How Fun It Was To Spend Time With The Indians

My Indian pals invented the game of monkey cruise trash toss

I’ve got a few friends that are Indians; dot Indians, not feather Indians because the department of corrections said they’re nearly extinct.  Boy howdy, let me tell you, they are the most fun people in the world.  That’s a good thing because they have over eight billion friends in their Now Network.  They make me do all sorts of fun sh*t.  We watch porn with our friends in them (they seem to know everybody).  They are always saying in their thick, Indian accents, “Oh, I could watch this until I got bored then I would wait ten minutes and watch it again, good golly.  She is so hot.”  And then we watch them again.  We eat a shit ton of spicy curry food.  They catch their farts in pickle jars and make me smell them.  I can’t stress enough how badly these people smell.  They make spreadsheet software and I do my taxes.  We talk about marketing deodorant in India and we laugh because it would never sell.  Good times.  No matter how much fun stuff we do, they always get the best deals.  The Jews and the Indians always get the best deals and have the best times.  I love you, JPa.  Come home soon.

How To Kill A Fly With Your Bare Hands

He's as good as dead anyway; he's not even wearing a helmet

Here is a very simple method to destroy a fly using only your bare hands.  This act will not only kill the fly, but also teach valuable lessons to his next of kin.  C’mon, really?  You’re having second thoughts.  Don’t think of his family.  Just do it.  He’s dirty.  You know where he’s been: poop, vomit, trash.  And that was just breakfast.  He’s spreading disease on you.  Ew.  Grow a pair and kill him.  Everyone else is doing it and here’s how…For this task, you’ll need a set of hands.  You’ll also need enough patience to wait for a good moment to strike.  For this to work, there’ll need to be a single fly bothering you; more than one and it’s a sign you’re dead and rotting.  Usually, if you’re focused at work or peacefully enjoying the day, one will come along.  When you are sufficiently bothered, you’ll need to pretend that you don’t care that the fly is buzzing around.  Don’t flail as you will only briefly scare it away, thus making the annoyance last longer.  Act naturally and he’s sure to fall into your trap.  Once he’s comfortable flying near you, you may start the procedure.  First, see where he likes to go.  In the two flies I’ve ever dealt with liked my skin.  Maybe it’s because I smell like sweat and garbage.  When I gently shooed them away, they would fly up, circle in the air, and then land on my desk.  Based on these experiences, I undoubtedly say that all flies will repeat this.  Next, you’ll need to position yourself in a way that you can easily clap your hands together directly above the fly.  Now, wait for him to land.  When he settles on the desk, slowly move your spread hands about 3 inch above him.  He should be centered between your soon-to-be-clapping/killing hands.  Finally, when he takes off, which he will…Clap!  If you missed, repeat this process until the bugger is dead. Ta da!  Congratulations!  You’ve just committed murder.

Vixen Takes a Lickin’

Since some of my day is spent in the car, it seems appropriate that some of my posts are about that time in the car.  I hate traffic.  It’s one of the reasons I don’t sleep at night.  Sitting in traffic is good for one thing, however.  It allows drivers like myself to take their eyes off the road for minutes at a time and focus on the pristine nature reserves that have been built into medians and in between on-ramps and freeways.  The irony is that no matter how well preserved they are, they accumulate enough trash each day to completely nullify their purity.  So, anyway, I was scooting along the other day during one of the many daily rush hours when I was shaken from a non-traffic related day dream.  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a fox running through one of these tender embankments enclosed by the freeway on one side, an on ramp opposite of that, and an overpass connecting the two.  He was dashing and darting through and around the sanctuary’s many fickle bushes and native trash heaps.  He was running because directly behind him was a female fox, the vixen.  She was chasing him.  I felt truly happy.  In the middle of trash and smog seemingly cut off from any real nature, these two wild animals found love and, what would seem to be, the preliminaries for sexual activity.  I gleamed at the sight of the chase.  The male fox cut right then left and then ducked behind some shrubbery.  The vixen, however, did not follow suit and cut back away from the embankment towards the traffic jam.  She quickly bobbed and weaved through the stopped cars on the outside lane like she knew they were permanently stopped.  It was apparent that she was beckoning the other fox to join her in a game of tag or hide-and-g0-seek.  But the male fox seemed frightened and failed to raise his head from the bush he was hiding in.  In the outer most two lanes of the highway, all of the passers by were enthralled at the display and had completely stopped to watch.  She was fancy freewheeling and high living until WHAP!  The vixen traveled just beyond the stoppage into the third lane where traffic had begun to move quickly around the blockade the “right-laners” created.  Realizing the misstep she’d made, she bounced up and over trying to get off the road.  Just as she reached the zenith of her jump, she was creamed by a truck.  Unfortunately, it didn’t kill her initially.  The impact decimated her hind parts but left her conscious and panicked.  At that point she attempted to crawl back into the safety of the embankment using just her front legs.  Frantically clawing across the black top, an SUV fully equipped with chrome wheels and a soccer team got the best of her.   The vixen had become apart of the asphalt just as her refuge was apart of the interstate scenery.  As I turned back to see the fox in the bush, I noticed that he too had witnessed his lover’s demise.  From the bush I could see that his head drooped and his tail sagged between his legs as he hovered over some pups.  It seemed that no sooner did nature’s dance of love begin that it ended.  It was by far one of the quickest mood changes I’d ever made from sad to happy to sad again.  It was a black day indeed.

Don’t Call Me Shorty

Just make sure the hole is clean before you put your mouth on it.

 

In life, you either have to get something done or you want to get something done.  (Do I go to work or do I go to the park?)  The trick is to learn the shortest time between what you have to do and what you want to do.  These are called short cuts.  Now, a common misperception is that short cuts incorporate poorly devised strategies.  No elfin way is this true.  How are you going to take a good short cut if you don’t know the outcome of said short cut?  You are betting on yourself to get lucky, which is a bet a sick whore on a toilet wouldn’t take.

More accurately, a good short cut is a calculated step that requires previous experience and knowledge of the situation’s outcome.  Unfortunately for all you rookies out there, this means you usually have to complete a task the long and difficult way the first time or two before you can implement short cuts.  Once first timers get the hang of things, they can cut out unnecessary busy work needed to complete that task until one day the task just does itself somehow.  The only exception to this rule is having sex for the first time but having needed something better to do (which I highly doubt, you virgin idiot).  You were probably able to skip out on all the hard work before finishing the job just in time for a nice nappy pooh.

Although they can be timely initially, short cuts are a half-asser’s wet dream come true.  Short cuts provide quick solutions to life’s questionably necessary busy work, allowing you to get back to what’s really important; putting your mouth on glory holes in public park restrooms.

Rough Guidelines to Half-Assing Life

Take it from a half ass, life is good here

In the before time, when I was young, I’d envisioned a rough set of guidelines that made the most out of life by doing the least amount of work.  Half-assing it, as it is known tends to be the straightest path between the points of most and least.  Half-assery allows a person to weasel out of life’s chores and move through them quickly to the things he’d rather be doing; his goal(s).  Even though I’ve given a lot of thought to these guidelines and have had enlightening experiences that have blossomed into great half-assed lessons, I’ve never put anything down on paper.   What I’ve learned so far is that life is a series of ad hoc, inconsistent, undefined, and wishy-washy events.  It’s to your advantage to learn how to manage the unexpected by getting it out of the way quickly.   When half-assing is performed correctly (or rather, a fast as possible), a person can reach his goals and occupy as much of his time as possible with the things that best suit his fancy.

What is half-ass?  When taken literally, a half ass is either a single rosy cheek amid a bunched up pair of undies or the ugly side of a mule (take your pick).  Literal does no good.  Literal leads to stagnation and boredom.  Half-assing is all about getting down and dirty, even if it’s with your cousin’s sister.  Loosely defined, half-assing is a set of fluid principles that make the most from the least.    By keeping an open mind to sloppiness and managing to have an always changing game plan, you will almost certainly guarantee your life is a slew of TV and sleep.

Half-assing is a lifestyle that you subscribe to like an interesting magazine or marriage in that once the dues are paid, the masturbation is endless.   With that being said, half-assery is not meant to be a limbo state where you just float around aimlessly with nothing to do (unless that’s what you want, of course).  The reason for half-assing is to accomplish a more meaningful goal or activity that you’d rather be doing.  We all have obligations and chores that coincide with activities that we yearn to be doing instead. For me, it’s needing to take out a bag of smelly trash while wanting to not to take out the trash.  For you, it might be the need to pay your phone bill while simultaneously wanting to keep your money.  A life lived half-assedly is the perfect way to get the best of two worlds; what you need to do and what you want to do.  Whatever the reason for leading a half-assed life, your reward will be time filled with the pleasures you desire.  Finally, there’s a way to have your cake and eat it, too (for free, if possible).

Adding to the last point, it’s absolutely ok lead a Hippocratic lifestyle.  You might feel obligated to attack task with great effort and vigor making sure that it’s done correctly the first time.  Your attention to detail and poignancy for work are fine attributes to boast but it’s not necessary to use them at all times.  In a half-assed life, your activities become two fold.  On the one hand, you want to rush through the boring stuff.  On the other hand, you have a passion for another activity that you want to care for and nurture.  If, for example, you love to work on cars but your wife wants you to mow your neighbor’s lawn because he’s incontinent and his kids are losers, it’s ok to just mow some of his front yard sort of enabling you to get back to your labor of love quickly.  Screw that douche bag, he should have been a better father or whatever; not your problem.  He can bag his own clippings.  Feel free to tell your wife so that you’re all on the same page.  The beauty of half-assing is that it’s a part time job.  It’s a tool that you use when you need to make things go away just like a hand gun and a shovel.  Keep in mind that consistency is overrated.

If saving time and killing multiple birds with one or less stones are idioms that you live by, then half-assing is certainly up your alley.  It may not be easy to determine what you want, but it is definitely easy to say what you don’t want.  When you’re faced with the tedious and down right difficult tasks of everyday living, just half-ass it.  You’ll find what you’re looking for faster than you ever thought possible.  Half-assing your way through life is one of the best ways to get it all in without getting stuck in the muck.  So, follow along, and for the next while, we’ll take a journey together down the road of passion and satisfaction, joy and love, success and fulfillment….when I get around to it.

Trendy Trash Talkers Use Drugs

I was driving home the other night from The Hangover with my lovely wifey pooh when the car I was driving was nearly cut off by some radical dudes with tassels on their rear view.  Now, my initial reaction was that I was going to knife these bitches if they started any sh&t, but that feeling eventually escalated (that’s right, more higher).  The inconsiderate punks flipped a sick bitch (it was a power move) and hauled some serious balls right up next to my ride.  You’ll have to understand here, when I mentioned at the beginning of this story that “I was driving“, what I meant was J Dubs, my lover, was driving.  Not only is she a better driver than me at night (I don’t have glasses), she has a hot rack, and I was drunk, but she didn’t know that.  It made sense she drove.  Anyway, these jerk terds, all jostled and riled because they almost hit me, came screaming up next to my ride.  These dudes were crazied in the faces and loud.  The driver’s all, “Ah, foo! We’se gonna f*ck you up and take your sense of self worth!  You drive negligently!  I’m gonna get a pistole and choo choo.  Even with our limited knowledge of the world and lack of maturity, we graduated foo (from what, he didn’t say).  See my tassel?!”  At that point, I’m livid.  My buzz was wearing off and the light we were sitting at just turned green.  The little hand was already blinking in the cross walk.  I took off my seat belt and reached out of my car and grabbed thin air (these dudes were like 8 feet away).  I started screaming obscenities and snarling.  I talked and spit.  I closed my eyes really tight giving the impression that I wasn’t able to see dog sh()t when it was in it’s mom’s station wagon (ba zing!).  Meaningless dribble and insults followed.  And finally I yelled, “You druggers!”  We drove away.  They drove away to buy drugs.  My lovin and loin muscles were throbbing from anxiety and excitement.  I lip kissed the girl and we went home.