Sign my skates? Nooooo…
Sandbagger – One who plays several levels below that which are more suited to their abilities. See: ringer; cherry-pickin' bitch; slackoff.
This guy we played against last night is probably the best roller hockey player in the state. I know that's like saying someone is the best at shadow puppets or drunk miniature golf, but he gets thousands in endorsements, equipment and teenage pussy, so, evidently, he's made it worth something. Chances are, if you've seen any ads for roller hockey equipment, you've seen his picture.
Why then, you might ask, is this assclown playing in a "B" level beer league? Excellent question. The answer: To get ridiculed mercilessly by a large Mexican.
This sandbagger hasn't played in 6 weeks, but shows up for his mediocre team's first playoff game against my team, and his team is figuring on an easy win, mainly because he can skate around everyone else like they're fucking parking cones.
Almost everyone at that goddam rink kisses this guy's ass, because he's good at hockey, a minor celebrity and a cocky, bitchass punk. My team couldn't give four shits less about Bitchass and his notoriety. Not that they want to go out and fuck him up or anything, but there a definite feeling of apathy while he's busy scoring double-digit goals on my fat ass. I don't want him to score, of course, but it's like pissin' in the wind sometimes.
Late in the first period, Bitchass has the puck behind our net, playing with it like it's his small, Irish penis and he meets Gonzo, our pride and joy of a shit-talker. Gonzo is a 6'2", 200 pound, tattooed Mexican with rock-a-billy chops who sounds like a sober Tommy Chong when he speaks. When they collide, something resembling a dropped bar of soap at the County lock-up ensues and Bitchass gets up a-whinin', "Reh-eff, that's a fuckin' trih-ip". I tried to politely remind Bitchass that it's not technically tripping if you step on your own stick (regardless of whether or not someone was attempting anal penetration sans lube), but all that came out was, "shut up the fuck up, you pussy."
Bitchass is pissed now. No more Mr. Slow-and-easy-with-the-in-and-out, oh no, gonna try and give it to me hard, now. Problem is, him being a cocky punk and all, he doesn't play as well when he's pissed. We start to catch up while Bitchass isn't scoring, and the whole time I can see Gonzo jawin' at him at every face-off.
There's finally a face-off in our zone and I can hear both of them:
Gonzo: How much bigger does the net need to be for you to hit that shit, man?
Bitchass: (cockily) I'm a better shot than you'll ever be.
Gonzo: Yeah, I seen you on them posters for those skates, you're pretty fucking cute.
Bitchass: (with cocky-ass smirk) Yeah? Want me to sign a pair for you?
Gonzo: (glaring) Naw, but you can SUCK MY DICK IN THE SHOWER... (now smiling broadly and speaking redneck) AH'D LAHK THAY-AT!
The rink went eerily silent after that until I began giggling uncontrollably and started making sucking noises. "Shloop, shloop, shlchloooooop..." Then, even the ref was laughing.
We went on to win, 8-4. I'd tell you it was because I'm a fucking rockstar and I was a wall against the best player in the state, but it's probably because every time Bitchass touched the puck, you could to hear a subtle chant, "slurpee... sluuuuurrrrpeeee..."
That'll throw you off your game, I bet.
At 10, I played for PussyAss too, and, sho'nuff, we got spankety-spanked. I told everybody who'd listen that he missed his playoff game for a fuckin' Jimmy Buffet concert because he and his boyfriend are groupies and that they can't give enough head after a show. Heh heh.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Tits on a boar.
I am a code geek. No problem. I get paid to be. I have a serious problem with other people who are paid to be as well, and suck serious gorilla balls at it.
I just spent 3 fucking hours cleaning up someone else's code simply because they are a drooling, stammering imbecile. That's the only reason I can come up with for why they would create such a urine-soaked mass of rotting shit. It may as well have been written in fucking crayon on the back of a Denny's menu.
I'll explain for the non-code geeks in terms of simple English.
Say I were to write a few simple sentences in English, the proper way:
1) I am hungry.
2) I'd like to paint the left wall of my office in your blood.
3) Your breasts are firm and full, yet I still hate you.
4) You smell just like an elephant's ass.
Now, I'll show you the way the imbecile would write these simple sentences:
1) Hungry. Hungry. Hungry is what I am. Achingly hungry. Belly is empty.
2) I don't want to take out a brush, dip it into the gaping wound in your lifeless corpse, and drag it, bristles first, up and down the right side of the wall of the room I work in, but I do want to take a knife, rip a hole in my abdomen and flail my bleeding body at my walls. Whee!
3) Chopper, sick balls!
4) I have new socks on. They are black. My shirt is black. I have a smear of deodorant on my shirt from when I put it on. My deodorant ran out around 3 o'clock. I must not smell very good.
This shit is all over the fucking place. I've got so much redundancy going on that I want to commit suicide with an electric juicer and then take an electric juice machine and kill myself.
That and half the shit just doesn't fucking work. To call it "redundant" is misusing the word, as half of it just isn't needed.
Had a mean-ass-bastard-sumbitch of a ranch boss that used to yell at me, "Boy, you're useless as tits on a boar." I may or may not yell this into the next cube by the end of today.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Jimmy Buffet vs. Playoff Hockey
I'm sitting at work and my cell rings. It's a goalie-buddy of mine who wants me to play for him tonight. He's a good guy and has played for me before, so I owe him. Shit, he played at 6 and stayed to play for me at 10 once, I owe him BIG, not serious tongue-action, but I can at least fill in on his team.
So I say, "What's wrong pussyass? Shit man, you hurt? Are you bleeding out of your EYES? That's the only way you'd miss a fucking playoff game."
He tells me he's going to a concert tonight.
Me: Okay, which concert? (Thinking something once in a lifetime, like Fleetwood Mac and Limp Bizkit)
PussyAss: Jimmy Buffet.
Me: You're fuckin shittin' me.
PussyAss: What's wrong with Jimmy Buffet?
Me: Nothing, if you're fat, wear tropical shirts and are gay, and dude, if you call yourself a ParrotNose or what-the-fuck-ever those fags call themselves, then I'm kicking you in the crotch til you DO bleed out of your eyes.
PussyAss: Hey man, Buffet makes me feel good. I go to a Buffet concert and I'm on a happy-high for 2 or 3 days.
Me: That's because of all the shit flowing through your bloodstream, you stupid bitch. That's your fucking brain on drugs.
PussyAss: Naw man, I go to Metallica and for 2 days I wanna punch people and break shit. I go to Buffet, I'm happy and it's the same amount of recreational pharmaceuticals.
Me: If you need to go see Jimmy Buffet to get your happy on and miss your fucking playoff game, then don't let me stop you. Hell, I'll play for you too, ‘cause I owe you. But, the next time I see you, I'm tripping you and doing a fucking elbow-drop in the middle of your fucking back. See how your happy-on holds up after that, fucker.
PussyAss: Thanks, oh, by the way, Best Player, Next Best Player and Good Goddam Player (names have been changed to protect the vaginas) aren't going to be there tonight. So, good luck.
Me: Fuck you.
I know it's only roller hockey tonight and not ice, but shit, playoffs is playoffs.
If his team ends up losing bad, I'm going to start stuffing every puck near me into the net until his Goals Against Average is at about 50 and he won't make the All-Star team.
Let him stuff that in his fucking ParrotHole.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.I can pee perfectly horizontally… in my pants.
I've recently found out that I'm the perfect height for the evil bastards that design public restroom counter-tops.
This is only recently an issue as I just started washing my hands.
Public restrooms to me normally meant:
A) Bars and who gives a fuck if I wash my hands in a bar? I'm usually drunk, or on my way, and so is everyone else.
B) School, where I have no one to impress and usually didn't have to shit.
Oh, I guess I would wash ‘em once in a while, but only if somebody else was in there with me. Well, somebody I knew anyway. Fuck strangers, let ‘em think I'm a pig. I am.
So now I work for this great company and I love it here and am doing everything I can to impress all of these great people. Problem is, there's almost always somebody in the shitter when I'm in there too. I can get over the fact that this means they are hogging the Sports page that someone always leaves in there (Avs are out, so I don't really care anymore), but it means I have to wash my hands now. Every fucking time.
So, I turn on the water. I've seen this shit done before, I can do this. Then I put my hands under it. Then I reach for soap.
Now's where our trouble starts. To reach the soap, I lean on the counter with the tops of my thighs. While I'm dripping water on the counter, its toward the back and not likely to hurt any bystanders, but some inconsiderate fuck has dripped his share of the water on the FRONT of the counter. This water has now transferred itself via absorption (and some other physics class shit I forgot) onto my pants... in a perfect horizontal line, the start of which matching up perfectly with where my penis is.
Even if the guys I work with know what happened, they still stare and smirk.
The females I work with could figure it out if they weren't staring, transfixed, on my wet, now semi-erect unit. They stare because I'm huge.
C'mon people, something clever please.
What I'm thinking is "Yes, I can piss my pants in a perfectly horizontal line. I have that kind of control and I'm awesome because of that." And that's what I would've said, given the opportunity. Alas, no opportunity comes. The masses are silent.
It's incredibly hard to embarrass me because I tend not to care about anything concerning hygiene, personal habits or social faux-paus. I say that because I'm not embarrassed, but instead am terribly disappointed in the lack of smart-ass comments and the open opportunity to mock someone who seemingly invites it with such a passion.
Please FUCK WITH ME, it's the only way I truly know that I am loved.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.CaveMan the Buffalo Thief
Me and the Girl are from an extremely small town in Montana. We are complete hicks because we're natives and her father, not being a native, full-on belongs there now. He's a complete CaveMan-Jeremiah-Johnson-Mountain-Man-Outdoorsman and he builds stuff out of rock for a living, so that rounds out the warm and cuddliness that is my future father-in-law. CaveMan has a buddy, "Dickum" who runs the construction company and they're heading to the bar (notice I say "the" instead of "a", this is because our miniscule fucking town only has one of everything, e.g. "the" doctor, "the" banker, "the" painful-itchycrotch-disease epidemic). They've only got enough between them for a couple beers each (which, in IttyBittyTown, MT is like, $2) so they're quite proud of themselves after coming up with "Hey, I'll buy you one, if you buy me one, and we'll just keep doing that until we're out of money". Turns out that this took quite a while and many, many beers. I'm not sure how it happens, part of the mystery that is the small-as-fuck town.
So they're happy and bullshitting with each other and the bar-wench when in comes this pretentious, somewhat snobby friend of theirs back from his trip to South Dakota with the pride of his hunting career, the crown-jewel in his shooting-large-smelly-creatures empire, a dead buffalo. Snobby is absolutely beaming and bragging and wanting everyone to see his large, smelly, dead beast. CaveMan and Dickum, being the hunting purists that they are (bow-hunters, would probably be "club" hunters if the Fish and Game Dept. would let them beat the deer to death), these purists are not only sack-shrivelingly jealous of Snobby, but they are resentful of the fact that you can just go somewhere is South Dakota, line up, and blast these majestic creatures at will. Probably because they would rather have a spear or at least a large, blunt instrument-of-death.
So CaveMan gets an idea, gets up to go piss, and sneaks out the back of the bar. He gets around to the front of the bar, knowing the street isn't visible from inside and backs his flatbed Dodge up til its butt-to-butt with Snobby's flatbed, and... the much-coveted buffalo. He starts pulling this hippopatomic, foul-reeking mass of hair and hooves across Snobby's flatbed and onto his own. This is where there's a flaw in The Plan. Buffalo weigh about 1000 pounds. That's fucking huge. Think about a good-sized milk cow with an industrial-sized steroid hose up its ass. Then, give it a mass of knotted flesh on its shoulders and short, sharp-ass horns.
CaveMan is struggling, he's a stout fellow, building stuff with rocks and all, but that's a lot to drag on your own. So he sees this guy walking down the street and hollers him over. Another rarity in a pissant town is to see someone walking down the street (the "only" one walking down the street) and not know them, but it happens. The guy is like, "Yeah?" and CaveMan, having no idea who the hell this guy is, tells him to get his ass up on the other flatbed, grab a hooved, hairy leg and start pulling. This still being the same painfully small town, the guy does it, and they get the buffalo loaded.
CaveMan tears outta there and is heading home, giggling fiendishly as only CaveMan can, with a dead buffalo on his flatbed and it's head, tongue-lolling out, bouncing off of his bumper. He lives a couple miles outside of town and it occurs to him, about halfway there that if "the" cop happens to stop him, he's five-shades-of-fucked. He's got a stolen buffalo in the back of his truck, he's speeding, driving erratically, oh... and he's shitfaced. This makes the giggles go away.
He makes it home anyway and pulls into the big side of the garage, by now the giggles are back because he can hardly wait to bust out the newspaper and start making a ransom note to send to Snobby.
Then he starts to think about where he's going to hide this goddam thing, because the wife'll kill him if she finds this in her parking space when she gets back. So, he calls an old buddy, a raging-alcoholic-violently-assholish rancher up the road to see if he can hide the buffalo there. "Not home", says his Peruvian. CaveMan calls all of Rancher's hired help "his Peruvians" and some of them are indeed, from Peru. "Damn" thinks CaveMan, he'll have to come up with a backup plan, but first... Back to the Bar!
He walks/hitches the two miles back into town and saunters in the bar, back from pissing presumably. CaveMan knows how long he was gone, but, in the excitement of the buffalo hunters tale as well as much drunkenness, no one has noticed he was gone. "Perfect", he thinks mastermindedly, "all according to plan". He waits for Snobby to get himself worked back up into a hunting-story-telling frenzy, then tells the bar-wench to ask Snobby if she can check out this triumph-of-man-over-dangerous-death-dealing-beast. Snobby proudly opens the bar door, sees his truck, sans buffalo and screams loudly and drunkenly "MOTHERFUCKER!". CaveMan is back with the giggles. This lasts a full minute until he sees the unforeseeable amount of distress Snobby is in. The man is distraught, plunging to the lowest of lows from his previous high. This makes CaveMan feel quite bad.
Eventually, CaveMan sobers up and, with Dickum's more-sober-than-thou urging, decide that he'll tell Snobby what happened. Snobby was pissed, no question, but reacted similarly to a woman having her wedding ring stolen, just so incredibly happy to have it back. In this case though, it wasn't a diamond-encrusted piece of precious metal, but half a ton of smelly, decomposing, hairy, range-roaming, dead monster.
This is my future father-in-law... CaveMan the buffalo thief.