Angry at the South

And junk like this is helpful...how???

Wasn't it the south that brought us Bill Clinton?

ROTFLMAO.

Reminds me of the rants from Foamy at IllWillPress.

calm down woiyo...it's pretty damn funny. And this comng from a southerner, well a transplanted southerner who's been here over half his life.

Just lately returning home to Boston has seemed like a good idea to me though.

It entertains people. Entertaining people is good.

I do wonder how accurate it is, on the other hand, it is funny.

No disrespect intended to Southerners and I don't like generalizing but you gotta admit, it's f'n hilarious

I like a good joke myself, but I didn't find that humorous. It was crude though, I'll give you that. Anyone care to point out the funny parts?

Email being tossed around... Kind of fitting for this thread.
___________________________________________________

Bet you stand up and say HELL YEAH! after
you read this.

I like big cars, big boats, big motorcycles,
big houses and big campfires.

I believe the money I make belongs to me
and my family, not some governmental stooge
with a bad comb-over who wants to give it
away to crack addicts for squirting out babies.

Guns do not make you a killer. I think killing
makes you a killer. You can kill someone with
a baseball bat or a car, but no one is trying
to ban you from driving to the ball game.

I believe they are called the Boy Scouts for
a reason, that is why there are no girls
allowed. Girls belong in the Girl Scouts!

I think that if you feel homosexuality is
wrong, it is not a phobia, it is an opinion.
I don't think being a minority makes you
a victim of anything except numbers.

The only things I can think of that are
truly discriminatory are things like the
United Negro College Fund, Jet Magazine,
Black Entertainment Television, and Miss
Black America. Try to have things like the
United Caucasian College Fund,
Cloud Magazine, White Entertainment
Television, or Miss White America and see
what happens. Jesse Jackson will be
knocking down your door.

I have the right "NOT" to be tolerant of
others because they are different, weird,
or tick me off.
When 70% of the people who get arrested
are black, in cities where 70%of the
population is black, that is not racial
profiling, it is the law of statistics.

I know what sex is, and there are not
varying degrees of it. If I received sex
from one of my subordinates in my office,
it wouldn't be a private matter or my
personal business.
It would be "FIRED" immediately!

I believe that if you are selling me a milk
shake, a pack of cigarettes, a newspaper
or a hotel room, you must do it in English!
As a matter of fact, if you want to be an
American citizen you should have to speak
English!.

My father and grandfather should not have
died in vain so you can leave the countries
you were born in to come over and
disrespect ours.

I think the police should have every right
to shoot your sorry ass if you threaten
them after they tell you to stop. If you
can't understand the order "freeze" or
"stop" in English, see the above lines.

I feel much safer letting a machine with no
political affiliation recount votes when
needed. I know what the definition of
lying is.

I don't think just because you were not born
in this country, you are qualified for any
special loan programs, government sponsored
bank loans or tax breaks, etc., so you can
open a hotel, coffee shop, trinket store, or
any other business.

We did not go to the aid of certain foreign
countries and risk our lives in wars to defend
their freedoms so that decades later they
could come over here and tell us our
constitution is a living document and open to
their interpretations.

I don't hate the rich. I don't pity the poor.
I know wrestling is fake, but so are movies
and television, and that doesn't stop you from
watching them. I believe a self-righteous
liberal or conservative with a cause is more
dangerous than a Hell's Angel with an attitude.

I think Bill Gates has every right to keep
every penny he made and continue to make
more. If it ticks you off, go and invent the
next operating system that's better and put
your name on the building. Ask your buddy
that invented the Internet to help you..

It doesn't take a whole village to raise a
child right, but it does take a parent to
stand up to the kid and smack his/her little
ass when necessary and say "NO".

I think tattoos and piercing are fine if you
want them, but please don't pretend they
are a political statement. And please stay
home until that new lip ring heals, I don't
want to look at your ugly infected mouth as
you serve me French fries!

I am sick of "Political Correctness" and of
all the suck ups that go along with it.
I know a lot of black people, and not a single
one of them was born in Africa, so how can
they be "African Americans"?
Besides, Africa is a continent. I don't go
around saying I am a European-American
because my great, great, great, great, great,
great grandfather was from Europe.
I am proud to be from America and no where
else.

And if you don't like my point of view, tough!
GET OVER IT!!! WAKE UP WHILE YOU STILL
HAVE A COUNTRY TO WAKE UP TO.

Loosen up your bibs and have lunch with the regular guys for pete's sake

I'll loosen up my tie and have that lunch with you "regular folk," but you're still going to have to point out the funny parts.

I don't find swearing funny. That's just me, though.

Crude language can be funny ... that is, if it's funny.

Case in point, speaking about eating, let me tell you a story that is the funniest thing that has ever happened to me. I caution those with weak constitutions that the following contains crude language and stark visualizations. Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs in this forum, and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but this story is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.

A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good sh*t, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a sh*t. I went to the normal stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of sh*t at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.

In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over sh*t no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since sh*tting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.

At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of sh*t the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The sh*t wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.

Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the sh*t wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of sh*t remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the sh*tting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.

In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in sh*t that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid sh*t. All while thick sh*t was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no f***ing toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to being the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage or just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

The day of the election, a photograph of a dog urinating on a Kerry/Edwards poster was posted on A2K as humor. I did not find it funny and was told to lighten up. I don't find this rant particularly entertaining either. This kind of rant masquerading as humor is not improving either the atmosphere or the political debate in the country. Rather in is contributing to a poison in the body politic which seems to be spreading. I think I'll continue with my uptight ways.

Thank YOU, Paul Harvey! I always liked that one, too.

Ticomaya,

Thank you for sharing! You brought a great deal of levity to a thread that could have become even a bit yuckier than what you went through!
I laughed, not at your situation, but at your fully descriptive delivery!
Thank you!

Yes, and a day or two before the election a photo of a dog urinating on a Bush/Cheney yard sign was posted on A2K as humor. We're equal opportunity bashers here

I think that was Aquiunks point. He then added that he disapproved of bashing regardless of partisanship.

Translation of McG's long screed into one sentence:



But, to be fair, so is the one who wrote the first piece.

Cycloptichorn