Thursday, May 28, 2009

Like You’ve Never Wiped Your Bulldog’s Ass With Toilet Paper...

Johnny’s made no secret of his love of dogs. No matter how bad a day you’ve had—Hit by a car? Taken hostage? Raped? All three?—there’s nothing better than coming home to a tail-wagging, face-licking ecstatically goofy dog. Unless it’s small, yappy dog. Fuck those little rats. They’ve got no place in the dog community—or my heart, for that matter.

But, all other dogs, forget about it. (Johnny refuses to use the widely-accepted fahgeddaboutit—as his father says, “It makes us sound like a bunch of gavoons.”) Dog owners will do anything for their dog—there’s a reason they’re called man’s best friend. Once, Spanish Doggy (who eats anything and everything in his path—his shenanigans make Marley look like a fucking pussy) was finishing up his business in Riverside Park. Okay, he took a shit. There, I said it. An enormous fucking pile of chocolatey Labrador shit. You happy now? As he got up from his squat, we both cocked our heads askew as we noticed a six-inch piece of straw sticking straight out from his ass. Spanish Doggy seemingly did a double-take before going into all-out panic mode. He desperately turned his head around like that scene in The Exorcist and tried to extract it with his mouth. (You know that scene, right? Where Max von Sydow tries to remove a Satanic piece of straw from Linda Blair's ass?) No luck. He then began spinning around and around, like he was chasing his tail. Still no luck. Like any good dog owner, I had to step in. Or rather, reach in. But, this was no ordinary task: Trying to grab a skinny piece of straw out of the ass of a canine spinning around like the Tasmanian Devil was about as easy as trying to get a plush toy with a crane in one of those rigged boardwalk games. (Goddamn you, Carnies!)

Whoosh! Lunge and miss!

Whoosh!
Lunge and miss!
Whoosh!
Lunge and...Got It!

I grabbed ahold of the straw and pulled. And pulled. Holy shit, the straw had no end in sight. I kept pulling, hand over hand, like pulling on a rope, until—finally—pop! In my hand—not for the first time—I held an 18-inch piece of anally-extracted straw. And yes, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. (I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t carry it around folded up in my wallet to this day, next to a photo of my grandmother.) Spanish Doggy could not have been more grateful. He was thrilled to once again be able to lick his asshole unimpeded. Who wouldn’t be?


Spanish Doggy, seconds before licking his own asshole

Yes, we go to extremes for our dogs. (Not cats. Fuck those assholes. Little dogs, too—oh, how I loathe them.) After all, we are their caretakers. We chose them; they did not choose us. It’s our responsibility to take care of them.

That being said, wiping your dog’s ass is going too far. Way, way too far. As I pointed out earlier in the week, canines have evolved to such a point that they don’t need to wipe their asses. It’s really quite remarkable when you think about it. Still, that didn’t stop some freak from pulling out a roll of Cottonelle from his bag and wiping his bulldog’s ass after the dog finished doing his business, i.e., shitting, this morning in the park. This is not a one-time thing, by the way. I see him every morning, along with some bearded lunatic who walks his eerily similar-looking cat on a leash, and an old Hal Holbrook-looking man in a green track suit who once asked me if I wanted to wrestle in the grass.

Fuck yeah, I do, old man.

Needless to say, one figure four headlock later, he ain't wrestling no more.
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Monday, May 25, 2009

Happy Memorial Day, Johnnyheads


While you're out there grilling your burgers and kicking your Hacky Sacks, please take a moment to remember our country's brave servicemen and women. Fighting overseas so degenerates like me have the freedom to write filth like this.

And to all our enemies out there, who call our courageous soldiers infidels and dogs, I ask you this: If dogs are so abominable, why do you eat them? And have sex with them? And then put it on the Internet? I hate to break it to you, but dogs are way more evolved than humans. After all, can you defecate without wiping afterward? Lick your own balls? Clean up your own vomit by eating it?

I didn't think so.

So why is calling someone a dog an insult, but calling someone a cat—for the most part—a compliment? i.e., "That dude is one cool cat." That makes no goddamn sense. Cats may be a lot of things, but cool isn't one of them. They're self-serving pricks who shit in boxes and generally suck. In a perfect world, enemies would call our troops "dirty American cats" when they spit on them. But, thanks to Big Feline's Washington lobby machine and the many politicians in its pockets—I'm looking at you, Rep. Barney Frank—that ain't happening any time soon.

Jeez. Talk about a tangent.

Where was I?

Oh, right... And that's why it was the best season of American Idol ever!

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Thursday, May 21, 2009

Does The Creator Of Heathcliff Take Us For Fools?

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(1) We're to believe Heathcliff did something so outrageous, he's now on trial? For what, scratching up the couch? C'mon.

(2) Last I checked, you couldn't get a tattoo on hair, let alone FUR!

(3) Isn't the tattoo a little overly dramatic—not to mention permanent? Why not use a Sharpie or black paint instead? After all, if Heathcliff is indeed found innocent, he would no longer want to walk around with a large NOT GUILTY on his chest. I mean, that's just reminding the public that, guilty or not, you were at some point arrested for a crime. Why not just scratch a swastika into your forehead?

(4) Still, if Heathcliff really wanted to proclaim his innocence via tattoo, surely he could've come up with a more eye-catching design/message, right? Plus, I'm no attorney, but I'd wager this type of messaging is not allowed in the courtroom. It seems like a complete waste of money. Speaking of which...

(5) Where did Heathcliff get the money for a tattoo? (And perhaps it would've been better spent hiring a competent attorney.)

(6) The tattoo guy had no issues with a cat walking into his shop—on two legs—and asking for a tattoo? Not to mention, one that implied the recipient had done something illegal? Fucking ludicrous.
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Thursday, May 14, 2009

Suck It, Bike Messengers

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Why do bike messengers think they’re so badass, with all their piercings and tattoos? If I’m not mistaken, aren’t you delivering legal documents, like leases and contracts? Oooooooh, how edgy! Way to stick it to the man by making sure that Limited Partnership Agreement gets delivered in a timely manner!



May I also state the obvious: You’re riding a bicycle. The same mode of transportation Johnny rode around his neighborhood when he was eight-years old—though my Schwinn was infinitely more badass, thanks to the incredibly cool grip-handle that made Vroom! Vroom! sounds when I turned it.
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In the world of couriers, the bike messenger falls somewhere between the UPS guy and the kid in grade school delivering messages from the teacher to the principal.

But, at least the UPS guy drives a vehicle that requires a license. Sure, it looks like a giant turd on wheels (“What can brown do for you?”), but it’s still a truck. Not to mention, he gets to deliver some pretty awesome things now and again, like webcams, Real Dolls and giant anacondas—often to the same Upper West Side address.

So, take your fucking tattoos, Quicksilver DVDs and Comprehensive Leases Adaptable For Business Or Residential Purposes and shove them up your collective asses, bike messengers.

And stop your snickering, rickshaw drivers: Johnny’s coming after you next.
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Monday, May 11, 2009

Subway Stories 6: "Do I Wanna Rock With You? Fuck Yeah, I Do"

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Please. Like you've never taken the form of a 3-foot Hispanic midget, put on a fedora, sunglasses, white T-shirt and glove and danced to Michael Jackson songs in the bowels of the Times Square subway station?


Oh my God! Is it...? Could it possibly be...?


Yes! It's him! That creepy midget Michael Jackson impersonator I heard about!


Next stop: Awesomeville


I most certainly wanna be startin' something


Yep—that's a midget moonwalking in the subway


The resemblance is uncanny!


Apparently, I was misinformed: Photographing a midget does not steal his soul.

What's that? They prefer to be called "little people"? You're kidding, right? No? How is that less offensive than midget? That's like saying obese people prefer being called fat people. What's that? They do? Really? They're just thrilled they're not being called Fat Fuck or Fatty McFattyFace? Okay, that I understand. I won't honor it, but I understand.

But, these little people? Johnny doesn't get them at all.
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Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Ladies, Enough With The Ass Cleavage Already



Show some fucking class, will you?

Am I the only man in the world who doesn't want to see the cleave of a woman's ass, sitting atop the waist of her low-rise jeans?

I am, aren't I?

I fucking knew it.

Does that make me gay? I sure hope not. Unless it means moving in with my hot, beautiful gay friend, Tony—he of the magnificent calves and stunningly-appointed downtown apartment. But, seriously, is this not the same as plumber's crack? It's not sexy, it's unseemly—this coming from a man who watched two-and-a-half hours of vintage porn on his laptop last night. (Folks were more dignified back then—yes, they sucked and fucked with abandon, but they wouldn't be caught dead with ass cleavage.)

If it was only confined to the twenty-somethings that proliferate downtown and Brooklyn, perhaps I could accept it. But, my Upper West Side neighborhood is filled with mom after mom after mom bending over their Bugaboos, tending to their infants, revealing their ass-crack to all. It's hard to look them in the eye and listen to them prattle on about Janie or Jack after you've seen everything back there but their puckered asshole. Confesssion: I'd be singing an entirely different tune if they were wearing FBPs (full-back panties). Ain't nothing wrong with showing a hint of that, miladies.

Speaking of full-backs, there's something else we need to discuss. Something that's been bothering Johnny for quite some time.

Now, I've made no secret of my panty fetish (unlike my turtle fetish, which I'll take to my grav--oh no! The secret's out!). Hell, somedays it's the only thing that gets me out of bed. But, there is a new trend in women's unmentionables which needs to be, um, mentioned. An ungodly, disgusting trend.

Women wearing men's underwear.

I'm not talking about women wearing men's boxers. (Women have been doing that forever; thankfully, wearing them over their panties. Their beautiful, full-back panties.) I'm talking about women wearing men's briefs. Tighty Fucking Whities. (Perhaps the gayest term in today's lexicon.) Fortunately, I've never experienced this trend in person. But, you can't open a magazine or watch a movie these days without noticing it.



Don't get me wrong. Those are two gorgeous women. (And, yes, Gisele is very, very, very lucky to have Tom Bra--I mean, Tom Brady is very, very, very lucky to have Gisele. Jesus, Tony—where are you? I really need you right now...) Admittedly, they look quite hot. But, once you realize they're wearing men's underwwear—the most repulsive garment in the world—you need to recalibrate your thinking.

This clip from The Simpsons perfectly sums up all you need to know about men's underwear:


Men's underwear is revolting. Even women find it disgusting. Our briefs are the antithesis of your sweet, wonderful, magical panties. They are foul, odious, unholy receptacles of filth—and they contain things you maidenly ladies can't even begin to fathom. Your magnificent va-hinas deserve to be wrapped in woven gold or swaddled in panties made from the Shroud of Turin.

Ah, panties.

Perhaps my favorite word in the entire English language. Yes, I realize some women despise it. Proud women, sitting there in their sexy, little panties. I often wonder, do I like the word for what it represents or for the linguistics of it? (I wonder the same thing about the word puppy. I also often wonder if we, as a people, are spending enough time on the geopolitics of food scarcity.) Furthermore, would I like the word so much if it represented something else, something more mundane? Like, say, turnips. "Honey, can you get me some panties from the garden?"

Fuck, that still sounds kinda hot, doesn't it?

Talk about a magic garden.
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Saturday, May 2, 2009

I Find This Cartoon Preposterous For A Number Of Reasons

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(1) How would a cat have gotten ahold of a cannon? Especially in 2009. It's not like there are cannon stores on every corner.

(2) Okay, accepting Heathcliff somehow acquired said cannon—how did he pay for it?

(3) Heathcliff's owner yells, "Has anyone seen his pills?" while standing next to the open front door. Clearly, he noticed a cannon sitting on the walkway. Unless a cannon is always there, it should strike him as odd and would most likely be the first place someone would look for missing pills.

(4) We're to believe the neighbor would stand idly by while a cat lights a cannon next to his house? Please.

(5) Isn't procuring a cannon a bit much? I mean, clearly Heathcliff already has the pills he so clearly despises in his possession. Why not just throw them in the trash? Or flush them down the toilet? If he's capable of getting a cannon, surely he's capable of doing those things, too.

(6) No cat can stand up on two legs so confidently.

(7) Likewise, no cat—not even Heathcliff—is capable of not only holding a match in his or her paw, but also somehow lighting that match. Highly implausible.
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