An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Well, I Joined....

.... a gym? (Hahaha, are you fucking crazy?)

.... a cult? (More likely, and getting warmer, too.)

.... a woman's book club? (Like I said, only if I'm allowed to come in drag with impossibly huge breasticles and give pictures of Oprah a Dirty Sanchez.)

.... Alcoholics Anonymous? (They would appreciate my style of humor, I think.)

.... a militia? (No, I like the gub'mint [mostly] and the po-leece [mostly], plus, I've never even fired a gun. I did disassemble and reassemble one once-- but not blindfolded, which is good, because the firing pin probably would have ended up inside my penis-hole.)

.... an I Love My Volvo auto club? (No. I do love my Volvo. But I hate paying membership dues. It's why I gave up my membership to public radio, the Dukes of Hazzard fan club, Hypochondriacs of Southeastern Pennsylvania, and being Jewish.

No, I joined Thirty-Something Bloggers.

It's funny, I wasn't terribly depressed about turning thirty (those of you who read my May 12th blog post may disagree with that statement) but joining Thirty-Something Bloggers definitely made me briefly ponder turning an old pair of boxer shorts into a noose or just something I could attempt to swallow whole and try to wash down with a quart of Dran-o.

Maybe it's just because I have a rackety cough today, or because there isn't enough sugar in my coffee and I'm too lazy to go downstairs to the kitchen to put more in, or because the eczema on my inner-thigh is making a visit to seem decidedly unappealing, but I'm just in a terrible funk about my association with Thirty-Something Bloggers.

Not the people, and their avatars and their pseudonyms, but the site.

Now, it's probably considered poor taste to bash a site representing a group you've just joined, but you know me well enough by now. I have no etiquette. You should have seen me eat a whole lobster for the first time. Forget about a bib-- two thirds of the restaurant should have been under a Gallagher-style tarp.

We won't even discuss the first time I tried to pee standing up in an airplane bathroom. For the sake of the children. And the twenty-somethings.

I suppose what's most disappointing about Thirty-Something Bloggers is the fact that it is completely inundated with Spam. The webmaster says that this problem is being addressed, but I'm not so sure.

Want a sampling of titles of "Latest Blog Posts" by members of this site?

"Buy Cheapest Bar aspirin - Order Now Aspirin Online Without Prescription Discount Free Shipping"

and let's not forget the scintillating and snarky

"Order Now - Tramadol 100mg - Buy Tramadol Online Without Prescription"

The forum? Oh, it's jumpin' like the frog from fucking Calaveras County with engaging discussions on Duprost (Saturday delivery), Ponstel (FedEX'd to your door), and cheap Earwash dog (of course, no prescription needed).

For the hell of it, because, really, I have nothing better to do with my life than complain about how far away the sugar bowl is from my coffee cup, I looked up some of these drugs. Obviously, I didn't check out Earwash dog, because it's use is pretty self-explanatory, if not dyslexic.

Duprost, for those of you who are not in the know, is the easily pronounceable name for Dutasteride, and it's used to treat benign prostatic hyperplasia. Oh, and hair-loss.

Ah, 30-somethings. Going downhill already, are we?

Tramadol treats pain associated with made up psycho-emotional disorders that 30-somethings, apparently, pretend are actual physical symptoms which they then use as excuses to call out from work, stay home under a blanket reading Nicholas Sparks books and take drugs laced with codeine.

Then, there's Ponstel. Used to treat pain associated with PMS. 'Nuff said. I don't want to lose all my female readers. I mean, all my readers.

I don't, however, have the slightest idea as to what "Bar aspirin" is. At first I thought it must be utilized by people to combat chronic hangovers gained from repeated visits with Captain Morgan. Then I realized it must be for the guy who walks into the bar.

I can't bring myself to rescind my membership to Twenty-Something Bloggers. No doubt the hopeless slackasses who run that site won't notice I'm still there, what with their 12,000+ members and all, rabidly fornicating like the attention-whores that they are, pining for the next comment, the next bit of validation, the next snark-filled remark.

God, I miss you. Somebody get me some fucking Ponstel.


  1. I wasn't upset about my impending 30th birthday...until now!!!! Thanks for the incredibly depressing heads up though. I always said I'd never lie about my age, but maybe 20sb will be the exception to that rule...

  2. Come back! Come back to 20sb!! We're normal there, the drugs we take are almost all recreational and we have thick, glossy manes of hair!

  3. I'm fairly sure that once you're a 20SB member, you're not exiled for turning thirty. It's kinda like a fountain of youth.

    Sorry I missed your birthday, I was being all self involved about my trainwreck of a love life.

    Happy belated birthday, you middle aged asshole. ;)

  4. we miss you too, you pessimistic little, literate, outspoken little Jew, you.

  5. TalBrunette:

    You said "little" twice. Is that supposed to be some oblique reference to the size of my down-there's?

    Oh, and aren't you supposed to be living in the Unabomber cabin with no internet for, like, seven months or something?

    Oh, and where's my fucking Ponstel already?

  6. I was aching to be depressed this morning, and your description of the elderly has accomplished aforementioned mission.
    I'll be there in a year.
    Hold a spot for me at the BINGO table.
    There better be booze, and lots of it.


Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!