Any Friend of Tony Kansas City, Is A Friend of This Hard-On!

Typically I reserve Sunday’s for sleeping, eating, and every now and again, I’ll get up to poop.  After a long week of watching moron’s flop around like fish on the floor, while performing what they–in all seriousness–think is a “kick-ass ab routine,” one day away from it all is usually in order.  Nevertheless, today is a special exception, as I would like to stand erect, shoot off a finger-point and a one-eyed wink to those of you linking from the site of everyone’s favorite local blogger Tony Kansas City.  I very much appreciate his endorsement, and can assure any newcomer to the Boner In Sweat Pants blog of two things: One, is that if you currently reside in Kansas City, there is a 77 percent chance you are fat, and two, you can count on the Bisp to remind you of that fact daily.  Pull those strands of hair back over your bald spots fellas, that’s not meant to be a personal attack on you as an individual, it’s just that from the perspective of someone who has been silently observing the actions and behaviors of the local folk while trying to exercise, I’ve decided that any and all denial and softening of the truth is simply never going to do anybody any good.  So thicken your leathery-skin up Cowboys, because you might get offended along the way, but you might also become less of a loser.  If you do find yourself to be one who is taking offense, it might be time to take another look into that mirror of yours that’s been lying to you for all these years.  It’s tough love, a ”hate me now, thank me later” kind of thing.  Think Dr. Phil meets Satan, except with a mustache and waves.  Hang on for a bumpy ride, but keep checking back daily, you never know when you’ll be able to pull a little butt-nugget of information out these here sweat-drawers.  Enjoy the rest of your evening Cubicle Freaks.  This week is sure to be a tough one.

Fa La La La La, La La La–Fuck You Larry.

Walked into my favorite convenience store today, the Q-Tangle, and immediately got inconvenienced when this weasly bastard’s ring tone started going off in my face, singin’ some Fa La La La La pussy shit.  Then it made me think of a dude that will probably make you feel a lot better about your life.  His name is Larry “The Comb” Snuffleupagus.  Let me tell you about this pimp.  First of all, it goes without saying that this dude was sporting a mustache and a gold chain before they were even close to being cool, but what’s even more amazing was that he did, and still does, wear those glasses with the big-ass frames, the tinted-from-the-top-down ones, of course–in that 70s orangish-brown colored pimp-tint.  Without fail, as can be seen in every single solo-portrait of himself taken between ‘72 and ‘87, he’s got that slightly-longer-than-waist-length, slippery, brown pleather jacket on.  Usually a thin-wispy is dusting his upper lip, and always, there is a collared shirt being worn with some chest-lettuce springing out from Camp Nippleton.  You with me Swedes?  And to those of you who are not Swedish but still care, I was able to make contact with our boy Fred Rick the other day.  I’m not sure how he is doing, per se, but he did say that pubic hair definitely was making a huge comeback in Europe!  So here’s to your Bonnie Prince Charlie of groin gristle playas!  I know a guy who could use some of that fur and fromundabutta to help balance out his balding patches.  And don’t give me any of that “Eeeeewwwww, you’re a sick-fuck” nonsense either Tan Ron.  None of us believe you have a house in the Bahamas just because you whitened your veneers and passed out drunk, naked and scared in one of the beds at Linda’s Tan-O-Ram.  Nice bowler-wrist thing too.  That definitely adds a nice touch to the 6 hours-a-day that you waste on the elliptical.

What was I talking about?  Oh yeah, Comb Larry.  The other cool thing about the Comb that is not very cool at all: He is notorious for using healthclub towels to dry himself off, naked, floppin’ in the wind, in an over-the-shoulder, between-the-legs, hold-on-to-each-end, scrub back-and-forth sort of way.  It’s disgusting.  And shameless.  Disgusting and shameless.  Yet the hobo-tent he was apparently raised in didn’t seem to think to mention that someday other people are probably going to use those towells.  On their face.  Kind of a minor detail, but one that might have been worth mentioning, don’t you think, Parents of the Comb,  whatever species of rodent you might be?  Speaking of rodents, I forgot to mention that one of the things I am thankful for is the family of human-rodent hybrid celebrities.  This is a very special group of people that currently consists of Gary Gaetti, Mike Shanahan, Mike Kryzewski, and at least one other dude that I am forgetting.  Anyway, I gotta go now so I can catch some adult cartoons, while I eat a bowl of cereal in my tighty-whities.  But as a token of my appreciation for having wasted the last couple minutes of your life with stories of combs and chivalry, let me try to help you poor bastards out.  The reason you are the worst player on your league’s bowling team has less to do with the noodles sticking out of your arm holes, than it does the dog shit you slam into the hole in your face each night.  If you are what you eat, then you’re probably somewhere near the inside of the toilets at Union Station, no offense to the toilets at Union Station.  Here are some things to remember: If it was invented in the last 25 years, don’t eat it.  If the shit looks drastically altered from its natural state, or if it never had a natural state, don’t eat it.  The longer the shelf life, the shorter the human life.  Twinkies are not healthy, and if it comes from a box and has more than one ingredient containing the letters x, y, or z in it, then you, U.S. American’s, better hope it doesn’t end badly for you.  Now listen to this classip clip, and have an ok day today.

Dear-Lord-Baby-Jesus

If You Are Shitty and You Know It, Clap Them Hands (Toot, Toot!)

Do you use a community microwave at work?  Does it smell like a butthole and make you want to stick your head in it and reconsider your business degree?  I understand.  After all, all that shit they taught you in school about working hard and handing your TPS reports in on time has you close to winning that membership to the “Jelly of the Month” club, which definitely is the gift that keeps on giving year-round.  You know what else it has gotten you fat ass?  Some nice man-titties, a pet hamster named Liberace, and a boss who’s boss graduated 39th in his class at National American University (Online).   Now, I am dying to know how you’re doing anything to keep my friend’s kids out of that rusty van named ”Free Candy?” That’s right, the one that plays carnival music and is driven by a guy who calls himself “Mr. Happy.”  Just because a job offers “nifty benefits” and has you looking forward to retirement in 80 years–assuming the economy gets better, doesn’t mean your brain needs to match the size of your pencil.   Don’t fall for that bullshit suckas!  Don’t be a fucking dick who thinks a rickety-ass picket fence, your high-school-sweetheart who is now your wife and fucking hates you, and those hair plugs you’re wearing are making you seem successful, or at all appealing to the opposite sex, or the steamiest pile-of-feces you can find that still talks to you!  If the reason you punch a time clock in the morning is to deal with guys who have flat-tops, read underground magazines about little boys and clowns, love NASCAR and pack a gun every day, please send me the link to your blog.  I’m dying to read it.  Oops, I forgot they already made a movie called Office Space, and have a hit tv show on NBC called The Office.  Look on the bright side though, at least I’m not the only one who thinks you’re hilarious, or wants to fight you!  Plus, I think my great-grandfather’s nephew’s slave still has a friend in the coat hanger business, and he might still think you’re worth the price of my urine. 

I’m not angry, I’m annoyed.  Just because you go to a church where everyone is white and hates insert virtually anything and/or anyone here, then why don’t you make the world a better place, gather up the rest of your white, anglo-saxon, protestant, closet-freak, sloppy bastard friends and go “puh-raise the Lowered Ja-heeeeeeeeeeeeeesus, somewhere else?   Leave the felines behind, and get the fuck out of the way.  Ahhh, thank you.  Ok, as for the rest of you, here is my holiday gift to you, and no I don’t mean the kind of gift that your faux-friends from the office spent $7 on, and that you will undoubtedly either re-gift, or throw in the trash where it belongs.  Nope, today–according to the KC Star–is National Listening Day, so I want those of you reading this to listen up…please!  Many of you are budding community leaders, well-respected business people, and/or had the potential to be…right before you tested positive for retardation.  That’s ok though!  I happen to know retarded people who are actually much healthier, and much, much better looking than you are!  That means there is hope for you blobs with faces who have never come close to getting laid!!!  I’m serious!  All you have to do is keep reading this site, stop blaming everyone else, and try this workout-for-ladies on underneath them man-panties:

Step 1: Get off your fat, lazy ass.  Step 2: Move your body for 30+ minutes without stopping (yes, sex does count, just not for you Shithead (pronounced Shu-theed)…I said 30 minutes, not .30 seconds, and Step 3: go to www.coreperformance.com to get the best (free) online training help that I know of right now.  Remember, however, this is site that was designed for professional athletes, former athletes that can still play a little, and people who know how to read.  If this does not include you, then you might resemble this picture of your girlfriend’s really hot co-worker, who occassionally spends the nights while you’re driving home from that neck-tie meeting in Knob Knoster, Miz-zour-ah.  Have an unpleasant day.  

 

 

  

Why The Dwarf With The Smallest Penis Should Never Scramble the Eggs!

 I don’t care much for holidays.  It’s not so much that I’m a scrooge, it’s that I’m a Nihililst, and that shit can be exhausting.  I like the fact that I don’t have to work on the holidays, I just hate the fact that YOU don’t have to work on the holidays.  I like the holidays such as 4th of July, Arbor Day, and Cinco de Mayo; I don’t like holidays that have a religious, political, or consumer-driven agenda to them.  Today is Thanksgiving, and for many, this may be the only day of the year that they even try to find a speck of a reason to be thankful amidst the fucking shipwreck their life has become.   Kinda like tryin’ to find a piece of sawdust in a hay stack, a dinglebonnie in a shaggy dog, or a squeezin’ so hard you turn red as a bastard and almost pop, only to have one a-them little, marble-size turds come a whoodly-whoop-whoop-whoopin’ out yer garg-a-lee gnar-len! (Fuck me, I’m Irish).  Ain’t that right Lamar Latrelle?  That’s right, bring me over a couple dem tiddley-winkers that I like so much while you’re at it, why don’t ya?  If you don’t know what the fuck I just said, that’s ok, I’m talking to my buddies over in Sweden, and they don’t understand Yiddish either.  Shouts out to my homey’s across the pond–What up wit u Fred Rick?  What up wit u Andy Ray?  Thanks for the sardines and goldfish that we had for Easter that one time.  They were goooooooooooooooooooood!  Although I must say that after we feasted on them authentic Swedish Fish, damdest thing happened to me for the next few weeks. I don’t know why, but every time I would stand near a microwave, I’d temporarily forget who and where I was, and pee my pants a little bit.  Weird.  But as I was saying, pubic hair really is making a huge comeback, and I think that that’s what I am most thankful for on this force-feeding of Tur-duck-en meat and thankfulness.  And as the good practitioner of health-finkism that I am, I strongly support gratitude and appreciation.  It’s healthy, and there’s not enough of it today.  Gratitude and appreciation, however, in my book anyway, are very different from thankfulness.  For example, I am grateful that I am alive, I am thankful for comb-overs.  I appreciate intelligent people, I am thankful that there are so many dumbasses around me.  I am grateful for, and appreciate, all the smokin’ hot girls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing over the last three decades, I am thankful that I didn’t get any of you pregnant!  Have a great day of inexcusably excusing yourself, and gorging like a fat pig while increasing that waistline one more inch!!!  I am thankful for you!!!!  And don’t forget to save the neck for me!!!

Love Always,

Bisp.          

 

Damn Tiny, Is That a Baby Inside Your Belly, Or You Just Crush Some Beef Weeners From the Quik N’ Tasty?

Are you a fuckin’ pussy? 

Seriously, think about it.  Don’t sugar coat any bullshit just to make yourself feel not-so-miserable and worthless, but honestly, are you a huge fuckin’ pussy?  Now if you’re thinking to yourself, “Fuck him!  What makes him think he’s so great!”  Well, first of all I never said that, second I could probably answer that question in any number of ways, but I won’t get into it.  I will say that while I do have a mere three days left before I leave one age bracket for another, I’ve been doing a little erection-reflection over the last 10 years, and while there are naturally some things that I would do differently, for the most part I can honestly say that I free pretty good about this last decade.  Maybe you don’t think about it much, but how do you feel?  Again I ask the question, are you soft and mushy?  Has that baby’s big toe that you’re trying to pass off as a weenie feel neglected and resemble a canned mushroom?  Does your girlfriend describe your shittiness as flacid and noodly.  That third leg of yours (the miniature one in the middle) that officially makes you not-a-woman hasn’t budged since ‘92, but you keep telling yourself that’s just what happens when you get older?  I can tell you right now, that’s some bullshit, and you can keep telling yourself that, but until you get off your fat ass nothing is going to change.  If you think you feel like shit now, how are you gonna feel 10 years from now?  I’m not trying to use this forum as a pulpit, but part of my cause is to dispense some of what I have learned over the past decade to keep you from being the butt puppy we’re laughing at.  Hear that Steve Tony Hornby, we’re laughing at you, not with you.   You have two first names.  Off yourself.

If you think I’m being harsh, fuck you.  You’re probably one of the feces pieces bars I’m talking about.  And no, I’m not trying to shame you into hiring me as your trainer.  I train athletes, not man-pussies.  Here’s a true statement: 55 percent of the American population is overweight.  38 percent of that 55 percent is obese.  That means for every motherfucker that you see who is so fat you can’t help but not notice, there are another two that won’t even leave their fucking house, maybe even their bed, and here you are dipping yer french fries in their bed sores.  Shit ain’t funny.  Be real with yourself.  Even if you’re not fat as fuck, that doesn’t mean you’re healthy.  Those of you reading this who are clients of mine are good.  Not because I’m so damn good, but because you at least had the sense of mind to ask…someone who knows what the fuck they’re talking about.  And no, my biceps don’t resemble two bowling balls, I don’t wear tank tops made of dental floss, and my skin does not have that amazing looking Oopah-Loompah bronze tone.  Sorry.  If that’s what you’re going for though, all I can say is, you are so hot, you fuckin’ pussy.  Now listen to this classic clip:

Listen to clip

If Your Holiday Ain’t Happy, Then Stick It Into Them Taters!

I want to wish a sincere, happy holiday-sweater-wearing holiday to you Glory Holeman.  Bastard.  Ok, for real, no shit though, Happy Thanksgivemebackmyson! to you Mel-Gibson-fan.  And if you know what I’m talking about, you either do love Mel Gibson and are a fag, or you listen to Rome.  My guess is that if you are reading this, you would fall under the latter, and that’s wherein lies the problem.  You guys are the first generation downline in this pyramid scheme to rid the world of ass-pansies and dudes that honestly can’t be described in words.  I am not kidding. I know that all of you probably have some mental picture of me up in your melons, tap, tap, tapping away at this here little keyberd, while I crack myself up, pantless, eatin’ fish sticks off my boner.  Fuckin’ tattered-ass bird’s nest dancing in the wind above my bald spot, like sugar plum fairies, or them muthas on the Best of Soul Train.  Still hosted by Don Cornelius, Sundays at 11 on the Dubya B (Channel 7).  Great show.  Especially if any of you dudes are currently looking to learn any new dance moves.  Ain’t that right Cap’n Bil Barbrady?  You all remember the ol’ Cap’n Bil (with one L), Bar-muthahonkin’-barbah-rady, word?!?  Give me a B! Yeah!  Give me an I, fuck yeah!  Give me a L, but only one!  What’s that mean?!?  Bitch is the International Lover!!!  According to his homemade porn from a ways back.  No, I didn’t see it.  I heard about it via word-of-mouth, which makes it all that much better!  Keep fuckin’ my man!  Keep fuckin’!  The Cap’n is cool though.  Who doesn’t need to be fucking however, are all the slippery tan men of the world.  The very last thing that this planet needs is more offspring from you.  Hear me loud and clear Peckerhead, the gym is NOT a good place to discuss relationship issues loud enough for all of us to hear.  I don’t care what that dead rodent on your head told you to do, it ain’t workin’ for anybody you shameless turd.  So take those bitchin’ weightlifter gloves off your dingy little meat hooks asswipe, and get out of the way for those of us who have a reason to fucking be there. 

Disclaimer: I can’t come right out and tell you who it is I’m talking about, but I want to.  It is someone who is very real, has a book out, and is probably in my top 8 all-time biggest shitbags ever.  Absolutely, I would be happy to tell you the name of the pussy’s autobiography.  Just ask!  I can’t guarantee that you will feel anything but betrayed, and as if your life has been wasted a little bit by reading this non-famous asshole’s trials and tribulations from a life lived in the non-rough parts of Kansas City.  But at least you would be ridding the bookshelves, and the world, of this literary jibberish.  Can’t remember what the original point of this rambling was about, so I’m going to bed.  Stay hard, and be sure to save the turkey’s neck for me!

Bobbi wasn

Anybody Want Some Money?

Hey, any of you pussies want to get involved in the pyramid scam I’m starting?  I got a damn good idea, and rumor has it they’re about to downsize at Omnicorp and AdvanTech anyway.  No?  Well have a nice time working security for the next 30 years.  They don’t give you a gun, and they don’t really expect you to actually stop any crimes or anything, so it’s pretty much perfect for you.  Look at Dog the Bounty Hunter for the sake of his lettuce.  Sheeeeeeeeeeet.  Let me set something straight, just in case any of you assholes told your mom, girlfiend, wife, or whoever the fuck your sharing your parent’s basement with at the moment, to pet this here boner because you thought she’d get a kick out of a little toilet humor,  well, that’s cool.   This site wasn’t exactly written to be anything other than a man’s guide to things that matter most, such as rat tails, mustaches, and the latest trends of hairstyles, so if you do happen to be reading this, and you don’t have a fifth appendage, then, well… what?  I don’t care.  I’m just saying, don’t think I’m the dirtbag.  The reason I brought it up, however, is because I decided that in order to do what I set out to do–make the gym a better place for you and me–I need to do more than just slam all dudes who rock out to Eye of the Tiger, and pretend they are the fuckers who are in the midst of a bitchin’ 80s movie montage.  Get a life numb nuts.  What I was saying though was while we all know the type of imbicile I’m talking about, I feel like I need to try to dispense a little actual workout advice every day as a means of making sure it’s not your fucking face I’m unleashing mace into, or whose balls are “accidentally” spilling out of your banana hammocks.

Let’s start with this: Unless you use a rotary phone and the party line (yes, I’m talking to you JohnThom, I know how you love them party lines), then you can’t exercise like you did in ‘84, which was the last time you were awesome, with one of them little perms in the back of your head.  I’m not saying it’s because you’re too old, it’s because that way of thinking is fucking aincient.  Exercise science has come a long way since high-school weights class with Coach Reed.  The results are in, and while bench and squat are fine for dudes who go shirtless on treadmills, it’s time to start thinking about prevention, and how NOT to get injured or sick. 

What I do for a living has very little to do with tank tops, nut-cradling shorts, and bulges that may or may not be botulism (right Professor K-Roy?)  People are living longer now than ever before, but quality of life is going to shit after the age of 55 or 60 for most.  Think about it.  How many pharmaceuticals are you taking right now?  If it’s more than one or two, you may want to start asking some questions.  It’s only gonna get worse from here, unless you start taking care of your shit, and I don’t mean that little baby’s finger sticking out from between your loins.  Fuck having big guns, or a freshly waxed six-pack.  That shit doesn’t even matter.  Move your body for 30 min a day.  Just walk.   If you don’t move, you’re gonna die.  And that pretty much sums that shit on up.

Now don’t go thinkin’ I’m getting soft on you wankers.  I just need to give people more of a reason to come back and read this shit every day.  I’m tryin’ to work this here boner angler, so tell your cube mates and all of your bosses’ bosses to come check me out.  The ladies and germs you work with could all use the advice.  Believe me.  Lates.

Hold My Thing While I Go Pee.

One of the things I’ve always thought was awesome was people’s choice of attire when it comes to exercising.  I’m not exactly sure how many of these people a.) have a mirror, b.) don’t use a mirror, or c.) look at themselves before they leave the house and think “hell yeah.”  Like the dude who intentionally squirshes his nut sac out of his shorts.  How do I know it’s intentional?  Because I myself have been wearing shorts of all sizes and kinds for a long time, and my balls have never once just popped out.  Have yours?  If you answered yes, then you might also wear jewelry when you work out.  Oh yeah my man, that IS bad ass! Whether it’s a pinkie-ring, a purdy man-bracelet, or a phat gold chain, or all of the above.  Gold man-jewelry is really hot this year, so get you some shiznit at the Landing Mall.  Something not to do, and a few of you fat, nasty slobs who don’t see anything wrong with being on the bike or treadmill…shirtless.  I’ve already told you a few times, you can’t do that.  And why is it always the most disgusting pigs that think this is perfectly fine too?  Last warning before you’re getting the mace fat ass, so if any of you guys are thinking about tearing that mustard-stained, hole-ridden badboy off, please don’t bother.  We can already see your glorified man-pussy cascading out from underneath it.   The last thing I love about these old dudes–I’m hoping for pictures of Mini-Magnum, aka Lil Ditka, Mini-Sylvester Stallone, and Sir Nose D’ Voidafunk by next week–is how they love to put out “the vibe.”  They think that if they shamelessly stare at a female for long enough, it will melt them like a greasy piece of hot-buttered man bacon.  Ain’t that right Lil’ Ditka?

Hey Natchez-Ediger, did you get your underpants back from Willy?  You know, that dude you met at Rosedale Park a few nights ago, and invited back to your ”storage unit?”

Hey Swedes, are you there?  Can you hear me?  Well sug min kuk muthafuckas, because jag bajsade har!

Later.

Dudes Who Wrestle Other Dudes Because They Love The Sport.

So, you might be asking yourself, what in the fuck would make that soft, pasty, white man-loin ask a ridiculous question like this?  After all, don’t all dudes like to come home after a long day at work, crack open a can of room-temperature Busch, maybe a Miller High Life (the champaigne of beers), unbutton their trousers, and go for a little man-on-man wrestle action?  You know who you are.  You’ve been doing it since you were a little kid, I just saw you at the gym, and I’ve never liked you.  Dudes who love wrestling with other dudes are the guys that drive around in monster trucks and have stickers of Calvin urinating on a Ford or Chevy logo, which by the way, are fucking stupid.  If you are trying to make a personal statement about yourself by way of bumper-sticker, then you’re doing an excellent job.  Nothing screams “I love my weiner, but hate myself” like a hilarious Calvin pissing sticker.  Likes-To-Wrestle guy also LOVES to go to the gym, especially Gold’s Gym, at least according to your late-night backpage.com classified.  Right now, I’d like to end the week with a little insight as to why monster trucks, urinating cartoon characters, and sweaty men who wear tight uni-suits while rolling around on the ground fit so perfectly in a gym setting:  Reason number one, there are mirrors everywhere.  You fuckers love looking at your shit in the mirror.  I don’t know how it ever came to this point for you slick, velvety weasels, but I’m gonna try to help you out a little, so take my advice.  Just because you made your teeny little thang stand up because you out-benched the wet noodle you brought as your ”lifting partner” (wink, wink), you still suck very much, and yes, I could kick your ass in a fight, thanks for staring me down though.

Reason two: the only other two people on the planet that are impressed with your stupid sounding man-grunts, frosted tips and bulbous biceps, are the other bodybuiding freak in the room, and maybe your dad.  Check that, unless your dad is Cousin Eddie, has an RV, or a neck that is redder than a baboon’s ass, he probably thinks you’re a dipshit too.   

I’m going to leave you truck-driving losers with one last piece of advice: do us all a favor and off yourself.  You are annoying, and in the way.  No, I don’t want to wrestle you, but I will fuck you up if you continue to wear shirts that look like they came fresh off the sale rack at Baby Gap.  You can wear tighter pants, but that doesn’t make your bulge any bigger. 

And finally Cubicle Gangtas, JC Penny’s is having a hot sale on their 2008 Clip-On Skinny Ties this weekend, so be sure to hit that up, and as the good T-Dogg so elegantly put it yesterday:  wear Sex Panther cologne…because 60 percent of the time, it works every time!  See you Monday.

Is That A Canned Mushroom in Your Pocket, or You Just Thrilled To Be Here?

Every job has things that suck about them, and mine is certainly no exception.  For example, I fucking hate having to get up as early as I do every morning, especially since I like to get drunk at night and eat fish sticks off my boner.  And believe it or not, that can at times be problematic.  When I don’t get enough sleep, and typically by Friday, I have accumulated somewhere between 15 and 20 hours.  Total.  For the week.  I have a tendency to be a little grumpy in the morning.  And by a little grumpy, it means that if you make that noise one more time while your stupid girlfriend watches you bench press, I will mace you.  I’ve found that mace can be one of the more effective tools when it comes to being in a bad mood.  I have maced 17 people total this year, and there are still two months left to go.  Reasons why I would love to give you a big, hard kick to the groin, there are many, but I’d say the top three would be the following:  You fucking stink.  Listen you degenerate nasty bastard, that foul and disgusting odor that’s coming from the sweat, lint and dirt that lives in the underflaps of your scrotum, well, we can smell that, and it’s pissing me off.                                    Another example of why a good fitness trainer might mace you is if you wear a skull cap when you exercise.  Listen, we all know that your miniature piece of masculinity most likely resembles a thickly cut piece of bacon with a toenail hanging off the end of it, but there is not, nor has there ever been an acceptable reason to exercise indoors with a skull or stocking cap on.  Take it off, or your getting the mace.  Another reason, and a damn good one, is if you are a bodybuilder.  Period.  Man or woman.  Doesn’t matter.  You’re a complete fucking idiot.  Seriously, I wish that I could paint a picture with words that would do some–any–justice to some of these goddam ass-clowns, but I can’t, so I’ll try anyway.  Imagine you are sitting on the terlet, and you are trying to pinch off a fat loaf that doesn’t seem to want to be born yet.  You’re pushing like a motherfucker, half-standing, half-squatting because you don’t want your butt skin to come into contact with the millions of disgusting ass germs that have been there before you, there’s remnants of someone who clearly ate his last 17 meals at Taco Bell, with maybe a few visits to Fritz’ Chili mixed in, and your face is turning redder than the fat, swollen bastard in the cubicle next to you who sweats all day.  Now, purse your lips up, and make your mouth look like it’s a puckered-butthole.  If you’re head looks like it’s a zit that’s about to pop, and your mouth is a puckered butt, then you doing it just right!  Can I make a suggestion?  Go buy a bunch of cats because they MIGHT be your best shot at a friend.  You think that’s funny?  Cats suck, but you do too.  Sorry.  I love animals, and appreciate cats, but let’s face it, if you’re a bodybuilding dude who loves cats, and muscles.  That, and something deep inside is really fucked up. 

I gotta go train the client who sports a cool-looking bulge now.  I’m glad it’s Friday.  And be sure to check back later today all you Cubicle Gangstas.  I’ll be back before this slab of man meat breaks for the week’s end.

The Name is Richard Natchez Ediger, But You Can Call Me Raymond.

Hello, I wanted to take a serious moment to introduce myself, and tell the whole world a little bit about the real boner, the man behind the nut-huggums.  My birth name is Richard Natchez Ediger, and I was born a poor black child in the southern delta portion of some backward, racist stinkin’ portion of the region just above the Mason-Dixon line, but in Canada, and with waves.

The reason I decided to take myself out from the man-diaper I’ve been wearing for the past few days has nothing to do with the fact that it was starting to come apart (it didn’t say anywhere on the box that you shouldn’t wear it in the shower…I know.  What the fuck?!?)  It is because I do not want to be confused with this one pussy who happens to share the same last name that I do.                                                       Obviously I can’t tell you his real name for legal reasons, but it starts with a J and it ends in osh, and it’s Josh.  Ediger.  And for confidentiality purposes, you can send me a private email, and I would be more than happy to sell you the rest of his personal information, including social security number, home address, a sweet picture of him at the Elvis Festival of ’94, and a DNA sample–just in case this inquiry happens to be coming from the Maury Povitch Show, and you want to know if this punk is or isn’t the father of your girlfriend’s baby’s hairdresser’s nail-tech girl. 

But if you wanna know that shit for real, seriously give me a call.  Better yet, give him a call.  He loves to talk on the cell phone.  Doesn’t matter if you’ve never met him.  He’ll just chat up any ol’ body.   Ever since he got laid off from his job at Ini-Tech, he’s apparently just been livin’ the dream.  Doesn’t have to get out of bed until noon, may or may not decide to put any pants on that day, and has just been sellin’ bottles of Panther cologne like you wouldn’t believe.  You remember, the cologne that was in Anchorman, the one that has a real pungent odor, and smells a little like the ranch sauce that they serve at Dan Swanky’s, which is where we went for Dangle’s birthday that one time with waves, and he was wearing his little shorts.

Also I want to give a loud shout out with a one-eyed wink to my homeboy Cal Broaddus.  Congratulations on making it into Penthouse.                I swear to god I’m not making that up.  Buddy mine, weird fucker, but cool, moves out to California, fuck, didn’t have any idea he was leaving, and he tells the Boner that he’s moving from Chicago.  He left Kansas City a few years ago.  So that pretty much sums that up.  I am quite happy to say that I have had the fortunate opportunity to get to spend a couple days with the C Broad out in Los Angeles, which is where he lives.  Let me clarify, he’s technically in West Hollywood, and people tell me that’s an expensive area to rent in.  So I’m expecting his place was probably gonna be pretty nice, and it was, if you enjoy gale-force aromas that slap you upside the head, and smells nothing short of raw, human-sewage that sits on your face like a Dirty Sanchez (like that one T-Dogg?!?), which is essentially a thin, wispy mustache that is painted on with poop.  It is VERY pungent!  Kind of like Panther Cologne, with waves.  And it had a faint dirty armpit-like aftertaste, except it was more of a deep, stinging, chemical-sick, acid-tart, yellow-body-fluid feeling that kind of burned my skin a little.

Other than that, that pretty much sums it all up.  Check back tomorrow for dialogue on the emerging popularity of the ”skullet,” when worn with a boner and holiday sweater.

Nothing Wrong With A Little “Bulge” Now and Again.

There is nothing shameful about sportin’ a little bulge every so often.  This–like the Rat Tail–is another one of those things that I wouldn’t do personally, but definitely you should!  If you don’t know what a kick-ass bulge consists of, then check out Cousin Eddie’s bulge in Chrismas Vacation.  I think it’s the same scene where he’s wearin’ a dickey underneath his thin, see-through, sweater, slammin’ egg nog and bulging out of his green polyester pants so bad that it looks like somebody just took a can of spray paint to his pouch.  Enough about that though.  I want to tell you the reason I decided to paint a Bob Ross-like image of the best “live” bulge I’ve ever seen in my entire life…ever.  Before we get into this verbal-masterpiece of genital genius though, I want to clarify a very important point, and I want to make this crystal fucking clear: If any dude, for whatever reason, no matter what, without exception, ever, ever, ever sports a bulge in his loin area on purpose, then I don’t give a shit, who, what, where, nothing.  You are a complete fucking douche bag!  There is absolutely, positively, no getting around this.  If you wear tight pants because you think you have an awesome package, then you suck, and should be placed right up there with O.J. as potentially the worst human being on the planet.  Quick sidenote for those who give a shit, while O.J. has at least clinched a share of worst-human-ever status, Kris Kaeman of the LA Clippers is still the ugliest man on the planet.  I’m still hear arguments for Benito Santiago and/or Edward James Olmos, but Kris Kaeman gets it because his middle name is Kenneth, and that makes his intials a ridiculous, but most-likely intentional KKK.  Not to get off subject, but can you imagine what kind of inbred, backwood hillbillie shitbag parents would tag their kid with the initials KKK?  Unbelievable.  Like I was saying though, and without trying to harp on it, but if you leave the house wearing pants that you originally bought for your 7-year-old nephew, then you should have a full can of mace sprayed directly into your eyes.  You all know the type of greased-up, hairless weasels I’m talking about.  That is not the type of bulge, or dude, that I would, or am talking about here.  What makes this particular bulge so utterly amazing, is that the pimp wearin’ it is completely, 100 percent oblivious to it, which is also the reason this particular dude is so cool. 

Now I know what all of you cubicle crusaders are asking right now, “But wait… Mr. Boner!  Mr. Boner in Them Sweat Pants, how is it even possible to pack a fat bulge without noticing?”                                                    To which Mr. Boner replies, “Clip your ties back on gangstas, I’m going to explain.  Some other time though.”  I hate to cut this party off mid-stream, but I’m a hungry erection, and I gots me a special invite from the Shriners of Post #172 to join them in catchin’ what’s left of that tasty-lookin’ buffet from last night’s function down at the Isle of Capri Riverboat Casino.  So I gotta run before they run out of the yellah, or the blue. 

Until next time, stay hard.

Dudes Who Exercise in Jeans.

For the most part, I think the title says it all.  Dudes who work out in jeans are off the chain.  I’m not sure if I can think of anything that screams “I’m an asshole” any louder than does a dude wearing jeans to the gym. 

Some people might think I’m being a little harsh here, others know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about.  Chances are, if you’re working out in jeans, you also collect comic books, have a pube stache, and hang out at the local roller rink, where you still shoot-the-duck and are a real bad-ass on the “grab-it” crane game, where that rigged fucking metal claw comes down and trys to grab that pimp gold watch you’re trying to win for your girl…who’s 11-years-old…next March.

Ha!  If any of you bastards have been to the SkateLand, or whatever the fuck they call that roller rink in Shawnee, the one that’s been there since the 80s and used to be a Shoney’s, then you might have a rat tail, definitely workout in jeans, and quite frankly are probably pretty awesome.  Not that I would expect any of the four of you have hung out there in recent months.  None of you are near cool enough.  Sheeeeeeeeeeeeet, I bet you brown-eyes don’t even know how to skate backwards, much less have a pony tail that flows in the artificial breeze.  I on the other hand, know someone who still frequents that place quite a bit.  Some of you may know him from way back in the day, some of you will have never had the pleasure of meeting him, but the pimp’s name is Justin “The Hand” Hanlon-Scanlon. 

The Hand is a throwback who was also way, way, way ahead of his time, and I’m not sure that time has been anywhere close to showing up anytime soon either.  Mind you I haven’t seen the dude since 1997, but just think of what a guy named “The Hand” must be like.  Not only would this particular hand work out in blue jeans, but he was also known to shoot off a finger-point and a wink while struttin’ past the babes at the strip joint where he’s the number-one top-scorer on the Trivia Hunt in Monte-gaw Springs.

Damn, I gotta go now because I gotta take this phone call from the dude who sold me a human-hair fur coat on e-bay, but be sure to check back in the coming days.  I’ll be introducing Lil’ Ditka, The World’s Faggiest Fag, and Lil’ Sylvester Stallone….with waves.

The Most Bitchin-ist Rat Tail Ever!

It’s very possible that I’m the only one reading this, and considering the fact that I am also the one writing it, I’m totally cool with the fact that I can sit here and entertain myself for a while.  But today, Boner, I am going to reminisce about something that came to mind today as I was sitting on the toilet, growing a tail, and that is the bad-ass rat tail that my friend, who from this point shall just be named Rat Tail, used to sport in the late 80s.

It was amazing.  It was thick, it was long as shit, and it was way ahead of its time.  Hairstyles today have for some reason become a type of fascination for me.  In many ways, I can truly see how they could be considered fine works of art.  They often have names, typically they say a lot about the person wearing them, and many times, hairdos come in, and then out, and then back into style again.  The rat tail has never seemed to make this type of comeback however, and I think that now is the right time.

Of course, I’m not gonna grow one, but I think you should.  They are pimp!  Think about it, there are curly, little ones; there are thick, long, tapered ones like my buddy’s; they can be worn on the inside of a shirt, or the outside, depending on the occassion of course, and they are definitely more classy than the less-evolved “mullet” category that the rat tail species was born out of.  Speaking of mullets, that joke is over.  Dudes who grow their hair a little bit longer than they ever have in their whole lives, and then take the family’s kitchen scissors that mom has had in the drawer and used for everything ranging from opening packaged foods, to clipping dingleberries off the family dog since 1984.  You know, the ones with the orange handles.  Admit it, you know your mom used to cut your cabbage with those badboys too!  Anyway, they take those shears and cut it a little shorter on the type to try to be the funny-guy who gets a quick, played-out laugh from other losers he hangs out with.  Well stop it.  Not funny, not cool.  Unless you drove a Camaro in 1986 or before, wear a pinky ring, and have a mustache that still smells like the same Camaro you used to drive back in the day, then it’s not funny.

Rat tails, however, are very funny, but cool.  Think about it.  Who predominately used to have rat tails?  Dudes that played indoor soccer, right?  And if I remember correctly, they were usually goal keepers.  You know, pants with built-in knee pads, neon green shirts with lightly-padded elbow covers, maybe a single, fake-diamond stud in one ear, and always, a bitchin’ rat tail.  I mean, who wouldn’t think that a rat tail comeback would not be spectacular?!?  I can tell you one thing, they were a hell of a lot cooler than what they eventually turned into in the early 90s, which were those greasy, guido-looking, glorified short-longs where they would be curly, possibly even permed into just the back.  Those sucked.  And I bet if I can get the four of you to look at my prideful new web log, you all had one of these at some point in your life.

I didn’t.

Welcome to the world of the Boner in Sweat Pants…

Be forewarned.  You are about to enter a world that once seen through the eyes of one’s mind, can never be returned from. 

Dipshits in spandex, assholes with faces, strippers with dementia: What do they have in common?  They all religiously perform a ritual that to them, would be referred to as “working out.”  To this semi-professional erect one, however, its been more appropriately titled ”Jackassturbation.” 

The line in the song, about being blind, but now can see, well as it turns out that’s not just a line from The Bible (As Told By Guys with Famous Mustaches.)  I just don’t think we’re using the same mirror.  Boners don’t discriminate, and they don’t hate or cause any harm (that matters).  And I’m not saying that because I DON’T want to introduce you to the inside of my spraypaint can full o’ mace, pepper spray, or anything else that can properly express my gratitude for makin’ me look so awesome.  Chicks dig me because you exist.    Like any “special” love child who worked his way just under the ”Fat-But-Can-Still-Wipe-My-Own-Ass” mark would impress you, they can be ridiculous, and bizarre.  Fascinating, but loveable, just not in a very loving sort of way.   Sometimes the boners that accidentally hit you in the forehead can be very guy-next-door-ish… if you happen to live in or around Westwood, Kansas.   It could be your dad, your brother, son, cousin or Aunt Lily-Chester.  It could be your mom, sister, aunt, girlfriend, or manservant.

It could be your Uncle Ramon dressed up as your aunt’s belly dancer’s manservant, but only on days that end in “y,” and not Flag Day.  Or Chanukkah.

Doesn’t matter.  They’re all there at some point over the past 7 years.  Many are repeat, often daily offenders of every social misconduct that could possibly exist.

There’s a “wet area” that consists of a jacuzzi, sauna, steamroom and indoor, heated pool.  There’s also a dude that, legally, I cannot name–not because I give a shit about protecting his identity…(every person who has a clue what I’m talking about would know who I’m talking about) and yes, his first name does happen to be James, and his last name does rhymes with Deez…………Nutz! 

Sorry, song just jumped into my head about this fairy-tale, studio gangsta, who was ”rollin’ down the street, smokin’ endo, sippin a cold Butt’ry Nipple.  Laid back, with his mind on his weiner and his weiner on his mind.”  

But that’s all to come…soon…it’s already late, and has already made me a little bit crazy, they tell me.  Or told me.  Today.  So stay tuned for reality tv, with words, and waves…right here in the heart of good ol’ Kansas City!