You can coast through life with 3 shirts, one pair of pants, and a change of underwear if you plan on farting a lot

So Wendy-Tina, my annoying wife who gets preggers too much, said something yesterday that annoyed me so much I could only calm down my kicking myself in the face. She told me that Roofer, one of my sons, needed a new set of clothes because his shirt tore too much and his pants don't fit anymore. She was about to go to the store with him to pick out his next set. What angered me is that she thought I cared enough to hear about it.

I will never understand why people go shopping for clothes. On the rare occasion that a new pair of socks is vital to my survival, I shoot down to Merl's Gas and Socks Mart to get a new pair. My secret to ensuring a long life of your socks is to leave them on always, including the weekly shower, and simply put the new pair over top of the old pair once they are too squishy and worn out to make it on their own.

So Wendy-Tina proceeded to spend 12 minutes and $4.67 on clothes. Sweet squirrel vomit, you just bought him clothes back in March. What do we need to be spending all our money on clothes for? The answer - none.

Balloon pranks aren't child abuse.

I was watching the news yesterday and saw a story about that one guy who put his son's insulin on a balloon that he launched or something. To be honest, I was paying more attention to my inner thigh goiter, which I have named Goity. Anywho, the press is all upset about this guy because balloons scare kids or something, and I find myself standing alone to support this guy. If you disagree, prepare to punch yourself in the nads out of shame.

They say he doesn't care about his kids because they were throwing up during the interviews. That is dooey because kids throw up all the time. Just last night one of my daughters, Wisconsin, threw up twice during dinner, which was one of her favorites: horsetooth and spit soup and fly sandwiches. Every one of my kids has horked on Santa's lap (if you count the guy who rings the bell for donations Santa), and 4 of them have hucked at the furniture store.

They say he was just looking for fame. We all are looking for fame. When was the last time you sent nude photographs of yourself to your local newspaper? If you are anything like me, it was a couple of hours ago. Let's not forget that time I tried to set a world record by heatbutting a ram into submission or the time I tried to juggle dead birds at the orphanage. I am seeing people do crazy stuff every day and nobody else is accused of hunting for fame.

They say he was trying to get his own TV show. Nobody complained about comedians Jerry Seinfeld and Johnny Carson, or noted astronomer Carl Sagan when they pursued television glory. Hell, I even had my own show for 3 seasons, Skubert and Bwoogel Analyze Post Romantic Art Set to Vivaldi While Drunk.

They say he had little remorse. If so, may God have mercy on his soul.

They say he misused emergency services and delayed air traffic. This should be chalked up to a rehearsal for those guys, and the pilots of those airplanes should have just used that time to get a couple of beers or something. Seriously, teachers don’t complain when a student pretends to learn something and later reveal that they can’t read and don’t know what seven plus four is when I was in 11^th grade.

Yeah, and... the guy's not a kid hitter

I hope Duffer likes roses

I have always been close with Duffer Fuffer, my neighbor as a kid. He and I used to do pranks that made people say “Well daggon, that is one of Skubert and Duffer’s pranks. I hope we can put it out.” We once kidnapped Sheriff Moomer’s only son, tattooed “STUPID MOOMER” across his face, and stapled his right ear to a monkey at the zoo. That was a good one. We went too far a lot and got a lot of people mad at us, so we would have to make up for it with a fun prank. An example is the time that we went to the God Church (down there by the good Wendy’s) and got into every car in the parking lot and spun the steering wheel between our butt cheeks. Most of the people thought it was so funny they threw up after smelling their sticky hands. This was our follow up prank after we returned four corpses at Lenny’s Funeral Home to their families holding a sign that said “I’m dead.” We got a lot of bad press after that one.

Well recently Duffer has been putting on some weight due to his love of couch sitting and his hatred of not eating. He had always relied on his metabolism to keep him slim, and his constant jump-squat-farts, which kept us all amused, helped him, too. As he is an incredibly vain person, this recent weight gain has not been easy for him to handle. While he knew something needed to be done to improve his image, he didn’t want it to conflict with his couch sitting, which meant that he wouldn’t be into exercise. Leave it to Duffer to come up with a foolproof solution, though.

I guess he decided to get a sex change operation when he noticed that his man-boobs were becoming very plump and appealing. Now his weight gain is only making him more attractive. I only stopped by to write this article on my way to our first date because I wanted to do a before/after article on our date.

More to come.

Waka Waka way from me, you little pooper

Being a dad is tougher than I thought it would be when I decided to not care about becoming a dad. Wendy-Tina, my best gal, and I have had many kids during our loving, but one of my 4 year olds, Dinbler, is really making my life harder than the others had.

Dinbler is allergic to grass, which really makes his lawn mowing chore hard, and he is apparently allergic to eggs, because they make him real sleepy. This really limits me, because I usually have my kids mow the lawn and let them go nuts on a carton of eggs afterward. Thanks to Dinbler and his itchy genes, I have to let him stop mowing to scratch his hives every once in a while. To help I got him a ferret so he could have the thing working his hives the whole time, but the damn ferret got snooty with me and I had to shoot it.

Back when I was a kid, we didn’t have ‘shots’ that we had to get or ‘checkups’ that don’t do a thing, and we didn’t use fancy casts to ‘re-set broken bones’ or large bandages to ‘cover open flesh wounds.’ When did we go soft? When did the remedy of spit, rust, and sawdust become bad for a chainsaw mishap? All I know is that Brenda, the social services lady that practically lives at my house, tells me I will get in trouble if I don’t take Dinbler to the doctor for checkups and stuff, and that he probably “needs to get that checked out.” I tell you I hate her so much.

Note: At this point I had to take 5 minutes to regroup and punch someone in the neck so that I could calm down. This is how much Brenda sucks at life

If anyone had told me that having youngins would take time and cost money, I would have monkey slapped you and amputated your legs in disbelief. Stupid kid doesn’t pull his weight for crap around here and he takes a lot of my time. Plus, he walks around quoting little cartoons (most recently Fozie, who always says “Waka waka”), which drives me into a violent rage. I can’t wait until he is old enough for me to disown him.

More to come.

Oozers

You may be wondering why I have been gone for 2 weeks, why I’m typing with a French accent, and why my nards have been sewn to my dinker. Okay you dragged it out of me.

Last week as I was leaving the all you can eat buffet at “Cousin Heugie’s Chewy Crap,” I saw two neighborhood gangs, ‘The Rapists Murderers’ and ‘The Loiterers’ having a dance-off (think of Rocky IV but with dancing) in the park. Not wanting to miss a chance to demonstrate my mastery of the Barleysworth Tango, I ran between them with my arms held high as I hummed my own theme song (which I am hoping will hit music stores in September so long as the legal issues go through (it is nearly identical to the theme from ‘Honey I shrunk the kids’)). Little did I know that what these kids, who were not a part of any gang as I later learned, were doing wasn’t any sort of dance off. They were boy scouts helping elderly people across a very busy street. I got hit by 3 cars in 2 seconds.

After Doctors found and reattached my nostrils, I took it upon myself to leave the hospital and get my favorite snack – gooey marshmellow and sesame seed pie. Being in a small town, the hospital is only three stories, so falling out of the window halfway down the first set of stairs in the stairwell because I forgot that I couldn’t walk down stairs in a body cast could have turned out much worse for me. I broke a 2 and a half story fall with my lips. I will admit, it was funny seeing a mother and her son’s reaction to the flash of white followed by the loud “OW, DANG-GERS!”

I awoke two days later to find that my good natured neighbor, Gludenschlvor Atchungsonburg, a Japanese immigrant, brought me some dinner but forgot that I am allergic to Asians. I proceeded to erupt in flatulence and vomit for 15 minutes. The only way the nurse could remedy the situation involved two forks and my crotch.

They released me from the hospital this morning and I felt it was my civic duty to march to the nearest computer to post this account of my latest escapades.

More to come.

Resume

Taking a note from a recent comment on one of my articles, I have decided to post my resume for all employers to see.

Skubert Barleysworth

I live down there by Jeffy and Hucker

(I don't have no phone)

Skubert@internet.online

OBJECTIVE

I want a job and I am good at everything. I am reliable and a fast learner, though I do enjoy my alcoholic beverages and pretty much see all social interaction as an invitation for a fight. I will work for anyone in any position.

WORK EXPERIENCE

(Because there are so many entries here, I will only include some recent ones.)

Dutch Clogs tester (January 8, 2009 - January 11, 2009)

I was hired to dance in a local clog shop with every new model of clogs that old man Fleurben would make. I danced in the window and had to avoid sweating on everything.

Key Accomplishments

• Attracted a crowd of 28 people on my first day, though nobody came in the store
• Broke 14 pairs of clogs due to my intense dancing
• Learned that I wasn't hired to clog the guy's toilet, which is why I applied

Tenor screamer in the haunted house (October 28, 2008 - October 31, 2008)

I was hired to be one of the guys screaming in the haunted house during Halloween.

Key Accomplishments

• Screamed
• Watched some kid pee himself as a direct result of my screaming
• Chased a child into the spider room

Laundry cleanliness tester (September 12, 2008 - September 12, 2008)

I was hired to check how clean the dry cleaners got their clothes by smelling them. I only worked one day because I showed up kind of drunk and threw up on some of the clothes, then I wore someone's pants home, as I showed up without pants, too.

Key Accomplishments

• Smelled over 30 pairs of socks

EDUCATION

May 1994, Graduated 3rd grade

• Tallest graduate
• Best drawing of a tree

May 2000, Graduated 4th grade

• Only man to graduate alongside his son
• Loudest laugh

SKILLS

Skill name.................Skill level

Clapping....................Intermediate

Drinking beer...........Expert

Counting....................Intermediate

Thermochemistry........Expert

Chewing stuff............Intermediate

Yelling........................Expert

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION

I am going to be the best thing that ever happened to your company. Hire me and watch your company get better before your eyes. Don't hire me and I will set fire to your desk.

More to come.

When in doubt, drink a beer or 6

A typical Tuesday evening: I am walking home from my new job (this past week it was a fertilizer of personal gardens) and I spot my old friend Yerp Yerp Kwingy walking his parrot. After a few minutes of catching up from the previous week, and a loud scream contest, we make our way to a favorite pub of ours, "Beers for Fears." Generally we split a few brews over a game of pool or a ride on the mechanical bull (who later turned out to be the bartender's retarded brother, Yuble), but this past week we arrived at the bar to find the pool table in play and Yuble trying to get Hairy Pete off his back.

Anyway, while standing there not knowing what to do, we usually waltz over to the jukebox (literally) and check out their selection. We were torn this week between Tatu's "All the things she said" and Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide," and while we set to choosing our first song with a game I call "Insane head kicking," a skinny jerk put on Journey's "Don't Stop Believing," which is a great song, but it doesn't belong outside of Steve Perry Mondays.

Submerging my rage in a couple of beers, I felt ready to march over to the jukebox, push the twerp out of the way, and put on some Celine Dion. Not knowing of my famous "Barleysworth Rage," the punk stood his ground. It was only after this situation that I learned that it was not a skinny punk that I was trying to fight, but rather a bar stool. In my defense, I won.

Celebrating my victory, I enjoyed a few more beers. Then I drank 8 more. You may be disgusted with my behavior, you may even be surprised, but my family crest (below) has not changed in 687 years for a reason.

More to come.

Swine flu vaccine update: two for two

I am known for many things around these parts. Drop my name to a random stranger, I bet they will not only know me, but they will tell you of some sort of incident that I caused that made them uncomfortable. My unique blend of belly dancing and kite flying catch a lot of eyes in the spring, my moral objection to jump ropes keeps me on the alert for young girls (and them on the alert for 'Old man Skubert'), and my ongoing scientific inquiries keeps me, and my furious letters to the editor, on the pages of the Scientific America magazine.

I recently set my brain to tackling the now global epidemic that has people wearing sugical masks around me more frequently then that month I boycotted deodorant and shirts. That's right, I am talking about the swine flu. I knew that few had the smarts necessary to save the world, but if it was to be done, I was the man for the job. I locked myself in my basement, and when I finally got free I headed to my science lab in the shed. Once there, I set to creating a vaccine.

My first elixer was pretty basic, but you have to start somewhere. It consisted of Pepsi, applesauce, and a stick of butter. As I have made habit in my development of vaccines, I found someone on the street, promised them a foolproof vaccine, and had them ingest my brainchild. The guy I got to test my first elixer was not into the taste, which I thought was pretty great, but I ensured him it was worth his health, so he drank the 2.3 gallon dose.

My second elixer was a little more complicated. If my first was like Richard Dreyfuss, my second was like a young, in your face Walter Matthau. It primarily consisted of the water that comes out of a ketchup bottle before the ketchup does and Nivea aftershave, with smaller amounts of carpet fuzz and the goo that collects on the corners of my mouth after I do my morning arobics routine. This one was pretty potent, so my test subject only needed a small amount, which I injected into his right nipple.

As every experiment needs a control, and I don't want my inventions to be ignored because I forgot to have a control, I had a control. I had a third guy drink a glass of windex.

Well wouldn't you know it, my elixers worked while the control guy got sick as an old opossum. So if you want to safely protect yourself from swine flu, come on by and bring $37, because I don't accept insurance anymore.

More to come.

Peeing on yourself doesn't always help

I admit it, I am not a big fan of pants. Often, I can be seen deep-walking down the street in nothing more than a tank top. This obviously isn't the case when it is cold outside, as I tend to wear mittens when the temperature drops below 40 degrees farenheight. This isn't new information about me. I have done the pantsless strut ever since I was 13. So why do the cops always want to correct my lifestyle? Why do I get arrested for this once a month and spend a night in jail? Why did I have to go to court last week because it was my 100th offense. To be honest, I thought I had won a prize when he told me that it was my 100th time, but the cop just hit me in the nose with his foot.

So I spent my Tuesday in court this week, trying to explain to the judge that laws should not override habit. I don't think he understood my line of thought, because he kept having the bailiff make me put my pants back on. I had decided to act as my own lawyer, because most of the public lawyers don't like me, and my lawyer friend Marlp "Burger King" Bloob was away on vacation. I quickly realized that not knowing all the other cases that ever happened like the other lawyer hurt my case.

I had a plan for success. When skill and preparation don't work, sympathy always will. I explained in my closing argument that nobody knows what it is like being me, that my life is really hard, and that I am morally opposed to happiness. To my surprise, I was found guilty and was sentenced to more community service. Thinking quickly, I determined that a man who pees his pants could not be found guilty of any crime. Unfortunately, this didn't work on the judge, and I was removed from the court. It would have been silent but my shoes squished with every step, and I stopped twice to fart.

More to come.

Walk tall, Socky Gipptipperboo, I salute you

If I farted every time my sidekick, Socky Gipptipperboo, was persecuted, I would never stop laughing and sitting on people. Socky draws more attention to himself than that one guy in front of the porn shop who wears sandwich-board ads for head lice removal. I don't know if it is his habit of mouth-breathing, his disregard for public pooping laws, his excess body hair, his sniffing peoples' crotches, or his hatred of Newt Gingrich, but he cannot catch a break.

Now usually when I am describing him to cashiers at Waffle House or reliving his hilarity during a police line up, people tend to think that I am describing a dog. This is not the case. Socky is every bit a person as I am, he just doesn't believe in the "social constraints" that the courts keep outlining for him.

Socky met his unfortunate end last Tuesday as a result of a dare he put on himself and performed for our amusement. While talking about shoelaces with a local gang of third graders, Socky was insulted by Jim "Snappy fingers" Henkins. Snappy fingers said that Socky was a big dumb girl after Socky called the gang a bunch of short squeekers. Socky, a near perfect man, has one weakness: his pride. In retalliation, Socky told them that he would perform one of his own dares. After two minutes of silence, he told them that he would eat half of a bee hive. This may sound easy enough, but Socky is allergic to bees and they hate people eating their hive.

After 4 mintues of yelling and chewing, and swelling to the size of Cousin Sweaty, Socky declared victory and tried to rub the kid's face in it (literally in the hive), but he died as he chased the kid.

Now I know how Andy Griffith would feel if Barney Fief had died during a bet.

More to come.

I bet Mozart was bored a lot

My job hunting has slowed down a little bit, mainly because I don't like getting arrested more than 3 times per week and my job interviews usually end in arrest. So what have you been doing to fill the void in your life that was once work? you may be asking. I have been sitting mostly, not doing too much. I like to be bored stupid. But recently I realized that, if I had a full sized philharmonic orchestra, I could write some pretty fine music, as music has been filling my head recently.

All of these tunes disappear shortly after I think of them, and I know that they are good enough to be on commercials and stuff, if not better. I have tried remembering them, writing them down (I wish I knew how to write sheet music, because "DOO DOO dumm dumm BLEE DEE FLOOO" isn't as descriptive the next day when I am trying to remember my Opus), and telling people on the street to remember the notes as they flow from my head through my mouth and into their ears, one of which is usually enveloped by my mouth. Nothing is working, though.

So I decided to write a book about my likeness to Mozart, because the only thing that was different between us was his ability to write the music on them lines right. That and there were only like 5 songs around when he started writing, so pretty much everything was a new song. Hell, he could have farted twice and called it a sonata.

More to come.

I wish I knew women required tenderness before I punched that woman.

Don't make me mad. This is something I tell my readers, family, random strangers on the street, and I have even tattooed it on my thighs, which are usually exposed. Yet I still encounter people who seem to try with everything in them to push my anger buttons. Why do these people enjoy seeing me erupt in rage? Is it my response of profuse vomiting followed by wild fighting with whoever may be nearby? Is it my less than perfect appearance? Is it my habit of singing songs that I write in my head? No, it is because these people are stupid.

One woman, I'll call her Stupid Stuperson, decided to wait until she was up in line at the hotdog cart yesterday to decide what she wanted. I have little to no patience for people who don't know what they want. Hotdogs haven't changed in 100 years. Same condiments, same bun, same hotdog. So when you take 3 seconds to cough and 4 seconds to hum to yourself while you decide what you want, I should be able to take 1 second to punch you in the mouth.

Readers, you know the facts of the story. You know why I reacted the way I did. I am sure that you would have done the same or would have high fived me had you seen me do it. Why did people react the way they did? There is no reason to yell at me and rush to Stupid Stuperson's help. The teeth I broke weren't even real teeth! They were dentures. Plus, she only fell because she let go of her cane when I hit her, which I attribute to her stupidness.

Needless to say, I may be seeing some of you in the near future as I finish my community service for "assaulting a 90 year old woman."

More to come.

Uncle Muffert's butt crack activity

We Barleysworth's are a large family, and of the 89 of us what came from Pappy Dinger and his wife, Granny Burtle, 76 of us are men. Now this makes certain things difficult, like waiting in line to see the naked lady cards Granny gave my brother Dubert last year, but it makes other things better. Every tripod among us loves them James Bond movies, although we don't much like the talking. We are mostly in it for the killing, loving, and of course, the inventions that 'old white hair inventor' (we don't know his name) invents.

Recently, my super smart nephew, Noser (We call him that because he knows so much) gave uncle Muffert the best present I have ever seen for his birthday: terlit paper britches.

A little background: Uncle Muffert is known among the family, and the whole community, as a man who is quick to rage but quicker to a spontaneous dance. Once when he was younger, he distracted a fat guy long enough with his exhausting jig for his friend to throw a bucket of his own pee at the guy's head. Recently, though, Uncle Muffert has been unable to dance as he once had due to his leaky butt problems. This didn't stop him, mind you, but it did make the dances less meaningful. He used to do his interpretation of a dance he saw on that movie with them midgets on the sidewalk and it would really make us think, but now we all stare at the poo dribbling down his legs and pray that his flailing limbs don't fling none of it at us.

So Noser's invention/gift was a wonderful gift that transformed Uncle Muffert's life into what it once was. Now after he responds to a doorbell, telemarketer, or a policeman pulling him over with a fantastic dance, he just has to throw away his under britches and put on a new pair.

Thank you Noser, for giving him a reason to live again.

More to come.

Are you smarter than a Barleysworth?

I woke up in the fifth grade classroom of one of my kids last Tuesday afternoon and spent a half hour there before I was asked to leave (teachers always hate people with the farts). I learned more that half hour than I did in the 3 years I spent in 4th grade before I dropped out back in 2003. I was inspired to take this experience and challenge people to see if they know as much as the fifth graders, but I was told that this is already a show on TV with that cultural elitist, Jeff Foxworthy.

Realizing that there was a market in questions, I decided to make my own game show. I will ask people questions as they compete with a member of my family. This will show whether or not they are smarter than a Barleysworth. I will call it, appropriately, "Don't be an idiot, you moron."

Here are some sample questions. If you are going to try to compete, stop reading here, because I will use these questions on the first show once NBC agrees to air it (we are in legal debates right now(they don't like my methods of negotiating(I have kidnapped 14 children of NBC executives over the past week trying to get my show on the air))).

Questions:

1. What is 5+1?
A. 6
B. a million
C. two million
D. a bucket of kittens

2. What aisle in Wal Mart has terlit paper?
A. that one next to the hedge clippers
B. a million
C. two million
D. a bucket of fingernails

3. Who is uncle Muffert's sworn enemy
A. mailman Jeff
B. Kevin Spacey
C. German philosopher Max Stirner
D. a bucket of used Q-tips

4. Where do you shoot a bunny to kill it?
A. Left leg
B. Right ear
C. its head
D. a bucket of toast crumbs

5. What time does the sun set?
A. noon
B. at sunset
C. first thing in the morning
D. a bucket of Grampa Dinger's anti-racist pills

6. Who invented beer pudding?
A. Billy Mays
B. Local Indian Chief yells like dying yak
C. Cousin Noser
D. a bucket of frozen used tissues

7. How many times do you have to knee a goat in the head to get it to stop eating your socks?
A. 14
B. 8
C. 22
D. a bucket of armpit hair dandruff

Let's see how you did.
Answers:
1. A
2. A
3. C
4. C
5. B
6. C
7. A

I will let you know when NBC agrees to air it.

More to come.

In the kitchen with Skubert

I recently discovered the joys of cooking, partially due to a great meal I had at my cousin Minwyeh's house (I know, he has a weird name. His dad tried to tell the nurse "Marbs" when she asked what his name was to be, and he sneezed. He wasn't aware that he could tell her to change it. He didn't let the name "Marbs" get away though. He used it for his daughter), and partially because I learned that cooking would give me an excuse to handle knives while drunk.

While some people swear by cookbooks, cooking shows, or recipes found online, I have my own ways of establishing my culinary genius: I wing it and change my recipes when my cooking results in hospitalizations or passing a bottle of ipecac around the dinner table. While there may have been a couple of meals in the past month that my family liked, a majority have not been good. I made this a positive thing, though. Nobody makes 'Ipecac Pudding' like I do.

I have found success in the following dishes: Pickle soup, waffle sandwiches, and mustard pot pie. If you want the recipe for any of these winners, let me know. While these have been family favorites, there have been others that my family has been able to keep down safely. These are: bologna-sausage-bacon delights (bacon, sausage, and bologna fried in butter), doritos & peanut butter, pile of salt, chicken breasts with mushroom sage sauce, and toothpaste burgers.

While it would take me a long time to remember and record all of my mistakes, or as my family puts them, "Papa's oopers, oogers, pukers" (or POOP), I will try to remember a couple so that you don't have to learn this the hard way. A couple of pieces of POOP are: whisky tuna corn flakes, mud tacos, sweet peppers and pocket change stew, spaghetti and popcorn fondue, hair subs, and cheese trout on a pile of sand.

Ah well, you can't win them all.

More to come.

Manners are dummers

(Editor's note: My name is Ricky Johnson and I am writing this "interview" as it is happening for Mr. Barleysworth. He threatened to steal me if I didn't comply, then he bit me. Out of fear, I agreed to write this)

Skubert Barleysworth: I am here with Mary Livingston, the teacher of the Etiquette classes at the community college.

Mary Livingston: Thanks for having me, Mr. Barleysw-

SB: WAIT YOUR TURN, I WAS TALKING, YAPPY YAPPERSON

ML: I'm sorry...please proceed

SB: Don't try to use your reverse psychology on me, ugly.

(Mr. Barleysworth has paused for a minute, and now started smelling the floor.)

SB: Ugh...Okay, moving on. What is a fork and why do I need one?

ML: Well, a fork is an eating utensil that is used to eat solid or firm foods and prevents one from soiling his hands or clothing.

SB: Right, well what about terlit paper. Do I really need to buy that stuff? Only French people use that stuff.

ML: I don't think you're...are you mistaking toilet paper for a bedet?

SB: 'the hell are you talking about?

ML: Sir, toilet paper isn't a matter of etiquette. It is a matter of hygeine.

SB: Moving on. How would you respond to a dinner guest who insisted on making goobers with your sister under the table during dessert?

ML: Goobers? Do you mean to tell me your guest fornicated with your sister during your dinner party?

SB: Farmlidade? No, he made smibbles with her.

ML: I would politely ask this gentleman to leave and apologize to my guests, I presume.

SB: Did you ever see that movie where the guy's balls got stuck in a milk jug?

ML: No. Sir, this is becoming inappropriate

SB: You're right, how do we make it manners and stuff?

ML: Well, first I would like to discuss the details of-

(Mr. Barleysworth just jumped out of his chair and tackled a passing librarian)

SB: AND STAY DOWN!

ML: Alright, sir, I believe I have to leave.

SB: I hate everything about you....


More to come

Jobs are stupid and so is work

So my friend, Beardy Bearderson (who unfortunately fell face first into a fire a week ago, leaving him completely hairless on his noggin), advised me that I would probably have to sink even lower in social class if I continued trying to live day to day without a job. Ever since Doogers.org shut down, according to Beardy, I haven't made any money, and this is a bad thing. I have 29 children and I need to support at least 6 of them to be able to face myself every morning.

So I went job hunting. I set my sights high at first and applied to an investment firm, but they quickly realize that I was lying and that my knowledge of investments pretty much included the lottery (which I am starting to understand) and betting on my kids in fights I push them into with untamed wildlife. They politely asked me to leave, I politely told them all to go to hell, they politely walked me to the door, I politely farted on some guy's neck, and then I left.

Realizing that I need to find a more fitting job, I set my sights a little lower and applied at the local diner, "Gummer's Ummers," which is run by an old guy named Gummer Footwreak. This place is also a bit elegant beyond old Skubert's liking, but I knew that I had to earn a living for my family. Long story short, don't try to prove your ability to make yourself vomit on command for guests as you serve them their food, even if they deny your ability to do it or beg you not to do it. After I hucked on 6 customers, I was politely fired. Losing my patiences with manners, I contemplated my revenge while dancing a jig I learned one night when I was drunk. I finally decided to hurt Gummer where he would feel it, and kicked the closest customer, Gummer's mummer, in the head.

I also applied to the local speakeasy, "Bar," for a job as a bartender. I like beer. I don't like paying for things. Do I need to explain why I got fired in 14 minutes?

I think the only job that I had into a second day was as a security guard at the mall. I ensured that the malls were safe until I was forced to retire on my third day. Beating people who steal is okay, but beating people for practice until I find somebody stealing is "wrong." Whatever, I am glad that guy looked at me funny, sending me into a fit of 'Barleysworth Rage' which led to an impressive beating, causing my early retirement.

More to come.

Einstein owes me royalties

Scoff, I dare you. I am the one who came up with the idea of special relativity. Mr. Albert Crime-stein stole it from me like I stole my hat from a bald kid in a wheelchair. I can prove this with the most rock solid evidence that can be produced: a vague story that I can support with drawings on the soles of favorite pair of bowling shoes.

So me, cousin Boobie, laffy Pete, and Funkle went to the Slippy Floor Alley out there by the gas station. This wasn't an ordinary bowling night, as the Slippy Floor is to regular alleys as Burger King is to regular restuarants. So wearing our finest dress tank tops and work pants, we set out to a night of luxury to celebrate laffy Pete's first day at his new job (which he missed to go bowling). Ordering the finest beer and selecting the most gourmet items from the vending machine, we felt like high society.

That is when I realized that my ball, rolling down the lane, was an independent unit in its own inertial frame, with velocity and mass relative to other inertial frames, thus eliminating any potential for absolute states of rest. Describing this to the group with my enthusiastic dance and drawings on my bowling shoes as visual aids, I described this new perception of reality to them, knowing for sure that I was to change the scientific community for the better.

This is when cousing Boobie, a tenured physics professor at Georgia Tech, broke the news to me that this had already been discovered by that stupid head Einstein. I made it my goal that night not to sleep until I got royalties for my discovery.

I woke up the next day and spent most of the morning looking in my phone book for this Einstein guy, but he must be unlisted because I couldn't find crap.

More to come.

Libraries = Blogs, free toilet paper, and lots of wrestling space

My name is Skubert, and I used to be the famous columnist for Doogers.org. I was told there to give an alias, but I didn't know what that meant, so I showed up with a canoe paddle. I wrote 60 articles for them over the course of a year and then they closed down without telling me, so I showed up every day suspecting an extended weekend or something.

I was forced to stop going to the office after the policemen told me I wasn't allowed to be there anymore. In the two weeks I kept showing up, I had been arrested for loitering, public nudity, stealing a bus driver's contact lenses, and vomiting on a baby, all while waiting outside of the office for my boss, Dr. Charles Booby IV, to show up.

I hitched a ride in my neighbor's daughter's bike basket to the library, as I did every Tuesday, to shower, and I noticed that the library, perhaps having won the lottory or something, had computers. Ignoring the game of solitare some old man was playing on the closest computer, I squeezed my way into his chair and started this blog.

More to come.