Wednesday, February 21, 2007

TIP'S Word of the Day


Having Shapely Buttocks.

Deriving from Kallos (beauty) and Pyge (buttocks).

When you don't feel like settling for a monosyllabic term in which to commend someone on their ass why Not give Callipygian a shot? Afterall, Badonkadonk is rather...ahem...played out these days.


Thursday, February 15, 2007

Sometimes it is Best to Leave the kids at Home

Scene: The checkout lane at an area Target

Participants: A Target Employee working the Cash Register, a mother, her child (roughly 5 or 6 years of age), her child's unchecked honesty, and TIP the Bemused Bystander

Target Employee (TE): That'll be 55 dollars and 10 cents.

Child (C): Spastic Colon.

Mother (M): Toby, not now.
(waves hand in front of Toby's mouth)

C (utilizing a classic Head Fake to avoid mother's appendage): Spastic Colon, Spastic Colon, Spa-spa-spa-SPASTIC COLON!!!

Me (T): *snicker*

TE: Fifty Five Ten, please.

C: My daddy has a Spastic CO-CO-CO-COLON!

M: TOBY! Daddy doesn't want you sharing his condition with the world!
(now reaches towards child's neck...potential strangulation silence move?)

C (ducks): CO-Astic Spolon! It makes noises! It's in his butt! SPASTIC COLON!!!

M: Little Mister...when we get home you are going to your room and No Video Games!

T: Spastic rhymes with Fantastic, kiddo.

C (inspired by a stranger): FANTASTICOLON!!!
(starts making what can only be his Impression of his father's Flatulence which reminds me of the late Human Beatbox from the rap trio The Fat Boys)

TE: Fifty Five Ten, please.

M (to Me): You can kindly GO. TO. HELL!

T (heh): The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions...and, presumably, your home is paved with thick sheets of diarrhea, Mrs. Colon.

M (utter shock): ...

C (delighted): SPASTIC FANTASTIC COO-COO-CO-lonny!
(more Fart more squishy sounding...a suitable soundtrack to this encounter)

TE (exasperated into store phone): Assist needed at Checkout Lane 3.

M: We're leaving. Spastic Colon is incurable and you should NOT make light of it!'re grounded!
(grabs Toby by the scarf and marches haughtily out of store without purchases)

T (to clerk): Isn't there a song called HOW CAN YOU HEAR A SPASTIC COLON?


T: Ah.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Writing Exercise: Stream of Thought in Five Minutes Sharp


It was only mildly disconcerting to awaken from my concussed state (damn that abandoned homemade steel drum...who the hell ditches one of those on the side of the road and, better yet, are their Nomadic Trinidadians in our midst? Should I alert the Idiophone Family Recovery Team? Their Kin and Groupie Ilk are known to occasionally go Rogue...and even Rouge when a Revlon Moment strikes their respective Fancies) with a Tootsie Roll Pop (unwrapped and, per the stench, formerly Apple-Flavored with a newly acquired under-tainting wiff of soiled ascot...nothing quite like the collision of artificial appley-ness and lower neck and upper torso pore seepage to cause an Olfactory Rebellion and subsequent Mucuous Tribe Exodus) affixed to my what would one day be referred to as my Southern Jowl Region. Is it possible that the former Candy Item was actually used as a modified drumstick or had my unforewarmed Encounter with the alleged Steel Drum dislodged the Tootsie Pop from some Willie Wonkian parallel universe and, thus, converted the lower quadrant of my cheek into some sort of gooed Landing Platform for some sort of Sugary Omen of Ills to Come? Was it a stronger possibility that some Well-Dressed Dandy--in cahoots with, quite obviously, a wayward native of Trinidad or Tobago no longer in need of his/her instrument of choice-- had come upon my Prone Form and, in a fit of Shenanigans, adhered his pre-sucked treat onto me after vigorously swiping it upon his particular neckwear option?

I will not let your Tootsie Pop Friction-n-Stick-Um Gag deter me...mark my words.

Friday, February 09, 2007

Your results:
You are Green Lantern

Green Lantern
Iron Man
The Flash
Wonder Woman
Hot-headed. You have strong
will power and a good imagination.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

TIP and Your Pal, Jim: Excerpts from an Exchange

I tell ya...that JabWad is a Real rabble rouser.

I thought for sure I'd have to break out the tear rags for some folk.

Yeah, that guy felt real strongly about... er... whatever the fuck it was he was trying to say.

Let's say you like Steve Unctuous and I like Steve Unctuous II. liking of the latter does not play into your liking of the former. When we compare the Unctuous Clan Scribblers with one another we enter a domain that some (outside of said clan) refer to as the Un-Unctuous Conundrum-a-lum-dum-dee-dum-dee-Doo-Dom...a theorized Zone of Positive and Negative Sentient Like-forms.

We will refer to these theorized residents of the Un-Unctuous Conundrum-a-lum-dum-dee-dum-dee-Doo-Dom as Lawrence and Rebecca.

And so on and so forth.

Don't bring up Mr. Unctuous unless you are prepared for me to discuss at length how awesome he actually would be on the imaginary project you invented for him to write.

Comparisons should never be used to compare things, only to illustrate that there can be no comparisons, ipso facto/visa-vie the Unctous-bashers who lunge out of the shadows everytime their beloved Unctous II gets less-than-gushing remarks.

Meanwhile, ol' Purple Face wants to fall sideways until he can even out. But Kevin put a box around THAT turd! Fool be wearing the photographic evidence where he should be paying fitty cent an armpit! Birds don't got no walkin' shoes! Meanwhile, in Chicago, Steadman Graham stares at the plush carpet and wonders, "When's gonna be MY time, O Lord?"

That's the pointed end of the pickle in relation to the comparativeliness of this theorized collision of the Pro/Anti Unctuous and Pro/Anti Unctuous II that the late Shepherd Lionelly of the Papooze Grapplers often pondered...scritching these musings into the soil of his extensive lea, where the waste of his flock would often smear and muddy them into a miasmic pool of Pure Imagination.

It's at this Biscuit point that the Unctuous Fellows often came to Two Overgrown Noam Chomsky Impersonators--clad in Footie Pajamas/Cardboard Jetpack ensembles-- bleating heavenward while being backed over repeatedly with a Like-Mobile driven by the aforementioned Lawrence and Rebecca.