Nice bag!

If the picture above was enough to catch your attention, make you want to finally post comments here, compel you to add this blog to your links list, inspire you to rummage through my archives because of your newfound love for this site, but most of all, to click on the shameless sellout AdSense links all over this page, then read no further; let the picture speak for itself.


But if you're that kind of discerning reader who wants to know the story behind the photo, the kind of person who enjoys reading FHM and not just gawk at the purrrty pictures, a human being who doesn't just fuck but rather, someone who "makes love," then read on.


This, ladies and gentlemen, is a Shopping Bag Bra. And yes, the chick above is shopping for veggies and French bread—in red lingerie. And you're so right; those crazy Japs are at it again. It's supposed to be for a good cause, though: "Each year, Japanese shoppers receive an estimated 30 billion plastic shopping bags, which, in terms of the oil resources needed to produce them, amounts to two giant tankers full of oil (millions of barrels). About 30% of these bags are thrown away without being reused, and since the consumption of plastic shopping bags contributes to environmental problems such as increased energy usage, trash buildup, and global warming due to CO2 released in the garbage incineration process, there are urgent calls to reduce their usage."


Think turning your hooded jacket into a bag or something to that effect. "When the bra is being worn, the 'shopping bag' portions are folded away inside the bra cups, where they serve as extra padding." So, if you see a Japanese chick in the mall with smaller norks (even if she can well afford a Wonderbra), you can be sure that she's just doing what she can to save the earth. Captain Planet will so have a hard-on.


The bra, which comes in red, blue, green, yellow and pink, is made from this thing called polyester fiber, which has been recycled from plastic bottles. Such a kinky thought, drinking C2 and imagining them plastic containers one day landing on someone's gazongas.

Duck!

Donald desperately wanted to go back to Peking

Now this is what I want. Way more than that stupid chicken. According to the product description, the Choke a Duck "[is a] happy duck [that] waddles around and flaps his wings to the tune of 'The Birdy Song'... it won't be long before you want to stop the annoying repetitiveness! Grab him up by the neck while dancing and he will scream and cluck like mad - flapping his wings and feet as you are gagging and choking him! No matter how many times you choke the duck, it's intent on finishing that damn tune! Choke a Duck is a fantastic stress reliever - you can vent your feelings by making the duck gag. It also makes a great 'practical choke....'" I swear to the heavens above, the last line was not mine.

Please, you just gotta see how this thing works here. Other variations I hope they come up with are:

- Choke a Useless Co-worker
- Choke an Unappreciative Boss
- Choke Lyn and Karlyn
- Choke a Call Center Agent Who Still Uses His/Her Newfound American Accent in Public
- Choke a Grumpy Old Lady Who Cuts in Fastfood Queues Just Because She's Old
- Choke Sun Cellular Customer So-called Service
- Choke Annoying Family First Agents in Malls
- Choke a Hale Fangirl
- Choke Hale
- Choke James Brown

An email exchange with Mr. Brown

So I checked my Gmail's spam folder and found the usual penis enlargement tablet/pump/voodoo spell as well as a number of other useless shit. But this email caught my attention:




If you're too lazy to click on it for a larger view, here's what it says, copied and pasted as it is:

Dear Friend Sir/Madam
Iam Mr.JAMES BROWN the SON of late MR. BROWN FRANCIS,the renowned Zimbabwean,wine and catle farmer.I know it might surprise you how I got your contact.I got it courtesy of Yellow Business Pages.
During the war waged against farmers in Zimbabwe by the supporters and cohorts of President Robert Mugabe to claim all the white owned farms in our country,my late Father's farms were among those targeted by the ZANU-PFarmed group.In the cause of revolution in Zimbabwe,the ZANU farmed group attacked and invaded my Father's farms,burned and destroyed his farm and eventually killed him
.After my father's death last year,I managed to escape to South Africa because my life was threatened and Zimbabwe was no longer safe for me.I escaped safely into South Africa with my father's life- time fortune of US$25Million[Twenty Five Million United States Dollars]in cash and other important documents of property title and other valueables as he instructed before his death.The money and the valueables were concealed and secured in one Treasure Box and was transported through Diplomatic means.The Box is currently safely secured in the vaults of a private security firm in South Africa. Presently,Iam residing temporarily in South Africa pending the outcome of an appeal filed on my behalf by my attorney to the South African Ministry of Internal Affairs to grant me a political assylum.I am in a dilemma of how to move this money safely out of the security deposit company for investments.Moreover,due to the government's stringent monetary policies regulations and the sensitive and volatile political situation,it would be most dangerous to attempt investment here,as such an attempt will jeopardise my chances. In recognition of your personal Executive Power and the investment opportunities that abound in your country,I solicit for your assistance in moving this money out of South Africa.I will also like to use this money for investment in your country.You will guard all my future investments in your country and it will be operated in a partnership level.You will be getting 20% of the investment capital moved to your country as your share for your assistance,The balance will be plunged into investment projects. Upon receipt of your indication of interest to go into co-operation with me,we will open up discussions on the best ways to reclaim the consignment containing the cash and other valueables and ways to invest in your country. Waiting for your urgent reply. Yours faithfully, MR. JAMES BROWN

And because I'm such a compassionate person who was conceived and born to make it to heaven where I shall fiddle with my own harp and headbang to the most angelic of psalms, I couldn't find it in my warm fluffy heart not to respond to the poor man. Here's my actual reply (no Photoshop whatsoever! I shit you not):

Click on it, you lazy mongrels.

I'm currently waiting for Mr. Brown's response. And I promise to update you guys as soon as he agrees to share his wealth with me.

Go nuts over Krispy Kreme donuts

"Donut buy!"

Okay, that was a lame title, don't you agree? Well fuck you if you do. Anyway, when I got to the office a while ago (late as usual), I saw boxes upon boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts—okay, doughnuts—saying "hi" and "eat me" to me. Turned out the Philippine franchise gave our department like over 20 boxes of sample doughnuts (prototypes, if you will) just because we're cute, suckers for freebies, hardworking (though always late for work), suckers for freebies, obnoxious, suckers for freebies, think we're better than everyone else, suckers for freebies, the best, and overall, we rock their world. And suckers for freebies.


I had to try really damn hard to feign disinterest towards those fattening rolls of sugar and carbs. But when someone offered me a piece, I of course didn't want to be rude and turn her down. However, because I didn't want to look like a pathetic hungry skinny hog, I had to try to sound intelligent by saying stuff like, "I didn't know they'll be open till November 30 in The Fort and December 1 in SM Megamall!" But because I was eating with such gusto, it sounded more like, "Mahmeemeemow nelmeemoomen chil momemer mirmy in mamort em mememer mon in m m memamall!" The first doughnut was gone by the second syllable of "memamall." Then she explained that we got samples because we're just cool like that.


The glazed doughnut wasn't bad at all. It was fucking fattening good. If there was any bread softer in the world, it would be a pandesal dipped in Blend 45 coffee—for like three days. Sorry Go Nuts Donuts, but it seems Momemer Mirmy will be the day of reckoning. And Hot Loops, well, it seems you really are the only thing in the doughnut universe that gives people headaches from all your sugar (and because of you, I didn't know MSG could be so sweet). But hey, don't expect too much—and go on saying that Krispy Kreme is soooo overrated thanks to smart asses like Miss Diss. It's just, well, nice, soft, and different.


And 30 fucking pesos per piece. I ended up eating P120 worth of flour, sugar, and carbs just because I knew they were worth P120.

Meet Pooki

Too much stress turned the poor thing red

"Cuddle up with Pooki. His unusual eyes and bewildered look make him instantly loveable, but you can't help but wonder, how far can he see with those eyes?"


Okay, there's absolutely nothing wrong or funny about this cuddly little animal/pillow/devil/sex organ sounding thing/alien. Unless of course, you've got a dirty little mind (why you naughty person you!) Otherwise, little Pooki (Say it with me: "Pooki. Poo-ki. Pooki!") is nothing more than your average WTF-looking novelty gift. See? No big deal. Even if I introduce you to...

One Big Pooki.

How to be like David Caruso

I don't get why a lot of people make fun of David Caruso. I mean, come on, look at him. What's there to ridicule about him? What's so funny about being as expressive as Steven Seagal? Anyway, because I have nothing but utmost respect for this scrawny redhead, here are tips for fellow David Caruso devotees who are just dying to be like him.


1. Quit a TV show during the height of its popularity to pursue the movie industry. Then star in a film that will foreshadow your showbiz career.

2. Try to look like Archie Andrews in dire need of Botox.

3. Make sure your character's skin remains as dark as bond paper even when your role lives in an area that's every inch a tanning bed.

4. Make the profoundest lines sound like clichés.

5. Utter clichés like you're Gandhi.

6. Impersonate a very malnourished Conan O'Brien.

7. If you're not fiddling with your sunglasses, make sure your hands are always on your hips (with a faraway look on your face, with the thought of a handful of lint on your mind).

8. Exert conscious effort to make your smile and your constipated expression look exactly the same.

9. Have a collection of Armando Caruso hankies even if it has no connection whatsoever to wanting to be like David Caruso.

10. Have really creepy beady eyes. Squint intensely to make aliens fly back to wherever they came from.


If you have any other suggestions, please share them for the good of all mankind. Thank you.

Self-explanatory

The dude who created the Steven Seagal Emotion Chart forgot the following expressions, though:

- posing for the customary wacky shot
- pissed
- drunk
- pissed drunk
- stoned
- shitting (constipated)
- shitting (diarrhea)
- has itchy 'nads
- being raped in the shower by 17 smelly inmates with boils on their butt cheeks
- in a DVD marathon of all his films, thus so embarrassed with himself that he wants to lie on the ground with rusty thumbtacks and fallen dandruff flakes and wait to be run over slowly by a military tank (he will live, of course)

Speaking of the devil...

Speaking of the ugly-ass Jude Law photo, what's the point of this blog's existence without an equally ugly-ass Sienna Miller picture as well? So here, take a fucking good look at it. Men should try wanking at the memory of her flashing her ass (and tits!) on Alfie. Then take a long, hard look at this photo again. You guys may just end up finishing off to a vision of Jude Law grinding half-naked to a Christmas tree, smiling.


Unless of course you like slapping the salami to an image of Martha Stewart as a wannabe Project Runway contestant (and model), creating avante garde (a more dignified and artsy fartsy way of saying "ugly") pieces using garbage bags and electric tape.

You'll never guess what this is!

Even the ugly duckling had reason to grin widely

Take a good look at this little doodad. It looks like a typical rubber ducky your baby brother or sister would put in their mouths with much gusto as if it really tastes like anything remotely close to ice cream, cake, or even corned beef (I suppose you can say the same about foreplay, hardeehar). But of course, the mere fact that it's here in diss-anything.blogspot.com means it's not your typical rubber ducky.


So, here goes our customary multiple choice guessing game. Is it:


a) A typical rubber ducky—only in not-so-typical gray.
b) A kitchen magnet to go with the classic banana, watermelon, grape, and miniature bottles of alcoholic drinks magnet designs on your ref (or is it just our ref?).
c) A vibrator.


I shit you not. The answer is letter C. And the product name is I Rub My Duckie. Really. "I Rub My Duckie doubles up as a playful waterproof rubber duck to keep you company in the bath which pleasantly contains a powerful vibrator which is fantastic for sensual stimulation which can be turned on or off by simply squeezing its back."


Don't ask me how it works or how to use it; I have no fucking idea. Let's all just agree that we now know why Ernie's rubber ducky is "the one" and makes "bath time lots of fun" (and let us not speculate on how he uses it, shall we?). I just hope that those who actually, er, rub this duckie don't leave it lying around the house for little kids to—gasp—shove in their mouths.


On a side note, I don't see how something that can actually pass for an infant's toy harbor any kinky thoughts. But then, of course, repressed women in denial without someone else's schlong to call their own would get off to bond paper.


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Aha! Another one of my posts has made it to The Man Blog! For the one or two of you who were wondering how I do it (because you're super jealous that you've got a dick but I made it there first—snicker, snicker), it's simple, really. I write to entertain—not just others, but mostly myself. I love entertaining myself! So, yeah, being a selfish bitch pays. And besides, I'll never be jealous if someone else's (dick or no dick) post makes it there, as I have no aspirations whatsoever to be one of The Man Blog editors, anyway.


I'm just not into gay orgies. Nyahahaha!

Jude Law looks like shit

Jude Law was so hot in Alfie. Like so hot he could've given men hard-ons just by smiling his oh-so charming smile. But I'm not a man so to me, he was just plain hot.


And then this photo. I would've loved to write something like: "Oh, Jude, what have you done to yourself? Did the nanny of your kids watch too much Alfie that she had gotten so aroused by your oh-so charming smile that she couldn't help but lock your kids in their rooms and fuck the life out of you? Or was it because your kids' nanny had gotten so aroused by your oh-so charming smile that she couldn't help but lock your kids in their rooms and fuck the life out of you—and were caught by Sienna Miller that's why she left you, which is why you look so...distraught?"


But then when I glance back at this photo, I decide otherwise and write this instead: Look, to the person who sent me a link to this photo, thanks, but you really didn't have to go out of your way to claim that you had wanted to share photos of that hot guy named Jude Law from the film Alfie, when all you intended to do was to email me a photo of some white trash DOM with fucked up hair. Or maybe some smelly-looking Caucasian beggar about to beg for money to buy more by shabu knocking on some car's window and leaving mucus marks by pressing his nose against it.

Got balls?

Is this:

a) Silver-plated, fossilized arms of Mr. Fantastic after an accidental death that involved alcohol, a power saw, and an itchy ass.

b) A coffee stirrer for rich prudes to tickle them with the idea that, OMG, I'm actually using a hand to mix my espresso!

c) A nipple tickler.


Although the answer is none of the above, letter C comes pretty close. And no, sorry to disappoint you but this isn't a sex toy—except of course for pervs who get hard-ons from playing with extension cords. However, I think all you men out there will still love what blissful, eyelid-fluttering, ugly-silly-smile of contentment sensations this executive ball scratcher has to offer.


"When you get a twitch go straight for the itch! For the days when your own hands are just not precise enough, the gentleman's ball scratcher is in the shape of a delicate female hand making it ideal for those hard to reach places. The nine inch handle provides excellent extra length to help get around difficult obstacles (beer bellies, old pizza, empty beer cans etc) and can provide the intimate relief that so many crave," according to the product description. And knowing that it's shaped like a girl's hand instantly sets off a ding in my head that indeed, pervs who get hard-ons from playing with extension cords will absolutely luuurve this.


Okay, to be honest I really wouldn't know if this is like the next razor when it comes to men's products; because in the same way that men have been speculating since God-knows-when what it feels for a woman to orgasm, I've always wondered what it actually feels to: 1) have balls (the literal ones), and 2) to have super itchy balls.

Is that a T in your pocket?

Exchange geeky handshakes, spank each other's butts, and say "Wazzaaap?" to the Mr. T In Your Pocket. According to the product description: "Is someone giving you trouble? Is someone backtalking you? You need Mr. T on your side! Soon you'll be pitying the fool who starts jibber-jabbering! Mr. T is famously known for his role as Sgt. Bosco 'B.A.' Baracus in the 1980s television series The A-Team and for wearing an excessive amount of gold jewelry. Just hearing his voice strikes fear and evokes respect!" Ooooh! I'm trembling with fear already!


Imagine how life would be a lot easier with Mr. T In Your Pocket. Got crank callers breathing heavily and whispering, "Dude, what color are your briefs?" Or suspicious that your seatmate on public transpo will mug you because he's toting a backpack, bolo, and has two other companions with hankies covering half of their faces? Fear not; whip out your Mr. T In Your Pocket and make your enemies shit in their pants!


The product utters six lines: "I pity the fool," "Don't gimme no back talk sucka," "Quit your jibba jabba," "Don't make me mad (with a growl)," "First name mister, middle name period, last name T," and "Shut up, fool!" And so, I thought, for everyone's safety and the good of mankind, why not make other varieties of the Mr. T In Your Pocket? Here are some versions I'd like to pitch:


Dr. Phil In Your Pocket

Will make the bad guys flee for their lives by saying:
- "Life has its ups and downs, like the sunrise and sunset, and what is shining in our hearts is where our strength to move on lies, just like the grass. Thus we may achieve what we only dream of in our lifetime, which is the very essence of living life to the fullest."
- "I'll tell on you to Oprah."
- "I'm a woman trapped in a fat, bald man's body. Hug me. Tight."




David Blaine In Your Pocket

Will make the bad guys flee for their lives by saying:
- "I can snatch a watch through a glass window. Imagine what I can do to your heart."
- "You'll never be taller than me, shorty. You can't levitate now, can you? Loser!"
- "I'm the devil's long lost son."



George W. Bush In Your Pocket

Will make the bad guys flee for their lives by saying:
- "Don't you ever misunderestimate my strength!"
- "I will make your life as miserable as that guy who mocked me with his documentary... What was that again? Ah, Super Size Me!"
- "Would you like me to save your country?"



Tom Cruise In Your Pocket

Will make the bad guys flee for their lives by saying:
- "Wooooh! Wooooooh!!! WOOOHOOOOO!!!! HOOWOOOH!!!"
- "Scientology! Scientology! Scientology!"
- "Boo!"



Michael Jackson In Your Pocket

Will make the bad guys flee for their lives by saying:
- "Just watch me crinkle my nose."
- "I can give you 732,812,739 skin care tips."
- "I would like to babysit your children."



Steven Seagal In Your Pocket

Will make the bad guys flee for their lives by saying:
- "Touch my hair and die."
- "I will write, direct, and star in my own movie."
- "I'll make you watch all of my movies. Each. And. Every. One. Of. Them. No bathroom breaks."



Uma In Your Pocket

Will make the bad guys flee for their lives by saying:
- "Hi, I'm Uma."
- "Pare, pa-kiss."
- "Mwah!"




Chuck Norris In Your Pocket

Will make the bad guys flee for their lives by simply doing this pose. Heeeeyaaaa!!!

Or by (pun coming up) chucking (Chuck-ing! Get it? Hardeeharhar I'm so witty) this videotape to their faces.












Richard Simmons In Your Pocket

Will make the bad guys flee for their lives by saying:
-
-
-

Exclusive sneak peek into K-Fed's book!

It's bad enough that clowns like Paris Hilton, Macaulay Culkin, and Dan Brown have actually written books. Like real ones that are displayed on Powerbooks to be scanned while waiting for someone or those that losers wield in coffee shops or the MRT to simulate intelligence. Now, lo and behold, Mr. Britney Spears himself aka Kevin Federline is planning to write a book about himself. K-Fed tells The New York Post, "It will be a biography of my life until I met my wife, so people will better understand who I am." I'm guessing the content will be as fascinating as a jar of flour (and can be summarized in one sentence: I was poor and when I married Britney Spears minus a prenup—bam!—I've become filthy rich and spend my time gambling my now fat wife's hard-earned money) but then, the composition will definitely make it more interesting. Fo shizzle.

For once in his life, John Cena didn't fake it.

And because I'm such a resourceful bitch, I got a hold of a few excerpts from the book and will share it only with all six of you. No need to thank me.

Chapter 1

"Wen I wuz 10 years old, I lurnd how to do da Running Man wen I saw MC Hammer on TV. That day, I thot to mahself, 'When I grow up, I will be da next MC Hammer and do da Running Man on national TV'. My momma heard me (becuz I wuz da type who annowingly murmurs when he iz thinkin) and told me to shut da fuck up becoz dancing will not feed me. That day, I also thot to myself, 'I'll show her!' but den she heard me again and whackd mah head with a frying pan."

Chapter 5

"After three years of practis, I finaly lurnd to do da Running Man. I showd it to mah momma and she dint whack mah head with a frying pan. She use chopping bord. I think I dummer."

Chapter 10

"I finaly met Britnee Spears, the gurl I hold mah peepee to wen I see on Disney Channel when I wuz stil uncircumcised (still am). She hav short arms but she hot. And with many money like Richie Rich. We dance togeder on her concert and I felt like it wuz juz the two of us on stage. I felt dancin very close to her, as der was only the black cloth of da backstage in betwin us in front of me. She mah ticket to have like Godzilla-big car and a giant house dream gurl."

Chapter 12

"I ask Britnee to merry me. She ask if I want prenupchal agreement but I sed no—not becoz I dint want it, but becoz I dint know wut shit dat wuz. And becoz she wil find out I duno how to hold a pen. Whew! She dint notice becoz she too busy tryin to convince me to wear pants."

Chapter 15

"Britnee getin fatter, I duno why, becoz I da one always on couch wachin infomershals over beer and pop tarts. I make mah own album becoz I know I rap better dan M&M."

Claim to fame

Ha! So, one of my posts made it to The Man Blog. And correct me if I'm wrong (too lazy to dig up their archives; couldn't even give a lame excuse that I'm too busy with work to back read the good guys' posts), but am I the first girl to ever have anything posted there? Am I? Am I?!


I'm so the man. I'M SO FUCKING THE MAN!


And as a thank you to the good editors of The Man Blog, here's a shameless plug of their site...





...so that a staggering six or so of my regular readers (okay, minus one Man Blog editor) would find it in their hearts to compromise their morals and visit the site.


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Thanks to Ade for the heads-up.

Countdown to dropping the bomb

Count Dracula's agonizing diarrhea fucked up his chronology

Shit. What the hell are they going to think of next? And it's 16 fucking US dollars! Whatever happened to good ol' Joy (before they employed the ridiculous marketing strategy of tossing plastic Golden Retrievers on top of taxi cabs)? Or reading Xerex (then using Cristy Fermin's column to wipe your ass—only if you run out of Joy, of course)?

According to the product description, "We all know that having a sit down can be a time consuming and boring process. Some people read, others sing. Why not play Sudoku with your loo paper?" Because I don't want my ass to have random numbers stamped all over it like some animal getting ready to be Mila's or Lydia's next casualty.

A burning question for men

If there were only two other men left in the world and a low voice thundering from somewhere told you to sleep with either of them (otherwise you'll be raped by 1,387 walking balls of bad breath, body odor, and libag with moustaches), whom would you choose?

ID pictures: unflattering

So, who's it going to be, soldier?

EXHIBIT SM

Castration: a momentous and happy occasion

He sings, acts like he knows how to act, and as you can see, trims, uhm, bushes shirtless as well. I read somewhere that one of his hobbies is figuresissyskating. His greatest fear? "Getting my heart broken." WTF. If those aren't enough, there is a catch if you pick this guy: He'll bombard you with his atrocious rendition of "Only You"—like a CD single on repeat mode. A pirated CD single at that. Shirtless. Over and over. Imagine that. Only for you.

EXHIBIT Z

Disco balls: practical

He flexes his muscles, struts around in his underwear, and likes hanging out in places with disco balls. He also enjoys conversations with tumbleweeds scurrying within the horizon. Mr. No Pants once said, "I’d like to learn to act and to sing." I say, good luck. To all the unfortunate souls who'll witness him try his ass off and fail. He also said, "[No], I would not go for bold roles." Well there goes his defunct-before-it-even-started career.

So, what say you? And which do you prefer: T or B? (If you don't get the latter, just ask.)