Conversation Between the Communication Brothers

We call daddums (Larry) and his brother, Uncle Gene (in photo above), the Communication Brothers, because they converse, but don't listen to each other, and they always manage to get dates and times wrong when their asses try to get together. It NEVER fails. EVER.

Uncle Gene (of Toledo, Ohio) is the older brother, and this is the way a telephone conversation between them went recently. Daddums was out at his place in Arizona.

Gene: I'm 81 now, and that's the median age of death for men. You had better hurry and come see me. I might be dead otherwise. [Clearly, optimism runs in my family.]

Larry: Gene, could you please wait to die until after I get back to Ohio? Otherwise, I'm going to have to pay for a damn plane ticket.

American Faces: John Mellencamp

I think you maybe have to be from the Midwest to truly understand the greatness that is John Mellencamp (and DO NOT call him John Cougar either, because that shit pisses him off, because it's more record company bullshit). John is a Midwestern poet/musician/rebel/talented painter. Motherfucker is MULTI-TALENTED, as many Midwesterners are.

I love this photo of John (in fact, it's my computer background right now). For those of you living under a rock, John Mellencamp is from Indiana [fucking Hoosiers can't drive, but that's another post for another damn day--Ohioans and Indianians are always sniping at each other because we live in such close proximity--that shit breeds contempt], and his nickname is Little Bastard. Ironically, SB's nickname (from the daddums and he ought to know) is Little Bitch.

John and I are both DEFIANT MIDWESTERN MOTHERFUCKERS, and don't you forget it! We fight authority and authority always wins. We don't brook any bullshit and feel almost totally the same way about the American political situation. We both despise George W. Bush. There isn't much I don't agree with that comes out of Mr. Mellencamp's mouth. He is a Midwestern fucking treasure, along with Kurt Vonnegut and Paul Newman.

Did you know Paul Newman was from Ohio? Did I mention that shit before?

Bad Art! Jack, Acrylic on Canvas

This hot mess is from the Starving Artist's Web site. And we know why the motherfuckers are starving!

Anyhoo, the expression on Jack's face looks like he's trying to work up a good shit or maybe his ass just wants a damn cookie. It's hard to tell because canines aren't real expressive (and they are even less so when rendered by a bad artist).

In SB's experience, dogs pretty much want to shit or eat though--one or the other. That, and I guess they occasionally want to hunch a random stranger's legs. They're kind of like men. Do I sound bitter?

A Blast from the Past for You Oldies Like Me

Yes. Yes, it is. You are correctamundo--those of you who guessed the photo above is of a Popeel's Pocket Fisherman by Ronco--because you just never know when you're going get a wild hair up your ass and want to fish. This shit folds up and stores in your pocket, so you can fish anytime and anywhere you take a notion!

I don't know whether Ronco is still in business or not. I kind of sincerely doubt Ronco made it through the Bush years (I barely made it myself), but anyhoo. . . there for awhile, Ronco made fucking everything except a damn automobile. If you needed a popcorn popper or a lint roller, try Ronco. I think even my double-album Donny Osmond's Greatest Hits was pressed by Ronco. But that sort of brings back a tough childhood memory for SB.

I begged and whined at the Moms and daddums for the double-record Donny Osmond album WITH THE POSTER (from Ronco) for at least six-fucking-months, and then, when I finally received it on my birthday, I decided to take it into school for show-and-tell. I WANTED EVERYBODY TO KNOW WHAT A HUGE DONNY OSMOND FAN I WAS! I wanted all the kiddies to know what excellent taste in audio fare I had at such a tender age. And then, (TEAR!) walking out to the driveway to get in the car to go to school, SB was holding the album the wrong way (NOT BEING CAREFUL WITH MY PRECIOUS GIFT FROM HEAVEN), when one of the precious fucking records fell out of the sleeve and crashed onto the driveway. It was the record that had Puppy Love on it, too!

A GREAT BIG CHUNK chipped out of the cocksucking vinyl. I cried and cried and cried all over my Sear's Winnie-the-Pooh-and-Piglet-Too designer ensemble. It was heartbreaking.

SB had the SADS for over a week. The Moms and daddums told me that I had to learn an important lesson and learn to take care of my things.

BULLSHIT. I WANNA NEW GODDAMN DOUBLE-RECORD SET, I said. I really did. I actually said that. The rents knew, even at my tender young age, that stopping me from cursing was a lost cause. Their new mission was to teach location cursing--in other words, where cursing was most appropriate (home) and where it was not (out).

Quattro Flushing Technology

This shit's dedicated to my daddums, also known affectionately as Spaz, who no longer has the best turbo-flushing toilet known to man.

What the hell is Quattro Flushing Technology, you might ask? It's THE MOST ADVANCED FLUSHING TECHNOLOGY AVAILABLE, and that makes your toilet OBSOLETE, Spaz. SORRY. Watch and weep.

Is Marie Osmond Right in the Head?

SB used to be a big fan of the Osmonds. In fact, the first concert I ever attended was a Donny & Marie Osmond concert with a friend and my daddums. There were glittery costumes and flashing lights, people, and my ass found that shit enchanting! This was pre-disco, and that made it REVOLUTIONARY! And also, I wanted to marry Donny Osmond when I grew up. I prayed to God every night that that shit would happen! Unfortunately for Donny, it didn't work out. Mr. SB's lucky ass got me instead!

But now, I don't know about Marie anymore. Is she right in the damn head? She still seems nice, so I won't be too harsh, but does the world really need a damn Baby Elvis Military doll? You be the judge (picture below). Personally, I think not so much.

And if I were Elvis's fucking Estate, I would be suing Marie Osmond. You just know Priscilla and Lisa Marie need to send some more money to the Church of Scientology. Zenu needs more money! Quick, go after Marie while she's got all that money from Nutra System. That bitch is flush right now.

I have to admit that Elvis would probably like the Baby Elvis dolls because, let's face it, Elvis liked cheesy shit. He liked orange shag carpet and faux leopard skin. He'd a thunk Baby Elvis was a cutin'. Also, Marie Osmond has lots of dark hair and big teeth and that was Elvis's look, so he probably wouldn't sue Marie. He'd just try and date her, but I'm just saying.

I've Known Truckers with Cleaner Mouths

The title of this post was something my dad said to me once when I was a teenager. [And don't all you Christian truck drivers with your anti-abortion messages on the sides of your goddamn trucks get all offended and start making nasty comments either. I find your anti-abortion messages just as offensive! I don't want to be subjected to fetuses, when I'm just driving down the highway, minding my own business. I realize that I'm stereotyping truck drivers as foul-mouthed for this post, but we've all heard the talk on the CBs man, and it ain't pretty.]

Anyhoo, I digress. Happens all the time. The point of this story (yes, there is a point, smart asses) is that I come by my foul mouth honestly. I've simply always had it. I was probably cursing about in the womb at the cramped conditions. I was a kicker in utero. I was born an angry rebel, man!

I was even a cursing toddler. When I was about three years old, daddums asked me to take my new shiny red purse, that was sitting on the kitchen table, upstairs to my bedroom. Since I was a defiant motherfucker, like Steve McQueen, even at three, I stomped right out of the room. Daddums, likely highly amused, but making a fierce face at me anyway, followed behind me and listened to my enraged stomping up the stairs. As I was crossing the threshhold into my bedroom, he heard me mutter: Goddamn purse! At three years of age, people! There's no correcting that filth when it's happening that young. I guess daddums told the Moms, and he and the Moms had this great, gleeful laugh over it all. And then, they just pretended that they didn't hear it.

It's probably not so funny in retrospect. I talked to the Moms at the Retirement Trailer Park of Nirvana the other night, and she said, "Your blog is funny, but do you have to use the word motherfucker?" I proceeded to inform her that I JUST LOVE the word motherfucker. And I do. In fact, it is my favorite cuss word of ALL TIME. Then I asked the Moms if she would do me a favor and post fliers advertising my blog all over the Retirement Trailer Park of Nirvana. I think the silence on her end of the line was a no.

END NOTE: And of course, when thinking about truck drivers, the movie Thelma & Louise always comes to mind. SB loves that film! Here is the official movie photo.

Help I Have Two Butts!

[Wasn't this ho singing at the inaugural yesterday? Didn't I just see her somewhere?]

Can you SB readers help a bitch out and send me any good diet/exercise tips? On second thought, I really don't want to get off the couch or miss the 10,00 reality TV shows I watch, so just send me diet tips. You can e-mail them to SB at ugadawg1@woh.rr.com or just put them in the comments section of this post. And be nice. I'm a little sensitive right now.

I used to make fun of fat-ass motherfuckers, with their loaded, Cheetos-laden carts at places like the Sam's Club. I called such hapless grossoids: double-butters, because they had butts in the front AND in the back. But now my fat-ass is starting to swing around to the front, too. It's like your ass has only so much capacity, and finally, when it's all full-up, the fat swings around, and a second butt is born. Lo, a second butt is born! This shit does not make for an attractive profile in the bathroom mirror. It makes it very difficult to sing Womanizer and pretend that you're Britney, bitch.

Anyhoo, it started out that I was just a little expansive in the waistline--you know--a little spare tiresy. You just buy the large-size underwear and walk around with camel toe in your too small pants, but now my omentum (thanks Dr. Oz!) is starting to take over. Now, I've got fat hanging OVER the waistband of my Hello Kitty underwear. [NOTE: There is no extra-large size in Hello Kitty world. The Japanese, the biggest Hello Kitty-wear buyers, are all wearing small. They're not fat, gluttonous fucks like Americans.]

So, help a bitch out and send your tips SOON, before my omentum attacks Earth, and Will Smith has to do some macho shit to save us all.

Dad's Doing Yoga with Who?

Well, I've done heard it all now. I just got off the phone with the Moms, and she's got Dad doing yoga WITH JANE FONDA! And he only referred to her as Hanoi Jane once. Breakthrough!

[And don't all you cranky veterans start posting hateful shit about Jane in the comments section. This is not a political blog, and I don't have time to start one either. I've got a full-time job, an ailing diarrhetic pooch, and a highly literate and time-consuming blog. This is not a fucking forum! If I wanted the opinion of angry veterans, I'd start one. If you want to bitch about Jane and the mistakes of her hapless youth, that bitch Ann Coulter's got a site. Go there!]

I wish I had a photo of daddums doing yoga with the Hanoi-ster that I could post, but I don't. If I did, I would blow it up and paste it all over his retirement community so that the other old cranky veterans could experience dad's forgiving nature and maybe learn to forgive, too. Maybe they could even start a Yoga with Jane class at the Retirement Center.




Namaste, motherfuckers!