Springtime Blues: The Same Lame Game as Last Year

Guys and gals, welcome to Spring; a change of season and a transition of a host of things that transcend from bad to worse.  Don’t get me wrong, we say goodbye to a lot of things we can do without however not without sacrifices.  After all, life is about sacrifices, right?

Strap your seat belts tight, kids ’cause this bound to be a bumpy ride.

It’s so amazing how a simple thing like warm weather can inspire foot trends. Not too long ago boots were the only thing that kept us grounded when skating on thin ice.  They were the must-have of the time!  In fact, if you weren’t wearing boots then your feet deserved to freeze.

Boots were necessary, safe and warm.  And since it looked like the snow wasn’t going to melt overnight, people were forced to adapt their own personal style to the trend and the weather.

The snow brought on, I must admit, quite a few interesting choices of onion peels for foot hidery (yeah, I made up a word).  But as chemistry, biology, or one of those “ologies” proves, fire always melts ice which all boils down to this one thing…Spring; the middle ground of fashion, where everyone is too damned confused to know what the hell to wear on their feet.  And just like that we’re stuck with socks & sandals, stupid gladiator boots and poorly maintained pedicures.

Regretfully, the buck doesn’t stop there.

If you think you were befuddled by people who put their underwear on public display now… Good gawd a’reckon!  To put it as professionally as I possibly can: “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Jeans, sweatpants, booty shorts, mini skirts…I don’t care how the package is wrapped, everyone is guaranteed to see the goods.  Now I won’t go into all the specifics of the number of sanitation issues, privacy act violations, suggestive and just plain ol’ T.M.I. stuff this raises.

Whatever the case, political or not, when you’re talking about people’s underwear, it’s always a big fat case of, “Oh Crap!”

…No pun intended.

What would Spring be without the hippest trend of the season, motorcycles?  It’s true you can’t wear a motorcycle, but these days it seems everyone and their grandmother has one of those artistically designed, loud and obnoxious accessories that anyone without envies. 

Let’s face it; bikes are going to be everywhere.  For guys, they are babe magnets.  And most ordinary dudes usually can’t resist a hot biker chick.  Something about her straddling the back of the bike with her arms wrapped tightly around the driver’s waist, only a slight notch away from a pornographic scene seems to get everyone all riled up.

Beware though.  Where there are bikes, bikers, and biker babes, there’s always an accident or two just waiting for its spot of 15 minutes of fame to be aired on the local news at 11 channel.

If the bike accident isn’t enough for you, if you see one too many ass cracks parlaying in the wind, you’d just might want to gouge your eyeballs out.  Either accident can be considered terrifyingly amusing to watch, not to mention news worthy.

Love it or leave…that’s just the way the cookie crumbles.

I heard someone say once, “…if you fall off a horse, you have to get back on it.” 

I wonder if the same rule applies if one survives a bike crash?

We could probably go on about the lameness of Spring that would include April showers, allergies, flip flops, shorts & jackets, skull caps & tank tops and booty shorts with stockings.  But if we keep going now, we’ll spoil all the surprises Summer has in store for us.   And if there’s one thing I hate to do, it’s a spoil a surprise.

So as I pack my bags and prepare to bid you a fond farewell until the next time we meet, I’d like to leave you with this thought:  Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every few months.   

Lucky for us all 90% of any effort is getting started.   

At least we know there’s one thing that’s guaranteed not to be any different from the Spring prior to this, and that’s the same lame game as last year. 


Quote of the Week:  “Fashion is something that goes in one year and out the other.”


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Permission to Replace Office Swivel Chair with Air Mattress

MEMO

TO:  Superior Managers of If I Told You I’d Have To Kill You (IITYIHTKY) Enterprises

FROM:  HNIC, No One Matters But Me Department

SUBJECT:  Permission to Replace Office Swivel Chair with Air Mattress

DATE:  Half Pass Right Now, 2016


This notice of memorandum serves as an official request for permission to replace [suite #211] swivel chair with a home-supplied air mattress.

Attached you will find a signed medical notice from Dr. Boo Boo McLeod, MD of the Unsanctified Round-a-Way Medical Center, requesting that human resource officials and all other appropriate personnel of IITYIHTKY Enterprises acknowledge and honor doctor’s recommendation for Hottywood Helps to permissibly replace is raggedy office swivel chair with a tricked out air mattress, in an effort to avoid any further compulsory medical treatment administered due to a rare case of coworkersannoystheshitoutofmeoxia, from which Mr. Helps suffers.

This condition causes Mr. Helps to lash out at fellow No One Matters But Me Department staff and risks interruption of interoffice departmental work progress, therefore he should be granted immediate approval to replace said furniture with a more comfortable sleep-encouraging apparatus.

Upon recent telephone conversations with Mr. Helps’ physician, Dr. Boo Boo McLeod, and in addition to research gathered from the world wide web, an air mattress would ensure Mr. Helps’ speedy recovery from coworkersannoystheshitoutofmeoxia.  Should the mattress coerce Mr. Helps into a temporary midday coma, the respite would ignite unused cells in his brain ultimately improving his work performance and allowing him to overcome the late day grogginess that so many IITYIHTKY Enterprises employees experience on a day-to-day basis (water cooler rumors have it).

I am in favor of supporting the healthiness of my entire staff and request that all official authorized superior managers do the same as long as proper documentation is supplied, not to include death threat notices.

In the event that further references are needed and/or necessary (in addition to Dr. McLeod’s recommendation), the telephone numbers of the below listed names may be provided upon request:

Please note that all below listed persons are dead so it may take a while to gather the information you seek [if applicable]. 

  • Winston Churchill
  • Napoleon Bonaparte
  • Albert Einstein
  • Leonardo Da Vinci
  • John F. Kennedy

Quote of the Week:   “A day without a nap is like a cupcake without frosting.”

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A Historic Leap Year Bedtime Story: You’ve Got to Pay to Play

Fellas, today is the one day that you really don’t want to wear deodorant – especially if you’re single or once hooked up with a woman who saw hearts on your nipples instead of androgenic hair.

History deems February 29th as the day when any three-eyed bearded woman, whose weight happens to be more than a double-trunked compact automobile, is allowed to pursue any man of her desire relentlessly for 24 hours and beat the hell out of him until he agrees to marry her.  Refusal of the proposed nuptuals would come at a price.

The tale began some time in 5th century Ireland, when a desperate wench in the heat of unbridled passion finally asked the question to her then inamorato, “What’s love got to do with it?”, which [arguably] later inspired Tina Turner’s 1984 hit single “What’s Love Got To Do With It?”  

The wench, very generous with her “jewelry box,” was pretty pissed off at her gentlemen caller for hooking up with her for her booty without taking up interest in asking for her hand in marriage.  Tired of being labeled a harlot, one night while wrapped in the arms of her philanderer, she finally complained of the sexual unfairness.  Much like today, the man friend spoke from his head in the southern region rather than the northern, and finally relented to set aside February 29th as the day the harlot would be allowed the right to ask for his hand in marriage.  As years passed and their relationship dissipated, four years succeeding their emotionless relations the moll took the sir up on his offer, not discerning the family he had since started with another woman of whom he’d developed genuine feelings for.

The harlot, who had not heard from her ex mister in a few turns of a set of 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes and 46 seconds, tracked down her old beau to insist that he honor the promise he made to her in the bed where they lay one February night four calendars passed.  She had ridden a mule to the gentleman’s manor and hid behind a tall horse in a backyard stable with unsubtle patience, awaiting his bride to leave the grounds with their young.  Once the beau was left alone in the abode, she entered the estate, stripped him of his clothes as any honorable 5th century hooker would, and screwed him silly.  With each pelvic thrust upon his, she reminded him of the promise he made to her four years preceding that moment of conscripted fornication.  Now, being a faithful gentleman betrothed to the woman who bore his namesake, the former gigolo refused the harlot’s proposal.  Luckily for him, this woman was scorned in the 5th century and not in present day time.  Although the history of this tale is not completely substantiated, it is rumored that once the proposal was rejected, the harlot forced a razor to the gentleman’s neck and demanded that he repay her heartbreak with a final [tongue] kiss, a silk dress or a pair of gloves.

…talk about a cheap date.

Since then, February 29th has been associated with the day where a woman can be a butch for 24 hours and ask for a man’s hand in marriage or make him pay a penalty for [the proposal] rejection, which if you ask me is a win-win for the woman.  Who’s being unfair now?


Quote of the Week:  “Love is not having to say you’re sorry, unless of course your private parts stink when you’re getting special kisses.”

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‘Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving

‘Twas the night before Thanksgiving and everything on the stove

Was boiling over in a mess when Mama had dozed.

The chitterlings were stinking. I think they were scorched.

My nose started bleeding so I threw them on the porch.

Mama was all comfortable, drooling on the couch

While my fast ass sister was getting dressed to sneak out.

And I in my jammies and ghetto stocking cap

Was pissed to finish cooking because mama took a nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a noise

That scared my dog and the neighborhood boys.

Away to the window I flew like a flash

Ducking for cover from bullets through glass.

A drunk driver had crashed into the stop sign outside.

Grabbing my heart I exclaimed, “Oh my!”

On Thanksgiving Day who’d want to be

Holed up in a hospital with a bed pan to pee?

The little old driver who was tanked and high

Celebrated too soon before going out to drive.

More rapid than eagles his ass flew

As our street filled with men in blue.

I felt kind of bad as he stumbled away

But at least unshackled he’d spend Thanksgiving Day.

Unlike myself, a slave to the stench

To the burning food in the kitchen ‘cause mama dozed. The wench!

The fried chicken was crispy, black on the skin.

The yams from the can had to be baked again.

Out of my mouth curse words flew,

“Shit,” “Damn,” even a “Fuck you!”

Dad was no help outside or in here.

He was down in the basement sneaking a beer.

Had mama known she would have started bitching.

Anything to keep her out of the kitchen.

I wouldn’t have complained because she can’t cook

Not even a simple recipe out of a book.

I should be glad she slept as the crumbs I scraped

Stuck to the bottom of the baking plate.

Next year I vowed I would not be

Cooking a dinner for lazy people times three.

Cleaning up a mess that I didn’t start

Watching Thanksgiving go up in a fart.

Where is the man that crashed outside

To give me a bag of whatever got him high?

Where is my dad with the six pack

That gets him all bloated and loaded and fat?

Where is my sister with her lazy ass

To give me a hand with these scorched pans?

Where is my dog to lick the floor?

So I don’t have to sweep and mop any more.

If this were Christmas I’d run away

Hiding in the back of Santa Claus’ sleigh.

Instead it’s Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday no doubt.

But I swear next year we’re ordering take out!

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THROWBACK: Be Careful What You Wish For

Once upon a time there was a little old man who wished for a whole bunch of shit beginning at an age when he could officially define the word “wish.”

As a young boy his wishes never turned out right. He once wished he could fly like Superman. His wish partially came true. He turned into a bird and used the flight as an opportunity to shit on the heads of all his enemies. It wasn’t long after that he was chased by a ferocious alley cat, warranting him to wish to be turned back into his old young self.

A few years later he wished he had a car so he could pick up the ladies. His wish came true. Unfortunately he never learned how to drive. So while picking up a woman on the ho stroll of 43rd and Heifer Lane, he wound up being chased by a gang of cops for reckless driving and operating a vehicle without a valid driver’s license.

He spent the next 100 hours in a jail cell with a boyfriend named Ice Pic, who incidentally was not a woman. This ended his wishing cycle for the next few turns of a pad lock.

A couple years passed with no wish from the then young boy who quickly turned into a young man/bitch/jail bait. Greed got the best of him over time. He figured with age would come better wishing decisions so he wished for more birthdays so he could have more wishes. What he got was more candles on his birthday cake and a few liver spots.

Once again his wish didn’t turn out exactly the way he’d hoped. By this point he was over it. Just as he came close to losing oxygen from blowing out the million plus candles, he spewed what he thought would be a fail-safe wish.

His wish was, “I wish I weren’t an old man.”

He was quickly running out of time and patience. In a last ditch effort for help, he turned to yours truly for a word of advice.

“Hottywood,” he said. “How can I at least turn myself back into a man without screwing up another wish?”

The question had me stumped for a minute. Then suddenly it came to me!

 

The moral of the story is to be careful what you wish for.

 ___________________________________________________________

Don’t Sleep on the Toe Doze

I suppose now is as good a time as any to sit down and have a random chat of observation specifically about the wheels of the body – aka feet/toes. If we were sitting face to face, right about now would be when you’d witness me hang my head low and shake it in disappointment, though not without mixed emotion.

As a man who is no big fan of feet, I am more than elated that the winter weather is approaching, thereby forcing sandal lovers to hibernate their thong flops and bare feet for a season. On the flip side, I am saddened that a lot of people, both men and women, will use the cold weather as an excuse to ignore the maintenance on their feet, leaving pedicure specialists across the world frightened of the white crusty foot build up they will have to look forward to facing come the dawn of spring and summer.

Some people will ignore foot upkeep out of laziness. Some will do so because they are just plain ol’ cheap. Others, because they feel no one will see their bunions during the colder months of the year. Sadly all are mistaken.

Feet must be kept up for three reasons:

REASON NUMBER ONE

The upkeep of hardwood floors.

The crust that builds on the heel of a foot will scratch the beautiful finish of hardwood floors.

I remember going to a dinner party over a friend’s house one winter’s night. The splinters in her floors were so out of control that I had to leave the party wearing stilts because they ate through the soles of my shoes like termites. This was all thanks to that young lady (whose food I refused to eat for fear that her hands were anywhere near her feet) that refused to pay a $17 visit to her foot care provider. Because she was either cheap or lazy, I had to pay the price. I’m still picking splinters out of my feet.

__________________________________________________________

REASON NUMBER TWO

Life Expectancy of Bedmates/Bed Linen/ Mattresses.

Unclipped toe nails will break the skin of the person sleeping next to you. They will also slice bed linen and rip through a mattress like Freddie Krueger in Nightmare on Elm Street. Razor sharp toenails fall into the category of “worst case scenario” for one night stands, right after bad sex and hermaphrodites.

__________________________________________________________

REASON NUMBER THREE

Respect for Apartment Renters that Live on a Lower Level.

Between the extra long raggedy toenails and weighted ashy heels of the neighbor that lives in an apartment unit on any level above the ground floor, the weight of the [foot] heel crust build up will damage the ceiling of the lower level tenant, running the risk of a possible ceiling collapse.

My Uncle McWeeterwatten used to walk around his apartment barefooted all day every day. I don’t think he realized that the build up on the bottom of his feet were destroying his floor beams with each step he took. He managed to survive one massive winter without getting his corns scrubbed. But on the first day of spring, just as he tied up his sneakers to run to the neighborhood foot spa, his floor beams finally gave out, sending him plummeting through the ceiling of the apartment below him. He suffered a law suit from his neighbor, the property owners of his complex, incurred an outrageous hospital bill and a spike in his home renter’s insurance. His failure to keep his feet up during the winter resulted in him spending so much money that he couldn’t afford to buy a new pair of shoes (or sandals) for eight months, three weeks, and two days.

__________________________________________________________

For the sake of sanity, personal safety and good health, it’s always important to keep your toenails clipped, your heels sand blasted and lathered up with lotion, and [in some cases] doused with a little baby power. And by ‘a little’ I mean a whole bottle full. Not only will you get a little more respect from your local pedicure specialist, but your feet will think twice before betraying you by kicking you swiftly where the sun doesn’t shine.

__________________________________________________________

Quote of the Week:  “Better to slip with foot than tongue.”

When the Weave that Would Suddenly Won’t

Let’s face it, when the weather is too hot even for the sun, not even the coolest rides can stand up to the scorching heat.

This week in Washington,  temperatures are sky-rocketing to ‘hell’ degrees. By ‘hell degrees’ I mean a high temperature of about 94-1,000,000 with a heat index somewhere around 209 gazillion. With a code red heat advisory  in effect for the residents of the Metropolitan area, or at least the residents of my apartment, it is with great regret that I say the warning has nothing to do with the heat itself but rather the mane on the crowns of those that suffer from the sun’s stinging rays.  This is usually the point in the text where I make some witty comment about the subject at hand however my brain sizzled to a point of evaporation somewhere during the journey between the walk from the parking lot to my office door.

Instead, a lot of DC females will watch their  weave money burst into flames because 9 out 10 of them failed to buy a pack of weave that carries a heat resistant label on the package.

Because my fingertips are beginning to melt as they stroke the letters on my keyboard, I’m going to cut to the chase and let the below images speak for themselves. Keep your fingers crossed that if the heat doesn’t kill me first, the women of DC, Maryland and/or Virginia whose weaves are standing on its last leg don’t come charging after me for making fun of their tragic tresses.

“If I were you I’d wear a hat, too.”


“Her hat must’ve evaporated while waiting at the bus stop. I wish it were my eyes that melted instead of her hat.”


“If I didn’t know any better I’d think her whole head exploded.”


“This ass lost its tail for nothing.”


The only way a bad weave could get any worse [due to the devil himself rising from the pits of hell] is if the weave started out looking bad to begin with.

I rest my case.


Quote of the Week:  “Whether the weather be fine, Whether the weather be not, Whether the weather be cold, Whether the weather be hot, We’ll weather the weather, Whatever the weather, Whether we like it or not.”