I'm WOLFGANG BUCKNER, MOTHER FU©KNER!

Happy Satan Day, Heathens.

2007-10-30T23:46:00.000-04:00

I dressed up as a tubby dude who was late for work.

Bold New Buckner of the South

2007-10-29T23:11:00.000-04:00

Hello all...its been awhile since I enlightened all ten of the alleged readers of this blog. Not much has changed to tell you the truth, except for that somehow, someway, I ended up balls deep in Florida...Jacksonville, Florida to be exact, 20 miles from the beach and living the banks of a manatee-infested river.

I'll keep the descriptions of my latest home to myself for now, but the place can really be summed up by the fact that one of the local television personalities appallingly resembles Eddie Murphy's "Sherman Klump" character in those "The Nutty Professor" movies my nephews and stoners enjoy so much. Don't believe me?

No, I am not making that up either. Hercules! Hercules!

The worklife is a better paying, more miserable version of my former job, so in other words my job sucks too. Sorta like yours does. Add that job crap to a unhealthy infusion of ridiculously awful people into my life (including the worst person I have ever met), and I have a hankerin' for some bloggerin'. The blogs won't be consistent and I am sure the readership will never reach the 2005-2006 levels, but unfortunately I need some sort of outlet, and the internets are it.

Welcome back.

How could it not be alright?

2007-01-30T00:30:00.000-05:00

Hi.

Sorry about the lack of holiday wishes. I'll be better this year, scouts honor.

The Bitter South

2006-10-17T22:58:00.000-04:00

So what have you been doing with your summer?

I personally have been fucking around all over the world like Paris Hilton with a beer gut instead of that hairless dog and a shaved hoo-hah. By world, I just mean the selected states in the U.S., but that’s pretty much qualifies as the world for most of you planted go-nowhere heads. Texas, California, New York, Oregon, South Carolina, Michigan, Nevada, Georgia, Ohio (doesn’t count), Pennsylvania, and two 1,200 mile trips to Florida. Yesiree, I am a traveling’ man with a left-arm tan.

Oh yeah, I left Pittsburgh for a job in Florida, took the Florida Bar exam, lost my job, and found another one. Along the way, made zero friends and about 10 new enemies. When I mean enemies, I mean people that hate my guts. So the summer wasn’t all that bad.

You all would be feeling the same bitter way if you were stuck in Jacksonville, the alleged “city” that separates the true red-dirt-and-neck NASCAR south from the section occupied by unimaginative spring break slutfaces, the orange, leathery old farts, Cubans and Shaq. It smells of Maxwell House coffee, sour stagnant water and my sweat because its never fucking under 80 degrees here. However, of all the places I have been in this state, it easily is the best of the big cities, so I do temper my anger with a bit of acceptance.

So bear with me the next couple of weeks, as I have more than a few things to share.

Thirty two.

2006-10-10T21:44:00.000-04:00

So, October 11th is the day...On October 11th 32 years ago, my dear mother pushed the greatness that is Wolfgang Buckner out of her womb and into the world. Where that leaves me now is anyone's guess, but I do have some updated information for yinz...I will be resuming the old blog next week, and just so you know, I have a lot of ire built up. So stay tuned and thank you all for being patient.

Fun with Mennonites.

2006-05-02T13:20:00.000-04:00

I was going to write a heartfelt, tearjerker-type blog about some a woman I know this evening, but I got distracted by a lichen-eating Mennonite from Somerset County, Pennsylvania.

Below is a map of Somerset County. Pay close attention to its western neighbor, clearly marked on this map.

According to published reports, Daniel Myers hiked to the top of Laurel Mountain before dawn on Friday without telling anybody where he was going and toting along a bible as his only camping gear. The kid's father, Phillip Myers, thought his son was jogging(!) or turkey hunting (naturally) at first, but then got worried when he didn't return home.

Further complicating this story is the fact that Mr. Myers is a Mennonite. As many of you know, Mennonites are a step above Amish and a step below Polygamist Mormon in the wallflower division of Christian-sect spin-offs. For example, Mennonite women still have to wear those bonnets and ankle-length skirts a la the Amish, but they can use a car and don’t have to worry about their husband picking up a new wife on the way home from the barn raising.

Mr. Myers sustained himself for those two days in the wilderness by eating lichens that he scraped off of stones. For your information, lichen is a mixture of fungus and algae living in a happy symbiotic relationship while growing on rocks and stumps. Lichen comes in a number of colors, meaning lichen looks like plenty of other shit splattered on a rock along side the hiking trail. Tasty.

Myers also caught a sunfish or two with a MacGyver-esque pole fashioned from a stick, some string and a buckle from his suspenders. The fact that he ate rock scrapings and boney fish disproves my theory that Myers' bible was like the ones seen in prison escape movies, hollowed out and stuffed with bourbon, a pistol and some Snickers.

Myers also used leaves and moss to keep warm during his adventure. After reading nearly the entire Old Testament and eating his fill of algae and fungus scrapings, Myers rose from his mulch sleeping bag and hiked back down from the mountain into town. Little did he know that an old-fashioned search and rescue party of 75 Mennonites plus dozens of volunteer firefighters were scouring the wilderness for him.

This reporter was not there, but the sight of 75 Mennonites fanning out into the mountains must have been bone-chilling, especially with a bunch of mullet-wearing volunteer firefighters wearing "Bad Boy Club" t-shirts acting as backup. Imagine "Night of the Living Dead," except the zombies are pasty-white women wearing bonnets and high-waist polyester dresses and dingy men with long scraggly beards, pastel shirts and suspenders.

When he got back to his log cabin, Myers told reporters he snuck out without telling anybody because he feared his father would deny his request to leave because there was plenty of work to do at the family machine shop. "I figured people wouldn't worry about me," he said. Apparently young Myers is ignorant of the Mennonite way, which is to deploy an entire pack of Mennonites and volunteer firefighters to hunt down escapees before they experience indoor plumbing, Doritos and nudie bars.

While this story sounds heartwarming and makes for a great human interest story for the "700 Club," I have my own theory of what went down. I see a 19-year old kid that was pissed at his dad for not letting him go to the barn dance and who dreaded another weekend of hard labor in the family machine shop. So he grabs some home-grown Mennonite herb, rolling papers and a lighter and takes off into the woods to get stoned. He takes a pocket-sized bible with him as an alibi and has a relaxing weekend.

In my scenario, Myers gets the munchies and decides to make lichen and sunfish sushi after a few days of non-stop puffing. After eating his fill, he passes out in a pile of leaves, using the bible as a pillow. The next day he discovers he is out of papers and weed and is suffering stomach cramps from the fish parasites he ingested the day before. So he stumbles down the hill and crashes at his parent’s log cabin, but not before he concocts a story that would make Pat Robertson proud.

No matter what the explanation (and mine seems more plausible), Daniel's father Phillip summed up the entire situation thusly:

"I see the need for closer communication in our family."

Simplicity. It's the Mennonite way.

Spandex and my clutch

2006-05-01T03:03:00.000-04:00

This photo begs a caption, but not before the sex of the human is determined. Grace Jones and Annie Lennox thinks this person is androgynous.

Because I am a lazy a-hole,I didn't prepare anything for today. Trust me, I have plenty of ire to spread, but give me a few hours.

Sus scrofa

2006-04-28T08:31:00.000-04:00

I will fill in some more details next week, but my trip to Florida this week can be summed up thusly:

After drinking at an Applebee’s for 3 hours, my future co-workers decided that I needed to experience a true “South Florida Tiki Bar.” I was not opposed to this idea, considering I was drinking Miller Lite beer at an Applebee’s. As many of you know, beer isn't my thing. Whiskey,lots of it, is how I pickle my liver. You may be asking why I was drinking the Miller Lite in the first place. Well, for some fucking archaic southern reason, this Applebee’s DIDN’T have Jack Daniels because of a problem with a “liquor license.” Call me an ignorant yankee, but that's a bunch of crap.

According to the helpful bartender, Florida has a dual booze licensing system. A proprietor needs one license for beer and wine and another for the good stuff. Some bars don’t have both, so they just serve beer and wine. We have a word up here in Pennsylvania for that, and that word is BULLSHIT. These mother fuckers can buy a 30 pack at a BP station to shotgun on the drive home, but I can’t get a Jack Daniels because it requires a separate license.

I left the Applebee’s in total disgust and drove to the “tiki bar.” Turns out, the place was nice. It had sand, tiki torches and was located right on the water. As my hosts were extolling how historical and renowned the place was, I leaned over the bar and asked the bartender if she had a license to sell me some Jack Daniels. She responded in the affirmative, which made their story much more interesting.

After four sweet whiskey’s, I excused myself to the restroom. As soon as I stepped up to the urinal, two men engaged in a loud, drunken conversation walked in. One of the men stepped to the adjacent urinal while the other guy chose to piss in the sink behind me. Classy, but I was full of whiskey so I didn’t care.

The guy next to me was in the middle of a story about hunting "wild boar", and it apparently was entertaining enough to continue while urinating. His storytelling style was so demonstrative that it interfered with the task at hand, causing him to miss the urinal and piss on the wall behind it. His urine then splashed onto my leg.

You read that correctly: He pissed on my leg. WITHOUT permission.

I lunged back a bit and shouted "Dude!" Mr. BadShot looked down and in a thick New York accent slurred "Oh shit. Sorry big guy. You need some new socks." The guy pissing in the sink leaned back and said "What'd you do Anthony? Piss on his shoes? Sorry mister, I'll take him home." After a colorful exchange between myself and Anthony, they two diminutive drunk asses high-tailed it out of the restroom and into a late model Ford pickup truck in the parking lot.

I was left with a piss-soaked leg.

Fuck you Florida. It's on now.

Wang State.

2006-04-24T23:11:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the lack of posting recently, but preparing to move to America's Wang is plenty of work. I am actually going to be there the next few days, so I am resorting to reposting the following. Sorry for the laziness.

******************************************************************
Pittsburgh (AP)

Allegheny County prosecutors have filed a charge of solicitation of prostitution, public lewdness, resisting arrest and possession of a controlled substance against a 34-year-old crime fighting mascot accused of giving the Easter Bunny a contract for sexual propositions in March.

The mascot, McGruff the Crime Dog, is accused of approaching the Ms. Bunny without his trademark overcoat on March 25, 2005 while Ms. Bunny was preparing for an Easter egg hunt later that day, according to the criminal complaint. The maximum penalty for the charge, a felony, is three years in prison and three years of extended supervision.

McGruff, right, seen here in a photo taken shortly before the alleged misconduct.

Shortly after the conclusion of the hunt, McGruff allegedly appeared from a wooded area, wearing only a collar, and then asked if Ms. Bunny if she would accept $500,000 and pulled a three-page handwritten contract written in red crayon from a manila folder. On the second page was an itemized list detailing sexual acts, the complaint says. The third page said the offer only was good if she did what was listed in the contract.

The bunny told the officer she began to fear for her safety at that point and worked her way towards the street. She told the McGruff the contract would not work because it was not the kind of thing that “good bunnies do” and also that her acceptance of the contract would violate the antitrust agreement she currently held with Jesus and Hershey Chocolates Inc. allowing her to control the Easter holiday without religous or candy competition until 2012. McGruff then reportedly fled the scene and drove away in a truck.

McGruff has been in the Allegheny County Jail on a probation hold. A date has not been set for him to appear in Allegheny County court.

The charges and subsequent arrest of McGruff are one of a slew of strange and criminal behavior by the mascot in the past year. Perhaps the most bizarre arrest involved the questionable relationship with Scruff, a minor Crime Puppy.

A police officer responding to a suspicious vehicle call discovered two large mascots lying down in the rear of McGruff’s 1998 white Chevrolet van in October 2004.

As the officer approached the vehicle on foot, he noticed both of the car’s occupants pulling oversized felt shorts up over their exposed genitals, police said. The suspects offered conflicting stories on how they met and the duration and frequency of their relationship, police said.

Initially, McGruff indicated that he knew the younger mascot’s first name was Scruff, but said Scruff was his nephew whom he had guardianship over, according to the police report

Scruff told police he met with McGruff “from time to time” and that the two had “hooked up” earlier that day on Butler Street, police said.

Both suspects later admitted they were just “fooling around,” the police report said. Police also found a dog bowl filled with wine and several copies "Scandinavian Poodle Magazine" and "Dog Fancy" scattered on the floor of the van.

McGruff later admitted to police Scruff was a juvenile prostitute from whom he has been soliciting sex for about a year. McGruff indicated to police that he plied Scruff with Snausages, worm medicine and porn in exchange for allowing McGruff to touch Scruff's "li'l pinkie," repeated consensual ass sniffings, mutual lickings, leg humping and other sexual favors, according to police reports.

McGruff also paid Scruff $14 to have sex with him and took him on several "long walks," police said.

Another strange incident was reported in 2004. In June, 2004, McGruff was questioned by Pittsburgh City Police after several reports of a dog mascot approaching children at local parks surfaced. In each instance, the mascot, who identified himself only as "Good Doggie", offered candy to children in exchange for allowing him to fondle and lick their toes. No charges were filed, but Chief Sergeant Maurita Bryant of the Pittsburgh Police has indicated that the investigation is ongoing.

In May 2005, McGruff was arrested for harassment after growling and chasing several participants in the 2005 Gay Pride parade on Penn Avenue downtown. "That bastard was such a fucking BITCH, I mean really" commented participant and event organizer, Eda Bagel of Morningside.

McGruff's recent run-ins and criminal behavior with the police began after the much publicized break-up of the Crime Mascot and the Former Ms. Florida, in 2001.

From staff and wire reports. Wolfgang Buckner contributed to this story.

***UPDATE*** Just so you all know, I have been working on this breaking news story for about 3 months. Beware of poor, poor substitutes that have been posted in other places recently. This one's all Buckner, no plagiarism here. This is the REAL McGruff story.***

The hits keep coming.

2006-04-24T13:18:00.000-04:00

18-year-old charged in Fayette County rape

Monday, April 24, 2006
By Ryan Haggerty, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

State police have arrested a man accused of raping a 66-year-old woman with multiple sclerosis in her Saltlick, Fayette County, home early yesterday.

Raymond Lucas Prinkey, 18, of Normalville, Fayette County, was arraigned in district court on charges of burglary, rape, involuntary deviate sexual intercourse and theft. Bond was set at $25,000 straight cash, and a preliminary hearing was scheduled for May 2.

Police allege that Mr. Prinkey entered the woman's house using a found key, asked her for money and OxyContin, sexually assaulted her and then blindfolded her. He took an undetermined amount of cash and fled.

Add "raping geriatric multiple sclerosis victims after robbing them of hillbilly herion" to the list of bullshit that these people seem to find themselves getting into.

1st Annual Buckner Testicle Toast.

2006-04-20T11:07:00.000-04:00

Today is April 20th.

The day I woke up in a hospital bed without my testicle.

This subject has been covered before, but its still an aniversary that I enjoy celebrating. Today, for your old pal Buckner, have a drink and make a toast to the sky for my cancerous testicle, wherever it may be. If your drink is a FOURTY OUNCE, spill a little bit on the curb for the one that's gone.

I encourage all of you to post a comment detailing the language of your toast.

Moving is difficult.

2006-04-20T01:59:00.000-04:00

Because my move to F-L-A means the end of Buckner, I have decided to re-post some crap. I promise to provide some new writing very soon. Until then, enjoy this classic.

My neighborhood fears God in a big way. There are no less than 7 Synagogues, 3 Christian-sect Churches, a Mosque and assorted religion-themed schools, nursing homes and the like within about mile radius of my front porch. When I moved here a few years ago, I couldn't believe the religious diversity. My little bucolic wonder-bread-and-one-stoplight hometown featured a Catholic Church and white people. Oh, and a church that had a blinking neon "Jesus Saves" light in direct opposite-road competition with "Laura's Springboro Inn" and their neon sign promoting the spiritual contribution of "Busch Light and Bass Fishing."

Moving here was an epiphany in diversity, religious or otherwise, for me. So I became an atheist. As natural a progression as one can get.

However, I am a firm believer that no matter what religion you pick as an adult, if you were raised Catholic like I was you are infected with Catholicism for life. Catholicism is the herpes simplex of your conscience, always with you in some incurable way, waiting to erupt with festering guilt or unsightly Godfearance and the absolute worst time.

Internally fighting the programmed religious upbringing is hard. The influence of outside stimuli like Grandma, Christmas and Johnny Cash makes it even harder.

I persevered for quite a long time, stoking the fires of my own belief system, refining them, trying to act all unique or novel to my Christian friends and family. I endured questions from my nephews asking me if I was ok with burning in a lake of fire for eternity. I refused to memorize Samuel L. Jackson's "Ezekiel 25:13" lines in Pulp Fiction. I rolled my eyes and politely returned the Bible my churchy sister and brother-in-law gave me on my 30th birthday. Atheist Buckner, Hear me roar...

Then The Devil began showing up on the sidewalks around my neighborhood. The Devil Named Larry. Obviously here to disrupt the religous vibe of the neighborhood, The Devil Named Larry patrolled the streets terrifying all who passed. Including me. I am sure he sensed my fear as well.

I have wrote about this scoundrel several times on this blog, but I have thought about him a lot more. Ten years of religous de-conditioning down the drain...there had to be a God, because there sure is hell a Devil, A Devil Named Larry.

Wasted. All that heightened sense of spiritual superiority, all that Nietzsche, WASTED. Fucking "Geneaology of Morals" anyway.

I wanted to document his presence among us to the world, but I wasn't very successful. My previous photos of this urban Mephistopheles were blurry and low quality, like those taken of Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster, some other alleged unnatural beings in our eartly midst.

Until last week.

I set out last week to finally confront The Devil Named Larry, photograph him to show the world that he was a figment of reality, not my imagination. After a few days, I began to get discouraged, because he was nowhere to be found. On my way home from another unsuccessful attempt, I happened by a local tavern, and there, sitting at the corner of the bar, was....him.

Before I took this picture, I asked him, voice quivering, if he minded being included in a photo of the bar. ***As I sidenote, yes, I spoke to the Devil, and not only that, I lied to the Devil about my intentions. Know what that means? HEAVEN! By my calculations, a negative (the Devil) times a negative (a lie) equals a POSITIVE! HEAVEN HERE I COME!***

His response to my picture request?

"Just don't put the fucking thing on one of those posters on the wall of the fucking post office over there. Just don't do that! HAR HAR HAR!", motioning his hand toward me to proceed.

A nervous smile crept accross my face as I steadied my shot. Then I took another.

As you can see by this picture, The Devil Named Larry began to get searingly mad at the flashing lights. Sensing my soul in danger, I ducked out the side door and walked back to my house as fast as my piggy legs would carry me, looking over my shoulder just in case I was followed.

The Devil Wears Fila. The Devil drinks Bud Light bottles and pours it in a glass. The Devil truely is adorned with gold. Make sure you cross reference these pictures with my previous description, linked above.

Buckner doesn't exaggerate. He reports.

So if you excuse me, I am off to say a rosary and listen to some olde-timey soul saving music.

All work and no play...

2006-04-19T08:49:00.000-04:00

Check back later today or tonight for some original material. Until then, read this article about a man that raped a goat in front of a stopped passenger train. Seems like Fayette Countians are everywhere.

2006-04-18T07:38:00.000-04:00

Allow me to make this pledge to all of you:

I will NEVER, EVER do this.

Julie_Gong might, but not this guy.

I will make a more formal update later today or this evening.

Fayette County strikes again.

2006-04-17T09:54:00.000-04:00

Sure, every county has its problems. Fayette County, Pennsylvania just has a lot more. I am not going to go over the list of despicable actions by its residents yet again (you can read it here if you have not already). However, I will add this one to the list. The headline says it all, actually:

MAN CHARGED IN MICROWAVE BEATING DEATH.

That's right, some rube from Fayette County killed his wife by beating her with a microwave because she didn't heat up his hoagie.

Oye.

I don't have to work today.

2006-04-14T11:36:00.000-04:00

Back after Easter.

A Day Outside the Office, Part II

2006-04-13T09:24:00.000-04:00

To summarize yesterday's post: I had a home visit at a woman's mobile home. When I arrived, she hurriedly came out of her trailer wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a cigarette. The story picks up as I am entering the trailer.

Directly in front of me was a goateed man with short brown hair holding the collar of a snarling rottweiler. Roxanne raised her hand at the dog and yelled “Martin, NO!” which completely changed the dog’s attitude for the better. Judging by the way the goateed man flinched, I could see that this method of discipline had likely been used on him as well.

“Oh Christ,” she muttered “He woke up the puppies. Coon-dog mix. You want one?” Roxanne pointed into a room to the right of the door where six tiny brown and grey puppies squealed and wriggled on a blanket around their mother, looking for a ripe teat.

“No thanks. How cute.” This was true. The puppies were cute.

Roxanne moved toward the goateed man and said "This is Brian. Brian is my neighbor.” Roxanne then excused herself to another room at the back of the home.

Brian the goateed man stood up which exposed a very peculiar stain on his navy t-shirt just below the collar. The stain was chalky white and relatively new. It was oblong, about two inches wide, 5 inches long and seemed to be a little wet. The stain was also more concentrated along a line in the center of the shape. Brian appeared to be a little flushed, and he wiped his mouth and goatee with his hand immediately before he extended it to shake mine.

I shook his hand just as the unmistakable funk-stench of sexual activity hit my nostrils. My eyes fixated on the splotch and a wave of realization swept over me: Either Brian was giving me an informal Rorschach inkblot test, or Roxanne had been comfortably seated on his face a few minutes earlier and my arrival caused her to change positions long enough to leave that splotch.

Below is an artist's rendering of the location and shape of the splotch.

Brian, noticing my look of fear and disgust at the drying vaginal fluid on his shirt, looked down for an instant at his collar area. As he looked back up, he had to notice me not-so-subtly wiping my hand on my pants. As I stepped past him, he grabbed his sweatshirt and muttered “Nice to meet you, sir. Roxy, I’m going home to feed the dogs. Call me.” A normal exit from the trailer would probably take 4 seconds, but Brian made it out in less than one.

Roxanne emerged from the room wearing a pair of khaki pants and t-shirt advertising a drive-through beer distributor in Daytona Beach. I sat down at the kitchen table, still reeling from that stain on Brian’s shirt and the likelihood that some of that funky material was now on my right hand. Five minutes into the consultation, I couldn’t take it any longer and asked to use the bathroom.

After cleaning and drying my hand, I returned to the kitchen table and noticed a little boy was sitting in my seat. When I said hello, he looked at me and smiled. Roxanne introduced her son Michael to me, then said the following:

“Booger, you go watch TV.”

I was on the last page of my interview questionnaire when “Booger” approached me holding a kitten. “Aww, she’s a cutie” I said as he set the cat directly on my legal pad. Booger then scurried off, and returned with another cat, which he proceeded to throw onto my lap.

I politely laughed and said "Hey, where do you keep getting these?" Roxanne then informed me that "We have a bunch of them too. You need a cat?" The lap-kitten began climbing up my necktie, but not before Booger slipped another kitten into the jacket pocket of my suit. There I sat, inundated with kittens and still stunned from Brian's splotchy shirt.

Roxanne, who seemed to fully support this kitten jihad at first, became infuriated and instructed Booger to get his “ass outside and ride your go-cart or something and leave Mr. Buckner alone.” Which he did.

I wrapped up the interview and walked back to my car with more questions than I did before I arrived. Booger buzzed around the yard on a rattletrap of a go-cart as I was backing out. He wore a large, adult-sized motorcycle helmet and elbow pads, but wasn't wearing a shirt. I double-checked my pockets for kittens and put my foot on the gas.

A Day Outside the Office, Part I

2006-04-12T11:49:00.000-04:00

Roxanne Kline used to work as a personal care assistant for a company based out of Erie, Pennsylvania. Her job description included washing dishes, doing laundry and other household tasks for people that couldn’t do these things for themselves. Roxanne’s clients ranged from the elderly to the disabled to the mentally retarded.

One day, Roxanne got hurt at work. The details of her injury teeter on the line between pure hilarity (in retrospect) and sheer horror (at the time). I will not discuss those injuries or how Roxanne got hurt in this blog beyond these two words:

Dry humping.

The important fact to me was that Roxanne got hurt at work and needed to file a worker’s compensation claim. That’s where I come in. Roxanne informed me on the phone that “Edgar Snyder’s people were mean” and that she thought “he was a Jew anyway.” I took this to mean that she had been rejected by other attorneys and I was next on her list. I also felt this woman was a Nazi, but perhaps that was my imagination playing tricks on me.

Over the next 20 minutes, I listened to her story and the details of her injury and decided that we should meet for a consultation. She suggested we meet at her house and I agreed.

Note to all of you who live in mobile homes:

MOBILE HOMES ≠ HOUSE, even if the wheels are removed and you attach a porch or deck.

I have nothing against the mobile home scene, just as long as the trailer isn’t located in a “Park,” “Acres,” or other cluster of mobile housing solutions. Color me a cynic, but that whole “safety in numbers” thing doesn’t apply to groupings of mobile homes. Stand-alone trailers do not seem to attract the tornados, crystal meth and mullets (his and hers) like trailer parks do.

Fortunately, the trailer sat alone in the middle of a field and there was not a chemistry set, tornado or mullet in sight. I pulled off of the ruddy dirt road into Roxanne’s driveway and began collecting my things. As I shut my car door, a diminutive woman smoking a cigarette and wearing only a t-shirt bounded out of the door and shouted “Yer early! That’s ok though. Come on in.”

The trailer itself was an older model with yellow trim and paint peeling around the windows. A wooden deck was attached to the side by the door and was cluttered with flower pots, bicycle parts and children’s shoes. A coffee can filled with cigarette butts and rainwater sat to the left of the door, on top of a bag of potting mulch. “I’m going to plant tomatoes in a few weeks. We don’t always keep that up here.” Roxanne said as she pressed the button on the screen door and ushered me in.

To Be Continued Tomorrow. It's just too long for one day.

Great moments in Instant Messaging, Part ONE

2006-04-09T23:48:00.000-04:00

The following was sent to me on Saturday night:

GlassyLassy: bam!

GlassyLassy: you can't handle it

GlassyLassy: hey look, some random drunk chick is IMing you!

GlassyLassy: the 21st century is all that we hoped it'd be!

GlassyLassy: wonders of technology

GlassyLassy: so you think my singins out of time

GlassyLassy: it makes me money

GlassyLassy: i don't know why

GlassyLassy: anymore

GlassyLassy: oh no

GlassyLassy: so come on feel the noise

GlassyLassy: girls rock your boys

GlassyLassy: we'll get wild wild wild

GlassyLassy: wild wild wild

GlassyLassy: so you think I got a funny face

GlassyLassy: i got no worries

GlassyLassy: i don't know why

GlassyLassy: oh I gotta sing with some disgrace

GlassyLassy: i'm in no hrry

GlassyLassy: and I don't know why

GlassyLassy: i don't know why

GlassyLassy: anymore

GlassyLassy: no no no

GlassyLassy: so come on feel the noizw

GlassyLassy: girls ROCK your boys

GlassyLassy: we'll get wild wild wild

GlassyLassy: wild wild wild

GlassyLassy: lordEEE

GlassyLassy signed off at 2:24:50 AM.

Happy weekend and stuff.

2006-04-07T14:07:00.000-04:00

Celebrate your weekend by learning more about potted meat and pickled pork rinds BY CLICKING HERE.

Wedding Gift Expert.

2006-04-05T21:08:00.000-04:00

Buying a wedding present is a challenge to some, or so I have heard. The gifts for the last few weddings I have been invited to were chosen by Ms. Throwy, so I knew better than to disagree or give any input whatsoever. Mr. Buckner does value his personal safety, after all.

This means that the gifts usually reflected the creativity of Ms. Throwy. As you may imagine, the creative gift-buying abilities of a person that throws piping-hot Freschetta at a person are on the same level of a chimp.

Sure, that chimp had a nice ass, but every gift she ended up selecting was either shiny, sparkly, or made pretty colors on the floor when light passed through it. As long as it didn’t end up embedded in my head, I was satisfied and I sure as fuck wasn’t complaining.

Luckily, a year ago Ms. Throwy and her pitching machine have moved on to find another unsuspecting sucker (good luck, jerkass!). Now I get to pick out the gifts. Below are some recent purchases (and all will be given as a gift). As you can see, I have totally outdone myself.

The “Next time, marry a dude” gift set:

George Foreman Grill, with a copy of THIS BOOK strategically placed between the griddles.

TOTAL COST: $50.00

The “I may have screwed you wife, but that was 3 years ago and I am not the only one here who has done the same” marriage celebration box of love:

Novelty condoms, Neosporin, DVD's of “Your Friends and Neighbors” and "Cruel Intentions" plus a few pamplets on syphillis I picked up while drunk at a pharmacy a few weeks ago. I am mailing this to the happy couple within a year of their wedding, which is acceptable according to Miss Manners. I am also doing this anonymously.

TOTAL COST: $55.oo

The “Medically Erotic Toaster”

Toaster with the this helpful model duct-taped to it:

What makes it erotic is the duct tape, obviously.

TOTAL COST: $80.00.

The “Chicken that keeps on giving."

His and her rubber chickens, stuffed with pot and airline bottles of Jack Daniels. Yes, I am that cool of a friend.

TOTAL COST: $30 (chickens) + $20.00 (Jack Daniels) + $? (ganja, market value varies)

Additionally, bidding is now open for any lovely lady that wishes to accompany Mr. Buckner to these ceremonies. I am the featured speaker at two of them, and I am acting as officiant at another (yes, I am marrying people in a souped-up Quaker wedding...no lie.)

***Note to Hansl von Rot---these gifts do NOT apply to you or your lovely fiance.***

My first review is IN.

2006-04-05T19:12:00.000-04:00

In case some of you thought I was kidding about the whole "stalking"post of the other day, please check out this link.

No, I wasn't joking.

As you can see, Buckner tells no lies. The only part of victim #1's blog that is innacurate is the contention that I care if people call me a "crazy internet stalker." Actually, I don't just care, I REALLY REALLY care. That's what this is all about, isn't it?

Wolfgang Buckner=1
The field=0

One F-L-A, five marks.

2006-04-04T01:09:00.000-04:00

Its true. Yer favorite Buckner is migrating south to America's wang.

That's right, I have been transferred to FLORIDA, and the moving begins in 5 weeks.

Some have asked how I will fill my free time in the next 35 days.

Well, my answer is simple: I have decided to stalk my fans.

Well, not all of my fans, just five lucky fans.

You heard me correctly. Most of you that don't know me have found my blog through chance. I have decided to return the favor, except I am doing it in person.

GROUND RULES:

1. Accept the fact that I am seeking you out.

2. Fear not me hanging around your house.

3. You are only going to interact with me, at most, for 5 seconds, and that may be pushing it.

4. This means guys and girls. I am an equal opportunity stalker.

5. I will only speak one meaningful sentence to you, and this meaningful sentence is as follows:

You have seen the light, and that light is Buckner.

So that's pretty much it. I have 5 weeks of freedom before I am relegated to studying for the Florida Bar exam, so pin back yer ears and wait for the meeting of a lifetime.

2006-04-03T00:59:00.000-04:00

W O R D.

HARD ASSES

2006-03-31T08:18:00.000-05:00

The Indianapolis media and Chuck Shepherd provide my little fuckners with today's reading:

Police Say Dumb Drive-Through Criminals Led To Arrests

POSTED: 6:39 am EST March 29, 2006

LAWRENCE, Ind. -- Lawrence police are calling two Indianapolis men the dumbest crooks they have ever seen. Eugene Dobbins, 21, and Jeffrey Ware, 19, face charges ranging from criminal recklessness and carrying a handgun without a permit to drug possession and dealing.

The men were caught during a fast food drive-through fiasco, 6News' Linda Allen reported. The incident occurred Monday at about 1:30 a.m.

Police said the men, apparently hungry, went through the drive-through at a McDonald's on Pendleton Pike. Police said the men thought their order was taking too long when they tried to speed things up with a gun.

An employee called 911. "Somebody's in the drive through firing guns and telling us to get back into the car," the employee told the 911 dispatcher. Police said Dobbins and Ware, in a black Chevrolet Cavalier, fired the gun into the air.

"There's a vehicle in front of him and the subject got impatient about him and wasn't moving quick enough and he stuck the gun out of the window and fired a shot," said Lawrence police Chief Deputy Jack Bailey.

Police said the men stayed in the drive-through, still waiting for their food, after firing the gun. When they got their food, police were waiting for them. "Criminals do some stupid things -- they really do.

That's what usually gets them caught," Bailey said. Police said they saw a .32 caliber revolver in the back seat and a further search turned up dozens of bags of marijuana and crack cocaine.

Police believe Dobbins and Ware were dealing drugs. They said the men probably would not have been caught had they not made a scene at the McDonald's drive-through.

Police said a woman was also in the car, but she wasn't charged. Officials said all three are former employees of the restaurant. Dobbins was being held Tuesday night in the Marion County Jail on an $80,000 bond. Ware was released on bond.

But he is such a nice boy.

2006-03-29T22:54:00.000-05:00

A famous anonymous once said:

"Every good relationship starts and ends with a nice healthy glass of whiskey. A bad relationship also starts with a glass of whiskey, but ends when that glass is tossed at your head from across the table."

Nice metaphor, but that’s where it ends for me. The combination of my cat-like reflexes and genuine concern for the welfare of unconsumed whiskey would make this actual scenario completely impossible. However, reading this quote did remind me of all the different tangible, non-whiskey items thrown at me by angry women. I have listed some favorites below:

1. Empty Wine Bottle:

2. Keys:

3. Cat:

4. Freschetta:

5. Tiffany bracelet:

6. Plate containing a fork and knife:

7. Picture frame (with Pic of yer Buckner inside):

Finally, my personal favorite:

A full gallon of milk.

2006-03-29T00:01:00.000-05:00

Yup.

Update tomorrow, more than likely.

Forks and spoons

2006-03-27T09:51:00.000-05:00

For those that don’t know, here are several super fun-facts about my office:

1. My firm shares office space with several companies owned by my boss, including a real estate brokerage, a title insurance company, and a mortgage agency.

2. While consolidating office space improves the bottom line for my boss, it often times feels like this when I walk into work:
3. Of the 25 people working in this office, 21 are women.

4. Eight of these 21 women are pregnant.

5. Backbiting and gossip abounds among the pregnant women. Further, either all of these women hate each other, or my definitions of “bitch”, “slut” and “cum dumpster” are different than theirs. Yes, you heard me correctly: The phrase "cum dumpster" has hit the suburban office park. Thank you internets.

6. One of the pregnant women, Lisa Donovan, is particularly annoying. She has been the subject of several tuna-related posts on this blog in the past few months, plus a smattering of other trickery. It's all in the archives.

On Friday, while in the printer room picking up some documents, I overheard Jenni (receptionist and the official office gossip queen) mutter something that sounded a lot like “This bitch is nuts.”

This was pretty early and the office was empty, so I knew that Jenni was talking to her computer monitor instead of a coworker. I popped my head out of the printer room and asked Jenni why she was swearing at her monitor.

“Just be glad you don’t work for this crazy bitch." Jenni growled, "I will just forward you this email.”

Turns out Lisa Donovan is more of an obsessive bitch rather than a crazy one. Here is the body of the first email she sent out:

Dear Office Staff.

We all share this kitchen space together and we all need to clean and put items away as we use them. We are all adults and I am embarrassed at how some of you lack basic cleaning skills. PLEASE, if you use a plate, wash it and put it away or put it in the dishwasher. If you have food in the refridgerator [sic] please make sure you if you don’t eat it you throw it away.

Jenni will do some light housekeeping for us but it really shouldn’t be her job to do our dishes and clean out old food/bottles from the fridge. If you make a mess on the lunch table then grab a paper towel and some cleaner and clean it up before you leave. If you see we are out of paper towels, get a new roll from the closet and change it. We are all adults, but it seems some people around here don’t understand that.

If we all do our part we can have a nice kitchen and the issue of our kitchen being a mess all the time can end here. I would hate to see somebody lose their job for something like this.

Thanks.

Lisa Donovan.

I scanned the list of people she CC’ed, and it turns out that the only reason why I didn’t get this email is because “wolfgrang.buckner” did. However, this literary classic did manage to make it into the inboxes of 22 people, including 10 people that don't even work for Lisa's company. She was threatening the jobs of people who don't even work for her over some dirty teaspoons. Tremendous.

On a completely unrelated sidenote, Jenni included this nugget in the body of her forwarding email:

LIGHT HOUSEKEEPING MY ASS. SHE IS SO GAY. SHE CAN HIRE A FUCKING GUATAMALAN OR MEXICAN MAID. HAHAHAHA!

Jenni’s xenophobia was a bit unexpected, and she accentuated her message of ignorance by using capital letters. I guess it’s my fault for expecting a higher level of sophistication and tolerance from a woman that was impregnated in the bathroom of a Denny’s (and yes, I have mentioned this several times, but it's just so damn funny, and also TRUE!).

I asked Jenni a few minutes later what her job responsibilities were, and she responded “I ain’t no fuckin’ dishwasher. She wants me to clean up after these slobs around here? No way in hell am I doing that. She can hire some immigrant.”

Yeah, Jenni is an ignorant cracker and a true vulgarian.

A half hour later, the office was packed as usual and the subject of the day was Lisa’s email. The reviews were in and it was unanimous: Lisa was a patronizing asshole. Seeing an opportunity to entertain myself, I snuck into the kitchen and smeared some mayonnaise onto a fork and knife and placed them on a paper plate. I then stuck the paper plate in the sink and ran a little water on it. This made a quick sticky mess of the sink. I then snuck back out and waited by my computer. Sure enough, within the hour, I received this email.

WHOEVERS PLATE AND FORK AND KNIFE WAS LEFT IN THE SINK PLEASE CLEAN AND PUT AWAY ASAP TODAY.

Two hours later, the soaked paper plate and mayonnaise-smeared silverware sat at the bottom of the sink. People began periodically walking into the kitchen just to see if the mess was cleaned up yet. This was becoming an office game, and Lisa’s increased level of anger was first prize.

Sometime between 3:30 and 4:00 pm, more water and a giant soft pretzel ended up in the sink. (WINK) Now the sink was clogged with a swollen, water-logged pretzel plus the silverware and paper plate. To top it all off, the paper plate had plugged up the sink, so the water, pretzel and mayonnaise created a soupy mess that trickled down the drain, leaving an chunky oily residue on the sides of the sink.

This created quite a buzz around the office, especially after Lisa exclaimed “What the FUCK!” when she went in to get a bottle of water out of the fridge.

Thirty seconds later, the following message was broadcast over the office intercom system:

“The situation in the kitchen sink is not funny or professional. The cleanliness of the kitchen is a serious matter affecting us all. The person responsible needs to remedy this situation immediately."

I left at 5:30, and the sink was a starchy, greasy mess. This round went to Buckner.

S.W.A.T.

2006-03-24T01:24:00.000-05:00

Imagine the scene: A significant portion of a mid-sized American city shut down because of several reports of a sniper lurking around on the rooftops of skyscrapers. The police, fire and S.W.A.T. teams have blocked off the streets. The local media immediately cuts away from afternoon soap operas to report that a bearded man has been spotted on a rooftop with a rifle.

Chaos ensues...residents and reporters alike invoke the name of Charles Whitman, the sniper that killed and wounded dozens upon dozens of people from the observation deck of the University of Texas Clock Tower in 1966. People young and old wonder how it all will turn out, and then...

The cops realize it's just some janitor working for a business called Pittsburgh Allegheny County Thermal whose job description includes SHOOTING PIGEONS WITH A PELLET GUN.

You heard me correctly: Capitalism in the City of Pittsburgh STOPPED due to some hayseed with a B-B gun. This man was actually paid to go Charles Bronson on the lice-infested flying rats that live and breed in the "Cultural District" (their word, not mine) of my city. People working in five major office buildings were not allowed to leave. Patrons of local restaurants were denied exit onto the street after paying for their meals. Incredible, right?

Richard "Dick" Wills was the snipers name. While that in of itself is noteworthy, there is another aspect of this story that demands mention...

Dick Wills, pigeon murderer, is a resident of...

You guessed it...

Dear Fayette County:

Pigeons, despite their tasty appearance, are not (and will never be) a pizza topping. So stop your pigeon jihad. PLEASE.

Fayette County, just go away.

Balls Deep For Jesus, Legos and Wrasslin'

2006-03-21T20:23:00.000-05:00

This scene was from the website "The Brick Testament," a site that offers its viewers reinactments of rapes,massacres, murders and sex scenes from the bible, using Legos. Here are a few more classic scenes:

From "Judah and the Prostitute"

That site just warms the hearts of atheists everywhere, mostly because they know they made the right decision. If the biblical lego fucking and killing website didn't convince them of that, then perhaps the WRESTLING FOR JESUS professional wrasselers' will.

Here is a picture of ZION! along with some information you should know about.

From:
Nagasaki, Japan

Weight:
185lbs

Height:
6'2"

Finish Move:
Fall of Zion

Titles Held:
Cruiserweight Champion

You all need to check out the rest of these guys. Only in the world of christian studio wrestling can something called the CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION be some skinny Japanese dude wearing a cut-off tee shirt who vanquishes his opponents with the ever-dangerous FALL OF ZION!

Holy fuck is right.

Wolfgang Buckner’s open letter of apology to the owner’s of a Squirrel Hill restaurant.

2006-03-20T21:31:00.000-05:00

Dear kind restaurateurs:

My name is Wolfgang Buckner, and I want to apologize for my actions this evening, regardless if your staff noticed them or not. Your restaurant, which I have patronized many times, specializes in very tasty Mediterranean fare and has excellent portions and prices.

If I could find a brimmed hat that fit my gigantic head correctly, I would tip it in your direction. Hopefully these kind words, repeated apologies and explanation can make up for what I did to your windows tonight.

You see, you served an asshole this evening. His name is ******, and he was my landlord a few years ago. I would tell you his full name, but I am not allowed to reference him on the internet because of the cease and desist order I signed. We will call him Mr. Landlord for the purpose of this letter.

Mr. Landlord is a slumlord who owns many properties around the neighborhood. The apartment I lived in for 4 years was purchased by Mr. Landlord’s company eight months before I moved out. After he purchased it, the property began to fall into disrepair almost immediately. During my last winter in the apartment, the boiler stopped working for three entire days. This caused the temperature inside my apartment to dip to 45 degrees. It was cold, and when I complained, Mr. Landlord yelled at me and then hung up.

That is what I was thinking of when I inserted my middle finger into my mouth.

Even though Mr. Landlord was an asshole that time on the phone, I still liked my apartment enough to renew the lease. So I did. Well, make that I thought I renewed the lease until I got the letter giving me vacating instructions.

I called Mr. Landlord again just to mention to him that there must be some sort of mistake. I was nice and everything when I first called. Do you know what he said back to me? He called me an asshole and told me that I was “shit out of luck” because he rented my apartment to somebody that would pay him $50.00 more a month.

That is what I was thinking when I removed my middle finger from my mouth and used it to draw a heart shape on your window with my spit.

When I told Mr. Landlord that I wasn’t going to move, Mr. Landlord got really REALLY mad at me. He called me an asshole again along with many other insults and tried to scare me with legal action. When I told him that I was an attorney myself, Mr. Landlord got even MADDER and told me he would have me disbarred. Then he called me more names, which made me a little mad. That’s when I decided that I would pay Mr. Landlord a visit at his office.

That is what I was thinking when I extended both middle fingers.

When I got to the office, Mr. Landlord’s balls shriveled up into his abdomen and he wouldn’t come out from behind the safety glass. Not only did his balls recede, what color that was left in his pale, wonder-bread-white splotchy face left when I walked in and requested a word with “That MOTHERF#CKER that called me an asshole.” Maybe you saw me tonight, but in case you didn’t, I am big, mean and sorta scary looking. Mr. Landlord’s snappy insults stopped and all he could do was threaten to call the cops on me. So I just left and waited to get sued for eviction, which I did a week later.

That eviction notice was on my mind when my lips formed every syllable to the words “FUCK YOU ASSHOLE.”

Mr. Landlord went into my apartment and took pictures without my permission and tried to sue me for thousands of dollars in alleged damages. I countersued him for the same. Mr. Landlord knew very well that if I kept appealing the case and using up all of the allowed response time, I could drag it out for months if not another year. He also knew that because I was an attorney, I was doing my legal work for free, whereas he had to pay for an attorney to do his.

This made him extra mad, so he called to insult me again, but I laughingly hung up on him. He got even madder when a friend of mine started an internet truth campaign against Mr. Landlord’s company on craigslist. Mr. Landlord had some people back out of leases after reading what my friend wrote, and he was infuriated.

We eventually settled out of court, and I got to leave without paying for my last month’s rent and found a better apartment and landlord for less money. I did have to agree to stop posting things about Mr. Landlord's company as a condition of my release. Considering I didn't do anything like that in the first place, I didn't mind.

When I spit that gigantic wad of bubblegum and phlegm at your window with both middle fingers extended, I thought of that entire debacle surrounding my former apartment and landlord.

My goal was to ruin Mr. Landlord’s night, which I think I did because he was shoveling a big forkload of green salad into his jowly face as I put on my performance. I’m sure he recognized me, and I’m equally as sure he couldn’t eat his pasta without noticing the spit oozing down the glass a mere four feet from his flabby face.

So allow me again to apologize to you for my actions. I know I am not welcome at your restaurant again, but in a show of good faith, I will recommend it to anyone who is looking for great Mediterranean food in the Squirrel Hill section of Pittsburgh.

Best Regards,

Wolfgang Buckner

Ambrosius's Monday Drinking Reflections

2006-03-20T00:42:00.000-05:00

Before this subject becomes irrelevant, allow me to share with you what Ambrosius Fugger did last week. For reference, below is a picture of Mr. Fugger:

Don't let his appearance fool you; Ambrosius Fugger is a dullard. This diary proves it. I have highlighted (via the use of bold text) a few tidbits of this story that I found noteworthy:

By Ambrosius Fugger

In honor of the spirit of St Patrick’s Day, the drunken free-for-all, and certainly not in the spirit of the real Saint Patrick, (who brought Christianity to Ireland in the 5th century, drove out the snakes, and did other associated bullshit) I am embarking on a noble and righteous quest. This quest occurring the week leading up to St. Patrick’s day will be simple and straight-forward and will hopefully inspire many scores of young pilgrims years into the future. My quest is simple:

See how long I can live off of nothing but beer.

7:00 PM Saturday – Went to store to stock up on supplies. Since St. Patrick’s day is coming up and I will need as much nutrition as I can get I bought a case of Guinness. Unfortunatly I don’t really like Guiness much, but sacrifices must be made.

7:15 PM Saturday – Had my first Guinness for dinner. I’m on a roll.

7:30 PM Saturday – Went to friends house for his annual Crappy Movie Night. Had somewhere around six to eight beers in an attempt to maintain my sanity while watching Spice World, Batman and Robin, and Teen Wolf 2. It didn’t work.

NOON Sunday – Slept in late, I figure the more I sleep the less I will realize that I am not eating anything. Had a Guinness for breakfast.

3:00 PM Sunday – While driving around town, I drove past a fried chicken joint and realized that I haven’t eaten since the bowl of Rice Chex I had the day before at 2, getting kind of hungry.

5:00 PM Sunday – Pretty hungry, had another Guinness at work, stomach didn’t feel so hot afterwards, this could be a bad foreshadowing of the future.

5:45 PM Sunday Had another Guinness, felt slightly ill while drinking it, but much better afterwards. Although another problem has arisen, I am really fucking thirsty, and I really wouldn’t put Guinness in the “thirst-quencher” category. Steps need to be taken.

7:00 PM Sunday – Threw down a Miller Light, very refreshing.

10:00 PM Sunday – For some unknown reason I decided to go and play ultimate Frisbee, running around for an hour leaves one quite parched.

11:30 PM Sunday – Take two Miller Lites and call me in the morning!

9:00 AM Monday – A Guinness for breakfast, what could be better?

Maybe some eggs, Fruity Pebbles, bacon, toast, welll just about anything.

11:00 AM Monday – Was informed by my roommate that 12 oz of Guinness only has about 130 calories, maybe that is why I am a bit light-headed. I need to up my caloric intake ASAP!

1:00 PM Monday – A lunch of 2 Guinness and a Miller Lite to wash it down with. Feeling much better now.

7:00 PM Monday – Another Guinness for dinner and its off to my friends place to play video games.

7:30 PM Monday – While playing Halo 2 we drank 40’s of Old English High Gravity. High gravity, it’s like drinking on Jupiter!

11:00 PM Monday – I’’m drink! Perha\ps not the best idea.

9:00 AM Tuesday – Another Guinness for breakfast, it left me feeling cold and with a bitter taste in my mouth, but this is what beer always does so that’s A.O.K.

10:30 AM Tuesday – Realized that I haven’t pooped in two days. Could I have possibly stumbled onto the secret to maximal human nutritional efficiency? This could eb a monumental scientific breakthrough!

1:00 PM Tuesday – I have a constant bad taste in my mouth, the kind you get after a night of hard drinking. Well, hard drinking and the subsequent waking up on the floor in the morning sans pants and with a half-eaten taco in you hand. But what can I expect with the diet I have been following. I have also noticed that I have some pain in my lower back, I don’t believe that it has anything to do with my diet but I figured that I would document it in the spirit of full scientific disclosure.

6:30 PM Tuesday – Busy day today so no time for lunch, man am I suffering. One Guinness does not make for a good days nutrition. However, Guinness and Miller Lite make for a fine dinner.

9:30 PM Tuesday – A friend of mine asked me to play on her soccer team tonight because they were short of men, normally I would be inclined to say no and justd drink drink instead, it is Tuesday after all, but since I can’t drink gin I figure I might as well play. I’m going to regret this.

11:00 PM Tuesday – I scored while playing soccer, because I ALWAYS score when I want. Unfortunate side effect – I am so dehydrated that I really can’t swallow.

12:00 AM Wednesday – 3 Miller Lites later and I still feel really dehydrated. I still haven’t pooped, although I am farting from time to time. Does this mean that I have discovered how to allow humans to perform methanogenesis? More research needs to be done.

8:30AM Wednesday – Trouble has arisen! I may have cracked! I woke up and found a half-drank glass of water beside my bed, did I wake up in the middle of the night and drink it? I just don’t know fuck fuck fuck! Either way I know that it is all soccer’s fault, if I wouldn’t have played I wouldn’t have been so thirsty that I drank water in my sleep. Stupid fucking sport that won’t let you use your hands!

6:00 PM Wednesday – Since I was betrayed by myself in my sleep, I decided to break my fast and I ate a chicken. The whole time I really wanted to drink a beer, is that odd? Oh and I still haven’t pooped.

THINGS I LEARNED BY SPENDING 4 DAYS ONLY DRINKING BEER:

If you are going to send your time drinking beer make sure that it is beer that you really enjoy drinking.

Variety is the spice of life and a good idea when spending all your time only drinking beer. Drink lots of different types of beer.

Make sure you carefully check the nutritional content, caloric content, and carbohydrate content of the beer you’re drinking. You don’t want to end up malnourished by only drinking beer.

Pooping is overrated, and you can get much more done in a day if you don’t.

On the other hand, pooping can be very relaxing and satisfying and not something you should give up on without careful consideration.

Soccer sucks.

Reader's Choice...

2006-03-15T21:02:00.000-05:00

I have finally wrested control of this blogging franchise from the clutches of Ambrosius Fugger, the occasional contributor and always annoying sage of this corner of the internets. Mr. Fugger (who is an actual real person, not just some name I concocted to confuse anyone) has now decided to fulfill a lifelong dream, specifically going 6 full days without consuming anything but beer and beer only.

No water.

No food.

Just beer.

He started on Sunday and is keeping a diary, a sample of which he sent me today and is reproduced below:

7:30 PM Monday – While playing Halo 2 we drank 40’s of Old English High Gravity. High gravity, it’s like drinking on Jupiter!

11:00 PM Monday – I’’m drink! Perha\ps not the best idea.

9:00 AM Tuesday – Another Guinness for breakfast, it left me feeling cold and with a bitter taste in my mouth, but this is what beer always does so that’s A.O.K.

10:30 AM Tuesday – Realized that I haven’t pooped in two days. Could I have possibly stumbled onto the secret to maximal human nutritional efficiency? This could be a monumental scientific breakthrough!

Be on the lookout for this next week...there is a solid two pages of entries like this.

While I negotiated the surrender with Mr. Beer-for-Breakfast Fugger, I crafted a few new posts that may just interest some of you. The subject matter varies, and I am undecided on the order in which to post the new material. The topics include:

1. Great moments in office refrigerator chicanery.

2. Sex with famous Puppets.

3. Wolfgang Buckner, dating expert and all-around self absorbed class act winner.

4. Wedding gifts that some non-readers are getting this year.

I'm sure that after reading those titles you understand how difficult it is for me to choose. It's like picking which rotgut whiskey will have the honor of fucking your ass up on a Wednesday night. Sure, that Jacquin's looks good, and there is no lost honor in visiting the Banker's Club, but those two are no Fighting Cock. Nothing is. Too bad that bottle of Fighting Cock is floating now...which one do you choose then?

That's where you come in. Your comments and emails will determine the order of these posts. This goes for all of you non-posting or emailing readers...Give yer olde pal Buckner a little guidance.

Only a few more days...

2006-03-14T20:21:00.000-05:00

Why post one when you can post four?

Fugger Time, jerks.

2006-03-09T00:43:00.000-05:00

I have only posted a few times before, so those of you that don’t know me can either go backwards in this blog and find my posts or can just deal with the AMBROSIUS FUGGER.

I am pretty much fed up with Buckner and his limpness, so I logged on and changed the password so he couldn't put up any more bullshit. Every night I come home from the feedmill, I log on and I read this garbage. After a while, it just made me pissed. Not just a little pissed, but like Amish horse-jacking pissed. Let's review some recent Buckner relevations, shall we? Here are some:

1. He watches the Style Network, some fancy pay-TV channel.

2. He posted a bunch of pictures that looked like my pecker.

3. On Valentines Day, he wrote some shit that made me want to punch him, one for being such a sap-ass and one for causing a ruckus with Mrs. Fugger. She read that B-S that mornin’ and then told me that the Hershey bar and fishing license renewal just wasn’t RO-MAN-TIC enough.

4. He works in an office of pregnant women, and he is not responsible for any of those pregnancies. Fag.

5. He keeps talking about the fact that he has one nut. Seriously, who the fuck cares anymore? Answer? Fags! I refuse to link, because it's THAT PATHETIC.

6. Now he expects us to believe that he mistakenly went to a candle party. On accident. (scroll down. What a PUSS).

R-I-G-H-T. And Elton John rode shotgun with me to the titty bar last night and paid for a double-team lapdance from Tabitha and Heaven.

I love everything about myself, and I hope this ruins this piss-poor excuse for a blog.

Sincerely,

Your Daddy,

Ambrosius Fugger.

Manly Man, part II

2006-03-07T19:53:00.000-05:00

Please enjoy the first half of this tale HERE, or just scroll down to part I below.

The instant I saw what was going on in that room, it occurred to me that I may not have been listening very closely to Lindsay when she came into my office the previous day. I was not in character on Friday, primarily from a throbbing pain in the center of my brain from the celery stalk and glass of orange juice I had the night before.

My dumb ass ingested that garbage a mere 90 minutes before I commenced to trading whiskey shots with Ambrosius Fugger in his basement while watching a COPS marathon. It was his birthday, so it was the least I could do. Those vitamin-laden foods do it to me every time.

When I am not suffering a vitamin-induced aneurism, I usually make direct eye contact and blankly stare when people come into my office to tell me something. This creates a very uncomfortable work environment, and I have learned the more uncomfortable co-workers are in your presence, the less they request and the more they want to leave your presence. Try it sometime.

However, the debilitating pain in my brain knocked me off my routine, allowing Lindsay to sneak in some complex work-related questions. I answered them with as few words as possible, which led to more headache-exacerbating inquires. My routine quashed, I turned to blatantly ignoring her as a final defense, responding with mumbles and incoherent yammering after every 6th word she spoke.

Then she mentioned the party. Suddenly, a Pavlovian wave swept over me, and my attention switched from watching this video on my computer monitor and focused on what Lindsay was saying, but only after the free drinking part.

Turns out (according to scientists), everything said after the words “PLENTY OF ALCOHOL” stimulated a cognitive process that the words “CANDLE PARTY” did not. Again, I blame the celery for clouding my mind. Stupid fucking celery anyway. That’s the first and LAST time I eat that shit. Oh, and fuck Pavlov too for being right.

After opening the door, Lindsay welcomed me in but we both could tell that this was a mistake. I would have just turned tail and left as soon as I saw what was going on, but Lisa Donavan saw me and shouted out “You look so much different in jeans!” Whatever the fuck that means.

Congratulations Lisa! You are now on top of my list, as if the baby countdown meter and tuna-sabotage wasn't enough for you!

Lisa’s shriek attracted the attention of the rest of the henpecking circle, and Lindsay sealed the deal by stepping behind me to grab her cat who was trying to escape. That fucking thing had the right idea, but its bolt for the door sealed off my evacuation route.

My new enemy is “Jeepers” the backstabbing cat.

Yer Buckner settled in, taking a seat around a coffee table with a bunch of bleating pregnant women, Lindsay, two more women I have never seen before and a dumpy gay dude who introduced himself “Billy from Philly.”

Of course, the free booze consisted of 3 measly bottles of white wine and a couple of airline-sized bottles of blackberry schnapps. BAIT-AND-SWITCH. Billy From Philly brought a pretty nice bottle of gin, but he initially refused to give me any because I told him I wouldn’t drink the “Billy’s-Special-Recipe-Martini-Just-For-Wolfgang!” out of martini glass or any other type of receptacle.

Apparently, I scowled when I made that remark. As a result, I was repeatedly accused of being a “meanie” and my access to the gin was denied. Billy From Philly broke down after a while, and I socked that bottle of gin a good one.

I could bore all of you with more details, but I won’t. However, there were plenty of memorable quotes from around the table, such as:

“This one smells like an old woman’s twat, like that lavender potpourri ”

“Wolfgang, which ones do you like? You’ve been awfully quiet over there.”

“What did the cat do to you exactly?”

I left after immediately after drinking Billy From Philly’s bottle down to a thumb’s worth of gin; I couldn’t finish it all off, because that would be just plain piggish of me. Because “nobody leaves a candle party empty handed!”, I was given my complimentary bath candle by Lindsay and a phone number by Billy From Philly.

To top it all off, my clothing smelled like a combination of apples, cinnamon, lavender, and apparently an “old woman’s twat” a scent sensation I accentuated by smoking 5 cigarettes in succession while trudging up the street to the neighborhood bar.

So it pretty much was the best day in my life.

Update after 3:00 PM today...

2006-03-07T00:05:00.000-05:00

Sorry. I will conclude my Friday night at a candle party story after the above-listed time. Until then, please enjoy this picture of "mosh girl," an all-time internet classic:

Please click on the pic to get the full size goodness. Also, study the crowd in the background. This photo kills me every time.

Manly Man, Part I

2006-03-05T21:20:00.000-05:00

EUNUCH

eu·nuch Pronunciation (yoo-nek)
n.
1. A castrated man employed as a harem attendant or as a functionary in certain Asian courts.
2. A man or boy whose testes are nonfunctioning or have been removed.
3. Informal: An ineffectual, powerless, or unmasculine man.

On Saturday, two of those definitions applied to me, although one of them just partially.

Sure, I could tell you that I got a new job at a harem "mindin' the hoes”, but that would be a lie. I could also come up with a ribald tale of how I got fully castrated over the weekend on a dare after drinking a bunch of shoe polish, but that’s only a half-truth.

I did drink shoe polish, but only after I ran out of rum and my attempt at distilling gin in my bathroom sink from wood chips, carrot skins, flowered wallpaper and Scope ended in tragedy. How MacGyver survived all those years, I'll never know. Fucking dickhead anyway.

No, my weekend began with something even more tragic than losing my remaining testicle in a shoe-polish-fueled bender. A co-worker, Lindsay, stopped by my office on Friday afternoon and told me that she was having a little get-together on Saturday and that I should stop by. Lindsay informed me the booze would be free and plentiful, and she lived within walking distance of my place. Lindsay is also very nice and one of the few women in my office that does not share the Pope’s view on birth control, which is to say she IS NOT knocked up.

Caught off guard, I gave a nervous “maybe” by way of a response to Lindsay’s invitation. Unfortunately, mind was clouded by the residual effects of the whiskey I drank the night before, so what should have been “I have plans already, sorry.” turned into “Maybe, where do you live exactly?”

This should be a lesson to all of you: Make all of your answers NO for every question a coworker asks you. I immediately hated myself for my flaccid response and began preparing my Monday morning explanation as to why I didn’t attend. I then shut my door and played minesweeper for three hours and looked yet again for a new job.

Maybe it was the emptiness of my wallet, love of free liquor, or disgust at yet another night of drinking cleaning products, but I reconsidered near the end of the day. From the loud conversation outside my office door around 4:00, it seemed all of the pregnant women were going. The way I figured it, none of the pregnant women would drink, leaving more for me. GENIUS!

My scheme had the usual exit strategy: I would feign illness or family tragedy, then high-tail it to the local watering hole for some carousing with non-pregnant women that I don’t work with. Either that, or I would just mutter the phrase “Big as a house, quick as a mouse!” and run out the front door. If things went as I planned, I would be happy, drunk and with money to spare.

Wrong.

I decided to forgo the usual one-hour late arrival and show up a mere 30 minutes late, thinking I could get an earlier start on the booze. Lindsay’s apartment was at the back of a larger building, so I had to be buzzed in. As I knocked on her door, I smelled the faint odor of apples and cinnamon, which only could mean one thing: BONUS PIE! Free booze, apple pie, free booze…I was in a fat, drunken heaven. Or so I thought.

Lindsay opened her door, and there sat a roomful of women in the near-dark, surrounded by burning, fragrant candles. My desire for a free happy hour had brought me into a candle party.

TO BE CONTINUED (tomorrow)

Under the weather...

2006-03-02T08:49:00.000-05:00

Since yer blogging hero is under the weather today, I didn't write anything. However, I did find this article, printed below, from the Sydney Morning Herald. Enjoy, and bonus points go to the person that can guess which one of these I am suffering from.

Strange afflictions

Ever felt the urge to eat dirt or attack the alien impersonating your brother? Megan Gressor can explain why.

From excess digits to errant hands, extreme hairiness to disappearing penises, there is no end of strange ailments afflicting humanity. Some are serious, others are downright bizarre. Here are some fascinating, odd and mercifully rare conditions that can affect our bodies and brains:

ALICE IN WONDERLAND SYNDROME

Also called micropsia, this condition distorts visual perception so that objects that are close appear disproportionately tiny, as though viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. It owes its name to Lewis Carroll's fictional protagonist, Alice, who perceived things as too small or too big after taking magical medicines. Usually temporary in nature, the syndrome is associated with migraines. Carroll suffered migraines, so perhaps he was describing his own experiences.

PICA

This is a compulsive appetite for non-edible items, including clay, stones, cigarette ash, paint, glue, laundry starch, ice and even hair. Found among pregnant women and young children, particularly in poorer areas, it's thought to relate to nutritional deficiencies and may be treated with mineral supplements. However, that's just one of many theories about pica, whose precise causes are unknown. It's also found among brain damaged or mentally ill people, among whom it can take particularly dangerous turns including swallowing sharp objects (known as acuphagia). Undigested items can also form bezoars - calcified "stones" - in the stomach.

FOREIGN ACCENT SYNDROME

Imagine suddenly putting on a convincing French accent. Or Scottish. Or Italian. It sounds like fun, but it's no joke for the victims of Foreign Accent Syndrome, which can set in after strokes or other brain trauma. Without warning, they'll start speaking their native tongue with a different accent, which could sound anything from Swedish to South African. Victims need never have heard the accent in question, according to Oxford University researchers Dr Jennifer Gurd and Dr John Coleman, who believe it arises from damage to areas of the brain responsible for language production, altering pitch, pronunciation and speech patterns. So people with the syndrome aren't putting on a foreign accent, it just sounds that way.

ONDINE'S CURSE

A wonderful name for a nasty problem, this is a sleep disorder resulting from a malfunctioning autonomic nervous system. Its victims are unable to breathe spontaneously but must consciously will each breath, so will suffocate if they fall asleep. Respirators may help. Also known as congenital central alveolar hypoventilation syndrome, Ondine's Curse derives its name from the legend of a water nymph, Ondine, who fell in love with a human, thereby forfeiting her immortality. Though he had pledged his undying love, Ondine discovered him snoring in the arms of another woman. She cursed him, declaring that as he had pledged his love with every waking breath, he would die the moment he fell asleep.

ALIEN HAND SYNDROME

Another condition arising from brain trauma, this bizarre syndrome involves losing control of one hand, which can do anything from gesticulating to unbuttoning clothes its owner is trying to put on with his or her other hand. The condition is also called Dr Strangelove Syndrome, thanks to Peter Sellers' inspired performance as Dr Strangelove in Stanley Kubrick's 1964 film. Sellers's mechanical hand alternated between throttling himself and throwing Nazi salutes. While victims can still experience sensation in the affected hand, they say it seems to have a mind of its own. The only solution is to keep it busy, for example by holding onto something - just not, hopefully, your own throat.

POLYDACTYLISM

Still on the subject of hands, polydactylism is a congenital abnormality involving being born with too many digits, ranging from rudimentary nubbins to fully formed fingers or toes. While rare, polydactylism is prevalent among communities given to intermarriage, such as Philadelphia's Old Order Amish. Notables with the condition have included Henry VIII's ill-fated second wife Anne Boleyn (whose extra pinky sparked rumours of her being a witch), war photographer Robert Capa and cricketer Garry Sobers. According to The Guinness Book of Records, the record for extra digits goes to Indian brothers Tribhuwan and Triloki Yadav, who boast 20 fingers, four thumbs and 24 toes between them.

CAPGRAS SYNDROME

A loved one has been stolen by a doppelganger; sounds like a movie about alien abduction. But for sufferers of Capgras Syndrome, the action occurs only in their brains, not outer space. This syndrome involves the delusion that a significant other, such as a parent, spouse or other relative, is being impersonated by an imposter. Sufferers sometimes attack the supposed double. The delusion can also extend even to oneself, with the person convinced that the reflection in the mirror is that of an imposter. While extremely rare, it is linked with brain damage, psychotic disorders and various neurological problems that somehow interfere with normal face recognition abilities. The syndrome owes its name to the French psychiatrist who first described it.

RILEY-DAY SYNDROME

Feeling no pain; it doesn't sound like a problem, but it can be lethal for the victims of a syndrome involving, among other symptoms, insensitivity to pain. Caused by a chromosomal abnormality found among Ashkenazi Jews - people of Eastern European Jewish descent - the syndrome makes its victims exceptionally accident-prone because they simply don't register warning signs of tissue damage such as wounds, bruising and burns. They are even oblivious to oxygen deprivation, which means that when they hold their breath, as infants often do, they do so until they black out. Riley-Day patients tend to die young - around half before the age of 30 - from their injuries.

JERUSALEM SYNDROME

This one sounds like the title of a Robert Ludlum thriller, but it's actually a religious psychosis triggered by a visit to Jerusalem. Observed since medieval times, its victims may believe that they are prophets and parade around the city proclaiming the Holy Writ or exhorting sinners to repent. Affecting around 100 tourists per year, it generally clears up once they leave town. However, it can have serious repercussions, as with the widespread rioting that ensued when Australian man Michael Rohan set fire to the al-Aqsa Mosque on the Temple Mount in 1969, convinced he was the "Lord's emissary".

HYPERTRICHOSIS

People with hypertrichosis, a congenital condition involving hair growing all over the body - including eyelids and even ears, which can sprout long curls - have always attracted enormous interest, especially as sideshow stars. Probably the most famous was JoJo the Dog-Faced Boy (aka Fedor Jeftichew, a Russian recruited by showman P.T. Barnum), who toured widely during the latter half of the 19th century. There are different forms of hypertrichosis, distinguished by varying hair type, quantity and distribution. Some cases also have a little hairy appendage called a faun tail.

PENIS PANIC

Koro is one of a number of names for a hysterical condition known medically as Genital Retraction Syndrome, whose victims become convinced that their genitals are disappearing into their bodies. It can be contagious, sparking off "penis panics", such as the one that overtook Singapore in 1967 in which thousands of men became convinced that their penises were being stolen; it was contained by a complete media blackout on the condition. Often blamed on witchcraft, Koro typically strikes in less developed parts of the world, including Africa and Asia, where belief in sorcery remains strong. It's thought to be an extreme overreaction to normal genital shrinking from cold or other causes. Koro can be treated with medical reassurance and anti-anxiety medications.

PROTEUS SYNDROME

Named after Proteus, the Greek god famous for changing his shape, this is a progressive disorder causing disfiguring tumours and abnormal bone development. It's extremely rare, with just over 100 cases confirmed since it was first identified in 1979. Its most celebrated victim was Joseph Merrick, aka "The Elephant Man", a grotesquely deformed man befriended by Dr Frederick Treves, a physician at London Hospital. At first, Merrick was believed to have suffered from the nerve disorder neurofibromatosis, but in 2003 DNA testing on his remains showed that he in fact had Proteus Syndrome. His story inspired the 1980 film The Elephant Man, starring John Hurt as Merrick.

EMOTIONAL BLINDNESS

This one is included simply for light relief, as it isn't a rare illness so much as a universal phenomenon.

Emotional blindness occurs when people exposed to confronting images - violent or erotic - fail to register other stimuli for a short (about one-fifth of a second) but critical period thereafter - a hiatus that doesn't occur after looking at more innocuous images.

This phenomenon, dubbed "emotional rubbernecking" by US researchers who reported it in The Psychonomic Bulletin and Review last August, could have evolutionary value.

From a survival point of view, it pays to focus more on things that signal physical danger or reproductive possibilities, while filtering out less emotionally charged input. Emotional rubbernecking undoubtedly worked for cavemen, who never knew when the next sabre-tooth tiger (or sexual partner) might turn up. Nowadays, given the capacity of sexy billboards to distract drivers from road conditions, for example, it's more likely to be a health hazard.

Sooner or Later.

2006-02-28T19:57:00.000-05:00

As some of you may know, I love women. They really are the bee's knees if I do say so myself. Evidently, there are other people out there that feel even more strongly than I do about women. For instance, below is a picture of Miss McBeth, a teacher in Eagleswood Township, New Jersey:

Sure, she looks a little manly, but what do you expect from a 70 year old woman, right? Plus, she lives amongst the toxic waste and mullets that is New Jersey, so lets not be too critical.

Well, I take that back. The real reason for this woman’s uncanny resemblance to a bewigged Kojak is that Miss McBeth was really Mr. McBeth for the past 70 years.

Yes, that's right: Gender reassignment surgery isn't just for the young any longer. As you can guess, this guy shows the old axiom of “Men that have Telly Savalas-esque features don’t make good looking women” is as testably-proven a theory as the theories of gravity or relativity. So screw you Einstein and Newton! In your non-gender reassigned FACES!

Of course, the local parents have some explaining to do with their kids, and manalive, it promises to be an epic conversation. I for one wish very much I could record some of those question-and-answer sessions. There is a news article covering this story, so read it here.

The next contestant in our transgendered pageant is none other than arguably the greatest baseball player of all time, Mr. Barry Bonds:

You see, Barry was trying to impersonate Paula Abdul for some reason during spring training. Good for him, but he makes an even weirder looking dude than Miss Kojak up there.

Yes, this is how I pass the hours when I am not at work.

LET THERE BE RAWK!

2006-02-27T22:22:00.000-05:00

This guy is better than everyone.

Fun with urine!

2006-02-26T19:00:00.000-05:00

Call me a prude, old-fashioned, or just plain set in my ways, but I don’t consider urine a toy. Let me lead you through my normal ritual when having to take a leak: When the mood strikes me, I usually unzip my pants, take hold of the trumpet, open the old urine valve and let ‘er rip. Then I put everything away, zip up and that’s it.

I usually perform this necessary deed in a public restroom or the bathroom in my apartment, but exceptions have been made on special drunken occasions. I have sometimes been known to urinate in the street, out the window of my second-floor apartment, or in the litterbox of my ex-girlfriends cat.

That last one was pretty funny, except for when “sweetheart” woke me up from an incredibly satisfying sleep by loudly scolding the cat in the next room as she cleaned up the mess. I let out a vindictive chortle and dozed back off, happy on several different levels. The way I figured, served the cat right for glaring at me when I got home and then spitefully calling my mom a whore.

As you may imagine, the cat calling my mom a whore was shocking and completely uncalled for. It even tried to hit me with an empty wine bottle as I attempted to apologize for showing up drunk and 5 hours late, and it STILL wouldn’t give me a good explanation as to why it fucked my best friend while I was out getting a pizza the week before. What was particularly troubling was that the cat sounded just like my ex when it was screaming at me.

What capped it all off was when the cat began chain smoking, repeatedly calling me an asshole for getting that drunk and made me sleep on the couch. After things died down, I snuck into the kitchen and filled that litterbox up with about a gallon of used Jack Daniels. Serves that fucker right anyway. The best part was when the ex called the vet's office that day and told the receptionist that her cat was "leaking."

In any event, barring a drunken vendetta between me and the cat, my urine is usually out of sight, out of mind within 5 seconds after it exits my body. I’m sure I have this in common with most of you.

Well, apparently the ranks of those that see urine as a disposable item fit to be flushed are shrinking. For instance, take these MENSA’s from nearby McKeesport, Pennsylvania. Seems that these people decided it would be a good idea to place some urine into a faux-penis, wrap it in paper towels and ask the clerk at a local gas station to warm it up in the microwave like a burrito. I am really not making this up, so you need to click on the link to read the whole story yourself. Then imagine grandma saying the headline out loud at Thanksgiving Dinner.

Urine is not just found in microwaves this week, its also found in refrigerators. A thief in Wisconsin felt the need to break into the laboratory fridge of the Wisconsin Department of Corrections and steal vials of other people’s urine.

How lovely.

However, this story is not without a public benefit: We have all finally learned the answer to the age-old question of “What’s better than samples of other people’s urine?”, and the answer is “Samples of urine from Wisconsin criminals!” This answer, it seems, was right in front of our faces all this time. In Wisconsin.

Also in the past week, I have learned that some pedophiles consider the urine of adolescent boys to be an aperitif. The guy pictured right here just likes to drink the urine of little boys, and he had an exceptionally sanitary method of collecting the urine from public restrooms.

He first shuts off the water to the kiddie urinal, then places a cup in the drain and hangs out in the toilet stall like a pervert until a kid comes in and takes a leak. After the kid leaves, he removes the cup and drinks the urine.

Refreshing.

No word from the Columbus authorities if he adds a bit of vodka or a cocktail olive to the urine, but he did say he has been doing this since he was 7 years old. Mom and Dad are reportedly proud.

So to summarize, some people are pretty fucked up when it comes to urine, and I really hate mouthy fucking cats.

Morning Reading

2006-02-24T01:56:00.000-05:00

FINALLY...somebody that has experienced Fayette County and documented it in blog form. Who is this righteous person you ask? Why, none other than Julie GONG, a name I enjoy saying very much if I do say so myself.

Speaking of Ben Rothlisberger, his USED underwear is for sale on eBay, according to the Burgh Blog. Interesting...

Jesus v. Muhammad.

2006-02-22T20:33:00.000-05:00

Here at wolfgangbuckner.blogspot.com, we don't make the news, we simply report it. Well, to be honest, it's less reporting and more sneering. Truth be told, I am just an evolved monkey hammering away at a keyboard and Firefoxing my way through the internets.

Which brings me to today's post.

In an attempt at reader interaction, I am asking all 7 of you to read a couple of blogs, then leave a comment below indicating which one is your favorite.

First up: A BLOG ABOUT JESUS (click here)

Second up: A MUHAMMAD CARTOON BLOG (click here)

Remember, vote early and often. I also expect a combination of rapture and jihad for having the audacity to point your browsers toward such blasphemy, but it comes with the territory I suppose.

Buckner gets OWNED.

2006-02-21T22:14:00.000-05:00

Before I left for work today, the phone rang. Usually, a phone call that early in the morning means somebody died, unless you have a friend that works night shift as a nurse. Well, it turns out that nobody died, but there was an explosion. This explosion rocked the Lawrenceville/Stanton Heights neighborhood of Pittsburgh where my nurse friend lived, and it was caused by an amateur chemistry set. Everybody’s favorite bathtub narcotic, crystal meth, was evidently being manufactured in a Lawrenceville house when it literally blew up in the “chemist’s” face.

I listened to her story, and when I got to work I verified it using the local newswire. Sure enough, her story checked out. NurseFriend is a regular reader of this blog, so I wanted to commemorate her neighborhood’s induction into the Hall Of Meth with a smarmy, aloof post. It was the least I could do.

Drugs and the people addicted to them are not funny. However, I am a sucker for amateur chemists mixing toxic substances together to create illegal narcotics. This type of stuff is hilarious to me, especially because I think of Ernest P. Worrell wearing science goggles, holed up in some ratty trailer mixing random chemicals into addictive drugs. Ernest then sells his powdery wares to make some quick cash to pay that tab at the feed mill for the ferilizer and the corn-crib rental. Roll credits. In my mind.

Today's story had it all: A meth lab, an explosion, and a ridiculous injury (the lab blew up in his face!). Plus, I could incorporate plenty of hillbilly humor into the description, as this was a headline fit for Fayette County if I do say so myself.

At 1:30 pm today, I got another call. This one was from my mother, and dear old mom succeeded in ruining my meth story. How did she do this, you ask? Well, apparently my mother witnessed THIS today. The fucking Police helicopter landed in my parent’s yard. The cops parked on my parent’s lawn, and the fucking police dog took a dump next to one of my parent’s apple trees.

Crawford County, the place where I was raised, is quickly becoming Fayette County, and I don't like it one bit. Just last week some citizens of my home county (under the influence of bathtub speed) were sentenced to hard time for making some homestyle fucking-the-dog porn.

Now my mother, who after 54 years and 3 kids still cannot say the word "penis," has to witness the S.W.A.T. team arrest fleeing meth addicts 100 yards from her house. Yikes. As a product of the local high school, I can assure you that I was not even offered a chemistry class, let alone a class that taught me how to make dope from cold medicine. So as any hayseed is apt to do, I blame the internets and technology in general.

Worse yet (or 'best of all,' depending on your perspective), the suspects arrested in this story or their siblings were my classmates in high school. Thanks to them, I don't even have to think of "Mad Scientist Ernest" any longer. Instead, I can just think of the 1993 President of the Future Farmers of America and how he should have ditched the tractors and crop rotation strategy for a job at DuPont.

In researching my original meth post, I discoved some people compare the meth chemists to the bootleggers of the Prohibition Era. It's a fair comparison, but only if you ignore the fact those ‘shiners made bathtub whiskey out of corn, not crystalline rocks out of a mixture of anhydrous ammonia, Sudafed and rat poison. Further, meth chemists would never have given rise to NASCAR, unlike the bootleggers. Meth addicts can run faster than a V-8 Ford anyway, and certainly they are not all named Rusty, Bill, or Dale.

I am hoping all of the people from Fayette County that email me complaining about how anti-Fayette I am read this and get a small slice of satisfaction. Then I hope they choke on something pointy and uncomfortable.

I just work here.

2006-02-20T20:27:00.000-05:00

Due to a long work schedule the next two days, updates and original material will be a bit sparse.

However, no matter what I post, it likely will not be as funny as what is behind this link. This is a must read for anyone that has seen the movie "Crash."

World-Class Jerkass

2006-02-19T21:19:00.000-05:00

As I have said before, five of the women in my office are knocked up. Some were impregnated by former co-workers on a company desk, one pregnancy resulted from a drunken tryst in the bathroom of a Denny's Restaurant at 3 am, and two were planned. The details of the latest pregnancy are a bit sketchy, but I am sure the lucky baby was conceived in some ridiculous fashion.

Like any other morning in my office, the usual pre-game whining and bitching abounds. Since everybody is pregnant, the subject matter has moved to tales of overactive bladders, morning sickness, and back pain.

I usually have the same problems most mornings as well, but mine stem from consuming whiskey and listening to Merle Haggard all night. The reasons behind their problems (pregnancy) are different than mine (love of all things whiskey and Haggard), but the results are the same, so I can sympathize. The general hormonal instability doesn’t bother me either, although I find myself crying at yogurt commercials for some reason, so maybe it’s rubbing off.

As usual, my aggravation does not lie with the fact that I work with women. (I love women) or that most of them are pregnant (not by me, so I am winning). No, it's the catty and competitive interactions between these women.

What is especially aggravating is how these women try and “outpregnant” each other. Being pregnant isn’t good enough for these narcissistic hags, so they are competing with one another for the illustrious office title of “Most Problematic Pregnancy” as well. I am not sure what they are playing for, but hopefully it’s a voicebox extraction and lobotomy for the losers.

Getting information from formerly pregnant women about the trials and tribulations of pregnancy seems acceptable to me. I sure as hell would ask somebody for advice or support if I was in the same situation. Creating a support group among pregnant friends also seems like it would help as well. Unfortunately, the women in my office generally hate each other, so what should be an episode of Oprah has now turned into yet another daytime soap opera, played out in the cubicles, hallways and break room of my office.

When they are all together, the competition is on. For instance, Jenni will say she threw up this morning, so that means Stacey will have to tell an even more disgusting vomit story, which sends Lisa into a disclosure tizzy about how there is uncomfortable pressure behind her nipples, and so on. Of course, the sniping about who is faking it, lying or exaggerating are separate conversations held in smaller groups.

Usually, I don’t care what these people talk about or when, as long as I am kept out of it. Well, unless its five women discussing the color, contents and odor of their bowel movements (each insisting theirs was the “worst”) outside my office door at 9 am on a Friday when I am hung over. That’s crossing the line in my book. I just ended up politely closing my office door and job-searched for the next hour.

The first shot was fired on Friday in what promises to be a new competitive battle: Baby pictures. Lisa is the first in the office to have a sonogram that actually shows a discernable fetus. So of course, she finds it necessary to send out this information, including a copy of the sonogram picture, with the following message:

THIS IS WHAT MAKES PEEING 20 TIMES A DAY WORTH IT! LOL!!!!

Borrowing an idea from the great BostonAnnie, I decided to fire back a shot of my own in an attempt to halt this portion of the competition before it starts. My effort can be found at the following address:

http://www.bleacheatingfreaks.com/makeacountdown/?id=162834

I would suggest those of you that don’t usually click on the links to take the time to do so in this instance.

I await the reaction tomorrow morning when I send this link out to my co-workers, under an assumed name of course.

For all the ladies out there in Bucknerland...

2006-02-16T23:48:00.000-05:00

What better way to close out the Valentines-Day Week?

Have a spectacular weekend. Actual writing returns next week...

Fun With Animals.

2006-02-16T08:05:00.000-05:00

In today's word search game, read this list of of side effects and health hazards associated with using everybody's favorite bathtub narcotic, methamphetamine:

Irritability, insomnia, confusion, stroke, heart attack, high blood pressure and even anorexia.

Now, I want you to read that list again, and pay particular attention to each one of those words.

Finished?

Do any of you see the words "overwhelming desire to make a fucking-the-dog porno?" I sure didn't either. As a result, one would assume that the world is safe from crystal meth addicts running around fucking dogs while being filmed by other meth junkies.

Police in Titusville, Pennsylvania (surprisingly not located in Fayette County) disagree with you. Apparently, making three-way dog porno is yet another side effect from the crystal meth craze that is sweeping America. According to the town newspaper, police went over to serve a search warrant to investigate a suspected meth lab operation. I am not sure if they found a chemistry set or not, but what they did find was a videotape of a few skanks getting it on with a mastiff.

While I agree with the rest of society that meth-fueled sex with a large dog is rather disgusting, there is another part of this story that is worth discussing. As far as I can tell, the cops showed up to deliver a warrant, arrested some junkies, and then “found” some beastiality videotapes.

Now, I don’t know about any of you, but when I “find” videotapes, I usually cannot tell what is on them without first turning on the VCR, inserting the tape, and then pressing play. According to the story, police viewed tapes found at the residence and witnessed the two women engaging in the crime, police said. People will sometimes videotape themselves making methamphetamine, police said earlier. This is further proof that “filmmaking” needs to be added to the list of potential side effects of using crystal meth. Evidently, it turns you into a Spielberg with repeated use.

Put yourself in the shoes of the people that got arrested for just a second. You are suffering from irritability, insomnia, confusion, stroke, heart attack, high blood pressure and even anorexia, but that doesn’t matter because you are high on crystal meth and fluffing the Mastiff for a night of wild dog sex. All of a sudden, the cops bust in with a warrant. They handcuff you, and then Barney Miller, Sipowicz, and Don Knotts sit down on your couch and start watching your homemade porn collection, featuring you, another woman and Mocha the Mastiff. Then you get to go to jail and have your name put in the local paper for fucking a dog on film. Seems about right to me I guess.

Its funny because it's true.

2006-02-15T20:39:00.000-05:00

A heartwarming story...

2006-02-15T00:39:00.000-05:00

Found this today, and it is better than anything I could have possibly created. Take a read of this (the pic is of the accuser):

From the OC WEEKLY, Thursday, February 9, 2006 R. Scott Moxley, writer:

You’ll never convince six lucky Orange County guys that porn is bad: a single raunchy sex video is keeping them out of prison. Of course, these 20-year-olds couldn’t have foreseen this fate when they filmed their wild gangbang after a night of drinking at a Fullerton bar.

This tale begins in the wee hours of June 6, 2004, when a distraught Tamara Anne Moonier entered a Fullerton police station. She said she’d been kidnapped a few hours earlier from a parking lot at Heroes Bar & Grill, hooded and driven to an unknown residence. Moonier, then 28, told police that a group of men brutally raped her at gunpoint for more than an hour, forced her to perform numerous degrading sex acts on film, demanded her silence and then released her.

“She said she feared for her safety,” a law-enforcement officer told the Weekly.

With money from a victims’ assistance program, Moonier immediately moved from her Fullerton apartment to Dana Point. Meanwhile, alarmed police detectives used her descriptions to launch a manhunt. Within about a week of the alleged crime, Moonier had picked one of the suspects out of a photographic lineup. Eventually all of the men were identified.

But Fullerton police refused to file charges. The suspects had voluntarily turned over the sex video Moonier had described. It showed no gun, no threats of violence and no force.

In fact, the woman not only directed action at times but complimented penis sizes, complained about the lighting, nonchalantly took a cell phone call during the gangbang, yelled, “Get it up!” when some of the men lost their erections, called herself a slut and demanded ejaculations—in her mouth.

She also laughed at least 27 times during the sex, moaned intensely when she wasn’t laughing and cheered the men to sexual heroics with, “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

“I just like sex,” Moonier said at one point on the tape. “I can’t help it.”

Deputy District Attorney Paul J. Chrisopoulos will use the homemade video as Exhibit 1 in his case against Moonier. Last summer, the Orange County grand jury, mostly retired folks, had the thrill (if you want to call it that) of watching the exploits of this petite mother of two children, then toddlers. They indicted her for filing false police reports, committing perjury and stealing funds from a taxpayer-funded victims’ program.

If Moonier and her public defender don’t gain their senses and seek a plea deal, a judge and jury will soon view the tape. They’ll hear more than the following excerpts:

Male: I took your fucking pants down and started fucking you.
Moonier: You sure did!
Male: You liked it, didn’t you?
Moonier: Of course! [Laughs.] Did you?
Male: Fuck, yeah!
Moonier: All right then.

Male: You give good head.
Moonier: Thank you. I told you I’ve watched lots of movies.

To one guy unable to get an erection, Moonier said, “You’re fucking pathetic. You can’t get it up. Forget it.”
Males: She loves this shit [sex].
Moonier: Yeah, I do. Uhhhhh. Very nice!

When one guy complained that Moonier’s teeth hurt his penis during a blowjob, somebody slapped her butt. She responded, “Ouch! Fuck! That’s gonna leave a mark. You’re gonna kill my game. Now I’m not going to be able to have sex tomorrow night. Damn you.” [Laughs.]

Male: How’s my dick feeling?
Moonier: Your dick goes great, babe!

During the gangbang, a cell phone rang, and one of the guys answered it and calmly talked to a buddy. While Moonier had sex in the doggie-style position, the guy handed her the phone. She didn’t scream for help. She said, “Hello? This is Tammy. Yes. He’s fucking me from behind!” The guy took the phone back and gave directions to the residence. Moonier simultaneously complimented one man’s penis: “Big and nice!” Later, she said, “How many people are we calling?”

Male: You know I’m a slut?
Moonier: Among other things.
Male: Right.
Moonier: Well, you obviously knew I was!
Male: Fuck, yeah!
Moonier: How could you tell?

During intercourse, Moonier said, “I have some work to do. Shut the fuck up. Shhhhhhh. Are you the only one who can perform in front of an audience? The rest of them can’t fucking perform. [Moans.] Nice! Much better. Goes in deeper from this angle. [Moans again.]”

A male observer said to the guy having sex, “We can’t hear your balls slapping, come on!” [The guy increased the speed of his penetration and Moonier moaned more.] The men cheered their pal on: “Hit harder!” Moonier said, “Shut the fuck up so he can finish. At least somebody will get off tonight.”

While performing in the reverse cowgirl position (use your imagination), Moonier turned to the camera and said, “This better not fucking end up on the Internet unless you’re gonna give me some of the money!” Minutes later, she yelled at the guys, “Get it up!” And, “That guy can’t ejaculate. . . . Yeah, you fucking gave up on me. . . . And this one can’t even finish either. I’m getting kind of pissed. I just want somebody to finish.”

Male: I want to slap your ass.
Moonier: I don’t need any more marks. You know what’s gonna happen the next time I hook up with the fucking cops? They’re gonna want to know who the fuck I was with. . . . I’m fucking three cops!”

Moonier: You gonna finish this time?
Male: I really believe she really wants to swallow [the semen].
Moonier: I always swallow. What’s the point? You’re gonna get some of it in your mouth anyway. You might as well swallow. I’d be really pissed if somebody was going down on me and fucking turned around to spit. That’s just not right. You have to swallow. That’s just how it is!”

You might be asking yourself: Why would a woman claim rape if she knew a video existed that so thoroughly contradicts her story? If you can figure that out, please let us know. Even after police detectives told her they’d viewed the video, Moonier still refused to recant. She continued to demand that the men be prosecuted.

Next month an Orange County jury will hear the case against Moonier (now Kerr following her marriage). Interesting footnote: without the videotape, the men could have spent the rest of their lives in state prison if they were convicted of kidnapping and aggravated rape with a handgun. But the woman’s false accusation is a misdemeanor punishable by no more than six months in county jail. It’s only because she took several thousand dollars from a taxpayer-funded victims’ assistance program that she was charged with two felonies.

If jurors aren’t impressed with her tale, Kerr faces a maximum sentence of 44 months.

Thank you Chuck Sheperd for bringing this to my attention.

2006-02-14T00:12:00.000-05:00

I noticed clear fingernails tap-tap-tapping on a dusty barroom table.

Kind, drunken people sat around a cluttered table, swapping school stories and general goodwill. There were warm glances back and forth between people in love and the accompanying body language; eyes sparkled bright, and positive vibrations encircled these conversations like the cigarette smoke licking around my nervous fingers. Scanning the room, I also saw apprehension and insecurity, pensive behavior and charitable accommodation, or maybe that’s how I felt sitting there with these people.

When I did finally get the nerve to join her crowded table, the urge to look at her face was difficult to resist. My eyes were held by the artistry of her beauty, but I resorted to the tactical use of quick glances so as not to stare. I guess I didn't fully appreciate her conspicuous appearance from our first meeting, but there was no escaping it now. I couldn’t stop looking at her, but when she noticed I made sure I looked away before our eyes met.

I certainly knew that she was interesting, witty, and intelligent, had interesting career aspirations and loved children. Now I am sitting next to such an attractive personality with a face to match? My mind ensured that I didn’t forget any of these things, but I did my best to suppress those thoughts with each sip of my drink.

After hours had passed, in the midst of the laughter, empty bottles, and cigarette ashes, my ears were suddenly drawn to the unmistakable rhythmic sound of fingers strumming on a hard surface. Tap-tap-tap. I heard this sound coming from across the table, and my eyes followed suit, and that’s when our eyes met for what seemed like days.

I noticed clear fingernails tap-tap-tapping on a dusty barroom table, and fell in love with the most beautiful person sitting across from me.

When out of ideas, turn to JESUS.

2006-02-12T23:46:00.000-05:00

Lets compare the following images of Jesus, currently up for bid on eBay (search terms used were "Jesus Image"):

JESUS PANCAKE:

JESUS PANCAKE IMAGE ON SOMEBODY'S TOAST:

JESUS ON THE BOX OF AN XBOX 360:

TORTILLA JESUS:

JESUS ON A WOOD DOOR:

JESUS IN GRANITE:

Thank you Jesus for my blog today.

Great Moments In Fayette County

2006-02-10T08:33:00.000-05:00

Allow me to depart from my usual bitching about the clods that work in my office to another favorite subject:

Fayette County, Pennsylvania.

You see, I began writing this blog because of Fayette County, and as a matter of fact, my first and third posts were about the place. I have learned some important lessons about this wasteland of humanity, either by visitation or by news reports. Here are a few of the things I have learned:

Fayette County doesn’t sleep, it waits, waits for its citizens to do something more ridiculous than the last citizen that made the evening news. Don’t believe me? Well, try these ACTUAL STORIES on for size:

--In Fayette County, you can kill your neighbors PYGMY GOAT and attempt to sell its meat for CRACK COCAINE.

--In Fayette County, little league baseball coaches encourage their players to repeatedly hit the retarded kid on the team with baseballs.

--Judges in Fayette County believe that medieval sentencing tactics like public humiliation are acceptable punishment for strangling a dog.

There are plenty of stories that I have not covered, but by reading these, I think you can see that Fayette County should be avoided by humans, barnyard animals and any other living thing wanting to avoid having their head severed and placed on a pike at the county line. This area of southwestern Pennsylvania has yet to emerge from the dark ages, and it’s only a little bit funny.

In the latest episode bumpkin antics, some Fayette Countians have decided that the money printed by the U.S. Treasury is overrated. Thats right, these people have now taken to printing their own currency. According to the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, a couple of teenage hillbillies have discovered computers are not just for soliciting their pre-teen cousins for sexual favors in the back of their daddy’s El Camino. No, two of them have plumb figured out 'dem there com-pu-ters can be plugged into a scanner and a printer and used to PRINT MONEY, particularly crisp U.S. ten dollar bills.

The scheme sounds simple enough, and I actually support this concept if it means that somebody's pygmy goat is spared from slaughter the next time some rube has a fixin' fer some crack. However, printing money evidently wasn't enough. No, the perpetrators felt they needed to give the bills the "Fantastic Sam" treatment. According to the FBI, these two MENSA’S used hairspray to change the texture of the bills to make them feel more authentic.

Hairspray.

What these two idiots didn’t know was that the currency that everyone else in the world uses isn’t coated with a layer of Aqua-Net like it is in Fayette County. The explanation for the Fayette Couny currency phenomenon is simple: The eighties never left.

You see in Fayette County, every other woman sports the classic “hair claw.” The “hair claw” is a style monstrosity that results when a woman’s bangs are grown to 5 inches in length and then curled using a curling iron into a hook-like, crescent shape. The claw is then lacquered down with hairspray to a fine sheen and then proudly displayed at fried chicken restaurants, Wal-Marts and bowling alleys.

Clearly, these kids thought that the sticky film on real money in Fayette County was on money everywhere. Who could blame them? After they applied some hairspray to their counterfeit bills, they went down to the Honey Bear Convenience Store and Gas Station (I am not making that name up) to buy a couple of essentials:

1. Gasoline
2. A twelve-pack of Faygo brand soda.

Yes, Faygo, the cheapest soda ever created. Faygo, the brand of soda a band named Insane Clown Posse sprays all over their audience for some reason. FAYGO. There was no word as to what flavor, but I am willing to bet it was root beer.

That’s right, an 18 and a 19 year old are looking at time in FEDERAL PRISON for buying a 12-Pack of Faygo. Not a plasma screen TV, not a car, or even some Pabst Blue Ribbon 16 oz cans. FAYGO.

Another groundbreaking story in hillbilly history.

Stinko.

2006-02-08T23:44:00.000-05:00

The powers-that-be hired another woman today. A grand total of 21 people share 12 cubes, 5 offices, a receptionist area and two long desks along the wall near the copy room. My office is the workplace equivalent of an Indian commuter train

To break it down by gender, that’s 17 women and 4 men. Obviously for anyone that knows me or reads this blog on a semi-regular basis, being W. Buckner precludes me from any possibility of personal criticism. Thats a good thing. Unfortunately (for them), the rest of the office doesn’t share this distinction.

For instance, the men in my office have a certain amount of (for lack of a better term), flair. One dude looks like Frankenstein, one like a caveman, the other like Jesus. If they all walked into a bar together, you would have the makings of a Don Rickles joke.

Despite nearly every woman being pregnant and the men resembling extras in a Mel Brooks movie, I can see a silver lining sometimes. One clear benefit of the high female/male ratio is an empty and usually unbefouled restroom. I personally enjoy entering the men's room and having the entire urinal bank to myself and/or not having to inhale the men’s bathroom poo stench created by the disgustingly vile abomination that is the male gastro-intestinal system.

Except for today.

Today my spite and vengeful attitude towards my overpopulated and increasingly pregnant workplace has been restored by two of the men that work there, Frankenstein and Jesus. Those two succeeded in becoming an unwitting tag-team of restroom disgust for me today.

Frankenstein’s role in this can be pretty much summed up by saying that he is a smelly fucker. I walked through the restroom door as he was lumbering out, and the stench he left behind immediately hit me in the face like a punch. My eyes burned and watered immediately as I hurriedly stepped to the urinal to relieve myself. At this point, Jesus walks in, DRINKING A CUP OF COFFEE OUT OF AN UNCOVERED STYROFOAM CUP.

Jesus stands at the urinal next to me and proceeds to take a piss while drinking from his coffee cup. That’s right, his dick was in one hand, a cup of office coffee was in the other and the putrid smell of human waste was in the air. It was at this time when he tries to strike up a conversation with me about the Super Bowl, right at the urinal and right as I was nearly finished emptying my bladder.

“How about those Steelers, eh?” was his question, a question I was unable to answer because I was too busy trying to concentrate on pissing while holding my breath so as not to be exposed to the stench left by Frankenstein’s rotten ass. I mumbled a weak “yeah, crazy game” while I zipped up and stepped to the door. I saw him take at least two swigs from that cup while he was at the urinal.

What is worse is that the smell didn't seem to bother him, at least enough to make him STOP drinking that cup of Maxwell House while he took a leak.

To recap, a chatty Jesus was simultaneously urinating and drinking a cup of coffee in a restroom that smelled so bad that it actually had a fog-like haze of stench, a stench created by a Frankenstein look-alike with a primitive digestive tract.

So much for laying low...I have now identified two new targets.

Long slow fade

2006-02-07T23:10:00.000-05:00

Monday, my office was on a 3 hour delay due to the local NFL team being in the Super Bowl. Sounds like a great time, doesn't it? Well, nobody informed me of this, so I reported to work at 9:30 am, a bit hungover from a night of celebration.

Needless to say, my day was not productive.

However, being alone in the office for a few hours does have its benefits, especially when you have the passwords for the server and remote access to everyone's work station from the comfort of your office (thank you very much Aaron the Missing Link, the first caveman computer tech.)

I fished around for a while, read some co-worker emails and got into payroll.

To be perfectly honest with you, I was torn with what to do with this information, as nobody has really annoyed me that bad to reveal personal financial information about them.

To show all of you how much of a nice guy I am, I got rid of it. See? I am not a fucking asshole, just an asshole.

In non-work related items, I discovered that this is the first picture that shows up when you do a Google image search for the phrase "meat whistle":

This week is more of a "plotting-my-next-move-week." Laying low for a while seems like a safe bet because of the close call with the whole tuna-in-the-ceiling trick last week. As a follow up to that story, Lisa has not been in for the past two days, but her fan is still running and the smell seems to have dissipated.

Fayette County, you have some competition.

2006-02-07T15:29:00.000-05:00

I would encourage all of you to check out this webiste:

http://www.local6.com/mostpopular/index.html

Why? Because these are the TOP STORIES from CENTRAL FLORIDA TODAY:

--'Banned' Aphrodisiac Soda To Be Sold In Stores

--Fla. Pastor Accused Of Throwing Puppies From Pickup Truck

--Giant Rabbit Is As Big As 3-Year-Old

--Police Arrest Pastor During Sermon

--Human Chain Pulls Hunter From Crocodile

--Police: Landlord Rigged Intricate Monitoring System To Watch Tenants

--Fla. Deputy Fired For Using Police Camera To Tape Women

--Man Charged With Hiding Body Of Florida Woman

--Man Who Jumped From Plane Dies In Fort Lauderdale Hospital

--Man Angry With Car Price Sets Dealership On Fire

Just look at those headlines...Preachers tossing puppies out of the back of a truck? Another Preacher getting arrested? Landlords and the Cops as peeping toms? Human chains saving people from wild animals? Plane jumping?

Holy crap. What a hole.

I will post again soon, promise

2006-02-07T08:58:00.000-05:00

I am still working on that Steeler hangover/celebration thing. More today I promise.

Wolfgang, we have a problem...

2006-02-02T16:12:00.000-05:00

You can guess what that is...evidently the tuna-FPP sprung a leak. Actually, I must have knocked it over when I was hastily setting the ceiling tile back in place on Monday. This would make sense, as the oil and liquid would probably need a few days to seep through the ceiling tile. I managed to remove the bag before anybody else got up there to inspect, so it does not appear that anyone is the wiser to the actual source of the stench.

ADVANTAGE = BUCKNER

This experience is not without some valuable lessons:

1. DO NOT add oil to the bag of tuna out of fear that the fish may dry up without reaching its ultimate ripeness. The fish may dry up and not smell as bad, but if you knock the bag over and then have to remove it, there is a lot of mess. Brown, oily mess. I believe the oil I added significantly contributed to the brown oily mess that has seeped through the ceiling tile and is now running down the wall.

2. Place the tuna in a container that won't mistakenly get tipped over when you replace the ceiling tile.

However, I do have good news: It appears that despite the removal of the tuna, I have succeeded in making Lisa nauseous and thoroughly disgusting her in the process.

Lisa has not been in her office all day, choosing to take her calls and work on her laptop in the conference room because of the stench of her office. This is the only reason that I had the opportunity to remove the tuna-FPP and photograph the mess left behind. Apparently, a woman's olfactory sense (that's 'sense of smell' for you dullards) is heightened during pregnancy.

UNFORSEEN BONUS REPULSION POINTS! YES!

Lisa has been telling people that she gags every time she passes the closed door to her office, let alone when she has to go in to grab a pen or a file. My office door has been open all day, and I seriously can hear her taking deep, exaggerated breaths before she enters her office, like a kid diving for quarters at the bottom of a pool. She takes a huge breath, opens the door, grabs what she needs, then goes out into the hallway and lets out a mighty exhale as she closes her office door.

All these dramatics aside, I can smell a faint tuna odor, but not as much as I would have liked. Lisa has been very vocal about the smell in her office, but very few people have openly commented. Well, except for Jenni, the office gossip and general idiot. Jenni remarked that she only smelled the odor when Lisa was around. The phrase Jenni keeps using in regards to the stench is priceless:

"Flounder is in the air!"

Jenni also has remarked to others in the office that all that Lisa accomplished by moving was to "funk up" the conference room.

Today was a good day.

Tuna update...

2006-02-02T11:25:00.000-05:00

I may be fired. Well, if anybody saw me in that office, I may be canned, no pun intended. There is something brewing...more details later.

Tunatastic!

2006-02-01T13:24:00.000-05:00

Creatively stashing open pouches of shredded tuna in your office can be difficult. Of course, the first thing that has to be considered is how to maximize the number of people exposed to the smell of rotten tuna fish. Placement is important, as a misplaced bag of tuna can lead to its discovery before it is fully ripe. However, you don’t want to place the bag in such a strange place that, if found, people are suspicious of its placement.

To illustrate these points, I have included some photographs of some of the places I considered stashing the tuna.

The first place I considered was the office refrigerator. As you can see, it’s jammed FULL of bullshit.

PROS:
--Frequently used by office staff,
--Repulsion level is high, considering people will see things they are trying to eat then SMELL tuna,
--No suspicion of foul play because tuna sometimes is found in the fridge.

CONS:
--Fridge could be cleaned out before tuna is ripe
--Door is sealed, preventing constant rotten tuna odor
--Cold temperatures retard decomposition process, leaving you with not-so-stinky tuna.

I decided against the fridge because the CONS were just too much to overcome. I want a section of the office to stank like tuna, not just somebody’s lunch.

OFFICE WATER COOLER

PROS:
--Frequently used
--Repulsion level high
--Constant tuna odor

CONS:
--Foul play suspicion is moderate to high. The cooler is next to the fridge, but hiding tuna around cooler requires it being covered by something or hidden behind something.
--Tuna could be easily found…not many good, natural hiding places.

BEHIND LISA DONAVAN’S DESK:

This woman has been getting under my skin for months now, and when you add pregnancy to the mix, she is even more ridiculous.

PROS:
--Ultimate Repulsion Level. Office would smell of rotten fish constantly. Baseboard heater behind desk would provide heat and airflow to carry the smell.
--Personal embarrassment level=10
--Office gossiping would be relentless, especially among the catty women around here.

CONS:
--Tuna would likely be found before ultimate ripeness.
--Lisa’s office is in sightlines of several cubicles. I do not have any reason to be in there, so if observed coming or going from that office, my cover would be blown and I would be fired.
--Suspicion of foul play-HIGHEST LEVEL. There is no good reason for tuna to be found behind a desk.

I decided to avoid the area behind the desk, but I still felt Lisa was the lucky contestant in my office game. I decided that the risks associated with planting tuna in Lisa’s office were far outweighed by the personal satisfaction I would get by hearing the “Lisa smells like fish” rumors that would be spread by the spinsters around here.

I am an asshole like that.

So where will the tuna end up? I thought about this for an hour in my office, when I rocked back and had an epiphany:

That was Monday morning, shortly before I deposited the tuna in the ceiling of Lisa's office. It is now Wednesday afternoon, about 4:30 PM EST, and Lisa has requested her carpeting be shampooed and her desk chair is in the hallway.

Pre-FPP excitement

2006-01-31T23:42:00.000-05:00

I have been getting more and more mail from people asking me why I do the things I do to my office-mates. One emailer, a particularly preachy woman that claims to be my sister, repeatedly threatens to tell my mom about the subject matter of my blog (JUDAS! STOP SNITCHIN’). What a BITCH.

So before I go into a full explanation about the Tuna FPP (complete with pictures), allow me to do a quick run-down of why my office deserves all that it gets in typing or in decaying tuna fish. All of these subjects will be featured in future blogs, but I will give a short preview for all you Fuckners. Among other things, my office features:

1. A Frankenstein look-alike that wears too-tight short sleeved shirts and drinks FRESCA on a regular basis.

2. A woman that has either won or placed in multiple Dirt-track or Motocross racing beauty competitions.

3. A couple of women that work together, commute together, live together, shop together, eat together, feed each other yogurt, share a dog, own the same kind of car and call or text message each other several times throughout the day...and have a mutual scratch-off lottery ticket addiction that costs them hundreds of dollars per week.

4. A 20 year old receptionist that can honestly operate 3 different phones at the same time despite the fact she only has two ears. While that may sound impressive, the three phones that she uses are the CELLULAR PHONES she OWNS. Three cell phones, three numbers, one person. While her cell phone and text messaging skills are legendary, she cannot figure out the hold or voicemail buttons on the office phone.

5. A computer tech guy looks like the missing genetic link between humans and this monkey. He drags his knuckles and everything, and when I saw him eating a banana yesterday, I died a little bit from laughter.

6. One of my bosses has a Hitler 'stache.

Do I have to go on, or should I mention again that there is a herd of pregnant women waddling around here? No writer could script a place like this, and if somebody did, it would be such a strange unbelievable fiction that NOBODY would consider it possible. Well, except for Oprah.

These people deserve it.

2006-01-30T22:07:00.000-05:00

I am not going to lie to any of you…instead of sticking around for an extra hour to get some pictures to entertain all of you that read this blog, I decided to go home an hour early. You can cram it with walnuts if you don’t like it.

As for the Flavor Fresh Pouch of tuna (from now on known as the “tuna FFP” or “FFP”), I am happy to report that it has indeed found a home. More on that tomorrow.

Did any of you catch that the comment that somebody left yesterday? It went like this:

Wow...getting bombarded by a moth in the eye means that you have an extraordinary physique for lunar sex. This means you should make it a hobby to walk buck naked in the moonlight howling into the woods while awaiting your partner to come forward from the bushes to make sweet hot monkey love under the fullness of the moon and the eye of the moth.

Sassy! I would agree with this writer on the "extraordinary physique" part. Guilty, as charged, especially when you see how many definitions "extraordinary" has. Of course, the other parts are also true, as any love I make is of the "sweet hot monkey" variety. It's a cross I bear, but I persevere.

Tuna update...

2006-01-30T15:13:00.000-05:00

There has been far too much action around here today...some people are here for job interviews, and the pregnant women are all scurrying about, seemingly getting along. As a result, I have been unable to photograph what I have done. However, I plan on getting some pics after the office clears out after 5.

Moth, I will have my revenge!

2006-01-29T22:09:00.000-05:00

I saw two things that really honked me off today, especially after one of them assaulted me on a walk to the park. They were:

1. A white moth. Make that a moth that flew into my EYE.

2. A honeybee.

These consecutive January days of 60 degree temperatures are bullshit. I live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and it is JANU-F#CKING-ARY 29th. This means snow, ice, cold, not jackasses riding around in convertibles, goddamn bees flying around looking for some nectar and stupid white moths landing on my retina. When I noticed the bee buzzing around on a shrub, I thought it was kind of weird, but before I could take another step, this white moth comes out of nowhere and pops me right in the eye.

For the amount this moth was moving around, I swear it did it on purpose, probably to lay eggs in there or something. After I pulled my assailant out of my eyeball, I stomped on it and then went back looking for that bee for some payback. Sure, its not the same kind of insect or even the one that burrowed into my eye, but every January insect I saw was going to pay for what Mr. Moth did, Charles Bronson style.

After finding then smashing the honeybee, I still was a bit angry. On my way home, I decided the best thing to do was to take the anger and frustration of having moth wings jammed in my eye to work with me on Monday. So I formulated a plan and got some supplies at the local Giant Eagle for today’s fun. It didn't cost me much either. Here is what I got:

1. One (1) vacuum-sealed Starkist Flavor Fresh Pouch.

Now, you may be asking just how much fun can one man have with a Flavor Fresh Pouch of Starkist Tuna? The answer is a little fun today, and then an increasing amount of fun every day after that for about a week. I will give the full details tomorrow after lunch, along with some photographic evidence and any "early returns" on my tuna investment

Should this comment left on my blog bother me?

2006-01-27T22:53:00.000-05:00

The following comment was left for me today:

bro thanks for the laughs and the stories, i am printing them now to send home. --Sista.

Yikes. Mom, that wasn't my penis dressed up in that sweater. Honest.

Flu, SARS, Ebola, West Nile, or Mad Cow?

2006-01-26T21:08:00.000-05:00

I have one of the above ailments, so no blog today. Well, there is SORT of a blog today. My return to blogging has brought Twenty-Dollar Bob out of hiding. For those not in the know, Twenty-Dollar Bob is a person that used to send me pics of his erect penis dressed up in different outfits.

Well, it seems that he has moved on to sending me very cryptic one-line emails. For instance, 10 minutes ago, I got this one:

I just discovered that I can almost get an entire crayola crayon in my belly button. Where the hell is MY day?

Thats no the only one though. Last week, this little number landed in my inbox:

If someone (me) mailed you a mason jar, would you open it and inhale deeply without first thinking that it might contain a Spaghettios fart? If so, may I have your address

Well, as odd (I realize I am putting that lightly, but its a coping mechanism) as that was, It didn't prepare me for the following message and attached pictures. The message was two lines, and went as follows:

I love teh vag, do you?
Just got through primpin, now it's time for pimpin...

The pictures, captioned with the text contents of the email, looked like this:

and...

The internet is a perilous place, even for teh Buckner.

No, I am not looking to get fired.

2006-01-25T22:31:00.000-05:00

I had a few scary run-ins with the powers that be today, but nothing that I couldn’t work my way out of. For instance, I had a few drinks at lunch. Of course, my boss was returning to the office at the same time from his lunch and was waiting by the elevator when I opened the door. This means I had to ride the elevator up 10 floors with my boss after a few "pick-me-ups." As I was getting out of the elevator, he makes the following remark: "Weekend start a little early, Mr. Buckner?" I just chuckled and said "Why, are we getting out early today?"

Heh.

IN other news, what do you make of a husky real estate agent that is married, has two kids and also...drinks FRESCA?!? Be honest, and don't just tell me he is "obviously refreshed" either. The Powers hired a new employee in the real estate department today, and I was impressed, especially by his choice of soft drinks.

Very retro.

I ran into him today wearing a snug short-sleve shirt and a tie while grabbing a soda out of the office fridge. When I saw what he was drinking, I asked him if he had any “Tab” in there, which garnered very little in the way of a response. As a rule of thumb, TAB jokes NEVER EVER stop being funny, so I knew this guy was the next person that should be welcomed into the office, starting next week.

Manalive, the hits keep on coming.

"Well, at least he apparently got a chance to father those kids before his nuts fell of", so sez BostonAnnie.

Another thing about my office is this: It is filled with twentysomething women, most under the age of 27. Not too bad, except most (if not all) are addicted to fashion magazines. One girl actually has a cut-out of J-Lo in her cube.

If its not on MTV or in "IN STYLE", these women don’t think it exists. I mentioned to a couple of them how a guy who used to work in the office (Junior, Capt. Fertile, father of Lisa's bay-bay) looked and sounded like Lou Reed. Now, I realize Lou Reed is NO Rob Thomas or Justin Timberlake, but its Lou Reed. EVERYBODY knows Lou Reed. Or at least they should. This is not a “generational difference” either, no more than the Beatles, Rolling Stones or other geriatric rockers that still knot up the undies of Generation What-the-fuck-is-Next.

You know what comes next:

"Who is Lou Reed?"

When I try to explain, the one woman cuts me off and just says this:

"I Like J-Lo."

This comment created a stir, as the other woman sitting in the room plus the woman warming up her pudding in the microwave (I am not kidding) started to squeal and began discussing some J-Lo fashion designs. I politely left without saying another word.

Oye.

2006-01-24T23:06:00.000-05:00

I was sent this picture earlier today and found myself staring at it for hours. As a result, I didn't leave my office much.

Now, behind this link is a lovely story about a man named...Fuk King Kwok. I am not lying. Evidently, he is changing his name for some reason.

I really have nothing else to offer. Well, I take that back. I am asking that the TENS of people that read this to email or forward this site to people who may enjoy reading it regularly or semi-regularly. Teh Buckner needs some more numbers, mostly because I would hate to annoy people in my office just for my own personal gratitude. Heh. For those that already have done this, thanks again.

Office A-Hole Disruption of the Day:

2006-01-23T22:19:00.000-05:00

I have found that a good way to get rid of those office doldrums is to use the fax machine as a toy. An entertaining thing to do is to fill out a fax cover sheet requesting something embarrassing in the "SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS" section, and then send the fax to a random phone number.

Like most fax machines, our office machine will send a confirmation or error page, depending on the success of the fax. Of course, the fax machine makes a small copy of the original fax cover sheet and includes it at the bottom of both the confirmation or rejection notice, allowing the person who discovers it to see any information on the original cover sheet.

This equals fun, mostly because the secretary that is responsible for clearing the office fax machine is Jenni, gossip-queen of the office and sworn enemy of Stacey. As I have mentioned before, I like to get my gas can out and fuel the flames of hatred between these two, mostly because I am a bastard.

For instance, today I erroneously sent a fax cover sheet from "Stacey" while Jenni was at lunch. The fax Stacey allegedly sent was to the Lilly-ICOS Pharmaceutical Company with the following message in the "SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS" section:

SEND ME AND MY BOYFRIEND THAT FREE SAMPLE OF CIALIS ASAP!

I then entered Stacey's name and office address below the request line. According to their company handbook, normal office procedure requires Jenni to notify the sender immediately that their fax didn't go through or to file the successful faxes in a logbook.

My office sits off to the side of Jenni's desk, so I can usually hear all of Jenni's phone calls. Well, Jenni gets back from lunch and eventually gets around to clearing the fax machine. I didn't happen to hear Jenni's call to Stacey, but I did hear Stacey (who was angry enough to leave her cube and stomp up to the front) saying that she "DIDN'T SEND THIS FAX" and that "SOMEBODY AROUND HERE IS PLAYING GAMES."

Not five minutes after Stacey returns to her section of the office, Jenni pops her head into my office and asks me if I heard "the commotion." I responded by saying that I heard some loud talking, but I figured that it was just people talking about yesterday's big Steeler win. Jenni then takes another step into my office, lowers her voice, and proceeds to tell me about Stacey's Cialis fax and how she tried to "play it off" as some office trick.

"I can tell when she is lying," Jenni whispered,”her face gets all red. Her boyfriend probably needs those pills because she put on 20 pounds from being pregnant. What a cow!"

Jenni didn't sit down for nearly 5 minutes, working her way around to her side of the office, spreading the news.

How Fertile, part II

2006-01-23T00:00:00.000-05:00

Recap of Friday's Post (Read this summary or the entire thing HERE):

First, 3 women fell pregnant in my office within a matter of weeks of one another. The fourth, Lisa, runs one of the businesses that shares office space with my company. Lisa sent out the following group email to everybody on our floor:

To all my friends at 415 Holiday Drive Floor 3:

There is something I would like to share with you, I am with child. And to all you ladies, I would highly advise that you don't drink the water around here….there is definitely something in it.

Lisa

That's right. A group email. I think everybody around here knows how I feel about those things, (Example 1, Example 2, Example 3). I didn't respond, although I wanted to. Who on earth tells the office via email of a pregnancy?!? Especially when you got knocked up by a former CO-WORKER who goes by the name of JUNIOR?? So I let it slide, until I received another group email:

IT'S THAT TIME AGAIN AND WITH EVERYONE GETTING SICK I WOULD LIKE TO ENCOURAGE EVERYONE TO PLEASE MAKE SURE THEY ARE UTILIZING MY HISTORICAL LANDMARK IN THE KITCHEN AND/OR YOUR WASH STATIONS IN YOUR BATHROOMS. AS A REMINDER AND A RULE OF THUMB, YOU ARE NOT THOROUGHLY REMOVING ALL GERMS FROM YOUR HANDS DURING HAND WASHING UNLESS YOU ARE WASHING YOUR HANDS AS LONG AS IT TAKES YOU TO SING THE "HAPPY BIRTHDAY SONG" ENTIRELY.

TRUST ME GUYS, YOU SERIOUSLY DO NOT WANT A SICK PREGNANT WOMAN RUNNING AROUND HERE….…IT COULD GET UGLY. LOL!
Lisa

The "historical landmark" is a hand-soap dispenser that was recently installed in the breakroom. The reason why it is historical is that I refused to help Lisa put the thing up when she purchased it about a month ago. She finally got around to installing it herself and proceeded to send out an email bragging about how she put it up without my help.

Because I am so mature, I anonymously put up a sign next to the dispenser declaring it the "Lisa Donovan Memorial Hygiene Station", complete with the date of purchase and installation. The sign stayed up for about a day until she tore it down, but not without everyone in the office seeing it. She was not really thrilled about this designation, what with her chronic sense of humor deficiency.

She had even less of a sense of humor when yours truly, under the penname "Harry Bucknuckle" sent an email to the original list. Now, keep in mind that Lisa FIRED Junior (that has such an awful ring to it) a few weeks before she sent her letters. That's right, she FIRED the guy she was banging and who knocked her up BEFORE she knew she was pregnant. These details were far to rich for me to ignore, which is why I sent the following:

I LIKE IT WHEN PREACHY PREGNANT WOMEN USE ALL CAPS IN THEIR MESSAGES! LOL! That being said, I want to take this opportunity to address Lisa's latest email. As you know, Lisa has accused the office water of impregnating her (see her Announcement email declaring that she was "with child(?)" More on that later), now she is making arbitrary "rules of thumb" about washing hands and the sickness it will prevent.

I could totally get behind this message if it was for my own personal benefit, sort of like a public service announcement telling me to wash the fecal matter off of my hands so I don't personally get sick. Unfortunately, THAT'S NOT WHAT HER ROYAL HIGHNESS LISA DONOVAN IS SAYING IN THIS MESSAGE!

No, it appears she is saying that we all should sterilize ourselves by using a historical landmark for the benefit of her and her "with child." Does anybody else find this suggestion a bit troubling?

I for one will cheerfully abide by Lisa's suggestion to sing the "Happy Birthday Song" while I scrub my hands bloody using her "historical landmark." Immediately thereafter, I will proceed to lick every doorknob, handle, keyboard and phone in the place while humming "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor. After that, I will drink some water while rapping Coolio's "Gangsta's Paradise" which will evidently make me pregnant, but only if I am ovulating and drunkenly fucking Junior on my desk at the same time. Soon after, I will walk to my car singing the Oscar Meyer bologna song, and so on.

I also have few suggestions for Ms. Donovan. Firstly, I feel that if your "with child" ends up being a boy, I feel the name Junior Jr. (for daddy) or Junior Jesus (for daddy and your conception-by-office-water-theory) is completely appropriate and justified for names. Secondly, is this why your fired Junior last month?

Harry Bucknuckle

Because I am somewhat reserved in my office (0utwardly), she didn't expect me. Lisa focused her anger at her subordinates, sending out a very terse message threatening to fire them if they continued to share "confidental company information" with outsiders and/or using company time to craft these type of messages.

I discovered through this exchange that my calling in life was to become the anonymous office asshole. These are my stories.

How Fertile!

2006-01-19T21:27:00.000-05:00

There used to be a pretty nice balance between the sexes in my office. The ratio of men to women was about 50:50. Note the use of the word WAS in the last sentence. In the matter of a month, 6 men were fired, and 6 women were hired in their place. The details of these firings will be covered at a later date, but needless to say I wasn't complaining. I saw this as a remarkably fantastic turn of events, mostly because I was the last man standing so to speak.

Then the women started to get pregnant. Stacey, the first woman that got knocked up, came in one day and told the office loudmouth in confidence that she was going to have a kid. The office loudmouth (lets call her "Jenni") proceeded to tell everybody else this confidental information and before you knew it, the whole office heard the news.

Stacey seemed to take the obvious betrayal in stride, but there was catty tension between the two of them after that. I did my best to exacerbate the tension between the two by making up one-line insults that one allegedly said about the other. During one of these conversations, I found out that Jenni got her just deserts for gossiping. Turns out, a night "clubbin' with her gurlfriends!" progressed to hot sex in the basement of a diner and a pink reading on the pregnancy test. Stacey gleefully recounted the whole story, from how Jenni's story went from banging a "hottie" to a tearful office confession.

Stacey peppered up the tale by calling Jennie a "bar slut" and snickering at the prospect of Jenni getting knocked up in the men's room of a Denny's by a guy she met while ordering a Moons Over Hammy platter. "Serves that bitch right. What a WHORE!" was Stacey's closing statement, but I am not one to gossip.

The only married woman in my office followed suit two weeks later, making her pregnancy announcement during a staff meeting. Fair enough, but by now you could see the stress on the faces of the non-pregnant. It reminded me of a scene from one of those teen horror movies: The camera pans over the frightened survivors, one by one, each face clearly showing the realization that somebody is going to get hacked up by the freak in the mask. Its just a matter of time. Similarly, these women were nervously joking about being the next one, but you could tell they feared the reaper, er, stork.

Not more than a week later, the results were in: Lisa was the next to fall. In an attempt to stop the gossiping before it started, Lisa made her pregnancy announcement via GROUP EMAIL. Luckily, I saved a copy:

To all my friends at 415 Holiday Drive Floor 3:

There is something I would like to share with you, I am with child. And to all you ladies, I would highly advise that you don't drink the water around here….there is definitely something in it.
Lisa

IT'S THAT TIME AGAIN AND WITH EVERYONE GETTING SICK I WOULD LIKE TO ENCOURAGE EVERYONE TO PLEASE MAKE SURE THEY ARE UTILIZING MY HISTORICAL LANDMARK IN THE KITCHEN AND/OR YOUR WASH STATIONS IN YOUR BATHROOMS. AS A REMINDER AND A RULE OF THUMB, YOU ARE NOT THOROUGHLY REMOVING ALL GERMS FROM YOUR HANDS DURING HAND WASHING UNLESS YOU ARE WASHING YOUR HANDS AS LONG AS IT TAKES YOU TO SING THE "HAPPY BIRTHDAY SONG" ENTIRELY.
TRUST ME GUYS, YOU SERIOUSLY DO NOT WANT A SICK PREGNANT WOMAN RUNNING AROUND HERE….…IT COULD GET UGLY. LOL!

Lisa

Yes, she did send that in ALL CAPS. The "historical landmark" is a hand-soap dispenser that was recently installed in the breakroom. The reason why it is historical is that I refused to help Lisa put the thing up when she purchased it about a month ago. She finally got around to installing it herself and proceeded to send out an email bragging about how she put it up without my help.

Because I am so mature, I put up a sign next to the dispenser declaring it the "Lisa Donovan Memorial Hygiene Station", complete with the date of purchase and installation. The sign stayed up for about a day until she tore it down, but not without everyone in the office seeing it. She was not really thrilled about this designation, what with her chronic sense of humor deficiency.

After seeing this message in my inbox, typed in capital letters and including the "LOL" abbreviation, I cracked a bit and crafted a response which will be posted on Monday.

Have a good weekend. Keep those referrals coming!

Long Cut.

2006-01-18T19:55:00.000-05:00

Before I get into the pregnant co-worker story, allow me to share why I decided to start a bloggering again. The area where I grew up had just been buried under four feet of snow one day, not an uncommon occurrence in Northwestern Pennsylvania. In an email to a friend of mine (Denise, a grade-school teacher), I made the remark that my parents were stuck in their house from the snowstorm because their road wasn’t plowed and they couldn’t get out of their driveway. Denise’s immediate response back to me was since my parents lived in Alaska, shouldn’t they have a pack of dogs that would sled them to safety? Appreciative of sarcasm, I calmly explained that no, they lived just south of Erie and that their farm was on a dirt road that didn’t get plowed all that often in the winter.

The next message I get just had the following typed in the subject line:

Did you really grow up on a farm? Animal dander KILLS my allergies.

I replied YES and extended sympathies for the dander thing. Immediately, I received another subject line only email:

IS YOUR DAD NAMED FARMER TED?

I didn’t respond, mostly out of shock, as my father was indeed a farmer, and also named TED. Not knowing how relentless Denise could be and not realizing that teachers possesed any wit whatsoever, I figured ignoring this coincidence would make it go away.

Wrong.

I sent a totally unrelated email out an hour later about a dog I was considering adopting. In the email I did make a casual reference to how surprised I was that she knew my fathers name and congratulated her on the lucky guess. As a response, I get the following:

OK, why on Earth would I care if you were adopting a dog? Because you're a vegetarian? Are you planning on eating the dog? If so, you're a hippocrate. Is this animal going to pull the sled that will carry you over the snow-clogged dirt road to farmer Ted’s house and then to safety after you rescued Farmer Ted and your mother from their snowy tomb?

As for me knowing your dad's name, well, I googled you and found out all of that information online. When I called your parents house last night to find out all about your farming experience, your dad told me his name. ...Or, it could be because one of my favorite movies of all time has a title character, "Farmer Ted."

I sorta laughed and figured she would expect a sarcastic response, so I let it rip:

Dear Sgt. Smart:
I refuse to eat this dog, despite your suggestion. I just figured that since you are fatally allergic to everything that lives because of some mystery substance you have named "dander" for some reason you wouldn't like the fact that I have a dog.

Your favorite movie is called "Farmer Ted"? Is it some fucking kids show or something? I am envisioning a stout guy in denim overalls with a piece of wheat hanging off of the side of his lip, seductively dabbing the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief while riding a happily animated tractor named "li'l Husky" or some shit like that.

Three wisecracking cows graze along the fence while Farmer Ted rides li'l Husky into another adventure involving corn stalks, bailing wire and a pack of sinister groundhogs. At the end we get a lesson in some shit we should have already known (like equality, freedom or why we shouldn't rape people) and Farmer Ted lights up his pipe and laughs at the lame-ass joke the middle cow made. Then he slaughters that fucking thing with a steaknife, kicks the dog for fun and then commences to beatin' Ms. Farmer Ted with one of the cow's legs. Then he puts on a bib, eats a dozen ears of corn and some raw meat, and molests his kids before turning in.

Wait THAT WAS MY DAD!

That's the trouble with you teachers...its all about the "kids." Come back to reality Ms. Thang, where farmers are a figment of the imagination or my family reunions and tractors are made out of fucking STEEL and don't have a smiley face or eyeballs where their lights should be.

Well, the last thing I heard from Denise that week was this:

I guess I stuck a nerve. That wasn't my intention. In fact, I was trying to be cute but I guess it didn't work. I'm sorry if what I said bothered you. Frankly, I am a little shocked that you found what I said upsetting. As for Farmer Ted, you're going to kick yourself. It's from Sixteen Candles.

Not everybody gets the Buckner I guess. Well, except for all of you.

Outside the door

2006-01-17T23:15:00.000-05:00

Continued from yesterday's entry entitled "Inhale:"

Turns out, using magazines as toilet paper wasn’t the only inspiration I got from the bathroom around this time. About a week into my commitment to Men’s Healthing myself, I walked into the restroom at work and noticed a cellular phone laying on the sink countertop. Evidently, a person that shares the floor with my company had left his phone on the corner of the sink while washing his hands and neglected to pick it back up. Five minutes later I departed that restroom with an empty bladder. Well, an empty bladder as well as a satisfied mind stemming from sending the following text messages to at least 10 different people (including to the multiple phone number entries under the names "Mom" and "Aunt Donna.") from the contact section of that phone:

"I'm balls deep for Jesus."

I felt better than I had in months after that, like I almost enjoyed being at work. However, I soon realized that this feeling of enjoyment wasn’t for my actual job or the responsibilities associated with it. The corporate life, florescent lights and stacks of bleached white paper were a rubbery tourniquet around the neck of the individualistic aspects of old Buckner, choking me down into another pasty white suburbanite. Accepting payment for services rendered wasn’t a problem; hell, you can sing me the gospel according to Karl Marx, but without the Bolshevik tabernacle choir around singing with you, all socialists ultimately end up cold, homeless and without booze. I accept playing the capitalist game just like everybody else around here for better or worse.

No, it was the environment that was causing my soul to seep out of my body one breath at a time. Cold office space, cubicles, uptight white folks, fake tans, discussions of top-40 radio, the overall fakeness of what seems to be the majority of the people in my office just gets to me. I gladly will take the money, but don’t make me work with these sucks. Let me chose my co-workers the way I chose my friends, drinking buddies, lap dancers or public defenders, and I am as kosher as lox. Unfortunately, this philosophy is not shared by the people that do the hiring at any job anywhere, so I am stuck with what the MAN provides: A steady paycheck and a steady stream fluff and idiots in which to work with.

However, sending sexually suggestive text messages to some dude’s Aunt Donna allowed me to discover a personal antidote to this troublesome workplace quandary. I decided that I would do my job, take the money and to continue to embrace my co-workers publicly. Behind the scenes, I realized it was necessary to engage my co-workers and bosses anonymously with workplace prankery done in the least professional way possible. This blog is hereby devoted to this very subject for the next couple of weeks. All of these stories are true and have been approved by none other than the lovely and talented BostonAnnie.

Tomorrow: Pregnant co-workers and my argument for sterilization.

Inhale.

2006-01-16T22:20:00.000-05:00

During the first month or so at my new job, I played the corporate/professional game just like they told me to in all of those career counseling meetings in school. I kept my hair cut conservatively, my shirt and pants nicely pressed, and my desk neat and tidy. Not only that, I wore a tie, drank coffee every morning and attempted to make friends with my fellow workers by talking about sports, television or movies. I worked late, I got there early, I tried to stay busy and interested in all the stories my boss told me about his kids and decided that golf would be an excellent networking opportunity.

There I was, shiny, happy Buckner, talking about the 3-4 defense or what that crazy Brad Pitt was doing nowadays to my fellow workers. Golf outing with "the boys?" Sign me up! Office party or happy hour? I am SO there dude! Moving up that career ladder was a given, yessiree, the horizon ahead was adorned with the most beautiful sunrise of my success. The next thing you know, I would have a German sedan NOT named Volkswagen, a stylish christian wife and pre-fab house just outside of city and right off of an interstate exit, only 30 miles from downtown! Tax rates are lower out there and the schools are so much better dontcha know.

It was during this time that I began noticing a wispy plume of my soul escaping my body every time I exhaled, like smoke rising from a poorly extinguished cigarette. I ignored it for a while, figuring it was just paranoia or cold air or actual cigarette smoke that got caught in a deep recess of my lungs. "My alveoli must be so huge that smoke is STILL in there from Friday night. Maybe that's it."

Now I know that this type of rationale is another symptom of becoming a white-collar lemming. My alveoli were not huge, and my balls were receding like the tide during a full moon.

The final breakdown occurred one night when I caught myself eating a yogurt while watching "Isaac" on the Style Network and actually contemplating buying a fuchsia tie because Isaac said that color is "hot this year." During the commercial break I got up to take a piss, glanced at myself in the mirror, and didn't leave my bathroom for 6 hours. I woke up completely naked on the floor with a towel draped over my shoulders and a copy of Men’s Health magazine clutched in my right hand. I looked at the cover and decided that some personal changes were going to have to be made or I risked ending up living on Babbling Brook Lane married to some bitch named Tiffany who has a pink cellular phone and wears her favorite Hollister sweatsuit to the video store to pick up a copy of “How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days” for our weekly “snuggle date.”

In a symbolic gesture to the commitment it was going to take to inhale those portions of my lost soul, I made a pledge to wipe my ass with the pages of that magazine every day until the entire thing was gone. 275 pages and 10 subscription cards later, I feel as if I have a new and improved outlook on life and a true appreciation of the virtues of Charmin.

To be continued.

By Monday, I meant Tuesday...

2006-01-15T21:47:00.000-05:00

That big Stiller win made me drink and smoke and not write. However, in light of the past month of Pittsburgh sports dominance over the surrounding states/cities, I have made this handy-dandy map (including helpful Microsoft Paint additions) to show the rest of you how great it is to be a Pittsburgher right now [as if you needed an explanation of that.]

Steelers 41, Browns 0
Steelers 31, Bungals 17
Steelers 21, Colts 18

University of Pittsburgh Panthers Basketball (now 14-0!) 61, Louisville 57.

PLUS, it was 60 degrees here 2 days last week! What a paradise!

Blogging shall return on Monday, January 16, 2006.

2006-01-10T09:00:00.000-05:00

kaboom. Tell yer friends.

Somethin's cookin'...

2005-12-29T09:28:00.001-05:00

2006. Year of teh Buckner.

Smackfest is no joke people.

2005-08-09T23:48:00.000-04:00

The picture here is small, but the contest was HUGE. So huge that the New York State Government intervened and fined a radio station in New York City for holding a face slapping contest (surprisingly called SMACKFEST) to the tune of $250,000.00.

Seems that some people noticed the videos on the radio station website that featured women repeatedly smacking each other in the face for a prize of $500.00 a bit offensive. I wonder why?

The story can be read HERE, and the video (you are all welcome) can be found:

HERE

HERE

or

HERE

Check these out immediately as they may be pulled at any time. I would take this treatment from several of you that read this blog COMPLETELY free. Can't say who though...Winky Winky.

SO anywho...if bitch slapping for $CASH MONEY$ has you down in the dumps this Wednesday, I totally understand. Thats why I am posting the following picture:

This little toddler's mommy and daddy are obviously up for parents of the year.

Keep in mind also there is a lot more to this blog than Smackfest '05, bay-bee...check out the whole sha-bang at www.wolfgangbuckner.blogspot.com

Lazy is what Buckner does...

2005-08-09T00:26:00.000-04:00

SURE, the blog has taken a huge nosedive in quality and quantity (my words) since the photo relevation of the Devil Named Larry and the timely reporting of McGruff the Crime Dog's fall from grace,

KNOWING that I have a readership that numbers in the TENS,

FEARFUL of why somebody in the U.S. State Department keeps looking at my site,

HONESTLY trying to come up with more humorous/ridiculous/smarmy commentary about hillbilly's, Fayette Countians, and other naer-do-wells,

I failed.

But not like this guy...

Looks funny right? Well, he is sorta funny, until you realize that this man was FOUND ON THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE POLICE MEGAN'S LAW WEBSITE.
If you have ever lived in Pennsylvania, know somebody in Pennsylvania, or expect to travel to Pennsylvania, this site is useful in narrowing down the sex offenders on a zip code, city, county or name basis. Creepy.

Then, there is this:

If that's not bad enough, people keep finding my site while looking for the following words using msn.com's search engine:

sexual harassment/after working hours

This combination of words, searched for yesterday by somebody in South Dakota, attracted a new reader to the site as this site comes up #10 in that word search.

Curious.

I'll bet that guy was surprised to find a picture of Twenty-Dollar Bob's penis puppets and several photos of an orange-hued demon that drinks Bud Light. Serves him right for sexually propositioning his co-worker at the local saloon (probably). Fucker.

Right after I found that out, I had a drink or twelve, a Monday tradition like none other. Before I retired for the evening, I decided to turn to one of of my favorite blogs...the ever famous BostoniAnne for some laughs. Maybe I am the only one, but I was totally creeped out by the picture of Barbie Rapunzel and a lovely story of Marilyn Monroe's true cause of death: AN ENEMA.

Thank you for that.

Then, there is this...

If you have not seen the open letter to the Kansas School Board that explains this, please check it out here.

The internet's answer to those "I'm with stupid" T-shirts

2005-08-08T01:14:00.000-04:00

I finally got this photo forwarded to me today...I have been waiting to get one of these for a while. More posting later today, as there is some big news in Bucknerland...

McGruff The Crime Dog Arrested Again

2005-08-01T22:59:00.000-04:00

Pittsburgh (AP)

Allegheny County prosecutors have filed a charge of solicitation of prostitution, public lewdness, resisting arrest and possession of a controlled substance against a 34-year-old crime fighting mascot accused of giving the Easter Bunny a contract for sexual propositions in March.

The mascot, McGruff the Crime Dog, is accused of approaching the Ms. Bunny without his trademark overcoat on March 25, 2005 while Ms. Bunny was preparing for an Easter egg hunt later that day, according to the criminal complaint. The maximum penalty for the charge, a felony, is three years in prison and three years of extended supervision.

McGruff, right, seen here in a photo taken shortly before the alleged misconduct.

Shortly after the conclusion of the hunt, McGruff allegedly appeared from a wooded area, wearing only a collar, and then asked if Ms. Bunny if she would accept $500,000 and pulled a three-page handwritten contract written in red crayon from a manila folder. On the second page was an itemized list detailing sexual acts, the complaint says. The third page said the offer only was good if she did what was listed in the contract.

The bunny told the officer she began to fear for her safety at that point and worked her way towards the street. She told the McGruff the contract would not work because it was not the kind of thing that “good bunnies do” and also that her acceptance of the contract would violate the antitrust agreement she currently held with Jesus and Hershey Chocolates Inc. allowing her to control the Easter holiday without religous or candy competition until 2012. McGruff then reportedly fled the scene and drove away in a truck.

McGruff has been in the Allegheny County Jail on a probation hold. A date has not been set for him to appear in Allegheny County court.

The charges and subsequent arrest of McGruff are one of a slew of strange and criminal behavior by the mascot in the past year. Perhaps the most bizarre arrest involved the questionable relationship with Scruff, a minor Crime Puppy.

A police officer responding to a suspicious vehicle call discovered two large mascots lying down in McGruff’s 1998 white Chevrolet van in October 2004.

As the officer approached the vehicle on foot, he noticed both of the car’s occupants pulling shorts up over their exposed genitals, police said. The suspects offered conflicting stories on how they met and the duration and frequency of their relationship, police said.

McGruff knew the younger mascot’s first name was Scruff, but initially said he was his nephew whom he had guardianship over, according to the police report

Scruff told police he met with McGruff “from time to time” and that the two had “hooked up” earlier that day on Butler Street, police said.

Both suspects said they were just “fooling around,” the police report said. Police also found a dog bowl filled with wine, and several copies "Scandinavian Poodle Magazine" and "Dog Fancy" scattered on the floor of the van.

McGruff later admitted Scruff was a juvenile prostitute from whom he has been soliciting sex for about a year, police said. McGruff indicated to police that he plied Scruff with Snausages, worm medicine and porn in exchange for allowing McGruff to touch Scruff's "li'l pinkie," repeated consensual ass sniffing, mutual lickings, leg humping and other sexual favors, according to police reports.

McGruff also paid Scruff $14 to have sex with him and took him on several "long walks," police said.

In June, 2004, McGruff was questioned by Pittsburgh City Police after several reports of a dog mascot approaching children at local parks surfaced. In each instance, the mascot, who identified himself only as "Good Doggie", offered candy to children in exchange for allowing him to fondle and lick their toes. No charges were filed, but Chief Sergeant Maurita Bryant of the Pittsburgh Police has indicated that the investigation is ongoing.

In May 2005, McGruff was arrested for harassment after growling and chasing several participants in the 2005 Gay Pride parade on Penn Avenue downtown. "That bastard was such a fucking BITCH, I mean really" commented participant and event organizer, Eda Bagel of Morningside.

McGruff's recent run-ins and criminal behavior with the police began after the much publicized break-up of the Crime Mascot and the Former Ms. Florida, in 2001.

From staff and wire reports. Wolfgang Buckner contributed to this story.

***UPDATE*** Just so you all know, I have been working on this breaking news story for about 3 months. Beware of poor, poor substitutes that have been posted in other places recently. This one's all Buckner, no plagiarism here. This is the REAL McGruff story.***

Salvation

2005-07-26T22:09:00.000-04:00

My neighborhood fears God in a big way. There are no less than 7 Synagogues, 3 Christian-sect Churches, a Mosque and assorted religion-themed schools, nursing homes and the like within about mile radius of my front porch. When I moved here a few years ago, I couldn't believe the religious diversity. My little bucolic wonder-bread-and-one-stoplight hometown featured a Catholic Church and white people. Oh, and a church that had a blinking neon "Jesus Saves" light in direct opposite-road competition with "Laura's Springboro Inn" and their neon sign promoting the spiritual contribution of "Busch Light and Bass Fishing."

Moving here was an epiphany in diversity, religious or otherwise, for me. So I became an atheist. As natural a progression as one can get.

However, I am a firm believer that no matter what religion you pick as an adult, if you were raised Catholic like I was you are infected with Catholicism for life. Catholicism is the herpes simplex of your conscience, always with you in some incurable way, waiting to erupt with festering guilt or unsightly Godfearance and the absolute worst time.

Internally fighting the programmed religious upbringing is hard. The influence of outside stimuli like Grandma, Christmas and Johnny Cash makes it even harder.

I persevered for quite a long time, stoking the fires of my own belief system, refining them, trying to act all unique or novel to my Christian friends and family. I endured questions from my nephews asking me if I was ok with burning in a lake of fire for eternity. I refused to memorize Samuel L. Jackson's "Ezekiel 25:13" lines in Pulp Fiction. I rolled my eyes and politely returned the Bible my churchy sister and brother-in-law gave me on my 30th birthday. Atheist Buckner, Hear me roar...

Then The Devil began showing up on the sidewalks around my neighborhood. The Devil Named Larry. Obviously here to disrupt the religous vibe of the neighborhood, The Devil Named Larry patrolled the streets terrifying all who passed. Including me. I am sure he sensed my fear as well.

I have wrote about this scoundrel several times on this blog, but I have thought about him a lot more. Ten years of religous de-conditioning down the drain...there had to be a God, because there sure is hell a Devil, A Devil Named Larry.

Wasted. All that heightened sense of spiritual superiority, all that Nietzsche, WASTED. Fucking "Geneaology of Morals" anyway.

I wanted to document his presence among us to the world, but I wasn't very successful. My previous photos of this urban Mephistopheles were blurry and low quality, like those taken of Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster, some other alleged unnatural beings in our eartly midst.

Until last week.

I set out last week to finally confront The Devil Named Larry, photograph him to show the world that he was a figment of reality, not my imagination. After a few days, I began to get discouraged, because he was nowhere to be found. On my way home from another unsuccessful attempt, I happened by a local tavern, and there, sitting at the corner of the bar, was....him.

Before I took this picture, I asked him, voice quivering, if he minded being included in a photo of the bar. ***As I sidenote, yes, I spoke to the Devil, and not only that, I lied to the Devil about my intentions. Know what that means? HEAVEN! By my calculations, a negative (the Devil) times a negative (a lie) equals a POSITIVE! HEAVEN HERE I COME!***

His response to my picture request?

"Just don't put the fucking thing on one of those posters on the wall of the fucking post office over there. Just don't do that! HAR HAR HAR!", motioning his hand toward me to proceed.

A nervous smile crept accross my face as I steadied my shot. Then I took another.

As you can see by this picture, The Devil Named Larry began to get searingly mad at the flashing lights. Sensing my soul in danger, I ducked out the side door and walked back to my house as fast as my piggy legs would carry me, looking over my shoulder just in case I was followed.

The Devil Wears Fila. The Devil drinks Bud Light bottles and pours it in a glass. The Devil truely is adorned with gold. Make sure you cross reference these pictures with my previous description, linked above.

Buckner doesn't exaggerate. He reports.

So if you excuse me, I am off to say a rosary and listen to some olde-timey soul saving music.

Immaturity is my forte.

2005-07-25T20:35:00.000-04:00

This is the logo for a surprisingly serious organization of people that lobby for the "welfare and promotion of forest products." I called them today to try to get a t-shirt for a housewarming present for a friend, but they said that unless I paid the membership fee, I couldn't get the damn shirt.

Always one step ahead, those Hoo Hoo's. The cat is an especially nice touch.

DavidHasselhoff.com is alive and well, in case anybody is interested. Even after decades of scorn and relentless jokes, pics of the 'Hoff still make me laugh.

If any of your are interested in buying the receipt for this woman's soul, bidding ends in a day or so. You can buy pretty much anything on eBay, well except...

Am I the only one disturbed with the lack of Fidel Castro's or Che Guevara's image on boxer shorts or women's panties? I mean, you see Che's picture on T-shirts all the time, which is ironic, but not ONE internet outlet will sell you a nice pair of Che boxer briefs.

Somebody should work on this glaring consumer omission...

Dear Old Ambrosius sent me this today. The map below is the FEMA fallout map for Pittsburgh Area. We seem to have the attention of the Ruskies, but the old hometown of Pittsburgh is spared a direct hit.

Interestingly enough, notice what county directly to the south of Pittsburgh gets two atomic bombs, even though they enjoy one of Pennsylvania's lowest population densities?

Even the Russians hate Fayette County.

Tomorrow, the Devil Named Larry is revealed to the world. Y'all tune in now, y'hear?

More Fan Mail!

2005-07-25T00:13:00.000-04:00

An honest-to-goodness recent email sent to yer old pal Buckner:

I think you're absolutely yummy. I don't know what you look like, but I can tell that you're one hot, sexy piece of meat. But no matter how delicious you are, your god-like features will never be surpassed by your wit.

Nothing drives a girl crazier than an intelligent, sardonic man whose insight into the foibles of the everday man can create hours of endless laughter.

I hope I can meet you in person one day.

Arctic Rose

Uhh...right. This was the attached photo:

Nice sweater. Nice also to see that Twenty-Dollar Bob is resorting to trickery to get me to open up his attachments now.

!!!!

2005-07-24T03:35:00.000-04:00

Storm Trooper + Elvis = StormTrooperElvis.

Thank God for this guy.

I am at a loss for words.

Go to church today.

Touchdown!!!

2005-07-21T22:50:00.000-04:00

Today, my camera took a picture.

A picture of the Devil Named Larry.

A picture so chillingly horrifying, I am unable to put it into words, at least right now.

So I took another.

Next week is going to be a great week for those of you who read this blog regularly. Quixotic photographic evidence of my psychological windmill is now within my possession, ready for posting. I celebrated this triumphant day by chucking AA batteries at passing cars while drinking Jim Beam Reserve straight from the bottle, Waylon Jennings playing none-to-softly in the background.

Are y'all sure Hank done it this way?

Not sure about all of that, but what I am sure of is the website where this pic can be found represents a challenge to every one of you:

The site is Jowlers.com, where "distortion is cause for celebration." And how, brother.

In an ongoing series on the alleged genetic connection between the citizens of Fayette County, Pennsylvania, and homo sapiens, this story gives definitive proof to the contrary:

Thursday, July 21, 2005
Associated Press

A Fayette County man pleaded guilty to strangling his dog, but he won't pay a fine or serve time in jail. Instead, Ulysses Zimmerman, of Point Marion, will stand at a busy intersection, holding a sign that reads "Animal Cruelty is a Crime."

This week, Zimmerman pleaded guilty to animal cruelty for allegedly neglecting the dog, denying it veterinary care and strangling the animal. A district judge ordered Zimmerman to pay more than $300 in fines, restitution and costs.

But Zimmerman told officials that he couldn't afford the fines and did not want to go to jail. So Fayette County Humane Officer Robin Moore came up with a plan for Zimmerman to hold the sign at a South Union Township intersection.
Moore said Zimmerman was to stand at the intersection today and perform other community service at another time.

How is that for fucking hillbilly justice?!? Strangle a dog? Can't pay the fine? Well, carry this sign out by the highway, hayseed! Take yer public scorn like a man, n'at.

Obviously, the county's only stocks and pillory were already in use that day by these little scamps, whose only defense to the charge of "cookin' meth without a cer-tee-fied permit" was that the "shine don't sell no more."

As a result, they were forced into the stocks for a fortnight and made to labor in the brothel until the fine of 6 furthings was paid. That last sentence isn't funny for several reasons, one being that it's actually true. That county has moved PAST hayseed/hillbilly status and right into medieval times. Whats next? Giant inflatable dragons standing right outside of town? TOO LATE, THEY ALREADY HAVE THAT! (if you click on the link, the below picture is referenced near the end of the post)

For those scoring at home, in the last few months Fayette County has been in the news for:

1. A pygmy-goat-meat for crack scheme.
2. A little league coach ordering the assasination-by-baseball of a retarded kid.
3. Men strangling dogs then being ordered by a judge to carry a sign as punishment.

I am betting the next event will center around some hick doing something stupid under the influence of drugs, alcohol or incest.

Pictures were had.

2005-07-20T22:53:00.000-04:00

Ok, there were some successful sightings and photographs today, but I have decided to reveal the pics of these characters next week, devoting an entire day to each member of the "Neighborhood WatchOut Team." Of course, The Devil Named Larry remains elusive as usual, but our spirits are up and we are confident that more photo opportunities will present themselves later. In other news...

I received this email the other day (pay no mind to the names, the story is the important part):

hello everyone-

this is a small note to everyone to give you a small early xmas (chanukah) present...if you're having a bad day and need to lighten your mood i'd like you to think about one daniel j. talbert and one short, stubby man who can remain nameless running with the bulls in pamplona. oh yes, my friends, it was quite a sight to see...or so i'm told as i was busy diving into a doorway with a thousand sweaty spainairds to avoid eight 800lb pissed off bulls who happened to be storming down the streets in a nice mike tyson-like fury.

again, i'm sorry about the mass email but it's the only way to do this without developing carpaltunnel syndrome, i love you all, please write when you can and may dog have mercy on your souls.

dame

This was a message from my good friend Damien, telling the ribald tale of his vacation with another friend, Dan Talbert.

Damien, obviously sober and bearded in this photo, before the ravages of a strict Pizza Hut diet set in.

Yes, Dan Talbert cuts his hair with the Flobee.

I was one of the lucky people included on his mass-emailing list, one of FIFTY or so. The list included Damien's mother, sister, grandparents, aunt and other family members, along with an assorted list of people I have never met. As some of you may know from previous posts or from personal experience (I expect a testimonial to this in the comments section, von Rot), I have an unrelenting urge to respond to the entire group when included on these damn things.

So I did:

Dearest Fuckers,

I heard another report from Spain about Damien and Talbert "running" from the bulls....

From what I am hearing, Talbert got hurt (big surprise there) with a pulled hamstring walking out of the hotel and had to watch from the sidewalk.

Additionally, this same guy told me that a bull nearly gored Damien, but failed. Turns out that because Damien's sweat has the same consistency as ranch dressing (and the same color, but with a higher fat content and far less nutritious) the bull's horns just slid off of his ample tummy, which caused the bull to lose its balance. The bull then lost its footing after stepping in a puddle of Damian-sweat and then fell to the ground and broke its neck.

Dead.

But it doesn't stop there. Damien, sitting in a folding chair strategically placed on the sidewalk the night before, got up and began pouring his "emergency barbeque sauce" on the bull's hindquarters and started eating the animal with a giant fork and knife within seconds after it slipped on his greasy sweat. Four ushers had to pull Damien from the carcass and place him into custody. Rumor has it that Damien began eating one of the ushers before he was tazered, but those reports are unsubstantiated.

My source has also reported that prior to the above incidents, Damien was reprimanded for foul language by festival organizers. Several people made complaints that a stout hairy rotund man was sitting in a lawn chair along the sidewalk dressed in flip-flops, boxer shorts and flowered shirt, drinking homemade gin from a mason jar and repeatedly screaming "THIS PARADE SUCKS".

Reports of the same man verbally accosting some of the bulls by saying "Where is my fucking candy, you pussy-assed fire truck? Where is my fucking candy? BACKDRAFT SUCKED BALLS! I WANT a TOOTSIE ROLL, BITCH!" were confirmed by the festival organizers.

There are no more ugly Americans. Just Damien.

Your pal,

Buckner.

Well, I sent that about an hour ago. I will keep you all informed as to the reaction (if any) from friends and family. And to answer a question I keep getting from my mom: Yes, I do realize by the time I am done with this "bloggy thingy," I will have pissed off any and all friends I may have ever had.

Can you believe this crap?!?

2005-07-19T21:19:00.000-04:00

Two whole days of searching.

Over 16 hours of stalking (most of it spent sitting outside coffee shops, but the cameras were ready and able).

Not one sighting.

No Devil Named Larry, no Mountain Man, not even a glimpse of The Guy That Looks Like Frank Zappa.

Is it the weather? Has the humidity forced these men inside? Surely the almighty and powerful Satan-incarnate isn't afraid of some hot and humid weather, is he? Evidently all of these fuckers are because they have been nowhere to be found the last two days. They must be on to me.

All of this modern technology is going to waste. Very depressing.

After I read this, I felt better though. Memo to perv's everywhere: Come up with better excuses, especially if you are caught knee deep in raw sewage while standing inside a woman's outhouse in a state park.

Other news items from yesterday included an informative story about how the Japanese plan on using robots to help the elderly.

Finally, if you really REALLY want to get grossed out by pictures of decomposing, exploding or murdered bodies, please click on ogrish.com This site is not for the faint of heart and is really fucking disgusting.

Chaos Streams

2005-07-18T20:51:00.000-04:00

Today's temperature was sweaty. Plus it rained half the day, which obviously chased the neighborhood characters inside. One day down, absolutely no success.

How depressing.

Today's Score:

The Devil Named Larry & Friends--1
Wolfgang Buckner--0

Now, some recent emails from my fans:

Buckner,

How's it going? I just finally had time to look at your blogspot. I actually found it amusing! i hope that all is well with you and i really enjoyed learning about your testicle, and are you bisexual?

love,

**name withheld to protect the author**

Ahem. I am not sure how to respond to that last part of the question other than...only if its Thursday, and I am wearing orange.

Surely that's just a joke. Right?

The next message is the latest in a series from some guy that evidently reads my blog every day. He sends me things like this all the time (with pictures attached of course).

Hey you big sweaty bastard-child,

While you may have more balls than me, I can assure you that my dick is absolutely huge. Just look at the attached file.

Twenty-Dollar Bob

I won't post the file on here, but just so you know, its always of the same erect penis dressed up in seasonal attire or like a celebrity. The penis in the last picture was dressed in flowered swimming trunks (he claims he stitched the shorts himself and says that his "pecker has a size 7" waist." I wish I was kidding about this, trust me.) and had pipe cleaner arms holding a fishing rod. The guy also made a smiley face at the tip and dotted "nipples" and a belly button on the shaft of the thing.

About a month ago, he honored retiring Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor by dressing it up in judicial robes, with cotton balls for hair and a little gavel taped to the side.

Not that I study these pics or anything...but wouldn't any of you eventually look at pics like these if you were sent them twice a week, every week, for the last 3 months, especially when the fourth one he sent was dressed up like Elvis (complete with penned-on sideburns)? I guess the question is if you look at them twice...

What is strange about his last letter (besides for the Penis Fisherman) is that for me to have more balls than this guy, he would have to have NO BALLS AT ALL. He must not read my postings very closely. Maybe if I changed my avatar I would stop getting "fans" like that.

Sometimes people send me ideas for the next day's blog. For example, here is the email and attached link from one of the Buckner fans:

Check this out!!! Maybe you can use this on your blog tomorrow!!! It's a shaved pussy!!! LOL!!! Look at its face!!! It looks like your father when he is falling asleep watching TV!!!

Mom

This is the photo that was on the other side of the link:

Now, is my mother saying my father looks like a "shaved pussy" when he falls asleep watching the History Channel each night? Is my father completely hairless and pink under his t-shirt? How did he get that way? What on earth is that hairy thing in the lower center of the pic, between the cat's legs, and does my Father have that as well?

Blindness is a blessing in these situations.

Mother, PleasePleasePleasePlease stop sending me stuff like this. As you can see, longtime friends are accusing me of being bisexual and I receive pics on a regular basis from some guy who calls himself "Twenty Dollar Bob" who dresses up his penis like Genghis Kahn or Mr. Spock, depending on his mood.

Please stop adding to my consternation.

Devil Week Begins...

2005-07-17T21:52:00.000-04:00

Sorry about the lack of posting today...read the ones I posted Friday afternoon, or check back later for updates.

One last thing...

2005-07-15T15:44:00.000-04:00

I can't leave for the weekend on that Fayette County note, so here is a suggestion for you over the next couple of days off (or, for the jobless bloggers among us, anytime you get around to it in between your video games and crackers...yes, I don't know you at all but I still feel the need to give you crap about your current bout of graduation-induced unemployment):

If you do iTunes, pay the buck for some new Son Volt, in particular the new songs "Gramophone" and "Bandages & Scars" along with and "Chaos Streams," all from the new album Okemah and the Melody of Riot. Fuck it...buy the whole album.

If you don't know who Son Volt is, its Jay Farrar, who along with Jeff Tweedy from Wilco had a band named Uncle Tupelo over a decade ago. Perhaps you like to hear new things that do not appear on the radio, who cares about the reason. If you don't like it, then nuts to you.

That's my advertising for today...

UPDATE: Fayette County completely disgusts me.

2005-07-15T13:54:00.000-04:00

I used to think that it was a coincidence that Fayette County, Pennsylvania ended up in the news for the most ridiculous things...but now I see that it is no coincidence:

Fayette County is Pennsylvania's social leper colony.

Stay away from the area marked in RED, if you value your life, self respect or pygmy goat.

The residents of that place cannot stay out of the news. From some personal experiences I had with some residents, I knew that it was a different (and not in a good way) place, so I did some independent research earlier this year. My first stop, a visit to that Pechin's place, almost scared me back to civilization. Making it out of there alive, I traveled to the county seat, Uniontown, and was equally disgusted. Over the last year or so, the news reports from Fayettenam kept coming in, like the ever-famous pygmy goat meat for crack cocaine scheme.

So what did I see in today's paper? This lovely story about a coach PAYING one of his players $25 bucks to purposely hit a retarded 8 year-old kid with a baseball because he didn't want him to play. Is it a coincidence that this incident happened in Dunbar, the home of Pechin's? Methinks not.

What is wrong with you people down there?

Evolve already, either that or succeed from Pennsylvania or something.

(of course, The Girl in The Corner is excused from this characterization. All other lurking Fayette Countians, this means you.)

Sometimes, I don't care about blogging.

2005-07-14T23:06:00.000-04:00

Slow newsday today...hardly any stories about people sprouting a penis where there wasn't a penis before or maulings by exotic pets. Obviously everybody is out on a Thursday night...Anticipation for the weekend is not the reason why Friday is the most unproductive day of the week, at least not anymore. No, it's because old college drinking habits die hard for most people.

The Blogger is not a party to this photograph

It's no different here; I am usually hung over on Friday morning, stinking of whiskey and rum like some sort of hybrid cowboy-pirate, sans assless chaps and peg-leg of course. I usually don't take those to work on most days because people are just not accepting of a grown man wearing chaps.

The Blogger does not look that good in hot pink. Navy perhaps, but definitely not hot pink.

It's bender time here at wolfgangbuckner.blogspot.com, so without delay, I am commencing to drinkerin'. Before I go, allow me to let you in on next week's plans:

Next week is Devil Week.

I have enlisted 4 individuals, outfitted them with digital cameras in an all-out assault to photograph a head shot of the Devil Named Larry. In addition, points will be given for photographs of the other members of the neighborhood dream team, including:

1. Mountain Man--He stands over 6'5", arms like the limbs of a tree and possess the most wonderfully scraggly grayish white beard that exends down to the center of his chest and covers his ENTIRE face except for his eyeballs. He wears large, thick glasses and sports a baseball cap that barely contains his mop-top of wildly tangled hair. If a human being is truely a decendant of the yeti (and we all know the answer to that one), then this man is the missing link.

2. American Psycho--This is what the Devil Named Larry would look like if his skin wasn't orange, he had hair, was 30 years younger and drove around a white convertible. Oh yeah, and if he wasn't actually Satan. American Psycho can be seen strutting around with his black hair slicked back, his perfectly tanned skin glistening like polished bronze in the sun outside the local coffee shop. Imagine the type of guy that measures his body fat using with a digital caliper and tells random women that their ass is "looking tight" as they walk by. A real man's man and also a fucking tool. Often seen with his top two buttons undone and shirtsleeves rolled up. Bonus points for keying this fuck's car.

3. The Guy That Looks Like Frank Zappa--The name says it all. Same moustache, same nose, except this man wears sunglasses all the time and sports one of those Mexican poncho's that Clint Eastwood wore in those "Man With No Name" westerns.

He also talks to himself a LOT and shouts at you if you look at him too long.

Four goals, four cameras, four brave souls. Wish us luck.

Now what?

2005-07-13T22:37:00.000-04:00

I'm sure that I will burn in hell for posting the above picture, especially if Donald Duck is the earthly embodiment of the Antichrist my preacher keeps tellin' me he is. There are so many things wrong with that, I am unsure where to start.

Since I am already rolling full steam down the path to Hell with that one, I may as well get my gas can out and really get my spiritual Bar-B-Q going with the link from where this photo came from.

Questions NOT to ask me after checking out this link:

1. How I found this site.

2. How long I looked at this site.

3. Which Jetson is the hottest nekkid.

In other news, how many of the ladies that read this stupid blog have ever wanted to grow a penis? Ok, how many of you wish that your boyfriend/husband/fiance would grow one? No matter what your answer is, a consultation with this person is an absolute must. For those of you that are lazy asses and won't click on the link, the story is about a woman that spontaneously grew a penis. Forward this story to any person you know that has a difficult time grasping the concept of a hermaphrodite or Jamie Lee Curtis.

Your Grandmother is a whore!

2005-07-13T02:30:00.000-04:00

After reading this story, I wondered what it would have been like if my Grandmother was a 63 year old prostitute.

You are all welcome for allowing me to put that kind of thought into your head about your own sweet Grandma.

JESUS UPDATE:

The heathen Chicago Public Works officials have recently shut off the streetlight that houses Jesus. BURN IN HELL, PAGAN PUBLIC WORKS OFFICIALS! I fully expect Sens. Santorum and Frist to travel to Illinois to pray with the lightbulbs family.

That's all I have for today. Sue me.

Red dirt.

2005-07-11T20:36:00.000-04:00

Q: At what event, held this past weekend, was this picture taken? The answer is posted below...

Judging by the amount of hits I received yesterday, I can see that all of you were looking for an explanation on the syphilis outbreak in Pittsburgh. I feel filthy just for knowing a bunch of dirty-asses that look for smut like that. You should be ashamed of yourself. Go get some condoms and stop hanging out with that Christopher James Rocco guy for chissakes.

Ok, it’s the Tuesday post, so it’s weird news, links and other crap that tickles my fancy.

Today's series of postings will relate to the south, mostly because those fuckers down there are just about the most entertaining bunch of rubes this side of Fayette County.

For instance, the Taliban would not recruit this man. The moral of this story is that plastic bottles can bounce, so they are not the best for bomb-makin'. Hmmm...this happened in North Carolina. Maybe I will check out the Pilot Mountain newspaper for some ideas...

Well, WHAT DO you know...nothing happens in Pilot Mountain. Go figure.

This guy was born there (or is it hatched? Spawned?), but that's not entirely newsworthy, except for the fact he is wearing the family "prayin' jacket and tie" in this portrait.

However, what is newsworthy is that the guy pictured above is the last living relative of the ever-famous hillbilly twins, seen here!
As you can see, the apple didn't fall to far from the tree. However, the twins are obviously the sharp dressers in the family.

Seriously, keep scrolling up and down between these two pictures...the resemblance is uncanny. Lets hope this man does not marry an reproduce anytime soon.

ANSWER TO ABOVE QUESTION:
To put that ridiculousness behind us, I should mention that something WAS happening down in Georgia this past weekend, and I cannot believe I missed it. The 10th annual REDNECK GAMES were held on July 9, and I was stuck here in Pennsyltucky. Damnit!

The event was held in East Dublin, Georgia, on the same day that the "Livestock Raping Games and Bake Sale" were held in neighboring West Dublin, Georgia. The turnout was a bit sparse due to the competing festivals, but it seemed like the folks had their fun. From what I am hearing, the championship round of the "butt crack competition came down to the last asshole. (insert **rimshot** here)

I could try to make more fun of this festival, but the site and accompanying brochure is really all the comedic material you need. Be sure and peruse the "ofishal skedyule"(yes, that is how they spelled it) as it pretty much tells you everything you need to know about the events. I remember the last time I bobbed for pickled pigs feet...yesterday. Ah, that was a great day.

Finally, if anyone can figure out the criminal justice system in Texas, let me know. They seem to like to kill their prisoners a whole lot, but child molesters get off with needlework.

Huh?

Warning! Exposure may result in VD!

2005-07-11T08:25:00.000-04:00

Well, the city of Pittsburgh is well on its way to becoming Baltimore, in a non-aquarium sort of way. Turns out that burning sensation when you pee has nothing to do with that 6-pack of Iron yinz just chugged n'at. No, according to the Allegheny County Department of Health, it burns because Pittsburgh has syphilis, well, at least more of it than it did last year. Interestingly enough, its not just syphilis that is on the rise; ALL venereal disease has seen a spike in numbers. The Post-Gazette had this to say about the outbreak:

As well as the reported rise in syphilis, department officials say cases of two other STDs, gonorrhea and chlamydia, also are on an upswing. More than 700 people have reported being infected with gonorrhea so far this year, a rise of about 32 percent. Chlamydia cases have increased 24 percent, to 2,104 thus far this year.

There is one man to blame for this outbreak and one man only:

Christopher James Rocco.

Why is it Christopher James Rocco's (or "Rocco" as he is known by friends, family and others) fault for the sudden outbreak of venereal disease in Pittsburgh when he now lives in Wisconsin? It couldn't be from actual sexual contact with Rocco, as most of us know the phrase "sexual contact with Rocco" is only uttered with a "No fucking way will I ever have" (or equivalent) spoken before it. On top of that, his visits back to his home in Western Pennsylvania are very infrequent and short in duration. And that's a good thing, at least according to the scientists.

Not surprisingly, the science departments here at wolfgangbuckner.blogspot.com have performed tests and have determined that the mere presence of Rocco has the identical effect on the human mind as an electromagnetic pulse has on electronic equipment.

An electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, is produced by the sun or a nuclear explosion and has been featured in science-fiction movies like "The Matrix." When an EMP is produced, it scrambles and disables electronic equipment, rendering it useless for a short period of time, sometimes permanently.

Similarly, Rocco's presence, with his persistent blank stare, annoying questions and general social ineptitude dulls the human mind, turning it to a soupy mush. The mind's ability to make good sexual decisions is severely reduced. Simple everyday decisions such as "Do I have unprotected anal sex with that transvestite prostitute?" (Message to Ambrosius and van Rot: the answer is usually "NO." Usually.) become tremendous mental endeavors. Other symptoms of exposure include drooling and an uncontrolable urge to punch things named Rocco.

The reproductive system also suffers from even the slightest conversational exposure from Rocco, sending it into complete reproductive disarray. The brain, sensing such a genetic and social anomaly in its midst, sends signals to halt all reproductive processes out of fear of creating a being resembling him. The normal animalistic urge to reproduce is replaced with a passing desire to masturbate and to play ultimate frisbee and volleyball. The gonads shrink, and the immune system temporarily shuts down in the groin region.

Surprisingly, the libido is actually enhanced slightly, even with the ability to reproduce stymied by the brain's defense mechanism. Scientists feel that this is caused by the hypnotic effect of staring at Rocco's teeth while listening to yet another innane story about his latest drunken escapade resulting in pure hilarity.

According to our doctors, the reduced immune functions in the groin along with the diminished mental capacity create a perfect storm of susceptibility to genital infection. As a result, the subject usually ends up performing flacid, unremarkable sex with a "woman" named Sasha or Destiny at a fee of around $20-25 dollars and is subsequently infected with some form of venereal disease.

Lesson: Stay away from Rocco.

Political?

2005-07-08T14:27:00.000-04:00

Was the President wearing this ensemble when he fell off of that bike? It would explain a lot, but then again, so would vodka.

Have a wonderful weekend.

One in a million...

2005-07-07T20:40:00.000-04:00

Allow me to be one of the first to post a link to King Maddox's site in reference to his latest post.

But I ain't changing shit.