Anxiety Activator #Bajillionty-twelve: Listening to Raul Read the News

TASER stock. Goddamn it! It’s up 30 percent. I knew it!

Cops. They’re all worried about killing someone. Stupid.

Look at this! You can tase someone with your iPhone case. You’re like, “Hold on. I have to make a call,” and you tase them! Look at this picture! There’s like a tase coming out of this phone!

Goddammit. Tasers.

Let’s check the weather.

Bullshit it’s gonna be 66 tonight! Bullshit! It’s like 80 fucking degrees in here. They’re out of their fucking minds.

I should tase Fritz Coleman.

Don’t you think it’s crazy when there’s an earthquake in a country, like this one in New Zealand, injures four. I swear, this happens all the time. Seriously. Out of millions of people only like a few manage to get injured. Most people are just in bed or whatnot. But these four fuckers, what, were they picking their noses with pliers that slipped? Did they have Q-tips in both ears and not hear the chandelier coming loose? Why were they cleaning their ears in a ballroom anyway? That’s their goddamn problem right there. I’m serious. What were these four people doing when a whole fucking COUNTRY managed to survive?

You know what else is going to shit? Google.

Google Earth. Of course it’s fucking Earth! What else would it be, Jupiter? They think they’re so fucking clever.

We’re getting a beach house next time we go down to Sea World. Zoom in Google. I said zoom! What’s this? Fiesta Bay? Sounds kind of racist but OK.

I love how Google just drives their cars everywhere and takes pictures of fucking everything. Like look at this fucking bush in front of this house. Do I need to see this? This is nice actually. Maybe we should stay here.

What is this? You can almost see this car’s license plate. Bullshit! You know what I’d do if Google snapped my plate in Fiesta Bay? I’d tase them in the camera. With an iPhone case. Next time someone went to check out Fiesta Bay they’d think twice about staying there. I don’t care if the landscaping is nice.

Anxiety Activator #Pi: Raul’s Latest Business Proposal

Me: Babe, you should really create some apps. Seriously, if I possessed your technical wizardry, Raul, I’d bust out so many apps we’d be swimming in cash Scrooge McDuck style. That was his name, right? You remember that?

Raul: Duh. Yes. Tail Spin. Of course I remember that. What, do you think, I’m an idiot? Anyway, I’ve actually been thinking about that.

Me: Me too! How funny! And Fible the mouse.

Raul: What? No. I mean I’ve already been thinking about creating a new app. Okay. Now what are all the kids into these days? Social media, right? But everyone keeps doing the same thing. MySpace, Facebook, Tumblr — they’re all kind of the same. Everyone’s posting pictures of their faces. I want to do something different. Now just go with me on this…

Me: Sure.

Raul: Whose Balls.

Me: What?

Raul: Whose Balls.

Me: Whose? Balls?

Raul: Exactly! You take an anonymous picture of your balls, like close up, then people have to guess whose balls they are.

Me: Um, design flaw: How can anyone guess whose balls they are if all the accounts are anonymous? And if they aren’t anonymous everyone will automatically know they’re your balls.

Raul: That’s the whole point! Jesus! Nobody KNOWS whose balls they are. You get a picture and you’re like, “Sick! Whose balls are these?!” They could be anybody’s balls. They could be Obama’s balls. And only Michelle would know.

Me: Hm. I guess Anthony Wiener could be your spokesman.

Raul: Right? Whose Balls.

Me: Yeah. Maybe. Then when this obviously brilliant idea propels us into Trumpdon, we can decorate the house with black-and-white art that’s really just superzoomed-in ball pics. And our high-brow friends will be all putting their monocles up to the glass, like, “Mm, yes, interesting composition. But…no. They can’t be…Are those…balls?”

And I’ll be like, “No, you sick fuck.”

Then I’ll lean over and,  in a voice so creepy it would give Billy Bob Thorton chills, I’ll whisper, “They’re testicles.”

Raul: See? Now you’re getting it. Whose Balls.

Me: Your balls.

Raul: That’s right.

Anxiety Activator #Thrice: Pulled Pork

First off: disgusting. B: why? Thirdly: What is next, round-house kicked roast beef? Titty-twisted turkey? Bitch-slapped bacon?!

I don’t need to know how the meat product parted with its carcass. That’s not a selling point, Applebee’s!

Unless, you sliced it into submission…with your words.

Like, hate-speech harassed ham. I’m not gonna lie. I’d watch that YouTube video.

Anxiety Activator #54: An Update on Vanilla Ice

[Originally published Nov. 4, 2009. Moved up because it’s Christmas in July time, bitches! And, yes, I will fix the iambic pentameter soon.]

In 2005, Robert Matthew Van Winkle, AKA Vanilla Ice, set out to make a comeback with his long-anticipated Kwanzaa album. After angry protests turned into violent riots that raged from Harlem to Watts, his label, Albinism Records, decided to pull Vanilla’s release before it began distribution.

 

Albinism has since spent millions of dollars keeping the material out of the media. The demo, lyrics, and promotional posters, that are rumored to feature Vanilla eating fried turkey at the head of the Last Supper table, have been locked in a fortified safe just outside Barstow.

 

His music has remained hidden, until last week when Vanilla created an Ebay account in order to raise money for his anger management classes. Court documents reveal Vanilla auctioned off a jar of his leftover eyebrows — accumulated after years of maintaining his signature creative brow design — and four of his concert outfits.

 

After purchasing a pair of silver crab pants, famed Ebay buyer, igotyoshit187, checked the pockets and found what appeared to be an early draft of a song off Ice’s holiday album. We’ve obtained the text, which was scrawled on the back of a receipt for various weaponry, including a tazer and harpoon gun, both of which were items found on Ice’s person when he was arrested by police last Wednesday after neighbors reported seeing a racially confused gentleman hiding in a tree just outside of igotyoshit187’s bathroom window.

 

At this point, we have decided the only ethical thing to do is to share Vanilla’s sick thoughts on the holiest of holidays with the public who once supported him. We warn you the following content is graphic and may not be suitable for small children, priests, and theologians who will surely be horrified by Ice’s utter lack of reading comprehension skills in regard to the Bible.

 

JOSEPH’S BABY MAMA

Yo, V.I.P., let’s kick it!

Vanilla is back on a Kwanzaa mission,

with a rhyme more money than your Harvard tuition.

Rappin. Bustin’ shit up in your ear,

with a story ’bout the holy fetus who blew up a new calendar year.

King Herod. He ruled the land.

Like a motherfuckin’ pimp with a strong backhand.

Flying. Into adobe.

He’ll make your head hurt worse than hearing Lawrence comma Joey doing karaoke.

The three wise men. They cameled up to the curb.

That’s right, bitch, now cameled is a verb.

They pulled up. Hopped off their beasts.

They said, “Yo, Herod, there’s a zygote you wanna meet?”

“Hells yes, that is my plan.

Get back on your camels and go find the little man.”

“Ah-ite, dawg, you the boss.

We know if we don’t go you gone get our salads tossed.”

Camelin.’ Back through the desert.

Knockin’ back forties while we ride, it’s fuckin’ pleasure.

“Hey, bros, where the fuck we are?”

“Shut your bitch ass up we be following the star.”

Trekin.’ Dropping peyote.

Seeing a mirage of all the chicks that wanna blow me.

“Focus. Find the fresh placenta.”

“But how can she be prego if he neva went up in her?”

“Immaculate. Conception, that be how it went down.”

“Bitch please, if Joe believe that he a motherfucking clown.”

“You know my baby mama pulled that shit on me last year and

I said, ‘Bitch, please, I ain’t even tryin’ to hear.’”

Just then, the star is overhead.

There’s the holy son lyin’ in a ghetto ass bed.

“What up, son, why you chillin’ in a barn?

You be sleepin’ on skid row, I gots nothing to rhyme with the previous yarn.”

“Listen. We brought you some shit –

random fucking elements a baby won’t know what to do with.”

Just then, Jesus’ ass got pimped out with gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

What a baby gone do with all that shit, I ain’t never been sure.

After busting on some sick old school wine, the homies passed out.

Then an angel said, “This spot ain’t be nothin’ Herod need to know about.”

On Jesus’ coordinates they ain’t gone squeal.

They just worship his baby ass as they motherfuckin’ kneel.

“Ah-ight then, yo we gots to roll.

Cuz fuckin’ King Herod nearly turned us into moles.”

The angel, he gets around.

He visits old Joseph as soon as the wise dudes left town.

“Broseph, yo, you gots to know,

that Herod’s comin’ to glock you if your ass don’t go.”

Avoidin’ pistol whippings, that’s how Joe gets down.

So he loads up the donkey and they get the fuck outta town.

Yeah, they sneak out.

In the middle of the night.

If this were a movie, starring Woody Harrelson, right?

Then this scene would feature a motherfuckin’ gnarly ass chainsaw fight.

Terantino, he’d call in the extras playing Herod’s army,

Body parts would be flyin’ like a motherfuckin’ harm spree.

But this ain’t one, so they hit the sand.

Jesus rides in a Baby Bjorn cuz they ain’t got no family van.

The family. Livin’ like they in witness protection.

Joe probably still up on Mary’s shit about her freaky conception.

He be wantin’ to take her ass on People’s Court,

so he don’t have to pay no bullshit child support.

They get their freak on, they be make up sexin.’ Now Joe believes Mary ain’t never wanted no other dude’s erection.

Things keep getting better cuz fuckin’ Herod, he ain’t got no GPS reception and his shady ass hunt never makes the connection.

Finally, Herod’s old ass dies

and Mary gets a crazy workout on her sexy ass thighs.

They travel out to Nazareth.

Let me puff on this L, hold up, lemme catch my breath.

Now they building,’ a sweet crib in the promise land,

And that little baby Jesus he grows up to be the man.

At the parties, he turns water into wine.

He got hookers on each arm and they lookin’ real fine.

Now I broken it down with this motherfuckin’ verse,

this be the legit story of the crazy Jesus birth.

Anxiety Alleviator #84B: Life as a Cow

When you first try nursing, you’re like, “So this is the second-most painful thing anyone could ever experience.”

Good plan, Lord. You couldn’t have designed this a little better? Maybe birth out the left armpit and nursing via the palms of my hands?

Eat!

That would be so much more convenient. You hear your baby cry. You stop. Turn. Hold up your palm. Then blast her in the face with the hydrant of milk exploding from the stigmata hole in your pie-eating hand.

On the upside, nursing does help to shed the LB’s. One night, I plowed through a pound of See’s candies I hid from Raul under the bed, woke up the next morning, and found I LOST two pounds. Whaaaaat?!!

And that’s when I started hoping the Midge won’t need braces because I am going to nurse her until she’s 18.

Anxiety Activators 64, 65, and 66: The Mystery Guest Trapped in my Heater, WebMD, and Water Poisoning

I awoke this morning to the pleasant sounds of some small animal dying a claustrophobic death in our wall heater, and the uncharacteristic urge to do something healthy today. Perhaps the frantic clawing noises echoing through the hallway reminded me life is short; then again it was probably just my morbid disposition that did that. In any case, I popped out of bed with the motivation to adopt a wholesome lifestyle and whatever pet wanted so desperately to enter my apartment through such unorthodox means. So after gazing at my new treadmill for a good thirty seconds, I decided focusing on my diet would be the best place to start.

I began by shoving only TWO mini crumb donettes down my dental dam, followed up with just three point five shots of chewable black tar espresso. That’s a point five deduction from my quotidian habit, which may not sound like a lot to you, but as many an Olympic ice dancer knows, a point five deduction can feel like it’s going to kill you.

A prolonged fight ensued between my half and half pouring hand and my will to get fit, leaving me with a cramped arm and the kind of mess you’d expect to see if a cage fighter kicked the shit of a cow in your kitchen. Eventually, my desire to look little-boned won out and I choked down my mug of the good stuff without the aid of a high-calorie mixer. Foregoing my heavy pour of cream allowed me to create a beverage that was both fat free and a handy test that assured me my gag reflex was still fully functioning.

Feeling undercaffeinated and about thirteen donettes short of a full stomach, I could hardly get to work on my To Do list. So I did what I always do when I have a To Do list that needs doing and sought a distraction. Thankfully, the violent thrashing coming from our wall had yet to cease. I decided to call Raul to see if he had any advice on how I might put our new friend out of its misery.

For some inexplicable reason, all of Raul’s suggestions involved me entering into close proximity with the creature, rendering his proposals moot. Had he recommended dynamite, standing in front of the heater and staring at it for long periods of time, or spraying the fire extinguisher through the slats, I’d have happily obliged, but as it was, the call proved ineffectual. I wandered into the bathroom to floss as Raul’s frustration with my refusals to open the heating unit reached a crescendo. Just then, Continue reading

Anxiety Activator #70: Sir Oprah Winfrey’s Eye Sauce

I’m sorry, but is it just me, or does Oprah seem to be experiencing some serious eyeball leakage lately? I feel like projectile vomiting at her audience members (more than usual) when I get a gander at that eye sauce.

Inbred shiatsus have less tear output, and at least they have the fur to soak it up once it’s made a run for the border. The world’s favorite hawker of panini-makers needs to turn those greasy peepers away from camera four and over to an ophthalmologist who can dry that shit up. I don’t like it. It’s disgusting.

And I know that goo isn’t tears because it is present even when she’s not talking about her shameful kinship with potato chips. If I wanted to watch an hour of juicing, I’d flip back to the Jack Lalane informercial I was watching before I started craving liquefied celery.

But I don’t want to watch an hour of viscous fluid production; that’s why I changed the goddamn channel in the first place! So for the love of G.O.B., will you get those things fixed?!

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