Blogging with Big Perm

Here is a list to set people straight on the ways I would advise people to act.

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 14:45:00 +0000

Here is a list to set people straight on the ways I would advise people to act.

-If you have a hard time wiping your own ass, it's probably not the best time to have a kid.
-If at a grammar school dance, and you're at the age where it won't look creepy to be there, during the slow dances leave enough room for the holy spirit but not too much to be out of ass grabbin' range.
-If you pose a question that requires no response, don't ask the question.
-Don't consume a plate of food that is bigger than your head.
-Buying women drinks will not guarantee future conjugations. It will, however, guarantee that you'll spend the next day cleaning bile out of your Iroc Z and if you're resilient, a restraining order.
-Women under the age of 21 must dress as the Amish do. At your 21st birthday you will be required to pass an inspection at which point you will be judged to see if you are fit to dress in a normal fashion.
-If you are white and you dance at a wedding and you take yourself seriously, you will be shot. No exceptions.
-If you wear your pants in a way that everyone else can see your ass, you will be hung on a door knob by your underpants for three hours and will be forced to wear suspenders.
-If you wear women's jeans and you own a penis, you will be forced to sit to pee.
-If you eat a steak that is still bleeding, your name is Chuck.
-If your name is Chuck and you don't eat steak that is still bleeding, your name is no longer Chuck.
-If your idea of grocery shopping is stopping on the shoulder of the road to retrieve roadkill, your name is Chuck. In this scenario your name can never be taken away. You've earned your wings.
-If you have 27 pets in your house and all are on the mantle, your name is Butch.
-No one under the age of 18 is allowed to own or carry a cell phone, unless you own your own company.
-Anything you say or do will be used against you at some point in your life, if you doubt this, get married.
-If you enjoy the music of Clay Aikens, you're neither straight or Gay. You are an abomination.
-If you take your clothes off and are still wearing a sweater, you will be awarded your own country from which to rule.
-If you've named your dominant hand, you will go blind.
-If you wear a belt buckle made out of a Cadillac hubcap and sweat at a cattle auction in January you are allowed to eat your winnings live.
-If your thong underwear resembles the Shroud of Turin you will be exterminated.
-If you eat cocktail weiners from the can with the intention of drinking the juice, and rocket fuel doesn't spew from your orifices, you will receive a blue honorable mention ribbon.

Some super fine things that should be mentioned while being penned in!

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 21:08:00 +0000

We Here at The Office Daily News like to celebrate the finer things in life, or at least the things we do when we're not penned up between the hours of 8 to 5. That being said, there are some fine things that should be mentioned while being penned in. It's ridiculous to think that what we find as drudgery can't provide a little humor in our day.

-"The Man"
"The Man" is present in every office situation. The guy who takes ACDC's song about having the biggest balls of them all and runs with...said balls. This guy is normally quiet in nature, at least when in the general office setting, however, his moment to shine and let himself be heard will be forever cherished by those lucky enough to hear his roar. This guy finds no shame, not to say that the rest of us should, in bringing his morning constitution to the forefront of commerce. Why settle for handling this delicate business in the comfort of your own bathroom when you can bring all of this greatness to the table and let others know who you are and perhaps, if you're lucky, what you ate the night before. Seldom a moment is as tender as walking into the men's room and hearing what sounds like the opening scenes to Saving Private Ryan. Yelling, screaming, panting, explosions, grunting, and a stench so rich and thick you could drizzle it over pancakes. He doesn't care, not one bit, in fact and in a mischievous sort of way, he's welcoming your presence as if to say, Hell ya I just did that, now fetch me a newspaper chief! This scenario, which I am not so proud to say I've been on the business end of, has gotten to the point to where I can open the door to the bathroom and a noise that can only be described as a siren calls out before I can even close the door. This is just to let everyone know to hold his calls as he has a greater call to duty. In summation: when that kickin' cajun kicks, sometimes, often times, he's got to kick back.

-"The Vulture"
This person is one that is always at the right place at the right time, so they think. To the rest of us, they're a pain in the ass. The vulture thrives on situations where they can swoop in and find themselves a fresh carcass. Whether it's food, office supplies, personal products, it doesn't matter. If it's free, it has their name all over it. Ordering lunch? You're not going to eat all of that tuna fish sandwich, there, are you fatty? I didn't think so. If you had planned on it, this person will most likely guilt you into throwing them a bone. You know, there are some of us that can't afford lunches and yet, there are some, such as yourself that have enough lunch to feed a small village. Swoop! What, we ordered one ply toilet paper as opposed to two ply? No one's going to use that crap. Oh and you can't return it. Swoop. Hey, what ya gonna do with all of those corporate challenge t-shirts. Christmas presents. Swoop. Many salesmen come and want you to use their product. They give free pens, calculators, pads of paper, calendars....Cackaw! Swoop. None of this stuff will ever be used by the vulture, it will retreat to its untimely grave buried in their bottom drawer, right next to the 40 bars of soap that mysteriously went missing last month.

-"Captain Nickname"
Captain Nickname is a timeless classic in the corporate world. God forbid our parents gave us a name and we actually liked it. This guy's so busy he doesn't have time to call you out properly, instead, why don't we say your first initial and them put "man" behind it. Thanks! Now I'm one of the team! It makes me cringe to know that I've been reduced to the status of a mentally decelerated superhero at the cutting edge of subserviency. Why settle for a name like Tom when we can tussle the words around like a nice pat on the head and call you T-Bone or T-ranisaurusrexmeister or perhaps T-benddownandgrabyourankleski. Thanks Pal, you made my day, maybe if I'm lucky I can sit behind you in lunch and watch you take down hot dogs like a monkey trying to jerk itself off. There are natural abbreviations for names that are allowable and that is respectable, but, I don't have a college degree and haven't put in my time at this poop hole so you can give me joke names like we're buddies or something. Anyhow, Captain Nickname should be shot.

Thanks, Big Perm .... and Hey .... if you like this ... pass it on, especially to your boss!
www.TheOfficeDailyNews.com

So I worked with this kid .....

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 21:32:00 +0000

So I use to have to work with this kid, to say the least, was a freakin psychopath. Nice kid-harmless and had good intentions, but, he was definitely out there. He just dropped me a line last week and it was pretty funny. He, shall we say, is a little socially inept. This wasn't his letter, but, it's my depiction of what his letter said- very close to the spirit of things. This is also pretty close to how he talked and acted. He did have an obsession with vacuum cleaners- more specifically Kirby vacuums. Often times I'd get sent out with him to a work site and he would make me want to open a vein in my wrist. One of those kids who thought that just because he was into something, everyone else should be on the same page. If you weren't it's like you kicked his dog-he just couldn't understand why. Anyhow, here is the letter

It should also be noted that he had his pilot's license. Freakin scary. I can only imagine that the only way they'd ever let him fly is if they ran out of monkeys to send up to space.

Dear Big Perm,

It's been a while. I am currently working as a milk maid at a local tavern in Franklinville. I have devised the kid's menu for the bar patrons to peruse and order off of. If I get promoted I'll be the sous chef for microwaveable dinners at the bar I work for it should be more money and perhaps free Salisbury steak morsels. Some nights I work security at the door for Bingo night. It's not too bad but things can get scary when the geriatrics get ornery while I'm checking AARP cards. Have you ever had your testicles punctured by an oxygen tank? Just wondering. I figured then you and I'd have something in common then. I view 1500 AARP cards a night when it gets busy. The old people are kind of like cattle, only they shit themselves more often and they smell like moth balls-cattle just smell like poop, you probably already know that. I've just gotten into racing vacuums. There is a local track where I live that allows open racing every Thursday night at 7pm, if your interested. You'd have to bring your own vacuum because there's no way in hell I'd let you use my Kirby. No offense, but, you haven't the first clue about high powered vacuum cleaners. Mine is a supercharged 357 vortec G wind tunnel with a dual overhead cam and has a NASA sanctioned exhaust. It can go from 0 to 450 mph in like 3.3 seconds. It's pretty cool but last month it knocked a satellite out of orbit so now I have to figure that one out-do you have like 10 million dollars I can borrow? I'm still dating that girl I brought to your show. She's pretty cool. She goes through jackets like I've never seen. She chews on her sleeve, it's ok though we have a pet badger as well. Well, I gotta go, my balls hurt from the oxygen tank and stuff.

Love
Anonymous

/sigh when will my torture ever end
Big Perm
www.TheOfficeDailyNews.com

The Offies, you may have to start awarding these at your work!

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 16:41:00 +0000

Every once in a while, the ever-loving archangels we work for will throw us a bone and commend us for doing our job or not killing anyone this year.

I know that we all crave attention from the people we may or may not wish dead at any given time of the day. I've put my personal life on hold, my wife hates me, my kids believe the milk man is their father (no comment please), and I haven't seen my penis in three years, but, thanks to the man I can now decorate my cubicle with a portrait of two cats stuck in a ball of yarn that says "teamwork." Seldom is heard an award for the people that really matter. Here they are:

Bill Bronstein, Awarded on May 27, 1998: The Way to Go Buddie ! Award:
Bill you have been deemed this week's recipient of the "Way to Go Buddie!" award for not getting piss drops on your pants because you've been shaking it in the men's room for three hours. You'll be able to redeem this voucher for a bottle of absinthe at any liquor store so you can blot out the memory of when we all laughed at you for trusting a fart during your yearly review last time around.

Marge Overdorf, Awarded on March 13, 2000: The Exhibits Self-control! Award:
Marge, we know you're the office fatty fat, but last week you showed true self control by not trampling over the rest of us at 12:00 for lunch. We know you had a turkey leg hidden in your drawer so that's what slowed you down, but, nevertheless instead of acting like a rabies crazed wilder beast, you held back, and waited taking the extra time to care for others and freebase a tube of cake frosting.

Chet Munions, Awarded on September 2, 2001: Most Improved Player:
Chet, we know you have the personality of a soft-spoken sociopath, but, we appreciate the distance you have come to join the winning team here at XYZ Corp. It seems that only 30 years ago we hired you and noticed your peculiarities when faced with the various challenges of the job. We know the comfort you felt from slamming your nut sack in your desk drawer when you became nervous and we applaud you for refraining for the last 5 years. All of us here have pitched in and got you this golden plaque that says "Chet Munions no more will you torture you love onions." It rhymes, Bill thought of it and we are all very proud of what you've done...just don't come within 50 feet of us.

Leslie Hacket, Awarded October 31, 2005: The Mover and Shaker Award:
Leslie, you're 65 and have been working here for 40 years, and for the last 40 years we've noticed that you have no idea you're 65. We've spent much of our life trying not to picture out parents naked, but you have given us the ability to not only see our parents but also our grandparents. Your dedication to wearing inappropriately low cut blouses and short skirts is paramount, not to mention we've noticed that you don't wear underwear, which is great, because we've all wondered what a grilled cheese sandwich looks like after it's been digested. You're just one of the gals, Leslie and we appreciate that. Most impressive was the time you had camel toe in a burlap sack...looked like two hedgehogs fighting over a halibut fillet. Leslie, we salute you.

Love Big Perm
go to www.TheOfficeDailyNews.com for more!

ps does any one know a million people that would be willing to give me a dollar each ? just curious.

The Next Big Miracle Drug! (as seen on TV)

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 03:05:00 +0000

There is no doubt any good television junkie has seen the commercials of this new miracle drug that will rid the worst of us of various ailments. Asthma, smoking, acid reflux, and the plague are all treatable ailments with the aid of some of science's most notable. We watch these commercials and wonder what our lives would be like if we didn't have to traipse through the day with heart-burn and erectile dysfunction. Hell, in a perfect world there would be one that would fulfill our lifelong dream of finishing a party pizza, pounding a forty ouncer and have enough left over to make it with our best lady, at least until the authorities are contacted and the restraining order is put into place. No more lonely nights of curling up into a ball and listening to AirSupply just trying to get your wounded soldier to stand at attention and do anything but leave hair on your palms. No sir, not while a few adventurous, medically inclined so and so's are on call. They've given us the ability to live life and do so without having to feed horse pills to our genitalia.

Regardless of the product all of the commercials are the same. Some guy in a hospital gown, grabbing his ankles while a guy in a white coat roots around in his rectum putting on a sock puppet show and trying to retreive his good pen. The powers that be have given us a second chance, unless of course you look forward to those cold examining rooms with an SS officer yelling at you to eat more salad while poking at your man-boobs. That being said it should be noted that all of these modern marvels come with a small price. At the end of the commercial there is usually some fast talking guy that sounds like Roseanne Barr at a meat raffle letting you know that though this drug may save your life, it'll also make you miserable.

Take for example the erectile dysfunction scenario. Unfortunately many people are experiencing the inability to rise to the occasion when needed. Whether it's due to age, circulatory issues, or your penis packed its bag and left citing neglect and physical abuse, many people are plagued with this condition, and I can only imagine it sucks...or doesn't for that matter. Doctors have come up with a plan to get you moving once again. During the commercial we're all excited thinking that perhaps we'll have a new lease on life and a new venerial disease to brag about in prison, but, then it gets to the end. The good news is that your penis works. The bad news, well, you won't be getting to use it because your heart's going to explode, your hair will fall out, diarrhea is going to come shooting out like fireworks in a Disney parade, and your eyes will cross causing you to become easily confused and walk head first into a grain elevator and in your condition not even an Amish family will help you, they'll just hope the livestock can eat around your disgusting mess of a carcas.

For another example let's look at Irritable Bowel Syndrome or IBS. I can assure you that this is no laughing matter. I've known some to have it and given the right mixture of old draft beer, chicken wings, and perhaps some of that zitti that only the Knights of Columbus swear by, my stomach has been known to furiously reject that rocket fuel through the old tailpipe and in an unceremonious way. Fear not, with this pill you'll have the intestinal fortitude of a crack crazed goat on steroids. That's if it works. If not, well then step up to the plate slugger because your underwear tangled feet are going to be doing a little dangling off the old ponerding perch. Grab a lengthy issue as you might be there for a while. You know, that's BS too because I was under the assumption that this pill was going to stop my ass from being a Harlem fire-hydrant in July. Now, after having taken this pill, not only do I have the craps- which have only gotten worse, I also run the risk of heart failure, receeding gum lines, a mole on my dick, and diabetes. Thanks you freakin geniuses.

If you're lucky you'll never have to tread in these waters, but, if you do, might I suggest getting all of the facts straight before your acne free prom night is interupted by explosive diarrhea, collapsed lungs, and a rocket cock that won't quit. Remember, if it lasts for more than 36 hours don't consult a physician, just hold it up in your belt until you get to the circus where you and the bearded lady can have a wild time and one day give birth to the bat boy with the third leg.

ok i feel better now!
www.TheOfficeDailyNews.com

Here is a short list of so and so's that constitute my list of people we have come to fear the most.

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 17:30:00 +0000

It's the dawn of a new year and we have much to look forward to. Much change that is, at least hopefully. A new man entering the White House, some resolutions we'll undoubtedly keep for a few weeks, and perhaps better economic days. The one thing that will likely never change is the people we work with. It has come to my attention throughout my tenure of corporate nothingness that in any setting such as this there is a core group of people that drive everyone up a wall. Their names may differ as much as their titles may, but, they are all fundamentally the same. Here is a short list of so and so's that constitute my list of people we have come to fear the most.

The Head Cheese:
The head cheese is someone who elicits fear from his or her employees by means of intimidation brought on by nothing but a title. Sure, this person could fire you, but, chances are, their lack of self-esteem would render them useless when put in the position to do so. This person impresses me as the kind that was mercilessly teased throughout childhood for having a head that one could describe as being fit to watch a drive-in movie on. Along with this I sense chronic bed-wetting throughout their pubescent years with a possibly of compulsive toe-nail biting. A claim to fame of beating the cube, along with notorious body parts, is prevalent and a prom photo taken by mom with no date under the guise of "going stag" for the purposes of not being tied down on the big evening. A bedroom wall, in said mother's basement, adorned with spelling bee certificates and motivational posters advising us to work as a team and reach for the stars as only two anatomically correct unicorns skipping on a rainbow could show us. Needless to say this person is a lifer and firmly believes that one day he or she shall run the company, of course if they can get their head out of the owner's ass long enough to notice the poop stains on the back of their ears.

The Yes Guy:
This person is held near and dear to anyone that comes across their path. Ever striving to turn heads by accepting anything the Head Cheese says as divine scripture. This is the first person at work and the last one to leave. No one really knows what he or she does but they're always frantically running and flailing about as if the British were coming and the lanterns were out of oil. Poop stains are visible on this persons ears along with most other extremities. Brazen in his or her ability to strike up meaningless conversation with anyone as if they really cared in an effort to know exactly what is going on so as to report to the head cheese. This person probably knows how much you make along with your gastronomical schedule. In lieu of this knowledge, rest assured that this person has sprayed the restroom with thirty gallons of vanilla air freshener so as to not disrupt the "big guy's" olfactories when nature comes a calling. You may also note that this will be the same person who collects lunch money and never seems to have change. This person may also smell like bologna and sweats profusely when perusing the monthly accounting reports along with getting excited when the CEO comes in with anticipation that he or she will have an opportunity to share some of their peanut butter and jelly (crusts cut off) with said executive and be in the running to offer them a blow job for being the guy he always wanted to be.

The Mother Hen:
The mother hen is typically a female who has worked at the establishment for quite some time and has not been promoted since the Carter administration. Incompetence is the mark of this beast and you will notice her cackle above an air-raid siren along with hundreds of migrant workers fighting over a tuna fish sandwich. She runs the show when it comes time for any company sanctioned event and will typically go by a shortened version of her name. Her days are relatively identical: 5:00 remove the 47 cats from her bed as she gets up to have her shake for breakfast, 6:30 put on pant suit with matching blazer that comes with removable shoulder pads that are never even. Note: shoulder pads make her feel stronger so that hopefully she'll distract anyone from noticing that she smells of moth balls, cat urine, and fish bait. 7:00 hit the road in her station wagon with the cat paw stickers on the hood, 7:15 stop by the crack dealer's house (bet you didn't know that), 7:30 get to work and set up her 120 troll dolls on her desk, 8:00 make her rounds to take a piece of hard candy off every one's desk which she collects and will hand out for Halloween next year, 8:00-12:00 crack induced coma marked by reciting the entire Shirley Temple catalogue, 12:00 Lean Cuisine and another shake for lunch, 1:00 uncontrollable sobbing in the woman's room with an uplifting daily affirmation to follow, 2:00 makes another round about the office to see if anyone wants to buy candy bars for her son that's been in cub scouts working on his busy beaver merit badge since 1980, 3:00 light snack consisting of dried fruit, yogurt, and a loaf of fruitcake (also from Carter administration), 4:30 complains to cubicle mate about hang nails, expired coupons, the office temperature, indigestion, and genital warts. 5:00 packs up the trolls, states "we'll do it again tomorrow", steals more hard candy, stuffs 17 rolls of toilet paper into her buffet purse, and crop dusts a fart from here cubicle to the exit and blames the smell on the janitor who never took last night's garbage out.

The Lacky:
This guy is every one's favorite. Never says anything, but, when he does it's always in Pig Latin. Wears the same thing everyday and passes off the meatball stain as blood from getting his head caught on the trash compactor. This person will normally spit when he talks because his tongue is too long for his mouth. His very presence is marked by the smell of kippered meat and sour grapes and he has open wounds on his lips. It should be noted that crossing him could be detrimental to your health as he has a penchant for chronic masturbation and is careless with his release- Coffee should be brought from home and not left unattended. He will typically garbage pick his lunch except for on Friday when he'll bring in an egg salad sandwich that smells like an onion fart mixed with a hobo's underwear. He has one job and though this may differ from office to office, he is often found sweeping the parking lot and making strange bird noises.

Buyer B Ware!

Classy Ladies are a must for the holiday parties!

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 14:04:00 +0000

Here are a few things to keep in mind when trying to score a classy broad

1) Do not fraternize with hookers.
Though this may be tempting as it is understood with any classy broad that there is a waiting period before you get to know one another biblically, please refrain from patronizing "ladies of the night" while trying to score someone else. Just wait, and give it time. The choice you have to make is 1) wait a bit and make it with said classy broad OR 2) get yourself a prostitute along with a memorable "venerial gift" and lose the prize.

2) Wear a clean pair of undertrunks:
Most guys think on the level of functionality, but, do not sacrifice a clean pair of drawls or none at all because you didn't have time to do wash or the boxers are just one more thing to get in the way when trying to poke one's best lady. Resist the urge as swamp ass, though impressive in some contexts, is not attractive to the female species.

3) Stay away from Indian food:
Unless you have the intestinal fortitude of a goat stay away from Indian food. There is seldom a tender moment to directly follow a nose-hair burning dump. Also, you run the risk of "sharting." This is bad as it a deal breaker and in violation of rule number 2. Eat a salad, there man-boobs, and thank me later.

4) Be respectful:
The temptation for headlocks, nipple twisting, Dutch Ovens, and other forms of tomfoolery may be present, but, reserve this for when you've a few years under your belt and you're living together, taking a crap with the door open, and balancing your check book at the same time. If you end up doing all of them at once, you will be commended and you and your hand can ride off into the sunset.

5) Class it up at the bars:
There is nothing wrong with taking your lady to a bar and having a drink, but, stay away from any bar that maybe reminiscent of Patrick Swayze's Roadhouse. Though the war wounds may elicit some pitty, there's too much of a chance that while your running your mouth about the Yankees, your classy broad could find the business end of a pool cue breaking over her nose. The videos from Altamont are great for historic purposes, but, the only movement in this case will be your ass to the emergency room.

6) Stay away from outdoor activities:
This seems harsh and there are certainly things you can do while dating that would involve the outdoors, but, be realistic with yourself. Going on a camping trip is great until you get molested by a badger and you lose your eyebrows because you almost lost a smore in the fire. By the way bathing in the lake is fun as long as Nessy doesn't try to make you her bitch...I've seen it happen.

For the ladies... all guys are classy so just shoot a dart and you are sure to get a winner!

Here is a list of the worst things you can possibly do!

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 13:59:00 +0000

Here is a list of the worst things you can possibly do. It comes in random order as I'm not sure what hierarchy or terror to place these things under.

-Sit on your nuts.
Guys have a love/hate relationship with their nuts. I won't go into too much of the love as I'm sure we all know what that could consist of. A lot of trust goes into having a a body part, that if you're lucky, swings about like an eighty year old on a tire swing-lifeless and bitter. But let's say you don't prepare your junk for the drop....you're in a world of squish and roll. That's why, fellas, it's important to take one step before you plop your ass on the chair. I like to call it the Tussle of Trust. Take your dominant hand and scoop the fellas like you're saving a few ostrich eggs from a fiery death. Carefully pull your nutty pouch toward the safety of your waist (not too far, that'll hurt as well). When you feel like your love onions are secure, happy, and ready for the drop, slowly lower one's self onto the seat. Once you're completely seated, then you may release the hounds...but...not before you've secured your slacks so as to not have the 1-2 split. The two ball separation is when the seam of your slacks cuts right into the center of your duffel bag, therefore leaving your area looking like you're hanging Gonzo up-side-down and trying to steal his lunch money. That's not good.

-Celine Dion
I could say buy a Celine Dion CD or perhaps go to a concert where she furiously beats her chicken chest until a C sharp comes out or say watch a show with Celine Dion in it, but, I think that would be leading you down the wrong path. I'd have to say that thinking about anything or uttering anything that might resemble something being pro Celine Dion is felonious on all counts and punishable by death as far as I'm concerned. If for some reason you come in contact with anything Celine Dion, please wash infected area with water and consult a 3rd world blind physician. With any luck you will become blind and deaf. The open wounds will compensate as punitive damages for having offended the rest of us.

-Utter the name Steve Perry without genuflecting:
Listen, I went to Catholic school and I know what we were all told. Hell, it's the first commandment for all of you bible thumpers, but, that doesn't mean the man with the master plan doesn't have helpers. Steve Perry is just that, a helper. He has shown us the very essence of life, that being the mullet/mustache combination. If your name was Sherry in the 80's I'm pretty sure you would have been worshipped by all those gals named Gerty, or Sandy, or maybe even Meat tits...you know who you are. That's right, the lass he sings about is even that important that others wish they could be linked to him by sharing the name. That's the power of his might. He has blessed us with shots of his spandexed bulge and has saved us by his timeless lyrics. We build a golden calf in your honor.

-Wear women's jeans:
I understand that it has become somewhat fashionable these days for fellas to wear women's jeans. Wearing jeans that tight, you poops, will lower your sperm count. Now that I think of it I hope you do have kids that one day wear women's jeans and underwear just so you can see how ridiculous it looks. If I had it my way, any guy caught wearing women's jeans will have to get the word "chic" branded across their forehead and be forced to sit to pee after the rest of us urinate on the seat. If for some reason this doesn't help, you'll have your ears boxed and will be forced to ride a bike with no seat while wearing Rustler brand black denim pants with a matching shirt. You will be thwarted thusly until you realize what you have done and how you have embarrassed your parents and the rest of us fellas.

yep ... that is all

California Woman Sees The Virgin Mary in Salsa Platter?!?!?

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 15:08:00 +0000

California Woman Sees The Virgin Mary in Salsa Platter:
A continuation of the Yahoo News Article

In an article I barely skimmed over I learned of a woman in California that apparently saw a vision of the Virgin Mary in a salsa platter. When I say "barely skimmed" I mean the headline was the only thing I needed to inspire my further looking into this phenomenon. We've heard stories of fainted glimpses of past loved ones, Elvis selling "hot" cartons of cigarettes to toddlers in reform schools, Jimmy Durante taking a dump in a Wendy's parking lot, and even various religious figures hiding out in abandoned hospitals, but, this has to take the cake.

Let's boil this idea down so we can all understand what is happening here. Someone saw an appearance of Mary in a plate of dip. Let's ask this first question: Did this woman want to see something to the point that her imagination led her to this discovery?, or, was she whacked out of her mind on peyote to the point that she saw the holiest of holies doing a two-step in a Mexican dish? I'm not trying to be a nay-sayer, but, for Christ's sake or Mary's sake, for that matter, do you think these people have nothing better to do?

In all of my years of Catholic grammar school, I learned one thing, the holy family went through an immense amount of crap. First of all, they had to walk for hundreds of miles just so the government could slap them in the balls with taxes...while being pregnant nonetheless, when you get there, you have to give birth to the son of man in a barn. After that, 3 wise guys show up and give you gifts, that quite frankly probably smelled like poop on a stove (gold not included).

While your kid is growing up he tries to tell stories that will hopefully put people in their places so they don't act like a bunch of meth. addicted morons. All the while you're just trying to make ends meet. Then one of your son's friends blows him into the cops for a bag of coins and you have to watch him parade around the town with his pants down carrying a piece of wood. Then when you're looking for a little reprieve they nail him to said piece of wood and make him drink vinegar for counts that escape me-essentially for being different.

Long story short, you spent your whole life just trying to do the right thing, minding your own business, and "the man" takes a steaming dump on your welcome mat for no good reason and forces you to watch your son die. As if that wasn't enough, now, for eternity, everyone sits around with their thumb up their ass asking you to figure out their problems as if you had nothing better to do. Even better, now some lady is going to get her chance to tell her story of how she saw you swimming in a bowl of peppers and onions just so she can have her 15 minutes of fame. I think that shows a complete lack of responsibility on the media's part.

Once again, I think the lady in question here should be entitled to her beliefs, but, if it's something you hold near and dear, then why not keep it to yourself instead of acting like you're better than everyone else. Moral of the story? Mind your own business and maybe try to stop cashing in on this crap.

boredom induced rambling

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 00:59:00 +0000

Here comes the boredom induced rambling:

You know what's great about having your cubicle in the middle of a bunch of women? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'd say, for the single guy, maybe it increases the chances of dipping one's pen in the company ink, but, it's quite the contrary. If I were single I would march right down to the nearest veterinary clinic and have myself fixed. Perhaps they could insert a few marbles in my pouch so as to not have postpartum depression, but, sitting in the middle of this hen house makes me feel like a dog being chased by a vacuum cleaner. Just a lot of noise and trembling tension. I am hoping that by drinking enough coffee I might be able to somehow overdose on caffeine and black-out until 5:00. I'm pretty sure their egocentric tendencies will prevent them from even noticing.

My other option in this mess is to start acting like I'm crazy. I've considered coming in with a tinfoil helmet and some rainbow suspenders. Call me Mork, call me nuts, but please just make the chatting stop. It is with this that I firmly believe that this company needs to step back into the 1950's and bring back segregation, at least to the extent of removing "Chatty Kathy's" from my general area. It is at this point that I discuss the difference of men and women. The whole black and white versus 18 million shades of gray. I believe, in some cases, that men, even though often times put down by the opposite sex for being primitive, are more evolved. Before someone burns a bra, let me explain.

Men are simple, we have likes and dislikes and for the most part, these don't change. For example I don't like pork chops, never have, never will. Ask a woman this and you may get: Well, it depends, I like them when mom made shake and bake and I helped, but, I didn't like them because my ex-boyfriend used to eat them with shake and bake, but then I went into this trendy restaurant and the waiter was really cute so I ordered them at his suggestion, but then I realized he smelled like my father who never hugged me so then I told him to take it back and bring me a salad. Now, let's compare answers: one is straight to the point, the other left us all checking our pulse and hopelessly waiting for some sort of relevance. On top of this, the question was never really answered.

I'm certainly not ignorant enough to believe that all woman act this way, but, my sample population before me does and the fact that I spend more time around these cocaine crazed hens than I do my wife infuriates me.
The group around me makes me believe that Satan does exist and that I should have gone to church this past weekend. At least there, all's well in the world and the altar boys don't complain about sitting on wood....benches that is.

My other option is to get involved in their discussions as a way to undermine their testosterone hating fun. Simply done, I'll agree to everything they say and lead them to believe that everything that has happened to them has happened to me, but, exponentially worse. Take for example: I have cramps. Oh yeah, well so do I and I have hot flashes and I can't tell if my pants make me look fat or if these heals are really that comfortable.

Maybe what I need is a boyfriend that'll understand me and tend to my every inane request. Once again, not applicable to every female. You know, tonight I'm going out with the gals for happy hour and I'm going to dance until my worries are gone. Maybe a few guys will buy me drinks and then never talk to me when they realize that everything I have to say revolves around me and all of my plights. Perhaps we should all have a moratorium, snacks provided, to discuss how your weekend went and maybe put off work for a few hours to discuss why reality television really isn't that real cuz no one gets a house that nice without having to sleep around.
Heed my anger ladies, cuz my day is coming.

That's all I have for right now.

Christmas can come for all

noreply@blogger.com (Big Perm) — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 23:38:00 +0000

Judging by our current economic situation, regardless of who is president, families around the country, and world for that matter, are going to have to tighten the belt on their yearly shopping excursions. That being said, just because you can't afford that gaming system or life size, anatomically correct Burt Reynolds action figure with Kung-fu grip mustache does not mean you have skimp on the goods.

As a kid, I found out that with 10,000 roofing nails, paneling remnants, leftover 2x4s, and a wealth of time and imagination you can make just about anything. Had it not been for the countless broken windows and puncture wounds to the thumb I probably would have built my very own pagoda from which to pay homage to the squirrel god of acorns. Hell, you can even make young Billy his very own bike ramp/drawbridge...just don't be like me and leave the nails facing up and out of the wood.

With this mentality (helmet is encouraged) the sky's the limit. For example, old underpants (underwear is for Nancie's, underpants are for a man's man), a Y shaped piece of wood, and a sack of marbles make for a great slingshot. Just make sure you take the kid out of the underpants after you steal them (not in that gross way). Play your cards right and you have Christmas dinner and a few taxidermed squab on the mantle to make that season bright.

Rummaging around in your neighbors garage, are you? Never mind the jars of urine, take the hubcaps. Nothing sends Jack Frost nipping at your nose like some of your favorite baked goods on a stylish platter. Brake dust tastes just like nutmeg when your wrecked out of your mind on absinthe and PCP and if that little ankle biter nephew of yours keeps head butting you in the pellets, make like Odd job and wing that thing at his swollen peanut shaped head.

When all is said and done, these are just a few of the many possibilities. Uncle Chet died 20 years ago and Aunt Edna is lonely? Give her a companion she can appreciate. The soup kitchens are full of people looking to make friends. If he stinks, who cares, you couldn't smell a sewage plant through the wintry freshness of mothballs and aunt traps in her house. Just make sure he's nice and doesn't mind talking to 14 different personalities at once.