The Random Dialogs: Part Three

Guy 1: Dude, you don’t look so good.
Guy 2: I know. I just got my hair cut.
Guy 1: No, not your hair. I mean you look physically ill.
Guy 2: Yeah, well, the broad that cut my hair had the worst breath on the planet—worse than anyone currently alive or dead.
Guy 1: You mean her breath was worse than a corpse’s breath.
Guy 2: Presumably, yes.
Guy 1: But we’re scumbags, bro. The smell of that black sludge I puked up that one time I drank a bunch of the blue-label Smirnoff vodka didn’t bother you at all. How could some lady’s breath have been terrible enough to make you sick? I mean, you look as if you just ate a bag of abortions from a leper colony dumpster.
Guy 2: Urgh … my lungs feel like the walls of an outhouse resting atop a tallow vat.
Guy 1: Don’t tell me you’re turning into a big girl, and foul odors are suddenly too much for your dainty lady nose.
Guy 2: I can’t even begin to describe the horror, dude. This stench transcends foul odor. Those Lovecraftian tentacle whisps of mephitic breath assaulted more than my nose. Those noxious, invisible stink tendrils hurt my soul … my soul.
Guy 1: Holy shit. What did this breath smell like?
Guy 2: What did it smell like? You can’t compare this breath to anything currently extant in this realm, dude. Inhaling that filth was like gazing into the abyss. It was gazing back into me, man. The abyss was fucking gazing into me!
Guy 1: Calm down, dipshit.
Guy 2: You just can’t understand.
Guy 1: I’ll try, though, because I’m beyond intrigued. What did this lady look like?
Guy 2: Well, physically she was a petit Vietnamese lady. That, I’m convinced, was only a disguise—a three-dimensional skin tarp, duplicitously masking the unspeakable horrors undulating endlessly into the depths beyond the boundaries of human understanding.
Guy 1: Enough of that metaphysical shit, dude, seriously.
Guy 2: Sorry. But, like I said, my soul has been wounded.
Guy 1: By bad breath? Heh. Pansy.
Guy 2: Take it easy, dick. I’m coming out of shock.
Guy 1: She probably just had some fucked up shit for lunch. You know, like cists scraped from cod cloacae, boiled in garlic broth or something.
Guy 2: I’m telling you, man: smells like that can’t be created. They have to be conjured … summoned or something.
Guy 1: Try to give me some kind of smell to compare it to.
Guy 2: I can’t. I mean, it didn’t smell like anything else. The best I can do is formulate some kind of comparison based on the severity of the odor as opposed to its similarities to common scents with which you’d be familiar.
Guy 1: Wait … what?
Guy 2: Okay, here’s an example: Although it didn’t smell anything like a syphilitic skunk ejaculating liquid Limburger cheese onto a pubic hair fire, I can safely—with a significant amount of presumption, of course—say that it was a far worse smell than that. Again, I must stress that it stank like nothing else I have ever smelled before.
Guy 1: Dude, truffle oil!
Guy 2: What?
Guy 1: My truffle oil precedent. Someone might ask, “What does truffle oil taste and smell like?” And my answer would be, as always, “It tastes and smells like truffle oil.” Truffle oil is a unique experience and can’t be compared to anything else.
Guy 2: Truffle oil sucks and is terrible.
Guy 1: Fuck you. You just have a pedestrian palette.
Guy 2: If by pedestrian you mean averse to the flavors one might find while probing the underside of a Parisian bus seat with his tongue, then, yes, I have a pedestrian palette.
Guy 1: Whatever.
Guy 2: Anyway, her breath was worse than if an aged Russian circus bear puked white pepper into her mouth, and that really obese cat that was on the news recently used her mouth as a litter box for, like, a month.
Guy 1: It was worse than that?
Guy 2: Based on my a posteriori understanding of the component odors present in that description, yeah, it was far gnarlier than that shit.
Guy 1: I’m noticing a recurring theme here. You seem to draw frequently from the animal kingdom when compiling gross smells.
Guy 2: Of course. This smell was entirely inhuman, so it makes perfect sense.
Guy 1: Did it burn your eyes?
Guy 2: It was suffocating my soul, dude. It went far beyond eye-burning. I don’t know if her hair dryer wasn’t working or something, but instead of using it to blow the loose hair from my shoulders, she blew on me with her heinous breath. It was like inhaling glass shards through the tubular offal from a mad cow while a proctologist ham-fistedly jammed a nine-volt battery into my sinuses.
Guy 1: A nine-volt battery?
Guy 2: You know how if you put a nine-volt battery to your tongue it sort of zaps you a little?
Guy 1: Oh yeah. I get it.
Guy 2: This sucks. My scent memory is like some kind of fucked up crime scene now.
Guy 1: Why the hell didn’t you just offer her a breath mint or something?
Guy 2: Yeah, because dropping a urinal mint into the Gangese River is going to make it smell like a Listerine spring on the shores of Lake Arrowhead.
Guy 1: Hey, at least it would have been something.
Guy 2: You’re familiar with the concept of the hopelessly futile, right? Because an Altoid wouldn’t make a shit volcano smell like toothpaste. That’s the definition of futility, homeslice.
Guy 1: And besides that, if you insulted the woman’s breath, she probably would have jammed scissors in your ear or forced you to play Russian Roulette with her refugee uncles in the alley behind the store. I saw The Deer Hunter. I know what’s up.
Guy 2: I’d be more concerned she’d fuck up my haircut.
Guy 1: Where’d you get your hair cut again?
Guy 2: Supercuts.
Guy1: And you wonder why you had a shitty experience? Way to go, tightwad. Why don’t you drop an extra five bucks and get a proper haircut instead of going to So-So Cuts all the goddamned time.
Guy 2: I seriously doubt that five dollars is all that separates a face full of freshly milked elephant seal flatus from a quality haircut.
Guy 1: Whatever, dude. Why don’t you go take a shower or something—wash some of the shame off of yourself. You’ve got the facial expression of a rape victim.

The Random Dialogs: Part Two

Guy 1: What is it with women?
Guy 2: You mean, like, in general?
Guy 1: No. I mean like how they always refer to a boner as a hard-on when they’re trying to sound all sexy right before they blow you. You know?
Guy 2: No, actually. I’ve never found myself in that situation.
Guy 1: Heh. Fag.
Guy 2: Shut up, asshole. I am not.
Guy 1: Anyway, yeah, it’s like when they’re trying to sound all sexy they call your woody a hard-on, as if that’s somehow the inherently erotic term for your erect penis.
Guy 2: This has happened to you a lot?
Guy 1: Oh yeah, totally. Pretty much, like, every single time. And, of course, in the thousands of pornos I’ve seen.
Guy 2: Maybe all of those pornos were written by the same guy.
Guy 1: That’s a valid hypothesis; however, as I just said, it always happens in real life, too.
Guy 2: Pardon me if I find it difficult to believe you’ve been raking in blowjobs these last few months.
Guy 1: Hey, you don’t know. Alright, pal?
Guy 2: Please, continue. Because, seriously, I have no idea where you’re going with this—never mind what triggered this bizarre conversation.
Guy 1: Well, I was watching the Food Network just now, when I suddenly remembered how much I love it when chicks blow me, yet, at the same time, I was thinking how much I hate women because they’re stupid.
Guy 2: And that triggered your memory of their unusually consistent way of referring to boners just before they put them in their mouths.
Guy 1: Yeah, basically. Come to think of it, maybe I—hell, all men—like BJs so much because it’s the one time women stop saying stupid shit for, like, five seconds without having their jaws wired shut.
Guy 2: From when they fell down all of those stairs and then ran into the door?
Guy 1: Exactly. Anyway, I don’t know what they have against words like boner, but they always seem to use hard-on instead. Or cock. Sometimes they use the word cock, but then they sound all medical. Seriously, what’s wrong with boner?
Guy 1: I don’t know. It’s not a very graceful word. Like, I suppose no matter how breathy a woman says that word it still sounds like she’s referencing a mistake her drunk uncle made at the last family reunion.
Guy 2: So? A boner isn’t supposed to be graceful. It’s just a stupid piece of engorged meat. It doesn’t even do anything. I mean, maybe if it fucked the ladies for you—had some moving parts, a piston, a dimmer switch—then they could church it up a little. It’s like an idiot memo got sent out in sound waves only women can hear.
Guy 1: I suppose such a thoughtless redundancy can really spoil the mood.
Guy 2: Yeah! It’s like, for once, I wish a woman would say something like, “Just lay back while I try to wrap my head around your boner.” Or maybe even, “Hold still while I spread my face on your stiffy.”
Guy 1: That’s all class.
Guy 2: Women are just unimaginative, I guess.
Guy 1: Well, at least they don’t seem to mind blowing you.
Guy 2: Dude, you know what it’s called when you split a chicken open to prepare it for cooking? Spatchcock!
Guy 1: Really?
Guy 2: Hell yeah! How awesome is that shit?
Guy 1: That is pretty funny.

The Random Dialogs: Part One

Guy 1: So, did you watch the Star Wars trilogy I let you borrow?
Guy 2: Dude, you didn’t LET me borrow them, you essentially forced me to take them home and watch them over the weekend. Seriously, it was like the crappiest homework assignment I’ve ever had.
Guy 1: I guess you didn’t like the movies, then?
Guy 2: Of course not. They were goddamned terrible.
Guy 1: Oh, why? Because the effects were crappy? It was the 70s, man. You can’t dismiss the greatness of the classics just because the special effects are archaic.
Guy 2: The effects had nothing to do with it. It’s actually kind of refreshing to see cheesy old-school effects from time to time. Unfortunately, you had to buy the remastered trilogy. Really, dude? I know next to nothing about the Star Wars universe, yet even I felt like I was getting kicked in the dick by a sniggering George Lucas when in the end of the third movie Hayden Christensen’s ghost was standing there instead of the original guy.
Guy 1: Just what did you hate so much?
Guy 2: It was just the whole thing. It was … it was fucking terrible.
Guy 1: No way! Give me one example.
Guy 2: Okay, right from the very beginning: “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.” Of course the galaxy is far, far away—it’s another galaxy. The closest galaxy to us is literally millions of light years away, for fuck’s sake! It’s like George Lucas thinks we’re all a bunch of assholes or something.
Guy 1: You’re saying Lucas purposely insulted his audience with a redundancy he thought they were too stupid to catch? What if it was just an accident?
Guy 2: If it was an accidental redundancy, then Lucas is the asshole. What kind of moron writes an entire movie about space without realizing the blatant, brain-fuckingly stupid redundancy in the opening line of the film? If he’s not being insulting, he’s just being lazy.
Guy 1: Dude, you’re thinking about this way too much.
Guy 2: You wanted an example, so I gave you one. It’s a big pile of fucking stupid from the beginning all the way to the end. And how can you say I’m putting too much thought into this? When you Star Wars fags obsess about the movie, blowing nerd loads all over each other’s Boba Fett avatars on the message boards, it’s all accolades and cheetos dust-coated ass-patting.
Guy 1: That’s totally different.
Guy 2: Sure it is. Urg. I feel like a mouth-breathing ultra-virgin just for discussing this shit right now.
Guy 1: Well, at least admit that Darth Vader was a total badass.
Guy 2: He was a pussy. A big, gay pussy smothered in sissy sauce.
Guy 1: How can you even say that? He strangled people without even touching them!
Guy 2: He probably didn't want to break a nail.
Guy 1: Well, what about …
Guy 2: Jedi—pussies. Dark side—pussies. Boba Fett, a guy who died because he fell into a hole even though he was wearing a goddamned jetpack—pussy. The Force, Jabba, ewoks—gay, gay, gay. What the fuck ever.
Guy 1: Come on now!
Guy 2: Seriously. What’s up with those movies? Like, if there were a special feature on the DVDs where you could watch Lucas directing as the movies were being filmed, it’d just be him sitting on a barstool with a bullhorn, screaming “Gayer!” after every take.
Guy 1: I’m going to ignore all of that. Is there nothing you liked at all about the trilogy?
Guy 2: Yeah, I liked it when Darth Vader was swashbuckling with Gandalf, and Gandalf was all, “If you leave me now, you take away the biggest part of me.” Then he teleported into space, went all Super Saiyan, and destroyed the Death Star and a whole bunch of those bad-guy space ships that look like photovoltaic ping-pong balls with a giant hadoken.
Guy 1: What the fuck are you talking about?
Guy 2: It’s adorable how you Star Wars fags get more worked up about inaccuracy than downright shit-talking.

Interesting MM Quotes from His Editor

Morb has been very occupied with work as of late, and, in order to create the illusion of activity on this blog, asked me to post something. I asked him what, exactly, he’d like me to post, and I believe his exact words were, “I don’t know. Fuckin’ something, stupid.”

Since none of you, his readers, will ever get to meet him personally (be grateful, very grateful), I thought it might be kind of interesting to post some things that I’ve heard him say while interacting with people on a day-to-day basis. Yes, he really hates having to deal with people, but he’s accepted the fact that, short of growing a beard and living in a cave, he’s never going to escape the human interaction modern life demands. Also, because anything he’s written but decided not to post on this blog is utterly useless and unreadable, posting a few of his more coherent quotes was an easy way for me to fulfill my contractual duties with minimal effort.

Because Morb has resigned himself to the fact that he can’t escape dealing with people, he’s completely stopped censoring himself in any way. I mean, honestly, he just doesn’t care what he says to people; it’s like he has no indecency filter. While nearly everything he says is terribly hurtful, much of it is also very funny—or at least he thinks it is (as his editor, I sometimes agree). I was present for many of the following gems, some of them he text-messaged to me right after they happened (often prefaced by, “Hey, you’ll never guess what I just said to this retard who was bugging me”), and other phrases I learned of indirectly from the offended people at whom he initially spat them. The parenthetical italicizations are my simple situational explanations for the quotes. Enjoy … or don’t. I don’t really care as long as Morb agrees that I’ve done my job and lets my kitten, Mr. Camew (Get it? Camus + mew [kitten sound] = Camew. Adorable, no?), live one more day.

(To an annoyingly festive coworker on Saint Patrick’s Day)
“One, I’m not Irish; two, I can’t drink alcohol; and three, if you pinch me I’ll kill you.”

(To a coworker he had to ask for directions)
“Other than my personality, my only flaw is my terrible sense of direction.”

(To me during a discussion regarding something he was writing)
“Of course the crux of my humor is self-deprecation. If I went around deprecating everyone else all the time, people would think I was a total dick. By the way, that shirt looks crappy on you, tubby.”

(To a fellow metal musician at a record store)
“Anyone who tells you being a musician is only about getting chicks is a fucking asshole … he’s probably up to his lungs in pussy, but he’s still a fucking asshole.”

(To the pretentious, faux-intellectual lady clerk/artist at the book store who used the wrong words to say something really stupid)
“There’s a painfully obvious difference between ascetic and aesthetic, Miss, and if you don’t understand that, you ought to abstain from talking and just occupy yourself looking at pretty pictures in the dipshit aisle.”

(To a hoard of environmental activists protesting in the town square)
“When you hippy bastards immolate yourselves in protest of America’s use of fossil fuels, try not to use any gasoline. You wouldn’t want to look foolish or anything.”

(To annoyingly religious coworker reading about a conjoined twins operation in the newspaper)
“Don’t feel too bad about that twin not surviving the operation: she’s the one that didn’t love Jesus.”

(To me during a discussion regarding something he was writing)
“If you can think of a better non-scientific name for cystic fibrosis than cumlung, I’d certainly like to hear it … Are you seriously offended by that? Faggot.”

(To an old lady in the Marie Callender’s parking lot making loud coughing noises in response to Morb’s smoking)
“Oh, fuck off already. Look, if the fifth piece of banana cream pie you swallowed whole tonight didn’t stop the ramshackle hunk of baboon meat and chewing gum you call a heart, I seriously doubt a whiff of quality tobacco is going to free you of the mortal-fucking-coil.”

(To an old man at the supermarket checkout who was jamming his cart into Morb’s calves)
“I’m going to have to point out what a bad idea it is to fuck with a person who places absolutely no value on human life when you’re old enough to die from getting pushed down a stair.”

(This is an e-mail Morb got from someone asking him a stupid question and his response, which was sent but never posted here before)

Dear Morb,

I recently took a new job. Everything has been going great, but now I think I am falling for my manager. She’s really pretty—although I think cute is a better word to use to describe her—and I think she really understands me. We have the same sense of humor and she gets all my jokes. Maybe I fall in love too easily. I really am a hopeless romantic. Should I tell her how I feel about her? I’m worried it would cause problems at work, or, even worse, she wouldn’t have the same feelings for me that I have for her. What should I do?

Sincerely,

Anonymous Reader

Dear Anonymous Reader:

Dude, if you had ever read this blog before, you’d know better than to ask me a gay question like that.

Seriously, you have the spine of a washcloth. “Maybe I fall in love too easily.” How can you even say something so utterly epicene? Were you raised by a single mother or something? Did a little too much of mommy’s stray estrogen find its way into your undoubtedly pointy head? You’re probably the kind of priss that likes buying tampons for his heavy-flow girlfriend when she’s too crampy to budge ass off the couch and go to the store her own goddamned self.

Fuck, dude, I seriously don’t even know where to start making fun of you. “A hopeless romantic.” You’re like the Holy Grail of spineless, potpourri-scented, emasculated modern males. Just how much of your chemical makeup is low-fat, sugar-free Jell-O, anyway? Give me a close estimate, because I want to know how easily I’ll be able to put my foot through your torso when I try to kick the lisp demon out of you during what could only be compared to a hilariously violent blunt-force exorcism performed by a meth-spun Viking covered in rabid raccoons.

I could go on. Seriously. I could tear into your powder-puff emotional state like a 500-pound Cajun attacking a turducken after an especially long and fat-free Lent. But, because I’m feeling especially nice today, I’m going to let this pass. I’m not even going to post this crap. I’m going to spare your lady feelings and just ignore this chance to kick you around for a while.

I’m totally kidding. I’m not nice at all. The only reason you’re off the hook today, Sally, is because the 7-11 down the street just got a shipment of these coffee energy drinks that taste like they have vodka in them, and I’m going to buy them all so I can remember what alcohol tastes like. I do, however, suggest you try to grow some nads, though. Because if I ever see you and you’re still a little bitch, I’m going to kick you into traffic just so I can watch your ovaries get wrapped around some tires.

Cordially,

MM

Solving the Pube Enigma

Guy 1: Dude, I think there’s a pube in my chicken strips.
Guy 2: A what?
Guy 1: A fuckin’ pubic hair, dude. I think there’s a pube on my chicken.
Guy 2: Are you sure it isn’t just a chicken hair?
Guy 1: Chickens have feathers, bro.
Guy 2: Yeah, but, like, they have some hair, too.
Guy 1: What?
Guy 2: Like, haven’t you ever had a chicken wing with, like, sort of bristly hairs sticking off of it?
Guy 1: No.
Guy 2: Really?
Guy 1: Really.
Guy 2: Well, they do have hairs sometimes, I guess. Usually just a few here and there near the pointy part of the wing.
Guy 1: Fuckin’ weird.
Guy 2: Yeah, totally.
Guy 1: But, dude, this hair is curly and shit.
Guy 2: Let me see … ewww, dude, that’s a fuckin’ pube!
Guy 1: I knew it!
Guy 2: You should take it back to the counter and get another order.
Guy 1: Yeah, right! Then they’d probably spit on the chicken, too, this time.
Guy 2: True. Or put, like, five pubes in there, hidden at the bottom.
Guy 1: Those assholes.
Guy 2: Can you, like, eat around it or something?
Guy 1: I don’t even want to look at it, bro.
Guy 2: This reminds me of that time Ryan found a pube in his French fries.
Guy 1: Well, what did he do?
Guy 2: He stood up in the middle of the restaurant and yelled, “There’s a goddamn pube in my French fries!” and then the manager came out and told him to leave.
Guy 1: Why? It’s not like it was his own pube he put in there or something.
Guy 2: The manager said he was making a scene or something gay like that.
Guy 1: Dude, I think I’m just going to pick the pube off of my chicken.
Guy 2: Fuckin’ gross! You’re going to touch it?
Guy 1: I think I kind of have to.
Guy 2: Sick!
Guy 1: I’ll just, like, use my left hand that I don’t eat with.
Guy 2: What if that pube gets stuck under your fingernail or something?
Guy 1: This is so nasty, dude.
Guy 2: Wait! What are you going to do with it once it’s off your chicken?
Guy 1: Fuckin’ throw it on the floor or something.
Guy 2: What if it lands on your foot, dude? You’re wearing flip-flops, so that pube would probably, like, get on your toes and you’d be walking in someone’s pubes all day.
Guy 1: I didn’t think about that. I should just wipe it under the table like old gum.
Guy 2: Fuck that shit, dude! You’d probably touch some, like, old hooker’s gum or something. Then you’d have pube residue and herpes on your hand.
Guy 1: Goddamnit.
Guy 2: I mean, you could just wipe the pube into a napkin, but then you’d be sitting here eating with a pube napkin sitting next to you. Something about that just seems weird.
Guy 1: This sucks so much, dude.
Guy 2: Can you just blow the pube off the chicken?
Guy 1: I’m not blowing on some strange pube, dude.
Guy 2: It’s probably stuck to the chicken ‘cause of the sauce anyway.
Guy 1: This is getting ridiculous.
Guy 2: We shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of thing when we’re trying to eat lunch, man.
Guy 1: You know what? I’m done. Fuck this. I’m just going to fill up on free soda refills and eat a hot pocket when I get home.
Guy 2: Good thinking, bro. Abusin’ the free refills. We’re not coming back here, though, I’ll tell you that right now.
Guy 1: Well, at least not for a while.
Guy 2: Yeah, we’ll come back when the other cooks are in the kitchen or something—the ones that don’t wipe their helmets on the chicken.
Guy 1: Do you really think the guy wiped his dick on this chicken?
Guy 2: How else would he get a pube in there?
Guy 1: Ugh … Dude, I am drinking—seriously—a gallon of free Dr. Pepper before I leave here today.

R.I.P. William F. Buckley Jr.

A very well-written piece about WFB.

The Work Stress is Beginning to Show

The excessive use of exclamation points makes me want to crawl into a dictionary and hang myself from the word insufferable.