Hell Away From Home.

By Adam Greene

When I first learned in late 2003 that Amy and I would have to periodically venture to Montpelier, Vermont I thought, “Awesome. Now I can finally punch Howard Dean in the face like I always dreamed.” Little did I know that not only would I not get to give the one-time democratic presidential candidate and DNC chairman’s teeth a rake, but I would be trapped in one of the most boring places on the planet.

While in Montpelier, Amy leaves us to complete her “book learnin’” at her faint-cee Vreeemont College and my daughter and I must go and do all the fun things available to us to pass the time in Montpelier, Vermont; jack and, oh yeah, shit.

The city of Montpelier happily brags that it’s “the nation’s smallest state capital.” But, as men with tiny penises continually hope to believe, it’s not the size of the state capital that matters, it’s how you use it. And do Vermonters know how to use it?? You betcha. Just ask the woman with the stump of daddy long legs spiders on her head and a clone of Cousin It from The Addams Family under each arm holding the “Bush Lied, People Died” sign. Montpelier was made for protesting.

In the eight days we were in Vermont this time, there were two separate “demonstrations” at the Vermont state house for various concerns of Vermonters. You’d think being in a state that was so “itsy”, would give you some sort of perspective. Something along the lines of, “Why would anyone give a shit what I think? I’m from Vermont and suck very much.” But, no. As Howard Dean proved beyond all doubt, being from a state and area of the country that is completely insignificant and irrelevant is no reason to act like you are.

This was low time for Vermont-y protests from my perspective. The last time we were there was during the presidential election and the place was positively swarming with placards, unkempt hair, body odor and die-ins. There was even a little four-person protest in front of the Mobile Station across from the Winooski River the day after George W. Bush was reelected. Absolutely adorable.

With no wish to protest anything, my daughter and I scoured Montpelier and its surrounding areas for things do on our first visit.

We went to The Fairbanks Museum of Dead Shit, where I found I could ensure my young daughter would have recurring nightmares about mangy dead grotesque stuffed polar bears, snakes and birds. It was like Norman Bates’ private room, only creepier.

Tired of constant reminders of our own morality, we took the three and half minute tour of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream Factory where they informed us that they pump pure fresh Vermont air from outside directly into each yummy box. I made sure to fart when I left so I could give the batch of Chunky Monkey they were preparing an extra special kick. If you thought your pint of Cherry Garcia smelled a little more like the Grateful Dead member it was named after than the last time you had it, all I can say is, “you are welcome.”

Impressed with all the other things there were to do like visit maple syrup factories, maple syrup factory tours and also the touring of factories that produce syrup made from maple trees, my daughter and I decided that Vermont blew ass and went back to the hotel room to watch TV. That’s pretty much how we’ve enjoyed Vermont ever since.

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Men. In Hats.

By Adam Greene

Journey with me, for a moment, down whatever fevered path might convince a grown man that he could successfully wear a cowboy hat. Now, it should be obvious there are only five groups of people who can pull off wearing a cowboy hat:

Actual cowboys,



People pretending to be cowboys,



Strippers,



Gay dudes,



And “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes.



The cowboy hat, you see, is a tool. When poking cows and various other kinds of pack animals in the barren Hellscapes of Texas and New Mexico, the sun can cause quite a problem for humans. Problems like killing you and cooking your corpse to a nice golden brown for various carrion eating predators to devour, for instance.

The way you keep all that from happening is a little thing God invented called shade. Shade is created by the sun’s light being blocked by a rock, tree or an overly medicated, unconscious Rosie O’Donnell. Huddled under said rock, tree or slumbering lesbian, one can escape the sun’s beaming ray of death. But how to carry it with you on the lonesome trail? The rock would be too heavy, it’s nearly impossible to grow a tree from your head and, God help you, Rosie would eventually sober up and want to talk about the WNBA. No, there had to be better way.

Enter General Ignatius P. Pigglepootham and his “Fantabulous Great Beast Poking Cranial Contraption of St. Louis.”



The General, who was not actually in the military, gained notoriety throughout the Missouri territory for starring in his own original German language one man show, “Der Frankenfurter”, performed entirely in the nude, save only for a British policeman’s hat. Being chased naked through the streets of the early west was not without its dangers as The General learned on one sunny day in July of 1852. If not for the protecting tar and feathers the good townspeople had been nice enough to cover him with, Pigglepootham knew he would have been dealing with quite the nasty all-over sunburn. Knowing that adding any clothing would ruin the strength and raw power of “Der Frankenfurter”, Ignatius decided to make one subtle change to his sparse wardrobe. By sewing a piece of foamy cloth to the British constable hat, he was able to create a large shadow in which to hide his attenuate frame almost completely from the solar rays that had so threatened his achromatic buttocks and indiscernible genitalia.

He also found it provided ample cover when indulging in his favorite, non nude German play pastime, violently raping male goats. It was during one of his goat humping outings that Pigglepootham was shot seventeen times in the face by local ranch hand Roy McCubbin. Fascinated by the large brimmed hat that he had blown from the dead goat molester’s head, McCubbin, who had been working all day herding cattle in the sweltering Missouri sun, knew exactly what he would use such a headpiece for.

It was the perfect item to perch atop his brow as he posed for pictures with his favorite harlots at the local saloon.



“McCubbin’s Ten-Gallon Photographic Whore Helmet”, as it came to be known, became all the rage and soon men all over the southwest were wearing large-brimmed hats and posing with prostitutes.

It wasn’t until 27 or so years later that a young man ventured out of a hooker photography session wearing his McCubbin and changed the west as we know it. It was a broiling August day. Usually, after a few moments, the young man would succumb to the heat and pass out in the middle of the street like everyone else in Missouri, but for some reason, he hadn’t. “Hmm,” he thought to himself. “This Photographic Whore Helmet seems to keep the hot sun off my head and shoulders. I should wear this while I work on the ranch.” Unfortunately, that young man’s name has been lost to history, but his idea caught on for some curious reason and soon everyone working or riding outdoors began wearing a Whore Helmet. After a few years people started referring to the whore helmet as a “cowboy hat”. The rest, as they say, is history.

The original “Fantabulous Great Beast Poking Contraption of St. Louis a.k.a. McCubbin’s Photographic Whore Helmet” is currently on display at the Missouri State House Museum.



Knowing now, as we do, the origins and uses of the cowboy hat, why then would you wear one if you, say, for instance, hang from wires over a crowd of mouth-breathing morons while singing about beer and trailers?



Singing about cowboys does not make you a cowboy. Shocking, but true. The dictionary defines a cowboy as “A hired man, especially in the western United States, who tends cattle and performs many of his duties on horseback.” It doesn’t say “Jackass holding a guitar, singing through his nose, and wearing an unfortunate shirt.”

Listen, I don’t go to work wearing a motorcycle helmet or hockey pants. You’ll never see me hard at work at my computer in a medieval suit of armor or an astronaut’s space suit. If you ever meet me on the street, I can assure you I will not be wearing a diving helmet or F-14 flight gear. Is it too much to ask that country music singers grant me the same kind of courtesy?

I know what you’re asking yourselves right now, “What about Kenny Chesney?”

And I say, of course he can still wear his cowboy hat…



...because he’s gay.

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Thanks, I needed that.

By Adam Greene

Many times when I sit down at my computer and begin my internet travels I often think, “I wonder how one might make his cock very similar to a baseball bat.” Luckily for me, that information is usually no more than an Outlook Express icon click away. All the data I need to turn my penis into a large wooden club beams in from the ether right into my inbox. A quick open of the e-mail and now I know all I could even want or need to know about cock bat-tening. And knowing, as Flint and Lady Jaye used to tell us, is half the battle.

A moment ago I pulled in my first batch of this important, much needed information. Things that I needed to know so desperately that they were sent to me without me even asking. Awesome.

For instance, being a happily married Christian, you’d think I would have no use for a Christian dating site. WhereChristiansMeet.com knows better. Sure I love my wife and the Lord, so what better way to betray them both than by meeting other “like minded Christians in my area” and committing heinous acts of adultery with my sisters in faith? Very hot. But, then, that could just be the Hellfire.

If my tastes run a little more secular and risky, I could open the e-mail from “Lynn” with the subject line “cyst”. Wow. Not only could I desecrate my marriage vows, I can also be sure to leave with boiling Lovecraftian sores on my genitals. They must beat the guys away with a pock-covered cock bat. When I open it, I find I have a date reserved with Erika, thanks to the good folks at Messypipe.com. They’ve saved me all the trouble of arranging my VD implantation for myself. That’s good people right there. Thanks, Messypipe!

If my syphilis doesn’t kill me, maybe bullets will, as I have had the honor of being invited by MLXEntertainment to “keep tabs on JaRule and 50 Cent”. Fantastic. No one’s ever been gunned down doing that before.

The holidays are tough. I just ate and ate at all the Roman orgies I attended and, sure enough, I have the spare tire to show for it. Somehow the word has gotten out to Nutricore.com and do they have a diet product for me? Just look how delicious this blonde model is paid to pretend it is.



I can’t tell that she’s afraid to actually touch it to her tongue at all. That’s not fear in her eyes. It’s deliciousness!

Yoursmartrewards.com asks me a question I’ve never been asked before:



I can honestly say, I don’t know. The Burberry matches the pants my grandfather was buried in, but Coach is one of my all time favorite TV shows. What to do?

And that is but a sampling of the pure, unfiltered stream of critical info available to me in my e-mail inbox every single day. Don’t you wish you were this lucky?

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Mr. Fogelberg, I presume.

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In the research I do to post what I like to think of as "funny" items on this site, I occasionally will come across little gems like this. Until a few days ago, I had never seen this picture before. How is this possible? How could this have existed in the world and I not know about it? Is this what raising my rank past level 9 on Halo 2 has cost me? I may never forgive myself.

I think it can be said that this is one of the funniest pictures in the history of the medium for a variety of reasons. Many of which I will share with you now.

Number 1. At what point do you look at Barry Gibb, study him closely, and say to yourself, "I think I'll take that look four to seven steps further"?

Number 2. What are the odds Bill's coat has fringe on it? 2-1?

Number 3. If Bill walked up to you on campus and told you that he had recently been learning to play the Indian Sitar, wouldn't you have to believe him?

Number 4. Why is Hillary wearing the same darkened, giant coke-bottle glasses that my uncle has had since I was a fetus?

Number 5. Bill Clinton. Mock turtleneck. He was a mock turtleneck guy. Everything makes so much more sense now, doesn't it?

I wonder if even then he had his deep and abiding love of ninjas...

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