“fyxjukicwawzbalssmyfamily loves to take cheese and throw it at neighbors, so fuck you assface moomooquackquack”
“fyxjukicwawzbalssmyfamily loves to take cheese and throw it at neighbors, so fuck you assface moomooquackquack”
biotocohch – v. to lend your vacuum cleaner to your next door neighbor
Q: What starts with a N and ends with a R?
balatele – v. to kill your neighbor’s chicken without permission from a majority of the residents within 500 feet
doig – v. to lure your neighbor’s cook away to work for you.
This column brought to you by Jesus who reminds you that he did not place that beer in your hands, and that drinking 13 more cans will not make it so.
If you’re anything like me, when you think of a place that’s filled with lunatics, drunks, and rednecks, you think of the White House. Of course, the next thing you’d probably think of is a NASCAR track on Sunday. I am not ashamed to admit that I’m a NASCAR fan, and no one makes fun of me for being a NASCAR fan. Of course, I do brutally murder all opposition to me, but that’s beside the point. The point is I was at a NASCAR race this past Sunday, as I had the privilege to direct traffic on one of the track entrances. From my orange barrel stationed in the middle of the action, I got the true NASCAR experience, and though people kept trying to knock me out by hitting me over the head with beer bottles, I am here to tell you my story, as well as its moral, which is, don’t fuck with rednecks. Ha ha! I’m just kidding. The moral is to never fuck rednecks’ sheep.
But enough about the moral, let’s get to the story. The day started at 3 AM when I stumbled into the shower and accidentally turned on the icy cold water. Then I realized that I had been dumped in the Arctic Circle by my friends in the Romanian Mafia again, and I started back home. Those jokers! In any case, the U.S. military owed me a favor and dropped me off over at my house, then they proceeded to blow up my next door neighbor’s house. Last time the bastard steals a chainsaw from me. Before fire and rescue crews could arrive and accuse me of something, I was off to the race. On my way, I passed an old cemetery where Tom Cruise was shooting a new movie where he eats what’s left of the flesh of dead people. Should be a good movie. Wait a minute, there weren’t any cameras.
Anyways, I parked my car outside the speedway gates and went to sleep for a few hours. Then a speedway worker knocked on my window and told me to get to work directing traffic. There wasn’t much traffic to direct at first, so I mainly watched the campground area, where people had literally been partying all night. Some of these people hadn’t slept in days, so I decided to have a little fun with them while I wasn’t busy. In one camper, I released a pack of hungry dogs after I poured Tabasco sauce all over the drunken inhabitants. They thought I was giving them a sponge bath. To be even more cruel, I released a thousand bumblebees into another camper after I gave their dog and two cats baths in honey sauce. I thought that the campers would be upset, but they called it the best damn show they ever saw. Then they gave me a beer. Dissatisfied, I made my cruelest move of all by releasing Jeff Gordon into another camp. I heard a lot of screaming, a lot of chainsaw noises, and a lot of hole digging, and Jeff never came out. Next time, maybe I won’t forget to use the Jeff Gordon Tackling Dummy (copyright 1998 Hasbro Toys). I heard that the dummy placed 4th in the race though.
When I headed back to my post, a lineup of cars had formed, so I started letting them through. Of course, if a car came to me, it was headed in one of two directions: inside the speedway or left to handicap parking. The majority of the cars at first were headed inside the speedway, mainly because they were the pit crews and families of the drivers. I stopped
a few pit crews and made them do four tire changes on their vans. Then I proceeded to shake my head and tell them that the sort of times they put up were “winning times.” Of course, they did the best they could without any tools. I had fun with the families of the drivers too. I told them that during the race, I would kill their daddy. Then I laughed, saying I was just joking, that I’d find him AFTER the race and kill him. They seemed unhappy, but I think eventually they got the joke. Soon, actual cars started piling in, though some of the cars with handicap stickers didn’t appear to be filled with handicapped people. Does anyone else think that morbid obesity is not a handicap, that these people should just get the frickin’ liposuction and get it over with? Is it so hard for some of these people to ride an exercise bike while watching the race? These people notwithstanding, the “handicapped” problem got worse. One of the other parking attendants saw a couple walking away from their handicapped-stickered vehicle and noticed something strange. He told the couple that one of
them had to work on their limp a little. The man then proceeded to act like he was limping. The saddest part of all this is that I am not making it up.
Throughout the day, I saw many interesting people walk by me. Earlier in the day I saw a husband and wife arguing. Let me tell ya, some people are dead serious about their arguing. I mean, the guy didn’t even think twice about killing the wife. Then he asked me to help him dig the shallow grave. Then he hired Johnny Cochran. This happened in the span of about an hour. I hope his “The police are out to frame violent, sex-crazed lunatics like my client” argument holds up in court. Good luck Johnny! A number of people also came over to me and asked me if the train that ran to the other end of the speedway was running today, this in spite of the fact that it was running DIRECTLY BEHIND ME. I happily pointed the people in the right direction, although the morbidly obese people were more than a little upset about having to walk the 50 feet to the nearest train. I guess it’s pretty bad when you can hear their feet screaming for mercy. The t-shirts were really cool though. Give NASCAR fans this: They know a good t-shirt when they see it. One t-shirt advertised a new brand of M&Ms, called S&Ms. I didn’t know that the yellow peanut liked it rough, or that the green M&M looked so damn good wearing leather and holding a whip. The best t-shirt of the day though had to be the one that said on the front, “Drink ‘Til You Want Me.” The spirit of NASCAR lives on.
Once the race started, allegiances were evident. The Jeff Gordon fans collected under the grandstands for fear of oppression. I think it was a little much of them to believe that the Holy Gordon Spirit was coming to give them bravery enough to sit in the grandstands. I also think it was a little much for Jesus to be standing there not letting them out. The Dale Earnhardt, Jr. fans were everywhere in the stands, though you couldn’t understand them when they talked, mainly because every single noun was “Dale,” “Earnhardt,” or “Junior.” Here’s a sample conversation:
Redneck 1: So Dale was down at the Junior the other Earnhardt.
Redneck 2: Oh really? Did Junior buy the Dale?
Redneck 1: Nope, Earnhardt thought Dale’d be better off with the Earnhardt.
Redneck 2: Well, Junior’s a Dale. Guess Dale’d better go with the Earnhardt.
And they all knew what the other was talking about. I tell ya, with Dale Earnhardt Junior, it’s like hero-worship. They cheer him when he wins, they cheer him when he loses, the threaten death upon anyone who causes Dale pain (I was flooded with about 420 death threats after I typed this paragraph, and I didn’t even send it out immediately. How did they get my email?) I do, however, think it was a little much for them to make Junior keep his father’s corpse in the back of his car.
Well, after being showered with rubber from being so close to the track, and having had to throw water on driver Ricky Rudd as he tried to climb the grandstand fence while on fire (although I still think it was funny to shoot out his tire), I left the race. I learned a lot that day, the best lesson being that girls, when sprayed with a hose and doused with
alcohol, always show their breasts. It is a lesson I will cherish always. Well, now I’m sunburned and my skin is trying to slowly crawl away, so I better be going. But take it from me, always wear pants to a NASCAR race, even if most of the rednecks aren’t wearing clothes at all. They sold the clothes to buy tickets for this race. This happens, I’m serious. I already bought 5 kids off of 3 different couples.
(Dr. Stinky knows you aren’t a race car, but he’ll still ride you any day.)
While I was dining out with my children, a friend of my neighbor, who recognized us, came over to our table, and we started talking.
He asked where my kids go to school. I told him we home-schooled them.
With a raised eyebrow, he asked if my husband is the sole breadwinner for our family.
I said, “No, I also work… but out of our home.”
Then, noticing our two-month-old son, he mentioned that his daughter had just had a baby, and he wondered what hospital our son was born in.
“He was born at home,” I answered.
The man looked at me and said, “You don’t get out much, do you?”
When a farmer returned home from a vacation in Hawaii, his neighbor asked him to describe what a hula dance was like. Naturally the farmer explained the exotic dance in his own simple way. “The dancers put a crop of hay in the front field,” he said, “and they put another crop of hay in the back field. Then when the music starts, they rotate the crops.”
My neighbors think they’re big deals just because they have a marble table top. How they had the patience to glue together all those marbles I’ll never know.
MOTHER WACKLY: “Did I tell you my son, Roger, is playing end guard on the college football team this year?”
NEIGHBOR: “End guard? I never heard of an end guard.”
MOTHER WACKLY: “Yes, he told me he sits on the end of the bench and guards the water bucket!”
One day, an irate king felt it was necessary to declare economic warfare on his neighboring, rich, kingdom full of goody-do-gooders and twody-shoesters. He hired a mercenary to go and find a secret, yet silent way to eliminate Rich Kingdom’s wealth and make Irate Kingdom supercede it.
This mercenary was actually a double agent for Rich Kingdom and he told Richie, the King of Rich Kingdom what Irate King was planning on doing. After rewarding the mercenary with two hot lesbians for his loyalty, the king had a perfect plan for countermanding Irate King’s verdict.
Locked in the deep dark dungeons of Rich Kingdom lie the Boy who Ate Diamonds. They call him BAD. BAD was living off lesser carbon densities during his stay in the dungeon, such as coal. Richie King unlocked the doors to BAD’s cell and gave him a chance of freedom.
His mission: eat the diamonds of Irate Kingdom and destroy their wealth. BAD screeched and ran out into the world, never to be seen again. Rich King felt like a dumbass, he just let a crazy psychotic who ate diamonds out of jail!
Moral of the story: Think twice about how to pre-emptiviely attack someone who wants to destroy you.
So there was this old crazy man and an equally old and crazy woman who lived together but weren’t married. Friends with benefits, let’s call it.
Unfortunately, they got screwed by social security because of their marital status and were miserable all the time. They were also terrible company to each other because they both had terrible personalities.
So, the woman tells the man she is lonely and wants a cat. What that actually means is she wants to fuck other 120 year old men. She was into older guys.
So, since the old man didn’t want to lose the only vadge he’s ever had the opportunity to service, he went on a long trek to the pet store to get a cat…or a million cats. Did I mention he was nuts?
So he got to the pet store and the pet store said the only place that has a million cats is Cat Hill. It was a refugee camp for cats that had been created by the Croation government in Southern California.
So the old man goes to Cat Hill and, since he can’t see very well, thinks every cat is as pretty as the next. He can’t pick just one, so he becomes a Moses for kitties and leads them to the promised land of Van Nuys, CA, back to his apartment.
Along the way, the cats, like a plague, drank up whole water reservoirs and ate all the grass that managed to grow in the SoCal desert.
When he got back home, Jerry, the next door neighbor climbed out the window just before he came.
In her sexy nighty, the old woman was seemingly unsurprised that the old man would bring a million cats back with him. Did I mention he was nuts?
So, the lady said they could only keep one because housing refugees doesn’t get any tax breaks. So, the old man asked the cats (did I mention he was nuts?) which one was prettiest.
After some civil deliberation, a white cat shot a black cat and everyone started eating each other. They were hungry, after all. So the old man and woman went inside the house and didn’t watch the slaughter taking place in front of their apartment — they opted for a different type of slaughter: A Raider’s football game. Then they watched Fraiser, cause they’re old.
When they came back outside, the only cat left alive was a small, thin, and scraggly kitten.
So, they took in the cat and kept it. Little did they know, the cat was a mastermind feline felon (get it?) that had planned the genocide of his cat brethren without being tried for a war crime. So he lived with the old man and old woman until they died (read: got murdered by a cat) and then the cat inherited all of their shit, went back to Eastern Europe and resumed his tyrannical rule of Purrrrrrsia.
Everybody picks on me. Last week the electric company shut off my lights at the request of my neighbors. They said I look better in the dark.
First Boy: Wow! It’s a run-home!
Second Boy: You mean a home run.
First Boy: No, I mean a run-home. You just hit the ball through the neighbor’s window!