Every Extended Extra

I worry for my Johnson, I really do.  

According to a recent TV advertisement that I caught last night on TV (lucky me!), I discovered I am not nearly as "big" enough nor as "large" enough, nor as "huge" enough as I need to be in order to satisfy women of the opposite sex. 

Based on the commercials, and by my own precise calculations, I estimate that my Van Damm is approximately 123% too small for my body. That's right. You heard me. My anaconda has the length and girth of a dandelion. 

But fear not Metabomonkey! There are millions of little pills out there ready and eager to help you in your time of need.  A quick peek on the internet scrolls past brand after brand from Viagra and Cialis to Extenze and Excyte. There is even a powerful new pill from Taiwan on the balck market dubbed, Dong-B-Long.

The news heartens me somewhat. Apparently, there are millions of men just like me out there with the same problem. To whit, the same three couples that always show up on the Extenze commercials.  Most are sleazy and quite lurid in their testimonials, which gives me some comfort, but I have to say that this couple scares me. 

  

It's like watching Herman Munster talk about ballistic-doinking with some unattractive Milf from Orange County. (Wait. That's EXACTLY what it is. . .)   

I always cringe at the end when he waxes Socratic with a rhetorical question, "The increase in size? Well, that's kinda fun too." Oh really? Are we supposed to take your word for it, the word of some forty-something struggling actor who can't afford to go to K-mart to buy himself a white undershirt so he doesn't look like such a blathering doosh?

It's it that moment that I long for the slutty hotties that usually inhabit the Extenze infomercial universe.  Like this girl, who unfortunately blinks a lot while trying to talk and be coy at the same time. (Apparently it's quite difficult.)

It always feels like she just took a money-shot right before the director yelled "Action!"   

Blink. Blink. "If Extenze doesn't make you larger---." Blink. Blink. 

"Dammit, Doug! Can't you wait until AFTER the take!"

Sigh. 

I long for the 80s, when the only Johnson we had to worry about was this one. 

Up your Date

I have a confession to make: I am an update whore.  It's true. I am one of those countless sorry saps who has a compulsive need to update almost any and every piece of software he owns, hoping beyond hope that, one day, a cool new feature come along make him totally cream his jeans 

. . . Or, at the very least, provide some basic functionality that won't bitch-nuke his OS every 17 minutes.

(Ahh, there it is, the chorus of Mac users mocking me.)

I know, I know. The Mac is a "good box"----kinda like that homely girl next door whose been a tease since high school.  Sure, she'll get you off on warm summer nights, but those of you who haven't done the tango with the fiesty wench that is Windows will never know the joy of conquering her after she stomps on your Dragonbalz or the gut-wrecnhing let-down after you discover that you've contracted a raging case of malware from a late night hook-up she had with some tech grad from the Ukraine.

But I have given up on my OS. She has stomped on my heart one time too many. Now, I seek solace in pointless little affairs: the Chome browser updates, the Adobe patches, the Facebook work-arounds.  I live in a world of dreams. I sat at my computer and pray that the fonts will be a little lovlier, graphics a little brighter, applications a bit snappier. But when I check the update notes, all I find is a list of banal tech jargon telling me how the new code integrates Chink characters into 124 bit resolution or some such. . . basically, totally useless shit that's only designed for people living in Trinidad & Tobago. 

And so I find myself searching for the next fix, cruising the software sites, hoping beyond hope that one day I----

High Beams

High Beams have been on my mind lately, and no, I don't mean the  good kind, like the ones you see hanging out in the mall during summer, I mean the bad kind, like the ones that hit you as your hurtling down the road while driving home at 9.20pm at night. 

The other night I was coming back from dinner when I counted over a dozen assholes driving with their high beams on. How one can illuminate so much of the road with a bodily orifice is beyond me, but be that as it may, Hawaii has got to be the worst place in the world for high beam abuse. I mean seriously, everyone and their frickin' grandma goes driving around with their high beams on.  One in three, based on my calculations. 

It's not like we're living out in BFE. This is HONOLULU! Over a million people live here. Don't believe me? Take a look. There's development everywhere. 

And at night it looks like this.

Pretty well lit, if you ask me. 

Now, granted, maybe everyone on in Hawaii knows something I don't, like it's illegal to drive without your high beams on, or turning them off will kill everyone over 70. Who knows. Personally, I think it's because so many fuck-wits here learned to drive in third world countries, i.e. California. 

So, as I ponder the inponderables and try to figure out just what in the hell is going on, I want to point out, for the record, that the only acceptable high beams to have on while driving are these. 

The Show

Some of you may know that I have wanted to do a variety/interview show on public access for some time.  Why, you ask? For the hell of it. 

I envision some sketch comedy followed by a "classy" style talk show blending elements of Dick Cavett and Dean Lerner's Man to Man.

I think interview shows are the best formats for expressing your opinion.  Here is Dean going off about Wet Wipes during an interview with former race car driver Steve Pising.

(You can catch the entire interview HERE.)

Of course, since I am currently in Hawaii, there could be problems with the inevitable satellite delay as Dean found out when he tried to interview Glyn Nimron, the famous TV star.  

 

In the meantime, as I try to work out the whys and wherefores of the show, I ask you to keep all of your comedy skit ideas jotted down on paper.  I'm going to need them here sometime soon. . .

Excommunication

He sat up for a moment, collecting his thoughts among the flattened stalks. Looking down at his right hand, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly as he let out an amused breath. He could still feel the lingering sensation of the electrical shock he'd received over an hour ago as he slowly rolled the tips of his fingers against his thumb. His tongue felt alien - a lump of lead that felt unfamiliar to him as he used it for the first time in over a decade.

Pain he could handle - even enjoy sometimes if he was ready for it. Heaven knows how many times he'd had to brace himself. No, it was the sense of betrayal that still stung more than anything else. They took it back, burned up and out in one eye-watering flash of light and pain that left him no longer able to reach out to them.

Excommunicated, he felt hollow inside.

He'd been with them for over twelve years and now he was back home, unceremoniously booted out near the edge of the cornfield that bordered his home.

Unconsciously wiping his still-tingling hand against his pants as he got up, the man trundled towards the single-story farmhouse that still stood in the distance. The corner of his mouth turned up once again as he wondered what on earth he would tell his wife.