Saturday, February 23, 2008

Overheard assholes: "Joe"

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"JOE! Open the fuckin' DOOR! JOE!"

— Joe's estranged girlfriend,
screaming at him from the porch
at 11 p.m. one night
and ringing the doorbell for my apartment by mistake,
over and over

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

The answers to all your questions, Part 2

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Lots of people find this Website through bizarre Google searches. In fact, more people come here through bizarre Google searches than by actually seeking me out because they want to read the crap I post here. This is distressing but not unexpected, I guess.

Sometimes they're quite complicated, the questions people have that send people here by mistake. It leaves me deeply worried that people are approaching me with really dire problems and leaving without any answers because I insist on fucking around. Who knows where people go after this? I mean, if you're looking for information, this is pretty much the bottom of the barrel. Or, more like the dusty circle underneath the barrel after you've moved it to do the vacuuming. These people really need answers. Now. It's something I wrote about before.

So if I can be indulged for a minute, let me go through some actual Google searches that brought people to Black Fonzie so I can try to help these poor son of a bitches.

• Maryland and Illinois, "twinkie injection machine": Strangely enough, I'm the first Web page that comes up when you search this. I'm still not sure how the Internet works. Anyway, it leads you to this column I wrote which is less of a description of how Twinkies are made, and more of a satire of the intelligent design movement.

Twinkie injection is actually a very interesting process. First, you bake yourself a little sponge cake. When the sponge cake has cooled, you remove it and dress it in boots, a cowboy hat, and a jaunty neckerchief. Then, using a kitchen counter or a wall or the arm of a couch, or whatever you have handy, bend it over, hold it down, and cram a tube into its bottom. If the inside of the cake isn't still moist, just work it in there with a little cooking oil, or force it in. It may take a few tries -- just keep jamming it into the bottom. After you've plunged the tube in far enough, inject it with the white stuff. Then, let the sponge cake up and set it aside somewhere quiet, so it can be by itself for a little while.

• Miami, Fla., "will i become president one day": As I discussed in this post, it's highly unlikely. If you're not a member of the political and economic elite when you start out in life, you'd better get there fast.

At most, a handful of people nationwide will ever get anywhere close. Also, you probably need to go to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, or some other very expensive and elite university, and become a lawyer or bottom-level legislator, and parlay that political and economic capital into a career of sucking up to people already in power until you can obtain more power of your own, and then build on that. It's worked for most people. Or, you can be born into a family essentially living off federal welfare for generations, like this asshole.

St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, "important job for kids and i am the boss and start today": This person ended up here, which wasn't much help, sorry to say.

The most important job for a kid is, of course, staying in school and getting an education. Or if you want another option, open a lemonade stand. It takes very little capital outlay to get started, and your earnings potential is through the roof given the hot Caribbean climate. You may want to draft a mission statement and incorporate your stand, to allow for the various financial and tax benefits available to small-business owners (your local BBB can put you in touch with a lawyer if you need help). As for the product, contact a fruit wholesaler to maximize your profit margin. He can provide you with slightly damaged lemons not good enough for customer display in retail grocery outlets but cheaper and adequate for processing purposes. Setting the stand up on your property will allow you to deduct a portion of your property expenses, i.e., the space in which you sell and/or prepare your lemonade, when you file your 1040 form. Good luck!

• Ichinomiya, Japan, "red money ii much red": Wow, hi there, Japan! I don't know what in the fuck you're talking about! Thanks for stopping by!

• Unspecified location in North America, "what two breeds of dogs do it take to make a rottweiler": This person came here, where I wrote about bad dogs and Fluffernutter sandwiches. Which are delicious. The Fluffernutters, not the dogs.

This person also betrays a lack of understanding about (a) dog breeds and (b) canine sexual reproduction. A Rottweiler is a purebreed. Therefore, to make a Rottweiler, you need one Rottweiler and another Rottweiler. Then, when the two Rottweilers love each other very much and they've saved up enough money, they get married. The bashful boy Rottweiler and the eager girl Rottweiler will engage in vigorous copulation, and then The Stork comes. It delivers not just a Rottweiler, but usually several Rottweilers.

At some point way back, yes, two different breeds were used to make what is now known as Rottweiler. We're talking, like, way back centuries. Honestly, I didn't think anybody really gave a shit at this point.

• Port Talbot, UK, "why is my belly button weeping little mucus": See, this is what I'm talking about. Someone in Port Talbot is having some sort of profoundly disgusting medical issue, and they end up here, where I have nothing to help them.

What's more, this is probably really embarrassing for this guy to have to admit. Maybe he keeps this problem a secret from his friends, colleagues, and loved ones because it would gross them out, and they'd never want to hug him again, or touch his hands. He's constantly sneaking off to the bathroom to mop up his sticky, wet abdomen with a wad of toilet paper -- or maybe he's got some sort of bandage over it that he has to change twice a day, when the old one gets too mucusy and starts to leak through to his shirt. Which is why he wears those big sweaters now. Even in hot weather. Poor guy. And here I go, digging up this Google search and plastering it all over the Internet. Port Talbot is here, by the way.

A few Web sites I've glanced through suggest the poor bastard may have a urachal cyst, which is so horrifyingly icky, and uses such large words, that I won't go into details here. Just turn the computer off and go to the goddam doctor already.

Friday, February 08, 2008

John McCain wants to grab you in his tiny, splayed fingers

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John McCain does his best to control his little problem -- grabbing people with his tiny, splayed little fingers.


He sits and broods about it sometimes if he can't grab somebody really good.


It's his favorite thing to do, to grab hold of someone in his fingers and feel them wriggle in his little white hands. But his people keep telling him, "No, John McCain! Let that person go! You just can't grab people the way you do! You can't! You mustn't!"


So he tries to be sneaky about it.


But when John McCain wants to grab you with his tiny, splayed little knuckly fingers, and he can't, John McCain gets agitated, like a ravenous, caged beast, and needs to calm himself down.


But it's never long before the craving sets in again.


And then John McCain must give in to the temptation to grab you with his tiny little dwarfishly small little grabbing, clutching hands -- must give in, I say, to the raging monster buried deep within his impish fingers and compels him to grab, grab, grab.


You may not think it's all that terrible, being grabbed by John McCain.


The fools! Some actually seek out his awkward little hands, unaware of the terrible, terrible consequences that befalls them when they're held fast in John McCain's iron grip.


Yes, when you're on the business end of those wee little fingers, and they grow, and grow, and grow, as they get closer and closer to you, grasping and clutching and squeezing, you too will rue the day.

Men stronger and more powerful than you have found themselves laid low when grabbed in John McCain's gnarled little splayed-finger grasp.


John McCain pretends like it's "not a problem," his little grabbing issue.


He tells his friends, "I don't need to grab people. I could stop just like that if I wanted to."


"I just don't want to. I just like to grab people," John McCain tells himself, in a vain and fruitless attempt to reassure himself that he doesn't have a grabbing problem -- when clearly, yes, he does.

In public, when John McCain grabs someone, his people try their best to hold him back.


They warn people -- try to keep poor unsuspecting innocents away from John McCain's nibbling, squeezing, clutching, elvishly small little tiny fingers as best they can.


But it is difficult with the crowds. Oh yes. Very difficult.


And when he starts to grab, John McCain cannot be stopped -- will not be stopped, I say -- until he grabs every -- single -- one of us -- in his midgety little bony splay-fingered little dwarf hands. And then he will squeeze tighter and tighter and tighter until the demon dwelling within him that compels him to reach out with his grasping little tiny fingers and grab you is satiated.


At least, for a while.


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