Hello. My favorite show in the whole wide world is on. Again. Another re-run. I love re-runs. I’m being facetious of course when I say that it’s my favorite. And right now I’m close, very close, to gaining the ultimate satisfaction trip after I rip the TV out of the fucking wall and throw it through somebody’s car window.
It will be like that scene from Office Space when they beat up the fax machine with baseball bats in a field, only this scene will feature an Adidas shoe, and maybe a rock, and a TV, and I just want to see Ray Barone’s digital face behind a piece of shattered glass for once. Do they make TV screens out of glass? Or plastic? I don’t care.
Whatever they use, it better sound cool when I break it.
There’s no way people watch shittiness of this magnitude. This…show…should be aired on TV’s in terrorist detention camp cells. You know what? Speaking of, I’d rather get waterboarded with chocolate milk than have to sit here and listen to this whiny d-bag and his bitchy wife argue about sex.
Wait, did I see this episode? The one where Ray and what’s-her-face are arguing about sex?
Bitchy Wife: No Ray. Not tonight. I’m tired.
Raymond: But you’re always tired!
Bitchy Wife: Oh stop whining, Ray.
Raymond: But there was that one time when I did that favor. For you! Remember that favor?
Bitchy Wife: Ray, putting the toilet seat down isn’t a favor.
Raymond: Yeah, yeaaaahh. Remember that time? When I did that? I did that for yooou. Yeah, see?
Somebody should bring that show back long enough to fire the writers.
You have 40 seconds to live, Toshiba.
I am a smoker. And, if there were enough hours in the day I’d probably smoke a carton. I’d smoke four at a time – lighting fresh ones with butts – blowing smoke rings out of my nose. I’d blow it in the faces of innocent bystanders where am I going with this? Ok, I don’t like smoking that much. But I still like the shit out of it.
Despite how much I like smoking, it was probably the stupidest thing I ever did.
I quit one time, and the first week was on par with heroine or methadone withdrawal. I bit one of my fingers off. There were shredded napkins everywhere. My eyeball fell out. I might have thrown up blood at some point. But other than that, things went pretty well.
You don’t really realize how engrained it is in your routine until you stop doing it, and after that, you get the crabby panty syndrome, or what I call, ‘Cigarettes Tourette’s’.
It goes something like this:
CH: I don’t know what to do with my FUCK hand I need to smoke something SHIT and this straw is not working LLAMA not DICK working at all and this gum FUCK sucks and it tastes like rubber and SHIT chalk I can’t see straight and the lights are FUCK dimming.
And that’s why I quit the first time. Because somebody said to me somewhere once that this is a healthier alternative to smoking. I felt fine before I quit, and then that. Peer pressure. Again.
That’s without a doubt the worst part about being a smoker – having to listen to some obese man with a cholesterol problem lecture me on the reasons why I should quit smoking while he is chewing on a rib bone. Duly noted, sir. And now please wipe the sodium-rich barbecue sauce off your face because it’s making me look at it.
But all these ads with smoking fetuses, and some girl with cigarette butts on her tongue, and voice box guy – it’s all too much. SHUT UP I’m trying to concentrate on smoking. I get it. We all get it. I’m waving the white flag indicating that you’re right. You win. Smoking is bad.
So here I am now, staring at a box of Chantix and wondering what the shelf life is on this drug is. It’s an ugly box. A stupid box. I’m not sure when I’m going to eat them. I not sure I want to eat them. If I eat them it’s going to be like that scene in Titanic at the end when Jack is sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic:
Cigarettes, come back.
Come back, pack.
Pack, come FUCK back…
**Bonus Contest Alert **Bonus Contest Alert**Bonus Contest Alert**
If you guess correctly what kind of cigarettes I smoke, I’ll make you a free banner or some badges for your Facebook/Twitter pages. But one guess only, cheaters!
And don’t stop smoking, because quitting is bad for you.
I might get myself into a heap a shit today with the some of you this morning, BUT! Just another routine day at the office…
Today it’s time to do some ball-busting, and those cheeseball inspirational posters that everybody plasters all over their social media pages are due for a call-out. You know what I’m talking about, right? Those really sappy quote posters about “climbing to the top of the summit and blah blah blah..” and “You’ll never know what you had until you blah blah blah…”
The only thing this inspires me to do is stick my finger down my throat and tickle that hangy-down thingy until I throw up…
There is a subliminal message in each of these too, and I’m pretty confident that I’ve cracked the code. I think. So grab your Friday Java, and make sure you don’t drink any of it while you’re reading this list, because I cannot be held liable for coffee sprayage all over your high-def Samsung computer monitor.
CLICK HERE for all the action happening over at Long Awkward Pause today.
I promise it’ll deliver.
Or it will completely suck.
One or the other.
When I originally moved into the Chowderpad, I was a bit hasty in signing up for a cable TV package; one that I quickly discovered was heavily enriched with channels that have no business being on TV. I never realized that local Government had so many unimportant things to say, and with so many distribution outlets to say it through.
So, last week I decided to visit my local AT&T retailer to schedule a Cable Guy to come out and host an installation party that would hopefully waste my entire Saturday afternoon.
While in the store, going through the endless paperwork stack, and trying my best to comprehend the sales pitch that I was not really listening to, I once again slept through a vital information exchange opportunity:
The address on my license was not my current place of residence.
Because of my dur moment, I put poor store rep. Andy, through a heap of trouble preparing a work order for a cable package installation that was now scheduled to take place at a house that I do not live in. Continue reading
First and foreskin, I want to thank Adam for trusting his blog-space with my words. I’m happier than a stoner at a Funyun factory to be here, and I hope I can do Chowderhead some justice. If you have any questions, comments, concerns, or death threats, Adam’s got my email address. Please contact him if you want to direct any hate mail my way.
– Jeff, Content Unrelated
Conversations with Dogs
“I wish you could talk, Fido.”
You hear it all the time in the movies. Some stupid little kid crying in his room because he got his ass kicked at school for being a stupid little kid, and his trusty dog is always there to tongue away his stupid little tears.
“If you could talk, you’d know what to say. You know what to do!”
You think so, kid?
You really think Fido would know exactly what to say to make you feel better? I mean, dogs are smart, don’t get me wrong. I’m a dog-person. I have two. But I would never want my four-legged assholes to talk back.
They’ve Seen Too Much.
Plus, they wouldn’t really be able to go to school so it would be like talking to a 5-year-old. They’d have a grasp on basic words and what things are, but it’s not like you could sit there and discuss your theories about LOST or do calculus together.
“I wish you could talk, Fido.”
Just for kicks though, I wondered what it would be like if my dogs could actually have conversations with me:
Morning: 7 a.m.
Dog: Hey. Hey. Wake up.
Me: Wh-what time is it?
Dog: It’s time for me to eat, human!
Me: Can you give me 15 minutes?
Dog: Sure, human! I will give you 15 minutes!
TWO MINUTES LATER…
Dog: Hey. HEY! Time to eat! Eat eat eat!
Me: I said 15 minutes.
Dog: Stupid human! I have no concept of time! Let’s go!
Me: *gets out of bed*
Dog: YAY! Food food food food food food food.
“After coming home from a long work day, all I want to do is enjoy some quiet, pants-less beer time. I have responsibilities, though. I knew what I signed up for, but goddamn, you guys…”
Me: *keys jingle while I unlock the door*
Dog: ATTENTION EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE APARTMENT BUILDING! SOMEONE IS AT MY FRONT DOOR. I WILL CONTINUE TO KEEP YOU INFORMED UNTIL THEY GO AWAY. BE ADVISED.
Me: All right, all right! I’m here! I’m home! You can relax now…
Dog: Relax? Relax?! You were gone forever! I thought you were never ever ever going to come back! I almost starved to death! NEVER LEAVE ME AGAIN.
Me: Okay, you ready to eat, boy?
Dog: I’m good for now, but thanks!
Me: But I thought you said you were starv–
Dog: I pooped over there, in the corner, and I just ate some of it.
Me: WHAT THE FUCK.
Me: *grabs a paper towel*
Dog: No! I’m saving that for later!
Flying Solo – Door Closed:
“If there’s one thing dogs do really well, it’s interrupting sexytimes, whether it be while flying a solo mission, or spending time with the lady friend. If I don’t find an adequate distraction for the dogs when it’s business time, my testicles turn from a nice, fleshy white to a color that would qualify them as the fourth and fifth members of the Blue Man Group.”
Me: *click … click … click … play … unzip*
Dog: Human? Human, are you in there?
Me: *tug … tug*
Dog: *bangs door*
Dog: HEY WHERE DID YOU GO? ARE YOU IN THERE? COME OUT I MISS YOU!
Flying Solo – Door Open:
Me: *click … click … click … play … unzip*
Dog: *enters room … makes eye contact*
Me: GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!
Dog: *comes right back into the room*
Sexytimes – Door Closed:
* Same rules apply as FLYING SOLO (DOOR CLOSED), except minus one porn video and plus one actual woman.
Sexytimes – Door Open:
Me and her: *things start getting hot and heavy*
Dog: *realizes humans aren’t within sight*
Dog: Humans? Where did you guys go?
Me and her: *blocking out distractions*
Dog: *enters room … immediately jumps on the bed*
Dog: OOH! Are you wrestling! I love wrestling! Can I play? I wanna play! Let’s play!
Me and her: *continuing to block distractions*
Dog: Something smells different! Like dog-butt but not from a dog! Is that you, human?
Me: What are you even talking abo—
Dog: *presses cold, wet nose directly into my asscrack
Me: OH MY GOD GET YOUR NOSE OUT OF MY ASS.
Dog: Sorry, human! I couldn’t resist! It smelled so good!
Dogs don’t just ruin private sexytimes. I can’t even take a shit without a furry, four-legged partner.
TAKING A SHIT:
Me: *sits on toilet*
Dog: *enters bathroom*
Me: Think I could have a couple minutes?
Dog: Sure! What are you doing?
Me: I’m … I’m pooping. Go.
Dog: Oh, sweet! I love pooping! How about since you watch me poop when we go outside, you let me watch you poop in here! Deal?
Me: Just … just give me like, two minutes. Please.
Dog: Are you sure I can’t watch?
Dog: *makes eye contact*
Dog: I’m going to watch.
“I wish you could talk, Fido.”
Fuck you and your asshole dog, kid. There’s a reason dogs can’t talk. They say enough with their barking and tail-wagging and interrupting of Sexytimes…
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– Happy Blogging, Chowderheads \m/
Maybe it’s the Yankee in me, but I absolutely hate waiting in lines. See, I have this uncanny, superhuman, x-men-like ability to subconsciously locate and endure the absolute worst possible line in the history of checkout lines wherever I go. Someone please contact Guinness. It’s world record wait. Every. Single. Time.
Tip: if you ever happen across me standing in line someplace, even if you really wanna talk to me or get my autograph or something like that, don’t do it. I’ll mail you an autographed picture of my bare buttocks – whatever you want – just do yourself a favor: go stand in the next checkout line over. Even if its twenty senior citizens deep. Trust me.
Here’s a brief list of typical scenarios that I face on a regular basis:
Baseball Team: sextuple (seven) scoop hot fudge brownie boat with sprinkles, half-fat caramel chocolate-mocha frappe drizzle, every single nut known to the Dominican Republic, freeze-dried watermelon rind puree, cat liver, fucking onions, and whatever else you got, lady. After three bites, the kid doesn’t like it or throws it up all over the floor, or on my sweet tennis shoes, and it goes in the garbage. What a surprise… Continue reading
For the past two weeks I’ve been relocating every single piece of shit that I own – and then some – into the all new Chowderpad. Forgive me. For those who care, I’m still very much alive.
I decided to spend the first night that I didn’t have to run out and buy ‘stuff’ by testing the smoke alarm in my 600 sq. ft. dwelling. It works. Not only is it loud, but there are two of them that beep at the same time. They talk too. A female voice told me to stop cooking and to exit the building immediately along with all of my pissed off neighbors.
After about ten minutes of listening to the incessant, loud beeping, I decided to just turn the radio on. I couldn’t find the clicker to change the hippy-music station that was on but quickly decided that it was the way to drown out the sound. My new neighbors have two good reasons to hate me now.
After a couple songs I realized why I prefer head banging and mosh pits over club and booty-grinding music. A flood of awkward memories drifted into my subconscious, and one of the memories that stood out was my 8th grade Halloween Dance.
I remember being absolutely stoked. Not just because Halloween is my favorite holiday, but because it was the first legit school dance ever. It was gonna be off the hizzy for shizzy: costumes, decorations, spiked punch, chicks and heavy metal and shit. But heavy on the chicks part. All I needed was a sweet-ass costume to reel ‘em in… Continue reading
I’ve come to the realization that Yahoo Answers is the electronic version of The Magic 8 Ball. In other words, it’s the biggest pile of shit ever dumped into a flaming paper bag and dropped onto your virtual doorstep since the dawn of the Internet.
Here’s how it works:
1.) User asks a question seeking a valid response.
2.) Question is then made available to a general population of experts, comprised mainly of YouTube trolls, single men over the age of forty and hipsters. Answers are typically never longer than five words and usually written in butchered English or hipster shorthand.
Thanks to the contributions made by the single males over the age of forty group .01% of the responses found on the site are not entirely useless. Continue reading
A few weeks ago I was experiencing a blog identity crisis and announced that I would be undergoing a sex change. I mean a name change. Since then, amid all of your incredibly cool suggestions, and all of the dumbass names that I came up with myself, I still haven’t decided on one.
My indecisiveness leads me to believe one of two things: 1.) I’m not incorporating enough essential fatty oils into my diet, or 2.) I’m pregnant.
All that aside, I made a promise that I intend to keep and I’m gonna make good on it today. But I’m changing the rules up a bit; instead of blabbing on and on about one person, one winner, I’m about to throw a bunch of thick-skinned blogger buddies of mine onto the barbecue.
Congratulations. You’re all winners of the Name Adam’s Dumb Blog Contest!
Here’s how the whole thing’s gonna play out: I rip you to pieces, you cry for a few minutes, then you send me an anonymous death threat or a horse head, then we hug and makeup, and then you drop me a PayPal contribution for publicizing your blog! I just threw that last part in there. It’s not mandatory.
The Premise of the Roast:
I have a couple of really sharp computer geek friends that figured out a way to reverse the search term feed. I know who used what search terms to find my blog, and today I’m gonna let the dirty little kitty out of the bag. I’ll also try my best to address your long-forgotten queries. Of course I’m making all this shit up right now, but just play along.
Alright, so dig this, I’m going on a solo flight in a couple of days and I’m wiggin’ out.
I’m not all that big on flying, so I’ve been spending a lot time in the fetal position, whimpering like a sissy. I thought this might be sort of therapeutic for me, ya know? Write it out, Chowderhead, just write it out…
See, I’m not one of those people that’s afraid of crashing and dying. Honestly, I can think of much worse ways of expiring, like, for instance, being eaten by Hannibal Lecter. That would suck much more than a really brief, but really fun, roller coaster ride into the ocean.
Maybe I shouldn’t tempt fate…
What I am afraid of is all of the ridiculous scenarios that I create in my mind before I even set foot on the plane. Consequently, (I like that word) for the past week and a half I’ve been chain-smoking and building a collection of virtual self-help books, which now rivals the Library of Congress. At the moment, I’m working on a chapter in one of my anxiety miracle cure books called, “how to stop worrying about spraying projectile vomit all over the guy in the seat next to you.”
That would be one of those ridiculous scenarios. Not that it wouldn’t be possible I guess, but I haven’t tossed my cookies since I was an infant. That is of course if you don’t count that one time when I went to that Lebanese restaurant after a night of heavy drinking a few years back. But that was only like a violent vurp — not really full on hurl.
In any case, I realize now that not only do I have this longstanding phobia of just about everything, but a particularly bad phobia of all things vomit. God I hate that word. They actually have a name for it too: emetephobia. Gnarly!
Emetephobia, is what self-help guru’s refer to as an “Irrational fear.” I would have to agree, it is irrational, because chances are likely that I’m not really going to give two shits about the guy sitting next to me for a number of reasons:
1.). He might be an armrest-stealer.
2.) He might be a talker, which means kiss my Yatzy Addict Tournament goodbye.
3.) He could be a projectile vomiter, which would do absolutely nothing to help me rid myself of emetephobia.
I hope he’s just an armrest-stealer…
I’m rambling now. Shut up, man. Does this give me a free pass for slacking on reading everyone’s stuff? I’m acting like such an attention whore right now, I know. Please tell me to stick a sock in it and man up.
Oh, and I still don’t have a clue what I’m gonna name this blog, not that it’s all that important, but you know, The Artist Formerly Known as My Right to Bitch is gonna be a really hard one to plug to random strangers on the plane: “Hey, you should read my blog, it’s called…wait, do you have about five minutes to spare?”
Louisiana or bust…
- Vomiting Robot Pukes for Science (news.discovery.com)
- Larry the vomiting robot goes ‘viral’ while helping researchers study norovirus (thestar.com)