So Many Awards, So Few Cash Prizes

It’s happened again.  Someone has created an award, and… [shuffling feet, blushing slightly]…I’ve won it.  This particular award is timely in its arrival in the in-box I normally reserve for Nigerian inheritance notices and Swedish erotica.  It’s the Loyal Reader Award, which comes complete with fraternity hazing rituals rules and a groovy badge which may or may not infringe on the copyrighted material of one Peter Max.

Check out the funky colors, maaan!
Check out the funky colors, maaan!

In these times of followers who don’t follow or even understand my native tongue, it’s time we gave credit to our followers who actually follow us – those hearty souls who endeavor to read nearly everything we write.  I was nominated for this noble award by the globe-trotting Blogdramedy.  She felt bad for me after I whined about my non-following followers.  Perhaps she knew how emotionally drained I was after my very public spat with those cranky-pants gas-bags over at Team Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  It’s even possible that the lovely Ms. Dramedy mistook my frequent visits to her posts as being due to my reading them, when as often as not, I’m just checking in to see if the skirt in her header illustration has been raised any higher than it was the last time I checked it.  I’m just a sucker for leggy babes – rumor has it there’s a scooter in the picture too, though I don’t recall seeing one.

In any case, I know better than to snub an award from this particular blogger, lest my invitation to next year’s holiday blogfest get “lost in the mail.”

The rules for this particular award, as I understand them, are fairly simple:

1. Thank the person who nominated you.  Grazzi, Bloggia Dramedella!  Tuttorosso al fresco parmigiano!

2. Display the badge proudly on your blog – I promise to do so.  In fact, the first chance I get, I’m going to put it right on the mantle where the Liebster Award currently sits.  The Liebster award is getting dusty and to be honest, ever since someone gave Liebsters to “Ohiodiscountinsulatedwindowscall4afreequote”  and “earnXtramoneyAskmehow”, the trophy just doesn’t have the same cache’.

3. Nominate everyone you know who may deserve it – luckily for almost everyone I know on this blog site, Blogdramedy has amended that to “one person”.  After careful consideration and possibly throwing a dart at my list of followers, I have decided to nominate the lovely and talented Jots From A Small Apt. Jots, as her buddies like to call her, consistently writes witty and insightful posts.  She occasionally favors her readers with drawings and other artwork she’s created.  What she sees in the naughty drivel I regularly pollute this site with is beyond me.  Perhaps she has a thing for Bald Bad Boy Bloggers.  Perhaps she feels she can “change” me.  Forget it, Dottie – I’m a rebel.  Anyway, go check her out – she’s still posting gems, despite recently injuring her arm in a mosh pit incident.

4. Answer a rhetorical question.  I know you’re not supposed to answer rhetorical questions, but the one BD asked just begs to be answered:

Can you drink and blog?

My answer, quite simply, is that I have difficulty not drinking and blogging.  I once wrote a very short story which described the vodka and grapefruit experience so exhaustively that my wife took away my keys.  If alcohol isn’t featured as my topic, then it’s likely playing a role in either inspiration, keyboard lubrication or both.  I tried smoking crack and blogging, but I live in the suburbs and the inner city crack house I was frequenting didn’t have wifi – I tell you, it’s amazing what passes for living for some people.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find out the best way to patch a dart hole in a computer screen.

Yo Wassup G-Spot!

Good news, I found the G-spot. Turns out we’ve been looking in the wrong place, it’s actually located at the intersection of Route 206 and Monmouth Road just outside of Mt. Holly, New Jersey! For the record, “topless” is not spelled “t-a-p-a-s” – Boy, was that ever an embarrassing discovery!

First, a quick hats off to Carrie Rubin of The Write Transition for bringing this nugget of medical news to my attention.  Apparently, a physician in Poland claims to have located the exact location of the infamous “G-spot” of an 83 year old deceased woman during the dissection of her remains.

OK – now go back and re-read that last sentence over again and explain how any card-carrying wise-ass could fail to find at least 20 good jokes in there.  To Ms. Rubin’s credit, she merely used the G-Spot reference as a teaser to get lots of us readers all charged up, then quickly changed her topic to something much more family friendly.  She does that a lot, and I fall for it every time.  Her recent post about periods turned out to be a discussion of punctuation!  She’s a crafty one!

For the righteous and snooty among you, the following attempts at humor will be about dead people, Polish people, sexual topics and worse.  If you don’t have the stomach for it, just hit “like” and go thumb through the Readers’ Digest over there on the coffee table while us grown-ups share a few ribald laughs!

Here now, in no particular order, are 20 quips about the story.

20.  The article fails to mention that the physician has been looking for this particular patient’s G-spot since she was 32 years old.

19. The article also fails to mention that it was actually another woman’s G-spot, and no one thought to look for it in an 83 year old woman in the morgue.

18. The “physician” was actually a confused, near-sighted veterinarian looking for a missing Schnauzer named Mitzi, and like most of us, he found the G-spot quite by accident.  Mitzi’s whereabouts remain unknown.

17. Sadly, when she died, she took the recipe for ice cubes with her, and now Poland must drink its vodka warm.

16. The physician, in an interview, replied to one reporter’s question by answering “Well actually, her toes were already curled before we started the dissection.”

15. The woman’s grieving husband stated he didn’t care so much about the location of the G-spot, but he wondered where she left the checkbook.

14. The physician, when questioned about his skills as an anatomist, stated that he did in fact know his ass from his elbow.

13. There have been no confirmations of pre-production talks for “Sex and the City – Krakow Nights”.

12. G-spot or not, she’s still frigid.

11. Great! Found my G-spot just in time for purgatory!

10. Ironically, the woman was not Dr. Ruth Westheimer, who despite being 83, is very much alive, (and with a few shots of peppermint schnapps might have shown the physician right where to look).

9.  Upon discovering the G-spot, the doctor yelled “Eureka!” at which the point the cadaver said, “Whaddya expect?  I’m dead!”

8. There have been no confirmations that the physician had to employ a special device from “The Love Toy Connexion”.

7. Stiff anti-smoking laws prevented the doctor and his subject from sharing a cigarette afterwards on hospital property.

6. There have been no confirmations that the male dominated review board of the Polish Journal of OBGYN had plans to issue a statement which essentially states “Who cares?”

5. The Polish physician admitted that he had located the G-spot earlier, but was confused because it was marked with an “X” in the text books and not a “G”

4. Shortly after locating the G-spot, the doctor became distracted by soccer highlights on a nearby TV, lost it and had start looking all over again.

3. The doctor’s wife, when reached for comment stated “No way, not MY Stosh!  He’s too busy practicing medicine to ever find a G-spot!”

2. Turns out there’s no correlation between G-spots and liver spots.

1. The physician reported that he would have found the G-spot years sooner, but every time he’d gotten close, he’d finish up and fall asleep.

Alright, it turns out that I’m nearly as guilty as Ms. Rubin on the false advertising accusation, as those 20 were not all good jokes.  Please, gentle readers, feel free to give me a one liner of your own.   Don’t forget to unclick the comment email notification box, or suffer the wrath of receiving emails about all 5 comments I’ll be getting.

My Life As A Wise-Ass

I’m a wise-ass from way back.  I have the natural inclination to look at things through the cynical, mischevious eyes of a true ball buster.  If there are no balls available for busting, I’ll look for something smart-alecky to say about whatever’s handy.

Hats off to my orthodontist! Those Invisaligns worked wonders!

If you’re lecturing me in a seminar, please don’t have on a bad toupee or speak with a goofy accent – I won’t be able to focus on a damn thing you’re saying.  If you’re going to say something which could unintentionally send 13 year old boys into fits of snorting laughter, try not to say it in front of me (think Beavis and Butthead with careers and mortgages).  I have just enough self-control to keep from snickering, but I also have the rotten impulse to make my fellow audience members start cracking up if at all possible.  If I can’t find a willing audience member to listen to my side-splitting commentary, I’ll text someone.

It’s not that I’m a bad person, I’m just a firm believer in laughter being the best medicine.  The way the world presents me with crap to poke fun at, the people who surround me could quite possibly live to be 150 years old.  The thing is, I won’t likely be joining them.  I don’t actually laugh all that often.  I’m more of a pusher-man of laughter than an actual user.

I’m sure all of you armchair psychoanalysts out there will see my comedic stylings as a sad attempt at making myself popular. It’s likely rooted in my being shunned as a child due to my eczema and pathetic inability to keep from crying for no particular reason. My derisive comments are clearly a desperate cry for acceptance. Perhaps I use my barbs to build a wall around my soft inner core, like a partially frozen Three Musketeers Bar.  Good for you Sigmund, but let’s talk about your wacky accent;  you sound like the kindly old shepherd caught in a cheap motel with a cute little lamb from your flock.  The two of you look so cozy, smoking cigarettes and watching Animal Planet on cable as you lay in the tangled sheets.  Get yourself some help, you sicko!

In most workplaces, my humor tends to be more subversive. In one particular job, my boss was an aging hippy named David (Never Dave – like me, always David – like me when I’m in trouble).  I guess he was more “new age” than hippy.  He would have these meetings and I couldn’t focus on anything he said because he was such a screwball.  I began to think that irrespective of the topic of discussion, it was only an elaborate scheme to eventually try to convince everyone in the meeting to become vegans.  I started sharing this theory with my buddies in the office.  Since people are fundamentally bored in meetings anyway, the concept of us being pawns in the clandestine recruitment program of radical vegetarians caught on.  We got to the point where no one could really focus on anything the guy said.  We would all just cast smirking glances at one another whenever David would stroll into the meeting in his funny looking, leather-free shoes and carrying a platter of edamame hummus.

For reasons which probably had nothing to do with people not listening to what he said in meetings, David moved on and was replaced by another manager, named Michael.  Michael was quite different than David.  He was an old-school businessman and looked like he might be having a stroke at anytime.  He spoke with a distinctive accent which I quickly pegged as being nearly identical to that of William Daniels, playing the voice of Kit the Car in Knight Rider.  If you could get Michael to say his own name you’d swear you were sitting right there in the passenger seat next to Hasselhoff (say it with me now – My-kull).  True to form, I wasted no time in pointing out this similarity to my colleagues.  Michael’s meetings soon provided us with endless hours of amusement.  It didn’t hurt that Michael was fond of using some really bizarre phrases.  Imagine this one in William Daniels’ voice, emanating from the flashing dashboard of a Trans-Am “..well, if they don’t like it, that’s just hard cheese“.   I’m not kidding, he’d actually say that.

I moved on to bigger and better things.  Their laying me off proved to be a blessing in disguise.

I left those lofty, professional ranks for the position of bartender – worse hours, better pay.  There may be no career better suited for the terminal wise-ass than bartending, except perhaps morning-drive disc jockey or United States Congressman.  People don’t normally enjoy being mocked, but in the world of alcohol consumption, it’s close to an honor.  For an accomplished wit such as myself, mocking the booze-addled clientele was like shooting tipsy fish in a barrel full of vodka.  If you’re a regular at a given bar, the staff, particularly the bartenders, should point out any of your flaws on an hourly basis, or even more often if you’re a good tipper.  If, as a customer, you’re greeted by a demeaning nickname despite repeatedly asking not to be called that, then you are officially bar royalty.

Despite being so well suited for the career, I was smart enough to see the lack of long-term potential in bartending.  Besides, I kept getting canned.

The years have flown by since those halcyon bartending days.  I’d love to tell you that my wisenheimer ways have mellowed with the years, but no one I know seems to think so.  I like to believe that my taste has improved to the point where I’ll wait for the best opportunity to lay out a primo snappy remark, rather than forcing my humor wherever I can cram it.  These days, the amount of ridicule I heap upon my superiors is tempered by the delicious smell of money and the comforting arms of job security.  I end up relegating my mocking and busting of chops for the select few who I know to be able to take a joke and those clueless enough not to realize that they are the brunt of one.

I remember hearing in an art history lecture about an artist who went to be with his mother as she lay on her death bed.  He was frustrated with himself because though he was at her side, he couldn’t help but study the light and shadow on her face.  I would tell you who the artist was, but I was almost certainly too busy coming up with something funny to say to pay sufficient attention to learn that part of the story.  With that story in mind, I know that when I’m laying on my own deathbed, with some clergyman trying to give me last rites, I’ll be listening to his words and hoping I get a chance to crack wise before I croak.  You want to leave them laughing.