I heard a commercial for a new male enhancement product during today’s morning commute.  It’s name, Hero Tabs, was presumably the idea of a “Rah Rah HR guy.”

Be a hero!  Please your lady everytime.  Just not in the workplace.

Anyway, according to this commercial (which I wish I could find for you guys, but here’s the  link to their website so you can at least read about the product and see I’m not bullshitting you) recent scientific studies have shown that an amino acid found in watermelon is instrumental in increasing both the size and staying power of the male sexual organ.

Really Doctor?  Watermelon?  Is that your diagnosis?

Gee I wonder how they figured that out.  Next, I suppose scientists will determine that a nutrient found in rice is a factor in many rear-end auto accidents.  Or that eating fried chicken can lead to dating 350-pound, blond, white women.  Or that a vitamin found in couscous could cause a hijacker to engage in erratic behavior, such as flying a plane into a building.

Thank you science for reinforcing racial stereotypes; but correct me if I’m wrong, shouldn’t you be working on new ones?

ALTERNATE TITLE:  The Sound And The Fury, Book 2

Nestled in the bosom of Pennsylvania, lies Knoebels — an old fashioned amusement park and campground that was described to me as quaint and “cheap as hell.”  I was all in, and so was my sister and her family and our friends and their children.

The thirteen of us (6 adults, 7 children) stayed in an adorable double cabin, just 8 double beds and a banquet table fit for the members of the Fellowship of the Ring.  The front porch was not only home to our late night gaiety and laughter, but apparently made a lovely abode for a family of skunks who slept underneath.  But enough about our accomodations.  Let’s go mix and mingle with the Knoe-bility at the amusement park.

As promised, here’s the second part of my Weekend at Knoebels Photo Journal (including Twister video):

Welcome to the front row of Twister…

PS  Just so we’re clear, I’m not just posting this because certain people we travelled with saw the last post and assumed we had a horrible time.  That said, I actually have a better time under questionable conditions.

The banjo music that I heard was either off in the distance or in my head. And it weren’t no Roy Clark ner Buck Owens good-time Hee Haw banjo pickin’ neither (no Misty Rowe or Gunilla Hutton sittin’ on bales of hay slapping their knees to the tune).  No, it was a haunting, uneasy kind of banjo sound.  Like it was being played by a thick-fingered illiterate with dead rabbits in his pockets.

… or some city-slicker with a gun to his head.

As I navigated our minivan through the campground toward our cabin, the banjo was replaced by the pounding, thrashing guitar of white supremacy.

Dude, is that Hatred Rock?  Turn it up.

Nestled in the bosom of Pennsylvania, lies Knoebels — an old fashioned amusement park and campground that was described to me as quaint and “cheap as hell.”  I was all in, and so was my sister and her family and our friends and their children. 

Forget that I banged my shin on five different trailer hitches walking from my van into the park; I was determined to have a good time.  Even if having a good time meant taking pictures of all the local oddities I passed with seemingly every stride.

Welcome to my Knoebels’ weekend photo journal:

In case you’re wondering why those two guys look so crammed, it’s a kiddie roller coaster.

These were both taken the same day. I actually saw him in a black shirt later that afternoon. A little odd, unless he’s triplets.

The local talent.

There were rides for the children of the Aryan Nation.

They loved that Red Baron ride when they were kids.

Hey, it’s Peg Bundy from Sons of Anarchy

Some strange tattoos and wardrobe choices were the order of the weekend:

Sweet!

Yep, that’s a fur vest. It was only 95 degrees after all.

Stay back, fellas. She’s all mine.

I’m pretty sure that’s Dwight Schrute’s cousin.

This sleepy-eyed fuck was sitting near a group of teenage girls (presumably his nieces) mumbling, “You got nice boobs,” under his breath.

I thought it was a little strange that the park’s train ride would run so close to the local prison.  So I asked the ride’s attendant, turns out that’s the pool area.

Despite some of the questionable characters we shared the park with, I still felt safe. People in Underoos have always put me at ease.

Thee End.

Stay tuned for part two – Knoebels: The Good, including my POV video from the front seat of the Twister roller coaster.

I had a dream last night that my big toe was very upset with me because he didn’t have a name.

“You mean like my penis’ name is Reginald Johnson?” I asked.

“No, Shit-for-brains,” he shot back, “like your fingers have names.  Thumb, pinky, index finger, the bird.  Get it?”

“Oh.”

Awkward silence.

“Well just so you know, I didn’t come up with those names.  They’ve been around long before I got here.”  I thought that would calm him some.

“Look, I didn’t bring it up because I wanted to hear a bunch of excuses from you –  And by the way, if you think I’m angry, you should hear Little Toe.  He’s fucking livid.  He knows about evolution; he knows he doesn’t have a whole lot of time left.” My toe was screaming at me now. “You have until sundown to give us names.  Got it?”

I nodded.

Name. 

Think. 

The Situation?

No.

T-Money?  Snooki?

No.  No.

Toe-ny?  Tic-Tac?

The sun burned across the sky.

Shit.

And that’s when I woke up.  Drenched in sweat, I pulled the sheet off my lower body, and my big toe was missing.  Fucking gone!  Immediately an image of it hopping along a set of train tracks, carrying a pole with a bandana tied to the end of it flashed in my head, and I screamed.

I screamed so loud that I woke myself up again, and my toe was back.  Phew.

When I was a kid the future was filled with visions of jet-packs, flying cars, powdered meals, and a slick streamline wardrobe.  These inventions were supposed to make our lives easier, reward us for being alive during such an exciting time, and just plain make us look cool.  Of the four, only powdered meals has made it to the mainstream.  Gee thanks, Future.  Go fuck yourself.

Those of you who have followed these chronicles know that I fancy myself an inventor of sorts (you can see examples of my inventing talents here).  Inventing to me has always been a hobby, a passion really that I never expected to be compensated for.  I’ve always believed it was my duty to offer my unique skills for the betterment of this great nation.  It is with that in mind that I present…

THE VAGINA FLAVORED STAMP PROGRAM 
(You heard me right.  Move over flying cars, now there’s something meatier.) 

I was lying in my hammock one day bemoaning the amount of taxes the government takes from me and my American brethren on a bi-weekly basis.  “There has to be a way for the state to generate some real revenue, and get their grubby hands out of my pocket,” I thought.  And that’s when it hit me.  The Vagina Flavored Stamp Program (VFSP)!  It would totally transform the US Postal Service into a rainmaking profit center.  It would also help to restore some good-will after the government’s Heroin and LSD Stamp Programs failed so miserably in our nation’s urban areas.

The VFSP unveiled:
The first obvious change would be the price increase of first class postage from $0.44 to $35.00.  That’s nearly an 8000% increase in revenue right there, and that doesn’t even take into account all the men who would eschew their office postage meter for the new lickable squares, or those who would forego email altogether in favor of a more personal, handwritten note.

Certainly an alternate flavor would have to be developed for heterosexual women (although the VFSP would afford them a discreet way to settle a long-seated curiosity) and black men.  Maybe coffee and tartar sauce respectively.

Retro stamps, celebrating different decades will then be produced.  The Seventies stamp for example, will have a disco ball on the front and thick tufts of hair on the adhesive back side.

On the heels of the retro stamp promotion, Women of the World stamps can be unveiled.  Tasting the women of Brazil or Southeast Asia can make anyone feel good about paying his electric bill.

I realize the FDA, the Surgeon General, and Hillary Clinton will all want some input before the final product goes live.  Which is fine, because I don’t want to hear about someone who knows someone who got the AIDS from mailing a letter.  The only other drawback I can foresee is the dogs that typically harrass the postman will be replaced with packs of feral cats.

Let’s get this done, Washington.

My Crystal Bowersnatch doll arrived today! Finally! But there was no harmonica. No guitar. Even her trademark teeth were hidden behind a coy, closed mouth smile.

In all seriousness, my wife’s childhood doll needs a dolly ambulance to rush its ass to the dolly hospital. In the meantime, I’m going to offer it up as the latest entry in Soupy’s Comment Challenge. Comment below.

I was introduced to this audio a while ago thanks to  The Opie and Anthony Show, and it has resonated in my ears and brain ever since.  I didn’t know any of the back story regarding Dan Deacon until today when I was researching (I ususally like to wait for a video to have nearly 10 million views before I weigh in) it for this post, so I just took for granted that it was some guy tripping his ass off.  I guarantee I sounded like that the couple three times I ate the  ‘shrooms.  Hell I sound like that when i forget to take my Adderall.  So I have a tough time deciding which story to believe.

You be the judge.

Please comment with your captions.  And be creative, because I’m cherrypicking all the easy ones.

Looks like he’s throwing the ol’ curves ball.
Why do I keep picturing him being chased by Morganna, the Kissing Bandit?
When his major league career is over, Jamie plans to coach in Japan for the Tune-In Tokyos.
47 year old pitcher’s arm defies the odds, while his bountiful breasts defy gravity.
Well, that’s what happens when you saddle a kid with a stripper name.
“Yea, my fastball tops out around 75. I’d like to see you try to pitch with these things.”

Foreigners are weird. They talk funny, they eat bizarre foods, and they smell bad. We know this; we’ve actually known this for some time. And anyone who’s ever watched European Gladiators is familiar with just how strange they can be as spectators at pseudo sporting events. So if a bunch of South Africans find a zero – zero tie, 87 minutes into a match, so boring that they need to entertain themselves by producing the most annoying buzzing sound they can muster, who am I to discourage them. Or to be the least bit surprised.

But it seems there is another piece of plastic displacing the vuvuzela (pronounced vzzzzzzzzzzzzz) at the South African World Cup venue.  It’s name, the Rape-axe, is much easier to pronounce.  And while I tended to believe the perception that we, Americans were the violent, sexually repressed, and therefore perverse bunch, it seems they have a bit of a rape problem north of the Cape of Good Hope.

TENUOUSLY RELATED INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: If only there were a group of people — whose barbaric violent tendencies, and own sexual repression compelled them to drape their women in cloth from head to toe, who maybe fly planes into buildings — to make us feel better about ourselves.

Back to the Rape-axe.  Developed by Dr. Sonnet Ehlers, this female condom-type apparatus (which she originally named the Roethlisgrabber) doesn’t just capture and store the assailant’s valuable biological information, it will actually latch on to the perp’s trespassing boner, transforming the victim’s vagina into a veritable penis fly trap.  Now I’ve never been raped (from the front), but I gotta believe that having my rapist still attached to me would add to the trauma.  I think I would just want to slink away for a vigorous yet somewhat somber shower.

I also think a rapist, who just might already have an anger issue or two, might start getting pissed that he hasn’t gotten his dick back.  I imagine he’s got shit to do; maybe take a shower of his own, or just be somewhere else when the authorities arrive.  I would think his patience level would at least be getting a little low.  And no matter how you slice it, it doesn’t really bode well for the rapee.  Speaking of slicing, what if the apparatus were to accidentally sever the attacker’s member (I guess the Rape-axe could be called a Member’s Only jacket #They’reNotAllGems)?  Maybe it’s just me, but I’m thinking being raped is far less traumatic than having to remove a detached penis from your vagina.  But like I said, I’ve never been raped before.

In an unrelated story, the NCAA Lacrosse Championships will not be held in Johannesburg next year due to players refusal to travel there.

I used to love getting letters when I was a kid.  I loved getting any kind of mail actually, and since I shared my father’s name, I got some pretty interesting shit — especially the magazines in the plain brown wrappers.

But I digress.

Even as a child, I recognized the following line in a letter as being “phony,” and quite frankly a hack way to wrap up a note:  “… Well, my mom is calling me for dinner, so I better get going.”

Here’s a thought:  Put down your stupid fucking pencil, go eat dinner, come back to your stupid desk with your stupider desk set, and conclude this letter in a more thoughtful and original manner.  I can only hope that you choked on your dinner, and somehow your letter still gets mailed to me so I can keep it as a souvenir of your horrible writing as well as your amateurish swallowing.

In other words, I don’t like excuses.  Well, I don’t like for the excuses I make to be so transparent, and I hate to be viewed as someone who makes excuses.  So it pains me to say that I haven’t really posted anything of substance here in a few weeks because, HELLO, there was a tornado in the state next to mine.  And I’ve been sick.  And a little busy.  But I wanted to share a quick, unoriginal story that has always made me seem insightful when I share it

A traveller, walking along a road, sees a large city in the distance.  About five hundred yards from the entrance to the city, he came upon an old man sitting by the side of the road.

“Hey, let me ask you,” the traveller began, “what are the people like in that city ahead?”

The old man looked up and replied, “What were the people like where you came from?”

“Terrible,” replied the traveller.  “They were stupid, and pushy, and rude.”

The old man looked at him.  “You will find them the same here.”

A few hours later, another traveller came upon the old man, and asked him the same question.

The old man responded much as he did earlier, “What were the people like in the city you are from?”

“Oh, they’re great!” the traveller answered.  “Very caring, and friendly.”

“You will find them the same here,” the old man replied.

I love how the kid looks in his glove to see what happened. Unbelievable. Now, here’s an example of how a father and baseball fan should act:

Damn, even the video quality is better.

EDITOR’S NOTE:  I guess it is only fair that I point out that within hours of posting this, I became aware of a video of a kid, and I mean a little kid, sipping on a beer bottle in an official Phillies jersey at Citzen’s Bank Park, home of the 2008 World Series Champs.  I, for one, would bet my blog that he picked up his dad’s empty bottle and was simply playing with it, but it does at least bear mentioning.

Enjoy Mr. Hopper in one of my favorite scenes while I continue to mourn for selfish reasons.

Don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t wince or complain that it hurts, don’t cry, and above all don’t spit that out.

Congress has moved closer to repealing the 17 year old policy of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” allowing gay and lesbian soldiers to act as gay and lesbionically as they want.  In a related story, the Senate will vote today to institute a similar policy prohibiting questions about government accountability regarding the oil spill in the Gulf.

This is his rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

I want to go on the record that I have no problem with gays.  I like gays.  Hell, some of my favorite same-sex lovers have been gay.  But I also believe that homosexuality is a choice, just like heterosexuality.  I base this view not on scientific data, but on a philosophical observation that we as humans work very hard to find ways to shift responsibilty from ourselves.  The “I was born that way” excuse has been around a lot longer than the current debate on homosexuality.

I’m sure many gays will disagree with me about sexual orientation being a choice — the word orientation itself conjures a genetic predisposition — but I will give you a context for my argument.  I am sitting on a beach with my wife.  While we are enjoying the weather, our surroundings and each other’s company, I feel my neck twist.  Then my head turns, seemingly of its own volition, to admire a beautiful bikini clad woman frolicking in the waves.  I think we can all agree that I chose to look at her.  But check out this list of other things I also CHOSE to do with that single action:

- I chose to disrespect my wife.
- I chose to go forward with a little bit less of her trust.
- I chose to objectify the other woman.
- I chose to change the entire mood for the day.
- I chose to tackle a few extra tasks on the list of things I was supposed to have done a month ago.  Quickly.
- I chose to gratify my baser animal instinct, cheapening myself and all of humanity in the eyes of any more highly evolved aliens who may have been observing me at that moment.
- I chose to be forced to lie when my wife asks the inevitable, “Do you think she’s pretty?”

You get the point. We all make choices every moment whether we realize it or not. Maybe homosexuality is a choice, maybe you’re born that way. Who knows? I just think I’d rather be identified by my actions and my choices than qualities I had no control over.

Enjoy the following video which I have included (as my legal department has asked me to describe it) for its purely satirical value:

“Jesus Christ, I just changed that bulb three weeks ago!” was my father’s reaction to the loud *POP* that greeted him when he flipped on the kitchen light switch.

I was quickly dispatched to the basement to find a replacement. My selection was really quite simple considering there were nothing but 100 watt bulbs in the box. I take that back, there were also 50-100-150 watt three-way bulbs, perfect for a little mood lighting in our living room lamps. No wonder he always yelled at me to turn off the light when I left a room. I thought he was concerned with the electric bill, but he had to be going through bulbs at… well, the speed of light.

My father likes brightness; not my ADD inspired attraction to shiny things, but a real affinity for light… BRIGHT light. To this day, he and my mother have been known to have (as seen on TV) tap lights  on their nightstands (and numerous other places) — apparently the 100 watt bulb burning in the actual lamp on his bedside table is no longer bright enough for his needs. He’s also the guy holding his cell phone up to his menu so he can read it in ‘dimly lit’ (40 watt) restaurants.

Years ago, my father purchased fire escape ladders for each of our bedrooms. I naturally assumed it was because he slept with one eye and two nostrils open fearing my mother would burn the house down with her smoking in bed. She’s quit smoking for years now, but based on the aggregate bulb-wattage in all the lamps in his home, I think the ladders may have still been a good purchase.

THE LESSON: Today’s lesson is in the form of a joke my sister made up when she was five-ish. I remember it to this day because of it’s sheer stupidity. ‘Q: What can cause a fire? A: A lightbulb.’  (You have no idea how many guesses I went through before she finally broke down and just told me the punchline).  Maybe it wasn’t that stupid after all.

P.S.  See what actual readers are saying about TeeShirtSoup!  I’ve been saving messages from readers for quite some time, and finally have enough to dedicate a section in the column on the right of the page.

P.P.S.  That’s this side —>

If I ever get into a medieval style battle with a dead pig, five pieces of cardboard wearing chain mail, a water-filled steel barrel, a raw chicken, four inches of rope, a stalk of bamboo, balsa wood bunnies, or any unarmed inanimate object, I totally hope I am armed with a Cold Steel Two-Handed Great Sword, or War Hammer, or any of their bladed weaponry.

The weapons of choice for the (not yet on our collective radar) Renaissance Faire Slasher, and ideal for reenactments of up-close-and-personal battles of days gone by or a TLC show, these swords scream, “I brought a knife to a gunfight,” in today’s less intimate, I-don’t-want-blood-on-my-ivy-league-suit, impersonal world. 

But, why would I keep talking when I can show you these fine products in the hands of a True Warrior:

“There’s like 7 or 8 cardboard boxes backing this thing up, and I crushed probably 4 or 5 of them into nothingness.”

Inquisitive Boy: Mr. Owl, how many whacks with the Indian War Club does it take to smash a single pallet?
Owl: 25.

I apologize to others like myself afflicted with the ADD for the length of this next video, but it held my attention most of the time.

(Hilarious comment from YouTube page I had to share: Sire, the balloon army approacheth!”)

For more sword porn goodness, check out CSKnives on YouTube.