Yargnits Way of Seeing Stuff

Here's my life and stuff I do. Yeah, what's worse, my boring life or you reading about it?

Monday, January 11, 2010

I'm Talking 'bout Yummy White Chocolate

What’s been pissing me off lately: The term African-American. I guess it’s more politically correct than saying “Did you hear Shelly was dating a black guy?” when referring to a dude, or “I gave my last twenty dollars to a Nappy Headed Ho on Michigan Street” (ala Don Imus).


It didn’t bother me much until a black friend told me how he hates getting called an African-American. Coming from Jamaica, he is neither African nor American. I haven’t spoken to him for a while because his wife (white) is a pretentious bitch, so I have no idea if he’s as insulted as he once was now that we have our token president.


That’s right, I said token president. If he wasn’t black he wouldn’t have won. Racism made Barack Hussein Obama president. The novelty of the first black president and the large amount of white self loathing got this guy elected. I now ask those that voted for him... How is the Hope and Change working out for you fuck-tards? In all honesty, McCain would have been a fucking disaster too, but at least he isn't a terrorist. Yeah, I think that deep down Barry’s still a Muslim extremist and since he’s the leader of our military he should shoot himself.


Getting back on point... At least the socialist in the oval office is indeed African-American, however, he’s my least favorite African-American. My favorite African-American is Charlize Theron. Yeah… She’s more African-American than most of the “black” people I know. Her great-great-great-great-great grandmother didn’t pick cotton. She was born and grew up new Johannesburg, South Africa. I wonder if black guys will stop wanting her when they find out.

Until next month's ramblings,
Yargnits OUT!

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Friday, February 16, 2007

Special Edition South Bend Barbies!

Thanks to Scooter, I got this in my email today.
It's too good not to share with the rest of the yawl.



Mattel recently announced the release of limited-edition
Barbie Dolls for the South Bend area market:




"Clay Township Barbie" This princess Barbie is sold only at UP Mall. She comes with an assortment of Kate Spade Handbags, a Lexus SUV, a long-haired foreign dog named Honey and a cookie-cutter house. Available with or without tummy tuck and face lift. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with the augmented version.
"Mishawaka Barbie" The modern day homemaker Barbie is available with Ford Wind star Minivan and matching gym outfit. She gets lost easily and has no full-time occupation. Traffic jamming cell phone sold separately.

"River Park Barbie" This recently paroled Barbie comes with a 9mm handgun, a Ray Lewis knife,a Chevy with dark tinted windows, and a Meth Lab Kit. This model is only available after dark and must be paid for in cash (preferably small, untraceable bills) ...unless you are a cop, then we don't know what you are talking about. (Harry proudly calls this WWT)
"Granger Barbie" This yuppie Barbie comes with your choice of BMW convertible or Hummer H2. Included are her own Starbucks cup, credit card and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and Private School Skipper. You won't be able to afford any of them.
"Osceola Barbie" This pale model comes dressed in her own Wrangler jeans two sizes too small, a NASCAR t-shirt and tweety bird tattoo on her shoulder. She has a six-pack of Bud light and a Hank Williams Jr. CD set. She can spit over 5 feet and kick mullet-haired Ken's butt when she is drunk. Purchase her pickup truck separately and get a confederate flag bumper sticker absolutely free.
"Gilmer Park Barbie" This tobacco-chewing, brassy-haired Barbie has a pair of her own high-heeled sandals with one broken heel from the time she chased beer-gutted Ken out of Osceola Barbie's house. Her ensemble includes low-rise acid-washed jeans, fake fingernails, and a see-through halter-top. Also available with a mobile home. "Western Avenue Barbie Set" This doll is made of actual tofu. She has long straight brown hair, arch-less feet, hairy armpits, no makeup and Birkenstocks with white socks. She prefers that you call her Willow . She does not want or need a Ken doll, but if you purchase two Point Breeze Barbies and the optional Subaru wagon, you get a rainbow flag bumper sticker for free.
"Southeast Side Barbie" This Barbie now comes with a stroller and infant doll. Optional accessories include a GED and bus pass. Gangsta Ken and his 1979 Caddy were available, but are now very difficult to find since the addition of the infant.
"100 Center Barbie/Ken" This versatile doll can be easily converted from Barbie to Ken by simply adding or subtracting the multiple snap-on parts.

NOTICE: Dressing the "Gilmer Park Barbie" in "Clay Township Barbie"
clothes is the same as "Whore of an Ex-Wife Barbie".

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Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Pissing the bed can save your life!

I got up the other morning like many many times before and went straight to the first business of the day… pissing. This was a weekend too so it was a big piss, the kind that wakes your ass up so you don’t piss the bed. As a guy you thank god when it isn’t accompanied with a morning wood because that could lead to pain.


Anyway, I strolled up to the porcelain bucket and proceeded to go. After a few minutes I started feeling faint. I know “feeling faint” sounds kinda faggy but passing out is for drunks. Really I don’t know what I was feeling but I never felt it before. It’s like being a little dizzy but with the feeling I was going to check out. In those few seconds my mind went through a thousand thoughts.

The first thoughts consisted of self diagnosis. “What the hell is this?” “Am I going to pass out? – no you’re not drunk” “Am I having an aneurism?” “Is this what fainting is like?” “Does my piss smell THAT bad?”

The next thoughts centered on self preservation. I leaned over and grabbed the vanity, making sure I kept the stream centered. If I survived this deal the last thing I need is the wife crabbing about a piss soaked bathmat. I had a firm grip on the vanity when the piss trailed off and I started to feel back to normal.

Now my thoughts are on the way things could have turned out. Being fully conscious I noticed that I was leaned way over the toilet. What if I would have passed out? It could have gotten ugly. Hell, I could have died! Passed out, fell over, face in a toilet of my own stenchy piss, drowned. What would the scene look like when my wife or daughter found me? Would the CSI guys take pictures of my head in the crapper? I’d hope that the paper would have the decency to list the cause of death as “natural causes.”

After I told my wife about what had happened, it took her wisdom to point out that the whole episode was probably because of my giving blood the day before. That makes sense. The blood bank even told me that something like this could happen… although they didn’t give me the details. I think I’ll write a letter and to be safe, the next time I give blood I’m just going to piss the bed.

Friday, January 05, 2007

A Divorce Letter, by Fred Garvin

Dear Kim,

I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride's cost me a lot of things.

I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does. Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says: "There's no one like you, Kim." I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even close.

Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Wings Etc. and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation. She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits like you wouldn't believe and an ass that just wouldn't quit.

Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so superficial. What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes, but you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Kim? I doubt it. And I'd never really thought of that before. I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little.

Later, after I tossed her about a half pint of throat yogart, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Kim, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.

Do you remember Kim, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story. Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she's not hung up about her weight or her career. And all of a sudden, she spots the inflatable snowman in the Christmas box in the family room. So she pull it out, plugs it in and we use it as a cusion for pushin! And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad, too. Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Kim ever put play with inflatable Christmas decorations like that? In all the years we had that thing you never thought of using it as a sex toy."

Saturday, your little sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicky's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She's pulling for us to get back together, Kim, she really is.

So we're doing Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times. Here's this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry. And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing, that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fueled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you? It's true, Kim. In your heart you must know it. Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can. If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.

Otherwise, can you let me know where the fucking remote is.

Love, Fred

(the preceeding was a slightly modified version of a humorous letter I got in my email box today. I just had to share!)

Monday, January 01, 2007

Walk this Way

Now what was I saying? I know it’s been a while but I’ve had shit to do. It’s 2007 and I’ve made a resolution to give this blog deal more attention. To do so I need to keep it short and to the point. So how about a little rant to start off ’07?

Doctors have got to stop handing out these handicap parking tags unless people really need them. Just because you’re fat doesn’t mean you have a handicap. In fact a little walking might burn off that pizza roll you had for your mid-morning snack! And fat-chicks… just because you might give birth to a 4 pound corn baby in the next 20 minutes don’t qualify you as an “expectant mother”. So park at the back and stroll your ham hocks a few extra feet.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Not as fun as a Blumpkin

Not so long ago I took a trip with the fam over to Michigan City to find some “bargains” at the outlet mall. We spent a good chunk of the morning there and I felt the need to snack. There was the little hot-dog cart tempting me. Well call me Ulysses because those little pork-entrail-sirens were’a callin’ my name. Unlike the Greek hero, I failed to resist their enchantment and I partook in some Ball-park glee with a touch of Hunts ketchup…

*** Hunts – The Official Ketchup of “Yargnits way of seeing stuff” ***

So as nature has it, a few minutes later the laws of sausage-physics start to kick in. For time sake I’ll skip straight to the law that applies…

#14: Hotdog in, Bratwurst out.

So with my new urge kicking into high gear I abandon the wife and kid to “take care of business” I prairie-dog it to the nearest crapper on the North side of the mall and head straight for the desired Handicap stall. (It’s nice to have the elbow room, ya’know) . I plop my gelatinous ass down and make quick work, but I’m in no hurry to leave. I’m kinda comfortable there and figure I’ll hang out until some asshole comes in and stinks up the place.

So I’m playing the back nine on my RAZR phone’s golf game and all the sudden there’s an earthquake! This freaks me out a little because #1 I’ve never felt an earthquake in the Midwest before and #2 I’m going to have to tell people I I was pinching a loaf when it happened. So I sat there pondering the thought and it happened again but I noticed it didn’t feel right. It’s like my body was shaking but my feet weren’t. So I waited for the next one… and there it was, not an earthquake… but rather two wall hanging shitters backed up to each other.

Meaning: I’m riding a turd-eating-porcelain-teeter-totter with some “hefty gal” on the other side of the wall. I thought I might as well make the most of it and have fun bouncing up and down giving the chick in the opposite room something SHE can blog about.

The vision of two lard-asses laying over broken ceramic and sheetrock with their naughty bits exposed brought my fun to an end. And it turns out that the true tragedy of the event was that I double-bogeyed on #16.

Yargnits OUT!

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Sorry, Pearl Jam Sucks

It’s about time that I slowed down long enough to write yet another brilliant piece for my blog space. The last one was such a down note that it took some time to recover. What pray-tell could bring me back?

Music. (Queue up “Back in the Saddle” by Aerosmith) Like most people I’m fairly set in my ways, musical. Once you get to a certain age you kinda lock into the music of your time… the good time… the prime time. For me it’s 70s and 80s rock. Since then it’s been a pretty slim menu of music delicacies. Sorry people, Pearl Jam sucks and so does Nirvana. Is it the whole grunge thing I’m against? Fuck, I donno but I hate U2… too. It’s just not real rock and roll to me.

Well, I decided to check out a list of the 10 greatest rock bands ever according to MSNBC’s website. Let’s go through them for shits and grins, shall we?

Beatles – I can’t deny they were big… just not in my book.

The Rolling Stones – nothing interests me outside of “Tattoo You”

U2 – I already covered this… I wouldn’t accept a FREE ticket.

The Grateful Dead – I’m not a doper and I don’t aspire to be one.

Velvet Underground – Who?

Led Zeppelin – Finally one I’m down with! Then there’s the family tie thing giving me a little bias.

Ramones – Oh yeah, I heard that one song.

Pink Floyd – Here’s the second one that get’s my nod.

Bob Marley – uhhhh… rock?

Sly and the Family Stone – Isn’t that the name of a Harry Potter book?

So that’s 2 that I would agree with but then again the guy that made that list is hooked into HIS generation of preferences. Most of what this guy liked turned into my generation’s “Hair Bands”. After that it went terribly wrong. RAP came and dominated the pop charts with Country slipping in from time to time. Now R&B/RAP is ruling the world causing 7 year old girls at softball games to sing “It’s getting’ hot in here, so take off all your clothes…” (I shit you not). Even my large Nubian friend, Bubba, said “that ain’t right”.

All this drove me into the arms of talk radio. Thankfully I can relive the glory days with MP3 players and Bit Torrent downloads. I’ll even tune into 97.7 every once and a while so I can have my music with the occasional exposure to some new stuff.

So it turns out it’s not so bad. Recently I heard the song “Crazy Bitch” by Buck Cherry. It rocked pretty good so I sent my computer a-searching. I must say that the un-sanitized version of that song would defiantly have Lorraine Baines saying “That’s very interesting music, Marty.” The jury is still out on the actual talent of that band. They remind me of Ugly Kid Joe and we all know how big they got.

Newer bands that I am sold on are heavy rockers Disturbed and Nickelback. Nickelback is maturing into a band I can grove to for a while.

Well that’s about all for this session except I think I’ll throw out a list on 10 CDs I’d want if I was stuck on a deserted island. Just off the top off my head in no order…

AC/DC – Back in Black
Van Halen - 5150
Aerosmith – Toys in the Attic
Disturbed – Believe
Sammy Hagar – Standing Hampton
Pink Floyd – The Wall
Nickelback – Silver Side Up
ZZ Top – Eliminator
Led Zeppelin - IV
Audio Book – How to build a boat when you’re stuck on an island

Yargnits Out.