Messiah Coming!

This guy in the subway station kept yellin, "Mess-iii-ah coming! Mess-iii-ah coming!"  I took one look at him and thought to myself, "You shore do look like a mess, but I cain't tell if you're a comin or a goin."

I know. Stupes.

Fartha Pooart is back...and cooking!

If you read my blog, then you know what Fartha Pooart is. If you don't, then why start now? Just kidding. This will give you some background. This too.

Anyway, you might think I'm white trash, and for those of you that really know me, you're right on the money. I can give your nearest trash can a run for it's money...with my potty mouth alone. And it's not about where I come from, but where I want to go! I mean, I'm the self proclaimed Martha Stuart of the sewer sect. If that's not a nice trashy niche, I don't know what is.

So here's my first Fartha Pooart recipe. Pretzel dip. I don't know if it already exists or not, but I promise you I came up with this all by meself. One day I had plain 'ol pretzels and since I really like Combos I thought, "I really need something to dip these plain 'ol pretzels into that will make them taste like Combos. What do I have?" Here's the recipe:

One part peanut butter
One part mustard (I really like the word mustard:  must turd.)
Mix

That's all folks. Dip away. I've tried it with different peanut butters and different mustards and it's all pretty dang good, but my fave is French's yellow mustard wif Smart Balance creamy peanut butter. You can go heavy on the peanut butter or heavy on the mustard. Basically season to taste. You decide. Since it's looks like baby diarrhea, let's call it diaper dip.  You're welcoooome!

I Declare Question Marks Obsolete!

I've been thinking, do we really need question marks to know when a sentence is a question. And worse, do Spanish languages really need two; one a the beginning AND one at the end of every question. Does anyone else ever think about this. Can you not tell that this sentence is a question without that particular piece of punctuation. Are these dumb questions. Are these even questions without question marks. Will I never get answers to these questions because they are not punctuated properly. Are you stupid. Are you at least annoyed. Do you even care. Do you think I'm pretty. Are you okay. Are you even reading this. What are you doing later. How come you won't call me back. Does this post need to end. Should I stop now.

Anway, I declare question marks obsolete! Exclamation points on the other hand, they are a necessity!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Image from here . Not sure what this site is.)

The Sea Word

In anticipation of a possible Arrested Development movie, I decided to watch the entire series. Again. The second time around you catch so many more jokes and it's just that much better. For instance, the title of this post is the name of a boat GOB (pronounced Jobe, pictured with dove) wanted to buy. Subtle has never been so sexy. And this is a sea word I can really get down with!

(Watch some here.)

My Pheart must go on!

Again, the P is silent.

What is wrong with people?

Last night I ate dinner with my really good friend Ruth and she gave me her new business card. Her title is Associate. I first told her that she put the ass in associate. Hardy har har. So funny you forgot to laugh. I know. I've used that joke a hundred too many times with any word that begins with ass. So sue me. Then go fuck yourself. Just kidding. Please don't sue me.

Then I got to thinking. I became highly offended. Flabbergasted in fact. This is an abomination! That is really an offensive title. Let me break it down fer ya. Associate. Sound it out, stupid. Ass-o-she-ate. Poor "I'm-not-going-to-take-this-lying-down" Ruth for having to accept this crap from her place of employment. Whores deserve respect! Also, depending on your preferred pronunciation, it can be ass-o-shit, which quite frankly makes me just as sick. Aren't people disgusting? Now, I ain't no law-er or anything (calling Star Jones, calling Gloria Allred, CALLING NANCY GRACE), but I think Ruth may have a lawsuit on her hands. I don't know about you but I'm seein dolla $ign$. Show me the money!

(I know this image doesn't exactly make sense, but isn't it adorable? And what does that mean? Two girls one cup. Either way, I'd like to get in on some of that cup action. Looks fun. Yeah...until you blow chunks of course. Yuck. I hate blowin chunks. Of all the things you can blow, chunks are the worst! Ho Chunks, on the other hand, they're my favorite Indian. Obviously just cuz of the name. I don't really care about Indians so much.)

Turkini

I bet Rachael Ray is green with penis envy that she didn't think of this . Genius. Anyway, TGITG.  Thank God it's Thanksgiving. If it weren't a holiday I'd be pissed at myself for devouring 5000 calories of food energies in a single sitting. But hot damn! I loves me a good turkey meal. Happy TG. Gobble Gobble!

Look, Prickly

Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret's Not Quite But Almost Middle-Aged Friend Tony.

I don't really want to get into specifics, but Margaret mentioned to me that she talked to you almost 40 years ago about some pre-teen female puberty type troubles she was having at the time. Since Oprah and Dr. Oz are pretty busy these days, I thought I would give ya a try. I got me a few bodily questions of my own that I would like to share and try to get some answers if ya got 'em. First, gray pubic hair. Why? No. Answer me this. Why would you give someone only one gray pubic hair? Is this some sort of twisted - or curly - joke? Or perhaps it's a Where's Waldo type game? That's if Waldo were one gray pubic hair of course. And does it gradually grow there or do you just turn one gray? I only ask this cuz I didn't notice it at first. Poof. Then suddenly there it was. And longer than the rest. How incredibly odd! Now I'm not a weirdo or anything, but I do happen to look there quite a few times a day and like I said didn't notice it until it was there standing out like a polar bear in the rainforest. Well, I don't actually look to look, but I do happen to glance in that general area more often than I'd care to admit. You know. Taking care of general business with my business. I'm sure everyone else on earth sees their area more than a few times a day too. Showering. Peeing. Other stuffing. Stuff I don't feel comfortable mentioning to you. Not quite yet anyway. You get my drift. One last question about that topic. Is it also funny to you that to a guy you gave hair there later than most you would turn it gray earlier? I mean, dude, come on, not mentioning any names but you made this guy suffer through his early teen years barely there, if you catch my drift. He certainly caught a draft changing in the locker room in those days. Gee-ziss.

Oh. Gotta go. Someone's knocking on the door. I'll write back more later.

Fartha Pooart Says...

Next time you're at your favorite burger joint use a napkin to grip that ketchup bottle. The guy before you took a humongous dump and didn't warsh his hands. I sawr him. Swear.

Think of it as a condiment condom. You're welcoooome!

 

(See? Miley Cyrus fellates a ketchup bottle on national television. Would you want to unwittingly use that bottle afterwards? Well, maybe some of you sickos would, but still.)


If you don't know what Fartha Pooart is, please see this .

Who the fuck is Barry?

I'm turning into impatient agro guy. A grumpity old curmudgeon. Listen to this and let me know what you think. I was patiently waiting in line at the bank recently. I was probs only patient because I was completely zoning out. Just waiting and zoning. Not really a thought in my head. So I thought. Suddenly I realized I was listening intently to the guy two guys in front of me talking on the phone. It was surreal. When the conversation finally registered I couldn't believe what I was actually hearing. I was dumfounded. It went something like this:

Who's Barry?
Barry.
Barry.
Who's Barry?
Barry.
Who's Barry?
Barry.
Barry.
Barry.

If you ask me to, I can imitate this conversation perfectly. Keep in mind I only heard the one side, and it may have even gone on a bit longer.

Was this conversation really taking place? I was about to scream at the top of my lungs so the guy on the other end of the phone two guys away would hear me. "BARRY. HE SAID FUCKING BARRY. WHO THE FUCK IS BARRY? BARRY GODDAMN IT. BARRY!" Now I also wanted to scream  at the guy two guys away. "IS THIS REALLY YOUR CONVERSATION? ARE YOU THAT PATIENT, OR JUST THAT DUMB? SERIOUSLY. WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM? WHAT THE FUCK! YOU FUCKING DUMBASS."

Now by this time I felt utterly invested. I needed to know who Barry was. In fact I was dying to know. Who the fuck is Barry? There better be a fucking Barry. I wanted them to produce a Barry. Who is Barry?

They continued on a bit before they finally came to the realization that nobody even said Barry. "Ohhhh. Darion." Darion? Darion! Can you even fucking believe it? They were having that back-and-forth over Barry, and the there never even was a Barry. Nobody knew Barry. It was Darion. I about died. I was beyond pissed. I'm pissed right now writing this. I don't know why this bothers me so much, but it just does.

Honestly friends, maybe I have been in NY too long. I'm starting to become too hardened just like that one silly book said. Live in NY at least once, but leave before you become too hard. Well guys, I'm too hard. And not in the good way.

(This is the first Google image for Barry. He looks like a nice guy.)

Fartha Pooart #2

Okay. So I have locked myself out of numerous apartments numerous times taking my dog out to do his thing. It's true. I'm a glutton for punishment because I never seem to learn my lesson. On one very unfortunate occasion it happened in the middle of the night. It was 3 A.M. "Jesus. Really? Is this happening to me right now? Why me? Of course me. Who else but me? Happening. Now. Me." In Los Angeles I lived in a courtyard building and the manager lived two doors down. Easy. Fifty bucks got me in any time, any day. Here, during normal business hours I would be able to somehow get in touch with the management and get in free of charge, but what could I do at 3:00a? I had no other choice but to call a locksmith. Of course - ummm - that would have been nice if I had my phone. Yeah. I didn't have my phone either. I didn't have my keys. I didn't have have my wallet. Why would I have all that? I was wearing pajama bottoms, I had my dog and I had a plastic bag. PJs in the middle of the night in Crown Heights Brooklyn with a chihuahua. You don't need to be a mathematician to know this equals the sum of all shit. But wait, it gets worse (or better depending on how you look at things). In order to call the locksmith I had wake a neighbor to buzz me in the building so I could use his phone and wait in his apartment for the locksmith's arrival. I know. Embarrassing and awkward to say the least. Finally, $300 later - THREE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS LATER! - I was back safely in my apartment.

Here's my Fartha Pooart tip. Attach a house key to your dog's collar if you have to take your dog out to do crappy times. This way you'll never be without your key. Of course, if you just let your dog out in the yard, this may not be such a good idea. One, he can't use it to let himself in, and two, someone else may. You're Welcoooome!

2 Years, No Cable

What the what! I can't believe that I have gone almost two full years without cable television. Now don't get me wrong, I'm still a boob toob tuber (couch potato is so 80's, although I suppose so is boob toob). I manage to see all the good shows online and with Netflix, and I think my viewing habits have become much more efficient, however I really miss useless news chatter as background noise - which has since been replaced with NPR, but it's just not the same. In all honestly, the one thing I truly miss most is the advertising. If I don't get bombarded regularly with commercials, how is it that I'm supposed to know what it is that I want? Did I miss the unveiling of any scrumptious new Taco Bell edible product thingies remotely resembling tacos this year? Is there a new 4-in-1 age defying wrinkle cream that helps control my adult acne, my gas and my foot sweating problems? Probably a resounding YES, but I don't know it. Damn it!

(I think for my official 2-year Anniversary I will celebrate by ordering cable. Can't wait! I miss movie trailers too. Seeking them out on your own is just too much work.)

Fartha Pooart #1

Who's more juvenile than me? Nobody! What's the lowest form of humor? Potty! Do you think it's funny? Hell yeah! Don't even try to lie. I was actually layin in bed early this morning chuckling about some of the stupid shit I post here, case in point the last entry. It was simple, clever, silly and I found it pretty darn funny. Okay. So sue me. I find stupid shit funny. Then the title of this post just popped into my head. I thought, maybe I could be the Martha Stewart of poo poo humor. Why not? I mean, everybody needs a niche. It could be my schticky niche. Ooh. I quite like that. That should be the title of something too, huh? I'll sit and stew on that for a while.

Okay, so here's my Fartha Pooart tip of the day. For those of you that have a single bathroom in your office and can't bear to actually "go" at work because the thought of how bad it might smell mortifies you, try this. If you have spray freshener in the john, spray a good amount into the bowl before sitting (or hovering), quickly do your duty (or doodie) and just as quickly courtesy flush - even before wiping. The flush actually wafts the air freshener into the air taking care of any embarrassing stink, and there's no chance of lingering stench upon departure. You can walk out of that bathroom confident with your chin up and nose in the air. Nobody will suspect a thing. You're welcoooome!

(Hey! Don't look at me like that. Oprah did a show on shitting, so don't judge me without judging your maker first!)

I Pheart U

the p is silent (but deadly)