Slacker Heaven: Wasting time is a full-time job.

I'm sure by now you've seen the clip of the old guy issuing an old school beatdown to some tough guy wanna be on a bus. If you have just returned from Pluto and haven't seen it, check it out below.



LOL!  He gets his ass handed to him by a grandpa.  All he can do is clutch his head and bleed like a stuck chicken.

Now I'm no tough guy, nor do I play one on TV.  But just by eyeballing grandpa even I would have thought, "I can take him".  Since I'm really a soft handed computer guy I guess I would have woke up in the hospital two weeks later with my jaw wired shut if I had choosen to have a rumble in jungle with "southpaw" grandpa.  Gramps should really look into getting on the MMA circuit, maybe he can take on Kimbo Slice or Houston Alexander for the belt.

Where tough guy failed is that he didn't know proper bus and old people etiquette.  Old people are notoriously cranky and unpredictable.  One minute they're adjusting their dentures peacefully, the next minute they're braining you with their cane.  Old people should at all times be given a wide berth, and especially in enclosed places, like elevators, planes, and buses.  When you encounter an old person on a bus or other enclosed transportation area you should follow these quick rules for your own safety:

Ah Sunday.  The last day of rest before returning to that hellhole otherwise known as work, and the day where football and food are king.

Today the Vikings will meet the Saints for a chance at the Superbowl, and much to the wife unit's delight Brett Favre will be there.  Yes, Brett Favre, God of all that is football according to the wife unit.  Today I will be seranaded by the sounds of her excited girly squealing everytime Favre touches the ball, walks on the field, or breathes.  I will be reminded again and again how a man significantly older than me is more "athletic", and "exciting" to watch.  God, I hope when the Saint's defense sacks him they break both his damn legs, we'll see how good his ass looks in tight pants then.

The only thing that makes suffering through the wife unit's Favre worship session is the food she will make as an offering to the all mighty Viking footbal God. Right now as I type this,  she's outside firing up our grill to make real grilled wings, burgers, and sausages.  Food done inside on the Foreman grill would never do, not for her on Brett Favre day.  

It won't matter much in a while anyway.  As me and my friends watch the game, I will not even be able to hear her squeals of ectasy over Favre, I will be in a food trance.  The sound of my mouth biting into hot grilled animal flesh will filter out all sounds except that of the commentator.

In a twisted way I hope the Vikings win today, as much as I can't stand that old dinasaur of a quarterback, Favre.  If the Vikings lose, the wife unit will be disappointed.  She'll sulk and drink beers and gossip with her friends and then fall asleep.  If the vikings win,  I will be treated to round after round of hot monkey sex while she imagines that I'm Favre. Then on Superbowl day I will be treated to another feast offering fit for the Viking God.  

Now where the hell did I put my purple face paint?

As you may have noticed, I have been away for awhile.  I've been off building other websites.

But now I'm back, and I've got some new toys to deploy here on Slackerheaven.  New games, contests and players ratings - and of course the usual silly fooling around and time wasting that you love me for.  (You do love me don't you?)

So keep your eyes right here - no, no, right HERE, for more slacker stuff, all day all the time.

Love and beer bongs,

Slacker

Anyone who says money can't buy you happiness is lying.  Money buys you lots of stuff.  It buys houses, food, power and sex, lots and lots of sex.  That's the only explaination for how an old bucktoothed geezer like David Letterman gets laid so much that a blackmailer thought he could actually make a buck off of threatening to tell.

You just have to go over to the YouTubes and listen to Letterman's joke filled mea culpa.  Apparently he didn't just cheat on his wife with a WOMAN, but with lots of WOMEN. He says he won't name names.  Damn it, I want names, and full color, full body pictures! I want to see what type of chicks Letterman sized money buys.

See, this episode with Letterman has finally convinced me I'm doing it all wrong. All this time I've been trying to drag my ass to the gym at least twice a week and fight to refrain from ingesting massive amounts of Cheetos and beer in an effort to keep it hot for the wife unit.  Now I see the light.  All I have to do to keep the wife unit interested in hot monkey sex with me is to make tons of cash.  I can eat Cheetos and pizza and drink beer until it comes out of every orifice as long as I got that bling, bling.

I get now.  Money is like a hallucinogenic.  It creates an magical, mystical aura of attractiveness around you.  That's why all of those celeb dudes wear all that jewelry and buy those big damn houses, no one really wants to wear 10 pounds of bling - but you need it to amplify the hallucinogenic properties of the money.  Money unseen in the bank doesn't work as well on the chicks as a German sportscar, that sends out waves of hotness the emanates from you for a 10 mile radius.

So before I go home tonight, I'm going to take my paycheck and buy lots of lottery tickets.  I'm going to take them and paste them all over my naked body like post-its. Maybe then the wife unit will be mesmorized by all of the little potential jackpots all over my potbelly and fuck me like I'm Brad Pitt.