Archive for February, 2008


I’m in a bad way tonight. Earlier today some crazy chick in the gym must have mistaken my ‘how’s it going’ nod as a sign I wanted to engage in a conversation.

“I wish it would snow. Don’t you just love the snow?” she asked.

“No,” I answered.

I wanted to say, “I guess it’s okay the first couple of times, but I’m ready for spring you frickin’ psychopath. Why don’t you go over to the water cooler and pour yourself a nice cup of STFU?”

I’m sorry, but I’m a little on edge. I gave up fast food and self-gratification for Lent. The former hasn’t been so bad, but the latter was made more difficult after I caught a few minutes of Natalie Gulbis on the Golf Channel.

I would love to be her caddy. In fact, let’s record a video of me singing for the job. I’ll pull a Weird Al Yankmydick, and turn Toby Keith’s Who’s Your Daddy into Who’s Your Caddy? Or The Ramones’ I Wanna Be Sedated becomes I Wanna Be Your Caddy.

Any suggestions? Shoot me an email. I’m going to Burger King and rub one out on the way.

– Cunnilingus and psychiatry brought us to this. NSFW

– Nothing cheers me up more than a little McLovin. NSFW

I can’t control my fingers. I can’t control my brain. Oh no no no no no.

fat guy dive 

The other day I told a female friend that I wanted to lose some weight before pool season. “That’s what you said last year, but you were still fat,” she replied.

Good talk.

Her attempt at motivational speaking must have worked because I’ve decided to drop twenty pounds by May 3rd. I weighed in yesterday at a svelte 200. If I reach my goal, I should weigh…carry the one…180 on Derby Day. That’s still heavy for a jockey, but I’ve been banned from riding since the ’99 Preakness. I don’t want to talk about it.

Have you ever poured a fifth of rot-gut vodka into an empty Grey Goose bottle, and told your friends to help themselves?

Me neither.

– Time stands still at Grand Central Station. Thanks, Ken B. 

– What is it? Hill-Billy. Thanks, Mike K.

– The Clintons have a dream. Thanks, Freddie R.

Ask the Indians what happens when you don’t control immigration. Thanks, Doug O.

– It looks like someone forgot to courtesy flush. Thanks, Troy T.

– Jimmy Kimmel gets even with Sarah Silverman.

– New treatment for a black eye. Thanks, Mark K. NSFW

Pass the tanning butter.

no puking

Many SOB readers know Dani-girl from her numerous pictures. Few know that under certain circumstances, Abby enjoys making fun of Dani-girl’s words.

From wondering how the television works without cable to never hearing of Alka-Seltzer, there is our dear Abby, laughing at Dani-girl’s expense.

It seems the tables were turned over the weekend. They were out Saturday night celebrating Crystal’s birthday, and Abby was the designated driver. On the way home, Dani-girl mentioned that she was feeling sick.

Abby replied that she couldn’t pull over on the highway, but Dani-girl insisted that she had better pull off – sooner than later.

She pulled the car onto the left shoulder, and Dani-girl hung her head out the back door. A pile of snow covered most of the shoulder, so there they were – parked on the highway.

As Dani-girl purged her Captain and Cokes, Abby feverously hit every button and switch trying to locate the hazard lights. After the puking subsided, Abby got the car back up to speed and then…wait for it…noticed a cop in her rear view mirror.

She became increasingly concerned when she looked at the speedometer and it read “90.”

Fortunately the cop drove past them, but she was telling everyone in the car how fast she was going.

“You’re not going more than 50,” someone said.

The following day Abby called home and told her mom that the speedometer was broken. Her mom asked if she had accidentally switched the Miles Per Hour button to Kilometers. Not knowing what that was she went outside to check the car.

Needless to say, that fixed the problem. Abby was glad she had called home for advice because she was considering taking the car to a mechanic. What a conversation that would have been.

Why separate knob? Why separate knob?

One foot on the brake and one on the gas, hey!

older woman

I flew out of town yesterday, and have but one question for the airlines – Why can’t I listen to my MP3 player during the takeoff and landing?

It’s not like the thing is shooting out microwave frequencies. Crap, it’s nothing more than a tiny Walkman.

If I’m going to meet my demise in a fiery plane crash, I would rather be listening to Van Halen than a fat lady asking if she can have my peanuts.

A can of disinfectant in a bathroom caught my attention today. The label read, “Virucidal effective against Herpes Simplex I & II and the HIV (aids) virus.”

If this is true, why can’t I spray this stuff on my winkie instead of wearing a condom? I’m just asking…

We’re going to keep the SOB Store open through the weekend. Be sure to place your T-shirt order by Sunday night.

Somebody said, “Fair warning.” Lord, strike that poor boy down!

beat anorexia 

Last Sunday morning I typed the first line of Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ into a text message and sent it to 25 people. I was curious as to what type of replies I would get. Unlike an email, where all the recipients are listed, the people getting my text message would think it was sent only to them.

The responses ranged from a chick asking if I was lonely and wanted to come over to a guy who replied with lines from The Eagles’ James Dean. I was glad it wasn’t the other way around.

My grandma called over the weekend and said she was fed up with winter. I made a reference to Groundhog Day, and she told me that it used to fall on Valentine’s Day. I looked it up as we were talking, and sure enough, some places in Mississippi and Arkansas used to observe it on February 14th because it was closer to spring.

She remembered it changing to the traditional February 2nd date sometime around 1940 because her nephew was born two years earlier. She explained that when he came into this world, the doctor handed him to his mother and said, “There’s one groundhog that won’t be crawling back in its hole.”

Key…wait for it…lassic.

Speaking of Valentine’s Day, Tom sent the following email about a new holiday for men.

Every 14th of February you get the chance to display your fondness for your wife or girlfriend by showering her with gifts, flowers, dinner, shows and any other baubles that women find romantic.

Secretly… guys feel left out. That’s right… left out. There’s no special holiday for the ladies to show their appreciation for the men in their life. Men as a whole are either too proud or just too embarrassed to admit it. This is why a new holiday has been created.

March 20th is now officially ‘Steak, Blow job & Shut the Fuck Up Day.’

Simple, effective and self-explanatory…this holiday has been created so you ladies can have a day to show your man just how much you love him.

No cards, no flowers, no special nights on the town, the name of the holiday explains it all.

This twin pairing of Valentine’s Day and Steak, Blow job & Shut the Fuck Up Day will usher in a new age of love as men everywhere will try THAT much harder in February to ensure a more memorable March! It’s like a perpetual love machine.

The word is already spreading, but as with any new idea, it needs a little push to start the ball rolling.

So spread the word, and help bring love and peace to this crazy world.

“Some people walk the red carpet because they’re famous. I walk on toilet paper because I’m the shit.” Thanks, Crowe Dog.

Sports drink commercial. Thanks, Lance M.

– Bring on global warming.

– Valentine’s Day proposal goes wrong.

Just a small town girl, livin’ in a lonely world.


Several years ago I had a free Southwest Airlines ticket that expired at the end of February. The President’s Day weekend was the perfect excuse to get away for three days, and I settled on New Orleans.

After consuming several beers the night before I was scheduled to leave, I called the airline and changed my destination to Little Rock, Arkansas. And by Little Rock, I mean Oaklawn Park in Hot Springs. Sure, I could get hammered on Bourbon Street, but I could get just as drunk at the race track. And my weekend could be spent playing exacta boxes instead of trying to decide if the chick sitting next to me was actually a dude.

I landed in Little Rock around 10 AM, and paid a cabbie $75 to drive the 40 miles or so to the track. He stopped by his office to get his paycheck and said, “I think I might spend the day at the track myself.”


Saturday at the track was fairly uneventful. I made several trips to the windows in between beers, and managed to show a slight profit for the day. And then I stumbled back to the crap-hole of a motel where I was staying.

Now, I knew that my friends and family wouldn’t appreciate my change in destinations. So, whenever one of them would call, I would say something like, “Yeah, I’m drinking a Hurricane at Pat O’Brien’s.”

They were on a need-to-know basis, and certainly didn’t need to know I was spending the holiday weekend playing the ponies.

Before I left for the track on Sunday, I reserved a spot on a shuttle bus for the following morning. The shuttle would take me to the airport in Little Rock for $20 cash.

At the track, I got my ass handed to me early. Bombs were closing from the clouds and paying inflated prices. I made a trip to the cash shitter and withdrew the daily maximum amount.

By the time the tenth and final race came around, I had $60 left in my pocket. Common sense should have told me to hold back $20 for the shuttle ride. But I had a good feeling about the number seven horse – Vivid Reality.

I walked to the window and told the teller, “$30 to Win and Place on #7.”

As I made my way through the grandstand on the way outside, I wondered what in the hell I had just done. If the 3/2 chalk didn’t light the board, I would be hitchhiking to the airport.

And they’re off…

I couldn’t watch the race, so I lowered my head and listened intently to track announcer Terry Wallace. As the four year old and upward fillies and mares turned for home, he said the two words that every horseplayer wants to hear describing their horse – “drawing away.”

I cashed the ticket for a little over $100, and left the track. I thought about staying for the Santa Anita simulcast and the evening card from Southland Greyhound Park. But I decided against tempting fate. 

Besides, I needed to come up with some good stories from my weekend in New Orleans.

A little more action please.

driving miss hillary 

Driving Miss Hillary 

I lost the button on my favorite pair of Dockers pants today. It wasn’t a surprise. The little guy has been hanging on by a thread for months. I guess that’s what happens when you put the stress of a 37-inch waist into a pair of 36’s.

I bought a sewing kit before the holidays in anticipation of this day. But since I can’t sew, and without an English-speaking alteration store nearby, my favorite pants are just a $500 tax write-off to Goodwill.

– My buddy G-Man has been working out.

Naked pictures of Miley Cyrus, star of Hannah Montana, have been leaked on the internet.

Music comes on, people start to dance. But then you ate so much you nearly split your pants.

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