Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Well, this is just sick.

I'm on a bit of a self-sanctioned sabbatical and had not planned on beating out a post today; however, tonight after I got in from walking my dog, I sat down to some dinner when I practically choked on my chicken - for apparently, Wednesday, April 30 2008 , is National Spankout Day. Now, I have heard of some sick excuses for holidays in my day, but just who exactly had the brilliant idea to rub this one out? I mean, an entire holiday focused solely on spanking? Seriously - what kind of jerk offered this idea? He was probably a real wanker. Whoever he was, I'm glad we didn't have to hear what other wacky ideas this lame holiday beat off to cream all of its competition and take over April 30 as its very own. Now, if you'll excuse me: I'm pretty tired, so I think I'll just take a load off and toss off for the night. Happy Spankout Day, you perveltons.

hey. why don't you polish this off:

Monday, April 28, 2008

It's Time for Some Educating.

A wise women once believed that children are our future. So very, very profound, and yet so dead-on. I'm such a firm supporter of this esoteric theory that I went ahead and spawned some future of my very own. I like to call her Cornflake, and, apparently unlike another mother who requires a village for her kid-raising, I'm not afraid to admit I like to pimp her out, a dollar a hug. Anyway, the result of my reproduction with my babydaddy is going to turn one in just a few short days, and, as such, I feel it's time to get some book learnin' on in this piece. It's high time she smarted up a little bit, so, for her first birthday, I pulled out the old Mullatio Enterprises company card and purchased ten works of classic children's literature to begin her tutelage. I thought I'd share with you the texts she will receive come Friday, her big oh-one.

1) Ten Fat Sausages - You know, it's never too early to learn about the old kielbasa, and this book illustrates a veritable festivale of sausage, and not the skinny kind, but the full-on thickity-sized hella substantial sausage. It's a tenfold meatdream celebration, and it's amazing.

2) Thar She Blows - This is interesting. I don't know a lot about this one, but, the title just grabbed me. I wonder if it's illustrated.

3) Fat Puss and Slimpup - What a hilarious combo! It's a fat puss! It's a slim pup! One's awkwardly large, and the other is alarmingly narrow! Imagine the hijinks that could ensue! It's pure comedy genius!

4) The Curtain Went Up, My Pants Fell Down - I can't be positive, but I think I first heard about this one on Paul Reuben's website. It's such a timeless scenario, really.

5) Ball Games - Playing with balls is a sport, of course, and this tome presents a plethora of techniques and tips for optimum success at ball entertainment - for the sportsman in all of us.

6) A Hole at the Pole - It's tremendously useful to know the location of the pole. Likewise, one should realize that often the pole meets up with a hole. You could call it a geography lesson, if you wish.

7) A Hole in the Hedge - I assume this is the second installment in the Hole series; this social studies lesson teaches the reader that there is another hole - a hole in one's hedge - and that's a lesson everyone should understand.

8) Jan's Big Bang - I don't know. This one came free when I bought nine other books. I hope it's good.

9) Get Busy, Beaver! - I'm all for positive motivational messages. This book seems to encourage action, and that's always a plus.

10) Little Treasury of Snatch - Last but quite obviously not least, I am a sucker for a bargain. This text humbly presents not just one tale, but an entire treasury of adventures. We are sure to cherish this one for years to come.
So, happy birthday, Little Cornflake! May I teach you only the most important lessons in all your years to come!
Here's an important lesson to learn - Click here:!

Friday, April 25, 2008

Please tell me why this happened.

My intentions for this post started simply enough. On Wednesday, I shared some short scenes from Period: The Play ®, the production that is soon to take Waukegan, Illinois - and then subsequently the world - by storm. I couldn't help but notice that perhaps the dialogue was a little, er, progressive - yeah, we'll go with progressive - for this blog is eggsalady's visitors that day, particularly the readers with phalli.

Naturally, I panicked. If P: tP ® alienates roughly 50% of the world population, does this spell inevitable doom for the show's impending hereafter? I'm not going to lie; I've been in a veritable tailspin since Wednesday at approximately 4:46 pm. But things in my head went from bad to re-abandoned by Wolf Blitzer in about 2.2 seconds. You see, in my moment of darkness, I speculated upon what to do - to whom I should turn. Suddenly it dawned on me: the people most likely to provide me assistance in this specific brand of menstrual alienation - and this is such a no-brainer - Blossom and Six, of course! In short: WWB&SD in this sitch? I racked my brain in order to envision scenarios in which Blossom and Six fought the man and came out on top. There were, naturally, a million amongst to choose. But, I went to the internet to find the very best of the Blix wisdom. Anyway, I am going to try to cut to the chase here as: a) my cerebrum can't take much more; and b) I don't want to drag this out for you because you deserve so much more.

Here it is, friends. My search for the sage advice of Blossom and Six led me to this:

Um, yep. Somebody skanked up Six. I don't even know where to go now. I am seriously flummoxed. Where is Six's floppy hat, and why is she wearing Tiki Barber's legs? Anyway, maybe you already knew about this, but you forgot to tell me. And then I found out in my time of need. I am more confused now than I was before. I just don't understand.

will this help? Let's see.:

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Sexy Programmer Thursday: Maximum Yummage Version 9.0

All aboard the hot train, you beautiful people. It's time yet again to step on up for another mouth-watering installment of the Sexytech Express. It's the hyperincredible day when our systems are operating on unadulterated, hi-tech passsion. That's right; you've booked your ticket and had your passports stamped - destination: Hottopia. It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood, so make sure you take it all in on this glorious Sexy Programmer Thursday.

This week's lusty object of our affection is one beautiful attraction. Here's a babe-a-rific brain teaser for you: this stud's brand of sexy is so old-school, it's practically new-school. Make that Gnu-school. You heard me: our lovebeast of the week is noneother than the creator of the most magnanimous operating system around - GNU, the entirely free, free-lovin' software entity of passion. Say hello to your seductive centerfold, Richard Stallman. Richard (or, rms, as he prefers to be called) is so full of lusciosity that it is impossible to humbly reveal all of his fabulous facets in this singular forum. If I can share but a glimpse of Ravishing Richard, though, believe me, you will be satisfied and begging for more.

You're ready for the free lovefest to commence, I see. Well, then. Let's get on with the pleasure. Here are a few PANT-WORTHY PARTICULARS about our captivating Code Warrior, the most dangerous gnu I know:

1) He's a one-man talent show wrapped in a perfect package. Apparently being one of the most hands-down amazingly talented hacker/coders of all time wasn't enough for our long haired lothario. No, Richard the Great dabbles in about a billion hobbies, as well, from using his tantalizing tongue to speak Spanish, French, and Indonesian, to enjoying "affection, international folk dance, flying, cooking, physics, recorder, puns, [and] science fiction fandom." All I know is, my head is spinning. If I could have just five minutes alone with Filet O'Rich and his recorder, my life would be tastily fulfillified. I'm lovin' it.

2) Our Studly Stallman is a playful player looking for love. On his wonderful website, randarific Richard shares his adorable application to be a member of Marian Henley's Ex Boyfriend list. Marian must be La Mary Loco, because after a series of endearingly honest exchanges with our hot tamale, Richard, she never accepted his proposition. Why would this beefcake need to apply to the list? I'm glad you asked. He explains to Marian: "My motivation is not that I would like the cachet of being on the list. Rather I hope that the application process, of being judged fora place on the list, could be exciting or even joyous. If it takes you some time to decide whether I belong on the list, I won't mind waiting." Richard, if you ever read this, please, I beseech you, get in touch with us here at this blog is eggsalady. I can assure you there is a BEVY of beauties at our fingertips that would love to add you to their list.

3) Rockin' rms is a Powerhouse Politico. Our heavenly hacker is an arousing activist. His home page of hotness is a forum for a flock of captivating causes. Need to find an issue to support? Well, go to his page, close your eyes, and point, and then get ready to get schooled. StallMan the Man is ready for you to Boycott Yahoo, Hotmail, MSN, and WebTV for political censorship. He implores you not to buy Harry Potter books. He wants to talk with Hamas; he wants us all to toke up; he's ready to name a waste treatment facility after President Bush; he wants to reduce the climate change; he wants to create butterfly gardens, choose tap water, and boycot Coke. And the list goes on and on. All I care about is a lovemuffin who cares, and this lustbiscuit cares. And cares. And cares.

4) He is an anointed Saint of Sexy. Truly! He is the hallowed holyman, St. IGNUcius of the Church of Emacs. His religion is a welcoming one, as he describes: "To join the Church of Emacs, you need only say the Confession of the Faith three times: 'There is no system but GNU, and Linux is one of its kernels'." If every member of this religion is as enticing as St. IGNUcius, consider me a convert! Alleluia!

5) This fine techtreat is a No-Frills Adonis. He's no slave to the Benjamins; on the contrary, he prefers to live often as a "squatter", and in the 80's and 90's, he even lived in his office. He reveals: "It was convenient and cheap. To walk home to another place when I was sleepy was a very bad thing: first of all, if I was sleepy, it might take a couple of hours before I could get it together to put on my coat and my shoes and so on. And after that, walking home would wake me up, so when I got home I wouldn't go to sleep either. It was so much better to just be able to go to sleep where I was." That is the most luscious logic that has ever blessed my lucky ears. Hey, Richard: you ever need a place to squat, call me. I've got a spot for you right here by me.
I wish I could go on and on and on about our Racy Richard. But, alas, our time is up. I do know this: Richard Stallman is worthy of our divine worship. For these reasons and a host more, Sweet, Sweet Stallman is one uberdeserving Sexy Programmer.
Click here, receive more sexy:

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Bloody hell, these ads are brilliant.

Aaah, the Rites of Spring. Around this time each year, I blend myself a Cuervo-heavy pitcher of frozen margaritas, head out to the back porch, and open up the well-worn old scrapbook of my favorite tampon advertisements of all time. This year, I decided to be a little selfless. Have I told you lately that I love you? Well, I do, so I am going to share some of the absolute best feminine hygiene ads with you, complete with the dialogue courtesy of the Tampon Family Players that would normally remain only in my head. I do it because I care.
There are so many things I love about this one. I'm gonna let Lamar and Tad explain.

Lamar: Holy shit, Leilani. Your crotch smells amazing. What did you do - put deoderant directly on your tampon? Doesn't her crotch smell amazing, Tad? Seriously, man. It's fabulous. Take a whiff.
Tad: Right you are, Lamar. Her genitals smell so odor free that I nearly do not even notice her grabbing a heaping handful of Mona's heaving bosom right here in the middle of our Ramada Inn lounge.
Lamar: You are so gonna hit that, Tad.
Tad: 10-4.

Sally: Look at the size of Byron's stick. There's nothing I love more than my man donning his jodhpurs and a condom cap on a snowy winter's day. That's why I use Tampax Satin - It is what's up front that counts, because it totally frees up my backdoor for Byron.

Nan: You know, Margie, back up at the campfire, when you recommended I insert a tampon into my privates rather than use up our supply of Oscar Meyer weiners, I thought you were positively bananas! But, they really are a lot more absorbent than the old tube steak.
Margie: I know, Nan. It "makes such a difference."
Need a shower? Don't forget the loofah. Click here (repeatedly) to getcha one:

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Ride 'em, Cowboys.

Giddy up, Partners! A joyous Cowboy Poetry Week to one and all! Loosen your chaps, mount up, and sit a spell. It's high time us buckaroos pay a little poetic tribute to the cow punchers on the range, and what better time than these seven glorious days sanctioned by California's own Kindergarten Cop himself (click on that distinguished letter to your right, why don't you?) to say a little howsyafatha to the ranchers of the world ?

Now, come on, Americans: These are your hard-earned tax dollars at work, so you might as well take full advantage of this literary powerhouse extravaganza.

See how completely not asslike at all my own governor, Sonny Perdue, looks taking the time from his busy draught protection schedule to sign the bill to proclaim this a real life state holiday for a whole entire week:My own personal celebration involves spending a lot of alone time thinking about how important cowboy poetry is to my life. In addition, I will be devoting a respectable portion of the week to paying homage to the most undervalued form of cowboy poetry: the cowboy haiku. I have already written four, which I will humbly share with you. It is my hope that you will follow my lead and spend some of your own time paying your respects to the poetry of our cowpokes on the range.

Cowboy Troy
How can I put this?
This guy’s a country singer.
Are we being punked?

Macho, Macho Man

He lassoed my heart,
The finest in the Village
Giddy up, Cowboy!

Naked Cowboy

It’s a singing ass.
Sweet Lord, this guy’s made millions.
Funny joke, there, God!

Cowboy Curtis

You rocked the Playhouse.
Didn’t you bone Miss Yvonne?
Bet Pee Wee was pissed.

And, an added bonus. Literally, a cornucopia of asshat:

for a smorgasboard of literary giddy up, click right here:

Monday, April 21, 2008

Making trillions the old fashioned way.

There are some really dope benefits of not being a member of the old establishmentarian workforce - namely, being available on a full-time basis for the Judge Judy power hour. But, there's one pretty essential thing that I miss about the old 9 to 5. Two words: spending cheese. My mom always taught me that it was rude to talk about money. If I had any, I guess that quaint little rule could apply. Since I don't, I think I can carry on with this post. In my head, I now picture you clasping your bosom, tossing your head back and inquisitively mentally-menstruating something such as this: "Come again? You mean this blog is eggsalady is not raking in the doughskies to bankroll not only your daughter's future college and/or meth habit fund, but also the funds for any subsequent daughters that she begets in the future?" Child, please. But, don't get any stress marks worrying about the Donzer family, because we have a new business venture in the works, and we are going to make trillions. Trillions, I say!

Let me provide a little background for you. Just today, I was taking in a baseball game when I spotted a man freaking commanding what could only be described as a pretty damn respectable mullet. All of a sudden, I was bludgeoned by this overwhelming wave of sentimentality, for I understand that mullet-spotting is so played out. It's no longer even ironic to turn to your cuz and go, "Check out that sweet mullet over there," because your buddy would yawn, scratch his ass, take a bite of his corndog, and then finally turn his eyeballs to whereever your were pointing, because, you know, mullet spotting is so 2001. I think that's mullshit. I just don't think the mullet market has been tapped the way that God intended. And that blows. My husband concurs. That is why we are starting a new adult entertainment company called Mullatio Enterprises. I don't portend to know your personal preference, but who amongst us has not fantasized about being on the giving or receiving end of some hot mullatio action? And we're heading into this full speed ahead; indeed, our business plan is already humming along. I'll give you the blow by blow: We're thinking we keep it small in the beginning - maybe some mags, a calendar or two, a few dozen videos. My husband is turning in his two weeks at work today so we can work full time on our new moneymaker. As for me, I'm stepping out into the public for phase one of the full-on Mullatio Drafting Blitzkrieg. I've got the new business cards printed to hand out at various locales tomorrow, including (but not limited to) Krystal, Hardware Heaven, Dan's Fan City, Buy Lo, the Howard Johnson's parking lot, and the Golden Griddle. Here's my heavy hit:

If you think that you would be a match for our intiative (as a spokesmodel or a shareholder), or if you know anyone who may be interested, please let me know. And, spread the word about Mullatio - after all, the oral tradition is still the most effective means of communication. I don't think it's too bold to assert: Mullatio is the wave of the future. Come on - head to where the action is!

it may still be busted, but let's see how many clicks it takes us to see humor-blogs up and running, again!

Saturday, April 19, 2008

International House of Pleasure

Holy crappage, do I ever love me some IHOP, and when I say "love", I mean I could bathe in the sweet euphoric juices of the debonair Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity. I could sleep each and every night in Chocolate Chip Pancake batter while dreaming about my homie Vive la French Toast skipping over clouds and under rainbows while holding hands with his suave older friend, International Passport.

You know what I hate? Those people who are all, "IHOP is so sick. I can't believe you lick your table when you get there in case the people before you left any bacon greasy maple syrup remnants behind." Oh yeah? Well, up yours, holier than thou jerkrags. I like The Hop, and I'm not afraid who knows it. Every time I ask my husband if we can go eat at my pancake Xanadu, he goes, "IHOP? IHOP Not!" Clever. Each time he says it, I am inches closer to revealing the bombshell that our baby is probably not his.

Anyway, in perusing our favorite concubine, the Internet, I have found some fineass IHOP waitresses to whom I would like to ask a few questions. It is my strongest desire that fate will allow these waitresses to find this blog is eggsalady in order to respond to my burning inquiries.

Mmmkay. Here goes.
This is Letty Hernandez from Burbank, California. First of all, Letty: Girl, why you so fly? And that leads me to my next question. I see you're serving up my boo, the Rooty. Letty, what up with the damn parsley? This isn't the Ramada Inn lounge. This isn't the Shoney's by the airport. Do people ever touch the parsley? Who is touching the parsley? I've got an idea for you to take to management: lose the damn parsley. According to the Summary of Fresh Market Parsley Crop Enterprise Budget and Breakeven Costs Based on Average Grower Yields of 900 Bushels per Acre, 1986, the total production cost per acre of parsley, including machinery, labor, irrigation, seed, ferilizer, labor, containers, rubber bands, ice, et cetera costs $4,921.00. By my calculations, parsley totally blows. Oh, and I guess while I have you here, a couple other things: are the glasses atop your coiffed updo utilitarian, or just an accessory, and, do you ever use the whipped cream during your off hours?

Meet the spokesmodels of the North Orlando International House (the NOIHOP). Unfortunately, we do not have the luxury of knowing the names of these mysteriously lovely vixens o' the flapjack. I like to think of this pair as the Tag Team Champions of the Breakfast Sampler - The World Renowned Metaphorical Duo of the Smokehouse Combo, if you will. Um, Toothie Grin: Who ordered the burger and rings? You must've really pounded the hard sell to that sucker. What, do you get a little boisenberrific commision bump if you hock goods from the nonbreakfast portion of the menu? Surely you must, as I cannot think of any breathing organism that would play breakfast menu insurgent and order from the other side. Wait. I can. It was 1999, and it was a dare: I ordered the International House of Pancakes Fried Shrimp Platter. Readers, this is one prognostication I beseech you to heed: do not make the same mistake that I made. Fried Shrimp and IHOP should not date. They should not even be friends with benefits. I can't help but notice that Non-Toothie-Grin seems to have a knowing, ever so slightly smug expression on her countenance. Am I right, Non-Toothie? You're laughing on the inside that some assmouse has been played yet again, soon to be ingesting the rings and burger of solitude and pain. Please tell me I'm wrong, though I know I'm so right.

I totally stole this picture from someone's flickr page. Their title? "Hot waitress", of course. I guess first and foremost, I want to ask Hot waitress if she is an angel in IHOP heaven. The way the light shines through her pendulous tendrils of golden hair immediately takes my brain to the divinely delectable aromas of sausage that I know drift through those locks. Hot waitress, the appearance of vehement concentration on your face is so intense I can practically hear you asking yourself why it looks as though you are standing in 1976. Hot waitress, if you told me that you were going to meet Jack Tripper after your shift for some late night sheboinging, I'd take your word for it. Hot waitress, do you press your shirt so crisp, or do you send it out to the cleaners? I can only hope that you took a spin in a time machine, thus allowing you to read this post and subsequently answer my burning questions. I look forward to hearing from you.
Last but not least, these are my (fantasy) friends Fran Russell, pictured right, and her unnamed HOP companionista. Things look pretty friendly behind the scenes, eh? I guess, most importantly, if Fran could respond to my every query, I'd first ask exactly what it took to score the coveted IHOP embroidered black cardigan. I liken that coup in my head to winning the green jacket prize of that sexist golf romp, The Masters. But this is better. Look at her friend (I call her by her Indian name Inexplicably Wears Q-Tips in Hair), basking in the warmth that is Frannie the Ultimate Donner of the Cardigan. Hey, Ladies: I can't help but notice that my fresh squeezed orange juice may not be quite as fresh squeezed as I had once believed. I'm cool. But, not to tell you how to do your jobs, but at my house juice works really well when we keep it in the fridge. Just a proposition.

Anyway, I can only hope that our ladies will find us and provide us with the answers we so desire. Until I hear back, I'm definitely going all Hop on that ass this weekend. I'll leave you with yet another reason to visit (again, stolen - see here). There's a Horton Hears a Who celebration in the House, and you can order these Whocakes for a limited time. I'm gonna do it. I'll let you know how it plays out.

Get your pleasure on right here: Go on. Click there, heathens!

Friday, April 18, 2008

An Open Letter to Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz, Urban Dictionary Style

I am so all up in Urban Dictionary's grill, and so is my hellish amigo Freddy at Retail Hell Underground. So, today's post, an open letter to two of the most gimongous mental titans blessing society today - Ashlee (My Sister's the One with the Huge Tigs Simpson) and Pete (If You Know Who I am You're Probably Eleven) Wentz - will be written Urban Dictionary stylie. If you need an interpretating hand, consult Urban Dictionary.

Holla, Ashlee and Pete,

Big ups atcha on the bleh of informantics about your upcoming nuptials. I can’t think of anything that makes me more happistatic in the entire damn Gina multiverse than you two asspuppets getting pre-divorced. Ever since I lurnaged the hearitating news that you were bone smugglin', my mornernoonernings have been tight as cheese. For realz, Ashlee Simpson, it's like, ever since you dropped your joint on our earzizzles about living in the shadow of someone else's teetz, I felt all, oh-em-gee, that psychic-hooch just mean-mugged the window into my fricken soul. And then, when you schooled the holio solar system about how you'd never go rhinoplastic on that ass, and then you totally went rhinoplastic on that ass, it was like the rankest hardcore bitchslap to all the fugs of the land that has ever been jehovahed. You totally pwn fakeassness, and I mean that in the most complimentative fash. Also, I think it's completely dope as hell that your betrothed is a chick Hobbit. Chick Hobbits are so fresh right now.

I would be so wackass not to put on blast the adorabalicious fetus (allegedly) swimming around in your pouch right now. You know, nothing says "I love you, yo" to your unborn spawn like denying its existification to the free world. Rumor has it your sicktodeath molestering padre, Papa Joe Simpson, is pimping out your conceived-under-the-barrel-of-a-shotgun-offsping's story to every gossipublication for a cool million. Whatevs. You've already jacked chumpies worldwide of their precious minutes that they'll never relivify, why not gank all their remaining lunchmoney, too, to learn about your uberlovin fairytale?

Anywiz, good luck chuck. Can't wait to get your damnass bling and your damnass wedding and your damnass spawn shoved down my craw by every damnass crapozine that exists for the next eternity to come.

I'm a bounce.

- Donz

clickz now for the crunkass rimz on this shiz: