Thursday, February 08, 2007

The Men Commandments

There has been an obsession lately with "man laws" and the like. It all started with those beer commercials. You know, "you poke it, you own it." And I'm not saying that these things carry no value. But they're too narrow--too focused. There are some general, guiding principles of life that most of us guys seem to have forgotten. Well, let me spell them out for you. I call them The Men Commandments.

I. THOU SHALT NOT CROSS THY LEGS IN A GIRLIE FASHION. How many guys have you seen go on talk shows, or just sit on a couch at your house, and cross their legs by putting one leg right on top of the other, much like a chick wearing a skirt. HOW ARE YOU NOT CRUSHING YOUR BALLS? I know how. You don't have any. Because any testicle-having person crosses his legs with one perpendicular to the other, parallel to the ground, ankle on knee. It's way more comfortable, way less painful, and WAAAAY less gay.

II. THOU SHALT NOT BE A FIGURE SKATER. You shouldn't even own a pair of figure skates. I'm not saying you can't go ice skating. I'm down with hockey. Just no figure skating. Son, what do you want to do when you grow up? I want to dance around on the ice like a snow pixie! The fact that you occasionally might get to hold a chick up in the air by her vagina is not a good enough reason. Also, for the same reasons, thou shalt not be a cheerleader or a gymnast.

III. THOU SHALT NOT DRINK ANY BEVERAGES WITH TWO HANDS. Only chicks can get away with that. I don't care if you're cold, sick, paralyzed, or have prosthetic hook hands. I don't care if the mug you're drinking out of weighs 200 pounds. Drinking is a one-handed endeavor. Keep it that way. The only time when this could POSSIBLY be acceptable is if you were stranded in the wilderness somewhere and you had to stay alive by drinking river water and you had no container with which to fetch it, and you had to ladle it up to your mouth using both hands. But even that is a stretch. I'd rather just have you stick your whole head in the water and gulp.

IV. THOU SHALT NOT WRITE LOWER CASE L'S WHEN WRITING WITH ALL UPPER CASE LETTERS. Come on. It looks exactly like an I. THE ClEVElAND CAVAlIERS. Now that just looks ridiculous. COME ON EVERYBODY, lET'S All GO SHOPPING AT AlDI! Really, this should apply to everybody, not just men.

V. THOU SHALT NOT CRY AT THE MOVIES. Not even to score some booty. It's not real. It's a movie. Right behind the camera are about a hundred directors, producers, lighting and sound people, cameramen, grips, prop guys, costume designers and dirty, drunken bums, none of whom are crying. Oh, but somehow since you're watching it on video, sitting in a dark room, you can forget the fact that it's all just pretend and let the tears flow. I mean, even if it was real, have some balls. Also, no screaming during horror movies, you girl.

VI. THOU SHALT NOT EAT ICE CREAM STRAIGHT OUT OF THE CONTAINER. Unless you really need to spill your guts about how fat you're getting, or how Kevin dumped you, or how you think you might be pregnant. Did you hear about that new Ben and Jerry's flavor? It's called Yard Work. I believe it contains castration with some pruning shears. Mighty tasty.

VII. THOU SHALT NOT WEAR PURPLE. I don't even like how this blogger page I'm writing this on has a slight lavender tint to it. Imagine this situation: You're a big time high school football player, but the only schools that have offered you scholarships are Northwestern, TCU, Clemson, East Carolina, Kansas State, and LSU. What do you do? Kill yourself. I mean, what would your friends say? Hey, Chuck, you look great in that ROYAL PURPLE. Yeah, it makes you look like a real QUEEN.

VIII. THOU SHALT NOT WEAR A TOUPEE. What are you telling the world? I'm so insecure in the fact that I'm a man and I'm bald that I cover it up with a hat made of other people's hair. Oh, but it looks so natural. NO IT DOESN'T. It looks ridiculous. I am going bald, and I'm telling you right now that if any of you reading this ever catches me wearing a toupee, you have my permission to torture and kill me at your leisure, even if I object at the time.

If you have ever entered a tanning booth than for any reason other than to sabotage it, or to attempt to travel through time, then there is probably no hope for you, your children, or your children's children. Wait--until guys figure out how to get pregnant, you won't be having any children, so at least we don't have to worry about that.

By using a loofah you are basically saying "stick it up my pooper." One would think that this wouldn't even need to be said, but it does. I know. I've had roommates before who used them, which means I actually had to be in the same shower as a man-loofah. It was horrifying. Guys, there are so many other options - cloths, sponges, or even your own damn hands. I say sponges, but I only mean fake sponges. None of those actual sea sponges. Those are just as bad, if not worse, than loofahs. But, oh no. This fluffy nylon shower cloud feels so good against my balls, I just can't stop using it. And I just can't stop using this weedwhacker to remove your penis.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

The Big Game in February

So apparently nobody is allowed to say "Super Bowl" anymore--at least not in radio or television commercials. I guess the phrase "Super Bowl" is some kind of registered trademark and can't be said by anybody for fear of disembowelment. So companies have begun to call in the "Big Game in February" instead. Even corporations having sweepstakes and contests to win trips to the game can't say "Super Bowl." Pizza joints who want you to order their food for the game can't say it either. I'd say that's going a little too far. I mean, what's gonna happen? Does the NFL really think they'll be losing revenue if everyone can all of a sudden say "Super Bowl"? What if it happens? Does a team of NFL lawyers swoop down out of the sky and file a billion-dollar lawsuit against Papa John's? One would think that the NFL would want their game to be promoted any way they can. Well, whatever works. Maybe I will trademark the phrase "Big Game in February". Then what? The Colossal Contest in Mid-Winter? I say that companies should just start saying "Super Bowl" anyway, and then when they get their asses sued, they can say they were saying "Superb Bowl" and that the B's just blended together.

I remember when the Super Bowl used to be held in late January every year, instead of this February bullshit--you know, back when there weren't 8,000,000 teams in the league and the game didn't require a buildup of more than a week to get people excited about it. Well, it so happens that my birthday also falls in late January. Well, back when I was younger I didn't understand what a phenomenon the Super Bowl was (nor did I realize that I might someday have to work on Super Bowl Sunday and miss the game). So when all my dad's friends would come over to the house, I thought they were coming to celebrate my birthday. Hell, why wouldn't they? I was a good kid! What kind of father doesn't invite all of his friends to come to his 7 year-old son's birthday party? And the NFL even held a football game in my honor. What a great group of guys.

So. This year's Super Bowl. The Indianapolis Colts versus the Chicago Bears. Hey, all you little kids and dumb adults out there. See how I wrote "versus" instead of "vs."? Yeah? That's because that's what "vs." means. Versus. Not "verse." That may be the biggest pet peeve I have. "Alright Jim, let's play one-on-one. Me verse you." Ok, but only if we're competing in a grammar contest. Goddamn you people are dumb. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Who is going to win? I don't know. The question is, who should I root for? How about the team with the black head coach? What? They BOTH have a black head coach? Damn it! Well, Lovie Smith is a little bit blacker, plus Tony Dungy does have the word "dung" in his last name, so negative points for the Colts. Which team helped me to a greater degree to win my fantasy football league title this year? Well, I did have the Bears' defense and special teams, which were ranked number one in the league, but I also had Peyton Manning, the number one quarterback who provided me more points than any other player on my team. So the Colts take that battle.

This is always so hard. I always have to pick a team to root for since the damn Browns have never been to the Super Bowl. Let's see, how did I pick who to root for in the last few Super Bowls? Well the last three years it's been really easy since I hate the Steelers and the Patriots, I just rooted against them. Of course they won anyway. Hey, maybe I just need to start rooting AGAINST the Browns every game and they'll start dominating. It's BULLETPROOF. The Browns. That's it. I'm rooting for the Bears. Why? In 1984 the Colts moved from Baltimore to Indianapolis. For 12 years the city of Baltimore tried to get a new NFL team, until the Browns moved there after the 1995 season. So, in reality, the Indianapolis Colts are responsible for the three worst years of my life. GO BEARS! DIE COLTS DIE!

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Good riddance to bad rubbish

We're gathered here today to celebrate the death of Jim. Jim was a real piece of shit. I only wish that I had told him that before he died. One time he actually hit me in the knees with a baseball bat, just for kicks. JIM! YOU BASTARD! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE BEFORE I GOT A CHANCE TO KNOCK YOUR TEETH IN??? WHYYYY??? He always said "you know what I'm sayin?" at the end of every sentence. And sometimes in the middle. And sometimes two or three times in the same sentence. And that fat ass would walk around with his hairy ass crack hanging out all the time. And he always said "we" instead of "you." Like, "How are we doing?" And, "What are we up to tonight?" And he always smelled soooooo bad. But I never told him. I never told him how any of that shit annoyed me. Now that jerk is actually resting in peace because I didn't have the balls to tell him what I really thought about him. GODDAMNIT!

Think you'll ever hear that at a funeral? Probably not, but you should. I've about reached my limit with people lately. Why is it, that when people die, we act like they were waaaaay better than they actually were? Like when somebody dies, you're not allowed to say anything bad about them ever again. Every small accomplishment they ever had has to be completely overblown so it sounds like they were the greatest, most respected person who ever lived. Every little story anybody can think of about that person somehow gets twisted and edited until it tells a great tale, about a man with great courage and bravery, and honesty and integrity, and humility and kindness. Why? Why does it have to be like that? Every time a public figure dies, you get two thousand people doing tributes to him, recalling every nugget of positive information about the guy, and even a few negative things that somehow magically become positives now that he's dead. It happens with everybody. I bet they didn't even say a bad thing about Adolf Hitler after he died. He was a man with great conviction. He really fought for what he believed. Nobody can fault him for that. And he was true to his friends and his people to the end. He was a leader of many and a follower of none. Yikes. We act like the dead guy is sitting in the coffin, listening and he's gonna jump out shooting if he doesn't like what he hears. When someone dies, it should a time to say anything we ever wanted about him. He can't respond or retaliate. They say that funerals are for the living, not for the dead, right? Well, as a living person, it would make me feel a whole hell of a lot better if I didn't have to pretend that I liked somebody just because he's dead.

Yes, I realize that this is a two-way street, and that it would mean that everything bad people had to say about me would come out after I die. But what do I care? I'm dead! I've been saying for years that I want my grave stone to read "Here lies Brad Boehm . . . Eh, he was a dick." I think that would sum up my life nicely. I can only imagine how my eulogy would sound . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hooray! He's finally dead. I've been waiting for this day for so long, and it's finally here. What a dick he was, huh? I mean, come on! Is making fun of people all he did? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Let's see, where can I start? He was waaaay stupider, uglier and fatter than he thought he was. He was like Curly from the Three Stooges, but a lot less entertaining. He NEVER kept his blog up to date as often as he claimed he would, but then again maybe that's a good thing. Talk about boring! I've never read such drivel. Like if a couple of trainables had a kid, then beat him with a shovel and cut off his arms, he still would have been a better writer than Brad. Plus what was that stupid Amish-looking beard about? And, man, was his face red when Jesus showed up again in 2019. Atheist bastard, I hope you're rotting in Hell right now.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

I'm not a pepper

I love this new Dr. Pepper ad campaign. 23 flavors! What is that supposed to mean, exactly? Why is 23 a good number of flavors to have? Doesn't that seem like a little much? I mean, when you're mixing paint colors together, once you have more than a couple it really just comes out brown, and the more colors you put in, the browner it gets. I would apply that same philosophy to pop. After a few flavors, it would really be just a big amalgamation of blandness. How about Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper? How many flavors does that have? 25? 26? Some significantly higher figure? I also love that at no point in any of their ads do they explain what any of the flavors are. The only clue they give is pepper, and I highly doubt that pepper of any sort, be it black, bell, chile, jalapeno, etc. have actually ever made it into the recipe. So, apparently all you need to have a successful ad campaign for your product is to come up with some arbitrary number of flavors that is set forth as an ideal. Why stop at 23? 23 must be better than 22, right? Then, by that logic, 24 would be better than 23, and so on. Why not 99 flavors? Why not 1000 flavors? And what exactly constitutes a "flavor"? Is carbonated water a flavor? Is high-fructose corn syrup a flavor? Is caramel color a flavor? How about caffeine? What I'm saying is that Dr. Pepper could consider any, all or none of those things--not to mention countless others--flavors and could have essentially said that they had any number of flavors that they wanted. But they chose to stop on 23. Why? Here's my theory: Michael Jordan. Basically any product that His Airness endorses will sell very well. He has probably shilled more products than every other person on the face of the earth put together. Ever. Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but it's close. So, naturally, he commands an extremely high fee for his services as a compensated endorser. And Cadbury Schweppes, being the fiscally savvy company that they are, decided to get the next best thing: his number. Nearly all the MJ at a fraction of the price. Jordan has never been known as a great actor anyway, right? I mean, did you see Space Jam? Not exactly an Oscar-worthy performance. But 23 is transcendental. It could never ruin a commercial with its acting. It doesn't wreck every summer by appearing in the same Ball Park Franks commercial year after year. It doesn't fraternize with Kevin Bacon in a Hanes-wearing contest. And it certainly would never can a mid-range jumper over Craig Ehlo.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Oh to be old again

At what point in the near future are we going to realize as a society that old people just can't cut it? I say that once a person turns 75, they should be given yearly mental tests to make sure they are still fit to live and function in society. After age 80, start testing every six months, after 85 every three, and after 90 every single month. If they fail any single test, they are to be taken outside behind the wood pile and disposed of in the most efficient possible way - tossing them down a well. Don't worry. They won't know what's going on anyway. Why do this? Because old people are dangerous, and in more ways than one. By now, I'm sure we're all aware of the carnage that can happen with the elderly behind the wheel of a car. Every single one of them thinks they're stepping on the brake when they're stepping on the gas. Is it like, once you hit 80 you expect the brake and gas pedals to magically switch places? Or is it that the pedals should go where your feet are because you're old and you deserve respect? And the old people always walk away from those accidents unscratched! They kill a bunch of pedestrians but make it to bingo on time. And they all drive cars the size of aircraft carriers - what's with that? I say that once you turn 70 you should be able to drive a car no larger than a Neon, and by age 80 driving should become illegal - other than your rascal you motor around town in. These people can't stop from bumping into shelves with their scooters at the grocery store, yet we let them drive El Dorados and Crown Victorias and USS Carl Vinsons.

Another less direct but perhaps even more deadly threat that the elderly pose is that they vote in droves, yet have no idea what they're doing or for whom they are actually voting once they get to the booth. These new electronic voting machines were supposed to be easier for them to understand than the old punch ballots, what with all those arrows and hanging chads and all. I mean, who could follow those ballots? Anyway, trust me when I say that old people are even more confused with the new electronic voting machines. I voted next to one on Tuesday, and I wanted to punch her 88 year old face in. She had no idea what she was doing. The poll worker (who was probably 70, by the way, so that didn't help much - in fact most poll workers are old ladies, which is another problem altogether) explained to her exactly what to do, as she did to me, before she went to the voting machine. When the old bat arrived at the machine with a dumbfounded look on her face and did not even insert her card to get started, the poll worker came over and explained the whole process to her one more time in great detail. When the poll worker started to leave and saw that the old lady still had not started, she said sternly "vote!" I could hear the old lady muttering "I don't know what . . . " At this point, I finished voting and left, but I'm sure that fiasco went on for at least another two hours. So not only are old people causing delays at polling places, they have no clue how to vote and therefore could end up voting for anyone. That old lady could have written-in Adolf Hitler's corpse for governor and not even known it. I just can't trust a country when old people have any kind of say in the government. They've had their time. Their time is over. This is why my old person testing system should be put into place - to save the country from the gray panthers.

And who is going to fund this testing program, you ask? Certainly not us taxpayers, you say. Well, not most of you taxpayers. The money will be made, with plenty to spare, with my proposed cigarette tax. That's right - all packs of cigarettes should cost $25 - at least, if not more. Why? Because no matter how expensive they are, smokers will still smoke. They will smoke themselves onto the streets before they will give up their precious cigarettes. Smokers would rather live in a cardboard box with a fresh pack of Pall Malls than live in luxury if it means they have to quit smoking. I don't know why this idea hasn't been brought up sooner. If smokers are still affording their rent payments, then cigarettes are too cheap. 40,000,000 smokers in the United States, at an average of half a pack a day, which I'm sure is an underestimate, at an average of $22 of tax per pack, would bring in over $150 billion a year. We would have money to fund my old person testing program, plus money to drill the wells down which to throw those old people who fail the tests, money to help fund cigarette advertising (they say you get it back 10 fold), and enough left over to fund a manned mission to Europa. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

Friday, November 10, 2006

To blog anew . . .

Here I am, back again, this time with a new blog. The Horrible Gelatinous Blog, that is. I'll try to attempt to see about possibly keeping it updated at least twice a week perhaps. Also, for this go-around, I have a new goal - TO MAKE THIS THE MOST READ BLOG ON THE INTERNET. Also, a secondary goal is to get more hits than any Luke Jernigan-maintained website. However the only place I will be advertising for this blog is on the blog itself and in my IM profile. I will not be conducting news conferences, sending out mass emails, or bothering you in person. So it is up to you, my readers, to spread the word about this fresh, exciting, new blog. If you tell two people, then they tell two people, and then they tell two people, then hell, that's like everyone. Also, I can't promise that there will be zero serious posts if I get really, really pissed off about something, but feel free to just skip those. Ok, enough of this introduction bullshit. On to the content.

For those of you who don't know, I work in the finishing department of a printing plant. It is a painfully boring job with extremely long hours with incredibly stupid people as my fellow employees. I would call them co-workers but not all of them fit that title. There is nary a college graduate among them, excepting for myself, of course. (On a side note, which is better - a stupid person who happens to find a decent, fairly well-paying job while still maintaining his stupidity and drug habit, or a smart, educated person who is so lazy and indifferent that he works as a drone in a job that requires no education at all with a bunch of trailer-dwellers?) Anyway, one perk of my job is that I get to see hundreds of advertisements, and of course laugh about how stupid they are. There are advertisements for grocery stores, cellular phones, hardware stores, and of course, chiropractors. Why is it that every week there are five chiropractor advertisements going out in people's junk mail? Pure quackery, I say. Have you ever actually seen an ad from a REAL doctor? Come do Dr. Smith's Cardiovascular Surgery Emporium! We're giving discounts on quadruple heart bypass procedures! That's right folks, buy a triple bypass, and get the fourth one free! If you find another doctor advertising a lower price, we'll match it plus knock $100 off your price! But wait, there's more! Act now and receive a free skin graft! Chiropractors crack me up. They all have advertisements claiming that they're the inventor and developer of some new back manipulation procedure that will cure lumbar pain, arthritis, obesity, athlete's foot, impotence and Alzheimer's. Let's get this straight. Chiroquacktors are not doctors. Sure, they're titled Doctor, but it's not an actual medical doctor degree, it's a Doctor of Chiropractic (D.C.) which means nothing. They can't perform surgery or write prescriptions, and take about 30 seconds to diagnose and treat a patient. You'd be far better off asking for medical advice from your dental hygienist, or making your way to a holistic healer.

But, even worse than chiropractors are these ads for expensive products which promise you a free gift if you purchase it. Right. Free. Except for that $499.98 I'm paying for the ladder. If you don't count that, then, yeah, I guess it is free. And the free gift is always just some crappy device that will be used once and tossed in a drawer, never to be heard from ever again. My favorite one I've seen recently was on a automobile advertisement. This dealership took advantage of the fact that Thanksgiving is nearing, and decided it would be a great idea to give away a free frozen turkey with the purchase of a new vehicle. That's right. Oh man, I didn't really want to get a Kia Sedona, but damn, Thanksgiving is coming and I haven't gotten a turkey yet. Shit, I guess I better get that car. Do the American people really fall for crap like that? Are we really that dumb? Yes, we are, because if we weren't, crap like that would never happen. Oh man, Jim, this is some great turkey. It better be! It cost me fifteen thousand dollars! What's next? Are the free gifts going to start getting shittier and shittier as the products become more and more expensive? Buy a boat and get a free bottle opener as our gift to you! Realty One is proud to offer, as a reward for purchasing your home with us, this free rubber keychain! Step right up folks! All it takes for you to get your hands on this free, one of a kind dust bunny is to purchase one of these gently used space shuttles! That's only 200,000,000 easy payments of $99.99! Where do I sign up?