Mexican swine. Apparently, this particular swine flu strain originates from Mexico. And could there be any worse timing than with the Cinco de Mayo shopping season just around the corner?
So after doing my research, allow me to provide a checklist of preventative measures that our government is too afraid to tell us.
--Until the dust settles, you might want to avoid eating at Steak & Shake or any similar business where Mexican grill cooks rule the roost. And you might want to delay any storm damage roof repair, just in case they drink out of your hose when you aren't looking.
--Avoid romantic trysts with the hot Latino pool boy, and try not to make eye contact with your lawn maintenance crew. If they ask for a glass of water or some churro, pretend you are not home. And for the love of God, don't let them in to use your bano. They have been known to wipe with your good towels and drink form the toilet.
--Despite what you may have heard, licking a Mexican will not give you a buzz. And it could possibly expose you to the swine flu virus.
--Mexicans are not afraid of sunlight or garlic, so the wearing of amulets and other religious go-withs is not suggested.
--Order some additional ShamWows from that guy with the headset that looks like an epileptic shore bird so that you will have a means of successfully wiping yourself.
--Don't run up and down stairs with scissors in your mouth.
--There is no obvious threat from eating pork, but you might wish to cut back on having sex with any ham-based products such as deviled ham, ham salad, and Hormel Swine Flu Loaf.
--Avoid the temptation to visit your Doctor. You stand a far greater chance of contracting something left behind by the assholes before you, and your Doctor is probably chomping at the bit to give you some kind of $250 swine flu vaccine which, of course, is not covered by your co-pay.
--Wash your hands, you pig. That's why most bathroom designs have placed the sink in direct proximity to the shitter. And that's why it's called swine flu...because the people who are afflicted live like pigs which brings us to my final preventative suggestion...
--Don't leave your house and avoid contact with all human beings. You'll quickly learn that this successfully treats so many other afflictions as well.
© Curt Boster, 2009. All Rights Reserved
Sunday, April 26. 2009
Is it possible that there are still people alive today who dip their doughnuts in coffee? Although this was once a popular practice in American history, it begs the question of WTF? Just the mere thought of a doughy deep-fried sponge soaking up hot brown bean juice kind of gags me. It's like soaking your Kleenex in the toilet before blowing your nose with it. When considering dipping any tasty pastry into a liquid, it should be noted that the only acceptable practice should be Oreos and milk. I've never been a huge fan of the java. In fact, I tasted it once in my youth and walked away scratching my head as to why anyone enjoys this crap. Most people mask the taste of the tepid juice with pounds of sugar and gallons of cream, which kind of defeats the purpose. A pig wearing a cardigan sweater and a bolo tie is still just a pig. If you feel the need for the caffeine/sugar in your system, just swallow a half-bottle of Bufferin and wash it down with a box of Rainbow Nerds. And speaking of pigs, I just read a headline this morning which stated "officials looking into possible cause of swine flu outbreak." I'm no medical expert, but I'm just going to go with my gut and assume that anything previously labeled as "swine flu" might be directly attributed to, oh just a shot in the dark here...swine. You can't name a disease and then backslide. That's like taking Pluto away from our elementary school solar system. And that was one of my favorite colored ping pong balls.
Speaking of tasty livestock, I'd like to take a moment to enlighten the masses about Chick-Fil-A. In reference to the previous paragraph, they hold true to their name and offer "chicken" as their primary menu item. What amazes me the most about Chick-Fil-A is that they are one of the few food vendors around today who actually care about quality and customer service. If you are one who enjoys waiting in non-existing lines at McDonald's for the opportunity to enlighten your senses as you chat with America's braindead youth, or you have the time to study the seemingly hourly additions/subtractions to a Taco Bell menu, or marvel at the way your shoes stick to the floor in Burger King while the counter help plays grab-ass with each other, then Chick-Fil-A is probably not for you. They use these crazy, antiquated service-related expressions such as "May I help you?," and "Would you like for me to refresh your beverage?" It really catches you off guard sometimes. The food quality is superior, but of course, it helps if you enjoy chicken. Their chicken noodle soup is simply the best there is. It's always fresh and/or hot, and doesn't have those chunks of unidentifiable and off-color meat globs haunting the bottom of the bowl. You know, the other gray meat. It is nearly impossible to have a bad experience at a Chick-Fil-A. But of course, no experience is perfect and there are other pitfalls and shitballs lurking under the bridge. The primary fly in the ointment is the religious atmosphere. Most of the employees resemble Young Republicans and have that crazy-eyed happy face thing going on that can only mean they have accepted some kind of Savior. The good news is, that will usually prevent them from morally wiping their nose on your bun. The bad news is, they pass judgment on your every menu choice. And the worst part of the religious chicken experience is that they play this never ending loop of Jesus music. It's tough to swallow quality slaughtered fowl when some guy is whining incessantly about how he loves Jesus or how the big day is coming. I'm just trying to eat a chicken sandwich, man. And finally, with family values comes actual families. During the day, Chick-Fil-A is a virtual day care for little Calebs and Cayleighs. Once attractive moms gather in packs armed with juice boxes and airtight bags of Cheerios to compare stretch marks and their child's superior maturation process over endless servings of chicken nuggets and free refills. The good news is, the evil spawn's constant screaming and loud avian chatter drowns out the whiny "God Is Great" soundtrack.
But if you want chicken on Sunday, you won't be dining at Chick-Fil-A. Apparently, that is the day when God rested and decided not to slaughter or dress any chickens. How odd that "dressing" a chicken or turkey actually involves the removal of its feathers? I have to hand it to founder S. Truett Cathy, he has some oddball religious convictions, but he sticks to his beliefs. Chick-Fil-A will never be open on Sunday. In fact, the old God-boy actually teaches Sunday School every Sabbath in Atlanta. I can't tell you how many times I've been on the road jonesing for a chicken breakfast biscuit and some potato dealies, and had to reconsider because it was Sunday. And one has to adore the "Eat Mor Chikin" advertising campaign with the paratrooper cows who lack basic grammar skills and possess inferior penmanship (like most people in the South). I suppose it would be hard to hold a Sharpie with a hoof. Of course only the trained farm boy eye notices that the black-and-white cows in the ads are Holsteins. And Holstein cows are, in fact, dairy cattle. And I'm fairly certain, judging from the name, they are also Jewish. So they don't even worship Jesus. What a pity...four stomachs and no soul.
To conclude this meandering edition of BA squared, allow me to explain today's title. I was in an antique mall last week and observed a 1950s TV tray with an old dude and a kid having lunch together that was entitled "Lunch With Uncle Pete." The reality of the situation, as I later learned, is that Uncle Pete was a 1950s kid's television host and the father of famous yet dead actor Peter Boyle. The idea behind the metal tray was to eat a well balanced lunch while being electronically entertained by Uncle Pete. Of course, the image immediately bounced off of my warped noodle to anyone who, as a child, had a creepy uncle who was always just a little too friendly. You know, extra long pony rides on the knee, an unacceptable amount of tickling, and the ever popular smell my hand game. More often than not, that uncle wasn't really related to you at all...they were just married to one of the offspring of your parents or the father of your third cousin. What I'm trying to say is most kids that I knew didn't look forward to lunch with Uncle Pete at all. Come to think of it, I don't think he even served any actual food during lunch. Oh dear God, it's all coming back to me! He's the reason why I'm eating all the time...and sitting naked in the hall closet slapping my bare buttocks with old National Geographics. Man, do I need a chicken sandwich and a Sanka right about now. Holy crap, it's Sunday!
© Curt Boster 2009, all rights reserved.
(editor's note: whatever happened to the Fatted Calf eateries?)
Saturday, April 25. 2009
Long ago in a land far, far away I had a radio talk show that solicited calls from morons wanting to argue about stupid ideology that completely lacked any logic whatsoever. I didn't want to discuss matters of perceived importance with those who preached the sacred language of Limbaugh like a trained parrot, so I addressed matters which possessed only one line of logic and allowed the lunatic fringe to show their ass. One such topic was the existence of ghosts. Quite simply, there is no such thing. Human beings have this inherent desire to be greater than zero even after they have bit the big one. They adhere to this concept of sitting on the right hand of their local deity as if somehow their life on earth had some kind of great significance. Well, in most cases it really doesn't. And the mere arrogance that somehow after life one will serve a "purpose" simply lacks any logic at all. Have you ever seen a human corpse or even a dead ground hog on the highway? It's just a big rotting pinata which has been overcome with insect larvae and decay. It rots from the inside out until it puffs up like a bloody, gooey Jiffy Pop. I'm sorry, but that's the reality of the afterlife. Your guts are sucked out and replenished with some kind of toxic fluid, there is some crying and religious mumbling, and you're stuffed in an overpriced shoe box and placed under ground to rot in accordance with Nature's will. The End.
Ghosts, like aliens (the green kind), Sasquatch, and psychics exist only in the soggy basement of one's vivid imagination. And do you know how I know this for certain? Because whenever a "ghost" appears, he or she is fully clothed. Even in the afterlife, there is some sort of PG rating system. Why does a ghost need a nicely pressed pair of Hagar slacks? If a ghost is wearing a wool sweater, doesn't it stand to reason that he or she would appear naked and accompanied by a sheep? If they are wearing leather shoes, should they not be aboard a cow? So one smart ass religious douche (yes, they actually exist on right-wing radio) made the call with his basis for ghostly matters and posed the question "so you don't believe in The Holy Spirit?" Let's see, do I believe that somehow a human being reanimated after 48 hours of being legally dead, and hung out with his pals until he ascended into the heavens? Wow, that's certainly a noodle scratcher. But I'm going to have to go with "no." After giving the caller the answer he was waiting to pounce upon with his sacred beliefs, I posed my own question. "So what your saying is that your pal The Holy Ghost was a zombie?" Blasphemy! Jesus, a zombie?! I was immediately judged and cast into Hell as the caller hung up on me. I shall miss his opinions.
A zombie, which is defined basically in backward ass Caribbean cultures and folk lore, is a human once considered to be dead who has somehow reanimated and walks amongst the living. Bingo! Sounds like the crapola that was shoved down my throat in the 45 minutes I spent in Sunday School. But the argument, if this is an argument at all, isn't about who or what is a zombie because they simply do not exist. No ghosts, no spirits, no zombies, no wool shirt, no leather shoes, no service. And just how does one become a zombie instead of a ghost? Who decides whether you're going to float around and knock shit over in someone's house, or roam with the Crips of the undead in search of brains? And has anyone ever explained a zombie's obsession for brains? Did they eat human brains in real life? Of course not, so why wouldn't they rise from the dead and just go to Arby's? How can ghosts, who possess no skeletal structure or vocal chords, move stuff around, make those moaning ghost noises, and throw lamps at the living? Oh wait, I almost forgot..."ectoplasm", or ghost jit jell. Oh come on, the way to prove something logically is not to invent words and assign conclusive definitions. I've thought about this for a long time, done my research, and I can answer these questions simply by stating without question that it's all just bullshit. Scooby Doo and his gang of meddling kids knew it before anyone else...there is no such thing as a ghost. Just evil real estate developers and investment bankers who want to level the old amusement park to make room for townhouses. So you can stop showing these God-awful "reality" TV shows about ghost hunters with night vision acting like they've been taken over by some forcefield of evil. "I'm sensing something evil, but I can't tell exactly what it is or where it's coming from." Allow me to assist...it's bullshit and you expect me to step in it lying sack of crap.
Most of what we have learned about zombies--other than Jesus H.--can be directly attributed to George Romero and "The Night of the Living Dead." That being said, it's important to remember that Romero's visions were simply fictional accounts made into a movie. A good movie indeed, but certainly not a documentary as many have been led to believe. This is where the original concept of brain eating appears. More importantly, it is also the basis for the long accepted explanation that once a zombie bites you, you become a zombie. Does anyone wish to explain that one to me using nothing but logic? Dead tissue is incapable of carrying a virus. It's full of bacteria and all kinds of disease-based goo centered entirely upon the decomposition of one's body, but it's not like you can catch herpes from banging a dead chick. Or so I was assured. And how does blowing off the head of a zombie make any difference? They're already dead. Wouldn't they just continue to stumble around like a zombie with his head cut off? And once the head is removed, do they then become ghosts? I have a lot of questions, but I think it's obvious where I'm going with this line of reasoning.
So let's clear the air once and for all...when you're dead, you're dead. I'm sorry, but that's it. There is no avenging your death with those who may have caused it, no making pottery with your chick while listening to Bill Medley (because she's probably already done the UPS man before they even had you stuffed), no return of your security deposit on life. In fact, you really can't take it with you...so feel free to max out your credit cards, gamble away the kids' college fund, live it up and die with zero so that the rest of us can benefit from your time on earth. And if you absolutely feel the need to come back and haunt someone or roam the land in search of brains, let me know how that works out for you. I'll be waiting for as long as I can hold out.
©Curt Boster 2009, all rights reserved
Thursday, April 23. 2009
THE WILD KINGDOM Now that the Bluejackets have finally reached the NHL Playoffs, everyone in Columbus is being bombarded with the stupid tradition of the octopus. Oddly enough, like most everything around these parts, our residents are taking it personally and, if you'll pardon the pun, are all up in arms. You know, that whole Michigan vs. Ohio confrontational nonsense. When did we go back in time to fight the Missoura/Jayhawk border wars over some gelatinous pile of eight-legged goo? So for those of you who don't know the idiotic story of throwing octopi, or octopusses, on the ice, here it comes. And don't blame me for this boring ass story because it's really stupid. Once upon a time, there were only six NHL hockey teams (Boston, Detroit, Montreal, Chicago, New York, and Toronto), and even then, all but two made the Playoffs. So that meant that in order to win the Stanley Cup, a team needed to win eight games total. Do you see the symbolic yet elementary path we're headed down here? So in 1952, Detroit won eight straight games to hoist The Cup, and some braniac fish peddler in Detroit picked up on the obscure significance of eight tentacles, blah, blah, holy hell. So he tossed the eight-legged bag of snot on the ice at the conclusion of the game, and there you have it. You know what, if it takes 57 years of constant explanation, it's really not worth the effort to get your point across. Perhaps the Bluejackets will start an equally stupid tradition...in the event that they ever actually win a Playoff game. Right now, we can only throw eels.
Did you know that hicks are still impressed by ordering calimari as if this were some kind of luxury menu item? It's true. And yet, they probably don't even know what it is. For those of you from Grove City, calimari is a fancy word for squid. And despite what you may think, the company you keep is no longer wowed by the fact that you're stepping out on a ledge to order a deep fried sea creature. Especially when you insist on dipping them in some of "that there marinara sauce." As with most other bar foods in Central Ohio, calimari comes in a big frozen bag consisting of mostly batter and fried crapola. So any resemblance to actual squid is masked by breading and three day old grease. You're probably better off ordering up a bucket of hot buttered assholes as they would have more flavor...and probably more squid based products. Or, when in doubt, just order something edible like onion rings. Those amongst you will still think you're cool so long as they are Vidalia onions. And what's all this fuss about "sea salt?" Anyone impressed by this concept has never attempted to maintain a saltwater fish tank. For those who don't know, as water evaporates, salt does not. And it's deposited as a very fine crust atop the lid of your aquarium. If you want to pick that shite off and sprinkle it upon your fish and chips, be my guest. But while you're at it, why not just make a sandwich from the insect collection deposited on the front of your car's grill after an all-night drive to Myrtle Beach. Better still, the next time a good ole Northeaster whips up off the Cape, just stand in the surf and face the storm with a slab of ribs firmly in hand, and soak up all that sea salt spray. Ummm...that's good eating. Sea salt? WTF man!
Is your neighborhood being overrun by wacked out cardinals? I don't mean the human kind who like to stick their fingers into a young boy's pudding, but their equally horny avian counterpart. How fitting that the State Bird of Ohio is a psychotic, angry horndog who wants to fight all the time. Apparently, these stupid bastards are threatened by their own reflection (kind of like a Buckeye fan) and challenge themselves to a duel of one. And when they get all worked up into an angry birdbrain lather, they generally just shit themselves (again, like a Buckeye fan). This is why your side mirrors are constantly covered in white shite and angry bird breath every morning. My neighbor across the street even lost the glass in his side mirror to a horny and possessive cardinal. Nothing left but shit and broken glass...which will be the name of my next album. Apparently, it's just a temporary thing with the males of the species, and once they discover the real deal through the joys of sexual dimorphism, they stop picking fights with themselves and start arguing instead with females. But if you get the chance to observe this crazy behavior, it's worth a YouTube video. Who knew that such a beautiful creature could actually foam at the beak and use such foul and hateful bird calls?
The San Jose Sharks play in Anaheim tonight. With any luck, they'll boil the stink out of OctoMom and toss her on the ice.
© 2009 Curt Boster, All rights reserved
Wednesday, April 15. 2009
AAARRGH! KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING? (editors note: This entry was written prior to the release of Captain Phillips)
Did I wake up in the 18th Century this week or are we really giving the time of day to any story relating to "pirates?" Allow me to sum up how one goes about dealing with modern day Little John Silver featuring Lil Blackbeard. We have a multi-gazillion dollar warship with really big guns. They are in a 22-foot Tracker fishing boat sporting a few homemade shivs and a flare gun. You do the math. Thus would end the threat of piracy on the high seas matey. Go ahead and pay their ransom demands. But just like we do on dry land, load them up with a dye pack, get your hostages back on board, then send them to Quincy Jones' Locker. Boyyyy!
What really concerns me is how easily influenced our American youth is by stupid felonious trends. On a good note, at least they will no longer live the dream of becoming a gangsta or convict with the baggy-ass pants and those ridiculous hand gestures. Which, by the way, WTF? Any time you see anyone under the age of 25 at MTV Spring Break or at some sporting event or in a neighborhood bar, they're always flashing some stupid signals with their fingers. Are they simply retarded or trying to communicate with sign language as taught to them by Jane Goodall? Why not just shove a bamboo stick down a hole in an attempt to gather ants for your personal consumption? If you don't know what to do with your hands, well, that's why God invented pockets. I usually opt for putting my hands down my pants so as to avoid such awkwardness. So far as I know, we have an established one finger sign and a two finger symbol (which is horribly gay), and that's it. Jerking your hands around like your making balloon animals or shadow puppets isn't necessarily trendy if no one knows what the crap you're trying to say. And I find it odd that few people even know what the baggy pants thing is all about. When a convict checks in to prison, he is presented with a pair of prison-issue duds with the corresponding fashion color relating directly to his offense. Since these individuals are society's refuse, this prison garb is one size fits all...which also allows for easier access when butt slamming your cellmate bitch. And since prison screws don't want you to hang yourself with your belt, you don't get one. So your pants are always hanging down to your knees. It's that simple, yet that ridiculous that most of the youth of today aspires to be a convict. Most of us from the 1960s wanted to be astronauts or baseball players or firemen. I'm guessing the latest form of Somali pirates are wearing really baggy swim trunks, and they're swimming away because "theys scared."
If there is anything good to arise from the upcoming pirate trend, it's that the eye patch will be coming back into vogue. Since the first demise of high seas piracy, the eye patch has been reserved for latch-key kids with a lazy eye. How do we know that most scurvy buccaneers didn't just lose their ojo when sliding the rubber band off a rolled up newspaper or one of those big-ass lost treasure maps? Of course the down side is that cable movie channels will now show "Pirates of the Caribbean" on the hour instead of the current five times daily. I'm assuming that's for the benefit of all the butt pirates who think Johnny Depp is dreamy as Captain Jackoff Sparrow.
Once these modern day pirates seize a cargo ship, do they have some kind of big-ass tanker chop shop somewhere? Seems to me it would be relatively easy to locate a secret pirate hideout with a giant tanker the size of 11 football fields parked up on blocks out back. Do they just repaint it and take it back out to sea with a different name? I'm thinking if one desires a new and better pirate vessel, you might want one that doesn't have a maximum speed of 1 knot. Can we expect pirates on U.S. high seas? Maybe on lakes and streams robbing our pontoons before heading off to their secret hideout at Captain Woody's? Personally, I'd like to see some inland piracy if for no other reason than to rid us all of 50-something men sporting captain's hats and earrings, and listening to that God-awful Jimmy Buffett crapola as if it were some right of passage. You're sailing the high seas of Buckeye Lake you hippie asshole. You can wade across to the other shore without getting your shirt tail wet. It's not like you have a need to batton down the hatches, lower the boom, and hoist the misen mast. Just pull the rope dealy, start the outboard, and off you go to discover new lands and high seas adventures. Only in Ohio would someone be stupid enough to attempt piracy on a land-locked cranberry bog.
And I guarantee you the moment Somali pirates kill dozens on a cruise ship, someone will demand that we change the name of professional sports teams like the Raiders, Vikings, Pirates, Buccaneers and...Browns. Of course, when you get right down to it, naming your sports franchise after murderous thugs is a bit odd. Why not the Milwaukee Dahmers or the Colorado Shooters or the Binghampton Nobody Likes Me Angry VC Spree Killa featuring Lil Wayne Gacy? Know what I'm Saying?
© Curt Boster 2009 All Rights Reserved 
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