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SOME WORDS OF WISDOM

you don't have to wash your hands after you piss, but always run the sink so everyone will think you did. .... if she screams "oh god, yes!" she's faking. no woman actually screams "oh god, yes!" when she has an orgasm. .... never call black people niggers. not even as a joke. .... i heard you can always tell if a guy's gay by looking at his dick. .... i don't care if she works at stanley steemer or not, never call a lesbian a carpet-cleaner. .... call me old-fashioned, but i still think the best part about killing puppies is watching their expressions. .... next time she says "tell me when," come in her mouth on purpose. .... whoever said "it's all pink on the inside" never got stoned and fucked a jar of peanut butter. .... if you can't seem to lose weight, try starving yourself or throwing up after meals. it works. ______________________________________________________________

SANDWICH VS. BURGER - SOMEONE HAD TO ACT

you know i don't use real names in posts that are critical, so let's just say that the following involves a popular restaurant chain known as scooby newsday. okay, okay, it's ruby tuesday, and this is some fucked-up shit, all right? now before you read on, take a hit off your pipe or do whatever the fuck it is you do to prepare yourself for shit like this. okay, ready? let's begin. .... first things first, when's the last time you've been to ruby tuesday? have you seen the new menu? if not, check it out at http://www.rubytuesday.com. and make sure, and this is IMPORTANT, that you click "ruby's '30' famous burgers." .... the following e-mail was sent to ruby tuesday's corporate headquarters in maryville, tennessee: "To Whom It May Concern: My name is Jim Safford, and I am deeply troubled and disturbed by a recent incident at a Ruby Tuesday restaurant in Tallahassee, Florida. My girlfriend and I went to Ruby Tuesday to enjoy a nice dinner before I had to leave town, and to say that we were shocked and appalled at what awaited us there would be an understatement of incalculable proportions. Lives were changed that day. And two innocent souls will never be the same again. .... Of course I'm speaking of our reaction to your new menu, and more specifically to the new menu items listed under the heading, "Ruby's '30' Famous Burgers." At first we were quite impressed! THIRTY burgers?! That's alot! And we perused the first section, "Adventurous Steak Burgers," and we were honestly quite taken aback by how many different things you came up with to put on a hamburger! Great job! .... Then we moved on to "Exotic Burgers!" Hell yeah! A bison burger?! I love it! My girlfriend and I were already talking about how Ruby Tuesday was going to take over the world with its new "Ruby's '30' Famous Burgers" menu! I mean, how could we not! Pouring queso on a turkey burger? Brilliant! The "Exotic Burgers" section looked like something your best stoner buddy would come up with while he was raiding your fridge and scraping resin out of a Sprite can. .... And then... it happened. We got to the section entitled "Gourment Chicken Breast Burgers." Eh? And we read some of the items. "Hickory Chicken Burger?" "Chicken Parmesan Burger?" "Crispy Chicken Club Burger?" We wondered, "Did Ruby Tuesday start serving fried chicken patties, like we used to get in the school cafeteria?" .... "And wait a minute," I interjected, "where the hell's my Buffalo & Bleu Chicken Sandwich? And what's a... Buffalo & Bleu... Chicken Burger? Is it a.... Wait, it IS a chicken breast, not a patty? But... why is.... And why do they call it.... What... the... fuck?" .... After composing ourselves, my girlfriend and I figured out what was going on. Every sandwich Ruby Tuesday had ever offered was now being called... a burger? But why? A burger isn't a sandwich - it's short for hamburger. Duh. It's a patty made of ground meat. And a chicken burger isn't a chicken sandwich. It's a patty made of ground chicken meat. Who at Ruby Tuesday Corporate Headquarters in Tennessee didn't get this? The subheading under "Gourmet Chicken Breast Burgers" reads, "You may call them chicken sandwiches, but we call them chicken burgers!" Well, to that person, let me just say that if that is the case, then you are a fucking idiot. .... I'd like to know who came up with this. And I'd like to know right now. Please respond ASAP with the name of the person responsible for this. I mean, seriously, what the fuck is next? "Would you like to try our new Salad Bar Burger?" "Would you care for a refill on your Diet Coke Burger?" "Our most popular appetizer is our new Fried Mozzerella Stick Burgers!" I pray this person is retarded. .... To the underpaid shmuck reading this e-mail, please remember that the person I'm asking to hear from probably makes alot more than you do. He probably pisses on your paycheck before wiping his ass with your hopes and dreams, while his little shit of a kid coasts toward a free ride at Soccer Prick U. Oh, and he probably refers to you and your co-workers as burgers. .... So please make sure this gets forwarded ASAP. Thank you for your time, and I look forward to hearing from someone very soon. .... A concerned shareholder, Jim Safford" .... well, no one replied to my e-mail, so i got on the phone and was able to get all the way up to the director of marketing for ruby tuesday, sarah blacker. well anyway, i told her i had some comments about the new menu, and i asked her who i should forward these to, and she was like, "oh perfect, send those to me!" i politely thanked her, and after we hung up, i forwarded the e-mail to sblacker@rubytuesday.com. no response. so i e-mailed her again, and i finally received this response from a cynthia ackerman. .... "Jim, Thank you for taking the time to write and for your patronage of Ruby Tuesday. I apologize for the delay in getting an answer. It's called a burger because it's on a burger bun. Guest satisfaction is our #1 priority here at Ruby Tuesday and because of this, we base all of our menu decisions on feedback just like yours. I will pass along your comments as we plan our future menus. Our goal is to keep you coming back for more. I thank you again for your time and should you have further comments or questions, don't hesitate to contact me. .... Thank you, Cynthia Ackerman, Culinary Support" .... hmm. interesting. then i finally got a response from sarah blacker, now the second idiot to weigh in on this. .... "Hi Jim, Thank you for taking the time to follow up with me.... This twist in the words is all about having a bit of fun - we are amplifying the flavor and taking the presentation to the next level. We are excited about all of the choices now available to our guests & we hope you will visit us again soon! .... Sincerely, Sarah Blacker, Director of Marketing" .... bizarre, right? sarah's e-mail was even dumber than cynthia's. what are they smoking at ruby tuesday's headquarters? crack burgers? seriously, this is the strangest shit i've read since a few years ago when some girl named elizabeth smart passed me a note at denny's. ("oh, your parents think you're dead? no no, i won't tell!") .... but anyway, obviously i had to reply to these two, not only to figure out the TRUTH behind the "sandwich vs. burger" scandal, but also to figure out exactly what percentage of each of these ladies' skulls was filled with human excrement. .... "Dear Ms. Ackerman and Ms. Blacker: Thank you both for your, well, not prompt responses, but thank you for your responses nonetheless. Ms. Ackerman has instructed me to "not hesitate" in sending further comments and questions, and it just so happens that i have a few more of both. (Thank you for the invitation, Ms. Ackerman - i do hope it's "Ms." Ackerman.) ;) No no, I'm kidding! .... I just don't get why you call them chicken burgers! They're not burgers! They're sandwiches! Fucking sandwiches! Right? Ms. Ackerman says they're - let's cut the bullshit formality, right? - Cynthia says they're called burgers because they're on a hamburger bun. On what planet does that make any fucking sense at all? If I take a dump on a hamburger bun, would that make it a shit burger? No! It would be a piece of shit on a hamburger bun! And if someone were to eat it, I promise you the asshole next to him would call it a shit sandwich! .... Sarah says that the "twist in the words is all about having a bit of fun." What! A bit of fun? Sawing a baby in half is a bit of fun - twisting the words "sandwich" and "burger" is FUCKED-UP! What's the matter with you people? What else is fun at Ruby Tuesday Corporate Headquarters? Sodomizing a cactus? Playing catch with an HIV-infected syringe? Painting yourself with the blood of children's corpses while crying out, "I'm cuckoo for cocoa puffs?" Seriously, what is wrong with you people? Because I think you need some serious fucking help. .... Please reply to this e-mail ASAP, and forward it to your superiors. I expect to hear from them too. This is far from over. .... Jim Safford" .... it's over. i'm banned from e-mailing anyone at ruby tuesday now, and they won't return my calls. why does this always happen to me? obviously, i hoped to accomplish more with this, but once again i let my emotions get the better of me, and i apparently hurt the feelings of two innocent retards. you know what though? i think a seed has been planted here. and if cynthia's not bullshitting, if ruby tuesday actually does base all their menu decisions on feedback *just like mine* *giggle*, i'll bet you changes are coming. especially since i'll also bet that they've gotten feedback from exactly one person on this. but hey, someone had to act.
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MONDAY NIGHTS

i'm pretty sure "monday nights" is a term much like "fight club." rule number 1: don't talk about monday nights. rule number 2: don't talk about monday nights. well, i honestly forget if there was a rule number 3 in fight club, but i'm finally prepared to break rules number 1 and 2. and please, after i've told you this story, don't talk about monday nights. (names have been changed to protect the very, very guilty.) .... the "monday nights" i speak of, and more than likely the monday nights that at least some of you have heard of, took place at [address deleted for the safety of its current inhabitants - though "safety first" was never an adage on monday nights]. the monday nights started innocently enough as nights when most of the people in my close network of friends had the night off (and who eventually took the night off when necessary) would come over to my townhouse and drink and then drink some more and then eventually get totally trashed and watch the week's episode of wwe's monday night raw. actually, it started with just me, stan, and sloosh. but eventually, slick and persephone would join. and then sarah and handrew and scorin. and then shames and ram. salamanda and chuckles would sometimes pop in. but always there was me, stan, and sloosh. and this is where our story begins. .... during the early monday nights, we would simply WATCH wrestling. stan was new to the sport, but as my still unchallenged theory states, it never takes long for the perfect mix of alcohol and professional wrestling to find its way into any unsuspecting person's heart. but anyway, i'm pretty sure it wasn't until the three whitest white guys in america decided to start drinking forties on monday nights that things started to turn ugly. white people reading this - a.k.a., all of you: have you ever had a forty? seriously? try one. but be warned: it really is liquid crack. and we did the whole thing, kept the bottles in the paper bag, poured the first little bit out for our fallen homeys (of which we knew exacly none), and basically, got so fucked-up that wyatt sexton would have blushed. and of course the shots of jim beam and glasses of cheap wine and andre champagne and beer and whatever the hell else we could find scattered around the townhouse didn't hurt the cause at all. monday nights started to get crazy. not the kind of crazy where you find popular guys hanging out with hot girls, snorting cocaine off their tits and engaging in spectacular and perverse orgies. it was the kind of crazy you can have when you don't know anyone like that. and before we knew it, we were jumping off couches, and putting each other in headlocks, and punching and slapping each other across the chest, and screaming "woooo!" and knocking over expensive lamps and other expensive things. and we realized quite suddenly that wwe's "don't try this at home" ads aren't aimed at childish, immature teenagers - they're aimed at childish, immature adults. and we ignored those ads more thoroughly than jessica lunsford's curfew. and this is when it started to get dangerous. (to be continued. next up: the adventures of satanta and hitler bear.)
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THE ADVENTURES OF SATANTA AND HITLER BEAR

(pre-requisite: 06/17/2005 - MONDAY NIGHTS.) monday nights would eventually introduce us to two very, umm, peculiar individuals. one such individual was satanta. satanta showed up at the door one night, short and stout, bowl full of jelly and all that shit (though we would eventually discover that satanta was quite hollow), and well, covered with blasphemous names and symbols that would make charles manson cry. when i first laid eyes on satanta, i immediately thought that armageddon had arrived and that the beast had risen to conquer the earth. but as luck would have it, rumors quickly spread that satanta was simply a big Christmas ornament that someone had unwisely left outside in front of their trailer during a particularly mischievious Christmas season. no one knew where the blasphemous marks had come from, though a handful of dull sharpies appearing around the townhouse quickly led us to believe that it was an inside job. it wasn't me, i swear. .... as scary as satanta was, he looked like pikachu's cute little electric dick next to hitler bear when he arrived. hitler bear was the pure image of evil. though on the surface he looked like a giant, cuddly teddy bear that maybe someone's girlfriend would buy for her stupid wrestling fan of a boyfriend, further inspection of that surface would reveal that yasser arafat was a bigger fan of jewish people. he wore a sharpied-on jersey numbered 666 (again, i swear it wasn't me! seriously!), and he was covered with offensive symbols and remarks that made john rocker's sports illustrated article look like a goofus and gallant comic in highlights magazine. hitler bear was NOT cool. but he was accepted, as everyone was, on monday nights. .... fortunately, for the health of every monday night participant who actually breathed and had a life to lead the next morning, it soon became apparent that it was much safer to wrestle satanta and hitler bear than it was to wrestle another human combatant. they let us perfect our moves. satanta didn't call you a "fucking asshole" when you accidently drew blood. hitler bear didn't get "way too fucking serious" when you almost broke his arm on a coffee table. these guys were cool. they didn't drink your alcohol, and they didn't tell you to stop when you could hear the bones in their legs breaking from a figure-four leglock. they always let you win, and they never called you a pussy when you let your feet hit first when performing a flying elbow drop. satanta and hitler bear were our friends. and because we were still relative innocents, with no mind to judge the beliefs and views of others, they would soon take us to the hell from which they came. (to be continued. next up: the table spot.)
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THE TABLE SPOT

(pre-requisites: 06/17/2005 - MONDAY NIGHTS, 06/18/2005 - THE ADVENTURES OF SATANTA AND HITLER BEAR.) stan's a great guy. stan has immortalized me. to this day, stan tells stories of monday nights when i'd let him push thumbtacks into my back. when i'd let him throw me into the neighbors' thorny bush that i just happened to be highly allergic to. when i'd let him talk me into doing crazy things like jumping off of people's cars into huge piles of trash. yes, the jim you thought you knew was the jim that stan one night decided would become his puppet of the extreme. and yes, it was the talking-me-into-doing-crazy-things that would lead to the ultimate monday night moment. .... it was a glass table. it was a circular table surrounded by a metal frame, and the metal reached down to form the four legs on which it stood. technically, it was our dining room table. but we never dined at the table. hell, we didn't dine anywhere in the townhouse, because the townhouse was basically the place where you met on monday nights, drank yourself to oblivion, and finally recovered just in time to realize that it was monday night again, and the horrible cycle repeated itself. .... sloosh was the "voice of reason" on this night. and i must tell you that anytime you discover that sloosh is the "voice of reason," you're too far gone to hold hope of anything good happening. .... sloosh insists to this day that he tried to stop me. and i admit that i have some recollection of his efforts. but unfortunately, they weren't enough. let's put it this way: stan had a butcher knife (i wish i was making this up), and he was physically threatening sloosh to stay out of my way. and of course i was already perched on the counter top with hitler bear laying prone on the glass table. i extended my arms skyward. i inhaled the deep breath. it was time. the last thing i heard before crashing thru hitler bear and the glass table was sloosh screaming "noooo!" followed by stan's enthusiastic chant of "holy shit! holy shit!" i was a superstar. my destiny had finally been realized. .... i'm no fucking scientiest, but i would consider it pretty fucking amazing that the glass didn't shatter. unfortunately however, my journey thru the racist teddy bear, glass table, bent metal, and alternating screams of horror and praise led me to the tile floor kinda head-first. i was hurting. and despite all this effort i'd put into finally beating hitler bear, i couldn't move a muscle to pin him, and the next thing i know, hitler bear was laying on top of me (with the help of outside interference, i suspect), and i was covered once again for the 1-2-3. .... the match had ended, and i was still hurting. i could have been rosie o'donnell, and sloosh could have been holding my third triple chocolate fudge sundae of the night, and i still coudn't have found the energy to get up. i just wanted to die. and i was somewhere around 90% sure that i already had. but alas, the only white light i saw was stan bending over above me to moon me. life sucks sometimes. life really sucks when you've just had your ass handed to you by a teddy bear with a hard-on for killing jews, and the only thing you can reach up to hold onto is a nutsack hanging down from the heavens to greet you. .... monday nights were alot of things. and many stories have not been told in this blog. stories that can never be told. stories that you wouldn't want to know, i assure you. but yet, as i stated in an earlier blog, i will always miss the monday nights. i'll miss the camaraderie. i'll miss the laughter. hell, i'll miss the drinking. but most of all, i'll miss being a part of something special. monday nights were special. you know that part of your life that you look back on and think, "man, those were the best days of my life?" well, monday nights were those days for me. and i'll never forget them as long as i live.
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ALL DOGS GO TO HELL

the following is a very traumatic story from my childhood. readers beware: this is fucked-up. some of you will question institutionalized religion. and though i have no problem with the church or religion or being institutionalized, i do have a problem with what happened to me and about a hundred of my peers on one dark sunday morning many years ago. .... i was in second grade. and i was heading to sunday school on this dark day when i was redirected to a room where basically everyone from like pre-school to second grade was meeting in one room because - well, i don't know why exactly, i guess a bunch of sunday school teachers were sick or cracked out or something - but anyway, they corralled us into this room, and once we were all seated and settled, a husband-and-wife team got up in front of us and introduced themselves as the week's substitute sunday school teachers for the entire group. .... they were your average run-of-the-mill husband and wife that you'd expect to find at any southern baptist church. the male was clearly the dominant figure, allowing the female to speak only when necessary. the male's shirt was freshly ironed and buttoned properly, and the female would have had to have wrapped a towel around her head to dress more conservatively. and the male possessed all the eery charm of a child molester, while the female had the crippled aura about her that suggested maybe she had known just a few too many in her youth. .... after song time and prayer time and say-hello-to-the-little-shit-next-to-you time, it was finally the woman's turn to speak. woman: "good morning everyone!" everyone: (ad lib) "good morning!" "hi!" "hello!" woman: "how is everyone today?" everyone: (ad lib) "fine!" "good!" "great!" woman: "well, we have kind of a sad story to start with today." everyone: (complete silence.) .... if i hadn't been an innocent, naive second-grader, and instead were the mature, cynical asshole that i am today, i would have known right at this point that things were about to turn ugly. ignorance is not always bliss. test this the next time you think you're turning on nick-at-nite to watch cosby, and it turns out it's that stupid cartoon with the black people. .... the woman told the sad story: "well kids, yesterday our family's puppy died." can you believe this is how her story STARTS? right?! tears were already welling up in every child's eyes, and i promise that if i'd known the words at the time, i would have stood up and said out loud, "seriously lady, where the fuck are you going with this?" but i was innocent and naive, and so her story continued: "yes, it was really sad, but our puppy died this week. and our son was crying, and he was so sad, and he asked us - " she breaks away for a second. she seems troubled, but she looks to the male, and he nods for her to continue. "he asks us, 'mommy, daddy - do dogs go to heaven when they die?'" and the woman addresses the silent and quivering crowd of mouth-breathers and asks, "what do you think everyone? do dogs go to heaven when they die?" of course the restrained but confident answer of the group was, "yes." but the woman actually said this: "no. no they don't. you see, dogs don't have souls, so when they die, they go to hell." what... the... fuck... right? she continued: "it's nice when we're little to think that our pets go to heaven, but when we grow up, we have to accept that they don't go to heaven. they go to hell because they don't have souls." i was heartbroken. this was a sick joke, right? had to be, right? but she didn't correct herself. in fact, she didn't elaborate in any way. i honesty don't know what she said next, or anything that happened after that, because my heart literally felt like it was shattering. i felt like cameron manheim was sitting on my chest, and my insides were being pushed out thru my ass. .... i must admit that in second grade, i was no rocket scientist. hell, i've since graduated from high school AND somehow college, and i still don't know how sally struthers can peer into a custom-made wide-angle lens and tell us that children are starving and there's not enough food to go around. but even as a second-grader, i was able to go home that day and somehow reason, hey, if dogs don't have souls, then how can their souls go to hell when they die? how can their souls go anywhere if they don't exist? this woman was a fucking idiot. right? and so i left it at that and moved on with my life. .... to this day i don't know what happened to that husband-and-wife team. but i can tell you that i never saw them again. and i don't know where they went, but i'm guessing the adults in the back of the room crying with us during lady death's monologue about the eternal damnation of puppies and kittens could have given us a clue. but no one asked. perhaps we were afraid that children who asked too many questions would join their pets in hell one day. and so instead we spent the rest of our youths jumping in front of cars and giving mouth-to-mouth to hamsters. and when these efforts failed to keep our pets alive, we vowed to ourselves that we'd do whatever it took to get into hell one day and see our pets again. ________________________________________________________________

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