Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Bungle in the Jungle

Tyler loves Smeagol
So does Will, but is that wrong?
I would wager yes.

Parenting skills

I thought I had touched on this subject before, but whilst eating the best barbecue a gas station has to offer, Will convinced me, with vigorous rubbings on the kneecap and cock, that I had not.

I am a bad parent. Look, I know this, and have made my peace with it. I teach my kids raunchy things to do for my own personal enjoyment. I taught my oldest son to fart, waft, and then shake hands with someone to commemorate said occasion, something he still proudly does to this day.

My middle son, being a bit short for his age, has a bad attitude problem, most likely gotten from his mother. I knew that the fart thing was being overdone, and if I taught that to him and he did that at school the teachers would be onto me and my devious plan, so I got creative. I told him that when he greets someone, that instead of shaking hands he should punch them in the ball sack, or taint if it's a woman. I allowed him to try this newfound skill on his uncle Wyatt (short for WYatt Earp, so called because he looks like him) the next time we were at my in-law's house. The funny noise he made when this happened caused the most glorious grin to display on my child's face, and a new habit was formed.

He got great joy out of it, "penispunching" as he called it, numerous people who annoyed me or just happened to get within range, and no one could say a word to me because it was all him. Great success!

If you have not met my little guy, let me know and I will make sure an introduction is made.

Monday, July 28, 2008


My wife gave me my tutu pictures back, and it seemed like a few were missing. I realized that some people who had been looking had given into their temptations and taken my beloved photos.

At first I was angry, but then I realized with some measure of pride that somewhere, someone is attempting to pass my photo off as them, maybe on, myspace, something like that, and it would make my day to know that somewhere, some guy successfully got to enter someone else because said person was so enamored with my photo, my looking coyly over my shoulder, that they cared not that they had been swindled.

That is my own little dream, and one that I hope comes to fruition. If anyone does get to second base or beyond based on my tutu picture, I would love to hear the tale, maybe share it with the world. It would also be awesome to hear that you showed a friend or something and they instantly vomited all over the carpet.

Suck the hole!

Stevester's no cockblock
hooking up vag to cocks son!
it's kinda my thing

Operation find a lady to smooch my friend's bone is hitting some roadblocks, ya'll. For some reason most of the ladies do not understand that I am talking about my FRIEND having a huge cock, rapist wit and pecs that vibrate like a faulty dildo. The conversation strangely turns even stranger when they see that I am wearing a wedding ring. Why do the ladies assume that a guy wearing a wedding ring is more accessible than a guy without one? If I am ever single, after my wife takes 75% of my paycheck and impinges on my financial freedom like an unstoppable rebel force hell bent on total annihilation, I plan on using the money I attain from frequent blood/semen donations on purchasing a fake wedding ring in order to attain more chances to mate.

Anyway, on to other things. My parents, JJ and his adorable but totally spoiled daughter (I know little kids are supposed to be spoiled, shaddup) mosey on over, and get set on doing what they do with the hoodoo that you do (I made that up), which meant JJ got onto the internets to satiate his urban musical pop culture youtube video viewings, his daughter started throwing toys all over the floor literally 10 minutes after I finished cleaning the game room, my mom ate half of the coffee cake I was saving for the week and my dad shit my toilet into oblivion.

Sure I was annoyed, everyone gets annoyed when family comes by; it's one of those things like your wiener shrinking up right before someone sees it, or becomes enhugified right before a very unattractive doctor has to look at it, these things happen and become those gently moments, faded by the passage of time and the knowledge of advanced years, which lose their embarrassing undertones and become thought-provoking moments to laugh softly over in the twilight of your life, shitting your diaper so that smart-assed nurse has a reason to treat you like crap. But it wasn't QUITE crappy enough yet.

Enter the Smeagol.

The first call was about 5 minutes before JJ called to let me know he was on his way. I did not feel like talking to a raptor, it's hot in the house and I had been cleaning all day.

Of the 6 calls, it's funny that each call got more desperate and pathetic as time went on.

Call #1: "Hey niggie it's Smeagol, just wondering what all you are doing today, or..."

Call #2: "Hey Stevester this is Smeagol, I was just wondering if JJ and them are going up to your house for something? I was wondering what, maybe you could come pick me up too, I wanna hang out.:

Call #3: "Hey niggie, I heard you were going to cook some barbecue at your house this weekend, I was wondering if you could come pick me up because I haven't eaten in 4 days, I'm so huuuuuungryyyy..."

Call #4: "Steve...I.. - click"

Call #5: "Call me niggie, I need food, I'm hungry, call me baaaaaaaaaack"

I finally spoke to him on call #6. I told him that I was outside cooking and did not answer the phone. "Hey niggie did you get a laptop from work for me?" I like how as soon as he finds out I do not plan on picking him up to eat and let him rob my house and then take him home he goes for the silver prize: "No I did not steal any computer equipment from work for you to pawn" I said something like that, at least. He then grunts again and hangs up.

I ought to have a cookout, film it with all of my friends there, enjoying ourselves, and then send said video to him to make him feel more like the loser he is.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Smeagol vs. the Drive thru

beer-battered chicken

when on a diet, is porn

talk stir-fry to me

OMG my diet is killing me. Why is it when I am not trying to eat healthified there is no snacks to be found, now I have finally started a real diet and there are donuts and cookies and tasty treats all over to be had... I tried gently sniffing Tylester's breath after he ate a donut and then realized that was not the most professional thing to do.

Anyhoo, my fat ass is not what this post is about. Burger King in the late 90s, when I worked with my no wife and Haggardlester, along with Smeagol, is what this post is about.

At this gentle time in my life, I was the drive thru jockey. I think Haggard and my wife at that point were trying to see how long it took for me to lose it, and they got no end in joy giggle-fighting with eachother while I worked drive thru alone for up to 10 hours a night. I would say screw them, but I have already done that to one, I am hoping to score with the other next week (it's your guess which one I'm talking about thilly!)

Well one day I had friggin had it. We had the Pokemon promotion going on, NoEars, my wife's gentleman caller and loser extraordinaire, instead of working my drink station was out in the lobby gypping little kids out of their pokemon toys, and because this was at the height of the Pokemon frenzy, we had 15-20 cars in the drive thru at any given time. I had had enough.

I put the headphones down, walked back where Haggs was feeding his meat into the broiler, and went into the freezer. After jacking off all over the fries, I finished the rush. I guess someone felt sorry for me, because for my comedic relief, and since the rush was over, we put Smeagol on drive thru.

This was during the height of Smeagol's anger management classes. You see where this is going. If not, go here and start reading, let me know when you are well versed in the art of Smeagol.

So the first car pulls up, and I can tell by his voice that he was drunk. Things are going to get good. Smeagol starts with the Burger King spiel, and they guy says something like "Well get me a whopper, maam" or "little lady", whatever I can't completely remember. Smeagol begins his Grunt of Annoyance, and we could see his anger boiling up like a drop of too hot water in a thimble.

The guy pulls up, and starts snickering at him, which only annoys him more, and Smeagol figures to display his formidable raptor strength by trying to hand out the guys cheeseburger AND fries with one hand, and failing miserably...this only serves to make the guy laugh harder, and Smeagol growls like a retarded lemur and calls him a bich muhfuggr, thus ending his short stint in the drive thru window. I like how Smeagol was ranting and raving while cleaning out the grease trap the rest of the evening about having to take one friggin order, but the fact that he failed miserably and went on to rant about it at his next anger management class, where instead of one drunk guy laughing at him because he sounded like a girl and had these comically oversized headphones on and could not lift a drink, there were 3 klansmen hell bent on destroying the planet that he took out with one roundhouse kick to the face. Great times.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008


feel-good story time
get out the cotton booties
snuggle next to hearth

So I told you all before that my Dad, who was known as Toboggan Boy, Steve-o, Bitch, and many other various names by his many, many drug dealers, had finally decided he did not feel like doing crack anymore and just quit. It would not have been as funny if it had been a 12 step process, him duking it out against the grueling onslaught of his own addiction, but he just decided he didn't feel like it, so just stopped smoking it, which leads me to believe he could have stopped at any time, this theory helped along by the time when he, in the passionate throes of pipletia della crack al-dente, "I can't stop and I won't stop, boah!"

Anyway, this is a feel good piece. I got my dad a job working at the security place literally across the street from the Firm, so Will keep an eye out for what looks like a German Stormtrooper on a Segway, and he literally loves this job. My mom said he comes home every night with this huge shit-eating grin on his face from the joy he genuinely gets harassing homeless people. I have to have lunch in the Town Pavilion in order to see my dad on a Segway, hopefully chasing Iceman or one of the other regular bums around, trying to bash their skulls in with the 15 inch mag light of justice.

It's funny, because he lives about 2 miles from work, and my mom said he likes it so much he leaves almost an hour early every day. Since I know the manager there, who is also an older white guy with a huge-for-no-reason white mustache, I can imagine my dad showing up and them ticklefighting until it is time for work to start, since my old manager was incredibly enthusiastic about his work as well, sometimes only sleeping about 3 hours a night to annoy us since he lived in a loft apartment behind the building, telling us about a homeless person all the time.

I hope my dad meets Nerf, I sincerely doubt he is there anymore but it would make my day to see these characters melding together. I will have stories on them as well, as I can guarantee the winos would much rather run into me than into my dad.

Hey Will, don't you feel safer knowing my dad is guarding the building you work in, standing on the first floor just aching to harass anyone who makes eye contact?

I am genuinely happy for him, this is awesome. People get the idea that because I talk about them all the time that I do not want anyone in my family to make it in this world, when nothing could be farther from the truth. I would love it if I was the least successful person in the family, but with family members like Smeagol that will never happen.

So which one is more interesting to you all? Going to that McDonald's in Liberty and staring in mouth-agape awe at that wily raptor, or watching my dad shake bums down, hitting them over the head with a dirty sock full of nickels like a white German Homie the Clown?

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Smeagol, the man, the raptor

he likes to party
or just go through your damn stuff
wily raptor funk

So JJ calls a few days ago, brimming with news. I knew this news automatically means Smeagol. JJ's first sentence tipped me off: "Hey bitch, Tylester owes me lunch for this!" Which usually meant he had something Tylester would want to know, which meant it had little to do with the economy, apartheid, the crisis in Darfur, or how to run a car on green energy. No, this could only mean one thing......Smeagol!

I informed him that I would take care of his payment (Gates), which seemed to satisfy him. He delved into the tale:

First, my Escort: I parked the hot rod down at my dad's house because they have room for it, and also because we can only have 2 cars where I live because it is a soulless dump hell bent on crushing our civil liberties and causing ED in all who dare oppose it's maniacal march toward an anarchy so completely self-sustained as to not need the ample rays of the sun in order to retain it's uncomfortableness, but I digress. Apparently, random ghetto mofos (that's the medical/technical term) have come by offering JJ money for said car, at which point he feels the need to call and tell me about it, which is pretty much just as annoying as my wife telling me some blond haired blue eyed big titty bimbo thought I was hawt and then laughing because she knows they would be disappointed if I took my clothes off. They both do this all the time.

Anyway the only time JJ's tales of prospective financial uplifting are interesting is when Smeagol asks for the Escort, because apparently Smeagol thinks the only reason I will not sell him the Escort is because:

A - He has not asked me enough times

B - He has not lowered his purchasing price enough. This one is the worst, as apparently he assumes if he lowers his price every time he calls I will magically take his offer so that he does not get down to nothing, in which case I would - what? - have to give it to him free?

C - He has not asked pathetically enough

I mean Gawd, if I tell you "No" while totally not smiling and then turn away from you and vomit because your breath, like Krakatoa in the late 1880s, is hot and stifling enough to blot out the sun, I probably nave no intention of selling you the car. JJ informed me that Smeagol is still telling him he does not intend to take no for an answer, that he is going to make it his life mission to attain the car from me.

Oh, what about his Honda Prelude?

OK he told JJ his last check just barely completely covered the cost, when in actuality he owes about 100 dollars left on the car, and they still will not let him take it off the lot. Another sassy surprise, he informed JJ that when he actually does get said car off the lot, he intends to have it towed to JJ's house, as it does not run very well and he expects JJ to fix it for him. I like his style, he tells JJ he can have the Smeags' Mustang if he will fix it up, and during an ice storm throws both JJ and his girlfriend out in the cold, her being 8 months pregnant, and now wants JJ to fix his car for free, after taking the 'Stang JJ had put 700 dollars into and selling it for 300 bux.

I know that sentence was convoluted, but I am not a writer so screw it.

Also JJ informed me he was at Smeagol's apartment and found out Smeagol had gotten a new career opportunity. That wily raptor was asleep on the couch, curled up like a pretzel letting his balls take the breeze, and JJ was trying desperately to find food that was not tainted or from Taco Bell and thus 3 weeks old, when he saw it: laid out on Smeagol's bed, probably in a kid's size: A McDonald's shirt. Sure, sure, it may have been from a Thrift Shop, but next to it, like the bloody glove next to a menstruating corpse, was a McD's hat. The nametag, I am going to assume which says "Raptor", was still affixed to the shirt.

Now, before I go on, there is NOTHING wrong with working at McDonald's. Every one of us reading this is one pink slip away from that kind of desperation, except me and I can get a job back at the Firm because I have a diploma in communications skills. No, the funny thing is Smeagol tried to hide it. I will let you know exactly which McD's and what his schedule is soon, so you can pay him a visit and watch him make your burger.

So let's bring this post to a close, with a very short leap in logic. Smeagol lives in a very cheap apartment (I think like 400 bucks a month), only eats when he is at his mom's house, has a job at McDonald's, and is trying to drive a POS 1989 Ford Escort. Is it just me, or is he actively devolving? Will he go back to wearing diapers and shitting himself? Apparently he already has the no teeth part down flat. The stealing video games, movies and assorted entertainment media also points to his attempt to return to a youthfulness once lost. If he feathers his perm and starts wearing Def Leppard logo shirts and leather Thriller jackets with the sleeves scrunched up, would any ladies who readify this blog take him up on his proposition of love? Speak out!

Friday, July 18, 2008

The whole shebang!

Milky Way beckons
O why must you tempt me so?
must run; no escape

Alright so day 2 of my man-diet did not work so well. Instead of the full blown workout I had planned, followed by a tasty salad and a few calorie-free nibbles of air, I went to Gates. I rationalized it by saying to myself that it was mostly meat, and therefore healthy.

Alright, undeterred, I plan on working out today. Unless someone is going by Gates, or the wind blows that tasty scent of McDonald's this way again, or one of those ghetto hoochies walks by with the cellophane-riddled booty just made for motor boatin', that's good eatin!

I'm sorry that was sick, even for me.

Anyway, For today's tale we go back to when I believe Smeagol finally made the true transition from human to raptor extraordinaire. The year, 1988. It was a magical year, one in which we would find out we lived 1 block from, and our bus stop was 4 houses from, the only serial killer known to have come from Kansas City, Robert Berdella . Smeagol, then a normal human being, was just starting to show raptor tendencies: He would continuously beat up on my little brother and I, was failing in school, karate, and pretty much everywhere else in the game we call life in favor of walking Lost Boys style up and down the railroad tracks, making sure we never got turns on the nintendo and watching Rad and A Nightmare on Elm Street and generally making an ass of himself.

It should have come as no surprise that Smeags had not been making it to school, in light of his later years, but it was especially funny since we lived 5 blocks from said school and he said he missed the bus, among other excuses. Throw in the fact that he had just been defeated in unarmed physical combat by Toboggan Boy for daring to point out that he was supporting his booty call better than us, and you got yourself a nice little base for the souffle that is failure.

It was at this time the Smeagol started on his long downward journey into the depths of his own depravity. In the movie trying to portray him, It is said he was a noble king who fell victim to some ring, when in all reality he was only the king of his thong, and he pawned that ring to buy kim chi a long time ago.

From these humble beginnings we would get the long-lived dynasty that is Smeagol.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

I miss him

Thursday Twofer!

fuck a haiku
this is a second post, son!
you don't need 2 aiight?

So the Tylester and I were talking about shit while eating Gates, much as most of our conversations turn to after playing Footsies turns kinda gay (and it turns gay when you unzip my pants with your foot, Tylester), and I was talking about hitting Defcon 4, which I assumed everyone knew meant full on prairie dogging. Tylester looked at me quizzically, then slapped me a cross the face. Allow me to explain the Defcon levels.

The Defcon levels apply to the 5 main stages in a turd's attempt to exit your body.

DEFCON 1: The farts are coming regularly, much like contractions. Beware as though these seem innocent, they have been known to lead directly to skids. Much juicier sounding, and tapering off at the end, these farts are a precursor that you need to find a restroom:
ETS (Estimated Time to Shit): 1-2 hours

DEFCON 2: At this point, you feel that familiar tickle in your lower stomach as the shit makes it's final approach to the poorly guarded toll booth that is your sphincter. Farts at this point have a mist-like wetness to them, the ass also begins to sweat a little more. Faux turtling is not uncommon in this stage.
ETS: 45 minutes, tops

DEFCON 3: At this juncture, you are in real shit mode. Turtling has begun.

Definition: Turtling is when a turd has actually broken your sphincter's hold on it, but the shaft of the log has not been reached. You are clearly losing the battle, but you can at times suck the poop back in, though it will continue to push at your peekaboo brown eye.

Your breathing is coming in a little shorter, as the shit is pressing against the back of your lung, which in medical terms is called mudcutticus, which could prove fatal if allowed to go unrelinquished. Also called turtling because your back bows out to assist your weak stomach muscles in stemming the tide of brown pride. Hey that rhymes!
ETS: 20 minutes

DEFCON 4: At this point innocent turtling has migrated into full blown prairie dogging, which is the same as turtling except the shaft has been reached, and though you might be able to suck it back in, every time it peeks back out you lose more ground. If you are wearing a thong or tight boxers, you have at this point soiled them and should move along to full on DEFCON 5. Farts are strained as you try desperately to hold back the brown tide, very loud and really just the pressure building up trying to take shape and escape.
ETS: 5-6 minutes

DEFCON 5: At this point you are in full-blown shit mode. The only reason logs are not dropping out the bottom of your pants is because you are clutching your ass cheeks like a small child, running around frantically trying to find any unguarded receptacle to make your delivery upon. At this point your vision is skewed, as toilets, trash cans, sinks, tubs and your friend's half empty Big Gulp cup are all fair game. You may have already lost one turd, and have technically shit yourself, the only thing you are going for here is posterity and trying to prevent a trickle from becoming a lake. Your eyes may have begun to bug out, you no longer have time to grab a newspaper or a video game. If you are in a meeting, at this point you need to do damage control, and run out to shit your guts out.
ETS: 15-20 seconds

I hope the above guide was helpful, if not funny.

Randomness Defined

swollen choad beckons
a swift kick causes alarm
don't care that he's young

First off, I was driving into work, and much like I assume everyone's thoughts go, began thinking about the Bible and the stories ensconced within.

Do you think God should have noticed that one of his angels had hooves, red skin and horns? I mean, it says the Devil was an angel at one point, but somehow deceived God. I just for the life of me cannot understand how you don't notice that the new guy has a pointed tail, red skin, horns, hooves, smells like burning feces and is molesting the livestock. Does this mean God was a manager at the firm?

I know that was a long set up for a joke but it was worth it, no?

On another note, I got some flan from the store and tried it, and that is what I would assume the consistency of my man-jisms are. That was the most disgusting texture I have ever encountered, and I instantly wanted to invade Mexico just for inventing such a crappy dish (no I did no research, if Mexico did not invent it, insert the name of the country that did)

I have not heard from Smeagol yet, so it will probably be this weekend. I just realized something that will be interesting to see:

Smeagol got a continuance at the Ferrelview Village Courthouse.
Smeagol has at least 1500 dollars in fines he owes.
Smeagol does not have a job.
Smeagol just bought a car instead of paying anyone back the money he owes them.

I am taking bets on whether or not he drives his completely illegal car to court and tries to get another continuance even though the judge last time told him it was the last time he was going to get one. The odds are roughly 1.2 : 1 that he will follow through with this plan, the .2 is because the car might break down on the road on the way there. There are also good odds that after court he will come by to borrow gas money from me, ensuring I am not home on said day or that I do not answer the door. It might be a little more awkward if I am outside shooting hoops, as it will be more obvious I am ignoring him, but fuck it.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

New directions, awesomeness defined

Swollen artichoke
needs a manual to eat
eat it, don't learn it

So I've decided to finally go on an actual diet. The Brown Bear we all know and love is getting a little robusto, shall we say, and it is totally unbecoming. Sure it entertains the boys when my belly jiggles as I laugh, like a naughty jello mold of love, but I don't want the old lady's eyes to start to wander to slightly less fat brown bears, so I gotta do something. Plus the ability to stick my wiener in my belly button by splorching the fat roll over it, while feeling awesome, is not cool and apparently not legal if done in a supermarket.

I kid, I wish I could hump my own bellybutton, with all the lint and crap in there it oughta be pretty sassy, but no. Now I have been working out pretty religiously for the past year and a half or so, and have little to show for it except slightly solidified fat muscles and buns of rock hard steel. Stevester needs a new plan.

I came to the realization that maybe my diet had a little to do with me weighing 278 poundarinos. I seem to remember Natasha eating salads all the time, actively slimming down in front of me as I squirted mayonnaise packets on my donuts and pretending it was frosting. (interesting side note, "pretend it's frosting" is apparently how you know you've made a friend for life in most correctional facilities in this fine country) While I am secretly envious of her ability to have such great restraint, only sniffing donuts and then all of us standing around while Santa giggled them down his throat on his way to fellate Greyskull (I know thats wrong but I cannot find how to make an active verb out of cunnilingus, and anyway you get the damn point), I knew that was a person to model my dietary life after. Minus the non-cinnamon flavored applesauce, because thats disgusting.

So anyway, I have a few options. I have a gym here, and a wii fit at home which I have actually worked up a mayonnaise-infused sweat on a few times, and I have recently started making my main food of the day salad. Salad drenched in ranch dressing with a side of bacon, but lets not get into particulars.

My man-body (doesn't it somehow sound nastier when you say it like that?) had taken this most unwelcome change in stride, and had acted with an air of disdain, much as it usually did when my double whopper with cheese came with too much lettuce on it.

I guess the combination of that and sleep deprivation (for some reason or another, I have not been to bed before 130 in the last month or so and, much like Smeagol when someone wakes him up after 14 hours of sleep, it was starting to take a toll on my body. Well, something had to give and I think last night was it.

It was about 3 in the morning, and Queen Latifah had just come out of the depths of the jacuzzi to tell me "the royal penis is clean, Lord Stevester" while not holding any soap and with her lipstick smeared, jeremy in the background cuddling Smeagol while my Yorkie dry-humped The Thinker statue into submission, when something woke me up. A fart?! I started to scooch up so I could blow a concentrated heat blast into my lovely wife's face, when I realized it felt vaguely familiar, but not like a fart....good gravy! I leapt off the bed and made it into the bathroom just in time to give the inside of the toilet a nice thick coat of mud monkey chunky. This continued for the better part of an hour: thinking I was finished, getting up and making it almost back to the bed before having to run back, comically holding my ass with both hands. The only thing that ended up giving me some sleep was when I went into the kitchen and devoured the grilled stuffed shrimp and almost an entire half gallon of chocolate milk, along with a few handfuls of Cheetos.

Stevester - 0, Man-Gut - 1.

We will meet again, you fiend!

Monday, July 14, 2008


A gap in my teeth
Strahan's retarded brother?
or sexy man-cake?

I have to wonder, why is it the more uncomfortable clothing is the more appropriate it is for work? What no talent assclown said "You know what? Fuck Jeans, everyone has to wear khakis in order to be successful. Jeans lower stockholder value!" I am guessing it was Smeagol.

Speaking of, this wily raptor got his final check this week, and, being a month behind on rent and in varying stages of shutoff on his other utilities, and no prospect of a job for the immediate future, is doing what any sensible person would do: he is going to spend his last paycheck on that 1992 Honda Prelude. He apparently (I am getting this secondhand, of course, else I would havve to talk to him) only has enough money to finish purchasing the car, which you all know from previous posts is 1500 dollars and he is making payments on it, and the dealer informed him he would not be allowed to take the car off of the lot until it is paid for, which makes that an intelligent used car salesman, which I know could cause the sun to collapse in on itself because of it's absurdity; I just give credit where credit is due.

"Maybe that raptor needs the car though" you might be saying to yerself, and you would be wrong. Smeagol lives less than a quarter mile from the grocery store, a gas station, and the nursing home he is applying at. The grocery store is so he can purchase his requisite 30 dollars worth of jelly beans (I know I have not explained this, I will get to it later) or 25 dollar salad, and there is a taco bell should he have a hankerin for some serious groceries.

So with everything within walking distance, why would he need a car, especially since his FUCKING HARDSHIP LICENSE got revoked, he probably hasn't seen his normal license since Def Leppard was in the top 100 with Kasey Kasem, he does not have enough money left over to get said car licensed, even the extra 15 dollars for a temporary tag was out of his budget, meaning he does not have any money for gasoline once he gets said car off the lot, fuck dude! I think Plato put it best: "Doth this raptor know no end to it's own failure?" Or maybe the inevitably intelligent Martin Lawrence: "Dat nigga ain't sheEEit!"

I swear to you all now, there is no way that raptor is going to come live at my house. I swear it. I have already thrown out an otherwise perfectly good cot, and though I know I should feel like I owe him (after all, I lived in his house for almost 3 years) for all the kindness he has shown me, I don't. I let him steal stuff from my house all the time, that should be good enough. I never intended to watch the blade trilogy again, but even if I did want to now I cannot because it has been raptored.

Damn my conscience. I must help somehow... hey, maybe I can use this site to get Smeagol the sustenance his frail body needs to go on surviving in this harsh reality we all call life!

Does anyone have room in case a raptor needs a place to crash? Here is all you would need:

1. a cot, or a 2x2 square foot piece of carpet.
2. Taco Bell, preferably 30 days old but out of the trash will suffice
3. A video game system, with numerous redundant games.
4. a package of green thongs, size extra baggy
5. plenty of ranch dressing and tomatoes
6. chastity belts.
7. a spray bottle with something successful in it. Bleach works.
8. A rolled up newspaper.

Just to let you know, Smeagol will come with a gay Yorkie, known to mount all other animals. This can save you money, as watching this tiny dog try to dominate the assholes of all other animals in the house, regardless of size or species, is WAY more entertaining than television! If you have anything that sits higher than about 6 inches and is soft, I suggest you hide it. Also keep legs covered at all times. Trust me.

Friday, July 11, 2008


Underwear junkie

the brothers johnson
get the funk outta ma face
soul, funk, damn it's good

So today's post has a few updates and some nastiness, so make sure you're not eating right now.

Done? You got a little...right there... nevermind, that's a zit.

Alrighty then, let's move on, aiight?

So I had at least 20 pairs of underwear about a week ago. I know this because I sniff test them as they come out of the dryer, much as I assume everyone does. It also helps to make sure I am wiping my ass correctly as I check for skiddage and other ailments. I am deathly afraid I will get into a car accident and the paramedics will let me die as they laugh at all the holes and skidmarks in my underoos, so I take this check seriously.

"No one wants to hear about your underwear or your quasi-OCD tendencies, ass-spelunker" you might be saying to yourself softly while wondering if your underwear is skid free. Anyway enough about your underwear, sassy though they may be, this is about mine!

So anyway, Monday rolls around and I am digging through the clean clothes trying to find the requisite 2 pairs of boxer-briefs for the next day. I wear one pair in the morning, workout, shower and of course wear the second pair in the afternoon, and try to throw the sweaty ones on my wife when I get home, I'm such a silly trickster.

Hmmm... seems tougher than usual to find a pair. I eventually find 2 pairs and a third for the dresser, and that's it. WTF? I go look in the washer and dryer, both of which are empty, and our dirty clothes hamper (also called "the floor") is devoid of stinky clothes as well. Hmmmm.... whatever. I go to work and continue as usual.

Tuesday goes by without incident, and Wednesday rolls around and I cannot even find the 3 pairs any longer. What the fuck! I ask my wife, the boys, no one has seen them. I of course as usual go ballistic and tell her if they are not found I will spend 50 dollars buying 30-40 pairs of damn underwear. which she finds funny. damn hippy.

Fast forward to last night. I get home, change into some sweatpants, throw my last 2 pairs of underwear into the washer and mosey around the house, reveling in my wiener freedom and standing outside trying to impress the neighbors. No one is. Fuck them.

I go to get my clothes out of the dryer and notice that something is missing. I only have 1 damn pair of underwear left. Seriously. 1 goddamn worthless slightly tight wet & wild sassy pair of ballhuggers left.

Guess I've got some sassy shopping to do.

On another front, our Yorkie is pretty well ingrained into our house now, and has revealed his personality as: gay.

He has attempted and in a few instances succeeded in mounting:

1)My lunchbag (success)
2)our 75 pound 3 times as big as him (literally, no exaggeration) dog (he has not pounded her vag yet, but has successfully humped her back and face a few times, so you can be the judge of the success of that)
3) Our very Male, very fat cat (no success, but he likes to hop on his back feet after the cat, chasing him around the house, so it's only a matter of time)
-the funny thing is the cat now will see the dog coming and sit down to keep his asshole unplungified.
3) my foot (quasi success, I think I sprained my ankle and was resting it and he tried to make sexy time with it and I kicked him in the cock)
4) my son's teddy bear (VERY SUCCESS)
5) the couch (success)
6) the very male yorkie across the street he grew up with (success)

I mean come on, this little horndog is humping us into oblivion or acquiescence!

On the last note, my youngest son, who just turned 2, is trying to potty train (his idea, not ours). He is so far like a homeless man, in that he takes his diaper off and pisses wherever he happens to be, be that in the middle of the living room, outside, or at the local gas station. Our steam cleaner is working overtime.

So yesterday, he had to take a leak, and my threat to beat him into oblivion if he pissed on my games had apparently gotten through his skull, as he went and pissed in his potty. My wife came in and congratulated him and put him in the tub, the whole while him saying "Ma I poop! Ma I poop!" Which she took to mean he was proud of going pee in the potty. Nope.

She goes to get a towel, my older boys watching him, and comes back to them giggling hysterically and the Danster smiling proudly. She looks in the tub to find "Ma I poop" was not just pride at going potty, but a very serious warning. He shit in the fucking tub. Now that would be fucking disgusting, but a) I use the shower stall, never the tub (not manly enough) and b) I shit in my bed and I was 24, so I have no room to talk.

In other news, Smeagol rolled over to his other side, farted tiredly, and readjusted his thong.

Thursday, July 10, 2008


Short Postification

old dingleberry
sways in butt wind, never breaks
caught in drunk man's teeth

I was going to post another 800 paragraph story today, but I figured I would be a little lazy, since I am a lot lazy at work and I am trying to find a perfect balance of taste and refreshment (Miller Lite).

So the wife and I are laying in bed last night, me trying desperately to sleep while her and the pillow with legs that is our cat take turns trying to take up my whole damn side of the bed, when she says "hey, I like that one movie, you know, the one with the old people in it?" The way she said it means I have to now guess what movie she is thinking about.

"Grumpy Old Men?" It has old people, it is a movie.
"No," and now she is for some reason annoyed I did not get it on the first try, I think the reason is because she read in Cosmo or one of those whiny ass PERIODicals that "your true soulmate knows everything you are thinking" or some such shit along with "1000 ways to please your man" or "100 ways to make him scream in ecstasy" and let me get off track for a minute here: if out of those 1000 ways to please your man, the words "blowjob" and "silence" do not show up? The writer has either:
A: never slept with a man, or if the writer is a man,
B: is both gay and never achieved an erection.

I, and by "I" I mean EVERY FUCKING MAN ON THE PLANET, wants the same thing: stick my wiener in a wet hole that is on a human or at least a warmed up meat sandwich, silence and some kind of awesomeness that has either combat, sportification or a fine melding of the two on the television, which seems to complement the silence very well.

Anyway, back to the guessing. So I realize that 1), she has no intention of giving me any more hints, and that 2) since I answered I have to finish guessing until I get it right or I will never get any sleep and I had planned on dreaming about Alicia Keyes again so I wanted to get to sleep, dammit.

"Cocoon?" I have no idea what that movie was about, I heard the words "old" and "love" in the plot and opted to watch the other movie that came out at the time, "Breakin': Electric Boogaloo" and though that movie is a taint on the underside of the movie industry, I still feel better about the whole thing.

"That's it! Wow, we are fjdhsuinranvuihuruiwa" sorry, after I finish talking I usually tune other people out, no reason to ruin the moment. I must admit, I am a little proud of myself. 2 guesses and I can pick the exact movie out of "the one with the old people in it".... hot damn I'm good. Alicia Keyes tells me the same thing later after I win the superbowl and roundhouse kick Hitler in the face. I love that recurring dream.

I was thinking as I typified this, does this mean I have been with my wife for too long? I mean, I can usually tell what she's thinking and this is not the first time I have picked a movie or song from thin air and gotten it in less than 5 tries... holy hell, does this mean by the time we are like 60 I will know when she has to drop a deuce and shit like that? I guess I only have one option to combat being bored for the latter years of my life: I must become an international silver screen sensation, or at least see if I can publish steveshaikus into some sassy sassy memoirs.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008


is this Santa? seeing this somehow reminds me of him, giggling sensuously while Desmond licked creamed corn off of his hairy chest, gently caressing his back fat while passionately kissing in the front seat of his Fiero, sitting Ghost style while programming some sexy modules on his computer.... ugh, my bad Desmond, I owe you some greens. BTW FYI I am in no way making fun of overweight people, just Giggling Santa from the Firm, I have no room to talk tipping the scales at 275...


dream invades real world
zombie chase, I run in sand
boat rocks to hell beat

I tried to get more moody with today's haiku, and uh... it doesn't work so well for me.

Alright, so after the Smeagol fiasco where he ate 3 - 4 plates of food, stole a bunch of crap and begged for even more, I assumed I was finished having to bother with him for awhile. He had begged me for a remote control helicopter that I had, and his voice is so whiny I just told him to take it.

I am such a damn pushover when it comes to family. No more. Fuck them.

So I am sitting at my computer playing 2 Moons (, which is like a free online version of Diablo, which is cool, and also lets me call myself the Gerbiler, which is even better (It is so awesome getting your taint handed to you by some naked dude named Gerbiler), listening to electronica on SomaFM , and there is a knock at the door. Annoyed, assuming it is one of my kid's idiot friends, who should know better than to initiate conversation with me, I tell Matthew to get the door. A few seconds later, it is obvious he doesn't feel like getting up either, and I get up to answer and am pleasantly surprised to see JJ moseying in, followed by my dad and Smeagol, who was less of a pleasant surprise. Dad and JJ come into the game room, and we shoot the shit while I try to tell them they need to get on that game so we can go gay it up, and I can hear Smeagol in the other room going through my fucking deep freezer. He hobbles into the game room looking so pathetic it hurts me to even reminisce, and holds up a breakfast sandwich with the words "GRIDDLE FUCKIN CAKE MORON" typed on the front of it (I mean that is more or less what was on there, I am paraphrasing) while asking "Hey Stevester, wha- what is this?"

The three of us (Me, Dad and JJ) exchange glances like "is this raptor for real?" and I inform him it is a griddle cake sandwich, much as the package points out. I guess he did not like that answer, and was expecting something more along the lines of "try it, it is delicious buddy!", as he moans "Ooooh, it sure looks like it would taste great" and hobbles back to put it in the freezer again. We all snicker and go back to talkifying, apparently my Dad got a job at the old security place I used to workify at, and he is glad as it is only 2 mi-

Here comes Smeagol again, this time with a couple of PS2 games.

Let me explain for any newer readers out there what is going on here. Smeagol likes to have things. He likes to borrow things and then never return them. He likes to borrow games for systems he does not own and has no intention of owning. He likes to pawn off other people's things and then never make the payments so the stuff gets sold.

Smeagol does not own a PS2, XBOX or Gamecube. Remember this. He also does not own a Wii or anything other than the PS3, which he used his water and light bill money to purchase.

So he has a PS2 game, and is all like "Hey Stevester, is this game fun?" It's Street Fighter. Does anyone who has touched a video game console in the last 15 years not know of Street Fighter? If so, kill yourself. I inform him that it is Street Fighter. He looks at it like it is the first time he had ever seen it, and starts the begging: "Oh, it sure looks fun, could I borrow it maybe?" Fine, fuck you, take it. I don't even bother to ask why he wants to borrow it, as he has no way to play it, his PS3 is not the nice backwards compatible one. He hobbles out. JJ asks if he can grab a breakfast sandwich, and I inform he he totally should. He comes back in about 5 minutes later and informs me Smeagol was in my damn bedroom, and my gamecube and xbox games are all over the floor.

Before I can even respond, Smeagol hobbles back in and starts in on the movies. "HhHhHhHeeeyyyy Stevester, can I borrow a few of your movies?"

I am annoyed by this point and ask him what movies, which for some reason offends him enough to get his grunt of unhappiness, known in ancient times to cause unending failure to even the most successful person.

"I would like to borrow Blade 1, 2, and 3, Lord of the Rngs, the whole Tril-Trig- Trilogee' say it "Trilo - gii" like karate gii, what a moron - "Spiderman 3, and Conan, I will bring them back this weekend..." He moans after that, and we all know the exertion of holding 6 or 7 dvds and standing for more than 30 seconds are taking their toll on his frail body. My dad rolls his eyes and JJ tries to look away while giggling like a schoolgirl. Also, thats almost 24 hours worth of movie, how does he intend to bring them back this weekend? Whatever.

So to make a long story less long, he leaves, and JJ informs me later on that night that Smeagol was bragging about how much stuff he got away with. Apparently he asked for Streetfighter for PS2, but had taken a bunch of game discs from other games and put them in the case, and had done the same things with dvds, and had tried to steal my youngest son's pocket game player as well, but it was too clunky and someone would have noticed.

How is it that a raptor, once proud denizen of the dinosaur kingdom, was not relegated to stealing video game systems from a 2 year old toddler who could in all honesty probably defeat you in armed and unarmed mortal combat? How much more can that piece of crap devolve? That's not rhetorical I am actually asking, people!

Monday, July 7, 2008

Weekend Update, now with Stevester!

love musket delight
no warning before the shot
no madam, thank YOU.

This weekend suckified. I was supposed to go get Haggard and hang out, chillin, wylin and profilin', or just tickle fighting like we usually do, and then go to my instructor's for a cookout. What ended up happening, well, dammit....

You see, sometime in the past, maybe to fill a lull in the conversation or to get him off the phone, I had informed Smeagol that sometime he should come up to eat, as I bbq almost every weekend, and let me jump off track here. Why do we only barbecue when it is 115 damn degrees out? Why does everyone look at me funny when I am outside in the dead of winter trying to smoke some meat? (Dammit you know what I mean)

Anyway, apparently Smeagol's raptor sense noticed that there was a critical mass of fun and success coming my way, and he engaged his patented FailureBoosters(TM) and called my house up to remind me I had made a promise, not unlike Rumpelstiltskin did to the princess or something.... except I have never worn anything princess-like.

"Hey, niggie, I'm so hungry, come get me, you promised!" He moaned into the phone, probably massaging his prostate through his thong as the cat licked peanut butter off of his sagging balls, which sagged delicately out onto his couch. I instantly wince, knowing my whole weekend is fucking ruined because this asshat has nothing else to do. But, being a mentally retarded optimist (for with family like Smeagol, being an optimist means I must be mentally retarded), I figured it might actually be nice, and head over to pick him up.

Of course, as you should all well be able to understandificate by now, there is no such thing as simply "picking Smeagol up", oh no! I show up at his house, and he answers the door with a moan. Why he felt the need to moan like a whipped slave while simply turning a knob is beyond me, though I can kind of understand because some other people's contacts with knobs does lead to a lot of moaning, and in my case, kids, but I digress.

So I go inside, and the first thing out of his mouth is "Hey, can you take me to fill out an application? It's in Pleasant Valley" Alright, that is not too far away, but come on. Pleasant Valley? Does that sound like a city receptive to failure cloak-wearing raptors? I drive him over there, the whole time him telling me about how tired he is, and making numerous references to how much "it's gonna suck having to ride my bike, mmmmMMMmm..." and looking at me sadly. Whatever, I am not going to take the bait, I just mumble "Yep" and go back to trying to hold my breath.

We get to the nursing home, and of course they tell him they are not hiring, why would they give hope to a raptor, and we leave. Now, a little side tidbit: Whenever I go to a gas station, and especially Quiktrip, if there are other denizens int eh vehicular with me, I ask them if I can get them anything, and that goes doubly if I am wasting their gasoline. For Smeagol? Not so...

"Hey niggie can you stop at Quiktrip? I need to run in real quick" he grumbles, still annoyed at being turned down by what was either a very hairy old woman or a homeless man wearing scrubs with saggy breasts. He then gets out, runs into the store, and comes back out slurping on a soda, not 1 day after I bought him a soda at QT... I mean, it sounds petty now, but it's still pretty annoying.

We get to my house, and there the begging starts. THis is what I had been waiting for, as JJ had warned me of his considerable begging prowess and refusal to accept anything other than aqcuiesence. To explain, Smeagol had been at my mom's house earlier in the week. He was laying on the couch, not yet thonged but still folded up like a pretzel, rubbing his feet forlornly, when he quipped "So, what's wrong with Stevester's Escort? I mean why is it down here, is something wrong with it or..." and this is the most annoying part, where he trails off at the end of his whiny ass question. JJ informed him he had no idea, that I had parked it there so my dad could look at it, which is exactly what I had told him as well. This, much like being turned down by a homeless woman, did nothing to faze the wily raptor, who continued: "So, what is he gonna do with it? Is he gonna fix it up and drive it or..." which is annoying to JJ as well as me, I mean come on, I had made it perfectly clear, in front of JJ, to Smeagol, who was sitting in the couch, that I intended the Escort to do what any good backup car does and sit until I needed it, how tough is that? At this point JJ informs him he has had enough and any more questions will get Smeags the beating of a lifetime.

Anyway, back to the present. "So what's wrong with the Escort? You gonna fix it up and then park this or..." The reason the pause is so annoying is because of what we all know it implies, that he wants me to make the logical leap that I should give it to him. I do not bite, so he gets direct: "If I pay to get it fixed, can I have it?" That would negate my having it as a third car, and get me arrested because we all know he has no intention of getting the car fixed, much less legal. He plans on doing just enough to get it to go where he needs to, and then when he gets a ticket pretend he is me like he always does, snickering to himself at his good fortune.

I ignore him, and we go inside. I am cooking, so I am in and out of the house, much like a brown balding penis into a aluminum sided vagina, or not. I am not much of a writer.

I walk back inside to get the tongs and such, and Smeagol is coming out of my room, tucking his shirt in. WTF?! "You have some nice shirts in there, I might have to borrow some sometime niggie!"

Part II tomorrow, in which Smeagol makes up a new disease and also finally annoys me enough to let him have something.

Why does Smeagol need a consolation prize everywhere he goes?

Tuesday, July 1, 2008


wrinkled python tube!
serendipitous toilet!
a few band names, son!

You all know the Chuck Norris "facts", which though I love to this day I still do not understand why a substandard bearded guy who kicks high whilst wearing pants that are too tight is so popular... but I digress. Anyway, if you do not know what I am talking about, go here and get back to me. You might also like to know the internets is not just a series of tubes, and is apparently not a "passing fad"...

Anyway, I thought it would be fun, if not totally original, but let's face it originality is not my strong suit I mean am I right? Huh? Ziiiiing!

Where the hell was I? Oh yeah...

I thought it would be fun to create some Smeagolisms in the same vein, and if you come up with any I would be proud to post them for you (and give you credit, of course (unless it is better than mine, in which case I won't) because I am an ethical person)... Allow me to start:

1. Smeagol has no facial hair because no known substance can withstand that wily raptor's breath

2. Smeagol's thong fell off while he was balloon travelling over Europe. We now know it's landing site as Chernobyl.

3. Smeagol's perm was the third gunman on the grassy knoll.

4. Smeagol's teeth are so hardcore that when they escaped from his mouth, they got leather jackets and formed a small gang. We know this gang as the Hell's Angels.

5. Thoma Edison's first recording was of what he thought was a ghost proclaiming "I'm so tired" and his assistant throwing up from some ungodly stench. Turns out Smeagol had fallen asleep while nailing the floorboards as he was remodeling, and they built the floor over him. The stench was his gas. Edison told his friend Edgar Allen Poe, who misinterpreted one of the words, which is why we have the novel "The Tell-Tale HEART".

6. During his heyday, Smeagol's cloak of failure caused the extinction of the dinosaurs. Though substantially weakened by old age, it was still powerful enough to produce 98% of the Republican Party.

7. Smeagol's nail trimmings, like spores of failure, caught an unfortunate updraft in 1986 and caused the Challenger disaster.

8. There is intelligent life on all of the planets in our solar system. They just don't want Smeagol to know about them.

9. The viscuous liquid in Smeagol's underwear actually harbors the cure for cancer and AIDS. That's why everyone says there is no cure, because there is no doctor brave enough to attempt to withstand the thong's scent long enough to collect it.

10. The bomb dropped on Nagasaki was an actual atom bomb. The "bomb" dropped on Iwo Jima was actually just a plastic bag full of Smeagol's thongs, which in itself is not lethal but when dropped on the suburb full of successful people cause a catastrophe until that point unheard of.

11. Smeagol's Perm juice was squirted on Sherman tanks during WWII, and that is why the inferior-in-every-way fighting machines were known to take out German Panzer tanks. No response from Karawte Man on whether or not said tanks harbored black leprechauns hell-bent on global domination by unleashing a massive attack financed by their pots of gold that they intend to use to kill kittens and make fur coats out of and then use those coats to cover the country and you know all about it but there's nothing you can do because you're being held hostage by a gang of angry carnie mimes who have duct taped your butt-cheeks together and fed you a horse laxative and are giggling maniacally while plunging your asshole, and you try to fight back but greyskull has both of your arms tied up under her leather skirt and you are just trying to save a kitten from having it's soul consumed by the impending unstoppable assault by the rebel force and you try to roundhouse kick the evildoers into oblivion but you cain't because your pants are too tight after you went to a "Rob Lowe" Beverly Hills 90210 theme party that you wans't even invited to!

Anyway, send some in and I will put them up to a vote, with the winner getting a free lunch again (possibly taken out by the fairy Stevester! Tee Hee!)