If I Was an Upside Down Bag of Poop...

If I was a tampon, I would be totally fine with hanging out all day in a vagina, what I would hate, however, is being dragged out of the garbage and chewed on by a dog.

If I was a gas station, I would stop selling snacks and instead I would only sell shoes and matches.

If I was Paris Hilton I would hang out with a ten foot tall dehydrated vagina. Sometimes, I'd send the vagina on vacation to Africa and I'd hire interesting negro witch doctors to poke at it with pitchforks. I'd lay awake in bed trying to feel the pokes too because I always thought it would be freaky to have a twin.

If I was Sam Donaldson's eyebrows, I would so rule when I coined the freedom call: "Don't Be a Pushy, Dare to Be Bushy!" when I received the lifetime achievement award at the annual NAAPB (National Association for the Advancement of Push Brooms) awards banquet.

If I was an upside down bag of poop with pulsating face cancer and an ugly little red headed girl's voice, I would probably get my feelings hurt when people called me Aaron Neville because that guy dresses like a total fag.

If I was the mole on Aaron Neville's face I would donate all the real estate from my northern prairies to the cliffs and snow covered peaks in my southern most regions to Habitat for Humanity. The homeless would finally live in a land made entirely of blueish beef jerky and nobody would ever again notice that they smelled like pee. That's what we call a two-fer.

If I was a peanut and it was 1979, I would tell everybody that Jimmy Carter was my dad but that he never acknowledged me. Then, four years later I would find Amy and slip her a roofie. 9 months later a peanut bush would grow out of her vagina and then the word would be "incest". Suddenly people would stop looking all stink-eyed at Billy. Even the homeless would snicker at poor ol' Jimmy. HA HA, I said snicker -- get it? Peanuts? Holy shit I am topical.

If I was a really boring blog post I would ---- wait a minute --- what are you trying to say? Are you trying to get me to say that I am boring? merkley??? well take this - kljhhklju ajklrbsdh vksdghjv and THAT loihzsdffl!!! .asjkhvb ;akljhdsf vlkj!!! and take one of these too louifhgmspoierg onifsfdoisrrnocvao;i56p9834989yfbn!! HA!! That'll teach you to call a blog post boring. ------ Oh quit bawling you little queer, It's only a bloody nose. Why don't you just show everybody one of your fruitcake pictures of one of those pretty girls that you always pretend that you hang out with.

OK, maybe I will -- and I'm not pretending -- I actually know all of these girls.

Yeah -- OK, whatever you say you bloody nosed homo.

Don't believe him, I know all of these girls, and I'm not gay. Here is a picture I took of my friend Yana. I don't think she'd get in her underwear for just anybody -- I think it's obvious that I know her and that she trusts me and admires my talent.

Yeah -- whatever --- faggot.

You're the fag.

Wanna have sex?

Fine -- sure -- whatever --- get the grease.

That's all for now!
Don't get caught staring at a really old woman's shriveled up boobs! No -- wait --- DO get caught. Really old ladies love that shit. You might even hook up. SWEET!

Boring Is Worse Than Murder.

That's all really.

Except I'd rather hang out in a grave with that dead, brains-hanging-out, kooky indian kid who shot up the assholes at his school than hear your stupid recycled BORING political punditry one more time. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!! (all of my readers and friends exempted). Please -- for the love of god, go out and gang rape some nuns -- just don't bore me with your stupid arguments about how Michael Moore at least "get's people to think". If the nuns don't turn you on, you can even gang rape ME. Pour acid in my anus ----- In fact --- ANYTHING -- but please please please oh dear Jesus Christ in an easter basket please.... STOP BEING SO EXCRUCIATINGLY BORING!!! Ouch. That actually hurt my head.

And another thing, Death From Above 1979 tonight, around the corner at my pal Michael O'Connor's place, The Independent. All I'm saying is that it's too bad the rest of the band couldn't make it. The show would have probably rocked.

Now here is a lovely picture I took of my beautiful friend Maria. She is one of the nicest, sexiest, human ladies on the planet and she puts up with me more than any person ever should.

Holy crap she is hot.
Did I mention I am drunk? I'm sure Maria already guessed that.

Jesus Always Loved Me More Than Your Average Asshole

In 1979, when I was 13, Jesus once again proved his greater love for me over my very own sister.

Erika, my less loved sister, had been dialing the local radio station all day long --- like non-stop dialing, her fingers were broken and bleeding from so much dialing dialing -- to win a radio contest. They were giving away a record or something. I really was hoping that she would win, but she seemed so desperate I just didn't feel like it was going to happen. But still, dial she would. I mostly heard all of this from the other room. I had the inclination a few times to pick up one of the other phones and tell her she had won and then just mail her one of my mom's crappy Lettermen records.

My sister was pretty easily fooled.

I used to tell her airplanes were flying saucers. She would say;

"NUH UH, that's a plane, I'm not stupid."

Then I'd say,

"No seriously, the newer flying saucers all look like planes and they follow the same flight paths to stay undetected."

Then she'd get all nervous looking and say;

"What should we do? What should we do?"

Then I'd freak her out even more, maybe even convincing her to hide in the bathtub for a half an hour... She was older than me by 2 years, I did variations of this same trick bilions and bilions of times and it always worked.

Anyway, back to how Jesus loved me more than her.

So she's dialing like a crazy person dialing - hang up - dialing - hang up -- dial -- hang up.. finally in complete exasperation and defeat, she slammed the phone down.

I said;

"Dial one more time"

She said very frustratedly:

"NOOOUAH, somebody already won."

"What's the number?"

"976-KRSP"

I picked up the phone and dialed ---- and if you can't guess what happened by the title to this post well then you are a fucking idiot.

I WON! first try.

Anyway, you'd think my sister would have been mad, sad, jealous or pissed, but that's just because you don't understand what a wonderful, caring person my sister has always been. She got so excited and happy for me that she started to cry. It was like she won only better. And she really was happy for me. It wasn't fake.

That's the part of this story that proves that Jesus always loved me more than your average asshole. Because that little Easter Bunny motherfucker gave me the weirdest, most gullible and wonderful sister a brother could ever hope for. She won't even be mad at calling her gullible here on the internet. She'll just tell me how funny and talented I am and I'll scare her about UFOs. It's a beautiful relationship we have. I'm not joking.

Anyway, the record was "The Eagles -- The Long Run" -- my mom had to drive me to pick it up. That is when I learned that all DJ's are nerdy, booger eating, swamp dwelling trolls and all radio stations are located in a stinky, moldy, trailer in the very same swamp.

Now here's a picture I took of my wonderful sister Erika. -- She has 5 kids. The oldest is in college.

It is Possible That I Am A Dick

But they were walking too fucking slow. Learn from the Canadians already and pull over. LET ME BY!

There were two dudes carrying DJ record boxes, with two chicks in tow. I tried to pass them but they were hogging the whole fucking sidewalk. Finally, I got right behind them and said:

"Let me guess, (pointing at each one as I go) DJ, DJ's Bitch (the other dude) DJ's bitch's bitch, and bitch."

Anyway, they got a slightly frightened look on their collective face and let me by. I suppose I could have just said "excuse me", but then I wouldn't have written my new hit single; "It Is Possible That I Am A Dick."

Now here's a picture I took of my friend Sheri Sheridan.

We're The Closest Family Ever

This is how close we are.

I helped my dad set up his own blog. To see if it was working and was registering with Google, I googled his name, Ben Merkley. Yup there it is, right at the top. But wait, what is this? ---- Hmnnnnnn, it's my dad making some kind of comment in The Deseret News, that's Salt Lake City's biggest paper. Oh looky there, turns out my very own brother Dan and his wife were in the Malidive Islands when the tsunami hit.

Salt Lake City resident Ben Merkley said his son and daughter-in-law were on a small atoll in the Maldive Islands when the killer waves hit. Fortunately, Dan Merkley and his wife, Marshawn, escaped injury because their island happened to be sheltered by a larger island that took the brunt of the hit.
"They could see the water rising, and it came to the top of the beach," Ben Merkley said, after speaking Sunday by cell phone with his son, an actor who portrayed park ranger Tartan Jones in this summer's Mormon-theme movie, "Baptist At Our Barbecue."

Considering that the couple had considered Sri Lanka as a vacation destination and had also spent the previous day on Male, which "was inundated with water," Ben said he was grateful the couple was unharmed.
"I was astounded," he said. "It all missed them by only a hair's breadth."

Apparently this news is big enough to print in one of the nations big newspapers but not big enough to tell me, the coolest member of our family. I have to find it out from Google. THREE MONTHS LATER!

Granted, I have 17 siblings. But sheesh, one of them narrowly escaped death by the fucking god damn tsunami, THE BIGGEST NATURAL DISASTER OF MY LIFETIME! Make a frickin' phone call.

We're so close.

My vegetable. MINE!!

So I ran into Michael and Terry Schaivo in the produce section at Safeway.

???: Hey, nice retard ya got there, what's her name?

MS: Her name is Terry. She is not a retard. She has absolutely no thought and no feeling. She is a vegetable. She's my wife.

???: Hmmmn... Who is that other lady?

MS: Thats' my girlfriend.

???: Sweet... very progressive. I like. You three look happy together, Why is Terry smiling?

MS: That's not a smile. That's your basic vegetable expression.

I quickly scan the squash section looking for that same smile. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a pumpkin that seems to be grinning but then I realize that it is Terry Schaivo. I spot no smiling vegetables and definitely none with boobs or big yellow teeth.

???: Whatever you say I guess. Anyway, Why are you and the girlfriend smiling?

MS: Because Terry is about to get her wish.

???: Wish? What wish? I thought you just said she is a vegetable. Do all of these vegetables have wishes?

MS: Listen asshole. Don't you watch the news? My vegetable had a heart attack, that's what turned her into a vegetable. Before that, she told me that if she ever turned into a vegetable that she would rather die. Now the court's said that she can finally die. I can finally yank her feeding tube. No more vegetable.

???: Courts? Why courts? Did you guys really talk about that? I mean about what if you were a vegetable? I like to imagine what it would be like if I was a bicycle seat. I always talk about that with everybody.

MS: Geez, somebody ought to yank your feeding tube. Courts because her "PARENTS" are saying some bullshit about how they LOVE her and like her the way she is. They think they know her wishes and LOVE her better than I do. Bullshit.

???: Hmmmmmn, I am a little confused. Why is that automatically bullshit?

MS: Look asshole. She is MY vegetable now. See this marriage license? That says that she is MY VEGETABLE!! MINE!!!!

Michael's girlfriend pinches his arm really hard.

Girlfriend: (angrily whispering with a huge smile on her face) Ours Michael, ours.

Terry leaks out a long squeaky fart ssssqueeeeeaaaaaaaaaaap. It doesn't smell like a vegetable, in fact it smells an awful lot like ham.

???: All right everybody calm down. Look I don't understand marriage and property laws all that well, but that vegetable came out of her mothers thing, she is half of her fathers genes. Don't you think you could at least use a little nicer tone? You can understand where they might be a little anxious about your claim to her as YOUR vegetable. Owning a carrot is one thing, but your carrot is smiling and farting.

MS: Which is exactly why I don't want them anywhere near MY VEGETABLE!!

???: So you don't even let them visit Terry? -- I mean your vegetable?

MS: NO! They want to keep it alive.

???: And you want to kill it.

MS: Not kill it you jerk. Let it die.

???: And how do you do that?

MS: Remove the feeding tube.

???: Starvation? Whoa... that's brutal. How long does that take?

MS: About a week. Dude remember she is a vegetable. It's like leaving a piece of fruit on the counter for a week.

Terry lets loose a thunderous belch. BUUUUUUURRRRROOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAHHHHP! I think I detect her smile grow fractions of a millimeter wider. She definitely has a satisfied glint in her eye that I recognize from my best belches.

???: A piece of smiling, farting fruit with boobs, hair and a big slobbering, toothy belching mouth maybe. Wait. Isn't starvation illegal? Like I got a ticket once for not feeding my dogs for two weeks. I was trying to teach them how to feed themselves, I thought my tough love would encourage them to get a job or something but they never figured out how to work the can opener. Why can't you just shoot her in the head or throw her in a pot of boiling water? Wouldn't that be quicker? More humane?

MS: I AM NOT AN ANIMAL!

???: Dude, be patient with me, I'm not very smart. Let me recap to see if I understand.

Terry is your vegetable
because you married her
she told you to let her die
if she ever got vegetablish
her parents say that they think she wants to live and is happy
and they point to her
smile
and farts
and burps
as proof
and they want her to live
and they will feed her every day forever if needs be
but you don't want that
because Terry wouldn't want that
and she is your property
and the best way to grant Terry her wish is to
kill her
by starvation
because shooting her
or beating her to death with a hammer
would be barbaric
even though you claim that
despite her smile
she has absolutely no feeling
and wouldn't know the difference anyway.

Am I missing anything?

MS: Yes.

???: Are you gonna tell me?

MS: Only if you won't tell anybody else.

???: I wouldn't dream of it.

MS: The life insurance policy I have only pays if she dies naturally. If I killed her with a hammer, although that would be much more humane than slow death by starvation, I wouldn't get jack squat.

???: Ahhhhhhhhhh, Now I get it. Nigga gatta get paid WOOT WOOT! Starve her. Biaaatchh!

MS: That's' what I'm talkin' bout holmes!

We both do high fives. Michael's girlfriend giggles with glee. Terry keeps on a'smilin'.

"Snowballing" The Most Boring Game to Ever Sweep My Nuttsack

WARNING!

This entry is only for people who blog or are regular readers and commenters on multiple blogs. The rest of you will hate it so bad that you might actually murder me with fire.

WARNING!

The rest of you are bound to hate it too. Do Something else.

Making comments, both in real life and on the internet is a skill, whether you are being funny, smart, mean, idiotic, gay, informative, abusive, nice, asskisserish, clever, weird, or disturbing you are still really only saying one thing: PAY ATTENTION TO ME!

We are going to be dealing with internet life in this little experiment but if you are creative enough, the lessons taught here might translate into turning you from the boring witless jar of poop that you are into a boring witless jar of poop with no friends.

But more importantly, some people, by the graciousness of a non-existent God, will click on your name and have a peek into the miserable existence you call life. That is all that matters. PAY ATTENTION TO ME is all you are really saying. Remember that.

The game is called "Snowballing" and I invented it. It is a stupid game that is neither fun nor interesting. It does however pass the time in your boring, never ending existence. So stop thinking about your inevitable demise and cancerous death and PLAY ALONG!! Weeeee hooooooo!!

First, Make a list of your favorite blogs. These can be blogs that make you laugh, cry, vomit, want to kill yourself or even kill other people. It doesn't really matter that much, but you will actually have to read them a little so, take that into consideration. They must have an open comments section to which you can post whatever the fuck you want. You also must not have been previously banned from these sites for your quick wit and snappy comebacks.

Next: Start Clicking and reading.

Click your first link. Mine is Stephanie Klein. She is extremely sensitive. I imagine she spends most of her life in the fetal position sobbing and leaking snot. She would not understand the nonsense at the end of the snowball game so I picked her first. Besides, my humor is WAAAAY too advanced for her readers. Even if they did click they would just get mad at the word retard.

Her post is called "Open Your Mouth and Close Your Eyes" it's about a birthday party she attended for one of her yuppie friends. As usual she waxes nostalgic, includes little nuggets of pop Americana and remembers when she was a young, fat, horny slut -- I mean her entire childhood.

The board is wide open but make a comment that can evolve later.

Key topics: Nostalgia. Birthday. Slut.

When I turned eight. Donny Osmond was my hero. My birthday cake was purple. When my aunt cut the cake, I could see her nipples. What a slut.

post comment

Didn't work. Turns out she already banned me from commenting. Told you she was sensitive. Too bad Steph, we could have become great friends. So what, I'll just use WebWarper and post it anyway. If somebody bans you. Delete their link. They weren't that great anyway. They don't understand what a lonely suicidal loser you are. Fuck'em.

Next link is "Go Fug Yourself" the article is about how ugly and lame Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas and Kids Incorporated is.

Here is where the fun starts. Copy and paste the comment from the last website into the entry field for this one. This is where we begin rolling our "snowball".

Key Topics: Fergie. Black Eyed Peas. Kids Incorporated. I am in luck.

When I turned eight. Donny Osmond was my hero. My birthday cake was purple. When my aunt cut the cake, I could see her nipples. What a slut.

Years later, I ended up test screening for Kids Incorporated filmed at Osmond Studios in Provo Utah. I don't remember if I met Fergie then. But a few years ago I toured a bit with No Doubt. Black Eyed Peas were the opening act. Fergie wasn't yet in the band. So I didn't meet her then either. But, she looks just like my aunt who flashed me her nipples. I'm sure she must be a slut.

post comment

See how this works? You can tell that this won't be nearly as fun as Madlibs. But so far the only lie is about the slutty nipple flashing aunt.

WARNING!

It doesn't get any better, In fact it gets worse. Why would I lie about this? Your head is now in danger of cracking with boredom. Consider that a disclaimer. As consolation, enjoy this picture I took of Latrice yesterday,

Next stop will be my friend Alex Blagg's blogg. He got banned from Stephanie Klein's blog a long time ago. Now we can be reject losers together. Anyway, he has written an extremely heart warming story about a fat girl (I think it might be the young Stephanie Klein) who cries because she can't get a job at Abercrombie & Fitch but gets a way better job making corn dogs at the mall.

It starts getting a little more tricky with each stop. You can't really just keep getting longer and longer so you need to edit out anything but the Key Topics and shift things around a bit. You're basically, just wasting more time and staving off your own inevitable death by plastic hammer.

Key Topics: Rejection, Teenage Employment, Corn Dogs

When I turned eight, Donny Osmond was my hero. My birthday cake was purple. When my aunt cut it, I could see her nipples. It made my Corn Dog feel funny. What a slut.

Years later, I test screened for Kids Incorporated which was filmed at Osmond Studios in Provo Utah. (Later still I toured a bit with No Doubt when Black Eyed Peas were the opening act. Fergie looks like my aunt who flashed me her nipples so I'm sure she's slut. Corn Dog anyone?)

Anyway, I cried when I didn't get the job with Kids Incorporated. I was too old. Instead I got a job at an all you can eat joint in the mall. I got fired for sneaking corn dogs and sleeping. The manager was a slut.

post comment

See? Still only one lie. Except it wasn't corn dogs I was sneaking, It was chicken fried steak.

Holy shit this game sucks.

Next up is Andres DuBouchet. He is a complete stranger. I like him because I enjoy his posts and he hasn't banned me from commenting. His post is a continuation --- oh fuck it, just read it. It's about Mondays and it's like four words long.

Key Topics: Monday, Panda.

I turned eight on a Monday, Donny Osmond was my hero then so my birthday cake was purple. When my aunt cut it, I could see her nipples. It made my Corn Dog feel funny. What a slut.

Many Mondays later, I test screened for Kids Incorporated which was filmed at Osmond Studios in Provo Utah. (Coincidentally I toured a bit with No Doubt when Black Eyed Peas were the opening act. Fergie looks like my aunt who flashed me her nipples so I'm sure she's slut. Corn Dog Anyone?)

Anyway, I got the news that I didn't get the job with Kids Incorporated on a Monday. I was too old. Instead I got a job at an all you can eat joint in the mall. I got fired on a Monday for sneaking hot dogs and sleeping. The manager looked like a panda. She was a slut.

Happy Monday Andres!!

post comment

Admit that this is fun. OK don't admit it asshole. Who asked you. What else would you be doing right now? Oh yeah, masturbating. That is way better. You can stop reading if you want.

Next will be Adam Felber. Another stranger who writes funny things. His latest is a witty living will inspired by that retard Terri Schiavo in florida. His spin is that if he isn't a famous retard, he'd rather be a dead retard.

Key Topics: Dying Retards, and Feeding Tubes.

I wanted to be famous too. When I turned eight, Donny Osmond was my hero so my birthday cake was purple. When my aunt cut it, I could see her nipples. What a slut. She has been in a coma for 7 years. She likes her feeding tube

Many Mondays later, I test screened for "Kids Incorporated" which was filmed at Osmond Studios in Provo Utah. (Coincidentally I toured a bit with No Doubt when Black Eyed Peas were the opening act. Fergie, one of the stars of Kids Incorporated and also the singer in BEP looks like my comatose aunt who flashed me her nipples. She's a slut. I wish she was in a coma.)

Anyway, I didn't get the job with Kids Incorporated. I was too old. Instead I got a job at an all you can eat joint in the mall that should have been called "The Feeding Tube". I got my feeding tube yanked (fired) for sneaking hot dogs and sleeping. I told them I had Narcolepsy which is like a surprise temporary coma. The manager looked like Terri Schiavo or a retarded panda. She was a slut.

post comment

See how long and excruciatingly tedious these are getting? We'll only do two more. Then I will blow my brains out.

WARNING!

Even these warnings are boring. you'd think big red letters and exclamation points would help. You'd think WRONG. Here's another picture of Latrice. Catch her on tour with Handsome Boy Modeling School.

Next is Raymi The Minx. She is kinda hot (if not a total freak). I need to stop checking her blog. Anyway, Her latest post is about how she has a huge urge to eat a hamburger and if she doesn't do it she will cut off all of her hair. Although I'd rather not get banned from commenting on her site, this lame long comment might do it. At the very least it'll get me completely ignored. It might be for the best. Holy shit this game is terrible.

Key Topics: Hamburgers, and Empty Threats.

I wanted to be famous. When I turned eight, Donny Osmond was my hero so my birthday cake was purple. When my aunt cut it, I could see her nipples. What a slut. She has been in a coma for 7 years. She can only eat hamburgers through a feeding tube. No sign of any urges.

Many Mondays later, I test screened for "Kids Incorporated" which was filmed at Osmond Studios in Provo Utah. (Coincidentally I toured with No Doubt when Black Eyed Peas were the opening act. Fergie, one of the stars of Kids Incorporated and also the singer in BEP looks like my comatose aunt who flashed me her nipples. She's a slut. She smells like a Hamburger. I don't get hamburger urges anymore.)

Anyway, I didn't get the job with Kids Incorporated. I was too old. Instead I got a job at an all you can eat hamburger joint in the mall. I got fired for sneaking hot dogs and sleeping. I told them I had Narcolepsy and that I would sue them for discrimination. The manager looked like a retarded panda. She was a slut.

I know about empty threats. You won't cut your hair.

post comment

WARNING!

Aahhh fuck it. What do you want me to do? Stop writing in the middle of an entry? Time for a Latrice break.

Okay last one. I'm REALLY REALLY REALLY getting sick of this gay ass fucking game. Your complaining, moaning and whining isn't helping either. SHUT UP! I AM NOT A QUITTER!!

Let's visit My Blog is Poop He has one of the best blog names and usually has content to match. his latest post is about how MTV spring Break has turned into a giant SausageFest and that MTV needs to bring back the fun -- I mean titties.

Key topics: MTV, Spring Break, SausageFest, Tits.

Long before MTV, I wanted to be famous. When I turned eight in the spring of 1975, Donny Osmond was my hero so my birthday cake was purple. When my aunt cut it, I could see her nipples. What a slut. She was the first person I ever heard talk about Spring Break. She has been in a coma for 7 years. She can only eat hamburgers through a feeding tube. No more wet t-shirts for her.

Many Mondays later, I screen tested for "Kids Incorporated" which was filmed at Osmond Studios in Provo Utah. (Coincidentally I toured with No Doubt when Black Eyed Peas were the opening act. Their song, "Let's Get it Started" is the sound track to Spring Break this year. Fergie, one of the stars of Kids Incorporated and also the singer in BEP looks like my comatose aunt who flashed me her nipples. She's a slut. She smells like a SausageFest. I'd like to see her in a wet t-shirt.)

Anyway, I didn't get the job with Kids Incorporated. I was too old. Instead I got a job at an all you can eat hamburger joint in the mall. I got fired for sneaking corn dogs and sleeping. I told them I had Narcolepsy and that I would sue them for discrimination (I know about empty threats). The manager looked like a retarded panda. She was a slut.

Fuck jobs. I should have gone to Spring Break back when it was all titties.

post comment

So there you have it. A brand new way to completely waste your time and everybody elses. I apologize to anyone who came here because of my snowballing and had to read this piece of crap. I'm usually exactly twice this funny. I know, that's not saying much.

Nostalgia
Birthdays
Sluts
Fergie
Black Eyed Peas
Kids Incorporated
Rejection
Teenage Employment
Corn Dogs
Monday
Pandas
Dying Retards
Feeding Tubes
Urges
Hamburgers
Empty Threats
MTV
Spring Break
SausageFest
Tits

All wrapped up in one comment that is guaranteed to put any reader to sleep in complete contempt. When thousands of people drop dead from sheer boredom playing this game. Throw me in jail. I deserve it.

When will you people ever learn that reading my blog is a complete waste of time?

Have fun. Don't get banned.

WARNING!

Not even the last time... at the very end of this boring post could that warning thing be funny. I'm telling you, the whole thing was doomed from the start. Unlike Latrice. I should stick with taking pictures of hot rock stars.




WARNING!

You might be really fucked up if you actually read this far.

Haircare Secrets & George W. Bush is AWESOME!

Fletcher from Germany writes,

Dear merkley???,

I couldn't help but notice what fantastic hair you have! It bounces, it behaves, it's not too curly as to be frizzy, it shines and I don't think you suffer from dryness.....odor?

Can you please post your haircare regimen? I know this will be helpful to millions of readers worldwide. Please take us from the cleansing to the drying to the styling...just like Barry takes us from the dance floor to the bedroom. Thank you.

Sincerely yours,
A big fan in Berlin

Thank you for your question Fletcher.

The process is quite involved, but I'll break it down.

1. Quit your job. Most jobs require that you wash your hair too much.

2. Spend most of your life in bed. Laying in bed in your own filth for weeks at a time gives your hair time to really flourish. The nutrients contained in pillowcases that have not been washed since you bludgeoned your last girlfriend to death with a block of frozen ground beef will revitalize your hair and make it happy.

This is the pillow of a person who cares about their hair.

3. Cut it yourself. It doesn't matter if you know how. I close my eyes and measure by touch. Professional hair stylists have made a pact with evil. They have a tremendous conflict of interest. They want to make you look like an ass while slowly hypnotizing you into believing that you need them. Those boobs waving in your face are there for a reason. Any hairstylist will tell you (if you hold a knife to their eyeball) that they are trained to give you a hairstlye that will self destruct twenty minutes after you leave the den of lies and evil they call a salon. If you meet a hairstylist at a party and she tries to give you advice, tell her that her hair looks like shredded wheat. Then light a match. She will leave.

4. Only wash your hair if you think you might be making out with someone later. No sense in draining your hair of nutrients and organisms, making it smell good if you're the only one who gets to enjoy it. Unless you can rub your own penis through it, it's pointless.

5. Use cheap shampoo. Don't use a lot. I do it in two rounds. Round one is just to evict the bugs and plants that have settled in since last time. During this phase suds are uncommon. Make sure to smile as you see the flood of brown mud and dead animals flow down the drain. Round two gives nice suds. Don't over do it.

6. Use cheap conditioner. Leave it in for as much time as it takes to really clean your ass crack and nuttsack. I Like to take some of the conditioner in my hair and share it with my armpits and pubic hair too. I don't believe it does anything helpful, but I don't want anybody to feel left out. Besides, it's so slippery. This is a good time to masturbate.

7. Towel dry. Wrap your head in same towel.

Hates America. Loves soft hair.

Make it nice and tall just like your mother used to do.

Mommy.

This is your chance to really look like a fag. I suggest going out to get the mail or borrowing stuff from the neighbors. Taking out the trash like this is great. Find any robes or nightwear left over by one of the ladies, this is also the time to wear that. Don't act gay though. Act really tough. Good time to fart audibly and say nice things about George W. Bush.

8. DO NOT USE ANY PRODUCTS!! This means gels, leave in conditioners, oils, grease, poop etc.. Let fags, hipsters and all the people who spend zillions of dollars trying to make it look like they don't care about their hair do that. You actually do care and you want it to show because you are not a pussy like them.

9. Blow dry!! Yes, you heard me, get out that motherfucking blow dryer. Turn your head upside down, blow it all against the grain. You are really trying to fluff the fuck out of that shit. Do it how your sister used to do it back in the early eighties.

I hope that chick is a man. Check out those hands.

Don't use a brush until it is almost dry. Use the blow dryer on your nuttsack while you are at it. It feels awesome. This is also the time to see just how fluffy you can get your beard. Just for the hell of it.

10. Look in the mirror and tell yourself: "holy shit you are handsome" then say "No YOU are." then say "No YOU are." Keep doing this until you realize that it's not even the slightest bit funny. Love yourself even though you are a complete Gaybob Douche Machine.

11. Get out and let the ladies touch it. Brag to them about your superior skills with a blow dryer. Say BLOW DRYER really loud. People will admire that you are willing to admit that you use a BLOW DRYER!! Some will try to make fun of you. These are the ones who definitely want to fuck you. Make them wait. Let fag hairdressers touch your hair too. Just make sure to talk highly of George W. Bush while they do it.

Good luck.
Thanks for writing.

HOORAY!! ALL MY FRIENDS HATE ME!!

That's all for now.

Tourette's and a Cunty Bitch.

So I was attacked by a cunty bitch yesterday. Here's what happened.

Alex Blagg: Dude, some bored housewife made fun of your tourrets syndrome.

Me: What? POOP. Where? RETARD.

Alex Blagg: Over there. That woman with cum in her hair.

I walk over to her. She looks very bored and lonely she is quite homely, she has cum in her hair. My first inclination is to just leave her a lone and carry on. But she did address me and there is a big flashing sentence above her head that says:

"Please, for the love of god, I'm lonely, feel free to make COMMENTS!"

Wow, this lady seems like she needs a hug or a little communication -- maybe I'll tell her a joke. She looks miserable. Why did she make fun of ME? I think.

Me: POOP! RETARD! Umm excuse me, POOP! RETARD! I have Tourette's and I am underdeveloped POOP! And I was just wondering why you were FUCK FUCK SHIT POOP!! talking about me and making fun of me.

CumStain: Don't say retard.

Me: No, you don't understand POOP! I can't help it. RETARD! FAGGOT! I don't mean anything bad by it I actually like retards. JIZZ! I have Tourette's Syndr --BITCH NIGGER!! Syndrome.

She reaches into my pocket flicks my left ball and takes my ID card and puts up a magical force field around her Swwoooooosshhooonn nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnzzz.... then she starts recording our conversation. She is really proud of her tape recorder. When she turns it on she squeals like a dolphin.

CumStain: State your name and speak into the mic.

Me: Hey wait a minute. POOP! give me my ID back. That is mine. I need that. TURD! It has all the important information about my RETARD! medical TURD! condition. People don't understand POOP! me without it. Then I can't get my medication. BOOGER!

A scab peels off the corner of her mouth and thuds to the ground. She flicks my other nut.

Me: Ow stop that. Is this about me saying retard? FAGGOT! you don't understand, I love retards better than anyone. All of my friends are retards. NIGGER! I don't mean anything by it I swear. CUNTY CUNT!

CumStain opens a packet of skittles and holds out her hand. Hundreds of head lice jump from her head.

CumStain: Want one?

Me: Not really, I'm not much TURD! for Skittles, but okay.. ANUS!

I reach for one and she closes her hand and pulls it back into the force field. Fleas scramble from her armpits.

Me: Ok now THAT ---- THAT was childish, FART! can I just have my ID back please? Seriously, I really need that ID. Are you trying to steal my WHORE CUM FAGGOT! Identity? Please just give it back.

CumStain: I can help you but you have to pass the test.

Me: What? What test? What is wrong with you? Are you deranged? I just came over here because Alex said you were making fun of my SHIT BITCH DAMMIT JIZZ!! disabilities and I wanted to explain that I can't help it and that I don't mean anything bad about CUM GUZZLE CUM GUZZLE! it.

CumStain turns to a group of frumpy homely women all lined up in formation to her left, OK there are only two women but they are reallly reeeeeallly fat and one of them has three heads. they both wear armbands with the letters ABA on them. They look incredibly dumb so I assume they have forgotten how to spell ABBA. They look exactly like ABBA fans.

CumStain: Class. Do you see how our subject reacts when I take his ID and put up the force field? According to ABA principals, this is the desired effect.

ABBA fans: Yes Mrs. CumStain.

All burst into applause. This rattles dandruff from their thinly haired scalps. It's like winter.

Me: What the fuck?

Now I am feeling a little uneasy, I start remembering the movie Soylent Green. Maybe those weren't Skittles. These ABBA fans all look very hypnotized by CumStain. Their over sized nipples on their under-sized yet saggy boobs begin vibrating and making a hummming noise.

Me: Look, no harm no foul -- I'll just DYKE NIGGER WETBACK leave you be. All I want is my ID back. SPIC BITCH NIGGER CUM!!

CumStain: SILENCE!!

CumStain pulls up her dress reaches way up into her enormous, pulsating, scabby, wart filled vagina and pulls out a slimey goo covered giant rubber drain stopper--- ummm --- buttplug? She holds it far above her head and the ABBA fans all begin singing Dancing Queen. It totally freaks me out. Smoke is now pillowing from her Hooha.

CumStain: You must play the game!

Suddenly bunch of smiley face icons magically appear and float above her head, I am really starting to get freaked out. Those smiley face icons always freak me out, but now, floating above this obviously deranged cult leader/dictator/CuntyBitch they really scare me.

CumStain: Class! Observe!

She takes the giant slimey rubber butt plug and crams it in my mouth. The smell is ghastly. Smells like a billion tons of rotting fish mixed with the cum of a whole fleet of lesbian sailors who can somehow cum like men. I vomit, but the stopper keeps it from coming out. Instead the vomit fills my lungs. I am completely unable to speak. Death may come soon. I get out my two way and quickly text my friend Alex who got me into this mess. The ABBA fans are singing more loudly and more droney, they are slowly and creepily approaching.

Me: (on the text) Alex! help! This fucking bitch has my ID and she has crammed a butt plug down my throat. Something is going down. ABBA fans, Cum stains -- help.

Alex Blagg: (on the text) Sorry dude, I'm at work. CumStain knows my boss' name, she is psycho, I don't want to get fired, But I'll forward any texts that you have.

Me: No prob man, sorry for buggin' you.

CumStain: Class! Observe the desired effect. With the rubber stopper in place, my force field on, and his ID stolen, our subject has been completely neutralized. He will no longer be a threat to any woman. Rational debate eliminated. Mission accomplished. Now we may get back to being women who try to cum like men.

CumStain is obviously a genius. How else would she figure out the elusive magic of censorship and editing?

Then they all begin stroking big dildos throwing mayonaisse everywhere and chanting.

CumStain and ABBA fans: All hail the A.B.A., Rubber stopper saves the day! All hail the A.B.A., rubber stopper saves the day. Then they all eat skittles out of each others vaginas. This part I kinda like. The three headed one gets a couple mouths full of boobie too. Awesome. Then a dead moldy rodent plops out of CumStains flapping vagina. Not awesome.

The chanting and skittle diving lasts exactly 4 minutes. Cumstain then lifts her dress exposing once again her horrific steamy vagina, she places my ID on the ground and stands directly above it. Then a small putrid reddish stream flows directly out of her gaping hole straight down and coats my ID with what I can only guess is some kind of mixture of menstrual blood and whatever it is that vaginal warts produce -- which explains a lot about the preceding events. The smell melts my brain.

Me: (in my liquified head) Eeesh, I'm not sure I want that ID back now.

Then a giant sucking sound comes from her huge pulsating gash and my ID is sucked right off the ground and disappears ---- burp. All erupt in grand applause. The rodent comes back to life.

CumStain: Class dismissed. Game resumes tomorrow at 9am sharp!

And suddenly poof they are all gone. Not the stench though, that remains. I wiggle the stopper loose, cough out a few quarts of vomit and I collapse. I spend exactly six minutes sobbing like a total fag. Why? Why? I moan.. why have I been cursed with FAGGOT NIGGER! this awful disease. Why not mumps? I'll take vaginal warts, anything but this awful awful tourrets.

Finally I gather myself and go home. I crawl in bed and get on the internet. I do a search for CumStain and find her blog. And I realize that although she has removed the original insult that started this whole mess, she has transcribed the recording and placed an edited portion in the comments section of the post that used to be located here. She renames me Subject M, calls me a troll, and then deletes her own post. This hurts my feelings. I was only trying to make friends. DAMN YOU TOURETTE'S SYNDROME. DAMN YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL!! I spend the next few hours reading and discovering that CumStain has two retarded children that she hates and wishes she would have aborted. She vowed upon their birth that she would exact revenge upon the universe and her local school board in any way she knows how. She has a husband who desperately wants to leave her but he actually loves the kids and knows that if he does, she will kill them or conduct EXTINCTION experiments on them. He does not want his lovely children to be EXTINCT. Besides, she keeps him locked in the basement. I expect that one day, he and I will be friends.

The whole experience was terrible,awful, lame, sad, exciting, hurtful, wrong, unjustified, unprovoked and utterly hellish. It made me consider shutting up forever. Human beings are just so terrible sometimes.

Then, just when all hope seemed to be lost, when the world had tuned into a giant dark musty vagina, I get an email from a pretty girl who earlier had written me telling me I was awesome funny and rad. I told her:

"Thanks, send some naked pics."

Lo and behold, ask and ye shall recieve. And holy shit. What a hottie. Women are not all evil after all. Some of them are actually terrific. It just about makes being heterosexual worth it.

Thank you Cindy

for a split second I considered going back for round two Of BitchFest 2005 but then I decided that I'll just order another ID. I'd rather just stare at these pictures of this pretty girl.

ouch.

Thank you again Cindy, May I have another?

UPDATE:

Wow, I think I just drove that lady right off the internet. Her blog can no longer be found. Deb, All you had to do was apologize and act like a decent human being. That is apparently too much to ask of some people. Talk about pride causing major inconveniences. Sheesh.

Also, Deb, I can see you logging on. (MMI research East Hanover NJ) Why don't you just apologize? We will both feel a hell of a lot better. I promise. I'm friends with the three headed ABBA fan now. ( She is actually fucking hott.)

Things to Say to Homeless People

What's your email address? (Best if you say it with a french accent and you mime getting ready to write it down on your arm. Extra points if you're holding a Blackberry)

"You reeeeally smell like pee." (Best if they are minding their own business eating beans out of a paper cup.)

I'm sorry, I don't understand what you are saying to me because I don't speak English. (This ONLY works if english is your first language and you really a-nun-ci-ate. If not, see above because anything else you say would probably sound dumb. Especially if you are french. In that case, you smell like pee too so shut-up and leave our homeless people alone. Socialist Fag.)

I'll give you ten bucks if I can punch you in the arm. (Only works if you punch them in the arm no matter what they say and then throw a handful of change out into the street and yell "Weeee I'm Rich!!" Double extra points if you really are rich.)

Wow, you look terrible, you should go home and take a nap! (Best if you point at the nearest cardboard box or empty Big Gulp cup. A dumpster works too.)

Long day at the office eh? (Should be whispered to a sleeping homeless person and should ALWAYS be followed up with: Nice scabs!)

Sir, what you need to do is shave, and get a job like a real man. (Only works if said to a homeless woman with a child.)

Holy crap! You scared me! I thought you were dead. Dad? (Again, best said to a woman. Should be followed by a really long hug. Make sure to grab ass. Extra points if the bum is of a different race. Black male talking to white woman is best.)

Howe Squatting Bear. You bring shame upon our tribe Squatting Bear. Shame us no more Squatting Bear, get drunk Squatting Bear, here's a nickle Squatting Bear, gamble Squatting Bear. (This ONLY works if you can find a Native American hobo hanging out with a really pasty white hobo. Say it directly to the white hobo and wink when you give him a nickle for the slots. Extra extra points if you're only wearing a loin cloth and have a feather in your hair.)

Generally, it's nice to wait for them to approach you asking for money or offering to sell you plastic bags or a shoe. But hey, why wait. If you see a homeless person, walk staight up to them and start making offers. Remember, it's not your fault that they are homeless. But it is your fault if they get away with it.

I hope this was helpful.
I love you.
BFF

Things To Say To A Dog or Retard

Unlike most dickhead humans, dogs have a good sense of humor. Okay, Maybe they don't --- but they are very very dumb and that's just as good. As long as one half is laughing, fucking hell yes.

Here are some awesome things to say to a dog while smiling and talking like a really happy retard. Actually, Do the voice outloud as you read this. Wave your arms aroound like a retard too, otherwise this post isn't funny. Do it. Don't argue with me. Jesus Christ, do it every single time you read anything on my gay-ass blog. It's the new rule.

Now. Again. Here are some awesome things to say to a dog while smiling and talking like a really happy retard.

Your brothers and sisters and parent's are all dead!

I'm having you put to sleep!

You will only live 15 years max and you're 12! I'm already thinking of your replacement!

You look gay when you poop!

My kind kills millions of your kind every year and you can't do anything about it! You're worthless!

You eat cat poop! That means you're dumber than a dumb cat!

I paid someone to scoop out your genitals and you love me! You're an idiot!

You can't even open the door! Even retards can open doors! Holy crap you're dumb!

You are my property! I own you just like a pair of socks or a candle! You're lame!

You fit in the oven! Dumbass!

Remember the puppies you had before I got you? They are probably all dead!

You have six boobs! They are *all* saggy and gross!

You're stupid! Go lick your nutts! Oh wait, You don't have any!

I bought you for $___, That's cheap!

I paid more to hollow out your HooHaa! You're officially worth less than discarded balls!

When you bark, you may as well be screaming "Idiot Alert!"

See this leash? Yeah, without it you'd get run over by a car! Dogs always get hit by cars! Because you're so DUMB!

You sniff ass! How GAY!

For a fun spin on the same game, switch to your deeply angry/disappointed "Who-Peed-On-The-Rug" voice and say stuff like:

We're going to the park.

Let's go outside.

Where is your ball.

We're going for a ride.

Come get your treat etc....

Don't wory about the momentary fear and shame that your dog experiences during this portion of your game. It just makes it all the more enjoyable for them when you switch back to "Happy-Retard" voice and inform them that they will not be the last dog that you ever love!

While we're on the subject, I have noticed and in fact even tested conclusively that actual retarded people are also incredibly sensitive to these same vocal inflections, gestures and body mannerisms. If you ever encounter a sad retard (truly one of the saddest heart-breaking sights in the world), don't be afraid to switch to your best "Wanna-Go-To-The-Park" voice and say:

"Hey Tony!! Wanna go to the park!!?"

I guarantee if that retard had a tail, it'd start wagging.

WARNING!!

Don't say stuff to any retard about their family being dead or putting them to sleep. I know I know.. It'd be hilarious and it would be BIG BIG fun for you and probably the retard, but you might get in BIG BIG trouble. These days it's highly likely that you'd land yourself in prison for some hate speech crime. Then you're the idiot prisoner getting your nutts clipped. --- Or tea bagged.

To: Michael "Slippers" Jackson From: Merkley??? I'm Sorry.

Everyone asks:

"Merkley??? What is it exactly that you do? How do you support yourself?"

I must confess that I've given many answers over the years. Most were lies.

Due to recent news events, I am urged by forces unseen to confess very difficult and humiliating things to you, my only real friends.

Whew -- deep breath. Here we go:

Although I do a bang up 5 minute tubal ligation, I'm not a freelance surgeon.

Although I am A HUGE fan of the poet/hippie/goddess/singer Jewel, she is not my wife and I don't own a diamond mine. Fuck that. I hate Jewel. Bitch. Truth -- aahh.

Although I'm often pantsless and I routinely drive slutty, drunken blind dates to their watery graves and my head is a gigantic red flashing ball of pulsating rosacea, I'm not a Kennedy.

Although I dress to impress, I am not a famous ballerina or golfer or grocer or dentist.

Although I keep a dead hamster under my pillow......
OK, that's enough occupational confession for now. Let's get to the big confession.

This is Sad. No laughing.

In the early nineties, just hours after getting fired for farting in my sleep at the last 9to5 I ever had, I rode my bike from Utah all the way to my hero, Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch.

Seriously, don't judge me. I feel like you're gonna judge me. Please, stay your daggers and hold your stones. I am already wounded. WOUNDED I tell ya. Geez.

Okay -- During that trip I became ---- ummmmm ------ ok ------ um ----- I became ---- ummm Michael Jackson's latest "It Boy".

There, I said it. I'm a filthy, dirty, shameful little boy. I'm disgusting.

You all know that Michael had meaningless romantic flings with that freakish midget Webster (btw everybody fucked Webster, I'm surprised he don't got AIDS - slut), that homo sissy McCaully Cockring and that handsome, dirty, two faced chimpanzee *PERVERT* Bubbles. Those were all about just sex. I was the first one with whom Michael Jackson ever fell truly, deeply, madly and passionately in love. Trust me. All true. Swear.

Crap. I knew this was gonna happen. Sorry, I'm crying like a gay ass baby as I type this so please excuse me if I get tears or snot or blood on the screen.

I know what you're thinking, and you are right, I was in my mid 20's in the early nineties, but Michael didn't know it. I told him I was 12 and I'm not too delighted to say that I had the penis to prove it. Fuck off.

I'll spare you the details of how I manipulated and tricked him into falling in love with me because I'm NOT here to toot my own horn. Rather, I'm here to explain why it is that Michael Jackson, by following my wicked advice, is in trouble for tooting a certain little horn of a certain naughty little "cancerous" boy. (yeah right. cancer. I hope that little cancerous slut dies. Homewrecker bitch.)

As I have been unable to contact him spiritually (our normal method of contact) due to the Nation of Islam creating a frickin' spiritual black hole around him (pun sorta intended) and because I know he reads this blog, the next part I will address directly to Michael or "Slippers" as I call him.

Slippers,

I AM SOOOOOO SORRY!!

I mean this from the bottom of my putred, evil, black, aching, B>R>O>K>E>N> heart.

I am sorry for telling you that vaginas were yucky, smelly and diseasey. Vaginas are actually rad.

I am sorry for telling you my head lice were cooties that I got from an average girl. I actually got them from a fat kid named Carl.

I am sorry that as you slept like a little angel, I whispered into your monkey ear over and over and over : "You are Peter Pan. You are Peter Pan. "

I am sorry for smearing you in Peter Pan peanut butter especially considering how rough Bubbles' tounge was.

I am sorry for peeing on you.

I am sorry for playing "Got Your Nose" too rambunciously. Biting, chewing and actual detatchment of nose is not normally part of the game.

I am sorry that I told you that I could fix your nose with gum and silly putty.

I am sorry for lighting Bubbles on fire -- but he was getting between us, and not in that hott kinda way like at first.

I am sorry for tricking you into taking a bath in Liquid Drano™, but you know how I feel about negroes.

I am sorry for telling you the cleft in your chin needed to be deep enough to hide four toes and a squirt of lotion.

I am sorry for telling you over and over and over that you were "Invincible". I meant to say "Inbincible" which is Mexican. I don't even understand Mexican.

I am sorry for humping LaToya on the merry-go round just to demonstrate "icky and messy". Most girls don't have two sideways vaginas like your sister. That was weird.

I'm sorry for making you keep your nose in the middle of the icky, messy business. We really should have let that thing heal or at least scab over first. I did not expect that infection --- very much.

I am sorry for all those "White Power" pamphlets I made you read, but it was part of the Drano™ plan.

I am sorry for taking you to the cancer wing in the pediatrics ward. Although it should be, every young boy's last dying wish is not to have their "magic wand" "blessed" by Peter Pan.

MOST OF ALL, I am sorry for faking cancer, and teaching you exactly how to "bless" my magic wand. I especially should have been more gentle with you. Neck punching is not really how we treat the ones we love and it has nothing to do with blessing. I guess I was just being a dick.

I know your heart. It is pure, It is *I* that am to blame for all this mess that you are in. It is *I* that should be in court everyday bearing the weight of the jokes and the cruel public. If I could trade places with you right now I'd do it in a billionth of one billionth of one sparkle.

SO THY PEOPLES OF EARTH -- IF YE HAVEST STONES THROWEST THEM AT I!!

Let's be realistic. That's not gonna happen. We covered our tracks too well. The Norwegian bank accounts? Solid. Even with this confession the world will scoff and call me a liar and I know you will not crack because, .... Slippers, ,,,, you are... WE are.... OUR LOVE is ... --- +++ >>> INVINCIBLE. or something.

Crap -- now I am really bawling --BZZZT --OUch --What the? --BZZZT -- holy crraabbbbzzzzzzzlllllssshhhht -- The computer shocked me ---- smoke from the BZZZZZZT KEyboard ---OW ----- Snot flowiBBBZZZZZZT --- tears -- bzzzzztttkkkkkkkkrrkkk --- fuck that hurts! - I need a BZZZZZRRRRRRRRRNNNNNT === fuck zzzzzzzzzzpppprrrk tissue ZTZTZTTZTZTZTZZZZ.

Ok I'm back from the emergency room. Where was I?

Oh yes. Tissue -- . Kleenex... hhhhhmmuuh. Ah the memories.

You know though, at the hospital I found myself kinda re-thinking our suicide pact. I mean, I think we should travel separately -- so to speak. It's just that, I think it's important for at least one of us to stay back and make sure things go right. I mean somebody has to make sure that you are properly sandblasted, marinated, pickled and wrapped in a cocoon of dolphin foreskin like we always dreamed.

We can't trust Janet. She hates you. She told me.

Here is what I suggest:

1. Have Dr. What's-His-Ass fashion and fit you with a plastic, remote controlled, exploding heart.

2. Half way through the defense part of the trial, Either Tito or I will zap you, exploding your heart and sending you on to the real eternal, MAGICAL Never Never Land. Trial over.

3. We will gather statements from top doctors who are sure to confirm that "Michael Jackson died of a broken, exploded heart." (By the way, did you notice the broken heart as an actual medical fact thing last month in the news? Who do you think was the genius who worked that out? Exactly. I told you that bank account was neccessary.)

4. The world will herald you as Saint Michael, Patron Saint of Fucked up Noses.

5. Cancer bitch will be dragged through the streets and stomped to death. Slut.

6. Once you're in Never Never Land, IM me and we can go over the details about what we should do with the ranch before I join you.

7. Don't never say I never done nuthin fer ya.

Sound like a plan? Good. Trust me -- my days of deceit are over. This advice is good.

Bananas and peanut butter,
Love always,
Tinkerbell???

P.S. Can you have Jermaine deposit a little extra this month? My pony fund is like --- hello - hello - hello --- echo chamber.

P.P.S. Thanks for wearing my Jammies to court. That was sweet.

Martha: "Nigga Cain't Fade Me!"

News From The Future

So yeah, the good thing is that I still have enough hamburger in a pouch to quantum leap around the future and answer all your gay questions. As requested, I have been paying special attention to people in OLD news from your time, I know how you love dead horses.

The year now is 2020.

Freakishly old horsehead bachelor John "Whoops-A-Daisy" Kerry has unsuccessfully run for president in every election since his 2004 fuck up. He's never once even come close to winning but dozens of people still give campaign contributions because they loooove hearing him say "Whoops-A-Daisy" every time he fucks up. I don't get it either. He says it over and over and over and people go bananas. He's covered in scabs... he even has his own show on NBC called -- surprisingly "Whoops-A-Daisy" in which he just fucks up all the time. In last night's episode, he put his left arm between two cinder blocks and had a very feeble, wheelchair bound, one eyed, Jackie Chan chop it in half. Then he smothered it in flamable grease, lit it on fire and then he and the whole studio audience all at once shouted "WHOOPS-A-DAISY!!" Lame. Mark Burnett is still awesome.

Saying "Whoops-A-Daisy" isn't funny but when I get back, I'm trademarking it.

The Baghdad Disneyland closed. Something about Mickey rubbing his "Weapon of "Mouse" Destruction" on Islamic teens in the "Small World" ride. Turns out, middle eastern people can't handle freedom after all. Porn, hookers, drugs, Mark Burnett, sex with camels, you name it. The whole region is covered in goo. Gross.

Oh yeah, Goofy is gay, I mean he finally came out of the closet. He is dating Maury Povich -- who is in a coma on account of he is fricken OLD! I think I might find him and mercy stab him.

Shortly after her release in 2005, Martha Stewart married her former cell mate (gay marriage -- no big deal here, Jesus lost). She is now on death row in the maximum security wing at Riker's Island. As she promised, she kept in touch with her original prison gang, one thing led to another, she ended up bustin' caps in 42 Puerto Rican Crip bitches for getting all up in her grill and disrespecting her boo. They retaliated and smoked Rosie O'Donnell just for the hell of it. Turns out, the Crips never even ran their mouths on Marthas boo in the first place. Mark burnett made it up to make Martha's waning reality show more exciting. He's Awesome.

At her sentencing, Martha told judge Joe Brown:

"Yo nigga! Yall betta eat dat key cuz you know if I is outty I'll crack yo shit and wet yo ass -- biiioooweewaatch --- ta daaaow! Nigga cain't fade me! Nigga cain't fade me!"

Doesn't matter anyway, her company tanked when she decided that everything just had to be RED to show love for her Bloods.

Sad how once a bitch has seen the inside, she just can't seem to adjust to the world outside.

OK, Now I'm bored. I think I'll look up some hot burkha on burkha Disney action.

Oh yeah, one last thing. I looked most of you up -- bad news, mostly you didn't age well -- lot's of balding -- especially the chicks. Yuck.

Goodbye Poopstain! Have Fun Floating to Oakland!

Most ceremonies bite, especially marriage and the ritual killing of mexican hookers. Been there, done it, don't wanna do it again. But I have a really good, although somewhat sad, ceremony that I perform when needed:

I burn my underwear.

Face it. There comes a time when one needs to part ways with a pair of shorts. I don't care what you say, throwing them in the trash is wrong. Giving them to a homeless person, although hilarious, is NOT a good idea. Dood. DNA. Identity theft. It's real mann.

Burning them with hot hot fire is the best option. Trust me.

I will admit, it's a tough call sometimes. Which underwear need to burn? Stretched out waistband? A teeny hole? A faint yellowish mark from lazy shaking habits? Minor offenses.

An absolutely unforgiveable offense however, is a clearly visible, -- opaque skidmark. a.k.a. the poopstain, the scab, the hershey squirt, the jerky, the brown button etc... I'm not talking about the faint kind, I'll let a little beige one slide by. I'll look the other way. We get those now and then. They wash out. No big deal. I'm talking about the "Holy Crap What Happened" kind. The kind that makes you ponder your last poop.

I'll be honest, Skidmarks upset me. What the fuck do they want from me? I clean up. I think I have good technique. I have nimble fingers and good wrist rotation. I have even been known to keep baby wipes handy. I empty the chamber. I try my to make certain that mamma bear and all of her cubs have completely left the cave. Short of hosing myself down, I'd say I could probably enter competition. And still, every now and then, some little eager poop has to come out and wreck a good pair of shorts. WTF?

Or -- -- is it the shorts?

That's where it gets confusing. The doubting and wondering are reasons enough to torch ANY pair of shorts, new or not. Not all shorts are equal either. I've had a few pair of *trusted* shorts that I've been wearing since I was 10. They cuddle my marbles. They never have drips. They are nice, good citizens. They DON'T involve themselves with my anus unlike certain other shorts that just seem to be out to get me. It's like they crawl six inches up my rectum just looking for poop. I can't prove they are against me, but still, just to be safe --- I light those fuckers on fire.

I don't wait either (unless I have company). The very second I see evidence of this activity between my butthole, my poop and my shorts, I nip it in the bud FAST, because like I said, it makes me a little upset. Truthfully, I think it's more anger and disappointment than the love of ceremony that makes me want to burn shit -- I mean stuff.

But, call me insane, I refuse to light my rectum on fire, and lighting a poop on fire would be pointless, not to mention damn near impossible. Besides that, how would one know which poop did it? Was it the tail of the previous poop or the head of the most recent? The first poop is long gone and the recent one is waterlogged. At any rate, there's no reason to ever burn a whole turd.-- It's the shorts. Fuck'em.

The shorts burn.

I have these awesome log tongs (how nice) by the fireplace. When I am confronted with the offensive smudge of poop, I simply remove the offending shorts, grab them with the log tongs and light'em up. I let the flames flicker up a little, just enough to release a cute puff of smoke into the room and then I hold them under the chimney and say my goodbyes.

"Goodbye shorts. Farewell poopstain. Have a good time floating to Oakland."

And you know what? It's nice. Standing in front of the fire, with no pants, watching the magical transformation from shorts/skidmarks to flames/smoke, basking in the glow of my own burning shorts, feeling the warmth of the fire on my shameful parts... it just seems right.

Friends, I can't make a higher recommendation.

And don't get wrapped up thinking about the burning skidmark. You can't smell it. Grow up. Can a handsome man live free of your snickering for five minutes? Please.

Whether you like it or not, burning a defiled and shameful pair of shorts is just the right thing to do. I'm positive of that. I would not lie about something so close to my own blow hole.

So in closing, I say:

Doooooo it.

Burn those disgusting little bitches. You won't regret it.

Don't burn yourself. Use proper precaution. If you don't have a fire place, an hibachi or an old coffee can will do. But DO IT OUTSIDE and not near dry grass or gasoline! Pantsless is best, but don't get arrested. Don't do this with friends. Keep it between you and your shorts. We have enough stupid Burning Man hippee rituals already. Don't be gay. Don't roast a marshmellow trying to be funny either. It's not funny. Show some respect.

I hope you found this post useful.

Oh yeah, I'm still in the future. Underwear are the same. Sorry if you were expecting a revolution. The Fart Filter craze of 2009 never caught on and they still haven't invented unskidmarkable shorts. Honestly, it's a crying shame. So much senseless torching of shorts.

Thank you. Good night.

Best friends forever,
merkley???

I just taught my spellcheck the word "unskidmarkable". -- sweet.

I Have Fallen In Love

I always felt a special feeling in my pants -- I mean heart -- I mean hand -- I mean bladder, whenever I've seen Melanie Griffith, now I know why. Alex Blagg wrote a nice little piece that gives a glimpse that you may want. I recommend it. Or you can skip the foreplay and go straight into Melanies soul. Don't get any big ideas. She's MINE!! I'll kill that fucking wetback husband of hers if it's the last thing I do.

Oh yeah, I'm still in the future. Jay Leno still sucks.

Michael Moore Melts Ending The Great Grease Famine of 2011!!

Have you seen the new spacey way they package tuna fish? It's in a foil envelope on which you could put a stamp and mail it to a pal. Tonight I ate precooked mexican ground beef packaged the same way.

Now I am in the future.

People are taller here. Boobs and lips are ENORMOUS and super super sticky. Electricity is made entirely from pig farts. Everyone has a pig. Now I'm hungry again.

Michael Jackson no longer has a nose. He had it replaced with a bubble machine. The bubbles are filled with sparkles and are actually gum. He looks happy. Finally his boogers are gum. No penis either. Lost it. Part of a plea bargain. Only speaks dolphin now. Something about blow holes.

Cold here. Global warming ended when Michael Moore melted and ended the Great Grease Famine of 2011. He was very very very very fat. Something about his farts changing global wind patterns -- his extra weight pulling the planet too close to the sun. Man was he ever fat. Like FAT fat. Super fat. Holy fucking crap he was fat. Fat. Fat. Anyway, grease has been officially renamed Michael Moore (due to his fatness and something about blow holes).

Donald Trump is dead. A lesbian negro apprentice winner bought a controlling share of his company and fired him (See what happens when you smash glass ceilings?). But that's not why he doused himself in "golden" pee and jumped off the The Trump Tower. Turns out he was just bananas. Oh yeah, he was a hermaphrodite too. Just kidding, the vagina they found in his pocket was Ivanas, he had it turned into a wallet when she died in the Great Grease Famine of 2011. Michael Moore ------- FAT.

Cell phones are all supositories now. I'm for it. Here in the future you have to check your blow hole -- I mean prostate everytime you dial the phone. Socialized medicine --- sweet. Thank goodness The Great Grease Famine of 2011 is over, the phones are smooth but everything seems just a little bit more sticky here.

Anyway, I'll be posting from the future until I figure out how to get back. If anyone has any questions or wants me to bring them back anything, let me know. Fat ---- Michael Moore is --- was.

Oops gotta run -- phone call -- vibrate -- blow hole --- nice.

How did I ever think of telling jokes about Moore, Jackson and Trump? -- holy crap I'm original.