If Americans do not have the right to insert three headed, fourteen inch dildos covered with sixty grit sandpaper into their rectums in the privacy of their own homes anymore, then what in the hell are we fighting in Iraq for? Oh, right. Oil.

Labels: politics, sex, war

Me: Too bad Dubya didn't crack his stupid head open when he wrecked on that mountain bike. He just irritates me, is all.
Kaye: They all irritate me.
Me: Yeah.
Kaye: I am voting for Bush.
Me: I am voting for Kerry. Bush's daughters are hot, though, and they could be showing their twats to the American voter sometime soon. That could sway me.
Kaye: Ha! I could see them doing that.
Me: This is how I vote, Kaye. I weigh the important issues.
Kaye: Yes, Matt. Bush is quirky and I like that about him. I like his dumbness. It keeps me amused. I will read a story about him and shake my head. Crazy George.
Me: Yeah, but Kerry killed some people in the 'Nam, Kaye.
Kaye: True.
Me: I like Bush's wife more than Kerry's, though. She reminds me of a lonely, alcoholic Southern belle in a doomed marriage. For some reason, that makes me happy. I can just imagine how inappropriate she is when her daughters bring home some college beefcake for Thanksgiving Break. She comes stumbling into the living room blasted out of her mind with a martini in her hand, full of prescription drugs, hair all disheveled and loudly proclaims, "You boys want me to take off my shirt for money?"
Kaye: Ha! Goddamn. We are fucked up.
Me: Yes we are.

Labels: im convos, kaye, politics

I do not understand the Krispy Kreme phenomenon. Whenever a company-wide email goes out regarding the mere presence of Krispy Kremes, herds of gluttonous fucks stampede into the company break room and lay waste to the donuts as if they were Georgia during General Sherman's March To The Sea. In my opinion, Krispy Kreme donuts taste like the sugared sweat of a donkey's balls.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, gluttony

French fans spat on Lance Armstrong as he pedaled to victory during the latest stage of the Tour De France. Barring a cataclysmic disaster, Armstrong is poised to win the race for the sixth consecutive time. Whats the matter, France? You cannot handle an American with one testicle winning your silly little bike race six years in a row? Show him some respect or the next time tanks come rolling through the Champ Elysees you will be on your own.

Labels: pop culture, sports

With the 2004 Olympic Summer Games forthcoming in Athens, athletes from all over the world are training their bodies, preparing mentally for competition and waiting in anticipation for the drunken fuck fest that is the Olympic village.

Labels: sex, sports

Life expectancy is dropping in Africa thanks to the AIDS. In Zambia, 17% of the population has the virus and a child born between 2000 and 2005 can expect to live just 32.4 years. Damn. We need some altruistic condom company to bring relief via free prophylactics. The time is nigh to rubber up on the Dark Continent.

Labels: death, disease

It is sometimes tedious to conjure up witticisms and find reprehensible links for this website, so I love it when any of my readers do the work for me. This morning CH sent me an email poem about slut teacher:

Lesbian encounters and dating a Backstreet Boy,
Posing on top of a muscle car,
Tyler says, "She's not really that hot."

Labels: ch, sg crew, slut teacher, tomfoolery, tyler

Sometimes life is a kitty being rescued from certain death and other times it is cocaine-induced infanticide in the bathroom of a ramshackle sports bar.

Labels: dead babies, death, drugs, kitty

Being a Rainforest conservationist rules! Maybe I should travel to South America or Africa in an attempt to change local land development policies regarding human encroachment in jungle habitats and impart wisdom to indigenous farmers regarding the negative aspects of slash-and-burn land clearing. Or maybe my passion for Rainforest conservation would be better served by fucking my girlfriend from behind live on stage during a concert for a band called Cumshot.

Labels: inner-monologue, perversion

With our stomachs full of barbecue and cheap domestic beer, we made our way to the southernmost area of your backyard to throw horseshoes this Monday last. We defeated the Chili Dog and Nebraska Sally four times in a five game set. I urge you to revisit the exhilaration of our matches in your mind, recalling how we were hurling the shoes with pinpoint accuracy and standing on a cloud amongst the horseshoe gods. Now, envision feeling these thrills all summer long; the faint clanging sounds of horseshoes finding their mark, the soft flame of Tiki torches and citronella candles flickering along the border of the pit, the drunken banter of gentlemen poking fun of their opponents penis sizes and abnormal birth defects, the classic rock anthems being played loudly from outdoor speakers and most importantly, the beer; the endless cans of cold beer wet with condensation that we suckle from like swaddling babes from their mother's teat. I understand that your wife wants a garden where we throw the horseshoes. May I remind you that the most successful marriages are those in which couples make compromises (may I also remind you that I was the best man at your wedding, perhaps the most important day of your life, entrusted with the safekeeping of your betrothed's ring, delivering an emotional toast at the reception and holding a handful of cash during the dollar dance without stealing any of it) and in which case I have a compromise for you and your wife. Plant her garden in between the stakes, while we raise the back of the horseshoe pit up with landscaping boxes and fill said boxes with sands from the various deserts of Asia Minor. I will gladly help with any labor that becomes of this endeavor because we need this horseshoe pit. We deserve this horseshoe pit.

Labels: chili dog, drinking, nels, open letter, summer

My lady and I spent most our Fourth of July holiday in Steamboat Springs. It was the first time I had seen Steamboat Springs in the summer time and sober (the last time I was there it was 14 degrees, I was blasted out of my skull and cruising down Howelsen Hill on a crude sledding device at obscene speeds). We also engaged in water park revelries with family members, ate some barbecue and threw some 'shoes. It was a relaxing way to celebrate the signing of the Declaration Independence. Added bonus: watching some skinny Asian freak inhale four times his body weight in hot dogs.

Labels: drinking, family, l-i-v-i-n, nels, wife

This morning I am awash in the inappropriate sexual habits of a slut teacher. I never had a hot teacher educate me nor did I ever want to have sex with or envision any sexual situations with the old hosebags that taught me. The closest I ever came to a having a hot teacher was my high school Sociology instructor. She (who will remain nameless lest some vagabond I graduated with feels the need to post it under my comments section) had a tremendous rack but a disturbing case of thinning hair. We all theorized that she was smoking when she was younger and attempted to envision her that way instead of the wrinkled, dried up husk of menopause that she really was.

Labels: a-town, pop culture, sex, slut teacher