Enlightening Nonsense

Wherever I go I carry with me a little notebook to write any inane inspirations that may download into my brain from the demons that use my skull as a toilet into which they defecate their filth. It has to be small enough so it can fit into a front or side pant’s pocket or up my ass in the rare times I take a shower or bath. As we all know, a notebook on its own is pretty useless unless you have something for which to scribe those brilliant, or in my case, disgusting notes.

Well, I guess we don’t all know this, as there was the case of a man named Phillip Wilhelm Bertinand who spent eighty years recording his life history in notebooks that filled his entire barn. When he died, in lieu of inheritance money, he willed all his notebooks to his son, Frederick. It was thought that the personal diaries of Mr. Bertinand would fetch a price beyond any riches known to date, as he had been an extremely interesting man, with life experiences so unique as to be considered somewhat of a legend in his time. A few kings had even offered their kingdoms in exchange for these notebooks.

One such incident involved his friend Adolph coming to him and looking all down in the dumps. “What’s wrong, little guy?” he asked, as Adolph was known to have a very small penis.

“I keep waving to the crowds but instead of instilling some kind of authority over the people, the men and women think I am trying to pick them up. I don’t know what to do about this,” said Adolph in a mopey way.

He suggested that Adolph stop waving with such a loose wrist but to instead keep his wrist straight during the wave, which resulted in fewer men approaching him after his speeches for blowjobs. He then modified his suggestion to include a straight arm extended at a 45-degree angle, which would indicate to the women that although hung like a raisin, he was virile and ready to have some vagina help him to squeeze a glass of raisin juice. In the latter years, Adolph went back to his old limp-wristed wave, as he wasn’t getting any pussy and he missed giving blowjobs.

Apparently when the books went to an auction house, the auctioneer started to thumb through the books and they soon discovered that while Phillip Wilhelm Bertinand was quite the eccentric, he was also an idiot—he had written all his notes with his fingernail and so all the notebooks were blank.

A Frenchman, a Jew and a Polack went to prison all for a 30-year sentence. Each man was allowed one request to be granted. The Frenchman asked for a woman. The Jew asked for a phone. The Polack asked for a cigarette. After thirty years had passed, each man was let out of his cell. The Frenchman left with his wife and ten children. The Jew had made calls and investments using the phone and left with a briefcase filled with one million dollars. The Polack left his cell and said, “Does anyone have a match?”

Back to the 21^st Century… I had forgotten my pen at the condo and asked to borrow one from my mother. “There’s one in my hip sack,” said the old girl, which meant that just like the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sweet Tomatoes where we were going to eat that evening, her sack, too, was self-service. My Mom is pretty active and years ago moved away from carrying a pocketbook, which would require constant adjusting of the strap on the shoulder as her Jew ass bent over constantly for street pennies or butt sex, and she has since replaced this item of inconvenience with the aforementioned hip sack, also known as a “fanny pack,” which people from England find quite amusing as over there “fanny” means vagina.

Because I have had a lot of complaints from scores of my female readers who I have slept with and not bothered to call thereafter, I will also mention that the Brits call the penis a “willy.” Think about it, if you were named William and people called you Willy for short, you probably couldn’t walk into a pub in England and order a warm beer without someone shitting his pants that your name is essentially “Cock.” Then again, people are called “Dick” here in the United States without anyone batting an eyelash. And how Dick came from Richard is beyond me.

Actually it is not… Richard comes from a conjunction of ric-hard, named after a Scottish gentleman in 1602 whose name was Rick and who was always walking around with an erection poking through his kilt. The locals started calling him “Hard Rick.” Because of their Lucky Charms leprechaun accents, it came out like, “’ard Rick” and soon that shortened even more to “Drick” and finally “Dick.” History that, while they don’t teach it in the universities, I think we can both agree is probably much more useful.

As a result of all the stir from Scottish Dick and his constant hard-ons, the King declared that when wearing a kilt, one must also wear supportive underwear and the decree has lasted through present day Scotland. This inadvertently solved the shitstain problem on park benches as well. In Greece, underwear is actually banned and you couldn’t pay me to sit on a Greek bench or bend over for a street penny or pence or peso or whatever those homos drop in order to sodomize unsuspecting Jews. [Look for this story, the true story behind the Nazi salute and other pieces of seldom talked about history in my upcoming book, How Scottish Benches Became Shit-Free, Hitler Gave Good Head And Other Historical Not Taught In History Class expected to hit bookstores in July 2011.]

Uh, back to the 21^st Century…again… One constant that was the thread that made my mother’s transition from pocketbook to hip sack less traumatic for me was the nasty tissues that always seemed to be stuffed inside of her carry packs. They weren’t so much used, as far as I could tell, but they were so battle worn from rubbing against her keys and her wallet and random pennies she found on the street, that they were thinner than the cheapest 1-ply toilet tissue, wrinkled, discolored and nearly see-through.

When I started to open the zippered pocket on my mother’s hip sack she said, “No, not that one! The one in front,”which gave me a flashback to my first sexual experience. And there it was, staring me in the face.

“What the fu—? Ma! Why do you keep these nasty tissues in your bag? I mean, seriously, what purpose do you keep them? If I were to actually blow my nose with that nasty thing, the snot would go right through the ‘tissue,’ and I use that term loosely, and into my hand. I mean, if I were really that desperate to blow my nose, I’d probably just cut out the middleman out of the equation and blow my nose right into my hand!”

As has been the case since my earliest recollection, whenever I had a serious question about something important, I have either been laughed at or sent to the corner of the classroom. That was a good teaching technique, no—to put a child, whether unruly or just misunderstood, into the corner of the classroom in an attempt to humiliate him in the name of some abusive retribution by a teacher whose job it was to teach history and not “ethics” or “behavior.” If I had a time machine and could go back to any time in history, I would go back to Mr. Cesarano’s class in junior high to the time he told me to sit and face the corner and tell him to go fuck himself. As my mother and I were driving in the car, there was no classroom corner for me to be sent to.

I’d probably try to screw Jill Baron, too, while she was still in possession of the best ass in three counties, before she went to college and fed it like a pig getting ready for slaughter. I often play James Taylor’s song Mona and let out a good cry when I think of that perfect ass gone astray.

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I guess if I had a second time travel it would be cool to meet Jesus so I could devote my life in study under him in order to learn how to walk on water. That would totally score chicks! Rumor has it that Mary Magdalene was asked what she thought about Jesus and she said, “He’s just a dirty hippie who hangs out with eleven fags.” After she saw his walk on water trick, she is reported to say, “He ain’t no Chris Angel but I’d fuck him,” and became his lover and 12^th disciple. I went to apply for the position of lover and disciple to Chris Angel but there were so many prepubescent girls present that I decided to leave and catch the Justin Bieber concert instead [See “Legal Kiddy Porn at http://rebelyogi.com/legal-kiddy-porn.html]

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Perhaps my Mom had actually kept the nasty tissue in there as a theft deterrent in the same way that when traveling I hide my dildos and butt plugs under a bunch of dirty underwear so that when the TSA perverts inevitably pull me aside to fondle me in their “random” searches, while they may juggle my balls like a circus clown, at least they will leave my sex toys alone. Hey, maybe that’s why they always call me “Dick” at the airport pat downs, because after 10-minutes of stroking my shaft while giving me a complimentary prostate exam, I am usually hard as a Scottish Rick!