Thousands of my fans have wanted to know how my path to enlightenment is going. All will be happy to know I’ve continued in my quest to help others achieve enlightenment and benefit from my new found wisdom.

To date I’ve helped dozens of people journey down their spiritual path, including an Albanian, circus family suffering from excessive facial and body hair – a condition known as Albanian werewolf syndrome.

So what have I learned so far?

I’ve found the key ingredients for enlightenment are meditation, tai chi and a higher than normal intake of alcohol.

You wouldn’t think alcohol would be part of your journey to Nirvana but it’s true. I’ve specifically found it helpful if you drink seven glasses of wine just before you take a shower. Then proceed to focus all your energy on cleaning parts or your body that have probably not been touched in years and in a manner that is assuredly illegal in most southern states.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness.

Of course, do not attempt this if you are underage or a recovering alcoholic. In which case I’d recommend substituting the 7 glasses of wine with a banana peal cigarette instead. Because we all know smoking a banana peal is organic and “organic” is good.

Actually, you shouldn’t attempt any of this until you’ve completed my new, home-study course, “30 Days to Enlightenment with a Really Good Buzz.” Available at all Walmarts and liquor stores.

Warning: the aforementioned prescription for enlightenment may cause side effects including liver problems, hangovers, nausea and vomiting. Consult your doctor before proceeding. Other side affects may occur so tell your doctor if you have an erection lasting more than four hours, particularly if you are a woman.

Believe it or not, these days some people think I’m a spiritual guru. Guess all those years I hung out at the prison chapel paid off.

Lately friends and strangers come up to me and touch me like they want to be healed or something. Some, out of the blue, will give me presents like food or clothing. At first I thought it was because they thought I was homeless or something but when I asked this one female stranger why she was trying to give me her bra, she replied, “You have this spiritual aura that makes me want to give myself to you and… here…take my panties as well.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’m just a regular guy but I do have a rule to never interrupt a woman while she’s taking off her clothes.

It all started about a couple of days ago when I accidentally electrocuted myself while trying to set a trap for my neighbor’s yappy dogs. By the way and before you call the SPCA, my previous posts regarding said yappy dogs may shed some light on the subject.

Anyway, the accident must have somehow rewired my brain or soul because now I have this clarity I’ve never had before. One really cool thing is that when I open my mouth and tilt my head just right, I can pick up Mix 94.7 in my head, no radio required.

So from time to time I’ll share words of wisdom that I’m certain will help you to achieve enlightenment. If nothing else, I can teach you how to hypnotize people and make them do silly things like sing like Ethel Merman.

I love the holidays.  When else can you, guilt-free, gorge yourself on a variety of tasty, high-calorie, holiday recipes, drink yourself into blindness, and strangle your annoying uncle Fester during the traditional family get-together?

Ah, yes – the holiday family get-together.  A time when your beloved family and relatives gather to remind you why you live alone.

Is it just me or do holiday family get-togethers suck?  Here’s a glimpse of how mine usually turn out.

The police have taken my belligerent grandfather into custody for indecent exposure for peeing on the lighted plastic Santa in the front lawn.

The fire department has gone as the smoldering remains of my parent’s patio reminds us all of why Uncle Bob should never be allowed to prepare the Christmas turkey in the propane-powered deep fryer he got at Cabela’s.

Somebody vomited on the Christmas tree but no one is sober enough to know who did it.  The only suspects are my 16 year old cousin Amanda, passed out under the tree and my parent’s 15 year old, half blind, three-legged Cocker Spaniel named Lucky – also passed out under the tree.

My Aunt Betsy is constantly farting and always blaming it on Lucky.

Sooner or later several arguments erupt simultaneously between my aunt’s and their pregnant daughters as to why contraceptives don’t work.

Somebody gets caught cheating in the high stakes poker game taking place in my parent’s basement and a brawl breaks out.

Nobody knows who invited the guy dressed in drag.

Etc., etc., etc.

I can’t wait for the family New Year’s Eve party.

Happy New Year!!!

The mistresses of Tiger Woods continue to come forward.  I think we are up to eleven mistresses to date.

Tiger has more mistresses than he has golf balls… and being a golfer, he’s got a lot of balls.

I was not going to say anything about Tiger’s inability to keep his 9 iron in his pants but I simply can’t hide the truth any longer.  Tiger Woods was my lover.  I guess that makes me number twelve but I feel more like number one.

I have to admit, I was first attracted to Tiger by the way he charismatically used his woody on the golf course.  His grip on his woody is second to none and he skillfully whacks balls with it harder and longer than anyone I’ve ever seen.  Who wouldn’t be attracted to that?

He always knew just what to say to me to make me feel special.  Woody (Tiger’s nickname amongst us mistresses) use to tell me that I was his favorite mistress because of all the other mistresses he’s had in a 24 hour period, they could never wear a bag on their head the way I can wear a bag on my head.  How romantic.

Our love affair started like any love affair does… which is usually right after 13 Jägermeister bombs and smoking banana peels for a couple hours.  But it was over as quickly as it started and I honestly don’t remember that much accept for the memory of Woody repeatedly yelling, “FORE!” during our tawdry lovemaking.

So there you have it.  But please don’t judge me for bagging the Woody.  I mean honestly… I think we’ll all soon discover there isn’t anyone Woody hasn’t slept with.

If your burger is as big as your butt and both are large enough to have their own zip code, it might be time to give Jenny Craig a call.

I like a good cheeseburger every now and then… OK, maybe every couple hours but I think the number of patties you can have in your burger is getting a little out of control. I walked into a burger joint which shall remain nameless and one of the options was to have my burger with as many as four hamburger patties – that’s over a pound of meat! Add three kinds of cheeses, bacon, mushrooms & onions sautéed in butter, a dab of mayonnaise and a side of fries and you’re ready for a heart attack before you can finish your hot fudge sundae.

Four patties? C’mon! Who needs that much meat between their buns? Eww. Don’t go there.

Four patties may seem harmless to you but it wasn’t long ago when a two-patty hamburger seemed decadent and risky like sex without a condom. Then it was three patties and three pieces of cheese with bacon and people began to think of it as a challenge like, “how can I open my mouth wide enough to fit in all that red meat?”

And while it may not be a conspiracy, I think four patties in a hamburger is as innocuous as the tip of an iceberg.

I know as free-thinking humans and as consumers we can practice a little self-restraint but do restaurants have no shame? Will they just keep serving us whatever they think we’ll eat no matter how unhealthy? What’s next? A two-pound cheeseburger wrapped in bacon, rolled in beer batter, deep fried into a wad the size of a basketball and bounced over to your table? Wait. That actually sounds kind of fun and tasty.

With America playing host to some of the fattest people in the world, I doubt what we need is a bigger burger. The Center for Disease Control and Prevention indicates obesity in adults has increased by 60% within the past twenty years. Obesity is associated with many diseases, including heart disease and obesity-related deaths are on the rise, second only to tobacco-related deaths.

So there you have it. If you like a good cheeseburger, fries, milk shake and an after-dinner cigarette, there’s a good chance you’ll be dead by the end of this blog post.

I’m not saying restaurants that serve ginormous burgers are the root cause of obesity in America or that eating a burger now and then will kill you. But as consumers in the literal sense, shouldn’t we be a little concerned about not only how much we’re being offered to eat but maybe larger issues like the consequences of the industrial agricultural complex bringing all this meat to our plate and why we’re so blissfully unhealthy as a result?

Now if you’ll excuse me, all this talk about burgers has made me hungry. I think I’ll go over to this new restaurant I heard about called Billy’s Big Ass Burger Barn. They make a burger so huge, they use a wheelbarrow to bring it to you and a pitchfork to dump it onto your table. Oh, and don’t worry about the resulting meat blindness. I hear you regain your sight after your fifth bowel movement.

Bon appétit!

A woman talking dirty in the bedroom is pretty hot but two women talking dirty in a restaurant… not so hot. Unless, of course, you happen to be eating at a gentlemen’s club.

The other night I took my 6 year old niece and 8 year old nephew to eat dinner at a kid friendly restaurant. We were having a great time until two hookers from hell showed up. OK. I don’t know if they were hookers but only hookers or sailors can cuss like these two women were cussing and neither of them were wearing sailor suits. WTF?

Now I’m not saying I’ve never used profanity but the way these girls were casually cussing while enjoying hor’devours and cocktails, I thought maybe I accidentally had taken my niece and nephew to happy hour at Sugar’s Uptown Cabaret and my sister has emphatically warned me to never take her kids to my regular eateries.

Here’s a partial transcript of the hookers from hell dialog that took place within earshot of my darling little niece and nephew:

Hooker #1: I told Bill he’s BLEEPIN’ crazy if he BLEEPIN’ thinks he can ever BLEEP me while I’m past out from BLEEPIN’ drinkin’ Jäger shots all BLEEPIN’ night.

Hooker #2: BLEEP that! I’ve seen that BLEEPIN’ Bill and I wouldn’t BLEEPIN’ BLEEP him even if I was BLEEPIN’ wasted after 20 Jäger bombs.

Hooker #1: Right?

Hooker #2: BLEEPIN’ straight up BLEEP.

Hooker #1: Where’s that BLEEPIN’ waitress with our BLEEPIN’ Jäger shots?

Hooker #2: She’s probably getting her BLEEP all BLEEPED out in the BLEEPIN’ kitchen or somethin’. BLEEP!

Hooker #1: Oh my BLEEPIN’ BLEEP itches so bad I can’t BLEEPIN’ stand it!

Hooker #2: Your BLEEP still BLEEPIN’ itches? I thought you went to the BLEEPIN’ doctor and the BLEEPER gave you some BLEEPIN’ cream for that BLEEP.

Hooker #1: BLEEP that BLEEP. I went to see that BLEEPER but he BLEEPIN’ weirded me out the way he kept BLEEPIN’ staring at me so I just got the BLEEP outta there and told him he needed to see a BLEEPIN’ shrink because he was like a BLEEPIN’ perv or some BLEEP.

Hooker #2: That’s BLEEPED up. Isn’t he the BLEEPIN’ cute one?

Hooker #1: Well yeah but BLEEPIN’ your doctor is BLEEPIN’ messed up, girl. Everyone knows doctors can give you the BLEEPIN’ crabs.

I think you get the BLEEPIN’ picture.

The whole restaurant was pretty loud and my niece and nephew were in a world of their own, cracking jokes, debating endlessly about who would win a farting contest between Sponge Bob, Oscar the Grouch and their uncle Unknown Blogger. So I’m not sure how much of the hookers from hell conversation they heard but I wasn’t going to take any BLEEPIN’ chances and asked the BLEEPIN’ waitress if she could BLEEPIN’ move us as far away as possible from these BLEEPIN’ chicks. OMG! Cussing in public is contagious.

I’m not sure if it was the Jägermeister that was talking or if these girls talk like that all the time. But my two cents is that neither men nor women should cuss in public, particularly if children are around taking notes. “Excuse me uncle. How do you spell BLEEP, what is it and how can it give you crabs like from the sea?”

Gosh.  I wonder what happened to those potty-mouthed, Jäger swilling girls that night.

I was going to leave alone the debacle that occurred at this year’s MTV Video Music Awards between Taylor Swift and Kanye West. It’s not like either of them need any more publicity on the matter. But here is some breaking news.

I have it from one of my many unreliable sources that the whole thing was allegedly a publicity stunt. I think anyone with a brain and a pulse knew that. But here is the real kicker. Just before my informant passed out from an overdose (apparently smoking banana peels is not good for you), he mumbled to me that Kanye has left his city girlfriend Amber Rose for country girl Swift.

The photo on the left was allegedly taken by Mrs. Rose’s private investigator. Taylor and Kanye are clearly holding hands and coming out of one of Kanye’s favorite puppet show theatres in New York where many of the puppet characters routinely club each other with little wooden sticks and otherwise misbehave.The puppet shows sound like a ripoff of Punch and Judy but hey… whatever floats Kanye’s boat.

So, Amber Rose. If you’re reading this and want to get even with Kanye and make him jealous, call me. I know this great puppet theatre where all the characters are made out of corncobs.

So I’ve been out on vacation and one of the things I did was visit an outdoor water park which, let’s face it, are basically one big, giant toilet bowl.  C’mon now.  Don’t tell me you’ve never peed in the pool.

Anyway, water parks are a great place to people watch, particularly if you enjoy looking at 50,000 half naked people flopping around, many of which who have no business being in a skimpy bathing suit.

I did notice that lots of people seem to be sporting tattoos these days.  Even the twelve year old that I bummed a cigarette off of had a tattoo on his right arm that read, “Mommy” with a heart on it.  Bitchin’!

I myself do not have a tattoo as I faint at the sight of needles, particularly those that poke my body a couple thousand times a second for hours at a time, potentially spreading incurable diseases like hepatitis C.  But if I did get a tattoo I would hope I’d get one that didn’t suck as bad as many of the tattoos I’ve seen.  I’ve seen so many bad tattoos lately that I’m almost tempted to get real drunk, dip into my stash of barbiturates and go into my local tattoo parlor to have them give me a tattoo that reads, “Your tattoo sucks!”

I just don’t get why people choose to have ink permanently placed on their body, much less the thought process behind their design choices.  If they want to make a statement, why not just put their message on a t-shirt instead.  That way when they come to, sober up and don’t like what they did at 1am the previous morning, they can easily take off their t-shirt and give it to Goodwill.

I love my Apple’s iPod Touch. But I’m bummed I can’t get it to do the latest trick where it bursts into flames.

The Times newspaper recently reported a story that Apple attempted to place a gag order on a Liverpool father and his daughter. The father says his 11-year old daughter dropped her iPod Touch and the Touch soon burst into flames.  When the father contacted Apple hoping for a refund, Apple offered compensation only if the father would sign a non-disclosure agreement of sorts.

This is not the only case of the exploding Apples. Other stories are surfacing in Europe and the U.K. where some owners are claiming their iPods go snap, crackle and pop.

Upon hearing this news I quickly grabbed my iPod to see if I could replicate what I call the iBomb. But after hours of continuous play, I had no such luck. Bummer. I’m a geek and therefore go gaga over the latest techno toys so naturally I to want an exploding iPod.

I decided to call Apple and complain. I told technical support that “I had a defective iPod and wanted my money back.” A nice Apple technician named Leisha asked why I thought my iPod was defective, to which I replied, “because it doesn’t explode like the other iPods I’ve read about.” Silence on Leisha’s end for a couple seconds.

Leisha: “Uh…sir… your iPod not exploding is a good thing.”

Me: “Not really. I’m tired of this model and want to get another one so I would rather mine explode like other iPods so I can start shopping for a new one.”

Leisha: “Where did you hear that iPods explode?”

Me: “I read it on the Internets.”

Leisha: “Oh my, that can’t be true. I’ve not…”

Me: “Can you please tell me which iPod application I can download that will make my iPod burst into flames?”

Leisha: “Uh… I don’t think I can tell you where to get such an application… sir.”

Me: “Why not, Leisha? I’m willing to pay for it. Is it some sort of secret application you’re not allowed to talk about?”

Leisha: Faint giggle. “No sir. There isn’t a secret application that makes your iPod explode…”

Me: “Then why do other peoples’ iPods explode and not mine?” I start to cry like a baby that can’t have any candy.

Leisha: “Please sir. Don’t cry. I think you should be happy your iPod functions properly and that it doesn’t burst into flames.”

Me: “It’s my iPod and I’ll cry if I want to. Why are you being so mean to me, Leisha?”

Leisha: “I’m sorry sir you’re so unhappy that your iPod doesn’t explode. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Me: “Well. There is one thing… would you mind telling me if you think you have beautiful feet? And, do you have painted toenails?

Leisha: Laughing out loud. “As a matter of fact sir, I do have beautiful feet if I do say so myself and my toenails are painted metallic flake pink.”

Me: “Oh my.” Gulp. “Would it be possible if you could take a picture of your feet and email it to my iPhone? I hear iPhones are exploding as well.”

Leisha: “I’ll see what I can do. Have a nice day sir and thank you for calling Apple.” Click.

I hung up my iPhone and then it exploded and burst into flames.

Either my iPhone was an iBomb, or those were some pretty hot feet.