Friday, December 5, 2014

Dillon Christmas Letter circa 2007

2007 X-Mas Letter from the Dillon Dogs

Ozzypug, Tazzy, and Quincy

Narrated by: Ozzypug

Typed by:  The Cats


JAN:   This was a CRAZY month. The Cats decided to become Scientologists! Every Meow out of their stinkin’ mouths was, “Tom Cruise this…” and “Tom Cruise that...” It was disturbing. One cat puked up a hairball that looked uncannily like Tom F-ing Cruise and worse, began to worship the nasty thing. That really upset Quincy because, as you all know, he’s a re-born again, born again agnostic. Quincy started bellowing about worshiping regurgitated false gods and to the cat’s horror, he chowed down on the Cruise-Ball! Wow! He strutted around the house for DAYS telling the cats that they should pray to his asshole because the second coming of Cruise would be arriving soon. That snapped the cats back into reality. Thank god they’re practicing Jews again. 


FEB:   Went to the vet to get our nails trimmed. Dog park my fuzzy ass! I pooped on the floor for that little scam. Mom baby-sat our little human cousin Kapryce for a few minutes one day. She got into a lot of stuff, but it was okay, it wasn’t mine. When she left, Mom said something about throwing herself down the stairs twice this month, whether she needed to or not. I had no idea what she was talking about but it was fun as hell racing her as she rolled down the stairs. It was a tie. Mom landed in poop. Guess who’s?  


MAR:    Same crap, different month. Eat, sleep, poop, piss, fart, eat, sleep, poop, piss, fart. What else is there? Quincy tried to poop the length of the living room but didn’t quite make it. Ass cramps. Almost made Guinness Book too.  


APR:    Got our photo taken with the Easter Bunny. Bastard will know next time not to run.   (not actual photo)



MAY:    I had to go to the vet for a diagnosis of my back legs. The vet says it’s nerve damage. Probably from that Agent Orange stuff those “Zipperheads” were spraying while I was in Nam. They can take my legs, those yellow-eyed pricks, but they can’t take my spirit. I read that on a box of HoHos. I smacked Tazzy with my new cane for calling me a gimp. That’s MR. GIMP to you fatty! I wonder who Steve Austin’s doctors were. A bionic tongue would be sweeeeet. 



JUN:     Mom caught Dad molesting his Action Figures in the bathroom again. You should have seen the look painted on Captain America’s face. Can we say, “Homoooo”?   Mom enrolled the three of us in classes. Who would have guessed Tazzy would be such a graceful pole dancer.


JUL:     Okay, I know you all saw our mug shots in Petsmart, Petco and your local news stations, but let me put the rumors straight: we DID NOT have sexual relations with those ferrets. It’s physically impossible and not to mention, EWWWW! Never believe a dirty weasel, especially ones on crack who screwed you out of 40 bucks. Dad found Quincy poop in the computer room with a note that read, “snacks.” Busted.


AUG:    Tazzy was sick of the cats, and me, poking fun of his weight. He didn’t appreciate the brotherly jabs of being called, Pug Chop, Pugzilla, or my favorite, Fat Ass.  So, Tazzy decided to start an exercise regiment. Quincy and I decided we wanted to look more buff too, so we all chipped in and bought some sweet headbands, a Bowflex and a crate of illegal Mexican steroids. By the end of the month, we were so ripped, we had muscles in our shit! Quincy got huge and began to resemble a small yak. And Tazzy really built up his peck and sphincter muscle. He was so fit, when he pissed, the stream blew him across the yard. It was amazing. Mom and Dad eventually found out we were “juicing”, so they cut off our Pay Pal account. Quincy pooped all over the dining room table in protest and blamed it on “roid rage.” I don’t think Mom & Dad bought it.


SEP:     We took a trip to the majestic Redwood Forest. It was AWESOME. It’s every dogs dream to visit the beautiful ancient redwoods and piss on every goddamn one. It’s the dog Olympics. You must train! Tip #1: Water, water, water or you’ll only hit a few trees before your stream runs dry. Tip #2: Don’t shoot your wad on the first few trees. A squirt here and there will get you past some of the big dogs with monster bladders. Tip #3:  Don’t piss on Sasquatch. I don’t care how much he tells you he’s into gay porn and golden showers. You will regret it. He’s a one sick fuck monkey.


OCT:    Got really wasted with the cats. They get all the good shit. 


NOV:     Watched a lot of TV. I believe that Rachel Ray needs to be rolled in flour, pissed on and eaten with a side of bacon-flavored polenta. Oh my god, I’m starting to sound like Sasquatch (see Sept). On a crappy note, Mom won’t let us watch the dog shows any more. She flipped out when she saw all the used tissues and empty bottles of Jergens Lotion in between the couch cushions. Come on, some of those bitches are HOT!   We tried to pin it on Dad, but since Mom didn’t find any naked action figures strewn about, she kinda knew.  


DEC:     Here we are Christmas time again. To all our friends and family: we love you and hope you have a wonderful holiday and a fruitful 2008. To the rest of you, go fuck yourselves. How did you get this letter any way? You know we ain’t friends! I wouldn’t write you a letter if you were smeared with bunny poop and pepperoni. And you know how much I LOVE bunny poop and pepperoni…

Dillon Christmas Letter circa...2010

2010 “Top 10 Things that Suck-Ass about the Holiday’s” as Narrated by

Ozzy, Edited by Tazzy, Quincy and Typed by the Katz who Shall Remain Nameless Because They’re Nasty Little Heathen Bastards Who Don’t Deserve to be Acknowledged


10.   Funeral Viewings

First, we had to wait in line for HOURS and when we got to the front of the line, nothing exciting happened.  We didn’t get spinned in a circle to circus music or nothing.  Quincy tried to stuff a pitiful origami dollar into this chick’s big-ass cleavage, but she was crying.  Apparently, she expected more than a dollar.   By the time most people got to the front of the line they were pretty friggin’ tired since there was no juice or cookies to tide them over, so they plopped down in front of this tricked out couch waiting to take a nap.  But someone hogged the couch the whole time so people got up and left!  How rude is that?  The highlight of the party was when Tazzy peed on all the ugly flowers on the floor.  We split because the party was dead and cause Tazzy peed on the ugly flowers.  Who started this Christmas tradition?  It’s terrible.  I don’t recommend it.  I heard somewhere it’s a Kwanza thing.


 9.  Wal-Mart Greeters

            They tell us to, “have nice day” and “thanks for shopping at Wal-mart.”  Truth be told, they no gives two-shits.  They rather be working at Long John Silver’s, getting paid in fish.  I can’t say I blame them.   Who wrote this?   Goddamn CATS!!!   Stop hijacking my holiday letter, ya tuna lickers!


8.  Christmas Trees

            What’s the point of putting a damn shrubbery in the house that you can’t piss on?   Then, Mom and Dad decorate under the tree with a white sheet to resemble snow.  Well, I decided to make Christmas Village look more realistic so I pooped in it.  Yup, I call it, “Christmas in New York.”  A friggin’ masterpiece. 


7.  Family Feuds

            When a simple argument gets physical, it can ruin a perfectly good meal.  Last Christmas, Tazzy got pissed because Quincy pilfered his turd stash.   I got shitty because Quincy didn’t let me in on his turd stash.  We all glared at each other from across the dinner table until Quincy grinned and popped an ill-gotten turd in his smug bastard face.  All hell broke loose!   We were wrestling in the mashed potatoes, slapping each other’s faces with meat loaf and rolling around in the sub-par salad bar.  Now, we are banned from Eat and Park.  *Sigh* Just remember, Quincy started it!


6.  Ho” Made Cookies

            What do I care that a “ho” made cookies?  She’s got a hobby, so what?   But sometimes I find an OREO on the plate.  Ho’s don’t make goddamn Oreos.  It’s an Oreo!  Damn ho’s lying.  Where’s her pimp?  She needs bitch slapped for that shit. 


5. Christmas Balls

            They are a grim reminder of intact testicles from Christmas pasts.  Have you ever been haunted by your nuts?  It’s scary as all hell.    


4.  Pissing Outside in the Snow

            Two words, it SUCKS.   We like to try and piss off the porch and see which one of us can hit the neighbor’s snowman in the face.  It becomes a game of war.   “Take THAT ya piss-faced snow-fucker!”   Good times.


3.  The Island of Misfit Toys from Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer

Tazzy wants to fly to the island of misfit toys and beat the shit out of each and every one of those stupid-ass toys.  “Nobody wants a cowboy that rides an ostrich,” Really?  Then get a horse, Dumbass!  “Nobody wants a Charlie in a Box?”  Whiny little piece of shit toy.  Well, go to Social Security and change your name.  How hard is that?    I never figured out the little red headed doll’s malfunction.  Quincy thinks she menstruates.  The cats claim she’s a lesbian.  I think Quincy’s right.  Gives a new meaning to the word “rag-doll”, doesn’t it? 


2.  Wish Lists

            I never get what I want….ever.  Quincy asks for the usual: treats and toys and a freshly-killed reindeer carcass; stuff we get EVERY year.   Tazzy asks for stupid shit like peace on earth and an Ethiopian to gnaw on; like they’re in season this time of year.  In 1996, I asked for the cats to be set free from being held hostage by their white oppressors.   I got neutered instead.   In 2007, I asked for all the cats to be sent for scientific experiments.  We got TWO more cats!  DAMN IT!   In 2008, I asked for tuna baited bear traps.  I got a yarmulke and a sweater that says “Bad to the Boner.”  What the fuck is that?  I’m not Jewish!  Tazzy claims his penis was Jewish at one time but that was because he didn’t want to have sex with this miniature pot bellied pig that he met online.   Santa has really pissed me off.  This year I asked for a gun and 10 bullets.  Oh, please, please, please……. 


1.  Writing Christmas Letters

            Can you smell what I’m farting?  Okay, it’s Tazzy.  Nice bouquet, huh?


Until Next year…….Happy Howliday’s Motherfuckers!

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Surgery Patients; What to do Before and During your Hospital Stay

Most of us have had something ripped out or jammed into our flesh at some point in our lives. It's not the most pleasurable experience- except for the anestesia, mophine drip or day old pudding with the "skin" on top. But I digress. Before anyone saunters in to the hospital for their slice-and-dice there are a few rules of protocol that should be followed. Nine to be exact....

1. Wash your privates. This may seem odd when you're having a tonsilectomy but trust me, your naughty bits need to be well-scrubbed, coiffed and smelling like Grandma's roses. Your genital appearance and scent will be the fodder for many discussions during surgery so make a good impression and the giggling should be kept at a minimum. No one needs their scalpel whelding doctor giggling.

2. Ask everyone in the hospital to sign the napkin you have writ your last will in testament. You gotta figure at least ONE of those signatures has to be a lawyer's. That's Pro Bono services, baby. But don't show anyone the stuff you're giving away! Bastards will try and pay off the doctors so you won't make it and your organs will be donated to Guatamalan children who are starving in Africa.

3. Wear as little clothes as possible. Naked is best. They make you remove all your clothes anyway and throughout your stay you move your stuff from one locker to another 20-30 times before someone finally steals them. People love to steal shit from hospitals. Cotton balls, surgical masks, YOUR clothes. Besides, they give you a gown to wear. It's all good.

4. Bring as many relatives and friends as you can. You will need the support. The nurses and doctors enjoy having rooms packed full of people. It makes them look like their hospital is the 'cool place' to hang out, just they are on most soap operas.

5. While they're rolling you down the hall and you reach the holding room for surgery, entertain your roommates waiting to be Ginsu-ed with rousing renditions of Don't Fear the Reaper, Knocking on Heavens Door and my personal favorite, Highway to Hell. Nothing is so uplifting as song when you're going into surgery.

6. Let the doctors and nurses know you have read every article on Wikipedia and Web MD about your ailment and procedure. Better yet, bring in all the articles because these doctors might need some points of reference. It's been a while since they were in med school.....

7. Always ask for the porn channel during an overnight stay. Hospitals are BORING without the porn channel. Don't let them tell you they don't offer it. They do. You just have to be really insistent. Fecal tossing is a great way to get what you need.

8. Wash your privates. Yes, it needed saying AGAIN. You're genitals are disgusting. Scrub the shit out of them. And if you DO have shit in and around your genitals, what's wrong with you?

9. Do not tease about contracting Ebola. A few months ago it WOULD have been funny but today people have no sense of humor. It IS okay to ask if the emergency protocol suit worn by the medical team in case of Ebola is sexy. Here's proof that there is one such suit.....

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

The Worst Scary Stories Never Written: Yet.....

I know a few things about scary horror stories. So take my word for it, if these stories are ever written; the great horned beast will rise from his trappings of Hell (which is probably a disgusting scripted reality show starring the Kardashians) and from his belly will brew a noxious fart that when unleashed from his pert sphincter, shall envelop the earth, raping your nostrils and clawing through your throat.

Only then will you truly understand the beasts Biblical rage and you will giggle! For the beast cannot properly digest queso dip.

His evilness is lactose intolerant. 

Enjoy the list and feel free to add to it!!

  •          Digging up Mommy
  •           I was Haunted by Chas Bono’s Breast Fat

  •          Children of a Lesser Corn
  •          The Monster that Wouldn’t Come Out of the Closet
  •          Black Cats- Racist Witches

  •          Eating for Two -You and Your Tapeworm
  •          I Sold My Soul for a Kia Optima (Better Gas Mileage)

  •          The Sandwich that Wouldn’t Be Eaten
  •          Why Black isn't Always Beautiful (The story of 
    •     Frostbite)
  •          Why Grilled Cheese will NEVER Talk

  •           Grammy put Pappy in a Home Because He's Going to 
    •     Die... and I Helped!

Friday, October 17, 2014

Mongols and Aliens and Dinner Oh MY!

Mongolian Beef
“What shall we do with him father?” ten year old Lok asked as he edged closer to the trap set by his father.
Cong grabbed his son’s thin shoulder and pulled him close. As a millet farmer in this small
Chinese village, Cong was more accustomed to gathering crops than creatures.  
“He may have allies hidden within the landscape. Where there’s one there are usually many.”
“Shall we string him up to warn the Mongols?  To set an example?”
Cong placed a calloused finger over his lips. “Hush your mouth. He may understand you.”
“How can such a creature understand our words? Look at him.” Lok picked up a stick and poked the interloper in the belly, stirring a pig-like grunt.
“He is simple.”
Seizing the stick from his son’s hand Cong cautioned “Simple or not he could be dangerous.”
“Where is his clothing? Has he no shame?”
 “A clever ploy” Cong replied while scratching his chin, “to silently attack us like the tiger.”
Lok’s curiosity refused to waver.
“I’ve never seen a Mongol before. Their heads are so round. His skin is like ash. And just look at his bulbous black eyes. They’re nothing like us. They’re ugly.”
The invader shook the heavy bamboo bars of his cage and screamed. The noise pierced the otherwise quiet countryside.
Lok retrieved his stick and beat the top of the makeshift prison and hissed.
“Silence you ugly beast” commanded Cong. “We don’t need any more of your kind here.”
Cong knelt in front of his prisoner to study him further.
“We’ve been lucky my son. This village has yet to feel the command of the Mongols. We have never laid eyes on the Nomadic faces of the invaders. I’ve prayed that we would be free from their oppression, but it seems the gods have other plans.”
A long slender arm reached for the stick as Lok continued to beat on the bamboo cage.
Exasperated at his son’s childish nature and the ungodly wails of the invader, Cong snatched the stick from his son and flung it into the surrounding millet field. Instead of landing with a thud on the soft dirt, it echoed with a hard, startling crack.
Both father and son stared at each other, trying to decipher the unfamiliar sound. Without a thought, Lok ran through the towering millet.
“Get back here foolish boy! You do not know who may lurk in the fields, waiting vengeance for his imprisoned kin.”
Lok appeared from the millet. “Father! This Nomad rides alone on a metal horse the likes I have never seen.”
Cong ventured into the field, inching closer to the strange metal horse that lay derelict on a patch of crushed grain. 
“Can I touch it father?”
Cong shook his head. “No. This could be a trap.”
He examined the wreckage a little more closely.
“It is said the Nomads have captured blacksmiths from various lands and forged extraordinary armor and weapons of destruction.”
Forgetting his own warnings, Cong cautiously attempted to touch the sleek grey metal. The prisoner’s screams quickly drew his hand back.
Father and son ran toward the cries.
The captive had grown feral, violently hurling himself into the bamboo bars and shrieking in an exotic tongue.
Lok retrieved a larger stick.
“I am afraid father. What do we do now?”
Cong withdrew a blade from his waist band. “We fight for the freedom of our village son. He is one lone Mongol.  We are many.”
Once again he knelt in front of the naked grey man wailing in front of him.
“Besides, our village has been without meat for so long. It is said Mongolian beef is a delicacy. I think it is about time we give it a try.”


Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Split Personality- Ladies, Meet Your Inner "Corky"

The Zen of Becoming a Kinder, Gentler Asshole


HEADLINE:  Post marriage, women develop and spew from their loins their “Inner-Corkies.”   It’s not as romantic as it sounds so let me explain.  Before I got married, I got along pretty well by myself.  I became an educated women, I got a job and successfully problem solved tasks from the mundane to the bizarre.  But once I married, something… changed.   It was ME, but only in my husband’s company.   See, occasionally, I morph into a mentally impaired Cro-Magnon-like dude named Corky who proudly displays twelve pair of underwear on his head and has a disembodied penis as an imaginary friend.  In case you’re wondering, I don’t know his imaginary penises name. We haven’t been properly introduced. Once provoked, my alter ego comes on me like sperm on a colossal set of fake tits-- hot and fast.

One evening the sprayer/hose from the kitchen sink leaked and my husband asked me, quite seriously,

“Hey, there’s a leak in the sink.  Did you use the kitchen hose correctly?” 

HUH? Did I use the hose CORRECTLY?   What the hell does that mean?  My body writhed, my face and neck twisted and contorted like a newly hatched alien baby and with a violent shake of my middle finger, out popped Corky. 
Holy shit! 
Where did he come from?  
My inner being was trapped while Corky started drooling and spraying himself with the hose.

“How Corky not know how to use water sprayer? Corky love water. Ha, ha, ha. Corky wash dishes in toilet next time.  Spray face, spray face!  Corky no use hose no more.   Water sprayer too complex for Corky.  Bad Corky!”

It really doesn’t help that my inner Corky sounds like cookie monster on crack when he speaks…

And what did my husband think of Corky? He acted like he hadn’t even noticed the outburst.  WTF?  Corky eventually reabsorbed back into my vagina.  Why does everything come in and out of my vagina?  Whatever.  It’s never long until he expels himself from my crotchel region again.

Just yesterday, I was driving with my husband and it began to rain. He glanced over at me and sighed as if I hadn’t noticed the changing weather.

“It’s raining. You know, you need to turn on the wipers and your lights?” 

With that, my head twitched and my body trembled.  This time I didn’t bother fighting the inevitable.  I opened my mouth and let out a scream that would have impressed the metal singer blaring on Sirius radio.  With the zest of a crisp fart breaking on leather seats, Corky exploded into the driver’s seat, ready and willing to navigate the car through the rainfall.

“Lights go on, off, on, off, on, off, on, on, on, on.  Corky want to lick wipers.”  With a maniacal laugh, Corky bashed his head on the steering wheel 10…20…40 times. 

“Beep, beep, beep.  Corky crash into house and kill us both.  No more need for lights. HAHHAHAHAH!”

You know, for being such a sped, Corky has some pretty good ideas.
The only time Corky doesn’t show up is when we’re having sex.   I’m a friggin guru then.  Some days, I just wish my inner Corky would pop out right when we’re about to ‘do it.’  

I can picture it now, “What this? LUBE? Corky love lube.  It Minty!”  

I can picture Corky snatching the lube and squeezing half the tube in his mouth.

“Make tongue numb.  HA HA!  What you doing?  Why you hand in you pants?  What you taking out of pants?  Uh uhh!  No, no.  Corky not put that in mouth!  Mom told me to say, ‘no!’   Get that away.  It smells like pee.”   

If Corky had a vagina, I could hear him laughing hysterically if he accidently queefed. 

“Ha, Ha!”  Corky make noise with Jayjay.  Make laugh.”  QUEEEEEEF   “Corky make pretty music with front butt.   Queef, Queef, Queeeeeeffffffffffffff!”   I can imagine him queefing to the tune of Yankee Doodle or something just as melodic from Queensryche. 

So, when you’re husband stares at you like you’re some crack-head dipshit, who eats with her feet and waxes stray cat’s assholes- just embrace your inner Corky and expel the crazy bastard from your vagina. Trust me, you’ll feel much better. Plus, you know you don’t have enough bail money for murdering your spouse and with your complexion you’d look like hot hell in prison orange.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Men of Silver

This story is for the uber SUPER Geeks. You know who you are......

Check out   for more cool pix!
Men of Silver 

“Jeez Louise, think you could turn the heat up in here?  It’s freezing.” Bruce Wayne grumbled, wrapping his old cape around his shoulders.

Clark Kent yawned. He’d heard this gripe from his former team mate before, “How many times do I have to tell you, you old bat, there isn’t a thermostat in the Fortress.  You always underdress. Put on my slippers. They’ll warm you up.”

Bruce starred at his host, the prior Man of Steel and leaned forward in his own recliner.

The awkward silence and eventual one word answered that followed said it all, “Who?”

Agitated, Clark stripped off his identity suppressing bi-focals and rubbed his less than super-eyes.

“What do you mean, ‘who’?  I didn’t say anything that required a ‘who’ for an answer. What are you now, a damned owl? ”

Confused, Bruce pointed a finger at himself.

“No Clark. I’m Batman. Remember?” he sucked his dentures, “It’s okay. I forget who I am sometimes too. Luckily, someone stitched my name in my underwear,” he said, still pointing to his chest.

Clark patted his addled friend’s hand and sighed.

“Yes, Bruce. I know you all too well. We’ve fought many battles together. Remember the epic war with Darkseid? You were magnificent in that encounter. By the way, I ran into Darkseid at the Justice League Retirement Community. He’s still a prick but with the glaucoma and osteoarthritis, his once forbidding Omega Beams are only good for warming his cocoa.  Plus, it’s hard to get around in a nano-second when you’re riding a hover-round.”

Bruce laughed. Clark missed listening to his old comrade’s laugh. He enjoyed reminiscing about the good old days where the good guys always vanquished the bad guys.

Bruce eagerly chimed in.

“Oh and you know who else is still hot?” he solicited with a bony elbow to Clark’s weakening arm- apparently not hearing any of the conversation.

Lois Lane. I would have had a shot with her if it wasn’t for Superman,” he leaned in and whispered, “I did touch her boob once.”  

Clark balled up his fist, but resisted to follow through with a strike. Instead, he snatched up Bruce by the arm in a less-than-powerful grip.

“I think it’s time for you to go home Batboy.”

Bruce slowly rose from his chair.

“Wow time sure flies. Tell Alfred to bring the Batmobile around.”

“Alfred’s dead, Bruce. He’s been dead for over 20 years,” Clark snipped, no longer in the mood to circle the planet known as memory lane.

“I think he’s stealing my silverware,” Bruce hissed, shaking a gloved finger in Clark’s face, “I know he’s been hiding my things. Yesterday, I found my codpiece in the breadbox. I should fire him.”

Ushering Bruce out the fortress door Clark rolled his eyes which accidently set fire to couch. After a wicked coughing spell brought on by emphysema, the Man of Steel finally managed to blow out the flames with his icy breath.

“Damn cataracts,” Clark griped.

Knowing his old friend would need assistance traveling home he enlisted a fellow superhero to be his traveling companion. Clark pulled Bruce close and practically screamed in his ear.

“Bruce, Alan is going to take you home. You remember Alan Scott? A.K.A Green Lantern?”

Alan offered an outstretched hand, “Good to see you Bruce. It’s been too long.”

“Oh Alan, Alan Scott. Rumor has it you’re now one of those queers, right?”

Clark hung his head. But Bruce persisted.

“I had to have this discussion with Robin so I’m going to have it with you too. I just need to get one thing straight…ME. Got it?”

Alan bit his lip. The likes of the Joker and Penguin had been his arch nemesis in the past but now the villains resided within him disguised as years of concussions and the ravages of dementia. He was then and now the Dark Knight. He forced an awkward smile.

“Good, now take me home. I’m freezing my bat balls off. Clark, why don’t you turn on the heat? Your Fortress is as cold as the White Witches tit,” he snickered. 

Alan shot Superman a befuddled look. Clark waved and shuffled back inside. Patting Green Lantern’s shoulder, Bruce grinned and shouted, “Up, up and away!”

And with a single invocation to the Earth and a lick of green flame both Batman and Green Lantern were gone.

Clark dropped in his recliner and closed his eyes.

“That was my line…I think.”

Monday, October 6, 2014

Clam Chowder Recipe- Excerpt from my Upcoming Cookbook

Clam Chowder

When I was a youthful blasphemer, two sexually retarded Jehovah’s Mormons sashayed on my porch expecting to find me vulnerable, in compromising positions and knee deep in sin. And damn it, they did.  While sucking down bourbon mixed with… bourbon, those clean cut boys stuffed my thong with pamphlets, (I found that odd but I went with it), and inquired if I had accepted Jesus as my personal savior. Well, I couldn’t lie, because I had accepted Him.  Hell, I invited him over for cocktails.  He was perched upstairs at my wet bar nursing a Bloody Mary and giggling over Scientology…and the fact he was drinking a Bloody Mary.  He’s funny as all shit that Lord and Savior, but a bit touched by more than the “Holy Spirit,” if ya smell my drift.  These Je-Mormons asked to come in to talk about Jesus, but I didn’t think it was proper since He was right upstairs and has that “super hearing” and all. So I politely slammed the door on them. After a rousing game of titty-twister with a few of the less popular Apostles,  Jesus and I had a good laugh at the poor defenseless bible beaters expense and had this dish for a reverent dinner. Sometimes, I like to serve this with those yummy crackers they pass out during Mass. To quote Andy Griffith, “Mmm...mmm.  Good Cracker.” They’re also nice when you run out of tortilla chips to dip in salsa.  Everything’s better with salsa, except for this chowder……


  • Drizzle of olive oil
  • 1 Tbs. butter
  • 4 stalks celery diced
  • 1 bag frozen diced onions (don’t ask me for the fresh equivalent cause I don’t frigging know)
  • 2 bay leafs
  • Salt and pepper
  • A half cup of white wine
  • Ass load of peeled and diced potatoes
  • 1 nice size frozen fish filet without skin and bones
  • 1 bottle of clam juice (approximately)
  • 5 cans of minced clams (reserve the liquor) It’s called LIQUOR because clam piss would be off-putting.
  • 1 can of chicken broth (approximately)
  • ½  cup heavy cream
  • Sprinkling of seasoning (salt to taste)

Place a big ole’ pot on medium heat and add the drizzle of olive oil and tablespoon of butter.  Salted?  Unsalted?  Who gives a rats ass, it’s only a tablespoon.

Dice up all your veggies, celery, onion and potatoes.  Plot the first two ingredients in the pot and let sweat. Ooooh yeah, sweat baby sweat. Once sweaty and disgusting add ½ cup of white wine. Let reduce for 5 minutes or something.

Throw the diced taddies in the pot. Don’t be gentle! You have no idea the lives those potatoes led before besmirching your kitchen.

Toss in bay leafs (or is it, leaves?  Hummmm…), salt and pepper.

Pour in bottle of clam juice and all the LIQUOR from the minced clams and can of chicken squeezings just enough to cover the potatoes.  That’s why in the ingredients it reads (approximately). See, I’m not as stupid as I read…     

Add the fish filet once the potatoes began to get soft and flaccid, heh heh heh. Dump in the clams and let them mingle with the rest of the party.

Pour in 1 cup light cream. Do I have to tell you to stir it? Well, okay then, stir it…ya sheep. Taste for seasoning.

Serve with some bread, oyster crackers or communion wafers. Okay don't get all uptight. They don't HAVE to be blessed wafers. Killjoys.
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My book, Arithmophobia for Kindle

Yep, it's finally ready.  Well the Kindle edition is.  The be on the market very soon.  Check it out and give it a re...