ROB'S RAMBLINGS

1) What's a Low Country Boil? (if you can't answer that question, name a dish from YOUR region of the country that outsiders never heard of)
Start with a big pot of water on a propane cooker. When the water starts to boil, throw in 10 pounds of baking potatoes. Add a pound of salt and about 1/2 bottle of worchestershire sauce, an entire small bottle of Tabasco and 8 ounces of Konrico Creole Seasoning. Allow the potatoes to boil for ten minutes, then add 10 pounds of corn on the cob. When the water returns to a boil, toss in 10 pounds of sausage (Polish Kielbasa is the best) cut into 3" pieces. Add one dozen Vidalia onions, whole, but peeled. Stand back and smell that rascal for a while. UHHH-HUHHH!!! Stick a potato with a long grill-fork and as soon as it's tender enough to slide off the fork before you can haul it from the pot, turn the propane fire off. Toss in 10 pounds of headed shrimp still in the shell, cover the pot and wait five minutes. Spread newspapers all over a picnic table and dump the pot on the table, being VERY CAREFUL not to scald the shit out of your barefoot, shorts-wearing self. Provide beer, home-made shrimp sauce, squeeze-it butter containers, salt, pepper and a bale of paper towels. Build a fire and throw all the trash in there when you're done. That's a Low Country Boil.

2) Do you prefer a bath or a shower?
Shower, definitely. If you saw the water-stains and soap-scum in my tub, you wouldn't sit down in that fucker, either.

3) What do you believe is your most attractive physical feature?
I have NO most attractive feature. I'm beautiful from head to toe.

4) Have you ever told a deliberate lie to spare a friend's feelings?
Yes, I have, and anyone who answers "no" to this question is either a goddam CONSTANT liar or someone I wouldn't want for a friend. I don't lie as a rule, because my short attention span makes ficticious babblings difficult to keep track of. The truth is easier to remember. Sometimes, the truth hurts, too. You don't always need to inflict that pain on a friend, especially when a nice lie has no major repercussions. Be truthful most of the time, but be nice whenever you can. If it's a major big deal with serious repercussions, however, I would rather the friend hear it from me than be a laughing-stock later.

5) Do you ever dream about being unexplainedly nekkid at work?
Yeah, about once a month. The dreams once upset me. Now I believe that they are delightful fantasies.

6) Have you ever broken someone's heart?
I did, and I regret it to this day. I had to make a choice between the lovely Dora and the bloodless cunt I married. I chose wrong, I paid for it in spades and I still hope Dora doesn't hate me for what I did to her. I'm sorry, Dora.

7) Are you a registered organ donor?
I am, although I don't expect any of my organs to be worth a shit to anyone by the time I shed the mortal coil. I'll be more likely to NEED some sort of transplant than ever to donate an organ, but my OK for harvesting whatever medical science can salvage is right there on my driver's license.

8) Who gave you your first romantic kiss?
A girl named Patty Black. We were 12 years-old at the time. She later became pregnant in high school and committed suicide with a shotgun in her father's car on the side of Eisenhower Road in Savannah. She was a pretty girl and I'll never forget her.

9) Even if you're happily married today, do you still sometimes think about an old flame? Who was he/she?
I'll despise myself for the rest of my life because of what I did to Dora. She's happily married to a policeman in Tennessee now, but I'll always believe that she was the one that got away. Got away? Hell, I THREW HER AWAY! Damn me.

10) Do you pay attention to which way the toilet paper is put in the hanger? Should it unroll from the front or the back?
Don't know, don't care and don't pay any attention. I usually don't even put it on the damned hanger. It sets on the edge of the sink. I just don't want to run out.
[edit]

If you don't believe that some men will do ANYTHING for sex, read about THIS GUY.

Bell, who was described as a "sad sexual misfit", was charged with 24 counts of sexual assault, one of attempted sexual assault, one count of making documents without authority, one count of uttering and one of fraud.

The father of three admitted in the Brisbane District Court he sought out female doctors to examine his scrotum and penis, making up stories he had been hit in the groin.

I've never tried that approach. Of course, if I knew a nice, friendly nurse, I might give it a shot.

I told you this crap was coming. Now, HERE IT IS.

A 5-foot-10-inch, 272-pound man has sued four major fast food chains, claiming their fare contributed to his obesity, heart disease and diabetes, his attorney said on Friday.

Yep, the poor, unsuspecting bastard would weigh 135 pounds today if fast food companies had not deceived him over the years. He thought Double-Beef Whoppers with extra cheese were fat-free and the purest form of health food. He also had employees from the fast-food chains tackle him regularly on the street and shove their fare down his neck as he howled in protest.

New York attorney Samuel Hirsch, who is representing Barber, said consumers are not getting adequate warning about foods that could cause obesity, diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure and elevated cholesterol levels.

"Fast food chains failed to disclose the contents in terms of calories, fat grams and sodium. Even when posted, the information is not easily understandable to the public," said Hirsch.

I'll tell you what IS easily understandable: a disgusting fucktard who doesn't want to take responsibility for his own behavior and a slimy, bottom-feeding lawyer who has the moral compass of a crack-whore. Both of these individuals should be dragged off and shot immediately. Naw, that's too merciful for such unmitigated assholes. Sharp-toothed donkeys should BITE THEIR GENITALS OFF first; then, they should be dragged off and shot in a day or so, if they fail to bleed to death first.

Barber told MSNBC he didn't realize fried food was bad for him until three years ago, and that he had been eating fast food for decades because it was convenient.

"I didn't find out how bad it was until 1999," he said. "I ate a lot because I was by myself."

Barber was by himself because there was no room for anyone else under the rock where the dumbfuck lived with his head up his ass. He's a complete waste of the time-space continuum. This guy has the gall of Bill Clinton and the intelligence of an intestinal parasite. His lawyer IS an intestinal parasite.

Hirsch, who accompanied his client on the MSNBC show, said they particularly wanted better labeling for the "real offenders--the Big Macs and Big Whoppers." Now, he said "you have to be a rocket scientist" to be able to read labels that he said were deliberately designed to be confusing.

Put warning labels on the food and a dorkle such as Barber will EAT THE LABEL, too, because he likes the tasty glue on the back. Then, we'll require warning labels on the fricking WARNING LABELS, for crying out loud.

This story makes me want to puke. No, that's not true. This story makes me crave a Double-Beef Whopper with extra cheese.

I'm in the mood for some health food.

OTHER THINGS I NOTICED ON JEKYLL ISLAND

1) A beautiful woman in an orange bathing suit wearing a straw hat and purple sunglasses. She was exquisite to behold but obviously high-maintenance. She had a tattoo on one ankle and one of the prettiest asses I've seen in a while. She was with a fat fuck twice her age.

2) MY EX-WIFE!! No, upon further study, it wasn't her coming to spy on my caretaking of our son. It was a yankee woman who simply bore an uncanny resemblance to the bloodless cunt. She could heave her bosum until hell froze over and I wouldn't think of asking her out. If her umbrella blew away on the beach, THAT BITCH was on her own.

3) All the waitpersons spoke with West Indian accents. They wore dreadlocks, too. Either Jekyll Island has an uncanny attraction for people from the West Indies or those faking Geechees (look it up if you don't know what a "Geechee" is) are playing the yankee tourists like yo-yos. I pick door #2.

4) I watched a pair of mockingbirds attack a red hawk and run the big bird out of town. It was immediately after one of those early-evening thunderstorms and the sky resembled an angry, purple bruise at the time, with all its fury spent. I watched from our second-floor balcony. The mockingbirds were fearless and determined, obviously protecting a nest nearby. The fight was beautiful to watch. I don't know what environmentalist neuticles think about such things. I believe the good guys won.

5) I stiffed a waiter named "Sammy" at The Buchaneer Restaurant. He tried to charge me for a shrimp cocktail I never received, he brought me a bottle of ketchup for my fries after I was finished with my meal and he left the cherry out of my son's cherry coke. He spoke with a West Indian accent, but I left him no tip at all. I told Quinton why I did that.

6) The next morning, I tipped a waitress named "Pam" $6.00 on an $8.00 breakfast bar tab. She had custom-made pancakes cooked for my son, kept his milk-glass full and brought me over-easy eggs when I asked for them instead of that curdled sawdust on the buffet table. I told Quinton why I did it, too. He understood.

7) My son and I built an elaborate sand castle, complete with flying banners made from marsh grass and seaweed. A yankee boy came up, wearing fins, goggles and dorkle swim-gloves, and said, "What if I DESTROY your castle?" I removed my chick-watcher sunglasses and said, "If you destroy this castle, young man, I'll hang your yankee ass upside down in the water until you stop blowing bubbles, then I'll cut you into little pieces and feed you to the crabs." He left the castle intact. I told Quinton why I did THAT, too. He understood.

8) We got totally lost leaving Jekyll Island. I ended up in downtown Brunswick, Georgia, with no clue where I-95 might be. I stopped at a 7-11 store to ask directions, but the Iranian proprietors no speakee de English very well and do not know I-95 from the Allytollah Khomeni. I suspect that they were a sleeper terrorist cell, but I found a set of greasy auto mechanics next door who asked me "How the hell did you MISS it, dumbfuck?" then told me where I needed to go. And they sent me right to I-95, too.

9) I boogie-boarded my son's cracker tail off. Tall Dog may be broke-dicked and ancient, but he can still cut the mustard when it comes to the sand and surf. Besides, I wiped the boy out every time he started to whip my ragged old ass. That's the nature of cut-throat competition.

10) I am sleepy now, and I have much to do tomorrow. The boy and I had a wonderful time on the Golden Isle. We'll do it again sometime, the first chance I get

Does THIS WOMAN know me, or what?

"Situated in the tree-shaded Victorian midtown of a moderately-sized urban center, I have been long accustomed to the random bohemian, hippie, tweaker fiend, poor white trash, homeless, or neighborhood freak wandering in to peruse the mechandise or perhaps chat me up."

Yes, dear, I will be there soon. Sooner than you can possibly imagine...

"I had to make use of the lavatory and fetch a drink for my parched throat. And I could do none of these things because I had to sit for a goddamn hour and babysit this street freak's battered, drugged-up ass."

See? I'm THERE already!

Great Moments In Sports, episode 88:

My son and I were about waist-deep in the surf, searching for sand dollars ("Sea Biscuits," as I once called them). You find them by squinching your bare toes through the bottom-sand until you feel one, then telling your eight year-old son "I've got one! Under my LEFT FOOT!" and you let that water-fish dive down and retrieve it for you. We had about 40 piled on the boogie-board we took out with us, when I saw a comely yankee-girl decend the boardwalk down to the beach. She carried a lawn chair, an umbrella, some kind of feminine straw purse (Gawd knows what was in THAT) and a John Grisham novel. From the corner of my female-checker sunglasses, I watched her set up the umbrella, lay out the lawn chair and settle back to read her novel. She looked good to me.

"I've got ANOTHER ONE!" I told my son. "RIGHT FOOT this time!" and under the water he went to find it. Just then, a gust of wind came blowing off the ocean. The wind uprooted the umbrella and sent it tumbling down the beach. The woman leaped from her chair to chase the umbrella and her CHAIR started rolling down the beach, too. She stood there in shock for a moment, and I KNEW what she was thinking: I can catch the chair now, but the umbrella will get away. I had better go for THE UMBRELLA! And off she went in hot pursuit, with the umbrella blowing farther away with every tumble.

I said, "Quinton! Hold onto the boogie board! Daddy'll be right back!" And I charged through the surf, looking just like David Hassledork (or whatever his name is) on "Baywatch." Yes, my abs were flexing and my delts were flowing as I hit the beach slightly behind the umbrella but chased it down and caught it. The woman, breathless by now, arrived immediately thereafter, displaying her heaving bosum in her bikini top. (Did I mention that I am a sucker for a heaving bosum in a bikini top?)

"Ohmygod! THANK YOU," she said. About that time the chair came tumbling down the beach and I caught it, too. "I believe these belong to you, don't they?" I asked. "Oh, yes! THANK YOU again. I didn't realize that the wind was so strong on this beach."

Right then, I had a choice to make. The OLD ROB would have introduced himself, made some small talk and asked her out to dinner that night. The OLD ROB would have calculated his chances of getting laid and figured that, given the heaving bosum and all, they were at least 50-50 if he played his cards right. The OLD ROB would have used his son in the barter by saying, come meet my boy, and after that saying that four days without adult conversation made me hungry for some tonight. I could have pulled it off.

But I didn't even try. That broke-dick thing bothers me a lot, and even though I believe the that woman was ripe for a memorable Jekyll Island romance (she had BEAUTIFUL red toenails), I simply returned her chair and her umbrella back to her place on the beach and told her that I didn't think the umbrella was a good idea. "You have beautiful, fair skin," I said, "but the sun will be behind the trees in a few minutes and I'm too old to go chasing this thing down the beach again. You'll be fine right there in your chair. That's a good book. I've read it and I really liked it. I need to go check on my boy now. Nice to meet you."

And that was that. I never even asked her name. I went back in the water and chased sand dollars with my son.

People, I sometimes miss the old, raw moonshine Rob.

THINGS I LEARNED ON JEKYLL ISLAND WITH MY SON

1) It's a beautiful place. You really don't want to leave when your time is up. You also can spend a lot of money really fast there.

2) Every restaurant has a chef in a big, white hat and his job is to drench everything you eat with exquistie, garlic-laden sauces. The food is delicious, and my son and I ate it all, then raced for the bathroom afterward to see who could make the loudest "barking fish" noises on the commode. Damn! That's good stuff, but four days of seafood will make you believe that a covey of quail is flying out of your ass every time you have to fart. I wouldn't recommend that experience to everybody I know. Only the really staunch can survive it.

3) The weather was perfect. We went and ate the breakfast buffet at around 9:00 in the morning, lounged around the pool for an hour or so, then went to the beach, which doesn't exist at high tide. The waves come all the way to the big granite breakwater (which didn't exist the last time I was on Jekyll Island), so you have to wait for the tide to ebb before the beach becomes visible. Once my son saw a foot of sand, we hit the Atlantic Ocean. We collected sand dollars and hermit crabs and sea shells and we built the most exotic sand castles on the strand. My son attempted to make friends with some of the yankee boys in their clown-like costumes (you know-- the water shoes, the fins and goggles with a shark's fin on top, the jiggling, white, jelly-bellies and the SWIMMING GLOVES, for crying out loud) and Quinton finally asked me, "What's WRONG with those guys?" He stood there knee-deep in the surf, barefoot and bare-backed, looking tanned, muscular and altogether comfortable as the waves broke around him. I told him, "They're YANKEES and they can't help being dorkles. They don't know any better. Just try to be nice to them." He did, but he learned the EARLY WARNING SIGNS of a yankee and identified them left and right from them on. "DADDY! LOOKY THERE! THAT'S YANKEE FOR SURE!" Uh, Huh. Water shoes, doofus water toys, snorkel, mask and a bad attitude. "Don't point," I told him. "That's bad manners."

4) We returned past the Tiki-Bar at around 5:00 every afternoon. I bought my son a cherry coke and a frozen marguarita for me. We went back to our room and waited for the evening fireworks, which happened on schedule every day. Around 6:00, thunder, lightning and cosmic rainfall fell from the sky for about two hours, then we went out to eat. We did rent three movies that we watched during the rainstorms. The Scorpion King is one of those entirely witless, highly-entertaining movies you really want to watch during an early-evening thunderstorm. I LOVED IT. Bwhahahaha! I insisted on watching Blackhawk Down because I read the book, and the movie was excellent, except for the fact that Quinton couldn't keep track of all the characters and kept asking me pestering questions all the way through it. I shut him up when I told him that he was acting like a YANKEE! I made a mistake last night by renting Blade II which was a shitty movie filled with more fucking F-words than the fucking law should allow, and I didn't like all the fucking dialogue, which was mainly, "Fuck you!" "Oh, yeah? Fuck YOU, TOO!" My son didn't like it either, and asked me, "Why does everybody have a potty mouth in this movie?" I said, "They're yankees. They can't help it."

5) My son wants to start his own blog. He wants to tell scary stories on it. I think it's a great idea.

Myself and my son, who is my sole male offspring (that I KNOW OF) and heir to my vast empire, are about to pack up the truck and go to Jekyll Island for fours days of sun, surf and seafood along the glorious Gold Coast of Georgia. I expect to be the color of an old copper penny by the time I return. I DON'T expect to be blogging in the meantime.

But keep your shirts on (except for YOU, Joan). I'll be back.

These next few days are for me and my boy. Male bonding and such stuff.

It's gotta be better than Mississippi.

Ladies and gentlemen, we must face bravely certain unpleasant facts in life. Here are three: 1) Janet Reno is running for governor of Florida, where JB & BLUE live. I know you're embarrassed by it, but you guys have my deepest sympathy. Try not to hang a chad when you vote FOR that witch in the primaries.2) Janet Reno is an incredibly UGLY woman, inside and out. My worst nightmare during the Clinton administration was that Janet Reno and Warren Christopher would copulate and produce disgusting offspring. If the two ugliest people in the world ever mated, what would their child be like? ALIEN couldn't touch that frightening picture with a ten-foot pole. 3) The Democratic Party in Florida gave more money to THIS GRINNING JACKASS than they did to Reno. A LOT MORE.

It's not favoritism, according to party spokesmen. It's simply good sense, according to me. Janet Reno is a festering boil on the asscheek of Florida, just as she was as head of the US Justice Department. If she wins the Democrat nomination, Jeb Bush is a shoe-in for another term. Party leaders really wish that Janet would drive her little red truck off the road and into a mangrove swamp where she could dance with the alligators. If that happy circumstance doesn't happen, they want the GRINNING JACKASS to win, and that's where they're putting their money.

JB--- VOTE FOR JANET! Do it as your civic duty, do it for America and do it to fuck with the local Democrats.

It's the only way to ensure that Janet Reno ends up like bug-guts on the windshield in the gubinatorial election.

I found myself running dangerously low on cigarettes this morning, so I dragged my son off the couch where he has crashed for the past two nights, threw some breakfast down his neck and hauled his sleepy head off to Wal-Mart. I got cigarettes, and we bought munchies for our vacation-- some kind of cheese-doodley-corn-chip creations, a big can of mixed nuts and a bag of Snickers. I finished boiling the last of the 1 & 1/2 bushels of peanuts yesterday evening during a spectacular thunderstorm and we'll take some of those, too, because I'm having to jump up and down on the freezer lid to make it close now. I figure four pairs of shorts, clean underwear and a couple of bathing suits will do me. I'm not packing ANY socks, because I'll wear sandals or go barefoot for four days on Jekyll Island.

I still haven't decided about the golf clubs. I probably ought to take them even if I don't go play-- it's better to HAVE them and not WANT them than to WANT them and not HAVE them.

They're kinda like a woman that way.

We don't need to leave until about 2:00, so I have some time to kill. I really should mow my grass (grass, hell-- I oughta cut the fricking WEEDS) but it's already 10,005 degrees outside with 150% humidity and that grass-cutting crap sounds far to much like work for a man on vacation to do. I am certain that I can find a reasonable excuse not to crank up the old lawn mower ("I DON'T FUCKING WANNA!" .... okay, sounds reasonable to me-- ed)

Yeah, I believe I'll just empty the trash cans, haul my $100 "Curb Caddy" out to the edge of the road so it'll be there for the Wednesday pickup, wipe my sweaty brow, throw in the towel and declare my work complete for the next four days. Plan your work, then work your plan. That's me.

And I plan to work seriously on my suntan.

Since Sesame Street is politically-correct enough to put an HIV-positive muppet on the show, why not add a CRACK ADDICT, too?

The strung-out and developmentally disabled character, who goes by the legal name of Tonya and the street names of “sweet white desire,” “crackpipe annihilator,” and “Jermaine’s bitch” will join the cast of Sesame Street on September 30th, for its 25th anniversary season.

Diversity is a beautiful thing.

It takes a lot to make me belligerent, but THIS DOES:

Tips for men who like women online dating etiquette

.1. Let's start at the beginning. Choose your screen name wisely. We're not favorably impressed with the likes of what BeachBum876, or 6FootSwell has to offer. We've worked hard to have a successful career and expect the same from the men we date. We're skeptical that SuccessfulRichDude is anything but a dude. Romantic_Dreamer makes you sound like a sap. Nothing about those names is encouraging.
Yeah, if you were that fucking hot and successful you wouldn't be ADVERTISING for a date. Does "Just As Desperate As You Are" ring a bell? Don't lecture ME, ya dipshit.

2. The women tend to get bombarded on these services, due to the male female ratio balancing clearly in favor of those with boobs. Don't expect a response. Similarly, don't write your life story on the first email. We're sorting through tons of emails. Respect our time.
Yeah, you're too busy to read e-mails you solicited but lonely enough to solicit them in the first place. If your "INBOX" was full, you wouldn't be trolling for dick. Dipshit.

3. Equally bad are first emails containing questions that would require us to write a novel in order to adequately answer it:
Isn't that the purpose of the essay section in our profiles? Better to ask something specific like, "do you have herpes?" or "didn't we have a one night stand back in '92?"
No, I never had herpes until I met YOU in '92. Dipshit.

4. If the woman specifies she's looking for someone between the ages of 30-40 and you are just shy of 23…she's not interested. Similarly, if she wants a black man, and you are white…you aren't going to be the one to change her preference. If you are gay, don't contact a woman no matter how much you the love the handbag she's carrying in the photo. She probably won't have a child for you and your partner no matter how nicely you ask.
You ALWAYS find selective women offering themselves for dates on-line. They simply become OVERWHELMED with the number of men they actually know lusting after them, so they troll for absolute strangers and set very tight specs. Dipshits.

6. Don't write a poem in your "about me" section. Don't write a poem in the "about your ideal woman" section. And don't, under any circumstance write one in the first email you send your prospective mate.
Prospective mate? I want a DATE! I may be hollow, do you spit or swallow? Meet me, greet me and EAT ME, ya dipshit.

7. Spelling still counts. Grammar will get you everywhere.
"I" before "E" except after "C." Wanna fuck?

8. Don't send the same stock email to every woman. We often sign up for these things with our friends. We talk. A lot.
Yeah, I know that. The best way to lay ALL YOUR FRIENDS is to do a good job on YOU. You tell your good friends and they'll want a piece of the action. They'll lay me and I'll have you to thank for it. Dipshit.

9. If she says, let's get together Thursday and you don't hear from her she's not interested. It sucks, I know but so does the email saying "I don't think we're a match."
If she says "let's get together Thursday" and you don't hear from her, she's a lying cunt. SHE sucks, the dipshit.

10. Which leads me to perhaps the most important one. If we say it's not a match, don't send emails telling us we're a bad person for not feeling the chemistry with you. That only makes us more confident that we made the right decision.
In your dreams, dipshit.

I wonder what THE GROUP CAPTAIN thinks about THIS SCATHING ASSESSMENT of British tourists as tightwad assholes everywhere they travel?

Britons are the rudest, meanest, most linguistically incompetent and least adventurous holidaymakers in the world, according to the results of a survey.
New research shows that, despite being among the most well-travelled globetrotters, Brits are the least liked by foreigners.

Can the British actually be worse than the fucktard yankees who tour Savannah wearing shorts, sandals and black knee-socks while yammering in that fingernails-on-a-blackboard accent they have? Can the British possibly be worse than the fuckwits in their Cadillacs with New Jersey plates who stop dead in the middle of Bay Street to peer in myopic confusion at street signs hoping to find River Street when the Savannah River is clearly visible a stone's throw away? Turn right, asshole! GO TOWARD THE RIVER! YOU CAN'T MISS IT! If you get wet, you went too far.

I don't know. Maybe they could miss it, somehow. But I surely wouldn't miss them if they went away.

The British CAN'T be THAT bad.

As I said before, euthanasia can be a good thing. THIS STORY is either bizarre or tragic. I report, you decide:

Florence Ruth Holba of Billings died Friday after the tractor driven by her husband, Edwin Holba, rolled over her, troopers said.

Mrs. Holba was standing behind the tractor when Holba's foot slipped off the clutch, the patrol said. The tractor rolled backward over her, pinning her beneath it.

Holba got off the tractor but fell when he went to check on his wife, the patrol said. Holba, who has limited mobility, was unable to stand and crawled for 23 hours until he reached his residence and called for help shortly before 10 a.m. Saturday, troopers said.

For one of the few times in my life, I am at a loss for words here...

SUNDAY STUMPERS

1) You know about a company on the brink of a major advancement. This will make you a killing on the stock market. Do you use the knowledge to your advantage?
You're damned right I do. Insider trading may be against the law, but true insiders do it all the time. The stock market has taken my 401-K and reduced it to a 102-F over the past couple of years, so IT OWES ME! Yeah, I would cash in on my knowledge. It wouldn't violate my personal code of ethics at all.

2) Your best friend is about to make a major mistake. He/she is going to marry/commit to a very unsavory person. Do you say something?
I've done it before and I would do it again. The friend never listens, but it gives me the chance to say, "I TOLD you so" later. I wish only to have a chance to do what Larry did after he had sex with his best friend's fiancee. He told the friend about it, and when the friend became very angry, Larry said, "I did it as a favor to YOU. You don't want to marry that slut. If she'll screw ME, she'll screw ANYBODY!" The wedding never happened, because the friend realized that NOBODY should EVER marry a woman who would screw Larry.

3) Kissinger, Abe Vigoda, Jennifer Connelly....who needs their eyebrows tweezed more?
Jesus... probably ME as I grow older. I'm gonna need my goddam EARS tweezed before long. Why is it that a man loses hair where he wants it and grows hair where he doesn't as he ages? It's a cosmic design flaw, and that's one of the reasons that I'm a athiest.

4) Gay Marriage - legal or not?
HELL NO! I have nothing against gay people. (In fact, given my track record with women, I'm giving serious consideration to going gay. I just haven't been able to convince myself yet that some guy's hairy butt is more attractive to me than Cindy Crawford's beautiful ass. Once I overcome that one small obstacle, I'm out of the closet in a flash.) I simply believe that the "Gay Marriage" concept is a slippery slope that is bound to lead to insane mutations later. Besides, what's the fucking point, really?

5) Your pet is old and feeble. The best friend you've had in your entire life is in pain. Do you euthanize?
I've done that. It broke my heart, but it was an act of love. I stopped the pain. I only hope that someone will show me that sort of kindness and mercy if I ever lose my acceptable quality of life and suffer every day. In many ways, we are kinder to our dumb animals than we are to our fellow human beings.