Strippers

I am a man with many vices. Even as a child, I knew that there wasn't much hope for myself. Many hours of my childhood were spent daydreaming about drinking, drugging, and sleeping with women. Perhaps I lack values, or maybe I am just hard wired to be a savage prick. It's probably safe to say that I'm on a highway to hell. This highway that I am on leads me right to my sanctuary...the strip club.
The strip club is actually a very unique place, and not because of the fact that the girls are in their birthday suits. There is a certain freedom that one feels upon entering the club. A feeling that no matter what happens in this life, everything is going to be OK as long as young, beautiful girls are willing to dance nude.
There is a strange sense of honesty that a man shares with an exotic dancer. The stripper craves money and the man craves a naked, warm body. There is no hiding the truth. Anybody who thinks that these girls are going to fall in love them is simply lying to themselves. However, it is very easy to fall in love with them, with trashy names like Jasmine, Star, and Angel. Who wouldn't fall in love?
The female body is the most precious thing on the planet, more than money, diamonds, or power. I see nothing wrong with women dancing in the buff. In fact, I think that if there were more strip clubs people might be happier. Imagine what would happen if we opened up a chain of strip clubs in the Middle East. Sure, some of them would get bombed, but after awhile the Arabs would jump on board. Spreading Democracy through strippers, I like that. In a world full of violence a man should be staring at a couple of breast, not thinking about how fucked we are.

Channel 4 News- Pennsylvania Man Saves Strippers

Local man in Pittsburgh, Pa saved 10 exotic dancers from a fire at a downtown strip club. Apparently, an electrical fire caught and within seconds the entire club was up in flames. Customers rushed for the door trampling and injuring dancers. One man, named Abe Young, stood alone and helped the strippers escape by staying behind to make sure everyone made it out safely. We caught up with Mr. Young and were able to ask him how he found the courage to become a hero.

Reporter: Abe, I've got to ask, what possessed you to help these injured women when the walls were literally burning down all around you? You must have been thinking about your own safety.
Abe: Its simple, I didn't want to see that beautiful T and A go to waste. I mean look at these chics. Could you possibly think of yourself when there's a chance that hot pieces of ass like these could perish. Maybe it's me but I couldn't run away.
Reporter: Did you find that the young ladies were grateful?
Abe: Holy horse shit, did I ever. I can't say that I've ever been rewarded for my bravery like I was after saving the girls.
Reporter: Can you elaborate?
Abe: I don't know, is my Mother watching? (laughter in the background) Let me put it this way, I could die right now with a smile on my face.
Reporter: Thanks for the interview, Abe. You truly are a hero
Abe: Thank you
Reporter: This is one reporter who is in awe. If there were only more men like Abe Young. Back to you Bob.

Andy Rooney On Walking Dogs

Living in New York, I see people walking their pooches everyday. What I don't understand is why do people own dogs in the city. They have to follow their K9 with a plastic bag waiting for it to drop a load. Would people walk their dogs if they could defecate in a toilet? I highly doubt it.
What if people walked their toddlers who weren't pottie trained. Why don't we follow children with a plastic bag in the park? I think I would enjoy watching that. I think I would enjoy shitting in the park. Is anyone interested in following me with a plastic bag? I'm Andy Rooney and this is 60 Minutes. Watch next Sunday as I continue to make an ass out of myself.

My Journey West

On June 18th I had no idea what the next two weeks would have in store for me. The plan was to leave on the 19th, Idaho bound for a family reunion, and return on the 22nd.
The reunion which consisted mostly of Doyle's, my Father's family on his Mother's side, was wonderful in every sense of the word. We stayed in a beautiful home in the mountains. The women spoiled us with hearty meals and a massage of the shoulders. We drank beer all day long and stayed up til 4:00 in the morning every night. There was plenty of smoke if you knew the right relatives and like any trip it was over before I knew it.
My last night I stayed awake, cherishing every moment with my cousins and siblings. We drank and laughed and shared stories from our lives while sitting in a hot tub under the big sky of Idaho full of stars so bright and close that it was as if you could flick them with your finger(maybe that was the shrooms).
Time was running out for us and suddenly the mood changed to a feeling of melancholy. My two cousins, Lucia and Tessa, whom I hadn't seen in 13 years, were wearing their puppy dog faces and my heart felt broken. Tessa, the free spirit, convinced me to stay longer and when I say convinced...well, it was more like just bringing up the idea because I was not ready to leave. The journey was not over. There was more to see before returning to midwest. My cousins, their children, and their mother(my Aunt D) were pushing on further west to the coast. And I would be damned if I was going to miss out on this trip.
The only thing I had to do at this point was tell my Father that a ride to the airport was no longer necessary. Now I could write a book about the old man. He is the strongest man I have ever met and I'm not talking about his fighting skills which were superb in his day. He is unique in the sense that he doesn't give a shit about what people think. He was recently shot in the leg two years ago and now walks with a limp which will most likely be with him for the rest of his life. He is a simple man who leads a simple life that is relaxed and subject of envy. He smokes a little grass, has long hair and pays $40 a month to live on the Demoines River. When I told my Dad that I was staying he asked, "Abe, do you have your fuckin head screwed on?" My response was, "Yes Dad."
Having never been further west than Whyoming, I was ecstatic to see Oregon, Washington, and California. I experienced some of the most breath taking scenery from the mountains to the Redwoods to the drive along the coast of the Pacific ocean in northern California. The air in some of those places was like a drug itself. Observing God's work first hand made me walk away feeling a little wiser.
There is an attitude in the west that is hard to describe. A feeling of freedom overcomes you. The pigs are not winning the war against marijuana. In fact, they are losing miserably. The people have spoken. On any given day at any given time a person can walk the streets of SanFrancisco and smell reefer wafting in their direction.
I experienced the police's failure to arrest my cousin's friend. We were smoking in her vehicle when I got out with my 12 pack of Budweiser to get a little air. The police, in an umarked car, rolled up on me. I warned my cousin and her friend(still in the vehicle) and then turned to have an officer standing directly in front of me. The girls showed their medical marijuana cards and the next thing I know the female cop(good cop) is talking about diet, reality t.v, and hot guys. I was stuck in an episode of Reno 911. The male cop(bad cop) wasn't having it. The girls were clearly aggrivating him with their talk of legal marijuana and how he was out of line for searching the vehicle. The bad cop found some keef and had an argument for arresting her. Apparently, concentrated pot is illegal in the state of California. A half an hour later the victim of police harrassment was dropped off at my cousin's door with no charges pressed.
The best part of this trip was being with my family. It was stressful and at times it felt like the walls would cave in. Traveling with 8 females, ranging from ages 2 to 58, is not an easy task to take on. I would not recommend doing so unless you have patience and a lot of alcohol. Fortunately for them, I had both.

5 Ways To Save A Cat In A Tree

5) Throw snowballs at it.
4) Cut down the tree.
3) Send a trained bear who listens to commands to climb the tree and rescue the feline.
2) Shoot a bullet in its general direction.
1) Call the fire Department

Attack Of The Fire Ants

It was May 2005 in Holland MI. The rain was coming down steadily which is common for that time of year. However, Mother Nature's urine was not a concern for me. It would only be a couple of days before I was basking in the sun in lovely Palm Beach, Fl.
My mother and stepfather were packing up and heading south. Their house, which had been built only two years before, was now empty. A U-haul truck sat in the driveway loaded to the brim. At the end of the drive sat a trailer with my parent's van propped up on it.
Being the considerate son that I am, I tagged along with Mom so that she would have company and when we reached our destination, she would have help unloading. It would be a long trip, especially tugging a trailer behind the U-haul. My girlfriend at the time sat bitch, I sat shotgun the entire trip(because I lacked a license), and poor old Mom drove this sputtering beast over six states.
The trip was going well. We got started early in the A.M. and were making great time considering the load. If you know my mother, then you know that she is a trooper. Give this woman her Ritalin and Diet Mountain Dew and she can conquer the world. Sure, the trip would prove to be challenging but nothing could defeat us.
We were already in Frankfort Kentucky by mid afternoon and we were ready for a break. We were not stopping to stay the night. No, we would continue to push on, but when you see a sign for the Jim Beam distillery, well, it goes without saying, you must stop. And we did. We lined up with the rest of the tourist and watched a movie about the history of this delicious bourban. Then it was time for shots. Fortunately for me, my mother and lady friend were not up for bourban at 4 in the afternoon. Coming from a long line of drunken white trash from Ireland, I figured no one would mind if I helped myself to their free samples, and no one did.
The field trip was over and it was time to hit the road. Onward we went. Dusk hit as we ascended the Appalachian Mountains into Tennessee. Rain accompanied the night and so did a truck that felt as if it were on the verge of falling apart bolt by bolt. Traveling up the mountains reminded me of the choo choo that could. I was waiting for the U-haul to start reciting the words, "I think I can. I think I can." We had pushed the old truck long enough. It was time to find a place to rest our heads.
We stopped in some town in the middle of Deliverance country. Anywhere was fine with me. We got seperate hotel rooms. Mom in one and the lady and me in the other. We had brought some weed. It was time for the much needed and overdue buzz. Babies don't sleep like we did that night.
The next morning it was up and Adam before the Sun was even considering rising in the east. We continued our push through the Appalachians and were now descending. We had finally reached Georgia but the truck was hurting. Backfiring, sputtering, and making God awful noises. You could sense the fear in the cabin. Little prayers to God were being muttered under my mother's breath. Like a shot gun blast, came the loudest noise I have ever heard a vehicle make.
We pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway. Cars, SUVs, mini-vans, and semi trucks were flying past us. It was a scene from the game Froggert. We stood there looking at the truck with a sense of defeat looming over us. Is this it? We've come so far. Why now?
Suddenly, my mother is slapping at her legs and ankles. I asked, "What is it Mom? Is something biting you?" Mom decided to step off of the shoulder to walk around the vehicle when fire ants attacked. Instantly she became weak. Trying to keep my mind intact after the misfortunes of the day, I encouraged my mother to push on. We would walk to the nearest gas station which we had passed five minutes earlier. My mother made it about twenty feet before the toxic alkaloid from the ants hit her like a ton of bricks. I was frightened that my mother was about to die on the shoulder of some fucking highway in the middle of Georgia(of all places).
"Come on Mom, I'll carry ya." I said. Like any son who loves his mother, I threw her up on my back and carried her piggy back style. The Georgia heat at 10 A.M was overbearing. It had already reached 90 degrees. Fortunately after walking this way for about 5 minutes a man pulled over to offer us a lift. I couldn't believe that we had gone that far without anyone stopping. This was post 9-11. Where were these people's sense of comradery? I 95 is one of the most traveled highways in the U.S.
The kind stranger drove backwards up the shoulder and whipped his truck around at the end of the ramp. The next thing I know is that we are in a BP gas station. My mother, who is a Christain, is yelling for Benadryl. The lady behind the counter says, "Mam, we can't go and give ya benadryl. We don't wanna give ya sumfin that might counteract the hospital's drugs." My mother replied, "Are you fucking kidding me. Abraham, find me benadryl."
An ambulance arrived before I had a chance to find any drugs for my mother. They took her away and like that my girlfriend and I were stranded in Hicksville, USA. What do we do? Should we try to find a way to the hospital? Instead, I contacted the U-haul people and gave them our location. "Yeah, give us bout twenny minutes. We be right out, awrighty." said the mechanic on the phone. Now there was the issue of not being at the BP when my Mother came back, if she even did. Well, no problem there because they both came at the same time, 5 hours later.
So my lady friend, Kylie, and I sat there in the Georgia heat. This was not my idea of basking in the sun. No, that fantasy included margaritas and my girl in a skimpy bathing suit. I began to miss the rain up north and found myself wishing that it was cold.
It was a Sunday and the religious were coming from all different directions to buy only God knows what at their local gas station. I sat on the curb watching the people when an obese black woman fell into the newspaper machines. She lay there crying for her husband as her two year old grandson stood over her with tears in his eyes. "Is this actually fucking happening?" I asked Kylie. I felt the sudden urge to laugh hysterically and found myself using the same muscles one would use to shit in order to prevent any maniacal laughter. We were in the Twilight Zone. I was convinced. I ran into the store and yelled at the old black man paying his bill. "Sir, sir. I think your wife has fallen and hurt herself."
For the second time that day, in a town of no more than 200 residents, the ambulance found its way to the BP gas station. That was when my Mother and the U-haul mechanic showed up seperately and at the exact same time. It was time to leave this madness behind. We would hop in with the mechanic and ride to the U-haul together.
As we approached the truck, we could tell that something wasn't right. While we were showing the locals at the BP how Yankees freak out over fire ants, an 18 wheeler clipped the side of the trailer(carrying the van) and the U-haul. Damage all the way down for 30 some feet. How this was not a collision of monsterous proportions still boggles my mind to this day. The semi simply just scraped the living shit out of the entire side leaving the tires flat on the trailer, a scratch down the side of my Mothers van which resembled the work of a giant keying a vehicle, and a partially dented in side of the U-haul.
We disconnected the trailer. They would come back for that later. The mechanic hooked the truck to his tow truck. I rode with him while my Mother and Kylie drove the van that sat on top of trailer. We were headed into the deep country of some rural Georgian county that reminded me of the slasher films. My imagination was in overdrive. It would only make sense that we would be tortured and murdered by the end of this journey. Some rednecks wearing my Mother's skin while chasing my girlfriend as I hang from a cattle hook. The perfect ending to a terrible day.
We were safe though. There was no torturing of the Yanks. At this point we simply waited while the mechanics worked their magic. A state police officer showed up to fill out an acident report. This may have been the first time that day that I had a panic attack. The officer walked around the van with my mother making note of the damage. That is when I realized that my marijuana was in a hand bag that was plastered up against the back window of the hatch back. The trooper stood next to a quarter ounce of my weed for what seemed like an eternity. He never had any reason to get in the vehicle.
The U-haul was fixed, the trailer recovered, and we were on our way. We drove to northern Florida and stopped for strong drink(which you can't buy in the entire state of Georgia on the lord's day). We stayed the night and started early for Palm Beach. We made it unscathed.

Andy Rooney On Brunettes

I must say that women with brown hair have always attracted me more than others. Perhaps there is some truth to Freudianism. The women in my family are all brunettes. My mother was a brunette, my sister, my grandmother. They're all dead now, but I still fantasize over them.
What is it about a woman with brown hair that makes me want to get to know her privates a little better? I don't understand why my 87 year old cock becomes arroused when I see a pretty brunette. It just does.
Sometimes I find myself playing with my dick in Central Park. Mothers taking their children for a stroll, young ladies jogging with their dogs, and brown muff all over the place.
Who says blondes have more fun? I don't know any blondes who have more fun. Are women with lighter features suddenly the spokespersons for female fun. I remember a young lady by the name of Cyndi Lauper, brunette, who dyed her hair all kinds of punky colors. She said, "Girls just want to have fun."
I'm Andey Rooney, and this is 60 Minutes. I will see you next Sunday, where I will continue to act like a senile old bastard.

*Brunettes of the world, I truly believe that you are the prettiest. I meant to say something sweet about you girls, instead, I drifted off to Rooney world. Life is much simpler there.