“I love Cabbage Patch Dolls.  I think they are a very creative toy.”

First of all, kudos to the dude who feels comfortable to admit something like this in public.

Second, a creative toy?  It’s a doll.  A doll with a birth certificate, grant you, but a doll nonetheless.  All the birth certificate does is name the doll for you, thus robbing you of any creativity you could have used by naming the doll yourself.

To the dude in the ugly Hawaiian shirt who is guilty of all the above:  You are a big, fat, freaking dillhole.

Joey: Where’s the waitress? I’m starving.
Chandler: It’s a buffet, man
Joey: Oh, here’s where I win my money back.

My kids like a local buffet, so we hit it up every month or so. While there a couple of nights ago, I was getting my food and I saw one of the staff members had brought a man to the food and was motioning with her arm as if to say here it is.

The man looked at her funny and said, “Oh, you get it yourself?”

What did he think a buffet was?

Two questions:

How can you possibly squeeze enough boobies to make all that ice cream?  And where do I apply for that position?

On the night of the Opening Ceremonies, we were out at the Olive Garden, thanks to a generous contribution from the ‘Rents.  While waiting for our table a woman as old as Moses shuffled out, talking to her grandchild about how the only thing she likes about the Olympics are the Opening Exercises.  She coudn’t give a rat’s about the thrilling competition, the triumph of the human spirit, or countries coming together in the name of sports.

I personally don’t buy that crap, but that’s what the Olympics are selling.  I wasn’t feeling love for my fellow man when Phelps and Company punked France after all their trash talking.  I just jumped up and down yelling at France (yes, the entire country) to stick that in their pipe and smoke it.  Of course, when it comes to France, that’s more love than any American is usually willing to give, so hey, way to go Olympics.

Back to Mrs. Moses, she was really wanting to get home so she wouldn’t miss any of the festivities, and since it looked like it was going to take her half an hour just to get to her car, she had reason to be worried.

Now, what is my point?  I am sure my LDS readers have spotted it.  For those of you outside the Zion Curtain, at the beginning of Sunday School each week, all the primary kids meet together for a while before breaking off to their individual classes.  This time is referred to as Opening Exercises.  Mrs. Moses wanted to hurry home so she wouldn’t miss the Olympic Opening Exercises.

Now, having not watched, can anyone tell me who said the prayer?  Did they sing Jesus Wants Me For a Sunbeam?  Or the Chinese version Mao Wants Me For a Volunteer?  Just asking.

It’s not illegal to be a biker.

Is that what you think you are, dillhole?  A biker?  No, you’re a scooterer.  It’s not a real word, but you’re not a real biker.

No matter how many times you scoot down the road with what’s left of your hair blowing in the breeze,  no matter how many times you tell your bro, “Killer boots, man,”  and no matter how many times you brag, “I get 70 miles to the gallon on this hog,” you will never be a biker.

I saw a guy riding his bike this morning wearing yellow. Come on, man.  Any color but yellow.  You gotta earn that color.

What?

He’s just some dude exercising or doing his part for the environment by biking to work. This isn’t the Tour de France, dillhole. The guy can wear whatever freaking color he wants.

Her firm set mouth set below her enormous bug-eyed sunglasses let me know she was itching to get a move on despite the fact we were already speeding. I eased off the gas so I wouldn’t completely pass the garbage truck. I ended up half a car length ahead. I think the garbage truck driver read my mind because he sped up until we were nose to nose and then matched my speed.

I couldn’t help but laugh as I looked in my mirror again. The lady trapped in the Ford behind us was not happy.

But I was.

“Yeah, women would stare at him all the time. He had the mullet going, and he was hot.”

He had the mullet going? He was hot? Mullet and Hot should never appear in the same sentence unless it goes something like this, “My fugly ex chopped his mullet off because the weather was so hot.” That’s it. No exceptions.

And those women probably weren’t staring because he was hot. They were staring in awe and wonderment that someone with a mullet got a woman to go into public with him.

The freaking Moon!

According to the story, this guy has made over 7 million dollars selling plots of land on the Moon.  He’s making millions selling crap he doesn’t even own.  And the flip side of this coin is people are buying what he’s selling.  This business had also spawned copycats doing the same thing.

This pisses me off on many levels.  How can someone sell something they don’t own?  How can people, including past presidents, buy it?  The whole thing seems idiotic.

The icing on top of this crap-cake is the Head Cheese has, according to his website “been named co-chairman of the Republican Congressional Business Advisory Council. He has also been given the National Republican Leadership Award and most recently he has been issued the highest honor the National Republican Congressional Committee has, the prestigious Republican Gold Medal.”

Another reason it pisses me off is while growing up, I wanted to be an astronaut.  I still have a love for all things NASA and outer space.  Some a-hole selling plots of land on the Moon somehow cheapens the Moon and treats something that I have dreamed about and held in esteem as a thing of naught.  I am failing to explain it, but it pisses me off.