Monday, July 25, 2011

Recipes for Eating the Rich

The Boehner BBQ:

The Senator is fat, but also old (62), so while he has a fair amount of meat on his bones, remember he is a public servant (*cough*), therefore his meat will range from overly fatty to lean "bone" meat that has the consistency of jerky. Also, he is one of those public servants (*cough*) that refuses to make his tax return public, so he's also a chicken shit. Chicken shit, as you may or may not know, tends to sour the meat.

Recommendations: tenderize, tenderize, tenderize followed by a 24 hour period of marination. After this, you may prefer a slow roast or bury him in some Luau sand with hot coals like they do with pigs. This will take some time, so you must be patient.

Consider some cabbage as a side with some pork-n-beans.

For those of you on Weight Watchers: One small 8 oz Boehner stake is approximately 124 points, which for most of you will be your entire ration for the week.

Reid's Ribs:

Senator Harry Reid is in much the same position as his Republican counterpart. He has an estimated net worth of over 5 million. This means he is one fat sow which means flavor for your and me.
I would go with a spicy rub for his outer flanks, trim the fat whenever possible (which is more than he does. Consider a massive deep fry (use peanut oil) with beer breading. I know . . . a big vat of oil for a Senator is a bit risky, but he's from Nevada, the "come lose your money in our casinos" state. I think it's worth the gamble.

Roasted potatoes sprinkled with cold butter and rosemary. Corn. He's a Mormon. Mormon's love corn, possibly because it doesn't resemble portion of the male or female anatomy (not counting the clitoris).

The richest man in the world as of this writing is Carlos Slim:

Mmm, Mexican. In one of the poorest, problematic countries on the Northern American continent, he has the most.


Consider fajitas, slow roasting and shredding for enchiladas, be liberal with the cheese, because Mr. Slim is anything but slim, so there's plenty to go around.

Frijoles with roast jalapenos and well seasoned rice.

Read the damn comic.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

10 Places to NOT Meet Women

Following hot on the calloused, diamond-studded, well-sandaled heels of such prime beef anchor paper houses as FHM, Maxim, Men's Weekly, etc. who have all answered the question to death about to where meet members of the opposite sex (depending on how opposite you really want to go--because there is a small street on the wrong side of Mexico City (if there is indeed a right side) that will test the limits of even Cosplay serial masturbators with necrophitic colon-fetishes) . . . I thought I'd explore the answer to the OTHER question. . . .

The one that no one asks . . .

Where NOT to meet women.

Here is my list of 10 places you are guaranteed not to meet or get lucky (or unlucky) with a woman:

1. Men's restrooms at truck stops where the nasal-whining music of Willie Nelson is piped into the parking lot near the gas pumps. Chili is cheap and plentiful; deodorant is optional. The toilet seats are literally bolted in the upright position and the women's bathrooms have been converted into makeshift foosball tables.

2. San Francisco. That is to say you may very well meet and mate with individuals who look like women, but one quick check of their genetics will prove otherwise. The police scientists (I know, seems like an oxymoron, but they do exist) were developing a test that involved a cotton swab and a small glass tube with a rock like substance at the bottom that would turn blue upon contact with a Y chromosome, but the courts deemed it "profiling, frivolous and unnecessary".

3. The audience of Oprah. There will be TONS of women there (literally, they actually have industrial sized shocks beneath the stage), but they will have no interest in you whatsoever. Due to the little studied "Black Hole Oprah Phenomena" or BHOP, you, a man, will become invisible to the naked or clothed eye (for girls who wear eye patches) of any woman within a 1 mile radius of the full figured talk show host. They will only be interested in Oprah and the prizes they may or may not win. Women love Oprah. You are a man. You do not love Oprah, nor do you see the fascination. Try Maury.

4. France. You are something other than French. I know this because no one French reads this blog. I've made sure of it by NEVER ever (not even once) mentioning the "C" word (no, not Cancer, Cunt or Calcutta, but thanks for playing). Young French women are complicated, pouty and like to play hard to get; old French women are complicated, depressed and are hard to get. No one but French men have a shot with any of them unless you storm the country with jackboots or know how to "get trapped in an invisible glass box while wearing white gloves and white makeup" or are willing to invest a tranquilizer gun that dispenses Rohypnol darts at amazingly long ranges. French women are astonishingly fast, despite their rampant cigarette usage.

5. The Moon. 'Nuff said. We checked it out. We came up dry (depending on your usage of the word "came"). The moon is definitely BYOP.

6. New York, Central Park at precisely 4:21 A.M. every 48th Thursday of the year. We're still studying this one. We have no idea why this becomes a null spot for the female species. Could be Solar flares. Could be a estrogen-vacuuming vortex of some sort. Or it might have to do with the fact that Charlie Sheen's cock once escaped on this precise day and time six years ago and made a nuisance of itself. (Sheen's cock is like a meteor slamming into the Earth; it only needs to happen once to make a lasting impression.)

7. Any conventions where the single focus is role playing that involves dice with more than 6 sides. Pretty much any convention that has dice with more than 6 sides will be devoid of women. In fact, dice that has more than 6 sides are to women what garlic soaked in Holy Water and God's urine is to Republicans, er, I mean vampires.

8. Sewage Treatment facilities. Maybe it's the smell. Maybe it's the idea. Maybe it's the fact that there are zero, count them, zero women who don't think they can do better job-wise, but running shit through pipes and pouring chemicals on them seems to be something that only interests men.

9. Alaska. I know. You've seen Northern Exposure and pictures of Sarah Palin and her many daughters whose family crest actually has a broken condom on the shield to symbolize poor judgment, but the fact that most people forget is that Sarah Palin and her family are all actually fictional. As of this writing, the U.S. Census Bureau proclaims that females make up 48% of the population in this frigid state. What they've neglected to mention is that the Census Workers are so lonely in the frozen North that they now consider most wild life as "entirely datable", and they're not talking about "data".

10. The Senate. Go figure, but it's a sausage fest. 17 women to 83 men. I honestly don't know what the Senators are thinking. I for one like the sound of pantyhose whisking whisking whisking until I'm ready to lay down another $20 at the local strip club during my three hour, eight Bourbon lunch, but who am I to judge?

Read the damn comic.

Sunday, June 19, 2011


The "cloud" is the newest catch phrase. The cloud is everything you need. It has all your movies, all your music, and it's yours (sort of).

"Give me everything you own or, um, at least have paid for, all your entertainment content," the Cloud whispers to us, "and I'll give it back to you whenever and wherever you want. I'm your perfect girlfriend. My legs are always open. Finally you can watch porn in church, listen to Hip-hop at work, re-visit your favorite horror movie while being sodomized by the TSA, mmm latexy."

How can I resist?

2 reasons:

1. I downloaded a whole bunch of music from Walmat. Silly me, I got them in the Windows format (.wmv). One day though, a nasty little PC-blurp gave me some problems and I lost a lot of content. Oh, I still had the music. It was on my mp3 player and on a hard drive, but the licenses wouldn't let me transfer them. They'd been corrupted. I went back to Walmart in desperation to see if they'd let me re-download. After all, I'd paid for them, and some of them not that long ago. Surprise! Some them DID let me re-download, but only the mp3s. Walmart had stopped carrying all wmv formats though, so if I wanted them, I'd have to pay for them again.

They'd pulled a switch-a-roo and wanted to soak me for the same money as before.

Some of this music I had on vinyls, then re-bought on CDs, and having lost the CDs, now decided to buy "online".

Question: How many times do I have to pay for the same song?

Question: If I had a record, tape cassette or CD, couldn't I put it on this PC, then put it on that PC, then that mp3 player without problem?

What did I do? you ask (if not, I'll wait for you to ask, and if you don't, I'll come to your house, erase all of your DRM licenses and put a baby alligator in your toilet bowl). What did I do? I got a torrent and stole them. Why? Because I was pissed off at having to buy the same music again that I'd bought a month before.

Now, if I'd broken the CD or lost it, I'd have to re-buy it, right? So isn't this just like that?

No, and here's why. If I lost or cracked my CD, that's my own damn fault. I have all the protection, the anti-virus, the spybot, the backups, but through no fault of my own, things happen with PCs, Microsoft, etc.

A more apt analysis would be if I sold you a CD, then a friend of mine snuck into your house and laid it out in the Sun on your window sill creating a lovely, decoratively warped coaster that would no longer even fit in a CD player, much less play, then I showed up again the next day wanting to sell you another CD with the same music. How many times do you think I could pull this off?

2. It's a cheat. You never really own anything anymore, do you? You own a ticket to come into their store and listen to your music. Granted, their store can be wherever you want to be, but it's still their store. They don't have to worry about building better, more powerful hard drives or smart phones. They only have to worry about creating better, more ubiquitous broadband. But what happens when their system goes down? What happens when they decide you should pay to be in their store to listen to your music? They could, you know? They could change the rules however they like, and you wouldn't have a single hard copy of a single thing in your library, because your library belongs to them.

The cloud is ultra-convenient. It doesn't require anything but for you to have a device and a decent internet connection. You don't have to haul DVDs and CDs around. You will go for it, because of the convenience. We both know you will. I might, too. But it's a ghost in the making, a haunt we can all see as we're nodding with smiling, drooling enthusiasm as we kiss the real estate agent's gloss right off her lips and give her a fat commission.

The cloud is also an amazing database of your likes and interests, so they can do a better, more efficient job of selling you more stuff.

I can't wait for the cloud to come to the clothing stores. I'll call ahead and have the department store deliver to me a jacket and a nice pair of sneakers, but at end of the day, they'll be waiting outside my front door with two bruisers holding aluminum baseball bats, wanting their clothes back. After all, we're not a buy culture anymore, we're a rent culture.

What do you own?

Your house? No. Your bank owns your house until you pay off your mortgage. I'll let you stop laughing or crying about how long that's going to take. But if you're in the lucky .0000000001 % of people who have paid off their mortgage, then your house belongs to the state. Try not paying your property taxes for a year or so and you'll find out really quick who your house really belongs to.

What about your car? Bank again, unless it's paid off. I suppose even if you didn't pay for your license and registration or your driver's license or state mandated auto-insurance, you could still keep ownership of your car. You just couldn't drive it on public roads.

Your pets! Ah, you own your pets. Whew. Wait . . . does the cloud take pets?

read the damn comic.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

There is Absolutely Nothing Wrong With Me...but the Rest of You are Highly Suspect!

I'm over 40. I drink. I fuck. I eat.

Three out of those 4 are really easy, and the last one just requires a little more effort....or on the odd weekend money, or just a trip to Vegas. But the point is that anything you find easy is obviously a talent.

Getting older is like stumbling down a hill during a blackout. You don't remember where or why things started hurting, but you know you must've fucked up somewhere, because suddenly they do.

So I have a talent for these things, which is not to say I'm good at them, just that I find them easy.

But the first thing...the first thing is taking it's toll.

At the risk of sounding like an old guy, I have trouble after spicy foods now. Don't ask. Believe me . . . you don't want to know. I rarely dig into a pile of hot wings anymore. The guy at Wing Zone once insisted I taste the Atomic sauce before he would serve it to me. I didn't break a sweat. It was a matter of pride. Besides, I'd eaten hotter. I'd once had a curry in India that had me speechless and breathless. I'm serious. I literally could not take a breath. I was crying, sweating and in pure heaven. And it wasn't that kind of bullshit Habanero hot either that's all burn and no flavor. This curry not only delivered the internal core temperature of the Sun into my mouth, but it was fucking delicious.

And then one day, what went in hot, came out hot. And spicy food was no fun anymore.

But I can still drink. Except. . . .

Well, I used to buy the cheapest beer and sneered at the idiots that paid more 3.99 for a 12 pack because...hello! This beer was cheap as shit and you got just as drunk. Now, I only buy nice wines, and imported beer. Give me a glass or two of wine and I'm nodding off halfway through Gray's Anatomy.

Okay, I don't really watch Gray's Anatomy, but you get the idea. Then there was the morning I woke up and realized I'd been so drunk I'd almost driven off a bridge, and that somehow in my drunken state, I'd managed to change the tire I'd popped on the bridge railing.

That was about the time I decided to start sleeping in my car instead of driving. Now I only drink at home, and only every now and then. It's so pathetic that I rarely even drink in the mornings anymore, because, y'know, you lose the whole day, and after working all week, my fucking weekends are fucking precious! I don't want to spend the whole day drunk and sleeping it off. I'd rather go to Home Depot or Bed, Bath, and Beyond to buy new towels!!!!!!

Sad, but true. You never really own a house; it owns you.

Okay, on to the last subject: fucking.

In High School, with my first "sexual" girlfriend, I actually got off 5 times in the span of just a couple of hours.

That doesn't happen anymore. Which is not to say I don't like getting off and don't have some advanced ideas of what sex can be--the more intense, the better--but afterward, I actually want to talk, and giggle, tickle, and do stupid things, and say stupid things.

I'm pretty sure as men get older, they turn into women. I'm also reasonably sure women turn into men.

I rarely have to make the first move anymore. Really. Okay, I still have to get the phone number and follow up. I still have to pay for the date, for the most part, though the cool girls offer to pay a little here and there. But when it comes to the first kiss, the first naked romp through Hineyland, all I have to do is sit back and let the girl drive the tour bus.

It's. fucking. beautiful.

Women my age are much more comfortable with sex. They like it from behind. They want me on top. They want my hand up in their hair, pulling their head back so I can forcefully nibble on their neck, though they are quick to warn me against leaving any visible marks. Read that as "visible" marks. Women my age are fun. they're breasts aren't exactly perky anymore, but their spirits are sure as hell free.

Sometimes I think the only thing I've got going for me is that I don't smoke, then I start thinking maybe I should try a trip to Amsterdam and re-visit getting stoned. Sometimes I think I've got cancer and should go ahead and start growing marijuana. Sometimes I dream about that really really really really really really spicy bowl of curry I had, but can't have anymore. Sometimes I wish my dick was just a tad more erect for just a tad longer. I don't miss cheap beer, but I miss the times and the guys I used to drink it with.

On the plus side, I'm getting really good at Left 4 Dead 2. Look for me, I'm Bad Teddy. I will save your ass if I'm not playing drunk.

Read the damn comic.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Women who hug

As many of may know, I run an Evil Toys is Us. Run means manage. Evil toys for an evil world. It doesn't bother me much, but as a manager, I have employees. Not many, but enough. Any at all is enough for someone who doesn't like people.

On Thursday, April 1st, it came to my attention that a young woman in my employ (who I have not slept with) was busy having her birthday, but had kept it from everyone so we wouldn't make a fuss. Good for her, I say. Although, it could've been a ploy to make us make more of a fuss. She might be that insidious; it's hard to tell.

It turned out another woman (who I have also not slept with) in my employ was also having a birthday. The two women had never met.

One sits in my office droning on about some such problem, to which I nod and smile and refrain from staring at her somewhat large-ish breasts. One thing leads to another and somehow I happen to mention she's not the only one having a birthday. One thing still leading to another, the woman in my office asks to meet the young woman who has the same birthday as her.

I introduce them. They're both suddenly dressed in smiles, then before I know it they're hugging and giggling and making other girly noises. I can't explain it. I can only attest to it, having witnessed it (and been a tad bit aroused by it for reasons obvious to any man).

Inside I'm thinking, "Why are you hugging each other? You don't know each other? The only similarity between you is that you both have ovaries that popped into being on the same day."

The last time I hugged another man was more than a decade ago. It was my father, right after he told me he was dying.

Men don't hug. We can hug. We have the ability. We have the know how. We choose not to.

Oh, if we'd served time in a war zone together or one of us had saved the pilot from drowning right after he managed to ditch us in the bay without killing us . . . then we might hug on the ten year reunion of the disaster. Hell, we might even sprinkle a few tears.

I do hug my nephews, but they're kids. If they were grown men, I'd probably punch them in the face, because, y'know, I like them.

These two women now have lunch every day. They appear to be best friends.


If this had been two men, we would've remarked on the coincidence of our similar birthdays then preceded on to business or, well, something else, all the while discreetly trying not to be obvious in our ogling of all nearby women.

If this had been a man and a woman, the same, except there would've been half as much ogling, and probably twice the amount of discretion.

If this had been two gay men, well, probably the same as two women, hugging, but then things that in no way resemble anything discreet.

Here's why men don't hug:

We don't have breasts.


You can't possibly need more of an explanation than that.

There's no squishy, sexual organs. If you're a woman, think about why you hug a man and what you want to feel. Do you like feeling small, protected, wrapped up safely in his arms, all cuddled and cozy? Now think about what a man wants to feel. He wants to feel big and strong, like a protector and possibly just a hint of nipple against his chest. It's tough for a man to feel those things when he's hugging another man who also wants to feel those things. See? But two women embracing can both feel safe and cuddled and cozy.

Plus, the breasts.

Read the damn comic.

Aaron Diaz Hoal

Monday, March 1, 2010

The Blind Kingdom...Part IV (Now with Real Lemon flavoring!!!!)

Smart advice for numb-skulls!


It's best to hate someone below you, meaning someone poorer, dumber, uglier, fatter or generally less well-adjusted. Due to the diversity of the human species, pickings are plentiful. If you have not yet found a reason to hate your fellow brother / sister, then you have not been alive long enough nor have you really lived. You think you will never ever ever hate someone? You will. Never underestimate your fellow humans' ability to annoy, betray, hurt or anger you. The lesson of hate, like so many things, is in how you overcome it.

Note: Nothing pisses people off more than being generous and genuinely forgiving when they're busy trying to hate you. Just a tip from me to you because I care . . . you filthy shit-eating bastards.


They are the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full.

The economy:

No one responsible and mature and wise gets hurt in a depression / recession. Oh sure, those of us who pay our bills on time and in full, those of us who prefer not to live beyond our paychecks might have to tighten our belts a tad, but not by much. We don't eat in restaurants every night anyway. Maybe once a week, if that. Instead of a trip by plane, we might have to drive, but we've got a sensible car and the low interest rate to pull it off. We're happy with what we have. We're not impressed by the Jones's because we know they can't really afford their new house, and we can afford ours. In fact, we're paid a few months ahead. We know we're okay because the mortgage company keeps calling us in the hopes that we'll refinance for lower payments, but we never do because we recognize it as a thinly veiled attempt to raise our interest rate, which just happens to be low and fixed, and when they call us and tell us it would cost us an additional $3,000.00 to refinance, we laugh in their face and put an additional $3,000.00 on the principal just to piss them off.

For the rest of you: be thankful you live in a country that allows you to go bankrupt with dignity and style. In any other part of the world, you would systematically be thrown into the streets to starve. Blame Darwin, and please, when begging, try to stay on the curb. I can't afford to have my brakes replaced just yet.

Your House:

You don't own it; it owns you. If you put as much time and energy into your relationships (i.e. spouse, children, brother, sister, parent, etc.) as you did into decorating your house, you'd be the happiest person on the planet, surrounded by love, companionship and happiness. But you didn't. Let's just hope the local Home Depot shows up at your funeral and refrains making jokes about how much wood they gave you.


It's the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full . . . or are drunk, stoned or clinically insane.

World Travel:

For Americans: it's not a myth, there are actually other people in the world besides yourself.

For everyone else: We may be idiots, but we're smart idiots; we're litigious idiots; we're idiots with a whole shit load of missiles, a whole shit load of financial and political influence. If you were in our place, you'd behave the same, if not worse. In fact, judging you all by the actions of the Romans (i.e. Italians), British, Germans and Japanese, we're not doing so bad. But by all means, feel free to whine, but when we visit your B&Bs (which are delightful, by the way) . . . A. accept that we didn't take the time to learn the language because our vacations aren't as long yours, and our proximity is not nearly so convenient, and B. don't spit in our eggs, most Americans didn't have shit to do with, nor did we approve of bombing the shit out of the Iraqi people.


Some of the best and worst moments of your life will be spent here: you have only yourself to blame.

to be continued

Aaron Diaz Hoal

Monday, February 1, 2010

Love Notes For Men and Those Soft Curvy Animals

Valentine's day will be upon us soon, like a scourge, a Hallmark-sponsored virus, a legion of red, chocolatey hearts which if really shaped like hearts would more closely resemble big red blobby fist looking things with blueish veins--not exactly romantic, I know, but accurate. . .

. . . which brings me to the point of men and women.

Let's start with an obvious one:

Falling in love.

For Men, love is a destination. Once we're there, we know we're there, we're usually fairly pleased about having found our way there without having had to pull over and ask for directions or, God forbid, rely on a map. Either would mean we didn't know where we were going, and we ALWAYS know where we're going, especially when we don't.

For Women, however, it's an exciting past time, like free-falling from a plane. It's thrilling, rewarding, and they want to do it over and over and over (picture the Energizer bunny here), even if it's with the same guy.

For your guy, love is a house. You've both made it there. He doesn't feel the need to follow you around from room to room, reminding you that you're both in the house. Every room: "We're in the house, baby!" Jumping out from behind doors: "We're STILL in the house, baby!" Admit it, you'd want to smack him after 10 minutes of this.

For your girl, she wants you to jump out of the plane with her again. Yes, you just did it yesterday, but that was yesterday. Yesterday you proved you were willing to give it all up for her. Yesterday your grand romantic gesture was recorded for posterity, but that was yesterday. Are you STILL willing to give it all up for her, put her first, make her the number one star that leads your ship on the ocean (and over the edge of the Earth)? You can't just fall in love with her once. She gets no satisfaction, no ongoing thrill from that. There's no drama. She wants you to fall in love with her all over again every day, at least until she's menstruating. Then you just have to prove you're willing to put up with all of the crazy ass things she says, after which you may be rewarded, but only if you never ever bring up all the crazy ass things she said.

Guys, for the most part, want one thing, and that is a naked woman laying on our bed, waiting for us to arrive home. Naked and dry and soft and very very ready.

Oh, we want the other stuff, too, but it doesn't really occur to us that we might need it until we can see the hand of death looming in the distance. Then, and only then, do we really start to think, "Who will really be willing to put with me when I'm an old fart?" and "Who's going to be waiting to tell me that we'll face it together when I get dick cancer, butt cancer, back hair cancer or whatever?" and "Who's going to still let me jostle their fleshy bits and put my cold feet against the back of her warm legs when the old willy isn't quite as ready to salute the magnificence of the female nipple as it used to be?"

It's not just about facing death. That's just the first time it really occurs to us that we might actually need all that love stuff, beyond getting wet and sweaty under the sheets. Plus, at some point our testosterone levels start to plummet, but that's still not the main reason. I'm not by any means suggesting you wait until after he's had his first colonoscopy to hint that he might want to marry you, but it is a viable and frequently over looked strategy, and you get an amazing number of credits once you've driven him there and back (keep a window open on the way home, just a tip from me to you).

I was out of high school before I realized how much women liked to fuck. You could've stuck a live cobra down my pants. That was the extend of my shock. Not that high school girls didn't seem to like sex, but they seemed to attach so much baggage to it, reputation, possible pregnancy, parents finding out, etc. Now, in my forties, I'm surprised at how much difficulty women have with the emotional side of things. In fact, sex for women my age seems surprisingly easy. They're good at it. They want it. They're willing to admit it. Life's short. They don't want to wait forever to find out if you're worth it (physically anyway). But the baggage is all emotional at that point.

It's nice to date women that have had their bad boy flings and now want someone they can trust and that is fairly decent (though a little bad boy still goes a long way). Unfortunately, the bad boys have fucked them over so much that they're still walking around with a bad taste in their mouth. And occasionally the insecurities have reached critical mass. I've dated a woman who loved sex, but who refused to have an orgasm with anyone who wasn't "the one". I wasn't. I've dated a woman who was so hot and who smelled so good, she was simply completely irresistible to me, and even though I could see the fuse being lit, I still lived in hope it wouldn't blow up. It did, but what a ride. I dated a woman who wanted a purely physical relationship, until she got it and then realized she needed more.

And after a life time of women, some fucked up, some not so fucked up, some hot, some hot only to me, I'm still hungry for more.

Go figure.

I think I'll buy a large lump of chocolate shaped like a blobby fist.

Aarron Diaz Hoal