Honk for Mow

Contrary to public belief, honking one’s horn will not end war. Honking one’s horn will not lift the world into a magical state of a bliss and peace. Honking one’s horn will not bring our troops home . . . or save the whales . . . or stop cancer . . . or impeach Bush . . . or elect Kerry. Horn-honking does only two things: SLOW DOWN TRAFFIC and PISS ME OFF.

Here’s the deal . . . I can vaguely understand (although I sure as hell wouldn’t bother) making cause-related signs and storming our nation’s capitol to let our leaders know that the citizens are upset.

However, what I simply CANNOT and WILL NOT EVER understand are the MORONS who make cause-related signs and “storm” the doorway of the local Post Office in Columbia, Missouri (population 87,000) every Saturday afternoon.

Here’s why:

• No one of any importance or influence (i.e., the elderly, errand boys, couriers, postal workers, fat women buying stamps, other hippies) will see your childish display.

• Shitty poster board signs that you slopped together like a kindergartener will have ZERO bearing on my opinion. In other words, I’m not going to be a Fuckface Republican my whole life, then see your “Kerry is for Peace” sign, and then say, “Oh! You know what . . . I’ve been wrong for 25 years . . . that concept never before entered my mind until I saw your poster board . . . I’m glad your poster board and glue stick finally changed my mind about the world . . . if only I’d seen that 25 years ago, then I’d be a different person! Thank you, dumb hippie!”

• Let’s pretend that a lot of people do honk for peace at a particular “roadside rally.” What does that prove? Honks are not official votes, nor do they even represent official votes, so why do it? Is it because the sign-holders’ self-esteems are so low that the only way for them to boost it is to con strangers into giving them non-verbal approval for some lost cause, that their psychotic minds somehow translate into praise for themselves? (When in fact many drivers just use the retarded display as an excuse to tinker with their fancy horn in a “constructive” way.) Therefore, I find it safe to assume that ALL roadside, honk-driven protestors were probably ignored as children and are now acting out as silly adults.

Besides being unemployed, here are the following reasons why morons hold “Honk For _______” signs on the side of the road:

So . . . all you middle-aged, unemployed, overweight, balding hippies who spent 4 hours last night making a sign out of construction paper and crayons that reads, “Honk for Peace” – GO THE FUCK HOME . . . IF YOU HAVE ONE. YOU ARE WORTHLESS AND ARE DOING NO ONE ANY GOOD WHATSOEVER. IF YOU WANT TO HELP THE WORLD – THEN GO PICK UP FUCKING GARBAGE SOMEWHERE. OR BETTER YET: MOW MY LAWN.

In fact, if you mow my lawn – I’ll even honk my horn for you . . . twice.

Did You Know . . . ?

Did you know that infants who are given IVs frequently receive the IV in their scalps? If you didn’t know that, then I’m here to tell you that it is in fact true. I know it’s hard to believe. I know it’s grotesque and barbaric . . . but it’s one of life’s hard-to-accept truths — like dinosaurs, Mormonism, or Joan Rivers.

You see, on an infant “scalp veins” are easier to find than, oh say, “arm veins” or “butt veins.” (I’m sure it’s no less painful too.) Another advantage of the Scalp IV is that it prevents the baby from tampering with it . . . the infant’s frantic little arms are just too short to reach the top of its own skull . . . or, in this case, the NEEDLE JAMMED in the top of its own skull.

No wonder we can’t remember being born.

Apple Continues Exploiting Dumb Indie Rockers

Apple has changed the way we listen. Apple has changed the way we purchase. Apple has changed the way we steal. Now, Apple has released yet another Earth-shattering version of the iPod – the iPod Nano. With the release of this fantastic new MP3 player, thousands upon thousands of oblivious, style-hungry vagabonds rush to get their hands on one.

“I just can’t get enough iPods,” says Jay Tweedy of San Diego, California. “I mean, sure I could listen to my 60GB iPod I bought three months ago, but what if someone saw it,” questions Tweedy. “I’d be out of the loop and I wouldn’t be awesome anymore.”

Tweedy is right. This new iPod surpasses earlier iPods in more ways than one:

• The Nano is not nearly as bulky as its predecessors – which means you can fit several iPods in the palm of your hand – not just one or two.

• The Nano holds 4,000 fewer songs for almost the same price – which means you no longer have to shuffle through 1000s of MP3s to get to the one you want – what a hassle that was!

• The Nano has a massive 1.5” color screen allowing you to peruse your porno collection on the go.

• The Nano doesn’t come with bothersome, pre-installed U2 songs that you have to delete.

“It’s just too good to be true,” says Tweedy. “Apple has finally released its smallest and most expensive iPod to date . . . I’m really excited.”

Tweedy was so excited, in fact, that he camped out in front of his local Apple dealer the night before the Nano’s release – just to make sure he could get his hands on one.

“Well, actually, I bought two Nanos,” says Tweedy. “One’s black and one’s white – I just couldn’t decide.”

After purchasing two new Nano iPods, Tweedy’s collection has now grown to 17 iPods.

“I’ve got one 512 Shuffle iPod, two 1GB Shuffle iPods – I thought I lost one, so I bought another, then I found the old one – I’ve got one first generation 20GB iPod, one second generation 20GB iPOD, one third generation 40GB iPOD, one 60GB second generation iPOD, one 20GB third generation iPOD, six iPod Minis – I got all the colors, one U2 iPOD, and now, finally, I have two Nano iPods,” says Tweedy.

While some iPod consumers may seem a tad scary and mentally ill, Apple just loves them.

“It’s just amazing,” reflects Steve Jobs, founder and CEO of Apple Computers. “All you have to do is make the products more colorful and less practical every couple of months and the Indie rockers come running with money in hand . . . or in most cases, credit cards they can’t afford (chuckles) . . . the formula is just too good.”

Jobs is right: his formula is just too good. Here’s a breakdown of Apple’s pricing scheme:

	iPod 60	iPod 20	iPod U2	Nano 2	Nano 1	Shuffle 2	Shuffle 1
SPACE	60 GB	20 GB	20 GB	4 GB	2 GB	1 GB	512MB
# Of Songs	15000	5000	5000	1000	500	240	120
PRICE	$399	$299	$329	$249	$199	$129	$99
Price Per song	$0.03	$0.06	$0.07	$0.25	$0.39	$0.54	$0.83
Price PerGB	$6.65	$14.95	$16.45	$62.25	$99.50	$129	$198

As one can see by the chart, the price per GB gets substantially larger as the available iPod space becomes substantially smaller.

“Our backwards pricing scheme is something any clear-headed adult would catch immediately,” explains Jobs. “But these early-20s kids are so caught up in the style of the new iPods, that they never stop and realize that I’m selling them shit and raping them stupid.”

Jobs’ pricing scheme is SO good that he plans to release the next generation of iPods just in time for Christmas.

“Yeah, the next generation will be the iPod Nano Nano,” explains Jobs. “It’ll be as thin as a hair follicle, as light as a soap bubble, and four times as expensive . . . it’s also Mork and Mindy themed and holds only one song at a time.”

The Mork & Mindy-Themed Nano Nano iPod
Due out December 1, 2005

The Nano Nano iPod ships December 1^st – just in time for the Indie Rockers to buy presents for their technologically retarded girlfriends.

As the market shows, Apple has many fans and few foes. The iPod has quickly become the industry standard for portable MP3 players. Millions of Indie Rockers, just like Tweedy, regard Apple as the epitome of style, technology, and practicality.

“I love everything Apple makes, except one thing,” explains Tweedy. “I just don’t understand how come U2 has their own iPod, but Wilco doesn’t . . . it just doesn’t make sense.”

It seems Tweedy will just have to wait and see.

Big Mike

So, I felt so horrible about my article on Tuesday (regarding my contempt for the hurricane victims) that I decided to personally contribute to the relief effort and take a hurricane victim into my home. Big Mike from New Orleans arrived on Wednesday morning. I was very excited to do my part to solve the Katrina Disaster.

I guess things started out okay (Big Mike slept all day Wednesday), but then when he woke up at 3 A.M. on Thursday morning, things began to get a little out of control. I kept telling Big Mike that he needed to find a job, but all he said was, “Fuck you, where’s potato skins?” I tried to explain that I had no potato skins, but he insisted. “Yes. I find them.”

So, all day Thursday, Big Mike destroyed my entire house looking for potato skins. He raked the entire contents of the refrigerator onto the floor. He drank/ate a jar of mustard. He punched-in three of my kitchen cabinets and, finally, he took a giant shit in and around the kitchen sink. It smelled like old shrimp.

Because I couldn’t get him to stop destroying things, I drove to the grocery store and got him some damn potato skins. Upon returning with the potato skins, Big Mike jumped up, snatched them from my hand, and ate all 12 of them – still frozen. Then, he settled down . . . for moment.

Not long after eating the frozen potato skins, Big Mike punched me in the stomach, took my car keys, and drove to Best Buy where he bought a $2000 Big Screen with the money he got from the government.

When Big Mike finally returned, he forced me to set up my DVD player so he could watch “Walking Tall” on his new big screen. I said I wasn’t going to tolerate that sort of filth in my house, so Big Mike pulled out a .357 Magnum and said, “I’m gonna shoot you good in the face if you don’t give me Walking Tall.”

I had no choice.

“Walking Tall” began 20 minutes later. Big Mike sat down and calmly watched it. He held me at gun point for 87 straight minutes. Thinking my last moments would be spent with The Rock . . . I was very upset.

Luckily, when the movie was over, Big Mike was asleep, but he soon woke up and began smashing out on the windows in my house with a broom he managed to get a hold of — he kept screaming about how he was going to “fight the high winds.”

Not satisfied with his destruction efforts, Big Mike took out his .357 and started putting holes in the walls. After accidentally shooting his big screen, he started weeping. Like a 7-year old girl with a broken My Little Pony, Big Mike whimpered for 40 solid minutes . . . after that, Big Mike shot himself in my kitchen.

I figured, it was probably for the best.

Social Class in America

Class in America . . . everyone’s afraid to admit that they’re dumber and poorer than the guy sitting next to them. Class can be influenced by many factors: education, income, tastes, income, race, sex, income, industry of employment, or income. So, all these factors aside, I have come up with a sure-fire way to decide which class you fall into – it can all be easily determined by what grocery store you prefer. Here’s the guide:

Schnucks / Hy-Vee: Upper class

Description: You are white and your children play the cello, soccer, and baseball. You take a least two vacations every year and live on the outskirts of a golf course. You have a minimum of five years in college. You studied something useful like medicine, law, or business. You buy Fiji water, sushi, wine, Yoplait, premium steaks, and some select cold cuts from The Boar’s Head. Oh, and you just love that salad bar. You have successfully convinced yourself that you’re happily married. You force yourself to put out every night so you can keep your unspoken weekly “allowance.” You pay someone to mow your lawn.

Kroger / Gerbes / Price-Chopper: Middle Class

Description: You are white or black and your children play Gameboy. You take one vacation every year, which makes you plummet even further into debt. You either started college and dropped out or you just cut to the chase and got your license to sell insurance. You live in a cookie-cutter neighborhood and have a small yard. You buy canned salmon, frozen vegetables, lots of 2-liter Coca-Colas, Coco Puffs, aspirin, and Lays. You frequently purchase large items that you cannot afford. You no longer engage in sexual intercourse with your significant other because you are either (a) too exhausted from work and dealing with your kids all day or (b) you’re divorced. You mow your lawn.

Aldi’s: Lower-Class

Description: You are black and you don’t know where your children are. You may also be a person over the age of 70 depending solely on your meager social security checks to fill your withered belly. You can’t take a vacation because you don’t have a car and you “don’t wanna ride way up in no sky, dammit.” You live in a 100-year old neighborhood that was crappy 100 years ago. You have several dogs, all of which are slowly starving to death. You buy beer, white bread, baked beans, ground beef, and curly fries. You’ve been married at least twice, but now you’re just seeing Mrs. Shontay while her husband is cleaning the high school around the corner. No one mows your lawn.

Super Wal-Mart: Scum

Description: You are fat, ugly, and sweaty. Your children are pudgy little shitheads who like Jolly Ranchers and whine in public. They all have buzzcuts and refuse to wear shoes.

No Sympathy

I have absolutely zero sympathy for those living on the coast of Florida, Louisiana, and Mississippi who (were / are being) affected by the recent onslaught of hurricanes. Here’s why:

Every year in this country there are approximately 3 hurricanes that hit the continental United States and do damage. Since 1900 over 26,000 people have been killed in hurricanes in the United States. Yet, still . . . STILL after this obvious proof of foreseeable carnage, MORONS will fight one another for beach-front property. In fact, they will actually pay MORE for this “exclusive” property – even in light of the FACTS that hurricane Andrew cost $21 billion, while Katrina estimates are clocking in at $26 billion.

Perhaps this is why beach-front property is so expensive . . . the buildings are always new.

The only people dumber than the people who live on the coast are the companies that insure the homes of the people living on the coast, because as far as I’m concerned, if you’re going to build a house on a beach, you might as well build it on a goddamned railroad track.

Because I don’t want to be 100% negative about Hurricane Katrina, I would like to present a reason why the tragedy wasn’t a total loss:

Lonnie found a case of beer.

I Hate Cars

So, it seems that I’m being forced to purchase a new car within the next 10 days. I’m not going to bore you with the meaningless details. Let’s just say that I’ve been shopping around and have quickly realized that every car on the market (almost without exception) is as ugly as a raised-mole. It’s as if the engineers brought in all the ugliest animals on the face of the earth, plopped them on their desks, overfed them, then designed their new line of cars based directly on the engorged appearance of these bloated creatures.

For instance, the Ford Taurus looks like a constipated sewer rat that has been stomped on. The car also reminds me of death.

And as for the new Ford Explorer . . . Jesus Christ . . . why don’t they just go ahead and package it with free dew-rags and Adidas jump suits? Actually, I guess I don’t blame Ford. After all, they’re just trying to “not be racist” and cash in on the whole “hip-hop-is-not-just-for-killers-but-for-14-year-old-white-girls-as-well” craze. How can I really be angry with anyone who’s just trying to exploit a subculture?

Ahh . . . and who can resist the Chrysler 300C? Finally, a Rolls Royce for the financially doomed! The Pompous Poor need wait no longer! Now they can pretend they’re rich for the 7 minutes it takes them to drive from their 40-year mortgage (near the Bennigans) over to the Super Sack-n-Save to stock up on cheap meat, mayonnaise, diapers, and orange drink for their 3 sick, hungry, kids.

Finally, I think it’s most important to address the mini-vans . . . minivans can only mean one thing: pregnancy . . . and possibly divorce.

I suggest we all get vasectomies before it’s too late.

Send Me a Picture of Your Genitals

So, I’ve decided to quit my day job and devote every waking minute to developing the adult version of Guess Who . . . The Flip n’ Find Genital Game. However, I need your help. Because I can’t just hop on the internet and use strangers’ genitals in the game, (I could get sued!) I need you to help me out. So, if you would, grab the nearest digital camera, drop your pants, and snap a quick picture of your genitals. Email your picture to mistereid@hotmail.com and you might WIN a chance to have your very own genitals appear in Spencer’s Gifts all over the country – YOU COULD BE FAMOUS!

The game will cost $0.84 to produce. Therefore, it will be sold for $26.99 and will be located in EVERY Spencer’s Gifts — either near the Fart Pills or the Cartman T-Shirt aisle. I’m also considering placing it near the Fake Dogshit Section . . . I guess I’m just going to have to experiment until I feel out my audience.

So, send me a picture of your genitals as fast as you can. You could be famous! Now, as you well know, Guess Who is a game about diversity. It’s a game that proves we can all live together, no matter what we look like: bald, fat, blonde, brunette, black, white, blue-eyed, green-eyed, or even female.

With diversity in mind please realize that pierced, gaping, and colored genitals are all GUARANTEED placement in the game.

And don’t worry about the game “not taking off.” I’m an Advertising Genius and I realize how vital a product’s public image is for success. Just check out the mock-up of the box I threw together:

I wish you and your genitals the best of luck!

That Damn Syringe

So, I recently moved into a new house on “Business Loop” — it’s this white-trash / Mexican part of town. Lots of porchin-around. My house is located behind this run-down strip club called “Hoot-n-Nanny’s.” So, besides having quick access to $1 Stags and cheap “thrills” 24 hours a day, I also live 6 doors down from an Auto Zone, a Sonic, and a Dairy Queen . . . a fat, black man’s paradise.

Anyway, the other day my roommate was taking a shower upstairs. Well, as she was showering, she looked down at the drain (as most of us do) only to discover a USED SYRINGE floating up through the grate. And don’t think it was just the syringe — oh, no — it was fully-equipped with a fresh needle as well. Disgusted, she alerted me of the “situation,” and we were forced to call my landlord to fix it. My landlord looks like this:

Did I mention his name is “Rocky”? Let me tell you a little bit about Rocky. When we moved in we found a closet in which he’d obviously been growing pot. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s full of energy and WON’T STOP TALKING. His eyes bug out of his head and he’s always sweating and pacing around. He LOST my deposit check five minutes after I gave it to him. He’s always talking to his “diddy” (daddy) about “what he should do.” He has 4 lawn mowers in the backyard. He explained to me that he kept breaking mirrors in the upstairs bathroom — I have never broken a mirror that’s hanging on a wall, so I’m guessing he was either (a) taking it down to cut coke on or (b) taking it down so he could watch his own penis penetrate his strung-out girlfriend. In a nutshell, this guy’s probably a maniac.

Because none of us were particularly excited about explaining the Syringe Situation to him, we drew straws.

I lost.

I called him and explained the situation delicately, but firmly. I could hear Rocky on the other line making really nervous and paranoid noises. He kept repeating over and over again about how his last roommate was a diabetic. Oddly enough, he didn’t have a roommate — he lived here alone — and his bedroom was upstairs — WHERE THE SYRINGE WAS FOUND. Anyway, I could care less if he was shooting heroin or steroids in the shower — I just wanted him to clean it up.

So, after listening to some obvious lie about how his former diabetic roommate who lived in the master bedroom put his needles down the shower drain (???!), I just agreed with him, made a light joke, and got off the phone. Rocky agreed to take care of it. Everything was fine. I hung up the phone and tossed it to my roommate.

She put the phone in her purse.

About this time, I go on a rampage about what a “lying body-building motherfucker” Rocky seems to be. About how he’s a “fucking crazy junkie” who obviously knows nothing about diabetes. Then, I decided to bring up the mirror situation and how “the only way he broke TWO mirrors in one bathroom is from cutting coke . . . I’m glad our landlord’s a crackhead.” After about 10 minutes of ranting, my roommate’s phone rings.

It’s Rocky.

Rocky: You calling me?
Roommate: Uh . . . we did.
Rocky: Well, my phone was ringing and I picked it up and no one was there.
Roommate: Oh . . .
Rocky: So, I just started listening — for ten minutes I listened to you guys laughing
Roommate: What?
Rocky: What’s all this “body-building motherfucker” stuff?
Roommate: Look, Rocky . . .
Rocky: My roommate was diabetic, you know.
Roommate: Rocky, we were just–
Rocky: You think I’m a crackhead?!! Huh!
Roommate: Rocky, we don’t want any hard feelings, we just want the shower fixed and th–
Rocky: Well, you guys just have your fun. Just have your fucking fun over there! I’ll be over there tomorrow, but I’m going to kick you ass!
(click)

Apparently, when I tossed my roommate the phone, it redialed. Rocky heard everything.

Scared shitless, we all left the house and didn’t sleep there that night. The next day, the syringe was gone and our stuff was still there. It’s been about 4 days and we haven’t been hacked to pieces yet . . .

. . . I guess we’ll see.