Archive for August 2008

The Handsome Chronicles – part 5

This morning I awoke, crying into my pillow.  I guess you deserve the back-story, so I’ll give it to you.  Last night before I went to sleep, I was thinking about the poor, unfortunate-looking people of the world,  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror next to my bed and I noticed just how amazingly long my eyelashes are.  Usually, my first reaction is to empathize with those sad souls from the third world nations, because they don’t yet have the correct infrastructure established to maintain beauty.  Their diets, for example, don’t usually support beauty:  duck embryos and goat parts aren’t so great for the skin and they make one’s breath stinky, which makes one unattractive.  What can they do?  Change their diets?  They’re poor!  They eat whatever they can.  Can all of those inland rice farmers buy blenders to make a Super Beauty Food kefir and sunflower sprout smoothie?  In African famine lands can they even GROW the cucumbers and avocados they’d need for a really great facial peel?


But last night it wasn’t only about the third-world people.  They’ve got much bigger miseries to sort out first before they can focus on beauty.  There are people in our own backyards – even walking along Main St. USA – who are suffering from being unattractive.  And as a nation we’re so desensitized to it.  Think about all of those so-called “pretty boys” you’ve seen, in their Abercrombie mesh shirts, standing in front of the clubs waiting to get in like a bunch of poseurs.  Why are they waiting in line?  Seeing those sad young men waiting to be validated is like walking through the intensive care unit of a general hospital.  The only difference is that these boys don’t know that they’re sick and afflicted.  One of the first things a well-trained doorman will do is check the eyelashes.  What do the Abercrombie boys’ eyelashes look like?


If they were genuinely handsome, their upper row of lashes would be thick and luxurious.  Are they?  What about the bottom row?  See, that’s the catch, even when guys are lucky to have a wonderful upper row of lashes, the bottom row usually suffers.  My lashes are full on both the top and the bottom and when I throw on some guyliner and a little mascara, regular people just stare at me with their jaws dropped because I’m like a walking Edward Hopper canvas — lonely and beautiful.  But it’s not fair that regular people get knocked out of the way and ignored as a result.  I’m down-to-earth, so I can say this.  Anyway, I don’t wear a whole lot of eye makeup lately for this very reason.  That would be gloating.  Me in heavy eye-makeup is like eating a 1 ½ inch thick pepper crust ribeye steak with a cognac cream sauce in front of an Ethiopian.


I’ve never waited in line at a club in my life because I’m just on a whole other level.  I tell myself that it’s not a BETTER level, just a DIFFERENT level, but that REALLY makes me want to cry because I know it’s not true and and that I’m just creating lies to force myself to ignore the obvious.  I *am* on a better level because I’m handsome, and I bear this enormous burden of guilt because of it.  That was the sad thought process going through my mind last night as I cried myself to sleep.  When I awoke this morning, wouldn’t you know that my pillow was covered in eye makeup and I felt so horrible and guilty that I cried again until lunch.


I don’t know what to do.



[c] 2008 Russ of America


Flaccid Horn

I love electronic car horns.


You know when you get into some shit in traffic — some motherfucker cuts you off and you need to give him a piece of your mind — your brain quickly evaluates the seriousness of the offense committed against you, and this time you decide that you’re going to give this sonofabitch a solid fifteen to twenty seconds of horn honking from your Honda BECAUSE HE’S A TOTAL JACKOFF!


God that feels so satisfying. Fuck that guy! Fuck that selfish guy! Fuck him right up the ass! “You can take this hot turgid horn right up your tailpipe, jerk!”


It’s all working out so well for you until the horn starts to drain your car battery.




That’s about as emasculating as it gets on your daily commute. The guy is still a jackoff and now he’s ahead of you.



[c] 2008 Russ of America

A Sexy Note To Myself

Dear Russ of America


I am not ashamed to touch your penis or to put my tongue in your mouth.


Yours affectionately,


Russ of America



[c] 2005 Russ of America

Bitch Zombie Romance

I remember walking through a maze one night as I entered some bloody abbatoire.  Taking center stage was a really fucked up looking bitch zombie with blood smeared across her lips and chin.  The blood dripped onto her ragged white dolly dress as she rocked back and forth in her thigh-high striped stockings, her hair a mess of gooey natty dreadlocks.  She clutched and waved a butcher knife in one hand and a drippy cow tongue in the other.  I dunno what it was, but I was sporting serious hots for this bitch zombie — I couldn’t believe how fucking atrociously sexy she was.  I went through the maze a second time just so I could see her again, and she and I made a connection.  A very human/bitch zombie connection.


“You again?!” she said!  “Come here and become a slab of meat.”
“An honor,” I said, melting away.


Ultimately we realized that we really had more differences than similarities and we just kind of decided to each go our own way.  I never saw her again after that second time.  Ah, my whirlwind romance with the bitch zombie tart at Knott’s Scary Farm.



[c] 2008 Russ of America


Fantasy Football

I’m cordially invited to join your fantasy football league?
When I think of Fantasy Football, I envision a bunch of hot chicks in Sailor Moon outfits tumbling over each other in mud.
Are you talking about that, or that weird homo-erotic thing that guys get really obsessed about each year?
I mean, what’s the fantasy if it’s just the same jerks playing stupid ol’ football?
There’s gotta be at least one ball-gag and a horsetail ass dildo to make it a real fantasy.
It’s the 21st century, people…



[c] 2008 Russ of America


For External Use Only

Printed on the back of a box of Band-Aids™ is the clear warning that Band-Aid™ Brand bandages are for external use only.  That’s a lesson I learned many years ago:


Russ:  Hey dah.
Dad:  Hey son, what’s the matter?
Russ:  I rimpa fycrah iha mou.
Dad:  You lit a firecracker in your mouth?
Russ:  Raa.  Ra a gah mou fu Ban-Ay™
Dad:  And now you’ve got a mouth full of Band-Aids™?  You take those out immediately!  Band-Aids™ are for external use only!
Russ:  Oay…


As summer turns to fall, I think of all the people who might be visiting their local parks, maybe getting a little time on those ancient splintery see-saws.  The worst thing in the world would be to take a sliver of wood right up your ass and potentially bleed to death.  If you DO happen to take a sliver of wood right up your ass, your first instinct after waddling home will probably be to slap some Band-Aids™ along the inside of your rectal wall to stop the bleeding.  BUT DON’T DO THAT!  Band-Aids™ are for external use only.



[c] 2008 Russ of America

Sexual Pie



(this song was improvised during a jam session circa January 2008, but for public performance I had to “write” some “authentic” lyrics.)


(J. Elkins/M. Gamerl/R. Carney of America)


I need to meet you on Friday.
Do it your way or my way
I hope you’re trim and tidy
’cause It’s National Pie Day


Sexual Pie!
I’ve got to have your
Sexual Pie!
I’ve got to taste your
Sexual Pie!
I’m a sexual guy
Sexual Pie!


You’re gonna find out on Monday
I’m gonna eat you like a sundae
I wish you had an identical twin
For twice the pie dripping over my chin!


Sexual Pie!
Just let me have some
Sexual Pie!
I really need some
Sexual Pie!
You got to gimme some
Sexual Pie for a sexual guy!




Peaches, plums or even tangerine
I’ll tell you now just what I mean
Fresh is better than a frozen dessert
I’m talking ’bout the pie that’s under your skirt!


I’m gonna eat your:
Sexual Pie!
I’m gonna lick your
Sexual Pie!
I’ve got to have your
Sexual Pie
I’m a sexual guy,


I know you want me
Sexual Pie!
No need to con me
Sexual pie!
You don’t alarm me
Sexual Pie!



[c] 2008 Russ of America

Boobies: Return to Sender

Someone was cool and sent boobies, but they went to the wrong address and the homeowner refused delivery and sent them back to the shipper.  Can you please send them again but to my correct address?




Russ of America


Dear Dexy’s Midnight Runners,


I came on Eileen.


Mystery solved.  Go back to school and get a fucking haircut.



[c] 2008 Russ of America

My Favorite Blotto Grandparent Story

Anyone who witnessed even a fragment of the history would agree that it was obviously a bitter rivalry, this match between the two seen-it-all biddies Grandma Leibovitz and Old Lady Wooten.

Leibovitz, (three-time ultra-light-retirement champion, fighting out of the Holyfield Gym,) was known on the block for her incessant efforts to get her dubiously attractive dentist grandson set up with all the eligible gals in town, often with little success.  This was occasionally because Wooten was known for subverting Leibovitz’ efforts by switching the gals’ attentions to her handsome grandson, the guy who cleaned the pork fat out of the discard barrel at the butcher shop.

In the two days prior, Wooten (fighting out of the Balboa Gym with a 3-8 record in the professional circuit) had cut some serious weight to get from a hefty 101 to a spry 95 lbs.  It was no surprise that she was feeling a little batty from lack of hydration.  Leibovitz, on the other hand, weighed in at a lean 94 lbs, but she was pure muscle.

Round 1:  Wooten (in the lavender trunks) comes out quickly with several jabs and two over-hand rights.  Leibovitz (mauve trunks) dodges most of these with great skill and lands two solid shots to the ribs of Wooten.  The judges are split, in favor of Wooten.

Round 2:  Leibovitz races to the center of the canvas, circles Wooten and forces her into the corner.  From here, Leibovitz hammers on Wooten’s solar plexus.

Round 3:  Wooten heeds the plea of her corner.  She leads this round with two huge left hooks and a serious right upper-cut.  Leibovitz was stunned for most of the round.

Round 4:  Leibovitz is determined to gain back her lead.  She rushes her opponent and hammers on her.  Wooten fires back with an amazing combo of jabs and powerful rights.  Leibovitz apparently loses her footing and hits the canvas.  As she attempts to stand, Wooten checks her with a solid right.  Leibovitz hits the canvas again and steadily gets back to her feet.  Sensing her opportunity, Wooten draws back her entire body and lets a right hook sail across the ring into Leibovitz’ jaw.  Leibovitz is knocked out of the ring and as Leibovitz is unable to continue fighting, Wooten is declared the winner.

The victory, however, is short-lived.  Leibovitz’s corner demands that Wooten be tested for performance-enhancing drugs.  As the results were returned, Wooten tested positive for Belgian brown ale.  The win was overturned, Wooten’s boxing license was revoked, and Wooten is forced to leave the neighborhood.

The good news is that Leibovitz’ grandson met a fine young lady and they’ve been dating for almost a week.

[c] 2008 Russ of America

Geico Inshrewance

Geico is insuring everybody now. Automobile drivers, motorcyclists, ATV enthusiasts.


Lloyd’s of London is notorious for its “bumbum” policies, insuring the most inane shit:  Dolly’s breasts, Jimmy Durante’s nose, Catherine Zeta-Jones’ genitals and other actors’ junk and legs and stuff.


I wonder if anyone would sell me insurance to protect me in case a future girlfriend turns out to be a real nag or a totally selfish control-freak bitch. I’m sure I’d have to pay some pretty high premiums. Then again, if they were too high, her control-freak-ass would probably notice the bill fairly quickly and nag me about the expense and I’d get my money that much sooner. “This money should be in a high-yield savings account earning five percent!”


I wonder how that all works.



[c] 2008 Russ of America

Send Tits Immediately!

I’m sorry. There is no time to argue or to debate this point, I need you to put whatever tits you have into a box and ship them off to me immediately!


I’d love to stay and chit-chat, but I have a big project that I’m working on and it’s imperative that you send tits post-haste!


Russ of America


The Boobies Are In The Mail

I called FedEx and they have no record of any boobies being shipped to my house.  I gave them my work address too and again, no dice.


If the boobies are on their way, please let me know, otherwise I’ll have to sulk, and a sulky Russ of America is not a good Russ of America, especially given my seemingly insurmountable depression.



Russ of America


Joining The Hells Angels

Lately, I’ve been thinking about joining a gang. I jotted down the pros and cons of a few of my gang options and I’ve chosen to set up with a motorcycle gang instead of with a typical street gang. Motorcycle gangs are full of dudes about my age, so we’ll have a lot in common. They’re family oriented, tough, the average guy is probably not going to mess with you, and you don’t have to live in a bad neighborhood or do drive-bys if you don’t want to. And you get a 401k and prepaid dental. Did you know that? I’m sold!


Of the myriad available motorcycle gangs, I decided that the Hells Angels is where it’s at. If I’m going to join a motorcycle gang, I want to join the one with the best brand recognition. Hells Angels is the Coca Cola of motorcycle gangs. The Mongols, I guess, are Pepsi and even though I prefer Pepsi to Coke because it tastes better, I really believe that you either join the most popular gang (Coke) or no gang at all (Pepsi, Shasta, Tab). So I’m going with the Hells Angels (Coke).


But as I was riding down there today to fill out my application paperwork, W-4 and I-9, I pulled over to the shoulder when I realized that there was no way I could join the Hells Angels. Oh believe-you-me, It wasn’t fear! Russ of America is afraid of nothing! But it hit me like a ton of bricks that I couldn’t join the Hells Angels because of the faulty, and grossly ambiguous punctuation in their club’s name. Are they saying that hell *is* angels? What does that mean? That angels are annoying and it’s hell hanging with them? That hell is made of angels? I thought hell was made of sinners. Is the gang saying that the members are angels from multiple hells? Angels from a singular hell? Are they trying to say that of the shitstrom that pours out of hell, that they are better than the rest? Can they really consider themselves 1%ers if that’s the case? And What happens when hell freezes over? Is it a singular hell, or do hells freeze over?


I imagine that the whole club is probably locked in some sort of blood-thirsty theological debate about this very topic. I mean, has the club unwittingly pitted polytheism against monotheism? Is it deliberate? Which theology does the gang support? This confusion really has to affect everyone involved in this gang at the core of their deepest-held beliefs and I would imagine they’re all at odds with one another, back-biting and being disloyal and that’s not very attractive to me.


I’m definitely not a big fan of ambiguity, but bad grammar is a total deal-breaker!


I couldn’t go home empty handed though, so on my way back I joined the Birthday Club at Baskin-Robbins where I know what kind of gangsta treats to expect.



[c] 2008 Russ of America

Dude, Your Rhymes Are Pretty Wack!

Zach once told me, candidly, in front of RayRayUSA, senxually, in the dark, in the back seat of a drunken bus ride somewhere on an Alaskan highway, that I should seriously consider a career in freestyle rap because I’m “really quick and intelligent” and I “can improvise”.  It’s true that I’m quick, intelligent and can improvise, so the only conclusion drawn by Zach’s executive-level reasoning mechanism, was that I should be encouraged immediately to “be a freestyle rapper!”


In spite of my protests and humbled pleas that I was in no way capable of being a freestyle rapper because my skills of quickness are in humor, not in freestyle rap, and that freestyle rap required a skill-set and talent base greater than and/or different from that which I possessed, Zach ignored me and insisted that I get excited about pursuing this new dream that he had for me.  He showed me the ease at which this musical form is created, through his own demonstration of freestyle rap.  And although Ray mercilessly crushed Zach’s confidence when he told Zach, “Dude, your rhymes are pretty wack!”  I think I shall choose to focus on the positive, agree with Zach and I’m going to give it a try with my first-ever freestyle rap.  Are you ready?!


I know that I’m sort of cheating because I’m writing it down, but I assure you that this is on the up-and-up:  I’m freestyling here and I’m going to write down whatever comes to mind.  Okay?  Here we go.




I’m Count Dracula
I’m Scott Bacula
I’m redactin’ ya.
Re-enactin’ ya.


I’m really dangerous
Like a manger, miss
Don’t really think that
Y’all can handle this.


Killing suckas like flies
You’re knowing that I’m wise
I’m baking haters like pies…




Zach, no offense buddy, but you really need to shove this idea right up your ass.



[c] 2008 Russ of America