above is a screen capture from CNN only minutes ago.

not sure i am interested in an interactive story on sodomy.

the mouse goes where!?

now that we have cats again, i have revived one of my best stupid human tricks.

surely you have been to the circus and seen the classic lion trainer head in the lion mouth trick. mine is a simple spin off of this, but in reverse.

i insert an entire cat head into my mouth.

man, she hates when i do that.

when boarding the down elevator and some one asks "going down?", why do you laugh, that's not funny

when you see a co-worker in the bathroom and they say "fancy meeting you here!", why do you laugh, that's not funny

when the guy in the team meeting eyes your granola breakfast bar and says "did you bring enough for the whole class?", why do you laugh, that's not funny.

i am finished with laughter for the sake of being polite. laughs are precious and rare, i refuse to waste them on office humor and the people who spew it. taking it a step further, i will be using evil humor to ensure complete silence and squelch any chance for mundane office humor. it is my mission.

when boarding an elevator i will announce to it's passengers "i hope we don't plummet to our deaths in this tin box, i hate all of you and would rather not spend my dying moments with you assholes."

when recognizing a co-worker in the bathroom i will say "damn it, urinal 3 is mine, every one knows that, never use urinal three, what is wrong with you, if i ever catch you deflowering urinal 3 again, i swear to god, i will beat you like a red headed pinata! asshole."

when walking into the team meeting with my granola bar i will announce "hey smell my poop finger, i must have forgotten to wash after my morning crap session, it was a doozy. um, you want some granola, asshole?"

i have a new hobby to pass the time. when pooping in public restrooms, i write notes for future poopers to find on the toilet paper roll. things like:

- where have you been, i miss you.
- 8:45 tomorrow morning at the coffee machine.
- i like your socks.
- i pee'd on the seat.
- please be my poo pal, leave me a note.
- please stop leaving butt crud on the seat, you fucking cave man.
- just think, we both pooped in the same potty, weird, huh?
- you'll pay for the evil things you have done.
- as you sit here, i am sneezing on your phone receiver.
- thanks for hogging the handicap stall, asshole. signed the cripple.
- we have traced the writings, they are coming from the stall next to you. get out now!

look for my literary genius on a roll near you soon.

the international association of angst ridden art directors (iaarad) has mandated the use of physical force as response to specific client requests.

the client request, "make it sexy, we need more sizzle" warrants a three stooges two finger eye poke.

the client statement, "I know,... use the "shaking hands" (one white, the other black) clip art!" warrants a swift punch to the groin area.

the client request, "can you make the logo spin (or rotate) in 3d?" warrants a boxing of the ears.

the client demand, "the logo needs to be bigger." warrants a wet willie followed by a titty twister.

the client statement, "maybe if you combined the cutting edge comp with the conservative comp..." warrants a double fisted wedgie.

the client statement, "I'm going to run this creative concept by carl our night shift custodian, he took some adult-ed art classes." warrants a bare handed disembowelment.

the client request, "can we go back to the way it was when..." warrants the use of a sack of door knobs about the head and face.

local law enforcement has been notified of these exceptions to the laws regarding assault and will not pursue legal action against any art director forced to execute any of the above actions.

in the 3rd grade, i learned that monkeys and dolphins are the smartest of all animals. when i was 8, i was fairly sure monkeys (you know, the whole opposable thumb thing give them a distinct advantage over the dolphins) would soon rule the planet.

so, here i sit many years later, fully prepared. I have my monkey slave name picked out (oo-oo-ah-ah), i bought a lighted helmet to work the banana mines, and i had the ridge above my eyes surgically enhanced to fall in favor with the monkey queen.

i am still waiting, and they have not even formed a union yet. they just seem to sit around their cages masturbating all day.

hey, maybe they are smart.

seems many talk about heaven, but no one really knows how it all works. I am curious about the house rules and if there are vacations to other destinations.

i plan on having many wives here on earth. which one spends eternity with me? i hope it's my future ex, the stripper, from vegas. probably not.

some times i have an incredible urge to rock out with AC/DC. now surely bon scott and the boys will not be there, but will their music? i just can't rock out to dc talk or jars of clay, it's not the same.

what about pets. i have had many cats, i wouldn't mind seeing chubby again, but fellini was kind of a pain in the ass.

some say gays would not be allowed, rats, that means no decent interior decorators, live theatre, or attentive flight attendants.

i enjoy baseball. i really like the designated hitter rule, but it seems kind of like cheating. i bet they play national league rules. booooooaring!

will i be the skinny me or the fat me? hmmm, that reminds me, some one told me all fast food companies are evil except for chick-fil-a. chick-fil-a sucks. must fill pockets with mcdonald's fries before i go.

what about all the people that want me in their heaven, but i don't want them in mine.

i doubt the premium cable package is an option, hbo can't exist without the f word.

x box or playstation?

eternal bliss would start to wear on me after a few weeks. can you imagine never feeling sad? can you imagine all the cheese sandwich blog entries?

i probably should be more concerned with the amenities and conditions of hell.

without gravity, your turds would be floating all over the place.

reader beware, the following post contains fart humor (or at least an attempt at fart humor). at 36 years old, farts are still funny (especially farts that rise in tone upon completion, as if they are posing a question). any way, consider yourself warned, this is the last chance for the high minded reader to bail out. what follows is a true story that i am not proud of (well maybe just a little bit) but may become essential to FBI profilers in the future.

the urge to make stinky came suddenly. normally i would suppress the urge in the enclosed space of my car, but i was alone and feeling a bit adventurous. i figured i could always forgo the air conditioning and open a window if necessary.

it was almost inaudible, just a tired little sigh from down below.

at fist nothing, perhaps a misfire, devoid of odor. after a few seconds the odor subtly made itself known. incredibly it was not a bad odor, in fact the smell was very familiar.

a double bacon cheeseburger from burger king.

the odor produced was an exact replica, but purely coincidental. the odor quality would lead you to believe it was a talent i had developed like rich little doing celebrity voices or a gecko's ability to mimic it's environment.

i nailed it so well, the odor created a craving for the real thing. such a craving, i stopped at bk an purchased a double bacon cheeseburger. it was delicious.

washing your towels is unnecessary. the second you step out of the shower, you are the cleanest you will be all day. the towel you use is only whisking clean water from your body. the towel never gets dirty.

extrapolating this thought further helped me reach another conclusion.

you can eat off your toilet seat.

stepping out of the shower, my butt cheeks are the cleanest they will be all day. i immediately slip into my freshly laundered crossbreed boxer/brief underwear. instantly my cheeks are protected from germs looking for a place to land or random globs of flying peanut butter.

i then put on clean pants, a second layer to protect my pristine cheeks from any failure my underwear my have. if i tuck in my shirt, a third layer of protection is gained. behind these protective sheaths, the cheeks are safe. rarely handled and never exposed to the light of day.

so, when the time to poo arrives, contact with the toilet seat is really the first contact my cheeks have had since the bar of soap and wire scrub brush in the shower. if anything, my ass is polishing the seat.

it seems most people at the office also wear things to cover their ass. by lunchtime, that seat has been buffed by dozens of fresh clean butt cheeks. i know where i am eating my lunch tomorrow!

some developers tell me that html is limited in it's functionality. that is a bunch of crap, look what i have coded. these buttons go far beyond controlling simple html pages, they actually control time, space, and dimension. all done in html (with a wysiwyg editor, mind you!).

i am still tweaking the code for the "spay my cat" button. a bug in the code results in a cat tonsillectomy. seems to be a netscape problem. press the button only once, wait five minutes before clicking again, clicking twice may result in double billing of your credit card.

a week or so ago, these sprouted downward from the ceiling. they have become a mystery here at the office, and have generated much speculation as to what they might be.

i believe they are ceiling nipples. everyone will know i am right when the milk begins dripping.

how great is that? fresh milk dripping into your cube free of charge. i wonder when i get my ceiling nipples.

well, guess i will keep making these till i get bored or the cease and desist order comes.

first watch the original, then the spoof of mark..

incase you missed it switch I, and switch II.

friday evening we attended a kindergarten kickoff sort of dinner thingy for son one. a few observations.

1. my grade school teachers looked like old retired pirates, my sons teachers look like they could be moonlighting at gentleman's clubs or that van halen video.

2. the principle was skinny and unimpressive. i think i could take him.

3. i asked the gym teacher when they would start playing dodge ball. he said they don't play those types of games any more. they are raising a generation of wussies.

4. i could have sorted the kindergarteners into their future cliques (geeks, jocks, band buddies, stoners, sluts, brainiacs, dweebs, and youth groupies) with 98% accuracy.

the switch parody i created last week, gave me another idea.

if you have not seen or heard of ellen, you may want to check out the original, otherwise proceed here.

my very earliest childhood memories begin at 3 to 4 years old.

i figure, what is the use of interacting with my son if he is not going to remember it anyway. seems kinda like a waste of time.

well, son #2 recently turned 3, i should probably introduce myself. he has been eyeing me suspiciously around the house lately.

took the boys to "kid expo" today. this scam is where you plunk down $5 each for the opportunity to be harassed by people in booths selling shit like home security systems and home cleaning products.

admission also allows you to separately purchase tickets to play on giant inflatables like this one.

my son loved sliding down the deck of the titanic into the icey inflatable waters of the convention hall floor. i wonder if it was that much fun on the real titanic.

this giant inflatable allowed us to giggle maniacally as we re-enacted one of the greatest human tradgedies of modern times. wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

i can hardly wait for next year, the boys should really enjoy the hindenburg.

you have probably seen some of the apple switch commercials as well as some spoofs of the commercials.

i offer my spoof. a testimonial from mac himself about switching users.

i am hoping the divorce court judge is male. only another man will understand this man's relationship with his penny jar. a penny jar that will be the sole reason for the divorce.

at the end of every day, the coins in my pockets are dropped into my penny jar. the average daily donation is less than 37 cents. mostly pennies, a few nickels and dimes, and on very rare occasion a quarter. i consider quarters to be big money and usually put them back in my pocket the next morning.

the penny jar is a glass milk bottle that resides on my dresser, surrounded by other manly things. my wife claims it is as much hers as mine because she occasionally contributes to the jar. i once saw her donate a small nut-bolt-washer combination.

the penny jar has never reached full fruition. at three quarters full she takes the jar (without permission) to the grocery store and dumps it in a counting machine. she then takes that money and purchases low fat chips, process cheese food, frozen yogurt, and miracle whip light. shit i would never buy.

penny jar money is meant to be spent on one's self. little out of the ordinary bonuses like an import beer, pornography, 2 dollar wagers on the ponies, sharpie pens or a mexican wrestling mask.

never will i experience the pride of a full penny jar as when i was a bachelor. knowing this makes me feel unfinished or interrupted. each coin is a step in an incredible journey of discipline and time. filling the jar requires the proper mind set, it is a marathon not a sprint. completing a jar is bitter sweet, a payoff followed by the daunting task of refilling the jar.

i think she does it as a constant reminder that she is in charge of the finances.

sometimes i confuse acceptable behavior at home with unacceptable behavior at work.

in preparation for an impending monster yawn, a production artist pushed back from his desk leaned back as far as his chair would allow. arms unfurled, eyes clamped shut, mouth opened wide.

standard protocol at home is to insert your finger in the open mouth and wait for the victim to unknowingly close the mouth and gag on the pranksters finger. usually hilarity ensues and the boys fall over in fits of laughter.

the gaping mouth looked huge to me, like i could fit my whole fist inside. the target was so great and so easy i forgot i was at work. instinctually my fingers curled into a fist, except for one, pointer. pointer stood straight and knew exactly what to do. he leapt forward and dove into the abyss.

contact with pointer and the closing mouth shocked me back to reality. sudden panic. realization i am standing at work with my finger in a co-workers mouth.

not good. soon expecting harassment charges to end my career.

the x-acto and I have always had a love hate relationship. her elegant beauty, sharp wit, and decisiveness have always intrigued me. i have always respected her, now more so than ever. we had not danced in a long time. friday night we danced. danced with percission and grace.

as the evening grew late, our dancing became less precise and more dangerous. i was holding her tight when she slipped. in slow motion i watched and knew disaster was eminent and unstoppable.

she slid through layers of tissue without slowing. it must have been the bone that stopped the forward motion. i felt nothing. the color red flowed from my finger and on to the floor. she also lay on the floor at my feet.

our dance was over. we had been using each other, and this was the price i had to pay. now i return to my true love, the sharpie.

my wife just booked her annual trip to visit her parents sans kids. it reminded me that a new hoax must be planned.

last year she was very worried about me taking good care of the kids. to ease her mind i emailed a photo a day of the kids to show her how well we were doing without her.

the photos:

i fed them quite well...

we went to the zoo...

number 2 claimed a kangaroo ear as a souvenir...

i made sure they were dressed properly...

number one may have been allergic to the laundry soap...

now accepting ideas for this years hoax.

i really want to enjoy watching the world cup thingy (tournament? championship? event? match? game? whatever). i have put some effort into watching. i really want to care, but i don't.

i think a few minor tweaks to the game may bolster u.s. interest in the sport. first, shorten the field quite a bit. cover the grass with a wood floor. the goal's are much too big, make them circular and suspend them about 10 feet in the air. kicking the ball should be illegal. make the players dribble with their hands. force them to shoot every 28 seconds. that should do it...oh, yea, the players need to be much taller and more tattoos.

word to your mutha, fifa.

one day i will cease to exist. i am not sure which day that will be, but i have been thinking about the cause of death. i have identified a few below and included the current odds provided by my vegas bookie.

1. struck in head by grapefruit size hail and/or swept up by a tornado. of all the options, spinning around a tornado vortex with cows, chickens and trailer homes would be the coolest! odds 500 to 1. highly unlikely since said big weather is rare in itself, but if there is even a 10% chance of this weather, there is a 100% chance i will be standing in the yard watching it.

2. a gruesome and violent mishap with my ryobi weed wacker (which I commonly refer to as the "angry bitch"). the angry bitch is easily the most powerful and violent machine i have ever operated. odds 30 - 1. more likely to grotesquely disfigure myself, death would be a pretty good trick.

3. starring up through the moon roof of my car while driving. stupid yes, but it's so dang fun. odds 20 - 1. more likely on a clear and starry night.

4. stepping on a lego (or happy meal toy) and doing a face plant into the night stand. odds 10 - 1. a distinct possibility that increases with the birth of each additional offspring.

5. severe brain damage inflicted by a post shower q-tip ear cleaning session. odds 5 - 1. i know, i know, but it feels so good and usually results in pleasurable eargasms.

6. natural causes. odds 1 billion - 1. just not gonna to happen. less likely to happen than monkeys flying from my butt.

my wife has her money on number 1. i say, never underestimate the addictive relationship between the johnson and johnson q-tip and my ears.

in the second grade i was pulled from my class to attend a "special" class for an hour a day. even at that tender age i realized my "special" classmates were an assortment of nose picking, pant wetting misfit freaks. after only a few days they stopped making me attend the "special" class. to this day i do not know what that was all about.

whatever it was about, it scarred me with a life long conspiracy paranoia.

i am fairly sure my mother had a visit with my 2nd grade teacher. i assume she said something like "we appreciate your efforts with our son, but we realize what he is and we accept that. there is only so much you can do, so we believe there is no reason to continue with the special class. we do not expect much of him, and we have come to terms with that. instead we would like you to just let him believe he is like the others."

i am also fairly sure that same conversation has taken place with many of my teachers, coaches, employers, and even friends (if i can call them that). in fact, i am fairly sure my mother has spoken to you, and is probably paying you to read this.

i think they could have made a butt load of extra cash if the actors and actresses in the planet of the apes movie stayed late on the set and made an after hours monky love porno in full make-up and costume. i would pay twice the price to see that movie.

that one monkey chick was way hot.

I often leave phone messages for myself for her to discover on the answering machine.

"griff, this is griff calling. hope all is going well. hey i saw your wife this morning... dude, i bet she is sweet in the pants. well, that's all i really had to say. smell ya later! oh, and say hi to you wife for me."

it started with the flair felt tips in the late 80's. since then, i have moved on to the harder stuff. sharpie ultra fine point black. then colors, three packs containing red and green. Two years ago i saw a guy using a purple one. he became my colorado connection, mailing purple sharpies in plain brown envelopes. I needed more than he could send and the lag time was killing me so i hit the streets. i found yellow (mello yellos) and brown (brownies).

milliseconds after removing the cap the ink aroma shatters my walnut shell skull, penetrates the brain, slicing between the left and right hemispheres, dividing them with infinite space. everything opens up. everything breathes.

there is another lusting for the sharpie. just as i extract the odor, the mead academe sketch diary extracts line. it quickly becomes a menage a' trois, both the paper and i worship the sharpie.

the paper is insatiable, upon contact it sucks the ink from the sharpie tip. thin lines are nice but thick lines are better. if feeling naughty, i just rest the tip on the paper and watch the blob grow, penetrating several virgin sheets below.

no rules apply to the men's room here, anything goes. common sense and etiqutte are no where to be found. we often share amazing potty stories, a co-worker related the following.

standing at urinal one he noticed urinal three guy was eating crackers. crackers balanced on the top of the urinal. snacking and pissing at the same time. shoving one after another into his cracker hole.

WTF?

i find this more amazing/disgusting/weird than palm pilot guy, who feels it necessary to tinker with his little pilot as he urinates.

the party was well underway by the time she arrived. she looked very plain, dressed in jeans and carrying a large duffel bag. she quickly slipped into the bedroom almost unnoticed. a few of the party people saw her, the word spread quickly and the anticipation increased.

she emerged from the bedroom in full costume gripping a boom box. some cheered her others quietly stared. she set the boom box on the floor and pushed play. she then made her way over to the couch where the guest of honor sat. she moved to the music. he sat motionless and transfixed. she gently tugged at his arm, she wanted him to dance with her.

he did. they were surrounded by all of the revellers. each watched with jealousy, but they knew their turn would come.

suddenly the guest of honor began to cry. her extremely large head was a little overwhelming, the nursery rhyme from the boom box was just a little too loud.

she hardly resembled buzz lightyear at all, more like buzz's fat dim witted cousin.

the speech synthasizer on my mac is set to agnes. agnes reads all system messages aloud in an amusing/annoying robotic type femal voice.

my wife kept hearing the voice of agnes complaining from the den, but did not know where it was coming from. it irritated her.

"where the fuck is stephen hawking's wife? i hear her here some where." my wife said.

i recently went to the printer to pick up a document. the printer is shared by more people than you can shake a stick at.

an email rests face up and pushed to the side. obviously unclaimed for some time. i recognized the recipients name and decided to hand deliver it.

then i was drawn into the content of the email. it was from a woman other than his wife. she had enjoyed the pictures he sent. small icons printed on the page represented attachments. she was returning the favor.

shit, what do i do now?

return it to the printer and leave it to shock and amaze others? try and save him further embarrassment by hand delivering the email, pretending i did not read it (lame)? hand it to him with the old wink, wink, nudge, nudge? email him pictures of myself?

dear reader, what is the etiquette for such a situation?

i put it back on the printer and waited. i kept the printer under surveilence for several hours. sooner or later he would print something new and return to find both old and new pages. the suspense was both sickening and delightful.

as the great willie wonka once said "the suspense is killing me, I hope it lasts."

much later he came to collect. he looked at it, looked at it harder, both confused and horrified. he quickly shuffled the page into the freshly printed stack. he then looked both ways as if crossing a street. his head slightly tilted downward. he was looking for witnesses. i was cleverly hidden.

next time i an xeroxing several copies to plant in printer trays around the office for fun.

this was peaking over my neighbor's house yesterday morning. it looks like he has finally begun work on the genetically altered race of super huge killer clowns that he is always rambling on about. i'm glad he likes me.

or maybe it's just the bounce house for his kid's birthday party.

i boarded the elevator at the basement level. a small pudgy man wheeled a dolly into the elevator on the first floor. strapped to the dolly with bungi cords was standard issue black office telephone (why would you need a dolly to transport a phone?).

awkward silence as the doors close.

i look down at the phone and say "dang, i thought mobile phones were gettin' smaller".

ok, so the line wasn't that funny, but as inane elevator banter goes, it was genius.

pudgy glanced down at the phone, up at me, then to the lighted numbers above the door. for the rest of the journey he continued staring at the numbers, frowning. no response, not even a fake polite elevator laugh.

obviously, he didn't get the joke. he must have thought i believed it was an actual mobile phone. most likely he quickly decided any attempt to explain that it was a desk phone to the moron was futile.

72 more vertical feet of seemingly never ending awkward silence. just he and i.

generally i enjoy being a human. i look at the animals and just giggle knowing that i can drive a car and they can't. heck most of em can't even reach the pedals.

oh and one more thing, my opposable thumb rocks! na-na-na-na-naaa!

occasionally i read the obituaries for fun, but it is never as much fun as i thought it might be. most people don't know when they will die and are not well prepared. the next of kin is burdened with trying to find a photo for the paper. the photo can't be just any photo, it needs to capture the essence and personality of the stiff. as the camera shutter clicks, very few people think, "that's the one for my obit".

to save my kin time and effort, i submit my obituary photo above. send me yours, perhaps i will create a site of premature obit photos.

it's a good thing i don’t believe in karma, it would be way creepy if i die later today. just in case i do... i didn't know anything about those things buried in my back yard.

i can't be the only one who has noticed this unfortunate store placement just off 75 in dallas.

recently overheard "honey, i really believe your mother would have preferred the corrugated over the mahogany."

i'm thinkin' boxes to go gets the casket store overflow. but who gets those customers that find boxes to go a little too hoity-toity? a few doors down i'm will soon open "burlap sacks and more".