by Antenna Wilde
I was having a problem with an electrical outlet, so I had an electrician come over to check it out. He said there was no power to the outlet, and went around checking the other outlets. He was spending a lot of time checking these outlets, and I tell him which ones work already, but he keeps putting this electric sensor up to them, saying he, “needs to see if they work.” So I grab a lamp and plug it into an outlet he hasn’t checked yet: the lamp lights up.
He looks at me and says, “No, I have to use this sensor.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m using a sensor too, this lamp! You see how it’s on?” Because you know, the lamp is on, so obviously it’s working. And it’s not smoking haywire or shooting electric tree branches up the wall, so I say, “Why don’t you check the outlet over there, you know, the one that’s NOT working?”
At first he frowns at me, but then gets off his knees and goes over to squat down beside the first outlet, taking the plate off and pulling out some wires. “Oh, lookee here,” he says, probing his sensor into the jack, “If that ain’t the biggest rats nest I ever…” and suddenly lightning shoots up his veins and flashes all around him until his head sparkles like a Chisese pinata on New Years, and drops dead to the floor, simmering. I checked his pulse, but nothing. I felt bad, but still, I don’t see what’s wrong with using a lamp to see if an outlet works. Fuckin’ retard. Anyone know a good electrician?
The Women of Tiger Woods
by Antenna Wilde
They’re all hookers.
Tiger Woods, one of the greatest golfers of all time. Tiger Woods, beloved family man endorsed by a host of multi-national corporations. And Tiger Woods, adulterous sex fiend. Every day another women steps into the media limelight with a new Tiger Woods sex story, yet questions remain: is he really a nymphomaniac, did his wife know about the cheating, and is he hung more like Arnold Palmer or Ben Hogan?
As for the girls, they all have two things in common: they’re all hookers, and they’re all… I guess they’re all hookers. They’re also all white—there you go—and I’m sure there’s other similarities, let me know if you think of any, like they all have the clap for example. But don’t say, “They’re not hookers, most of them have jobs working in night clubs.” Because right there, I rest my case. (Don’t get me wrong, just because you’re working as a cocktail waitress doesn’t mean you’re a whore, but whores often get jobs as cocktail waitresses to meet new clients.) And that’s exactly what’s going on here; hookers posing as night club employees to legitimize their profession. Admittedly, Holly Sampson is a former porn star and Joslyn James is a current porn star, and I say kudos to them, because at least they’re not phonies.
Mindy Lawton? Pul-EESE! Put a pair of glasses on this bitch and she turns into Harry Potter. Maybe Tiger was drunk, maybe she cast a spell on him, but say it ain’t so, man, say it ain’t so.
Apparently Tiger likes paying for sex. He even offered his wife Elin 60 million dollars to stay with him. Of course, this is in addition to the money she’s already entitled to under their pre-nuptual agreement, a figure the NY Post reports as 300 million.
And it seems that she’s cashing the check, so…
…as we watch this spiraling flurry engulf Tiger in a media shit-storm, we should consider who got what out of all this. The tramps finally got the attention they desperately wanted, his wife doubled her multi-million dollar assets, the media got a whole lotta dirt, and Tiger got… laid. He should have stayed on the golf course. Too bad for his kids, but they can afford the best shrinks in the country. Elin is the real winner in all of this. Embarrassing, sure, but considering the extra 60 million Tiger’s doling out, each affair cost him (and earned her) a whopping 7.5 million. Do you think she’d have him un-do it all? I wonder. As for Woods, he should have stayed in Vegas. But then again… that’s where he met Kalika Moquin.
It’s like biting a flour-cloud. Softer than a marshmallow, yet strong enough to hold the turkey in place; leftover Thanksgiving turkey with lettuce, tomato and mayo… a pinch of salt and pepper. Yes, Wonder Bread, that malleable-fluff-bread, complaisant actor in the movie called, Sandwich! Where would we be without it, as a society, a culture, a people?
I remember as a child, my father bringing it home, held soft and safe under his arm like a fragile Christmas package. My mother, however, was aghast. She said it had no fiber, no nutrients, no validity. My father flipped the plastic bundle around, red-white-and-blue, revealing the vitamin-enriched “fact” sheet: Vitamin D, calcium and Riboflavin; Iron, Thiamine and Niacin.
“Hogwash!” she cried, “It’s unnatural!”
Mother was right, it is unnatural, and father was right, it is vitamin enriched, but they’re both wrong. They missed the point, which is that, Wonder Bread is not made to be healthy, or natural, or even delicious. Wonder Bread is made to be a carrier for deliciousness, the altar upon which we lay our sacred fillings and processed deli meats. In essence, it merely amplifies that which you put within it. On its own, Wonder Bread isn’t that great, but add a mere slice of American cheese—or any kind of cheese you like—between two of those fluffy white pillows of Wonder, grill it with butter in a frying pan, well… I’ll be right back!