Country Festival

I went to a country festival recently. I never listened to much country music, it just doesn’t do much for me. My girlfriend is big country fan though, so I agreed to drive 2 hours into the middle of nowhere to camp in the desert and listen to some guys sing about trucks. I was hesitant at first, but she said I could drink a lot of beer, so I said yes. 

When we got to the venue, we were instantly lost in a maze filled with thousands of dusty RVs and lifted Chevys. In the air I could smell Stetson and stale Keystone. Confederate flags hung everywhere. 

Kenny Chesney took the stage and the crowd of nearly 10,000 people went wild. Never in my life have I seen such a vast sea of drunk Caucasians. I searched for any minorities in the crowd. If there were any, I needed to warn them. They weren’t safe here. 

The music played, and the people drank and had a good time. As far as the eye could see, there were couples all doing that same weird swing dance were you squish together and pull apart a bunch of times. A girl walked past me and stopped dead in her tracks as though consumed by some supernatural force. She started slam dancing against the ground as though possessed, and then just stopped and kept walking. 

After the first set was done, the crowd did a strange thing. Instead of calling an encore by chanting “Kenny! Kenny!”, the crowd called out “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!”. I could practically hear Kenny getting rock hard from the patriotism. 

He came back out onto the stage, and what happened next took me by surprise. He said in to the microphone “It is time”, after which he and all the men in the audience removed their shirts to reveal the crosses tattoo’d on their bodies. As if it were a dream, each cross began to illuminate before a powerful beam of light shot violently (though gracefully) out of every one. They were all aimed at Kenny. He was engulfed in a field of energy and began to grow slowly into a giant being. Before I knew it he was ten stories tall. His eyes glowed blue as he finally spoke. 

“Now it is time, my children,” he said in a low, booming voice. “I have absorbed all of the energy you have generated through swing dancing and foot stomping. I am now the most powerful being in the universe.” 

“Hail Kenny!” Shouted the crowd, in unison.

“I must go back to Glarkon 6”, said the giant, “but I will soon return to retrieve you, and destroy this planet. Until then, make sure no more brown people get elected into office. You guys know better than that.”

With that, he lifted off the planet like a shuttle leaving earth. The ground shook as he launched. As he grew further and further into the atmosphere he shouted “LATER ALLIGATOR”, to which the crowd responded, again in unison, “Later alligator.”

Maisie and I raced back to our car and immediately drove home. I just wanted to take this time to warn you that the end is near, and it’s wearing a Cowboy Hat. Good luck everyone!


The Panty Smasher

You know those songs that come on Top 40 Radio? The ones that you hear the guy singing and all you can think is “Fuck you buddy. You are an asshole. You are the worst”. They’re the kind of songs that have no real substance, but the guys singing is so sultry and so sweet that it makes your teeth hurt like you just bit into a spoonful of sugar.

The problem is that, as a male, I know that these songs are nothing but throwaway pop garbage. But these songs aren’t written for me, the male… They’re written specifically for women, and the reason I know that is because every time one comes on the radio I can hear the splashing of female orgasms all around me. One Direction comes on and suddenly I’m wading in a shallow pool of bodily fluids. I understand why guys write these songs… it’s for the pussy! And you can’t knock the hustle. Ghandi said that. Don’t believe me? Fuck you.

The real problem is that these songs are ruining all my shoes. I’ve had to start wearing a wetsuit under my clothes and keeping a snorkel in my backpack, because one day Usher is going to write a panty smasher so effective that it’s gonna feel like Hurricane Katrina in the cities of America, and I do NOT want to be the one that the Red Cross is fishing out of a gully.


This PokemonGo game is sweeping the nation. Some people love it, and some people hate it. For me, though, I just don’t really get it.

The game itself makes enough sense I guess, you catch the magic animals and you put them in tiny prison balls. Simple. The part I don’t get is; when you get a whole bunch of Pokemon, you give them to this guy called “The Professor” and in turn… he gives you tiny little candy balls that are the same color as the Pokemon you gave to him.

Is The Professor grinding up my Pokemon and turning them into delicious treats? Is he some kind of mad scientist who hates magic and wonder? Is this some Soylent Green sort of shit?

I may never learn the reason he wants to kill all the Pokemon, but I DO know that I spent all this time catching those little fuckers and now all I have is a bowl of pikachu flavored jawbreakers and no clue what to do with them. I do love hard candies, though. Diabetes, I choose you. 

The Curse of the Mexican Erection

We were in Ensenada on a tourist trip. I was wearing the first pair of boardshorts I had ever owned, and they were not agreeing with my penis.

As it turned out, my poor spoiled penis had never been in the real world without a pair of boxer briefs to protect it from life’s cruel punishments. I was hot, I was in travel shock, and I was disconcerted. 

When me and Korban left the gang at the taco stand to find a bottle Tequila, I led him through the streets. That was because the front seam of my Hurley boardies were swishing back and forth across the head of my wiener. The problem wasn’t that the swishing was erotic, but that it was fucking chaffing. The once flaccid wang was quickly turning into a mega stark boner. It wanted to escape the prison of the crotch seam. It demanded freedom. 

I aimed strategically at the Mexican citizens who I knew I would never see again in this life and avoided the direction of my colleague with all that I had. An old man gave me a look as if to say “you are scum” and cursed me with his witch eyes. 

Luckily, with some deep breathing, the boner subsided while we were looking at some ponchos and Korban and I found our booze. The trip finished without a single other pitched tent. I never wore the board shorts again.

Suicide Dog

My dog tried to commit suicide the other day. He had been home alone a lot, and Maisie and I have been working more and more lately. He was finally so distraught over it that he attempted to take his own life. He got ahold of a bottle of eyedrops (which everyone knows are dog poison), tore it open and drank the contents. I imagined what he might say as he readied himself to cross over to the other side. I guess probably “Bark!” or “Woof!”

Fortunately he’s still with us. He pulled through, thank god. I don’t know what I’d do if there was no one there to fart in my face or step on my balls in the morning while I’m sleeping.

He’s on a long road to recovery now, but I have hope that he is ready to experience a full and happy life again. When I asked him what the future held for him, he said “Bark!”. It almost brought me to tears. He then continued begging for my pepperonis and shitting on my bathroom floor. What a rascal!