There’s no reason I should be laying in bed at 9:30pm blogging with my Blackberry on the penultimate night of my birthnakah weekend, yet here I am.

The writer’s block I am currently feeling seems similar in size to a major office building.

Hooray.

I am prepping nine slabs of babyback ribs to go with all of the side dishes and appetizers everyone’s
bringing. I predict that the ribs will be good and well received.

I also predict that I will not find myself photographed in an adult diaper this year.

Please hang on the edgge of your seats for moderately amusing details to come later…

I will have something tomorrow.

Eff you Cashion.

FRT

I didn’t get my balls wet whilst taking a dump.

No kids brained me with the popcorn roller thingy.

I didn’t shart in the car on the way to work.

No one cut me off at a drive thru.

Charter didn’t fuck up and kill my internet for the day.

I didn’t fall off the sidewalk and into traffic.

No governor (that I’m aware of) left for four days to bang someone on another continent.

No dead pedophiles came back from the dead.

And I did not die while playing volleyball or drown while swimming after said activity.

All in all, a decent day.

Tomorrow will be filled with exciting things like laundry folding, kid room cleaning, yard work, etc.

Stand back everybody.  I think I’m getting a boner.

Sincerely,

FRT

p.s. My birthday is Friday.  Would it fucking kill you to get me a present?  Hoss, you just need to come over and hang out.  Everybody else, gift me.

A US governor disappears, WITH NO TRANSFER OF POWER IN PLACE, to go to South America to screw the girlfriend that isn’t his wife, and I have to hear about it being a "love story," and yet he’s "working on falling back in love with his wife," and all the while his wife’s spouting bible verses like a retarded Christian fortune cookie machine.

And now, just a few scant days later, it’s come to light that he "crossed lines" with other women, but "never had sex with them."

Congratulations you fucking narcissistic ass.  You’re just another in a long line of shit bags who think that their access to money and power affords them the luxury of judging from their ivory tower while not living by the rules by which the rest of us are forced to live.

I’m sure your constituents are thrilled that your trip to see your girlfriend in New York was paid for in cash so no state funds were used.

Whew.  What a relief.

It’s so great to be able to say that you "never crossed the ultimate line" with anyone but the main woman that wasn’t your wife.

Awesome.  So I guess if you’re a governor on a trip to where the fuck ever, getting two girls to simultaneously blow you isn’t crossing "the ultimate line?" or is it simply a hand shandy.  Is that okay?

Not only should South Cackalackeans remove this cock from office, but they should run him out of the state on a rail.

At some point, someone has to tell these guys enough is enough.

Will.  Not.  Do.  It.

I have trained myself to be able to do that sort of thing at the office if absolutely necessary, although I prefer to do it at home.

That training was difficult and took a great deal of bravery on my part, but I finally pushed past my fears enough to go number two at my office.

But that may have ended today.

I decided that it couldn’t wait until I got home, so I did the walk of shame and took up my usual seat in the handi-capable stall.  And I commenced.

Then I did what any human being with an ounce of compassion would do after the initial effort:

The courtesy flush.

So I’m sitting there, having courteously flushed and I’m trying to figure out how to re-add brickbreaker to my temporary replacement  Blackberry.

Then, way back in the storage department of my brain, a little message fires across the synapses.  It says "Hmmm…that’s funny.  My balls are cold."

Then it says more assertively, "Hey…why are my balls cold?"

And so, having worked thru the first two stages of the command system, the message was brought to the front of the brain where I said "Thanks guys.  I’ll look into it."

Which I did.

I looked down between my thighs into the bowl, and see that the water level is high.

Very high.

So high that my balls are floating / hanging in it.

And then my lizard brain screams "STAND UP!!!  THERE’S POO IN THAT THERE WATER!!!  YOUR BALLS ARE FLOATING IN POO WATER!!"

So there I am, hovering as you girls talk about, and realizing this is a pretty serious issue considering I’m not done yet.  I also realize that I can’t hover like this forever as my delicate thighs haven’t been trained for this.

There were several options to consider:

1) Shuffle out of my stall and into the other one, half crouching, and finishing there.
Pros:  I’d be done shortly
Cons:  I’d have to strip down from the waist down to avoid making a bombing run halfway there in my own pants or on my own shoes.

2) Try flushing again.
Pros:  Possibly it’s a little clog and that little jump start will make everything work again.
Cons:  If the water didn’t go away and further, rose again, I’d be standing in and covered in my own filth-riddled toilet water.

And just then, as my thighs were about to give out and before I could come up with another option, a small noise happened and the water all drained away.

I exhaled, finished, tidied up, got all my clothes back in the proper places, hit flush, and bolted out of the stall, hoping against hope to wash my hands and flee before the toilet decided to overflow again.

And I nearly ran smack into another dood from over in Global Marketing.

That made for an awkward non-explanation, I assure you.

If any of you have any other suggestions for add-ons or plugins, I’m all ears.

Oh, and if you have any theme suggestions for me, send those too.  I’m tired of this one now too and I’m ready for something a little cooler that doesn’t involve me doing a whole lot of learnin’.

I was sad to hear of the passing of annoying pitchman Billy Mays this morning.  At least way sadder than I was to hear of the death of Michael Jackson.

Mays was found in his home.  He was 50 years old.

I’ll be less than shocked to find out that he died as a result of toxic shock poisoning that he got from all that black hair and beard dye.

Oh, and about Governor do and I say not do as I do from South Cackalackee, let me say this.

You fucked up.  Granted, it was a series of hookers in Vegas or a fat intern in your office, but whether you love this woman or not, you’re married.

That said, Mrs. Governor Sandford, shut the fuck up.  Just because they put a microphone in front of your pie hole doesn’t mean you have to spit out crafted responses.  Sometimes, a no-comment would be better than your holier than thou, scripture laden bullet pointed speeches.  This will slowly fall on you too.  If you knew five months ago that it’d gone on for over a year and he’d known her for eight, then what the hell are you doing still with him?  You’re not some bon bon eating Oprah watching house frau.  You were a big Wall Street VP and you are the money in the family and clearly the brains.

Move along, take the boys with you and run for Governor yourself.  You could win and possibly compete for your husband’s ultimate prize, the presidency.  But not if you keep talking down to us like you are now, as though you’re a Sunday School teacher for six year olds.

A) I hadn’t blogged today, and

2) This would make for a pretty easy entry.  (That’s what she said).

Here are the ones I remember well.

• Make a wish whenever you saw that it was 11:11 on a digital clock.  This was mostly a chick one, but if I remembered, I would wish that a girl would deign to touch my netherness.
• Punch Buggy - I can’t remember all the rules, but if you saw a VW bug, you got to punch who you were in the car with, if it was a certain color you got to punch more, and if it had a headlight out, I think you got to kill them.
• Reaching forward toward the very front of the dashboard in the car when you crossed a state line.  Don’t know why anyone did this, but the wife and I still do to this day.  I’ve even convinced her that my feet while driving reach further forward than what she can reach with her hand, so now we’ve started opening the windows and reaching out that way.  Very safe.
• There was some dumb thing about when you got thru a yellow light, kissing your palm and touching the ceiling in the car.  That was a chick thing, but seriously, you’re a teenage girl driver.  Shouldn’t you be paying more attention?
• If you passed a cemetery, you’d have to lift the index finger of whichever hand was on the side of the cemetery.

I’m not sure what the point of this was, beyond getting a post in for the day.  I didn’t want to rail over the media’s fawning over the king of pop/pedophilia, so this will have to do.

It’s my birthday week this week peeps.  In honor of that, I’ve given most of you the day off Friday.  In exchange, if you’d like to buy me an iTouch or an iPhone, that’d just be great.

Shalom bitches.

FRT

One was hot and responsible for the greatest poster a teenage boy could ever have.  And she never did anything hideous.

The other was a pedophile that changed pop music and wanted to be in every teenage boy’s room.

Guess who the retarded networks are focusing 59 minutes of every hour on?

Michael Jackson is dead. And do you know what I say to that?

Good.

Was he talented? Of couse.

Did he change pop music forever? Absolutely.

Did he change how music videos were made / aired / viewed? Without question.

Was he tormented by the weight of being that famous at such a young age? I’m sure.

Did having abusive parents affect him? No doubt about it.

But at the end of the day, humans are responsible for their own actions. And I don’t think there’s any question that Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, was a child molester and a pedophile.

We can quibble back and forth about it having never been proven, about inuendo and false accusations. But here’s what I know.

A person accused of anything that isn’t true and is potentially slanderous or libelous can sue his or her accuser. That’s what innocent people do.

I don’t want to hear shit about "He was never convicted." Roger Clemens swore up and down he’d never done steroids. Hell, he perjured himself in front of congress about it. But did he sue his accuser?

No.

Because he knows that he’s guilty.

That’s how our system works. I don’t want to hear any shit about Michael being a target because he was wealthy and popular, blah blah blah.

He was a target because he did it. And we as a society let him.

How?

By airing special after special about him hanging out with all children, sleeping or "spending the night" with children, etc. It went on for 20 years and we all said "Awwww…Michael’s so sweet and he sings so nice and he loves kids. I’m sure that’s all just a coincidence."

Except it wasn’t.

And as details came out years later, it turns out that the shitty parents of a helpless kid basically sold their son’s innocence and possibly sanity to Michael Jackson and his penis for some undisclosed sum of money.

And we all sat back and said "Disgusting.  Those people are taking advantage of Michael because he’s famous."

No. They were taking advantage of him because they let him diddle their kid.

If you are a vagrant and wander on to a playground or public park and put your dick in a kid’s mouth, you go to jail, serve time, and possibly die at the hands of your fellow inmates.

If you sell fifty bojillion records and put your dick in a kid’s mouth (or a bunch of kids’ mouths), you’re a  victim, your misunderstood, and in some people’s eyes, you’re even a martyr.

I say fuck all of that.  And fuck you Michael Jackson.  You managed to set the movement of children reporting molesters to adults back about 30 years.

I hope you rot you fucker.