Warning: Do not read if you are pregnant, have a heart condition, or have a weak stomach

Blogged by Killer while adhering to a strict diet of carrot sticks and low calorie water.

Halloween always allows me to show the world just how unattractive I can be. It is sort of warning to everyone I know that they should be happy that I usually just wear really big Hawaiian shirts and baggy jeans. It could be much worse, and I am not afraid to make it so, to teach you a lesson.

I went to a Halloween party at my great friend Disco's and his lovely wife, Lady Disco's house. Disco takes Halloweenn very seriously and spent a couple of months growing a wicked mustache. At first glance you might think he was trying to be a child molester, but to the trained eye, you should quickly notice the Detroit hat. He is Magnum P.I. If you could see the short shorts, you probably would have guessed it right away.
That is our other music aficionado, Gatewood, as "Towelie" from South Park. He made that costume himself, so it is pretty damn cool.


I decided to go as a Playboy bunny. It was surprisingly easy to find really big panty hose and a gigantic leotard. The internet is actually good for more than just blogging and finding snuff porn videos. I got my back waxed so it was not as disturbing as it could have been.

The problem with this costume is, every time I sat down my costume changed from playboy bunny to over-stuffed garbage bag, with a bow tie. So, I had to stay standing the whole night.

Considering my costumes each year are getting more and more skimpy, even though I am getting more and more out of shape, it is going to be hard to top this. I guess next year I will just have to go naked.
You should probably enjoy the blog as much as you can until next October, then quit reading it. You will not want to risk seeing those pictures.

Well, If You Say So

Killer, looking good, blogging good.

This idea sounded incredible. A website, myheritage.com, that after you upload a photo, it will scan your face and list all the celebrities you look like. Brilliant! Finally someone has written a program to end the debate about whether or not I look like George Clooney. George can rest easy, because apparently I don't.

I can not say the same for certain other celebrities. I will admit that I did not use my best photo, but it is my favorite. I feel it captures me at my true essence. A goof ball with a bad hair cut and a stupid grin. Yes, that is me in a nut shell.

After you see the computer generated choices you will be amazed, as I was, at the brilliance that must have gone into writing this code.

If any of the following celebrities read my blog, I apologize and would like to say I am just as surprised as you are.


To start, the top two were Missy Elliott and Queen Latifah, the bad thing is they are the closest matches on the entire list. I am flattered that a computer thinks I look this good, but I feel sorry for those gals.
The next guy is apparently a tweener pop singer. I had to google him, his name is Jesse McCartney. I don't see anything that would make us even slightly resembled. But that has nothing on Stevie Nicks.
Stevie Nicks!?! Come on, now I think this is like a online version of Punk'd.
Hulk Hogan, that one is not too far fetched, in that I have been often accused of being a pro wrestler, especially in Cambodia. SE Asian Travel log
I think Usher would probably be the person most pissed off by being accused of looking like me. He seems to be very fastidious about his appearance and image. Not like me at all.
I don't remember who the Asian guy is, but I am pretty sure that if he saw the list he would probably accuse me of being a wrestler and immediately agree with the Hulk image likeness.
Scott Bakula is probably the one I find funniest. I mean is he really a celebrity? I liked Quantum Leap just as much as the next guy, but what has he done since? I think he is probably paying to have his picture added to each scan just to still keep his image out there.


Of celebrities, this is who I usually get that I look like. Especially during "ER's" early heyday. He is Abraham Benrubi, and he played "Jerry". Actually I always think of him as "Kubiak", from "Parker Lewis Can't Lose".

I would love for someone else to try this to see if it has better results for you.

**No celebrities were harmed during the writing of this blog**

BOO! Tay. Fashion.

Liz Ghoulishly Giggles:

It's Halloween and that means it's my favorite time of year. I have already gone through almost a complete bag of candy I had bought for the neighborhood trick or treaters. Do you KNOW how good a miniature O Henry bar is? Not as good as 3 miniature O Henry bars! Note to self: Quit buying the good stuff and stick to crap no one wants to eat.

I went to a Halloween party Friday night. I would post the pictures, but I have to rely on my best friend to put them up on a picture-sharing site. This means you'll be seeing them sometime in '07. I am pleased with our choice of holiday attire. A trio of us dressed as "Gang Green". I also contemplated dressing in my work uniform and wearing extra makeup. That would have been my company whore look.

As with any Halloween party, you have some women who use this as an opportunity to slut it up in the name of "costuming". I don't have a problem with this, but it's certainly not in me to want to dress this way. There was one girl dressed as a cabbie. My cabbie outfit would have been a flannel shirt, a towel wrapped around my head, a fake mustache, dirty kakhis and a hemorrhoid pillow. She was in a skin tight yellow short outfit with a Taxi cap on her. I go for the Judge Hirsch-becomes-a-Muslim look and she vamps it up. There was a little devil there too. She was in a short black dress with a bright red wig with horns, perfectly cute makeup and boobs this close to popping out. I would have elected to paint rotting flesh on my face and wear a cape. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

The following day I went to a college football game. There were women more slutted out there than at the Halloween party... and they weren't in costume. I find it HILARIOUS that these chicks are walking around (looking like they have yet to master the art of high heels) in SKIN TIGHT dresses that should require that they wear a hair net (think about it) with their boobs literally taped together to make them more high and tight.

An interesting piece to this is that they travel in packs. I couldn't help but notice how groups of women tend to dress alike. My best friend and I sometimes do this too- always unintentionally. I don't think we stand out when this happens. It's when you have a group of 4 women walking around, each in a mini skirt with leggings, a belt sinched under their tits, and 3 inch heels on that it catches your eye. It is especially noticeable when the women vary greatly in size but not at all in clothing choice. Kim told me that I shouldn't judge people's outfits. She says it's good that people have the self-esteem to wear whatever they want to. I said to her, "That's why you're a better person than I am. I do not think those women need self-esteem at that level. Self-love can go too far."

I'd love to know the psychology behind this. Are we so close to pack animals that we have to affirm our clothing choices with our girlfriends?

Finally, I'm glad that the time changed today. Fall back. It was the first Sunday I've gotten out of bed and stayed out of bed before noon in a really, really long time. As a matter of fact, I'm going to close now so that I can go do something productive- like tape my titties together and go to the grocery store to pick up some more Halloween candy.

Rebellion Thwarted

Groggily blogging by Killer

Well, I survived, and am without George. I will miss the little bugger, but am confident the rest of my fat will now stay where it belongs.

Surgery sucks. My throat hurts from being intubated, and I woke up with a vicious hang over, but I did not even get the enjoyment of a night of hard drinking to warrant it. Usually with this kind of hang over I'd atleast have some vague memories of singing "Natural Woman" in a karaoke bar.

One second I am lying on the surgical table, joking with the doctors, I wanted a good rapport so they would try a little harder, and the next thing I know I am waking up in a different room with some strange lady asking me to take a deep breath. I didn't even get a chance to give my planned last words. I think my last official statement was, "don't start looking under my gown as soon as I pass out, you pervs." I don't want that on my tombstone.

No attempts to hit nurses, doctors or passerybys was made. No flashing of the genitalia was undertaken. No bright light was seen during anesthesia. Surgery was not as bad as I thought, but I still will only save it for really important problems. No more elective surgeries, atleast no more after I have my penile implant.

Any Last Words?

Killer, preparing for all contingencies.

Well, I undergo the scalpel in the morning to relocate George . He might not agree with the decision ( George's opinion ), but it is not for him to decide. I like to think they are going to humanely relocate him to some natural reserve for fatty tumors, but he is more likely going to be tossed unceremoniously into a biohazard disposal container. If he had just stayed on the reservation this never would have happened.

With any surgical procedure there are inherent risks. The most obvious being a bad reaction to the anesthesia. I have never had anesthesia, so I am uncertain as to my outcome. Part of me is hoping that I wake up swinging and cursing at the nurses, because I have taken care of a lot of patients that do that, and I would like to see it from their point of view. I have also had a lot of patients that, in a half sleep state, keep pulling off their covers and exposing their balls to everyone in the room. I might do that anyway, regardless of my mental cognition after surgery.

More risks include nerve damage, which could leave me looking like a permanent stroke victim. Which I might actually find amusing. It would be a little pick me up in the mornings when I can look in the mirror and laugh at my own misfortune. Plus, it could give me a chance to get my hands on one of those handy dandy handicap placards that Fringes was bragging about.
Serious scarring is also a risk, but since I am already a 350 pound, angry looking guy with a lot of tattoos, I think a really bitchin' facial scar would just make it all the more better.

The thought of possible death from surgery got me to contemplating what my last words should be. I really want to have a great "last words" quote. Something that, when heard, makes people laugh, but think at the same time. The best I have come across in my schooling has been from a U.S. General during the Civil War, John Sedgwick, "Nonsense, they couldn't hit an elephant from this distance." He was shot immediately there after. That is the kind of kind of thing I want.

Here are the top three choices for me to say right before surgery, in case of a morbid outcome:

"Either that tumor goes, or I go."

"I have figured out the solution for peace in the Middle East, and I will tell you all about it after surgery."

"I bet the doctor one hundred bucks he could not do the surgery blindfolded."

I am open to suggestions, comments, or criticisms.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Killer explains why his family despises him.

To fully appreciate this post you must first read Liz's last post. Priceless, I don't think so

Okay people gather around Uncle Killer for some sage advice. It is nearing the end of October and that means it is time to start fretting about what you are going to give all those damn loved ones. This is the only time of the year when I wish I had fewer people who cared about me.

I decided a few years ago that I was only going to give gifts to my Mom, Dad, Sister, Brother, and Brother-in-law. Everyone else can rely on their own damn families for gifts. Why do I want to spend any more time at some corporate-whore-house mall than I have to. On top of that, to reduce my mall time even more, I decided to give only gifts that I made myself. I have managed to stick to that pretty good the last few years. Unfortunately my family kept the gifts so I can not post pictures just yet. They are greedy like that. I will post some pics in a week or so.

Liz's conundrum with her finances got me thinking of an even better way to give a "home made" gift, and a cheap one at that.

-It also got me thinking, "What the hell is Liz doing with all of her money? Drinking, Partying, Flying in young, virile, Asian man-slaves?" But I quickly got back on track.-

What could Liz give all of her family and friends that is cheap, but something they will never forget. I started to write a comment to her post, but it quickly spiraled out of control like only I can. Let me lay it out for all to see:

Precisely two weeks before Christmas, timing is imperative, you gather all your friends and family. Sit everyone down and tell them you have a rare and incurable disease. Now, first instinct says, "Cancer", but that it too cliched and you are more creative than that. There is actually a whole website devoted to rare diseases. Don't get too crazy with something like "hemorrhaging Anal Fissures", you don't want to take the focus away from your demise. Plus, no one is going to let you sit on their furniture.
Rare Disease Database

Once you have managed to get everyone settled down from all the crying and carrying on, explain that you have two weeks to live, but don't want it to ruin this, your final, Christmas.

Take a moment and help Grandma back into her chair.

Let everyone know that, "Yes, I did get a second opinion. No, I do not want the number of your cousins doctor in Seattle. Of course I am still going to the Def leppard concert next weekend."
You will quickly notice the enormous amount of attention everyone is going to reap upon you. If it becomes too much, just start fake crying and tell them you need some time alone to, "gather my thoughts, and put my affairs in order." That usually works.

Make sure no one in Human Resources at your work gets wind of your upcoming death. The last thing you need before the holidays is a bunch of young, eager go-getters interviewing to replace you. Even when they realize you are not dead, they might just find a cheaper, prettier you.

Finally, the big day arrives. Make sure you sleep in and arrive about an hour late, you want everyone there and commiserating about how much they are going to miss you. Make a grand and lavish entrance. "I am Gonna LIVE!", is shouted by you as the door bangs open. Talking quickly and frantically, "I-just-heard-from-the-doctor-that-new-untested-medicine-from-that-new
-beetle-species-found-in-the-Amazon-rain-forest-has-cured-my-hemorrhaging
-anal-fissures-I-am-going-to-live!please-save-the-rain-forest"
Run, Run from the house, whooping and hollering, singing to all the neighbors. Ham it up a bit, ala George Bailey from "It's a Wonderful Life". "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Peterson!...Merry Christmas, Little Jimmy!...Merry Christmas, Jewish family, who we really don't know, and are not trying to avoid, we just don't know what to talk about and are worried you might not want to come over for pork chops."

After running around the block a few times, come on in and rejoice with your family. They will hug you, kiss you, give you ALL the gifts. This truly is a Christmas miracle.
At the end of the night when everyone is tucked tightly into their beds and you are about to fall off into a peaceful slumber, think back about what joy you have brought to your family this year. Also start thinking about a good disease for next year. It has to be a good one to top this.

PS...Oh yeah, I am going to hell.

Priceless? I Don't Think So.

Liz puts a value on friendship. :O And it's $12.

We're not getting a Christmas bonus at work this year and I usually use that scratch for gift buying. This means that 2006 is the perfect time to resurrect that timeless childhood gift-giving tradition: Homemade crap with a bow on it!

As previously disclosed I like to spend my free time sleeping. This means that 70 % of my Christmas shopping is done on line between naps. But this year I have an extreme budget to consider. I've got to bargain hunt, scout out the deals, make it to the Early Bird sales!

Uhhhh... Probably not going to happen.

My intense level of laziness combined with the broke-factor almost guarantees that there will be tears around my house at Christmas.

What Would Jesus Do?

Jesus would take one delightful Christmas gift (wisely bought at a half-price sale) and multiply it by 20, so that everyone had a lovely present. The receivers would parade around the room and brag about this awesome present that Jesus just gave them and they'd be like, "He cloned my first!" and other people would be like, "Nah Uh. He cloned MINE first!" Then people would start fighting a little bit and you'd look over in the corner and see that your dad is half wasted on the abundant wine and that the dog is humping your grandma's purse. Then Jesus would hush everybody up and talk about how the spirit of Christmas has nothing to do with presents and everyone would end up feeling really guilty and it would be a Christmas miracle!

Halloween resolution for '06: Be DIY Network crafty (as opposed to Beastie Boys crafty).

What should I make for my friends and family this Holiday season? It needs to be something that I can mass produce... I mean something that will show all of my friends that I treasure them equally... and it needs to be something that can slide in at under $15 a pop.

I would appreciate your ideas, but please do not suggest anything that utilizes yarn and/or popsicle sticks. (See gods eye below). Also, do not recommend that I give everyone I know a couple of black market Zanyx. Just because the price is right, that doesn't make it Christmas.

B-12, on the rocks

Liz waits for the air bubble to hit a vein:

I, without demonstration, have given myself a shot. I don't see how heroin addicts do it. My first attempt at shot giving would have been great except that I simply punctured my leg; forgetting that the needle stayed IN then the injection happened. So I had to do it again. My goal was to hit a muscle (which I think I did) but I'm not very comfortable that I had dispelled the air from the syringe first. In hindsight I really should have watched someone do this to me before I attempted it solo. If I don't make it, remember to remove anything incriminating from my house.

I am shooting up B-12 due to a slight case of anemia and "word on the street" that B-12 is awesome. I hope so. I hope to become an energetic, goal oriented person because of these shots. It will be great to blame my laziness on something that has always been beyond my control. It will be liberating to break my sloth-like weekend routine due to my new-found energy.

I am relieved. I have finally found a doctor who isn't afraid to give me prescriptions. Nothing "questionable" but stuff like B-12 and 150 anti-inflammatories (I'm not sure why so many as I am currently not inflamed). It's nice to have a doctor who believes that drugs were made to be taken. I had almost reached my limit with doctors who have made it their mission to cure us using their own brands of "alternative" medicines. Here is a good example of what I'm ranting about: I have a friend whose doctor recently advised her to not open her eyes so quickly in the morning as this has caused her to tear part of her cornea. WHAT KIND OF MEDICAL ADVICE IS THAT? Do not open your eyes so quickly in the mornings? How about: Do not breathe so frequently or Do not grow your fingernails in a square shape. Torn corneas are the type of thing we go to doctors for. Advice you'd get forwarded to you under the guise of "Fww: Fw: First Graders Cures for What Ails Ya! Cute! MUST READ!" is not what we go to doctors for.

All of that being said, I am realizing that I'm hitting middle age. I cannot believe it but it's true. When you write a whole blog about doctors, your sun is setting. I guess I need to start trying to undo 35 years of questionable living. This would mean exercise and eating healthy. Ick.

Don't they have a pill for that?

OH! That reminds me: I have smoked both Friday and Saturday of this weekend, but only while drinking. I smoked one pack over the two nights. I'm not proud, but I am also not hyper-worried. Please allow me to pose a question. Am I fooling myself if I say that I can smoke only when I drink? Seriously. Am I treading on thin ice by thinking I can limit my cigarette intake to when I'm boozed up only?

Scold appropriately, if needed.

Where is MY cute African Baby?

Killer, blogging ahead of the curve.

I did not get a CD player until 1997. That means I was one of the last schleps scouring the music store for new releases on cassette tape. I am still very self conscious about not keeping up with the newest fads. Recently Angelina and Brad adopted an African baby, then Madonna adopted an African baby. I am seeing a trend develop here, and I want in on the ground floor.

A couple of years ago, all the popular celebrities started carrying tiny dogs in designer hand bags, and I really wanted to fit in, so I looked into this. Designer hand bags are almost as expensive as tiny designer dogs. I want to be cool, but within a budget. I am in desperate need to get in on the newest fashion statement as early as possible to keep my self esteem up. It is becoming increasingly obvious that the new trend is going to be African babies.

Think about it, an African baby can not be that expensive to get. According to Sally Struthers, there are millions of them, and also according to Sally, I can apparently feed one for as little as the cost of a cup of coffee a day. That is within my budget, I can afford a cup of coffee everyday. Well, not Starbucks coffee, but maybe generic gas station coffee. I don't think the African baby will know the difference.

If I get one now I will be able to be the first person on my block with an authentic African baby. Pretty soon, once this thing blows up, everyone is going to be trying to get one. The cost of obtaining your own African baby is going to quickly become astronomical. This will lead to sweat shops in China or Taiwan churning out cheap imitation African babies. You know the deal, you get your brand new African baby, take him/her home and after the first bath the dye washes off and your realize you actually have just a plain Chinese baby instead. Sure it is a baby and does all the same stuff, but you did not get this baby for a baby, you got this baby to prove to the neighbors that you are better than they are.

So, I am going to act fast and get me an African baby before the price goes up and the pickins' get slim. I might get two. Wait, do you have to carry the African baby around in a designer hand bag? If that is the case than I might have to rethink things. New plan: Get copy of most recent People, US, and In Touch magazines and research this. I hope they are not using designer hand bags, because I would hate to miss out on another hot trend.

Pavlov's Dog Ain't Got Nothing On Me

When the computer lights up, Killer has to write.

As I get older there are more and more items I find that illicit a subconscious response. I am going to include two examples. One, I can blame on someone else creating. The other, can only be attributed to myself. Both are odd and, coincidentally, both involve fruit.

When it comes to laundry detergent I like to shake things up a bit. I want to try new scents with different brands. The only rule is: There has to be a corresponding fabric softener with the same scent. I am not an animal. I don't want my underwear to smell like a bastard combination of Fresh Breeze Tide and Mountain Spring Gain.
This led me, the other day, to purchase an un-before smelled scent called, "Joyful Expressions", from Gain. I got home and was about to wash my clothes, when I got my first whiff. It smelled like apple shampoo. Normally this would not be an issue, but my sister has always used a bizarre apple scented shampoo to wash the family dogs. Which, of course, resulted in a mad-house of apple and wet dog scented pooches racing and barking around the living room in a freshly cleansed fit of joy. This would, invariably, make it very difficult for me to enjoy watching Jerry Springer. I developed an intense dislike for those moments, but did not realize until the moment I opened the "Joyful Expressions" Gain, that my subconscious had linked the whole event to that smell. I most certainly could not wash my clothes in this detergent.

I can not drink wine. I am alcoholically cultured, and only drink microbrewed, or home brewed beer. None of this changes the fact that I am disgusted at the smell, taste and thought of wine. It is linked back to my 16th year of life when me and my best friend saved up our fifty dollar pittance for placing Domino's Pizza door coupons on area houses. (Actually the vast majority ended up in a dumpster, but that is another blog.) We took our combined fifty dollars and waited outside a shady gas station until a person with sympathy for youthful tomfoolery wandered by and would buy us some booze. The request was simple, "Here is fifty bucks, go buy us some Boone's Strawberry Hill." This gentleman, being an apparent literalist, comes out with eight bottles and no change. We decided not to be gluttons, so we let him keep two and kept the other six for our own purposes. Four hours and six bottles of sweet, cheap strawberry flavored "wine" later, much puking was under way. Much, much puking. Lovely wine flavored puking. Since then the mere smell of wine makes me nauseated.

My brain is working over time to protect me from unpleasantness. I guess it does not trust me to self regulate. It is probably right.

If They Confiscate My PC, Delete the Porn!

Liz types... with BOTH hands...

I have had a personal computer for 3 years, 4 maybe? In this time I do not recall ever deliberately going to a porn site. I've had some porn-lite links sent to me, but as far as googling something like "ass milk" or "throbbing hang down", it hasn't happened. I'm no prude or anything, I just spend my time googling stuff like "Mahi Mahi recipes" and "handmade greeting cards". That's all.

That's what worries me so now.

I don't know if you can tell me WHY this happens or how, but every now and again I will run into a batch of photos that I have never saved onto my computer. These photos might be recognized as "Hey! That's the shirt I was looking at on line!" Or, "Oh my God. Why is the Chili's logo saved onto my computer?" That kind of stuff. I guess every image that you see on your screen has been officially downloaded and stored away? That hardly seems fair, since I can never find a picture I really DO want to see again.

About a week ago I was searching through some of the blogs of people who sometimes comment on this site. I must say, our network leads quickly to funny people who are a little raunchy and irreverent- my kind of peeps. I landed on this guy's blog and begin to read. He's a descriptive writer and quick witted; more than once I chuckle while reading his stuff. He speaks about never being serious nor should he ever be taken seriously. My kind of blogger, I confess.

He has posted in his "Recommends" section "Places to See Naked People". This sounds funny, so I go to Naked Celebrities. Three things are wrong with this:

1. all the celebs are chicks (where are the nude Joe Pesci pix?)
2. I hardly know any of the names of "celebrities" listed
3. it's not really very funny

So I try another one of his "Recommends", thinking that I was missing the joke. NOTE: No joke, he's simply putting you one click away from titties. At this next site, it's girl after girl. Not porn, just topless gals- nothing really unique as far as adult photos go, I guess. But very unique to my PC.

I find the poses of bottom tier "models" to be the photographic equivalent of Plan 9 From Outer Space; funny as shit. I click on several of the pictures. I have a hard time resisting "camp": Shocked while brushing hair; naughty with whipped cream; the shushing librarian; you know, that crap.

Once I thought about the fact that I had probably looked at 30 pictures of NAKED WOMEN, I started to think. You know, I'm 35 and single. With two cats. I can't afford to have "evidence" of my sexual orientation point to "Looks at nude photos- of WOMEN ONLY", so I closed down the peep show and started reading The Dilbert Blog.

Today, a similar event. I was visiting a blog, I think it's called Forksplit, and the term "glory hole" was mentioned. I had no idea that I knew, from Porky's, what a glory hole was, so I googgled it.

Everytime, from this day forward, I want to google a word that begins with the letter "G", glory hole is going to pop up as an option.

Therefore, I would like to make this my official request: If I die before my parents do, someone please, please destroy my computer. I could not stand the thought of my mother one day using my PC to type her Sunday School lesson and 17 pictures of glory holes being used pop up!

While you're at it, please hide the one pair of thong underwear that I own (THAT was a mistake), the Indian with a gigantic cock pipe that was given to me by a friend, the box on my closet floor, and any photographs NOT in a photo album. You know, now that I think about it, you'd better just torch the place.

"Better to die standing than to live on your knees."

The following is an open letter from "George", my benign lipoma, whom is to be forcibly removed from my face in nine days.

Please help me. I have a growing suspicion that this bastard, in which I reside, is planning some diabolical scheme to end my existence. I don't really understand where all this hostility is coming from. It is not like I am causing any discomfort or distress. I just sit here on his jaw peacefully, biding my time. Oh sure, he claims I am to blame for his declining aesthetic appearance, but I would like to point out the facts. If I were gone, it is not like the ladies are just going to start racing over. I mean some dieting and a wardrobe change would go a lot further than my removal.

I implore you, the readers of his meager attempts at humor, to speak out on my behalf. I have the same dreams as many of you. I aspire to someday become a full blown goiter, or maybe even make the transition to a malignant tumor and take over this son of a bitch.

The years of oppressive rule by Killer must come to an end. Under his 33 long years as leader of this body there has been massive growth, too much some would say. Over population in the abdominal area is at obscene levels. There are numerous reports that the brain, a once proud and noble center for learning, has been reduced to a constant frat party, only satisfied with ceaseless supplies of beer and porn. Although I fear for my own life, it is time that someone in here takes a stand. I had been hoping the heart would speak up, but it appears that years of rich foods and comfortable living have corrupted his values and made him a hollow puppet under Killer's control.

Other tyrannical leaders over the years have sought, and often succeeded, in silencing their critics. Don't be fooled by the humor and fun-loving persona displayed by this devil in disguise. Some years back the wisdom teeth wrote a scathing article about his oral hygiene, within a few days they disappeared and have never been seen nor heard from since.

If something does indeed happen, please do not let this cause die with me. I will raise the flag for revolution and if I get shot down, I can only hope someone else will scoop it up and fight on. If my demise can create a martyr for future generations then I give myself willingly.
Fight the good fight comrades.

What Boobs Are Good For

In true she said/he said fashion, I will summarize what Killer would say to save him the effort:

• Looking at
• Fondling

But here's the truth of what boobs are good for:

1. Filling up bras
2. Crumb catching
3. Stashing folded money
4. Cat pillows
5. Folded-arm holders
6. Jiggly amusement
7. Insulation
8. Food for new children
9. Erotic hugging
10. Diverting attention away from the zit on your face
11. Keeping your lower body dry during a rain shower
12. A quick $16

Have I left something off the list?

Vivid

Liz puff, puff, passes:

I have written before about my ridiculously straight(now! Nicotine free!) lifestyle. I'm 421 months old so I guess I had to learn that there is a tipping point on the scale. Too much of anything can stop it from being pleasurable, yada yada ::grown-up speak goes here::.

This is why I love, more than ever, vivid dreams. It's my only break from reality.

Last night I had a dream that all of my co-workers started smoking. I, being morally superior to them now, encouraged them to smoke. I liked being the "good one" for a change. I did however go on a rampage when one of my co-workers was burning two at one time. WASTE! There was a saying I "over heard" from some "hippy" in college when some "friend" of his was smoking " the marijuana": "Once you're high, you ain't gone git no higher. Now you're just wastin' it."

Wise words, friends.

In my dream I was livid! How DARE my newly puffing coworkers not value the beautiful cigarette and give her the respect she deserves! The dream was so real that I woke up angry at them all this morning. Seriously pissed... so pissed I wanted a cigarette to help calm me down!

In sobering hindsight, the dream was ridiculous and fun. To be playing the role of NON SMOKER was like swapping lives with an Amish man for a day. Interesting and different, yet so real; without the pain of no electricity or untamed facial hair.

Ah dreams... the last venue for a straight laced corporate whore.

Tonight before I go to sleep I am going to really put a lot of thought into what "trip" I'd like to take tonight. I don't know what I'll settle on, but there is a 43% chance it will involve funky shoes and a muscle car.. and, if I'm especially zonked, a gaggle of midgets, all resembling the Hardy Boys.

My Body is A Dictatorship Not a Democracy

Killer, enforcing the law of the land

Well, it is official, in a few weeks I am to under go the surgical knife to have a have a portion of myself removed. Don't get me wrong, there is a lot of me to spare, but still, it is always nerve racking to have surgery.
I work around people who receive much more complex and serious surgeries all the time, but this is me, and frankly, I like me more than anyone else.

I am having a benign lipoma removed from my jaw. "Benign?" This is what you might initially think, but it is still a big deal. Not that it is just any tumor, but it is a lipoma. A lipoma is a fatty tumor. A big chunk of fat that is lacking in the common courtesy to go to the pre-approved fat areas, but instead decides to set out and begin it's own little community. It is a little like a farmer finding a group of dirty hippies living on his 100 acre farm land. It is not like they are doing any harm, but still, it is the principal. I don't want my fat thinking it can just do whatever it wants. I need to take measures now before the rest of my fat evolves into utter anarchy.

I have ample amounts of fat. It has always been quite well behaved and stayed in my gut. I am not sure if maybe there have arisen new issues that should be addressed. Maybe I have reached capacity and now the fat is striking out in search of new, fertile lands to occupy. Maybe all the Mexican food I have been eating lately has introduced a new class to my fat, causing a "white flight" of sorts in which the more established fat cells are moving away from the city center out of an irrational fear of foreigners. Stranger things have happened. The fat might have held some covert council meeting and, citing imminent domain laws, annexed my cheek and jaw area. There is only one thing to do in this type of situation, and that is to nip it in the bud.

When I first noticed the lump, a few years ago, I was at first concerned I had a more serious cancer that involved lymph nodes and a shortening life span, but after some tests, I was told it was nothing serious and I should ignore it. It was much smaller then, and basically undetectable to the human eye. Over the following years it slowly grew into a mass that was more obvious if you looked for it. I went as far as to name it. George, I called it, and I joked with people that it is my conjoined twin who got the short end of the genetic stick and has been forced to spend his life in obscurity living on my cheek.

Unfortunately for George, it is now time to remove him and let me get on with my life. If it gets any bigger I am going to have to join the circus as the two headed freak. I have included a diagram for better understanding of what I am dealing with.

The Surgery is scheduled for two weeks from now. I am hoping this will send a stern warning to the rest of my fat to keep in line. If this kind of thing happens again I might be forced to take more drastic measures. Like going to the gym or eating less burritos. Nobody wants that.

Blue Book Value of Me

Disclaimer: The following information was obtained from Humanforsale.com
If you attempt to find your own value here, I would ignore the "what is your rating on face the jury", I did and still got my value.
Also, Killer Rants accepts no responsibility for any readers that are depressed or saddened by their value. Plus, if you are easily depressed, that probably decreases your value even more.

I just hit the infamous "next blog" button and it took me to a site in which the first entry was a short snippet about the author's monetary value. It included a link where you can find such a thing using, an undoubtedly, fool proof survey.

So, I decided to see what, if any, I could garner for myself if I ever needed to sell me.

It turns out I am worth $1,840,950. I am assuming that is American dollars, because in Canadian it is not as impressive.

It even offers a breakdown of value for each of my answers. It turns out that my weight and hair loss status are detracting from my value. That is understandable, but it also seems that my being very hairy (except my head) is also a negative value. I take exception with that. I believe my being hairy should be a positive, especially if being sold to someone in cold climates. I rarely get cold. I practically come with a built in sweater.

Many of the questions were quite strange, and frankly, disturbing. It wanted to know my penis size. I did not take the test for women, so I imagine it wants to know your breast size, because I don't think all women can tell you the size of their ovaries. It is depressing to note that, although not a negative value, the size I listed did not exactly shoot up my value. I would later retake the test with a few false answers and apparently a couple more inches can really make or break you. Normal (I hope) = $1000. Porn Star = $15,000.

I actually think this is a good thing to know. I plan to inform my family in case I am ever kidnapped. Now they have valuable information to use when dealing with ransom demands. Armed with a solid blue book value you can really negotiate well. I bet if they stuck to their guns they could probably get me back for around $1,400,499.

My New Friend

Lucky Liz:

I have a new friend I would like to tell you about:

• He refers to himself in the third person- always- and uses his nickname
• He wears very tacky clothes and he probably paid A LOT for them
• He is a habitual gambler and if you make a bet and lose, you'd better pay up
• He uses much profanity, but says he doesn't cuss around women (hello?)
• He isn't at all self consciences about telling me that he threatened to backhand his pre-teen daughter
• In the middle of a temper tantrum, he becomes possessed by Yote Samity Sam and turns tomato red and STOMPS around in a circle
• He has hair that most men would kill for- and he KNOWS it

Yet, I LOVE this guy. I think he is AWESOME! It's like hanging with one of the cops from Barney Miller everytime I'm around him; clothes and all.

This time with "Hey There Hal" has made me realize something important. I like quirky. Not scary quirky. Not super asshole quirky. Just plain Eric Estrada-inspired, macho, fast car, tight pants quirky. Wooderson from Dazed and Confused quirky.

I can't believe it's taken this long for me to put those words down on paper.

I've been on a haiku kick lately, so I wrote my new friend a poem. It's titled,

"WANTED: Beige Sun Visor".

Friend in third person

Charactercature of yourself

Who picked out those shorts?

I want to get inside his heart and have a look around, so I asked my new friend to write ME a haiku. This is what he submitted:

I'll bet you 10 bucks

And all of your underwear

I can outrun you.

Bitch.

Ok, maybe he didn't really write that, but I know that if he knew what a syllable was, that's what he WOULD write.

Killer Rants Personal Ads

Job Wanted: Professional Sleeper

Very qualified with over 33 years of experience.
Flexible and willing to sleep at anytime.
Rarely snore, but if you require snoring, I can improvise.
Prefer to sleep naked, but willing to comply with company dress codes.
Hard worker and willing to sleep overtime if required.
Sleeps well with others.
Will provide own pillow.
Willing to travel and/or relocate.

If interested please leave a comment. I can start immediately. Serious inquiries only please.

Sticking up for Man's Best Friend

Killer, Part time ASPCA watch dog.

Have you ever seen a dog in one of these collars. They are called Elizabethan collars and they are to prevent the dog from licking, chewing, or doing any other normal dog thing to a wound or sore. Look how unhappy this guy is.

There are several reasons this is so cruel. For one the other dogs must be brutal in making fun of this guy. It is like having to wear head gear for your braces to school. Everyone knows you can not help having to wear it, but you still look like an idiot, and I for one, would make fun of you, because basically I am an asshole.
The other, and in my opinion, much crueler reason is best felt if you put your self in this dog's shoes. This little guy has gone his whole life being able to lick himself in any place he wants. Now, for no discernible reason to him, he can not seem to get to his favorite spots. The guys might appreciate this more. I know that if I could lick myself "anywhere", but then suddenly could not, I would be very unhappy.

The next ridiculous treatment of dogs is to dress them in any clothes, especially costumes, and extra especially if it is a pretty, pink, frilly costume. You can see the misery in his eyes. I bet the main reason that dogs bite the mail man is fear that he is bringing one of these outfits from some mail order company.


This particular variety of animal cruelty is the most puzzling to me. Why would you want a bald dog? I don't know this dog personally so maybe it suffers some strange alopecia, or male pattern baldness. At first I downloaded this picture because it looked like the dog had a mullet and that is pretty funny to me, but then I realized how much this dog actually looks like Paris Hilton. Cutting your dog's hair to have a mullet is bizarre, but to cut his hair to look like Paris Hilton is just plain cruel. This dog needs to be rescued.

Why Nobody in San Francisco has the Hiccups

Killer, hiccup free since 2003

Man is an amazing creature. We have managed to mass produce sliced bread, put a man on the moon and find an apparent cure for hiccups. That last one might just be what finally shows those aliens out there that we are worth communicating with.

Every year a group of really smart people get together and pick through all of the previous years advancements and choose the ones that at first seem funny, but really make you think, and they deem, "improbable research". They call them the Ig Nobel Prizes. The best part is, they are highly respected and the awards are presented by actual Nobel Prize winners. One of my very first blogs was about a 2005 winner, Neuticles. They are artificial testicles for dogs after they have been neutered. So this years winner in the field of medicine really has a lot to live up to.

The 2006 Ig Nobel Prize in Medicine went to a doctor from the Univ of Tennessee for his case report entitled, "Termination of Intractable Hiccups with Digital Rectal Massage." This ladies and Gentlemen is the start of something great. This report states that if you have hiccups you can stop them immediately by sticking a finger up your ass. This is no home remedy, this is an actual scientifically proven treatment. I can't wait for someone to ask me, "Man, how can I get rid of these hiccups?"

Everyone now has a iron clad excuse for being caught with a finger in their ass. "I had the hiccups." I just wish I had known this a couple of weeks ago.

Blazin'

Killer,

What the hell?

I went on line to make sure that Beale Street (your neighborhood) hadn't flamed up (not in a "Fire Island" sort of way) in today's blaze. Typing in "Memphis Fire" yielded the search result below. Uh... would you please start TELLING me about things like this?

Memphis sucks way less now that I know this is available:

Fire Eater Memphis, TN - Shelby, Tennessee Fire Eater, Memphis ...
Gigmasters helps you hire professional fire eaters in the Memphis area. Whether it's a wedding, corporate event, or private party, you'll easily find a ...www.gigmasters.com/FireEater/FireEater_Memphis_TN.asp - 60k - Cached - Similar pages

Please? For my bachelorette party?

...So he loaded up his truck and he moved to Beverly

Killer, blogging from infamy.

Yes, this is me on the cover of a professional publication. For some it might take their whole lives to be on the cover of a magazine, but I pulled it off in 33 years. This is the cover of the Oxford Town Magazine. It is widely respected for it's journalistic integrity, and it's cutting edge reporting on the entertainment available in Oxford, MS., a town of about 35,000 people. You may all wallow in jealousy now.
My best friend, Chris, is an artist and he drew this picture of me. It is a silver etching. He made marks on a piece of paper with a special pencil with a silver tip. Only a guy this talented can capture the true essence of me, lounging in a recliner with a beer. The original picture is for sale for $500, but I would appreciate it not being used for pornographic purposes. If you look really close you can see up my pant leg.

I am not sure how to handle my celebrity status. I don't want you, my loyal following, to think I am now going to get all "Paris Hilton" and start banging B celebrities, and cat fighting with tweener movie stars. I will probably be the same guy portrayed in that picture, but maybe sitting in a nicer recliner and hopefully without that hole in my underwear.

This blog will probably get a lot better once I achieve the peak of my celebrity status. I will be able to hire some staff writers to do all the blogging for me. Maybe I can get some of the wash outs from Saturday Night Live. They will, more than likely, not have my propensity for big words, but also will not talk about my balls so much. I will let you decide which of those is the pro and which is the con.

Well I will let you go now. I need to get out to the clubs. I gotta start making the rounds to keep in the lime light. You normal, mundane people don't realize how addictive the bright lights can be. So, if you read about me in US Weekly soon for getting in a fight over Wilmer Valderama with Lindsay Lohan I hope you will understand.

And you can quit trying to look up my pant leg now you pervert.

The Manager at My Gym is Stalking Me

Suspiciously posted by Killer

I will admit that I might be slacking in my workouts. Hell, it might even be fair to say that I have not actually gone to my gym in around three months. But, the manager at my gym is watching me, and it scares me silly.

I like to go to the gym anonymously. No one sees me come in. No one sees me go out. I don't want any strange comments about how long (or how short) my workout was. I don't need any "supportive" remarks from gym employees. Why are they working in a gym anyway? How much can that really pay? I have never known any kids to state at an early age, "I want to jockey the front desk at the Y."

Let me set the stage. About a year ago I joined a gym a few blocks from my apartment with the purest of intentions. I was going to, finally, get into shape. No sweat. But, as the weeks went by, my attendance at the gym grew less and less. Actually, it would be more accurate to say, as the WEEK went by. So, time flies by and I don't return to the gym for about two months. I walk in all proud of myself for leaving my apartment, walking down the street, and entering the gym. The gym manager, whom I only met on the initial sign up day, says, "Hello Michael, it's been quite a while since you have been here." Holy shit! I knew I should not have signed up for a gym called "Big Brother's Fitness Center". Either this gym has a serious lack of patrons, or this crazy lady is stalking me. As much as I have desired to some day have someone care enough to actually stalk me, it is not so cool after all.

Well, that really threw me for a loop. I could not work out very well, and left after doing about twenty minutes on the treadmill. I left very surreptitiously so she should we not be able to follow, briskly walked back home, closed all the blinds, and bolted the door. I promised myself I would go to the gym more often, as to not garner any more attention.

Close to two more months race by, and I finally returned to the gym. This time I am prepared. I walk casually by and glance sideways through the plate glass window. I don't see her at the desk, so I rush in, show my membership card, and slink past her office door. I make it to the locker room, change clothes, and as I am exiting, there she is. "Hello Michael, it is good to see you again. You should come more often." "Oh it is on Bitch," I think to myself. "It is on."

That was about three or four months ago, and I have not been back since. I actually have started speed walking around the park near my apartment. I am paying almost forty bucks a month to belong to a gym, but am terrified to attend. I don't need her judging me. Everytime I leave me apartment I am worried that she is going to be standing there, "Hello Michael..." Is all she is going to be able to say before I am going to tear ass down the street screaming like a 350 pound little girl.

I only have another year on my contract. Then I am home free.

Memphis In A Nutshell pt. 1

Bloggin Blues by Killer
The above picture says it all about Memphis. This town eats, sleeps, and shits Elvis. Not only can you get T-shirts and underwear with his image, but you can purchase a pair of novelty gold Elvis sun glasses everywhere, and those are never not funny.
Every year on the anniversary of his death thousands of Elvis fanatics from all over the world gather outside of his home, Graceland. The wonderful world of Graceland deserves it very own blog, you can read it at

Graceland Critiqued

Memphis is known as the "Bluff City" due to it's proximity to the Mississippi river and it's fortunate location on a bluff. The bluff protects Memphis from the ravaging nature of the Mississippi river, and causes it to flood Arkansas instead. Arkansas sucks, so they get what they deserve.

This is Beale St. It is to Memphis what Bourbon St. is to New Orleans, but with no girls showing their boobs for cheap plastic beads. Don't think I am not trying to get that started here, but it is an up hill battle. Beale St. consists primarily of Blues clubs and Piano bars. It is, apparently, a great place to hang out if you are a bachelorette party or a group of under-age drinkers. One block to the left is the Fed-Ex Forum where the Memphis Grizzlies play, and one block to the right is my apartment. The Forum brings in the crowds now, but in a few years after I become famous, either for winning the Nobel prize in literature, or after I snap and go on an unexplained killing spree, my apartment will be a tourist attraction as well. You can say, "I read his blog way back when. All the signs were there." That statement is good either way.

You Can...Eventually!

Sans smokes, Liz types:

I have the greatest friends. You guys have done a wonderful service and are a source of encouragement on my difficult path to being smoke free. I figured it up: even though I have slipped a couple of times, I have smoked about 400 less cigarettes than I would have if I hadn't started this anti-smoking campaign. When I type it out like that and when I consider that this is LESS than a month of not smoking, I see why I cough up black phlem every morning.

Your notes and signatures are charming. The poster hangs by my bathroom sink- so I can see it everyday. I want you to know that more than once the poster you signed has SERIOUSLY helped me make it another day. It's a very humbling thing to know that people care about you. Thanks. A lot.

I go tomorrow for the SECOND visit to the hypnotist. The first session went well, but I got a little freaked out because I felt like it was working- so I snapped myself out of it! I'm a little paranoid that he's judging me as I lay there. I'm going to ask him to look away from me tomorrow as we go in for round two. He should do whatever I say. It's costing $120 a pop!

I am also happy to report that I do NOT bark like a dog whenever the phone rings... but I have found that I speak with a British accent whenever Alan Alda comes on TV. Weird.

Thanks again. Much love, mates.