Work Discussions Continued

I have a new job.  Like the last job...I found it more fun to not really discuss the blog.  That way I could write about them freely.  The following is a discussion I had the other night with a new co-worker after he read an article about blogs.


New Co-Worker: What the hell is a “blog”?  It sounds like a redneck term for feces.
Me: I don’t understand that correlation.  Would you be willing to elaborate?
New Co-Worker: You know...big-log...blog.  The redneck would stand up from the toilet and be proud of his creation.  So proud, he would run and get the rest of his kin to come look at his “blog”. 
Me: Would they come look at it? 
New Co-Worker: Probably.
Me: You’re actually close.  It is short for Web-Log, and there are a lot that could probably be better compared to your definition.
New Co-Worker: What kind of super-dork has a website dedicated to keeping a log about themselves.  I’m picturing Capt. Kirk giving his daily Captain’s Log.
Me: Now that sounds more like a reference to feces...the Captain’s Log.
New Co-Worker: Yeah...that one does have a better ring to it. 
Me: I have a blog.
New Co-Worker: Really!?!  What do you write about?
Me: Feces.  I take pictures of my better ones and post them for all the world to see.
New Co-Worker: Yeah right.  “Michael’s Poop Patrol”
Me: That would be a bad name.  It sounds like I am searching out other people’s pretty poops.  I only show my own.
New Co-Worker: No seriously...do you have a blog? 
Me: Yes.
New Co-Worker: What is it about?
Me: Nothing really...I mean...it’s me and a friend...we just discuss whatever we feel like...stupid shit mostly.
New Co-Worker: You mean like politics?
Me: Not usually, but sometimes it comes up.
New Co-Worker: Religion?
Me: Oh, Lord no...I’ve tried that from time to time and it is WAY too intense.
New Co-Worker: So what the hell can you possibly talk about day after day that would keep people reading your stupid blog?
Me: If I had to pick one primary topic that keeps resurfacing it would be my testicles.
New Co-Worker: You have a website dedicated to your testicles?
Me: I wouldn’t say “dedicated”.  Sometimes my blog partner talks about her vagina, or being drunk.
New Co-Worker: Her vagina gets drunk?
Me: I’ve never thought to ask.
New Co-Worker: Don’t people have anything better to do than read about YOUR testicles?
Me: It’s a slow news year.
New Co-Worker: I would rather read a blog about your feces.
Me: I’ll see what I can put together.

How I Know I’m a Woman

All this talk about sex organs has had me thinking about what it means to be a woman. Other than the fact that I don’t have a couple of nads, or, as in Killer’s case, 2.5 testicles, I think it’s safe to say that I not only look like a chick, but I act like a woman. In today’s metrosexual world, woman-ness cannot be defined by a love of pedicures and makeup. This afternoon, however, I crossed into a whole new realm of femininity. I bought one of these. I dare you XX chromosome carriers to click on the video demonstrations and not salivate. Except for Churlita, who has already made it clear that items like this are beneath her.

For the gentlemen readers, if you watch the video demo and find yourself with an erection, you are either a homosexual male or my soul mate.

I’ll tell you how they got me. Infomercials! I thought that the only infomercial that had actually caught my eye was the colon cleanse. I love that freaking infomercial. The dude pimping the colon cleanse looks like a child molester and he has an entire panel of colon cleansing experts that he talks to. Awesome. But the past couple of days it seems that when I cut on the TV in the mornings the Cricut commercial is playing. Yesterday I saw about 3 minutes of it and talked about it at work. This morning I woke up at 3 AM and unable to go back to sleep, turned on the TV to find I was entering the infomercial in progress. I watched all remaining 23 minutes and ordered one on my lunch break.

Before you pass judgement on the ridiculous expense, please remember that I also enjoy beer and football, fried foods, well used profanity, and fast cars. I may be a chick, but I’m proud of my edge. And I didn’t upgrade to the Super Cricut. Jeez. I’m not a dork. 

Taking a Joke Too Far

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I’m all for a good time, but Liz’s recent retort to my Testes vs. Vagina post was in poor taste. 

She attacked my third testicle.  Pointing out that it was undersized and misshapen.  Would Liz also make fun of a mentally delayed child?  Would she point out that it was wearing a funny helmet and drooled?  I would hope not.

Just because Liz has a frighteningly strong set of meat curtains is no reason to go around picking on the less-abled.  Little Timmy is a great testicle.  Sure, he might not be as big as the other guys, but he tries really hard and he has a huge heart.  He might make funny noises sometimes and eat dirt (or nail clippings) but he can’t help it...he’s “special”. 

I personally feel that it is my place to make Little Timmy’s life as normal as possible.  I talk about him and make sure he is safe, but it chaps my hide when people are insensitive to his situation.  As much as I care for Little Timmy, my other two balls REALLY have taken a shine to him.  They have pretty much raised him from birth.  He is kind of like their mascot, and I think it offended them greatly when Liz made cruel and malicious comments. 

I am not saying Liz owes ME an apology.  Heck, she doesn’t even have to apologize to Little Timmy.  (he probably wouldn’t understand what was going on anyhow, and just laugh at her Southern accent) I do however feel that Liz owes a serious and heartfelt apology to my other two nuts.  I would hope that everyone learns a lesson here and takes a moment to put yourselves in my balls place and take heart to what they must go through. 

So, Liz, I must insist that you bend down to my balls and apologize.  It will do wonders for all of us.  I know you will feel better afterwards, and my balls will regain some of the respect that you have so carelessly squandered with your callous remarks.

Behind the Third Testicle

We know men love their balls. And some men even love the balls of other men. Women can be ball lovers too. It should be a topic where we can unite, not divide.

Earlier this week, my vagina made a simple request that Killer stop exhaulting his balls as heroes, going so far as to place their likeness on Mt. Rushmore. He replied with some targeted comments about my vagina and she started demanding immediate retaliation. Although she’s used to taking things lying down, this went too far!

Here at Killer Rants it appears our president has taken not only a ‘pro nad’ stance, but an ‘anti-vagina’ stance as well. I find it ironic that Killer’s never ending quest for puntang is in complete conflict with his anti-giny propaganda. To quote Mr. Rants, ”How dare she compare her Vajayjay to the greatness that is my balls. I could write a book on the ways my balls are better, but I will only need one...THERE ARE THREE OF THEM!”

My co-bloger would have you believe that it’s possible for me to toss my twat out like a net and snare men with it; pulling them back inside the cavernous area of a never ending vagina. Killer may want you to believe that the bones of midgets rest behind the meat curtain, but I have obtained the following artist’s rendition of what truly lurks beneath the third testicle. There were photographs, but after causing an X-ray technician to go blind they were destroyed.

Please note that I have been informed that this third testicle is, in fact, not a functioning testicle at all but rather a growth of unconfirmed nature. Rumor is that Killer has been trying to elongate this testicle so that he can legitimately claim three. You’ll see stretch marks from years of stretching exercises. That’s just sad.

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One might wonder why Killer has opted to use his balls as storage. Dear reader, don’t puzzle over this. Like an opossum or a kangaroo, our job isn’t to question why the creature has a pouch, but rather to love the pouch, and the creature, for what it is. However, if Killer ever asks you to hold his safe deposit key or invites you over to his place for sushi, I would politely decline.

My vagina says I’m being too nice about all of this. I keep reminding her that Killer pays the rent, but she’s suggesting an overthrow of the regime.
Feminism can be so exhausting.

Behind the Meat Curtain

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I am still unable to sleep after Liz’s self portrait of her self titled “meat curtain”.  It has given me a great deal of time to fume over her audacity.

How dare she compare her Vajayjay to the greatness that is my balls.  I could write a book on the ways my balls are better, but I will only need one...THERE ARE THREE OF THEM!

I mean, as far as I know, and I have seen a few of her videos, she only has ONE Vajayjay.  That’s singular.  And is a proven, scientific fact that two is better than one, so ipso facto...Three kicks the shit out of one.  Like a super ninja beating down a retarded kitten. 

The fight is so one-sided, everyone is bound to think me an enormous dick for going through with it.  But, since Liz’s meat curtain craves enormous dicks, I will throw myself on that grenade.

Although I have supreme confidence in my testicular superiority, I am concerned about the hygienic consequences of doing battle with her meat curtain.  I mean, did you see that picture?  It looks like she could throw it at me like a giant, meaty net.  I could become ensnared in Liz’s meat curtain.  One can only liken it to being caught by a giant squid.  Oh my God!  You don’t think she can squirt ink out of there do you?!?  Oh Man!  That is disgusting. 

What if she throws the meat curtain around me and, even without the ink spray, it ensnares me and pulls me into a pit.  A pit where there are the bones of other unfortunate men, maybe a big pile of bleach white bones of varying age and size.  Suddenly a pile of bones behind me tumbles over and as I spin I find myself face to face with a living guy with a long flowing beard.  He tells me he has been trapped there for years.  He is all gaunt and wearing a loin cloth like Tom Hanks in “Cast Away”.  Except he’s a midget...yeah, he’d be a midget. 

Holy Shit!  What if all that is possible?  I wouldn’t put it past Liz to be hiding a gaunt, hairy midget behind her meat curtain. 

Well, I for one want nothing to do with that scary shit!  I am not going near her and her meat curtain.  Call me a pussy if you want, but shit man...midget’s scare the holy hell out of me.

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