The Answer

In moving recently, I un-covered a dusty little
paperback book entitled, "Don't Sweat the Small
Stuff". It went right in the trash. This was quite a
popular book awhile back, so chances are you were
gifted this self-help stocking stuffer at some point
as well. Consider, for a second, the title's catchy
yet obvious advice. Everyone except the pimply doufus
on the short bus knows it's best, for health reasons,
to not stress over minor issues right? Then who, for
Godsake, found this book compelling? My guess is that
it served as a nice "bridge" for the neat fella who
just adored "Life's Little Instruction Book", but
wasn't quite philosophically ready for "Chicken Soup
for the Soul." This is the same butthole who thought
"Tuesday's with Morrie" deserved a Nobel Prize, and
blew a thick wad in his pants watching Forrest run.

Here' a little secret: it's all small stuff. What you
think of as big stuff is just a bunch of small stuff
crammed together. Take, for example, a "life-event"
most of us would classify as being in the "big stuff"
category: the wedding. Yet, a wedding in its truest
essence is really just expensive invitations,
ostentatious table settings, a depressing banquet
room, mediocre wedding cake, a shitty band, bloated
bridesmaids, embarrassingly white-trash family
members, drunk friends you actually hate, and already
married couples thrilled two more assholes drank the
Kool Aid. All small stuff. Please do not find this
hypothesis cynical however, for believe me when I say
this, sweating the small stuff is absolutley vital.
To understand this, envision your normal everyday
retirement home. You would think that the inhabitants
within, folks stumbling towards deaths doorstep, would
be too busy sucking the last vibrant marrow from
glorious "living" to bother with petty things. In
fact, if Grandpa were not able to complain about the
goddamn thieves who work there, how Gladys rips dust
farts in line at the cafeteria, that the TV changer is
broken again, how the meatloaf is green Alpo, or the
cunty nurses giant assess, there would simply be no
reason to continue existence. Omitting his ungrateful
whore of a daughter-in-law from the will is what gets
him out of bed in the morning.

So, I sweat the small stuff. I embrace the small
stuff. I want to rub small stuff all over my balls.
I refuse to feel guilty about the fact that my new
Sharper Image nose hair clipper is more important to
me than Iraq's recent democratic election. Perhaps if
coalition forces handed out a nose hair clipper to
each Iraqi, the country would cease to be such a
shithole. Small stuff is the answer. If the Iraqis
want Bush out of their country, all they need to do is
trim their fucking nostrils.

WORDplay

My favorite pre-fix to attach to any word has alway been the word 'BUTT". For example, all of us consider the good ole' F Word to be a loyal and true friend. Through adding my cherished pre-fix however, BUTTFUCK creates an all together more powerful and juicy conotation. Uttering "fuck" is bascially an acceptable replacement for "wow". Yet most people will register a mild shock each time they hear BUTTFUCK expressed. BUTTFUCK is proactively specific and, in using it, one is not attempting to mince words. They want to be crystal clear in what they are trying to express. I would agrue that it is only a certain type of character who uses the word BUTTFUCK often, and while considered unique and courageous, these people make others slightly nervous and eventually stop getting invited to parties.

The grand-daddy of them all is BUTTHOLE. It is the most deceptively banal of all the BUTT prefixes, altogether commonplace yet joyfully disturbing at the same time. BUTTHOLE is a word who orgins are logical and obvious. Simply put, it refers to the hole in the middle of your BUTT. A normal mind chooses not to dwell on the word for too long however. Short visits are best. Every living creature on the planet rises and then goes to sleep in possesion of a BUTTHOLE daily. Yet, let's all face the facts, we are all a little scared of our BUTTHOLES aren't we? Our own BUTTHOLE forever remains an ominous portal into a dark world. Who really knows for sure what goes on just inside your BUTTHOLE? A more interesting question is, who wants to know? More individuals than we all care to acknowldege posses a forbidden curiosity about the BUTTHOLE and its frightening mysteries. Is it not fitting that Bin Laden, the world's most evil human, seems so at home within a cave? Why did the Lord of the Rings movies did so well at the box office. Think about BUTTHOLE allegory within popular culture: Land of the Lost, Yoda's swamp, Tom Hanks in Philadelphia. Dungeons and Dragons should just be called FUCKING LOVERS OF THE BUTTHOLE. Could it be that we are all searching, in our own terrified way, for our inner BUTTHOLES?

Summer's Eve

I have a date tonight.  Some chick I met on Match.  Her profile stated "slender" so I am hoping she won't be much more than 20 lbs overweight.  The current average for slender is 17 lbs.  Athletic and Toned=31 lbs+. Anyway, I just realized I am out of hair gel.  I have that type of hair that if you don't put something in it you are going to look like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber so I gots to go get me some pomade. 

 

Unfortunately I have to go to the Avenue C pharmacy which isn't far, but feels like an eternity when it is 11 degrees.  I bundle up and head over to the legal drug dealer.  As I am browsing thru the crowded aisles I spot "Summer's Eve".  I didn't know what it was exactly, but I knew it was some type of douche.  I came home and googled it - Here is the first text I read - "When vaginal odor or irritation keeps women from feeling their best" Hmm...  So my question is this; What genius marketer approved the name "Summer's Eve" for vaginal cleansing and odor removal?  When I think of a Summer Evening I get a visual of me at the beach as a kid around dusk.  You know one of these nights after a long day of doing nothing?  It's hot, you had a bean burrito for lunch, your sac is stuck to your leg, and you have been firing green smokers since 3.  A mere whiff of my taint would knock out a rhinoceros.

 

I know that I am a guy and I'm not the target market, but surely a woman's visuals are no better.  I've smelled some dousies myself...  Do you think a fat Puerto Rican summons the scent of daisies when she thinks of a 1989 summer bbq in Brooklyn?

 

I think I might bring this up on my date...