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Archive for the ‘Pills’ Category

Mark S, happy with his manhood 

How many more times will I get a variation of the mail-box clog about improving my manhood? I find it quite a bother to be continually told that nature forgot to endow me with the package that would make it difficult to wear a normal pair of jeans, let alone walk without a pirates peg-leg limp and that some monk sitting constipated has come up with a solution just for me.

I mean, how do they know I need help? Did the cybergeek Star Trek addict that formulated this and and other mind-numbing delete-key-deserving drivel somehow spy on me in my shower with an infrared telephoto wi-fi webcam bought at spysrus.com?

I fully understand the concept of mass advertising. But when an e-mail arrives at my mailbox, addressed to me specifically and my name used in the greeting instead of, say, an impersonal entry such as “Dear joke of a man,” I take insult.

The spammer is one of those dog-butt-sniffing, child-molesting porno star wannabees who needs to be neutered so that his progeny who will no doubt be born with less than the one brain cell and will never breathe the same air as us higher life forms. The spammer’s instrument is the one that needs recalibration, not mine.

For had he checked more thoroughly my curriculum vitae before adding me to his mail clog list, he would have known that I don’t need male enhancement. Had he surveyed the many women I known before, he would have gotten a response that would have made him seek me out for advice on how to use his tool more effectively. From the first to the latest, women who have experienced me, recall me with a returning glow of fond memory.

Rantasaurus Says: Oh, Mark, those were beautiful April nights in Paris… er…. yeah. Spam sucks.

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Noel, a doctor… really

I just love modern advertising campaigns, especially those commercials for the latest life improving pharmaceuticals. They are always so informative and filled with common sense: “Until you know how Lunesta will affect you, don’t drive or operate machinery.” I guess that means it’s good to wait until AFTER you start falling asleep to jump in the car and drive over to your local machine shop to play with the lathe and drill press at midnight.

But there are no better ads than those for erectile dysfunction medications. Those 21st century marriage savers are indeed miraculous, but watch out because “side effects may include a delayed backache.” Why didn’t I think of that? The poor bastard is finally able to have sex for the first time since 1985 and now he has a backache. Einstein would be proud.

You should also “stop taking Viagra if you experience a sudden decrease in vision.” I guess that would explain the backache since our hero has now fucked until he was blind.

And don’t forget to “seek immediate medical attention if you experience an erection lasting longer than four hours.” I can hear the alarm clocks going off all over America. “Wait a second honey it’s three o’clock, where’d you put the damn car keys? Let’s go, move it! Holy crap you can’t find them? Where’s your purse, I need cab fare to the hospital!” How would you like to be the doctor on-call for that little emergency room visit? “What seems to be the problem Mr. Smith?” “Oh…I see…well I’m very happy to see you too!” I wonder what the treatment for an erection in over-time is, since the traditional antidote has obviously failed to provide relief, but I suppose there’s no harm in trying it again.

I can hear the announcement now: “This is Dr. Fine. Will the head nurse please report to exam room #1….”

Rantasaurus Says: I don’t mind it that much. Whenever that happens to me, it’s like I’ve pitched myself a mansion to live in for the evening.

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To My Dearest Dog, Mia,

Darling, please stop eating things that do not belong in your tummy. Mommy is tired of cleaning up piles of vomit that are larger than her head, and she just had to take out veterinary insurance on you. We cannot afford your growing medical bills!

I know that you don’t like staying in your crate while Mommy’s at work. You get bored, I understand. However that, by no means, gives you the express right to crap in your crate and eat it. You are in your crate to keep you FROM eating things. I do not, contrary to popular belief, enjoy having my face licked by a shit-scented tongue.

While we are on the topic of eating things, darling, let’s just go ahead and get a list of the top eleven rules out of the way.

  1. You drink water. Not motor oil.
  2. Stay out of my whiskey.
  3. Do not eat the hair from the shower drain. It is not nearly as much fun coming out as it was going down.
  4. Used tampons stay in the garbage.
  5. Seran wrap is NOT digestible. In fact, it will wrap around your intestines and requires veterinary attention. (You should have learned this by your third incident.)
  6. We do not gnaw on our table’s corners, legs, and/or tops.
  7. You were returned to the SPCA for eating your previous owner’s Parrot. Stay away from the guinea pigs.
  8. Stop eating poop. This includes all of the neighbor’s dogs, cats, and birds feces. And especially stop eating poop out of the toilet when Daddy forgets to flush.
  9. You are allergic to beef. And grass. Let’s try to remember these things when we’re outside for a bar-b-q.
  10. While I’m sure the texture amazes you, stop eating used tissues. (ditto goes for toilet paper; see latter part of #8)
  11. Whilst you are on doggie downers for your, shall we say, “explosive” personality, this does not mean you should take them all. At once. They are hidden for a reason; do not search them out. The stomach pumping is expensive.

Thank you, darling, and I love you.

Mommy

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Amy B, so not happy to be here

Since everyone I work with is a complete asshole, it’s safe to say that I am here… wasting away… working when I’m not scheduled. Ah, the joys of working for a small business owned by someone who has no idea what he’s doing.

I was supposed to come in for a few hours and help out on my DAY OFF!!!!! because I’m a nice and giving person. Then Little Miss Fat Pants wants me to do some filing. Fine. I file.

Then Cross Eyes n’ Pigtails expects me to fix the printer because she wants to put a hilarious e-mail from her failed and miserable maiden aunt by her desk and desperately needs to print it out. I’m sorry? The printer is by my desk, but that does not make me Hewlett Fucking Packard, okay?

Just as I’m planning my quiet escape and everything else is done, Hairy, Hairy Smells-a-lot actually comes up to me and seriously expects me to answer the phone while he steps out to… get his eyebrows waxed. (Shhhh)

I hop on the phone and the first person who calls is a customer who wants me to type them out an invoice from six months ago because they lost their copy.

Well, guess what. Our invoices from 2006 are in a box. In the storage closet. And I’m on my hands and knees digging through it like Spindly Nervous Wreck digs through her purse for her Prozac and her cigarettes twenty-nine times a day.

Maybe you’ve caught me on a bad day, maybe I work at the worst company ever, but I know one thing for sure. I’m going to take a monster growler in the bathroom and not turn the fan on before triumphantly bursting out the door and into the sunlight of freedom.

Rantasaurus Says: Such pluck! I like her. Tyrantasaurus, do we need an office bitch for RantasaurusRex.com headquarters?

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Eugene Y, rich, gullible and bitter about it

Oysters. I don’t get it. First of all, science has already proven, above and beyond, that oysters are not an aphrodisiac. They don’t biologically make you horny, they just make women juice because they cost a lot of money. Same thing about champagne and chocolate covered strawberries.

I could buy a tank of gas and take myself for a nice drive around for the price of a champagne/strawberry/oyster thing, but no.

I have to show up at some broad’s house with this shit, probably shuck the oysters myself, chill the champagne to within a degree of the accepted standard, make sure the strawberries haven’t melted all over my hands, draw a bath (at my brilliant suggestion, of course), whisper sweet nothings and THEN we finally go to dinner. It’s not even the sex now, it’s the dinner.

There, I pay, of course, and just as we’re pulling up to her place where we’ll finally seal the deal and I’ve got money hemorrhaging out of my wallet and stupid oysters on my breath, then she’ll tell me that she has an early meeting tomorrow or, worse yet, she’s falling down drunk.

Wow. I was going to write about how stupid oysters are, but instead it’s women who are stupid. That’s right, I said it. I don’t have to romance my hand to the tune of $200 to get a nice piece, if you know what I mean.

Rantasaurus Says: Eugene, you’ve been doing it all wrong. First, you buy some “sleeping pills,” then you buy them a can of PBR to dump them in and the rest takes care of itself. That’s like, what? A five dollar date?

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There’s a mothercukcing gator just lackeying around in my backyard and I want him to up en quit.

 Rantasaurus Says: Yes. This was a real submission. It came with no identifying marks on it, other than an e-mail address very close to “hellrat6969@aol.com.” Please, readers, drink a 40 of Steel Reserve and submit your opinions about your pest problems.

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Dear Brain,

What gives with all the nightmares? Here I am, just trying to get some sleep and there you are, sending me dreams about dead hobos and hacked up toddlers and, worst of all, trips to Fuddruckers.

I don’t get it! I give you nothing but love, oxygen and the occasional booze coma, and you’re dishing up all this disgusting shit.

Watch your back, brain, or I’ll put you on some pills. This skull ain’t big enough for the both of us.

Cordially Yours,
The Human You Control Who Can’t Afford Therapy

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