Frankly, I’m concerned. I was born in the Year of The Pig, every woman who knows me has at one time or another called me a chauvinist pig, my ex calls me a “swine,” and, if you’ve seen me at the dinner table, well… ‘nuff said.
On the other hand, maybe everyone who knows me should be worried.
BILL
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Shocked, SHOCKED I Was When I Read THIS!
In 2001, the 9/11 terrorists spent every waking moment of their day doing two things and two things only:
1) Spent 20% of their time preparing for the 9/11 hijackings.
2) Spent 80% of their time teaching Americans how to text-message while driving.
BILL
1) Spent 20% of their time preparing for the 9/11 hijackings.
2) Spent 80% of their time teaching Americans how to text-message while driving.
BILL
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Experience has taught me that...
… anytime someone resorts to “C’mon, it’ll be a good experience,” you can pretty much strap yourself in for a lousy time.
BILL
BILL
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
(If and) When I Get To The Promised Land...
… the first thing I’m going to do is ask: “Hey, fellas! Where’s the peanut brittle?” And if they don’t reply: “It’s right next to the Kate Beckinsale clones,” I’ll know I’m in Hell and they haven’t broken the news to me yet.
BILL
PS – As stated previously, this is a big “If.”
BILL
PS – As stated previously, this is a big “If.”
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Lie Test!!!
Tell me five things about yourself, one of which is a lie. Here are mine. Can you find the falsehood?
1) My father is a retired mining engineer.
2) My father studied mining engineering in college.
3) We had a lot of copper in our home.
4) I would often yell at my nosy father: “Mine your own business!!!”
5) I’m dating Freida Pinto of “Slumdog Millionaire.”
BILL
1) My father is a retired mining engineer.
2) My father studied mining engineering in college.
3) We had a lot of copper in our home.
4) I would often yell at my nosy father: “Mine your own business!!!”
5) I’m dating Freida Pinto of “Slumdog Millionaire.”
BILL
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
ESSAY: Paid My Dime But(t) Only Farted
"Here I sit, so brokenhearted.
Paid my dime but(t) only f*rted."
(Anonymous)
Has ever a poem - like no Shakespearean sonnet ever dared - braved to touch upon so much of what it is to be human, yet captured it so succinctly? Eleven words. One shy of the dozen mark yet striking that most resonant chord of crushing disappointment, foiled monetary calculations and bitter irony. And that apropos soupcon of vulgarity, spicing it oh-so-unpretentiously!
And yet so much, so very much left unsaid! Can our mind's eye not capture the poet's frantic dash to the commode? Perhaps preceded by an equally frantic attempt at garnering coinage by way of trading his last crumpled dollar, all to hasten him to the much sought privacy of the men's room stall? Then seeing this hurried chap fling his pants downward in a near seizure of anxiety, as too his underwear - boxers? briefs? who is to know? - while at the same time his aching knees plunge him into the seated position.
Able at last to heed nature's most implacable demand, he sets free the coiled muscles of his p*sterior, loosening the very girders of his backside and then, in near orga*mic relief - and much to his shock and surprise - he merely f*rts instead of relinquishing forever to the sewers (like Jean Valjean beneath the streets of Paris in "Les Miserables") the fetid contents of his b*wels. Has disappointment ever been so aptly worded? Surely I doubt it.
And yet there is more to this polished gem of a poem. So much more!
True, all of us face disappointment from time to time, some more than others, fate being touchstone to fickle. But how many of us pay to be disappointed like the beleaguered hero of Anonymous's epic scribbling? To pay for disappointment! To spend one's hard-earned money in search of relief, only to discover that one has been trumped by fate. Yes, cruel mistress that she is, she seems to be taunting him, for there is nothing poor Anonymous can do! Beseech his b*wels to obey you say? Sorry, they speak a language unto themselves, their untoward dribbles emulating the stretched mouth of a deflating balloon governed by the mischievous fingers of an unruly child. Abide patiently upon his porcelain throne and stubbornly wait her out? Sorry, the surly demands of one's day await no man! He instead is obliged - nay is forced - to haul up his trousers and be on his way, leaving in his wake the stench of disappointment to commingle with the malodorous gasses from his duly humbled p*osterior.
The poor man is powerless to do anything - anything! - but hoist said pantaloons and call it a day, consoled only by the tidbit knowledge that when the biologic urge deigns to revisit him, at least then he shall be prepared to duel, armed with a fistful of dimes.
For now, however, he departs in a state of wretched despair, lending a tragic air to our tale. With mere coins in pocket, he heads for whatever pains await him. And who can resist imagining what pains he might already have suffered over the course of his troubled life? A scold of a wife? An absent or drunken father? Siblings who cared for him not a whit? Schoolyard bullies who daily taunted a weakling youth? Carried like sackcloth burdens over uncaring years, these pale in comparison to his current plight, for none of these have ever cost him one red cent! Unlike this his most recent pain, which sears him still like some retracted fireplace poker. The cause of the pain removed, the pain nonetheless abiding. Truly, a most bitter and callous defeat!
But, alas, as every dog has its day, so shall this man! As surely as day follows night, he shall soon enough prevail over his recalcitrant b*wels. And when he does, he shall cr*p away with unshackled exuberance, savoring the pleasant smile that breaks like dawn across his face and finding within it the same welcome peace that arrives on the wings of children's laughter from a playground far, far away.
BILL
Paid my dime but(t) only f*rted."
(Anonymous)
Has ever a poem - like no Shakespearean sonnet ever dared - braved to touch upon so much of what it is to be human, yet captured it so succinctly? Eleven words. One shy of the dozen mark yet striking that most resonant chord of crushing disappointment, foiled monetary calculations and bitter irony. And that apropos soupcon of vulgarity, spicing it oh-so-unpretentiously!
And yet so much, so very much left unsaid! Can our mind's eye not capture the poet's frantic dash to the commode? Perhaps preceded by an equally frantic attempt at garnering coinage by way of trading his last crumpled dollar, all to hasten him to the much sought privacy of the men's room stall? Then seeing this hurried chap fling his pants downward in a near seizure of anxiety, as too his underwear - boxers? briefs? who is to know? - while at the same time his aching knees plunge him into the seated position.
Able at last to heed nature's most implacable demand, he sets free the coiled muscles of his p*sterior, loosening the very girders of his backside and then, in near orga*mic relief - and much to his shock and surprise - he merely f*rts instead of relinquishing forever to the sewers (like Jean Valjean beneath the streets of Paris in "Les Miserables") the fetid contents of his b*wels. Has disappointment ever been so aptly worded? Surely I doubt it.
And yet there is more to this polished gem of a poem. So much more!
True, all of us face disappointment from time to time, some more than others, fate being touchstone to fickle. But how many of us pay to be disappointed like the beleaguered hero of Anonymous's epic scribbling? To pay for disappointment! To spend one's hard-earned money in search of relief, only to discover that one has been trumped by fate. Yes, cruel mistress that she is, she seems to be taunting him, for there is nothing poor Anonymous can do! Beseech his b*wels to obey you say? Sorry, they speak a language unto themselves, their untoward dribbles emulating the stretched mouth of a deflating balloon governed by the mischievous fingers of an unruly child. Abide patiently upon his porcelain throne and stubbornly wait her out? Sorry, the surly demands of one's day await no man! He instead is obliged - nay is forced - to haul up his trousers and be on his way, leaving in his wake the stench of disappointment to commingle with the malodorous gasses from his duly humbled p*osterior.
The poor man is powerless to do anything - anything! - but hoist said pantaloons and call it a day, consoled only by the tidbit knowledge that when the biologic urge deigns to revisit him, at least then he shall be prepared to duel, armed with a fistful of dimes.
For now, however, he departs in a state of wretched despair, lending a tragic air to our tale. With mere coins in pocket, he heads for whatever pains await him. And who can resist imagining what pains he might already have suffered over the course of his troubled life? A scold of a wife? An absent or drunken father? Siblings who cared for him not a whit? Schoolyard bullies who daily taunted a weakling youth? Carried like sackcloth burdens over uncaring years, these pale in comparison to his current plight, for none of these have ever cost him one red cent! Unlike this his most recent pain, which sears him still like some retracted fireplace poker. The cause of the pain removed, the pain nonetheless abiding. Truly, a most bitter and callous defeat!
But, alas, as every dog has its day, so shall this man! As surely as day follows night, he shall soon enough prevail over his recalcitrant b*wels. And when he does, he shall cr*p away with unshackled exuberance, savoring the pleasant smile that breaks like dawn across his face and finding within it the same welcome peace that arrives on the wings of children's laughter from a playground far, far away.
BILL
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)