ATLANTA, GEORGIA — Senior U.S. District Judge Jack Camp Jr. has been charged with possession of cocaine, marijuana, and roxicodone, in addition to charges of possessing a firearm as an unlawful user of controlled susbtances and aiding and abetting the posession of drugs by a stripper whom he had been paying for sex for nearly half a year, according to a CNN report.
I wonder at what he point he realized that things were beginning to go south. I also wonder how the initial conversation with his wife went…
Mrs. Camp: “Hi, Honey!”
Mrs. Camp: “Anything exciting happen at work today?”
Mrs. Camp: “You weren’t buying drugs, were you?”
Mrs. Camp: “Well, I suppose I should be happy that you weren’t carrying a gun while doing it.”
Mrs. Camp: “Well, at least you weren’t buying the drugs for a stripper whom you’ve been paying for sex.”
Mrs. Camp: “Well, at the very, very least, I can take comfort in the fact that you didn’t have the stripper killed to cover this up.”
I haven’t posted anything in about two weeks, and – believe me – I’ve heard the uproar from the the millions of Tubesteakers out there. I’ve truly been touched by the genuine concern I’ve seen in the outpouring of emails sent to me. To help illustrate my point, here are a few examples:
“Dear Johnny, it’s been a few weeks since your last post? What gives?” — Lorraine
“Hey, Johnny — You can stop writing crap on your blog, but that doesn’t change the fact that you owe me $300. Pay up, or I will find you.” — Leon
“Johnny, how would you like to increase the size of your penis by up to two inches without ever taking a pill?” — Brentley Pharmaceuticals
I’ve appreciated all the emails, and I’m happy to say that I’m back! No two-week prison sentence is going to hold this guy down.
I’ve recently had more time to contemplate, however, and I’ve decided to make some changes to the site. In fact, you may have already noticed that the site is no longer called, “Johnny Tubesteak’s Daily Discourse,” but rather, “Johnny Tubesteak’s Periodically Updated Discourse.”
You see, someone told me recently that sometimes you have to choose between quality and quantity. I believe that person to be an idiot, so I am choosing neither. Thus, I will be updating my site less often, and the posts will be even worse than the ones you’ve read in the past.
So saddle up, pardners! It’s going to be a mediocre ride, and I can’t wait to have you all on board.
I’m Johnny Tubesteak, and I approve this message.
I don’t watch a lot of Judge Judy, and even less Montel.
Thus, yesterday was the first time I saw the following commercial:
I have a few problems with this commercial:
1. They act like farting is such a home-wrecker. “You owe it to your marriage!” I actually hope I’m wrong, because I think it would be hilarious, but I doubt that many marriages were ended by a fart.
Husband: “Honey, thanks for the bean soup.”
Wife: “You’re welcome, Dear. I know you had a long day at work today.”
Husband: “What a joyous marriage we have. Good night, my love.”
Wife: “I’m the luckiest woman alive. Good ni…Wait a minute!!! Did you just fart?!? I’m calling my lawyer!!!”
2. Why is the dude always the culprit? Like women never drop bombs? I mean, my wife, of course, doesn’t ever fart, but I imagine that most guys have wives that do. (Don’t worry, Dear — your secret is safe…as long as none of my audience reads parantheticals.)
3. Can you imagine how the Dry Cleaner feels on Better Marriage Blanket day? The flatulence hasn’t been destroyed, but rather stored up in a blanket-shaped containment unit. If cleaning the blanket removes all stored-up smells, I liken Better Marriage Blanket day at the Dry Cleaners to the day that the grid was shut off in Ghostbusters. A terrible evil was unleashed onto the city that day…
After months of political jockeying, congressional Democrats appear to have reached a deal with the White House on the military’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy. Having come up short in attempts to completely repeal the policy, three congressional sponsors have now proposed legislation that reflects something more of a compromise.
Under the proposed legislation, military personell will be required to either “Ask, but Don’t Tell” or to “Don’t Ask, but Do Tell.” Once the legislation is passed, every conversation between soldiers must include either “Asking” or “Telling,” but not both.
In a related story, legislation has also been proposed that would change the Naval rank of ”Rear Admiral” to something less gay sounding.
I got some Thai food last night.
As is always the case when I get Thai food, I asked the waitress to make it extra hot, and, as is always the case, she replied with, “Are you sure? I don’t think you want it extra hot.”
As is always the case, I responded, “Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have asked for it extra hot if I didn’t want it extra hot.”
As is always the case, she said, “Extra hot is really spicy. Most people that ask for their food extra hot find that the food is hotter than they can handle.”
As is always the case, I was annoyed and snapped back, “I’m not most people. I know what extra hot means, and I would like my food extra hot, please.”
The waitress was finally persuaded, and soon returned with my food, prepared extra hot, just as I had requested. “Good luck,” she said. “It’s really hot…”
“Thanks,” I said half-heartedly, extremely irritated that she didn’t think I was man enough to eat a plate of extra hot food. I quickly grabbed my fork and shoved some of the food into my mouth to show her that I could handle it.
As soon as that first bite hit my mouth, I realized that it was really, really hot; so uncomfortably spicy, in fact, that I thought the inside of my mouth would instantly disintegrate. Sweat poured out of my forehead and every drop of blood in my body rushed into my face. Just one bite in, I was already in severe pain.
I’d be darned, however, if I was going to let that waitress see my pain. She publicly underestimated my manliness, and I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of thinking she was right. So I kept shoveling the food into my mouth, never looking down at my plate, but instead staring her down with every forkful. “You don’t think I can handle food this hot, huh?” I thought. “Well, are you watching this?”
The sweat continued to rain off my head, and the spiciness had my nose running uncontrollably. My tongue felt like it was being cut by razor blades, and the only flavor I tasted was “hot.” It was a truly miserable meal.
But I finished it. I then dropped a few bucks on the table to cover my bill and a meager tip for my know-it-all waitress, gave her an evil but confident glare, and exited the place. I had proved what I set out to prove: I am all man, and no amount of hotness is too much for me to handle. Try to deny me my spicy food, Waitresses, and risk being humiliated.
Unfortunately, you never realize how hot food is until the next day. What your mouth can handle on Thursday, your butt has to deal with on Friday. I’m afraid no amount of pride could offset the extraordinarily intense agony I endured this morning as the Thai food exited my body like liquid, hot magma. And I’m sure that the pain will stay with me for a while. Abuse like this is bound to leave lasting scars on anyone’s body.
Yes, the pain will last, and it will likely affect how I walk, how I sit, and what I wear for the next week or so. But, if I could go back, would I change my actions at that Thai restaurant? Not a chance. Because every uncomfortable chair I sit in and every miserable step I take will remind me of my victory Thursday night, and no amount of hotness can obscure the taste of victory.
My grandma used to tell me that if I didn’t finish my dinner, I’d get so skinny that I would fall inside-out through my a**hole and hang myself.
Not medically possible, I’ve since found out, and probably the reason I overeat today, but it’s still one of my favorite lines.
Three weeks ago, my boss gave me a big project – a project that required me to work extra hours at home. It was really no problem for me, because, after years in the workplace, and before that, years in school, I’ve become pretty good at getting big projects done.
Now, having accrued such fame as a blogger, I feel that it’s my doody to share the wisdom that helped get me where I am today. Therefore, as a service to my readers, I will now share the tried-and-true timeline to which I strictly adhere every time I have a major assignment.
Day 1: Get the assignment. My boss calls me into his office. “Tubesteak! I’ve got a big project for you, and I’m going to need to have it completed in 21 days!” “Yes, sir, Mr. Henderson!”
Alright. I’ve got my assignment, now it’s time to get cracking. I’ve already been planning on watching the Mama’s Family marathon on the Ion Network tonight, though, so I’ll have to start tomorrow.
Day 2: Get an early start. The last thing I want is to pull an all-nighter the night before the project is due, so I sit down to work on the project as soon as I can. If I bust my hump early on, I can have this project completed in the next 3 days, and then I can spend the remaining 17 days relaxing.
While I don’t get anything substantial completed on Day 2, I get a lot of the preparation and groundwork completed: I get a desk set up in a quiet place, I fill a mini-fridge up with pop so that I can access it easily while working, and I get a TV set up so that I can see it from my desk. After all, I need this to be a relaxing environment if I want to be productive.
Day 3: Mental block. I have great intentions on Day 3, but, unfortunately, the mental juice just isn’t flowing. You can’t force genius. Plus, I got started later than I wanted because some dude at the liquor store was really talkative.
Days 4 and 5: Drunk. I probably bought too much liquor at the liquor store. But, it’s been a long week, and I deserve to spend a couple of days having fun. Besides, the project isn’t due for 16 more days, so I’ve got plenty of time.
Day 6: Time to get serious. By Day 6, I’ve spent enough time prepping and getting in some badly needed fun. Now it’s time to get serious about the assignment. Yes, I now want to focus myself completely on the assignment. It’s all about the assignment. A-S-S-I-G-N-M-E-N-T… Hey, did you ever notice that the word “assignment” is almost spelled the same as “assing-men”? That’s a pretty gay word. Assignment. That’s funny.
Day 7: I will not be distracted by such stupid things tonight. Tonight I will focus, and make some serious prog…Wow! Another Mama’s Family marathon? How can I work with that crazy Vinton all over my TV screen? Did he ever win an Emmy for this? Luckily, I’ve got this computer here so that I can look up the answers to such questions.
Days 8 through 19: Oh, let’s not kid ourselves. It turns out that Mama’s Family is on every night. And it’s even funnier when you’re drunk. Why didn’t this show ever gain any popularity? That Bubba is a hoot!
Day 20, 7:00pm: The project is due tomorrow; tonight I must focus. I have to get to work on this assignment. Aargh! But I really don’t want to. I’m tired, it’s been a long day, and my head kind of hurts.
You know what? It’s not like I’m in love with this job. I should just stop going to work beginning tomorrow — I can start looking for a job that I really love. Everyone should have a job that he/she really loves. Really, I’m doing myself and the company a disservice by showing up to this job every day.
Wait a minute… Wait a minute. Looking for a new job sucks, and I need money to pay my cable bill (or risk losing Mama’s Family). I can’t quit my job. I’m going to have to get this project done.
Day 20, 11:00pm: The project is due in 10 hours, and I haven’t even started it. Alright, let’s think this through – I originally thought the project would take 3 days, but I bet I could whip out a satisfactory version in 4 hours. So, if I go to bed now, I can get 6 hours of sleep and still have time to complete the project in the morning.
Day 21, 5:00am: Alarm goes off. What?!? How can it already be 5:00am? I just went to bed. Okay, let’s think this through — last night I said I thought the project would take 4 hours, but I bet I can finish it in 2 hours. I’ll go back to sleep, and set my alarm for 7:00am; I’ll be much more productive after 8 hours of sleep anyway.
Day 21, 7:00am: Alright, it’s time to get up. I’m glad I got a full night’s sleep. A full night’s sleep is important when you’re trying to finish a big project like this. In my opinion, it’s just as important as a complete breakfast. In fact, if I want to get this project done quickly, I’d better make myself some breakfast.
Day 21, 8:50am: Driving to work. I can’t believe I haven’t even started this project. How am I going to explain this?
Oh, wouldn’t it be great if I got into an accident right now. Not a big accident, where people die, but just a big enough accident to keep me in the hospital for a few days. That would be awesome. Somebody hit my car, please. There must be a drunk driver out there or someone that likes to text their friends while behind the wheel. Please hit me.
Day 21, 9:00am: In the office when the boss walks by. “Good morning, Mr. Henderson.”
“Tubesteak! Did you complete that project that I asked you to finish?”
Okay… think! Come up with something good…
“Well, sir, I’m just finishing it up. When you said that you wanted it completed by today, I assumed that you wanted it done by the end of the day, which, technically, is at 11:59pm.”
“Alright, I should have specified. Get as much of it as possible to me as soon as you can.”
Day 21, 9:15am to 11:59pm: Actual work. It’s amazing how much you can accomplish when you put forth 65% effort.
After more than 14 hours of work, the project is done — not done well, but done well enough that my boss won’t waste his time asking me to do it better. And, after 21 days, I can finally relax.
And that, my friends, is how you get a project done.
The next time, then, that you have a major, upcoming project, there is no need to fret. With knowledge of my tried-and-true project timeline, there is no task that you cannot complete at a nearly satisfactory level.
I would love to tell you some poop jokes today, but instead I need to congratulate Amy M. for winning last week’s Tubesteak Challenge! Her name was randomly drawn from among the thousands of respondents with all correct answers. As promised, she wins an original, mediocre song, written and recorded by the greatest artist of our generation: me. Luckily, the greatest artist of our generation has no friends and can, thus, spend his time recording meaningless songs.
So, without further a-doo-doo:
A woman in northern California won $2 million from a scratch-off lottery ticket the other day and is giving almost all of it to her goats (check out the story here). This inspiring, selfless act got me thinking about what I would do if I won the lottery.
First, I would take a cue from this California woman and try to do something charitable. Since I am unfamiliar with charities, I would probably research it for 15 minutes, get really bored, and then end up sending $10 to one of the Goat Lady’s goats.
Then, with the charity crap out of the way, I could focus my attention on more important stuff: making the most expensive sandwich ever assembled. I would hire a team of NASA engineers to design it for me and would require that it includes a stack of hundred dollar bills and some chocolate sauce. I can’t imagine that the bills will taste very good, but it will be worth it just to prove to everyone how rich I am.
I will have the NASA engineers assemble the sandwich in Hawaii. From there, it will be delivered to me via a solid gold rocket ship flown by a specially trained monkey. This probably means that the sandwich won’t be super fresh, but, again, it’s probably worth it to prove to everyone that I am very rich.
When the sandwich arrives, I will require that it be served to me on Mickey Mantle and Honus Wagner baseball cards that have been glued together and cut into the shape of a plate. And I will refuse to eat it if it isn’t served to me by two ex-presidents wearing the original, shoot-worn C-3PO and Chewbacca costumes (I don’t care which ex-presidents — beggars can’t be choosers).
Finally, a sandwich like this will almost certainly invoke an immediate need for excretion. Thus, I will quickly adjourn to the bathroom, where I will sit down on a diamond-ruby toilet with a mammoth-tusk flush handle and a seat cover constructed from an original Picasso. It has become way too cliche for a rich guy to wipe his butt with hundred dollar bills; rather, I will have my buttler (which I will spell with two “T”s) wipe my butt with hundred dollar bills for me while he sings to me (I will only hire accomplished tenors as buttlers). I’m not a big fan of opera, and I imagine that neither the diamond-ruby toilet nor the hundred dollar bills will feel very good against my tush, but it will be worth it just to prove to everyone how rich I am.
At that point, I estimate that I will be completely out of money. Already hungry for my next meal, I’m sure that I’ll turn to my friends for some cash.
And when all my friends refuse to lend me money, I will call up the goat to see if I can borrow back that $10 I sent him. The goat will refuse, and I will die of starvation.
I hope I don’t win the lottery.