Dissertation Station

impromptu: The World's Greatest Invention

2005-12-23T22:20:00.000-05:00

The Juice wasn’t plannin’ on postin’ anything any time soon. If ya check out the last post, I’ve got some sweet things in the works. But, as the Juice was out cleanin’ up the mess the kids left from the ol’ Slip N Slide I got ta thinkin’ about things. You know, life and shit. Plus, I’m slightly baked, so what better thing to do, than write a half assed post.

So, what exactly was the Juice considerin’? One of the world’s greatest inventions (hence the title ya nitwit): the bikini. Didja here that????? That was Clarion’s Call. Yes, the bikini. I hope God rested well the day after he sent down the idear for the bikini. Cause he surely deserved it.

Dang, does the Juice LOVE bikinis. Truth be told, the Juice has got a thing for bathin’ suits period. But, when you’re picturin’ some sweet lil nothin’ travelin’ down your Slip N Slide (I’m referin’ to the product, not the hog. Perverts), ya wanna see her in a bikini.

Walk with me, will ya? Picture this, if you will (and if you know what’s good for ya, you will). A sunshiney day. Ya got your Superman Slip N Slide nice and wet. And here comes some sweet lil number, slip slidin’ away. All laughin, and gigglin’ and heavin’ in her red bikini. Or black. Or, wait. White. Oh, yea. White bikini. Now that’s nice. Some lil brunette laughin, and gigglin’ and boobs heavin’ in her WHITE bikini as she's slippin' and slidin down the old Slip N Slide (the makers of Slip N Slide sure were clever fucks, weren' they?). God, the Juice needs to get laid ASAP!!!!!

But, I digress…

Now, for all you potential the Juice girlfriends out there in TV land, here’s a helpful tip for ya. If ya really want to turn the Juice on, wear a bikini. Don’t waste your time with all that fancy lingerie. Yea…it’s nice. Whatever. Do me a favor, and put the bikini on. Really, want to turn the Juice on? Probably not, but fuck you. Put the bikini on in the dead of winter, ladies. I know. I know what your thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “That sounds a bit warped, the Juice”. Yea, if THAT ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black (what the fuck does that expression mean, anyway? Would one of you brain surgeons out there like to explain that to me?) Like your stockin’ fetish ain’t a tad bit wrong. And I won’t even mention,not only the wrongness, but the sheer stupidity of all those “Big Sausage Pizza” (I’ll do us all the favor and NOT hyperlink any links. Do a search, I’m sure somethin’ will come up. As it were) websites out there. You make me sick, you perverts.

Actually, now that I consider it, if you ladies really want to get the Juice goin’, fuck the bikini and put this on. That’s like Triple V to the Juice. Man, that’s so hot. This, though, makes me sad. Real sad.

How the Internet ruined Porn

2005-12-22T23:26:00.000-05:00

The other day, the Juice mentioned the sheer stupidity of the “Big Sausage Pizza” porn sites. I mean, callin’ these sites stupid, really demeans the word “stupid”. Do you dudes out there in Internet Land really buy that shit? And the Juice ain’t just sayin’ “purchasin’” here. I mean, buy it, as in it’s real. You know that those “situations” aren’t real, right? That those hot numbers are all whored up all by their lonesome waitin’ for the delivery guy. C’mon! It makes wrasslin’ look like Masterpiece theatre, brother.

So, the Juice started considerin’ porn. And I’ve come (as it were) to the conclusion that the internet has ruined porn. Yes. You read that right. THE INTERNET HAS RUINED THE GOOD NAME OF PORNOGRAPHY. Now, I’m fairly certain all you nerds out there have your eyeballs all a twitchin’. Blasphemy, right? Well, before you throw pitch forks at me, hear me out. The internet has been great as a delivery system. No more creepy stores with all those scary black leather apparatuses hangin’ menacingly on the walls. Or movie houses with questionable sticky floors. No, in that regard, the Net has been a god send.

And in the beginnin’ it WAS good. But, as time moved on, porn on the Net has become exceedin’ly twisted. Let’s get somethin’ straight from the get go. The Juice loves porn. And I’m not just sayin’ it to cover up the fact that I stepped on the pornography gods toes with my heretic statement above. No, I love porn. Nothin' like watchin’ hot people gettin’ it on. The only thing better is when the Juice is gettin’ it on with someone hot. See, the Juice loves women. Women are hot. What with their boobs and their asses and legs and ‘ginas (don’t even get me started on the harshness of the word “vagina”. I mean could they think of a less sexy word for the best part of a woman?) and their hair and eyes and, to a lesser extent, their personalities. Dang, women are hot! But, internet porn just totally degrades ‘em. Strike me down, I sound like such a feminist. But, it’s true. The Juice wants to see a guy and a girl, or a girl, a guy and another girl, or a guy, a girl and another guy, or a girl and her equally hot girlfriend havin’ a swell time (you know, havin’ an innocent pillow fight. What else do you chicks do when you get together with your gal friends? Pillow fights, paint nails and make out with each other, right? Look, if it ain’t true, then for the love of the Christ, please don’t ruin it for the Juice. I don’t have much in my life).

The Juice likes seein’ all the participants havin’ a good time. But, internet porn brutalizes woman. What’s the pleasure out of seein’ a gal gaggin’ on a hog so much her eyes tear? Do you dudes hate your mommies so much that that gets you off? Hey, and what’s with all the porno dudes with these huge hogs? It’s like white folks on TV. Are all the dudes in Internet land hung like horses? I don’t mind tellin’ ya it makes the Juice feel a bit, ummm…inadequate. And, believe you me, the Juice don’t feel inadequate often.

But, I digress…

What happened to all the Porn stars? All the strippers? I like my porn stars hot and airbrushed. Sure, a lil reality in my porn is excitin’, but it’s gettin' a tad ridiculous at this point. If I want to see “the girl next door”, I’ll go knock on her door. I know she’s a slut, I don’t need to see it plastered all over the Net. Cause she ain’t that good lookin’. No, porn should be left to the beautiful people.

Here’s the other thing about porno, ya need a lil bit of a story. I know ya don’t want to hear it, but ya do. Story is the backbone of life. We’ve all got stories to tell. Shit, those Neanderthals were tellin’ pornographic stories on cave walls.

Click to enlarge:

Real Neanderthal cave art!

Who knew they had thongs back then?

Those Neatherthal were some real fuckin’ perverts!

Granted, you’re gonna fast forward thru most of the story, but it’s fun to have some sort of context, right? What’s that sayin? It’s the spaces between the notes that make the music. How about that for a thought provokin’ thought? I guess the Juice is becomin’ a bit philosophical in his old age. Anyway, ya need the story in-between the sex scenes to make the sex scene better. Comprende? Believe you me, it makes sense. You’re just so damn desensitized ya don’t see it. Either that or you’re just stupid. I suspect it to be the latter, but whatever.

Don’t believe me? Ever rent one of those 72 hour blow job greatest hits videos? Yea…there hot for the first few seconds. But, after the 16th hour, doesn’t the whole blow job thing become a bit, I don’t know, boring? And hey, this is comin’ from the dude who’s one of the BIGGEST fans of the hummer. Big fan. Big fan. The Juice’ll take a hummer over vaginal sex everyday of the week, including Blow Job day. Well, maybe not Blow Job day. That’s not to say the Juice don’t enjoy vaginal sex. Cause I do. I like hamburgers over pizza. But, I ain’t eatin’ hamburgers everyday. Get my drift? Some days I go to the Hut instead of McDonalds. Ya feel me? The Hut just makes me appreciate McDonalds that much more. It’s enhancement. Yea…that’s it, the space between the notes.

Would someone tell me how the fuck did I end up on this path?????

Whatever. You just keep watchin those pornos, day in and day out. Then one day, you’re gonna be so de-sensitized your gonna find yourself watchin’ Hot Grandma Sluts gettin’ boned in gas station bathrooms. Yea…you know you’re already intrigued.

Didja do a search of Big Sausage Pizza, yet? There's one blonde chick on that site that was pretty hot. I wonder if she ever did fuck that delivery guy. Hmmmmm...Did I bookmark that website?

The 11th day of What the Juice likes about Christmas

2005-12-14T22:11:00.000-05:00

Step right up! Come inside. On day 11 of our countdown, see what the Juice likes about Christmas. Buckle up, cause the coaster’s about to take off! Remember, keep all hands and feet inside. And no flash photography. Por favor, mantenganse allejado de las puertas.

So, the Juice likes Christmas songs. Yea, that’s right. You gotta fuckin' problem with that, sweetheart? I didn't think so. See, there ain’t nothin’ like listenin’ to Christmas music on Christmas Eve into Christmas day. It just sets the mood. Now, the Juice’ll be the first to admit, I don’t know the first thing about music. Hell, I don’t know the first thing about cars, sports, kids, carpentry, masonry, plumbing, photography, etymology, musicology or women(the Juice does know he loves lookin’ at hot naked women, though), for that matter.

The Juice, though, enjoys a good Christmas song. But, ya have to be specific about what song ya like. ‘Cause besides classical music, Christmas songs are the most covered music ever. Some of the Juice’s favorites are:

My Favorite Things by Johnny Mathis.
Mele Kalikimaka by Bing Crosby
Happy Holiday/The Holiday Season by Andy Williams
What are you doing New Year’s Eve – by anyone really
Any Christmas song by Frank Sinatra
Linus and Lucy by Vince Guarldi (yea I know it ain’t necessarily a Christmas song, but it reminds me of Christmas. If you're gonna nitpick, ya can always go fuck yourself)

Yea, those are some great Christmas songs. But, the Juice’s gotta tell ya, there are some seriously shitty ones out there too. Some are so dang bad, the universe is a worse place for their existence.

Here’s a scary thought for ya. Scienticians say that radio waves go out into the universe forever. Don’t believe the Juice? Then check out this quote from bigear.org:

“For over fifty years now, our first television and radio signals have been radiating out into space like a giant shock wave, or like waves radiating out from a pebble dropped into a pond. Another intelligent civilization could intercept them and wonder what they say. Imagine an alien race picking up one of our television signals, decoding it, and then sending what they believe to be an intelligent reply: "Lucy, I'm home!" or "So you want to be a wise guy, eh?"

That’s pretty fuckin’ scary ain’t it? So, in theory, all’s some aliens need is some sort or radio signal booster and Wham-o! They’ll be hearin’ what we’ve been listenin' to all this time. Now, wouldn’t it be embarrassin’ if one of the first things the aliens heard from us was "Grandma got ran over by a reindeer"? Just imagine what the aliens would think of us if they heard that. The Juice figures it 2 ways. We’d either be just a waste of time in there oversized, emotionless black eye and just leave us the hell alone. Or, they’re comin’ to Earth right now to take over the place. They probably figure were like rats and we don’t deserve the planet. I just hope when they get here, they don’t anal probe all of us. Cause the Juice don't enjoy things up his ass.

Know what other Christmas songs the Juice can’t stand? Probably not, so I’m gonna tell ya. "The Little Drummer Boy" by David Bowie and Bing fuckin' Crosby. Don’t even try layin’ that horseshit on me that it’s a classic. My Favorite Things is a classic. There ain’t nothing “classic” about this number. In fact, it down right blows. Who gives fuck one about these two numb nuts, anyway? Maybe 40 years ago it was cool, but really…what the fuck is Bowie singin’?

Then there's "Merry Christmas, Darling" by the Carpenters. What a whiney-ass song. I bet this chick couldn’t get laid if she tried. Dang! It just reeks of desperation. This gal needs to be dicked in the worst way. And normally, the Juice would oblige, however the Juice has two caveats. The missus would never let the Juice do it. She tends to suck that way. And two, the way this gal from the song is whinin’ on, it sounds a bit to the Juice that she ain’t good lookin’. Cause if she was good lookin’, she wouldn’t be whinin’ about some dude. Am I right? Can the Juice get an Amen? No? Okay. But, believe you me, the Juice don’t EVER nail ungood lookin’ chicks (my apologies to my ungood lookin’ female readers. Sorry you had to read it that way, but it’s all truth.)

Oh, wait. How about this annoyin' number? "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas". Who gives a fuck who it’s by. It’s fucking annoyin’. Now, the Juice don’t condone violence against children. No matter how temptin’ it might be. Especially after they’ve been mind fuckin’ ya all day. But, the kid who sings this song really needs a dope slap to the back of the head. And a “You ain’t gettin’ a hippo for Christmas, so shut the fuck up. Would ya? I’ve got one nerve left, and you’re doin’ the Acky Breaky Heart on it.” follow-up

Yea, there’s half a million Christmas songs that seriously bite. Like, "Santa Claus is comin’ to town" by Bruce Springsteen. All of Mariah Carey’s songs. Clay Aiken? C’mon! Ya know, now that the Juice considers it, all contemporary “artist” Christmas songs suck dead monkey balls. So, the Juice’ll just have to stick to the classics, thank you very much.

Well, I ain’t entirely sure how this post de-volved into Christmas songs I can’t stand, but like most things on this site, it’s best not to think about it too long. Cause it’ll only cloud your brain. And make you stupider. It probably causes Athlete’s Foot, too. But, that ain’t never been proven.

The 12th day of What the Juice likes about Christmas

2005-12-13T22:05:00.000-05:00

Here we are at day 12 of what the Juice loves about Christmas. Let's just dispense with the pleasantries and get to it, shall we? Today, it’s simple enough. It’s cookies. Yes, the Juice loves all the freshly baked cookies this time of year. Believe you me, the Juice don’t need Christmas to go on about his love of cookies. My love of the cookie is long and deep. We’re talkin’ true love here. Some folkels believe their soul mate to be some mythical person. Some person that supposedly completes them. I hate to tell ya, but there ain’t no such person. The only completion comes from inside. Not from some sexy bitch in a Santa outfit, but...uhhhh, we'll get to that later on in the week. But you keep on searchin’ you’re bound to find that "soul mate" eventually. Why dontcha check match.com? She might be waitin' for ya there. As if...

However, if the Juice were to say that he had a soul mate it would be in the cookie. Nothing has ever has given Juice such satisfaction than a warm cookie. Not even sex with two super hot chicks at the same time. Not that the Juice would know what sex is like with two super hot chicks, but I’m sure it’s no where as good as a dozen or so cookies. What the Juice is sayin’ here is that I could get a hundred hand jobs from a hundred different women, for a hundred different days and still that would not match the satisfaction of eatin’ a batch of homemade cookies.

Yea…you read that right. Cookies over sex. Cookies ain’t so fleetin’ as sex. Well, that’s not entirely true, either. The Juice tends to get that same empty feel after eatin a few dozen cookies as when he’s cranked off for the third time today lookin’ at internet porn. I write all this cause I know none of ya’s can read it. See, the Juice sometimes writed in a secret code. And right now is one of those times. Otherwise, if ya actually knew what the Juice was goin' on about, it might be plenty embarrassin'.

But, I digress...

However, there’s a caveat for my love of cookies. Sure my love is long and deep, but it’s for homemade cookies. I’m not gonna waste your time and mine by dissin’ store boughts here. In a pinch (which is everyday other than christmasfucktaculas), store boughts are ok. But homemade cookies? That’s goodness on a stick. But, without the stick.

And the only time that the Juice gets to indulge in homemade cookies is Christmastime. The missus bakes batch after batch. And the Juice consumes batch after batch. However, the missus is seriously slackin’ this year. Cookie one was not yet been baked or eaten. I don’t know what’s goin' on with that bitch, but it ain’t cookie bakin’. And I call her “bitch”, cause I’m writin’ in that secret code that no one can read besides the Juice again. Otherwise, the Juice would probably be a tad more respectful. For fear of the flyin’ meat tenderizers and no Christmas cookies.

The 13th day of What the Juice likes about Christmas

2005-12-12T21:49:00.000-05:00

Here we are back to the Juice’s countdown of the things I like about Christmas. What’s this, day 6? What? What’s that ya say? Day thirteen? Are ya fuckin’ me here? I got 13 more days to come up with crap I like about Christmas? Dang! What the hell did I get myself into here?

Well for day 13, the Juice is here to tell ya I loves Christmas shoppin’. Yea. That’s right. You can stuff your peepers back in your head. I’ll give ya a second to do it.

Not only does the Juice love Christmas shoppin’, but I don’t even mind all the stupid fucking people walkin’ around in the mindless haze they call Christmas shoppin’. Know why I like shoppin’ so much? I like it cause most times the Juice is doin’ the shoppin’ for hisself. Yea, that’s right. Hisself. Why else wait out in front of Target on Black Friday? C’mon! Who don’t shop for themselves at Christmas, you? Right....

Yea, we’ve all been fed that line, "it’s better to give than receive". Whoever the douche that thought of that was never on the recievin’ end of a blowjob, that’s for dang sure. However, I guess in the spirit of the holiday the Juice feels a bit obligated to say that it’s “nice” to buy stuff for other people. But, it’s even nicer to buy stuff for yourself.

Besides, who’s gonna buy ya what ya really want? Your significant other? As if. You’ve been tryin’ to get her to suck your balls for years now, has she done it? Noooooo! You’re kiddin’ yourself if ya think she’s got a clue. You expect her to know to buy ya that super limited edition what-the-fuck (that’s also true for you female readers out there. Just replace “vagina lickin’” with “suck your balls” and the “she’s” with “he’s” and you’re right where ya need to be…not gettin' what ya really want for Christmas. But, for the sake of my stupid readers, we’ll keep it from the "male perspective" here on out. I don’t wanna confuse anybody any further. Okay, ladies?)?

It don’t matter how many hints ya drop, either. She ain’t gonna get it for ya. You can even straight up and tell ‘er, Pretend if ya will:

It’s November 29th. You and your lovely bride are sitting around the his and her matching TV trays when she pops the question:

“Oh, sweetheart. What do you want for Christmas?

You gaze lovingly into her cow brown eyes and think: Well, what I really want is for you to leave. Or, if that’s not convienent enough…how about a three way? With anyone but you. But you say: “Dear, I want a super limited edition Baby Seal Hunter II: Baby Seal’s Revenge with real beating action for Playstation 5.2.”

She stares at you blankly. She replies, “Okay, dear.” But what she’s really thinking is: When is this man child I married ever going to grow up?

Now you know that she hasn’t grasped the significance of getting Baby Seal Hunter II: Baby Seal’s Revenge as soon as possible. Why would she? She never gets the significance of anything you care about. “If you’re really gonna get it for me, ya got to get it now. Because the stores are gonna sell out. It just came out, and it’s gonna be a hot seller. Let me get you a list of stores that sell it.”

You proceed to make a list of said stores. You smile at her as you hand her the list. It took you what? Half hour to do the research? As she takes the list from you, you realize you ain’t gonna get the game.

Fast forward to December 25. Guess what you didn’t get? Baby Seal Hunter II: Baby Seal’s Revenge. Guess what you did get. Who gives a fuck! It certainly wasn’t what ya wanted.

Has any of this happened to you? Of course it has. That’s why ya just save yourself the aggravation and buy whatever ya want for Christmas yourself. Done and done. If you’re in the holiday spirit, ya can give it to your wife to give back to you on that magical day. Seems a bit redundant, but what about Christmas ain't?

Or, ya can just do what the Juice does. Walk in from spendin’ a couple of hundred dollars at Best Buy and say to the missus…”Merry Christmas, honey. Thanks for all the gifts. You're the greatest!”

What the Juice likes about Christmas – Day 14 or Day 1. Whichever...

2005-12-11T22:51:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the Juice's countdown to Christmas! Over the next fourteen days the Juice will yak on about what I actually like about Christmas. It’s kinda like that stupid song the 12 days of Christmas, only it’s 14 days. And the Juice don’t sing on about stupid shit life 5 Cornish hens.

So, we begin with Day 1 of our countdown. Or in this case, Day 14, dependin' how you look at it. And you better look at it the right way. But, before ya hurt yourself thinkin’ about it, why don’t the Juice just cut through the shit and get to the point? That’d be a first for the Juice, right?

But, I digress…

So, what the Juice likes about Christmas this day is…(if the Juice had some webspace, ya be hearin’ a drum roll right about now. but webspace ain't free, and you folks don't never buck up for the Juice to get any) When Christmas is over.

Oh, here they come. Here come the “Humbug’s” and the “Scrooge’s” and the “You have absolutely no soul’s”. But, c’mon! The Juice is just sayin’ what you’re thinkin’ every last second until the glorious day of Christmas is over. It’s so much fucking work for one day, right? Can the Juice get an Amen? No? Fuck you then.

For the Juice the whole holiday is maddenin’. Between the shoppin’, the wrappin’, the gettin’ of the trees (yes, that is more than one tree. As in plural. Cause it’s a known fact that you don’t love Jesus unless you have 2 trees in your house.), the decoratin’ of said trees, the sendin’ out of the Christmas cards, and the all around bein’ nice to everyone. It’s all craziness. It just ain’t natural.

And in all this, I haven’t even mentioned the dealin’ with the kids. ‘Cause on top of all that other madness, if ya got kids, they are seriously hopped on Santa’s special brand of goofballs. Dealin’ with children at Christmas is like takin’ your kids to Disney. If you were of sound mind, you would never participate in either. Oh, don’t give me that horseshit. I hear ya sayin’ it. “What about tradition? My mommy and daddy did this for me and that for me…” Fucketh thateth, the Juice sayeth!

The whole holiday is enough to make any one have a melt down. Which, now that I mention it, is exactly what the Juice had the other day.

See, when ya got four kids, ya learn not to get hung up on stuff. Or, ya should learn at least not to get hung up on stuff. Like, when someone dumps nail polish remover on your sacred Sega Genesis system. Or throws your Atari Lynx in the turlet. Or draws with permanent marker all over your walls. Ya’know, the shit that would break the soul of a non-four kid responsible man. Ya just learn to ignore it all, or ya’ll never live to see the next day. Which you pray will be better than the one you’re currently sufferin’ in. But, it never is.

the Juice, whose family ain’t “known” for their patience, has his limits. Not only did the Juice pass those limits this pass weekend, but I headed into territory that would make the heart of a mortal man explode from the stress. The Juice is just one man, with four kids. What’s a dude gonna do? It’s a constant barrage of “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” Day in day out. Every last waken second. Picture, if you will, four faces talkin’ at ya all day. And they ain’t listenin’ back. Whether ya scream your fuck head off, or ya cry your peepers out, kids don’t listen.

And with Christmastime upon us, kids get this horrifyin’ disease called the Christmas Jimmies. Every kid gets it. They’re outta control with excitement. They ain’t in their heads, at all. They don’t give fuck one what you think, do or say. If they normally don’t listen, kids take it to the next level of unlistenin’.

Take, for example, my oldest, Sara. Seriously, take her, cause she’s really gettin’ on the Juice’s nerves. ‘Cause not only is she mind fuckin’ the Juice, but now she’s taken to torturin’ everyone else younger than her. It’s a horrifyin’ symphony of screams, a cacophony of “DADDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’s” that, believe you me, ain’t music to my ears.

And no matter how many times the Juice told Sara to stop torturin’ whoever she was torturin’, no matter how many times I threatened her bodily harm, no matter how many times the Juice pleaded or yelled, Sara just kept on mind fuckin’ everyone.

Kinda like:

“Sara, knock it off…”

“Sara, if ya don’t stop it, the Juice is gonna beat your ass”

“Sara, I swear to all that’s holy, I’m gonna put a serious hurtin’ on ya.”

“Sara, please stop. Please. Please. Please. I’m beggin’ ya! For your dad sanity”

“RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Sweet mother of all that’s holy, Sara, knock it the frig off!”

And so on and so on. Normally, at some point, Sara would stop. More than likely out of boredom. But, with the Christmas Jimmies coursin’ through ‘er, she wasn’t hearin’ a word her ol’ man was sayin’. So what does the Juice do when, he realizes that she ain’t listenin’ to me? Try somethin' different? Walk away? Meditate? Count to ten? Nope! The Juice kept on screamin’. Up until the missus came eventually came back from whatever kid-free place she holed herself in. Then the Juice got the hell outta dodge.

I know. I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “Wait, the Juice. Where was your wife the whole time?” I’d like to say that she was doin’ somethin’ important. Like findin’ a cure for leprosy. Or feedin’ the rich. No. She weren’t doin’ no such thing. She claims she was out Christmas shoppin’. The Juice figures she was parked three streets over hidin’ out in the car with her smokes and a 40. Much like the Juice does whenever he can.

So…to wrap this fucker up, one of the things the Juice likes most about Christmas is when it’s over!

Christmasfucktaculastime is here!!!!

2005-12-08T21:18:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year again! When we (and by "we" the Juice means "me") here at Dissertation Station put everything aside and celebrate that special time of year. The time of year when ya spend loads of your hard earned money on people you don't give shit one about normally. Know what the Juice can't stand? Buyin' shit for people ya work with. Why? Why do we do it? It's bad enough ya gotta waste your money on the people in your family that ya can't stand. But, to buy stuff for people ya work with? Ughhhh...Ya wouldn't spend half a second with those people if ya didn't have a family, a wife, a mortgage and a mini-van to pay for. I mean, you barely tolerate them most of the time. But when Christmas comes around, what do you do? You buy stuff for them! Makes perfect sense, right? Fucketh thateth, the Juice sayeth.

Christmas should be about showin' appreciation for those ya really care about. Like yourself. And your friends. And your family, if you swing that way. Not this "Oh, I gotta buy this person this and that person that. And don't forget Susie Q from the finance department." Fuck that.

I say we band together and take back Christmas! No more of this craziness! No more wastin' money! No more hangin' lights outside! Are ya with me?????

Of course you're not. Fucker.

But, I digress...

So, in celebration of the silly season, the Juice is gonna run nothin' but Christmas-related posts all the way up to the big day. Now don't get your hopes up that I'm gonna post every day. I can guran-damn-tee that ain't gonna happen. But, starting Monday, December 12th thru the 25th, the Juice is gonna get into the Christmas spirit. With topics like: What chick I'd...well. I don't want to ruin it. So, you'll just have to tune in.

And that my friends is what the folks in the industry call a tease...

World's Greatest Invention: Cool Whip

2005-12-07T22:09:00.000-05:00

With the holidays upon us, the Juice got to thinkin’ about one of the greatest treats ever devised by a human. Besides the blow job, that is. 'Cause that would be the greatest treat ever bestowed upon mankind. Seriously, the Juice wants to personally thank the first gal whoever thought to put a wang to her mouth. Before we go any further, let the Juice just say it better have been a gal who first did it. ‘Cause the Juice has a sneaky suspicious that it wasn't. And that scares the Juice a bit. So, at this early point, the Juice is gonna digress..

Cool Whip. That's what the Juice is goin' on about. Cool Whip! There ain’t nothin’ like. It could be the perfect food. It’s so dang versatile! You can top pumpkin pie with it. You can top ice cream with it. Or cookies. Or granola bars. Or funnel cake. Or hot chocolate. The Juice says “fuck the marshmallows, pass that tub o’ Cool Whip over here.” And the ladies love it to, especially when ya dunk your tool in it and…well the Juice is again gettin' a bit off topic.

Yea, the Juice knows it's a “non-dairy” toppin'. Which is code for not real. Kinda like when ya see “chocolately” on food packages. “Chocolately” means chocolate-like. Or chocolate tastin’. But, it ain’t chocolate. It’s kinda like the Krustyburger(the Juice has said it before, and I’ll say it again…I love Wikipedia!!!!). You know, the official meat-flavored sandwich of the 1984 Olympics?

The Juice don’t give fuck one about what tree huggers like these fairies think (my apologies to my fairy and other mystical-type creature readers), Cool Whip is fine. Sure. Sure. Cool Whip’s got partially hydrogenated coconut oil in it. And apparently partially hydrogenated anything ain’t good for ya.
So what? I’m sure ya folks sneerin’ at the Juice’s crassness are the same folks who drink diet soda. Didja know that artificial sweeteners in diet soda ain’t real good for ya? In fact, Aspartame, isn’t what ya would call “healthy” at all. Fascinatin’?!?!? But, just like beauty, truth, the Juice supposes, is in the eye of the beholder. Just ask the makers of Nutrasweet. So, you keep on drinkin’ and eatin’ diet shit. And the Juice’ll keep on eatin’ Cool Whip.

Cool Whip was put out by Kraft foods in 1967. Hard to believe, really. Ya think the shit would’ve been around since the turn of the century. The last turn of the century, that is. But it hasn't been. The Juice searched to see who invented Cool Whip. But, I came up empty handed. The Juice has a feelin’ that the folks who ran Kraft Foods at the time, had the genius killed who invented it. Why should they have to pay off the guy (or less likely, gal) who developed the stuff, when they can kill the genius and keep the spoils to themselves? More than likely the folks at Kraft drowned the genius in a giant tub of Cool Whip. Wouldn’t that be ironical?

But here’s sweet revenge for my imaginary dead genius. A recipe to make your own Cool Whip! Like Cool Whip is so expensive ya need to make it yourself. I guess if you’re too cheap to spend the buck 50 and buy the real stuff, then this recipe is for you. And the Juice has that feelin’ that you are that cheap. By the way, before ya click that link, make sure ya got your pop-up blocker on. Sheesh!

So, in closin', the Juice says “fuck you” to partially hydrogenated oils! Not only am I gonna keep on eatin’ the deliciousness known as Cool Whip, but I’m gonna eat the whole fucking tub of it! Ya gotta problem with that ya diet soda drinkin’ tree huggers?

Terrell Owens v Peyton Manning: Force Fight

2005-12-06T21:44:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, “anonymous” posted this battle on my Force or Blasters post. For some reason, the Juice thought that this match-up would me somewhat entertainin’. I hope you don’t have something important to do over the next 5 minutes or so. Like save someone’s life, or give it real nice to Jessica Simpson. ‘Cause if ya do, and you’re passin’ up that to read this, you’re gonna seriously regret it. The Juice is just warnin’ ya.

So, on one hand we’ve got former Eagle (is he actually former Eagle at this point) and wide receiver extraordinaire, Terrell Owens. Lets face it, this dude really got the short end of the stick. Have you seen the cat’s stats? 130 receptions for 1,931 yards? That's in one fuck year!

I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “Yea, big deal the Juice. So what if Owen’s got 100 touchdowns. He’s a jerk! All’s he cares about is himself.” Oh, like Jeffrey Lurie gives fuck one about you "Eagles" fans. The Juice can guran-damn-tee that the only thing that Jeffrey Lurie cares about is money. And asses in the seats. Didja catch the current value of the Eagles? To Lurie, you’re just a non-payin’, tv watchin’, mooch.

But, I digress…

Let’s get something straight here. Not only has T.O. got 100 touchdown receptions, he’s only the 6th dude to ever do it. At this rate, not only is Owen’s gonna surpass Mr. Fancy Pants Jerry Rice’s all-time record, but he’s gonna beat it like hunter beats a 3 month old baby seal. Good and dead.

I gotta tell ya, when the big guy was handin’ out talent, Mr. Owens lucked out. Some dudes write barely funny shit for free day in day out. And some dudes get millions of dollars for catchin’ footballs 16 weeks a fuckin year. Yea, the Juice sees the fairness in that.

So what if the guy’s a jerk. That’s debatable. Is T.O. any more of a jerk than Donald Trump? Or Mikhail Baryshnikov?

Then there’s goody two shoes, Peyton Manning. Dang, this guy is so squeaky clean he makes Mickey Mouse look like a pimp. Yea, the Colts are undefeated. Big deal. Someone will beat ‘em eventually. Say what ya want about T.O. At least he’s got some personality to ‘em.

In the end, the Juice don’t give shit one about passing records, reception records or beat off records. The Juice only cares about this. And that blonde in the lower left hand corner? She wants me.

What's in a hobby?

2005-12-01T21:44:00.000-05:00

It’s been a long time since the Juice answered emails. The last time was way back when. It’s not like I’m not inundated with emails. God forbid I not get one once in awhile. The Juice has just been too busy to answer them. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I’ll get to it sooner or later. However, since my Black Friday post, I’ve been gettin' a ton of email from tough guys like, Footballrulez69, that go a little like this:

The juice, what kind of man are u? u still play with toys? legos? what's the matter with you? those things are for kids. when you gonna grow up?

Well, Footballrulez69 (and the rest of ya’s), the Juice would normally tell ya to go fuck yourself. And say things like: “Who the fuck are you to judge the Juice? What do you do that’s so great? Troll for porn non-stop ‘cause secretly ya hate women? Or do you do thousands of push-ups to impress that chick that didn’t want to have anythin’ to do with ya in High School?” But, today, I'll keep my trap shut. I guess the Juice has the Christmasfucktackulas spirit energizin’ ‘im. So, I’m gonna indulge ya, Footballrulez69 (and the rest of the Juice’s distracters for that matter), this once.

The short answers to your questions, Footballrulez69, are: Horny. No. Yes. Where do I start? And never. Now, the long answers? Well…I ain't sure what the long answers might be. The Juice’s court appointed shrink used ta say that the Juice didn’t get enough huggins as a kid. The Juice is here to tell ya, I still don’t get enuf huggins. And by huggins, I mean handjobs.

I can't tell ya how many times I've heard in my life "When ya gonna grow up?" My ol' man said it so many times, I thought it was some sort of mediation mantra. See, my ol’ man is a mechanical genius. He can put a car together drunk off his ass, with both eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back. I’ve seen him chop down a tree and build an entertainment center out of it, in 6 hours time. The Juice? I couldn’t change the oil on a car if you were behind me practically yellin’ at me what to do. Now that the Juice considers it, that’s exactly what the ol’ man did.

But, I digress…

My ol’ man had a theory. A theory of toys, if you will. It’s not as profound as say, Einstein’s Theorem of the Addition of Velocities Employed in Classical Mechanics, but he swore by it as scientific law. The ol’ man's theory goes like thus: As a kid, ya started playin’ with Lincoln Logs, then ya progress to Lego, then you progress to Erectors set. And then you became a mechanical genius. Bet ya can’t guess where the Juice got stuck. If you were to ask my ol’ man, that in a nutshell is my problem. The Juice never progressed beyond the Lego stage of life.

Now, you may say the Juice has an unhealthy compulsion for children's playthings. Or that I’m emotional stunted. And more than likely both those statements are true. However, the Juice likes to spin it that I’m in touch with my inner child. The inner child that never got a decent dang thing for Christmas. Ever. How many Erector sets can ya play with? Where’s the imagination in that? I’ll tell ya, it ain’t in Erector set, that's for dang sure.

It turns out it’s comeuppance time for the Juice and his inner child is goin’ to town. Believe you me, there are much better things the Juice would rather be in touch with. Like Jennifer Love Hewitt’s sweet ass. But, whatya gonna do?

Enuf about the Juice, though. Let’s talk about Footballrulez69 (and the rest of ya emailin’ cowards). How’s about we examine what you’re into? Judgin’ by your handle, I’m sure ya like to watch sports. I gotta tell ya, there ain’t nothin’ more productive than watchin’ other dudes, who get payed zillions of dollars a year, chase a ball around. And knowin’ Mike Scrotum’s battin’ average from 1970 is soooo manly. I bet that gets ya laid a lot. Knowin' how many receptions Lydell Mitchell had in 1974 ain’t a complete waste of time (It’s 72, by the way. Look it up yourself. Make sure you use Blingo, though). Now, if you’re playin’ sports, the Juice can almost respect that. Almost. At least you’re actually doin’ somethin’. But the Juice can’t respect golf. Sorry. Complete. Waste. Of. Time. But, even if you are playin’ some sort of sport, besides golf, aren’t ya just playin’ a kids game? How you like the Juice now? You got nuts makin’ fun of the Juice.

What other “hobbies” are there? How about those cats that are into cars. Oh, that’s not too compulsive, now is it? How many times can ya rebuild a fuckin' carburetor? At least you ain’t watchin’ cars go round in circles. Man, after 5 minutes of NASCAR, you end up a dribblin’ idiot.

How about watchin’ TV? Might as well kiss your brain goodbye.

Surfin the Internet? How long does it take ya to get off lookin’ at porn these days? Do the words "desensitized" mean anything to ya.

Gamblin’? Talk about a waste of money. Oh, sure, you’re gonna hit it big. Eventually…

Dudes that buy tools? How many different screw drivers do ya need? Oh, and by the way…buyin’ tools is the same thing as buyin’ toys. That’s why they call Home Depot the toy store for adults.

Nudie bars? As much as I love the thought of a naked chick, payin’ to be teased is not only is a waste of money, but just reeks of desperation. At least with a hooker, ya get somethin’ out of it. The Juice says, stick to the internet.

Collectin’ shit? C’mon! What? Like coins? Or rubberbands? Or vacuum cleaners. Yes, vacuum cleaners.

How about religion? Don’t even get me started. Two words: Kook E

So you see, Footballrulez69, all hobbies are basically unhealthy manifestations of your inner obsessions. Sure, I enjoy what ya might consider childish things. But, ya know what? The Juice don’t really care what ya’all think. I only pretended that I cared. I had a post to write. I guess I just could’ve saved myself a whole lotta time and just said…go fuck yourself.

James Kirk v Han Solo: Blaster fight

2005-11-29T21:46:00.000-05:00

In the comments of my Force or Blasterspost, “Anonymous” posted what seems like a fairly decent battle. James Kirk v Han Solo in a blaster fight. However, "Anonymous" didn’t specify which Kirk we’re dealin’ with here. Just like that prick Genie from the lamp, ya gotta be specific about your combatants. Are we talkin’ Captain Kirk or Admiral Kirk? Are we talkin’ Cap’n Kirk from the TV series or from The Motion Picture? When ya wish for fame, make sure you're very specific with that smart ass Genie. Or you'll end up bein' famous for robbin' a tampon store or somethin'.

Since "Anonymous" didn’t specify which Kirk, the Juice’ll take liberties. Let’s call it Kirk from the original series. That bad ass, alien nailin’ Cap’n he was.

Now, all that bein’ said, ya think that this would be a close battle. We've got 2 captains, fairly handy with their weapons (I’m talkin’ their blasters, not their hogs. Duh!) They’ve got hairy Number Ones. Could almost be a draw here, right? As if. The similarities end there. This battle is so one sided, you’d almost be embarrassed for the loser.

Take their choice of weapons for example. Everyone knows that Han Solo uses the Blastech DL-44. I mean, who wouldn’t choose that blaster, right? Kirk uses that standard issue United Federation’s Phaser. I got three words for ya: Pussy weapon. Might as well use a .22 automatic.

Then there’s the ship. Who’s pickin’ the Enterprise over the Falcon? Oh, I know who is, all those “Trekkers”. And those Trekkers need to get a life. Seriously. I mean, there ain’t no way the NCC-1701 is beatin’ the Falcon. No way on the Christ’s blue planet that the Enterprise even comes close to the Falcon. What’s the Enterprise do the Kessel run in? Probably 75 parsecs. Nothin’ beats the Falcon’s 12 parsecs. Nothin’.

In the end, Solo gets the win. Let’s face it, Han Solo’s a man’s man. Except for the complete neuterin’ he took in Return of the Jedi. But, that’s neither here nor there. Besides, Han Solo don’t tow no company line, unlike that lapdog, Kirk. I don’t care how many hot green aliens he nailed, Kirk’s just a sad excuse for a Cap’n

Any of you Trekkers care to differ? Tough, cause I get the final say here.

We’ll exam the TO v Manning battle tomorrow. Except probably not tomorrow. I got better things to do.

Partial Post-Holiday madness recap

2005-11-28T21:34:00.000-05:00

Shit. It’s hard to believe that 5 days have passed since Thanksgivin’. That’s what pisses the Juice off about the holidays the most. One minute you’re knee in plannin’ every last second of your time off. The next? You’re right back in your fuckin’ cubicle, wishin’ that your PC would explode sendin’ you back to the Christ. Dang! I hate the fuckin’ holidays!

But, as much as the Juice hates Thanksgivin’, I hate Christmastime even more. Now, before ya start that fuckin’ Humbug shit, ask yourself this: Do you even know where “Humbug” came from? The Juice is willlin’ to wager dollars to donuts that ya can’t name the title or the author of the book that “Humbug” is known from. The Juice ain’t callin’ ya stupid…well, yea I am.

I’m just sayin’ that Christmastime has become way too ridiculous. It’s not so much the Christmas part the Juice severely dislikes, it’s the “time” (and I ain’t frontin’ on Morris Day, here) that makes the Juice want to club baby seals with a studded, rusty, 3 prong tire iron. Before ya start sendin’ me your nasty emails callin’ the Juice a pagan, let me explain. Even though the Juice ain’t a religionist, the Juice is fairly down with the Christ. I don’t claim to know him personally, or professionally for that matter, but what little I do know of him (which is probably the same amount as this clown), Jesus seems to have the goods together, and the ducks in a row. Kinda like Superman, but in a real, non cape wearin', historical way.

So, how do we go from tryin’ to recognizin’ an upstandin’ citizen to complete and utter chaos? It’s pretty fucking amazin’ if ya think about it. But, believe you me, you’re better off not thinkin’ about it.

I don’t quite understand the concept of people waitin’ in line to get into a store. Especially, at 4 in the morning. Don’t you folks have anything better to do? Like sleep? Or fuck? Or write me hate mail? WTFMFF!?!?!? What’s even cooler than people waitin’ in line, like they’re waitin’ to get onto Dumbo, are the fist fights that break out. Especially over a fuckin’ laptop. Ya know that the folks at Wal-Mart purposely under order this shit, right? They do it so they can watch the madness on the surveillance cameras and have a laugh.

Know what the problem is? If ya did, ya probably wouldn’t be here. The problem is that "they” took prayer outta school. If kids were prayin’ in school, this Black Friday madness would never happen. 'Cause we all know it couldn’t have anything to do with the constant barrage of advertisements, every last second of the day. Makin’ ya want more and more, ‘til you’re so empty, ya just want to sit in a corner and drink another 40.

But, I digress…

I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “Why do you care, the Juice? You’re smarter than that. You would never wait in the pre-dawn hours just to get into a store to buy shit.” And you would be absolutely right in thinkin’ that. Expect, that you’re not. Cause the Juice was out not-so bright, but real fuckin’ early Friday mornin’. Waitin’ in line at my local Target. Yea, I know that it seems an awful lot like the Juice is a hypocrite. And, more than likely, you’re right. But, the Juice don’t give fuck one what you think. If ya got a problem with that, I suggest you check out the Dissertation Station Complaint form. Satisfaction guaren-damn-teed!

The Juice had a perfectly good reason to miss out on at least 3 hours of sleep to get up at 5:30 in the am, to meet my buddy Paco Reban at Target at 10 of 6 in the mornin’. I can sum it up in one word: Lego Millennium Falcon! Were talkin’ snowtrooper, here! This set is one of the Juice’s holy grails (to blaspheme another religious icon. Don’t get all high and mighty with the Juice. How many times didja think impure thoughts about that sexy piece of ass in the short skirt you saw pumpin’ gas this mornin’? far be it for the Juice to remind ya, that even if you’re only thinkin’ it, it’s still a sin). When ya clicked on the link, didja check out that price of the Falcon? $99.99? That’s a whole lotta scratch that the Juice couldn’t justify in a zillion years to the missus. So, the Juice did what he always does…suffered another boner. All the excitement, none of the release. Just another item on a long list of shit the Juice ain’t ever gonna get.

Then, huzzah!!!! Fucking Target’s got the Falcon on sale for $49.99! Well, thank you Jesus (as it were). The only thing is, that it was on sale on Black Friday morning. Mother Fuckers!!!! So, the Juice did the unthinkable, and got up early and waited with the rest of the sheep outside Target.

At least the Juice can say that I wasn’t waitin’ in line to buy Christmas presents. That would be incredibly stupid. No, the Juice waited in line to buy hisself something. I’m not sure that makes it any better, but I like to think it does.

Stop back tomorrow, for a more in-depth holiday weekend recap. Just, don’t make it tomorrow.

Abolishing the stupidity that is Thanksgiving

2005-11-23T22:26:00.000-05:00

Dang! the Juice can’t stand Thanksgiving. That’s why the Juice is here to propose that we just abolish the holiday and declare November 1st through January 1st "Christmasfucktaculas"!!! Pretty fucking catchy, ain’t it? Don’t bother, the Juice is lookin’ into coinin’ it as we speak, to coin another phrase. As it were.

So, why abolish Thanksgiving? 'Cause, it’s a complete waste of time. There used to be an era, long ago, when Thanksgiving was useful. Way back when, Thanksgiving was the day that set off the holiday shopping season. But, now…it’s just a beat-up welcome mat to the monstrosity known as Christmas (no offense the Christ, of course). Cause now, the unofficial day that kicks off the holiday shopping season appears to be Halloween. Well, actually All Saint’s Day, November 1st, would be the unofficial kick off. Don’t believe the Juice? Fuck you, cause it’s true.

I ain’t sure where you live. And truth be told, I don’t care. I know where I live and in these parts, radio stations start playin’ Christmas music back on November one. This trend started after 9/11. the Juice understands why it happened back then. The country was hurtin’ after that horrifyin’ tragedy. And we need somethin’, ANYTHING, to feel good, comforted. And what’s more comfortin’ then Andy Williams singin “don’t forget to suck on my cock?” Uhhhh…I mean, “Don’t forget to hang up your sock.” Regardless, radio stations started playin’ Christmas music November 1st. And that first year, in 2001, it was cool. And since it worked in 2001, said radio stations figured it would work in 2002. And 2003. And 2004. And 2005. They’ve started playin’ Christmas music on November 1st every fuck year since 2001. IT’S ENOUGH ALREADY!!!!!

Now, I know what you’re thinkin’. You thinkin’: “But, the Juice, just because the radio stations start playing Christmas music earlier doesn’t mean the holiday season starts any sooner.” The Juice is here to tell ya, that you’re completely off base. Ya want proof? Do you need proof that the holidays start sooner now? Well, I don’t got any physical evidence. I’ve got plenty of hearsay and conjecture, though. And we all know that’s just as good as real evidence.

Once ya got Christmas music in people's ears, they want to shop. Shop, shop, shop, shop, shop!!!!! People are worse than Pavlov’s dog. Ya hear Christmas music and BOOM! “Christmas is around the corner. I gotta start shoppin’”. It used to be that after Halloween, the stores would do a lil something for Thanksgiving. You know, a small section of Thanksgiving theme crap for ya to buy. In the meantime, they’d get the rest of the store ready for Christmas and the mythical “Black Friday.” Granted, stores didn’t have much in the way of Thanksgiving shit (lets get real, it’s just an eatin’ holiday. Not a gift-givin’ one), but a nod to the token holiday, nonetheless. Today, though, the stores don’t even acknowledge Thanksgiving. Ya got ad’s featurin’ Christmas shit right after Halloween!?!?!? WTFMFF?

The only stores that give shit one about Thanksgiving are the grocery stores like the Piggly Wiggly. And the only reason they give a shit is cause they’ve got turkeys to sell. And if there’s one thing the Juice totally unlikes, it’s turkey. Sounds fairly communistic of the Juice, right? Well, the Juice don’t like watermelon, either. But that’s a tale for another day. See, the Juice eats a lot of chicken. Supposedly, it “healthier” than steak. The Juice loves steak. LOVES IT! But, meat ain’t good for your heart. At least that’s what my quack of a doc tries to sell me. I don’t want to get into here. Suffice it to say, the Juice eats a lot of chicken. So, why the fuck should I get a hard-on about a turkey? I’m eatin’ it's cousin on a daily basis. If ya wanted somethin’ to get excited about, how about a nice ham for Thanksgiving? Now that’s somethin’ you don’t have everyday. Or, better yet, a nice Porterhouse. But, no, we gotta eat turkey.

But, I digress…

There ain’t nothing like a holiday like Thanksgiving to make you feel like a kid again. And the Juice ain’t talkin’ the “God damn! I can’t believe I got the Darth Vader action figure I've wanted all year” feelin’ like a kid way. No, the Juice is talkin’ about, that sick to your stomach, condescendin’ way. You know what I’m talkin’ about. Aunt Susie criticizin' everything about ya. Or Uncle Fred wantin’ to know why ya can’t hold down a job. Or your ma wantin’ to know why you don't do stuff for her. You know, the shit ya’ve been puttin’ up with since ya can remember. Kinda like:

“Whatja do to your hair?” Aunt Susie asked shovin’ another heapin' spoonful of mash potatoes down her gullet.

Or

“You look like you’re puttin’ on weight, sweetheart.” Gee, thanks for noticin'.

Or

“You don’t come to visit. How come? Your sister comes every week.” Maybe if ya would stop your fuckin’ naggin’ I might stop by every once in awhile.

I’m sure you get the picture. Thanksgiving is a seriously masochistic holiday. So why would ya spend that valuable time with people ya can’t stand? I mean, ya spend all year avoidin’ them. And ya willfully get together with them for dinner? What’s the matter with you? If ya were really thankful for the people in your life, ya wouldn’t need a special day, once a year to let them know. You would just up and tell ‘im. Maybe even give 'em a hug. Believe you me, the Juice ain't condonin' huggin'. Hand jobs? That's a different story...

So, let just get rid of Thanksgiving. We’d be doin’ ourselves a favor. Besides, that’d be an extra day for the stores to be open durin’ Christmasfucktaculas. Just think of how many more moeny they'd make if they could stay open an extra day…

Genghis Kahn v Mahatma Gandhi: Force battle

2005-11-21T21:50:00.000-05:00

I gotta tell ya, the Juice has been lookin' forward to this one all day. Ever since I read it in the comments of my Force or Blasters, the Juice couldn't wait to sink his teeth into this battle.

But first, the Juice had to do some research. The Juice wants to give a serious shout out to Wikipedia. This is a great fucking site. And the best part? It's fuck free!!! I don't know how. I don't know why. But apparently, the Juice ain't the only one givin' his sweat, blood and semen away for free.

But, I digresss...

So, we've got Genghis Kahn in one corner and Mahatma Gandhi in the other corner. Now, when the Juice thinks of Genghis Kahn, I think pure evil, right? Don't you? It's probably a combination of the media and that stupid movie Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, that the Juice got that opinion. I mean, we all know the media's brain washin' us. Why else would Stacker 2 exist? Do any of you morons know where that "burned fat" goes? It's leaked out your ass. Don't believe the Juice? Do a search. Just remember to use Blingo!!!

In the Juice's research (and by research, I mean briefly skimmin' the page on Mr. Kahn on wikipedia), turns out that Genghis wasn't evil incarnate. Sure, he was a bit of a prick, but then again, what emperor isn't? Look at the dickness of the Emperor in Star Wars, right? Talk about a manipulatin' cock. Darth Sidious makes Genghis look like Mahatma Gandhi (c'mon. Ya gotta admit that was a sweet segue).

Mahatma, as the Juice likes to call 'im, was a bit of a peacenik. Which means, he was a pussy. The Juice just don't get the whole "non-aggression" thing. I don't get how non violent protests work. If they ain't violent, then who gives a fuck? Let's face it, shit never gets done until people get hurt or killed. I guess the Juice is gonna have to make you dust off your 9th grade history books (it's right there underneath your issue of playboy with Barbie Benton on the cover) and read about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory incident again, right?

But the whole non-violent thing worked for Mahatma. Must've been his mojo. Either that or the python hangin' between his legs. Ya don't read much about that sucker in your history books, now do ya? I'm not sure what the hell that has to do with anything, but let's just press on.

I know. I know. It's a lot of readin' just to find out who'd win a Force fight. So, let's just cut to the chase, shall we? I give it to Gandhi.

Force or Blasters?

2005-11-14T21:38:00.000-05:00

The Juice has been meanin’ to start this for sometime now. I’m just now gettin' to it. What can I say? I'm a lazy, lazy man.

There isn’t a specific name for this lil game I'm about to introduce, but the Juice is callin’ it Force or Blasters. It entails comin’ up with 2 opponents in either a Force fight or a Blaster fight and determine who’d win. The Juice used to do this with some folks in another project I was involved with. A group of us would get into discussions over who’d win and why. Most times, these “discussions” would often end up in battles themselves.

Confused? Think the Juice is ramblin'? How true you are. But, let me give you an example: How about...Luke v Han. Who’d win? Some might say Han. Some might say Luke. Stupid, right? Let’s throw some variables in there. Like, Luke v Han in a Force fight. Who’d win? Luke hands down. How about Luke v Han in a blaster fight? Han, right? Or Luke from the beginnin’ of A New Hope v Han in a Force fight. A little tough, but I’m givin’ this to Luke.

It’s all fairly cut and dry, right? Here’s where it gets interestin’ (and by interestin’, the Juice means absurd). Who’d win in a blaster fight between Luke from A New Hope and, say, Abe Lincoln, no Force? Don’t be so quick to judge. I hear that Abe could handle a weapon. The Juice is sayin’ Abe on this one.

We’re not limited to Star Wars, here. Who’d win in a Force fight between Charlie Brown and Steve Buscemi? This one’s easy. Chuck Brown. No doubt about it. That’s dude’s about 5 seconds from bitch slappin Lucy back to the stone age. And he’s 3 seconds away from goin’ to the dark side.

So, we’re gonna do a lil audience participation here. You name the contestants and the particulars and the Juice names the winner, we aren’t limited to Force or Blaster fights, either. Could be a street fight, a Kung Fu battle, or even a cake-off. All battles are non-negotiable. Once the Juice declares a winner, we move along. I’ll post the battles here on the blog on Mondays. You can email your battles to me here. Or you can post them in comments. Whatever.

I'm not quite sure why I'm doin' this. If it ends up suckin, then it sucks. And we never speak of it again.

Flashback: Kokomo

2005-11-13T22:01:00.000-05:00

I know I say this a lot, but this has got to be the worst song ever. I swear, the Juice means it this time. Yea, those other songs (Escape! and I’d really love to see you tonight) suck major monkey hog. But this one really takes the cake.

What makes this song even more of a crime is because it’ s by the legendary Beach Boys. The Juice ain’t quite sure why they’re so legendary. Cause just like the Rollin’ Stones, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, and (for that matter) the entire decade known as the 60’s, the Juice just don’t know why the Beach Boys are so “legendary”. I guess cause the Juice is kinda partial to their song In My Room. Otherwise, I’d probably classify the whole thing as a suckfest.

The problem is that bands don’t know when to retire. Just like the great Kenny Loggins once said: “…Ya gotta know when to fold ‘em…” It’s like the douche bag who works for the same company 15 years, when he should’ve left 13 years before. When ya don’t know when to walk, ya get crappy songs with shitty lyrics like:

Aruba, jamaica ooo I wanna take you
Bermuda, bahama come on pretty mama
Key largo, montego baby why don’t we go
Jamaica
Off the florida keys
There’s a place called kokomo
That’s where you wanna go to get away from it all
Bodies in the sand
Tropical drink melting in your hand
We’ll be falling in love
To the rhythm of a steel drum band
Down in kokomo
Aruba, jamaica ooo I wanna take you
To bermuda, bahama come on pretty mama
Key largo, montego baby why don’t we go
Ooo I wanna take you down to kokomo
We’ll get there fast
And then we’ll take it slow
That’s where we wanna go
Way down to kokomo
To martinique, that monserrat mystique
We’ll put out to sea
And we’ll perfect our chemistry
By and by we’ll defy a little bit of gravity
Afternoon delight
Cocktails and moonlit nights
That dreamy look in your eye
Give me a tropical contact high
Way down in kokomo

What the fuck is that? We’re the Beach Boys serious? Now, the Juice ain’t no lyricist. Hell, the Juice ain’t much of a writer, but those lyrics have got to be the worst. Christ, all they’re doin’ in rattlin’ off vacation destinations. Is this a fucking commercial for Royal Caribbean Cruise line or what? And believe you me, if you’re even considerin’ takin’ a cruise, ya might want to think twice. Didja hear the one about the pirates attackin’ the cruise ship? WTFMFF!!!!! This is the 20th century, right? Pirates? With eye patches and parrots? Oh yea, and RPG’s. I gotta tell ya, pirates are the last thing the Juice is thinkin’ about after he’s sunk a couple grand into a cruise. The only thing I’m thinkin’ about is the midnight buffet, the all inclusive drinkin’, and prayin' for a few hot number’s in thong bikinis at the pool. Cause there ain’t much more the Juice loves than a hot chick in a bikini. But, now you’re sellin’ the Juice that he’s got to worry about pirates? I’ve got 5 words for ya: Fucketh thateth! The Juice’ll take his vacation at home with my beer, steak, blow up pool and nudie magazines, thank you very much. There ain’t no worryin’ about pirates attackin’ ya there. That’s for dang sure.

If the Juice were gonna write a song, it’d go a lil something like:

harry truman, doris day, red china, johnnie ray
South pacific, walter winchell, joe dimaggio

joe mccarthy, richard nixon, studebaker, television
North korea, south korea, marilyn monroe

rosenbergs, h-bomb, sugar ray, panmunjom
Brando, the king and I and the catcher in the rye

eisenhower, vaccine, england’s got a new queen
Marciano, liberace, santayana goodbye

Nah, that’s some other crappy song that just lists shit. The Juice’s version goes like:

The patio, the back stoop ooo I ain’t leavin’
The pirates, the legionnaires disease, come on give me a break.
All that money, fuck it, the kids can go to hell
Jamaica?
C’mon, pass the peas (You try comin’ up with a better line)
There’s a place called our Backyard
That’s where were gonna go
Or, perhaps the mall…

Man, this is tough. The Juice can’t seem to come up with any clever lyrics. Ehhhh…fuck it. This post is seriously draggin’, anyway. I guess it's time to wrap up. Suffice it to say, Kokomo sucks. We all know it. The Beach Boys know it. Thank the Christ it seems to have disappeared from the planet. But, every once in awhile, one of those “adult-contemporary” radio stations (that’s code word for sucky 80’s music, by the by. remember Phil Collins?) will dig the song up and torture us all by playin’ it. Typically, the Juice gags and I throw my 40 at the radio. Unless of course I’m drivin’. Then I just cuss and change the station (no drinkin’ and drivin’ kids. Remember: Arrive alive. So “they” can suck the soul outta ya). After the song is over, the Disc Jockey will go on to say something oh so clever like: “With the weather like this, I wish I was in Kokomo” or “A tropical drink would be great right about now.” Like his day is so fuck hard. That clever banter just makes the Juice want to drive to the radio station and extract said Disc Jockey’s teeth with my best pair of steel toes. The Juice would be tempted to drive to the Disc Jockey’s house and ass fuck his wife/girlfriend (only if she consented, of course) for such stupid comments, but we all know that Jocks that work at those type of radio stations don’t have wives. Cause they're eunuchs (look it up yourself, you lazy fuck)!!!! Now, the Juice ain’t condonin’ violence. Keep your emails, all you peaceniks. The Juice is a lover, not a fighter. A lover of hot chicks in bikinis. I’m just sayin that Kokomo, and Disc Jockeys that work at AC radio stations, suck.

Odd and End

2005-11-11T21:16:00.000-05:00

the Juice don't got much to say tonight. So, it'll be short and sweet.

Know how the Juice is always goin' on about how you don't do a dang thing for me? And how I entertain you with this entertainin' blog, day in and day out. And the Juice does it for free. No beggin' for money here, right? Just good times. It's kinda like all the whores and blow jobs ya want, but without all the whores and blow jobs.

Well, it's time for you fucks to buck up. No, don't send me your dollars. the Juice don't want them (i can't believe i actually wrote that. it ain't like that comment's gonna come back and haunt the Juice or anything). the Juice wants ya to sign up for this thing called Blingo. It's a search engine, powered by Google. But, you can win shit with it. So, it's fuckin' better. Ya sign up, ya do your search for porn (like you search for anything but, who you foolin'? ya ain't talkin' to your wife here) and ya can win shit like movie tickets and Sony PSP's. the Juice wants the PSP. I've got a bone to prove it.

And the more folkels the Juice gets signed up, the more shit the Juice wins. Yes, the Juice is aware that it's a Ponzi scheme, but you'll sign up anyway, right? Don't make me close this fucking blog! Community service or not, I'll shut this blog down faster than a hooker takin' money.

Click this button. Now!!!!

Because the Juice isn't all about take, take, take (like you are), I've got a sweet update to my Powerball post from a few weeks ago. Yes, you'll have to re-read it, but it'll be worth your time. Nah, I'm fuckin' lyin'. It ain't gonna be worth you're time. The jokes over, but you'll check out the update anyway. Just like you're gonna click on that Blingo button.

Peace out. But, not before you click the button. Papa wants a brand new PSP. Don't let me down!

Books from my kids' room: Why Do You Love Me?

2005-11-10T23:29:00.000-05:00

Welcome to another installment of Books from my kids' room. It's been awhile since we've done this. The last time was way back when, with a talkin' about The Monster at the End of this Book. So, before the Juice goes on another classic tangent, let's move along.

The Juice knows I shouldn’t be touchin’ this one with a 5 ft pole. With the ultra-conservative mode we’ve got goin’ on in this country, I’m sure I’m askin’ for a shit load of trouble, but I can’t leave well enuf alone. So up for review is Dr. Laura Schlessinger’s (what a mouthful, the name that is. Not the woman. Believe you me, the Juice won’t be doin’ a The Glory of…Dr Laura anytime soon) book Why Do You Love Me? That’s a very good question. One in which we’ll examine in detail in a moment.

A few years ago the missus got on a real religious kick. There were “moratoriums” on the Simpsons, pornography and cussin’ (none of which I bought into, by the by. The Juice is a many thing. The one thing he ain’t is a conformist. Or a religionist. You try tellin’ the Juice he can’t do somethin’, he’s just gonna go the opposite way. The influx of porno in that dark time period was truly staggerin’). The missus also started buyin’ into the whole Dr. Laura thing. Listenin’ to her talk show. Buyin' her junk she was peddlin’. One of which included this book.

And what a truly entertain’ book it is. If you like your poison laced with sugar. Uggghhh…what an insidious fucking tale. Let’s get something straight from the get go. No one, I repeat, no one feels the way about their kids as this book try to sugar coat it. No fuck way. I know some of you try to sell it to your kids that way, but you’re just foolin’ yourself and them. You can't wait til they turn 18 and you can kick them the fuck out of your house.

So, the story’s about a lil fuck name Sammy. Sammy wants to know why his mommy loves him. The mom could be honest and say she doesn’t so much “love” him, but tolerate his existence. And that if his worthless father didn’t knock her up, she’d be gettin’ fucked by millionaires on the Riveria. But really, the mom's just foolin’ herself. Cause the Juice is willin’ to wager dollars to donuts that she never had shot one with anyone but some douche bag who graduated community college who hates his own existence cause he wastes his life workin’ for the Man 8 hours a day, every day.

But, I digress…

Lil Sammy asks his mom whether she loves him because he’s good at karate, or cause he won a race, or because he picked up his toys.
His mom tells him that’s not why she loves him. And the Juice would have to partially agree. If the Juice has said it once, the Juice has said it a million times. Kids are stupid. Honestly. You’re thinkin’ it, the Juice is just sayin’ it. We, as parents, don’t give shit one about karate or winnin’ a race. Oh, that shit’s all fine and good when you’re a stupid kid, but when you’re slavin’ away for the Man too many days of the week, the last thing you’re thinkin’ about is whether Junior won a fucking race. As for the pickin’ up of the toys, hell that would be a start! God forbid a kid pick up his toys once in awhile. It’d probably kill ‘em.

Sammy then goes on to ask his mother other questions about why she loves him. This time, the kid goes the guilt route. He asks her if she loves him cause he does a few nice things. Like helpin’ his lil brother up after he fell. Or offerin’ his bike to his mother. Nice. Real, nice. If the kid wanted to be helpful, he could start off pickin’ up his toys once in awhile. The Juice is sayin’ that’s only a start. How about listenin’ when I tell ya to do somethin’. Would that kill ya? Probably. Why else would they not listen to ya? If listenin’ would kill you, would you listen? Would you? Of course not. There is no other reasonable explanation for kid’s insanity.

The mom tries to sell the son that bein’ helpful and kind is a wonderful thing. Yea, yea, yea. Everytime the Juice reads that page, I feel like I could go into diabetic shock. There should be some sort of warnin’ when you come to a page like that. Maybe an insulin tablet or somethin’ attached to the page. Fuck! It’s such horse shit. The Juice is gonna go spit.

Then Sammy questions his mom why she loves him when he’s bad. Like when he yells or when he crayons on the wall. Yea, that’s a great question. The real question should be: “Mommy, why don’t you beat the crap out of me when I crayon on the wall? Cause it sure as shit looks like you want to.”

The book goes on for a few more pages with more saccharine laced sugar. The Juice could puke, really. So, at this point, the Juice is gonna stop. I don’t really need to see the paramedics tonight.

Fortunately for the Juice, the kids never really bought into this book. I’ve only had to suffer through it a few times. What it comes down to is that books like this belong in a certain places. Please tell the Juice you picked up the irony of that link. Please?!?!?

Pitch a Bitch: The Mail In Rebate

2005-11-09T22:13:00.000-05:00

The other day, the Juice is perusin’ his Best Buy ad. Cause if there’s one thing the Juice loves (besides hummers, and I ain’t talkin’ SUV here), it’s electronics. Technology gets the Juice all excited. This may, or may not, contradict some of the Juice’s early statements.

What can I say? The Juice, sometimes, is a fuckin’ liar. Like you’re not? How many times have you lied to your wife this week? “No, honey I’m not crankin’ off again.” Or “Yes, honey. I’d marry you all over again.” Or, the king lie of them all, "I love you , honey." The way the Juice sees it, if Star Trek fans can accept that Klingons were changed from this:

to this:

without any reasonable explanation, then ya can accept the Juice tellin’ a stretcher or two, once it awhile. Shit, you believe all the lies that the government feeds ya day in and day. Remember those WMDs?

But, I digress…

The Best Buy ad is sorta like Playboy to the Juice. Yea, I get a serious bone from it. Technology is a dirty, dirty mistress. If technology had a few holes, you best believe I’d be ass fucking it, instead of technology ass fucking me.

What I can’t stand about electronic store ads like BestBuy's, is this lil mind fuck game they play with ya. They advertise the price of an item real big. The computer makin’ companies are notorious for this tactic. Emblazon the price, then let the folkels know, in the small print, that the price is after mail-in rebate.

now that's some FINE print

I gotta tell ya, the mail-in rebate is the biggest scam ever. Ever. EVER!! It’s totally communist. Actually, it’s probably the most capitalist thing out there. Buy this item, and if you mail (if you remember to that is) in a copy of your receipt (if you didn’t already throw it out), plus your UPC (if you didn’t already throw the box out), plus your dead dog’s blood type, we’ll mail your money back. Ha Ha mother fucker. Don’t hold your fuck breath. ‘Cause unless the planets are alignin’, more than likely you ain’t gettin' dime one back.

With the Mail In rebate, there's just too many variables. The Post Office can't get a piece of mail from Pennslyvania to Florida without it bein' destroyed. And you're gonna trust that service with "your" money? You might as well just tell Dell thanks for the offer, but you can just keep my money.

Unlike folks who invent great shit, like the diaper or the tissue, the fucker who invented the mail in rebate should be drug through the desert on a horse with no name, nude. Or tossed into a fight between rabid monkeys and hungry piranhas. Or made to suffer through every last second of that stupid Sex and the City show for a year straight, with no commercial interruptions.

It ain’t just computer makers fuckin’ us. Thanks DirecTV!

And to all the stores who endorses the Mail in rebate, the Juice says “Fuck You!” Ya ain’t convincin’ no one to buy your shit with that fuckin’ tactic! Even folks who went to community college ain’t fallin’ for it. Ain’t no one goin’: “Oh, shit! I can finally buy that laptop that’s already dated ‘cause Compaq is danglin’ a sweet $15 rebate in my face.” The chances of ya gettin' that rebate are about the same as dude tellin’ a whore he's comin' in her mouth. In both cases, ya just take it and smile!

World's Greatest Invention: The Disposable Diaper

2005-11-07T21:58:00.000-05:00

Now I’m sure the “haters” out there are just gonna say that this is a slight variation of my tissue post. And to them I say, yea…there’s some truth to it, but they can always go fuck themselves. And if ya’ll don’t like that, ya’ll can check out the new complaint form.

In any case, the Juice suffers from a horrible affliction. There ain’t no hope. And there ain’t no cure. What is it? What is the Juice’s malady? Simply, too many children. I had my first way back in 97. My latest (and god willing, last), Lucifer recently turned 2. If you do the math, you’ll see that’s 8 years of diapers. EIGHT FUCKING YEARS OF DIAPERS. But it ain’t over for the Juice just yet. Cause Lucifer ain’t no where near bein’ potty trained. The Juice is in, what I like to refer to as, the Decade of Diapers. Sure, Lucifer will be probably be potty trained before 2007. Or, should I say, he better be. But the Juice, however, is gonna still refer to it as the Decade of Diapers. Whatta ya gonna do? Sue me cause I’m a year short? Fuck you.

Bein’s that I’ve spent so much time with the diaper, the Juice has really come to appreciate it. It is truly one of the world’s greatest inventions. The disposable diaper was “invented” Marion Donovan. I tell ya, this chick deserves the highest spot in heaven. I swear to the Christ, after you invented something like the disposable diaper, you should be given a free pass for everythin' for the rest of your life. If there’s anything you want? You got it. Anything you need? No problem. Someone gettin’ on your nerves? Kill ‘em! Sorta like:

“Ma’am, I’m placing you under arrest for attempted murder of that man.” The officer said to the woman, placing handcuffs on her. An unconscious man was lying on the floor, an iron skillet next to his head.

“But…but, he was getting on my nerves! He wouldn’t shut the fuck up.” The woman pleaded.

“You can’t just kill someone cause they’re getting’ on your nerves.” The officer replied, tightening the handcuffs

“But…but…I invented disposable diapers.”

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Wait a second. You’re the inventor of disposable diapers?” The officer steps aside, releasing her. He reached down to pick up the skillet. “By all means, let me get out of your way. Kill that pain in the ass.”

Can you imagine livin’ way back when and havin’ to wash the shit out of cloth diapers? Fucketh thateth, the Juice sayeth. I wouldn’t go near a diaper either, if I had to deal with that shit, as it were. Let me tell ya somethin’. The Juice has seen some foul, foul diapers. The kind that would make a lesser man (like yourself) cry. I couldn’t imagine a cloth diaper filled with some of the crap I’ve seen in a disposable diaper.

“Supposedly”, disposable diapers are bad for the environment. How could 18 billion of anything possible be bad for the environment? Especially sittin’ in land fills. But, whatta ya gonna do? Use cloth diapers? Please…

So, here’s to the disposable diaper, one of the world’s unsung heroes. May you stay full of shit, so the Juice never has to…uhhh...wash it out of a cloth diaper?

Dissertation Station Complaint Form

2005-11-06T21:27:00.000-05:00

the Juice is tired of gettin' all these misc. hater emails. so, the Juice devised a complaint form for ya'all to fill out. here's the link:

Dissertation Station Complaint Form

Don't worry about bookmarkin' this post. the Juice has been kind enough to post it in the menu on the right. You'll find in under Must Reads. Just in case the Juice ever pisses ya off enough to use it.

I suppose that ya could also use it to send the Juice some positive feedback, by way would ya? In any case go ahead. Check it out. You know you want to. What? What's that you say? You don't want to? Then go fuck yourself. Now I'm sure ya'all want to use that form!

My two cents

2005-11-03T22:15:00.000-05:00

Rate commission approves 2-cent postage rate increase

Let’s congratulate the Post Office for gettin' through another stamp increase. I mean, this “semi-independent federal agency” is hemorrhagin’ cash left and right, right?

the Juice was almost gonna let this one go. I mean, c’mon?!?! Bitchin’ about the price of stamps is like bitchin’ about the price of gas, the price of popcorn at the movie theatre and the price of Chex Mix. What are ya gonna do? Not drive? Put corn oil in your gas tank? Let’s face it folks, we’re just slaves to the man. Likewise with the price of stamps. Again, what are ya gonna do? Not mail your bills? Oh, you must be one of those folkels who use the Internet to pay their bills, right? Fuck the Post Office, right? Oh yea. That’s real safe. We all know about the strict safety standards on the Internet. It’s such a great idear to put all you bankin’ info right where some 15 year old pimple face can get to it in less than 3 keystrokes. Call the Juice old fashioned, but I’ll stick to the mail.

Besides, every time there’s a stamp increase, everyone starts cryin’. Boo fuck hoo. Ever since Ben fuckin' Franklin became Post Master General numero uno, people been bitchin’ about the Post Office. What’s the Juice gonna do? Bitch some more? What’s the use, besides another ulcer. And I’ve got plenty o’ kids to take care of that, thank you very much.

But, then the Juice started pokin’ around on the Internet (isn’t the Internet great? I mean, where else could you find shit like this). And that’s when the Juice started gettin' a touch miffed. It’s not so much the increase that annoys the fuck outta the Juice. If they need the money, fine they need the money. But, ya gotta wonder about some of the Post Office’s practices. Now, that’s the shit that annoys the Juice. Like, why does the Post Office advertise? It’s the only game in town, right? It’s not like there’s a Halliburton Post Office or anything. Maybe the Juice should keep his trap shut sometimes. Some folks don’t need no new idears.

I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “But, the Juice. The Post Office is advertisin’ it’s other services. Like Express Mail. And Priority mail. They have to compete with UPS and FedEx for customer’s dollars in that regard.” First off, if that’s what you’re thinkin’, you need some serious consultation. Don’t you have anything better to think about? Secondly, Express mail or Slow Ass mail, it doesn’t matter. The Post Office doesn’t need to advertise. See the Post Office is a quasi-governmental agency (I got to tell ya, the Juice has been dyin’ to use that expression for soooo dang long. I hear everyone else usin’ it. “Quasi-this” or “Quasi-that”. It’s awesome! Try it. Say you’re at a bar and you see a hot chick. You go up to her. You strike up a conversation. She asks if you’re married. You tell her “Well, I’m Quasi-married.” Chicks, dig big words. Or is it big dicks? I always get it mixed up). And as a quasi-governmental agency, the Post Office is “suppose” to be a “revenue neutral” agency. What the fuck does “revenue neutral” mean, anyway? What's with the big words? What's up the Juice's ass! Well, I'll tell ya. It means the Post Office is only required to break even, not necessarily make a profit. It’s kinda like: “Shit, if we have a banner year and we make a few extra bucks, great! If not, fuck it. As long as we break even.”

Got all that? Good. Cause get a load of this: From 1996 – 2001, the US Postal Service has averaged a profit of over $1 billion per year. Yea, you read that right. $1 billion per year. But, I sense you don’t believe me. Maybe it’s the numbers the Juice is hittin’ ya with. Or maybe you’re just a complete idiot. But I get the feelin you’re thinkin’: “the Juice, that is sooooo 2001. Get a grip. Remember 9/11? Remember the Anthraxscare? The Post Office had to adjust it’s policies to pay for all that Anthrax sensin’ equipment.” I would agree with ya. However for 2004 the United States Postal Service had revenues of….TADA! 69 BILLION DOLLARS. 69 BILLION DOLLARS! I’m just gonna repeat that a few more times. 69 BILLION DOLLARS. 69 BILLION DOLLARS! 69 BILLION DOLLARS. 69 BILLION DOLLARS! 69 BILLION DOLLARS. 69 BILLION DOLLARS! 69 BILLION DOLLARS. 69 BILLION DOLLARS!

Let the Juice through a few word problems your way. What is 37 billion dollars + 32 billion dollars? Or how about this one: You go to a whore house. You find this smokin’ hot lil blonde number who’s callin’ your name. But, to fuck her for an hour it costs 34.5 billion dollars. You’re feelin’ particularly horny this sunshiney day. You want that ass for two hours. How much shit are you gonna be in when your missus finds out you fucked a whore?

But, wait. Don’t get all pissed off yet. I got more for ya. Gettin' back to the Post Office bein’ a Quasi-governmental agency, the Post Office is entitled to money from the government (ie our money. As in your hard earned money and my not so hard earned money) to the tune of sweet 96 million dollars a year. Listen, if you aren’t gonna say it, then the Juice will. Nice!!!

The Juice won’t even get into the money the Post Office wasted on endorsements for Bike Boy. Don’t get the Juice wrong. I’m a big fan of Lance Armstrong. The dude’s the shit. Anyone who lost one nut has got to have some serious perspective on life. But, why did the Post Office sponsor him for 6 fuck years? Why is the Post Office sponsorin’ anyone for that matter? That’s gotta be one of those unanswerable Zen questions, like what’s the sound of one hand clappin’.

Yea, yea, yea. The Juice knows that the folks over in Europe pay double for their stamps. They also pay double for a gallon of gas. Who the fuck cares? What kinda rationale is that? Is that suppose to make the Juice feel better? Or make the Juice feel guilty. I've got two words for the folks in Europe. Hell. I've got two words for the Post Office while I'm at it. Fucketh thateth!!!!

2005-11-01T20:11:00.000-05:00

Body removed from Sierra glacier after decades encased in ice

Hol-lee shit! Have you seen this article? I can’t believe it! It’s…it’s….it’s…Captain Fuckin’ America!

I’m sure all your non – superhero fans don’t have idea one what the Juice is goin’ on about. I’m equally as sure that you don’t give shit one. If that be the case, you can always click here (if I were you, I’d make sure the sound volume was down before clickin’ that link. But, thank the maker, I ain’t you. So do whatever you please.)

Gettin’ back to Captain America…Cap’n was originally a WWII soldier known as Steve Rodgers. Steve was a scrawny lil piece of crap. Ya know, kinda like that douche bag who used to get the sand kick at him in those old Greg Atlas ads in the back of comic books. According to legend, the government gave Steve Rodgers a shot of “super-soldier” serum. More than likely that “super-soldier” serum was a placebo. The government was probably just fuckin’ with Steve, just to get him out of the service, the worthless piece of shit. Long story short, Steve Rodgers/Captain America gets the super-soldier shot, becomes a bad mother fucker, and starts kick ass. Believe you me, he wasn’t takin’ any names. Just kickin’ ass.

The good Captain was thought to have “died” takin’ down those friggin’ Nazi’s on some crazy ass mission. His sidekick, Bucky, did die, though. I’ll tell ya, ya couldn’t pay me enough to be a sidekick. All the pain, none of the glory. Ya either die, or ya gotta wear those lil Robin pants. And how gay is that (my apologies to my homosexual readers)?

Lucky for us, Captain America didn’t die. He was just frozen in a block of ice, which conveniently didn’t kill him. One day the Captain America ice cube comes floatin' ashore. The Avengers thaw him out and Waaa laaa! Fresh Captain America!

Now what does this comic book history lesson have anything to do with the way French women shave their backs? I’ll tell ya. I’d be willin’ to wager dollars to donuts, that what those scienticians are workin' on right now to unfreeze that WWII serviceman in the above article. Not for science of history or anything. Shit. WWII wasn’t that long ago. There’s still some soldiers around to tell them what the war was like. No. These scienticians are prayin’ to the Christ that once they thaw this guy out, he’s gonna be Captain America.

What's the matter with these scienticians? First it's clonin' dinosaurs, then it's tryin' to bring frozen soldiers back to life. Sheesh! Once they get Captain America up and runnin' again, what do they think he’s gonna do? Solve all our problems? Is the newly thawed Cap’n gonna be like: “Got bank robbers? No problem! Cap’n America will take care of that!” Or: “Got drug dealers? No problem! Cap’n America will take care of that!” Or: “Got money launderin’ politicians? Uhhhh…I guess Cap’n America can take care of that.” Or: “Got doctors performin’ abortions? Hmmmmmm…Cap’n America’s not real sure about that one.” Or: “Got soldiers dyin’ in Iraq? !?!?!?!? What the hell do ya want Cap’n America to do? What ever happened to the mad scienticians who wanted to take over the world? Whatever happened to the bad guys who wanted to destroy a city unless we paid them 2 million dollars? Where’s the Red Skull? I can’t stand this ambiguity.”

The Juice kinda pictures it goin down like this:

click to see larger

What? You think I got anything to say after that?

Reenactment: the Juice’s lawyer’s 2004 Christmas party: The Teaser

2005-10-31T21:44:00.000-05:00

It bein’ All Hallow’s Eve and all, and it also bein’ that the Juice has gotta take all the kids out Trick or Treatin’, you’ll have to suffer the lack of a quality post today. Heed my warnin’ and turn your boats away. Come back another day.

For those of you stupid enough not to heed FEMA’s warning, then feel free to proceed. Just do me a favor and try not to bitch about it.

I made a promise some months ago to post some reenactment pics of my lawyer’s Christmas party last year. I have a few to share tonight, as a Teaser, if you will. As for the rest of the pics? Whenever I’ve got the energy to post them. Get off my case, already

So, why a reenactment? Why not just show the real pics? Two words: lawsuits. The Juice don’t need another lawsuit against him. Besides, what’s funnier that a reenactment in lego?

the Juice and the lawyer. Pics taken by Paco Reban

As you can tell, Paco’s been drinking

Probably drinking too much

Now, I'm sure that none of this seems very funny right now. But, the Juice guaren-damn-tees that the rest of the Lawyer's Christmas Party pics are equally as unfunny.

Double team: The Glory Of...Pt. 2

2005-10-28T22:01:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the second half of our “The Glory of…” double header. You can check out our first gal here.

Without borin’ ya with the borin’ details, the Juice had a hard time decidin’ between two hot chicks for our latest installment of “The Glory of…”. Isn’t that always the case? Why should the Juice have to decide? Why couldn’t the Juice just have both hot chicks? ‘Cause society says you’re “suppose” to love and marry one chick? How fucking crazy is that shit? Seriously?!?! First of all, who said anythin' about love? And second, in a world full of hot chicks, why does the Juice have to commit to just one? It boggles the mind. And the Juice ain’t sayin’ he would commit to just one. The Juice is sayin’ he ain’t committin’ to NO one.

But, I digress…

It just so happens that in a span of 1 week, the Juice was sufferin’ through his second horribly bad movie with the missus. I gotta tell ya, that’s the last time I let her go to Blockbuster by herself. I guess I should be grateful that I didn’t have to suffer through the Joy Luck Club again.

But, suffer the Juice’s fate was, through a feature called Crash. This was the kinda movie that was supposed to make ya think. You know. About how racist and stereotypical we all are. Not only does this movie point out that you are a horrible human, but so is the rest of humanity. The only good thing about this feature was the reason we are gather around the campfire tonight. The Juice is proud to present, for October 28th, 2005, The Glory of…

Jennifer Esposito

Now that’s a fucking intro! C’mon! Don’t give me that look. I know, I know. I’m sure her name isn’t on the top of your consciousness. It certainly wasn’t on mine. But, we are here to expand our limited minds beyond the god awful Paris Hilton’s of the world. Besides, just because her name isn’t on the tip of your tongue (I’d sure as shit like to be on the tip of her tongue, though. Wooooo! Yea…the Juice!), is certainly not to say that Ms. Esposito isn’t one hot tamale (as it were…whoops! There goes the Juice bein’ racists and stereotypical again. It’s a good thing Crash pointed my deficiencies out to me), cause believe you me, she is. It’s that she doesn’t get the press she so rightly deserves.

To be honest, I didn’t even know her name before viewin' this Crash movie. Oh, sure. I may have heard it here or there, but the name never stuck. But, as the Juice is watchin' this life alterin’ movie, I think to myself: “Now, who’s this lil naked minky mink? She’s definitely crank material. Mental note, find out her name and look her up.” Oh, yea. You read that right. She’s bare in the movie. But, don’t get yourself all hard. You don’t see nothin’. She’s discreetly covered up. No matter to the Juice, though. I’ve got a wicked imagination. And no well-placed bed sheet can hide a naked chick in the Juice’s noggin.

So, I suffered through the rest of this movie just to find out this gal’s name. After doin’ a lil research, I was surprised to find out Ms. Esposito was on that god awful show, Spin City. I’m not quite sure why I was surprised. I never wasted minute one on the show. I guess, if I had known this vision of loveliness was gracin’ tv screens on a weekly basis, I might’ve committed more time to the show. Awwww…who am I fuckin’ (not Jennifer Esposito, that for dang for sure)? I wouldn’t have waste any time on that show. Even if Ms. Esposito was nude on it. I take that back. If Ms. Esposito was bare on that show, even if only for a picosecond, I’d glue my peepers to the TV screen every fuck week.

Surprisingly, Ms. Esposito’s been in a few other features. Surprisin’, cause she doesn’t have the name recognition she so hotly deserves. If it were up to the Juice, this gal would be plastered everywhere. Including, but certainly not limited to, the Juice’s crotchal region.

So, there you have it, 2 “The Glory of’s” for the price of one. It was a lot of work, but you’re worth it. As if…I’ll leave you with one final thought. I swear to the Christ, this has got to be one of the sexiest pics the Juice has laid eyes on in a long time:

Double team: The Glory Of...Pt. 1

2005-10-27T22:58:00.000-04:00

I gotta tell ya, this is your lucky week. Not only is the Juice hittin’ ya with a "The Glory of…", but, I’m hittin' ya with 2 of them. Yea, you read that right. Go ahead. Go ahead. Take a moment to shove those peepers back into the ol noggin.

Know what? Ya better hang on a sec. Don’t shove those peepers back just yet. Cause, not only are ya gettin’ two "The Glory Of’s", but they’ll be 2 days in a row. No shit! Do ya feel like you’re gonna throw up from all the excitement? If ya do, you’re a bigger loser than I thought.

I gotta tell ya, the Juice took a serious beatin’ on my last The Glory of.... From the amount of email I got, ya think I did a The Glory of Madeline Albright. God forbid ya don’t talk about the Olsen twins or Britney Spears. I’m just tryin’ to expand your rather limited horizons. And what does the Juice get for his efforts? I get the beat down. Gee, thanks. I can't wait to see who you come up with for your The Glory Of. Oh, that's right. You don't have the nuts to do a The Glory Of, let alone keep up an entertain' blog. You've got better things to do, right? Can't miss The King of Queens. What would life be like if you did?

But, I digress…

I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “Why the Juice? Why two 'The Glory of…'?” For once, a good question. The Juice had no intention of doin’ 2 “The Glory of…”. But, two different gals vied for the Juice attention within a couple of days. And rather than choose between the two, like any good soldier, I figured we’d do both of them at the same time. Well…almost the same time. So, without further ado, I present the first half of our double header, the top piece of bread to our sandwich, and an all around sexy piece of ass…

Elizabeth Shue!

So, why Ms. Shue? Yet another fine question. The missus and I were watchin' a horrifyingly bad move called Hide and Seek. I gotta tell ya, if I was a producer of the movie The Secret Window, I might well consider a lawsuit against Hide and Seek. Cause the words "rip off" come to mind. But, hey I don't want to sway ya or anything. Check out the movie. See how much it sucks.

I’m watchin’ this movie, and here comes Elizabeth Shue. Dang! She’s walkin' around with a flimsy lil number on. Nice, right? She kinda turns to the side. Then, Wham-O! There it is. She’s got some serious cleavage! The Juice scrambled to find the remote. I quickly paused the movie. “Hol lee shit.” I believe I said to myself.

yea…check out that cleavage

The missus was totally clueless, for a few moments, that is. She asked what was wrong. You know...Why had I paused the movie. I blathered on about hearin’ somethin'. In the meantime, I stared at that cleavage til it was burned in my mind. There was no way on the Christ's blue planet I was lettin’ this image get away. I told the missus I would be right back. As I’m racin’ up the stairs to the bathroom, the missus calls out: “Brewster, are you going up there to crank off to Shue?”

“Damn it!” I said to myself. How’d she know? Maybe I had the movie paused 3 minutes too long. “What are you talkin’ about honey? I’m just gonna check on Lucifer.” I called out. Foiled again!

nice!

“Whatever.” I thought I heard her say. So much for showin’ my appreciation for Ms. Shue. It’s alright, though. The Juice might not’ve been able to get one off in her honor. But, believe you me, when the Juice was nailin’ the missus the other day, it was all Ms. Shue. And I gotta admit, I was pretty dang good.

As a quick aside, the Juice was doin’ some figurin’ on the way home from puttin’ in another 8 so the Man can buy yet another house in some other erotic location. After doin’ some quick calculations, the Juice figured Elizabeth has got to be in her 40’s. I gotta tell ya, if that’s the case, then she seriously deserves a good crank in her honor. I guess the Juice could do a quick search to find out when she was born, but I figure I do enough for your people. Would it kill ya for once to do somethin for the Juice? Nah, never mind. Just go fuck yourself. I will do ya this one more favor. Until tomorrow,I'll leave you with one last partin’ thought:

that's exactly how the Juice likes his eggs

The last Kingdom of Magic ain't for kids...

2005-10-26T21:00:00.000-04:00

The last time we got together we we're talkin' about souvenirs and how kids work in conjuction with the folkels in Disney marketin' to totally mind fuck ya til ya break down and buy the kids whatever they want. For instance...

Do you see this thing? Do you? The Juice HATES these things. Talk about a complete waste of money! The kids, though, they love this shit. They eat it up. If something lights up, kids want it. And if it spins? Hol lee shit! Get the fuck out of the way. Now it’s double the reason to get it. And these fuckin’ things are all over Disney World. You can’t escape them. And ya can only tell the kids so many times they can’t have something. Especially when the things are everywhere you turn. So, what do you do? Ya, buck up and buy it.

The best part of these light up thingies is that the fuckers cost upwards of 15 bucks. Yea…you read that right. I’ll give you the opportunity to shove your peepers back into your noggin.

more shit that you'll end up buyin' at Walt Disney World

Now, if you’re unsmart enough to have more than one kid (and not follow the Juice advice of leavin’ them at home), be prepared to drop some serious coin on these things. Three of these light up thingies alone is a week's salary. And ya know that the Juice had to buy one for each of the kids when we were at Walt Disney World recently. Except for Lucifer, he’s still lil enough, and stupid enough, not to realize everyone else is gettin' somethin’, but he ain’t. No, no, no, no no! Don’t you feel sorry for him! It’s his own fault for being the baby. If Lucifer wanted the goods, he shouldn’t have come out last.

In any case, the kids are walkin’ around Disney World with these forsaken light up thingies. And the Juice is just loving life. ‘Cause everytime ya go on a ride, ya gotta tell the kids to hang onto their stupid light up thingies. “Cause, if ya lose it, I ain’t buyin’ ya another one!” I can’t tell ya how many times the Juice growled that one.

I gotta admit the kids managed to hang onto their light up thingies for awhile. Much longer than the Juice expected. But, you know what’s comin’, and it ain’t the Juice. One night while we were at the Magic Kingdom, Jethro left his light up thingie on Dumbo. Dang, was I pissed. More than usual. Of course, the Juice had to go back and try to find the fuckin' thing. You and I both know that I wasn’t gonna find it, but I had to make the attempt. First of all, it was late, they were shuttin’ down the park. Two, if ya see one of these things lyin’ around, it’s fuckin’ paydirt. You just saved yourself $15. So, you’re sure as shit gonna take it. As a wise man once uttered..."If you’re stupid enough to lose it, then you’re stupid enough to lose it." Third, ummmm…I don’t have a third.

After we realized that Jethro doesn't have his light up thingie, which was five minutes after we got off the ride, the Juice had to go In Search of.... I made my way up to the cast member mannin’ the Dumbo ride and related to him the Juice's quagmire. I swear to the Christ, this kid musta went to community college. Cause all I got outta him was “Duh….”. For all that supposed Disney trainin’ ya would’ve thought this kid would’ve been a bit more helpful. But, no. Although, I guess the Juice should be thankful that the douche bad let me go through the ride to try and find the fuckin' light up thingie. Needless to say, I didn’t find it. Surprised?

just seein’ if you’re payin attention

So, Jethro cried. And cried. Don’t you dare feel bad for him! I’ll tell ya what I told him: “Don’t waste your time gettin' married. Cause, believe you me, the pussy may be fine, and she might suck a dick like she invented dick suckin’, but you’ll get bored of her. Especially after she’s been yakin’ at ya for months straight about paintin’ the livin’ room for the 5th time in as many years.” The boy just gave me that confused, “what the fuck are you talkin’ about” look. I told him never mind as I marched right over to the next light up thingie cart, which was conveniently 5 ft away (cause Disney sets these carts even more conveniently 10 ft apart. Just in case ya missed it the first 17 times. Disney musta taken a page from Starbucks and Home Depot with stores every 2 ft). And bought the lil bastard another light up thingie.

Woooooooooo! Lights!

The Juice is happy to report that the light up thingie not only survived the rest of the vacation, but 6 months later, is still alive and kickin’! Talk about closure. I know you were gonna need it.

So…basically, that’s it! Those are the major reasons why not to take your kids to Walt Disney World. Sure, there are plenty of other reasons not to take them, but there all just variations of what’s already been said. For instance, do you have the stomach to eat at restaurants with your kids for a week straight? Seriously! Your kids barely behave at a restaurant at home, and you think you’re gonna have the intestinal fortitude to eat every meal with them at a restaurant? I don’t think you do.

the Juice could go on all day about Disney World, not doin’ stuff with your kids, and all the shit that’s happened to me while in the Vacation Destination of the World. But, I figure I’ve beaten this to death. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I’m sure when I run out of shit to write about, which has got to be any day now, I’ll be headin’ right back down this road…

The Real Kingdom of Magic Ain't for Kids Part 5

2005-10-24T23:05:00.000-04:00

Let me start off by apologizin’ to ya about my last post, which was really suppose to be this post. The Juice got hold of some tangent and Whoosh! The next thing I know, we’re talkin’ about zombies. As much as the Juice is tempted to re-hash, it’s best we just leave that one alone. Let’s just pretend that last post never happened. It'd probably be better off if we did. Now, if ya feel like you can’t put it behind us, or that you’re permanently scarred, you can always, ALWAYS, go fuck yourself.

Movin’ along, though, at some point in the past we we’re discussin’ all the reason why NOT to take your kids to Walt Disney World. I’m not gonna recap too much here. You can go back and re-read where we really last left off. Suffice it to say, that just because it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, doesn’t necessarily mean that it is a duck. It could be some sweaty, baldin’, tooth-missin’, creepy deviant, who likes to touch women’s asses, in a large duck costume. What does all this duck business have to do with not takin’ your kids to Disney World? I’ll tell ya if ya can keep your panties out of you’re ass for a second. Just because the folkels at Disney market the hell outta the place like it’s for kids, doesn’t mean that it is.

If you’re kids are anything like my kids, which no doubt they are (cause kids are kids are kids), ya can’t take them anywhere without the lil bastards beggin’ ya to buy them something. It doesn’t matter where you take them, either. They’ll beg and beg and beg. They’re worse than those folks on Public Broadcasting. At least with PBS, ya get some sort of half entertainin’ entertainment along with the beggin. Ya know, A spoonful of sugar…With kids, there ain’t no entertainment, and certainly no over priced premiums to help ease the pain of the money ya just forked over. No, kids just beg. Ya, take them to the gun shop? They’re beggin’ for a gun. Ya, take them to the tampon store? You can figure out the rest. And forget about takin’ them to Wal-Mart. You might as well just hand over your wallet to them.

To illustrate my point, I’ll need for ya to put on your thinkin’ toque on. ‘Cause it’s imaginin’ time (which is better than Hammer Time, everyday of the week, including Sunday)! So, sit back as the Juice paints ya a picture. Imagine, if ya will, spendin’ a week at Toys R Us with your kids. Make sure you imagine a place to sleep. And a few resturants. And while you're imaginin', don't forget about the bathrooms. Cause the Juice guaren-damn-tees that someone in your family is gonna suffer from the Shitz. Because one, or maybe all of ya's, are gonna be stupid enough to drink the Floridian water. But, I digress. Ya got that imagine in your noodle? Good, then you’re pretty dang close to the pain the Juice is talkin’ about. But really? It's much, much worse than that.

Everywhere ya go at Disney World, they’re sellin’ ya somethin'. The Juice will give ya that’s some of it’s nice. But, believe you me, it ain’t cheap. Nothin' in Disney is cheap. From the food to the souvenirs. We covered the money thing back hereNow, the Juice ain’t complain’ about the prices. There are some things ya just got to expect. Ya go to the movies, you’re gonna pay an arm and a leg for soda and a popcorn. That’s just how it is. The way the Juice sees it, ya have two options. Ya either buy the overpriced food with a smile or ya don’t. I don’t get the folks that complain each and every time about the price of concessions at the movie theatre. Like they’ve never been to the movies before. You’re gonna get raped. Ya know it. Why complain?

All that being said, the Juice knows that every last dang thing is expensive at Disney World. Fine. Whatever. It ain’t so much about the money, anyway, as it is the constant mind fuckin' on the part of the kids. Every where ya turn, the Disney folks got their wares at the ready. Comin’ off a ride? Oh, look there’s a store! “Dad, I wanna get this stupid piece of shit plastic thingy.” Comin’ out of a store? Oh, look there’s a cart selling light up shit! “Daddy, I want this $15 light up thingy. My life won't ever be the same without it” Comin' out of a restaurant? Oh, look there’s a vendin' cart! “Daddy, get me that Mickey Mouse ice cream for $7.50. I know I didn't touch a thing on my plate at the $18/kid resturant we just left a few seconds ago, but I really want that fucking ice cream. My life just won't be complete without it. Wooooooooooo!” Comin' out of a bathroom? Yea…you guessed it. There’s a some sort of buyin' facility nearby.

Ya know…The Juice is, as usual, tired. Why don’t we pick this up tomorrow? Just, don’t expect it tomorrow…

The Kingdom of Magic Isn't for Kids 5 of ?

2005-10-21T22:01:00.000-04:00

The last time the Juice addressed this series, was way, way, way back in April! Talk about bringin’ one back from the dead. Sheesh. The last time I worked on this series, the world was a significantly different place. George Bush was president. The US was in an “unwinnable” war. The country was divided. Oh, wait. Maybe it wasn’t that long ago. Still…if this series was a dead body, we’d have some serious decomposition. I mean, there probably wouldn’t be all that much left besides skeleton. All the soft, gooey stuff would’ve been devoured by insects long ago.

If ya think about it, this series could be like one of those zombie movies. Now that the Juice considers it, it IS a lot like a zombie movie. All the zombie’s want to do is eat your delicious brains, and that’s exactly what this series does. Actually most of the crap on this site is like a zombie. It just eats away at your brain. The problem is that you’re one of those stupid humans who thinks that he can out run the zombies. You know, something like:

“Mary Ann! I’m telling ya. If we can just make it through this gaggle of zombies, we just might make it to Non-Zombieville.”

“I don’t know, Professor. I just don’t know. There’s an awful lot of zombies out there.”

“We have to do it, Mary Ann! We aren’t safe here. Once those zombies realize we’re in this bed, naked, they’ll want to eat our delicious brains.”

“You’re the only one who’s naked, Professor. You said the scent of us on our clothes would throw off the zombies. So you took off all your clothes.”

"But you didn't follow suit."

Mary Ann wrapped her arms around herself. "I didn't want to be running through the streets naked." She nodded at the Professor. "You didn't have to take all your clothes off, either. You could've just thrown your jacket or something."

“True, Mary Ann. True." The professor tried peering out the boarded up windows. "Either way, it doesn't matter right now. We’ve got to get out of here! We’ll distract them with your thong panties.” He reached out to her. “Quick, give them to me!”

“It’ll never work, professor!” Mary Ann cried.

The professor grabbed Mary Ann’s shoulders. “It will Mary Ann! We’ll toss your thong out the window and run the other direction.”

Mary Ann sobbed. “I’m sorry professor. But it won’t work!”

“Why, Mary Ann? Why?”

Mary Ann managed to stifle her cries. “Cause, I’m not even wearing any panties.”

I knew it! I knew it all along! I should’ve made a play for her long ago! The professor thought to himself. Damn, those zombies! Damn them straight to hell! “Never mind then. I’ll just create some sort of distraction. Then we’ll run to safety. What do you say?”

“O…okay, professor.” Mary Ann sniffed. “If you think we can make it.”

“Of course I do.” The professor said, standing up. His boner was just about hitting her in the face. “Hmmmm...Ya sure I can't get ya to suck it before we try to escape?”

Mary Ann turned her head. “Uhhh..no thanks, Professor. I really wish you would’ve at least kept your underwear instead of throwing it at the zombies.”

“We would have never made into here if I hadn’t, Mary Ann.”

“But, the Zombie’s weren’t anywhere near us when we ran in here.”

“True, but…”

A loud crash from the back of the building interrupted the Professor. “The Zombies!” Mary Ann screeched. She grabbed the professor’s hand. “Let’s go, Professor. Let’s make a run for it. Like you said. Maybe we can make it to Non-Zombieville.”

“Yea, let’s go!” The Professor hesitated for a moment.

“What? What is it, Professor?”

“Are ya really sure I can’t get a little hand from ya or something? It’ll be so much easier to run without this thing stickin’ out.” He motioned to his hard cock. “Besides, what happens if we don’t make it? You might never know the sweet pleasure of havin’ a big dick in ya ever again.

Mary Ann rolled her eyes. “There’s no time. Let’s go!” She screamed as she ran out the front door.

Damn! The professor thought to himself. I thought for sure I had her with that last line. That’s ok. She’ll give in when we get to Non-Zombieville. He shrugged to himself as he ran out after her.

The zombies swarmed on the Professor and Mary Ann, trying to tear them from limb to limb. The Professor called out. “Mary Ann! Mary Ann! I’m so sorry!”

Mary Ann screamed in terror as the zombies engulfed her. “I forgive you!” She managed to cry out kicking at the zombies.

“Mary Ann?” He screamed out.

“Yessssss?” Mary Ann screeched, helplessly.

“I told ya, you should’ve sucked my dick.” The Professor called out just as the one of the zombies sunk his teeth into his delicious brains.

See. That’s you. You think that you can read the site, laugh and go about your business. But this site, however slowly, eats at your brain!

Well, it seems that the Juice wasted most of his time on tellin' the zombie story. We'll have to get back the Kingdom of Magic series tomorrow. But, probably not tomorrow.

Sometimes, two heads ain't better than one...

2005-10-20T22:14:00.000-04:00

Baby stable after second head removed .

Yea, you read that right. You definitely need to check that article out. Go ahead. Take your time. I’ll wait for you to get back. Just one thing, there’s a picture of the baby. If you're a bit squeamish (sissy), you may want to pass on the article. Cause I can guaren-damn-tee, even if you ain’t a bit squeamish (you’re still a sissy), you’re gonna wish you never laid eye one on that picture.

Dang! Is that fuckin’ creepy or what? Like, the Juice is almost at a loss for words…almost. Apparently the two heads shared the same brain. The Juice don’t know if that more amazin’ or more creepy. How do the doctors know which head to take off? Now I know what you’re thinkin’. You thinkin’: “the Juice, not only are you a fucking idiot, but you have no sense of class.” I would have to agree with you on both accounts. As would most of the Juice’s family. But, hear the Juice out. What if the “parasitic” head was really the head in control. Or, what if the “parasitic” head contained the beings soul? Huh? Think about that. They take off that head, and WHAM-O! No more soul. That would suck. That would be a big fuck you from good ol’ mother nature. Now, if this was a Twilight Zone episode, you dang well know that would be the case. Where Rod Serling when you need him?

If ya think about it, it’s pretty fuckin’ amazin’ that they were able to detach that other head. Like, do surgeons get boners off of cases like this? I bet they do. I bet they eat this shit up. They probably hang out in some swanky lounge, fucking hot strippers, talkin’ about all their crazy surgeries. Something like:

“Ya know Albert.” Francis says pluggin’ away at some stripper. “I once assisted removin’ a bullet from some red-necks head once.”

“Yea, that’s real nice.” Albert replies, holdin’ down the back of the head of a high priced blonde. “I just removed a “parasitic” head, from a 10 month old.”

Albert stops fucking the stripper, his fat gut rollin’ like a category 5 hurricane. “You did what?”

“You heard me, bitch. I removed a fully formed head from a ten month infant?”

“No shit”! Albert exclaimed.

“Hey, you idiot. I get paid by the minute. Are you gone yet?” The stripper under Albert’s fat gut called out.

“Oh, yea. Sorry.” Albert started up again.

“Ha! You’re such a pussy. Letting a stripper talk to you like that. No wonder they don’t you perform surgery.”

I’m willin’ to wager dollars to donuts, that those surgeons workin’ on that baby, are as arrogant as that scienticians who keep tryin’ to clone dinosaurs.

In any case, here’s hopin’ that baby’s gonna be ok. And it got to keep the soul. Not that parasitic head. Sheesh! That would seriously suck.

Powerball

2005-10-18T21:23:00.000-04:00

I gotta tell ya, the Juice pities the poor bastard who wins the Powerball. Yea, you read that right. You can shove your peepers back into your noggin. I’ll give you a second to do so. Now, on the surface that seems like a pretty fucking stupid statement. Even comin’ from the Juice, right? The Juice ain’t known for his high IQ, or high EQ for that matter. But, hear me out. The Powerball is at somethin’ like 6 billion dollars these days. Is that really necessary? Now the Juice don’t play the lottery. Ever. It’s a waste of time and money. Think about it. You got better odds of gettin' clubbed by a gang of blood thirsty, vengeful baby seals, then winnin’ the lottery. You’ve got better odds of bein’ abducted by aliens and bein’ used by said aliens for their weird sexual experiments, then winnin’ the lottery. Hell, you’ve got better odds of bein’ invited to one of the “blow job” parties Oprah’s always goin’ on about, then winnin’ the lottery. But, hey, don’t let the Juice stop ya. You just keep on wastin’ your money. And, hey, since you’re wastin’ your money, why not send that cash to a good cause? Like the Juice, for instance. Now, that gives me an idear. Perhaps the Juice should start his own lottery. I mean, the second you morons hear the word “lottery”, you’re wallets get all juicy.

Besides, did ya ever once really consider what would happen if ya really won all that money? Yea, I know. You’d do this, you’d buy that. You’d fuck her over there, then you’d fuck that one over here. You’d give so much for mommy to go away. You’d buy your brother 17 cars, but that’s it! No more after that! You’d even buy your neighbor a “happy ending.” But what happens after you spend all that dough? Or even half the dough? There’s only so many houses you can buy. Only so many cars you can trash. Only so many whores ya can fuck. There’s a psychological difference between “earnin’” your money over time and have a safe drop on your head. And believe you me, there ain’t no way on the Christ’s blue planet that you’re psychologically ready for a windfall like that. What happens when everythin loses it’s meanin'? You know , like when you repeat a word too many times. Try it. Pick a word, any word, and keep on repeatin’ it. Try “vagina”. Repeat that several hundred times. It loses it meanin’ after awhile (or makes ya want to fuck something).

Think the Juice has lost his marbles? Probably. One too many meat tenderizers to the ol noggin. But the Juice maintains that people don’t know what to do when they win all that cash. See for yourself: Check this out and this one. Then tell the Juice he’s K razy.

See, your puny mind can’t comprehend the repercussions of winnin’ 320 million dollars. For the rest of your days, you’ll be inundated with people beggin’ you for money. It’s like a PBS telethon all day, every day. And I ain’t talkin’ just about your insane relatives, either. Although, there’s no doubt they’ll be mind fuckin’ ya til ya die. No. I’m talkin’ about every charity and charity cases under the sun. Mailin’ ya letters, emailin’ ya, callin' all hours of the night, knockin’ at your door. Think the Juice is kiddin’? I ain’t. And that’s just the beggars. I won’t even mention the slightly less desirable elements. Actually, I will mention them: Thieves, scam artist and grifters. I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “Whoa! Whoa! What’s that you say, the Juice? Thieves, scam artist and grifters? Oh my! Who said anything about thieves, scam artist and grifters? I thought my life would be roses and Tastykakes after I won the lottery!” You think that ‘cause you watch entirely too much TV. For the love of the Christ turn off the friggin TV for once. Believe you me, it’ll still be there tomorrow.

Just like that fuckin’ Genie said…Be careful what you wish for, it may come true! Real spooky, huh? I always hated the “morals” of stupid stories. So dang preachy. Can’t they just leave us folk alone? Anyway…I’m outta here. I got 50 bucks worth of Powerball tickets to buy.

Some things ya just don't screw with

2005-10-16T23:06:00.001-04:00

20 Million Year Old Spider Found in Amber

So, the Juice was doin’ his internet thing recently. Ya’know. Lookin’ for fascinatin’, thought provkin’ shit to write about. For the life of me, I don’t know why I do it. I’m fairly positive I have better things to do. I could be watchin’ the poorest excuses for shows, Desperate Housewives and Grey’s Anatomy, like the rest of you droolin’ morons. Or, I could be drinkin’ my 17th beer while watchin’ the Texans/Seahawks game. Or I could just stare blankly at the wall. They’re all about as productive.

No. What does the Juice do on his Sunday night? Look for somethin’ to write about. If I was you, and thank the maker I’m not (‘cause believe you me, ain’t no one wants your life), I wouldn’t feel honored. ‘Cause I’m basically just trollin’ for porn.

Somewhere in my porn search, the Juice stumbled upon the above article. Now, I ain’t sure if this article is more fascinatin’ or scary. See, some scientician managed to draw blood from a 20 million year old spider. Which is fairly fucking cool, right? I mean, 20 million years old? That’s old. I’d like to say that was the end of the story. Ya’know. The science dude draws the blood, starts struttin’ around. Showin’ how much of a muthafuckin’ bad ass he is. He’s probably all up in the other scientician’s faces sayin’ shit like:

“How you like me now, bitch? You couldn’t draw blood from a open wound, sucka.”

This dude probably rules the lab, now. Gets the best parkin’, the newest Bunsen burners. I bet this amazin’ feat get this guy some serious tail. Even if it’s just nerdy, scientician tail (My apologies to my nerdy, female scientician type readers). He probably went up to all the gal scienticians workin in the lab with his test tube of blood, and started mouthin’ off: “Hey, I just drew blood from a 20 million year old spider. Yea, that’s right. Now, which of you ladies is gonna show me how great I am?”
Be that as it may, there’s some scary shit in this discovery. Like this for instance: “…It is possible the blood could be used to extract DNA.” The first thing I thought when I read that was, WTFMFF!?!?!? Didn’t these clowns see Jurassic Park? Thos scienticians don’t give fuck one about anything but clonin’ dinosaurs. Any chance they get, that’s the first thing they want to do. I’m willin’ to wager dollars to donuts a conversation like this went down shortly after the extraction:

“Hey, George. I finally got some drops of blood from that spider.”

“No shit, Henry! Do you think we can clone dinosaurs now?”

“We’re sure as fuck gonna try! Right after I show this test tube to Mary Ann and Ginger back in the lab.”

“Ya, think they’re both gonna do ya?”

“Think it? Think it? Shit, you know how those lab gals are. You show them a little vial of 20 million year old blood, and their panties get wet. You'll have to peel them off me.”

See want I mean? Those scienticians won’t be happy until dinosaurs become our overlords. That ain't the best part, though. There’s one more interestin’ lil nugget in the article. And only a really smart person could figure this out:

Palaeontologist Dr David Penney, of the School of Earth, Atmospheric and Environmental Sciences, has now used the blood droplets to trace how, when, and where the spider died all those years ago.

Dr. Penney said: "It's amazing to think that a single piece of amber with a single spider in it can open up window into what was going on 20 million years ago.
By analyzing the position of the spider's body in relation to the droplets of blood in the amber we are able to determine how it died, which direction it was traveling in and even how fast it was moving."

In the latest issue of the journal Palaeontology (2005, vol. 48, part 5), Penney describes how the spider died. He believes the spider was climbing up a tree when it was struck head-on by a sudden strong flow of resin. The spider then became engulfed in the resin and died.

In case ya missed it: “...as now used the blood droplets to trace how, when, and where the spider died all those years ago.” Now, the Juice ain’t very bright. But, I’d be willin’ to gather up a guess as to how that spider died. But, I might be wrong. And I don’t want to embarrass myself. So, lets read a bit further down. Maybe it’ll shed some light. Like, maybe here: “He believes the spider was climbing up a tree when it was struck head-on by a sudden strong flow of resin. The spider then became engulfed in the resin and died.” Uhhhh…duh? It took them to extract 20 million year old blood, which I’m sure ain’t real cheap, to figure out that the spider was “struck head-on by a sudden strong flow of resin”? Uhhhh…duh? The Juice could’ve told ya that. Shit, and my rates are so much cheaper. I would’ve told you that for 50 bucks and a case of Zima. It probably would’ve went down somethin’ like this:

“Mr. the Juice,” the curator of the museum said, handin’ me the amber with the spider in it. “Could you tell us how this spider died.”

“Sure.” I responded, examinin’ the amber. “It’ll cost ya 50 bucks and a case of Zima, though.”

“That’s it?” the curator said surprised. “The other science dudes want to use an extremely expensive process to determine how it died. They said they would need state of the art equipment. And many female lab assistants, with massive cleavage.’

“Massive cleavage?” I consider it for a moment. I could get hot lab assistants outta it? “Nah, don’t sweat it.” I toss him back the amber encased spider. “The fucker died when that amber shit dropped on it, preservin’ it forever.”

“Amazing!” the curator said astounded.

“Yea, no problem.” I grabbed the curators arm. “But listen. Don’t let those other science guys getta hold of this.”

“Why?” he asked concerned.

“’Cause they’d just want to get the blood to make dinosaurs. You saw Jurassic Park, right? We don’t need any of that shit goin’ down.”

The curator straightened out his jacket. “You are absolutely correct sir! I’ll have those other scienticians escorted from the premises.” He turned to walk away. “And, I’ll have to send those hot lab assistants home.”

Shit! I curse to myself. I can’t believe I didn’t ask for hot lab assistants!

Is that all it takes to be a scientician? If so, the Juice has seriously been wastin’ his life away.

Comments

2005-10-15T09:15:00.000-04:00

Ok...here's the deal. the Juice has been gettin' multiple request from folks who want to leave comments. Against my better judgement, the Juice has enabled them again. However, if I'm inundated with Spam again, I'll be turnin' off the comments once again. Understood young man and/or young woman? Comments are a responsibility not to be taken lightly!

The World's Greatest Invention Not Invented Yet: Automatic Sock Folder

2005-10-14T21:14:00.000-04:00

So, the other day the Juice is foldin’ the laundry. I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “The Juice, between workin’ all day for the man, then comin’ home and dealin’ with the kids, you even help out with the laundry? The Juice you are a true renaissance man.” I appreciate the sentiment, but the Juice is nothin’ of the sort. See, the Juice has picked up a thin' or two after bein’ married for so fuckin’ long. Now, I should seriously charge you for this lil nugget I’m about to share. I mean, this knowledge wasn’t just “jacked” into the ol’ noggin, like that douche bag in the Matrix. Although, I gotta tell ya, if that were the Juice, and I could upload any info, any situation, into the brain it sure wouldn’t be kung fu fightin’. Well, that’s not true. Kung Fu fightin’ is fairly fucking cool. So, maybe sometime down the road I might have that shit uploaded into the ol’ noodle. First thing first? Uploadin’ my list of hot chicks. Oh, yea! And the Juice would have his way with each and everyone one. Now, as much as I’d like to go into graphic detail how I might put it to Mrs. Superwickedhotpants, we’re here for a reason…

The nugget of wisdom. As I was sayin', the Juice worked hard over the years figurin' it out. But, since I’m feelin’ generous tonight, I'm just handin' it over like I do with everythin' else in my life. I'm not even gonna make you scroll over the white space to get it. Nope! No work for you tonight. So, here it is (you may want to imagine a drumroll, it’ll add to the effect): Help out once in a while.

Now, I’m sure you’re doin’ a double take. “Help out once in a while?!?!?!?” Yea, that was written in English. See, the Juice has learned that if ya help out once in awhile, it keeps the “bitchers” off your back. And the Juice is all about keep the bitchers off his back. Unless, of course, you’re a glutton for punishment, as I suspect many of you stupid fucks are.

It makes sense if ya think about it. Ya do the laundry, clean the dishes, take out the trash. Shit, if ya do enough, maybe your missus will fuck ya. The Juice often wonders that if you were to do enough cleanin’ around the house, would that be enough for the missus to let ya fuck another chick? Does that point really exist? Or is it as mythical as bigfoot, the Odyssey(good fuckin' luck with that one), and the blow job party. My guess is that much like the Pentaquark, the cleanin/sex with another chick point doesn't really exist. In the name of science, the Juice would almost be tempted to try that risky experiment, but the Juice don’t have the stomach for all that cleanin'. I may help out once in awhile, but anymore than that is "work". And the Juice sure as shit does enough of that. It ain't like the Juice doesn’t do his fair share day in and day out at a job that I can’t stand. And then come home to a completely ungrateful family. Who just expects more and more from me. No, that ain’t me. It’s Pina Colada’s and glamour magazines all day, every day for the Juice.

But, back to the real reason were gathered here today, the Juice helpin’ out with the laundry. The missus was doin' a fair amount of bitchin’ one particular day. Some shit that I don’t do enough around the house. May be true, may be false, but she was bitchin’ nonetheless. So, just to shut her the hell up, I took my own advice. I got off the couch I'd been for the last four hours. I cut the lawn, took out the trash, and yes, did the laundry. Anythin’ that will help keep her trap shut for 5 seconds.

So, the Juice is foldin’ the clothes of the ungrateful. And after foldin’ a few shirts the only things that were socks. Ugghhhh!!!!! The one thing the Juice hates more than anythin' else, more than gettin’ hit in the face with monkey shit, is foldin’ socks. Dang, I hate foldin’ socks! I wish I had a trained midget to do it. How great would that be? Or better yet, an Automatic Sock Foldin’ machine.

Now, with that in mind, feast your eyes on this:

click to get a bigger view.

Oh, yea! How about that? Pretty fuckin’ ingenious, right? How about a few close ups of the machine?

outside view

inside view

I'm tellin' ya, these designs just might win the Juice the Nobel peace prize. Or science prize. I can't fuckin' keep track. But, as soon as the Juice gets a free moment, I’m gonna start workin’ on it. And don’t any of you fucks try and steal my idear! I’m already in the process of gettin’ it patented. ‘Cause, believe you me, I don’t trust a one of ya's. Fuckin’ idear stealers. All of ya!

Move along, no new post to see here

2005-10-13T17:24:00.000-04:00

Not much of a post today. My buddy, Paco Reban and I are goin' skink huntin’. However since you’re here why not familiarize yourself again with The Kingdom of Magic Ain’t for Kids Series? ‘Cause, believe it or not, the Juice is finally gonna’ try and finish the series next week. As best I can recall, we left off on all the trinkets they sell in good ol’ WDW. The Juice is gonna gather all the pics of the merchandise I took while the Brockman clan was in Disney World earlier this year. Plus some fairly cool shots of the Lego store at Downtown Disney.

I promise to have a real quality post tomorrow. With drawin's and all. That's if I feel like it. And I know you don't gotta problem with that!

Close, but no cigar...

2005-10-11T20:36:00.000-04:00

London to Get Sexual 'Theme Park'

Whoa! What did that say? Sexual Theme park? Holy Fuckamoley! Where can I buy my season pass? When can I buy it? Shit! Let me pack my bags. I’ve got my shovel ready. I’m sure those fucks over in England need some help breakin’ ground. Like the Juice, I'm sure that's some of the things screamin'through your brain as ya read that headline.

Ahhh…don’t let it fool ya like it fooled the Juice. When I saw that, I gotta admit, the Juice was more than a bit excited. I was ready to test fuck any hooker, real or virtual, that needed to be test fucked. “What’s that sexual theme park imagineer? You need the Juice to test nail that virtual reality Salma hayek? By all means, strap me in!!!” That’s kinda how the Juice imagines it goin’ down. Or, maybe the sexual theme park imagineer needs the Juice to visit the theme park’s version of the Amsterdam’s red light district. Ya’know it would be a “distilled”, cleaned-up version of the famous red light district. Kinda like how Disney, disneyfies everything. Without all the disease, skankiness, you know. Only hot, clean whores. Wow, give me a second with that one…

As hopeful as the headline was, the Juice had a feelin’. In the back of my mind, I knew it couldn’t be true. A sexual theme park? Who we kiddin’ here? Nah!!!! Really!?!?!? Nah!!!!!

Then, the Juice read the article.

I got two words for those sexual theme park designers in England: You can shove that phony ass park up your collective asses! What the world doesn’t need is another preachy place. Don’t we get enough of that shit at home, church and at work? Dang, I can’t stand it. All my life some voice of authority has been sayin’:

“The Juice, don’t do this.”
“The Juice, say ‘no’ to that”
“The Juice, don’t stick it in there.”
“The Juice, don’t stick it in there, either.”
“Ow…the Juice, you’re hurtin’ me”
“The Juice, don’t smoke that.”
“The Juice don’t do that.”
“The Juice, drive the speed limit.”
“The Juice, don’t stick that in there.”

Dang! Ya can’t do anythin’ anymore that almost resembles fun. God forbid if you look sideways at somethin’ that might be interestin’. Believe you me, ya’ll get are earfuls of “Don’t do that. Don’t do this.” SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!! Is all the Juice can say! For once in my miserable existance, I’d love to hear: “Please, the Juice. Stick it in here.” Or “Sure, the Juice. Waste your whole paycheck on bettin’, drinkin’ and whores. You work hard. You deserve it!” Man! How pleasant that would be? I’m sure at a real sexual theme park, you could do all those things. And more…

Alas, though, the Juice is beginnin’ to think that the sexual theme park is just like Atlantis, unicorns and a republican balanced budget. All “mythical” things. Sure, the Juice could go on about “adult” playgrounds all day, as I did a bit in this post, but the fact of the matter is that it ain’t ever gonna happen. Yea, I getta ton of email pointin’ out places like Vegas, and Hedonism. I can’t deny the existence of those places, even though I’ve never had the privilege, nah honor, of partakin’. But, I don’t believe them to be what the Juice has in mind for an “adult” playground.

You best believe, though, if some renegade genius ever gets the balls to create a real sexual theme park, the Juice will be first in line, lifetime pass in hand.

Retro: The Glory of...

2005-10-10T22:18:00.000-04:00

...Teri Copley

It seems as though the Juice is stuck in some sort of time warp with his choice of “The Glory of…” lately. Looking back at the last few we had Sheena Easton, a really Retro Ann Margret, and now this one. Is there somethin’ wrong with the Juice? Yea, plenty. But nothin’ that applies to this post. So, what could be the reason for the recent rash of Retros? I don’t know. It’s what the big guy upstairs has been sendin’ down. What can I say? I mean, the Juice has been plannin’ some “The Glory of…” of contemporary gals (I don’t want to give anythin' away, so you’ll just have to suffer). But, Sheena bumped my planned “The Glory of…”. Then Ann did the same thing. Now it’s Teri Copley's turn. Sorry current hot chicks. I know you’re out there. And if you stay hot, I’ll write about ya sooner or later. More sooner if ya can promise the Juice a lil hand. That’s if the missus doesn’t fling somethin’ at the Juice’s noggin first for makin’ such an “immoral” offer. But, the offer stands nonetheless hot chicks. I’ll deal with the consequences later.

Now that the Juice has officially wasted 5 minutes of your life, it’s time for the good stuff. Teri Copley. Dang! The name just rolls off the tongue.

If you’re not recallin’ Teri at the moment, let me fill ya in. She was on that “show”, We’ve Got It Made or somethin’ really “punny” like that. I don’t even know what the premise was of the show. It was just terrible, god awful, really. It had somethin’ to do with 2 dudes and a maid. But, not in the really good DP way. Sure it sounds like a decent porno. Two dudes who have a maid (a hot maid at that). Do you see where the Juice is comin’? You’re not that stupid are ya? Two guys and a hot gal? Dang! That would’ve been a show to watch! Not some terrifyin’ly bad sitcom. Each show could be all the different ways the 2 dudes got “into” it with the maid. And by “into” a mean fucking her every which way but loose. I seem to remember Stephanie Kramer bein’ one of the dude’s girlfriends. That’s an episode right there. A “fatal” four way, if you will. Dang, if I keep this shit up, I’m definitely gonna need a bathroom break.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit, Teri’s got that early 80’s look about her. So? Hot is hot. I remember bein’ a pre-teen the Juice. And watchin’ that stupid show. Actually, that’s a bit of a stretcher. I don’t remember ever watchin’ that show. But, I sure remember Teri. One of the things I remember is when Teri was on the cover of TV Guide. She looked ok on the cover, but there was a picture inside the Guide that looked so much better. The Juice remembers it bein’ freakin’ hot. So much so, that the pre-teen Juice cut the picture out (more like ripped it out of the magazine) and taped it to the door of my bedroom. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the pic today that was in the article, but I do have the TV Guide cover:

The pre-teen Juice was so cheesy that he actually took pictures of family members in front of said bedroom door. Just to get a picture of a picture of Teri Copley? Yea, that’s bad. That’s stupid, uncontrollable hormones for ya. The Juice still has those photographs. However, don’t expect a showin’ here. Far, far, far too embarrassin’ for the Juice. It’s bad enough I admitted that I did it, let alone show the internet wolves out there the evidence. Besides, what can I say? I was a horny pre-teen the Juice. Like you never did somethin’ pathetic like that.

Since we’re sharin’ embarassin’ shit, wait’ll ya here how the pre-teen the Juice got a hold of the TV Guide with Teri Copley. See my ol’ man and his wife were cheap back then (were? Who the fuck am I kiddin? Still cheap! Ever hear the 3 square rule? No? Remind me to tell ya about it sometime). They wouldn’t spend the money to buy TV Guide. Are you kiddin’? What the fuck do you need TV Guide for? Ya, just put your hand on the dial and turn til ya see the show ya want. Anyway, pre-teen the Juice schemed and schemed. How the heck was I gonna score that TV Guide (remember this was way, way, way before the internet. I’ll tell ya, the internet has really made life great in regards to trackin’ down information. Especially if that “information” is pornography. Is there any other type of “information” on the internet?). It dawned on me, that a then-buddy of mine, got TV Guide. The pre-teen the Juice asked him if I could have the TV Guide when his family was done with it. Done and done, right? Smash and grab. Little did the pre-teen Juice know that my then-buddy actually asked his mother if I could have it. Talk about embarrassin’. Why couldn’t the dude just take the fuckin’ magazine? You know, pull it out of the trash or some shit like that. Noooooo….he had to go and ask his mommy. And it was nothin’, but embarrassment city, when that TV Guide was handed over to me by his mom. Oh, she made comments about Teri’s amazin’ body. But, not in that hot “Stacey’s Mom” kinda way. My buddy’s mom was kinda makin’ fun of the pre-teen Juice. Pointin’ out the size of Teri’s boobs. I, of course, played it off that it wasn’t about that at all. That I hadn’t even noticed that Terri had large boobs. “She does? I hadn’t even noticed.” Oh, I played it off like I was a patron of the arts. Just admirin’ the sheer beauty of this woman on the cover of TV Guide, like the work of art she was.

The Juice hears that Teri’s caught religion these days. Shame, really. It’s a good thing she caught that religion bug after she made all that money bein’ a sexy ass hot chick.

I leave you with one partin’ thought. It’s a good one. A damn good one. Now look, there’s nudity involved. I’m just warnin’ ya. Click the below pic if you want to see a lil piece of early 80’s heaven. And do me a favor, if you have a problem with boobs, don’t click the pic. Ok?

Flashback! I'd Really Love to See You Tonight.

2005-10-07T21:09:00.000-04:00

Hello. Yea, It’s been awhile. Not much...Whoa! Whoa! Jumpin' the gun I am a bit here. Givin' away the goods I would say I was doin'. Pretend you didn't read that part yet. What the Juice wanted to say is that it's been some time since I wrote a Flashback! The last time was when I reviewed The Pina Colada song. So, this is long since overdue. Ya’ll can stop emailin’ me now about it. Ok? I told you all I'd get to it, eventually...

To be honest, I’ve been plannin’ this for some time now. But, you know, with all that vacation nonsense goin' on (ya know Disney and the Jersey Shore "vacations"), this Flashback! was put on the back burner. But not anymore. We’re here to laugh our asses off. And laugh we shall!

So let’s discuss one of the dumbest songs ever recorded…I’d Really Love to See You Tonight by England Dan and ‘Gina Boy. Or whatever that dude's name is. Let’s face it, you never remember the name after the “And”. They’re never as successful at the person before the “And”. It must be some cruel twist of fate. If I were in a duo, it sure as shit would be “the Juice and...". Like "the Juice and Jessica Simpson”. Or “the Juice and Lindsay Lohan”(When she was good lookin’ of course. Not that scrawny, blonde, partyin’ too fuckin’ hard look she’s got goin’ on now). The only way I would allow my name after the “And” was if it was sandwiched between two names. Like: “Jessica Simpson and the Juice and Kelly Ripa”(yea…Kelly Ripa. You gotta problem with her?). Now, that’s a helluva sandwich. Could you imagine? Not only can I imagine it, but I will. Right now. An intermission here would be perfect. Click

right here

in about 5 minutes. Uhhhh…you better give me ten. Jessica and Kelly are lookin’ a bit insatiable tonight…

Pitch a Bitch: Donations

2005-10-05T23:00:00.000-04:00

Ha! I bet you think I'm gonna bitch about makin' donations. And what a loser you are if you make a donation. And all the constant beggin' that goes on in this country. Dang does that shit get on the Juices nerves! But, no. Makin' donation is cool with the Juice. Real cool! No, the Juice has other sites in his sight. Or somethin' like that...

The Juice took the kids, and half the neighborhood, to a new super playground that recently opened. Now this playground has been in the works for years. I swear to the Christ, years! I’m not entirely sure the how’s and why’s, and nor do I care, but I believe the whole playground was built usin’ donations from peeps and companies alike. Sweet, huh?

The Juice has gotta admit that the place is fairly swanky. That is if playgrounds can be swanky. Now, I wouldn’t spend more than two minutes there if I didn’t have to, you know, with the kids and all. It’s fucking painful watchin’ them run around, havin’ a kick ass time. I guess the Juice is just jealous. Why isn’t there a place like that for adults? To run around, act like a fucking idiot. Say stupid, non-sensical stuff. I tell ya, the Juice would worship the fella who marries strip clubs and playgrounds together. That would be a grand, GRAND day! Just imagine…You’ve got the whores, the slides, the whores, the rock climbin’ wall, the whores…dang! It brings a tear to the Juice’s eye. Unfortunately, I have to digress…

Here’s the thing with the new super playground. Every little thing, from the swings to the flowers, has a plaque commemoratin' whoever “donated” said item. Yea…that’s right. Every fuck thing has a plaque on it. What the hell is that about? Are the places/people who donate this shit expectin’ kids to say “Hey, mommy, watch me go down the Home Depot slide” or “Mommy, mommy! I’m gonna play in the Uncle Bob’s Porno Palace sand box.” I can hear mothers (hot mothers, that is. the kind that wear short skirts without panties. and you know she's not wearin' panties, cause why would see? uhhh....this is beginnin' to sound like another post) callin' out to their kids: “Jimmy and Jenny! Ya’ll be careful on those KY Personal Lubrication Monkey bars. Ya hear me?” It’s ri-goddman-diculous.

Don’t get the Juice wrong. It’s great that these companies/people donated their time and money to such a cause. Hell, companies should do it more often. But, whatever happened to makin’ a donation for the hell of it? Does everyone need to know that Chuck’s Seagull Emporium: “We kill ‘im, you eat ‘em” donated a bench to the park? Shouldn’t the people who work at Chuck’s Seagull Emporium: “We kill ‘im, you eat ‘em” be happy with the feelin’ of makin’ a donation to a worthy cause? Do they really need their name in lights? Do the folks at Chuck’s have that big of ego’s that they need to let the kids know who donated the money to the slide their tiny asses are gracin' at that moment?

Why couldn’t the park managers put a plaque somewhere with a list of contributors? Now, the Juice don’t know plaid from stripes, but wouldn’t a plaque be a shade less tacky then havin’ every last item tagged with a name like a fuckin’ price tag?

Cinderella's Revenge or The True Ending. Part 2

2005-10-04T20:56:00.000-04:00

Check out part one here.

The Grand Duke looked over at the lifeless forms of Drizella and Anastasia before turning his attention back to Cinderella. “What…What of them?”

Cinderella frowned slightly at the old man. She drew in a deep breath, not wanting to explain. Now or ever again. “These people have kept me locked away ever since I was a little girl.” She gestured to what was left of her stepfamily. “And when I wasn’t locked up, I was their complete servant. I all the chores, day in and day out. I was abused by these people like a common mule.”

“And…and the worst of it?” She paused for a moment, the anger starting to overtake her. “They were about to make me miss my one chance of…My one chance of freedom. And why? Cause these fuckers knew I was better than them. They knew it! They kept my down from day one.” Cinderella glared at her stepmother. “At least they tried to keep me down. But, they couldn’t. No matter how many times I had to clean their dirty sheets. No matter how many times I had to wash their soiled undergarments. They couldn’t break my spirit.”

The Grand Duke considered what she had said. Straightening out his waist coat, he replied. “Very well.” Smiling under his bushy mustache, he held out his hand to Cinderella. “The Prince awaits your arrival.”

Cinderella returned his smile. She lightly grasped the Grand Duke’s hand. The Duke’s royal servant grabbed his velvet covered stool and followed them to the door.

“Lies!” A voice called out from behind them. “It’s all lies.”

Cinderella turned slowly around to face her Stepmother. “I’m sorry…”

Her Stepmother stood there red-faced, her hands balled up at her sides. “YOU ARE A LIAR!” she screamed, spit flying out of her mouth.

“A liar?” Cinderella replied. “I’m a lair?” She walked toward her Stepmother. “So, are these callous on my hand lying? What about these cracks on my fingers that bleed constantly? Or how about the bruises on my knees that won’t heal? Are my wounds lying to?” Cinderella stopped in front of her stepmother, their noses nearly touching.

“Why you ungrateful!” The Stepmother said lunging forward grabbing Cinderella by the throat. Just as she was about to break free of her grasp, Anastasia reached out and yanked Cinderella ankle, forcing her to the floor. Cinderella gasped for breath as her stepmother dug her nails into her throat.

As they were making their way back to the mouse hole with 2 big blocks of cheese, Jacques and Gus Gus, Cinderella’s mice friends, watched the commotion. “Holy shit!” Jacques squeaked. “Cinderellie’s in big trouble. We’ve got to help her!”

Gus Gus shook is head, disappointed. “I told you she couldn’t take them all by herself.”

Jacques slapped Gus Gus on the back of the head so hard he flew into the mousehole. “Shut the fuck up!” Jacques yelled. “Get the other mice together, you fat fuck! I’m gonna go help Cinderellie!”

Jacques scurried to Cinderella’s foot. “Cinderellie! Cinderellie!” Jacques called out.

“It’s about time you got here.” Cinderella croaked through her Stepmother’s grasp. Cinderella struggled every which way trying to break free. She managed to glance down at the mouse through the corner of her eye. “I could really use the help. Right now!” She choked out.

“Sorry, Cinderellie.” Jacques gestured to the mice running toward them. “Gus Gus said you had it all covered. It doesn’t matter. You’re in good hands now.” Jacques directed the mice around the scene. He motioned several of the mice over toward the stepmother’s ankles. He sent the Gus Gus and the rest of the mice to bite their way through Anastisia fingers. “Get that bitches hand off of Cinderellie, Gus Gus.” Jacques screamed at the mice.

"MMMM...no problem!" Gus Gus replied.

Jacques lead the other group of mice at the Stepmother’s ankles. They bit and chewed at the woman, drawing blood. She showed no signs of letting up on her grip on Cinderella’s throat. “They’ll have to pry my dead fingers out of your fucking throat!” The old woman screeched into Cinderella’s face. She dug her nails deeper into Cinderella's windpipe.

Cinderella watched as the Grand Duke and the royal servant jumped on her Stepmother, trying to release her death grip. She felt her conscious slipping. Got to do something, she thought to herself. Cinderella's hand let go of her stepmother. Her fingers brushed against the glass slipper. “Maybe…” She thought as she struggled to pull the slipper off her foot. With all her remaining strength, Cinderella rammed the heel of the glass slipper into the side of her Stepmother’s neck.

The Stepmother released Cinderella suddenly, stumbling backward. She reached up and yanked the glass slipper out of her neck. Blood spurted out from the hole. She glared at Cinderella as blood poured out of the gaping wound. Her Stepmother opened her mouth to speak, but only a gurgle escaped. With one last gasp, Cinderella's stepmother slumped to the floor, dead.

The mice around them cheer. Gus Gus jumped up and down chewing on one of Anastasia fingers. The Grand Duke stepped over the body to help Cinderella to her feet. “Are you ok?”

Cinderella rubbed her throat, the brusies swelling up. She reached down to pick up the glass slipper off the floor. Removing her apron, Cinderella thoughtfully wiped the blood off the slipper. “Yes. I’m ok.” She said to the Duke. She tossed the bloodied, dingy apron aside. She turned to her mice friends. “Can you guys take care of this?”

Jacques looked up from the Stepmother neck, his face covered with blood. “No problem, Cinderellie. We’ll make sure these bitches will never be seen again.” He squeaked.

Cinderella smiled patting him on the head. “Good! And don’t forget about that fucking cat.”

Jacques burped loudly. “Don’t worry. Gus Gus and I have a plan for that ol’ kitty.”

“Then I guess there’s nothing more for me here.” Cinderella said, turning to the Grand Duke. “Now, didn’t you say the Prince was waiting?”

Cinderella's Revenge or The True Ending. Part 1

2005-10-03T22:07:00.000-04:00

In honor of Disney releasin’ Cinderella on DVD on Tuesday, the Juice has for you a special treat. A re-write of the endin’! I know. I know what you’re thinkin’: “Why, the Juice? Why waste your time? Don’t you have a Glory of or somethin’ infinitely more entertainin’ then a re-write of Cinderella?” In fact, I do. But I’m sure you’ll find this equally entertainin’. If not you can always go fuck yourself.

So, why? Why a re-write? ‘Cause the endin’ always annoyed the hell outta me. How do I know Cinderella so well? Two of the Juice’s kids are girls. And what do little girls like, besides to talk their heads off? Cinderella. At one point, the Juice knew the words to that dang movie by heart. That movie got so worn out at the Brockman household, that I had to buy a second copy of it. So, the kids are hardcore.

If you’re unfamiliar with my infamous re-writes, and I don’t know how you would be, check out my version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Cinderella takes some serious abuse in this movie. Not, physical abuse, per se. But serious mind fuckin’. Her step family abuses her like a rented mule. And at the end, when the slipper fits, Cinderella just rides off into the sunset. ??????? What? Every time I suffer through that movie, I’m always slack jawed. Where’s the exactin’ of revenge? Where’s Cinderella’s scene of ass kickin’? I can tell you where it ain’t. It ain’t in the movie. But, but…here is where you will find it. Consider this the director’s cut of Cinderella. If the Juice was the director…

The story picks up right after the Cinderella’s stepmother trips the royal servant, breaking the glass slipper. She’s all happy with herself, bein’s the she just fucked Cinderella again. But, wait. Cinderella’s got an Ace up her sleeve, as it were. Cindy pulls out the other glass slipper. The royal servant takes the slipper and…

“It fits. A perfect fit!” The attendant exclaimed as he put the glass slipper on Cinderella’s foot.

Cinderella’s stepsisters stood beside their mother, as they watched the events unfold. They stared at each other a moment, utterly befuddled. Then, in near unison they cried out “But, but…Mother!”

“It…It can’t be.” The wicked stepmother stammered, shoving her fists into the air. “I won’t let it!”

Cinderella slowly rose out of the chair. The attendant, still at her feet instinctively moved back. “Oh. It can be.” She replied, standing at her full height. “And it is.”

With one fluid motion, Cinderella lept into the air, flipping herself behind her unknowing stepsisters. “Here, Drizella.” Cinderella said putting her hands on either side of Drizella’s face. “Let me show you all the work I did to the back of your dress.” A horrifying snap followed a quick movement of Cinderella’s hands. Drizella’s lifeless form collapsed to the floor.

Anastasia watched as Cinderella spun on her bare heel to face her. “No Cinderella!” She stammered shaking her head as she slowly backed away from Cinderella. “I didn’t mean any of it. Honestly.”

Cinderella frowned as she flattened the wrinkles out of her dingy apron. “I’m sure you had nothing to do with any of it Anastasia.” Cinderella said offering her hand out to her quivering stepsister.

Anastasia’s shaking hand reluctantly reached toward Cinderella’s outstretched peace offering. Before Anastasia’s hand touched hers, Cinderella grabbed her arm, forcefully pulling Anastasia to her. “I’m sure you had absolutely nothing to do with all the cleaning I had to do. Or the sewing. Or the cleaning of your clothes. Or the cleaning of your room. Or the cleaning of your disgusting bathroom.” Cinderella said through gritted teeth. “Just like I have nothing to do with kicking your ass right now.”

Still clutching her stepsister’s arm, Cinderella spun around again, this time on the heel of the glass slipper. She pulled her other leg close to her body, until she was completely facing Anastasia. Time seemed to stop for a moment as Cinderella’s eyes met her stepsister’s. At that moment, they both understood. Cinderella smirked, releasing her leg like a coiled spring. She drove her heel into Anastasia’s abdomen, throwing her into the air. Anastasia limp form crashed through an antique wooden table, pieces of wood and glass scattered all over the marble floor.

“Damn!” Cinderella said. “I just waxed that table today.” She paused for a moment to consider how many times over the years she had endlessly wiped down that table. Good riddance. “Oh, well.”

Wiping her hands, Cinderella walked past her gawking stepmother, ignoring her. “I’m ready to go.” She informed the Grand Duke. Noticing his unwillingness to move, Cinderella asked. “Is everything okay?”

Check out part 2.

George, is another box set really necessary???

2005-09-30T20:53:00.000-04:00

So 20th Century Fox is re-re-re-releasin’ the original Star Wars trilogy on DVD. Now, all you hardcore fans out there might want to go crank one off. I'm sure I got you a bit excited about the thought of havin' the original movies on DVD. But what I mean to say is that the Special Edition original Star Wars trilogy was bein' re-re-re-released on DVD. Again. I just don’t get this move. From what the Juice has been able to glean, this is the same movies released in last year’s DVD box set. Minus the extra disc. But, in cool new packagin'. So…I don’t get it. I’m fairly positive that last year’s box set is still widely available. So…I still don’t get it. Look, the Juice is a fan of Star Wars (see here and here to see just how much.). And the Juice is certainly a big fan of makin’ money (sorry no link to how much the Juice loves money. Although, it definitely sounds like a good idear for a new post). But, I don’t get this release of the original trilogy on DVD again. Does Lucas need that much more money? Does he have some sort of cocaine habit to pay for? Or is it just plain shearin’ of the sheep? 'Cause I gotta say that just because George shits cash, don’t mean the rest of us do.

Let’s check out what Fox and Lucas have comin’ up for us to buy. They’ve got Revenge of the Sith coming out on DVD (Full of deleted scenes that should’ve been in the movie to begin with. I don’t care what Lucas says. Yoda landin’ on Dagobah needs to be in that movie.). And you know, just in time for next Easter it’ll be the Prequels in the box set. So all us goofballs will have to buy that. Even though we already own all three of the prequels individually on DVD. Then, don’t forget about the 6 movie box sets with even more deleted scenes set to arrive another 6 months later. Which, coincidentally coincides with the arrival of that Christian holiday. What the hell is that holiday called again? Shit. I forget. I think it’s around the 26th of December. Christmas. Yea, that it. Christmas. That’s when the super Star Wars box set will convienently arrive at stores.

But don’t relax just yet. And certainly don’t quit your job. You’re still gonna need the money. For what? Only Star Wars in 3-D. Now, the Juice ain’t sure that these are gonna be theatrically released (as if I wouldn’t be), but I can guaren-damn-tee that they’ll be release on DVD. But, by that time it’ll be the next generation DVD. Or what technology they think of to replace DVDs. So, if you’re thinkin’ of not buyin’ the 3-D movies, believe you me, you’ll have to. ‘Cause your future fancy video players won’t play DVDs. Convenient, huh?

I swear to the Christ, Lucas is worse than Elvis. How many more times are you gonna repackage the same ol’ garbage? I guess as long as us chumps are willin’ to pay. Now, how do I order this new set anyway?

The most expensive mistake EVER!!!!!

2005-09-28T20:24:00.000-04:00

So, the Juice saw this crazy article on the Internet today. I almost didn't think it was real. If I was a cartoon character, and in many ways I am, my eyeballs would be explodin' out of their sockets. In a nutshell, the head of NASA is sayin’ that the space shuttle program and the International Space Station were a mistake. Excuse me? What was that? A mistake? Ummmm…it took them 30 years to figure this out? Talk about an incredibly stupid statement. What’s wrong with these people? I don’t know what makes them more stupider. The fact that it took them 30 years to figure it out, or the fact that they admitted it. Oh, and by the by, this “mistake” cost us 150 billion dollars!!!!!!!!!!

Oh, yea…you read that right. The head of NASA just said that it’s 2 main programs, the shit they’ve been workin’ on day in and day, were a $150 billion dollars mistake. I gotta say, WTFMFF!!!!!!! Even if the programs were a mistake, do you have to announce it to the world? How much more stupid can we make the United States look? Does this genius need to have his head examined? Can’t the peeps at NASA just get together after work one night, have a few drinks and laugh about it like the rest of us when we screw up? Aren’t these NASA cats suppose to be super geniuses? If the space shuttle and the space station are truly mistakes, can’t they just quietly “retire “them as quickly as possible? Do we have to announce to the world that we’re fuckheads? That’s like the Juice admittin’ to my kids that havin’ them was a mistake. No matter how true the statement is, you never fucking announce it. Sure, the thought may bounce around in your head all day, every day, but you never announce it. C’mon!

And let me ask you this. Where’s the fucking PR firm behind this statement? Why can’t one of these PR cats pull this super genius aside before he opens his face and say “Hey, head of NASA. I don’t think it’s a good idear to tell the nation that your two main programs are a mistake. I think we should just brush this one under the carpet. ‘Cause there ain’t no positive spin on it. Whatdaya think? Maybe we should focus more on that Hubble telescope. Oh, that’s right. We’re lettin’ that investment burn up in the atmosphere. Hmmmm. Maybe we should consider you just keepin’ your word hole shut.”

On top of all that, this NASA official also had the nerve to say that the shuttle program “…was a design which was extremely aggressive and just barely possible.” Now, I ain’t no scientician. The closest the Juice has ever gotten to the shuttle was bein’ escorted off the premises of Cape Canaveral, but, is this dude kiddin’ me? “Extremely aggressive”? A drunk horny dude is “extremely aggressive”. The shuttle program? Not so much. Didn’t they get that fucker off the ground like a thousand times since 1980? And now those folks at NASA all the sudden are sayin’ the program is “just barely possible”???? And here the Juice was just thinkin’ the Shuttle program was dated. Aren’t these the same folks who “supposedly” threw that tin foil moon module to the moon, without a dang computer on it, almost 40 years ago? Aren’t these folks suppose to be visionaries? And now I read that NASA wants to go back to the old Apollo craft. Pimped out, of course. So much for that forward thinkin’, right?

Now, I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “I don’t understand, the Juice. What do you mean ‘supposedly threw that tin foil moon module to the moon’? I learned in 7th grade history that Neil Armstrong was the first man on the moon.” Yea…ok. I believe that. Let me just ask you this…have you ever seen the moon module? Like I said, it’s just fucking tin foil. You expect me to believe that thing made it through the vacuum of space? Uhhhh…right. We can’t even get a decent operatin’ system on our computers. And you’re gonna try to convince me that we put men on the moon 36 years ago? Weren’t they still usin’ abacus back then? So you’re tryin’ to tell me that the same people who watched The Man from U.N.C.LE. sent men out into the great blue beyond? That’s funny. The only way I’d believin’ we ever landed on the moon, is if aliens were involved. Then I’d consider it. Other wise, I can’t wait to see the real moon. I’m not sure any of this has anything to do with my argument, but whatever…

I guess I can’t really blame NASA. Some people take a bit longer to figure things out. Like, how many people are married for 15 – 20 years and one day realize, it’s a “mistake”. Or how about the jackass who works at the same company for 20 odd years, when he should have moved on 15 years ago. Then he wakes up one day, laid off cause the company downsized. That’s a “mistake”. I guess the difference is that those people didn’t waste 150 BILLION TAX PAYER DOLLARS finally realizin’ their mistakes.

Maybe the “problem” with the shuttle is that the folks at NASA just got a bit lazy. They were sendin’ that shuttle into orbit so many times, they got numb it to. You know. It gets borin’ after a while. It’s kinda like nailin’ the same broad everyday. Sure, it may be good once in a while, but let’s face it, most days you’re just punchin’ the clock. You could say the fundin’ wasn’t there, or whatever. The fact of the matter is that NASA let their guard down. And, unfortunately, that price had to be paid in people’s lives. It’s not that the shuttle program is old or unpredictable or whatever. That’s just the easy out. It’s easier to blame the program, then to look at ourselves, I suppose

The real answer? It’s time for NASA to close it’s doors. I know, it seems a bit of a shock. But, they had a good run. Today, though, space exploration belongs in the hands of private industry. Where the true visionaries lie. This way, us sucker taxpayers don’t get stuck with a 150 billion dollar mistake. Let NASA be consultants, I don’t care. But, the governmental sponsored space program has to go. No two ways about it. When you start makin’ stupid comments like that, it’s time to clean up the house, tell the strippers to go home and catch a few “z’s”.

I’ve got two words for them: Duh!

The Fun that is a Kid's Party

2005-09-27T21:22:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend was Lucifer’s 2nd birthday. Of course, we had to have the obligatory birthday party. I gotta tell ya, these “parties” are painful as hell. I’d compare it to root canal, but root canal is a walk in the park compared to hostin’ a kid’s party. Especially a lil kids party. They’re always full of people you can’t stand and don’t really want to talk to, namely family and friends.

Lucifer’s party has been in the works for what seems like his last birthday party. The missus has been goin back and forth about what kind of food to get, what kind of “entertainment” to have, the whole 50 yards. I swear to the Christ, one moment the missus is gettin' food from one place, then 23 seconds later she’s gettin' it from another place. Yea, you read that right. The party was “catered”. This wasn’t just a “kid’s” party. You know, “each your cake, run around like a lil asshole, open presents and get the fuck out” kinda party. Noooooooo. This was yet another extrav-fuck-ganza! Now, in case you think the Juice is pullin’ a few stretchers again, let me give you an idear of the scope of this "party". The cake alone was originally 60 dollars! I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in. ‘Cause I sure had to when the missus told me that one.

Now, the Juice likes to think he’s a reasonable man. Sure, I beef a lot here on the blog, but that’s cause I have to. Or else I'd be a serious madman. But SIXTY DOLLARS FOR A FUCK CAKE?????? When the missus ordered the cake, she neglected to tell me how much it was. She said it was “a lot”, and that was it. Now, two things The Juice has learned over the centuries. A) Never lick a whore’s vagina. You just never know where it’s been. And B) Never ask the price when you hear the words “it’s a lot”. In both cases, you’re just better off.

So, I didn’t ask the price of the cake. How much could it be anyway, right? It’s a cake. How much do cake’s run these days? Four dollars? How do I know? Besides, since this extrav-fuck-ganza was bein’ catered, what’s a couple more bucks? Just tack on another 6 months of workin’ for the man. Well, when the missus finally ‘fesses up about the cake, I nearly shit a brick. I asked her if she was fuckin’ crazy. Flat out. I made sure there weren’t any heavy objects around, though. Bein’s that the missus has a tendency to throw shit at ya, when ya ask her if she’s fuckin’ crazy. But, really!!!! Is she fucking crazy? I’ll field this one for ya…she is.

So, I “convinced” her that payin’ $60 for a cake was a bit much. And by “convinced” I mean she wasn’t getting’ penny one for no $60 cake. And that it’d be on my death bed, before she’d ever get that kind of money for anything, let alone a cake. Especially considerin’ that 95% of the people at this party I can’t stand. I’d rather russle up one of my special “Go Fuck Yourself” cakes, then spend an extra buck on those people. In case you were wonderin' the cake ended up costin' 30 bucks, I think. The Juice has spent some time tryin' to block the whole thing out. So, if any of you fuckers readin' this were at the party, I hope you enjoyed that fuckin' cake!!!!!

But, as painful as it is to host a party for your own kid(s), there is somethin’ worse. Goin' to a kid’s party. Believe you me, it’s far, far worse. It’s bad enough when a party is filled with YOUR family and YOUR friends. Imagine sufferin’ through your friend’s offspring’s party. A fate worse than death, it is. Full of people you wouldn’t associate with on your worst day. Geeks and fuckheads a plenty (my apologies to my geek and fuckhead readers). There’s nothin' worse than a party filled with family and friends of a friend of yours. Even swimmin’ nude, with a boner, through a tank full of starvin’ piranhas is better than hangin’ with your friend’s family and "other" friends. Unless they’re all porn stars or magicians or somethin'. Then, it’s a toss up. Otherwise, I’d rather take rectal exam without the ez slide jelly, then go to a kid’s party.

There was this one time (in band camp) the Juice was at a lil kid’s party…uggghhh. My buddy, Beat N. Down was havin’ an extrav-fuck-ganza for one of his many children. I was sittin’ at a table, eatin’ the barely edible food stuffs, waitin’ for the party to end or for the big guy to take me home. Which ever came first. Some folks sat down next to the Juice. I guess the scowl on my face didn’t scare them away. Anyway, these people start goin' on about this and that. I start prayin’ harder for a quick end. A meteor, or a freak bolt of lightenin', or anything just PLEASE MAKE THEM SHUT THE HELL UP. But, they didn’t. They just went on and on. This one cat was goin’ on about his “properties”. And how much money he was makin’. He was worse than that fucking energizer bunny. Goin’ on and on and on. “I’ve got money this. I’ve got money that. I got so much money from my houses, that I practically shit it out. Money, money, money. La, la, la.” I couldn’t take it any more. So, the Juice got up, walked over to the yakker and screamed; SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!!! I screamed it so hard, lil pellets of mashed potato stuck to the guy’s eyebrows.

Ok. Maybe that last part didn’t happen, but the guy was really fuckin’ annoyin’. Here’s a free tip for ya, from the Juice: Ain’t nothin’ worse than hearin’ someone talk about their money. No one gives a shit, so keep it to yourself! It’s a shame that dude couldn’t invest some of those greenbacks of his for a sense of class. Or one of those experimental personality transplants. Which ever.

So, how did the Juice ever get out of that horrifyin’ conversation? Lucifer ran straight into a wall. One of the funniest dang things I’ve ever seen! Just…SMACK! Right into the wall. Screamed his bloody head off, he did. And his ol’ man was right there to console him. Good ol’ Lucifer. I slipped him an extra couple of cookies for that one.

I know. I hear what you’re askin’. You’re askin’: “the Juice, What of the dump and run? Why do you have to stay?” Believe you me, I’ve tried it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it don’t. When you’ve got as many kids as the Juice does, and they’re all invited to an event, it’s hard to dump all of them off on the host. It would serve them right for invitin’ them all, that’s for sure. the Juice is a many thing, but a dick I am not. Well, I am. But I wouldn’t thrust my kids on anyone person. Ahhhh…who am I fuckin’? I’d dump those turds off on anyone, given half the chance. And of course, I use the word “turds” with love.

So, here’s what I propose. No more kid’s parties. Simple enough, right? I’ll give ya the token “one year old” party, but that’s it. No more after that. And don’t bother invitin’ the Juice, ‘cause I ain’t comin’. The only parties the Juice is comin’ to these days are for hot 21 year olds or one of those “mythical” blow job parties Oprah’s always talkin’ about. Now, that’s a party!!!!

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs: A Time for Bitchin' Finally Ends

2005-09-25T22:05:00.000-04:00

Seagulls suck!

If you’re askin’ yourself: “What the fuck is goin on?” Then, click your fine ass on overhere. Otherwise grab your bottle of Zima and read on…

Well, it’s time to celebrate. We’ve finally reached the end of this series. Thank the Christ for that, is all I can say. It’s a long road you and I’ve been on. You’ve really hung in there. But, you’re holdin’ me back now. It’s time for me to move on. Don’t cry. We can still be “friends”.

If you remember from here and here I told you about my run ins with seagulls. Dang, I hate seagulls. The Juice is more than a bit biased when it comes to birds, though. There’s just somethin’ about them. Something evil. If you seen that Alfred Hitchcock picture, you know what I mean. Birds ain’t right. And havin’ them for pets is a lot more not right. The Juice had a friend growin’ up who had a gaggle of birds as “pets”. And those birds ruled the place. They flew free. They tore up everything, the furniture, the carpet everything. Not to mention the crap. I don’t want to say the crap was everywhere, but the birds would shit any ol’place. You never knew when you were goin’ to get a Sunday surprise. Man, I hated going over his house.

Not that I gotta tell ya, but one of the worst things in life is bein’ shit on (And you thought the Juice was gonna say bein’ married for 10 years. Fooled ya!). And the Juice ain’t speakin’ metaphorically, here. The Juice is bein’ literal. Although, it does kinda suck in the metaphorical sense, but more so in the literal sense. The Juice has had his share of direct hits by those winged vermin. Luckily never in the hair or the mouth. Cause as bad as it is bein’ shit on, it’s that much worse in the hair of the mouth. Talk about a day killer. If something like that happens, you should be given a free pass of societal laws. Kinda like this:

You’re walkin’ along outside one mornin’tired as can be. You had a rough night. You didn’t get much sleep from fuckin’ some hot broad the night prior. Anyway, you let out a huge yawn, and against all odds (and to your misfortune) a bird craps in your mouth. We agree that sucks, right? Well, here’s what the Juice proposes. As soon as that birds crap hits the back of your throat, some secret agent appears out of no where and hands you a little card. About the size of a business card. You’re about to haul off on this punk’s ass, cause you’re pissed about the shit in the mouth thing, when this super secret agent informs you that you’re exempt from all societal law for the next 24 hours. Boss gettin’ on your nerves? Kick his ass. Red lights? Forget about it. Pants? Fuck ‘em. No lawsuits, no repercussions, all forgiveness. Nice, right? You then proceed to kick the super secret agent’s ass, cause you can. Even though he knows 75 ways to snap your neck, he has to let you kick his ass. Get it? It rocks! Hell, I’m gonna go sit out side with my mouth wide open, and hope for a bullseye. I can’t wait to get that free pass. I’ve got an elementary school teacher who gave me a detention that could use a lil straightenin’ out. But…uhh, I digress…

Seagulls are a blight to the world. Winged vermin, if you will. And you will. I’d take a pigeon every day of the week, including Arbor Day, over seagulls. And if you know me, and really you don’t, then you know how much I hate pigeons. Now, I ain’t no Bert here. What’s the deal with that muppet, anyway? I know. I’ve heard the rumors that Bert and Ernie are gay. But that’s just stupid. They’re puppets for the love of the Christ! They’ve got no genitalia! People who go on about Bert and Ernie bein’ gay ought get their heads examined. No, my problem with Bert is his attitude. What’s up his ass? He’s a total dick. If I was Ernie, I’d tell that miserable bastard to go fuck hisself. Then, if I’m still Ernie, I’d be movin’ in with Prairie Dawn. Now, that’s a muppet piece of ass. Either her or Gina. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t gonna be doing a “The Glory of…” about Gina, but she ain’t bad. I’d say that she was a bit out of Ernie’s league though. But, if he left Bert at home, changed his shirt, I’d be willin’ to bet that Ernie could at least score some hand from Gina. And Prairie Dawn? Shit, Ernie owns the store on that sexy muppet. But, it seems as if the Juice as gotten off track again. All apologies. Pigeons are just nasty. But, seagulls? They’re mean, nasty and aggressive.

I suppose the problem isn’t really with the gulls. It’s with the stupid fuck tourist who feed them. Listen people. Stop feedin’ the birds. Just stop! I know at this point, it ain’t gonna do a dang thing. Those birds have been seriously humanized. Even so, if I ever go back to the Jersey shore, and if I ever catch a one of ya feedin’ those birds, I will put a serious, SERIOUS hurtin’ on you. Whether I’ve got one of those “special” cards I talked about early or not.

As for the rest of my beefs with the Jersey shore…What else can I say? I’ve already bitched about the beach tags. I could go on about how dirty the ocean appears. All that seaweed, and needles and fish and all the crap living in the ocean. Ugggghhhh. It just sceeves me out. I’ll take a chlorinated pool over the ocean every day of the week, including Boxin' Day. I’m sure at this point, though, you get how bad the Jersey shore sucks. If nothing else, I hope I’ve convinced you to never go to the southern Jersey beaches again. If I still haven’t convinced you, then at least don’t go to Ocean City. If not that, then…ahhh fuck it. I don’t give shit one what you do. Suffer the misery yourself. I can’t wait to read about it on your blog.

So, I guess this is the end. Hard to believe it’s takin’ the Juice almost 2 months to get it all out. Talk about stretchin’…sheesh. I know some of you might be worried about the future. Where do we go from here? Now that all the vacation stories have be told. That’s a good question. Believe you me, there’s plenty of other stories to tell. The Juice has plenty of other vacations to write about. Like the time I contracted the super flu while vacationin’ in Florida and nearly died. Or the time I was suppose to met some friends at Disney World and it was so packed that it took hours to find them. You know, sucky stuff like that. And hey, if I can’t come up with anything good, then we say our “Go Fuck Yourselves” and close up shop.

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs: A Time for Bitchin' continues...

2005-09-21T22:26:00.000-04:00

I'm gonna warn ya, right here right now. This post is fairly weak. I'm tired. I just can't seem to get it up. So, if you're not completely satisfied, I'm sure you can figure out what to do with yourself...

Forgot about lookin’ for a savior. Your light in all this darkness can be found here. Don’t be all disappointed. It’s not the answer to life’s questions. It’s just a means of catchin’ up.

Like a Jedi master, I can sense your frustration with my Jersey Shore bashin’. The dark side frustration is. Crank one off, you must. Or, just hang in there. It’s almost all out of my system. One more post after this one, and we’ll be done. We can move onto greener pastures. Ok? Tonight, though, the bile WILL run free.

As in many things in life, a little history lesson is needed. I hear you moanin’. And not in that “I can’t wait for you to put it in my ass” sexy kinda way, either. You won’t need your 8th grade text books for this one. ‘Cause I know how much you folks hate history, bein’s the country’s in the same situation it was 35 years ago. Unwinable “war”, fuel issues, great leadership, you know the beef. Actually you don’t know the beef, or we won’t be in the situation we are. But hey, keep on watchin’ The Apprentice. Helpin’ Trump make even more money sure is helpin’ the country out. However, I digress…

Growin’ up, and into my teenage the Juice years, I was a fan of the carnival. Big fan. Big fan. Nothing like the carny. The dirtiness. The folkels. The funnel cake. To the Juice, it was a lil slice of hillbilly heaven right here on earth. But, as the Juice got older, my love of carnivals dissipated. Probably from the Disney factor. The more the Juice visited Disney World, the less I liked anything else. Disney is so…Disney compared to the carny. Ya just can’t compare one to the other. So, like a teenager not gettin’ beyond first base, my love for the carny slowly disappeared.

What the hell does this have to do with Wastaway Cove? If you can keep your panties out of your ass for 8 bloody seconds, I’ll tell ya. The place is a glorified carny. A pseudo carny, if you will. Without all the charmin' experiences of the carny, either. And by callin’ the Wastaway Cove a carny, I totally disrespect the folks who run the travelin spectacles. My apologies to those nobel folks.

First of all, the idiots runnin' the Cove cramped as many crappy rides into the place as they could. It’s nearly impossible to walk. There's no marked walkways, either. When it’s crowded, there’s no tellin’ where the crowds begin and the lines end. And what do you do if you have an amusement park for the tots? You put rides right at the entrance, so no one can navigate. Oh, and lets have misc carts and such, shut down, further blockin’ the walk ways. Who cares, right? As long as there’s a kid, there’ll be a stupid parent payin’ for the kids rides. So fuck’em! Lets jam the place up like a dime store hooker. You paid for 'er, right?

And would it kill Wastaway Cove to have somethin' for the adults to do? I mean, c’mon!!! If you ever want to know what purgatory is, take a ride to Wastaway Cove. Bleary eyed parent millin’ about. Throwin’ money here, there and everywhere. Each one wonderin’ when eternity is gonna end. That’s the Wastaway Cove experience. How about somethin’ for the adults? A bar or somethin’ for the love of the Christ. Oh, I forgot. Ocean City is a dry town. So much for the bar idea. Ah, fuck it. Who needs adult entertainment, right? Our lives are fuckin’ sweet as it is. Workin’ for the man day in day out. Havin’ the best years of our lives whittled down so some fuckface CEO can have yet another house for the 54th whore he’s keepin' shacked up. That sure as shit brings meanin’ to life, don’t it? And the family, whew! Thank the Christ I signed up for that! Family makes it all bearable. You know the way they scream bloody murder the second you get into the door. That's the best! And the constant mind fuckin’! Dang, I wish marriage last TWO lifetimes!

But, the stupidest part of Wastaway Cove is the train. They’ve got this slow movin' train that runs around the place. What self-respectin’ pseudo carny wouldn’t have a train, right? Well, the god damn thing cuts through major walkways. Uhhhh….duh?!?!? That some sweet plannin’ go on there. The train cuts the main entrance off and the back entrance. Granted, the train isn’t like a road construction crew where they block off lanes at a time for miles and do nothing. The train moves. Just slow. And when the place is packed, it just makes things worse. I almost forgot the best part. They’ve got to have some dumb fuck teenager walk in front of the train to ward off the people, just like a crossin' guard. Only not paid as much, and not nearly as bright. My guess is that Wastaway Cove must’ve had a lawsuit thrown at them. Why else take such a precaution? You ain't gonna spend a dime unless you have to, right? Right? Right?

I won’t even get into the pricin' situation. What’s the use? You know you’re gonna get raped the second you step foot one into the place, so why waste my breath. Just know when you go to that place, much like buyin' an engagement ring, you better bring 2 months salary with you. Cause aren't they worth it?

Well, that’s it. I’m tired and bored. I may come back with the final post. I don’t know. It’s a bit weak. I think that maybe we should cum already so the bitch can go see her other “Johns”. We’ll see how the Juice feels. Now, don’t go hangin’ yourself if I decide this is it. There’s plenty of other obnoxious shit comin’ up. Alright?

Damn, what a fucking baby…

Really Retro: The Glory of...

2005-09-19T22:50:00.000-04:00

...Ann Margret

I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. “Ann who? Ann Margret? Who on the Christ’s blue planet is that?" I’m sure your follow up is: “Why? Why her when there are so many fine women that go unnoticed day in day out.” While that maybe true, the Juice suggests if you don’t like my choices for “The Glory of…” you start your own blog. That way, you can write about any gal you want. Until you get off your fat, lazy ass to consistently write you own blog, I humbly suggest you go fuck yourself.

So why Ann? Well, I’ll tell ya. The Juice was watchin’ CMT the other day. Why was I watchin’ Country Music Television? The same reason anyone else watches it. For the hot chicks. Have ya watched CMT lately? Those country singin’ gals are SMOKIN'!!! It’s unbelievable! I don’t know what they’re doin' down in Nashville. They must have come across some disgruntled Russian clonin’ scientist. 'Cause those country gals are so damn good lookin', it nearly hurts your eyes!

oh yea! now that my friends is some fine 60's cleavage

Anyway, there was an Elvis movie on. Now what Elvis has to do with country music videos, is beyond the Juice. When I think of Elvis, I ain’t thinkin’ country music videos. That’s for dang sure. But, there he was singin’ his ass off. Or, I should say lip-syncin’ his ass off. Anyway, I’m watchin’ this picture, I believe it was Viva Las Vegas, and this crazy chick is shakin’ her stuff like nobody’s business durin’ one of Elvis’ lip syncin’ performances. The thing is, you’re only seein' her from behind. Oh, like that wasn’t planned. I’m watchin’ this sexy lil ass wiggle to and fro for like 5 minutes. I was practically screamin’ at the TV “For the love of the Christ, show her face already.” From my screamin’ mouth to god’s ears, the bitch swings around. And she was hot!

If the Juice was born back then, she'd want me. Just look in her eyes.

Of course she was wearin’ one of those ridiculous pointy bras the chicks wore back then. What the hell was that all about? Is that suppose to be hot? I can tell ya, it ain't. I'm not sure the dipshit designer behind the pointy bra, but they definitely didn't love women, that's for sure. Bra or naught (and I prefer naught. just the thought of that sexy redhead without a bra on...dang I need a tissue), Ann was good lookin’ nonetheless.

Now, let’s just get somethin’ straight here. The Juice ain’t into any of that “vintage” porn. Not only is that shit a touch creepy, but it downright scares the bejesus out of me. All those ol’ tyme looking pics. It makes my skin crawl. Lookin’ at vintage porn makes me feel like a real pervert. Like, I’m doin' something very wrong. More so than when I'm lookin' at current porn.

No, the Juice likes his porn very current. I’d say I wouldn’t even go as far back as the late 80’s. Porn is like milk. Once it’s out of date, it best just to throw it out. And speaking of milk…

"I've got your milk. Shall I get bare now?"

But, gettin’ back to Ann Margret, she’s a piece of ass. At least was. And she held up pretty well. I'd say she was still fairly "do-able" into the 80's. But, the we're headin' into an age territory the Juice doesn't like to consider "do-able". So, let's just stick with the 1960's Ann Margret and call ourselves "even".

Swirly...

Now, don’t go emailin’ me that I’ve lost my mind. 'Cause I haven’t. The Juice is just sayin’ that if I was Elvis, and it was 1963, I’d be doin’ stuff to Ann Margret that they only recently invented. And I'd be sure to tell the grandkids all about it. It probably would go down like this:

"Jeannie and George you sure are great grandkids. Has Grandpa the Juice ever told you the time that he video taped Ann Margret while nailin' 'er?"

"Yes, grandpa the Juice. Fifty million times" They would say in unison.

I would totally ignore them. Just to hear myself talk. "You should've seen the ass on Ann. There was that one time when she bent over to pick up a pencil I had "accidently" dropped. She bent over so far, I walk right up behind her and put it..."

"We know grandpa! We know all about how you made sweet love to Ann Margret" They'd say bored to tears.

And believe you me, once those scienticians work the kinks out of virtual reality, you best believe I’ll be knockin’ on Ann’s trailer door with a pizza in one hand, a 40 in the other and a box of condoms in my back pocket. Wait a minute. This is virtual reality. Better make it 2 40’s.

You’re probably not gonna believe this, but the above picture ain’t really Elvis and Ann. It’s some douche bag playin’ Elvis and Rose McGowen. Yes, Rose McGowen, one of those witches (get it? witches) on the horrifyingly bad show Charmed. But for the sake of this post, let pretend it’s Juice and the Ann Margret. Know what I’d be thinkin’ in that picture? “Virtual reality is so cool! I can’t wait to crack open those 40’s”

The World Greatest Invention: Tissues

2005-09-15T22:25:00.000-04:00

the Juice has been sufferin’ seriously from allergies lately (Ya’know the Juice heard once that if you suffer from allergies, you’re not from this planet. For real! The theory goes that anyone native to this planet wouldn’t be allergic to anything on it. makes sense, right? so that means all of us who suffer from allergies aren’t from this planet. I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ WTFMFF!?!?!? What does “native to this planet” mean? Do I have to spell it out for ya? It means some where in ya, ya got alien blood. Some might think that was bad, havin’ ET blood in ya and all, But let’s be honest here, you’d rather have ET blood in ya, than Irish coursin' through your veins every day of the week, includin' Sunday). As I go through box after box of tissues, I got to thinkin’. The tissue, also known as Kleenex, is a pretty miraculous thing. So, in honor of the tissue, I’d like to give a shout out to the dude who invented them. Of course, I’d also like to give the big guy a shout out for sendin’ down the idear for tissues to the dude who invented them.

The tissue is pretty fuckin’ amazin’. ‘Specially if you consider that they are made out of wood. Yea, the same shit baseball bats, tables and old tyme boats are made out of. The Juice, not bein’ a total slacker, did some research for ya. Turns out the ol’ tissue is made out of a combination fir, spruce, aspen and maple tree fibers. I ain’t fuckin’ ya, either! Although, if you’re hot and a chick, I might consider it. If the missus gives me the heads up of course.

And speakin’ of chicks, know where the word “Kleenex” comes from? It’s actually 2 separate words. “Kleen” which I guess is suppose to signify “clean”. Apparently the marketin’ genius who came up with that one couldn’t spell a lick. But, what’s this have to do with broads? You would assume that I mean the “clean” part, considerin’ how much chicks love to clean. Or nag your lazy ass how much you don’t clean and they do. But, whatever. No, I bring up the gal reference cause the second half of the word comes from “Kotex”. Yes, the feminine hygiene product. Isn’t that a great phrase? "Feminine hygiene product". It just rolls off the tongue. That’s code for PAD you stupid fucks. Anytime you hear or read the phrase, feminine hygiene product, that’s your cue to about face, and run the other way as fast you can. Cause nothin' good is comin' of it.

Gettin' back to the tissue, they are the unsung heroes of the world. Think of the ways you use an ordinary tissue. To blow your nose. Or to pick up a smushed roach. Or to crank off into when Mrs. Sockie’s in the wash. Or, if you’re polite, to throw at your ol’ lady when you’re done with her and you don’t want all that “junk” on the sheets on your side of the bed. Really, the tissue is a great tool.

I tried to find a name for the inventor of the tissue. I couldn’t it. Granted, the Juice didn’t try all that hard, really. The only names that keep comin' up in my searches were “Kleenex” and “Kimberly-Clark”. Which leads me to conclude that the actual inventor of the tissue never got the praise he (or however unlikely, she) deserves. Never got the fame, fortune, endless supplies of coke. No blow job parties, nothing. Nada. Zip. The dude probably died a penniless soul. Kimberly-Clark probably snatched (get in? "snatch"ed) up the invention as all corporation do, and told the inventor he should feel free to fuck himself (the ultimate irony would be if the Kimberly- Clark tissue barons left the inventor a tissue to clean up his mess after he fucked himself. Get it? To clean up the mess? I can’t believe I waste this shit on you)

Now, compare if you will the tissue to the handkerchief. Ugghhhh! Just the thought of a handkerchief makes the Juice gag like a chick with a wang in just a bit too far. They’re just plain ol’ nasty (handkerchiefs, not chicks with a wang in them just a bit too far). Now, I don’t got no germaphobia goin' on. In fact, the Juice gets quite a chuckle out of all the paranoia surroundin’ germs these days. Anti-bacterial this. Anti-bacterial that. It’s ri-goddamn-diculous. “Oh! Germs. Don’t hurt me germs. I’m scared. Boo Fuck Hoo” C’mon people! Grow the fuck up. You ain’t gonna die. Well, that not true. You are gonna die, but it ain’t from germs. I hate to tell ya, Mr. and Mrs. sheep, but it’s all in your head. But, that’s really an entirely different post. Anyway, the handkerchief is just nasty. There ain’t no doubt about it. Look, I know back in the 1970's they didn’t have the technology for makin’ tissues, but c’mon. People still had to know how nasty they were. And I don’t care how “environmental friendly” handkerchiefs are. I ain’t ever usin’ them. Especially someone else’s. Let the Frenchies use them (my apologies to my French readers)

So, let's have five hazzahs for one of the world's greatest inventions: the mighty tissue. Hazzah! Hazzah! Hazzah! Hazzah! Hazzah!

"Waaaaaa! You're too negative."

2005-09-15T21:35:00.000-04:00

The Juice has gotten a few calls/emails whinin’ that I’m bein’ too negative. It’s seems that no matter how many times I change my phone number, my mother always seems to find me. “Brewster, you’re so negative. The world has enough negativity in it. Can’t you be a little more positive? Whine, Whine, Whine. Nag, Nag, Nag.” Ya know what ma? Go fuck yourself. And I say that cause by the time she reads it, I’ll have changed my identity three times and be so deep into Mexico, no one will ever be able to find my Scottish ass. And the Juice ain’t even Scottish.

So, for ma…I’ll give the whole “negativity” bit a rest. Way back when , I promised to do a series of posts about the things l like about Disney World. Now, before you get all over my sac, I’m here to tell ya, it’s still in the works. But, don't hold your breath. I don't know when I'm gettin' to it. My point was, before you so rudely interrupted me, was that my intention in writin' this new series was to add a bit of postivity to the ol’ blog. I can’t help it if I had a crappy vacation that's taken me three weeks to write about. In any case, the crappy Jersey vacation stories are almost done. You’re sufferin, but not mine, is almost over.

Which brings me to today. The big guy sent me an idear about another new series. I touched upon it in my post about air conditionin'.So without further ado…

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs: A Time for Bitchin'

2005-09-13T22:03:00.000-04:00

Stop! Bitchin’ time!

So, knowin' what the Juice has been through at the Jersey shore, more or less, it’s time to unleash the demons. Time to shoot from the hip, and fucketh thateth to the questions. And first up in the Juice’s sights? Let’s talk about the hole that is the Promenade.

The Juice is first to admit he’s a bit biased, with his sour experience and all. However, that doesn’t take away from the fact that the place is a dive. A scour on the boardwalk, if you will. And you will. The Juice has been to Ocean City enough times to know that the Promenade is not the greatest of establishments. Especially if you’re lookin' for reasonably priced, semi –edible food. However if your thing is overpriced, questionable tastin' food, then by all means, patronize the place.

But the Juice might be gettin’ a bit ahead of hisself. Let’s cover the basics. If you’ve never had the pleasure, the Promenade is a collection of overprice food vendors. Sellin’ the same ol’ shit they sell along the rest of the boardwalk. Plus, there are several unclean, skanky tables for the payin' patrons to use (but just remember, it doesn’t even matter if you’re a payin’ patron of the Promenade. If you’ve got the wrong combination of food stuffs in your possession, you ain’t gettin’ a seat in the Promenade. See for that story .

If you happen to gain entrance, then there are some things you need to check out. Do yourself a favor, buy yourself a Coke or a Pepsi. I don’t give shit one about which one you buy, just make sure it’s a fountain drink. “Why?” you ask. Cause if you buy a can or bottled soda, you’ll miss out on one of my favorite parts of the Promenade. The community Coke machines. See if you purchase a fountain type soda, you get to serve yourself at these community Coke fountains. Of course, in the name of good customer service, there are 2 soda machines. And the lines, well they weren’t that long for them. Ten minutes isn’t long to wait for a soda, that you have to serve yourself, is it? Oh, and the patrons waitin' to get their soda’s were oh so courteous themselves. Not to mention that the location of said soda machines is the bestest! Where else would you put a high traffic item? In a high traffic area! Not only do you get to wait for the frickin’ soda, after you paid for it already, but you get to have people push and shove you in the process cause they’re tryin’ to get by. Nice!

If I were to ask you what another sign of great customer service was, what would you say? What’s that? Hand jobs, from hot chicks? I would definitely agree, but that’s not what I’m gettin' at. I’m talkin’ cleanliness! And I gotta tell ya, the Promenade is way up there in that regard. And by “way up there in that regard” I mean it’s downright disgustin’. I guess it’s just the Juice bein’ picky again. I’m sure Joe Promenade Purveyor looks right beyond the soda sludge all over the community Soda Fountain. And, I won’t go into too much detail regardin' the flotsam and jetsam in the liquid catchin’ trays of said Soda machines. What do they call those trays anyway? Probably Liquid Catchin’ trays.

The Piece der Resistance, though? The faded sign taped onto the machine that states: “No Re-fills”. Isn’t that swell? You spend 15 bucks on two drinks and a small fry and you can’t refill? That’s the “man” for ya. I’ve got one word for the Promenade: Fucketh thateth. The Promenade is just lucky I was pissed off enough to actually leave after the Community College kid incident. ‘Cause if I’d stayed, I’ve stuck my gullet right under that soda encrusted nozzles and filled up ‘til I was peein’ Coke.

Man, that’s a lot of bitchin’ just about 2 friggin' soda machines. I can’t believe you’re stupid enough to read two pages of bitchin’ about soda machines. Don’t you have anythin' better to do with your time? Probably not. What else would you be doin’ with your time? Trollin’ for porn? I mean, c’mon. You’ve probably seen enough porn in today alone then all your ancestors combined.

The question that remains is how much more shittin’ on this place does the Juice really want to do? I could go on blastin’ the Promenade all day. I could tell you about the sparklin’ tables and chairs. Ya’know. The ones with all the caked on sea gull shit on them. Oh, I’m sure the table and chairs were made out of the “anti-bacterial” material they make shoppin’ cart handles out of. And let me tell ya, the Juice ain’t buyin' for half a second that there’s such a thing as “anti-bacterial” plastic. To me, it sounds like clever marketin’. I can just see some douche bag in a suit sellin’ to your local supermarket these “anti-bacterial” handles. Meanwhile, the fucks probably gigglin’ up a storm as he wipes the handles down with an anti-bacterial wipe. And don’t forget about the certificate he made on his home computer ceritifyin’ the “anti-bacterialness” of the handles. Long story short, it’s all a mind fuck.

Gettin' back to the Promenade, I would be largely remit if I didn’t mention to you about the friendly counter folks. So courteous. So endearin’. As they grunt at you ‘cause you had the nerve to interrupt their lil pow-wow ‘cause you wanted fries and soda. At least the community college gal who waited on me had the decency to remove the 4 rings hangin’ from her lip as she handed me the small cup of $8.00 fries. Oh, that’s right, she did have all that shit hangin’ from her face. At least she had the courtesy to smile at me while she was fuckin’ me over with the $8.00 fries. Now that I think about it, it was less of a smile and more of a annoyin’ smirk. Ehhh. Why does the Juice care, anyway? She’s the one stupid enough to work at the Promenade. The Juice is just stupid enough to eat their for 30 seconds.

Oh, then there’s the…you know what. Fuck it. I’ve given this place enough press. I ain’t wastin' another breath on that fuckin’ place. Besides, I’ve got more to talk about it. Like Wastaway Cove. Dang, I’m almost salivatin' over the bitterness…

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs Part 6

2005-09-09T22:23:00.000-04:00

Pick up the pieces here. You best have your best readin’ glasses on, and get somethin’ to drink while you’re at it. This one’s a doozy…

Getting’ back to the missus nearly mixin’ it up with some broad…You can tell that the folks who designed Wastaway Cove were high on smack. When the place is crowded, you can’t tell where the lines begin and where the folks millin’ about end. So, while lookin’ for the end of the line at some god forsaken ride, the missus asks a misc someone standin' about if she knew where the end was. Conveniently, the woman told her that she was the end of the line. So, the missus stepped up. A few moments later, a broad decked out in purple from head to toe, starts givin’ the missus a hard time. Accusin’ her of “cuttin'” in line. The missus, bein’ more than a bit stubborn and a lot more opinionated than she is stubborn, told her she wasn’t cuttin', she was told this was the end of the line. I guess the woman wasn’t crazy about that fact, and told the missus as much. The missus, bein’ who she is, didn’t budge. She stood in that spot, right or wrong. It didn’t break down to fisticuffs, but the broad in purple apparently had a lot to say about the situation under her breath. I relate this story to you second hand. Where was the Juice during this confrontation? I’ll catch you up to that a bit later.

Now, if the Juice is the above situation, I’m lettin’ the crazy bitch in purple go ahead of me. Now I know what you’re thinkin’. I’m sure you’re thinkin’ that’s a fairly wimpy thing to do. That the Juice should stand up for hisself. Well, here’s another free nugget of wisdom for ya, courtesy of the Juice. You might want to grab a pen and a piece of paper for this one. It’s ok, I’ll wait…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………got it? Great! Get ready, cause I'm about to tell you the nugget of wisdom (And I didn’t have to wipe any Jedi asses to get this one either). This is what you might call common sense, if you had any that is. Since, you’re about to write it down, it just tells me you got none. Common sense, that is. However, I digress. Here’s the nugget: It ain’t worth it! Simple right? Now, I hear you beefin’ “That was your spot the Juice. You shouldn’t have to give it up. Layeth the Smacketh Down, the Juice.” While you get your panties out of your ass, I’ll elaborate further. Sure, I “shouldn’t” have to give up my spot. Sure, I could beat the purple bitch down. Which, quite frankly she probably needed and deserved. The fact of the matter is…IT’S ONLY A SPOT IN LINE. Are you fucking insane? You road ragers might want to jot this down, too. You want to mix it up over a spot in line? What the flying mother fucking fuck is the matter with you??? It’s a stupid fucking ride. Junior and Juniorette can wait 5 extra seconds to get on the ride. It ain’t gonna make or break ‘em. They ain’t gonna need to see a shrink over it. They’ll need that for all the other crazy shit you do, that you think they don’t see you doin’. Don’t give me that look. You know what I’m talkin’ about.

And take it from me, the folks who want to mix it up with you over a spot in line, or cuttin’ them off on the highway aren’t playin’ with a stacked deck. Most likely, those folks is pushin’ down some serious anger that the little box it should be contained in, ain’t containin’ it any longer. And more than likely, once again, said folks will do you some serious harm. No matter how tough you think you are.

But, fuck with them, see if I care, I just want to finish this fuckin’ story. While the missus was about to have the altercation with the loony bitch in purple, where was the Juice? I’ll tell ya. I had made the decision to pair myself up with Lucifer. Which was a very bad decision, indeed. Before you start callin’ me stupid (which you have every right to), realize what my option was. Waitin' in obscenely long lines with the other 3 soul suckers, listenin’ to a non-stop barrage of bitchin’ and complainin' about the wait, the rides, the temperature, the treatment of the prisoners at guantanamo bay, how hungry they were (the kids, not the prisoners), the risin’ cost of medical insurance, and the pervasiveness of violence in our culture. It was the worst kind of Sophie’s Choice ever. What would you do smart ass? And don’t tell me neither, either. You’ve got to pick one. See, you can’t. Welcome, to the Juice’s own private Idaho.

So, I used up what felt like several eternities keepin’ Lucifer happy. I pushed that stroller real nice. Up and down and round the fuck around. Still, that boy complained, bitched and complained even more. He struggled to get out of the stroller, as I struggled to maneuver that fucking stroller around the over-congested Wastaway Cove. I spun the lil tyke this way. I spun the lil tyke that way. He was havin’ no parts of it. He wanted out of the stroller as much as I wanted the get out of Ocean City. Neither of us was getting’ our wish.

When I finally had enough of all the shiny, happy people in Wastaway Cove, I found the missus and told her I was takin’ the boy on the boardwalk. She was about to put up a fight, but I guess the barin’ of my teeth changed her mind. I spent the rest of the night waitin’ for either god to take me home or the fam to get done with the rides all the while pushin' Lucifer in his stroller. And as much as the big guy might love me, I think he likes to fuck with the Juice just as much, as there was no relievin’ of my sufferin’. So, I continued on weavin' Junior through the crowds, just tryin’ to keep him quiet. God, it was fun! Best. Vacation. Ever. Who'd want to go to Vegas and fuck misc women that you’ll never see again? Who’d want to do that? There’s so much fulfillment in havin’ an everlovin’ family.

The missus and the kids finally (thank the Christ. FINALLY!!!!) made their way out of Wastaway Cove. Before we left, I wanted to get funnel cake. I luvs me some funnel cake. This was probably gonna be my only pleasure of the whole vacation. And what a sad, sorry excuse for “pleasure”, really. All that money I spent, all the time I wasted, all the sex I didn’t have with all those smokin’ hot, over 18, gals walkin’ the boards nightly (hell all the sex I didn’t have with the missus or myself for that matter), none of it was for the Juice this vacation. NONE OF IT!!! But, this funnel cake would make up for it. Ahhhh…who am I fucking? Cindy Crawford? This funnel cake wasn’t gonna cover an iota of the blood I had to give for this vacation. But, it was something…

I stop at one of the local funnel cakin’ makin’ dumps on the boardwalk. I ordered 2 funnel cakes. Now the kids want cotton candy. Fine, but since I just spent yet another week’s salary at Wastaway Cove, I was only buyin' one bag of blue cotton candy for the 3 of them. They can share, fucketh thateth. You see it comin’ dontcha? 1 bag of cotton candy for three kids? As if. What the fuck was I thinkin’ Apparently, not only didn’t I buy the right color for Barbara (the girl formerly known as Crazy Pixie), but I didn’t buy enough for all of them. ‘Cause Barbara (the girl formerly known as Crazy Pixie) pitched such a bitch, it was the likes you haven’t seen since Bill O’Reilly had that stick up his arse accidentally removed. Barbara (the girl formerly known as Crazy Pixie) cried. She carried on. And my blood pressure went thru the top of my head.

Now, I’d like to say havin’ four kids has increased my patience level. It has. To a point. See, the Juice comes from a long line of wicked short patient people. Wicked short. Let’s just say that my ol’ man had a mighty backhand waitin’ for ya if ya didn’t know what 9 x 7 was. And you better answer right quick. No repeatin’ the question, either. Just the answer, thank you very much. Or face the backhand. It’s 63 by the way, you moron.

So, Barbara’s havin’ a world class shit fit, and I swear to the Christ, I was ready to pull a Bruce Lee on all of them. Normally, in a situation like this, the Juice likes to repeat to hisself, calmly as possible, something like “it doesn’t matter, he/she/it is just a child” or “it doesn’t matter cause (insert name) is just a fucking mental patient”. Or some other new age bullshit. I call it talkin’ myself off the cliff. Well it wasn’t workin’ here. Maybe it was the community college idiot from earlier, maybe it was all the pissed off people in Wastaway Cove, maybe it was the fact that Jessica Simpson won’t answer my calls. Whatever it was, the Juice was DONE! As I was about to throw the 32 oz cup of soda the counter girl was handin’ me at Barbara (the girl formerly known as Crazy Pixie), Jethro (who’s addicted to soda) started his regular chant for Pepsi. I handed the counter girl 50 bucks, I turned around, got out the soap box and started proselytizin'. At the top of my lungs.

“Didn’t I just spend 100 bucks on rides on the three of you?” I pointed to the kids. I got down right in Barbara’s face. “Hey, here’s a neat idea. Instead of bitchin’ for a change, how about thankin’ your dear ol’ dad. How about thankin’ dad for takin’ your ungrateful asses to the great Ocean City. Better yet, how about thankin dear ol’ dad for workin’ a suck ass job day in day out so you can ride the mother fuckin’ rides here are lovely Ocean City. Or so you can eat Coco Puffs everyday, and play outside. How about it? How about a lil thanks once in awhile.” With that, I got down off my soap box, folded in back up and tried to push all the anger back down into the tiny box it belongs.

Ok…maybe that last part didn’t happen, but it sure as shit was goin’ through the ol’ noggin. That and how many ways I’m plannin’ on givin’ it to Jessica.

Next: the real bitchin’ begins!!!!!

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs Part 5

2005-09-07T22:34:00.000-04:00

You can play ketchup here .We take leave of the Promenade. As we’re rushin’ the hell out, I of course parade the family in front of the community college douche bag. As kinda of a fuck you, you stupid fuck gesture. I’m sure he couldn’t of cared less. I’m sure he was just too busy counting all the pennies he was going to get bein’ a Lead at his local McDonalds. Where else do folks who go to community college work? No offense to McDonalds, of course.

Once we leave the sanctuary of the Promenade, for the wilds of the boardwalk, the missus and I quickly realize there’s no place to eat. Great! All the benches were being used, any place legitimate place to sit was bein’ used by teenaged love birds. We eventually found an open spot on other side of the boardwalk. And by open spot, I mean sitting on directly on the boards. But, hunger is hunger, so we break into the pizza. All at once, the seagulls start dive bombing. I seriously despise seagulls. I…uhhh. Not yet. I’ll get into that soon enough. But for the third time that night, we had to move again. We head down another few blocks and come across and empty bench. An empty bench! Holy shit. So, once again we break on the pizza. This time, I stood as protection from the gulls as the rest of the family huddled together like gypsies run out of Nazi Germany. Every once in awhile, a gull would buzz by. I would swing at it to shoo it away. And by “shoo” I mean swing my fist at it. Of all times to be away from my beatin’ stick. In between attacks from the Kamikaze gulls, I managed to shove as many slice of pizza down my gullet. Believe you me, there was absolutely no pleasure in it. It was all mechanical. It was worse than nailin’ a stoned, bored hooker.

After our delicious meal, I was ready to pack up and head home. Not our “vacation” home, but our real home. I guess everyone else has higher tolerances of pain than I do, cause not only did they want to stay, but they wanted to go back to Wastaway Cove. This vacation was turnin’ into a real whiz-banger. It probably rivals vacations to Hedonism or Vegas.

But, instead of Hedonism, we had back to Wastaway Cove. And unlike the our first day there , it was packed to the gills. The fun times we were to have. There’s nothin’ like navigatin’ your way through a crowd of kids, strollers and angry adults. Even the missus, who gets along with anyone, had an altercation with a gal waitin’ in line.

Which I’ll tell you about tomorrow. Ha! Stupid idiot! I teased you real good. The only thing worse than a stoned, bored hooker is a dick tease. And I just teased your dick real nice. Ummmm...Ya'know. I don't think I like where this train of thought is headin. So, I'm just gonna hit the return key and pretend I never said anything about teasin' anybody's junk. Sound about right?

Yea, I know you're disappointed by the lack of substance lately. But, consider this for a moment...I’m tired. I've got four kids. How many you got? Two? Pussy. Only real men have...well, forget about real men. SMART men don't have any kids. And even smarter men don't get married. But that's a show for another day. In the meantime, if you don’t like it, you can always click on next blog. Then go fuck yourself.

Pitch a Bitch: Gas

2005-09-01T22:54:00.000-04:00

I betcha ya think I’m gonna rant on about the price of gas. Well, surprise!!!! I ain't. I’m bitchin’ about you. This whole oil situation makes the Juice laugh, really. All you people bitchin’ about gas prices. “Oh my god! Gas has gone up 50 cents in 2 days. Waaaaa. Waaaaa." I swear to the Christ, I luv it! All you silly SUV drivin’ sheep are a gas, as it were. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ the Juice has got to have at least one monster SUV. Well, not only don’t I have one SUV, the Juice only has one car, PERIOD. One car?!?!? I can tell you’re amazed. But, it’s true. The Juice has been drivin' around in one fuck car for over 8 years. Not the same car, mind you, but only ownin' one car at any given moment.

I got peeps constantly tellin’ me how I “need” another car. “The Juice, you NEED another car. How do you do it? You’ve got 4 kids. How can you possibly exist with only one vehicle?” Isn’t it hard?!?!? I’ll tell ya what’s hard: Milkin’ a bull in the middle of December without a thumb…that’s hard. Fuckin one gal for the rest of your existence…now that’s even harder. Ownin' one car? That ain’t so hard.

So how does the Juice make do with only one vehicle? It’s based on an ancient Chinese secret. Ready? If I tell ya though, ya got to promise ya won’t tell no one. I lived with a Master Jedi several years cleanin’ his ass and washin’ his balls to learn this secret. But, I’m givin’ it to you, just like everything else on this forsaken blog, for free. Ready? Swipe to learn: Ya just do it, you stupid fuck!!! The Juice needs another car like a hole in the head. Now, I ain’t gonna lie to ya. the Juice would love nothin’ more than a 2006 Mustang Cobra. Dang, I get a boner every time I see it. In fact I’m touchin myself now just thinkin’ about it. And it’s not like the Juice couldn’t afford the car. But with gas at $3.27 a gallon, Henry Ford can kiss my Polish ass. And the Juice ain’t even Polish!

I heard on the funniest thing on the radio the other day. Triple A is tryin’ to sell everyone that even with gas prices bein’ so high, this will be another record breakin’ travel weekend. What do you think it is? Has AAA gone collectively insane? Or, is AAA out of touch with reality? Or, is AAA just tryin’ to convince us to go out drivin’? My feelin’? It’s a combination of all three. Who are they tryin’ to kid? With gas bein’ over $3/gallon, ain’t nobody goin’ no where anytime soon. Nice try, though AAA. Nice try. But, I digress...

Gettin' back to you two car ownin' people out there. It must be soooo great not only fillin’ one SUV, but 2? That's got to be sweet! And those awesomely cool folks who own those Hummers? Man, they are so cool! I want to be just like them! It must be wicked neat payin’ a 100 bucks to fill your tank. No wonder the rest of the world thinks America is so great. They see us pigs drivin’ those huge buses 50 ft to our local Wal-Marts chock full of nearly free shit that they can’t buy with a year’s worth of wages. How could the rest of the world hate us? Every time one of those Hummers get filled up, we’re tellin’ the rest of the world, “Don’t hate us cause we’re beautiful.”

In the end, this whole gas situation is our own fuck fault. If we would just develop an alternative to gas, we can tell all those folks in the Middle East to go fuck themselves (no offense to my Middle Eastern readers, of course). And don’t even try to lay this shit on me that there ain’t no cost effective alternatives. Fucketh thateth! I ain’t no scientician, by any stretch of the imagination, but there are alternatives to oil out there. It’s just that there’s more money in oil. Shit, can you blame the oil companies? With another record breakin’ year of profits on your hands, would you even think about introducin’ an alternative source of fuel? Fuck no!!!! Let those SUV drivin’ fucks eat cake! That’s what you’d say as you fucked another high paid whore. Just do me a favor, wear a condom, alright?

Don’t it drive you nuts that the oil companies and the A rabs (again, my apologies to my middle eastern readers) got us by the balls? Don’t you find it maddenin’? Here’s a few more fucks you can add to that maddenin’ list: the oil speculators. "Who?" you ask. Oil speculators. Are you so fuckin’ dumb you can’t see it? A few jackass oil speculators are drivin’ up the price of oil. Duh!!!!! See, when these douche bags get “afraid” of somethin’ the price of oil jumps. If they see a mouse, oil goes up 20 bucks a barrel. Heat lightenin’? Oil goes up another 30 dollars. And forget about it when the nightlight goes out in the middle of the night. Oil shoots up 50 bucks a barrel. Isn’t it amazin’ how much power these guys have? That should throw all you control freaks out there into a tizzy

Unfortunately, the Juice ain’t got no answers, except to start drivin’ the dang speed limit. Shit, that alone would save you somethin’ like 20% of your fuel consumption. How fuckin’ original! That’s your only true revenge against the oil barons. You don't have many options beyond that, really. There's always those Hybrid cars. They get something like 200 miles to a gallon of gas. Of course, we’d all be buyin’ hybrid cars if they were cool lookin’. At least Honda wised up and finally put a hybrid engine in an SUV for us super-cool, really tough, Americans.

Or, You could try writin’ your worthless congressman. It ain’t like he/she/it is gonna do anythin’ though. He/she/it has probably got so many oil stocks in his/her/it’s portfolio, he/she/it will tell ya to go fuck yourself to right your face, the go back to fuckin’ their high paid whores. Besides, it ain’t like your congress person has to pay for their gas. Know who does? YOU DO, YOU STUPID FUCK!!!! But, hey if enough of the sheep start “baaaain”, ya never know what’ll happen. Otherwise we’ll all be starin’ down the barrel of $5.00 a gallon.

Update...Retro: The Glory of...

2005-08-31T21:52:00.000-04:00

Do yourself a favor, if you haven't read Retro: The Glory of... already, then do so. 'Cause this'll only ruin the fun of it all. Consider this a spoiler warnin'

I don’t go back and update posts very often. Well, that’s a total stretcher. I do it all the time. I just don’t tell ya that I’m doin’ it. After postin’ last nights Retro: The Glory of…I spoke to my buddy, Paco Reban. Paco’s got a love of porn that is as wide as the day is long. Now, I don’t want to say that Paco has a “problem”, but when you can measure your porn collection in Petabytes , then you might want to seek some counselin’. Or at least get another hobby. Now, if Paco didn’t go back and view whatever he downloads on a regular basis, then I might say he had a problem, but since he does that…then he’s alright by me. And to each his own, right? Who’s the Juice to judge? That’d by like you judgin’ the Juice ‘cause I like to wear woman’s pant…uhhh. Never mind. In any case, Paco mentioned a very important key that I missed about Sheena Easton. I’m almost embarrassed to say that I forgot about it, but hey…you try keepin’ an entertainin’ blog with 4 kids suckin the very soul out of ya day in and day out. See how funny you are…

So what did the Juice forget about? Only one of the sexiest songs ever. Sugar Walls. Here’s a sample of the lyrics:

Where I came from there's a place called heaven
That's the place where all the good children go
The houses are of silver, the streets are gold
But there's more where you come from, my sugar walls

Blood races to your private spots, that lets me know there's a fire
You can't fight passion when passion is hot
Temperatures rise inside my sugar walls

Chorus:
Lemme take you somewhere you've never been
I could show you things you've never seen
I could make you never wanna fall in love again
Come spend the night inside my sugar walls

Take advantage, it's alright

I feel so alive when I'm with you
Come and feel my presence, it's reigning tonight
Heaven on earth inside my sugar walls

I can tell you want me, it's impossible to hide
Your body's on fire, admit it! Come inside
Come inside my sugar walls
Come spend the night inside my sugar walls

These lyrics have the stink of Prince all over. Not that I would know what Prince’s stink is like. I like my woman a bit taller, and a bit more…how you say…stacked. After a quick drive by to the Farmington Hills Library and a 30 minute wait to get on the computer, the Juice is here to tell ya, that Prince wrote the song, hence the stink. And in case you were wonderin' Sugar Walls is a metaphor for her vagina. Betcha didn't know that!

Now as sexy as the song might be, Sheena was only comin’ out of her borin' Eddie Rabbit phase. She looked ok. And “The Glory of…”'s aren’t about lookin’ ok. If they were, then we’d be discussin’ chicks like Jennifer Aniston and those Olsen twins (What the deal with those 2 anyway? Is there somethin' creepy, almost soulless about them, or is it me? Kinda like those creepy twins in the Shining. Man, those twins were seriously fucked up! Believe you me, I don’t care how much money they’ve got, I wouldn't touch either one of the Olsen twins with a 10 foot pole. Unless the price was right. Then, I’d probably consider it). Which is probably the reason the Juice overlooked the song altogether. If you want to know about sexy songs…than go watch VH1. I’m sure they’re runnin’ yet another special on the top 61 sexiest songs backwards. If you want to know about sexy chicks, then keep it here. Just don’t point it at me.

But, now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna put on Sugar Walls, look at some Sheena pics and pretend she’s singin’ to me, just like I did when I was a lil the Juice. Just as long as I can stop thinkin’ about Prince writin’ the words.

Retro: The Glory of...

2005-08-30T22:05:00.000-04:00

I figured it was time to take a break from all my world class bitchin' lately. Lighten the load a bit, as it were. So boys and gals, it’s time to buckle up into the way back machine for today’s The Glory of…Sheena Easton

I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ Sheena Easton? Has this tool lost his fuck mind? Isn’t she the one who sang Long Distance Love Affair and For Your Eyes Only? I would have to answer “Yes” to your question. Before you start beefin’ on me, just take a good gander at this pic:

Yea, that’s fuckin’ Sheena Easton, bitch. Now tell me, you wouldn’t want to touch that? Granted this pic is from a video almost 20 years ago, but you see where I’m gettin’ at. That’s why it’s a RETRO THE GLORY OF…do I gotta spell every dang thing out for you numb nuts?

I remember bein’ a lil the Juice and have a few sinful thoughts to this pic:

Lookin’ at the pic now, ok…it ain’t so naughty. But, hey…this was the early 80’s. and the Juice was only like 12. So, leave me the hell alone! I’d love to know your childhood crushes, you fuckin’ perverts. You probably fondled yourself to the unhot girl on WKRP. And I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout Loni Anderson. Who, by the way, I just saw on Sebrina the teenage bitch (the Juice don’t regularly watch that show. Sara was watchin it. I just happen by when the show was on). Loni’s gotta be close to 117 these days, but she still looked pretty fuckable. Ok, maybe not totally fuckable, but well…let’s get back to Sheena…

Sheena must’ve realized after she did that ballet with Eddie Rabbit her career was pretty much over. That’s about when Prince got a hold of her. Now, to me Prince seems on the gay side, but the dude nails some sweet ass, so I’ll let ‘im slide. I wonder how Sheena and Prince met. I wonder if they bumped into each other at a Wal-Mart. Maybe they were shoppin' for tampons or somethin’. However they met, Prince sure did his magic.

They recorded a song together. That was a big fuck you to Eddie Rabbit. Anywho, her time with Prince was a bit extreme. She had a bit of a funk do goin’ on. After Prince dumped her, the Juice ran into her at the local Piggly Wiggly . She was buyin' Bran Flakes. The Juice was lookin' for rat poison to end it all. You know, end the mouse problem at the ol' trailer. Anyway, she looks at me, I look at her and the next thing i know she's bent over for another box of Bran Flakes. It was after that chance meetin' that when the super sexiness got goin’ on. For Sheena that is, not the Juice. Super sexy shit like this…

Tell me that’s not hot? Man, I’m seriously considerin’ crankin’ one off to that tonight. Do yourself a favor, go download the video The Lover in Me. It’ll be worth your trouble. I’ll leave you with this thought as your scour the internet with your hog in your hand…

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs Part 4

2005-08-28T22:37:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

Prologue Part 1 ,
Prologue Part 2 ,
Part 1 ,
Part 2 ,
Part 3

Now, I’m waitin' for my pizza. I’ve spent the last ten minutes gettin' food and drinks for the family. Just so the missus can keep the kidlings in line while the main course is cooked. Rather her than me, or so I thought. As I’m waitin' at the counter with the rest of the Mack and Manco lemmings, a gaggle of seagulls attacks a kid in a stroller, grab his slice of pizza and a war breaks out between all the seagulls. Wonderful! Only in New Jersey. I seriously dislike seagulls. I don’t want to blow my load here. I’m savin’ my bitch about seagulls for a later post. Don’t worry. It’ll be good. Why don’t you hold your breath…

After watchin’ the seagull/pizza massacre, I get my pizza and make my way back to the Promenade where the wife and kids are eatin’ the food that I bought from the lovely vendors at the Promenade. As I’m about to enter with my hot pizza, a “worker” stops me from enterin’. Now, callin’ this douche bag a worker is me bein’ very generous. He was a paid college kid. And by college kid, I’m sure he was more of a community college kid. Not that the Juice is knockin’ community colleges. I’m sure their fine institutions. For the smartly-impaired. Who’s the Juice to judge community colleges? It ain’t like I ever went to one…

Gettin' back to the douche bag college kid, I really shouldn’t shit all over the kid. He was just doin’ his job. And he should be real proud of that job of keepin’ people from bringin’ Mack and Manco pizza into their fine establishment.

To give you an idear of my transgression with said douche bag, check out below. It’s not like it’s an actual transcript, though, but you’ll get the idear…

I’m whistlin’ Dixie as I walk to the entrance of the Promenade. When…

“Uhhh…excuse me sir? You can’t go into the Promenade with that pizza” . The community college douche bag stops me.

I stare at him blankly. Obviously, this little turd hasn’t spent the last 15 minutes chasin’ down food, gettin' drinks and tryin’ to keep 4 lil kids happy all at the same time. My patience is a bit thin. Again, I guess the community college douche bag couldn’t tell that from the scowl on my face. After pushin’ the anger down as best I can, I speak up. “My family’s in there, though.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t bring the pizza in there.” the community college kid responds.

At this point, I’m pissed. Ain’t no pushin’ the anger down anymore. This ain’t now slow boil, here folks. “You don’t understand. My wife’s in there with my kids.”

The community college kids’ not givin in. “You can’t go in there with that pizza, sir.”

“But, I bought food from the Promenade.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t take a whole pizza pie from Mack and Manco’s in there.”

DDDDDDDdddddddddd. I’m about ready to throw the pizza in this fucker’s face. “You don’t seem to understand. My wife and four little kids are in there eatin’ food that I bought from the Promenade.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m just doin' me job” I can’t think for myself. I only go to community college. Derrrr…

I swear to the Chirst…“What am I suppose to do here?” I say to the community college clown. “I obviously can’t be two places at once. You know, physics and all. Care to clue me in on how I’m suppose to get my wife and four little kids out of the lovely Promenade and not take the pizza in?”

“You can leave it out here.” The community college fuck responds. Again…deerrr.

I slowly look around, there weren’t many places to put a box of pizza. And the places that were there, weren't all that safe. I mean, everyone would just walk right by a fresh box of pizza and leave it there. “Gee, that’s a real swell idea. Where would you like me to leave the it?”

“You can put it on the counter over here.” The asshole points to a counter behind him.

“Oh, is it alright for me to put a Mack and Manco pizza box on the counter of the Promenade? I mean, who knows what would happen, right? I don’t want you to get in trouble or anything. You’re just doin’ your job.”

“I’m sorry…”

“No. No. Don’t be sorry…” I toss the pizza on the counter. I’m fumin’. Dang, I’m pissed. I’m talkin’ cartoon angry. Imagine Yosemite Sam, only with a 15 inch dildo up his ass. Better yet, imagine Yosemite Sam gettin' a kidney stone sucked out by a quarter inch plastic tube thru his cock without any sedation. That’s about how pissed I was. “I realize you’re just doin’ your job here, but I’m gonna need somethin' to carry the food that I bought from the Promenade out of the Promenade.”

The douche bag grabs a tray and hands it to me. “You can use this.”

“Oh, I can?” I muster a great look of surprise. “Are you sure? Are you sure that’s alright with the Promenade? Wanna check with your supervisor first? That’s quite a decision to make…” I swipe the tray from him. I storm into the fuckin’ dive of a place. I must’ve knocked over three small kids on my way in. Serves them right for bein' in the Juice's way. If there was a small dog around, I would’ve kicked that fucker 50 yards easy..

I get to the table where the kids are fuckin’ nuts, as usual. “Let’s go.” I snarl at the missus.

“What? What is it? Where’s the pizza?" she asks. The missus must’ve known I was on the verge of somethin’ fierce.

“We’re not allowed to bring outside food into the sanctity that is the Promenade.” I said loud enough for everyone to hear. Not that they gave a fuck. I’m just another idiot on the verge of a breakdown.

“Where’s the pizza?” she asked again, gatherin’ everyone together.

“It’s on the counter out front. I couldn’t bring it in here.” I tell her throwin’ the food on the tray. If I was somewhat rational at the time, I would’ve made a bigger fuss and returned all the food and drinks I bought from the vendors of the fuckin’ hole.

Tomorrow: Believe it or not, more!

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs Part 3

2005-08-25T21:59:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

Finally, gettin’ to the good stuff! There’s nothin’ worse than an idiot who just drones on and on. It’s like porno. Who needs all that talkin’? All that actin’? Maybe you puritanical “couples” out there need a reason justify the sin of watchin’ a porno. Like the lord really cares you’re watchin’ people goin at it. The big guy’s probably got better things to do. My preference? I luvs the compilations. Mr. Tweed's Mouth Lovers 15 or No Holes Barred pt 3245. No worn out fast forward button there. Just like that soda company says… “only the best stuff on earth.”

For the stupid out there, I’m gonna tell the story as best I can. Then I’ll offer my comments. This probably won’t all be done in one post. Like that’s a surprise. I told you about Monday here . On Tuesday, it rained all dang day. No lie. All day. On Wednesday we went back to the beach. To make up for starin’ at each other the day before, we had stay at the beach all day on Wednesday. Believe you me, it was as painful as you can imagine. Nothin’ but chasin’ Lucifer around. The kid can not be contained. If I didn’t know any better, I swear that kid was doin’ some sort of baby version of coke. It’s probably in fun, chewable tablets of the latest cartoon stars like Petey from Dragon Tales.

Now, the Juice didn’t exclusively chase the lil tike around. The missus did shoulder half the responsibility. Still, there are 3 other beings out there that have this penchant for callin’ “daddy” incessantly. So, it wasn’t like the Juice was ever off duty. No starin’ at bikini-clad asses for the Juice. No sir!

After a gloriously tirin' day at the beach, what do you do next? Rest? Take a snooze? Sit on the couch and watch some TV? Shut the fuck up for 5 seconds? You normal folks might do that kinda stuff, but the Brockman’s head back for more painful adventures in….TADA…Ocean City. OC should have a tagline like: Ocean City: The driest fuck town! Or Ocean City: We like your money! But good like finding a drink you sorry bastards!

Before we step foot one on the boardwalk, Sara gets pooped on by a seagull. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was God’s way of foreshadowin’. What can the Juice say? It’s not like I got better than “D’s” in English. In any case, I gotta hand it to Sara. She handled it like a champ. No tears, no cryin’, nothin’. She was probably to stunned to do anything, but the doesn’t matter. We all know, there ain’t many things worse than bein’ pooped on. Especially by those varmits named "seagulls". The missus took her to the bathroom and cleaned her up. When they came back I told Sara to look on the bright side and gave her a piece of advice. I told her at least it didn’t crap in her hair, right? That sucks. My advice: never, NEVER keep your mouth open when lookin’ up. That kinda advice is just priceless. You don’t learn that shit in school.

That kinda reminds me of the story that happened last year. Remember that whale that beached itself on the coast of Japan or China or some place like that? The whale was so dang big, they had to haul the dead carcass on a flat bed trailer. Anyway, as the flat bed is travelin’ thru the tiny streets of some crowded backwater Chinese town (turns out that not all backwater towns are located in the ol’ US of A) the whale explodes! Somethin’ about the pressure of all the gases and the heat and whatever, I ain’t no scientician. Tell me, though, how much would this suck: you’re standin’ on the street, watchin’ what you think is a parade. “Where the hell Mickey Mouse anyway?” you think to yourself. All the sudden, this thing explodes, sendin' all sorts of decomposed whale nastiness all over. Yea, the bites. And how much more would this suck: you’re standin’ on the street, watchin’ what you think is a parade, wonderin’ where the hell Mickey Mouse when all the sudden this thing explodes, sendin' all sorts of decomposed whale nastiness all over and YOU HAD YOUR FUCKING MOUTH OPEN?

Back to the boardwalk…After the shit incident, “We” decided to eat at Mack and Manco’s. For those that don't know, it's a pizza place. The pizza there ain't bad. Now, I ain’t killin’ anybody if they suddenly up and closed, like a buddy of mine would. I tell ya, my buddy, let’s just call’im Beat N. Down, would probably shit his pants on the spot if he found out Mack and Manco was closin’. Then again, he’d probably shit his pants on the spot if he couldn’t buy his favorite brand of BBQ Sauce. And I ain’t sayin’ the dudes got weak bowels. I’m kinda sayin’ the dude’s got a bit OCD in ‘im. Now, I don’t subscribe to the Mack and Manco newsletter, but I enjoy it nonetheless.

As good as the pizza might be, the dinin’ situation sucks. There’s like 5 counter seats. Then, they crammed as many tables as they can into an 8 x 8 section. Oh, and no air conditionin'. Nice. Who’d want air conditionin’ when it’s a zillion degrees out? There goes the Juice again. Makin’ too much sense.

With all that bein’ said, the line to sit and eat at Mack and Manco was clear to the other side of the boardwalk. No stretchers here folks. I repeat, the line was to the other side of the boardwalk! One more time? No? Ok… The take out window was just as long. Here’s another word problem for ya. You’ve got a wife, four kids (idiot) that want to eat like it was yesterday. But, the lines are out the wahzoo…What do you do? I know. I know. You think the answer is run til you hit the other ocean, change your name, buy a new identity and live the rest of your days as a Norwegian Velcro tester. I'd probably say the same thing. See, you didn’t get the right info out of the question. I have the same problem with word problems. I fuckin’ hate word problems. The real answer to the question is: You eat next store at the Promenade.

Next: The dirty hole that is the Promenade…

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs Part 2

2005-08-23T22:48:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

Hang on while the Juice gets a little self-righteous and a bit political. The Juice hasn’t been this self-righteous since…well, my last post.

So, let’s talk a bit about the whole payin’ to use the public beach thing. Yes, I’m speakin’ of the dreaded beach tag. I just don’t get it. It’s a public beach, right? The last time I checked the beaches weren’t owned by anyone. Kinda like the airwaves. Time to get out your 6th grade civics book, folks. That is, if you can find it under your stack of old porno mags. Isn’t it sad what happened to the porno mag industry? With the onset of the internet, does anyone even buy mags anymore? When was the last time you checked out your local “newsstand”? Sad. There’s nothin’ like holdin’ porn in your hands. Sure, the internet is great. Shit, you can find any last freaky thing you're into. Just ask my friend Paco Reban. But, nothin’ like a sticky paged porno mag to get you over a long haul.

Anyway, gettin’ back to the public airwaves, they’re not really “owned” by any radio or TV station. The radio and TV stations are “licensed” to use the airwaves. In the end, they are still “owned” by the public. Hence, the term “public”, as in “public” airwaves, “public” restrooms and “public” beach. Like how I brought that full circle? So, the question remains: where do any of the municipalities and counties that line the Jersey coastline get off chargin’ for us to step foot one on a public beach? It’s ri-goddamn-diculous, really! The only thing that's slightly worse than payin' to use a public beach is to pay to use a toll road. But, I suppose that's a bitch for another day.

What’s even more fascinatin’, or mind numbin’ confusin’, is that there are a few beach communities that don’t charge you to use the public beach. ?!?!?!?!? Ummm…It’s the same fuck beach, right? I believe the Wildwood beaches are still “free”. Gee, thanks. Who the fuck wants to go to Childwood anyway? Have you been to this place lately? I ain’t sayin’ the carny here at Farmington Hills is cleaner, what with the animals and all runnin’ about, well, actually I am sayin’ it’s cleaner.

So, what could possibly be the point for the public to pay to use a “public” beach? Wait! What is that? Do I hear what I think I think I’m hearin’? Are the robber barons cryin’ poor, again? “Oh, we have to pay for the lifeguards. Waaaaaaa!!!!! Oh, we have to pay for the beach maintenance. Waaaaaa!!!! Oh, we have to pay to keep the beach clean. Waaaaaaaa!!!” Yea, I figured as much. Hey, here’s a tip for ya, if it’s that hard to pay for all that crap without gougin’ the public, then pack up and move the fuck away. Isn’t that what we constantly tell the starvin’ Africans? Move where the food is? Why should the public shoulder the cost of whatever “maintenance” goes on at the beach? I got four words for ya: Fucketh thateth. I guess that’s just the price you gotta pay for doin’ business down the shore. How much more money do these people have to make? My feelin’ is that it must not be that bad to have a business on the coastline. Housin’ prices alone are insane.

The question remains, what are you gettin' for all the money you spend on the beach tag? The pleasure of usin' the public beach? Gee, thanks. I just can’t wait to pay to take the Garden State Expressway back home. I could see if they were actually doin’ somethin’ useful with the money they charge to use a public beach. Take Ocean City for example. How hard would it be for them to set up some sort of showerin’ system for people to at least get cleaned off after a day at the public beach they just paid for? It doesn’t even have to be within a buildin’. Just somethin’ where you pull the chain, and rinse that nasty Atlantic Ocean filth off you. And believe you me, it’s nasty. Or better yet, how about a place for people to at least get changed. It’s not like you’re allowed to use the bathrooms to get changed. Which is again, ri-goddamn-diculous. Can’t they set-up some sort of changin’ facility every couple of blocks? Is that askin’ so much? Now that’s somethin’ I’d pay for. But, I guess it’s better that people get undressed at their cars, out in public. I mean, I certainly don’t mind. Especially if the people gettin’ changed outside are young, hot and female. Preferably between 19 – 22. And all giggly as they wrap a towel around themselves and slowly slide their bikini bottoms off. They giggle again as they look of at their girlfriends as they….uhhhh….never mind. I digress…I’m sure that Ocean City’s got plenty of excuses why they can’t provide public showers or a few places to change. If they did that, then they would have to charge you a fee to breath in the “public” air. You know, you’d have to buy some sort of “air tag”. Shit, I wonder if I can retract that. Can I go back and erase something after I posted it. Fuck. If I go to OC next year and I gotta buy an Air Tag, I’m gonna be seriously pissed, as I hand over the $20 to buy it.

Say, aren’t there like 10 casinos within 5 miles of Ocean City? How is it with these money printin’, gamblin’ places right there that the public still has to pay to use the public beach? WTFMFF?!?!?! Now, the Juice ain’t no genius or anythin’. The missus will certainly testify to that. But why aren’t the casinos payin’ for “beach maintenance” or the “lifeguards” or whatever crappy excuse these beach towns dream up? Why isn’t there a little tax that the casinos have to pay for whatever else the counties are usin’ to justify beach tags. See, the problem with my idea is that it makes too much sense. Why should the Donald have to fork over any unnecessary money? What does the community do for him? Besides, that dude needs every penny he can get. It ain’t easy only bein’ 205th on Forbes list of the world’s richest people. That’s 204 other assholes that you got starin’ down at you. Pity him. Pity him.

But, hey, I don’t want to unfairly target Ocean City. Other beach towns charge to use the public beach. There’s Margate, Avalon, Sea Isle, Brigantine, and Longport. You can always vacation in Fuckersville. It’s not like they charge you to use the public beach. Although I think they have those Air Tags.

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs Part 1

2005-08-22T22:56:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

Ahhh…Ocean City, NJ. I’ve been thinkin’ of ways to describe it. What is it? It’s not really an evil place. It sorta reminds me of the scene in Pinocchio. You know, that place where all the “bad” boys go. I think it was called Pleasure Island. Well, it kinda reminds me of that. Without all the fun, smokin’ and especially the drinkin'. Don’t even get me started on the “dry” aspect of Ocean City. Nah, when I think of Ocean City I think of a bunch of robber barons rubbin’ their greedy hands together at the masses of tourists that visit every year. “How can we get even more milk out of these stupid cows?” I’m sure is what they are thinkin’

I don’t want to name names here. So, to avoid any and all lawsuits, let’s focus today on a place I’m callin’ Wastaway Cove. Wastaway Cove is in the middle of the boardwalk. It’s the kind of place that moms and dads totally hate (whether they admit it or not), but kids love. And of course, every time we go to the boardwalk, the kids want to go there. Dang, I just cringe at the mere thought of it. I hate wastin’ my money on those lousy rides. I know. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’: “But, the Juice. You say you love goin' to Disney World. And Disney World is much more expensive than a place on the boardwalk. How could you hate one and love the other?” Firstly. How dare you compare Disney World to Wastaway Cove? May a cow shit in your mouth for sayin’ such a thing. There is no comparison! Disney World, although at times painful, is an overall enjoyable experience for the WHOLE family. (That statement might seem a bit contrary to what I said in this series . But really, who gives three craps?) Unlike the rather delibiltatin’ experience of Wastaway Cove. And I’d be willin’ to bet that per capita (whatever the fuck that means) the rides at Wastaway Cove are much more expensive to ride than those at Disney World. (Don’t do the research. I don’t really care if I’m wrong. And please don’t email me…)

As expected we went to Wastaway Cove on our wonderful little vacation. Not once, but twice. I don’t want to jump the gun and blow my load, as it were. Our first visit to the Cove was on the very first night of our vacation. See, I was only plannin’ on one night of money wastin’ rides. I suggested we wait to go there until we were a little further along in the vacation. Why blow your load all at once, speakin’ of load blowin’. But since it was overcast that first day, and rain was in the forecast for the rest of week, once again the Juice’s bill was left to die on the Brockman Family Floor. I gotta tell ya, those kids can do some serious filibusterin’.

The place was crowded, but at least you could navigate. Now, here’s the deal with Wastaway Cove, financially speakin'. It’s somethin’ like 50 tickets for $35. Which, maybe doesn’t seem like a lot to you. But when you’ve got four kids, 50 tickets don't go far. Believe you me, I ain’t blamin’ Wastaway Cove for me havin’ four kids. It’s not like the place put a gun to my head or anything and told me to fuck the missus. I was stupid enough to do that on my own. And tt’s not like the place forced me or tricked me into havin' kids…well. Let me think about that for a second. Maybe Wastaway Cove IS responsible for me havin’ so many kids. They could’ve put somethin’ in the water. Or, more than likely, they could’ve been sendin’ out some sort of subliminal messages for people to have more kids. More kids = more dollars, for them right? I think I’m gonna have to launch an investigation.

In any case, we got 50 tickets. Here’s another suck ass word problem for ya. You’ve got 50 tickets in your hand for rides. You’ve also got four kids (stupid idiot), but you’re only lettin’ 3 of them go on rides. How many years of therapy are you gonna have to pay if you burn the tickets in front of their not understandin’ faces while chantin’ “this is what happens when you ruin daddy’s life!”? Look for the super secret answer in our next excitin' issue. In the meantime, each kid is gettin’ 16 tickets. The rides were 2 or 3 tickets each. Of course, the non-sucky rides were 4 tickets each. Do you see how Wastaway Cove gets ya? No kid in their right mind, or their left for that matter, wants to go up and down, round and round for 45 seconds. They want excitement! They want the big buck rides. Who the hell wants to fuck a $5 whore? No, you want the real expensive one. But, unlike the kids, you don't get what you want.

Even thought the place was crowded, the wait for the rides wasn’t too bad. My personal dilemma was whether to wait with the big kids in said lines, or keep Lucifer entertained. It’s like a Sophie’s choice question. Both options suck. I choose the latter. I don’t know why. I just did. I guess I figured it was better to have one kid bitch at ya, than have 3 bitch “dad, after this I want to go on that” or “dad, Jethro keeps breathin’” or “dad, I want to go on the vomitizer, but Crazy doesn’t want to” or “dad, in 5 years I’ll be tellin’ you I hate your guts.”. or “dad, I want seven ponies for my birthday next year.” At least Lucifer doesn’t talk in complete sentences yet. He just screams.

The thing with Lucifer is that you have to keep him in constant motion. If the baby stops movin’ he’ll start scream’ about gettin’ out. It’s sorta like that crappy movie Speed, but without the bus explodin’ at the end. If I were gonna make a baby version of Speed, I’d have someone other than that totally annoyin’ Sandra Bullock in it. My version would have her as the female lead:

I can see it now. Dennis Hopper has rigged the baby so that if the stroller stops…the baby buys it. Of course, the gal won’t be able to handle that task, cause she's a chick (sorry ladies. it's the truth, though). that’s when I’ll get call. I'll have to somehow diffuse the baby, save the city, get the bad guy and fuck the mercy out of her:

And believe you me, in my version you’ll get to see all the good parts. The baby blowin’ up (you can’t win them all) and the Juice nailin’ her:

I'm fairly positive she ain't wearin' panties

Anyway, Basically I spent the next two hours tryin’ to keep Lucifer happy and contained. While the rest of them played Christopher Columbus. Rapin’ and pillagin’ what was left of my precious natural resources known as patience. I know, I know. It all sounds an awful lot like the Juice cryin’ in this Froot Loops. Just wait, until what happened next. That’s when pity will rain down. And you’ll feel like an ass for even thinkin’ I was complainin’. Douche Bag!

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs: Prologue part 2

2005-08-18T23:31:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

Please check out the first part of this Prologue here.

In the meantime, we pull back up to the ol’ trailer. And guess who’s at the door to greet us? Y’up. Snowflake. What a friggin’ surprise! So, I’m gettin’ that much more angrier. As I’m cussin’ and moanin’ almost uncontrollably, Un Predictable walks in. No kiddin’! After some significant hemmin’ and hallin’, Un gets the dog, the missus gets the bill and were OFF!… again.

We still have to stop at a STAR machine to get some money. Yes, the Juice knows how to use an ATM machine. And, yes, the Juice even has a STAR card. So, since we had to stop and get some greenbacks, we might as well stop at Walmart to finish off the errand runnin’. Quick as lightenin’, I get the cash, then dash into Walmart. Not too bad, it’s about 8:45 pm at this point. If you can think back from that far, we originally left at 7:00pm.

The only thing left to do at this point was to get some gas and were OFF!…again! I pull over to a gas station just before the on-ramp to interstate 275. Let’s fill this fucker up and finally…finally…we’re not OFF! WTFMFF!!!!!! I swear to the CHRIST. WHAT IS IT NOW???? Oh, Sara has to go to the bathroom.

“Are you kidding me?” I snarl?

“No, I have to go Daddy.”

“Why didn’t you go when we were home 20 minutes ago?”

Shrug…

“Well, we might as well go back home.” I say to her shaking my head so hard I’m hopin’ my head unscrews. I turn to the missus. “I keep tellin’ ya, we should just leave tomorrow mornin’”

“Why don’t we drive over to your mother’s? She’s only 5 minutes from here.” The missus suggests totally ignoring my pleas of sanity.

I give her the crazy eye, like I do every dang day. “Are you kiddin’ me? It’s almost 9. My mother’s been asleep for two hours already. You know how she is. The second the sun sets…”

“Why don’t we just drive over there?” If nothing else, the missus is persistent.

I shrug in helplessness. What the fuck, right? I know what’s gonna happen, but the fools have to see for themselves. As soon as we roll up to my mother’s place, every light is off. I knew it! But, I’m still playin’ along. I knock on the door, but I ain’t gonna ring her door bell at 9:00 at night. No answer, surprised? I wasn’t. I clench my teeth and walk as calmly as possible back to the car. As I open the car door, someone speaks up. “Is she up?”

I explode. My ass doesn’t even hit the seat. “WOULD I BE GETTIN’ IN THE FUCKING CAR IF SHE WAS UP?” Alright, alright. I actually didn’t explode. I just stuffed the anger back into the little box I keep in a tiny compartment in my stomach. Sure, that little boxed is a bit overstuffed. And the lil dude in charge of the box kindas gotta sit on it, like a suitcase, to lock it back up. But, it’s still a good lil program. Even if my left eye tends to twitch at weird times. Like right now.

What I actually said was: “We’re going home!” I spin the truck around and took ‘er home. Somewhere along the line everyone agreed with my assessment of the situation. Either they came to their senses, or they could sense the storm brewin’ in dear ol’ dad.

I gotta tell ya, along the way back home (for the second time) Jethro said somethin’ pretty dang observant. Especially for a 4 year old. As we’re passin’ McDonald’s on the way home, the boy says: “Sara can go to the bathroom in there.” He said pointin’at the restaurant. Of course, I “mis-heard” him. I said: “Sure, Jethro. I say we got to McDonalds for breakfast tomorrow.” That won over any remainin’ constituents still undecided. When I realized what the kid had said, I considered it for a second. Naw…fuck it!

So, there you have it. Over two hours in a car, without leavin’ a five mile radius of your house. And science said it couldn’t be done. That’s the problem with science today. It has no imagination, no faith. It’s all about the $ for scienticians today. $ and glory. It’s all Noble prizes and whores for these guys today. No really discovery.

I should’ve known to abandon the vacation right then and there. But, just like NASA, I never learn from my mistakes. Hell, I should’ve known how horrific the vacation was gonna be back when Lucifer was born. But, that’s just what dad’s do for their families. They sacrifice their talent, blood, youth, vigor, memory, vitality, looks, time, money, sleep, patience…

Next: The real fun begins!!!

Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs: Prologue

2005-08-17T22:50:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

Prologue?!?!?!? WTFMFF is a prologue? And you probably thought the Juice wouldn’t know such words. Well, you know what I’ve got to say to that: I do! Go Farmington Hills Library!

Welcome to my new series: Why to Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs. I gotta set the tone here, right at the beginnin’. Imagine this series to be a combination of my Tales from the Vacation series and The Kingdom of Magic Isn’t for Kids series. Only with more venom. I’m like a rattler about to sink my fangs into Ocean City, NJ. Believe you me, all the love I have for Disney World won’t be reflected here. That’s fo dang sho.

How can I have such anger at a place after one visit? That’s where you are wrong. Wrong, sir! Wrong! I’ve had my fair share of trips to the Jersey shore. Most of them to Ocean City. However, the last few years we’ve been stayin’ in Margate. If you take out your Monopoly boards, you’ll find it on there somewhere. I think it’s one of those properties no one ever buys. I’m real tempted to go off here on the game of Monopoly and how I’ve never finished a game of it, but I’ll save that for another post. Stay on target! Stay on target! For those of you who don’t know, or don’t care, Margate sits conveniently between Atlantic City (boring!) and Ocean City. Apparently, it’s where the rich folks (or the folks who think they’re rich) have their summer homes judgin’ by all the fancy gardens around and Lexus, Mercedes and Cadillacs that cruise thru the streets. I tell ya, there’s nothin’ more predictable than a dude goin’ thru a mid-life crisis. You see all the “cool” dudes drivin’ around Margate in their “cool”, expensive cars. It’s like teenagers crusin’ your local mall. Only more pathetic, and durin’ the day. ‘Cause Margate shuts down at night. Don’t be lookin’ for ice cream at 10:30 pm. Unless you like the boxed kind at your local Piggly Wiggly, or whatever grocery store you folks up north shop at. Probably Northerns R Us. So much for stayin’ on target…

The missus has family that own a shore house in Margate, that we visit on a yearly basis. The house that is. I don’t go near the missus’ family. Talk about your undesirables. In case you were wonderin’ though, that’s how a guy like the Juice ends up in Margate. Certainly not ‘cause he’s puttin’ on airs or wants to feel all high and mighty.

It seems the older the Juice gets, the less I enjoy the shore. I used to love when my ol’ man and his wife would take me and my sister to the Jersey shore. It would suck that I’d have to spend most of the day watchin’ my sister, cause the ol’ man and his wife would disappear for hours at a time, but otherwise it was a good time. Now, though, I can’t stand the beach. Which is where my story begins…well, just about. Hence the Prologue.

We had the beach house from Monday to Thursday. The missus wanted to leave on Sunday night. It’s a bit of a long drive, and I was havin’ no parts of it. Not that that mattered. We still “left” on Sunday night. And what a mistake! We got in the car around 7 pm. Why so late? Well for one, the person who was suppose to watch the mutt, Snowflake, didn’t come to get the dog. For fun’s sake lets just call this person Un Predictable. See, Un was suppose to pick up the dog in the mornin’. Somethin’ the missus had planned out with her for months. But, we didn’t hear from Un all day. Great! Fucking Great. Finally, around 3 Un decides to call. It kinda went down like this:

“The dog? Oh, yea…I’m gotta get the dog.” Un droned.

“When, Un? We’re suppose to be leaving for the shore soon.” The missus asked concerned

“Yea…I’m gonna git him.” Long hesitation. “Soon…”

“When, Un?”

“Uhhh…soon.” Un replied.

“I just wanna make sure you pick up the dog.”

“Uhhhh…I will. I’ll be over in a little bit. I’m just waitin’ for the paint to peel.”

I wasn’t happy about this turn of events. But, the Juice is only one man. And my portfolio ain’t full of stocks in the mutual fund known as Patience. I figure if Un says she’ll pick up the dog, she would. Eventually. Maybe. Hence the name “Un Predictable”. I just wanted to get on the road. ‘Cause we still had 27 too many errands still to take care of. So, we left the dog to his uncertain future. Don’t worry, don’t worry. I had a back up plan if Un didn’t show up. Please don’t send me any of your forsaken emails…

One of the many errands we had to take care of involved goin’ over to Father Brett’s to pick up the Lucifer’s Pack N Play that we lent to him for his new baby. Which, I’m fairly certain wasn’t used once. Now, Father Brett lives 5 minutes from the ol’ trailer. I shit you not. The Juice has timed it. Five fuck minutes! Sweet, huh! However, the county is fuckin' everyone who lives in Riverdale trailer park. How so? Cause they’ve blocked off the bridge that leads to our local shoppin’ center. So, instead of a convenient 5 minute ride, now you’re starin’ down the barrel of a 15 minute out of your way drive just to get a pint of Ben and Jerry’s (the Juice may be a bit “uncivilized”, but the Juice knows good ice cream when he tastes it. the Juice would never eat No Frills ice cream. He saves that for the kids. Kids are so dumb!) Father Brett lives 2 seconds from the shoppin’ center.

So, we go out of our way to get the Pack N Play (little foreshadowin’ here…the lil bastard never even used the fuckin’ thing! Nice. More on that later!) And…OFF…to the shore, right? Wrong again! We decided to fuck all the other errands and head to the shore. We we’re just about on the main highway out of town when the missus realizes she left a bill back at the house that had to be paid while were away.

“You fuckin' me, woman?” I ask slammin’ on the brakes in the middle of the four lane road. I give the missus the evilest eye I could muster. “I mean it feels like I’m bein’ fucked, but I got all my clothes on.”

Know what she says? “Does, it look like I’m fuckin’ ya?”

Touche! So now, we’ve gotta travel the 12 minutes back to the house. Which doesn’t sound very far, but when you’ve already spent close to 45 minutes in the car and haven’t left a 5 mile radius of your house, it’s gettin’ to be a bit ridiculous.

Up next: Guess who still hadn’t picked up the fucking dog?

Tales from the Vacation: The Final Chapter?!?!

2005-08-16T21:45:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

Welcome to the last day of the vacation, and the last installment of Tales from the Vacation! It’s been a long road, but let’s not weep. Let’s just get right to it! You can play catch up, here:

part 1
part 2
the first half of part 3
the second half of part 3 part 4
part 5
part 5.5
part 6
part 7

I seriously dislike the last day of vacation. And not just for the obvious reasons. It a total pain in the arse, especially when a flight is involved. You’ve got to get all your crap in order, get the crew together. No one wants to leave. Then there’s the thought of the rental car return, makin' your flight in time. Blah, Blah…blah. The last day should really be called Wastedday. More of a wasted day then your first day of vacation. Why? Cause you can’t do anything. What’re you gonna do, go swimmin’? There’s no place to change, you’ve already checked out of your hotel room. If you’re on a Disney type vacation, like we were, whatrugonna do? Go to a park? You’re gonna leave all that luggage in the car? And then get nice and sweaty for the plane ride home? Of course you are. That’s what we did. Sorta. We spent our last few hours of Disney life at Downtown Disney, specifically the suck end. Better known as the West End. I ain’t gonna get into how sucky the West End is. I will another day. For now, know that it was hot, and we couldn’t find a dang place that sold cold water. It was a complete waste of time.

Then there was the plane ride home…We had an afternoon flight. Lucifer hadn’t taken his daily nap, which was the way I planned it. That way, he could sleep on the plane, and I would have a peaceful flight. In theory, of course. Apparently, Lucifer didn’t get the memo about nappin’ on the plane. He must’ve gotten the one that said to scream at the top of his lungs for 95% of the flight. Well, I guess that’s just the Juice sendin’ out stretchers again. Lucifer did take a nap. For about 30 minutes. Half hour of sleep on a 2 hour + flight. Not to mention the time waitin' on the ol’ tarmac. That’s not bad, right? Over two hours of screamin’, twistin’ and all around bitchin’

I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ “There’s the Juice, again, sendin’ out more of his stretchers.” First off, fuck you. Secondly, believe you me. I ain’t. From the moment the Juice planted ass down in the airplane seat with the lil bastard,’til the time the Juice calmly as possible put Lucifer’s ass in his car seat for the ride home, he wasn’t happy. Him or me. Want to know the best part? The missus was no help. NO HELP! And she’s the mother? Good thing she don’t know how to work a computer. Or I’d be performin’ the angry cobra for the next 11 years.

Here’s a little word problem for you. And I hate doin’ this to you. I really do. I swear to the Christ’s blue planet I hate word problems. The Juice always had a hard time extractin’ the right information out of those problem. And the fuckers that make ‘em always throw in extra shit into them just to fuck you up. They’re probably a bunch of nerds all snorkin’ about, thinkin’ how smart they are ‘cause they put this useless nonesense into their clever problems. Thos fuckin’ word problem nerds know that a guy like the Juice always falls for their terrible schemes. Damn, word problem nerds. Damn them all to hell. However, I digress…

Here’s the problem: You’re boardin’ a Southwest Airlines: You’re free to move about the country airplane. It’s you, your wife of 10 years (who is not a super wicked hot super model that makes millions of dollars a second. You dumped her Senior year of high school, ‘cause you wanted to nail Cindy Bevin. Who knew your ex would be “discovered” 3 months after you dumped her?) and 4 (yes four!) kids. You only paid for 5 seats. The airplane has 6 seats in a row, with 3 seats on either side of the plane. How long do you have to hold the screamin’ baby, before the missus realizes that you’re about to have any aneyurism from all the frustration your barely able to contain?

Can’t figure it out? So, you suck at word problems to? I don’t want to give it away, so use your mouse and highlight the super secret answer here: 45 god damn, motherfucking minutes into the flight!!!!! WTFMFF!!!!! Hard to believe? Believe it! The missus just smiled as I struggled endlessly trying to contain Lucifer. I asked her, I pleaded with her to take the kid. She just blew me off. I tell you, she’s lucky that she was in the other row. Or I would have continued to sit there “holdin'” that screamin’ kid. Oh, wait. I did continue to hold that screamin’ kid.

After all time givin’ the missus dirty looks, and cursin’ her existence, as well as mine, under my breath, the witch suddenly decides to take the baby. And you know what? Ten minutes later. Lucifer was sleepin’ on his mother. Dang, was I wicked pissed. Maybe if that witch would’ve taken him sooner, the lil bastard might have slept longer. The peace didn’t last, though. He woke up a half hour later nice and pissed off. But at least this time, the missus had to deal with him. Ha! LMMFAO!!!!!!! Bitch! I can say that and rest easy tonight knowin’ that the missus don’t know a computer mouse from a fork. As well as that last comment.

But, the story has a happy endin’! We all survived! It’s four months later and everyone's still breathin'. The moral of the story? If you like to have fun, don’t take your kids to Disney World. Not only will you have a much better time, but you’ll save lots of time, money and heartache. See here for the low down on that. How’s that for synergy?

So, this is the end. Sad, ain’t it? I had intention of draggin’ this series out indefinitely. Mostly cause I could. Who would stop me? You? That's a laugh! So many mini episode happened, I could seriously make it into a tv series. If I knew how to do that. However, recent developments have changed my mind. One, I’m tired of it. God, so tired of writin’ abot it. Two, the details are startin’ to escape me. Sure, I could pull a few stretchers. And you would never know, bein’ the stupid heads you are. But, the Juice is certainly ain’t about the lyin’. The biggest reason to end this travesty is my most recent vacation to the New Jersey shore. Talk about a travesty! I really want to get into it while the bile is fresh in the mind. And I figured that my weak minded readers would only confuse the two different vacation stories. Which brings us to the end of Tales of the Vacation. But, as they say, nothin’s ever dead. I might pull a George Lucas on ya, and go back and add more shit later. And not even tell ya. Who’s to say I haven’t already, ya stupid fucks? You could be missin’ out on some serious funny shit. But, you just sit there and keep on rotatin’ on your thumbs.

Up next: My assault on the New Jersey coastline begins!!!!!

Emails: 8/13

2005-08-13T21:13:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

The Juice here, back from vacation! Man! Did it ever suck! I’d like to say that I was well rested and ready for action, but I ain’t. In fact, the Juice is downright bitter. The Juice almost wishes that he didn’t use his valuable vacation hours on such a horrific vacation. I know what you’re thinkin'. “I can’t believe the Juice has a pitiful, suckass job like me. I figured he was a superstar.” Well, the Juice is a superstar, but a superstar that still has to work for the man. So, until you faithful readers out there start buckin’ up, I’ll keep on workin’ like the beaten down jackass I am, much like yourself. Now, is that really what you want for the Juice? IS IT? You consider that as you read my very entertainin’ and very FREE posts.

cheap bastards…

I guess everyone thinks they’re fuckin' comedians this week, judgin' by the emails I’ve been gettin'. Take this one I got from Francis Wallace:

Hey Juice. Look at this pic. I bet that hurt! LOL!

Yea, Francis. That does look painful. I’ve got a rhetorical type question for you, though. What do you think is more painful? A chick hittin' her face on a divin' board or a dude who’s got a wife that doesn’t work (or want to, but LOVES to spend his hard-earned greenbacks), 3 kids (all daughters) and drives 90 + minutes to and fro work daily? I know. I know. Tough call. My guess is the chick who hits her face on a divin' board. Besides the embarrassment, the pain goes away relatively quick. The dude? That’s pain and embarrassment for what is known as the Long Haul. You never really realize how truly long “Death do you part”is, til you’re ten years in.

However to be fair there is somethin' even more painful than then both those things. And that is a married dude with four kids and no chance of sexual parole come heaven or high water. Believe you me, I EARNED my doctorate in painology.

here's yet another "funny" email submitted by yikeymikey:

Bruce the Juice! I know you love Jessica Simpson. Here’s a picture I made for you. Hope you put it on your site!

Well yikeymikey, thanks for the pic. I’d like to say that I was impressed with your croppin' skills, but my 2 year old can do a better job than that. And his hand eye coordnation downright sucks! I hope to the Christ you don’t spend all dang day behind a computer. That would be a shame. Do us all the favor and let us know when your momma lets you play with the grownup scissors.

And finally we’ve got this one from Scudbucket1893:

Juice. Star Wars or Star Trek?

As many times as I get asked this, I’m always amazed. How can you possible compare a multi-dollar tv show to a multi-BILLION dollar movie? The answer? You can’t! There ain’t no comparison! Sure, I’ll give you Picard was pretty cool. But, those two nutbags, Apollo and Starfuck were no Han and Luke. That’s for dang sure. And Boomer can go right ahead and suck my balls.

Star Trek did have that hot number Erin Grey goin' for it, though. She was pretty fine. I remember being a little the Juice and touchin’ the ol’ weiner whenever Erin Grey walked by in her tight spandex numbers. The only problem with her was what? Right! No boobs. Man, if she had a set, she would almost be as hot as Leia was at medal ceremony at the end of Star Wars. You know, the first one. I mean the real first one, not the new first one. The one George calls A New Hope these days. To me, it’ll always be known as Star Wars.

Anyway, gettin' back to Star Trek, that dog thing they had on the show was cool. I think it was called Daggit or some shit. But Twinkie was really super fuckin' stupid. “Meemnmeemnmeeem.” Whatever that thing said, it was dumb. I can tell you this, that android was no C3PO. And lets face it, C3PO is wicked annoyin’.

I do have to admit, though, that episode when Apollo and Starfuck land on earth and ride those cool motorcycle wasn’t too bad. Only cause of those cool motorcycles. Didn’t those fuckers float or somethin'?

I mean, I could easily go into storylines and spaceships and what not. And someday, when I'm lonesome, I just might. But, in the end? Star Wars kick Star Treks, all Star Treks, in their scrawny multi-cultural asses. God created Star Wars, and it wasn't good. In the immortal words of Tony the Tiger. It was fuck GREEEAAATTTTT!!!

So, until whenever…stop sendin' me your stupid emails

Finally!!!! Tales from the Vacation. Part 7 of too many

2005-08-06T22:10:00.000-04:00

By the Juice

I know that I’ve taken a long dang time with this installment of Tales from the Vacation. There is a perfectly good reason for it. See, the Juice was tryin’ to dosome fancy stuff. Stuff that was way above the Juice’s rather low intelligence level. I was tryin’ to “code’ some coffeescript into this so you got some surprises when you moved your mouse over the images. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. The Juice ain’t no scientician. So, just like everything else I do in life, the post is not just half-assed. It’s hole assed. See for yourself...

Recap: part 1, part 2, the first half of part 3, the second half of part 3, part 4 , part 5, and part 5.5, and part 6. Now it's on with the show...

So my oldest is sufferin' from a mean case of diarrhea and I missed gettin' onto the soft openin' of Soarin'. That’d be enough to ruin any day, right? I mean if you were me (and you best thank the Christ that you’re not) you be ballin’ your eyes out like the red-headed step bitch you know you still are. But for the Juice, the worst was about to come.

I’ll be honest, I was gettin’ worried. ‘Cause I knew that mythical Disney vacation breakin' point was up on the horizon. Now Disney tries to down play that breakin' point. You never read about it in their beautifully crafted literature and DVDs. They're crafty fucks! But you best believe it happens.

It was around Sara’s 7th trip to the bathroom that Lucifer started to meltdown. I don’t blame him so much. I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a stroller all dang day. He had one of the biggest shit fits I’d ever seen. And believe you me, I’ve seen some shit fits. I’ve got a few kids remember? There was just no way the little bastard was gettin' hisself happy.

But rather than use words to describe how perfectly awesome this baby's meltdown was, I've got for you an artist (albeit a sucky one) re-creation of actual events. No baby seals were harmed in this re-creation. A special element had been added to your viewing pleasure. The images you are about to witness, again, are re-creations of actual events. If you click on the image, you’ll get an idea of what the Juice was thinkin' about durin' that particular part of Lucifer’s shit fit. Consider this the closet thing to jackin’ into the Juice’s head. You’ve been warned…

and then there was this beautiful moment...

oh, this part was stellar...

This last part ended several hours later. And I ain't fuckin' ya. Although, if you're hot, and you're a chick, I would certainly consider it. Dudes and the ugly need not apply.

As I said, Lucifer was one unhappy camper. Sure, he calmed down for a minute here, a second there. Just long enough for the Juice to collect what remained of his sanity. But, then it was right back to the mind fuckin'. And what of Sara? Don't worry, after about the 17th trip to the bathroom, she finally stopped crappin'. Here's a tip for ya, DON'T DRINK THE FLORIDA WATER.

And Lucifer? He eventually calmed down. Yea, i think it was about 2 days ago...

Ya'know there's more funny shit. Like how Barbara and Jethro bitched non-stop at each other, and at me and the missus, while the whole meltdown/shitfest was goin' down. But already I've put way too much effort into this fuck post. This is days we're talkin' here. Days! So, the Juice is sayin'it's the end. And I'll tell you what, if you're thinkin' what a big waste of time, or that this post sucked, then I'd have to agree with you. And you thought I was gonna tell you to go fuck yousself. Ah, what the hell...Go fuck yourself. See you next time!!!!

Pitch a Bitch: The Atkins Diet

2005-08-03T18:57:00.000-04:00

by CQF

I’m starting a new series here at Dissertation Station. No, I’m not stopping the Conversations with Bane series. And, no, I haven’t run out of Bane fuel. I'm just branching out a bit. There are plenty of stories to tell about my Mother in Law. However, as I said in my Conversations with Bane: Apple post, some things Bane doesn’t care or know anything about. Or, and I know this one is going to be hard to swallow (it sure is for me), some topics we actually agree on. Which leads me to my new series…Pitch a Bitch. I figured this was a good way to write about topics that I wouldn’t normally cover in Conversations with Bane.

I’m setting my sights of my first bitch on the Atkins diet. As my wife will attest, I hate diets. They make no sense. I hated that low-fat craze a few years ago, the no egg diet, no sugar diet, the Krispy Kreme diet (ok…I really liked that diet). But, the one that drove me nuts the most is that Atkins diet. Uggghhhh. Atkins. Atkins. Atkins. It seemed like everyone at one point was on Atkins (or South Beach or whatever. They’re all the same as far as I’m concerned). Sure, I know any given company will jump on any given bandwagon any chance they get. If there’s any way for money to be made on an idea, it will be. Quite frankly, I’m surprised we didn’t see Atkins stool softeners. Stool softeners can be low carb too, right? My point being that Atkins was everywhere. Atkins this, Atkins that. To borrow a phrase from the Juice, I wish the Atkins diet would go fuck itself. I’m just so sick of hearing about it.

For a long term, healthy lifestyle the Atkins Diet makes no sense. No bread? That’s just crazy! I love bread! Fruit is bad!?!? C’mon! Now, I understand that at some point the dieter is suppose to re-introduce fruits and carbs into their diet. But, I’m willing to bet that as soon as the dieter got the taste of those carbs again, it was all over shortly after that. Or, those folks that suffer from OCD or any other anal complexity, never re-introduced the carbs. 5 years later they’re still eating 6 pounds of bacon and have arteries choked with fat. I’m not saying the diet doesn’t work. I know that it does, but for the average person, it’s not a healthy choice

I felt bad for the lowly bread maker, the humble pastry chef. They were seriously taking a beating the last few years. I think that carbs were more vilified than the Muslims. It looks as though the carbs (and the beautiful carbmakers) will get the last laugh. Cause Atkins Nutritional declared bankruptcy! Finally! Is that chanting I hear in the streets? Let them eat Bread! Let them eat Cake! Look, I don’t wish any ill will on anyone. I hate to see a company declare bankruptcy. But, lets face it, the Atkins diet sucked.

In the end, people love diets. Because they’re always looking for the quickest way to lose weight. Diets never work in the long term, though. They take too much effort to maintain. For me, the key to weight loss is two-fold: Moderation and exercise. You can have some bread. It’s ok. Go ahead. Have some chips, just don’t eat the whole bag. I know exercise isn’t fun, but look at it this way…if you exercise once in awhile, you can eat whatever the heck you want. Even more than just “some” chips.

If you have any suggestions for a topic for Pitch a Bitch, you can email me at chuckqfinn@yahoo.com

Two great tastes that taste great together...

2005-08-02T19:21:00.000-04:00

...but one is better than the other

So, the Juice finally saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory over the weekend. And I'm sure you're wonderin' what I thought about it, but you're almost afraid to ask? Right? You're fears aren't justified. 'Cause for the most part, the Juice actually enjoyed it. Now, I’m pretty sure all of you out there in TV land automatically think that the movie sucks ‘cause I’m not goin' on endlessly about it. Well, it doesn’t totally suck. It was good. For the most part. I think.

A bit of history, first. In my review of Revenge of the Sith, the Juice talks about how people have ingrained the original trilogy into their psyche, making it part of them. How could any new Star Wars movie possibly compare to the original trilogy on that level? It can’t. Since it can’t, then people just assume that the new movies suck or that George lost his touch, "George can’t write. Blah, blah, blah." You get the picture. When, in fact the new Star Wars movies may be good (or the may be bad which they are), but the fans can’t judge the movies for what they are…new movies. So, what's this have to do with they way French woman don't shave thier legs? Remove your panties from your ass and read on...

Well, much of that can be said about Charlie/Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. People have seen Willy Wonka over and over again for the last 30 odd years. You can’t possibly compare the new movie to the original on that scale. It ain't a fair assessment. That’s why the Juice likes the new movie bein' named after Ronald Dahl’s book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. This way, if ya got a brain in your head, ya gotta assume that you're seein' somethin' new, not just a regurigation of an existin' product.

Hang in there. I'm gettin' to it. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory is one of the Juice's favorite movies. Don't get me wrong. There's shit in the movie that is just that...shit. Pretty much the whole first half of the movie is like watchin' someone get his teeth scraped. And Charlie? Dang, he's such a pussy in the movie. But the worst? Grandpa Joe and the other grandparents. I swear to the Christ, those grandparents get on the Juice's nerves somethin' fierce. And the Juice ain't sufferin' from ageism or anythin'. Or, maybe I am.

I'll giva ya that there are some parts in the beginnin' of Willy Wonka that are fuckin' funny. Like all the folks fightin' over the candy bars. I love the scene with woman who’s husband has been kidnapped. And the kidnappers want her box of Wonka Bars. All of the sudden, this hysterical bitch has to think twice about it. Nice! Shit...for a golden ticket? The Juice wouldn't have to think twice. Take the missus, please!!! Of course Gene Wilder is pure fuckin'genius in the movie. He owns the movie, like a pimp own a whore. In fact, if it weren’t for Wilder, I seriously doubt anyone would know anythin' about this movie today.

Which finally brings me to Charlie and the Chocolate factory. With this movie everythin' the Juice didn’t like about the original, I love about the new. Charlie? Not a douche bag. You almost give a shit about him. He's got a better "story" in the new movie. And what of the grandparents? They're so cute and cuddly that ya could hung them, or you would if they weren’t so…old. And ya don’t get the annoyin' feelin' that Charlie should get the factory just because he’s poor. But, that the kid actually EARNS it. As for the special effects, the sets, etc they are all wicked cool. All those years of sufferin' through the original's crappy effect, pinin' for a remake so they can make the factory as it should be, definitely pay off here.

The new movie also lacks that hokey 70’s warmth of the original. The new movie ain't so much "dark", as it is uncomfortably twisted? There’s definitely some funky shit goin' on in that factory, but ya ain't sure what. Hold onto your hats as the Juice gets a bit philosophical on your ass. I believe all that "uneasiness" is more a sign of the times, then anything else. But, I digress. As for the rest of the winnin' kids, they seem a bit flat in the new movie, it's probably intentional, though. It ain't like the kids are that fleshed out in the original, either.

You know it's comin'. Like that horrifyin old woman said in the 80's..."What's the beef?" Well, I'll tell ya. I wasn’t crazy about Johnny Depp as Wonka. I was hopin' that Depp was gonna play Wonka different. He was so fuckin' weird. Like uncomfortable. I don’t think that it’s all Depp’s fault. It's probably how that "genius" Tim Burton wanted him to be played. The Juice just don't get Tim Burton. Maybe I ain't "artsy" enough to understand the dude's "vision". But, his movies general suck.

Burton tacked on a back-story to Wonka. Which has him at “odds” with his dentist father who doesn’t like candy (when in doubt, give the character daddy issues). So, Wonka is real kid-like, but in a cooped up, Howard Hughes kinda way. Not in that fun, sarcastic Gene Widler kinda way. The Juice was just expectin' more "zingers". More inanity. More whimsy. More dryness. C'mon! But those annoyin' kids in their place for the love of Christ's blue planet!

So, in a battle royal between Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory which movie wins? Charlie, hands down. Weren't expectin' that we're ya. The creamy goodness of Charlie far out weighs the bad parts. I could see myself fast forwardin' less of Charlie than I do of Willy Wonka.

In either case, they're both just movies. So get a friggin life!

I've got your updates...right here!

2005-07-31T21:40:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

Sorry to disappoint, but not much of a post today. Just some administrative crap, really. First and foremost, Tales from the Vacation part 7 is comin'. Get off my fuckin' back already. You all can stop emailin' me now. Dang! You know, I’m just gettin’ a little tired of writin’ about the friggin' vacation already. It’s been 3 months since I got back, ya'know? I’m tired of rehashin’ this vacation. Sometimes I get the urge to write about somethin' different. That’s all the Juice is sayin’.

I’ve been gettin' heaps o' shit that I’m only postin' once a week to my own blog. I’d like to tell all you complainers out there in wonderland to go fuck yourselves. But, my lawyer kinda agrees with the complainers. He says that the community service would go much quicker the more I posted. Somethin' about applyin' more hours to my time. I would like to also tell him to go fuck hisself, but how he rangled this deal for me is amazin’. So, I’ll be postin' at least one article a week, and at least one misc postin'. Sort of like this post. Yes! More community service driven down! I’ll tell you, I’ll never pull my d….well never mind. And don't quote me on any of this shit. If I don't feel like posting, ain't nothin' on the Christ's blue planet gonna make me.

I can tell you this, though. We've got some real excitin' stuff comin' up. After Vacations part 7, I’ve hopefully only got 2 or 3 more posts to go in that series. And we can finally bury that fucker. After that, we’ll re-visit the Kingdom of Magic series. Tie that bitch up and assfuck 'er. Then I can finally break into the stuff I actually like about the Disney. And guess what? I’m going on vacation again. No, nothing as grand as Disney World. I’m takin' the family to the New Jersey shore. God, my skin crawls just thinkin' about it. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of tales to tell about that trip.

I’ll also be postin' some misc articles in between those series. Some of the stuff you’ve come to love. More installments of “The Glory of…”, some new book and greetin' card reviews (finally), more email answerin’ (please for the love of the Christ, stop sendin' me your dang emails!) and that highly anticipated article why Star Wars is Better Than Lord of the Rings Everyday of the Week including Funkaday (which doesn’t even exist)! Plus new excitin' series. Like “Cartoon Characters I Dislike So Much, I Wish that Hunters that Club Baby Seals Would Club Them Instead (that’s just the workin' title) and somethin' I’m really lookin' forward to…Ahhhh who am I fuckin'? I can’t say here. It'll ruin the surprise.

On the blog front, I’ve got some really excitin' news. If you haven’t tried it already, click on the icon of any author to the right. Well, don’t do it yet, douche bag. Let me finish. If you click on any of those icons, you’ll be taken to a page of that particular person past posts. Nice, right? It’s taken a long fuck time to get that workin'. So, you better appreciate it! But, really, why would ya? Just like my kids, the dog and the missus, you don’t appreciate a damn thing I do. (yes, I already know, my archive is not complete. i'm workin' on it. i'm workin' on it. give me a fuck break, already. it ain't like i'm makin' dollar one on this blog)

So, consider yourself caught up. Now, I'm gonna go crank to the latest "The Glory of...". I'd also like to tell you all about it, but that'd be just givin' it away. Until then, feel free to go fuck yourselves...

The Glory of...Gwen Stefani

2005-07-25T19:54:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

I’ve been thinkin’ long and hard about Gwen Stefani for this installment of “The Glory of…. “ and believe you me, as often as I can. ‘Specially when no one’s around. And I’ve got the whole TV to myself. I put on that vide….Whoa! Hold it! I’m jumpin’ the gun here. I almost gave the whole dang thing away. Damn! Talk about premature ejaculation.

From the very unscientific polls I’ve been runnin', it seems to me that you’re either into Gwen Stefani or not. There doesn’t seem to be much of a middle ground. Some can’t get into her bleached blonde hair, some say that she’s too “tom-boyish”, most can’t get beyond her rather annoyin' music. So when I considered Ms. Stefani for an installment “The Glory of…”, I felt like I had my work cut out for me. I knew there was something sexy about her, but to convince you pervs out there I knew was gonna take some convincin’. I did a few searches on the internets about Gwen at the Farmington Hills Library. The pics I was findin’ were ok. I mean, sure, I’d crank to them, but I didn’t think they were quality enough to convince you non believers out there what lays beneath that high octane, pseudo – Cyndi Lauper on steroids exterior of hers.

Personally, I’ve always had a thing for her. She is, though, atypical of the kind of gal that gets my 10 – w40 flowin. As you can tell from prior installments of “The Glory of…”( Salma , Jessica ), I’m more about the wicked hot chick with the wicked hot body. That’s not to say that Gwen isn’t wicked hot. But, she isn’t about the glamour. You know the look I’m talkin’ about. That air brushed, high polished Playboy model-type look that makes you think what Mac truck hit a particular gal when you see her in person at your local comic book convention. But, that ain’t Gwen’s look. Although she was pretty sweet lookin’ in that Aviator movie when she played Jean Harlow.

Then there the whole age thing. Gwen’s pushing 35 these days (but she’s a very FINE 35. I’d still give her a go every day of the week including Sunday and Arbor Day. And, I’d even thank her for it), but that’s definitely out of my rather limited target age of 19 – 22 years old.

My other big drawback to Gwen is the lack of boobs. I read recently that some scientician theorizes that she had some work done and now she’s a C cup. I’ve got 2 words for that scientician. No fucking way. She’s as flat as the day is long. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, if Gwen did a “The Glory of…Bruce Brockman” on her blog, I’m sure she ain’t gonna be writin’ on the formidable length and girth of my cock. I mean, if she did, I would certainly be happy with that. But, she’d be lyin'. I’d surely would send her a substantial check in the mail if she did put that kinda press out there for me. Hell, I’d be happy if anyone wrote anything about the Juice. Small cock, or otherwise. But, that is not my point here. My point is, I’m usually into gals who have something of a rack going on. Bein's that Ms. Stefani doesn’t, there must be something else about her that appealin’ her to me. Something strong enough for me to by-pass writin' about other severely hot chicks before her. What could it be? What could it be, indeed. And then (hang on. Let me take a deep breath here . thanks I needed that.), and then out came this:

Whoa...

God damn!!!

Lets not forget about this…

Or this…

Or this...

She's hot and she knows it.

She's got the sweetest backside I have not had the pleasure of seeing bare in a long time. Or whatever. You know what I mean. I'm all flustered.

Yea, that stupid Hollaback Girl song has a video to go along with it that's better than The Hut's Pan Pizza. Who ever came up with the idea of puttin' Gwen in that outfit deserves the Congressional Medal of Honor. Or at least the Nobel Prize for Almost Porn. I leave you with this partin' image:

I'm sorry. No band chick has EVER been this hot...

Epilogue:

Ya'know, I thought I was done. I had this article written days in advance. The pics loaded. I was ready to go. A free weekend of crankin' to Hollaback Girl, then just before I'm leavin' Bubba's Bar N Grill for the night, Gwen Stefani's new video comes on SuckAss Hollywood, or whatever they call that show with the mega hot babe Nancy O'Dell (hmmmm...note to self, future "The Glory of..."?). So now I gotta spend the whole fuck weekend looking for pics from this new video. Worry not, grasshopper. I found them. And she's worth it. No. She's clothed. But she is sweet...

and...

oh, just in case you forgot

Emails: 7/20

2005-07-20T22:07:00.000-04:00

I’m constantly surprised by the continuous emails I get. Well, my surprise is within a context. I’m not surprised by all the “hate” mail I get. That I expect. What surprises me is the sheer volume of non “hate” mail I get. I can't get over that anyone wastes their time readin' this shit. ‘Specially since I’m only doin' this to pay off some community service. Which is another show, entirely. But, enough about me. Tonight, this is all about beautiful you.

First letter comes from W_Riker. He/She/It writes:

Hey Juice. I see you refer to Happy Days a few times in your posts. Was the Fonz really that cool?

Yea…I’m a big fan of Happy Days. I can’t tell you why, either. And let me be perfectly Frank here, I haven’t seen Happy Days since it went off the air in the early 80’s. I would say that I’ve got fond memories of Happy Days. It’s probably a big dated suckfest today, though. But, to answer your question. Yea, I think the Fonz was pretty cool. Up until he grew that beard. After that, he was standin’ on the corner of Cock and Sucker. And don’t even get me started on that teachin’ bit he started. Talk about a pussy.

I also had a thing for Joannie. Man, did I have a thing for her. And not when she was a kid, either. You perverts. Besides, even if I did have a thing for her when she was a kid (which I didn’t, I like my females old. But not that old. Fuck! You know what I mean!) it would’ve been alright, ‘cause I was a kid. But, no, I had the hots for Joannie when she was older. You know, right around that Joannie Loves Chachi thing. My grandma used to get those stupid supermarket rags like The Enquirer Magazine and The I Don’t Have Anything Better to Do With My Life but Read Untrue Stories About Elvis Fucking Aliens from Arcadia Magazines. I remember one time (in band camp) they had a “sexy” pic of Joannie in one of those mags. And by “sexy” I mean she had a button down shirt on that had one button (one fucking button!), unbuttoned. Talk about risqué. C'mon. Where was the bikini shot? I wanted to see those boobs! You couldn't even see cleavage in that picture. Anyway, I cut the unsexy pic of Joannie out and pasted it to some construction paper. I must’ve cranked to that pic a hundred thousands times. Or, I would’ve. If I wasn’t 7 at the time and knew what crankin’ was.

Krackedzack writes in:

Brucethejuice! How come you don’t post more often? Your stuff is funny, but you only post once or twice a week. What’s the deal?

Well, Krackedzack, the deal is thus… Do you know how hard it is to keep a blog up without a computer? I gotta walk down to the Farmington Hills library, sign up to use the computer and do my post. It’s a pain in the ass. And forget scannin’ pics. I’ve gotta go 2 towns over to my brother in laws to use a scanner. And this ain’t one of those streamlined scanners, either. This sucker is the size of an MRI machine. It takes a dang hour for the machine to warm up!

So, I do the best that I can with the resources that I’ve got. Until you donate thousands of dollars to the blog, I suggest you contact the Dissertation Station complaint center. Oh, what’s that? You say you can’t find it? You can’t find any link to the Complaint center? That’s ‘cause there ain’t one, Douche Bag. But, feel free to go ahead and fuck yourself

And finally MarshallTuckerTree checks in again:

Hey Juice. I emailed you last week. I asked if you had pics of your lawyer, wife and kids. I asked ‘cause I think that people would like to see those pics. Do you think you could post some them? Or do I have to spell that out to? You really aren’t too bright are you?

My father used to ask me that all the time. Actually, he didn’t so much ask me as tell me that I wasn’t too bright. But, thanks for asking anyway. To get to the point, if you wanted to see pictures all you had to do was ask. Duh. I figured I’d start out with some pics of the fam. Only because they were layin’ around. I’ve got some pics of my lawyer and my buddy Paco Reban from my lawyer’s Christmas party last year. Once I figure out how to get the film out of the missus’ digital camera, I’ll get them developed, have them scanned and I’ll post them for your viewin’ pleasure.

In the meantime enjoy some personal photos. Here’s a family portrait.

You can check out more family snapshots by clicking

HERE.

But, whatever you do, don't click here.

Well, that’s it for today. Keep sendin’ those emails, if you must. And would it kill you to throw a check or two into those emails? Better make it money orders. I don’t accept personal checks.

Tales From the Vacation. Part 6 of Too Many

2005-07-16T22:28:00.000-04:00

“C’mon get down with the sickness…” Disturbed

First things first. No more halves to my stories. No more .1’s or .2’s or .10’s (I know, I know) for that matter. I’m just tellin’ the stories as the come. If you don’t like it, contact the Dissertation Station complaint department. Can’t find it? That’s ‘cause there ain’t one. Stupid Douche bag.

Follow the bouncin' ballpart 1, part 2, the first half of part 3, the second half of part 3, part 4 , part 5, and part 5.5. God, I’ll be glad when I don’t have to do this shit anymore.

When you go on a vacation to a place like Disney with more than one person (and let’s face it, a real vacation is a vacation you go on by yourself), there’s always that breakin’ point. It’s that point, usually half way through the vacation, that everyone is tired beyond tired. And they are wicked, wicked, wicked cranky. The hope is that everyone in the group doesn’t hit that point at once. That’s bad. It’s along the lines of reality foldin' onto it’s self bad. Or gettin' genital herpes kinda bad. Fortunately, that didn’t happen to us. However, we came damn close to it on day 4.

The day didn’t start off that way. It was picture god damn perfect! Everyone was somewhat in good spirits. We did some swimmin’ for the first half of the day. Then we decided to head for Epcot to close the night. Now, the Juice is a big fan of Epcot. I’m not exactly sure why, either. I’ve always been intrigued by Spaceship Earth (Man that thing is cool! Even though they’ve got that stupid arm next to it). But, Epcot ain’t really for kids. It’s way too big, not enough kid things. Blah, blah fucking blah. I love the place just the same. Probably ‘cause my ol’ man and his wife took us to Epcot a few times when I was growin’ up. One time, my dad and his wife got “lost” for a few hours at Epcot. I was kid at the time. The first 4 hours they were “lost” were kinda scary. You know, wanderin’ around the park lookin' for your dad and your pain in the ass, you took my dad away from me, step mom. But, believe you me, I was disappointed when I eventually “found” them comin' out of Spaceship Earth. They reeked of reefer and were a bit disheveled. It took me years to figure they ditched me in the park to go fuck in the hotel. It was probably the condom wrapper I found in my bed that should have given it away. In any case, Epcot is the place for me.

Back in the present day, we get to the park late in the afternoon. I guess it was around four or so. Which was fine with me. I hadn’t planned on coverin' too much while we were there. When we got into the park, I saw that Soarin’, the new ride from the poorest excuse of a theme park, California Adventure, was havin' one of it’s first days of soft openin'. I though to myself, “Sweet!” I figured I’d ride Soarin’ several thousand times. And when I got back home, I would head straight to the Farmington Hills Library, get on the computer, go straight to the WDWMagic forums and tell all those goons how great the ride was how much of a loser they all were for spendin' all their time on a message board complainin' about chipped paint on the third light post from the left on Main St. Stupid computer nerds.

I was tempted to run right over and get on that ride. How often do you get to participate in a soft openin'? But, the family was hungry. What else was new? Whine, whine, whine. Bitch, bitch, bitch. So we got somethin' to eat at the Electric Umbrella. And let me tell you, everyone took their good ol time eatin'. God, forbid we go on more than one frickin' ride a day on this vacation. At this point I’m not so much hurryin' everyone to get movin', but well, I am.

Everyone finally finishes wastin'…I mean eatin'. Everyone takes care of their business and we guess what? We get out of the restaurant! Finally! We head on over to go onto Soarin’. Guess what again? It was closed. FUCKING CLOSED! I throw my head back and scream to the sky “Walt Disney how you mock me!!!!!”

Not only was the ride closed, the whole dang side of Future World south or north southwest, whatever the hell they call it, was also closed. WTFMFF (that’s What The Flying Mother Fucking Fuck. Like it? I invented it myself.) I didn’t have time to throw a tantrum. 'Cause I'm closin' in on my breakin' point, also. My oldest, Sara, had to go back to the bathroom. So I walked her back to the restaurant, cursin'. Not at her, but at life in general. The wife stayed near the fountains with the rest of the clan.

I waited outside the bathrooms at the Electric Umbrella. After a few minutes, Sara comes out, and we go back to the family. We take three steps, and Sara has to go back to the bathroom. Yes, you guess it. Diarrhea. Now, I ain’t gonna make fun of her. Nothin', NOTHIN', is worse than Montezuma’s Revenge. But, I told the fam NOT to drink that water. Everyone knows that Florida may be part of the good ol’ US of A, but it might as well not be when it comes to water. Or social services, or highway clean-up or good quality whores (hey, i haven't always been married). We might as well let Mexico annex the state. Hell, I’d let the penguins at the Galapagos Islands annex Florida.

And then you’ll never guess what happened. I got too fucking tired to write anymore. Guess there’s always when I feel like writing more. If I was a chick (which I ain’t. all man. Ask your momma. Well, better ask her tomorrow), I’d be a dick tease.

The Glory of...?

2005-07-12T20:23:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

You're probably wonderin' who on the Christ's blue planet "FC" is. I don't blame you for that wonderin'. However today's edition of “The Glory of…” isn't so much about "who", than "what". I know I usually use this platform to speak of hot chicks. Today, though, is the exception. I’d like to speak on somethin' that is, in many cases, as fine as a sexy piece of ass in a bikini. And just as often as fleetin'. I am speakin' of…Funnel Cake!

Yes, fried dough! Three words: Pure Genius. I'd like to offer a hummer from the missus to the man who thought about applyin' the batter to hot oil. However, I don't believe I'm authorized to make such an offer. I usually don't do this this early in an article, but, I must digress.

I was watchin' television the other night. It was late, the missus was sleepin' on the sofa. A commercial for the International House of Pancakes (what the hell is that all about? who the hell thought that name up? International House of Pancakes? i guess it’s suppose to make the place sound more “classy”? i think I’d rather go to the International House of Ill Repute) came on. For a moment, I thought I was buggin'. Turns out, for once, I wasn't. This commercial featured a new “breakfast”. It was funnel cake with all sorts of weird and wonderful toppins! Not that I’m complain’ here or anything but the ol’ International House has got nerve passin' this little slice of heaven off as breakfast. They might as well bring you out a bowl full of chocolate chip cookies with milk and call that breakfast. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ “Hey, the Juice. It does sound a lot like your complainin’”. And I’d answer “Go fuck yourself. Remember, you’re readin' MY article. I ain’t readin' your oh so entertainin' post about Funnel Cake. Until then, I stand by my statement. Go fuck yourself." Besides, all's I’m sayin' is that funnel cake is not the breakfast of champions.

Anyway, I jumped on the couch to wake the missus up. “Look honey…IHOP has funnel cake!” After cursin' for a few seconds and pushin' me off the sofa, she realized the full implications of a funnel cake breakfast. The missus is a bigger funnel caker than I am. I would call her a funnel cake whore, but there’s a possibility she might read this. And I certainly don’t need another knock to the noggin with the meat tenderizer. Besides, I’m lookin’ to get laid sometime within 2005.

When we were at Disney World we spotted a place that sold funnel cake, to our surprise, in the Magic Kingdom. We were a little busy at the time(you know. the four kids reakin' their special kind of havoc on the place). I told the missus to remind me about the funnel cake later. I figured we’d go back and get some before we left the park . Well the missus did remind me. Two and a half fuck months later. Specifically right after the IHOP commercial came on. Dang! Again, if I wasn’t lookin' for some action I might’ve knocked her teeth out (hey! i don’t advocate violence against women. that ain’t right! i’m just speakin’ metaphorically, here. i sometimes advocate violence against small dogs. small dogs named Snowflake. small dogs named Snowflake that have a penchant for whizzin’ all over your trailer. small dogs named Snowflake that not only whiz all over your trailer, but on your prized porno collection. i swear to the Christ, if i catch that dog whizzin’ again, i’m gonna BBQ him. don’t even think about it PETA. i’m just fucking around. i don’t even like hot dogs. i love funnel cake!)

Although I could write for days how funnel cake is humanity’s only redeemin' quality, I’m gonna leave you with one final image. I’m not sure if it leaves me more hungry or more horny at that moment. Fuck it. I’m gonna crank it while eatin' some funnel cake. Think I’m a fool? See for yourself. And don’t be surprised if you find you're touchin' yourself…

Yes, I believe that’s orange creamsicle ice cream on that funnel cake. Oh, I think I just came…

Tales from the Vacation. Part 5.5 of Too Many

2005-07-08T22:41:00.000-04:00

by the Juice

Here’s what you’ve missed. And man have you missed a lot…part 1, part 2, the first half of part 3, the second half of part 3, part 4 , and the first part of this nightmare.

So, after our run in with the terrifyin’ Orlando Police, we finally pull up to Animal Kingdom. And it’s well after ten o’ clock. At this point, I’m fairly angry. We’re late. And I hate being late. To anything! Not only are we late for our current reservation, but we totally missed our first reservation at 9:30. Now, we’re late for this second reservation. It’s close to 10:30 and I haven’t been on ride one yet. We fight out way through the crowds through the park to get to Donald’s All You Can Stuff in Your Face Restaurant and check-in. I guess ‘cause we were so late, the folks at Disney decided to punish us. We didn’t get into the restaurant until almost eleven. I like to say that it was as simple as that. You know, an uneventful wait. But, it wasn’t. Remember from 7th grade science, nothin’ happens in a vacuum. Ain’t anything like 4 kids bitchin’ at ya how hungry they are. And ‘cause they’re pissed they haven’t eaten, the kids are makin’ each other lives (and mine for that matter) miserable. There was a lot of:

“Dad! She’s lookin’ at me!” or
“Dad! I’m hungry.” Or
“Dad! Why aren’t we eatin’ yet!” or
“Dad! He’s touchin’ me.” Or
“Dad! I’m hungry.” Or
“Waaa. Waaaa” Or
“Dad! I wonder who your super fine ex-girlfriend is doin’ right now. Either that or she’s probably makin’ another zillion dollars. And your stuck in this forsaken hell hole with the 5 of us!” Or
“Dad! I’m hungry.”

When we finally get into the restaurant there were only 2 other families eatin’. And, AND, they were closin’ down the buffet! I quick found the proprietor of the place Donald Duck. I grabbed him by his oversized head and told him “There was no way they were closin’ down anything before I got my fill! Comprende, you glorified pigeon?” That last part didn’t really happened. Only ‘cause I couldn’t find Donald. But, if I had you can bet I’d have my foot holdin’ back of his head down in a pan of grits ‘til I got what I wanted.

The obviously exhausted servers took us to our table. Which was the furthest point from the buffet. Why? Why not just put 6 dang chairs by the buffet? At this point, you may dispense with the pleasantries. I don’t need a table. For that matter, I don’t need a plate or a fork. Just show me the way to the food.

I get situated at the table in the middle of Tatooine, as the missus takes the three big kids up to the buffet. Keep in mind, that I ain’t in the greatest of moods here still. In fact, I would say that I’m one mis-said word away from rippin’ someone’s liver out. While on I’m waitin’ for the rest of the crew, Lucifer is keepin’ me company by screamin’ his little head off. I’m just doin’ my best to maintain containment. Eventually, the missus and kids come back with their food. I bee line it to the trough. When I get back, Donald and Goofy are finally makin’ their way over to our table. Good! ‘Cause I need some bloody entertainment! What took them so long anyway? Wasn’t like the place was full of patrons.

You can tell by the lack of zip in their step that Donald and Goofy are long overdue for a break. I guess the Disney taskmasters don’t let the poor bastards out until every last guest has their shit-eatin’ grin affixed to their faces. Donald and Goofy do their thing with the kids, which was pretty dang pathetic. They barely moved their arms. I get the camera out as the kids gathered round them for the obligatory picture. I’m pretty sure I heard Donald say, when I told him to smile, to go fuck yourself.

As I’m ready to snap yet another grand memory into the entirety of picturehood, nothing happens. The friggin camera isn’t working all of the sudden. I swear I hear Donald say “what a fucking idiot”. I threw that camera so hard at the Duck, it embedded into his head. I then lunged over the 12 foot long table and tackled that bastard to the ground. Okay. That last part didn’t really happen again. But, I can tell you this. It was a great vision in my head. You should’ve seen the way I pounded Donald’s oversized head into the faux wood floor. He got a good couple of shots in, only cause the sorry excuse for a dog, Goofy, grabbed me. Don’t worry, I taught that fuck a fine lesson in bitch slappin’. But, I digress.

I scramble for the video camera and record some movie of the kids with Goofy and Donald. Great! Nothin’ like posed pictures with a video camera! Eventually, the characters have enough, and their handlers lead them to the back, probably for the ice down and the Vicodin shots. To get them ready for the next 7 hours of being in those costumes in the temperate Florida weather.

Now that we’ve got the pain in the ass picture takin’done, it’s time to dig in. After about 30 seconds of eatin’, Jethro tells me he’s done. What? Done? We just started! I look over at his plate. HE HADN’T TOUCHED A GOD DANG THING!!! And that was his first plate. It wasn’t like the kid had 4 plates of food and decided to call it quits. I still would’ve been pissed, though. Anything less than 5 plates at an all you can jam down your gullet buffet is unacceptable. I look at Pixie’s plate. It’s the same, untouched.
Apparently my kids forgot about all the complainin’ they’ve been doin’ for the last 2 hours about how hungry they were. I said it before, and I’ll say it again. Kids are all about mind fuckin’. It’s why god created them. Not to propagate the species. It’s to show you, after the fact, that you should’ve left your hog in your pants, when that sweet piece of ass was tellin’ you how hot she was for you. Next life? I’m jerkin’ off. Fucketh thateth.

I instruct the kids on the finer points of the All You Can Eat. I explain to them, it’s a buffet. Go, eat. Fill your plate up with food. And eat. And eat. And your not gonna stop until I say it. So finish that fucking plate of food, before I get seriously pissed. And you better smile while your eatin’! This is a fucking vacation. Don’t quote me on any of that. I’m pretty sure I was bangin’ my head on the table for each dollar those kids wasted.

As I’m sure you’re aware, the other thing kids are good at doin’ is not listenin’. ‘Cause after all my scream…er, lecturin’ they still left their plates uneaten. I’m pretty sure I heard all four of them (includin’ my soon to be 2 year old) say in unison, “Go fuck yourself.”

Next: Epcot, Diarrhea (cha cha cha), and the pissed off baby.

Conversations with Bane: Can't Give It Away

2005-07-04T16:52:00.000-04:00

by CQF

S'up folks! The Juice here. I feel the need to remind you all that some of the things on this blog, nay, most of the things on this blog are a JOKE. You might call it satire, but satire would involve some thought. Ain’t no thinkin’ goin’ on round these parts. Keep all that in mind, when readin’ the followin’ post. Don’t send me your emails complainin’. I know what CQF is writin’ about. Again, it’s meant to be FUNNY. Some of you folks seriously need to lighten up. Or get yourself laid. Or at least a handjob. Hmmmmm! That gives me an idear

Welcome to our weekly installment of Conversations with Bane. Today's topic is a dozy. Talk about a "hot button". It all begins with the announcement of Sandra Day O'Connors retirement...

Mother in law (aka Bane) and I are crowded around the breakfast nook late one evening. When normal people might feel they are imposing at such a late hour, Bane has no pretense. With my wife going out about her business, not letting the presence of her mother slow her down, I surf the web on my laptop. I'm doing my best to ignore her, but Bane is babbling on (to no one inparticular) about the Supreme Court, Sandra Day O’Conner and the hopeful overturning of abortion. Personally, I maintain that the abortion law should not be overturned. However, before the anti-abortionist start attacking me, let me at least explain my philosophy. I don’t believe in abortion. If I had a daughter, and she came home pregnant, I would NOT encourage abortion. I would hope to be more understanding than that. All that being said, I also don’t believe how I feel should affect other people. That’s part of living in a free society. What other people do, as long as it does not affect me or society in general, is between them and their god. I don’t want to say much more, all will be revealed below.

Mother in law begins the inanity be declaring in her most god-like fashion, “Abortion is wrong and it should be against the law.”

Behind my laptop screen, I roll my eyes. I swear I’m not getting sucked up into it again. I just keep on scrolling.

Seeing that I'm not biting on her fishing expedition, Bane comes right out with it. “What do you think about it, Chuck?” Don’t be fooled. She knows how I feel. She’s just pushing my buttons.

“You don’t want to know my opinion, Mom.” I mutter.

Bane stands there aghast. “What! Don’t tell me you believe in abortion!”

I hesitate. This could lead down a very long road that I’m not in the mood to go on. Without looking up, I reply. “I believe in a person’s right to choose. That's all I'm saying.”

“But what about the baby’s right to choose?”

Oh, no. Here we go. I can feel the sarcasm in my blood surfacing. “Was it ever established that an unborn fetus is a baby?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, really.” I close the lid to the laptop. Now, I’m perked up. “When?”

“There was that law.” Mother in Law stammered. The wheels were turning. “You know, the one about partial birth abortions.”

“Hmmmm." I pause thoughtfully for a moment. I bit dramatic. I know. "I’m not real sure about that one. I don’t think it was decided one way or the other. Besides, I think that you need laws to protect people’s rights. You don’t need a law to not protect people's rights.”

Mother in Law stands there stunned. It doesn't matter to her what I just said. “I can’t believe you believe in abortion, Chuck.”

“I’m not saying I do or don't. What I am saying is that there is no need for a law outlawing abortion. A woman can always choose not to have one. What we need is a law to protect people’s rights to have something. Whether it be abortion of freedom of speech. Just because I don’t agree with something doesn’t mean we necessarily need a law against it. This is a free country, right? ”

Now I know that was way too heavy for Bane. How could I tell? It was probably the broken record look on her face. She didn’t respond right away. It was almost as if she needed that swat to the back of the head to get the needle moving on the record again.

I was really hoping that was the end of it. Maybe I confused her enough that the conversation was over. Just I was about to flip the lid on the laptop, Bane responded. “Well, what if Albert Einstein’s mother aborted him? We would be living under Hitler’s rule today.” She gave me that smile. The one that says "i've got you, you pretentious asshole". Only thing is, Bane doesn't use words like "asshole". Too profane. Although, I'm sure she's all dirty with my Father in Law. I'm sure she's using it on a weekly basis with him. "Oh, Harold. Put it in my asshole.". The thought makes me want to Clorox my brain. Anyway...

I love the aborted Einstien argument! I love when people bring that up. I especially love it when Bane brings it up. “You can’t say that." I responded. "You don’t know the ramifications of Einstein’s mother aborting him. The whole course of human nature would be changed”

“That’s my point.” Mother in Law said proudly.

“You're just assuming that if Einstein wasn’t born that we would automatically be living under Nazi rule. You can’t assume that. You don’t know where history would’ve taken us.” I take a deep breath. I’ve got to maintain composure. The sarcasm needle is way into the red. “Besides, Einstein didn’t invent the atom bomb by himself. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, Einstein didn’t have any involvement with building the atom bomb. Beyond writing a letter to Roosevelt urging him to go ahead with it's production.”

I know that if you throw facts at her, Mother in Law tends to get frustrated. Facts have no significance in her reality. Only things that people have told her. Truth or otherwise. And Bane is frustrated now. And when she’s frustrated, she always resorts to what she think she knows best. “Well, it doesn’t matter. The bible says abortion is wrong!”

I don't even hesitate. “No it doesn’t”. I said matter of factly

Man I wish I had a camera to show you the look on her face. “Yes it does, Chuck!”

“Mom, I’m no expert on the bible. But, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t say anywhere in the bible that abortion is wrong.”

“Thou shall not kill!” she exclaimed.

“That maybe true, But, it doesn’t specifically say anywhere in the bible that abortion is wrong.”

“Thou shall not kill.” Bane repeated getting more frustrated by the second.

“Again, that maybe true, but that still has nothing to do with abortion being “wrong”. They didn’t even perform abortions back in those days.” I’m just assuming they didn’t. It’s not like I lived back then.

“But, God meant abortions too when he said thou shall not kill.”

I could go in so many directions with this argument. I pick the easy one. “How do you know?”

“Know what?” Bane asked confused.

“That God meant abortions, too?”

“Because, it says Thou Shall Not Kill!” She was really starting to get upset.

Since my wife, Samantha, still wasn’t around to save her mother (or me), I pressed the buttons a bit more. It’s not very often that I’m not the one who’s frustrated. “But they didn’t perform abortions back then. So how do you know that’s what God meant? Did God tell you that himself? Or are you just assuming that’s what God meant?”

“When God wrote the bible, he meant ALL killing was bad.”

Again, I could go two ways here. Do I pursue the God writing the bible part or the all killing is bad part. Tough decision. I go with the first. “But, God didn’t write the bible.”

The sound of her jaw hitting the table echoed through the house. I wonder if Samantha heard it. “Yes, he did.” Bane was getting clearly flustered.

This is great! I’m trying not to laugh. It would only piss her off more. Where do I go from here? Do I pursue the God as a “he” part or continue on the God writing the bible bit? “No. God didn’t write the bible. From what I understand it was written by several different people.” Her confusion was great. The more contorted her face became, the more I pressed. “And there was supposedly one dude editing the whole thing together.” I took a breath. “On top of all that, I believe it was all written in Latin.”

“So?” she replied horrified by my accusations.

“You can’t translate directly from Latin to English. Some things get lost in the translation. So who knows what is true?”

This was becoming all too much for her to bear. “Well…Abortion is wrong! I don’t care who you say wrote the bible or not. It’s just wrong!” With that she stamped out of the room. Probably to go tell on me to my wife.

I never said these conversations were going to make sense, just entertaining. Hopefully…