IÂ’ve had a bottle of Dom in my fridge since New YearÂ’s Eve. It was a leftover, of sorts, that has been waiting for a proper occasion. IÂ’ve been tempted several times since than but IÂ’ve held out.

And this morning I wake up to find that that goddamned, sub-human cockroach has been stamped out—sent to hell on the express train—courtesy of a couple of five hundred pound bombs. I haven’t been this happy since I discovered masturbation as a lad.

IÂ’ve never been one to celebrate death but there are a few exceptions, such as this one and that Serbian asshole and a handful of others. Well, quite a few others, I will admit. So tonight IÂ’ll pop the cork and celebrate the extermination of that fucking vampire. That maggot encrusted, shit-filled bag of diarrheatic pus.

Burn, baby, burn
Disco inferno
Burn, baby, burn
Burn that mutha down

Â….The Trammps, 1977

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:15 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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The other day I heard that the median I.Q is 100.

That scares the hell out of me. That means that one half of us have a double digit I.Q. No wonder everything is so jacked up.

They say that 100, plus or minus 10, indicates average intelligence. IÂ’m not so sure about that. Seventy-five is the beginning of retardation so IÂ’m not sure IÂ’d count ninety as average intelligence.

Where do you think people in the 75-90 range work? If youÂ’re thinking garbage men, or landscapers youÂ’d be wrong. My suggestion is to stand up and peer around the other cubes. Take a walk down the hall and get some water.

I rest my case.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:39 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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Talent is a funny thing. I know IÂ’ve talked about this before but my fascination hasnÂ’t subsided.

I don’t have a lot of ideas. I’m not what you would call “an idea man.” That doesn’t make me an idiot. I have a more than respectable job and a fancy title and a lot of responsibilities—far ranging responsibilities. I’ve come to the conclusion that the farther one moves up the corporate ladder the less specific their responsibilities become. And while I’m supposed to be running a lot of different things, what it really boils down to is that I am Winston Wolf.

"I'm Winston Wolf. I solve problems."
more...

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:53 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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ThereÂ’s nothing more fun than a couple of wiseasses pulling a Bill Nye.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:37 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Trust me on this one.

***Link Now Works***

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:44 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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I went to my kidÂ’s dance recital on Saturday. Four hours in all, of which she was on the stage a total of three minutes. I was medicated, but not nearly enough. Some of you might remember last yearÂ’s affair, where stuck in those small cramped seats I had to endure the smell of shit for several hours. This time wasnÂ’t much better.

YouÂ’re only allowed to leave the auditorium between dances and they had Gestapo posted at all the doors insuring the mandate was enforced. There were 45 individual songs/dances of which my kid participated in one, plus the finale. That guarantees the seats stay full to the end. My kid went on, like third, and then we had three more hours to kill before we could retrieve her. The trouble started early.

The idiots who were sitting next to us had set up camp and we had to get through them to get to the aisle. I sat in my seat with my camera and program on my lap. In contrast, the buttholes had four bouquets of flowers, a handful of programs and two backpacks all laid out on the floor at their feet. And I had to pee.

I held it until our kid was done and then we planned our exit to the bathroom. The problem was that between the dances they turned all the lights out completely. It was like being at the bottom of a well. YouÂ’d think that the red exit signs mandated by law would throw at least some light but youÂ’d be wrong. Also, the time between dances was like one minute, so you had to act fast.

The lights went off and I bolted up, carrying my shit with one hand and grabbing the old lady with the other. It was hopelessly dark…I really couldn’t see anything. I said, “Excuse me!” at the top of my voice, but the assholes sitting there didn’t bother to move. Again, “I said, excuse me!” Still nothing. I was standing there in the dark like a jackass and I’d had enough.

I started stomping through. The first thing I felt under my right foot was a bouquet of flowers. There was no room to walk normally so I had to side-shuffle, and in doing so felt my left foot smash the remains. Then I hit a backpack, but felt it lifted from my path, with a great sigh. Like I was putting these people out or something. “Excuse me!” I shouted again because I was trying to be polite, but he was still unrepentant as after moving the backpack he was just sitting back in his chair. The rest of his brood was just as useless. I plowed over more flowers, ice skated on his programs and stepped all over his feet. I got by him, but not before he took a head shot from the camera. He actually yelped when I clocked him. I was still dragging my wife by the hand so whatever I didn’t completely smash she surely did.

I heard her saying excuse me as well but these people just didnÂ’t get it. By the time we hit the aisle we had steamrolled over four people and their possessions. The doors were closed, the lights were up and we hadnÂ’t gotten out. I was standing to the side now and looked over at the assholes. They were watching the performance like nothing had happened. Smiling.

I could have beaten the whole family to death at that point and not lost any sleep. With the lights up I could see the damage weÂ’d done getting out. All the flower bouquets were completely destroyed. Flattened. The programs were torn up good and had giant, size twelve footprints on the remains. The best part was the giant bag of Cheetos that were completely and totally demolished, IÂ’m assuming by my wife, because I never felt them. Have you seen a big, stepped on bag of Cheetos recently? ItÂ’s quite a sight.

We stayed outside for about an hour and we knew we could ever return to our seats down front. We stayed up in the nosebleed section for the remainder where we had some room and could chat without disturbing others. It was a wholly miserable experience, save the three minutes of my kid. I wouldnÂ’t have missed that, and I though I pay a heavy price each year itÂ’s worth it.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:05 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I had a moment of clarity over the weekend while I was watching a commercial for what appears to be another cheesy talent show on fox. During the commercial, a guy took a flying leap and landed on his face, which got my attention. The show is called, “So you think you can dance?”

It came to me in a flash. I’d like to develop a show called, “So you think you can swear?”

Just think about the auditions. Brooklyn plumbers, Princeton frat boys, all branches of the military would probably be represented, et. al. Granted it would have to be on cable, but I think IÂ’m really on to something.

On a safer note, I’ll also be pitching, “So you think you can read?” because recent experience shows that few people actually can. I’m thinking the best part would be pitting small children against stupid adults.

Brilliant, huh?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:24 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Did you know that President Gerald R. Ford’s real name was Leslie Lynch King, Jr.? Because it was, and there was no way a guy named Leslie “Lynch King” was getting elected. That’s not why he changed it, but that’s beyond the scope of this shitty post.

On the other hand, a guy with a fairly normal name, Arnold Gerry Dorsey decided it was better to change it to Engelbert Humperdinck.

More here. You might need that someday.

Also, this just in.

I told you. I must have said it a hundred times.

I said, “Katharine McPhee has no charisma, and she looks like she’s in a daze.”

Well, my track record of spotting the insane at a glace has once again been proved accurate. Now it turns out that there may be a brainwashing cult behind the blank look.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:04 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Which of these things are not like the others?

Fireman
Policeman
EMT
Teacher
Star of “Ocean’s Thirteen”

HereÂ’s a harder one:

Which of these things are not like the others?

Tinkerbell
Santa Clause
Global Warming
Tooth Fairy
Internal Revenue Service

HereÂ’s an even harder one:

Who the fuck is Kevin Federline?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:16 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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