Now that some fast food chains have begun to post nutritional info on their menus, I’ve noticed that I’ve been making different, healthier choices. When I go to Subway, for example, I don’t get the tuna anymore, because it’s easily got TWICE the calories of a turkey breast sandwich. WHAT THE LIVING SHIT, TUNA?! I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY FRIEND! IT’S THAT GODDAMNED JERK MAYONNAISE YOU’RE ALWAYS HANGING OUT WITH!

As other fast food venues deliver nutritional facts, or as I like to call it “harsh reality” to their customers, I believe we’ll eventually find that we ALL make better choices. And when that happens, those emergency visits to McDonald’s will be like taking steps down a nutritional walk of shame.

“Uh, Hi. Yeah. Gimme a Super-Tiny tap water. No ice.”
“Okay, so you want a Super-Tiny tap water, no ice. Would you like a saltine with that?”
“OH DEAR FUCKING CHRIST NO!”
“That’ll be zero dollars at the second window.”
“Thank yooooooou.

[c] 2011 Russ of America

It is an affront to reason that an illegal immigrant can’t earn citizenship in the United States by serving honorably in our nation’s military. The DREAM Act suggested 2 years, but I propose a full 4 years. That should be the fast-track to citizenship! And I’m not talkin’ ’bout a romantic sunset beach patrol at Point Mugu, I’m talking about bare-knuckle blood-and-guts combat in one of those countries that writes in pothooks and curlicues!

What’s the better alternative? We should ask them to fill out a form, wait 20 years and PRESTO! — they suddenly become valued citizens, but are now older and ready to collect Social Security? No, I say! Let illegal immigrants join the military. Young ones. As young as the law will allow! Or even younger, if they’re willing to lie about their ages. We’ll send them overseas to fight for our right to party, and they’ll have to *earn* their right to rock and to listen to Elvis Presley records! And when they come home in pine boxes, we’ll let them finance high-interest tract homes in Stockton. And as long as it’s okay with the Homeowner Association, these revered, solemn patriots can proudly raise their American flags on the 4th of July and Cinco De Mayo, weather permitting. But probably not on Cinco De Mayo, because this is America, not your Mexico, goddammit! God bless the United States of America!

[c] 2011 Russ of America

When I walk down the street late at night, which is quite frequently, I often spy someone walking towards me just a few dozen yards away. Usually that person will cross the street to avoid walking past me on that dark street. I can understand why they do that, because it’s scary at night and the news says that you can’t trust a stranger, and I’m definitely a stranger, but that fearful attitude really pisses me off! So I’ll cross the street at the same time they do, just so we’re still walking toward each other again. This makes them uncomfortable, so they’ll turn around and walk in the other direction. But that just encourages me to walk faster so I can catch up with that person! Silly-billy! I mean, hey, you’re an interesting person, right? And you’re walking away from me? That’s weird. Anyway, I’ll cough in an obvious way just to get their attention, so they know that I’m behind them and closing in.

I can usually tell when it’ll happen because I’ll see his or her head turn around and look at me with a touch of concern, but within a few tense moments of my arrival, the person will start jogging, then break out into a full run to try to get away from me.

This totally pisses me off! So in revenge, I run after them, shouting, “I’ve got excellent cardio! I can chase you all night!” And I’ll sprint faster and faster until I’m nipping at their heels. They’ll panic and drop their cell phone, unable to summon help. And because my cardio is so good, I can chase them while staying juuuuuust a step or two behind them, which gives them the impression that they still have a chance to get away! That’s always fun. Finally, they exhaust themselves and become totally fucked with fear. Demoralized, they have to come to grips with whatever silly death they are imagining I will cause them, but still they always make that one last <groan!> cliched, feeble attempt to climb a chain link fence to get away from me! PFFFT! How many times have we seen THAT old chestnut? <groan!> HAHAHAH!

Since my cardio is so good, I’m always right up on their ankles, tugging playfully and tittering as they scream and try to vault over the fence. But they always fail and fall to the ground, blubbering for mercy as I giggle demonically. Then, in a show of inspired benevolence, I’ll tickle them until they hyperventilate and then I’ll leave them with a $75 gift certificate to Barnes and Noble, which I think is very generous of me. And I do this because I want to leave them with an indelible impression of how good and fun and spontaneous and playful and generous the creatures of the night can be!

I’ve got excellent cardio.

[c] 2010 Russ of America

This Thanksgiving I’m very grateful for teeth, specifically my teeth. Nothing’s wrong with my teeth. They’re all still there, I just think you have to appreciate the things you have BEFORE you lose them, like your teeth. Otherwise you’re just another one of those people who whine about their crappy life and their stupid missing teeth.

SOPHIE: “<sob sob>”
ME: “Aw man, Sophie’s crying again. I bet it’s about her fucking missing teeth again!”
YOU: “Hi Sophie…”
SOPHIE: “Hey everybody. I’m grateful that I used to have teeth. I miss all the fun stuff I could do with them. ”
YOU: “Oh, that’s sweet of you to reminisce about your teeth.”
ME: “Yeah, that’s rich. Could you please pass the corncobs and candied apples?”
SOPHIE: “I DON’T HAVE TEETH ANYMORE!!!”
ME: “Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river, princess.
YOU: “Hey man, that’s uncalled for! She doesn’t have teeth!”
ME: “Look, nobody wants to hear her selfish bullshit around the sacred Thanksgiving bird.”
SOPHIE: “<sobbing into the sweet potatoes>”
ME: “And stop crying into the fuckin’ sweet potatoes!”
SOPHIE: “They’re yams!”
ME: “No, they’re fuckin’ sweet potatoes! Look it up! If you had any fuckin’ teeth, you could at least do that much!!”

Happy Thanksgiving!

[c] 2010 Russ of America

When I lived in Echo Park, the Jehovah’s Witnesses would knock on my door every few months on a Saturday morning at 10:30 on the dot. Doesn’t matter what month they showed up, they ALWAYS knocked on my door at 10:30am on the dot, and always on a Saturday. I used to suspect that their canvassing of the neighborhood started at *my* house, on their assumption *I* was the one most in need of help in my neighborhood. Occasionally as a child I had to sell chocolate bars, jewelry, and kaymak door-to-door, so I’m a smidgen sensitive to their plight. And it’s gotta be a rough gig to be rejected 99% of the time, so as a rule I try to be courteous to them, even though I’m not interested in their dogma and I’m eager to get back to whatever sinful thing I was doing just before they interrupted me. I would also try to be polite when the Mormons came by. The Mormons didn’t come by as often as the Jehovah’s Witnesses did, but the Mormons did make an occasional appearance. When either group would knock at my door, I’d usually say something like, “I appreciate your presence in our neighborhood, but I’m not interested in augmenting my theology.” It was a gracious sentiment, but it also allowed me to flaunt my mastery of the words “augmented” and “theology”, and that was a very attractive reason to use that phrase. Generally, I’ve always found Mormons to be pleasant to deal with. That’s a stereotype that works in their favor, I guess. The good thing about Mormons is that they travel in such a non-clandestine, honest way. Unless you’re brain-dead about what’s going on in your neighborhood, you’re gonna notice the clean-cut, (usually Caucasian), bicycle-riding lads in white, short-sleeved, dress shirts and black ties, and then think to yourself, “Mormons are in town. Better hide in the basement!” I never hid in the basement, because I didn’t have a basement. And also because the Mormons tend to be pleasant to deal with. (See above.) I appreciated that The Mormons gave me fair warning. I can’t fully parse their dogma, but I can totally appreciate how they don’t hide. And how they bravely enter neighborhoods they are unfamiliar with.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses were fairly visible in the community. I saw them most often when I was standing at the bus stop on Echo Park and Sunset on the way to work. They too were fairly easy to spot because they wore their best Sunday clothes, walked leisurely down the street in groups, carried leather book bags, stopped frequently to talk to other people, and to hand out lots of copies of Watchtower and Awake! I rode the bus for quite some time, so fairly often I’d spy some Jehovah’s Witnesses walking in my direction, I’d sigh to myself and think, “Oh great. Here we go! A bunch of those Jehovah’s Witnesses are going to gang up on me and try to save my soul. Yep. Those overzealous proselytizers are gonna walk right up to me, interrupt my whole book-reading thing with some cheesy opening line like, ‘So, I see you like to read — have you read The Watchtower?’ And then they’re gonna segue into a sermon about how my soul is impure, that the earth is going to end in a few years, and that there are only 144,000 spots alongside the big man, so I’m doomed to nothingness for eternity! But then they’re gonna tell me that if I act now, I might be able to save my soul, impress the heavenly overlords and score myself a spot in paradise, or if I’m really good, one of those rare 144,000 seats. Yep. Better lay low.” And then those Jehovah’s Witnesses would walk right up to where I was standing, and then continue walking right past me without a pause or hesitation in their step. And each time that happened to me, I was TOTALLY offended! “What?! I’m not good enough to save?!”

[c] 2010 Russ of America

Tiger’s got 99 problems, but unlike Jay-Z, women seem to be all 99 of his problems. This is my official acknowledgment of the whole Tiger Woods affair — Excuse me, I meant situation — The whole Tiger Woods affair situation:

“Blah blah Tiger Woods, blah blah, rock star?! Blah blah he think he is? Robert Plant? Blah blah Eazy-E? Blah blah, golf? Are you kidding me? Fuckin’ golf?!”

Tiger’s women troubles seem to have been foretold by a “Make It Shine With Brawny” billboard at Disney’s California Adventure, which my Bebbeboo happened to notice. Now I understand why Tiger Woods always looks like he’s about to cry!

Photo provided by Monkeyjenn of Flickr via Creative Commons License. Thanks Monkeyjenn!

 

[c] 2009 Russ of America (and Monkeyjenn)
Note: The following photo has been Shooped. You can tell by the pixels. I added the Nike logo and I
Caucasized the woman in the foreground, because Tiger prefers it that way. She looked bi-racial, but I figured that
for this post she could stand to get closer to her Caucasoid roots for a minute. I know that’s socially illegal and
potentially ethnically insensitive, but I also think my good Photoshopping is deserving of praise.

In the future a douchebag family will name their kid Tyler-Connor Hunter-Dylan.

A fun game I play: When I’m in a very crowded place with lots of families (Disneyland and such) I like to randomly shout out “Tyler!” “Connor!” “Hunter!” or “Dylan!” just to see how many people turn to look, thinking that I’m calling them.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

Middle names can be fun. I don’t have a great middle name and I know a few people who have no middle name at all. Their parents probably thought that two names were sufficient. “We gave you a first name, we gave you a last name, we fed you until you were 18, now get the hell out of our house, you bastard.”

Parents sometimes give their kids stodgy lame-ass first names like Brock, Bradford or Benton, but to make up for that stale business, certain parents give them a middle name more appropriate for a party college, like Keanu or Rain or Primadonna or something. The kid will likely use his regular name for most of his life, but just before heading out to UCSB he’ll decide that instead of being known as Tim, he’s going to be known as Shilo for the rest of his life, because that’s his middle name and he and his folks really bonded over Neil Diamond. Okay. It’s fair. That’s why you were given three names, I guess. So you could bow-out if your first name makes you feel like a vagina.

It’s difficult to peg the exact type of parent who would brand a kid with an ass-pinching first name like Brock, but then inflict a fageleh middle name like Windsong. Artsy-fartsy types perhaps? Or squarish yuppies who always resented their boring names and promised to give their kid a choice between a good solid Christian name, and a more fun hippie-esque name that he can use after he commits his first crime and he needs his first alias.

You know who needs an interesting middle name the most? Any kid named Michael Smith. The kid needs an interesting first and last name too. What unoriginal idiot parents are still naming their kids Michael Smith? Talk about wanting your child to blend into nothingness — You start him off in life with a boring, common, fake-sounding name like Michael Smith or John Smith. Those are the names people use when they check into motels with hookers — you know that, right? Well at least Michael Smith has an awesome nickname: “Mike”. Mike Smith. Beautifully original! Mike Smith is the kid who should have a colorful middle name like ThunderCats or Boomshakalaka, not that douche Brock. Anybody named Smith should really consider starting afresh when they have kids by dropping Smith. Give the kid an awesome last name like Tungsten, Ecology or Thermite. What, you’ve gotta keep the family name Smith alive? Really?

Sometimes parents give the kid two middle names. Often it involves a fight about which grandparent to name the kid after and you wind up with a kid named Brock Shilo Keanu Dempster. That’s got to be confusing, especially for any sort of monogram. Skymall only gives you a choice of three initials when you order something monogrammed, so now you’re forced to choose your favorite grandfather. Who would YOU honor on your bath towels? Grampa Shilo or Grampa Keanu? Anyway, is it even possible to have two middle things? If you go to a movie theater with two seats in the middle of the row, it means that nobody is sitting dead center. Therefore, with two in-between names, you actually have no middle name. If you had three in-between names then you’d have a middle name again. There has to be an ODD number of names to have a middle name.

And then there’s Charo. Her birth name was María. That’s fairly common in Spain, I’d imagine. Her middle name is Rosario which is again pretty common, so her parents just added another name to differentiate her from all the other María Rosarios. Now she was María Rosario Pilar, but again that had to be as common back then in España as Emma Isabella Madison would be in the US today. So mom and pop continued to add names to keep differentiating her from all the other girls. María Rosario Pilar Martínez Molina Moquiere blah blah blah blah. Even her parents couldn’t pronounce it or figure out where the accents go so they said “Coño! Eres Charo ahora. Di ‘cuchi’ y nadie te olvidara!” Which roughly translates to, “Fuck it, you’re Charo now. Just ‘cuchi’ and nobody will ever forget you.”

I’ve always thought that Nostril or Nosferatu would be awesome names for a boy. “Nostril Quality-Service-Commitment-Integrity-Honesty-and-Low-Low-Prices Carney of America! Get in here, you little shit! What the hell is wrong with you? Stop eating sand!”

[c] 2009 Russ of America
Dear Brock Lesnar, please don’t hurt me. I wasn’t talking about YOUR kind of Brock.
I was talking about those pussy Brocks who turn into bankers. I’m confident that you understand.

It’s pretty obvious that none of the zealots who claim ownership of the traditional Holy Land are capable of managing the land with integrity and in keeping with the allegedly elevated sense of honor and humanity that you would expect of religious folk.

So I propose we move the Jews to New York, the Palestinians to Luxembourg, and hand over the entire plot of land to archaeologists, who would know how to treat, to study and to protect those ancient relics. Maybe even get National Geographic involved for the photography!

And then of course we’d give the archaeologists a few nukes in case anybody tries any monkeyshines!

It’s just a thought!

[c] 2009 Russ of America

Here is my hypothesis to you: You can achieve all of the life change you are looking for simply by attending the orientation sessions of a few different self-help programs.

Spend only enough money required for parking. Otherwise, sit in for free, get a juicy morsel of insight here and there — just enough to prod you into change. Stay for the Q&A if you have to. Don’t overwhelm yourself. Take action, rejuvenate your spirit and then move on to the next fucking thing. But for dear love, don’t buy anything and don’t pay for any courses.

Give it a shot! Keep me posted.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

If you are feeling nauseated and decide to eat something anyway, remember to chew your food very, very well so it doesn’t hurt as much when you inevitably puke your guts out.

There’s nothing quite like passing a chunk of hamburger up through your sinuses and out your nose.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

I was skulking in the dark on my enclosed patio when I saw a shadow walk past my patio door. I wondered how my neighbor would have felt if she knew that I was standing on the patio when she walked by, just sort of staring into the howly fog. “Arooooooooooo! Pretty creepy!” I mused. I thought about a few ways in which I could go about my life and really creep people out to the max at the same time. “It could be the new national pastime,” I suggested to whomever was listening. (Creepily, I was the only one listening.)

* Grow a beard. My beard is creepy. I scare children with my beard. Never let the fibers all be aligned in a single direction. I’m like Santa Claus when he was just an at-risk juvenile being sentenced to perpetual community service at Guantana-Norte Pole. Ta-daa! Hail Santa!
* When opening doors, open them just a crack. Look out with one eyeball for a few minutes to make sure the coast is clear. Once you’re reasonably sure the coast is clear, stick your head out and look back and forth, then back again, then forth, to ensure nobody’s there. If somebody is there, say “oh, excuse me!” and close and lock the door. Then open it back up a crack immediately and stare out with one eye. That’s entry-level creepy.
* While shopping at the supermarket, pick a thin, waifish white woman and follow her through the store. You’re not really doing anything wrong — you’re just picking up and investigating legitimate groceries that you might find in each of those aisles. But make sure that you walk down every aisle she does, and make sure you pick something off of the rack. If she looks at you, smile awkwardly until she looks away. That’s creepy.
* Whatever it is that you’re doing, do it extra slowly. Channel Jeff Goldblum in your endeavors. Do it with bugeyes and with slow, deliberate, oozy motions.
* If you’re pouring yourself a drink at a party, pick up the container, look at it, pick up your glass, look at it, pour the drink very slowly, look at it, measure it, look at it, comment on it, look at it, pour some more, look at it and measure it. Wipe the bottle with your finger, look at it, and then suck tenderly on your finger. And look at it.
* If you get caught looking at someone, look at them much harder, with a big sweetieboy smile on your face. Make the girl or boy think for sure that you were looking at them and only them. Point if you have to. That’s deliciously creepy.
* Before you say anything to anybody, smile at them for four seconds. One-two-three-four-now-talk-but-do-it-slowly-and-deliberately.
* If you have a cubicle, make sure to play a lot of 1970s porno-style music. Gyrate your hips whenever your victim walks by. Wink and say “Yes, it is.” That should confuse them.
* Before you leave the elevator, position yourself right against the crack of the door so those rude people who think they can get on before anybody else can leave, are met with a face-full of your face. Don’t be afraid to lick them, because they are your bitches.
* When meeting someone for the first time, it is okay to pretend to be a rabid dog-man and to nip at their heels.
* Listen to The Brady Kids’ top four or five hits all the time. Jan will take you to her sugar shoppe and you will say yes. That’s creepy.
* Eat marijuana candy for breakfast so that by lunch you are a jumbled mess of smiley, drooly, effusive goodness.
* Wear a cape, but also wear short pants. Spandex bicycle shorts are preferable. Ooze…
* When someone is talking to you, lick your lips a lot.
* Wink your eye at people a lot. Open your mouth slightly when you do.
* In public, suck on your index finger. Up to the third knuckle. Make eye contact with someone close by.
* When meeting a fair maiden, don’t kiss her hand, suck on her fingers for thirty seconds. Show her that you have no gag reflex.
* If you are a man, wear a sports bra. Whether you need one or not, that’s pretty creepy.
* Create your own sign language and use it during board meetings.
* Any time someone finishes a sentence you should pretend to shoot a pistol at them, and make a Kch! sound from the side of your mouth.
* Wear a necklace reminiscent of a voodoo pouch. The more feathers that stick out of it, the better.

There are definitely other things you will need to do to be extra-creepy and I will keep you apprised as my list grows.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

I’ve watched COPS since 1989 and The People’s Court since I was a little boy. Using both of these informative “what you oughta do” shows as a resource material, I have learned this:

If you ever borrow a car, you are required to make sure that there are no narcotics, guns, stolen clothes, electronics, tools, jewelry, children, burglary tools, or other contraband in the borrowed car when you took possession of it. Don’t forget to check under the seats, the center console, the ashtrays and the gaps between the rear seat cushions. If you intend to carry any passengers, make sure to have them empty their pockets and purses so that you might do a thorough search of their property for anything illegal. Then, you have to make sure that the car is correctly and currently registered with the car owner’s name clearly printed on the registration. You need to verify that the plates match the VIN as reported on the registration, and that the registration and insurance cards are easily available to you within the cabin of the vehicle upon demand by a police officer.

You will then need to do a walk-around with the registered owner to identify any existing damage on the vehicle, marking off trouble areas on a scale drawing of the car on paper. We recommend a flattened top view or an interrupted sinusoidal projection. Mark detailed notes about the location and description of damage on the inspection sheet. Both you and the registered owner should sign off on this document, with copies produced in duplicate, triplicate or even quadruplicate in case the owner might initiate a civil claim for damages against you in the future. To better protect yourself, you will need to write up a lending agreement contract, get a receipt acknowledging that you paid the agreed-upon fees if any, avoiding cash in favor of checks, money orders or credit cards.

It is a very wise idea to invest $100 and get a professional, licensed mechanic to verify that the car is in good working order in case there is a major mechanical defect that you could get accused of causing down the road. Make sure to get a receipt for this transaction as well. If you make any repairs or improvements to the vehicle, retain all receipts and see to it that you have appropriate written permission from the registered owner. If you expect to be reimbursed for these expenses, you need to include that in your lending agreement contract to ensure that you will have a legal claim in the future. Also, it’s probably a good idea to take detailed photos of the car from all sides, including underneath, to demonstrate what the car looked like prior to your taking possession of it. Make sure that the axles are straight, that there is no obvious chassis buckling, and that there aren’t any potentially catastrophic oil leaks. Check the tension on the belts, the fluids and the tire pressure.

When you return the car to the registered owner, you are going to have the RO sign off on the car’s condition as proof that you have brought it back in a condition acceptable to the terms of your agreement.

According to both The People’s Court and COPS, you have to do all of this shit or else you’ll probably get arrested and/or ruled against in a civil suit.

Alternatively, you could rent an economy car from Enterprise for $20, get the damage waiver, and save somewhere between $70 and $5000 depending on the severity of your prior criminal history.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

Why do Arabs hate Jews?

* Good pastrami is expensive.
* Herring!
* Tiny, useless hats with no brims. WTF?!

[c] 2008 Russ of America

I’ve always wanted to learn how to speak Spanish so that I could say convincingly, “Hey Jackass, don’t leave your shopping cart on our lawn!” in the person’s native tongue.

While yes, I could learn the phrase alone, having a strong working knowledge of Spanish is important when they inevitably reply, “It’s not my cart!”
I would reply in my best Spanish, “I don’t care if it’s your cart or not, don’t leave it on our fucking lawn!”
“But you said it was my cart.”
“It doesn’t matter whose cart it is; I know that the cart belongs to Vallarta Supermarket, but you have it, so for the sake of expediting this conversation, it is your cart.”
“But it’s not my cart.”
“Look jackass, it’s irrelevant whose cart it is; It’s rude to leave a shopping cart on someone’s lawn and since you were in possession of the cart, I ascribed the cart to you, as yours.”
“But it’s not my cart.”
“Are you an idiot?”
“Of course not. I speak perfect Spanish, don’t I?”
“That is true, your Spanish is very good, but if you are not an idiot, why are you hyper-fixated on this debate about whether or not the shopping cart belongs to you or not? A smart person would be paying attention to the core issue that it is wrong to leave a shopping cart on someone’s lawn.”
“But it’s not my cart. And I didn’t leave it on your lawn, dickhead. The white lady across the street did.”

I’m not quite sure where my Spanish education will take me, but I’ve always considered it a wise investment to learn another language for the purpose of being able to communicate successfully with that culture.

[c] 2008 Russ of America

Don’t ever let boiling oil get in the way of you and your dreams.

[c] 2008 Russ of America

There were three people in Vanity 6

WTF?!

[c] Russ of America