E R N I E ' S H O U S E O F W H O O P A S S
Rock A By Baby
Calling all moms!
Please, raise your kids right.
Make sure you read them a nice bedtime story.
Hey Take a Peep At This
While I'll admit that recently my email-responsing average is somewhere around that of Stevie Wonder's batting average (shitty), I certainly read all the mail that comes in. Some factors of the outer-EHOWA realm dictate my attention be focused elsewhere, blah blah blah, but trust me I may have a lot of spare time on my hands real soon. A LOT of extra time...
Anyway, every once in awhile I receive an email that just kind of gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling between my big toes...
Right, like I didnt have a big enough fucking ego before, right? Ha!
Last month I on a business trip went to a strip club bar, approached two beautiful dancers with big bubs, and offered both of them two hundred dollars to spend the night with me. One girl stormed out in a rage, but the other remained cool, calm..... and collected.
c'mon baby! let me pay you in love bucks!!
A Psychological Test
This is a genuine psychological test. It is a story about a girl. Whilst at the funeral of her own mother, she met this guy whom she did not know. She thought this guy was amazing, so much her dream guy she believed him to be, that she fell in love with him there and then. A few days later the girl killed her own sister.
Question:What is her motive in killing her sister? Stop and think for a minute before reading further.
The obvious answer, Mr Bundy? She was hoping that the guy would appear at the funeral again.
If you answered this correctly, you think like a psychopath. This was a test by a famous American psychologist used to test if one has the same mentality as a killer. Many arrested serial killers took part in this test and answered it correctly.
If you didn't answer correctly - good for you. If your friends hit the jackpot, may I suggest that you keep your distance.
We are officially moving away from ernieshouseofwhoopass.com and instead move towards embracing ehowa.com. It is simply much easier to type when you are drunk. The longer domain name will still work, you will just be redirected to shorter "ehowa.com" domain after a slight delay. If you're a regular visotor, please update your bookmarks to reflect the change, and if you're a webmaster please update your links so you can receive credit for your traffic since the redirect will mask it. Our email should also shift over to @ehowa.com as well. Thanks!
You Won't Believe It
My penis made me locally famous. I didn't find out about it until I got to University. Before then my experience of women was nonexistent. I'd been at a boys' school and anyway I was pretty spotty. I couldn't believe when, all of a sudden, at the Fresher's Ball, I was making out. I was even more amazed when we were in her room. We were both wasted. I didn't have a clue how to behave, I was terrified, but she knew what to do and in no time we were naked, in bed. She was kissing my mouth. My neck. My chest, my stomach, my....! She stopped. "My God!" she said, incredulous. "Your dick tastes just like CHOCOLATE!"
Melanie wasn't a shy girl. She must have told her friend Suzy. I realised this the next day when a very attractive girl, with hip clothes and trainers, approached me in the Union Bar and just started chatting. This had NEVER happened to me before. She asked me if I wanted to hear a new C.D. she'd bought and then we were in her room. Halfway through the second track we were naked. She'd hardly even kissed me before her face disappeared under the duvet. "It does!" she exclaimed suddenly. "It bloody well does!!"
Two weeks into University I was still a virgin. I had, however, received twenty three blowjobs from twelve different girls and heard words such as 'incredible', 'amazing', 'Bournville', 'Swiss' and 'Belgian' exclaimed by mops of hair beneath my bedclothes. I had also been requested to immerse myself in a glass of milk and move vigorously to see if any of the flavour rubbed off. It didn't. I went to the Doctor. She didn't believe me. Nor did she try it out, which I thought shockingly unscientific. But she did see the state I was in and give me a salve.
Okay, so I'll admit it. For the first year it was great. I could have loads of women, any time I wanted. I got cunning and made them sleep with me first. I got fussy. All the guys on campus were jealous. People who didn't know me looked wide eyed to see one or more stunning girls on the arm of a spotty, pale youth, with lank dark hair and glasses. What's he got?, they seemed to ask themselves. But when the second year came I got really tired of it. There was a whole new year of girls who wanted to try me out. I felt like an object. A specimen.
And there was something missing from my life, a yearning. I tried to have conversations with girls, in the coffee bar say, but all the time their eyes would be flicking to my crotch. Their tongues would run over their lips, their eyes would glaze over. I would make a hasty excuse and leave. It was about this time I began to get really upset about it. Everyone had started calling me Hob Nob. I say everyone, it's not quite true. Some people called me Willy Wonka. Hey, it is NOT funny! I was a person! I was more than a sexual organ that just happened to be flavoured like confectionery. Everyone stared at me.
One day I was with a new girl. I tried to kiss her down below but she took me by the scruff of the neck, "Not there!"
I stopped. "Why not?" I asked.
"I knew it," she said firmly, "I won't do it to you. I won't. Not..."
"I know," I assured her, "I want to do it to you. I don't want you to do it to me ever."
"You will," she said, "you will!"
I knew this would happen... I didn't listen to her. I knew. There was no way I'd let her even if she wanted to. Never. I covered the insides of her thighs with my face and rested my hands on the tops of her legs. I pushed them apart slightly. She resisted a little but then she opened her legs wider and I... I stopped. I lifted my head up...
"Beer!" I exclaimed, "Beer!"
Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News
I've got a bad case of lovin you!
How Do I Spell Thee?
The data below shows some of the misspellings detected by Google's spelling correction system for the query [ britney spears ], and the count of how many different users spelled her name that way. Each of these variations was entered by at least two different unique users within a three month period, and was corrected to [ britney spears ] by Google's spelling correction system (data for the correctly spelled query is shown for comparison).
Uncensored and In Your Face
So I actually had some more time to check out that Real Dead site that I linked last week. Some pretty freaky stuff on there, let me tell you. They show all the atuff that never makes it onto your nightly newscasts because it's send too many people scurrying for the toilet.
Some of the more tame stuff, was kinda funny. Like stupid Spanish people being trampled by bulls. Or some dumbass who thought he'd attack the cops with a sword. Personally, i think that idea is all wet. Har! Har har! Myself, I got a chuckle out of the stupid cameraman filming Palestinian kids throwing rocks at Israeli soldiers, then takes a bullet himself. And surely we can all see the value in the thinning of the gene pool when this stupid ass doesn't prop his car hood up with the little rod before sticking his head into the engine compartment.
There's more stuff even more gruesome -- gunshots, executions, car crashes, etc, but I'll leave that exploration up to you.
But before I depart, just a tip from your Uncle Ernie...
Two Times Baby
Alright, so let me ask you who do you think has a bigger set of balls?
A guy who gives up a multi-million dollar football contract to join the Army Rangers with his brother.
Or, a guy who told his Viet Cong captors to go fuck themselves in three different languages?
I dunno, but I'll admit both have bigger cojones than I do.
Gotta Love The Irony
What's so ironic, you might ask. Well for starters, on Wednesday when I started this whole Driving For Miss Daisy thing, I like many other animal owners I'm sure, was rather eager to get home to see my dog. You know, wanna spend a little extra time racing around and playing , maybe a few extra treats. Appreciate what ya got kind of thing.
So I make it home from work, unlock the door, set my stuff down, greet my dog... oh, oh, and he shits on the floor right in front of me. Ha!
Ah but I wouldn't trade him for the world, the little bastard makes me laugh.
It's funny how we as a society absolutely love blood and guts when it comes to humans. What kinds of movies always do best? Those with lots of action, explosions, car crashes, shooting, body counts, and of course lots of gratuitous sex. But as soon as we see one poor pooch get the wrong end of the stick, we all kind of circle the wagons. And that's pretty ok with me. Almost restores a little faith in humanity. Almost.
Well, I'm taking off for a couple days...be back on Monday. Until then, don't do anything stupid, and please, nobody set your fucking dog on fire, okay? Thanks.
In a word, HOLY CRAP. As of this writing, in just over 24 hours since first putting the word out, donations for Daisy have topped $10,000. A big thanks to Drew and all his readers from fark.com, who helped not only get the word out but donate a good portion of that total as well!
For those of you looking for the latest and greatest info on Daisy, remember to take a look-see at the Daisy page. This way I can still post the occasional boobie picture here, and not offend all the wholesome people who just came to help the poor pooch. At least for now.
Help Daisy The Burned Dog
"When a man's best friend is his dog, that dog has a problem." -- Edward Abbey
It all started at the tail end of last week, when I received this rather disturbing email from a fairly new subscriber (he actually signed up on my birthday, ironically as that is...) I was a little skeptical at first, and I wanted to believe what he was telling me was too absurd to be true.
Unfortunatly, this is one of those cases where truth is stranger, and infinitely more cruel, than fiction.
And so I went to the website, looked at the pictures, read the story, and got pretty pissed off. And you know when I get pissed off, bad things happen to bad people.
In twenty words or less, Daisy is a 10 month old dog who was a'ramblin around her neighborhood and happened to wander into a neighbor's yard. Said neighbor didn't much appreciate Daisy's presence, so after a few unsuccessful attempt to shoo her off his property, he got another bright idea. And so, he doused Daisy with gasoline and set her on fire.
You know, because *that* seems a totally fucking rational thing to do.
Fort Worth Police responded to the scene, and called the Humane Society of North Texas, who took ownership of the dog. She was then transferred to a 24-hour veterinary hospital, where she remains, in very guarded health.
Her feet and lower legs must stay bandaged, except for swirling hot tub sessions. Dead and dying tissue has to be massaged and scrubbed from her body after it's softened by the sessions in swirling hot tub. Ointment that should stimulate the tissue to regrow and help fiight infection is applied, followed by yet another bandage. She's in such bad shape that even the lifesaving medicines she needs so desperately can cause her harm in the long run -- the antibiotics she is being treated with to fend off a lethal infection are so powerful she has to be constantly monitored for damage to her kidneys (renal failure). The fire burned all the tissue around her ears and eyes, including her cornea. The vets are still concerned that she may never completely regain her eyesight.
All because some ASSHOLE decided to set her on fire because he didn't want her in his yard. Like we don't have enough fucked up things in this world to deal with already.
As a testament to this dog's unbreakable spirit and willingness to please, less than two weeks after this encounter with unspeakable cruelty, Daisy is up and walking (on burned paws) under her own power, managing to eat and drink for herself, and even managed a tail wag from time to time.
I've been in contact with Jamey Cantrell, the operations manager for the Humane Society of North Texas since last week, and was able to speak with him regarding Daisy's progress, and her ever increasing bill for her care.
What else can I say?
There are many of you out there who don't agree with me on many key issues of the recent months -- our reactions to terrorism, hippies displaying flags incorrectly, the Pledge of Allegiance, just to name a few. In fact, plenty of you consider me an asshole, and that's okay with me. But I think we all can agree that you don't set a fucking dog on fire.
Those of you who are longtime members of EHOWA know that you can usually count on both ears the number of times that I ask you to reach into your own pocket for money. Those of you who are new, will learn this soon enough.
I am hereby adding Daisy to that list of things worthy of our focused attention.
I am personally asking each and every one of you, to please, reach into your pocket and donate a few dollars to the Humane Society of North Texas to help pay for the cost of Daisy's care. While it is too late to prevent Daisy from being attacked, it is not too late to help control the amount of lasting damage that was done. You can donate money to them via two ways...
1. The easiest of course is via Paypal using this link...
2. Send a check via US Mail to...
If you do make a donation to Daisy, and I sincerely hope that you all do, please drop me a note to firstname.lastname@example.org I'd like to keep a running tally of the amount of donations from EHOWA subscribers so be sure to mention how much you've sent in. I'll be dedicating this page on EHOWA to keep everyone informed of Daisy's most current status and post any updates I receive from other sources.
My thanks to Brad for bringing this to my attention, and to veterinarian Dr K. Head (longtime EHOWA subscriber) for getting the inside scoop and breaking it down into "dumb speak".
I thank you all in advance for your generosity.
Since no one has taken me up on my Osama's head bounty, I decided to up the stakes by adding my Playstation 2 and all my games to the pot. Good luck.
articulating your superficial sentimentalities, and amicable philosophical or psychological observations, beware of platitudinous ponderosity.
Let your conversational communications possess a compacted conciseness, a clarified comprehensibility, a coalescent cogency, and a concatenated consistency. Eschew obfuscation and all conglomeration of flatulent garrulity, jejune babblement, and asinine affectations.
Let your extemporaneous descantings and unpremeditated expatiations have intelligibility and voracious vivacity without rodomontade or thrasonical bombast. Sedulously avoid all polysyllabic profundity, pompous prolificacy, and vain vapid verbosity.
In short: "Be brief and don't use big words."
I've got about a dozen boobie pics to post, so here's one to hold you over until I get around to em...
ps... R. Fornataro...that was for you!
Happy Independence Day
As the 4th of July is upon us this year, I keep hearing news reports about the threat of a terrorist attack. Personally, I don't think anything will happen, but just like taking condoms to Amsterdam, better safe than sorry.
So I'm reminding folks to keep their guns loaded and the saftey off. And if you see shit about to go down, remember this simple rule: "Two in the Turban."
Freedom Is Never Free
Here in the U.S. we are preparing to celebrate the 4th of July, which traditionally is spent doing things considered appropriate for such a celebration.
But, have you ever wondered what happened to the 56 men who signed The Declaration of Independence?
Five signers were captured by the British as traitors, and tortured before they died. Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned. Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army; another had two sons captured. Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships on the Revolutionary War. They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.
What kind of men were they?
Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists. Eleven were merchants, nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated. But they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.
Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his ships swept from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay his debts, and died in rags.
Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward.
Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge and Middleton.
At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson Jr. noted that the British General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged General George Washington to open fire. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt.
Francis Lewis had his home and properties damaged. The enemy jailed his wife, and she died within a few months.
John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying. Their 13 children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For more than a year he lived in forests and caves, returning home to find his wife dead and his children vanished. A few weeks later he died from exhaustion and a broken heart.
Norris and Livingston suffered similar fates.
Such were the stories and sacrifices of the American Revolution. These were not wild-eyed, rabble-rousing ruffians. They were soft-spoken men of means and education. They had security, but they valued liberty more. Standing tall, straight and unwavering, they pledged:
"For the support of this Declaration, with firm reliance on the protection of the Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other, our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor."
They gave you and me a free and independent America.
The history books never told you a lot about what happened in the Revolutionary War. We didn't just fight the British. We were British subjects at that time and we fought our own government. Some of us take these liberties so much for granted, but we shouldn't.
So, take a few minutes while enjoying your 4th of July holiday and silently thank these patriots. It's not much to ask for the price they paid.
Remember: Freedom is never free.
Man I Hate Spiders
Alright, I'll admit it. When it comes to spiders, I'm a great big pussy. Blood, guts, snakes, scorpions, insects, maggots, all don't bother me... show me a spider though and I'll hike up my skirt and stand on top of the kitchen table shrieking like a little girl.
Especially when the spider is a Camel Spider, and likes to do things like chase you down and then eat your fucking face. Yeah I can see myself tearing my vocal cords then, and I'm not playing any games.
Here's a picture someone just sent in, it's a camel spider eating a fucking rat. Yes, a large rat.
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