From Bos and Char...

Happy Birthday Office Type!!

First Annual: Save a Toy Week

Metal Gawd Signs Bloggy's Packaged Candy

...and he didn't even take me out to dinner first.

Well, I've said it before and I will say it again, that the best way to pay tribute to someone that was cool to you is to make a musical reference about someone (or some group) that they admire. Now that I've done that, I'll come right out and say that Kerry King of Slayer is a cool dude, and a badass. I however, am an idiot.

I love music, but I'm pretty much oblivious to what's going on out there. Dates for new releases, performances, appearances…I am unable to process it. I don't know why. Once again to the rescue, is Bone Machine.

Bone Machine pointed out that Mr. King would be in da hood (literally since I grew up just a few blocks away, once lived right across the street from the joint where we met him AND still live just a couple miles from now) and that we should pay him a visit. I was exhausted, had just overdosed on the first huge pile of red meat I've had in ages and really could barely walk.

So of course we went.

Mr. King is pretty much a force with that guitar in his hand and was completely cool about letting a ton of local guys get up on stage and try their hand at playing his tunes. After which, he showed them how it was really done. He really couldn't have been more cool about it.

When that portion was over, we got in a long ass line waiting for autographs where we pointed, snickered, and made fun of a multitude of people. I don't care what you say Bone Machine, that was exactly what Rob Lowe would look like today if he'd been the one molested and had a long career of meth abuse.

Originally I think Bone Machine thought I was joking when I said I was going to have Mr. King autograph a box of Red Hots. He joined in saying he'd save his Nerds box and do the same.

When we got to the table where Mr. King was signing everything from CDs, DVDS, posters, box sets and the back of beer bracelets, I handed him my box of Red Hots.

He looked at them and asked, "What the fuck is this?" and immediately threw them. I smiled and said, "Those are Red Hots man!! You gotta sign 'em!!"

Grascious Metal Gawd he is, Mr. King retrieved and autographed the Red Hots. He examined his work closely when finished and smiled, "You know, these are the first ones I've ever signed!" I smiled back, and thanked him…and asked him to sign one of his photos he had in a stack.

[See what you might have missed Sqrrrl? You so shoulda stayed for the musical gig you posted about. Guilt, guilt, more guilt. Hehe]

[I have images to go with this post but this free service Blogger provides is more of a broken free service as of late]

Least Tactful Post Yet

I, Remember Hallowee-ee-een.

Quote of the Day

As a part of YPS!!'s official Shitoberfest, I bring you today's quote.

Hit me with a drum roll, Ringo...

"No one leaves a turd on the trampoline. That's just bad manners."

Guest Post from...Canada !!

Bloggolites, please help me give an across-the-border YPS!! Saaaa-luuuuuuute to…August95!

Recently she posted and image of a vending machine and I commented on how it was obviously lacking in it's culinary choices. No Red Hots if you can imagine. *shudders*

Then I noticed something I hadn't seen before. The Dosirac. As you can see in the link above, I inquired about the Dosirac. Little was known and I begged and beseeched The Great August95 to go and seek out the Dosirac. Obtain the Dosirac, I pleaded. DISECT the Dosirac, I suggested. After much whining and prodding and repeatedly annoying August95 for weeks and weeks on end, she finally relented. (She murmured something about "anything to get you to shut the hell up" but I knew she was just joshing me.)

So, here it is folks. August95 and I present to you, The Dosirac.

Please look it over. Take note of its "Kimchi Flavor", its "Great Taste" and the warning "Do Not Microwave." Curious is it not?

I find myself strongly attracted to Nurse Dosirac. In fact, there's a quote from Alice Cooper that's appropriately inappropriate.

Notice the tightly packed noodles in the tray. Notice how after it's cooked chopsticks appear out of thin air! Indeed, Nurse Dosirac has worked her magic here.

The Gnome has determined the packaging only semi-sucks.

A Companion Story

Back before the “Hey old lady I gotta whiz fer ya!” story happened, my friend and I decided to take in a movie.

It was a short walk from our neighborhood and we met up and headed toward the theatre. At the end of my street was a corn field we’d have to cross, just passed the edge of which was a 4-lane highway. Beyond that you had to go the length of the parking lot of the shopping mall where this theatre was housed. Our stomachs grumbled as we passed Druther’s at the front of the parking lot but we continued on so we wouldn’t be late for the movie.

We got in the short line, got our tickets, some snacks (Skittles no less) and headed down to the second row. Not a soul in the room, except for two boys hungry for snacks and entertainment. As it turns out, we were early and had a chance to make ourselves comfy and chat a bit.

At one point in the conversation my friend commented on an aroma he was experiencing. I thought nothing of it and chewed through my bag of Skittles.

After an exchange of a few more words of wisdom and giggling pride in our wit, another mention was made about the aromatic essence of the theatre. At that point I decided to employ my great snout and investigate. One whiff. It took all of one whiff and I was instantly aware of, and could not shake, the third creature that invisibly sat amongst us.

Ewww.

So, like any other young blooded ‘mericans, we ignored it. Mmmm. Skittles.

Ewww. It just would not go away. It began to change the topic of discussion for us, interrupting at every hint of a lull and pressed it’s way into our mouths forming the words, “Oooh. Ooh. That smell. Can’t you smell that smell?”

We could.

After some investigation, there IT was, on the bottom of my shoe. It seems that the field we passed through was not just for the two of us to use as a pathway to fun, but an ammunition dumping ground for some ungawdly creature to come and Drop and Run. I unknowingly got to collect a sample and take it to the theatre. Lucky me. Lucky us.

So, I did like any young ‘merican would do, I leaned back in my reclining theatre Lazy-boy, hands behind my head and put my feet up. Yep, right up on top of the theatre Lazy-boy in front of me. I looked at my friend and smiled. Instantly, without being told, he was aware of what I was about to do. As he nervously shot his eyes around the room, I raked my foot on the top edge of the chair.

At that point we simultaneously and without discussion, got up, moved two rows back, and found a new seat.

Unfortunately we had to repeat this Rake, Rise, Relocate procedure twice more before we were free of ammunition and could enjoy our movie.

I have no clue what that movie was, but I swear to you I could name that ammo in two whiffs.

Squirl's Image Bloggy Style

This began as an image Sqrrrl posted on her blog of the recent full moon. Since it's such a cool shot and some of us are experiencing Full Moon Fallout, it seems only appropriate to post it. Sort of a salute to sucky packaging of comics past I suppose.

Thanks Sqrrrl!

"Wait until the get a load of me." - The Gnome

For More Potty Humor Go To....

Hey, check out my guest post at the Bonfire of the Vanity Rooms!

http://bonfireofthevanityrooms.blogspot.com/

Shit X 3

First. ^

Second. ^

Third. ^

Your Knight In Wet Armor

Coming to your Sucky Packaging Rescue

This post in reference to a discussion I had just yesterday. There are three words I'd really like to use to describe this picture, but this is a family show.

(I have so many ideas for tattoos for this little sucker.)

Senor Bone's Story Hour (a/k/a Things That Can Lead To Getting Your Ass Kicked In The Real World)

Gather 'round, children. It's story time. Let me wave one of these signs around so that you know what you're getting yourself into.

I was at the workplace a mere three days ago and a co-worker mentioned that the maintenance man had chased off some kind of alleged Satanic cult activity that was taking place just over the hill. It's Halloween and the natives are getting restless. I thought the idea of Owensboro vampires and shit was pretty amusing. You're not a demon, devil, or vampire. You live in Owensboro fuckin' Kentucky. Get your head out of your ass and wipe the dried virgin goat's blood from your chin and wash the Crayola magic marker pentagram off your arm. It's not an attractive look.

There has been talk of a chili cook-off/costume contest on campus and I guess my brain was stuck in the theatrical world when the ideas started flowing. When my mind starts working, stand back, because the shit has the potential to get flat-out weird.

The conversation continued and the mental gears began to turn. I thought that it would be a real cool thing to add to the alleged cult activity with a bit of performance art, also known as things that can lead to getting your ass kicked in the real world. As they do their devilish deeds in the darkness of Kentucky, I thought it would be cool to start with a fog machine. Crank that bitch up and add a bit of fog betwixt the trees. If that didn't draw their attention, surely the 5-ish search lights would as they were powered up one by one in time with the 2001 Space Odyssey theme. Just as 2001 finished, it's time for the intro music that Elvis used to use when he took the stage. That's when a complete lighting rig would light up the hills and hollows and someone dressed as Satan would emerge from the trees on the back of a John Deere Gator as he strikes Elvis-esque poses and gyrations. Maybe even a few Tricky Dick Nixon dance moves. I'm thinking Madonna-styled Vogueing wouldn't fit the mood, but of course, I could be wrong. Surely this would at least bring on a half-assed chuckle if not a smile. I think if you can tickle the funny bone of Satan's minions, then you're on to something.

The alternate idea is to fire up the fog machine and use the 2001 music again and gradually illuminate a big ass cross made out of those big ass halogen lamps that light shit up like a motherfucker. This idea isn't quite as theatrical, but it's still in the design stage.

Back to the costume contest, which was mentioned up there before I went on my devil tangent. I think the office staff got a little worried when I threw out some of my own Halloween costume ideas.

1) Get a posse of boys, in the 4-8 year old demographic, and dress as Michael Jackson.

2) A variation on theme 1. Ditch the Jacko costume, wear a clown costume and you've got a John Wayne Gacy costume in full effect.

3) Wear a traditional Polo/Izod style shirt (I don't think I could do that, because I hate that crap), tan Dockers (see previous comment), carry a picnic basket filled with various body parts and I'll be damned if you're not Jeffrey Dahmer. You could add various bits and pieces of mop parts on your head since it seems like ol' Jeff was beaten to death with a mop while in prison.

4) Wear my usual clothes and dress as a disgruntled employee.


Option four seems like the way to fly.

The ass kickin'-est theme song ever.

For those that might have missed the premiere of 12 Ounce Mouse, here's Nine Pound Hammer's theme song. Click this for the only good thing to come out of Kentucky.

WWSP?

Friends, dear, DEAR friends…our Swampy, as you may know, is without her camera. At a time when nature has boomed, her technical sidekick seems doomed.

I had the deep need to reach out and assist Swampy. No, I couldn't just run out and buy her a camera. No I couldn't fly out and fix her camera. So what, if anything, could I do?

I could post like a mofo! "But what?!" I asked myself. I did not know. I searched and searched and searched my mind and in the 3 seconds that took, still, I had nothing.

I thought about asking Swampy, but then, the surprised would have been down the crapper. But then I realized, I could become one with the Swampy and answer myself:

What Would Swampy Post?

After much research, the following, without a doubt, is EXACTLY what Swampy would post: Bugs. Mold. Mud.

It's perfect!

Wish her camera well, won't you? (No need to thank me Swampy. *wipes tear*)

J K L Simmy Colon

Strictly No Football Colours...

I Hate It When My Bar Shrinks – or – I Am A Fundraiser Slut

So, yeah, when I was a young pup (last week) I used to consume a large amount of candy. (Insert dramatic pause while audience overcomes shock.)

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Of the candy I consumed as a child, World’s Finest Chocolate (with Almonds) candy bars were certainly near the top of my fav list. It was a long list, but the best of the best filtered their way to the top and ridiculed the Lemon Heads at the very, very, bottom.

One thing you could always rely on was the taste of a WFC (no, not the Wrestling Federation of Chickens). WFC did something magical to their bars that went above and beyond. Maybe it was the magical name. Maybe it was that little crown on the wrapper. Maybe it was simply because the bars could be found on every fundraising street corner. But whatever it was, a WFC could rival any other chocolate candy bar. And for my fundraising dollar, I demanded the best. And I demanded often.

Oh sure others came along that would tempt me. Toblerone and I got VERY acquainted. I used to eat so many boxes of Spree that my tongue would be so raw that the following boxes would hurt my tongue. (I know this because I kept testing.) Even peanut M&Ms and I would have long talks in the moonlight.

But I always returned to WFC (no, still not them fightin’ birds!).

Ahhh, WFC! Why, a boy could make a meal out of a dollar turned into a WFC. Memories and tradition were formed around WFC. Heck, a boy could buy an extra one for his WFC-loving (much much much) older sister and surprise her with it while hoping that she’d return the favor. And they did so for many years.

But one year it started to change. I heard a vicious, vicious rumor and I whipped out my dollar (watch it) and went to investigate. Some poor slob actually believed that the WFC bars were getting SMALLER. It was laughable! Why in the WORLD would the fine and wonderful and magical makers of WFC make them smaller?? It just didn’t make sense.

But they had made them smaller.

It was the first sign of my dwindling purchasing power. In the back of my mind I knew it was “all for a good cause” but that didn’t matter. I wanted my fucking chocolate you cheap bastards! Nothing anyone could tell me would make me believe that someone’s playground was benefiting from this scheme. No, no, some rich bitch was getting a new car and this addicted punk was going to pay for it!!

And so folks, the sad story continues. With the help of 1/3 of The Angels, I give you proof. We have a SUCKY PACKAGE from this year, and from last. You be the judge.

*bows and shakes head*

*wonders who has change for a $5*

Soothsayers 101

"I foresee that Your Packaging Sucks!!"

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"Well, I forsee that a great talent cannot hide behind her blog forever."