Aloha, brothers and sisters. It appears that one of our national treasures, James Brown, has run afoul of the law again (note the delightfully terrifying mugshot). If anything, this fiasco makes one thing apparent: James Brown needs diplomatic immunity, pronto. If President Bush were serious about getting re-elected, he'd make that a high priority. His to do list should read:
1. Kill some terrorists.
2. Straighten out that economy thing.
3. Get the Man off JB's back. He's just doing his thing.
With that, they'd be putting him on the 20 in a matter of weeks. If Bush isn't man enough to do it, Al Sharpton is. End of story.
But anyway, the world's greatest mug shot makes me want to revisit one of the greatest foolies I've ever done. Two or three years ago, I scoured the web for the most bizarre picture of a woman I could find. Once I had it, I created a terrifying online persona for this woman, and then created a truly bewildering Yahoo Personals ad for her. I would have to find the contents of the ad in order to share the brilliance with you, but suffice it to say, it was pretty sweet. Sweeter still was when a few deranged men were intrigued enough to respond to it. And the sweetest of all was when these men realized what was going on, and then hunted me for sport. Long story short: hilarity ensued.
As I was typing that out, I got the feeling that maybe it was time to play match maker again. So, I created another Yahoo Personals ad, this time for James Brown. The fatcats at Yahoo have to approve it before they'll post it. I have no clue whether or not they're going to do it, but once it's up, it'll be under the name sir_weinerbiscuit. You better believe I'm posting a link to that bad boy ASAP. Just to whet you appetite a little bit, here's a portion of the part where I describe who I'm looking:
I'm looking for a woman with a car, an affinity for cattle prods, and an UNQUENCHABLE ZEST FOR LIFE!!!!!!!!!
If anyone reading this happens to work at Yahoo, you know what to do.
Attention NFL Big Shots: there has been a grave mistake. Somehow, when you were giving out the press passes for the Super Bowl, you neglected to send one to me. I don't understand, since it's a well known fact that Goulash.EduComNet e-Solutions World Headquarters is a mere 2.5 hours away from where the game is being played. What, did you guys find another source for the world's most insightful and delightful commentary? And my pithy remarks aren't just about football. Politics, mulching strategies for your yard, scandinavian desserts: I can talk it all. I am afraid that if this isn't rectified immediately, I am putting all of my journalistic credentials behind the Continental Jai Alai and Lawn Darts Association. You will come to fear the CJALDA.
The higher ups at work got tired of my daily 8:30 to 9:30 sob fest, so they approved my request to start coming in at 9:30. I've been doing it for two days and it is Sweet Biscuit City. My mornings are less hectic, and I have far less time in the evenings to fall in with a youth gang. So far, I'm devoting that extra hour in the mornings to writing sonnets. You might be scratching your head right now, saying, "Hmm, that's odd." However, at the same time you're thinking this, a telegraph has arrived for you. It's from the beauty of my art, and it reads "GET ON BOARD!"
Okay, not actually writing sonnets. I did spend a few minutes this morning playing Pac Man, though. And if you've ever seen the things I can make Pac Man do, you'd call it poetry. The poetry of war, that is.
I am tempted to continue with this, but that last sentence was just too good.
The New Hampshire Primary takes place today; it ought to be some pretty exciting stuff. So exciting, in fact, that I spent 10 minutes today imagining what it'd be like to be a reporter covering the scene today. Here are the notes from my hallucination.
At 6:00 AM, I wake up in agony. I pulled a muscle last night roughhousing with Wesley Clark. It was some sort of publicity stunt he concocted. We had agreed to no hair pulling, but once a gaggle of soccer moms gathered around our homemade ring in the Shoney's parking lot, he just had to bring out the big guns. I consider telling this to CNN.
7:15 AM, flapjacks with John Kerry. I prefer to call them pancakes. I told this to Sen. Kerry, who punched me in the stomach and then pointed to a poll that 54% of New Hampshire voters prefer the term flapjacks. He has brought some homemade syrup for the breakfast crowd, which leads to widescale nausea. Still, they appreciate the gesture.
At 10 AM, I'm off to a Howard Dean chili cook off. After standing in line for an hour with a bunch of pretentious weinerbiscuits and blog enthusiasts, I am served the angriest bowl of chili in the history of chilidom. When I ask for unsweetened tea, Dean unleashes a fearsome primal scream and instructs his minions to dismember me and hide the body.
Joe Lieberman has organized a lunch time breakdance competition in a predominantly African American voting precinct. It seems a little desperate to me, but he's really jazzed about it. Despite the fact that all entrants get a yarmulke with Joe's face on it, few people are showing interest. He convinces me to get out there and pop and lock with him for a few minutes. After he gets winded from doing the robot, he goes off on an hour long freestyle rap about his Medicare proposal.
It's 3 PM, and I'm at the meeting of the Concord Society for Creative Anachronism with Dennis Kucinich. I don't know what's sadder: the make-shift chain mail he assembled before he started his talk, or the fact that he just agreed to joust John Edwards. I feel bad for the guy, who actually has some good ideas. Still, if he continues to call me "fair squire", I'm grabbing someone's mace and going after him.
At 6 PM, Al Sharpton and I hit the cafeteria at the Ramada Inn in Manchester for some grilled cheese sandwiches. I ask him if he feels he'll be competitive in today's primary. "Is that today?" he says. "I gave up on winning that a few months ago. Now I'm just going around New Hampshire, rating hotel hot tubs. Did I forget to issue that press release?"
If I were to ever start my own restaurant that served only crepes, I'd have a hard time picking between two names: "Planet of the Crepes" and "So Crepezy It Just Might Work". They both seem to say, "Yes, we dedicate ourselves to our craft, but we're also going to have a little bit of fun with this thing." Planet of the Crepes is probably a little bit better, because then you'd have a good excuse to chain up the customers when they arrived. The monkey waiters could harrass and oppress the patrons until there was a massive uprising and all of the customers escaped out into the parking lot. Way better then Chuck E Cheese, plus free appetizers for whoever squeals to the waiters about the planned escape.
Any there any more good crepe puns I'm missing out on here? I was tempted to also list "The Great Escrepe", which could be sort of an escape-from-POW-camp themed place. Could there really be two crepe restaurants dealing with imprisonment, though? Not only that, but Great Escrepe would also have the whole Nazi thing associated with it. That's kind of intense for Sunday brunch. The only people who'd be interested in that would be Michigan militia types, and I'm pretty sure they only eat Vienna sausages and deer blood. Collectively, they are not a fan of the crepes. It's cool though, because I was just brainstorming with that one.
Austin has a big pun-off every year in the Spring, and I'd be tempted to enter if I thought that "Names of Crepe Restaurants" stood a chance of coming up. Also, do you really think the Establishment would let me enter after reading the skills I busted out today? Keep propping up your paper champ, Austin Pun Society; we know who the choice of the people is.
If there's anything better in this world than minor league sports, I don't want to know about it. The mediocre players, the surly fans, and the alcoholic mascots: it's pretty much magic in a bottle. That is why I took the time today to watch the Austin Ice Bats play the Fort Worth Brahmas in a game of ice hockey. It truly is a long and storied rivalry, right up there with Alabama vs Auburn. As it was pretty much the game of the century, I made a public vow to kill myself if the Brahmas lost. News of my vow spread quickly throughout the stadium. I was offered free nachos and a puck hat if I would just call the darn thing off. But I said, "No, Brahma fans don't go down like that!" Luckily, someone was there to translate my statements of devotion into Latvian for the players, and motivated by them, the Brahmas did indeed win.
Now, as far as Ice Bats go, I don't know if that means the bats are made out of ice or if they shoot ice from their eyes or what. All I do know is their mascot is a stinky hybrid of a rat/mouse and he accosted me today after the game. That quickly turned from a game of friendly mascot grab ass to a full on assault. As he pummeled me into unconsciousness, I had only three words for him: "Brahmas rule, bitch."
I have no idea where this animosity came from, as I am quite a fan of minor league mascots. The stories abound of my mascot relations when I lived in San Antonio. You see, the mascot for the minor league ball team there is a puffy taco named Balepeno. I wish I know how to do the little ~ over the n, but you know what I'm saying. How could you not love a big puffy taco named Balepeno? That's probably the greatest idea ever hatched. So, I can only conclude that Fang's attack on me today was just another part of the brutal Minor League Hockey vs Minor League Baseball mascot war. Message to the Ice Bats: you have now incurred the wrath of Balepeno, may god have mercy on your soul.
Also, I should note that I picked up some salsa at the grocery store yesterday with a slogan that read, "The tang's the thang!" I think they chose that slogan so they could branch out into underground porn if the salsa thing didn't work out. I am happy to support such forward thinking.
Some brand new goodness over on CarlosJacott.com. If you guys haven't been reading the comments for the past few entries, then you must really be one pathetic piece of crap, as they have all been awesome.
Allow me to take this moment to congratulate my mailbox on successfully achieving a death grip on my mailbox key this afternoon. I struggled with it for 20 minutes before I gave up and told one of the maintenance dudes. This means two things. One: I am the gayest resident here. Two: any sort of Sword in the Stone-esque rewards are going to him, and not me. Even though it was my key, and the rewards were probably destined for me, and now the maintenance guy is flying over Austin on a jewel encrusted dragon. Whatever, I'm not going to cry about it anymore.
But anyway, in the 20 minutes where I was struggling to get my key out of the key hole, a lot of residents were checking their own mail and wondering what I was up to. The first few people, I just told them what was up and they were all friendly about it. As I got more frustrated, these exchanges quickly devolved from "Hi, this is my mailbox and I can't get my key out of it," to "Having a little problem here. Stupid piece of crap," to "I'm gonna kill you, bitch. You can't stop me because I'm from the streets and I'm crazy!"
However, once I finally got my key out and had the opportunity to look at my mail, all the frustration was worth it. It was a check for a million dollars and a Carebears Valentine from Carlos Jacott. He says I'm his Lionheart. Not sure what all that entails, but I'll take it. Have a good weekend, homediddlies.
Question: What did I do today during lunch?
Answer: Made this. Yeah, I Scorcesed the crap out of that one.
There is one thing in life that I constantly struggle with, and that is my name. I have no problems with the fact that my parents gave me a first name befitting the world's most flamboyant rodeo clown; if anything, I am a fan of such shenanigans. No, my issues are with people who just can't call me Cody, and instead have to jazz up my first name. Here are the things these idiots call me:
It'd be one thing if I were 5 years old or I had Down's Syndrome. In that case, you could cutesy-poo my name to Sheboygan and back. However, the last time I checked, I seem to be a 22 year old of only slightly below average intelligence, and so anything but my actual name or a nickname I created for myself (Duke Awesome, The Pickle) is completely unacceptable.
In case you're wondering, I can trace this whole name-retardation thing to a single phenomenon in the early 90s. On ABC's hallmark TGIF line up, there was a little piece of magic known as Step by Step, starring Mr. Patrick Duffy and Dame Suzanne Sommers. And on this 8th wonder of the world, there was a super cool surfer dude named Cody, who was all about "chilling out" and "hanging ten" and "smuggling tortoises from Malaysia". Since he was such a delightful free spirit, he was always going by some delightful remix of his name, such as Codeman. Due to the incendiary nature of the TGIF lineup, it was just a matter of time before acquaintances brought this Codeman crap into my life, giving me another grievance to add to my "Things Patrick Duffy Has Done to Ruin My Life" list.
It died down for a while, but then teen super hunk Frankie Muniz decided to rename his blockbuster from "Exploding Crap Train Express" to "Secret Agent Cody Banks", thus ushering a whole new era of humiliation for the Pickle. If it wasn't totally obvious before, the big media is getting antsy about what I"m preaching here on Goulash, and is trying to shut my big, fat yapper however they can. Well, to those forces of evil, I proudly proclaim the following: you can make as many Frankie Muniz and Patrick Duffy vehicles as you want to where the name Cody is dragged through the mud, but Lady Goulash came here to sing. Get used to it, or get out of the way.
Wellll, gutentag and bienvenue, homediddlies. How about that John Kerry? He treated that Iowa caucus like a big order of jalepeno poppers last night. He cleaned his plate, and then when Howard Dean came skulking by for the crumbs, he burped in his face and then threw the plate at him. Is that White House worthy behavior? As they say in Old Mexico, si, mucho gusto. I think Kerry needs to get a t shirt that says "Caucus Doodle Doo!" with a rooster on there pecking all the other candidates to death.
I find myself more engaged this year in the political process than I have been in years past. That may be because Old Man Academia is no longer asking for his nightly rub-down, but it could also be because this is an interesting time for our country. The election of 2000 was a minor curiosity for me. It was the first where I was eligible to vote, and since none of the candidates seemed adequate, I decided straight up to go for the most noble fringe candidate. I watched a whole lot of 3rd party debates on C SPAN, weighed my options, and then when the fateful day arrived, I wrote in the name of the Natural Law Party candidate. His name was John Hagelin, I think, and that night when they were showing the results, I saw he got a total of 7 votes in the entire state of Texas.
I think that is what I find interesting about politics. When you get past the barrels of money, the special interests, and the shady dealings, the people who vote are just as dumb as I am. We can vote as strangely as we want to in this country, and there's no way we're going to get beat up for it. And in certain rare occasions, these very idiots can make up 1/7 of an individual's votes for an entire state. That's incredible. When I realized I made up 1/7 of someone's vote that night, I felt like the politicians should've been plying me with booze and loose women to sway my vote. As evidenced by all of the recall intrigue, the candidates obviously didn't try that tactic enough.
I don't think I have a point here, except that I'm glad I live in a country where my disturbing idiosyncracies can have an effect on national affairs. Also, whatever happens this year, I do believe that the election of 2004 is going to be a real zootysnatcher. Allow me to be the first to say it: Hagelin's just biding his time.
As I mentioned yesterday, here is the textual buttermilk I delivered to the front door of Haypenny. I think it's very amusing. When I wrote it and sent it in, I made one demand; I said they could only run it if they promised to never publish anything after that. Apparently they took that one seriously. Hey guys, I was just joking! It's just so hard to convey when you're kidding in an email. Oh well, screw them.
With today being the Iowa Caucuses, I have been asked more than once who will get the coveted Goulash endorsement for the Democratic nomination. Boy, it's been a tough one. I really like the way Howard Dean rolls his sleeves up when he talks, but at the same time, Dennis Kucinich sent me a box of homemade taffy the other day. And let me tell you this, when I ate the first piece, I thought maybe they were making another House Party movie in my mouth. Let's just hope Dennis can run the Oval Office the way he runs his nuclear powered taffy press. Actually, I haven't yet made up my mind of whom to support. There are lots of good candidates, so I'm basically just going to let the liberal, Jew-run media tell me which is the best.
Speaking of liberal, Jew-run media, I wish that just once, a group I'm affiliated with would be implicated in a crazy conspiracy. It doesn't have to be a big one, I just want to be involved. This is only a rough draft, but I'm thinking of something along the lines of "Nissan drivers control the world's cashew supply." I realize that we Nissan drivers have a ways to go before we're dominating the world in the eyes of the super crazies, but we can at least get a little something started. And I think I may have eaten some spoiled hot dogs for dinner, so I am going to go weep on the bathroom floor and pray for death's sweet embrace.
PS: Everyone look at the title I gave this post; it's pretty good.
I had a beautiful idea the other night. Whether people do it or not, I've always wanted others to call me C-Dilly. I do it myself some times, but those around me have yet to pick that up and carry it to the promised land. Friday night, I discovered that if I could finally get people to start calling me C-Dilly, then that would lead to another great nickname: the Pickle. It'd probably start out as C-Dill Pickle, but I think eventually, we could just drop the first part and I'd be known exclusively as the Pickle.
Imagine how I could accessorize with that sort of nickname. I'm thinking green shoes, a Vlasic t-shirt, and a belt with a pickle holster. Also, and I don't want to reveal too much here, there are some serious catch-phrase opportunities here. I'd share them, but I know that if I did, I'd be seeing them on The OC in a week. Little known fact, but most of the jokes that appear on any Fox show were ripped verbatim from Goulash. That's neither here nor there, though.
Monday morning, I encourage all of you crazed jungle cats to hit up Haypenny to see a little bit of the old Pickle magic. I haven't been whoring myself quite as much lately to other websites because, shhhh, I'm working on something. It shall remain a secret until I unleash it upon the world like the snaring spawn of hell that it is. Speaking of hell spawns, the comments for the last entry on CarlosJacott.com have been rippin' and a-roarin'. Get in on the fun before I get served with the Cease and Desist order.
Word to your mothers, here comes the last Goulash of the week. Henry Rollins is going to be doing a spoken word thing in San Antonio on Saturday night. Had someone told me this when I was 16, I would've dropped my fudge right there. I really liked his work in Black Flag a lot, but even more than that, I admired him for the stuff he'd done after BF. The writing, the spoken word stuff, the pie eating contests: I thought it was great. Since then though, old Hank appeared in a ton of idiotic crap, including a little something called Bad Boys 2. I'm not one of those pretentious weiners who's always ranting about selling out, but there's something very sad about playing 8th banana to Mr. Martin Lawrence. Unless, of course, the movie we're talking about is Big Momma's House, in which case you're on a gravy train with biscuit wheels.
But anyway, I mention all of this because the issue of selling out has recently arisen in my life. With the fame that comes with running a website that attracts literally dozens of people a week, I have had some opportunities that've come my way, opportunities that I've pounced on like a randy tiger. To you, maybe my new line of adult diapers, C-Po's Poo Stoppers For the Gray Hairs, or my recent guest appearance on Survivor: Calcutta constitutes selling out. Well, if that's the case, then I have a few questions for you, hot shot.
1. If a wealthy adult diaper tycoon came to you with a bucket of money and a twinkle in his eye, and told you that he could make you the biggest name in incontinence since the dude who invented rubber sheets, what would you say?
2. Would a total sell-out eat all of the Chex Mix on the set of Survivor: Calcutta? And when the producer came over and got all pissy about it, would he blame the wardrobe girl? And then, while the wardrobe girl is getting flogged, would he do a totally fake boo-hoo face at her?
So in conclusion, I'm as sold out as Wilford Brimley's Make Out Party for PC and Playstation 2. Secret note to my friends: I have an outstanding new crazy woman story; ask me about it and you shall be entertained. Psychopaths of the internet, you will have to wait for another time to hear that one.
I've caught myself doing something very strange the past few days at lunch, so allow me to dissect the trivial action in pathologically graphic detail. I usually go home for lunch, and when this happens, I generally eat a sandwich. Nothing fancy on it like alfalfa sprouts on it or roasted manatee eyes, just bread, meat, cheese, mustard. Just like the Disciples used to eat. What I've discovered is that after making this sandwich, before I can eat it, I have to raise it up to my nose and sniff it. And this is not me delicately wafting the aroma of the sandwich towards my nose, this is me sniffing that sandwich like a hound dog on the trail of an escaped convict. However, as strange as all of this is, I think I know why I do this.
A few months ago, I was eating a sandwich and after a few bites, I had to stop. Something just wasn't right; the sandwich tasted like it had been soaked in booze. After a little Encyclopedia Browning, I discovered that it was the bread that was the problem; I was eating turkey with Booze Bread. Needless to say, it was the most traumatic sandwich experience of my young life. Now I may be getting my science messed up here, but I'd had that bread in my kitchen for like 2 weeks, so I am thinking the bread had begun to ferment. Thus was born the only meal that can satisfy a raging alcoholic with a hankering for lunchmeat. It was a disturbing episode in my lunchtime chronicles and I am eager to never experience it again, which is why I now have to smell the bread to make sure it's not Booze Bread. I just felt like I had to clear the air on that.
In other news, I watched a great movie last night that I hadn't seen in a while, Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man. I remember seeing that when I was around 15 and just losing it, because I had no idea there were movies like that; it was just so weird and so wonderful. Should you not happen to watch it, no big whoop, I'm not going to cry about it. It's not like I devote 30 minutes to entertaining you every day, and then when I encourage you to see one damn movie, you literally poop all over me. It's not like at all. Ungrateful bastards.
Friends and enemies, I direct your attention to the new entry on CarlosJacott.com. I would also like to note that, last night in that entry, I predicted the hell out of this Spalding Gray disappearance thing, although my prediction applied to the wrong quasi celebrity. You guys don't go to CJDC for the outstanding predictions though, you go there for the best Mama's Family Fan Fiction on the internet. Am I wrong?
Okay, let's move on to more of my delightful brand of tomfoolery. I'm going to need a haircut soon, and it is more apparent than ever to me that I hate all of this hair stuff. Is it possible for me to just go in and request that my entire head be waxed? The ladies will love me and the gentlemen will fear me whether the locks are there or not. Actually, it'd be pretty great if I could trade scalps with a bald guy. I get a lot less hassle then and he finally gets the pompadour he's always wanted. How much could I get paid for doing that? I imagine enough to have a new celebrity butler every day for the rest of my life.
Speaking of celebrity butlers, I think it'd be easy to get tricked into selecting a bad one. For example, it may sound amusing to have David Lee Roth as your celebrity butler, but where do you think he'll be when it's time to polish the silverware before the Prime Minister comes over for dinner? He certainly won't be manning the polishing apparatus. No, you'll find him doing jumpkicks for the maid or guilting your niece into having sex. I think the best celebrity butler would be Alex Trebeck. He seems like the type who'd light himself on fire if someone left the cap off the milk. I like high-strung, prissy butlers like that. Also, he's decidedly less likely than David Lee Roth to sneak into your bedroom and put a komodo dragon on you while you sleep. These things must be considered.
No entry last night, as apparently my internet service comes directly from the Weinerbiscuit Corp. Yeah, I'm on to you, Comcast.
But that's okay, because today's entry will be so full of splendor, you'll be walking around for weeks with little ziploc baggies full of magic. I feel I can truthfully say that because I came up with perhaps the greatest idea in the history of ideadom, but it's going to take some explaining to get there. Unless you've been hiding in a cave somewhere, you know that Ben Schumin, owner of the Schumin Web and star of the Goulash Centennial entry, works in a Wal-Mart in Virginia. Not only this, but there's been a little drama lately as he's been transferred to a new Wal-Mart in Waynesboro (read all about it in the past few entries here). To me, this makes perfect sense; if I were opening up a new Wal-Mart, I'd most def want Schumin manning the front lines, making all of the girls giggle. This new Wal-Mart opens on January 21. The first great idea I had today was, "Wouldn't it be great if everyone who read Goulash made a spontaneous pilgrimmage out to Waynesboro, VA on January 21 for this grand opening?" Schumin would probably poop his pants right there. However, I don't think this is going to work because of the tight time frame. That is, unless some wealthy corporation sponsors all of this. I'm looking at you, Goldman Sachs.
So, that's a good idea but the logistics didn't really work out. Just because I ruled it out didn't mean I stopped obsessing over the idea. The entire day, I was tormented by it. So, later on in the afternoon, when one of my friends mentioned going overseas for a while, I got to thinking. It went something along the lines of, "Man, it must be scary to leave the country by yourself. I will have to mail her something nice when she gets there. I wish I could mail her something Schumin-esque. Actually, I wish I could just mail Schumin. I wish I could rent him by the hour and mail him places as a gift." So, that is my round-about way of revealing the best idea ever: sending Schumin through the mail to cheer people up.
Just think about it. You're in a new city, not feeling too good, and you see you have a big package waiting for you at the post office. It's too heavy for you to move, so you open it up right on teh spot. Inside, you find Schumin with a big bow on his head, eating a hamburger or something. Let me be the first one to say it: I am a genius.
Speaking of genius, the new season of Home Movies started last night on the Cartoon Network, and I heartily encourage you to starting watching it. There's only one cartoon character who has the pleasure of being my buddy icon (Coach McGuirk), and now's the time you find out why.
Well, I see that 2 people got to this site yesterday by searching google for "choose your own adventure britney spears sex". In the hopes that they are back again today, here is my rendition of a Choose Your Own Adventure Britney Spears Sex story.
1. You walk into your grandmother's sewing room. There's Britney Spears. You can either fix her a turkey sandwich (go to 2) or grab a thimble and try to poke her eyes out with it (go to 3).
2. Britney follows you into the kitchen. As you peer into the cabinet to find the sandwich makings, you ask Britney, "Do you want white or wheat bread on that?" She slinks up behind you, gives your butt a squeeze, and declares, "Ohhh, I love that white bread." You can either continue looking for the bread (go to 4) or sling some inneundo back at her (go to 5).
3. You pick up your grandmother's Garfield thimble and lunge at Britney with it. Little did you know, she hasn't been doing those Pilates for nothing. You tussle on the floor WWF style for several hours. You can either proceed to poke her eye out with the thimble (go to 10), or see where this wrestling match will lead (go to 11).
4. You locate the white bread and begin to make the sandwich. As you are spreading the mayonnaise, Britney eyes you like a wild tiger. "On second thought," she says, "I'd like a manwich. Bring it on over, big boy." You can either ask her exactly what a manwich is (go to 6) or go with the whole manwich thing and see what happens (go to 7).
5. "You look the white bread, eh? Well I'll take a big old slice of hoochie mama pie," you say. She pounces on you and begins the wildest make-out session this side of a Shannon Tweed movie. You can either quench your desire and do the wild thing wiht Britney Spears there on your grandmother's breakfast nook (go to 8), or you can take the noble path and refrain from lewd activities since you grandmother is watching her stories in the next room (go to 9).
6. "I'm afraid I have no idea what a manwich is," you say. "It's a figure of speech, you weinerbiscuit," she says. "I"m going to go do it with Mario Lopez instead." Way to go.
7. "Here comes a manwich with an extra helping of horsey sauce!" you declare. You and Britney proceed to do the unmentionable act right there in kitchen, although you are a little uncomfortable because she keeps making reference to the manwich thing. What sort of meat does it have, what are my choices of dressing, etc. It cannot end soon enough.
8. Britney proceeds to give you the clap. What do you expect from a woman you refer to as Hoochie Mama Pie?
9. You step back from Britney and say, "No, we must not! While nothing would delight me more than to weave a tapestry of sexual magic with you right now, I think we should wait until we're married. What do you say?" She looks deep in your eyes and says, "You are the gayest man ever," and then she walks out the door.
10. You shout out, "Look, a baby elephant!" Britney stops pummeling you in order to take a look. "Ha ha," you yell, then you poke her eye out with the thimble. She starts to cry, and you decide to console her a bit. You are horrified at what you've done, yet also a little bit aroused. Your hands start to wander and you accidentally touch her boob. She promptly proceeds to sue you for fifty billion dollars.
11. After a full day and night of wrestling, you finally manage to smash Britney in the head with a phone book, forcing her to give up. While you are strutting the sewing room, Britney says that since you've won, she will grant you 3 wishes. In using up your first wish, you get all kinds of syphilis. That's okay, as you can get rid of that with the second wish. For your third wish, you decide to have lunch that day with Hall and Oates. It is the best day ever.
Some new Cody Powell genius over at CarlosJacott.com. Get this, guys, I riffed on the whole Britney Spears marriage thing in an amusing fashion. Yes, there are no sacred cows for CWMP.
Well, I just heard a knock knock at the door, and I wasn't planning on answering it. A few months ago, I got into this big, crazy argument with some hippy who was going door to door selling coupon books. I don't want to get into what happened, but words were exchanged when I informed her I wasn't interested in coupons for bellydancing lessons. They were mean, hurtful words, and I cannot tell you the personal restraint it took to keep me from going after that trollop with a spatula. Nevertheless, as I am all about pushing the boundaries and kicking my fears in the nuts, I answered the door. And who should appear but my good friend Frito, king of gentlemen and true salt of the earth.
What with the whole surprise visit and all, I gots no time for the goulash. Instead, I look forward to a game of chess and a rousing discussion of the Middle East quagmire over a meal of quail and salted seal eyes, or whatever it is fancy people eat. I'll be back here tomorrow, full of whiz and vinegar.
Explanation: One of my new year's resolution was to try my luck as an insult comedian.
Hey stupids! What, did they let the NAMBLA meeting out early today? I wouldn't say you guys are the stinkiest bunch I ever met, but the first time I saw you guys, I wondered, "What is this, the synchronized pants pooping team?" Now let me talk about your mother. She is both promiscuous and idiotic, and for an example of both traits, I point to the time she went to see Ghostbusters and wouldn't stop yelling at Slimer to give her the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man's phone number.
Thus concludes my first stint as an insult comic.
Today, in front of my normal parking spot at work, there were two discarded Monopoly boards. No Community Chest cards or little wheelbarrow pieces, just two ripped up boards. As the French say in between gulps of wine, très intéressant! We've all read news stories about how, due to strange meteorological circumstances, the sky rained frogs or something kooky like that. So, at first, I just assumed it was a random raining of Monopoly boards. Then I got to thinking and it occurred to me, "Hey, this is just a little TOO perfect." I came up with two theories on how the Monopoly boards got put there.
Theory the first: they were strategically placed there by the Parkers Brothers Company to send me a message. You may be wondering why, of all the people in the world, they chose to intimidate me with their strong-arm tactics. Well first, I am a handsome Internet superstar, beloved by hundreds. Second, and this is something I don't like to reveal to many people, I am Central Texas's reigning Tiddlywinks champ. I'd elaborate more, but do I even need to get into the East Coast/West Coast board game wars with you people? Jesus.
Theory the second: the parking lot at work is built on an old Monopoly burial ground. Legend has it that every full moon, Uncle Moneybags roams the lot, making dents in cars with his doomed thimble.
I got some good news today. My grandparents used to have this old, really great pipe organ that I loved to mess around with, and when we were cleaning their house out a few years ago, my mom took it. I had always expressed interest in taking it home with me, but I never could because the organ's volume controls didn't work. Everything you played was at full blast. Not exactly being Van Cliburn on that thing, I thought it wise not to take it home and serenade my neighbors with a soulful and deafening version of Rub A Dub Dub, Three Men in a Tub each morning. That just has "long walk off a short pier wearing cement booties" written all over it, thus I was content to leave that thing at my mom's and only break it out for some Christmas carols each year.
However, my stepdad, using all of his electrical wizardry, took one look at that thing and said, "I've got it covered like Buford T. Justice on the Bandit." And now, that being said, I'd like to introduce all of you guys to a new friend of mine, Mr. Volume Control. I haven't had a chance to test it out yet, but I can just imagine the majesty that's going to be pouring out of the thing when I start tickling the ivories. Warning to the ladies: The crescendo at the end of I've Been Working on the Railroad is going to pull some serious heartstrings, and I don't care who knows it.
One neat thing about the organ is that it has all of these beats you can set to play along with. Yeah, that'll be cool when I'm kicking out the jams on it, but it'll be even cooler for the impromptu rap battles that have been known to occur here. In the past, we have had a hard time finding something to play along with. Not to mention that it's just embarrassing when I'm asking Old Dirty Bastard to accompany me on a comb and a piece of tissue paper; I may as well wear a bib that says Sucker MC on it. So anyway, in one fell swoop, I have found a new medium for my genius as well as a way for me to save face with the rap community. I better get this organ a gift cert to the Container Store as a way of saying thanks for this abundance of riches.
Well, isn't this just totally typical? Last week, Britney Spears said she just wanted to take some time away from me, and today, I find out she's married. On the set of Crossroads, Dan Akroyd warned me that she was going to pull something like this. I will now apologize publicly to Mr. Elwood Blues for calling him a filthy, lying whore and boxing his ears in front of the entire cast and crew. The following is my ultra-personal message to Ms. Britney Spears, or Pookie McCuteButt, as I used to call her.
Britney, you have made me look like a fool. Many a night have I spent in the local VFW, wondering aloud to Smitty and the boys about how dadgum sweet it'd be when declared yourself my ho for life. Do not say you weren't also excited about this possibility; I have AIM logs to prove otherwise. Through the lesbian experimentation, the goofball addictions, and all of your brutal assaults on Japanese photographers, I stood by you. And for all of that, I do not win Sweetheart of the Year, as you wrote in my President's Day card last year. No, I get a first class ticket to Dumpsville, courtesy of the Spears Express, where the only thing that comes with the packet of peanuts is a kick to the testicles.
The next time you go on TRL and Carson Daly asks whose face that is, tattooed on your ass, I want you to tell him the truth. Do not say, "This is one of my fallen homies." Instead, declare, "This is Cody Powell, the most sublime loverman to ever walk the streets of this earth. He gift-wrapped his love and had it delivered by a team of magical unicorns, and in return, I took a dump on him. One day, I will woo him back with a box of gold dubloons and a stack of dirty pictures of myself. Until that happens, I shall be dead on the inside."
Thank goodness someone finally showed 2003 to the door. It was the most tumultuous and eventful year in the history of Codydom. It was sort of like a Bollywood movie in that one moment, I'm stealing bread so I can woo this fair maiden, then all of a sudden, we're riding on elephants and singing in the rain.
So, while last year was all kinds of crazy, I think 2004 is going to be the year of CWMP, because I got the year started off the right way. My first few minutes of 2004 were consumed by a torrid winning streak on Sega Genesis Hockey. I was just destroying everyone who stepped up to the controllers. If that is any indication of things to come, I will most likely end 2004 as the President of the USA, or at least with a really cool jacket. Bring it on, I says. Back to the regular schedule on Sunday.