Thursday, June 29, 2006

How Enlightening

It seems that Fated Mohammed woke up with a bit of a problem. He had a light bulb up his ass. According to poor old “Mo”, he simply woke up and there it was- illumination of the anal region.

Now, Mo is a prisoner in Pakistan who is serving time for making liquor, which is against the law. Liquor plus surprises in your anus? A coincidence? I think not.

I am curious as to how Mo’s Muslim brethren feel about anal insertions. How does that go? Liquor bad, anal toys right as rain! Does Allah frown on cocktails but smiles upon the anal arts? (And have no doubt, to be able to insert a glass bulb up a butt without it breaking is truly an art)

Mo claims the other prisoners drugged him and inserted the offending luminary without his knowledge whilst he was sleeping. Well, sure. When I’m bored in prison, I like to insert foreign objects into other people’s bums. But no one wants to be cruel about it! Drug the guy so he feels no discomfort. I’m sure they used Vaseline to ensure smooth entry cause I find prisoners to be very sensitive to one another’s needs.

The image of a bunch of Pakistani guys sitting around giggling going “hey, as soon as Fated goes to sleep, let’s take a light bulb and stick it where the sun don’t shine!” absolutely cracks me up.

And really, if you think about it, you must have some really poor muscle tone in your anus if you don’t crush a light bulb. In other words, I believe Mo’s anus had previously lost a lot of its original elasticity or else his rectum would have been more like glass minefield and less like a lamp. Me thinks this is not the first foreign object to meet Mo’s colon.

Instead of the standard light bulb appearing over a character’s head when he has an idea, I picture Mo’s ass lighting up when he has thought. Makes me chuckle every time I think about it.

I also hope he didn’t have a cold during this trauma cause I’m thinking one sneeze and whammo – you’ve got yourself a glass shard problem. And Allah forbid, you get a case of the runs! Or gas for that matter! One serious blow and you could put someone’s eye out!

As public service announcement, please be aware that we here at Floyd’s Tailgate do not support the insertion of glass lighting objects into the anal region generally under any circumstances. We will however make an exception if you are detained in Pakistani prison cause those guys like to paaarrrr-taaaaay.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Find The Crack Whore, Win A Dollar*

*And by no means is this meant to imply that I'm actually sending you a dollar

It has often been said by minds wiser than mine that the practice of law would be great, if it wasn't for the clients. And I'm here to tell you folks that I attract more than my fair share of whack jobs.

Just spent the morning with client who is seeking custody of his child. He actually said to me at one point, "You mean I have to go to court?". send a nice Hallmark card, I'm sure the judge will have no problem just handing over a kid to you sight unseen. And seriously, if you don't stop responding to everything I tell you with "um, yeah, okay" when it is clear from the blank look in your eyes that you just don't get it, I'm going to beat you with the high heels you have forced me to wear to court with pantyhose even though it's 97 degrees outside.

I spent last month with client who wanted to fight to the death for custody of her children but due to her unfortunate habit of putting things up her nose while in the family room watching Wheel of Fortune, she lost custody. I then, in legal maneuvering worthy of F. Lee Bailey himself, fight to the death for liberal visitation for her with the children. I rant and rave about her being primary caretaker of children whom she loves dearly and how she's simply made a stupid mistake and "please, you Honor, give this a woman a chance to heal her relationship with her children". I win. I get any and all visitation....which my client decides she doesn't want. Nope. No need for her to see them after school every day, she just needs about 2 hours every other Saturday. Nothing warms the cockles like a mother's love.

I just got off phone with client who wants restraining order against ex-husband. Okay. Well, I ask, "Has he made threats?". Client says, "No". Well, I say, "Are you fearful for your safety?" Client says, "No". Okay, then I say, "Well, why then do you need a restraining order?". Client says, "He's just bugging me.". Ummmm....yeah....if that was sufficient grounds, I would have a restraining order out against you, now wouldn't I?

Yesterday, I sent my third bill off to the stripper (sorry, "exotic dancer" or "pole hostess"). I represented her in a DUI case and charged her a ridiculously small amount of money (Legal Buddy Rob scolded me). She promised me that she would pay me from all the "money she earned that weekend" prior to her going into lockup for the week. She gave me $160.00 and showed up at court with cocaine in her system. Wonder where the rest of my fee went? It's a mystery!

And let's not forget that DUI client that "just can't lose their license!". Ummm...yeah....then you shouldn't have gotten that third DUI cause I'm a lawyer, lady, I'm not Mr. Magician (Sidenote - I wanted to use Doug Henning as opposed to Mr. Magician but was concerned that my reference to this fuzzy haired, rainbow shirt wearing illuuuusionist of the '70s might not be appreciated).

Then there's the client that thinks "confidentiality" means he should tell you EVERYTHING like where he hid the money, his plans to defraud business partners or basically lie to cover his ass in a court of law. Guess what? Confidentiality don't cover all things, you amoral asshole. And if you don't stop sharing with me, I 'm going to start sharing with you about my inability to listen to you for more than 30 seconds a stretch or the fact that I haven't filed a single one of your papers yet.

And last but not certainly not least, my absolute favorite. The client that you talk to on the phone who after discussing legal business wants to ask you about your personal life. She prefaces her "small talk" with "and now, off the clock"....guess what, you old bat? I own the clock. I turn on the clock. I turn off the clock. And if I have to sit here and make nice with your drunken, anorexic ass, then it is most definitely on the clock cause if we are off the clock, then you will get to talk to the "real me" and me thinks you won't like that as much. Send a check and stop tying up my phone lines. the my job. Anyone need any legal help out there?

Friday, June 23, 2006

Work? What's That?

It's Friday and how can I be expected to work under these conditions?

1. Can someone please tell Heidi Klum to keep her legs crossed? She and Seal are going to have another baby. Which, of course, makes sense since she's been out of the hospital with her other baby for about 5 fucking minutes (and I mean that literally "fucking" minutes). Dude, I know she's hot and you look very similar to a dog's ass but seriously, keep it in your pants for just a month or two.

2. Would my DUI client please show the hell up?! I told her I'd be back in the office at 1:00 and it's now 3:26! For the love of all that's alcoholic, please get the hell here so I can go start to work on my own DUI! I'm starting to get that itch behind my eyeballs that can only be cured by Bud Light.

3. Did no one tell those new terrorists in Miami that I no longer work close to the Sears Tower? I know they were aiming for me. I know too much. I'm too savy to let live. One would have thought that their connections in the office next door would have informed them of my move. Better luck next time, suckers!

4. Is it really a good idea to be teaching the POD firestarting skills? POD is in "theraputic nature camp" where they are teaching her to start fires with possibly her own urine and stinging nettles, for pete's sake. Clearly, the therapists are unaware of the POD's "lighter collection" and my need to keep fires away from all of my belongings. Sure, it ups her confidence but really doesn't do a whole hell of a lot for mine! Dumbasses. Can't believe we're paying for this shit. It's like "Your child has emotional trouble? Well, let's teach her how to blow shit up! Does she know where the Sears Tower is?".

5. For the love of Kit, who the hell let David Hasselhoff back on TV? And you're letting him judge talent? If the guy knew what talent was, he would have gauged out his own eyeballs while watching a replay of Knight Rider simply to teach himself a lesson.

6. You know what I want to see? Mariah Carey and Britney Spears in a caged death match. I bet Mariah could kick Britney's redneck ass all the way back to swamp. But then maybe I could get Christina Aguillera to scare Mariah back into hiding cause I hate that half-dressed poodle princess as well.

Just a thought.


Floyd needs a beer....or twelve.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006


I think it will come as no surprise to any of you that I once again have no cohesive topic to discuss (but I do get bonus points for using the word "cohesive"). Therefore, we are once again resorting to my favorite literary tool - the list. Aren't I cutting edge? Aren't I just so clever? Blah.

1. You know what I miss? The penguin. Not the Batman penguin but the Bud Ice penguin. You remember him? During the fiasco I generally refer to as "why are we fucking with my beer?" in which Budweiser introduced Bud Ice, they had a great set of commercials. This penguin would come out and he would be singing "doobie doobie dooo" to the tune of Strangers in the Night. The tagline was "just watch out for the penguins". He totally rocked. I mean I like penguins, who doesn't? But a Sinatra singing flightless waterfowl selling beer? Priceless. And no, this really doesn't have a point other than to say that all I've been able to hear for the last several days is "doobie doobie dooooo" and thus, no cohesive topic.

2. Me thinks the terrorists next door are getting closer to carrying out their fiendish plot. They have painted symbols over their business name in dayglo orange paint. Strange, voodoo, chicken head cutting symbols, people! I don't know what the hell they mean but it's my mojo all atwitter. And I'm not even going into the alarm bell that randomly goes off and irregular intervals. They have a peephole and I know they're watching me in the hallway. I feel their beady little "want to blow you up" eyeballs roaming all over my fine person (they're foreign so they appreciate a voluptuous broad - fuck y'all for doubting me). If I send a letter to Homeland Security, do you think that will cause the federal government to review my tax returns for the past few years? reason.... just curious....and no cohesiveness.

3. There has been some serious Britney fallout from her previous sit-down with Matt Lauer, and I ain't talking about her cleavage, folks. Apparently, not a single publicist for Britney was present for said interview! The horror! Who let this cheeto-stuffing, chaps wearing, doesn't-have-the-brains-that-god-gave-a-walrus, donkey-breeding whore on TV without supervision! Puhleeeasssse, people! I still have a headache from watching this debacle. Somebody rope that redneck in. Cohesive to nothing.

4. So I listen to the a Regular Guys radio show on 96 Rock in the mornings. I tell you this because they keep using a sound bit (bit? bite? how do I know? I didn't go the Columbia School of Broadcasting!). The sound bit is of Stewie from the Family Guy going "Jesus is Chinese". They use it all the time. AND IT CRACKS ME UP EACH AND EVERY TIME. I mean "people looking at me from other cars and changing lanes" cracking up. I don't know why - I don't think Jesus was Chinese but I suppose it doesn't matter - it just kills me. But it's not cohesive.

5. Dear God/Jesus, I would like to apologize for laughing at the whole "son of god is Chinese" thingy and for saying "Christ on a Cracker" the other day. I know it's not funny to use for amusement purposes but damn, You got to admit, the picture of Jesus sitting on a Ritz is funny, funny stuff. Love, Floyd P.S. I would also like forgiveness for promoting A.S.S. (Anal Sex Saturday) cause I really don't know where you stand on the whole "optional entry" discussion but as you know, I am merely the creator of the holiday - I am NOT a participant. And I am NOT cohesive.

6. Okay. No one else has come out and said it so I’m guess I’ll have to be the one with the balls. The little Angelina-Brad genetic experiment? Um…yeah….it has her lips. And that’s all cool and everything but am I the only who’s noticed that the little offspring seems to be unable to close her lips? Yep, two of the world’s most beautiful people have bred a mouth breather. Hell, even Britney and her man-whore produced a kid without mouth abnormalities (course to be fair, Sean Preston will be the first 4 year old on the playground to be saying “Fuck, Mamma, I dun crushed my cigarettes! Make Daddy Whore go fetch me nuther pack!”). There. It has been said. I feel better now. But I don't feel cohesive.

Well, as you can tell, I'm getting a lot of work done today. But seeing how the terrorists next door will probably be blowing my ass up in the next few days, it all just seems pointless anyway.

Friday, June 16, 2006

She's Not Trashy, She's Your Baby's Mamma

First let me say, that Captain Nutty finally called at 7:18 pm eastern standard time to complain that I had not called her all day and after all, she was the one had to "grunt and strain" 36 years ago. I just apologized so I could get off the phone before she said "grunt and strain" again cause now I picture my birth as very similar to passing a turn the size of Toledo. (Note to self: bring extra money to therapist this week)

Enough about me. Let's talk about me watching TV.

Last night, I hope you all caught Matt Lauer's interview with Britney Spears cause it was a priceless display of the aforementioned southern inbreeding. I expect on my next trip to Six Flags, I will see Britney in line in front of me sporting her bikini top and arguing that Sean Preston is tall enough to ride the Scream Machine if he sits on her lap.

After watching Britney, I flipped channels and found an interview with Bill Gates, the richest man in the universe and beyond.

So let's see if you can guess what happened in which interview:

- One subject chewed gum through the entire chat. Said subject worked that gum like a starving cow working his way through his cud.

- One subject sported false eyelashes that made Tammy Faye pea green with envy. Such eyelashes made me have nightmares about spiders all freakin night long.

- One subject made me seriously concerned that I was about to see some nipplage. And let's be clear, I want to see neither Britney's nor Bill's love nubbins.

- One subject said they loved their spouse because that person was "so simple". Ummm...yeah.....has someone informed this person that "simple" can also mean "needs to wear a helmet to avoid self-injury"?

- One subject compared themselves to Julia Roberts and accused Ms. Roberts of stealing her husband away from another woman. I'm sure Julia was sitting at home going "Oh no, she didn't! I will kick that homespun bitch's ass!"

- One subject kept showing Matt what god gave her every time she crossed her legs. Sharon Stone was in awe of her technique. Matt, on the other hand, looked a little green around the gills.

- One subject seemed baffled by the use of big words and could occasionally be seen rolling her eyes into the back of her head as if she had a cheat sheet stapled on the back of her eyelids.

- One clearly needs to hire new hair and make-up people cause Liza Minnelli is looking more natural.

- One is excited about the future of robotics and eliminating malaria in third world countries.

The similarities are astounding, aren't they? Hard to tell which interview was which! It's like they share the same brain!

Britney for president, y'all. She totally rocks and K Fed will be an awesome first bitch. Peace out.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Just Call Me Molly Ringwald

Today is my birthday. I am 36 years old.

It is 5:06 p.m. eastern time.

I have yet to recieve a birthday call from my mother.


This does not bode well for the old bar tab tonight. Does not bode well, indeed.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Song of the South

I'm not making excuses anymore for being a slackass as I'm guessing there is no one left here to read anything anyway. But, be that as it may, I’m feeling compelled to discuss a few issues.

As I haven't posted in a bit, I'm awash with difference topics. I don't know whether to tell you about my overwhelming fear of the inadequacy of the pipes in my new house and whether fiber therapy will assist to diminish said fear. Or should I discuss the fact that I have moved into a new office where the floor is so askew, it appears that I have set up my desk on the deck of the Titanic - a theory which is supported by the subzero temperatures in said office coupled with the occasional sighting of an off- course penguin.

I also considered discussing the fact that the office next door is clearly inhabited by terrorists which is evident by the peephole they have in their office and the occasional alarm bells I hear going off as they fail to follow proper procedure when removing their stash of plutonium which is kept in the freezer adjacent to my office wall.

All good topics to be sure. However, my need to discuss my recent trip to Six Flags overwhelms these rantings. Cause I, my friend, have at last found proof of the much rumored and ridiculed in breeding of fine southern folk.

Now, let me be clear. I can make fun of the South. I am Southern. And no transplanted from New York southerner or even some "I’m southern, I grew up in Florida" southern. I am a rare bird - a native Atlantan. Further, my entire family on both non-branching tree sides is southern. Matter of fact, on one side we trace our roots back to John Wilkes Booth (and yes, I know he was English but you see my point).

What does this mean? It means I can pick on Southern people but unless you grew up eating cornbread, vegetables boiled for 12 hours in bacon fat and the "last of this year's dairy cows" meat - you can't make fun of Southerners. It's like someone calling your mamma a "crazy, sadistic, lard ass" - you can call that crazy bitch that but if your buddy does, you'll sick that same whack job mamma on his weenie ass.

Anyway, I digress.

Prior to banishing the POD to wilderness camp for an indeterminate amount of time (and no, I don't want to talk about it), we decided to venture out with the masses to Six Flags. I used to LOVE Six Flags. Wanted to work there. Wanted to live there. Wanted to ride the Scream Machine until I puked. However, Six Flags has undergone a bit of a cultural shift.

In this previously stellar park, I finally found proof of the long rumored in breeding of Southern folk.

I will begin with the accident in genetics that was behind me in line for Goliath. He was a prime example of what Cowboy Dan refers to as “RBS” – Redneck Bone Structure. If I had been so inclined, I could have come right up on this guy and bashed him in the head with a two-by-four right smack dab in the middle of his forehead. He would never have seen me coming, as his eyes were set so far apart. Now, he probably could have kicked my ass in a lateral move but if I went straight in for the kill, he would be one knocked out redneck. Hell, his gap-tooted buddy would hardly have time to react.

A tad farther down the line was tattoo girl. Now, I myself have a discreet tattoo and find nothing wrong with it. But this gal was adventurous. Amongst her wide display of body art, she had a tattoo around her neck. A necklace, you ask? Oh, no. Barbed wire. With flesh and blood hanging off one spot of this lively decoration. Sound lovely, doesn’t it? A real “can’t wait to introduce her to Grandpa” kinda gal. Some poor kid from Alabama just about hurled up his $7 hot dog on the spot.

However, I will give old Barbed Wire one nugget of praise – she chose to wear a bra (I know this as her shirt was see-through but I’m being picky). Apparently, in the land of amusement parks, proper undergarments are now optional. I saw more bouncing mammary glands than you see at old Hugh’s house on trampoline night. My god, people, didn’t your mamma teach you nothing? Even my crazy ass loon of a mother made sure my accessories were firmly encased in a wire bound torture device because “good girls kept the girls supported”. AND IT’S AN AMUSEMENT PARK! Some of you could lose an eye like that!

And newsflash, sporting a bikini top does not count as proper support. It seems that here in the deep South, any time the temps hit over 80 degrees, the “ladies” find it acceptable to start wearing their bathing suits wherever they go. Here’s a hint – if you are more than 2 miles from the nearest cement pond, forgo the bathing attire. I look at you and all I see is a walking yeast infection. And your boyfriend squirting you down with a water pistol doesn’t count – perhaps it counts at your evening job of pole dancing, but not here.

And exactly when did we become like the Japanese in metro trains? STAND THE FUCK BACK! I have a personal space meter and you’re sending its readings off the charts. I don’t know where you’ve been but if that smell is any indication, you are communicable. Back the hell up.

And hey, Six Flags! Just because you keep giving me my cokes in a paper cup without a lid or a straw, isn’t going to make me buy your damn $9 souvenir drink thingie with that creepy dancing old man on top! Give me a damn lid before I introduce my foot to Tweetie’s ass.

All in all, an outing that was both fun and enlightening. When looking to carry the Floyds into the next generation, I might be better off looking a little north of the Mason-Dixon. I’m just saying.