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."

Friday, October 8, 2010

Well, It's Friday.

Friday has long been a vaunted, exalted day.

It's holy to Jewish people. Shabbat begins at sundown on Friday and ends at sundown on Saturday. It's the holiest day of the year, and it happens every week. That's the only thing I remember from Hebrew School, other than the way chestnut-haired Margo, the girl who sat in front of me in handrwriting, smelled. You don't forget that sort of holiness.

Friday's the end of the traditional workweek for those lucky enough to be working stiffs and/or schlubs. I've added that word "traditional" in there because I no longer have a "traditional" workweek. I work Monday, have off Tuesday, then work Wednesday through Friday. Every other week, however, I have that same week's schedule, but then I work 3pm-11pm Saturday and Sunday. That's my employer: sucking my dick till my balls turn inside-out and do pirouettes.

When in quotation marks, "Friday" also happens to be a movie about black people, including the older black dude who plays the dad and is frequently seen on the toilet taking huge shits.

Since it's Friday, and since there are so much built up expectations surrounding this day of the week, I think it's only natural that you should come to this particular website, the blog written by a notorious hermit, to get some ideas of what to do with yourself, and/or others, on this day known as Friday.

* Shave your pubes.

Hey, come on-- what better way to divest yourself of the stressors of shuffling papers around in a cubicle and checking Facebook habitually on your work computer than running the old Gillette through the short-n-curlies? You never know-- it's Friday, 'Cuz, and you might be showing off that real estate to a potential buyer (well, more likely renter) so you're gonna want to spruce that lawn up a little bit, n'yah mean? If you're feeling really adventurous, go ahead and dye that shit some cray-cray color. If you're stumped, try mauve.

* Pretend to have a seizure in public.

You absolutely cannot beat faking a seizure for something awesomeballs to do on a Friday night. I don't know how late libraries are open on Friday nights, but that the first place I would suggest faking a seizure. The quieter the place, the better. If you are unfamiliar with the mechanics and specifics of seizures, just start by going rigid. Fix your gaze, and, when people say, "Hey, buddy, are you okay?" don't respond in any way. Just roll your eyes back in your head, fall on the floor and shake like a motherfucker. Don't forget to piss yourself, or it really does not have the desired effect. Thanks to shows like "E. R." and "Grey's Anatomy", even total morons know that people having gran mal seizures usually wet themselves. So, you know, you gotta kick it up a notch.

* Paint Your Car

I would suggest doing this with a Crayola Washable Watercolor paint set (assorted colors). It's incredibly reasonable ($2.89 when purchased online through Office Depot) and you can just let your creativity soar. I might also suggest imbibing several quarts of Clarke's Old Kentucky Straight Sour Mash whiskey prior to beginning this particular artistic endeavor.

* Go to a Nightclub Dressed As Your Favorite Victorian-Era Politician

You haven't lived until you've gone to a cocaine rave dressed as Sir Robert Peel, licking E out of the bellybutton of a twenty-two-year-old goth barista named Salmon. Stick-on mutton chops are available from several theatrical supply retailers.

* Take Pictures of Your Cat Doing Dumb Shit

You know, you can make millions of dollars doing that. For real, motherfucker.

* Hang Out in a Local Metropolitan Emergency Room

Pretend you have diabetic testiculopathy or brain stones or something. If you have insurance, they won't even question it-- they'll just run a shitload of expensive tests on you because they know they'll be able to get reimbursed. While you're there, just watch the circus go by, man-- you're never going to see crazier shit than you will in a big city emergency room. You're going to see homeless people try to kill each other over a drawstring belt or newspaper underwear, prostitutes with their jit-holes hanging out all over the place, overweight people with fat hanging over the sides of stretchers, maniacs screaming about aliens, people fornicating in the bathroom, cops wrastlin' with crazies, nurses smoking the bejesus out of their own lungs outside and just the general mayhem of life. And the smell? Oh, God. You'll never forget it.

* Be Judgmental, Hostile, Paranoid, and Fear-Mongering

It seems to work for Glenn Beck-- why shouldn't it work for you, too?

Happy Friday. Remember-- there's so much more to do than just "get fucked up." Live the dream, bitches.


  1. Are you sure you won't pay for my dry cleaning bill? Just once?

    I mean, damn-it...I get that your blog is now responsible for keeping many dry cleaners in business across the globe, but c'mon. I've now got to shell out all my booze money on getting my clothes cleaned.

    I suppose I could just stop reading your blog. But I'm not sure if there is a twelve step program for that....

  2. Posts like these make me miss Pudd'nhead and his links. This is something that could only be improved with inane links.
    The ER is so right on, tho. I got to see a drunk Airmen who'd flipped his car insist repeatedly that he'd only had two beers and had stopped drinking six hours prior, while being harassed by the MPs, the EMTs who'd brought him in, AND the hospital staff. Then they put a guy who had drunkenly fallen down the hill next to me. They also yelled at both and demanded that they refer to the man giving them catheters as "Sir". It was a slow night (Wednesday, should have held out to Friday I guess), but it sure amused me, especially since the guy assigned to me sat there holding my hand and joking... well, that and the Dilaudid. What? This isn't my blog... oops.
    (I'm so glad you're blogging again, tho. Seriously. I need this blog.)


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