The Prostitute Post

The other day I was browsing this website that shows all the prostitutes and prostitute customers caught for the last 3 months or something. This is a helpful tool because it allows me to openly mock people from the comfort of my own computer, and also to look for family members.

What has become readily apparent to me is that there are no real hookers that look like Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman. More often than not they look more like Richard Gere, if Richard Gere was an obese black woman with no teeth and a gerbil stuck up his butt. Good lordy, I can't believe someone would actually pay to have sex with these people. I wouldn't let them scrub my bathroom, let alone place my weiner in their innards.

I'll take it one step further. I would rather masturbate with fire than pay for one of these prostitutes. In fact, they should be paying me for having to look at their mugshot. Ish.

Anyway, all these prostitutes seem to congregate in the Frogtown neighborhood of St Paul, which seems stupid, because even the most casual pervert knows that's where they are, and so do the cops. So when the cops run out of things to do, like setting up speed traps, and putting on their sirens to go through red lights to get to Wendy's faster, they probably just say, "Hey Bruce, let's go over to Frogtown and arrest some ugly prostitutes!"

I also heard that the police shot a bear wandering around in Frogtown the other day. The cops were probably there arresting prostitutes at the time.

Cop 1: You're under arrest for being an ugly, 240 lb prostitute. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law, and we might taser you for sport.

Cop 2: Holy shit Harry, is that a bear?

Cop 1: Nah, it's probably just a hairy prostitute.

Cop 2: Can we shoot it?

Cop 1: The bear or the prostitute?

So they went over and shot the bear before he could scare away all the prostitutes, thus solving two problems at once.

To sum up, if you ever see me wandering around Frogtown with a large woman with questionable morals, and a hearty appetite for crack, you will know that I have officially gone blind.

The Christmas Card Tradition

Every year since I was about 7, it has been an annual tradition, usually the day after Thanksgiving, to get together as a family, and go shopping for Christmas trees. Over the years the players have been added and subtracted (my Grandma slipped on some ice and fell, cigarette first, into a tree so she stopped going), but the tradition has withstood the test of time.

A newer tradition that piggybacked off this old tradition, is that now, before we have located our trees, my mother insists that we take a family picture that most likely winds up as the Christmas card picture that she sends out. If anyone balks at this idea my mom sulks, grumbles, and recklessly flings lemons at people until we all relent, smile unconvincingly, and then go back to the business of deciding which tree will constantly poke me and lose all it's needles in the living room in the next month.

The biggest impediment to the whole picture business is that each year we have to find a stranger to take the picture, and each year the stranger is invariably a toothless farmer, hand picked by my mom. I have no idea why she has such an affinity for toothless farmers germing up her camera, but I also have no idea where my dog's tongue goes when he closes his mouth. It's just one of those mysteries.

It's really simple to tell who's going to get picked to take the picture, because generally speaking, there's only about 1 toothless farmer in any given crowd, unless you're at a small town fair, in which case toothless farmers ask you to take their picture. I just run down the line of people.

Me: Hmm, normal, normal, toddler, wheelchair-bound, dog, guy with weird hat, pervert, normal, normal, llama, normal, morbidly obese, Me, Santa Claus, normal, missing arm, normal, missing eyes, normal, normal, ah-hah!!! A toothless farmer!!

Then begins the process of summoning the toothless farmer...

Mom: Saaaayyy???
(Side note: She never says "Hey" or "Excuse Me". It's always "Saaaayyy??". This applies to waiters too.)

Mom: Toothless Farmer? Say, toothless farmer? Will you take our picture you toothless farmer you?

Toothless Farmer: Dadgummit!

So then the toothless farmer, wearing bib overalls, and covered in farmer dirt, shuffles over, and my mom tries to show him which button to push to take the picture, but the toothless farmer shoos her away because he has a media center in his silo, and he knows how to take a dadgum picture, dadgummit!

Then we all squish together and smile, and my mom wants the toothless farmer to take about 8 pictures, just in case one of my kids is picking boogies, or staring at the dirt or something. I think it's rather remarkable, that after all these years, none of the toothless farmers has just shoved the camera down his underpants and walked the other direction. "Zippedy Doo, got me a dadgum camera!" You gonna try to extract a camera from a toothless farmer's underpants? I, for one, am not.

So that's our tradition. I figure, now that it's in the public domain, toothless farmers will flock by the tractor full over to my mom's house. After all, they want their recompense for all the pictures over the years, Dadgummit!!

Brian Picks His Nose

Since being candid and open is one of the things people seem to like about me, let me offer up this: Sometimes I still pick my nose all the time.

Remember in Elementary School there was always one kid who was constantly picking his nose, and then some other kid would catch him doing it and say, "Yuck, he's picking his nose!!" And the nose picking kid would always claim that he was just "itching" the inside of his nose. That kid was me. Occasionally the inside of my nose actually did itch, but not very often.

You know why I picked my nose then and still pick it now? Because there are boogers in there, and they don't belong. They're these little freeloaders, and occasionally they just fall right out of your nose for no good reason, usually when you're doing something important, like interviewing for a job, or trying to trick a girl into letting you hump her. It's much harder to trick a girl into letting you hump her if she thinks rogue boogedies might be randomly ejecting out of you.

My friend Matt taught me the value of having a "booger-pickin'-finger". It's usually your pinkie, so it fits in your nostril, and you let the nail grow a little longer on it for better scooping ability. Just so happens I broke my booger-pickin'-finger in college playing football in study hall (don't ask) and it didn't heal properly, so now it has a little curve to it, which makes it even more effective, a deluxe model if you will.

So if you ever see me driving down the road with my pinkie finger shoved far up my nose, you can take comfort in the fact that I'm engaging in an act of efficient elimination of boogies. And I'm not eating them...

A Valuable Teaching Tool For Children

The other day I was playing some sort of derivative of football with my son, although it was inside, I was sitting on the couch fiddling around on my Ipad, and he was in his underpants. Cleverly, I named this game "Underpants Couch Football." Basically the game is him throwing a small football as hard as he can at me and then me throwing it back while he skitters around in his underpants like Marky Mark.

Anyway, in this one instance he wouldn't throw the ball back to me. He thought it was really clever to continuously pump fake me and then bounce around. Frustrated I yelled, "Shit, I got me enough money to buy me a hundred balls!" He looked at me funny. That's when it occurred to me that he was 6 and had never seen "Boyz n the Hood" and so he didn't know what I was talking about. I felt bad for him. Because "Boyz n the Hood" can teach a 6 year old all sorts of valuable lessons like:

1.) Don't ever bring your football anywhere.

2.) If you do bring your football somewhere, and if a bunch of gang members want your football, you should give it to them, because even if you think they're just going to keep it, the big one wearing his shirt as a hat will eventually give it back, because you know somebody would eventually knock over a 40.

3.) If you see a dead body laying in an alley that has been there a long time, don't bother him, because he's not bothering you. Even if it smells like a dog died

4.) If your friend gets arrested for stealing, you won't see him again until you're 17 and he's Ice Cube

5.) To get a baby all you have to do is find a girl, stick your thing in her, and 9 months later a baby comes out

6.) If your mom calls you a "fat fuck", it's a term of endearment

7.) If you wear a football jersey all the time, USC recruiters will come to your house when you're older, even if your house is in a horrible part of town and there are drive-by shooters (with wheelchairs and pacifiers) on your porch.

8.) If you rake up all 14 leaves in your tiny yard, it will take you until it's dark, but then your dad will take you fishing. As long as he's only 8 years older than you.

9.) When people try to rob your house, you will get startled and pee on your pajama bottoms

10.) We're all from Africa. And we're all African Booty Scratchers.

So it's settled. Instead of Barney, or Phineas and Ferb, or any of that other drivel, Miles and I will be watching Boyz n the Hood tonight. If you have kids, you might want to get on the bandwagon and do this too, because pretty soon people will be jumping on this idea like a fat girl on a hotcake trampoline.

The Not-So-Funny Pubic Hair Joke

I was in a public restroom the other day, and I walked into a stall and there was a bunch of pubic hair laying everywhere. It was obvious that some sort of frenzy had happened in there. You know when cats or birds have a prolonged fight, and then afterward there's a big clump of fur or feathers, and even if you didn't see it, you know you're at the site of a battle. It was like that. Somebody was dick fighting!

Anyway, I left that bathroom in a hurry, just in case the dick fighters came back. I didn't want to get caught in the middle of that.

It reminded me of this time in 9th grade. It was actually the 1st day of 9th grade, and back then I was an even goofier looking, less confident version of my current self. The very first class I had was a Math class, probably something like Algebra I. The first thing we did in Algebra I was receive a syllabus and our math books. The math books we received were several years old, and had been passed down from the last Algebra class. So I opened my math book to try to ascertain how hard high school math was going to be, and I was flipping through the pages. I got to one page and almost shrieked like a sissyboy. There was a big pile of pubes in my math book. So there I was, 10 minutes into my high school career, and somehow I had gotten the pube book. It was fairly obvious that somebody had chopped off a large portion of their pubes, shoved them into the math book, and shut the book, knowing full well that eventually somebody else would open the book, see the pubes and maybe shout, "Yarrgh! Pubes!"

Since I was a little too shy to shout, "Yarrgh! Pubes!" I just shut the book and felt uncomfortable about high school until the period ended. When the period ended, I figured I had to do something. I couldn't, in good conscience, stick a book into my locker with somebody else's pubes in it. That would have been weird. So, I sheepishly walked over to my teacher and said, "Excuse me sir, I need a different book. This one has pubes." Not surprisingly, the teacher looked at me like I had 3 heads. Then he saw the pubes and was equally horrified, and I could tell that he was trying to figure out if I could have possibly smuggled in a bag of my own pubes and stuck them in the book. I think he must have determined that that was an unlikely scenario, so he just gave me another book, but sufficed to say my high school days were off to a bizarre start. I never did find out who's pubes they were, which is odd, because I had figured that eventually I'd hear somebody saying, "HAHAHA, I stuck pubes into a math book once," and then I would punch that person in the crotch.

So, in case anybody knows who did it, I got the pube book and I was not amused!

A Time to be Thankful

Being that the Thanksgiving season is upon us I thought I would give an incomplete list of the things I am thankful for this holiday season. In no particular order I am thankful for:

1.) My family
2.) My dog who chews his foot constantly so that it may eventually be amputated
3.) My other dog who protects us from garbage trucks and 13 year olds
4.) The female buttocks
5.) Turkeys (because they hang out on the railroad tracks and eat gravel)
6.) Other turkeys (because I eat them and get sleepy)
7.) Whale blowholes
8.) My penis
9.) The garbage man for taking my garbage (because I don't know what I would do with it otherwise)
10.) Fantasy Football (For making Sundays fun even when the Vikings are gay homosexuals)
11.) Random Debris
12.) Being able to see
13.) Being able to wear pants
14.) Being able to see that others are wearing pants
15.) Rhioceri
16.) Monkeys, as long as they are flinging poo
17.) That time when I found 5 bucks in the grass
18.) My scrotum
19.) My other scrotum
20.) My neighbor who screams obscenities at his wife while doing yard work
21.) This pig I saw on the internet with giant balls
22.) Public urination
23.) Unicorn meat (especially Unicorn Noodle Soup)
24.) The fact that I haven't zipped my weiner into my zipper in nearly a year
25.) The fact that I don't have a giganticly disproportionate or misshapen ass
26.) Any dance that has "extreme pelvic thrust" as one of it's moves
27.) Andre the Giant
28.) Ghetto Fabulous sunglasses found in the ashtray at Menards
29.) Areolas that aren't way huge like Kate Winslet's
30.) The Minnesota Valkyrie (even the no talent hoes riding the pine)
31.) Gay people who don't talk about butt sex in casual conversation
32.) Nymphomaniacs who live near me
33.) Morning farts
34.) The fact that I never get a boner while sprinting
35.) The fact that I never got arrested for stealing condoms because I was too embarrassed to buy them.
36.) Kangaroo pouches
37.) The fact that my nipples are symmetrical
38.) My yard, for being at the bottom of a hill, so I can watch out my window and root for cars to crash when it's slippery
39.) My kids for learning to whistle, and then sounding like foghorns running out of batteries because they can't whistle a tune.
40.) The word "crotch"
41.) Occupy "insert city here" for making me feel like less of a loser
42.) Cat burglars
43.) Fully charged riding carts at the grocery store
44.) Kumquats
45.) The City of Kansas City.
46.) When I saw a dildo in the sewer one time.
47.) This sparkly platypus from my dreams
48.) Anybody who's last name is "Orgasm"
49.) People who mispronounce the word "chipotle"
50.) Sacajawea dollars
51.) This guy at the gym who admitted that he had a "chapped buns"
52.) Anybody who puts crack in their salad
53.) The fact that I can pee longer if I drink a big glass of water while peeing
54.) Tortoises
55.) Flapjacks
56.) The endocrine system
57.) Pooping while running at full speed.

As I've mentioned, this is not a "complete" list. For the full list, please contact the records department of the St. Ignatius Home for the Partially Insane. Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving!

Brian is a PH'er

I have a much better story to tell than this one. It's called "The Night of Quick Escalation in Kansas City" but for now I have been asked not to put that one in written form, but I gotta tell a frickin' story so here is one...

When I was in college I had this acquaintance. For argument's sake, we'll call him Jeremy. Jeremy was one of those kids who hadn't completely finished going through puberty when he got to college, so he was a gangly mess of arms and legs, kind of like a newborn deer. As time went on though, he eventually grew into his body a little and developed a little confidence and starting trying to mack on girls and stuff.

Anyway, one night I was out at the bar with friends, enjoying a few refreshments, and then a few more, and even a few more and pretty soon I really had to take a whiz. I was disappointed to notice that all the bathrooms were in use. This sucked. I thought about peeing outside, but didn't want to get arrested for public urination, so I pee-pee danced over to this little used bathroom in the other room of the bar. When I busted in, penis already out of my pants, there was Jeremy making out with a really unattractive girl. He was not pleased to see me.

Him: Jensen, go find another bathroom!

Me: No way, I'm whizzin' now. Go french that girl someplace else.

Him: Jensen, dude, why you gotta PH me man? Why you gotta PH me?

In this case "PH" stood for "Player Hate", which was one of those stupid phrases that stupid people used back in the stupid late 90's.

He was a lot more upset than I had anticipated, and unleashed a string of profanities at me, and some more references to PH'ing. I just shook my head and peed. All this hubbub over an ugly girl.

About 2 weeks later Jeremy had a party over at his house. His house was about 200 feet away from mine, and it was South Dakota, so really, what else was there to do, so I went to the party. I walked in rather inconspicuously with about 3 other guys, but I must have set off his PH radar because he yelled (from a different room)

"Hey, look who's here. You gonna PH me again tonight, you fucking PH'er!" I realize how absurd what he said sounded, but for some reason, that night it made me really angry. So I sat over by the keg and drank beer and silently fumed for a while. I also stared at some girl butts, because that's kind of my M.O.

After about 45 minutes of angry drinking, I had to go to the bathroom. I passed by Jeremy as I headed towards the bathroom and he was chatting up some dorks and talking about the relentless PH'ing he faced on a daily basis. When I got in the bathroom, I noticed a pile of his dirty clothes laying in a bin on the floor, so I did the most logical thing I could think of. I peed all over his clothes.

During a night of consistent beer drinking, I had to pee approximately every 18 minutes. (I knew this because I had timed it several times, and it was pretty much like clockwork.) I was at the party for about 3 more hours, so in total, I probably peed on his clothes 11 times. By the end the clothes were totally saturated and there was visible standing urine in there. It was kind of gross.

So, I guess he was right. I was PH'ing him, if PH'ing means "peeing" in his "hamper". Repeatedly. I'm not really proud of this, but I can't change the past, so be it. The next afternoon he walked over to our house and was lamenting about the fact that someone had urinated all over his dirty clothes.

I just shook my head. Stupid PH'ers.