Unofficial Terms, Vol XXX (pronounced: "Oh, behave!"): "Mouth Farts"

Ever notice that when you get sick, your belches come from a deep, dark place? They really have no business being allowed to double back on the road they've traveled! I mean, if you're that close to the asshole, why on earth would you turn around to go all the way back around and spiral and twist and then straight up and out the mouth??? That's fucking cruel! Your mouth tastes like ass. You swish Scope and wait ten minutes for the next little bastard to lose his nerve, ditch the asshole, and treat your mouth like a pocket of Colon Blow. I mean, really, people.... More posting when I get better.... Until then, I send you this... er.... um... Mouth Fart....

New Music Monday: Bloc Party

Ladies and gentlemen, today's New Music Monday proudly presents the latest from Bloc Party: I Still Remember. The album will be out in the next couple of weeks. It's a knockout!! If you have an opinion, leave it in the comments. Now, back to the showgram....

Unofficial Terms, Vol XXIX (pronounced: zix): "MILILF"

Young America has adopted its own unique way of talking born out of the shorthand of the Internets called texting. ROTFL, WTF, and AYFKM have invaded our vocabulary. So too has the word MILF. Now, I've met many MILFs in my time as I'm sure that my many female reader have met many FILFs. However, I'm in search of a more elusive creature, one thought to be extinct or perhaps even the imagined hallucinations of a doped up freak - the *MILILF*.

The *MILILF* first found its way into my thought patterns during a night of booze and improvisational hackery. Trying to make my brother-in-law, Oswaldo, spit his beer out, make him cry, or just wet his pants, was the goal of the evening. Channeling Mrs. Garrett of The Facts of Life (I channel, people. Impersonations are something that a hack like Rich Little would perform.) I complained about Blair and Tootie spending too much time at the strip clubs....with my mom. Oswaldo was close to breaking, his eyes clenched shut as his mouth fought to keep the beer in as the air from his lungs begged to leave his body, abdominal muscles clenching and unclenching from spasmatic laughter. Not missing a beat, I began to impersonate my mother begging Oswaldo to tell me (my mom) that I was the *MILILF* of his dreams. He broke and nearly suffered a coronary in the process.

There's a kicker to this. As I spewed forth the *MILILF* term forty or fifty times in a half hour, the others in attendance cracked up. I thought it was because of the *MILILF*, something I thought was fairly clever. Alas, it was the sound of their mother and friend being channeled by yours truly that cracked them up. In confidence they informed me that they'd never heard of *MILF* and therefore didn't understand all that but still found the night to be a laughriot.

So, there I sat deflated. I still channel Mrs. Garrett, my mom, the pResident, and hundreds of the other voices in my head. Sadly, a little part of me died knowing that *MILILF* was wasted on them... I guess that leaves me to crack SILF jokes over at The Official....

BREAKING!!! UPDATE TO POST BELOW!!!

I just got off the phone with Grant Miller. I think it would be better if we all left him comments that look like spam. For example, you might want to leave comments that look like this:

Wnat t0 kn0w h0w t0 gr0w y0ur p3nis l0ng3r?

Magic hair grow solution come find here

hot pix of chix on stix!!!!!

RE: I can't believe I found you!!

Urgent message from Mr. Abra Nguleye! Need help to secure small fortune from my country that is under siege! Please send me ten thousand of your amercian dullars and I will send you a million!

Grant loves spam in his comments! Give him a hand!!

There He Goes Again....

Grant Miller is at it again. A dutiful reader - and dedicated, devout GEW for GESUS - pointed out to me that Mr. Miller has been pilfering from The Unofficial. Now, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of an embedded link...mostly because I'm too lazy to do that href crap. However, I would like to point out that one of my many reader caught Mr. Miller stealing The Unofficial's *Best Things That Ever Happened To Me*, a bit that started with the charming rescue of a beautiful baby bunny placed in harm's way. The publication of the event was noted in a review by none other than our very own Coaster Punchman.

So, what to do?

I believe we must wage war on Mr. Miller. Apparently, he's been doing this for quite some time - not that I would know anything about this since I don't read his hateful, negative blog. I'd like everyone to enter his comments section this weekend and leave him a simple message so that he will know our vengeful wrath: Tonight! We Sail! or Landerhaven, ho!

We must pull together as a community and send the message to [Redacted] that we will not allow him to simply steal bits at will. What's next? Pirate Week? Am I An Alcoholic? Unofficial Terms?? Where do we draw the line???

The line must be drawn here.....

Unofficial Terms, Vol XXVIII: "Sports Bites"

I've heard sports sound bites a million times and never really thought twice about it. I'm a sports fan. I love baseball. Some of my female friends abhor that men speak in *sports bites*. You know what those are, right?

"Our team is the best! And no one can stack up to us!" (Usually said just before quarterly numbers are below Wall Street's expectations.)

"I'd take any one of you on my team before I'd take one of the guys at Company X." (Usually said just before layoffs.)

"We win as a team and we lose as a team." (Usually said just before someone gets thrown under the bus.)

"I'm just trying to give a hundred and ten per cent!" (Usually said to a boss who won't accept a blow job in exchange for a promotion.)

But, there's one *sports bite* that pisses me off more than any other.

"We're batting a thousand now!"

Now, I can hear most of you saying, "Echo? What gives? What's so bad about that one?" If you're going to use a *sports bite*, make sure it's accurate. Allow me to channel my inner Schrute for a moment:

FACT: Baseball averages are a per centage where the number of hits a hitter collects is divided by the number of at bats to determine a success ratio.

FACT: It is impossible to *bat a thousand*.

FACT: Just because other people use this phrase doesn't make it acceptable. Some idiots still say *irregardless* which if you break it down is *regardful*.

That's right. Technically speaking, the best average a major league hitter could hope for is a 1.000 - that is, a one point oh oh oh. A *one point oh oh oh* is a *one*. From now on I expect all practicing GEWs for GESUS to insist after multiple successes that they are *batting a one*. If anyone gives you shit, tell them that you're *playing within yourself* and that they should consider doing so as well....or they could just fuck off....

New Music Monday

Ladies and Gentlemen, Matt And Kim.....




Likey? No Likey? Discuss in the comments....

Quentin Tarantino Presents: "Coaster Punchman's World"

(Welcome to a new feature here at The Unofficial where we will imagine different blog posts from around the internets the way Quentin Tarantino might write them. In the future we will no doubt see entries on Tenacious S, Ululay, Onderway Urtletay, Flannery Alden and that [Redacted] guy. Here we enjoy the The Dawn Wiener Files from Coaster Punchman as reimagined by Quentin Tarantino. Enjoy!)

The Dawn Wiener Files (proper noun) - a new CPW series detailing painful stories of childhood geekdom.

My 20th reunion occurred a few years ago. I did not attend because I was going to be on vacation in Europe. Do you know what they call a quarter pounder with cheese in France? A Royale with cheese. They've got the metric system over there which is all fucked up. I still enjoyed a lot of email and Internet hubbub over the event.

One day in a grocery store near my parents' house, I was walking past a woman who looked my way and said "Tom?" I didn't recognize her, but she seemed familiar. Marsallis Wallace's wife, maybe? I haven't lived in that area since I graduated high school, and am only around sporadically. Still, I knew Marsallis was not someone to be fucked with. He once threw a Samoan off a third floor balcony. I approached this conversation with trepidation.

"Well, Hello...What have we here?" I asked, ever so hesitantly.

"Tom, it's Marissa, from Palatine High!"

"Oh, Marissa! Hi!" We hugged briefly. I finally recognized her - I had once given her a foot massage...and I didn't tickle.

I was glad to see Marissa, because I liked her and we'd always gotten along well. But our very casual friendship crossed cultural lines; she was squarely rooted in Marsallis Wallacel's world, whereas I definitely kept my distance from that group. And although Marissa had never personally put a move on me, I always viewed her as an ambassador of the cool. A person who could make or break you with her extensive network of social connections. The type of person to marry Marsallis Wallace. The type of person who has to be handled very, very carefully.

We chatted about our lives and the upcoming reunion for a few minutes, and decided to exchange email addresses since I wouldn't be attending. We both searched our pockets for something to write on, but neither of us could find anything.

"Wait a second, my husband's right over there. I'll see if he has something," she said. A few seconds later Marissa returned with her husband in tow, and made the appropriate introductions. "Hey, give Tom one of your cards so we can trade emails," she said. I was stunned. This was not Marsallis Wallace.

Marissa's new husband opened his wallet from his Casual Male sport coat and handed me a card.

"Brad Nelson, Director of Human Relations, Trancecorp. Nice to meet you."

I stared at his hand with the card dangling there waiting for me to accept it. "Look at the big brain on Brad. Director! Very nice, Bradley." I looked at his card like a lion with a styrofoam cup. What the fuck was I supposed to do with that?? "As a Director, Brad, I'm sure you're aware that you're the greasy remnants of some creature that I have chosen to strike down with great vengeance and furious anger so you will know my name....bitch!" I proceeded to rip the card in half.

Ripped. His card. In half. Just seconds after he handed it to me.

A split second after my little show of force, Brad spoke.

"Um, dude, I was just giving you our email address and..."

She giggled.

"Do you mind if I have a bite of your sandwich?" I asked. "I bet that's a tasty burger. A Big Kahuna burger, no doubt.

"Um," Brad started. "I don't have a burger, and I think that the Big Kahuna isn't real. It's just something that Quentin Tarantino invented for his movie."

"Look at the big brain on Brad!" I replied.

"Um, you already said that. Right. Look, we've gotta go."

What an asshole. Twenty years out of high school and I still can't play it cool. I still wonder what Marissa must have told the rest of her A-list friends about me. As they left the cereal aisle I could hear him talking. "I've never seen a white guy with Gerri Curl try to do Samuel L Jackson worse than that."

"Jesus Christ, Brad. You should've seen him in High School..."

For anyone who is wondering, I did email Marissa's husband. And never heard back from either of them.

Unofficial Terms, Vol XXVII: "Bookteria"

So, there I am at the Borders Bookstore in delightful Oak Brook, Illinois on a side jaunt after Festivus, killing time because my 90 year old, immigrant, WWII veteran father isn't home even though I'd called him ten minutes before to say, Hey, pops, I'll be there in ten minutes! I've got Mrs. Echo along with Pebbles and Bam Bam! This, of course, caused him to run to the store to get the fixings for a large feast even though we told him we had but a few minutes to stop. We were exhausted. I was exhausted. Stressed out. Tired. Fried. Burned out to the max...

Bam Bam hates public restrooms, but after a two hour drive, a kiddie latte, and some of my Gatorade, the little bastard had to go pee...or should I say, I forced the little bastard to go pee.

We entered the restroom with trepidation. Public restrooms - especially for men - can be a trying experience for those who may be hygenically-minded. This restroom did not let me down. It was filthy. Disgusting. Smelled of urine, feces, and something indescribable. Bam Bam furrowed his brow and glared at me. I don't have to go, dad. Let's get out of here. I made him go. Despite having a vast children's section at this Borders, there were no kiddie urinals. I'd have to lift him up to help him do his business. This was turning into a nightmare. In the stall adjacent to the urinals came a grunting, gassing, squirting sound accompanied by the foul smell of feces gone wrong (has it ever gone right??)...

Bam Bam finished his business and so too did Squirty McShit. We washed our hands as did ol' Squirty who refused eye contact presumably due to some post-defecation embarrassment. We just wanted to get out of there. We washed our hands with ample quantities of soap, water, and prayer and grabbed frantically at the paper towel to dry up and get out. Squirty followed suit. We turned to the door to exit. I held it open for Bam Bam and thought I was holding the door for Mr. McShit. When I turned my head, I saw him retreat back to the stall from hell and disappear momentarily behind the swinging door. He re-emerged carrying a book with a red 30% OFF! sticker. I pretended not to notice and re-entered the bookstore.

I waited for beeping alarms which never came. This Borders had no book-in-the-shitter prevention alarm system! He simply strolled to the shelf from which he grabbed the book on Rock N Roll and returned it to the front of the pile for the next visitor. I stared at the book. I looked at the bathroom.

In ten seconds I calculated the amount of *Book-teria* he was spreading by dragging the book into the shitter and back out again. It would circulate in the general population spreading shit everywhere. I thought of CSI. Would I need to start carrying one of those little blue lights around with me? Would I ever shop at this Borders again? What else might I find with that little, blue light??? I was grossed out! Paralyzed. I was already burned out. Would I ever write again?!? I was permanently damaged.

Bam Bam looked up at me. He had noticed everything. "Dad, that was *sick-gusting*.

I looked at the poor little tike and shook my head. "Yes, Bam Bam. Yes, it was. And we must never speak of this again...."

Call To Action: GEWs For GESUS

Yesterday on my return trip from a long day with the parental units, I drove through driving rain/sleet down Rte. 50 towards Lake Geneva. Along the way there is a small town - Salem, I believe - where traffic slows for about a mile to 35 MPH. It's a drive-thru town with everything including the Mickey D's and the High School sharing space along the short drag. Also along that path is the ironic future home of GEWs For GESUS - Our Mecca, if you will.

It is a family restaurant, a diner, that sits on the south side of Rte 50 and its name has pissed me off for three years now. It's plastered on a yellow, backlit sign mounted on a 20 foot pole with an American Flag emblazoned below the lettering. Its name? The Promise Land Family Restaurant. *Promise Land*... Like... hmm... make a fucking promise?? What? Would adding the *D* have driven them over budget??

Therefore, *The Promised Land* we seek is now *The Promise Land Family Restaurant*.

Landerhaven, Ho!!!


PS: Sorry for the lack of posts. I've been on the run for the last three weeks. Aliens descended upon our home and have been chasing me across the Midwest. Agents Scully and Mulder assure me that I need no longer worry of the coming invasion as it has already begun. So say we all!