Nov 15
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May 27
Mother Nature is such a dirty old slut.
When it’s spring here in Northern California, sex is everywhere. The bees are collecting sperm to scatter around, the cock robins sport erections worthy of a Greek production of “Lysistrata” and plants shamelessly display their swollen vulvas.
The following pictures should only be viewed by children under the supervision of their parents. They are presented here not for their prurient content, but for educational purposes only – much like the National Geographic photo spreads of bare African boobies back when I was growing up. (I won’t ask the question why black tits were fair game but white tits were not, nor why there seemed to be a black-tit photo essay in almost every issue.)
I solemnly swear, however, that all of these nature photos are from my own back garden.
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.See these dimples? I may be smooth-shaven,.
.They say the fat ones are the best..
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Nov 23
(AP) “I feel so ashamed for my family,” said Anuk the Alameda, California, polar bear Monday as federal agents escorted him in chains to a black limousine retrofitted with a steel cage. “They trusted my word and I led them astray.”
Anuk, who gained local fame by claiming to be driven from his native habitat on the verge of starving, was arrested for impersonating an endangered species after a federal sting operation caught him on tape admitting that he emigrated to the San Francisco Bay Area because he prefers a Mediterranean climate and that he is actually overweight from a diet of fresh eggs and pizza with extra anchovies.
Anuk’s owner/caretaker, real estate mogul Steve Andersen, said he and his wife were “devastated” at the news.
“We trusted him,”Andersen told reporters. “In fact, he was the only one we trusted. I mean, we didn’t even trust Steve Dimick, which shows you how careful we are.
“And then we find out it was all a hoax. They tell me now that the Arctic ice cap is actually growing and polar bears are becoming a nuisance. The only reason they’re hungry is because they’ve devoured all of the anchovy stocks for miles around. They’ve even been seen prowling the streets in Wasilla, Alaska, looking for pizza parlors.
“I don’t know how we can ever trust anyone again,” Andersen said sadly.
Oct 16
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Man sought whose wife, 5 children killed. Not nice, those children were. Searching for grieving father, police are.
The secrets inside your dog’s mind. Ohboy, ohboy, it’s kibble again. Where’s a leg I can hump?
Fighter jet missing 5 decades found off California. I’d be afraid to fly in a jet missing only one or two of its decades.
Dog-fighting ring run at daycare, cops say. Why don’t they leave the poor dogs alone and have the kids fight?
Blight could be here to stay. In time the Rockies may crumble, Gibralter may tumble, they’re only made of clay, but blight could be here to stay.
Stocks slip after confidence drops. Isn’t this what the newspaper biz calls a “label head?” In other words, it could be run day after day, week after week?
Soul is the ultimate G-spot for happiness. Yes, but how do you reach it with a vibrator?
No sex with roommate present. Aw, gee. You’re takin’ all of the fun out of it.
Wonder Woman slams ‘skinny-girl look’. She’s just contemptuous of girls with smaller boobs.
Gorilla and wheelchair lost, now found. Excuse me, but just how do you “lose” a gorilla in a wheelchair??
Soldier dies after receiving smoker’s lungs. Hey, you have to be careful about those transplant donors.
Man says fiancee mistaken for intruder shot. What’s an “intruder shot?” And just how ugly is it?
Man marries woman with identical name. Aw, this is just too easy.
Born with half a brain, woman living full life. Oh, don’t tempt me; I’ll catch hell from my wife and female friends.
GOPer spends week on deserted island. Isn’t that where they all live?
Astronauts invite Bono to space station. If I were an astronaut, I’d rather have Cher.
Hydration trumps sex. Or precedes it, maybe. I was just talking to my pretty next-door neighbor yesterday about lubrication…er…hydration.
Egyptian woman protest ban on austere veil. Her do? They does?
How many troops are enough for Afghanistan? How many troops could a troopship ship if a troopship could ship troops?
Billed twice for one night. Damn that girl. I knew I shouldn’t have given her my credit card number.
Teens Turn to Prostitution. They’ve been doing that in my home town for years: a bj will get you a ride home or maybe even the answers to the math homework.
Inmate rappels to freedom using bedsheets. Shades of 1930s movies, or of “Alice’s Restaurant:” “I said, ‘Officer Obie, I can understand you taking my wallet so I don’t have any money to spend in the cell. And I can understand you taking the toilet seat out so I don’t hit myself over the head with the seat and drown. And I can understand you taking the toilet paper out, so’s I don’t bend the bars, roll the toilet paper out the window, slide down the roll and have an escape. But what do you want my with my belt?’ He said, ‘Kid, we don’t want any hangin’s.’ I said, ‘Officer Obie, did you think I was gonna hang myself for litterin’?”
I kid you not; these are actual headlines from CNN’s home page over the past week. I have no desire to actually read any of the stories. Imagination is so much more fun.
“Breast implant ad: Buy one get one free” – OK, what’s the gimmick, here? Is the free one a return? Does it already have 10,000…uh…miles…on it? Is it the same size? Does it point to 3 o’clock?
“911 call: Raccoon stuck in peanut butter jar” – Have you ever had peanut butter stuck on the roof of your mouth? And in your paws? And your whiskers?
“Urinal for her lets ladies, um, like a man” – You mean pee all over the toilet seat?
“Bare-bottom rock climber stops traffic” – He was 350 pounds and covered with hair.
“ ‘Tight pants’ woman jailed for not paying fine” – Maybe she should have used her assets.
“Hiker falls after accepting proposal” – She was bowled over.
“Neighbors get in tug-of-war over kitten” – Must have been two men fighting over a pussy.
“Women face trial for glued penis revenge” – Isn’t that carrying penis envy a bit too far? Is a “glued penis” the opposite of a Bobbit?
“How to get rich off the weather” – Buy in low-pressure areas, sell in high.
“Bush ‘shoe thrower’ to be freed from Iraqi jail” – And I’ll bet he hot-foots it out of there.
“Zebra bites girl’s finger” – That’s not news. Girl bites zebra: now THAT’s news.
“Semi stopped carrying $4.5M in cocaine” – Did it stop cold turkey or check into a clinic?
“Police check sweatshirt in missing boy case” – I think we would have heard if he were in there. Maybe they should look in his shoes next.
“Cop stops naked motorcyclist” – Probably for not wearing a helmet.
This just in from one of our roving (or, rather, surfing) correspondents:
The Toughest Decision: Should My Loved One Be Placed In an Assisted Computing Facility (ACF)?
For family members, it is often the most difficult and painful decision they will ever face: to accept that a loved one – a parent, a spouse, perhaps a sibling – is technologically impaired and should no longer be allowed to live independently, or come near a computer or electronic device without direct supervision. The time has come to place that loved one into the care of an assisted Computing Facility (ACF). But you have questions. So many questions!
We at Silicon Pines want to help.
What exactly is an “ACF?”
Sometimes referred to as “Homes for the Technologically Infirm,” “Technical Invalid Care Centers,” or “Homes for the Technically Challenged,” ACFs are modeled on assisted living facilities, and provide a safe, structured residential environment for those unable to handle even the most common, everyday multitasks. Most fully accredited ACFs, such as Silicon Pines, are an oasis of hope and encouragement that allow residents to lead productive, technologically relevant lives without the fear and anxiety associated with actually having to understand or execute the technologies themselves.
Who should be in an ACF?
Sadly, technology is advancing at such a dramatic rate that many millions, of all ages, will never truly be able to understand it, putting an undue burden on those friends and family members who must explain it to them. But unless the loved one is suffering from a truly debilitating affliction, such as Reinstallzheimers, the decision to commit is entirely personal. You must ask yourself: “How frustrated am I that my parent/sibling/spouse is unable to open an e mail attachment?” “How much of my time should be taken up explaining how RAM is different from hard drive memory?” “How many times can I bear to hear my dad say, ‘Hey, can I replace the motherboard with a fatherboard? Hahaha!’”
To make things easier, we have prepared a list of Warning Signs which we encourage you to return to often, or, if you can’t figure out how to bookmark it, print out. Also, please take a moment to read “I’m Glad I’m in Here! – A Resident’s Story.”
Must it be family, or can I place anyone in an ACF?
Several corporations have sought permission to have certain employees, or at times entire sales departments, committed to ACFs. At present, however, individuals can be committed only by direct family or self-internment. The reason is simple: there are not nearly enough ACFs in the world to accommodate all the technologically challenged. For example, there are currently only 860,000 beds available in ACFs, but there are 29 million AOL users.
How much will it cost?
ACF rents range from free up to $12,500 per month. The disparity is currently a point of contention in the ACF industry. Many residents are covered through government programs such as Compucaid or Compucare, but reimbursement rates are low and only cover a portion of the fees.
Exacerbating the situation are the HMOs (Help-Desk Maintenance Organizations), which often deny coverage, forcing residents to pay out of pocket or turn to expensive private techcare insurers such as BlueCache/BlueScreen.
Offsetting the costs are technology companies themselves, many of which subsidize ACFs. Firms such as Microsoft, Dell, Qualcomm, and America Online will pay up to 100 percent of a resident’s monthly bill, but there is a catch. ISPs, for instance, require residents to sign service contracts lasting a year or more. Microsoft, meanwhile, prohibits the installation of any competitive software, while Priceline requires that residents buy shares of its stock, which seems onerous but saves residents on lavatory tissue.
How old must I be to have someone committed?
Until very recently, you had to be 18 or older to legally commit a family member. However, the now famous British court case Frazier vs. Frazier and Frazier has cleared the way for minors to commit their parents. In that case, 15-year-old Bradley Frazier of Leicester had his 37-year-old parents committed to an ACF in Bournemouth after a judge ruled Ian and Janet Frazier were a “danger to themselves and the community.” According to court records, Bradley told his parents about the ILoveYou virus and warned them not to click attachments, then the next day his parents received an ILoveYou e mail and clicked on the attachment because, they explained, “it came from someone we know.”
What should I look for in an ACF?
First, make sure it’s a genuine Assisted Computing Facility, and not an Assisted Living Facility. To tell the difference, observe the residents. If they look rather old and tend to openly discuss bowel movements, this is probably ‘assisted living.’ On the other hand, if they vary in age and say things like, “I’m supposed to figure that out? I’m not Bill Gates you know!,” this is probably ‘assisted computing.’
Also, at a well-run ACF, residents should lead full, independent lives, and should be allowed the use of many technology devices, including telephones, electric toothbrushes, and alarm clocks. However, only a facility’s Licensed Techcare Professionals (LTPs) should perform computational or technological tasks such as installing programs or saving email attachments. And LTPs should NEVER answer residents’ questions because studies have shown that answering user questions inevitably makes things worse. Instead, residents should simply have things done for them, relieving them of the pressure to “learn” or “improve.”
Can a resident ever get out?
No.
OK, this sounds promising. How can I learn more?
For your enlightenment, we offer extensive information on Silicon Pines and the ACF lifestyle, which can be found by clicking one of the links in the navigation bars found at both the top and bottom of this page. But whatever you decide, keep in mind that due to demand, ACFs now have long waiting lists. WebTV & AOL users alone will take years to absorb.
Jul 5
Another web post circulating about concerned “Why did the chicken cross the road?’ Not to be outdone, our smart-ass group chimed in as follows:
UNATTRIBUTED: The chicken crossed the road to show the possum that it could be done.JOHN MC CAIN: My friends, that chicken crossed the road because he recognized the need to bomb the other side of the road.MARTIN LUTHER KING: Because it had a DREAM...that ALL God's chickens...red, yellow, black, white and brown...could cross the road. GEORGE H.W. BUSH: Read my lips. No new chicken riddles. GEORGE W. BUSH: He wanted to unificate with other chickens so he could put food on his family. JOHN MADDEN: LOOK AT THAT CHICKEN CROSSING THAT ROAD!!!! THAT CHICKEN CAME HERE TODAY TO RUN!!!! OSAMA BIN LADEN: To force his decadent Western ways on the Muslim world, peace be upon it. LLOYD BENSON: I knew that chicken, and *you,* senator, are no chicken. DAN QUAYLE: I like my chicken with a baked potatoe...pottato...a nice spud. SPIRO AGNEW: Cowardly, craven chickens cross to create chaos. MARCEL MARCEAU: " " VOLTAIRE: I disapprove of chickens crossing the road, but I will defend to the death their right to do so. MISTER ROGERS: Can you see the chicken cross the road? Gee, I like it when chickens cross the road. FIRST-GRADE READER: See the road. See the hen cross the road. Run, hen, run. CALIFORNIA HIGHSCHOOL GRADUATE: Cuz he, like, wanned 2, y'know, get overr their. LARRY ELLISON: I'm buying that chicken. Hell, I'm buying the whole damned Interstate Highway System. YODA: Look inside yourself, you should, if seek you to know why crossing the road the chicken was. RICK BLAINE: Louie, I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful dinner. CASPAR GUTTMAN: My dear sir, if you lose a chicken you can always get another one. But there's only one Maltese Falcon. GILBERT AND SULLIVAN: In matters that are fowlish-like there's none so anguished-howlish-like As pullets dodging bullets getting struck by speeding motorbikes.
I belong to a Yahoo group of smart-asses. A while back, there was an e-mail circulating around called “There’s a principal here without any principles.” So we tackled it and produced the following:
The baby gurgled like a toilet does after the Liquid Plumber has sat in it for half an hour. Her mouth made that little kissy-kissy sound, like the kitchen drain when the last water is swirling down it. “Floorboard it!” Ringo shouted to the other mounted desperados as he leaped onto his horse. She loved him like George Bush loves malapropisms. It was a perfect likeness, she thought of the quick sketch she had just traced in the wet sand, and the next wave would wipe it as clean and featureless as had the acid she had tossed into his smirking face. “Flaccid,” he half-screamed, half-yelped, as his manliness shrunk to the size of a half-eaten Tootsie Roll, “who the hell you callin’ flaccid?” “I love you more than the stars in the sky,” he breathed, not noticing his pocket protector harshly rubbing against her breast, “or, at least, the ones you can see in the Nevada desert; more than the Dow Jones Industrial Average, or, at least, where it was in September 2007; more than the decimal places of pi, and I mean the current number, dearest – not the puny five million from six months ago.” “Oh, Ambrose,” she breathed between smacks and pops of her chewing gum, “and I love you more than all the jelly beans in the big jar in the window of Katz’s Drug Store.”He stood out like a sore thumb; actually more like a pair of sore thumbs. He was an intellectual giant, big and stupid. He realized what he'd done and tried to cover it up, like a cat in a sandbox. His interest in her was as blatantly obvious as that of a rude Dalmatian. The fields seemed to go on forever, like aunt Martha's stories about how everything she did when she was little was either much harder or much better than what we do. When she walked, her body movement was captivating, like Jell-O on a jackhammer. He knew he loved her, just like he knew the Cowboys were going to win on Sunday. Her hair flowed rich and smooth over her shoulders, like soft ice cream out of the spigot at Dairy Queen. He had muscles like Popeye -- well not exactly like Popeye, who was actually kinda funny looking, but more like Popeye would have looked if he didn't look so funny. Her fears had been so bottled up inside and weighed so heavily that when she learned she was off the hook, she felt both relieved and drained, like a cow that's just been milked. Methammaticks was reely hard, liek spelinng.She was long, lean and aerodynamic, with those Italian-styled lines like a Masseratti or a Lamborghini, but when she spoke it sounded like a VW going 40 in first gear. He bestrode the narrow world like a Colossus, or at least like a six-year-old boy standing in his sandbox over his plastic Army men. My grandfather is the wisest person I know: wiser than the entire cast of Saturday Night Live, if you can believe that. My dad said General Patton could have gone through Iraq like foie gras through a goose. She thought he looked as healthy and manly as the Ken doll she had only recently packed away into the closet, except for being anatomically correct. “Take me, you fool! Take me,” she shouted, sounding as desperate as a vowel would on “Wheel of Fortune” if vowels could shout. Frodo stared at the Crack of Doom with disgusted but rapt fascination, like he had stared at Sam Gamgee’s butt crack that morning on the Mangy Moors when Sam’s trousers sagged like a bag of moldy potatoes trying to rid itself of its contents.He had a seriously inflated ego, inflated like your intestines get after an evening of especially good beans and wienies. He felt thoroughly out of place, like a retard at a Mensa gathering. Her hair was tangled and dirty, like spaghetti...and meatballs. It had been suggested that he had a spare tire, but nobody mentioned the degree to which it had been overinflated. He thought it best to make his exit, quietly, inconspicuously, and nonchalantly, like a squirrel in the street confronted by a rapidly approaching Buick Roadmaster.