Fall TV lineup that will punch you in the soul

Most TV shows suck nowadays. I still watch many, because I like to exercise my pupils,  but they are ususally pretty terrible. I recently wrote to NBC to suggest an entire overhaul of their programming schedule, to which I have received no reply. I take that as unmistakable evidence that they are going to run with it.

Dear NBC,

Your shows suck. Especially the ones with that one guy (I forget his name, but he was in that one show about waffles). Here are some new shows to use this fall in place of the other ones, which you should get rid of.

Remember “Leave it to Beaver”? It was a classic. Let’s bring it back but adjust it to modern times. We’ll call it “The Wiccans of Southern Idaho.” It will follow a husband and wife and their two children, all of whom belong to a wiccan commune that gets into all sorts of delightful tomfoolery.

Reality TV has the right idea, but all the wrong baselines. Who cares about people that fish or some stupid rich person and his wife? “Ipecac Jokester Chronicles” will show the true stories of people that dump high levels of ipecac into the food, drinks, and batches of toothpaste of unsuspecting victims. Together, the audience will laugh and cry with the show’s key people.

I have one for those that like their stories, too. “Bowling league of desire” is about a bowling league and all of the drama that occurs between the bowlers.

Game show? I’ve got one: “What’s that smell?” will reward contestants for their ability to figure out whatever smell we present. The lightning round will involve the contestants trying to outsniff my bloodhound, ‘Cmere You’.

 For some reason, there are hundreds of crime mystery shows. We can capitalize on that with “CSI: Repeated Parking Violaton Offenders”

For the children, you can present a cartoon worth waking up for: “Honkey and Wheezy” (about two people that cough a lot). Also, a show like Sesame Street, “Uncle Billy’s Moonshine Shed,” will both teach and entertain the little buckets of joy.

Any holes in your schedule should be filled with reruns of Cop Rock, Mr T and Tina, and segments of improv comedy with Glenn Beck.

Sincerely,

Skubert Barleysworth

Be prepared for a new breed of entertainment.

Why I'm not a doctor

As a young man growing up down the street from Hubert’s Foot Perfume Palace, I was known for my expert, though unlicensed and often uneducated and inventive, medical care on my friends. Whenever my friends and I would suffer injuries from our headbutting competitions, fall from trees, or get the butt squirts, they would defer to my quick thinking to make things right.

I think my crowning moment, and the moment that convinced me to become a doctor, came when Hank-Jim-Frank-Theobold (his dad wanted to name him after his uncles, but couldn’t choose just one) was unexpectedly bitten on the nose by a deer. Not wanting my good friend to loose his nose, and growing tired of his yelling, I reopened the nasal passages with sticks, applied pressure with moss and a rock, and suppressed his cries with my sock, which was still on my left foot. Then, because I once learned that people breathe, I tried to perform a traceodomy with my thumb, which caused the sticks to shoot out, thus healing him.

From this pivotal moment, I faced many hardships. First, I dropped out of school in 5^th grade. This may surprise you, but doctor schools prefer people that finished high school.  I took the admissions tests anyway, with the knowledge that I would get everything right. To my dismay, there were relatively few questions of how to treat shattered toes, poison ivy rashes, or lazy eyes, and many more on what ‘x’ is in some dumb math questions and what the definitions were to big words. Needless to say, I only placed in the 98^th percentile.

Unfortunately, Johns Hopkins (more like ‘Nons Accept-kins’) didn’t think that the trivia quiz on a Denny’s menu a valid placement test. So there was another road block. I decided to show up on the first day anyway, which I later learned wasn’t March 17^th. After sitting in on a couple of classes, I was kindly asked to leave by the security guards (note: replace “to leave” with “kicked in the jaw” and “kindly” with “repeatedly”).  As it turns out, you have to pay a lot of money to go to school there and they don’t take kindly to people that don’t wear shirts and play bagpipes.

Without these roadblocks, I would have definitely graduated with high honors and would have made an amazing doctor. Maybe I don’t have a “degree,”  but I will still be the guy everybody calls when they get their armpit hair stuck in the lawnmower.

Diet plans are for rich people

I don’t need constant reassurance from onlookers to know that I am a man of extremely well maintained physical fitness. My usual attire of Daisy Duke shorts and a tank top that always smells like fried chicken does nothing to hide my masculine physique. How, I know many people ask themselves constantly, can I look like Skubert?

I will tell you.

1.       Don’t pay any attention to what you eat. You think cavemen and other people back then looked up the number of calories of their food? Of course not. They ate what they found or hunted. I too, eat anything I find or hunt, especially when I hunt burger king.

2.       Strut often. By ‘strut,’ I of course mean to deep-step everywhere you go, which builds leg muscle while simultaneously scratching your nether-regions, which, if you’re like me, are usually a bit itchy. This helps if you throw the occasional excitement kick into your stride.

**Be warned about your kick, because I one time kicked a guy on the street for 7 minutes until I realized that I was kicking him, and it took an additional 2 minutes to stop kicking him. I only made that mistake once, after those other times I made that mistake.**

3.       Do a lot of situps each day. You can make this a game by timing your dookies just right so that your sit up also clenches the right muscles to make the final push and your reward will be felt all over.

4.       Chase things. This can be as simple as pursuing a fly or as purpose driven as chasing mailmen, a hobby I picked up from my dog, Ruffer. Mailmen can usually scamper quickly, so your efforts will get in some nice cardio.

5.       Push people. Know what the difference is between bench press and shoving people on the sidewalks? I don’t.

6.       Whistle. Trust me on this one.

7.       Scratch any bodily itches (minus the nether regions. See #2 for that one) with your feet. Flexibility is important and an excuse to bend your legs to scratch your arm or remove food from between your teeth will keep you as limber as a koala. The more you practice this, the more you can do. I clean my ears exclusively with old right pinky toe.

8.       Hold your farts when possible. WHEN POSSIBLE.

9.       Don’t shave or wax body hair. Instead, let the hair rub away naturally by crawling through grass and on the street. A plus to this is that grass smells good and there is sometimes gum on the street or sidewalk.

10.   Dance like you are stuck in a sandbox with crabs. As you advance, dance in a sandbox with crabs.

11.   Frown and grunt often. It takes 3 muscles to smile and 42 to frown, so the choice is clear. Also, grunting works the core. Also, grunting is musical.

While my workout routine is far off the beaten path, it is how I got to where I am today, which is somewhere between Dan Aykroyd and fitness celebrity John McCain.

Stop Waltzing, Matilda

Being a man rich in travel and cultural distinctions, I feel justified in pointing out stupid things that unamerican weirdos do. While this may not be the most “politically correct” entry I have ever written, and will “cross a few lines” in its blunt assessment, I “don’t care.”

Australia         - Why do they sing through tubes, or didgeridoos? Learn to use a kazoo like the rest of us, Dundee.

                        - Can anyone tell me what a wallaby is? No.

                        -Apparently their toilets go the opposite way. This is the dumbest thing I have ever heard of. Though I am a man of purity and graceful cleanliness, I wouldn’t ever want my pony leg sized turds shooting out of the toilet when I flush. Those things should only go in one direction – down.

Spain              - Slow down your words

                        - You haven’t slowed down yet, fast talker

                        - Why are you running from bulls instead of eating them with a side of hot dogs and beer? When I was a little boy, I would never let uncle Bungy’s chickens tell me what’s new before I killed them with a monopoly board and prepared them for dinner. Mom always told me not to let your food play with you and that is the way it should be.

Canada            - I too like pancakes and syrup. Get on with your life and take the maple leaf off your flag. You don’t see us adorning our flag with a bag of cheetos or spam, so why constantly seek to remind everyone that Aunt Jemima flew through Montreal once?

                        - Spread out more. If you went to a friend’s house for grilled turtle and all of his neighbors were crowded along his fence, wouldn’t you tell them to explore the rest of their yard? They might respond with something useless like “it’s cold over there,” but that is when you can remind them that fire exists, and set fire to the fence.

Turkey            - I know nothing about you except that you named your country after an old bird that looks like my great aunt Gert with her floppy neck skin, and that we eat turkeys huge numbers every year. If you have to name it after a food, why not name it something with a bit more spunk, like “Chinese Food”

North Korea   - No complaints, you’re doing great

Mexico            - Does anything from your country not make me poop myself uncontrollably? I will answer for you – no

                        - How did trumpets become a norm for you? Guitars, sombreros, Shakira – I got it – but trumpets?

As there are close to 3.7 million countries in the world, I cannot name them all at this time. I will continue this list at another time, though, as the truth must be heard.

If you don’t like my yodeling, you can shut up

More than my enthusiasm for slapping people’s thighs at the local pool, I have always been an avid fan of yodeling. Everyone near and far knows when I win a game of guess who, successfully find waldo, or take my weekly dookie by the forceful diaphragm projected notes passing gracefully through my ever relaxed lips.

I realized my talent for these melodies of truth and beauty (which I generally shorten to “Bruthe”) when I was 8 and my mom accidentaly set fire to my belly button lint collection, which was nested deep within my belly button. As I used my already developed vocal chords to direct her attention to the raging torrent of flames happening on my front middle, I naturally fell into arpeggios climaxing in falsetto glory.

My first yodel.

Years went by before I learned how to captivate others with my yodeling without having to set fire to myself, but the patience of my slowly building fanbase was greatly rewarded with the release of my first cassette album “Hey! I’m yodeling.” The album, though well received, was dwarfed by my second, third, and fourth releases: “Stop yappin while I’m clappin,” “You can’t spell Doyle without Yodel,” and “The Soul’s Whisper,” where I actually harmonized with a chainsaw on one of the songs.

Though I don’t write much anymore, I still yodel my every emotion from my porch for the benefit of friends, well-wishers, and Bert’s hotdog stand customers, who line up outside his stand to hear me across the street. Needless to say, I am a respected bucket of talent.

So why did it annoy you, Mindy, when I joined in the celebration of your father’s life with a special tune I wrote on the spot called “Yoda-yay-a-yoda-lay-a-yoda-lay”? If you ask me, the funeral was a hit.

No, where were you?

I recently got an email from an enraged reader wondering where I have been for the past 19 months. Apparently, the articles I had written in the past have not kept this reader entertained. Perhaps he had forgotten my call to a run across the country like Forrest Gump. I have been trying to run around the US for a while like he did in his movie, The Forrest Gump Movie. After reviewing my last three articles, I realize that I meant to invite my readers to this, but any die-hard fan would have known my plans anyway and would have joined me. To answer the burning question of the moment, I never did make it across the country. Being unable to run more than 2 minutes at a time, I was at a disadvantage. Truth be told, I never made it farther than Cousin Geech's mailbox, which is next door to the Karaoke Whistling Bar. I blame my failure on multiple factors, the first being my need for running shoes. As it stands, I only have the one pair of sneakers, and they aren't as much sneakers as they are an old pair of tap dance shoes from my early days as a street juggler. The second point of failure must have been my tendancy of being distracted by almost anything. Just as I was getting into a good groove in my Barleysworth shuffle, I became fixated on the rotating cup of a gas station convenience store. I watched in a trance for several hours. This brings me to my third point of failure, an arrest for loitering. While my arrest was technically the result of my repeatedly headbutting the policeman that asked me to move along and not for standing there, I know the underlying reason. Calling for backup and having three tasers simultaneously go off in my left nipple was a bit over the line if you ask me. My jail time would not have lasted 19 months had it not been for my repeated escape attempts (I also watched "The Shawshank Redemption" prior to my attempted cross-country run). I almost successfully escaped on my third try, but the guard wouldn't give me his keys. Now that I am back, I intend on providing you, my loyal readers, with the socially and politically charged investigative reporting that won your hearts in the first place. That or I will fill you in on cousin Noser's latest inventions. More to come.

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.