So I Got in Trouble

Apparently, the president and my wife frowned upon my last post. 

I can respond to a couple more questions, and then I gotta take two weeks off to "reflect upon my actions" --- so sayeth the guy that played hoops this weekend while all of Nevada just applied for part-time work at Orange Julius.   

Whatever.  At least I'm not that Wikileaks schmuck.  Thanks for giving me a ton of extra work to do, asshat.  I've had to apologize to Bersculoni all morning.  Gonna have to introduce him to Megan Fox to calm him down.  Whete did I put her email address? 

Mike from Sacramento, let your wife wear Uggs.  I know, I know.  They're ridiculous and make no sense.  But happy wife, happy life.  But remember this: while you're dealing with her, I've gotta talk down Kim Jong Il.   

How the heck am I supposed to talk to him via back-channels when he reminds me of the Chinese guy from "The Hangover?" 

I just wanna fly over there, storm in his office, and treat him like Sonny Corleone's brother-in-law.  Oh, I'd bite his knuckles in the middle of Brooklyn. 

Carol from Charlottesville, Virginia, I actually hate the show "House."  Here's every episode:

1.  Patient shows up with what could be 17 different diseases. 
2.  A ton of smart people don't know what to do.
3.  House is a disagreeable, smug bastard. 
4.  He flirts with his girlfriend.
5.  The guy from "Dead Poets Society" gets all high and mighty.
6.  House needs pills.
7.  Surgery's about to begin.
8.  House stops the surgery.  The patient just needs her tonsils removed.  Thanks, House!

Take my advice, Carol: Check out "The League" on FX.  One character is named Taco.  Taco!  LOL. 

I Had Probly Six Gin andTonics.

Wife kicked me out of bed.  Gas.  She says, "You smell."

I said, "It's the ONE holiday I drink.  Can you please be cool about this?"   She said "I know but you stink go to the den."

So I took my laptop to the tv room.  She can't tell me where to sleep  I'm the man.  Got my own helicopter. 

Let me answer your questions.

Jackie from Massachusetts, how do you deal with your mother-in-law?  You tell her to kick rocks, man. Your husband married you, not her.  He's going home to you.  Unless she lives with you.  If she does, just send her to her room.  And take her teeth as punishment she gets them back when she's nice. 

Like my shoes? 

My wife thinks they're nice but I don't know.  I answered your question, answer mine.  Quid pro quo.

Courteney from los angeles, you have two questions?  You’re like a journalist.  I don’t want Larry King to quit.  Good man.

Courtney, you also have a mother-in-law qurstion?   You’re not Jewish but shee is?  Why would managing your Jewish mother-in-law be different than a gentile one?  Are you racist?  Look at what I said to Jackie.  And be more tolerant.  

Hey Courteny, do you like my Oktoberfest shirt?

I like it. My kids don't. Who wins?

I just googled that "Like a G6" song. It's so cool.

Court, what do I think about the TSA pat-downs?  Jeez, all we want to do is fight terrorists.  I’m sorry about the person that peed, our bad.  Other than that, just get like Mandy Moore and learn how to deal. 

I need some chocolate covered pretzels.  I’ll be back.  Don’t leave. 

I’m back. 

Rick from Detroit. Your dad is a Tea Party guy that thinks global warming is fake. How do you talk sense into him? You don't. Punch him. Knock him out, get on a plane to the Grand Canyon. When he wakes up, say "Welcome to Iceland, old man. Al Gore's not so funny now is he?

Casey, where's my "Angels and Demons DVD?" Did I leave it at work?

I better not post this. Like a G6.  Like a G6. 

On Rims

I absolutely hate rims on cars.  I think they’re total waste.  But my brother loves them.  Is it wrong that I hate rims?  Joanna, San Francisco

Joanna, I used to have no opinion on rims.  Now I can’t stand them because of Rand Goddamn Paul. 

I hate that ginger and everything he stands for.

Your president and I were having drinks in the back of the Applebee’s in Arlington, Virginia last week.  We’re talking about the nuclear weapons treaty with Russia when we hear this “boom boom boom” in the parking lot.  Sounded like some prep school punk had the bass jacked up in Daddy’s Volvo. 

Then Rand Paul walks in.  He’s wearing a ball cap with the Confederate flag on it (classy, right?).  Then he yells, “The doctor is in!  This shit-kicker needs a Bud Light and boneless buffalo wings!” 



This is Rand Paul.  People voted for him.  Unbelievable.



Barack says, “Just look away.”  I leave two twenties on the table, Barack leaves a five (he’s totally cheap; it really angers his wife) and we head out the back. 

Guess who has a giant Ford truck taking up three parking spaces?  That’s right.  Dr. Douche, with his personalized Kentucky license plate that says “RNDRULZ.”   

Hand to God, Joanna, here’s what else was on his truck:

·         Two “No Fat Chicks” window decals (one’s not enough, asshole?)

·         A lift-kit

·         Tons of dried mud

·         One of those asinine rubber scrotum sacks was hanging to his bumper 

·         Giant tires

·         Giant spinning rims

Don’t say anything, but I keyed the crap out of that truck. 

Not a fan of rims?  The line forms here, kiddo.   

Big Joe's Weekly Tip for Teens

Kids, you gotta stop texting each other pictures of your genitals. 

That’s right: we’re talking about sexting.    

I’m not saying you gotta be a total square.   If you want to hit up a dope night spot and do the Douggie with some fly hottie, God bless you.  It’s America. 

But like I've said before, romance requires mystery.  For instance, hypothetically speaking, I wouldn’t make out with Anne Hathaway.  Why?  She’s topless in half of her movies.  We’ve all seen the twins.  Meh.  Next, please.

And all this sexting is addictive, kids.  In fact, Supreme Court Justices Antonin Scalia and Elena Kagan can’t stop sexting each other -- and they were once arch rivals.  Fact.

She sends dirty texts to Scalia. 

He sends some right back to Kagan.  Vom in your mouth much?

Chief Justice John Roberts got me on Facebook chat yesterday.  Told me Scalia and Kagan were sexting each other during the Supreme Court’s Halloween party.  John tells them, “Can you guys just stop?  You manage the rule of law in the greatest country ever created.  Maybe you quit sending each other junk pics.”

Scalia and Kagan punched him, told him to “mind his own,” and then ran into a bathroom with their cell phones. 

It’s a bad scene, kids.  Keep it clean.   

On Thanksgiving Seating Charts

My husband and I are hosting Thanksgiving for the very first time next week.  He says we should make a seating chart.  I disagree.  Are you pro-seating chart?  Janice, Star Valley, Wyoming

Janice, I used to hate Thanksgiving seating charts.   The less government, the better, right?       

But four years ago, Secretary of Labor Hilda Solis started showing up to my place for Thanksgiving. 

This woman ruins my Thanksgivings.

I never invited her.  Neither did my wife.  She just shows up and is – as Howard Dean puts it – batshit insane. 

I am 10,000% serious.  Hand to God, Janice.   

First off, she always shows up early.  Dinner is at 4 p.m.   No one shows up until 3 p.m., not even my kids.  Hilda is at our place by 2 p.m.  My wife Jill is still doing her makeup, or I’m vacuuming.  But Hilda doesn’t mind NOT KNOCKING ON THE DOOR and just PLOPPING ON THE COUCH. 

Does she offer to help with anything?  No.  Hilda watches Judge Judy and tries to guess the verdicts.  And she drinks my good vodka.    

Plus, we have to hear about her timeshare in Key West.  “It’s sooooo pretty.  You guys really have to come with me sometime, Joe.”  I shine her on, but get the message, lady: I’M NEVER GOING TO KEY WEST WITH YOUR CRAZY ASS.        

Then there’s her perfume.  It’s so damn strong that I get a headache.  Every year, I politely pull my wife into our kitchen and ask, “Can you please wipe her down with an old rag or a Brillo pad or something?” 

Jill always says, “She is our guest.  I can’t do that.”

I say, “Yes, you can!  No one invited her!”

By now, at least two of our kids are also in the kitchen laughing at me, because they think the whole thing is hysterical.  So now I’m telling my kids to go f*** off, and then Jill’s mad at me.  ME!  I flip my kids the bird and they laugh even harder. 

And my head is still throbbing from whatever combination of potpourri and elephant-turd essence that Hilda’s wearing. 

And you know what’s worse?  She has to translate grace into Spanish AS I’M GIVING IT.  Do I have a problem with the Spanish language or Latinos?  Good lord, no.  Viva la Raza.  But no one in my family speaks Spanish.  And HILDA SPEAKS PERFECT ENGLISH.   

Here’s how it goes:

ME:  Dear heavenly Father.

HILDA: What I just said, but in Spanish.

ME: Thank you for the food we are about to enjoy together as a family.

HILDA: What I just said, but in Spanish.

Then there’s total silence for ten seconds while I try not to go insane.

ME: Thank you, Amen.

HILDA: What I just said, but in Spanish.        

Make the chart, Janice.  And guess which Vice President will eat Thanksgiving dinner alone in his garage this year.  

Big Joe's Weekly Tip for Teens

Boys, what's with all the shit on your face?  Let's drop the piercings.

I was speaking in Maryland for a Veterans Day function this week, and some young buck wants an autograph. He had rods through his eyebrows, a ring in his nose, and two rings in his lip. Are you goddamn serious?

It's like his head was a magnet and this crap just attached itself to his face. I threw a handful of change at his head. Didn't stick. 

These are my office supplies.  Are they gonna go on your face, too? 

And let's lose the spacers in the ears. 


Do you take the spacers out and let mice jump through your giant lobe-holes like their goddamn hoops? Sweet Christ, is this the "Ed Sullivan Show?"  Whose on after you, the Beatles?

Have a good week at school.

On Cats and Trains

My neighbor has several cats that are not neutered or spayed and they keep having kittens.  The stray kittens keep hanging around my house.  I have to take them to the shelter, which costs me thirty bucks and is a forty-mile drive. I’m a compassionate guy, but this is getting expensive and annoying. What should I do?  Roger, Livingston, Louisiana

You probably didn’t know this, Roger, but yours truly is a cat guy.  Love!  Them!

The wife and I have four kitties: Admiral Cuddles, Wally Whiskers, Jack Bauer and Polly Paws.  In fact, here’s a picture of my desk at my home office:

That’s my lucky stuffed cat, Delaware Daisy.

In fact, your president and I had lunch at the Cracker Barrel a week after the inauguration.  He was telling me how the girls wanted a dog, and how he promised them one.  But my boss wasn’t sure if he really wanted a dog.   

I said, “Mr. President, let’s cut the bullshit.  You know cats are better than dogs.”

Out of nowhere, your president lit up inside and asked, “You’re a cat guy, too?”  I said yes, and then we did that asinine fist-bump thing for the sixteenth time in an hour.  Then he went back to helping people, or doing math, or whatever the hell he does. 

But back to you, Roger.  I think you’re gonna have to shoot your neighbors’ cats. 

Given that you are an avid train enthusiast, how do I introduce my daughter to the exciting world of model railroading?   Matt, Scotia, New York

Matt, you gotta get her started early.  Get on a nearby commuter train.  Let her see the sites.  The wondrous woods, the small townships along those great rails.  Maybe the ticket-taker will let her wear his hat.

But don’t just take my word for it.  It seems that Denzel Washington is America’s new train guy.  He’s got that new P.O.S. coming out with the kid from Star Trek.  He did that other P.O.S. remake of Pelham 123 with Travolta.  When will this shit show end?  Does he even read scripts anymore, or does he show up to the set and say, “Who ordered the gravitas?”   

Remember how Ted Turner spent money to colorize old black and white films?  Well, Condi Rice called me yesterday with this gossip – Ted Turner’s gonna put trains in all of Denzel’s old movies.  I shit you not.  Turner lost a football bet to Denzel.  It’s a done deal.   

So now The Bone Collector will be on a train.  Denzel still can’t use his arms or legs, but Queen Latifah is now a nurse and she drives the train. 

Philadelphia?  Now it takes place on the Orient Express.  Tom Hanks is out; Thomas the Train is in.   How the hell does a cartoon train get AIDS?

Big Joe’s Weekly Tips for Teens

Ladies, can we talk?  Your pants are really starting to piss me off. 

They’re too damn tight and too damn low.  What do they call it . . . coin slot?  Jesus!  Where are you learning this?  It’s that Katy Perry, isn’t it?  Or those burnt out Pussycat Dolls.  Talk about your low-rent districts. 

You need to start looking up to someone else.  That mom from the “Gilmore Girls” has a good look.  Beyonce seems to keep it classy. 

And then there’s sweet, sweet Nancy Pelosi. 

Hey, say what you will about her politicking, but the woman can dress.  Nancy, if I liked Italians at all, I’d swoop in on you with some Dean Martin albums and cheap wine . . . and you’d like it. ;) 

My point is this, girls: You gotta lot of time to tart it up when you’re older.  In the privacy of your own home.  With your husband or life partner – whatever works for you.  (Except for that polygamy crap.  That’s just weird.)

Now fellas, I’m gonna give you the straight dope about something really important next Sunday.

Have a good week at school!

On Vacations and Naps

How do I convince my husband that, even though we are living at the poverty level, we can still afford to go to Costa Rica?   Jacqueline, Bangor, Maine

First of all, I never met a Jacqueline that was bad looking or hated a good time.  Are there some that need to shave their necks before they spend all day clipping coupons?  Don’t think so. 

Second, you gotta sell him with images, sweetheart. 

I want you to do this:  Go to Google.  Click on “Images.”  Type “tropical paradise” and click.  Boom!  Look at all those choices, eh?  Print one.  Now, find a picture of the two of you.  Nothing dirty.  Most guys actually prefer classy pics of their brides. 

Tape that photo of you crazy kids onto your stolen paradise image.  Leave it all on his nightstand — or if you are living at the poverty level, the milk crate in which he stores his meth.  Then leave a frosty beer next to it (If you’re really, really poor, go ahead and steal one.  Won’t be the first or last time.)  Tape a piece a paper to the beer. 

What does it say on the paper?  “Bienvenidos a Costa Rica.”  Next thing you know, he’s selling plasma twice a week to save up.  Good luck, Jacqueline!  Send me a postcard!

Are naps healthy?  Glenn, Boston

First off Glenn, I’m not selling you scrod and calling it lobster.  I don’t nap. 

Why?  There’s a shit-ton of Americans that need jobs, boss.  I can’t just sit back in the afternoon with the latest Harry Potter book and take a quick trip to dream town.  Christ, if Mitch McConnell and Limbaugh found out, they’d tear me three new assholes.   

Plus, if I nap on vacation, the rest of my day is shot.  I wake up and my stomach feels weird.  Gotta drink one of those Monster energy drinks to stay awake. 

And sometimes I get the runs.  Is it from the sleep or the Monster?  Shit if I know.  Chicken or the egg, right?

However, I checked with the surgeon general, Dr. Regina Benjamin.  She says they’re fine, and I trust her. 

At least the president trusts her.  I don’t want to get into it, but I thought Sanjay Gupta should’ve taken the job.  But he’s a journalist.  All that medical school and he wants to be some tan Wolf Blitzer on the search for outbreak monkeys.   What an asshole.   That’s right, Sanjay.  I said it.