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)

Flabulous

I don't normally repost other people's stuff, but today's CAPTION THIS contest on dlisted really cracked me up, especially the first runner up. So dumb. And so bad. But it really makes complete sense after seeing this picture of Kelly Clarkson yesterday.

There's A Schwa In It

I'd like to share a fond childhood memory with anyone who cares. It was 5th grade science class, and all the students were taking turns reading aloud from the textbook. The kid behind me - who I'm sure grew up to be a very intelligent man so I will refrain from naming names - was taking his turn. He came across what I thought was a simple word and got stuck. "Gal. Gal. Gal." He kept saying. Finally the impatient teacher - lazy-eyed Ms. Thomas (I'll use her name because I don't give a damn about protecting her, that's if she's still even alive) said, "There's a schwa in it." Finally the kid blurted out enthusiastically, "Galaxschwazee!" Needless to say the teacher really lost her cool...except with me. This was, of course, after I turned and exclaimed, "What! Are you dumb? Galaxy!" Now I swear I wasn't a bad kid or a bully. Cross my heart. I was just rather impulsive, and saying that I talked a lot is an understatement. I mean, I talked A LOT, and I often said what's what. Honestly, I got good grades and was well liked by most teachers, but I often found myself sitting in the back of the classrooms, facing corners, twiddling thumbs in supply closets, or simply hanging out in the hallway more often than I'd like to admit because of those damn flappin' gums. For the record though I felt badly afterwards. I think.

Pogonotrophy

I love this word mostly because of how it is pronounced here, but I quite like what it means as well. It's the art of cultivating a beard, as in facial hair and sideburns (which I'm no stranger to). I often find myself growing a beard only to shave it only to grow it again just to shave it. It's a vicious cycle. I'm not sure if it's general laziness - the fact that I don't love shaving - or if I enjoy the art of pogonotrophy. We'll go with the latter. It sounds much better.

Life After Death?

I read in Friday's Daily AM that Michael Jackson was healthy before overdose. Shocking, yes, but just wait. It went on to say he was producing sperm. Even before death that would have shocked me, but after? I'm absolutely floored! That's what they mean, right? He was producing sperm at the autopsy.

In unrelated news, Mrs. Butterworth's first name has finally been released after having been kept secret since 1961. It's Joy, if anyone gives a hoot. (I personally think Mable would have worked nicely, but that's just me.)