LANGHORNE PRESENTS...

Hey Thinkers,
Welcome to my hilarious blog. Here you will meet a bunch of crazy folks that live inside my head. Mostly hateful, nasty critters, but they do make a decent point here and there.
I have one major rule (followed by an ever-expanding pantheon of minor ones): NO PERSONAL ATTACKS.
Think, disagree, argue. Don't be an asshole. My characters will take care of that. Cuss all you want but speak coherently and please proofread your comments.
These things will help you not only look smarter but help you to be taken seriously.
I welcome everyone to choose a side and rebut, refute, bandy, and bicker. Have fun with it.
Enjoy the show.

Posts Tagged ‘Rogues’

FB STUFF #4: HOT SAUCE and PEARLS

More vitriol and optimism for your reading pleasure. Like it? Don’t? Let me know in the comments.

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #57: Taco Bell Hot Sauce Packets

Let’s get a couple things square right up front. First of all, I’m a hot sauce guy. I’ve been told several times that it seems I think of food as just a vehicle to get hot sauce into my mouth. This is true…in public. One does not drink hot sauce straight from the container…in public. In private though, oh, in private I suckle on a bottle of Sriracha like a baby on the teat. I go down on Tabasco like Asia Carrera goes down on Peter North…Second, I haven’t eaten Taco Bell food sober since 1989. I assume it has some kind of flavor but I couldn’t tell you what exactly that flavor is. All I know is that it hits the spot at three in the morning and hurts like dying at eleven in the morning. Lastly, there are solutions here. I know this. Oh, this shit drives me crazy, don’t doubt that, but I could do things (I shouldn’t have to of course) like bring my own hot sauce or carry a knife. We square? Good.

Taco Bell, Taco Bell, Taco Bell. What am I going to do with you? Avoid you? Wish I could. Can’t. You call to me in the dead of night. ‘Come to me Langhorne. You know you want an enchirito’. And you know what? I do.

So I heed the call of faux Mexican food. I go knowing full well what awaits me. The frustration, the flavor(?), the joy at paying almost nothing to fill my belly. You see, that’s the thing. The food is so fucking cheap and- Well, that brings me to the point, right? Why is there no sauce in the hot sauce packets? I realize they are free and the food is dirt cheap but…okay, charge me an extra nickel and put sauce in the packets. But until that happens, I’m forced to see them sitting at the bottom of my sack looking smug. Yet when I grab one, I notice its lack of weight, and when I examine it closer, I find that, from certain angles, it appears to be two-dimensional. It literally (not literally. Quit getting hung up on semantics and try to enjoy yourself. You know what I mean. Jeez.) disappears when I try to look at it from the side. There is no way there could be anything in it right from the start. That’s not quite true. There are four maybe five drops that I can work out if I slide my thumb and index finger from the bottom to the top. You know, like getting that last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

See, the problem is, I love hot sauce. But the amount of effort I am forced to put into this project just to get what I consider a minimal helping of red ambrosia makes the whole endeavor a nightmare. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m drunk off my ass, I would probably end up hurting an innocent Taco Bellite. It’s not their fault. I know this. But shouldn’t someone have to pay for this unexpected half-hour finger dexterity marathon? Just before the carpal tunnel becomes too severe, I’m confronted with a packet that refuses to open. You see, it’s not just my fingers that suffer, my teeth take a beating too. So half the time the packets refuse to open and I’m forced to use my teeth, and half the time that doesn’t work either. Sometimes the packets slip and find their may into the gaps between my teeth and slice my gums to shreds. This is why I should carry a knife. Just cut and done.

Now I’m winded, bleeding and have to figure out how to dispose of the saliva pile and the mountain of empty packets. I could save the spit-covered, stretched out monstrosities for a later date or throw them in the trash. As for the Kilimanjaro of empty packets, I’m forced to travel around town searching for empty trashcans. It’s a good thing I keep a shovel in the truck; otherwise, carrying a handful at a time would give me shin splints.

Have I mentioned I love hot sauce? So it’s a joke. It’s square bread and round meat. It’s just a joke. But…

It’s not a fucking joke. It’s not. This is my fucking life we’re talking about here you sick fuck. I will find the bastard that designs Taco Bell hot sauce packets someday, and when I do…I’m going to grab him by the collar, tell him to give me my hot sauce and no matter what he says I’m going to fucking F him in his A with a D or a V and shove my C in his PH while ripping out his T. Fuck him. I mean, just, fuck. I love hot sauce.

***
Langhorne’s Daily Pearls 3/6/13 thru 4/2/13

Sock sock, shoe shoe; is the only way. Trying anything else somehow kills babies. -LJT

I am consistently, spontaneously, and positively; but unfortunately not currently or locally, in love. -LJT

I want to punch my car stereo in the face. I can’t stand the way it sits there and mocks me with its poorly labeled buttons every time we spring forward and fall back. -LJT

Nothing meets my expectations…surpasses them, yeah, constantly. -LJT

I highly recommend eating fast food every once in awhile, if for no other reason than collecting napkins and sporks. -LJT

Keep your butthole clean, someone might want to put their tongue on it. -LJT

Nope. I didn’t learn a thing over my four-year kidney ordeal. I already knew life is a painful obnoxious ordeal. I knew that every morning we wake up is a precious and valuable gift. If you don’t know these things by now, it’s likely you never will.-LJT

Art should never be defined to the point it can be taught. -LJT

Future Headline: COURTS ‘COMMON SENSE’ RULING WILL ELIMINATE AN ESTIMATED 10,000 LAWS -LJT

Never envy the poor. -LJT

 

 

 

 

 

 

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #57: Taco Bell Hot Sauce Packets

Let’s get a couple things square right up front. First of all, I’m a hot sauce guy. I’ve been told several times that it seems I think of food as just a vehicle to get hot sauce into my mouth. This is true…in public. One does not drink hot sauce straight from the container…in public. In private though, oh, in private I suckle on a bottle of Sriracha like a baby on the teat. I go down on Tabasco like Asia Carrera goes down on Peter North…Second, I haven’t eaten Taco Bell food sober since 1989. I assume it has some kind of flavor but I couldn’t tell you what exactly that flavor is. All I know is that it hits the spot at three in the morning and hurts like dying at eleven in the morning. Lastly, there are solutions here. I know this. Oh, this shit drives me crazy, don’t doubt that, but I could do things (I shouldn’t have to of course) like bring my own hot sauce or carry a knife. We square? Good.

Taco Bell, Taco Bell, Taco Bell. What am I going to do with you? Avoid you? Wish I could. Can’t. You call to me in the dead of night. ‘Come to me Langhorne. You know you want an enchirito’. And you know what? I do.

So I heed the call of faux Mexican food. I go knowing full well what awaits me. The frustration, the flavor(?), the joy at paying almost nothing to fill my belly. You see, that’s the thing. The food is so fucking cheap and- Well, that brings me to the point, right? Why is there no sauce in the hot sauce packets? I realize they are free and the food is dirt cheap but…okay, charge me an extra nickel and put sauce in the packets. But until that happens, I’m forced to see them sitting at the bottom of my sack looking smug. Yet when I grab one, I notice its lack of weight, and when I examine it closer, I find that, from certain angles, it appears to be two-dimensional. It literally (not literally. Quit getting hung up on semantics and try to enjoy yourself. You know what I mean. Jeez.) disappears when I try to look at it from the side. There is no way there could be anything in it right from the start. That’s not quite true. There are four maybe five drops that I can work out if I slide my thumb and index finger from the bottom to the top. You know, like getting that last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

See, the problem is, I love hot sauce. But the amount of effort I am forced to put into this project just to get what I consider a minimal helping of red ambrosia makes the whole endeavor a nightmare. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m drunk off my ass, I would probably end up hurting an innocent Taco Bellite. It’s not their fault. I know this. But shouldn’t someone have to pay for this unexpected half-hour finger dexterity marathon? Just before the carpal tunnel becomes too severe, I’m confronted with a packet that refuses to open. You see, it’s not just my fingers that suffer, my teeth take a beating too. So half the time the packets refuse to open and I’m forced to use my teeth, and half the time that doesn’t work either. Sometimes the packets slip and find their may into the gaps between my teeth and slice my gums to shreds. This is why I should carry a knife. Just cut and done.

Now I’m winded, bleeding and have to figure out how to dispose of the saliva pile and the mountain of empty packets. I could save the spit-covered, stretched out monstrosities for a later date or throw them in the trash. As for the Kilimanjaro of empty packets, I’m forced to travel around town searching for empty trashcans. It’s a good thing I keep a shovel in the truck; otherwise, carrying a handful at a time would give me shin splints.

Have I mentioned I love hot sauce? So it’s a joke. It’s square bread and round meat. It’s just a joke. But…

It’s not a fucking joke. It’s not. This is my fucking life we’re talking about here you sick fuck. I will find the bastard that designs Taco Bell hot sauce packets someday, and when I do…I’m going to grab him by the collar, tell him to give me my hot sauce and no matter what he says I’m going to fucking F him in his A with a D or a V and shove my C in his PH while ripping out his T. Fuck him. I mean, just, fuck. I love hot sauce.

FB STUFF #3: GREETING CARDS & PEARLS


Facebook Group

Here is more stuff from my Facebook group. Enjoy. Comment often.

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #79: Greeting Cards

Friends, relatives, and well-wishers…Fuck you. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a certain amount of respect and possibly even an ill-defined emotion other than seething hatred for you but (you knew there was a but) once I see that over-sized sliver thin envelope languishing in my mailbox like a femme fatale in a bond movie waiting with a knife behind her back, I know some painful and uncomfortable choices are soon to be made. That brings me to The Box. I’m staring at The Box now. The Box- But no, later.

For the sake of brevity I will bypass the banality of the cards themselves. I won’t bore you with the minute details of the greeting cards offensive dullness or it’s approximately four million percent price mark up. Instead, I will concentrate on how it is your fault. How it is your thoughtful and considerate effort that contributes to the ruination of my humble existence.

Here is the greeting card process in as short a form as I can confine it to. After that initial mailbox confrontation, the paper-wrapped bane is carried inside and studied with a slow resigned sigh. Is this someone I will have to pretend to thank? Before I am swallowed by this dark train of thought that leads me down an existential track to suicide, I open the damn thing. The bastard that I am, I check for cash first and the urge to burn the card amplifies if none is found. At this point you have done one of two things; signed your name politely or written a cute little note. I tell you now, don’t write that note. The note haunts. It is the tell-tale heart.

“Why?” you ask. “How could this innocuous little memo cause any strife in the life of such a powerful figure such as you, Langhorne J. Tweed?”

A question deserving of an answer (and very well put I might add, kudos). The answer is the next step in the process. The “How (or do I) Dispose of This Blight” phase. I’m not one to place cards on my mantel AKA pine and cinder block shelves, instead I prefer to walk directly to the trash (read: “recycle bin” in the Northwest) and place it gingerly on top of the banana peels and Taco Bell wrappers (read: “smart water bottles” and “clean organic food containers” in the NW; banana peels are of course composted) and jam it as far down the can as my strength will allow. I watch it strain and wrinkle and rip as it falls further and further into its plastic-wrapped coffin, a twinge of guilt tickling the back of my brain. You see the problem right? How could I do such a thing to your note? I am already confronted with guilt. But your note. Your clever heartfelt memento. Your weird “the greeting card didn’t say enough” addition. Your thoughtful torturous affliction.

This brings us to The Box. I was suddenly confronted by The Box this morning. It usually languishes in the closet, out of sight, bothering no one. Your notes are there. I keep them. I’m trapped, suffocating on winter scenes and poorly drawn cartoons, puns and sappy poems, bible passages…for the love of something, there are bible passages in my life.

The Box sits in front of me now, full. Overflowing actually. The holidays are upon us. Two more cards have come. Notes in each. I stare at The Box. My heart aches. Guilt and some obscure reverent emotion I can’t describe have blasted through my emotional blockades. There is simply no room for more greeting cards. No more room for your notes.

So, friends, relatives, and well-wishers…Fuck you. I must purge you. All of you. And begin anew. Reborn.

At least ‘til I can piss on Hallmark’s desiccated corpse.

***

Langhorne’s Daily Pearls 2/4/13 thru 3/5/13

Sometimes dickish is the right way to be. -LJT

In order to make the mundane POP, one should maintain a constant veneer of the sublime. -LJT

There can be no win without penetration. -LJT

There’s a little pride to be had in limiting your TV watching to eight hours a day. -LJT

Bureaucracy is the essential building block of any successful civilization. Now please take this memo, sign it and give the pink copy to accounting, the blue copy will be sent to the office of records, the original is kept by you for legal reasons, and the goldenrod copy is sent (via vacuum tube) to the twelfth level of hell. -LJT

 

FB STUFF #2: FAST FOOD STRAWS and PEARLS


Facebook Group

Here I have reprinted some of the Facebook group content. Enjoy. Comment often.

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #17: Fast Food Straws

First of all, what happened? Straws used to be a simple tubular device, you know, for drinks. The wrappers were a simple task of tap and pull. Now it’s all gone fucking haywire. Specialized cutting equipment is required to extricate the straw from the constrictive tightness of the paper condom. Remember blowing the paper at your friend? Fun right? Well not anymore. Now you’re more likely to cause yourself an aneurysm before the sleeve breaks free and even if you somehow succeed, you will draw blood. Believe me, this is no longer considered innocent or cute. No, shooting a wrapper at someone is a clear sign of aggression.

So you’ve bullied the straw from the wrapper. You can now feel the impressive weight of this simple plastic tube. Gazing down at its John Holmes length and girth, you ask yourself if this is going to fit in your mouth. Thoughts of having to unhinge your jaw occur. And why is it the length of your leg? Does it double as a cane? You consider putting the drink on the floor and driving the straw down like a post-hole digger. You take a stab and miss. The cheap brittle piece of shit cock sized straw splits along the side rendering it useless and forcing you to start the process over again. I don’t know about you but at this point, I’m exhausted.

After a few calming breathes you, approach your drink with a surgeon’s calm, ask the heavens for help, and after Ben tells you to “use the force” you shut your eyes and thrust. A shudder of joy, a victorious cry. Possible high-fives, I don’t know but dammit, this is a fucking moment. Of course upon further inspection you see the straw deforming as it passes through the triangles of destruction. You take a tentative sip…Well…You know what I mean…After all, the straw takes approximately a half gallon of liquid before it reaches your tongue. Success.

Sweet success. Only one question remains, where do you place the cup? Too close and you’ll have to stand on tiptoes every time you take a sip. Too far and you will need assistance in tipping it towards your mouth. And trust me; you do not want to get this wrong. I have the circular scars on my soft palate to prove it.

***

Langhorne’s Daily Pearls 12/13/12 thru 12/23/12

For a buck and a quarter per I’ll definitely call frozen pizza a vegetable. -LJT

For every one of that guy, there are at least five Langhorne’s. Admit it, you feel a little better now, don’t you. -LJT

Just because you were there don’t start thinking you’re an expert. -LJT

Listen up world, this one is important. There is no such thing as too much cheese. -LJT

I hate because I love. -LJT

 

FB STUFF #1: CELERY & PEARLS


Facebook Group

Here I have reprinted some of the Facebook group content. Enjoy. Comment often.

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #5: Celery

Celery sucks. No, it does. I know. I know. I’ve heard it a hundred times, “but celery doesn’t taste like anything”. Fuck you. It would if you hated it. In fact, every food you ate that contained celery would taste like nothing else. That foul bitter tang. It makes me want to cry to the heavens, “Oh sweet protecting Lord, you gave us a perfectly good spoon and we ate it. I apologize for our folly and I will do all in my power to make things right again.” Or some such nonsense.

Langhorne’s Daily Pearls 12/7/12 thru 12/12/12

The way I see it; men should have dicks, women should have pussies, and everyone should have balls. -LJT

Originality is a derivative concept. -LJT

In adversity’s eye, spit. -LJT

I’m not doing love right now. I’m having a hard enough time just doing. -LJT

When you say, “woke up”, it depends on what you mean by woke up. -LJT

Blog Update

What can I say? It seems my recovery time has passed without any fanfare and I’m getting back to the business of writing. New posts are in the works. I’ve got starts on several subjects, including; Ancient Aliens, Democrats, a series on Free Labor, and more.

In the mean time, check out the Facebook page. There are daily quotes to laugh at and a rogues gallery with a new member added every Thursday.

Facebook Link

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