Redneck Goes Green

My special lady friend told me I was, under no circumstances, allowed to write a post having anything whatsoever to do with going number two. What does she know? Girls don't even poop. We reached a compromise that I was allowed to blog about gas.

I, like many of you, am furious with gas prices. With today's technology we should be able to find an alternative source of fuel for our vehicles. It doesn't help that our President doesn't just dip his hand in the oil industry, he goes swimming there on weekends with his buddies (they have tiki torches that run on crude oil and poor people's dreams). But I have recently discovered the real reason for the high price of gas prices, and it has nothing to do with greed.

The government is trying to kill off rednecks.

Crazy? You would think that you hippie city slicker. Get a haircut.

Think about it - rednecks are the ones driving the pick-up trucks and getting 2.6 miles per gallon. With gas prices the way they are I can barely afford to buy stickers of Calvin pissing on stuff.



But why? Do the people higher up not have Friends In Low Places? Sure we don't provide fine art, scientific advancements or shirts with sleeves - but where would America be today without Lynyrd Skynyrd, barbecues and America's Funniest Home Videos? How would other countries stereotype us if we didn't have cowboy boots and the phrase, "yall?"

And yet the gov't hates people who drive pick-up trucks. Obviously people in office have never had to move because everyone has that redneck friend that not only owns a pick-up truck; but is willing to complete any task if promised a 6-pack of Budweiser tallboys. How do you think the pyramids were built? Slave labor? Nope. Rednecks. They say Cleopatra was the most beautiful woman in history - but really it is because they were drunk as hell all the time. She was MAYBE an eight but they drank her up to a ten. Hell even the Sphynx starts looking good after a few hours. I'd hit it.

I know what you are saying - "Wow, Narm, you are good looking." Thanks, Reader - but lets stay on topic. You are also thinking, "But Narm, our President IS a redneck!" Wrong. Our President is a retard - the differences are subtle, but they are there.

So all you hippies that are trying to save the wales and the chaining yourselves to trees - lets start a "Save the Redneck" campaign - because what is America without rednecks? Answer: France - talk about an inconvenient truth.

Touche, Highway

On my way to work this morning I look at the car to my right so see a guy trying to put chapstick on in the mirror like it was lipstick. Cringing, I thought, "Yikes, Buddy, you get the award for 'Least MANuever of the Day". Then I looked to my left and saw a guy peel a banana and put half of it down his throat like he was trying to tickle his adam's apple.

I apologize, Chapstick Man, but I am forced to strip you of your award and give it to someone much more deserving.

When I Think About You I Lunch Myself

Around the office I am known for one thing: being a disgusting fatty. You know how someone will say to an overweight person, "There is a skinny person in there just dying to come out!" Well I have an incredibly fat person stuck in my skinny frame and he is confused and angry.

I have what I like to refer to as Lunch Masochism. Every morning I send out an email
around 930 (don't judge me) saying I want something "cheap and healthy" (I like my lunch like I like my women). This of course instantly changes into something that will leave me in the bathroom the rest of the day (can I send an Outlook invite for the handicap stall in the Men's room? Attendees: Narm and Shame.)

Here are my Top Five Places I Use To Break Down My Stomach's Will To Live

1. Tang's Wok. Pay-by-the pound Chinese buffet? Affectionately referred to now as Tang's Wok of Shame.

2. Chipotle. This is the fuzzy handcuffs of my Lunch Masochism - whereas Tang's would be the forked whip. Sure it does some damage - but I'm not left in the fetal position sucking my thumb and mumbling something about the meat sweats.

3. Georgio's $5 Hot and Ready Pizza. I already used the "I like my ____ like I like my women" joke so I'm drawing a blank on this one.

4. Wendy's. Tricky bastards. Salad and chili from the dollar menu be damned - give me the duoble stack. I dare anyone to eat for the cycle: Single, Double, Triple and the Baconator. Let's see Steve Prefontaine do that shit! Anyone can run a marathon - lets see him traverse through the Meat Marathon. Or the Meat Gauntlet - that sounds kind of like a gay porn, though. I'm sticking with Meat Marathon.

5. White Castle. You dirty whore. One time and one time only did I make this mistake...that day being today. The fatty in my said ten burgers and the big sack of fries was a walk in the park. Wrong. I am fairly certain my organs mutinied today. I am drafting an apology letter to them as we speak.

"Dear Organs,

I am sorry for my inconsiderate consumption of what can only be described as Weapons of Ass Destruction.

Signed,
Jeff Nomina"

I don't know - it still has to go through proofing.

The Post to End My Social Life

This is probably the biggest mistake I have ever made. Ever. Even worse than that time I let Billy Joel borrow my car. I have had a complete case of writer's block and needed a topic and this was the only one that came to mind.

I played the clarinet in grade school.

I KNOW - I could own a pair of bedazzled jeans and be less fruity than this. I'd have a better chance of getting laid wearing zuba pants than playing the clarinet. It sure as hell didn't clari-net me any ladies. My Mom warned me when 5th grade Nom decided this would be a good idea. She said to me, "Jeff, this is going to haunt you for the rest of your life." Well she was right - but not in the way I was expecting.

As mentioned, or at least alluded to in previous posts, I have a lady friend now. Those that know me well know that I don't date. Before last summer I managed a full four-year term as President of Bachelorania (I ran as an independent - har har)

Anyways my parents came up to visit the Land of Cleves this past weekend and the lady friend met us at Lolita for some drinks.

Keep in mind my parents are addicted to grandchildren. I am pretty sure they freebase grandkids on the weekends. They may even have grandkid trading cards and they get together with all of the other grandparents on the playground and show them their Jack Nomina rookie card. Ooooh mint condition! I can't remember the last family function where I wasn't cornered and asked by a random family member when I would finally be bringing a girl home (answer: when my family stops being crazy) - so having a girl come out and meet my parents was, I thought, going to be a welcomed event for my Mom.

Until this conversation.

Mom - trying to sell me to the lady: You were very involved growing up! You did readings at Church and you were an altar boy.

Me - being an arrogant asshole as always: Yeah - not only am I ruggedly handsome but I have a heart of gold.

Mom - cockblocking me: And you played the flute at church!

Me - wondering if it is inappropriate to use the phrase cockblock around my Mom: WHAT?!? I NEVER PLAYED THE FLUTE!!!

Mom - fixing the situation in the way throwing a glass of water on a forest fire is fixing the situation: Oh thats right you played the clarinet.

Me - BUT NOT AT CHURCH! AND ONLY FOR TWO YEARS IN GRADE SCHOOL!!!

Mom - I told you it was going to haunt you!

Now, Reader, I understand - my playing the clarinet is extremely, extremely embarrassing and I can't believe I had relayed this fact to all of you - but the FLUTE? C'mon Momina Nomina - the flute??? Why would she even bring that up in front of a girl in the first place, and then to go and say the FLUTE? In her quest for grandchildren - telling prospective girlfriends that I played the musical equivalent to Christopher Lowell is NOT a solid maneuver.



Now I just can't let her find out about my two years in the Nutcracker...

KIDDING

I Like Persons But I Hate People

Is there a quicker way to lose faith in mankind than being in a large crowd? My Dad used to tell me when I was little that he wanted to bring a machine gun to the mall and mow down all of the people walking on the wrong side, or that stop in the middle of the walkway to talk. You would think this kind of upbringing would cause severe mental damage - but I can promise it was just all those paint chips I ate.

There are many places that make me wish I owned a flamethrower (or at least a people thrower). Today I am going to focus on two - beginning with the sports event.

First off - The Wave. I hate the wave. I go to sporting events to, get this, watch the game. I don't pay money to go to a stadium so I can stand up and go "Wheeeeeee!" and then sit back down. If I wanted to stand up, mutter something and then sit right back down I'd go to church. Only in America could we be at a sporting event and still require more entertainment. Sit down, People, I can't see the hot dog race.

Second - Loud, Uninformed Sports Fan Guy. A guy could hit for the cycle twice and if he strikes out later in the game you always get that guy in the crowd going, "He's bum - they need to cut his ass." This guy is also a master of trash talk with gems like, "Hey! Hey! Hey...you! You suck!" Whoa buddy - why such a personal attack? Maybe the rightfielder has been working hard on his suck and he and his therapist had a breakthrough this week and you just pushed his progress back three years. Don't you know that Suck affects 2 out of every 3 opposing team rightfielders every year? It's an epidemic!

Another annoying crowded place: Concerts.

First off - Dancing Too Hard Guy. Comes in two flavors - teenage boy and older, hippie woman. I have been to a shit-ton of concerts; metal, blue-grass, country, rock - and this person is at EVERY SHOW. I really like the music too, Weirdo, but I have never said to myself, "Oh this is my favorite song! I better rub my ass on someone!"

Second - Heckler Guy. I think Heckler Guy is actually worse than Stands On The Street Corner Yelling At Strangers Batshit Crazy Homeless Guy. Why? At least the latter doesn't pay $25 to yell at people (or maybe he would if you would just give him some change). Why go to the show to yell at the person you paid to see? And another thing - yelling "FREEBIRD!" still isn't funny. How do people still think they are going to get a laugh out of this. Two of life's great mysteries are how when EVERYONE makes fun of "Freebird! Guy and Sandals And Socks Guy but yet they still practice these douchebagisms. Don't they tell you these things in DoucheBag Weekly? (I'm kidding - they totally do, I have a subscription.)

I think NASA should do a study on if there is some hormone that makes people get collectively dumber when in large groups. Is there a ratio? Does the amount of people in a given area inversely effect the combined IQ? For all we know it is all Mensa Members going to NASCAR events - but when they hit a certain number their sleeves fall off and they all start yelling, "Get'er done!"

I think this would be extremely helpful for crowded bars.

"Why can't I get in? Fire code?"

"Sorry, Sir, if you enter the crowd will actually think Carlos Mencia is funny"

"I'll wait."

Threefer Madness

I'm lazy and you've got low expectations so here are two quick videos to quench your blogging thirst until I find my motivation. Think of this post as the mozzarella sticks of this blog - sure they are good to tide you over now and then, but thats not why you come here. You come here for the sex appeal.

First - GET TO THE CHOPPA!

Second - what do you get when you mix cheesy 80's songs and hilarious Wilford Brimley commercials? ROCK ME DIABETUS


Third - This blog is scary and hysterical at the same time (like Republicans - ahhh I'm kidding you, Red Readers)

Touche, Office

I don't know if I have mentioned previously, but I work at an advertising agency with approximately 90 employees (for those of you keeping score - that means 89 lucky people get to see my mug every morning). Being a relatively young office, we enjoy the occasional prank and humiliation of our officemates. Obviously, as evident by the pictures I have posted on this blog, I leave myself pretty wide open to these shenanigans.

In this past week's staff meeting, a presentation was given on emerging technologies and ways people communicate online. One piece of software shown was a face recognition software that would find "celebrity look-alikes". Sitting in the meeting as they discussed this I began to notice a few glances in my direction - maybe a few suppressed smiles and a giggle or two. I was a bit confused, do I have a boogie? Did I get ink on my face? Then, in front of all 90 employees - the following "celebrity look-alike" was displayed:



All I can say is that it isn't my fault I have the wonderful, glowing skin of a pubescent Asian girl. You should be so lucky, Reader.

Top 5 Things You Like To Say You Are Going To Do But Will Probably Never Happen

I love big plans and proclaiming that nothing is going to stop me from achieving them almost as much as I love avoiding movement. That being said, here are my Top 5 Things I Like To Say I Am Going To Do But That Will Probably Never Happen. As BloggingJason says, "Tomorrow is by far the most productive day in my week."

1. Get a tattoo
2. Start saving money (thanks alcoholism!)
3. Grow up
4. Take a road trip and visit my friend _____ in ______
5. Destroy Nickelback

I'd like to hear what some of you keep safely on your "tomorrow" list - just close enough to the shore that you can keep an eye on it; but far enough away that you aren't pot committed to actually taking part in it.

Trying to Make a 'Splash'

If I had to choose any Tom Hank's movie to describe my arms, I would choose 'Big'.

Joe vs the Volcano finished 2nd.

Wait Till I Catch My Breath So I Can Tell You To Shut Up

So I've been doing this running thing. I can't say I am overly committed to it, which if you know me makes sense since commitment ranks directly behind spiders as Top 5 Things That Scare Nom, but I try to run a few times a week. There was a point a few months ago when I was running everyday, but then I realized eating and subsequently complaining about how much I ate was a much better use for my time. That and blogging - I'm counting on one of those two to help me bank that first million.

Anyways - I went running yesterday. I had been running in the snow, which meant I packed on multiple layers, gloves, hats and in the end looked like Tyra Banks in a fat suit (is that an oxymoron? ZING! I'm kidding - women today have too much pressure to be skinny...blah blah blah. I'm just looking for a laugh, ok?). But yesterday I decided that some pull-away pants and a long sleeve shirt would be sufficient. Obviously I was way the fuck off and I froze my ass off on my run (which was more of a run, walk, run, then walk more - but that takes a lot longer to type). I finally made it back to my apartment, snagged my mail and crawled into the elevator.

Now, I can barely stand at this point. My course is all of MAYBE two miles - only about 1.5 of which I actually did any running - but the closest thing to a sporting event I've taken place in since the 90's was that time I saw Keira Knightley at the mall and spent the next two hours running through her mind. HEY-O! Did someone grant these jokes a pardon? Cuz they're off the HOOK!

Anyways, due to my lack of shape I crawl into the elevator and lean against the wall as my life flashes before my eyes. A young girl enters behind me, also clutching her mail and asks which floor I am heading to so she can press the button.

"...*pant* 5...please...*pant*..."

She presses the button and I go back to putting a kung fu grip on my last strings of life.

"I get so much junk mail it is ridiculous!"

In my withered state I assume this is the voice of God, and though I am open to the idea of God being a woman - his voice being that of a 20 something complaining about his junk mail seems a bit odd. After realizing this was not some form of religious analogy I look to the girl and see she is waiting for a response. I couldn't allow the last thing I hear before my death be a complaint about junk mail - but speaking over four consecutive words could be deadly. Finally I stumble over the following sentence.

"...*pant*...Ha!...Look at all this crap" At which point I wave my stack of coupon fliers and credit card applications at her like an over-matched boxer throwing an exhausted punch in the 10th round.

From here the conversation goes like most elevator conversations - references to the weather and her showing her incredible skill of asking questions that can't be answered with a simple yes or no. At one point I actually hit what runners call "the wall" and had to dump Gatorade over myself before talking about the rain.

I started this whole work-out routine for the same reason as everyone else - I wanted to look good naked. After this latest experience, however, I am beginning to think that running isn't working out.

If Mammary Serves...

I mentioned boobs in my last post and got a great response so I thought to myself - "Wait...you mean I can mix blogging and boobing? This is better than midget tossing!" Of course I am kidding, I am much more sensitive than that - I used the phrase, "little person tossing". But I digress...

I don't know why ladies...I don't know why guys like boobs so much. Is there nicotine in them somewhere? Or crack? Are boobs made out of the same thing as The Deadliest Catch on the Discovery Channel - because I can't take my eyes off either one. Is there a patch I can wear so my eyes don't travel down the Cleavage Canal? Maybe hypnosis or drugs? I get thirteen emails a day to make my "love machine" bigger - how about something that helps me finish sentences when a girl wears a tube top?

Does this make me shallow? Hell yes it does! Where have you been?

BUT

Don't let this make you think you are better than us, Lady Reader. Here's the thing - I am physically attracted to a good looking girl. I can't help it! It isn't even my fault! When a cute girl walks by being all jiggly-wiggly-like, its not my fault that I get all antsy in my pantsy (ok I will officially retire this phrase now). If I could control this urge, trust me, I would - and junior high would have been a whole helluva lot easier.

But alas, I cannot help the fact that I am physically attracted to someone. That being said, how often do girls think a guy is unattractive until they hear the word "doctor" or "lawyer" or, in simpler terms, "money". So wait - I am shallow because I see someone and am attracted to them (even though it is out of my control, mind you) but girls are NOT shallow for thinking a guy is good looking just because he drives a nice car? How does this work?

So I ask you, Ladies, to defend yourselves on this one. Please don't say it isn't true, because we all know either you are one of your friends is / has dated a guy solely based on the bulge in his pants (his thick wallet, perverts). Why do guys get a bad rep for something they can't control, yet girls have some magic bloody glove when it comes to being twice as shallow?

Good Fortune

Latest Fortune:

"It's nice to be remembered, but it's far cheaper to be forgotten."

Um...Hi...Fortune cookie guy? I think you messed up. This fortune? Yeah I know who this was supposed to go to - every girl who has found me 12 beers deep and with an open bar tab. Three Jager bombs later I'm talking to the mirror and she's letting her cleavage convince the next sucker that tequila would be a good decision.

I wish I had boobs. It might be awkward at first but I think getting free drinks and no more speeding tickets would balance it out.