For more about the new threat posed by butt bombs, see below.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Qaeda 'ass'assin: 'Butt bomb' Tactic Spooks Anal-ysts
WASHINGTON -- There's a new al Qaeda terror technique that has American security experts pooping in their pants -- call it the "butt bomb." A suicide bomber recently put himself next to a member of the Saudi royal family, having outwitted bomb-detection machines in the palace, to set off an explosion using a charge that had been hidden in his rectum.
Rectum? It actually killed him.
Every word above was cut and pasted from
The Onion the New York Post. There really is no need for me to doo anything.
We've had uni-Bombers and shoe-Bombers. There he is, Abdullah Asieri, the butt-Bomber.
Unfortunately, it was a shitty plan because the only person that died was Abdullah. Talk about anal gaping, ouch!
The explosion, possibly detonated by a cellphone, killed the bomber.
If Abdullah's Butt is one of your kid's contacts, he should probably lose cellphone priviledges.
Seriously, this is a pain in the ass for security experts.
"Standard airport security is not going to detect that," said terror expert Steve Emerson. "You need a much more intrusive type of X-ray machine that can actually see inside body cavities."
Until then, watch your ass.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
I didn't like it but I did find this cartoon called Pepper and Salt that I really, really didn't like. Apparently, rich Wall Street scumbags have their own unique form of humor that is not funny.
I believe the guy on the couch is trying to complete a sudoku puzzle. How droll. Perhaps 5 years ago this would qualify as timely and funny but probably not. Recently, my pal Rupe donated the entire collection of Pepper and Salt comics to the Harvard Business School Library assuring that future generations of MBA assholes will have no sense of humor.
So, I figured I'll write some captions that are actually funny. Remember this is a "business" comic for Wall Street Journal readers so I had to tone down the raunch a bit. Honestly, it was harder than I thought it would be, maybe because I have nothing in common with either of these people.
The Journal says the depression is all your fault, bitch.
How am I supposed to reach my scotch if you put it all the way over there, bitch.
How come you don't shave your box like this bitch in Playboy, bitch?
Put that Peggy Noonan wig back in the box and cook my dinner, bitch.
Gosh darn it, I expected my bonus to arrive in a much larger box! Why did you open it, bitch?
What's so bad about downsizing? I still fit on the couch, bitch.
Don't you think that a Wall Street Journal reader, after a long day of screwing us out of our life savings, would call his significant female other a bitch? And why is the bitch holding a box? Is it a box of completed sudoku puzzles her man has already finished? I will continue to add captions to this post all day until I think of something funny. You are invited to help but you won't because leaving a comment is too much damn effort, bitch.
That's not what I meant when I said to whip out your box, bitch!
Another miscarriage? Thank God tomorrow is recycling day, bitch.
Bitch! Who starred in that 90's sitcom Mad About You? Oh wait... it was us.
Go ahead and leave, bitch. I'll care after I finish reading The National Review.
What's a five letter word for female dog, bitch?
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
I work in a cubicle. Every week a couple of people visit me for help with mindless stuff. Sometimes we have to look at my monitor as I explain for the 427th time how to do something mind-numbing, sometimes we don't, but always my computer monitor looks like this.
I got that stunning image at NASA's Jet Propulsion Lab website. Once or twice a month, an unsuspecting co-worker will say something like, "Gee whiz, that's a nice picture. What is it?"
That's when I get to say, "It's a photo of your anus." Then, depending on who the visitor is, Steve (the guy who sits in the cubicle next to me) and I either laugh uproariously for the umpteenth time or struggle to not laugh (for the umpteenth time).
Of course there are endless riffs you can play. When Joe, the 50 year old manager from Accounting, responds with "Uranus, looks like that? Well, I never."
You can follow up with,
"Your anus never looked so good!"
"Your anus was always my favorite when I was a kid."
or the ever popular
"Not my anus, your anus!"
When that cute P.R. person says, "I never knew Uranus was so beautiful."
You can counter with, "If you think my anus is beautiful, stick around. I use a photo of my dick as a screensaver." Don't really do that. Keep the shop talk centered on your anus.
Trust Steve and me. It never gets old. It's also fun to watch their reaction when the lights in their heads finally go on. Where I work, these lights usually take a long time and are exceedingly dim. Your results may vary.
Who knew Uranus could be so good for workplace morale?
Monday, September 21, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
*Notes From The Author
2. You: "You're so gay! You know so much about Dirty Dancing!"
Other posts by my dick:
My Dick Reviews The Hobbit
My Dick Discusses The Debt
My Dick Discusses the Winter Olympics
My Dick Discusses Avatar 3D
My Dick Explains Why the Blind Side is So Popular
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Funny thing is that a crappy travel website reposted my bit and treated it like it was a real guide. Their automated robot even slapped some actual photos of Croatia under it.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The main point of the Russia Journal article is how I was much funnier than some guy named Ivan Eland, a writer for American Prospect.
This image not only got casual readers to visit a political bit void of sex, it also made unclemelon.com extremely popular with microphiliacs worldwide. If microphilia is not a fetish that you are familiar with, it's when you have a sexual attraction to little people. And by little, I'm not talking about the everyday regular guy desire to munch on a Munchkin, I'm talking REALLY little like a 3-inch tall, leggy blonde in high heels.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
When I travel to a weird, former Soviet satellite place, I like to get my feet firmly on the ground by acquainting myself with the local history. I told the Croat cabbie to take me to the famous Nazi and he punched me in the face. Croat is one of those words that's incredibly fun to say but when you typ it out it looks like its got to be missing some letters. "Croat." Cool sounding but a little touchy with a quick right hand. I finally found a Serb cabbie that took me on a tour of Upper Town and left me off at the Cathedral of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary on the Rocks. Try getting that on the front of a CYO basketball jersey!
The cathedral houses the well preserved remains of Blessed Cardinal Alojzije Stepinac. You remember him. The Nazi sympathizer with a soft spot for Jews but an extremely hard spot for the Eastern Orthodox and Serbs. I believe he's the Patron Saint of Closemindedness and Hatred which makes him pretty damn popular. The nausea you get from seeing him in his elaborate tomb will make any dinner unpalatable so it's time to start drinking.
Friday 8 P.M.
At Cafe Jazz order a Fuzzy Liverwurst (157 kunas). It's a mix of Croatian vodka and a delightful local liqueur called Kümmel that can only be described as sweet, liquid caraway. The drink comes garnished with a dill pickle and a slice of liverwurst. Place those in your ears because Croatian Jazz makes Bulgarian Jazz seem as good as Estonian Jazz.
Saturday 2 P.M.
Get your Kümmel induced hangover to Jelacic Square for some coffee and the saturday morning ritual called "SpiXXXa." Watch the intricate dance of the French, Russian and Californian porn producers as they recruit the leggy, high-heeled blondes inhabiting every patio chair in the piazza. Purchase a vente cafe americano with an extra shot at Starbücks (43 kunas), sit your fat ass down and enjoy the spectacle.
Saturday 4 P.M.
For a late lunch, eschew the overpriced restaurants and walk to Zagreb's best open air market, Dolac. Under the red umbrellas, choose from the amazing spread of seasonal nuts, cheeses, fruits and vegetables. Below is a local Croatian fruitmonger with a slice of a local delicacy called watermelon. Try it. You didn't pay $5,000 and travel halfway across the world to eat at McDonalds, did you?
Saturday 8 P.M.
With the exotic taste of watermelon still on your lips, visit Luigi's, a Dalamation-style tavern, and order the frog and eel stew (84 kunas). If you ask the waiter nicely, he will flip the floating frogs over because sometimes their beady little eyes looking up at you can be down right unappetizing.
Saturday 11 P.M.
Go clubbing in Jaregrub within the warren of hotspots found in the shadow of that scary neo-gigantic cathedral. To get up the courage to hit on those extremely attractive blondes that were too smart to fall for those porn producers practiced lines, try a Tesla Coil (212 kunas), an alternating set of 3 dozen liquor shots served in actual vacuum tubes designed by Nikola Tesla.
Saturday 12:15 P.M.
Sunday 10 A.M.
At Runa's, a Weimaraner-style cafe, order the traditional snail and snot omelet with a side of smoky pickled slugs (40 kunas) or you could eat toast and jam (57 kunas).
Sunday 1 P.M.
Purge last night's demons with a modest walk through the Croatian Museum of Naive Art (adult, 20 kunas; children, 10 kunas). Marvel that all those plump hard-working women with those bodies so well evolved to dig potatoes with a stick have produced all those leggy, high-heeled blondes. Before catching your plane, grab lunch at one of the many pushcarts found outside the museum. Get a Coca Cola and Stalin Burger (243 kunas). The juicy burger is 95% ground Serbian infant with 5% Albanian filler and was a personal favorite of the former Cardinal. Muy delicioso!
Note: File this under An Unfuckingbelievable Coincidence. I post this bit and I immediately go check my e-mail and British FHM has sent an article about the hot women of Croatia called, Croatians, Not All Completely Useless.
Also unbelievable, tho not the unfucking kind, the British FHM used to love UncleMelon and I had a semi-working arrangement with them. For some reason, my humor goes over well in England, Australia, Canada and Iceland. Croatia? Not so good.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Three Headlines Gleaned From Todays' NY Post
Miss Cougar Crowned in California
I'm embarassed to admit it but up to a year ago I thought a cougar was a big cat and, until today, I was not exactly sure what the difference was between a MILF and a Cougar.
Clearly, in the porn world there is no difference. A MILF/Cougar is a female participant between the age of 18 and 30. She usually has big breasts, often enhanced, and is allowed to eat normally. She may wear glasses for the first minute or so to set up her identity as a woman old enough to read.
In the real world there is a difference, and thanks to the Post, I can now explain it to you. A MILF is an older woman that is attractive enough that a younger man wants to F her. The MILF's feelings about this desire are unimportant. A Cougar is an older woman that prefers Fing younger men. These willing younger men are called Cubs. They are not necessarily cub scouts and, unlike in the porn world, are not required to have prison tattoos.
So, let's summarize. A Cougar is not necessarily a MILF, as evidenced by this year's winner of Miss Cougar America.
Conversely, a MILF is not necessarily a Cougar. A Cub would F a MILF or a Cougar but a MILF may not have any interest in a Cub. Wait, I'm doing a shit job. We need a venn diagram.
Any questions? No? Good.
Me? I would obviously F a MILF and a Cougar that is a MILF, but I'm no Cub, I'm also willing to F a woman that isn't a MILF but is a WILFWAFM.
WILFWAFM = Woman that I'd Like to Fuck that Would Actually Fuck Me
Unfortunately I have runout of time and will not be able to riff on the last two headlines:
MISS UNIVERSE CONDOM CONTEST IRKS SOME and GO AHEAD, MAKE MY HIGH HOLIDAY: MAZEL-TOUGH GUYS GUNNING FOR TERRORISTS. Maybe I'll do those on Tuesday.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
My armpits did not always react this way. When I was in high school antiperspirant made me break out. I was strictly a deodorant man for years and years. Suddenly, and without warning, my pits did a switcheroo, now I need antiperspirant to protect my skin from my own sweat.
The cure for this malady is to apply the antiperspirant to the angry rash. This results in blood curdling screaming as the alcohol in the stuff burns and sizzles. After a couple of days my armpits return to their normal state, soft as
This Target was half empty. It had been ravished by "Back to School" shoppers. There was not a 3 subject spiral notebook to be found or, strangely, a tube of Old Spice High Endurance Original Scent Invisible Solid with aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex. I was desperate so I grabbed what I thought was the next best thing, Old Spice High Endurance Pure Sport Scent Invisible Solid with aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex.
I applied the new product to my armpits and everything seemed okay. The stinging brought the customary tears to my eyes, my luxurious pit hairs got all clumpy and sticky, I was good to go.
But the smell. It was different, weird, strong. I felt like I was walking in a cloud of cologne. I put it down to an unfamiliar scent and hoped that it would soon go unnoticed. I was wrong. Everytime I moved an arm, the friction and resulting increase in temperature would send an unwanted waft of "Pure Sport" up to my face. I was determined to stay the course and not spend another $3.49 until this invisible solid was worn down to the plastic plunger. Until last night.
I woke from a blissful sleep with the god awful sensation that Ted from work was lying next to me in my bed. Ted's not a bad guy. Older, his salt and pepper hair well-groomed, his clothes a little better than mine with buttons and collars, he's just not my type. I took a deep, calming breath full of "Pure Sport Scent" from my unfettered pits and realized a horrible realization. My pits smelled like Ted. Old Ted was a "Pure Sport Scent" man. I was screwed. I slept poorly the rest of the night, my pillow placed strategically over my ass protecting me from the possibility of Ted attack.
At lunch today, I will be forced to fork over the $3.49 for a tube of Old Spice High Endurance Original Scent Invisible Solid with aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex.
Original photo from deadspin
EDIT: For the confused, and I really shouldn't have to do this people. Spaceballs, Dark Helmet, Rick Moranis, David Wright, funny hat. Now stop e-mailing and leave an effing comment.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The last time I went to Maine I came back with an idea for a movie and I wrote Lobster Cop.
I got the idea while I was fishing in a canoe with my brother and his son. My brother was flyfishing, his rod a blur of movement as 47 feet of fluorescent green line flashed overhead. His son was using a Garcia ultralight setup with 2 pound test. I was using a sweet, hot pink Scooby Doo rig and a hula popper. In my opinion, there's nothing in this world beats a hula popper and a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952. If you are not a real man, a hula popper is a fishing lure that looks like a frog in a hula skirt. Hey, there's one right down there.
I started with a short story called One and a Half Jews in a Canoe that Dave Eggers called lyrical and laugh out loud funny. I told him to use lol next time cause then the kids will think he's cool.
The short story became a screenplay. The first scene I wrote for Lobster Cop was a fishing scene. Our hero, Jake Marino is fishing in a rowboat with our villian, Commodore Dudley Saltonstall III. For Jake, think a skinnier Vince Vaughn with a slight New York accent. For the Commodore, think Ted Knight in Caddyshack.
One hundred and fourteen pages later, I'm four pages over and because of the whole story arc, three act structure, and pushing the plot forward crap, I'm forced to cut the fishing scene -- the original, first-written scene that got the whole thing started in the first place.
No screenplay this time, but I plan on a mess of Maine posts.