A few years ago, I was chatting with Rev. Brandon J. Carr, and I mentioned something using the word “origin.”  I probably said something like, “The origin of my badassery is kept secret because of the implications it would have on society and all that we perceive as ‘cool’ and ‘awesome.”  Or something.

“Wait, what did you say?”

“What?”

“How did you say ‘origin’?”

Motherfucker questioning my grammar.  Normally I’d cap a bitch with crazy, silly wit, but I entertained Brandon’s stupid question.

“O-ri-gin,” I said with confidence.

“You mean ‘OR-GIN’?”

“No, stupid.  O-RI-GIN.  It’s pronounced how it’s spelled.  What are you, some sort of retarded…um…retard?”

After a long, heated argument involving repeated use of the words “idiot,” “dolt,” “dick-wrangler” and “cracker” I finally conceded defeat.

I had been using “origin” incorrectly.  Like all the time.  And I say “origin” a lot.

This raised a few questions:

One–How come nobody else ever called me on that?  Was it because people were being nice/didn’t want me to call them a “dick-wrangler?”  Two–How many times had I said “O-RI-GIN” when I was trying to sound all smart?  Three–Why put a fucking “i” in “origin” if I’m not supposed to use it?  That’s so dumb.  And why sound out the “i” when you say “original?”  This shit is way confusing.

It’s standard protocol for me to obsess on things, so the aforementioned questions quickly dissolved, and I began to look at this whole “origin” thing as part of a larger conspiracy.  Against me.  Because I’m not nuts.  And people and things really are out to get me.

Where am I going with this?  I’ll tell you.

It’s my parents’ fault.  They did this to me.

They taught me the word “O-RI-GIN.”  And they did it knowing full well that I would go through life sounding like a complete jackhole.

What the fuck, mom and dad?!

(To be continued…)

Jon Lajoie is HILARIOUS:

At some point in the next week, I’ll really write something.  For now, here is some more YouTube Funny.  I’ve decided that Reckless Tortuga is my new favorite comedy troupe.

Again, I’m too lazy to do anything else but post videos.  But, I promise all the videos will be funny.

…Because I’m too tired to post anything today and because I forgot all about ghost ridin’ whips…

I’m seriously really upset this guy left us.  Like way more sad than the passing of MJ and the rest of this week’s Celebrity DeathFest 2009 participants.  I think it’s because Billy Mays just seemed to be a regular guy.  A nice, happy, motivated regular guy.

Anyway, here’s a pretty neat tribute comic.

(source: http://www.ctrlaltdel-online.com/comic.php?d=20090629)

-David Garcia, Still way sad

I had a delightful conversation with my wife the other day in which she suggested, no, insisted, that I was an elitist, a cynic and a pessimist.

I gave Meggie a “sincere” thumbs-up to let her know “she was right.”  Then I asked her to go make me a sandwich because “these pants aren’t tightening themselves.”

Her rolling eyes told me she was about to be super-obedient, so I was way shocked when she got up and left to mess around on the computer my study, a place where there most certainly ISN’T delicious sandwich meat and tasty fixings.

I briefly entertained the notion that my lovely wife was looking up amazing sandwich recipes or that maybe there was a hoagie shop in my study.  Then I realized that despite my best efforts, I’m pretty much the world’s worst domineering husband.

“Okay, I’ll get my own sandwich, babe!  I love you!”

That’s how I roll, bitches.  Domesticated like a motherfucker.

Still, as I made my mega-meaty sandwich and cursed Jesus for making me forget to buy Miracle Whip, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she (Meggie, not Jesus) said.  Sure, I’m an elitist and sure, I am a cynic.  But pessimist?  I don’t want to be a  Núñez Negativo (that’s Spanish for Negative Núñez, putos).  Then it came to me.

I need a fucking Predator Drone!

Holy shit, if I had a drone, I could stop being a pessimist because I could obliterate everything that makes me furious.  And dear God, there are so many things that fuel my rage:

First thing I would take out would be The Hills.  That show is so insipid, and whenever Meggie watches it, a piece of me dies.  Hopefully, all The Girls Next Door would be around and taken out as collateral damage when my drone’s “missile of justice and awesomeness” hit.  Especially Kendra.  That retard makes me want to punch really helpless things really hard.

Oh, and also Chris Crocker.  Is he still relevant?  Was he ever?  I don’t know, but his whining still haunts me.  Go get Chris Crocker, Predator Drone!  Get him with your STFU gun so I never have to see this again!

After all The Hills are destroyed, and all The Girls Next Door are incinerated, and Chris Crocker is liquefied, my drone would self-pilot over to Twitter and drop a massive payload on every green-tinted avatar showing support for the Iranian election trending topic.  My drone, fully self aware and capable of rational thought, would know that most people green-blasting their avatars don’t even know where Iran is or what the fundamental structure of their government is (hint: it’s not really secular).  Following the elimination of green from the color spectrum, my drone would nuke the bejesus out of any tweeter who habitually uses “marketing” and “SEO” or who thought it would be cool to send me a #spymaster request.

After purging Twitter of things that bother me, my Predator Drone would stop off at Fuddruckers to get me an ostrich burger and then take off on its next mission: Find and destroy Shia Labeouf.  Here’s the thing, I really don’t have the same problem all of you have with Shia.  I just don’t want him to be in Transformers 2.  We already had enough “story” in the first film.  Now, all I want is two hours of robots beating the shit out of each other.  Shia will just take away from that, and as such, he must go.  I’d like to imagine that as I took my final dramatic bite of my delicious ostrich burger, I’d hear a high-pitched squeal in the distance as Shia gets drOWNED by a Predator laser beam (Drones have lasers, right?  No?  Whatever.  Mine will.).

Ostrich burgers always make me sleepy, so I’d take a nap, and when I woke up, the following would also be super extinct, courtesy of my Predator Drone:

bills
work
uneventful poops
homemade commercials
dance shows
Lady Gaga (I don’t even know anything about her.  I just hate her name.  BOOM!)
wait staff who talk to me like a pal
shaving
Auto Tune
possums
Patrick Swayze’s cancer
Scott Stapp
Nickelback
the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs (asshole)

My Predator Drone would kick so much ass and make me so much happier.  When Meggie explained that I was an elitist and a cynic, I’d agree.  When she added, “And you are so happy.”  I’d turn to my Predator Drone, give an approving wink.  Then I’d let off a triumphant, 80s-era cartoon end-of-episode laugh as it jokingly flew off into the sunset.

Someone get me a Predator Drone!

- David C. Garcia, aspiring optimist

Listen, I’m delighted you all have decided to join the Iran cause.  I see all of your green avatars.  And even though I know that most of you really have no real knowledge of the situation (C’mon, you know you don’t), I applaud your determination to ‘make a difference.’  Your green avatars on Twitter are the new “Live Strong” bracelets.

I went ahead and made my own Twitter avatar to show my support.

-David C. Garcia, just followin’ the crowd

EDIT: It was brought to my attention that the previous image “blended in too much.”  I went ahead and made a more apparent avatr.

There’s a special dance in Iran that involves getting dressed up in green shirts and beating the shit out of flaming motorcycles.  It’s usually done around voting time.

If anything, this is why you should get a Twitter account.  So that I can make you laugh all day with my Iranian politics tweets.

Image source: The Globe and Mail

A few hot summer days ago, I was sitting around in my ill-fitting tighty-whities, sipping warm flat soda with the AC turned off and watching The People’s Court (wait, is that still on?  Great, I just fucked up the continuity of my true story).

Whatever.  Tighty-whities, warm beverage on a hot day.  People’s Court.

Meggie, 1,000 months pregnant at this point, “gracefully” made her way into the living room in an obvious panic.

I couldn’t really understand what she was saying because I had the TV turned way up.  All I could hear was the judge’s gavel destroying the bench, as he shouted “order!” and “shut the *BLEEP* up!” at the greasy Mexican migrant worker and fat trailer trollette accusing said Mexican of owing her five bucks.  I scratched my sweaty, hair-matted belly and wondered if that Mexican dude had ever drilled his bleach-blond accuser.

“David!  Are you listening to me?” Meggie shrieked.

“Oh yeah, totally.”

“Well?”  She tapped her domestic foot.  I saw my yet-to-be-born baby shift, making her belly move, and I thought of Alien.

“……..”  I glanced at the TV and saw the Mexican dude making out with the whore plaintiff.  “Yeah, he totally test drove that,” I thought to myself.  And apparently out loud.

“Test drove what, David?….I don’t care.  You were supposed to be at work two hours ago!  Go put on some pants and go!”

I casually got up, shook the sweat off my torso like the furry love hound that I am and grabbed my pants off the floor.

Nobody was going to question my punctuality at work because I put on my special pants.  My magic pants.

My badass pants!

I put on my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans, motherfucker!

Nobody fucks with Daddy when he’s wearing his motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.  And for the most part, all I wear are my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.  Logic would therefore dictate that for the most part, nobody ever fucks with me.

These badass jeans are so magnificent and so tapered that I don’t even have to tight roll them.  All I have to do is roll them up, and it’s automatically a tightroll.  And they have my badass man smell all over them because I only wash them once a month or so.  That’s not sweat and parmesan you smell when I walk past you.  That’s power and triumph. 

And they are so acid-washed.  It looks like a bleach monster with severe allergies sneezed super hard all over them.

Because my badass motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans are the symbol of power, strength, masculinity and virility, they’re not sold at your average clothing retailer.  They have to be found. 

And I know where to find them: Goodwill. 

Goodwill is pretty much the only place I shop for clothes.  You know that sleeveless shirt with Garfield on it that I always wear?  The one where Garfield’s wearing oversized sunglasses and crossing his arms all cool-like?  Yeah, that one.  I got that at Goodwill.  Same with my giant high-tops and that weird clown painting.

Every few months, I go to Goodwill and drop a couple Washington’s on a new pair of motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.  I don’t even wait to go home and put them on.  I tell the retard behind the counter to turn his lumpy head around so I can slide into my new gear on the spot.

When I walk out, jeans clenching my ankles and snuggling my berries, I make sure to keep my wedding ring visible.  Because I know that the bitches can’t resist a man in acid-washed jeans.

So, if you’re in the market to boost your badassness, I recommend you consider getting motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.

And in case you are wondering, when I went to work, my red-with-envy boss told me, “Leave this fucking office right now and don’t come back until you are dressed like a professional and not a homeless junkie.”

When I came back in a few hours later was I wearing anything other than my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans?  Hell no!  A badass never compromises his style and convictions.

David C. Garcia, tapered, acid-washed jeans wearing motherfucker