China’s Outsourcing … No Bull!

It’s all over.  Done and done.  Finished.

The ultimate outsourcing has begun.  Not here in the US with our dog-eat-dog corporations, but in China!  Yes, China.

The Chinese government’s outsourced the oldest job in the history of the world!

Hold on to your testicles all you young bulls sunning out in the pasture.  Wipe those s**t eating grins off your cuds.

You’re about to feel the knife of massive reductions in force.

You’re literally being “put out to pasture.”  Your lower foreshank’s been measured for that “good service” gold watch.  Yes … you, Mr. Symbol of raw sexual power.  You, Mr. Merrill Lynch logo.  You, Mr. Ferdinand, “el Toro” of Kiddie Lit fame.

Don’t let the barn door smack you on your “rump roast” on the way out.

You’re all facing the chopping block as the stud of choice for China’s best and most beautiful heifers.


The snorts of your rutting have been silenced by the clinking of laboratory equipment.  Science marches on and you’ve been replaced by cloning!

Leave it to the Chinese to move commercial cloning into a vast government plan.  In China, you want beef?  We’ll manufacture beef … bingo.

None of the hit-and-miss of Brutus-mounting-Bossie … or waiting years for a mature set of functioning bull balls to drop.  Not even the messiness of artificial insemination.

We’re going to grab a cell here, squirt it into an egg there, plant it in the uterus of a nearby surrogate heifer … which by the way needs no contract, payment, benefits or a lawyer … and voila, nine months later out pops a calf.

And miracle of miracles … it’s a genetically selected calf that will grow faster, be heavier, and consume less feed.

Why this sudden interest in beef as opposed to the traditional bird’s nest soup, won tons, rats, and shark fins?

It’s the westernization of Chinese life styles and the creep, creep, creep of capitalism into their economy.  It’s a sure bet that China’s new young socialites covet beef as much as they do “Beemers.”

China’s going through its own, “Where’s the beef,” beef.  Budding capitalists want their beef now!

But not to worry … another Tienanmen Square embarrassment’s not on the horizon.  In just four short years the government’s giant clone farm in Tianjin will be pumping out one million cloned cows a year.

That’s a heluva herd, no bull.

Just sayin’.


After years of thinking that beer and Fritos were the cornerstone of my low salt diet, I’ve seen the light.  No, literally.  I almost met the Grim Reaper up close and personal.

Now, I’ve deep-sixed the beer except for the occasional “Suds-up Attack.”

I eat French fries only in the presence of my wife who under my meanest baleful stare, scoops up half my fries and moves them to the nether reaches of the table.

I truly don’t give a s**t about the next bizarre creation by those aged hippies, Ben & Jerry.

And I’ve come very close to lusting after Brussels sprouts, asparagus and Bok Choy.

But, I have to tell you I haven’t shed a single tear over the epic takedown of the Godzilla of all super foods … kale.


“What?” you say.  “They’re f**king with my kale?”  That’s a big 10-4, little buddy.

While you’re reading this, go fix yourself another good-for-you-super-delicious Vita Mixer full of kale.  Have another Kale Smoothie, sucker!

Thallium … Ever hear of thallium?  It’s a toxic heavy metal found, you betcha, in kale leaves.

Frequent Smoothie Flyers are landing in the doctor’s office with persistent but elusive health complaints.  Everything from chronic fatigue to fuzzy thinking.

And it’s been traced back to your kale leaves packed with thallium and then packed in your Vita Mixer.

Super food just became superman’s kryptonite!

Or, better yet … pull up to the window at a Mickey D in SoCal or Canada.  Yeah, I know – it’s a hike if you live in Florida – and order their new chopped kale salad, the “Keep Calm, Caesar On.”

But Kale-mageddon doesn’t stop there.  Add the Asiago dressing to the crispy chicken version of your “Kale, Caesar,” and you’ve got more calories in your crappy little bowl than you do in Canada’s pride – the Double Big Mac – a four patty burger monstrosity on a bun.

Hmmm … salad with possibly one chopped kale leaf – 730 calories, 1,400 milligrams of salt, and 53 grams of fat.  Or, the Double Big Mac weighing in at a paltry 680 calories and 38 grams of fat.

I’ll, “Back away from the kale.”

Then I’ll head out for my old favorites …  Krispy Kreme at a measly 168 calories per doughnut followed by a romp through Publix to grab a brick of that super delish Velveeta and a six pack of Heineken.

Just sayin’.


The “Will you be Mine?” Whine

Aaargh … I just realized it’s February.

I swear every month is infested with a holiday, celebration, “important date,” or at least a trademarked Hallmark Moment.

What’s a guy to do?

This time I’m zeroed in on that half-naked, diapered, winged, flying cherub with his little bow and arrow which, if rumors are true, when you’re punctured by said arrow you tumble down the rabbit hole of eternal love.

He’s Eros if you’re Greek … Cupid if you’re Roman.  Either way, that chubby little “mother” is the mother lode for all things Hallmark …  a corporate goldmine for The Dreaded Valentine’s Day.


Pricked by the “arrow of love,” you suffer through that one night when you pretend to enjoy some of the worst food and most crowded restaurants of the entire year.

You buy outrageously priced truffles that taste as bad as the original box of chocolates offered up in “Forest Gump.”

And you probably spring for a dozen roses that will resemble a death bouquet in a Nanosecond and which, in any other month, would’ve cost you half as much.

From whence cometh this day of horror?

Most of our celebrations worth a damn started with the Pagans.  You just gotta love those body painting, crazy, fornicating drunks.  They knew a good time!

And ladies, if you think your guy was not very creative this V-Day, just be glad you’re not celebrating Lupercalia, a Pagan fertility festival that took place between February 13-15 … which would be the 14th.

Lupercalia involved killing a goat, stripping its skin and whipping the women with it to increase their fertility.

If that wasn’t enough, the Pagan men played a version of “throw the chariot keys in the middle of the room,” by putting the names of the town’s women in a huge urn and drawing names for their “V-Day mate” for the year.

Thank god the Christians took over from those over-sexed Pagans when a Fifth Century Papal Declaration established February 14th as St. Valentine’s Day.

Geoff Chaucer and the Wet ‘n’ Wild Willie Shakespeare allegedly inserted “romance” into this infamous day.

Corporate America cashed in on the love fest in 1913 with Hallmark’s first Valentine’s Day card … and it’s been off to the bank ever since.

Now we’re stuck … unless you want to live in Saudi Arabia where the holiday has been outlawed as yet another Infidel attack on the Saudis’ virtue.

Just sayin’.


Finally … A Reason to Watch the Stupor Bowl!

It’s Stupor Bowl Sunday and I’m damn stoked.

Twenty weeks of bone crushing, body abusing, concussive collisions brings us to one of the least watched and most partied events of the year.

Woo hoo!

There will be more nachos eaten, beer drunk, liquor consumed, chicken wings dipped and DUI’s issued than on any other day or night this year.

Congress may as well declare Stupor Bowl Monday a paid national holiday because the vast majority of people will be home nursing “party-ache-overs.”

This year’s Stupor Bowl will be more “Stupor-tant” than ever!  Who cares about Peyton, “Super” Cam Newton, the commercials or the parties?

There’s only one reason to tune into Stupor Bowl 50.  And that’s….


….To witness the unveiling of the new not deceased Colonel Harland Sanders lV.

You’re probably not surprised that I sent some unsolicited nominees to Yum! Brands for consideration.

Lobbying for a more cosmopolitan Colonel rather than the stodgy outdated white-suited farty old man we’ve tolerated for 50+ years, my first nominee was that prideful southern gentleman, Colonel Rhett Butler.

He gazes straight into the cameras and says, “Frankly, my dear chicken eaters … Aah, don’t give a damn!”

For youth appeal, I offered up a “Beiber Colonel.”  He pops out of his white-on-white Ferrari decked out in all white … skin-tight satin tee, leather pants with protuberance, paten leather boots … he pauses, licks his fingers and whispers, “Still, finger lickin’ good!”

In a salute to American diversity, I suggested that the “Yummys!” go for a “Colonel-of-Color.”  In line for the new role would be Rocker-Rapper Ice-T or Oscar snubbed Will Smith. Smith would be most regal in the Colonel’s whiteness.

And not to be sexist, I submitted a name for a female Colonel.  I can see Colonel-esque costumed Lady Gaga – KFC bucket clutched against body, leaping from car hood to car hood in spiked-heel boots clambering into her metallic white Humvee as she spins out of the parking lot into the dark of night singing, “I’m gonna have drumstick tonight, a drumstick tonight I know.” giving the Eagles a “Heartache Tonight” as she butchers their chicken-free classic.

Haven’t heard a peep from the Yummys.  They’re probably considering my ideas for the Final Four in March.

Just sayin’ …