DRINKY SMITH

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2008-07-19T03:11:00.000-04:00

Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker & Tits

2008-06-23T22:55:00.001-04:00

RIP

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

2008-05-05T09:37:00.001-04:00

Any decent drunk worth thier salt (and lemon) has heard of the Mexican holiday Cinco de Mayo, but not every drunk knows what it celebrates. It is not, as some drunks believe, Mexico's Independence Day. The festivities that occur on the fifth day of May commemorate a battle that was fought almost 50 years after Mexico declared its independence from Spain. Throughout Mexico, and in many cities of the United States, as well as in other countries where there are people of Mexican descent (and drunks of any and all denominations) the fifth of May means partying in the traditional Mexican style. But, it's significance goes beyond the whacking of piñatas, dancing to mariachi music, and getting fucked-up on cheap cerveza and tequila.

Cinco de Mayo celebrates Mexico's independence, but it is not Independence Day. Mexico asserted its independence from Spain on September 16, 1810. The festivities on May 5 are about another battle for independence -- a battle fought against the French in 1862. After the 1846 Mexican-American War (Remember the Alamo!), in which boundaries were clarified when Texas became the 28th U.S. state, Mexico entered a period of political and financial hardship. The Mexican civil war lasted from 1858 to 1861 and left Mexico without a stable support structure. To supplement a deflated economy, Mexico borrowed a great deal of money from other countries. Among those countries were England, Spain and France.

In 1862, all three European powers came to collect. Their navies arrived in Mexico to demand payment and land to settle the debts, but Mexico offered vouchers instead, essentially asking for more time. England and Spain accepted and went home; France invaded, seeking total control of Mexico. Under Napoleon III, French troops began at the shore and tried to make their way to Mexico City. Before they could get to the capital, they were stopped at the state of Puebla, where a major battle took place on May 5, 1862: La Batalla de Puebla.
Outnumbered and outarmed, the Mexican soldiers at Puebla, under the command of General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguin, managed to defeat the French forces. Ultimately, the Mexican victory at Puebla only delayed the French invasion of Mexico city, and a year later, the French occupied Mexico. But the Mexican men who fought at Puebla nonetheless defied the odds to defend its independence. Cinco de Mayo celebrates that bravery and determination, and commemorates Mexico's fight to ward off imperialist forces.

How is it Celebrated? While Cinco de Mayo is celebrated all over Mexico, it is most intensely observed in Puebla, where the actual battle took place. In towns throughout the country, the fiesta includes Mexican food, such as Mole Poblano, Mexican music, including mariachi bands, parades, piñatas for the kids and fireworks at the end of the day. In places like Puebla and Mexico City, there is a reenactment of the battle. Men dress as French and Mexican soldiers and generals, and women wear the clothing of the soldaderos, the women who cooked for and looked after the soldiers in wartime. In some representations, the Mexican soldiers carry machetes and old gun-powder rifles, and the French soldiers carry bags with wine bottles sticking out. It is said that in some of these staged battles, there are actual casualties (Inside Mexico). In other reenactments, fruit is used as ammunition, so the worst injury possible is an apple to the head. The Mexican president gives a speech in Mexico City that is televised nationwide, and the day's reveling ends with shouts of "¡Viva Mexico!"

Similar celebrations take place in many major U.S. cities, including San Antonio, Houston, Dallas, St. Paul, Chicago and Los Angeles. Cinco de Mayo is actually celebrated more widely and on a grander scale in the United States than it is in Mexico, possibly due to effective marketing techniques.

Carnivals, street fairs and multi-day festivals are held all over the United States during the first week in May. In Los Angeles, Cinco de Mayo festivities attract hundreds of thousands of people. Red, white and green -- the colors of the Mexican flag -- are the dominant tones on the blocks around City Hall, and a portrait of General Zaragoza adorns the stage where the mayor of Los Angeles delivers a speech in Spanish. In St. Paul, Minnesota, the festivities include a "Lowrider Hydraulic Showdown"; in Austin, Texas, there is a jalapeño-eating contest; and in San Marcos, Texas, the winner of the Miss Cinco de Mayo pageant receives a $1,000 scholoarship.

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2008-03-18T21:39:00.001-04:00

Up The Irish...For Fuck's Sake!

2008-03-05T03:20:00.004-04:00

The first annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade began in Manhattan.

Of course, the practice of honoring St. Patrick on March 17th, traditionally understood as the day of his death
(c. 493) at Downpatrick in County Down, is a tradition that comes from old Ireland.

For centuries the people of Ireland marked the day as a solemn religious event, perhaps wearing green, sporting a shamrock, and attending mass, but little more. Certainly there was no massive parade like the ones found in American cities like New York, Boston, and Chicago.

No one knows for sure when the first commemoration of St. Patrick’s Day in America took place. One of the earliest references is to the establishment of the Charitable Irish Society, founded on St. Patrick’s Day in Boston in 1737.

Another early celebration took place in New York City in 1762, when an Irishman named John Marshall held a party in his house. Although little is known of Marshall's party, it is understood that his guests marched as a body to his house to mark St. Patrick's Day, thus forming an unofficial "parade."

The first recorded true parade took place in 1766 in New York when local military units, including some Irish soldiers in the British army, marched at dawn from house to house of the leading Irish citizens of the city. With few exceptions, the parade in New York has been held every year since 1766. Thus was a tradition born.

Over the next thirty-five years, Irish patriotism among American immigrants flourished, prompting the rise of so-called "Irish Aid" societies, like the Friendly Sons of Saint Patrick and the Hibernian Society. Each group would hold annual parades featuring bagpipes (which actually first became popular in the Scottish and British armies) and drums.

No Irish need apply.

Up until the mid-nineteenth century, most Irish immigrants in America were members of the Protestant middle class. When the Great Potato Famine hit Ireland in 1845, close to a million poor, uneducated, Catholic Irish began to pour into America to escape starvation. Despised for their religious beliefs and funny accents by the American Protestant majority, the immigrants had trouble finding even menial jobs. When Irish Americans in the country's cities took to the streets on St. Patrick's Day to celebrate their heritage, newspapers portrayed them in cartoons as drunk, violent monkeys.

However, the Irish soon began to realize that their great numbers endowed them with a political power that had yet to be exploited. They started to organize, and their voting block, known as the "green machine," became an important swing vote for political hopefuls. Suddenly, annual St. Patrick's Day parades became a show of strength for Irish Americans, as well as a must-attend event for a slew of political candidates. In 1948, President Truman attended New York City 's St. Patrick's Day parade, a proud moment for the many Irish whose ancestors had to fight stereotypes and racial prejudice to find acceptance in America.

The custom of imbibing alcohol on St. Patrick's Day comes from an old Irish legend.

As the story goes, St. Patrick was served a measure of whiskey by an innkeeper that was considerably less than full. St. Patrick used this opportunity to teach the man a lesson in generosity. He told the innkeeper that a monstrous devil resided in his cellar that fed on his dishonesty and caused misery and suffering. In order to banish the devil, the man must change his ways.

When St. Patrick returned to the hostelry some time later, he found the owner generously filling the patrons' glasses to overflowing. He returned to the cellar with the innkeeper and claimed to find the devil emaciated from the landlord's generosity, and promptly banished the demon, proclaiming thereafter that everyone should have a drop of the "hard stuff" on his feast day.

This custom is known as Pota Phadraig or Patrick's Pot. The custom is also known as "drowning the shamrock" because it is customary to float a leaf of the plant in the whiskey before downing the shot.

Be prepared to toast on St. Patrick's Day...For fuck's sake!!

For all those who were wondering what to say on March 17th, when they raise their glasses, here are some phrases to remember:

May you live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent...For fuck's sake!

May the sons of your RICH, married daughters smile up in your face...For fuck's sake!

Good health to your enemies enemies...For fuck's sake!

May your woman be as warm as the weather is cold...For fuck's sake!

May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead...For fuck's sake!

There are many good reasons for drinking,
One has just entered my head,
If a man doesn't drink when he's living,
How the hell can he drink when he's dead...For fuck's sake!?

May the best day of your past be the worst day of your future...For fuck's sake!

May you get all your wishes but one, So you always have something to live for...For fuck's sake!

Here's to you, here's to me, the best of friends we'll always be. But if we ever disagree, the hell with you, here's to ME...For fuck's sake!!!

May your neighbors respect you, troubles neglect you, The angels protect you, and Heaven accept you...For fuck's sake!

I've drunk to your health in the pubs, I've drunk to your health in my home, I've drunk to your health so many times, I'm in danger of ruining my own...For fuck's sake!

May you never forget what is worth remembering,
Or remember what is worth forgetting...For fuck's sake!

May you have the hindsight to know where you've been,
The insight to know where you are, and the foresight
To know when you've gone too far...For fuck's sake!

May you have warm words on a cold evening, A full moon on a dark night, And the road downhill all the way too your door...For fuck's sake!

May you never make an enemy when you could make a friend.
Unless he's a Brit...You cunt!

Happy Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T16:57:00.001-04:00

Happy Mardi Gras!

2008-02-05T02:17:00.000-04:00

For Those Of You Contemplating Spring

2008-01-31T13:39:00.000-04:00

This season belongs to Brigid, the Celtic goddess who in later times became revered as a Christian saint.

Originally, her festival on February 1st, was known as Imbolc or Oimelc, two names which refer to the lactation of the ewes, the flow of milk that heralds the return of the life-giving forces of spring. This is the real beginning of spring.

Many Christian holidays come from the pagan Celts ancient traditions...

The (asshole) Catholic Church replaced this festival with Candlemas Day on February 2nd, which is dedicated to the Virgin Mary and features candlelight processions. The powerful figure of "Brigid the Light-Bringer" highlights both pagan and Christian celebrations. Brigid was one of those "cross-over" Saints...The (asshole) Catholics couldn't seem to replace her devotion, so they brought her over into their camp and promoted her to Saint.

In most parts of the British Isles (and, here, in The Queens, New York) January and February are harsh and bitter months. In old Scotland, February fell in the middle of the period known as Faoilleach, the "Wolf-month;" it was also known as a’ marbh mhiòs, the "Dead-month." But, although this season was very cold and dreary, small yet sturdy signs of new life began to appear: Lambs were born and soft rain brought new grass. Ravens began to build their nests and larks were said to sing with a clearer voice.

In Ireland, the land was prepared to receive the new seed with spade and plough; calves were born, and fishermen looked eagerly for the end of winter storms and rough seas to launch their boats again. In Scotland, the Old Woman of Winter, the Cailleach, is reborn as Bride, Young Maiden of Spring; fragile yet growing stronger each day as the sun rekindles its fire, turning scarcity into abundance. She was looked upon as a goddess whom the poets adored. In fact, BRIDE is considered another form of BRIGID. Brigid, means “The Exalted One,” and she was the queen and mother goddess of many European tribes. She is also known as: Brigid; Bridget; Brighid; Brighde; Brig or Bride, and some scholars consider her name originated with the Vedic Sanskrit word brihati, an epithet of the divine.

The 10th century Cormac’s Glossary describes her as the daughter of the Daghda, the “Great God” of the Tuatha de Danaan (the fifth group to conquer the island). Cormac calls her a “woman of wisdom"…A goddess whom poets adored, because her protection was very great and very famous.

Since the discipline of poetry, or filidhect, was interwoven with seership, Brigid was seen as the great inspiration behind divination and prophecy, the source of oracles. You see the Celts revered womanhood and considered them equals and partners rather than second class citizens.

She is said to have had two sisters: Brigid the Physician and Brigid the Smith (a personal favorite), but it is generally thought that all three were aspects of the one goddess of poetry, healing, and smithcraft.

Elsewhere she is described as the patron of other vital crafts of early Celtic society: Dying, weaving and brewing (yeah, baby!). A goddess of regeneration and abundance, she was greatly beloved as a provider of plenty who brought forth the bounties of the natural world for the good of the people. She is closely connected with livestock and domesticated animals. She had two oxen called Fea and Feimhean who gave their names to a plain in County Carlow and one in Tipperary. She was also the guardian of Torc Triath, king of the wild boar, who gave his name to Treithirne, a plain in West Tipperary. These three totem animals used to raise a warning cry, if Ireland was in danger.

With the coming of Christianity, the powerful energy of the pagan goddess was transmuted into Ireland’s much-loved saint, second only to Patrick himself. Her transformation happened almost literally in Drumeague, County Cavan, at a place called “The Mountain of the Three Gods.” Here a stone head of Brigid was worshipped as a triple deity, but with the coming of Christianity, it was hidden in a Neolithic tomb. Later it was recovered from its burial-place and mounted on a local church where it was popularly canonized as “St. Bride of Knockbridge”. Though many legends are attached to her, there is certainly no firm evidence of her as a historical figure. Accounts of the saint’s life reveal what Sir James Frazer once called her: “a goddess in a threadbare cloak.”

Saint Brigid was said to be the daughter of a "druid" (a member of the priestly and learned class in the pre-Christian, ancient Celtic societies) who had a vision that she was to be named after a great goddess. She was born at sunrise while her mother was walking over a threshold, and so "was neither within nor without." This is the state known as liminality, from the Latin, limen: a threshold – the state of being “in between” places and times. In Celtic tradition this is a sacred time when the doors between the worlds are open and magical events can occur.

Animals that are white with red colored ears are frequently referred to in Celtic mythology as beasts of the "Otherworld..." And, as previously mentioned, the pagan goddess owned two magical oxen...In Celtic society, cattle were the most highly valued of all animals, revered as symbols of plenty, and Saint Brigid was very closely associated with livestock in general, and dairy cows in particular. As an adult, she was accompanied by a cow who also supplied her with all the milk she needed. She was made abbess of Kildare and miraculously increased the milk and butter yield of the abbey cows; some accounts say that her cows produced a whole lake of milk three times a day, and one churning filled hundreds of baskets with butter.

When Saint Brigid died, according to the (asshole) Catholic, saintly version, her skull was kept at Kildare after the pre-Christian custom of revering the head as sacred. Norman soldiers were supposed to have stolen it from the abbey and taken it to Portugal. Here it played its part in a spring ceremony where cattle were driven past it. In Scotland she was invoked as “Milkmaid Bride,” or “Golden-haired Bride of the kine,” patroness of cattle and dairy work. Medieval Christian art often depicts her as holding a cow, or carrying a pair of milk-pails.

She also provided abundant ale-harvests (now we're talking): At Easter-time, one measure of her malt provided ale for seventeen churches. Her miraculous powers changed water into ale (I love this bee-otch) and stone into salt. With boundless generosity she fed birds, animals, and the poor, and they all loved her in return. The bountiful mother goddess of the fruitful earth shines through her generosity.

Early writers believed Brigid’s name stemmed from breo-aigit: “fiery arrow,” a false but somehow very fitting etymology for a goddess of smithcraft, and one who kindles the fires of creativity and regeneration. Her association with fire and the sun continues into the folk-lore of the Christian saint. In one version of her life from the Book of Lismore, a druid prophesies that she will be “a daughter conspicuous and radiant, who will shine like the sun among the stars of heaven.” As a child, a fire was seen rising from the house where she and her mother were asleep. Yet it did not burn the house, but glowed like the burning bush of the Old Testament. When she first began to pray to God, a column of flame was seen rising from the house. She emerged unharmed, but “full of the grace of the Holy Spirit,” a reference to the Pentecostal flames.

A charming tale tells how stories of Brigid’s deeds drew the attention of the famous Saint Brendan who stopped by on an unannounced visit. She had been out working in the fields on a showery day, and was so surprised to see the great man in her house, that she flung off her rain-cloak without bothering to hang it up. The cloak caught on a sunbeam and to the older saint’s astonishment, hung there till it dried.

Like the rising sun, she belonged to the East, where her influence radiated out from her convent at Kildare in the heart of Leinster. Within the convent burned a perennial flame, which became known as one of the three inextinguishable fires of the Irish monasteries.
Brigid's flame was housed within a sacred enclosure, surrounded by a hedge where it was reported that, "no male may cross." A terrible fate awaited any man who tried, although the nature of the punishment was not specified (marrage?).

It seems probable that Kildare was once a pagan sanctuary attended by priestesses, similar to the Vestal Virgins of Roman tradition. Some scholars have seen a connection between Brigid and Sulis Minerva whose sacred fire burned at Aquae Sulis (Bath) in the 3rd century. It was said: "from Brighid's feastday onwards the day gets longer and the night shorter.” Although this refers to the time of the Winter Solstice, the felt truth was that the goddess brought back the growing light. On the eve of Là Fhéill Bhrìghde (St. Brigid’s Day), the Old Woman of Winter (the Cailleach) journeys to the magical isle in whose woods lies the miraculous "Well of Youth." At the first glimmer of dawn, she drinks the water that bubbles in a crevice of a rock, and is transformed into Bride, the fair maid whose white wand turns the bare earth green again (another version of the story of spring tells how Bride is a young girl kept prisoner by the Cailleach all winter long in the snowy recesses of Ben Nevis. She is rescued by the Cailleach’s son who elopes with her despite his mother’s attempts to keep them apart with fierce storms).

She has a special cross named after her – St. Brigid’s Cross, The saint’s special cross was an important part of the Irish celebrations in all parts of Ireland. These crosses of rushes or straw were made on St. Brigid’s Eve and hung in the house and often in byre and stable too, to honor Brigid and to gain her protection. The crosses took shapes that are not traditionally Christian, but bear marked resemblance to symbols of the sun in cultures throughout the world. One kind was actually not a cross at all, but a figure with three legs, recalling the three-fold nature of the goddess-saint. It is, in fact, an ancient Celtic symbol known as the triskele.

A less common design from counties Cork and Tipperary is a shape you should be the most familiar with - the circle-cross. An added beauty of its symbolism is that the figure is formed from triple-braided straw rope, thus marrying the sacred numbers of four and three. Another ritual object involving these numbers sounds as if it is from a much earlier time. Known as the Crios Bríde, or Saint Brigid’s Girdle, it was made from braided straw rope and carried in procession with the effigy of Bride throughout the town. At each house, the occupants were expected to pass through it, to obtain Bride’ protection and good health for the coming year. Rituals surrounding her anchored participants securely in the cosmic order represented by the four directions and the three worlds - lower world, physical world and upper world - mediated by the sacred presence of Brigid.

In keeping with the policy of the Catholic Church to subsume pagan festivals into Christian feast-days, the "Day of Bride" became equated with "Candlemas" on February 2nd, the feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary (Do you know where CANDLEMAS came from? Yes, ye of short attention spans, just a little longer).

At this time, forty days after childbirth, Mary was supposed to have gone to the Temple at Jerusalem to make the traditional offering to purify herself. As she entered the temple, an old man named Simeon recognized the baby as the Messiah of Israel, and a “light to lighten the Gentiles.” So, once again we encounter the archetype of the young "sun" or "light" come to redeem the darkness, but now in Christian clothing. Certainly, the service most used for this day in the medieval church made much of this symbolism, playing upon images of the appearance of divine light in the darkness of human sin; of renewal and rebirth of light in the dark time of the year; and of the new light of heaven come to transform an old world.

Traces of these festivals surrounding Brigid and of the growing light can even be traced to modern America in the "Groundhog Day" custom on February 2nd. If the groundhog sees his shadow on this morning, it means there will be six more weeks of winter. The custom comes directly from Europe, and Scotland in particular, where an old couplet goes:

If Candlemas Day is bright and clear,
there'll be two winters in the year.

A Scottish rhyme about the Feast Day of Bride begins:
This is the day of Bride,
The queen will come from the mound…

In other versions, it is a serpent that will emerge from a hole, an allusion which might be linked to Scandinavian customs regarding the reappearance of the hibernating bear. "For this is the time when the animal world begins to stir from its winter sleep in the depths of earth, and life and light is ushered in by Brigid, the Queen."

And, if nothing else, pitchers and catchers report in two weeks...

Happy Martin Luther King Day, Mutherfucker!

2008-01-17T17:12:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2008-01-14T22:09:00.000-04:00

WILL MANKIND EVER STOP ALL THE SENSELESS VIOLENCE?!

2007-12-27T23:50:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-12-27T23:48:00.000-04:00

Merry Christmas, Mutherfucker!

2007-12-21T13:41:00.000-04:00

Oh, Come All Ye Faithful...

2007-12-14T18:10:00.000-04:00

2007-12-06T16:01:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-12-04T21:22:00.000-04:00

2007-12-04T21:20:00.000-04:00

A Maakies Christmas by Drinky Smith

An idea ripped off from the comic strip Maakies created by Tony Millionaire
Illustrations by Tony Millionaire (I shopped in the festive holiday look)

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through my head
Were those thoughts of self-loathing and the wish I was dead.
The bottles of vodka were all lined up with care
In the hopes that a bender would curb my despair.
A half-bottle later the good feelings began,
I was brilliant and erudite, a true Renaissance man!
I was handsome and loved and righteous and cool
And, oh, so much better than the rest of you fools!

Puking up bottle two, I heard such a clatter,
I crawled from the toilet to see what was the matter.
I made it to the window and was astounded to see
Drinky Crow dressed as Santa and an elfin Gabby!
“Open up! You addle-brained son-of-a-bitch!
It’s colder out here than the tit of a witch!”
I heeded Crow’s charge and they entered my flat,
“I’ve brought presents for you and for Dooky, your cat!”

With feathers as black as a Birmingham slum
And eyes large and white, but all bloodshot from rum,
In a soot covered coat and red hat made from fur,
Crow threw down his sack, which he cursed like a cur!
He pulled out some catnip and squeeze-toys for Dook,
Then he reached in again and he said with a look,
“It’s your turn Drinky Smith, I know just what you glean!”
Then procured from that bag a dipsomaniac’s dream!"On Bombay and Mescal and one-fifty-one,
On Grey Goose, Jack Daniels and Canadian Club!
On Bushmill’s and Bailey’s and single-malt scotch,
On Buca and Blackhaus and peppermint schnapps!”
He magically filled the whole room with sweet booze,
Whilst cursing all heathens like Muslims and Jews.
“It’s Jesus’ birthday, those assholes can screw!
This last gift will help bring him closer to you!”

He threw me a present all tied up with bows,
Then he grabbed Uncle Gabby and said, “I must go!”
“Please, Santa Crow, stay and share in my gifts!”
“I can not, you rum-ball! I’ve more drunks on my list!”
And then they were off in the blink of an eye,
Spouting obscenities, and stealing hooch for the ride.
I looked down at my hands and saw my last gift,
I tore at it slowly, and with one final rip,
“A snub-nosed revolver!? What an odd thing to get?
A lone slug in the cylinder…Ah, for Russian roulette!”

“How did Crow know?” I thought with a smirk,
As I spun it, then aimed, giving the trigger a jerk.
“Click, click, click, bang!” It took several times,
For that ultimate “shot” to toast Auld Lang Syne.
“Many thanks, Santa Crow, and to Gabby the Elf!
Merry Christmas to all, and to all…Fuck yourselves!”

Drinky's Christmas Stocking Stuffers

2007-12-01T23:36:00.000-04:00

Ladies & Gentlemen...Without Further Ado...

2007-11-22T22:31:00.000-04:00

The Oswald Conspiracy!

Thanksgiving Prayer By: William S. Burroughs

2007-11-21T21:30:00.000-04:00

Happy Thanksgiving Everybody!

CLick On: Happy Veteran's Day...

2007-11-11T22:52:00.001-04:00

Happy Halloween, My Niggas!

2007-10-18T20:38:00.000-04:00

World Chumps

2007-10-01T19:18:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-09-26T20:43:00.000-04:00

My Kind Of Disney...

2007-09-07T13:23:00.001-04:00

Celebrating 30 Years Since Finding "The King" Dead On His Porcelain Throne

2007-08-17T14:29:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-07-24T12:01:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-06-27T21:09:00.000-04:00

DRUNK NEWS

2007-06-10T15:53:00.001-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-05-13T02:34:00.000-04:00

Gun Control Is Bullshit

2007-04-26T22:24:00.001-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-04-16T18:05:00.000-04:00

BIG BILL HELL

2007-04-13T15:16:00.000-04:00

Click On: Happy Opening Day!

2007-04-09T13:10:00.000-04:00

Happy Keister!

2007-04-08T11:28:00.000-04:00

Happy Easter!

2007-04-07T22:02:00.000-04:00

Well, Let's All Just Be Thankful It Wasn't A Chocolate Mohamad...

2007-03-30T21:47:00.000-04:00

NEW YORK - A planned Holy Week exhibition of a nude, anatomically correct chocolate sculpture of Jesus Christ was canceled Friday after Cardinal Edward Egan and other outraged Catholics complained.

The "My Sweet Lord" display was shut down by the hotel that houses the Lab Gallery in midtown Manhattan. Roger Smith Hotel president James Knowles cited the public outcry for his decision.

The reaction "is crystal clear and has brought to our attention the unintended reaction of you and other conscientious friends of ours to the exhibition," Knowles wrote in the two-paragraph cancellation notice.

Matt Semler, the gallery's creative director, resigned in protest.

The six-foot sculpture was the victim of "a strong-arming from people who haven't seen the show, seen what we're doing," Semler said. "They jumped to conclusions completely contrary to our intentions."

But word of the confectionary Christ infuriated Catholics, including Egan, who described it as "a sickening display." Bill Donohue, head of the watchdog Catholic League, said it was "one of the worst assaults on Christian sensibilities ever."

The hotel and the gallery were overrun Thursday with angry phone calls and e-mails about the exhibit. Semler said the calls included death threats over the work of artist Cosimo Cavallaro, who was described as disappointed by the decision to cancel the display.

"In this situation, the hotel couldn't continue to be supportive because of a fear for their own safety," Semler said.

Click On: Chocolate Jesus

2007-03-30T12:14:00.001-04:00

Dont go to church on Sunday
Dont get on my knees to pray
Dont memorize the books of The Bible
I got my own special way
I know Jesus loves me
Maybe just a little bit more
I fall on my knees every Sunday
At Zerelda Lees candy store

Well its got to be a chocolate Jesus
Make me feel good inside
Got to be a chocolate Jesus
Keep me satisfied

Well I dont want no Anna Zabba
Dont want no Almond Joy
There aint nothing better
Suitable for this boy
Well its the only thing
That can pick me up
Better than a cup of gold
See only a chocolate Jesus
Can satisfy my soul

When the weather gets rough
And its whiskey in the shade
Its best to wrap your savior
Up in cellophane
He flows like the big muddy
But thats ok
Pour him over ice cream
For a nice parfait

Well its got to be a chocolate Jesus
Good enough for me
Got to be a chocolate Jesus
Good enough for me

Well its got to be a chocolate Jesus
Make me feel good inside
Got to be a chocolate jesus
Keep me satisfied

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-03-21T22:04:00.000-04:00

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

2007-03-17T10:26:00.000-04:00

The Barely Wearin' Of The Green

2007-03-14T16:19:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-02-12T01:37:00.000-04:00

RIGOR MOR TITS by Drinky Smith

2007-02-10T12:50:00.000-04:00

The L. A. Coroners Office has determined that former Playboy Playmate, gold digger and all-around whore, Anna Nicole Smith, choked herself to death by trying to snort a combination of cocaine and her dead son's ashes off of her own grossly augmented breasts.

The 39 year old Ms. Smith checked into the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Hollywood, Florida, reportedly all sorts of fucked up last Monday, and partied hearty until, after being discovered unconscious in her hotel room by her maid and being rushed to a near-by South Florida hospital, she was pronounced dead on Thursday. Before rescue workers arrived, it was reported that Smith's bodyguard tried to perform CPR on her, but had little luck, "Trying to punch through thoose big ole rubberized titties to get at her heart was just impossible." he said.

Ms. Smith, who was born Vicky Lynn Hogan in Texas, started out her career as a high school dropout, then a waitress in a fried chicken restaurant, and later, after some career councelling, as a topless dancer, but always determined to be "a big whore in a big brothel," she divorced her first husband, Billy Smith, and moved to California, where she tasted Hugh Hefner's cock and thus lots of success as a Playboy model, "actress" and, eventually, the star of her own pathetic & bizarre, self-titled reality TV show.

She was named Playboy Playmate of the Month in May 1992 and Playboy Playmate of the Year in 1993. She shocked the world when she married J. Howard Marshall II in 1994 when she was really hot and only 26, and the oil tycoon and all-around filthy-rich old geezer was pushing 90. Reportedly with a big smile on his face, he died the following year which began a 12-year feud with Marshall's son and all-around little shit, E. Pierce Marshall, over the more than 1 billion dollars in inheritance money.

Last year, Smith's (had to be) fucked up son, Daniel, offed himself by overdosing on a combination of methadone, Zoloft and Lexapro ( very creative). Just days before his death, Smith gave birth to a daughter (later named Dannielynn, which I'll admit is better than Danniel May or Dannielina).

The true father of the child continues to be in question with paternity suits flying from various money-hungry Lotharios like feathers and shit in a hen house.

First, there's her old boyfriend and all-around nobody, celebrity photographer and "journalist," Larry Birkhead; Then there's Smith's (up until her demise), present-day boyfriend, lawyer and all-around drug supplier Howard (I wish I was the famous one) Stern; Finally (and I saved the best for last) there's Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband, Prince Frederick von Anhalt. “If you go back from September, she (Anna Nicole) wasn't with either one of those guys, she was with me.” von Anhalt told the Associated Press today. He said he would file a lawsuit if Dannielynn was turned over to either Stern or Birkhead.

Von Anhalt, 59, and Gabor, 90, have been married for more than 20 excruciating years. Gabor, a onetime sex symbol and star of such 1950s films as “Moulin Rouge” and “Queen of Outer Space,” and probably remembered more recently for slapping an L. A. traffic cop in the face, now has reportedly "one foot in the grave."
Von Anhalt, who is Gabor’s eighth husband, said he and Smith first met in the 1990s when Smith was still married to the limp dicked, elderly J. Howard Marshall II. He said Smith approached him and Gabor at the Plaza Hotel in New York.“She was a very big fan of Zsa Zsa and wanted to be like Zsa Zsa,” he said. “She wanted to be a princess.” Von Anhalt suggested that in order to be like Zsa Zsa, one should be able to suck a cock like Zsa Zsa, and the two started an affair soon after.

Humping over the years in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York, he said Smith urged him to make her a princess like his wife. But, short of pushing the declining old hag down a flight of stairs or divorcing her, he said the only solution would have been to adopt Smith. Prince Von Anhalt said he did consider how hot and kinky it would have been listening to Anna Nicole call him "daddy" while she bounced up and down on the "crown jewels," and that he even filled out adoption papers, but Gabor refused to sign them.

Von Anhalt's royal credentials have been the cause of speculation over the years. According to stories in the British press, he was born Robert Lichtenberg, the son of a German policeman, and bought his title after being adopted as an adult by a bankrupt daughter-in-law of the last kaiser.

In a press release, a publicist for the late, top-heavy tart and no-talent said, "No matter the outcome of the paternity claims, I'm sure little Dannielynn will almost certainly be guarantied a long, healthy and happy life."

Thanks For The Mammories (1967 - 2007)

2007-02-08T19:18:00.000-04:00

Anna Nicole May Be Gone, But Her

Big Fake Fucking Gold Digging Substance-Abusing Whore Titties

Will Live On In The Hearts, Minds & Erections Of Wankers

Everywhere, Always...

Happy Martin Luther King Day, Mutherfucker!

2007-01-14T22:55:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2007-01-14T02:09:00.000-04:00

The Beer Prayer

2007-01-11T11:34:00.000-04:00

He Said - She Said

2006-12-26T13:28:00.000-04:00

A University English professor gave his class a "tandem story" assignment where each student pairs off with the student sitting next to them; one writes the first paragraph of a short story and the other the second. The first student then adds a third paragraph, and so on, back-and-forth remembering to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There was to be absolutely NO verbal communication; anything the students wished to say was to be written down. The story was over when both agreed a conclusion has been reached.

(First paragraph by Rebecca:)

At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.

(Second paragraph by Gary:)

Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4 had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago.
"A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator
"Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far..."
But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.

He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of
regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him.
Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers
of Skylon 4.
"Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel", Laurie read in her newspaper one morning.
The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth, when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspaper to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful
things around her.
"Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully.

Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anudrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The whimpy, dimwitted peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through the congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anudrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile-submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion, which vaporized poor, stupid Laurie.

This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent.

Yeah? Well, my writing partner is a tedious, self-centered, neurotic air-head
whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium.
"Shall I have chamomile tea, or shall I have some other sort of fucking tea?!
Oh no, what ever shall I do?! I'm just a stupid bimbo whose never read anything without a picture of FABIO on the cover!!!"

Asshole!

Bitch!

FUCK YOU - YOU SHITHEAD!!

In your dreams, WHORE! Go drink some tea...

(English Professor:)

A+ - I really liked this one!

Christmas Is Coming

2006-12-22T18:12:00.000-04:00

Wishing All You Jews A Very Drinky Chanukah!

2006-12-22T17:58:00.000-04:00

Fuck Christmas

2006-12-22T14:18:00.000-04:00

I mean, what's with this “There’s a war on Christmas” bullshit? FOX News isn’t raking in enough cash already from all the Christmas commercials for Kill ‘em All Barbie and Girls Gone Wild Brand Toddler Gear? They have to go off every year about some bogus attack on Christianity?

And, who's leading the FOX News charge? John fucking Gibson...This guy is a major league dick. Bill O’Reilly deserves most of the credit for being the biggest dickhead in FOXville, but Gibson really deserves his own special wing in The Amazing Asshole Hall of Fame...I mean, this motherfucker has a permanent embedded assignment up Dick Cheney’s ass.

What makes this guy such a douche bag? How about him making a small fucking fortune screaming hysterically about how oppressed Christians are by the other twenty percent, and advocating bombing countries that don’t vote the way America wants them to in their own fucking elections...Way to encourage democracy, fuckhead. And, maybe he was just kidding when on the day of the London train bombings he wished, on air, that the French had gotten the 2012 Olympics instead of the Brits so the terrorists would “blow up Paris.” Classy move, asshole.

And, that’s just scratching Gibson's mental surface! Does anyone remember who was responsible for the Oklahoma City Federal building bombing, as well as 9/11? Why Iraq, of course, and, speaking of Iraq, Gibson thinks Carl Rove deserves a fucking medal for outing CIA agent, Valerie Plame. And, like any good reporter, he wanted to fucking burn the Florida ballots after his butt-buddy, George W(ar-crimes) Bush, got “elected” the first time rather than, I don’t know, count them?!

And, now, year after year Gibson and all the other no-nothing, neo-nazi opportunists at FOX News get their panties in a collective bunch about Christmas being stolen?! What is this, the fucking Disney Fairytale Network? Christmas is a national fucking holiday and we, the people, spend gobs and gobs of our hard-earned tax dollars on wreaths and trees and lights and Tickle-Me-Elmos and all the other crap merchandise we feel obligated to buy for this most economically holy of holidays! But, these bastards whine on and on about vast portions of the population calling Christmas trees "holiday" trees! Read my lips "No, they fucking don't!" Ok, maybe in a couple of places, like on FOXNews.com and at the White House, but pretty much no where fucking else!

Now, who exactly is stealing Christmas you might ask? Well, according to Gibson: “A cabal of secularists, so-called humanists, trial lawyers, cultural relativists, and liberal, guilt-wracked Christians...” A cabal?! Are you fucking kidding me?! Could we try to be a little more fucking original with our Jew-hating?

Speaking of Jew-hating, of course, Pat Buchanan, has joined the hype-a-thon of the supposed Attack On Christmas, as well, or, as he put it, “What we’re witnessing here are hate crimes against Christianity.” I'm Sorry, Pat...Just because all the fucking people aren't so big on the idea of paying for an inflatable fucking camel for your goddamn, fucking nativity scene suddenly we’re all a bunch of Osama Bin fucking Ladens?! Fuck you! Get some goddamn perspective, you hateful little prick! When we start hunting Christians in the streets, it’ll be time to start yelling “Hate fucking crimes!” And, no, it won’t count when we're chasing your sorry, fucking ass with the torches...That’ll be called “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!”

Thankfully, Bill O’Reilly (Gibson’s cellmate in delusional paranoialand) is doing his part to save Christmas...He’s been going after New York’s (Commie) Mayor, Mike Bloomberg, because he says the Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center has been renamed a “Holiday Tree,” and “No Christian Christmas symbols are allowed in the public schools.” The only problem is neither of those things is even remotely fucking true!

I have to give Bill (I want to rub my intern's pussy with a loofah sponge) O’Reilly credit, however...It takes some super-sized balls for a world-class pervert like him to feel totally justified in lecturing the rest of us on our moral inferiority.

Where was I...Right, fuck Christmas...

Did I miss something? At what point did a basic understanding of the separation of church and state become a fucking war on religion? And, how did we get to the point where you can call the ACLU (an organization set up to defend people's civil liberties) “Terrorists” on national television and not get your racist ass fired?

Enough! Fuck all of you lying, little right-wing shitheads who want so badly to believe that the rest of the fucking world is out to get you, so you can, righteously, play the poor, oppressed victims! Wake up assholes — you’re the fucking cowboys, not the fucking Indians!

“But, we want to display the Christmas tree on city property!” Whose stopping you?
“They’re stopping us from praying in school!” No we're not, so pray away!
“We’re not allowed to say ‘Merry Christmas’ anymore!” Are you fucking kidding me?!
Knock yourself the fuck out! Say it at work, scream it in the high school lunch room, hell, tattoo it on your fucking forehead for all anyone cares...And, guess who’s gonna be there defending your right to do all of those fucking things? The fucking ACLU, that's fucking who! I thought conservatives were supposed to be so proud and independent? When did they turn into a bunch of fucking crybabies?

Let’s back the fuck up, shall we? Can anyone tell me how old Christmas is? Anyone? Two thousand years, give or take, right? Gee, who’s been reading their No Child Left Behind History Textbooks? Try four thousand fucking years! Huh...Twice as fucking long as Jesus has been around?! How could that possibly be, unless. . .wait-a-minute. . .
Christmas isn’t fucking Christian!? Ok, now we’re fucking talking!

That’s right, all that Yuletide cheer that gets spread around...What exactly do you think Yule is? It's the fucking Pagan celebration of solstice. And those “Christmas” traditions? They’re not just like Pagan rituals, they fucking are Pagan rituals! Way before Jesus got all magical with loaves of bread and fishes, the Romans were celebrating the birth of Mithra on . . . guess? Go on – guess...December twenty-fucking-fifth, that's right! You leave out "Christ" and practically the whole fucking event is ripped off from the fucking Druids and the Romans:
Twelve days? Check.
Exchanging gifts? Check.
Mistletoe? Check.
And you’d better fucking believe that those decorated trees that Gibson and Co. are so bent out of shape over are as Pagan as the Rune and Crystal Shack at Pentagramfest 2006. You might as well be erecting miniature fucking Stonehenges in your den!

Christians just stole a bunch of traditions from other cultures, slapped them together, stuck a fucking tinfoil star on top and called it the most important holiday of the year. Modern, American Christmas makes Michael Jackson look positively organic.

But, the boys at FOX still freak out every fucking year about the supposed War On Christmas...Is this really the most important thing you assholes have to talk about? Whether Target says Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas? Hey, guess what, there’s a better fucking war on...Our soldiers are out there killing and getting killed all the time while you pieces of dog shit are doing your fourteenth live feed of the day from WalMart just to show everyone what good little American consumers we are...Hey, just like Jesus would have wanted!

I'll tell you what...Fuck John Gibson, fuck Fox News and fuck Christmas!

(And, , for all you fertility–rite–celebrating, whiny, self-righteous, don’t–know–the– history–of–your–own–fucking religion assholes...Fuck Easter too!)

Merry Fucking Christmas

2006-12-21T16:30:00.000-04:00

Click On: Lonely Jew On Christmas

2006-12-13T17:37:00.001-04:00

A Message From Santa

2006-12-13T12:13:00.000-04:00

Ho, ho, ho! My dear boy, I've seen you masturbating!

And, it hasn't been just once or twice either! Oh, no! Santa has seen you dozens and dozens (and dozens) of times overly sudsing up your stiff little member in the bath, or pulling at it whilst sitting on the toilet or laying spread out like a stunned partridge on that comfy beanbag chair in your room, and even when you hide up in the attic with that crusty old copy of National Geographic (you know, the one with the pictures of the bare-chested African ladies)! Why, jolly old St. Nick could very well have a near-fatal heart attack was he ever to pop out the chimney on Christmas Eve, and, instead of to find milk and cookies, found his old pen-pal hunched over the family computer shamelessly pounding his tiny pecker to Britney Spears crotch-shots.

Oh, yes...Ho, ho, ho! What a naughty, rascally and prolific little wanker you've been this year!

Santa's been keeping a list - Just like the list you keep in your head of all your favorite female classmates (the one you've checked, oh, so many more times than twice) - Except when Santa goes over his list, he doesn't rub his hard penis feverishly against the smooth contours of his writing desk! You see, dear lad, I see you when you're sleeping, and I know when you're awake...And, I even know when you're just pretending that you're sleeping, but actually have your rosy palms down the front of your jammies gleefully stroking away. Yes, I suppose you could say old Kris Kringle knows everything there is to know...Well, not everything...You did teach me a thing or two about mommy's scented body wash and loofah sponge! Ho, ho, ho!

Tell me now, what do you want Santa to bring you this year? A bright red bicycle? Some fun new board games? Or should I just have the elves wrap up a fresh, unsoiled batch of those satin pillows you enjoy straddling so much? Or, maybe, Santa shouldn't bring you anything at all this Christmas...After all, Mrs. Claus did knit you that special pair of fur-lined socks last year, and just look what became of those!

Oh, dear, what ever happened to the freckle-faced little angel we all loved and thought of so highly up here at The North Pole? Such a bright little youngster, so good to his mommy and daddy, and so quick to make friends...Now all you seem to want to do is play with yourself for hours (and hours) on end. It makes everyone here at my workshop very, very sad. Your self-abuse makes the reindeer weep uncontrollably at times, and Mrs. Claus, doesn't leave her bed some mornings. Where once we enjoyed visions of gumdrops and candy canes, now all we see is you kneeling against the vibrating washing machine, spitting on two fingers, and putting them God only knows where.

I must say, the utterly filthy thoughts you conjure up while laying in your bed ardently fisting yourself even have Santa scratching his head in disbelief...I mean, I doubt if any of the high-school cheerleaders have ever even set foot inside the janitor's closet before...Let alone having ever performed acts as unholy as that! And, those other things...Those frightfully disgusting and wickedly perverse other things...If your depraved fantasies didn't make Santa want to vomit so, I'd say you were the most creative child in the world!

And, as for your "secret" girl-friend, Clara...That girl in your class whom you think of the most while vehemently rubbing yourself raw...Why, she doesn't even know you're alive, dear boy! You couldn't really think that a chunk like you would ever have a chance with a sweetheart like her, could you? A wonderful, loving, pretty girl like that?! Ho, ho, ho! I mean, just look in the mirror, son...You're a fat little bastard, and your face, it's all covered in pockmarks, for goodness sake! Oh, but, I'm sure some of the stuffed dollies you occasionally steal from your sister's room find you very attractive. I'll bet, while you're using them for your own deviant self-gratification, they hardly even notice that comically embarrassing stutter, or the sickeningly pungent body odor...Oh, how pathetic you are...Ho, ho, ho! What a lonely and sad little shit you have become. Santa imagines your life — your worthless, miserably wretched life — to be filled with failure after failure, both personal and professional, until the stench of disappointment and despair grows so strong that you'll barely be able to breathe, and the choking feeling of heartbreak ultimately suffocates you...Ho, ho, ho!

Well, old Santa has to get back to work (there are still "nice" children in the world to care about making toys for)! Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night - Except you, you sick little fuck!

2006 The Onion with Drinky Smith

T'is The Season...Mutherfucker!

2006-12-05T23:09:00.000-04:00

2006-12-05T23:08:00.001-04:00

A Maakies Christmas by Drinky Smith

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-11-19T22:37:00.000-04:00

Click On: GOD LOVES A DRUNK

2006-11-17T00:53:00.000-04:00

DO YOU TAKE IT?

2006-11-02T16:38:00.000-04:00

Homo You Don't!

2006-10-01T12:04:00.000-04:00

Click On: Bullmaakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-09-26T18:32:00.000-04:00

Click On: Razmataz

You Learn Something New And Depressing Every Day

2006-09-25T15:07:00.000-04:00

Hey, did you know that Every day, more than sixteen thousand children die from hunger-related causes -- that's like one child every five seconds. And, more than fourteen million African children have been orphaned because of AIDS? Fourteen million! That's roughly equivalent to the number of all the children under the age of five in America...Holy underwear, right?! I had no idea this was the case until I saw a news report about the African AIDS epidemic last night. I guess, it just goes to show you -- No matter how much you think you know, there are always many other incredibly bleak facts out there, just waiting to be discovered!

It's amazing! You could live to be a hundred and never stop learning really terrible, terrible things. It's like all you have to do is pay attention, and you'll be surprised by some other tragic reality. Yesterday, I read on the Internet that three thousand people die from malaria every day...Fancy that! Three thousand people die, day in and day out, from a disease we have a cure for! Boy, I tell you it's true -- You learn something new and depressing every day!

You don't even have to look as far as Africa
for fresh disheartening information. There's an endless supply of horrifying things you can discover in your own backyard. Try this one on for size --

For the past couple of years, I've seen this homeless guy sleeping on the street grate right by my office. I used to toss him some change now and again. Well, last month, it
hit me that I hadn't seen him around for a while, so I asked a police officer about him. Turns out the poor sucker died of hypothermia during the winter. Right there on the grate! He was younger than I am, and now he's dead...Who'da thunk?

I celebrated my 60th birthday over the weekend, and I feel like I still don't know one-thousandth of the horrifying things there are to know. It seems there are countless, painfully novel ways for the world to crush a spirit, an ideal, or a limb, or even cut short a life.

Just open your ears and listen to the people around you. I'm positive you'll come into contact with some fresh instance of pitiful human sorrow...Through out the entire world, there's an unyielding, pervasive quality of desperation.

And, while we learn lots of miserable stuff from the world around us, our friends and family often have the most to teach us.

Just recently, my auntie told me how incredibly sad and lonely my mother was back in the months before she died. My sister and I were both in college at the time, caught up in our own lives...We never knew that Mom would sit in the empty house, watching daytime television, and weep uncontrolably because she missed my father so much. That little nugget of info was a real head-slapper! Live and learn, as they say...Another day, another glimpse into the bottomless void of dispair that is human existence.

After living for more than a half-century, you'd think I'd know all the disheartening information there is to know...Far from it! I read in the paper that roughly one in three women have been raped or violently sexually assaulted in their lifetime. I couldn't believe it, so I did an informal survey of the women I work with, and sure enough, turns out that statistic was just about right!

Never assume that you know it all, because there's literally an endless stream of monumentally sad things to discover. We haven't even talked about all the people who have, just today, been mentally abused, or beaten, or hit by cars, or even had their arms torn off, or their kid(s) die. Gosh, it's a big ol' world of misery, ain't it?!

After six decades of walking this earth, I'm pleasantly surprised that I can still be shocked by all the different little strands that make up the tapestry of human sorrow.
The more dreadful things I come to terms with, the more troubling things I discover to take their place...I just heard that one of my former co-workers killed herself last month! Apparently, you can off yourself by drinking Pine-Sol...
You see, I did not know that! But, now I do!
And, now, I suppose, you do too.

Wow, hopelessness springs eternal!

© Copyright 2006, Onion, Inc. All rights reserved.

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-09-15T15:53:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-09-04T00:13:00.000-04:00

Dear Connie,

2006-09-02T17:55:00.000-04:00

I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our
"cooling off" period, but I just couldn't wait anymore.

I know, the day you walked out on me, I swore I'd never have anything
to do with you again! I convinced myself that it would be you who would
come crawling back to me! That was the "wounded little boy" and my stupid
pride talking...But, now, I see what my pride's cost me...I'm tired of pretending
that I don't miss you! I don't care about "looking bad" anymore! I don't care
who makes the first move as long as one of us does!

Maybe, it's time we let our hearts speak louder than the hurt, and this
is what my heart says: "There's no one like you, Connie." I look for you
in the eyes of every woman I see, but they're not you...They don't come
even close!

Like two weeks ago, when I met this girl at The Flamingo and brought her
home with me...Believe me, I don't say this to hurt you, but only to
illustrate the depth of my desire and desperation...She was young, maybe
nineteen, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and a childhood
spent ice skating can give you! I mean, just a perfect body...Big pointy
titties and a pair of legs that didn't stop until they made an incredible ass
out of themselves! Every man's dream, right? But, as I sat there on the couch
getting the most amazing knobber (I couldn't believe the amount of drool)
from this teenage stunner, all I could think was, "Connie would 'frown'
upon this...Like getting a hummer from some teenage girl was worse than
kicking her Mother down a flight of stairs or something!?" Doesn't it seem
like we make all the least important things in life out to be a little too
important sometimes, Connie?

In the grand scheme of things, should a barely-legal, teenage girl with a
tight, supple, unblemished body, and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of
truly matter that much? Does it make her a better lay? Well, in this case, yes,
but you see what I'm getting at...Does it make her a better person? Does she have
a better heart than my aging, but still somewhat attractive Connie? I doubt it!

And, the "old" Doug never would have looked at such a mind-bending
extramarital affair with a young "hottie" in such a way before, right?
I don't know, maybe, I'm finally growing up a bit...Because, later, after
my dick exploded in her pouty, little mouth with what felt like a pint of
hot & creamy throat-yogurt, and after she finished licking up every last,
pearly drop (I made quite a mess), I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel
so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty,
shameless desire to please her "Big Daddy," but something else...Some
nagging feeling of loss...Why did it feel so incomplete?

And then it hit me! It didn't feel right because you weren't there to watch!
Connie, baby, if you had been there to witness this nubile, young thing blowing
me and then eagerly lapping up all my spilt nut-butter from the various pieces
of the Ethan Allen living room set that you so lovingly picked out for our home,
the experience would have been that much better! Do you know what I mean?
Sure, I've sent along a copy of the videotape, but it's not like having you there...
Nothing feels the same without you! Jesus, Connie, I'm just going crazy without
you, and everything I do just reminds me of you!

Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge
last year? She dropped by last week with a pan of the best tasting lasagna
I've ever had (It reminded me of your cooking, and how much I enjoyed having
dinner out). She said she figured I wasn't eating "right" without a woman around...
I didn't know she really meant "pussy" until later on...Anyway, we had a few
glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're banging away in our old
bedroom...And, this horny, old tart is a total monster in the sack! She's offering
up all holes, you know what I mean, Connie? Like a real woman does when she's
not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us!
All of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity...
So, this wanton bitch puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right there, so we
can watch ourselves and it's totally hot!!! But, it makes me sad too because I
can't help thinking, "Why didn't Connie ever put Grandma's mirror on the floor
so we could fuck over it!?" We've had this old vanity for what, fourteen years,
and you didn't love me enough to ever suggest using it as a filthy sexual aid!?"

Oh, and just FYI, your sister dropped by with my copy of the restraining order.
I mean, I know that Vicky's your sister and that she's just a kid and all, but she's
got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during
this painful time. Vicky's given me lots of good advice about you and about women
in general...She's pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is!

So, of course, with kids, one thing usually leads to another and so there we
were in the hot tub doing Jell-O shots, talking and laughing about happier times,
and it just blew my mind! Here was this drunk, wet, naked teenage girl just a few
inches away from me and all I could think about was how she had the same
DNA as you, and how much she looked liked you when you were eighteen and hot,
and how so very long ago that was...It was all I could do not to break down
and cry! The only difference between you two, it turns out, is that Vicky's really
into the whole anal thing...That got me to thinking about how many times I
pressured you about trying it, and how maybe that probably fueled some of the
bitterness between us. But, Connie, even though it was hard to hear myself
think over Vicky's deafening, animal-like screams of passion while I deeply violated
her tight, greased-up, "balloon knot," I swear, that my thoughts were only of you and
how wonderful it would have been to be there with you...as well, as I committed
this profoundly perverse and rather lenghthy act of sodomy upon your baby sister!
It's true, Connie! In your heart of hearts you must know that!

Connie, don't you think we could start over? Just wipe the slate clean and
start fresh? I want so badly for you to feel the same as I do, but, if not, could
you at least give me your best friend, Sally's phone number...I don't have it,
and, I guess, she left in such a hurry the other morning, she forgot her
diaphragm on the sink.

Your Loving Husband,
Doug

On The Waterfront

2006-08-21T01:30:00.000-04:00

Greetings from the Empire State Alps!

Yours truly attended an Alpine Festival at The Hunter Mountain Ski Resort last week. There was a rumor that there would be a few recruitable, stout-hearted seafaring men with vast amounts of sea-time in attendance.

Unsurprisingly, I was able to immediately pick out their table...Rolfe and Wilf were sitting at the head singing "Deutschland Uber Alles" with their hats, I thought, oddly adjusted in a "hip-hop" fashion upon their respective noggins!? Finding them swaying in unison with large bier steins in their sizeable fists, my seagoing swagger and easygoing way quickly endeared me to these two aging, blonde-haired blue-eyed Brownshirters.

After a few more rounds of Oktoberfest lager, the sea stories started in earnest. I only needed a few minutes for my ears to grow accustom to their heavily accented voices, and to quickly discover that my potential recruits had spent most of their sea-time under the vasser, not upon it. As they regaled their Komrades with tales of the "Wolf Pack," ending the stories with phrases like, "torpedoe loess" or "then ve vent to Uraguay," I knew that the "hip-hop" hat thing was just a ploy to throw off any suspicious non-Bundists in attendance...

After another round of Yaegermeister, I eased myself
over to the dance floor (and, a huge error in judgement it turned out to be) as Jimmy Sturr & His Orchestra were cranking up a rousing Polka!

Sneakier than a London Blitzkrieg I was attacked by a buxom fraulein who resembled Field-Marshall Goebbels, and found myself propelled into a sieg-heiling, goose-stepping, heathen-filled Germanic mosh-pit! This particular dance style is more reminiscent of driving a Panzer tank across The Rhine than a cheek-to-cheek, Cole Porter, tripping-the-light-fantastic two-step!

Thankfully, I was rescued by a fellow Aryan who seemed most enamored of the unfettered, Teutonic titties that were exploding out of my dance-partner, Hildegard's tunic...For Hilde, This lederhosen-clad lothario was a perfect genetic match made in Third Reich heaven, and this change in partners allowed me to retreat back into the Bavarian beir drenched garden to quench a powerful thirst.

Whilst I sampled the various lagers of The Fatherland, an erstwhile battle of the bands began...Die Klosterjager vs. Die Schlauberger vs. Deutscher Blaskepelle Schuhplattlers vs. The Schwarzenegger Connection...I was astounded to hear so many rocking renditions of Third Reich, bier-hall rallying songs! I imagine, not since the Krystalnacht, had there been so many happy, wurst-filled, drunken Krauts gathered together under one roof.

As the torches were lit & the fireworks started to the strains of Wagner's "Flight of the Valkyrie," I began to notice eerily familiar red, white & black armbands beginning to adorn more & more of the festival-reveler's right arms...Rather than chance ending the evening possibly looking & feeling like a version of 1939 Poland, it seemed like an appropriate moment to start easing gingerly towards the exit...Running the sobriety checkpoints set up by our own Storm...Um...Er...State Troopers seemed the logical choice....

All in all...All card-carrying, Caucasian members of the "Master Race" should find a personal invasion of this particular festival simply wunderbar!

I give it:

5 Iron Crosses - Cold Beer
5 Iron Crosses - Hot Schnitzel
0 Iron Crosses - Jews & Colored Folk

Achtung, baby...

Johnny Friendly

I'm Not An Anti-Semite...I Just Hate Jews.

2006-08-05T12:20:00.000-04:00

Mel Gibson's statement regarding his arrest Friday on suspicion of DUI:

After drinking alcohol on Thursday night, I did a number of things that I have been told were very "wrong" and for which I should be "ashamed."

I drove a really expensive sports car when I should not have, and was stopped by the LA County Sheriffs. Even though I thought the arresting officer was just getting his "jollies," going out of his way to bust a big-shot movie-star's balls, I realize, now, he was just doing his pathetic, low-paying job and I feel fortunate that I was apprehended before I caused injury to myself or, Christ, one of my many, beautiful, expensive fucking cars!

I acted like a Christian completely out of control when I was arrested, and said things about money-grubbing, Jesus-killing, war-starting Jews that I do not believe I should mention when sober and which sound despicable when reported in the media. I am deeply ashamed of everything I said that was overheard, and I "apologize" to any hebes I may have offended.

Also, I take this opportunity to apologize to the deputies involved for my so-called "belligerent" behavior. They have always been there for me, keeping the niggers and spics in line and out of my community, and indeed probably saved me from further damaging my amazing career.

I have brought unwanted, bad publicity upon myself and my family with my behavior and for that I am truly upset with my publicist.

I have enjoyed a cocktail or two (bird can't fly on one wing?) all of my adult life and profoundly regret being so stupid as to let myself get caught driving half-in-the-bag by Deputy Jewie "Jew-Boy" McJewison, maybe, the one kike-loving, L. A. County Sheriff's deputy that didn't appreciate the value of ten, crisp $100 bills.

And, of course, I apologize to all the important, Hollywood Jew, movie exexutives for any behavior unbecoming of me in my inebriated state and have already taken the necessary steps to ensure my return to The Oscars.

Click On: Play Road Warrior With Mel

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-08-04T15:12:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-07-25T22:26:00.000-04:00

On The Waterfront

2006-07-24T12:01:00.000-04:00

Last Monday morning, yours truly arrived at Portland International Airport via Jetblue [cheaper and considerably faster than driving] accompanied by The Neck, and The Crisco Kid. Our mission was to nail down a fair contract for our brothers working on that waterfront. The opposition had employed "hired gun" negotiators in the past, so we were nonplused to find the opposition themselves sitting across from us at the table. After some initial sparring, we established our guidelines and informed the other side that it was time to "Fuck, fight, or go for your guns!"

Needless to say, the contract talks started to accelerate from that point on.
By the afternoon of the second round, we had reached the agreement we wanted requiring only a minimal amount of intimidation, and without having to place anyone's head in a vise...Pity.

The vote was taken and the loyal longshoremen of Portland retired to the friendly confines of their local watering-hole...The Wharf.

What a joint, ice-cold beer, a generous selection of spirits, and fresh-today shellfish, local oysters, clams, scallops, crab, and lobster. My eyes beheld a veritable gout-attack on the bar, so I washed down some anti-gout pills with a shot of clarified butter, and went to work on the bill of fare...It was a mans work, but I was more than up to the task in my attempt to stimulate the local marine economy.

The shell-fish shucker said,'' I ain't never seen no human thing eat that much oysters."

The beauty of the assault was that it was to the third power! The Neck and Crisco had brought their A-game, and the debris started to pile up around us. After our light evening supper, we started imbibing in earnest...

As you well know a lonely longshoreman in a far-away port having plenty of oyster-generated lead in his pencil, may, on occassion, look for some fair maiden to "write" to...My comrades-in-arms were in a similar mood but we quickly came to the realization that the only way to tell the women from the moose was that the moose didn't wear plaid...This saved some embarassing explanations about gore marks on my pristine body...

Live and Learn.

The flight home was sweet, my seat assignment placed me next to two nubile twenty-somethings going to Florida for a bachelorette party and wedding. They tried in earnest to get me to accompany them South, and, if not for a well founded fear of exploding in the Florida Sun, the offer made by the strawberry-blonde might have caused some fearful trouble on the home-front. The fact that I am an absolute Rock, when it comes to temptation keeps me steering a straight course when the sirens call to me...
Later,
Johnny Friendly

SHE AIN'T NO WEEBLE

2006-07-10T16:11:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-07-07T11:32:00.000-04:00

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-06-22T19:27:00.000-04:00

Click On: The Mother Of All Invention

2006-06-22T19:19:00.000-04:00

TWENTY YEARS AGO, FRANK ZAPPA (A CONSERVATIVE HIMSELF), ENGAGED IN A WAR OF "WORDS" WITH THE CONSERVATIVE RIGHT AGAINST CENSORSHIP AND THE GROWING FASCIST, CHRISTIAN THEOCRACY IN THIS COUNTRY...UNFORTUNATELY, HE IS NO LONGER WITH US, BUT THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES...

A Major Blow To Terror & Gay Marriage

2006-06-22T19:18:00.000-04:00

By Drinky Smith
Bagged Dad
June 8, 2006

The US and its allies have hailed the killing of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the leader of al-Qaeda in Iraq, as a major victory in the fight against terror and gay marriage.

US president, George Bush, said on Thursday that al-Zarqawi's death in a US airstrike on a village north of Baghdad was a "severe blow" to the radically gay al-Qaeda network. "It's a victory in the global war on terror and homosexuals, [and] an opportunity for Iraq's new government to turn the tide of this struggle," Bush told reporters at the White House.

Tony Blair, the UK prime minister, also described news of the Jordanian-born poof's death as "very good news", while Kofi Annan, the United Nations secretary-general, said he was relieved at the death of such a "heinous and dangerous" faggela.

The heterosexual leaders of Japan, Australia, Afghanistan and Pakistan also welcomed the news. However, both Bush and Blair warned that al-Zarqawi's death would not put an end to the bloody pro-gay marriage insurgency currently raging in Iraq.
"We know they will continue to kill, and marry...We know there are many, many obstacles to overcome," Blair said. "But these 'al-Queerda' also know that our determination to defeat them is total." Blair added, clearly enjoying his attempt at a pun.

There was a mixed/homophobic reaction from relatives of those purportedly killed by al-Zarqawi's group in Iraq. The family of Kenneth Bigley, a UK contractor kidnapped and later beheaded - allegedly by al-Zarqawi himself - described al-Zarqawi as a monsterous pansy who had killed "a multitude of innocent straight people."
"I'm glad he's off the face of the earth, not just for Kenneth's sake but for also wanting to sanction hot man-on-man love in the eyes of God...Oh, and for all the other people he has killed," his brother, Stan, told the British media.
But the father of American journalist Nick Berg, who was also killed by al-Zarqawi's group, said he felt no satisfaction at the death of the fruit who had reportedly killed his son.
"Revenge is something that I do not follow [and] I do not wish for against anybody," he told the CNN television network sounding "kinda' gay" himself.

Al-Zarqawi's death was announced by Nuri al-Maliki, the extremely butch Iraqi prime minister, at a press conference in Baghdad on Thursday morning.
He said al-Zarqawi was killed along with seven aides including his spititual advisor and fiancee, Sheik Abd-Al-Rahman, on Wednesday evening in a US air strike on a Bed-n-Breakfast 50km northeast of Baghdad, in the province of Diyala, just east of the provincial capital, Baquba. American F-16 fighter jets dropped two 500lb bombs on the site.

Al-Zarqawi's identity was confirmed by fingerprints and a tatoo of Boy George he was known to have located on his left buttock.

Following the air strike, 17 raids were conducted in the Baghdad "red-light" area in a bid to find associates of al-Zarqawi. The raids provided a "treasure trove" of information and gay pornongraphy, US officials said.

In response to the killing of Al-Zarqawi, Al-Qaeda in Iraq, the organization headed by al-Zarqawi, in an Internet statement vowed to sleep in, have Sunday Brunch, rent a car, and go "tiquing"...And, then rain fiery death and destruction down upon America and all western, Zionist pig-dogs.

The Yabba Dabba Good Ol' Days

2006-06-22T19:15:00.000-04:00

Free video hosting, video codes at www.vidiLife.com

Drinky Survey

2006-06-22T19:14:00.000-04:00

On The Waterfront

2006-06-15T18:23:00.000-04:00

Fear And Betrothal In Las Vegas

Who was that "Tuxedoed Torpedo" strolling the Strip last week? Why, it was none other than yours truly. The waterfront moved to the southwestern desert version of Sodom and Gommorrah.

What a town! An adult Disney Land! The spirits are liberally dispensed as long as you are near a gaming table or device of some kind...Soiled doves can be delivered to your hotel suite just like take-out Chinks, and for about the same price! The town is absolutely corrupt with titties you could break your jaw on! The long legged blonde beauties are everywhere, not to mention every other flavor, or ethnic preference that a gambling, seafaring man might wish to dabble in (or on)! At the bar of some casino one evening, a charming young lass asked me if I'd help her earn her college degree by purchasing a dance and massage in the privacy of my own room...I was more than willing to help her out providing she could convince my wife that the transaction made good economic sense...

A remarkable locale, but Vegas is all flash and no substance. The construction goes on 24-7...The place sheds its skin more often than a desert sidewinder! It makes one ponder about the gilded road that leads to this stately pleasure dome? I am dead certain that the majority of the Gomers and Goobers that flock to this sparkly piece of paste in the desert searching for the "American dream" looking to "break the bank" all leave behind a trail of tears, empty bank accounts, and gonorrhea. Those not fortunate enough to have been innocculated with some worldliness are easy pickings for the pimps, shills, and hustlers that congregate every twenty-five feet on the strip...The rest of the sidewalk space is often occupied by Mexican gangs handing out calling cards for the "delivery-girls." All in all, a real good reason to travel by cab or limo...This way you don't have to have your evening interrupted with the smell of desperation and despair that lingers in the air like stale beer and piss in a filthy, old gin-mill.

By the way, the wedding was spectacular! The Wynn Hotel was the venue, and the place is opulent beyond belief! My jaded eyes were opened wide by this new mecca to excess!

Examples that caught even me by the gonads were a mere $1,500 for a round of golf, and an astounding $5,000 for the use of a cabana by the lovely bikinis...ah...pool. My credit cards were experiencing a real shock to their economic well-being!

Thank God, I am an absolute rock when it comes to temptation! My very core was at risk with the availability of every sort of sensory pleasure... Anytime...Anywhere!

With me, it is vital to follow the Larry Talbot Rule - Every 12 hours lock me in my room, and don't let me out, no matter what you hear...Any deviation from this approach could prove fatal!!!! And, never go to Vegas without access to a touchstone of sorts, as a reminder, that the billing cycle of your credit cards is only 29 days away or less...
Time for dinner, more to follow...
Johnny Friendly

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-06-10T01:58:00.000-04:00

Happy Memorial Day

2006-05-26T09:52:00.000-04:00

"War does not determine who is right - only who is left.”
~ Bertrand Russell

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-05-23T17:09:00.000-04:00

From The Mail Bag

2006-05-19T15:06:00.000-04:00

IF THERE'S A HEAVEN...

PROBLEM THINKING

2006-05-15T16:36:00.000-04:00

It started out innocently enough. I began to think at parties to "loosen up", and not sound so incredibly retarded when attempting to converse with others. Inevitably though, one thought led to another, and soon I was more than just a "social" thinker.

I began to think alone, "to relax" I told myself, but I knew that wasn't true. Thinking became more and more important to me, and, finally, I was thinking all the time!

I began to think on the job. I know that thinking and work do not mix, but I couldn't help myself! I began to avoid friends at lunchtime so I could sneak off to read the likes of Freud, Thoreau and Kafka. I would return to the office dizzied and confused, asking, "Who am I, really, and what exactly are all of us doing here?"

Things weren't going so great at home either. One evening I had turned off "Survivor" and asked my wife about the meaning of life. Frightened, she spent the night at her Mother's.

I soon had a reputation as being a "problem" thinker. One day the boss called me into his office. He said, "Smith, I like you, and it hurts me to say this, but your thinking is starting to influence your performance here at work...If you don't stop thinking on the job, I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to let you go."

This gave me a lot to think about, and think I did!

One day, after an afternoon of heavy thinking (you name it, I thought about it) I worked up the nerve to go home and face my wife..."Honey," I confessed, "I've been thinking..."
"I know you've been thinking," she said, "I keep finding these hidden all over the house!" and she proceeded to throw copies of Proust, Sartre and Ayn Rand at me!
"I'm at the end of my rope and I want a divorce!" she shouted.
"But, Honey, it can't be that serious!"
"It's serious all right." she said. "You've been soaking up knowledge like a sponge! Thinking like a college professor day and night, and COLLEGE PROFESSORS DON'T MAKE ANY MONEY! The way you're going, if you don't stop thinking, we'll end up in the poor house for sure!"
"That's a faulty syllogism," I argued impatiently.
"How dare you use that sort of advanced vocabulary with me?!
See...See what you have become!" she said as she broke down sobbing.
I had heard enough!
"I'm going to the library," I snarled as I stomped out the door.
I headed for the library, needing a Nietzsche fix in the worst way!
With NPR blaring on the radio, I roared into the parking lot, leaped from my car, and ran up to the big glass doors. They were locked?! The library was closed?! "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

To this day, I believe that a Higher Power was looking out for me that night. As I sank to the ground, clawing at the unfeeling, two-ply, heavy-duty laminated glass door, desperately wanting to think, a poster caught my eye, "Friend, Is Heavy Thinking Ruining Your Life?" it asked.
You probably recognize that line. It comes from the standard Thinker's Anonymous poster. Thanks to TA, today, I am a less enlightened and most uninteresting man: I am a recovering thinker.

I never miss a TA meeting. Sometimes we have a guest speaker that will read and discuss excerpts from publications like People and US magazines, or we are shown a non-educational video (I've seen every Bruce Willis, Adam Sandler and "Police Academy" movie...twice, and last week it was the classic "Porky's III"); but, mostly, we just share our daily experiences about watching "E", VH1 and FOX News on the TV; listening to commercial, morning drive-time radio and all the other ways we find to avoid thinking.

I still have my job, and things are a lot better at home.
Life just seems easier somehow now that I've stopped thinking. If I stay the course, next November, I'm looking forward to voting Republican...

Click On: Evolution Of The Homo

2006-04-24T14:51:00.000-04:00

LIFTED FROM THE WEB

2006-04-16T10:00:00.000-04:00

LOOK AT MY STRIPPED SHIRT by Mike Polk
(with Drinky Smith)

Look at my button down striped shirt! Fucking look at it! This shirt means one thing! I’m coming home with some pussy tonight! That’s right! It’s been a long week at the office and it’s time to blow off a little steam! I am a Junior Vice President! I have business cards that say “Junior Vice President” on them! They’re glossy and magnificent!

Here! Have one! Take it!

My posse is coming out with me tonight! They all have striped shirts too!

I figure we’ll kick off the night with some Golden Tee! I am going to smack the shit out of that little white ball! It’s going to be so fucking loud! I’ll bet I can drive that pretend golf ball 600 fucking yards tonight! I’m that fucking pumped!

I can almost taste those Jager Bombs right now! I fucking love Red Bull! I put it on my God damned cereal! I’m crushing one right now!

I will valet park tonight!

I will treat the valet with contempt and make sure that he knows that I am superior to him in life! I will tell him, “Take it easy on the brakes, Champ!”

I’m gonna grind on girls asses tonight! You heard me! When I see a group of girls dancing in a circle, I will select the most attractive one and I will rub my cock against her ass so that she can feel my throbbing hard on! I will dry hump her until she begs me to fuck her in the bathroom!

I’m thinking about buying a boat this year!

I’m gonna fight someone tonight! I pray to God some stupid fuck makes eye contact with me! I will beat his loser ass! And God help him if he gets any blood on my striped shirt! If he does, I’ll scrub it out with his dick and some bleach! I mean it!

I will talk to people I don’t know about my job tonight! They will all know that I am an important man! I will call female bartenders “Babe” and male bartenders “Chief!” When I do not hook up with a girl at a bar, I will say that the place is “full of skanks” and my posse and me will wait in a long line to go to another bar only to strike out again!

I will cause a drunken scene in the street in front of that bar calling all the people inside "scumbags" and "whores!"

I will order a gyro off of a street vendor! I will make fun of him to my posse for being foreign!

I will make one last attempt to hook up by trying to coax two girls who are also ordering gyros into coming back to my place for “after hours!” When they say no and call me an asshole I will make fun of them for being fat!

I will vomit next to my car!

I will leave!

When I get home I will go to the bathroom and hold the straight razor to my wrist again! I will gently drag the razor laterally against my vein, making sure not to actually cut myself! I will then go to my room and pass out! I will need some shut eye so that I’ll be ready to fucking party again tomorrow!

CLICK ON: HAPPY OPENING DAY!

2006-04-02T21:04:00.000-04:00

MR. MET SEEMS SO GAY...

NOT THAT THAT'S A BAD THING...

SEE YOU ALL IN HELL

2006-03-31T04:12:00.000-04:00

Click On: Jesus Dress Up

Holiday Edition

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-03-25T20:36:00.000-04:00

LIFTED FROM THE WEB

2006-03-24T22:38:00.000-04:00

GET THIS FUCKING THING OFF ME!

By Justin Wood (with Drinky Smith)

I mean it! I feel fucking ridiculous! Get it off, NOW, you crazy fucking bitch! Just because your boyfriend doesn't want to settle down with your psycho-ass doesn't mean you need to pretend like I'm an actual baby or something in the desperate hope that he'll play along with your twisted game of “house!” You're scaring him off for Christs' sake, and it makes you look fucking insane! Think about it, you dress me up like a fucking Gap employee and tote me around like a god-damned fashion accessory! It’s fucking disturbing, and you need to get your shit straight!

AND, for the record, you...You dopey fucking douche bag! There are some other things I could do without...For instance, you can stop force-feeding me Altoids! AND, as it turns out, I don't really care for ylang-ylang oil massages...It’s NOT relaxing! It actually HURTS, and creeps me the FUCK out! In fact, it’s pretty god-damn close to RAPE! Oh, and this just in, I'm not actually a fucking vegetarian! Do you honestly think that I prefer couscous and tofu over lamb and beef nuggets? Lettuce wraps...Are you fucking serious!? Honey, what is your fucking damage? I WOULD RATHER EAT MY OWN SHIT! And, guess what? When you're asleep, I do! Then I lick your whore face and fucking laugh about it!

Don't even get me started on my name...Louis Vuitton? You stupid, superficial fucking twat! Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is? I'm already wearing the gayest sweater since the "Cosby Show", but you insist on naming me after an expensive line of European handbags!? Seriously, fuck you! YOU MAKE ME LOOK LIKE A COMPLETE AND UTTER FUCKING COCK-SUCKER AND I FUCKING HATE YOU FOR IT! For real, the next time you try to gel my hair, I will tear a hole in your fucking windpipe! I swear to Christ I will!

AND, speaking of fucking holes, a dumb one like you would never notice, but you continue to place me in near-death situations! Like yesterday at the dog park...I could feel the cold, hard stare from that Doberman right through my Kenneth Cole double-breasted pea coat...Even that French poodle called me a fag, and HE WAS WEARING A FUCKING BERET! Do you have any idea what would happen to me if I ended up at the pound!? DO YOU! Believe me, you don't WANT to know...If those animals were to see me in my Casual Canine Alpine snowflake sweater and catch as much as a whiff of CK One -- there wouldn't be enough left of me to feed a Cambodian boat refugee!

And, MAN, does it piss me off that you don't pull this kind of shit with the fucking cat! What's up with that!? WOULDN'T THE FUCKING CAT LOOK ADORABLE IN A DONALD PLINER SUMMER BEACH-STRIP SPRING COAT!? I bet THAT would put an end all the smug looks I get from that fruity fucking feline! Just once, I'd like to see you stick the fucking "D-LO" pink satin baseball cap on her fucking head and tie the matching fucking scarf around her fucking neck, so she could feel what this fucking bullshit is all about! I can see it now, "Oh, Channel, here's a cute little Ritzy Rover flannel hoody for you to wear...My, but don't you look fucking fetching! Yeah, that dyke cat would figure it out, but quick, how NOT funny it is, and that I'm in real fucking pain here! Oh, I SWEAR TO FUCKING CHRIST, I would end ALL nine of that pussy-eating pussy's NINE FUCKING LIVES, if I could just catch her ONCE without these miniature Steve Madden patent leather urban utility boots strapped on my paws...Not that I'd get very far anyway; I'd still have to battle these Italian micro suede chinos!

Listen, cunt! I'm at the end of my fucking rope! And, I've been doing a lot of thinking while you sit there on your smelly slit, watching E!, thumbing through copies of People and Vogue magazines, occasionally stopping to read the text messages on your jewel-encrusted Sidekick...I have decided that I AM BOLTING! I'm going to take my chances on the outside. Tomorrow morning, during doggy yoga, I am fucking history, honey – AND THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO FUCKING STOP ME! The last thing you'll see is my brown, puckered asshole flying out the door, BUT not before I leave you a nice, big, steaming pile of stinking FUCKING dog turds right in the middle of my miniature, doggy yoga mat! AND, I've spent months hiding away a half fucking pound of Columbian espresso beans and three fucking Starbucks oat bran muffins to have for breakfast...

DUBLIN NEWS -- Personal Ads

2006-03-17T12:28:00.000-04:00

SWM Heavy drinking, 35 y.o., living in Cork Area. Seeks

gorgeous nymphomaniac interested in a man who loves

his pints, whiskey, cigarettes, The Cork City Football

Club, and has been known to start fights on Patrick Street

at three o'clock in the morning.

-----------------------------------------------------
SWM Heavy drinking, bitter, disillusioned Dublin man,

lately rejected by longtime fiancée. Seeks decent, honest,
reliable woman, if such a thing still exists in this
cruel world of hatchet-faced fuckin' cunts.

------------------------------------------------------
SWM Heavy drinking, ginger haired Galway man,

a troublemaker, gets slit-eyed and pissed after a few pints.

Seeks attractive, wealthy lady for bail purposes,
maybe more.

---------------------------------------
SWM Heavy drinking, bad tempered,

foul-mouthed, old bastard living in a

damp cottage in the arse end of Roscommon.
Seeks attractive 21 y.o. blonde lady,
with a lovely chest for fuck's sake.

--------------------------
SWM Heavy drinking 30 y.o. Limerick man, medium build,

brown hair, blue eyes. Seeks alibi for the

night of February 27 between 8 PM and 11:30 PM.

------------------------------------------------------
SWM Heavy drinking, optimistic 62 y.o. Mayo man.

Seeks a 20 y.o., double-jointed, blond supermodel,

who owns her own brewery,
and has an open-minded twin sister.

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!

On The Water Front

2006-03-16T12:35:00.000-04:00

Pray tell young prince, have you defeated the bygone Sabbath's lingering dragon? Has the stench of his venom left your pores? Have your fingers ceased their tremor from holding the flagon too tightly? If so, prepare for the next epic struggle with a fresh foe...Cleanse the body, gird your loins, salve your healing scars from past paladins! The eve of the Saints Day approaches, it looms like a stiffenin' breeze, ready to roar into a full force gael! Where will the battle begin? When will you embrace your demonic foe in a death dance of homeric proportion?
Will the young prince emerge victorious, unbowed by the strength of his worthy opponents' spirits? The trail of tears on Saturn's Day will tell the tale...A song of joy...A dirge of lament...What will the fates bring?
The lines are drawn, the cork is out of the neck, discarded forever, no need for it ever again! I love the smell of a dirty, old gin-mill, it reminds me of home...Live like you were born with two livers!
Johnny Friendly

McCLICKON:

2006-03-15T16:38:00.000-04:00

Irish Heritage

Be Good Or Be Gone!

2006-03-14T16:56:00.000-04:00

The Village Voice
Liquid City
Behind the Bar, McSorley's stocks the sawdust for St. Pat's
by Corina Zappia
March 10th, 2006 12:41 PM

There's a line to get into every Irish pub in the city on St. Patrick's Day, but none seem quite as long as the one at McSorley's, arguably the city's oldest bar. From the time the doors open at 8am until the last customers are booted out at 1 a.m., the queue winds well around the block, with St. Patrick's Day revelers willing to stand in the cold for several hours to drink where supposedly Woody Guthrie, John Lennon, and believe it or not, even Abe Lincoln downed a pint. On St. Patrick's and every other day, current owner Mattie Maher—his is the third family to run the tavern—upholds a strict no-tolerance policy regarding drunk surliness, the longtime motto being "Be Good or Be Gone" (preferable to the now-abandoned philosophy of "Good Ale, Raw Onions, and No Ladies.") For the McSorley's staff, this must be the longest, most grueling day of the year.
We spoke with bartender Gregory de la Haba about getting through the holiday, the bar's trademark sawdust-strewn floors, and who gets bathroom duty.

How long have you been at McSorley's?
Since I got the owner's daughter pregnant about 4 1/2 years ago.

Are you the son-in-law?
Now I am. Ha.

How long does it take to get in on St. Patrick's Day?
We open up the doors at 8 Am, and within about five minutes, we fill up. The poor guy who gets cut off has to wait at least another three more hours before he's let in, because once people are in, they're not leaving until they get thrown out.

People literally stand outside for three hours?
On that day, easily.

And people actually start lining up at 8 a.m.?
Every year it gets earlier and earlier. Last year the first four people came at 5:15 a.m. They say St. Patrick's Day is amateur's day when it comes to drinking—but not here.

Who are these people who come at 5 a.m.? Do they tailgate?
If we catch 'em drinking early, we send them on their way. But they're all good guys, regulars. Normally, we see the same people year after year. Everybody who comes here that day has been here the year before, or been here 10 years in a row, twenty years in a row. We have groups that have been coming for 30 years.

What customer do you look forward to seeing the most on St. Patrick's Day?
All the regulars..I'll tell you this, we have customers throughout the year, that if they don't come in on a certain day, we'll call to see if they're okay. Like, this gentleman [gesturing to a man across from him, eating dinner] comes every Monday night for the leg of lamb. I only see him Monday nights, and he's here every Monday night.

How has McSorley's managed to stay open for so long [since 1854]?
Yeah, even the legendary places close. Look at the Second Avenue Deli, look at Billy's up on First Avenue. I think it's because our motto has been "Be Good or Be Gone," we serve good ale, and we keep it simple: we open the doors each day, and the customers do the rest… Oh. [Talking to the leg-of-of-lamb diner] And as this customer says, we own the building.

Who lives upstairs? Do you?
No, but most of the staff do. All cousins, relatives of the family.

How many of you have to work on St. Patrick's Day?
The whole staff, everyone has to work that day. 14 people.

Who gets bathroom duty?
We call that "The Shithouse." And we have a guy, his name is Bobby Bongos. He's a superb bongo player, percussionist. Plays all over town—he's played bongos all over the world, actually. When he's not playing his bongos, he's doing the shithouse in the back.

How long has he been doing The Shithouse?
Maybe 10 years now. That's a special man.

So what goes faster, the light or dark beer?
They're both equally delicious and nutritious.

What are some problems that usually arise on St. Patrick's Day?
There's usually one idiot out of a whole group of 20 guys...Even the friends know which one's going to puke first. Sure enough, they're right.

Who gets stuck cleaning up afterward? Is there a pecking order?
Whoever's section it is. We just throw some more sawdust down and sweep it up.

So sawdust takes care of everything?
Sawdust is the cure-all.

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-03-11T22:10:00.000-04:00

On The Waterfront

2006-03-11T22:09:00.000-04:00

Fields of Clover and Legions of Drunks

Pity the lad who has lost the rudder that steers him into the confines of a friendly tavern. The poor wretch no longer has a North Star to guide him across treacherous times. The advice of leathern'd sailors of The Whiskey Sea is no longer easily obtained. Once it was as simple as bellying up to the bar...Charts of dangerous spirits on the rocks were readily unfurled to help the latterday Ishmael negotiate the transition from lagers to potent potables! I will be eternally grateful to the St. Brendens that I encountered on my early voyages on The Bay of Ballentine. Those haloed navigators continued my education when I embarked on my circumnavigation of The Thirsty Planet. No man has ever survived this search for the headwaters of The Ron-Rico River without the aid of these veteran guides. Pity those who smirk and roll their eyes at these now stool-bound dare-devils, they have no touchstone to the tales of the spirits! A tip-o-the-glass to these grey mariners, and buy one for the girls in the backroom!
later,
johnny friendly

Irish Yoga With Props

2006-03-11T21:54:00.000-04:00

FROM THE MAIL BAG

2006-02-25T11:41:00.000-04:00

GOD BLESS WOMEN

"A Woman"

This is written in the Hebrew Talmud, the book where all of the sayings and preachings of Rabbis are conserved over time.

It says: "Be very careful not to make a woman cry, because God counts her tears. The woman came out of a man's rib. Not from his feet to be walked on. Not from his head to be superior, but from the side to be equal. Under the arm to be protected, and next to the heart to be loved."

Pass this on to all the exceptional women that you know...And to the men as well so they know the value of a woman.

It is also written:
"And, if thow showest me thy cans, I wilst throwest thee some beads..."

On The Water Front

2006-02-22T12:09:00.000-04:00

Agony, is there no end to your cruel trickery!? What new impediment will you place in the race to thwart me? My arid soul is crying out to have itself deluged in potables only to have, once more, the spigot of ambrosial nectar abrubtly wrenched off the barrel by an unforseen call to duty! To what lengths must I go to be able to slake this beckoning to the trough of wet spirits? It may take a roadtrip, but only God and my lawyers know how much potential peril a thirsty pilgrim can easily find himself in on a strange avenue far from home! The chance at kilotons of fun is a tempting siren calling for you to smash your bow upon her damp beaches. The most foreboding element is going solo...No local knowledge, a stranger in a strange land, no designated driver, no besotted peers feigning concern, it's just you and the local constabulary who already have your out-of-state license plate committed to memory...A new kind of Most Dangerous Game! The added adrenilin rush almost sobers you up, not quite, but almost. Well, No guts, no glory...Will you make it back to the hotel for last call, or is it an evening in the local, out-of-town hoosegow? The die is cast and the wager is consumated. Legend has it that God looks out for drunks and idiot children, I hope He is doubly concerned when I am out on the streets looking to begin another chapter in perversity...Christ knows, I love it like a fat boy loves cake...All the action you need rolled up into a fine smoke, but thats another tale! The choke collar is tightning and I am getting drowsy from lack of O2 so I say my vespers and lay me down to sleep, perchance to...
See you.
Johnny Friendly

Maakies by Tony Millionaire

2006-02-21T20:22:00.000-04:00

On The Water Front

2006-02-21T12:23:00.000-04:00

What the hell is a blog? As you well know I am barely able to express myself in this new forum. Every time I turn this laptop on I find some new and awesome thing that it does. I fear that I won't be able to remember the newest little piece of the puzzle the next time I return. My exploration into this new wonderland fills me with awe and humility. The only thought that keeps me motivated is that I can type faster than Stephen Hawking... Fuck him anyway! So damn smart...Figure out a cure for what you got! Ha! You drooling, can't wipe your own ass, smarty pants motherfucker! Pardon me, I digress. I think I will go to southern Jersey Sunday morning to visit some cousins I have not seen in way too long. I'll be back Monday, and since I'm off 'till Thursday perhaps we could have a rendevous? What is on your calendar for Monday? I may be in the mood for a little noggin of the holy water, but only if it is served by a large breasted wench in an affable mood, you know the type I like...Speak when you're spoken to, suck when you're supposed to, and keep my glass full! I'll get in touch upon my return from the piney sands of mosquitoland.
I remain your humble servant.
Bottoms up!
Johnny Friendly

Presidents Day...what a crock! And, the scary thing is that somewhere down the road some jerk-off Republicans are going to start comparing George W. and his spooky Dad to John and John Quincy Adams! And, those same Republican jerk-offs will do their specious best to relate a pair of thieving Bushs to a pair of honorable Adams who actually could read, orate, and produce an original thought in their heads that did not directly relate to the fleecing of the middle-class citizenry of this great land!
I am beginning to lose the limited control that I have tethered to myself. My distress is heightened by the fact that I am no longer a young firebrand, and have entered that vague crepuscular time...A time of regrets that resemble hopes, of hopes that resemble regrets, when youth has passed, but old age has not yet arrived. I try to maintain my fire, try with all my power to avoid looking like Edvard Munch`s lost soul in The Scream...What I need is some magic elixor, some curative waters, some soothing potion, something to put joyfulness in the spirit, restore my cocksuredness and the fire in my loins! Eureka! What a brainstorm, an epiphany of sorts! I'll meet you for drunch this Tuesday p.m. Wear your helmet for the ride may get a tad bumpy!
See you on the morrow.
J. F.