13 Bad Headlines for NASA's Admission to Sex Training For Mars Mission

A NASA adviser recently battled the president of Virgin Atlantic for the title of "most purposefully misquoted official" after they discussed how co-ed Mars Mission astronauts---stuck together in tight quarters for three years--- might, um, think about, um . . . probing. Read the whole story here.

1. Astronauts Train For Bumpy Ride!
2. The Eagle Has Landed! (um, that's not my Eagle . . .)
3. NASA Talks to VIRGIN About SEX!
4. Asked to Extend Boom, Astronauts Giggle Uncontrollably.
5. Virgin Atlantic Adds "NOT!" to Logo!
6. Probes No Longer Limited to Aliens!
7. Uranus Begs for Name Change!
8. Cigar Shaped Object Not Cigar!
9. Howard Stern Heads New Apollo Mission!
10. Mile High Club Extended by 100 Miles.
11. Cape Canaveral Worker Fired for T-Shirt: "I Got Yer Right Stuff Hangin!"
    
12. NASA Relocates to Miami Beach, Opens Club.
    
13. New Space Suits Designed by Trojan.
    

13 Things About Swine Flu that (hack-cough-wheeze) Suck!

You try to save. You scrimp. You deprive yourself. You go a day or two without high end sushi. You order a 2004 Chateau Neuf des Papes instead of the Rothschild 1998. You suffer.

Finally, you save up just enough loose change and hedgefund windfall to send your son to computer camp at Lake Forest College, a place that makes Hogwarts look drab, a place where he will hone his burgeoning skills as a World of Warcraft modder to the point where some ten year old kids treat him like a God, a camp that costs more than the GDP of Lichtenstein, and the little snotty fartknocker goes and gets Swine Flu.

And now we're all confined indoors like we've got the consumption. Our neighbors have painted PIG in big red letters on our front door (I'm pretty sure that's related) and guys in forced-air Hazmat suits are staking a perimeter with red tape and bio-hazard signs.

So there's only one thing to do—well, 13 Things! (About Swine Flu That Suck)


1. Having it.
2. The really cool kids all have Bird Flu.
3. Too sick to play Wii, not sick enough to puke on your sister.
4. Sudden aversion to Bacon.
5. There's no medicine so you actually have to stay sick for a week which in modern times is like having your leg amputated with a hack saw.
6. After a few days, Gatorade looks the same going in as it does coming out.
7. Worrying that #4 might last forever.
8. Can't taste your Bacon Double Cheese Burger (without bacon).
9. Snot.
10. Leaving your Xbox at camp because you can't go back to get it until you don't have the flu so you're stuck at home without your game system.
11. Ditto for your Ozzie CD.
12. Friends keep texting you "Oink" and "Bacon".
13. Your dad thinks it's funny so he blogs about it. That ^%$#@!!

I Might Have Been Mentioned Somewhere . . .

Like in ChicGalleria.com, an online magazine unafraid to run my picture. Their bravery is singular and you should visit their site IMMEDIATELY!



Here's some sample comments, in case you're busy or you're just too moved for words. Just cut & paste:

1. My GOD that's a good looking man!


2. The writing in this book is so  eloquent and smooth, like he's not even, it's like -- words fail me.


3. Is this a how-to book?


4. Are there recipes?


5. Isn't this a woman's magazine?


6. That guy called his dog gay. HE CALLED HIS DOG GAY! His dog isn't gay, it's just a Border Collie. They can't help it. They're prancy!

My Daughter: Pukezilla

My wife’s first job involved testing water. It often found her flung to the furthest fields of Florida horse country, which is how I ended up in a hotel room with my infant daughter watching Kung Fu movies and bitching.

Since she got per diem and a hotel room, we’d turn her jobs into mini-vacations. Occasionally a job would land her in Miami or Fort Ladida which were always luxurious and ended with us staggering back to our hotel room at 3 am exuberantly inebriated. (Therefore: children.) But most jobs had her working an abandoned gas station where walking the baby involved diesel fumes and broken glass.

So there I am, watching A-team reruns while Sarah is rolling around on the bed. She can’t even sit up yet. She’s new and fragile, like highly animated pudding. I have no idea what to do with her. I make faces, cute noises. All I get is disdain and dirty diapers.

Around the time Mr. T is welding giant teeth on a golf cart, Ra starts grousing. The grouse turns into a kind of rarefied staccato, like someone trying to jump start a Dr. Seuss car, then escalates into full blown screaming horror. Her little face is crimson. She’s squirming to beat hell. And I’m deeply panicked. It's the kind of stupid fear confusion that makes a guy put on one shoe, a hat, and no pants before running out into the parking lot to jump up and down, scream-crying “somebody call 911”. Not me—I didn’t do that. Hell, I’d write about it if I did.

So I’m in this hotel room (not in the parking lot, pantless, jumping up, and down scream-crying) with le enfant hole shite when suddenly she stops. She stops and she stares at me and her eyes start to widen.

Now imagine this part in slomo.

I pick her up, my hands under her arms, and I get real close because I think that since she stopped screaming that things have gotten even worse, that something inside her, something internal, has gone horribly wrong. Before I can blink, she opens her mouth and horfs in my face.

When I say horf, I want you to understand we’re not talking a little tartar sauce on the shoulder. We’re talking serious fluid dispersion. Hurrlcane Katrina.

You ever see those nature shows where they’re filming the seashore and the ocean, like the entire ocean, pounds itself through a tiny hole in a rock and spews foam thirty feet in the air and knocks live birds out of the sky and sinks ships? It was like that, only chunky.

Sure, I saw it coming; but I was holding her—-what could I do?! I managed to wang my head sideways to avoid the initial sluice but Sarah had morphed into Pukezilla and there was no avoiding it. Against the known laws of physics, she had a limitless supply of fetid, lactatious, effluvium and—-again, we’re in slomo here—-was trying to see it as it came out of her. She’d never hurled so she was checking it out, or trying to, but as she’d cock her head to dig the unending jet cascading out of her mouth it would whip around like a psychotic cobra. She’s squirming, craning her neck, trying to take it all in as she gets it all out. She was an Exorcist-level 360 degree panoramic vomit volcano.

I can’t put her down because I think she might choke and I can’t turn her away because I’ve been slimed and I can barely hold on-—I’m afraid I’ll drop her-—so I just take it. Head to toe.

I’m not such a wimp anymore. If this happened now, after dropping both my kids more than once, after seeing them drive their foreheads, temples, jaws, eyeballs, and nearly every other soft part of them into various corners, mortises, baseball bats, pocket knives, handlebars, terrazzo floors, and each other, and still get As in math, I’m a little less likely to give a crap if they fall down. Now if Sarah yells “I hurt myself!” from the basement my first response is “Are you bleeding yet?” If Pukezilla attacked now, I’d toss her slimy ass on the bed and take a shower.

So she finally finishes. The bed is a foamy lake of alabaster chum. There’s a trail of it across the floor, across the TV, and splattering the lampshade. I look like someone dumped a barrel of cottage cheese over my head.

I look down at my Pukezilla, who’s squirming again and I expect another gusher, I resign myself to a life covered in goo, I set my jaw and steel my demeanor.

She’s laughing.

Not giggling. Not chuckling. She’s shaking with unalloyed, from the toes, ‘look at you, you horf covered dick’ guffaws.

Thirteen years later, she still thinks it’s funny.

------------------------

Please save me: my children are trying to kill me.

Showering with zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Somebody's son, I'm not saying who, but somebody's gigantic, sasquatchian teen, fell asleep on the toilet today and revealed some unusual ablution habits.

He runs the shower while he's pinching a loaf. When he fell asleep, he ran out of hot water. So he turned off the hot water, but continued to run the cold water because "it makes the hot water heat up faster."

This kid gets good grades in science. He reads a lot. He . . . look, I don't know what to say. Kids get weird ideas. Maybe it's because he's a vegetarian. I don't know. But I'm knocking every ten seconds to make sure he's awake . . .

My other job goes on TV

13 Reasons Why Real Men Clean Better

1. Real Men sweep with a leaf blower.


2. Real Men don't mop: Real Men hose.


3. Real Men understand the toilet cleaning power of the Water Pik.


4. Real Men know the best music for cleaning house is porno.


5. Real Men know the best way to clean the fridge is to eat your way to the back.


6. Real Men know Vodka cleans anything.


7. Real mens KnOw VDkoa cleams anythings.


8. Real Men dust with a Hoover.


9. When Real Men wash reds with whites, they don't apologize. They just say "pink makes you look ten years younger."


10. Real men consider phone sales an act of war.