They are. And they do.

Monday, March 29, 2010

(S)he bangs

Topical humor in an attempt to maintain readership!

I applaud Ricky Martin for coming out of the closet, but jeer him for not doing so when people still gave a fuck about Ricky Martin.

This was a bit expected, so it really is no big deal. It wasn't like when Rob Halford came out, and a shit ton of macho metal heads were like, "Dude, fuck. Dudefuck. You mean all the leather and innuendo and high, squeaky vocals?" Apparently, it caused quite a bit of unrest. I remember clearly thinking that the Beatles were so much cooler than Judas Priest and not caring in the slightest.

It's not like that with Ricky Martin. I care as a writer. From now on, if I make a repression-laced jab at him buddying up with the menfolk, the immediate response is

"Yeah. He is."

And I'm boned. Because he is.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

"Today is the greatest

illustrator in the world's birthday."
-Billy Corgan


Show him some love.


Saturday, March 6, 2010

The Jigglybits Illustrated: vol. 3

Starring: Aram Fresh as Carl Sagan.

Sorry it's been a while. I've been really busy.

Funny Olympic name: Dider Cuche

“Cuche sometimes rides The Edge a little too firmly.”

You can’t make this up.

Unfortunate name: Julie Bigg-Veazey

That’s not really unfortunate, considering it was her conscious decision to hyphenate.

And she hyphenated all over the place.

Someone recently came to me with an x-rated cookbook. Under comparative works, they listed The Original Roadkill Cookbook.

Natural selection at work.

Bad pen name: Kenny Blade.

Seriously? Am I supposed to believe that? If I were to run into you, how do you expect me to say with a straight face, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Blade?” Often times, a surname has roots in the occupation of one’s ancestors, like John Taylor, Arthur Miller or Matthew Shepard. Where does Kenny Blade fit into that equation?

“I come from a long line of swords, razors and farming equipment.”

Further proof that spooning leads to forking. And if you read Shakespeare, forking leads to knifing.

Kenny Blade: the lost Shakespeare villain who lives in Alabama.

Lately, I’ve been booking flights to places like DC and doing a lot of internationally important work with high-profile clients. I’ve taken this opportunity to befriend people on facebook who were dickheads to me in high school and still live in the same town as their parents.

Forgiveness. It’s what Jebus would do.

Squanto: “Those are some nice beads. May I have them?”
Smith: “You used ‘may’ instead of ‘can.’ I like your proper use of English. But alas, I can not just give them to you for free.”
Squanto: “Balls.”
Smith: “It’s ok. Here, have a drink.”
Squanto: “My, that is tasty. Thank you.”
Smith: “No problem.”
Squanto: “So, what can I do to get those beads?”
Smith: “Show me your boobs.”
Squanto: “Woo! Spring break!”
Smith: “Enjoy.”
Squanto: “Thanks.”
Smith: “Now, may I have your land?”
Squanto: “You used ‘may’ instead of ‘can.’ I like your proper use of English. But alas, I can not just give it to you for free.”
Smith: “I have guns.”
Squanto: “Enjoy.”
Smith: “Thanks.”
Squanto: “Anytime.”
Smith: “Now, GTFO.”

I like to keep up on our reasons for debauchery. You may be surprised to learn that, contrary to popular belief, Mardi Gras is not Louisianan Independence Day. In fact, it descends from the Christian tradition of excessively getting your rocks off before forty days of repression and guilt. Culminating on Fat Tuesday, the day that was originally reserved for gorging on fatty foods before fasting, Mardi Gras, like any good religious celebration, has grown over the years to embrace practices of the surrounding cultures: sequins, brass instruments, alcohol through a tube, random boning, silicone instruments, not noticing the sidewalk vomit until it’s too late, DVDs your father will unwittingly order off of Comedy Central one lonely night, and gumbo. This extreme, ritualistic binging and purging only supports my longtime theory:


For those of you playing The Jigglybits Home Game,


the answer to that one is: Christianity = bulimia.

Those of you women who live by the Kate Moss quote, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” should know that if you are fasting, smoking or otherwise not taking care of yourself, your what-have-you will not taste nearly as good.

Sometimes I write just to create awkward silences with my female friends.

I’m sure you’ve seen the condom dress by now. Sure, it’s a neat idea, but who the hell would wear such a thing?


Get it, girl.

What do you call his hat style? Like if I walked into Lids at the mall and wanted to buy one, what would I ask for?

“Excuse me, um, Jesus?”
“Yeah, homes. What can I get for you today?”
“Do you have a Reservoir Tip in a 9 ½?”

Being a white man means I can’t joke about wanting to start Homes and Garden Landscaping Service.

But I can joke about this:


I’m not one for online dating, but if I was, my headline would read: Loves long walks on the beach and trying hot new kinds of chorizo.

I’m a freak.

I actually just tried a kind that, I wouldn’t say it smells like pot. More like a pothead’s bedroom. Delicious.

Correction: fasting or smoking cigarettes.

Socal = Southern California
Frisco = Fried Crisco
Sacto = Man’s most feared birth defect

I made up for lost man points by carrying beef jerky loose in the pocket of my flannel and then proceeding to eat it with no hands.

That should net me at -7.

You know how every once in a while something will trigger a moment of clarity in which you find joy in being a grownup, like reaching what you want on the top shelf at the supermarket? That doesn’t really apply to me, since it’s been the norm for most of my life. My moments of clarity include:
  • Breakfast becoming more like the opening scene from Friday
  • Noticing that in the bathroom, what was once a log is now a garden hose
  • Making random people on the internet whom I will never meet vomit
I spend a lot of time in bookstores. Though I rarely buy anything, I enjoy finding the people who sit there for hours, reading with no intention of buying as if the place was a fucking library, and feigning interest in a nearby book, I let loose a silent beer fart or two.

And now it’s time for A Scotsman’s Free Tip for Saving Money: On the rare occasion that you buy a new pair of jeans, wash it for the first time with your other jeans. The older pairs will regain some of the color that has faded with years of use.

“You have any tuna?”
“No. Go fish.”

They can’t all be winners.

Here’s what that would be like if James Brown was still alive:

“You have any tuna?”
“I got sole.”

So, so sorry.

And now it’s time for A Scotsman’s Free Tip for Investing: Buy a pair of nice Levis when they’re in style. By the time they’re old and fucked up, people will be shelling out $200 for new jeans that look old and fucked up. $300 if they’re vintage Levis.

Yes, I recycle jokes. But I also recycle pants.


I’m gonna go apply deodorant, too.

I’ve made a conscious decision to start using the adjective, “aces.”

Yet another reason why I need a new day job:


Here is another:

A guy bought a coffee, went over to fill up, but then returned with an empty cup to chat:

“Is all you have organic coffee?”
“I don’t want it. Give me my money back. I don’t like organic coffee.”

Remember when you were 5 years old?

“I don’t want to eat it! It’s green! I don’t like it!”

Sorry. 10 years in purgatory for that pun. I swear I’ll never do it again.

I took an Immodium just for shits.

Seriously. Why are you still reading?

I think the absence of pockets is the only thing keeping me from wearing pajamas outside of the house. As comfortable as they are, they do not warrant the acquisition of a man purse. I mean, I have some dignity.

I got a text that read, “U have been approved 4 a loan!”

OMG! Debt! LOLZ!

You don’t have to go much further than facebook to lose hope in humanity:

“what characters does Jake Gatsby not like in the book?”
“can’t remember names”

I fear for our youth.


I fear for our adults.

Do you know how you sometimes catch the end of a conversation that isn’t really a conversation at all? I walked by a prescription bottle, and it said “Take with FOOD,” but my peripheral vision read “Take with GOD.”

That actually sounds like a book I’m reading.

Rejected titles for Steven Church’s new book, The Day After The Day After:
  • Friday After Next
  • 28 Days Later
  • Weekend at Bernie’s
If Frankenstein came out today, it would be called Wiki.

I need some new music. Not suggestions for some new bands, I’m talking about new music. Music that is so unheard it requires self-explanation in the lyrics, like “You got me rockin and a rollin” or “What you hear is not a test. I’m rappin to the beat.” I am sick as fuck of bands coming out thinking Nickelback is an acceptable art form.

I guess I’m just sad that John Lennon didn’t live long enough to collaborate with Haddaway.

What is love?
Love is all you need.
Baby, don’t hurt me.
Give peace a chance.

It’s a match that will unfortunately be made in that big nightclub in the sky.


“Then John was like, ‘Emilioooo!’ The Mighty Duck Man, I swear to Dad.”

Times were tough back in the ‘60s. Before Lennon was able to strike it rich and achieve international superstardom with Night at the Roxbury 2: How Curly Got His Groove Back, he paid the bills by starring in the low-budget, San Fernando Valley production of Bigger than Jesus.


You think I’d show that? This is a family blog.

And how do you think your family got started?

Come jiggle with me.