When I saw you sitting across the coffeehouse, slurping an iced coffee,  I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. Had we met before, in this life or another?

Your jeans were so tight right down to the ankles, and your bright white shoes were high-topped and untied, but it wasn’t your jeans and shoes that entranced me.  No, it was your face. There was something about your face that held my gaze.

If your face were on the back of a shampoo bottle I’d never bring a magazine into the bathroom.

You wore Beats By Dr. Dre on top of your Justin Bieber-esque haircut. The music pulsing from your headphones sounded like an orchestra of cartoon laser guns and high speed wall-kicking. A hunched over elderly woman tapped you on the shoulder, pointed at your headphones and gestured for you to turn down the volume. You smiled an all gum smile that even a horse would shudder at, and shook your head no and shooed her away. For me, the music faded into the background. Your face. Your face is all I wanted to look at. I couldn’t understand what drew me in, and until I did, I could not, would not look away.

If your face was on the front of a box of kids cereal, I’d never do the maze on the back.

My heart raced as I stared at you. My hands shook eagerly. I wanted to cry and laugh and scream all at the same time. Your face, I could frame it and hang it in my living room. Guests would see it and say, Hmm. They too, wouldn’t be able to look away. I’d ask why they were mesmerized by your face in the hopes they could solve the mystery. I suspect they could not.

You took a bite of a whoopie pie and chomped on it like a dog eating peanut butter. You wiped a bit of the cream filling from your face with your hand and then smeared it on the chair next to you even though there was a napkin sitting on the table. The server saw this and mouthed, What the fuck, and stared at your face. At that moment I understood why I couldn’t stop staring at your face…

I wanted to punch it. Oh so badly. I wanted to slingshot my fist right into your stupid mouth and send you sprawling to the floor. Once I broke the ice others would lineup to follow my lead. Hand shakes and high fives would commence as everyone participated in and enjoyed a parade of punches right into your goddamn stupid, stupid face.

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I’d like to send a shout out to the nose-breather standing directly behind me at the crowded acoustic show last night.  I was too shy to look back, but I can only assume you were an overweight woman, or perhaps a woman with a cold or bad allergies. You breathed like you had just struggled up a few flights of stairs or were in the midst of an intensive Tae-Bo workout. Under normal circumstances, no average woman’s nose could do what your nose could.

The warmth of your nose air on my arm, the flecks of hardened boogs tickling my elbow while the gentleman on stage tickled the strings of his guitar. Dare I say it was romantic? Dare I venture we had a moment?

I wondered how many shards of your boogies had flittered into my beer, and hoped the answer was many with each sip.

More than once I closed my eyes and wished the music would stop, so I could hear your labored breath more clearly. A gentle wheeze mixed with a strong gust of air and the occasional sensual snort. Did you have a deviated septum, I wondered? You sounded like an angel with a horrible sinus infection.

Even over the music, I could hear a large snot-ball ping-ponging around your nostril. Back to front, left to right. I held my breath in hopes that magical and wonderful orb would escape, dance through the air and land softly on the back of my neck; your way of saying, “Hi, how are ya? My name is Darlene.”

I’d gently pinch the ball between my thumb and forefinger, roll it around a bit, maybe sniff it a little, and then place it in my breast pocket carefully, a souvenir greater than any overpriced t-shirt or button available at the merch stand. Alas, while that sphere of nasal mucus was large enough to be audible, it was too large to escape the warm hairy confines of your nose. It was the one that got away. We would never have our hello. I would never make love to you or your nose.

When I looked at my watch, to see how much longer I could bask in your nasal exhaust, the face was foggy from your powerful exhalations. As the fog cleared, and the musician put down his guitar, I realized our time together was up.

I hope next time I stand in a crowded room, enjoying an unplugged performance, you’re there behind me, breathing heavily, hugging me with your gasps, whispering age old secrets of love with what I can only assume was a very large nose.

The United States of America, our wonderful neighbors to the south. I mean that too. The US is great in so many ways, there are many states I’d be proud to call my home, but there are some things that are more than a little bit backwards and act as a reminder that, like every other country in the world, the US is far from perfect.

Case in point, in Sanford, Florida, Nations Trucks is giving away a free AK-47 with the purchase of a truck (check it out, the promotion is running through November 2010). Forget bringing your wife along for a ride in your new truck, because you’ll have your semi-automatic assault rifle spending more time between your legs than she ever would. The old lady not willing to show you a good time in the roomy back seat of your gently used Dodge Ram? Forget it, you both know with the AK-47 there will be a lot more bangin’ back there.

FUN FACT: Because of their durability and cheapness to manufacture, more AK-47s have been produced than any other assault rifle.

Anyone who has seen Bowling for Columbine, when Michael Moore gets a free gun for opening a new bank account, knows gun control in some states is somewhat of a laughing matter. However, this particular AK-47 deal caught me by surprise, because the AK-47 isn’t your standard shotgun or handgun, that with a proper license, is obtainable in most first world countries throughout the world. This is a gun that’s banned in Australia and Canada, and in the UK is only permitted with an exceptional reason. Get this, even Mexico banned the AK-47.

Many people will recognize the AK-47 as a gun used in the Call of Duty series, or as the gun used by most terrorists, but the version available for purchase in the USA is different, they are semi-automatic, not automatic. Even the US has banned automatic weapons. Sorry cowboys.

Call of Duty, fully automatic version.

So grab a bottle of Jack, get down to Nations Trucks, pick up one their fine vee-hickles and have yourself a rootin’ tootin’ good time.

Oh, and if you’re interested, sales at Nations Trucks have doubled since this promotion, meaning there are now even more people with guns in pick-up trucks protecting the countryside from varmints. Yeehaw.

When I woke up, at the age of 9 years old in a bathtub overflowing with double-thick chocolate milkshake, I should of known something was awry. But I guess when a kid is busy slurping down bottomless McShakes and shoveling handfuls of McFries down his throat, he doesn’t ask a whole lot of questions. Why my family deserted me, and how I got in that bathtub is anyone’s guess.

Parents don’t always know how their kids are going to turn out. Raising a child is not as easy as buying a Happy Meal. So it’s not surprising to me that my parents left me in the dumpster behind the local McDonald’s. You’d probably think I’d be upset about being deserted by my family, but I thought I was lucky. Grimace, after all, was my new Dad.

The first few years, with Grimace as my new dad were pretty great. The other kids in the neighborhood were incredibly jealous. Grimace was a big deal in those days.

Some of the kids I went to school with called him fat, but I didn’t mind Grimace’s obesity, as I’d put on an extra hundred or so pounds since he rescued me from the dumpster. “I’m just supersized,” he’d always say, then remind me a Big Mac has extra layers, and everyone loves Big Macs. Even the President of the USA. Dad didn’t need to reassure me though, there are no consequences to eating Big Macs and Quarter Pounders everyday that wouldn’t make it worth while. I mean, most of my friends begged and pleaded with their parents to get McDonalds. Me? I ate it everyday.

On my 16th birthday, while other teenagers were getting their learners permit, Dad shaved and dyed me purple. What did I need to drive for? The McDonald’s was right down the street. Besides, the thought of being the next Grimace was exhilarating. At the time, I couldn’t imagine a better profession. But times change.

Sure, there were some tough times, like when the McDLT was discontinued, or everytime the McRib went back into hiding, but it wasn’t until recently, with the decline in work for my Dad, that things started getting out of hand. His attempt to find a new job in McDonald’s politics and run for mayor was a considered a joke, and McCheese beat him by a landslide. Even the Fry Kids laughed at him. He always blamed Ronald. He cursed the clown everyday. Ronald, the only one of the original gang still getting steady work. My Dad said Ronnie sold out. Forgot where he came from. Forgot who his friends were.

Not long after that, Dad started staying out later, going to the strip club with Hamburglar to see Birdie dance, then coming home drunk at 4am and mixing whiskey into his milkshakes. “Now that,” he’d say, “is a Shamrock Shake.”

Things got worse from there. Dad was caught talking to The Burger King and was immediately fired. To this day, I don’t know what they were talking about. Plotting to eliminate Ronnie was and still is my guess. From then on, the rest of the gang stopped returning his calls. Even The Hamburglar. They said he’d gone too far.

Three weeks later, Grimace, my father, who rescued me from a dumpster and raised me as his own, fell to his death from the top of the golden arches. Police said it was suicide, but I think Ronnie was behind it. Grimace was survived by his one son. Me. And I vow to make things right. I vow to make Ronnie pay, because Grimace was my Dad. I loved him.

Often times I like to check my website’s spam filter for a good laugh.  Here is the comment:

which on its own isn’t very funny, but when you see what Corrupt Camel post supposedly helped this young scholar with his assignment, it’s pretty amusing. I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember having any assignments like this in college. Happy Friday.

If you have any Funny Spam, please contact Cornelius J. McPoop (ask for Corny) at www.facebook.com/corruptcamel

Moms and Dads dropped $1500 on Tickle Me Elmo in Christmas of 1996, but now people don't even want it for a quarter.

For more on Tickle Me Elmo madness, check out this article from People magazine.

It’s an interesting and adorable thing to find at a garage sale, although he looks a little sad sitting there amongst all this random stuff. Assumably the owner eventually grew up, so it’ll find another home.

There’s all sorts of weird stuff at these sales, and you’re likely to find everything from a Party Poker tips and tricks manual to a mug shaped like a moose. Nothing is impossible, and people’s houses seem to be full of the weirdest items you’ll ever see on sale.

If you're done tickling Elmo, you can use this guide to tickle your lady friend(s).

Got an issue with Granny? Then this terrifying Voodoo Granny doll is for you!

Don't remember who Susan Powter is? Maybe that's because you're lucky enough to have repressed the memories of her. She's even more terrifying than Voodoo Granny.

This was on the package of a 3D Dog Puzzle. The kids' reaction is priceless, but seeing how the unopened puzzle was at the garage sale, I'd say their reaction is inaccurate.

This would look excellent above the mantle.

Some people like their exotic dancers dangerous, but for those who don't ...

I'm not sure that learning to paint rocks and learning to surf are related, but what do I know?

Here I was thinking I was the only one that called my penis a Dammit Doll. Go figure.

This is one sexy shot glass that had me reaching for my Dammit Doll, but I am a bit curious why the nipples are hairy.

Why, in God's name, do the French call Waldo Charlie? This irks me to the nth degree.

The "Salty" tag is protruding from his balls. Salty balls. Get it? Nevermind.

Porsche, Ferrari, Lamborghini...I-Roc? I can't believe this didn't sell.

Two of my friends insisted I take this picture. Later, another friend said, "Hey, did you get a picture of the Nut Vendor jar?" We're a real mature group.

What’s the best/funniest thing you’ve ever found at a garage sale?

P.S. Commenting helps increase world awesomeness.