You know, it would be a strange sight to be facing an entire "pink" army.
Now, are we to assume that the clone offspring of Jango Fett would never deviate from clonosexual preferences? I'm sure that there would be some question to what clonosexual even is. What I am trying to figure out is this: Who do the Stormtroopers make it with? Ewoks? Wookies? C3PO?
What are they trying to hide from us? This tight lipped policy of "Don't Ask. Don't Tell." is really confusing. So, I'm here to propose something: Clonosexual equals Stormtrooper on Stormtrooper action.
Look, it is perfectly unnatural and that is alright. I mean, Stormtroopers are unnatural themselves, so it all works out.
What is truly sad though is that there were Stormtroopers who weren't so open with their love for each other, and look what happened to them. I mean, their outfits just screamed, "Oont, look at me funboy. I am sexy uniform wearing for you. Ya, oont strap me dawoon!" But, they just could not express this desire in a socially acceptable way: pity.
I always envisioned there being a sand person riding a bantha in this story, but the technology to do so was not available to me at this time. This was my second post on Grunt Ahoy!, which used to simply be titled "The Grunt". I believe that the lady in this story was the inspiration for the many "Lost Dog in Buttcrack" fat lady postcards. What most of you will not know is that my blog started out as a workingman's blog where I recalled funny, oppressing, or plain nostalgic work related tales. Somewhere along the way I noticed that women would hang around longer if I just concentrated on making them laugh. So, out went my various short stories from my life and the focus went purely on the mondo/macho/sexual being that I am: Ze Grunty! I plan on doing this kind of thing with the old posts on a regular basis. Let me know what you think of my old style.
The Early Years: Payback. (08/13/05)
I got talked into picking cherries for some old fart with a fruit stand. The guy came and picked me up along with two of my friends in his Chevy pickup. The guy bragged about his paint job that he'd done all by himself using house paint and a big brush. Honestly, it was the roughest looking thing I'd ever seen, wavy and ridged like a potato chip. My friends and I hopped in the bed, sitting on empty fruit baskets. As we bounced down the old road to the orchards, one of my friends started laughing at this fat lady wearing this big sun hat. We thought that we'd be working with the old man, but it turns out that the funny fat lady would be our real boss.
This fat lady sat under a canopy in front of a big fold out table with a lock box of money and a cooler full of Tab. After the old fart handed us to her, she went on a big rant about if she catches us touching any of her stuff we won't get paid, if we screw around we won't get paid, and then drifted off about where to start picking. We got paid by the pound, so we needed to pick a lot. We got up on these loosey-goosey wood ladders and started picking, then about 20 minutes into it, picking and eating, and then finally an all out cherry fight. The Fat lady heard what was going on but was too lazy to get out of her chair, so she just let out a bovine like groan followed by, "Quit screwing around!"
It was really hot and about three hours in we were past hungry and dying of thirst. We thought that the next guy to take a basket up to the stand should beg her for one of the Tabs and whatever else she had in the cooler. One of my buddies ended up going there first and was turned down. She actually yelled at him for asking then directed him over to a bucket full of the nastiest water imaginable. We were too thirsty to protest, so we drank what we could keep down. After the fourth hour of picking we noticed that the lady had left her stand. The lock box was gone, but the cooler was still there. We were a little unsure if we could get away with taking anything out of there without being caught. We went over anyway and looked inside the cooler. There was only one Tab left and it was open. This was back in the day of the tall glass bottle. My friend held up the bottle; the dripping ice water ran down the sides of the bottle and caught the Summer sun just like the damn commercials. We were in desperation waiting for our turn; then to our horror, our friend hawked up a huge loogey and spat in her drink. After the rest of us got over our initial disappointment and outrage, we realized the genius of what this kid did. So, we both took our turns spitting into this ladies' drink. Yes, she drank it, and yes, we got paid too. That was one of my first lessons in workplace anarchy and I'll treasure it forever.
Have you been, or ever known anyone to be rotten with perfection? I think it is a deadly snare that grips many of us. I want to know what you think. What are the expectations that you feel are put upon you by society, others, and yourself? More importantly, how do you forgive yourself?
Please, I want to know how you think and feel about this subject. It would help me and others out a great deal, I'm sure.
I think these two need a room. Hell, they've been going at it under the shelves for crying out loud. Eh, best not to interfere with nature.
Wing nuts are easy to grip and twist. Being able to get more torque without using a wrench is also handy....ah-har-har!
Other wing nuts are not so handy...ah, what now? They are those nuts who have wings. No, that can't be right. Well, they are a special kind of hybrid between and idiot and a jerk, with a little bit of asshole thrown in for good measure.
What does a wing nut look like? Well, remember this guy? Yes, it's everybody's favorite Swedish Meatball, Yngwie Malmsteen! He took over my blog for a day proclaiming himself to not only be our new God, but that he also sports a fifty inch penis. Malmsteen Regime my ass. Yngwie can take a long walk off a short pier for pulling that stunt.
Anyway, all this talk of wing nuts has me wondering when this dude here will finally just pants a foreign dignitary and blame it on the "Tearrists". Remember this kiddies: for every wing nut there is a big screw coming.
Alright, where do I start? I had Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" stuck in my head when I woke up this morning and had to watch the video on Youtube. Firstly, I don't hear that song much, nor am I a huge fan of Bonnie Tyler's. But, I just had to check out that video to get the song out of my head. Well, that didn't work and that damn song is not only playing in my head all the time, I am singing it as well.
As I usually do, I mutate the verses and choruses so I can get some kind of enjoyment out of it for the 1,000th run of a particular tune. I will not go into details of my improvisations on this tune, but the word fart definitely plays a heavy role in it.
The video is just plain weird. This shit is scary. It reminds me of Salem's Lot meets the Eaton lads and has nothing to do with eclipsing a friggin' heart. No kidding, scary assed choir boys, with glowing eyes, are flying around everywhere and hurricane-like winds are blowin' shit around. It just isn't safe at all.
I'm thinking that the chewing gum Eclipse should also deodorize farts, hence my title.
I have one question for you: Have you ever faked an orgasm with yourself? No, really. Have you just sat there thinking, "Boy, this is just taking forever and I have a headache....oh, did I forget to turn my curling iron off?" You know how it would go--you'd moan and scream for more, with your yesses and syncopated grunting, but would you be able to fool yourself? I think deep down inside a part of you would feel impotent and undervalued while the other half was blissfully painting their toenails. I mean, is there nothing more awkward than sitting in bed watching TV and not talking to yourself?
I think our pets, and by pets I mean dogs and cats, want to speak to us but find that English is just plain silly. I have come to the conclusion that they would rather speak Cantonese or Mandarin Chinese instead. So, if you want to speak with the animals start learning those two languages today.
Don't inquire as to how I draw my conclusions, please. It might involve some math and plenty of wild assumptions.
Have you heard that there is a reptilian master race ruling our earth? Yes, they shape shift into regular looking dudes and dudettes and walk among us. This shit is real! Now what'd I do with my crack pipe?
I had a 63-year-old lady at work call me beautiful, precious, dahling, "Hey Hollywood", and talented (and then told me to thank my parents). She has also touched my ass. She has an unmistakable cackle when she sees me and loves getting on the elevator with me. In the elevator things tend to get really weird and funny as hell, at my expense. This is it: I have been reduced to becoming a giggling, blond&big-tits secretary to this "Good ol' Boy" Boss lady ('cept she's not my boss). Did I just say what I thought I just said? Yes, times have changed. I will have to be careful next time who I unsheath my Makita cordless around.
I have tried, in earnest, to implement the principles of "The Secret" in my life and they have not worked so far. Hell, I even have the damn photo of me and Wonderwoman's photoshopped wedding pictures hanging around everywhere. I think this stuff is a load of hooey.
I think a tostada sharing room with a taco on a combo plate is just the restaurant trying to fool you into thinking that you are not just getting two tacos.
I broke into an office complex to see if I could do it, just for fun. I was successful. I know the building manager and kind of bet him that I could (it wasn't a bet for any specific amount--just a bet). I got through to the vehicle lot by squeezing through the fence/gate where it is anchored in by an eight foot post. There was enough of a gap between the perimeter security fence and the lot's security gate to get through (bad construction quality). I was pretty glad that I didn't need to climb a chain link fence, but I would have anyway. I then went to the loading dock and spied an entrance with an overhang supported by two steel beams. One beam was close enough to the building that I could chimney my way on top of the entrance. From there I jumped up to grab onto some conduit and then swung my right foot onto a flood light housing, where I got better positioning. From there I could reach the roof and pull myself up.
I already knew that if I could climb up onto the roof that it was just a matter of being able to safely drop into an outdoor courtyard area that is isolated within the structure. The crash bars on the doors are on the outside, and for some reason can't be locked to keep a person from getting trapped. However, you can lock them so you can't go into the courtyard. I picked my spot. It was about 18 feet off the ground so I lowered myself as far as I could to reduce the drop. Fortunately, I was able to get my foot onto the top of a window frame and climb down a bit more. The drop ended up being only seven feet. Once I landed safe and sound, I just went through the doors and found the dude who just lost a bet to me.
BTW, If you haven't already checked out my new Youtube embed down on my sidebar (er, my new stolen Youtube embed) do; It is hilarious. "The Fresh Prince of Death Metal": Technically, it is a bit of Black Metal and Death Metal with Will Smith steppin'.
...And I'm finding it near impossible to respond to any of your comments on Gruntstock, sorry. Well, I did do a 14th day of Gruntstock. You can read its short entry and watch the Von Trapp kids perform. Gruntstock kind of ended on a bum note because I really had no idea when I was going to end it.
Anyways, this blog was not saved, and do you know what that means? That's right! This blog is going straight to Hell!!! So, let's hear it for the official blog of Hell. I knew I could drag you all down with me. We are going to have some fun now.
To those about to blog, we salute you!
You should've seen this one coming. I mean, come on, I'm the freakin' Grunt for crying out loud--I'm nuttin' but a li'l devil.
(Gruntstock is no longer about me; it is for you. This is now an official blogger event. Tell all you know to get on board and see how far we can take this thing. Plus, this attempt at self parody also doubled as last Friday's TIGF!!! The overblown charity rock events/festivals of the '80s and onward are so TIGF, and I love them dearly for it. So, come on people now, smile on your brother; everybody get together and try to love one another right now!)
(The intro) Hello children of the planet earth, this is Sir Bob Geldof. It has come to my attention that your beloved Grunty has been experiencing some troubled times. In fact, there are parts of him where the dust mites are starving and without water, genocide, and most terrible of all: cat juggling. We need to come together for the cause of Gruntonia! As one, we can reach our goal. Gruntonia needs at least 1000 comments on this post in order to continue. In the spirit of goodwill and music, I have organized a rock benefit for this cause, and 100% of the comments will go towards the starving dust mites in Gruntonia. Overall we aim to get Sir Grunty out of his creative and personal slump. Gruntonia will live on only if you help out. Please give.(/intro)
(Day 6) The Grunt here. I have something to tell you all. I was wandering around amongst the crowd and enjoying the various acts. Boy, I thought Fonzie wasn't going to make the jump. Anyway, I started hearing some rumors about my long since dead inner voice of cool, Wooderson, being alive and well. Now that just set me off. I've been listening too much too long to the primal urges of Captain Caveman and that old hag of a killjoy Mama, telling me what to do and what not.
I haven't been guided in the ways of the Wooderson for some time now and I haven't stopped morning the day that his body was found in the deserts of Moab, Utah. Well, I saw a mangled mess of a man and took it on faith that it was him. I took it on faith because that voice died in me. Girls abandoned me, cars broke down; hell, even my own buddies gave me the evil eye. I guess I had put forth an honest effort to retain my rep, but ever since Wooderson was gone from my internal dialog I just couldn't sell it anymore to nobody. Worst of all I stopped writing--I mean really writing. You take that away from me and my hope floats in a sticky tar pit just waiting to be sucked down with the saber tooth.
I've asked Sir Bob to get on out of here. I am taking over and dedicating day 6 of Gruntstock to my friend Wooderson. I'm going to go and look for him, see if it's possible that he is still out there talking about "Ol' Melba Toast" and the next crop of freshman girls. Ahh yeah!
(Day 7) The End. I've read Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness". I've watched "Apocalypse Now" and "Apocalypse Now: Redux". I've also watched on video The Doors perform "The End. There in lies the answer to the riddle of Wooderson's life and supposed death. The story is coming soon. It has been many months since I spoke of him before this post and I will do a recap to get you all up to speed before we get in our patrol boat and head up the Green River. But for now, enjoy The Doors performing "The End".
(Day 8) Hell, I just can't give this up. Bob Geldof has bailed on me, but you Gruntonians have not. Blessed be you for caring. I have an important announcement to make: Bill Gates has agreed to match each of our comments. So, if we reach 500 comments, then Bill Gates will so graciously donate the other 500 comments to saving this blog. It so happens that I ghost write a blog for Mr. Gates called, "I'm Bill Gates, Bitch!". The deal with that is Bill will stretch the comments over a ten year period so I don't use it all up at once. I guess he knows of my smack problem and penchant for fancy hats with feathers in them. Remember, Bill Gates is as close to god as you can find wearing glasses and a pocket protector...be nice!
Well, I would like to announce that I, The Grunt, was able to get Sir Bob back on board. It seems that Nachos are just too spicy for him. Freakin' pansy! He was in the porto-loo for a day and a half. Me thinks that he was in there wanking to some National Geographics. I never new that fresh water wells could be so damn erotic. Anyway, Bob has waved his magic Live Aid wand again and has summoned from the dead Janis Joplin. She will be performing a favorite of mine "Ball and Chain" with her old group Big Brother and the Holding Company. I still have no idea what that company is holding, but it must be pretty damn heavy.
(Day 9) "Let's pretend": This day is a special day of Gruntstock. Everyone has got to know each other a bit better and pairing off into the bushes and woods for a bit of ooh la la. It is getting near dusk and a magical rain starts soaking through our shirts and dresses, revealing our bodies. This rain has made us seventeen again. A perfect day to seek shelter in each other's bodies: Free love and innocence that is not for sale or to be slandered by those who don't understand. So baby, let's pretend that tonight will live forever.
I present to you, through the magic that is Geldof, The Raspberries, sent back in time in the studio to perform our anthem "Let's Pretend".
(Day 10) What happens when you try to organize a "glam day" at Gruntstock? You hire Slade and come to find out they are supremely retarded and end up eating all of your supply of Cup of Soup....That, and they really funny. They still wrote awesome hit songs for Quiet Riot, though. This is a behind the stage scene of what goes on with an act in idle at Gruntstock. Enjoy!
(Day 11) My back hurts. I mean it really, really hurts. I want to cry like a little girl. Bob, what have you got for us today?
Sir Bob: Well, since we're all hoping to meet our goal soon, so you can stop being such a little girl about all this blogger stuff, I think a little number about Kinky Afros is apropos. So, let's welcome some shoe-gazing, Mancunian wonders on to the stage, Happy Mondays.
You're not gonna let the kid down today, are ya? His back is hurting and an evil monkey is plotting his demise as we speak. Not Egan, though; he's a good monkey boy. In fact, we could sure use his help about now. Oh, and Scary Monster must stop smoking the stage. We don't know how it has happened, but apparently you can cop a buzz off of the MDF flooring, which has some formaldehyde in it. I admire him, but we need the stage. Please, donate some proper doobage to Scary Monster for the cause of Gruntonia, thanks.
(Day 12) Sir Bob is a bit of an ironic man, having the Happy Mondays perform on Monday when The Boomtown rats, his old group, had their biggest hit in "I don't like Mondays" I asked Bob if he'd be willing to recreate his Live Aid performance of that song for us, seeing that he has been such a star already. Here's what he said...
Sir Bob Geldor: "Bugger off, matey!"
Me: "Why so angry, Mr. Saviour of the Universe?"
Bob: "Well, it's the fact that I hate Mondays so much, innit?"
Me: "Come on, Bob. It's not like I am asking you to do this song on a Monday. I mean, how obvious and cliche would that be?"
Bob: "Well, I don't want to recreate that sodding performance. I much prefer the original video of me and me band in that school house. I'd be willing to do that an' not feel like crap about it."
Me: "Anything for you, Bob. It was either you or Gary Glitter, but he's a pedophile. It's a shame too because I so wanted to hear him do "Leader of the Gang".
Bob: "Right, brilliant that..."Come on, come on! Come on, come on!!!" Yeah, but he's a bit of a perv. Right, I will go on stage...er, the video bit. Grunty?"
Me: "Yes, Bob?"
Bob: "I'm feeling a bit nervous, like. Will you pet me hair before I go on stage? It calms me down."
Me: "Oh, lord! Alright then, c'mere."
Bob is such a fragile creature off stage.
(Day 13) I can't believe this is happening. Yngwie Malmsteen has taken over Gruntstock and Sir Bob has run off somewhere with Bono planning their next big festival to save third world shoe makers, er something. There seems to be nothing I can do about it. Yngwie has actual demons protecting him. He is such a fat, pompous prick. Here is his little bit:
(Day 14, The last day of Gruntstock) Well, it has been real. Unless we magically get around another 470 comments, it just ain't happening. This blog will not be saved. Bob Geldof has thrown in the towel in a fit of frustration, but he did manage to get one last act to close Gruntstock: The Von Trapp kiddies!
You know, it would be a strange sight to be facing an entire "pink" army.
What are they trying to hide from us? This tight lipped policy of "Don't Ask. Don't Tell." is really confusing. So, I'm here to propose something: Clonosexual equals Stormtrooper on Stormtrooper action.
What is truly sad though is that there were Stormtroopers who weren't so open with their love for each other, and look what happened to them. I mean, their outfits just screamed, "Oont, look at me funboy. I am sexy uniform wearing for you. Ya, oont strap me dawoon!" But, they just could not express this desire in a socially acceptable way: pity.
