The Prons Funfacts

Some facts compiled while researching this fascinating subject:
1. The people who title porn vid clips are out of work, striking writers. Whoever wrote ‘Chilian (sic) amateur milf takes it up the ass!’ and ‘Wife taking it up the ass in this home sex movie’ were probably writing for Leno two months ago.

2. Those adult friend ‘dating’ web sites are confusing. How can it be that ‘ladylove_88′ is the same person as ‘northernkitty’? Don’t they check this stuff out so that these women aren’t glutting the site with duplicate pictures and different screen names?

3. Nacho Vidal’s real name is Ignacio Jordà González. His penis size is 8.5 inches (21.5 cm). I found that out on his Wikipedia page. Nacho is awesome and I think if he wasn’t doing porn, he’d be choking guys out in some MMA ring while anal raping them.

4. Clicking on a thumb of a hot chick will actually bring you back to the page you are currently on. It can make a person (me) feel like they (I) am wasting my already meaningless life even more when this happens, which is quite often.

5. Porn and backwards searching phone numbers are the two remaining free services on the web. Enjoy!

That should do it. Gotta go take a double hit of yohimbe, pumpkin seed extract, ginseng and extenze so I can go back to my ‘research project’.

See ya.

Winkin’, Blinkin’ and Nod, PA

My Lawyer has Narcolepsy.

Okay, at first I thought it was Necrolepsy, but that would mean that he has uncontrolled fits of dying, then comes to life and so on. Apparently, it is popular only in the gaming world, which I am only vaguely familiar with, and which I only found out by Googling.

Anyhoo, since I have started my divorce settlement ‘thingy’, I have had to speak to my attorney at various times. The fact is, he is hard enough to get a hold of by phone, much less in person. Hell, who does he think he is anyway, Johnny Cochran? Wait, I heard Johnny actually did suffer from Necrolepsy, omg, is that a coincidence?

Alright, I am back on track here, don’t let me derail again, okay? So, I began noticing the narco situation when I would sit across from him in his office and he would ask me an engaging question, like, ‘Why is your wife divorcing you?’ and I would begin at the beginning and work through it, kind of like a therapy session but with a flat retainer thank god, and without the therapy. Okay, so I get going and I’m heavily into 1986, when I see he is nodding off. Very subtly, mind you, like sitting there, resting his eyes, then opens them when I startle him with a phrase like ‘and then she fucked the janitor’.

I could have tolerated the dozing. It was the getting through to him part that pissed me off. (Hey, did I mention that I cannot reach my fucking lawyer to talk to him about his ‘job’, which I am allegedly paying him for, to use the legal jargon) It would usually happen when I would try to reach him and he wasn’t there and his receptionist had for some unknown reason decided to take longer and longer lunch breaks (eventually, starting at ten in the morning and going until, I don’t know, four pm?) resulting in my calls to him going direct to his voice mail box, which was always full, resulting in me not being able to reach him for weeks and weeks. It was that part that maybe helped me to be more upset at my own attorney than my wife’s dooshey lawyer.

I finally got hold of him through the miracle of persistence and said ‘man, you have got to empty your goddam inbox’, which he did. I then looked to the sky and said, why, God, do I have this guy as my lawyer? God answers by telling me that I have him as my lawyer because I was too cheap to hire a ‘real’ attorney. He apologized, sort of (my lawyer, not God) and told me he would empty his inbox. Not that he would help me with my case, but that he would empty his inbox. I was overwhelmed with joy.

Two days later, when I finally did get to leave a message (goddam recep was still jerking off), I got to hear his greeting (edited due to space limitations):

‘Hello. You have reached the law office of Jerome McFadden (fake name to escape defamation of character lawsuit), esquire, attorney at law. I graduated from law school in 1908, my roommate was Felix Frankfurter, blah, blah. I am sorry that you did not reach me at this time. I sometimes leave town and/or fall asleep while listening to clients. How are you? Did you have something important to say to me about your case? Or maybe you are a new client, wishing to employ my services. Either way, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz , zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Thank you.’

I stopped leaving messages after the novelty of his two minute greeting wore off, ’nuff said.

Okay, later that week, the receptionist came back from her funk and started answering the phone, my lawyer was actually in his office and we had a few nice short conversations. That was, until the following week when I spoke to him on the phone, about something relating to the case. We were discussing and I was talking, probably more than I should but hell, he asked me a question about how my dog was doing, so I answered him fully, which I always, do, as you can see by how verbose I am in this post, amirite? Anyway, I was talking and I actually finished a thought and it appeared that nobody is at the other end of the line. This is hard to determine, cuz sometimes people do not acknowledge when you are finished talking, like on this blog when I post something dynomite and nobody comments, fucking douchebags. So there is dead air. I mean really dead air and I say, hello? are you there and three seconds, long seconds go by and he finally says ‘I’m here’, like he was beating off to me talking about my dog or something. this happened not once, but three times during this conversation until I ended it so as not to feel guilty for keeping him away from his nap.

I haven’t heard from him since and I haven’t bothered to call the office. Instead, I hang  around     the house aimlessly and occasionally ‘nod myself off’, if you know what I mean.

Thank you for listening!

No, Let ME Place YOU On Hold For Two Minutes

Most everybody has had to deal with those hip, outsourcy wags from Bangalore when calling HP for tech support. You’ve read the articles about how horrible the service is, how they can’t speak English, even though the English people lived there for a hundred years or more, so you’d think that maybe some of it would have rubbed off, but, alas, no. (the saying goes, ‘You can take the English out of India, but you can’t get English out of an Indian’)

So, I have tried my hardest to restrain from writing this post, figuring it’s been done too many times. Well, I deleted it twice and it still comes back to haunt me, somewhat like my recent antibiotic-and-Claratin induced nightmare, ‘No Tetas D’Amora’, a Fellini short about a sexy woman with no breasts. It ran for three nights over at the old Teatro de Me Cabeza until the new indie release, last night: ‘My Penis has morphed into A 1983 Mazda GLC Hatchback.’

Okay, I will not go over the no tit chick dream, but I will recount the HP tech service call. It all started when I tried to empty the recycle bin on my Vabulous Vista Desktop and it would not show that it had indeed emptied. Being very compulsive on the subject of all of my Windows Crapware working correctly, I decided to call HP to iron it out.

After all, the service is still free with warranty, blah, blah. Big mistake, but I cannot seem to learn my lesson from horrible ‘you get what you pay for’ incidents in my life, at all, ever.

Here’s how it went:

Ring, ring, followed by smooth jazz and whatever bullshit HP has recorded to keep you calm for ten minutes.

HP: Hello, and thank you for calling HP technical support. My name is Rosibmuklllhsmkdsa, how can I help you?

Me: What?

HP: My name is Ilkndklsinammmabnanana.

Me: Okay. Uh, I can’t throw away the trash on my desktop.

HP: I’m sorry, I will need your model number and serial number.

Me: Alright (give her the information)

HP: Alright, now, what seems to be the ropopuls?

Me: What?

HP: The proooojjbkelem.

Me: I can’t empty the trash on my desktop

HP: Okay, we will do remote assistance to help you with this.

[twenty minutes go by, with me staring blankly at my screen while the HP tech lady moves my curser around. At one point, she misses my porn folder by mere inches. I think this is funny and laugh. She does not respond.]

HP: Okay, did that help?

Me: No.

[Another hour and a half of attempts to find the source of the problem, rebooting in 'safe' mode, and a dozen other pointless attempts all of which I was sure would be eventually punctuated by the ever popular, meme, 'Let me put you on hold for two minutes while I research this', which can only stop you from complaining long enough for them to get back on the line with another unworkable anti-fix.]

HP: Okay, just give me two minutes to hikielkhdklslturolakourejn with my supervisor. [told you so]

Me: What? (cool jazz waiting music)

HP: Okay, my supervisor says that you probably have a virus. Do you use anti-virus software?

Me: Of Course.

HP: Well, it must not be working.

Me: What am I supposed to do?

HP: You need to do a clean install of your system.

Me: That means I’ll lose all of my files?

HP: No, you can back them up first.

Me: Okay, well thank you for nothing. How can your supervisor diagnose a virus without looking? He must be an
ignorant, lazy asshole.

HP: Very good! Thank you for calling HP. Is there anything else we can help you with today?

Me: Uh, you didn’t help me. You only pretended to help me.

HP: My name, again, is Oufredifjklajdkfjal. Your case number is blah blah. Would you like to take part in a short survey?

Me: No. the only thing you helped me with was using up half of my day. [ Wherin I hang up]

Ten minutes later, I decided to google the problem, found the answer on a tech forum, applied it and that was that.

Two days later, I got a call. I let it go to the answering machine before picking it up.

HP: “Hello, this is Miss OPIU-jkajdfkjieeeieiedda calling from HP. We would like to know if you are still having your problem with the recycle bin. Please call us at……

Me: Hello?

HP: Yes, this is Ms. Hiouriihheels calling from………

Me: Can I put you on hold for two minutes?

HP: Well, actually I wanted to…………

Me: Just two minutes, please.

I put her on hold, which I couldn’t fully do with my phone, so I just put the phone down next to the tv and flipped to ‘Tucker’, on MSNBC while I did two loads of laundry.

I think that took care of the problem.

Live Blogging The L.L. Bean Catalog

Tues, November 27th, 2007, 5:00 pm

Okay, so I received the seasonal L.L. Bean catalog the today and am still in a state of stunned disbelief. How did I get on their mailing list? Does shopping at WalMart qualify me for this?

Thursday, November 29th, 2007, 8:00 am

Alright, let’s see what we have here. Good thing I have this Bean catalog, since I’ve read everything else in my ‘read while taking a dump’ magazine rack.

Well, well. The inside cover is touting slippers that possess ‘Handsewn comfort’ and I am stopped in my tracks. How can the word ‘handsewn’ modify the word ‘comfort’? Does handsewing actually contribute to comfort and if it does, are there other types of handsewing that aren’t comfort related? Like handsewing my ex-wife’s mouth shut?

Saturday, December 1st, 2007, 4:30 pm

This is an odd time for me to take a crap, but, oh well. I skim through eight pages of stuff that is lined. Shirts, pants, more shirts, shoes, hats. They don’t know that I live in Florida where lined chinos have never done well. Maybe they have a catalog for people living in Florida, California, Hawaii and the Virgin Islands. (Is that Banana Republic?).

Sunday, December 2nd, 2007, 8:00 am

Here I am, right on time! Wow, drinking aloe vera juice really does help, after all! I skim past all of the goose down parkas and whatnot and go right to the sunwashed canvas collection of handbags. Not for me, mind you, just caught my eye. Another misplaced modifier and I am getting angry again. Sun does not wash anything, ever. It heats, dries, disintegrates for sure. But no washing from the Sun. I finish up in the bathroom and go online to Google ’sunwashed’. Am disappointed to find out that ’sunwashed’ is not defined. They even have a car scent called ’sunwashed linen’. Maybe cabbies will start using this instead of crown air fresheners.

Tuesday, December 4th, 2007, 6:45 pm

Jalapino burgers and Corona can give you the same benefits as a coffee enema.
I nervously skip over the children’s section so as not to be labeled a pedofile by my subconscious. Some hot models (not hot by normal standards, but hot for an outdoor clothing catalog). Yea, she’s nice, no, not her, too horsey in the face, that black chick looks okay, but could she straighten out her hair and get it colored red? No way on that last chick. The jeans she is modeling are too loose. No camel toe, no interest.

Friday, December 7th, 2007, 8:00 am

You can set your clock to me again, thank god! Not only does today represent a day that will live on in infamy, but it is the day I finish with the L.L. Bean catalog. Just to make sure I didn’t gloss over it, I go back to the ‘Out-of-the-Ordinary Gift Ideas ALL UNDER $20′. I decide on the plaid duct tape for my daughter and the ice cream ball for my son. By the way, what kind of idiot needs to carry around an ice cream ball, which ‘makes delicious homemade ice cream, any time, any where’? If you are going that far away from the Quickie Mart and civilization in general that you can’t pull in for a Dove Bar or a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, then you probably won’t be needing or wanting to eat ice cream, since you will most likely be dying of hypothermia and would be a better candidate for the ‘hot chicken broth ball’.

Whatever. That’s it. In keeping with their outdoorsy, environmentally sound theme, The L.L. Bean catalog is now comfortably ‘recycling’ in my kitchen garbage bag. Anything I can do to help the environment, yo.

If Trolling You Is Wrong, I Don’t Want To Be Right

The interwebs is a very powerful medium. Almost too much for the average user. Jay Mohr refers to it as the world’s largest bathroom stall and I tend to agree.

For example, I recently put this ad on some online classified web site:
‘2004 Haulmark Cargo trailer. 6′ x 10′ white, single axle, with spare. Single side door, rear ramp. As is, $1500.00 firm’.

I sold the trailer in three days, got what I wanted for it, but kept the ad in to try and bait an inbred or two. This one, I threw back:

Buyer: Hey, I saw that your ad mentions you’re willing to take half off on your trailer. So that’s $750, right? When can I pick it up?

Delete. Delete. Rinse and Repeat. As I mentioned earlier, I didn’t even bother answering that one. I mean, in this guy’s delusional universe, everyone has to send him some kind of an answer to that line. Then he has you in his circle of death and it’s only a matter of time before he ‘gives up’ and ‘takes it off your hands’ for $975. No way, not even in the fake internet world of classified ads for already sold items, would I fall for that.

Two days later, I received this gem, again via the advertising web site’s email server. Indeed, my prayers had been answered.

Buyer: I can give you $1250.00 cash today.

With nothing to lose, I let loose the dogs of war.
Me: Nope. Look up the word ‘firm’ in the dictionary.

Knowing this idiot couldn’t stay away, I waited patiently, did some errands. When I came back, this was waiting for me:

Buyer: What is a dictionary (no punctuation here – I guess it’s up to me to figure out that he’s asking a question)

Okay, now you know the guy is being a douche, trying to get me into an argument, like he is reverse trolling me, or something. I decide to just cap the guy.

Me: A dictionary is what you constantly have in your mouthinary.

Bada Bing!

He hasn’t answered me yet, but I’m expecting something like, “Fuck You”, or “Your An Asshole”.

Then, I guess I’d post his name, phone number and email address in a gay personals classified ad on ManHunt.net, then create a fake My Space page for him, where he professes his love for young boys, complete with penis photos, his name, phone number, email address, etc.

I mean, that’s what a flame war is all about, isn’t it?

Spader Backs It Up, Old School

Now that I no longer ‘have’ HBO (this is the subject of another post entirely, tentatively titled “HBO sucks and if you don’t believe me, just Google ‘HBO sucks’ and you will see a million hits”), deciding on what movie to watch has become amazingly simple. Two channels, IFC and TCM, offer movies without commercial interruption or editing of content.

Yes, the Indie Film Channel and Ted Turner’s Classique Cinema. I usually keep it on the oldie channel, but last night was a problem. Their programmer had been self medicating and as a result, TCM was deeply involved in a Boston Blackie marathon. Do I really like Chester Morris enough to watch ten hours of him annoying the cops in vivid black and white while solving their crimes for them? Nope. So I crossed fingers and went over to the IFC. (hoping against hope they weren’t still running the same two movies all night, you know, like ‘Buffalo 66′ and some Bolivian movie in Spanish, no subtitles, about lesbians in the high country. All night long, over and over. These guys have the budget of a start up hot dog cart business.)

To my suprise, IFC had a Cronenberg flick called ‘Crash’ (no, no, not the one from 2004, directed by Paul Haggis and starring Don ‘the goat’ Cheadle!). This ‘indie classic’ was made in ‘96 and stars James Spader and that guy from the Turtles movie. Come on. Cronenberg and James Spader? How could this movie be bad?

Answer. It could be bad because it was made badly, with a bad story and even more bad acting and directing. Listen, I don’t want come off like some asshole movie critic who just bad mouths movies because he gets paid to do that type of stuff. No. I’m going to come off like a guy who watched a horrible movie and wants to tell people about it, so he can perhaps release these disturbing images from his mind.  For free!

So, what we have here is a one paragraph combination synopsis and review. Let’s get started.

Crash (1996), Directed by David Cronenberg, Starring James Spader, Holly Hunter, Elias Koteas, Rosanna Arquette, blah, blah.

Spader, who likes to perform anal sex with chicks in closets, is driving home when he takes his mind off the road for about fifteen minutes and gets into a wreck. Another guy flies through Spader’s windshield and it looks pretty cool. Some chick in another wrecked car shows off one of her titties and later on gets boned in the ass by James Spader multiple times, then disappears from the movie (after I woke up from a nap? wtf?). Meanwhile Spader slams his own wife in the ass, while she talks gay dirty talk, thereby convincing Spader to become gay with the TMNT guy (we saw that coming, didn’t we?). More multiple ass bangings (another nap, damn it, I keep waking up while they’re finishing!) all with Spader coming in from behind, including the one where Spader ass mangles TMNT guy. A couple of crash scenes with some old Chryslers. More ass raping by Spader on hot, disfigured chicks who all look like his wife, but who aren’t and now I have passed out for the fifth time, only to awaken for the final scene, the resolution, if you will. Must. Stay. Awake. Spader is chasing his own wife down the freeway, drives her off the road where she is thrown out of her car. He comes to her aid, sees that she is injured, but alive and does what any husband would do in this situation. He dicks her in the ass while telling her he loves her. Fade to black. Disturbing credits sound track that went on forever. Then silence. Amen.

Oh, and thanks, Cronenberg. Now I can’t watch Boston Legal without imagining that Alan wants to schtup Judge Gloria Weldon in the butt. After a car wreck. While Shatner watches.

DivorceSlam ‘07: Did She Just Put Him In A Double Suplex?

Well, huge in the ‘celeb’ news this week is the break up, after 24 years, of Terry ‘Clearwater Hulk Hogan’ Bollea and his old, sort of milfy wife, Linda. She filed for divorce and he couldn’t care less. (speaking of which, I was once corrected when using that phrase,’couldn’t care less’ by the local grammar nazi, a still actively menopausal hippie lady who works at the local feed store. She told me that I should be saying ‘could care less’ because ‘couldn’t care less’ means that you could not care, hence, a sort of double negative which would actually mean that you actually cared. Understanding that I was dealing with a person to whom ’sarcasm’ and ‘irony’ were total strangers, I told her to go fuck herself. She promptly validated me for not saying the word ‘you’ before ‘go fuck yourself ‘, as that was understood.)

Why am I writing about this? Because my wife of 28 years (I lasted four more years than Hogan, even with all of his money! Way To Go!) had, just like Mrs. Hogan, decided to ‘take a vacation’ this year.

I wanted to see how my breakup looked compared to the Hulkster’s, figuring I might have the edge over this guy, for no reason in particular, other than I need to win at something these days. So, I took copious notes and came up with the following, including a very sophisticated scoring system:

1. My wife left me a ‘note’ painfully explaining how having sex with me was ‘worse than getting deep cleaned on all four quadrants’ and that I shouldn’t stalk her. Hulk’s wife didn’t even leave him a note. He found out through a reporter, then tells the newsies, “Thank you for the great information,” (I really think he was being sarcastic there , no?) followed by “My wife has been in California for about three weeks. … Holy smokes,” which blows me away that he just holy smoked that one like he just found out that his dog had developed a light case of diarrhea. How can that be good? The Hulk got slammed into the turnbuckles on that one. Hulk=1 point, Me= 3 points.

2. My wife wants me to pay all of her credit card bills and won’t push for the alimony because she knows I can’t pay more than twenty five bucks a month. Hulk’s wife wants an ‘unspecified amount’ of alimony and child support. For what? Going to LA to bang her hairdresser? Don’t let her get away with it, brother. Just hang steady and throw a chair at her attorney. Hulk=0 points, Me = 1 point

3. I live in Florida, the ‘you can only schtup me for half of everything’ state. So does Hulk. The difference here is that with me, half of nothing is still nothing. With Hulk, it’s half of a huge estate, including ten million in property. (I wonder- does she get half of his ‘roid stash?)  Hulk = minus four million, tetrazillion points, Me = 2 points

4. When I first found out my wife left me, I got really upset and called everybody on speed dial and talked serious shit for about a week. I may even have cried like a psychotic little homo a few times.

But Hulk? All Hulk had to do (check out the pythons, pleeeze!) was :

then go to the gym, do a couple of reps, drink a Red Bull and get ready for SlamFest ‘08, where he can take it out on Razor Ramon, Yokozuna and Rowdy Roddy Piper’s enlarged prostate in a four way grudge match and collect another huge check!

Me? The best I could do was call my wife’s lawyer a schmuck. Tapping out, yo.