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Monthly Archive for March, 2011
Maybe they saw me behind the tree.
I was trying to login to one of my many Facebook accounts to play a little poker. I bet like a looney because it’s just free chips ya know? So I go all-in alot at World Series of Poker. I was up to over 800,000 chips one time. Now I have to bounce between multiple Facebook logins just to get a few minutes play.
I forget the passwords for all my personalities. I thought they were all the same.
I was wrong, I had to reset a Facebook password. ZuckIsAZero didn’t work anymore. I wanted to change to ZuckIsAPimplyFacedPuckWithAnOvervaluedTimeSuck.
At any rate, Facebook says that growing up at 232 Chicago Road is not acceptable.
Hey Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg is not acceptable.
I actually had a string of perfect attendance at Sunday School that was about to be broken so my parents could haul me off to a lake for a weekend of raucous camping (I was 11 – “raucous” meant masturbating behind a tree.)
AAAAAnyway. My catholic-jew friends said they would take me to Mass and then give me a voucher which would count toward my perfect attendance.
I did what cartoon boy did: just about the time I figured out that blah-blah-de-blah blah (it was all Latin to me – because Mass was only said in Latin back in the day) meant kneel, it actually meant stand, or sit, or pray…
Eventually, my jew-catholic friend put his hand on my knee (and I don’t mean in that way) to get me just to sit still.
After services I masturbated behind the tree behind the church.
I got my pin for 52 weeks of perfect attendance at Sunday School.
And I feel better about confessing my sin because we all know going to Mass is not the same as attending Allen Methodist Church. Whose website is fumcallen.org, which looks like a dirty word. Fumcallen. Fuckemall. Fuckmaulin’. Maybe it’s just me.
Update: Oh, wrong Allen. Whew. That was a church in Texas. My church doesn’t have a website, for which I am glad. God does not like pixels to deliver his word. Give me an Amen!
Smallburg has finally admitted what The Stig already knew.
Stop signs actually mean drive faster.
Smallburg sent us a letter indicating they were studying the possibility of putting a stop sign at an intersection that I blow through regularly.
They asked for “citizen input.” Pffbbt. That’s code for “we know what’s best, but we need to tell the Smallburg Traffic Czar we asked.”
Today they admitted the obvious. Stop signs mean speed up.
Local and national studies show that drivers actually speed up after passing a stop sign in order to make up time lost having to stop.
Emphasis mine on passing a stop sign. Yes, I pass stop signs all the time in that neighborhood. I don’t stop because they are stupid. Nobody is every on the side street.
Verily, I pass.
However, in a blinding flash of brilliance, the Smallburg Traffic Czar decreed he
does NOT recommend installing stop signs.
I am The Stig.
I appreciate this nod to the drivers. Therefore, I will come to a complete stop at this intersection, look both ways, toot my Magnum horn, and proceed carefully to the next stop sign, where I will blow through it.
Sunday will be my first trip on this street, on my way to Big Box Store to get new rear tires for the Red Dodge Hemi Wagon. Michelin if you are interested.
If it’s dry, I may leave my mark of approval on the pavement as I stop where there is no sign.
I am The Stig.
