My mom and axl rose both had birthdays last week. That’s pretty cool. I wanted to get together, the three of us and just have a joint celebration, but it wasn’t in the cards. Axl can be a real bitch when he wants to, you know?
Anyway, today I’m exhausted. All week I’ve been out late shooting this project, and while it’s been tons of fun, I’m no longer used to being up until one in the morning every day, and I’m old and well…holy crap. I feel like I’m through the ringer. I need some jasmine tea and a ball massage.
I’m also dealing with a potentially broken laundry machine and a child who continues to flout authority and devour innocent people. It’s making me a little sweaty, frankly. You know what I need? A yacht. I need a yacht out in the middle of the sea with a comfortable bed and some sun and a lot of good, healthy food and a ton of butlers and cooks and ball masseuses and some private daycare specialists and what else? Since we’re just wishing for things, the yacht should probably have an arctic terrarium/aquarium full of penguins inside it. I love penguins almost as much as penguins love ice cream. Trust me.
I dunno…I’d probably just be seasick today. Don’t ever get old, kids. Your body just can’t hang with old world living. I mean, shit. I’d be going on my second nap of the day if I just threw prudence to the wind and did what I’d really like to do. That’s grandpa style. And not electric rapping grandpa style either. Just traditional.
I’m frustrated with this biting thing with my kid. I don’t know how to get through to him that it’s really not nice and it totally fucks up everyone’s day when he just gnaws on whoever. It’s ruining my day, honestly. Yesterday he had six (SIX!!!) incident reports. That’s craziness. I just absolutely don’t know what to do. This flummoxed helpless feeling, I’m learning, is how parents constantly feel and it’s exactly why they’re just nervous uncool wrecks of human beings who stop going to movies and stop knowing if it’s Robert Pattinson that’s Harry Potter or if what anyone could enjoy about sound of a vocoder. All they want is for the kid to stop biting. But he won’t. He’s a petulant shit who refuses to listen and refuses to understand and it makes you nuts.
And my kid is nice. He’s sweet and he’s a good sleeper and he’s well behaved, besides his taste for human flesh. I mean, my friend Nick used to lock his nanny in the basement. He used to flush rabbits down the toilet at school. Ultimately, he turned out pretty well, but uh…what do you say to that? That’s borderline sociopath shit.
God, listen to me. Here I am crying like Ryan Seacrest at the last scene of Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, and I’ve just got a kid doing regular toddler shit. Nick’s mom had to be going fucking nuts, hiding her hydrochloric acid and making sure all the lamps in his room were just upholstered with regular fabric and shit. Thank god they weren’t from Wisconsin.
Those are Jeff Dahmer jokes, folks. And just to bring this full circle, I’d like to point out that our stupid twenty four hour news cycle has created a universe where miserable anorexic dildos in fake tans camp outside the parents of our nation’s crazy sociopaths houses and when they go get their mail, they all bum rush them and say “Your son is a monster! Do you still love him, knowing what you know now?” I mean, that’s what they did to Dahmer’s parents. And sure, those parents probably fucked him up pretty good. But man, what kind of a question is that? That shit’s brutal. Innit? I mean that’s the kind of shit that…
Oh wait a sec. BRB.
Okay, actually, I just got the call of the day. For the last 2 years we’ve been getting calls from the Chicago Public Schools. Four a day. No shit. Today, they FINALLY got me on the line, and you know what they asked? If Brendan Kelly’s parents were there. When I started to explain that my parents live in Missouri and that my kid is two and that they’ve been calling me for the last two years and so on and so forth, they fucking hung up on me! Not only is there some kid out there who’s been ditching school four times a day for the last two years, but there’s also no way that I can even know if they took my number off the list.
I’m outraged. In fact, this is the worst outrage in the history of humanity. Fuuuuck. I need a yacht and a nap, folks. It’s all downhill from here, right Pudnik? Right. Sigh.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Come see my godddamn show you fucks!
Hey dicks! I’m playing a show tonight at the mutiny on western just north of fullerton in Chicago. I’m getting there around ten. Joe from smoke or fire is playing first, then I’m gonna unleash on you turds like a griffon or a dragon or something equally fruity. It’ll be cool. Please come down and buy joe and myself whiskey shots. Actually, don’t get joe whiskey. Last time he did a shot of whiskey (Monday night at the town hall pub) he barfed on me. I mean, I cooked him chicken, delicious chicken, mind you, and how does he repay me? Barfing shreds of delicious chicken all over my hoodie. Suhweet, bro. It was most gnarly in that it smelled like a gas station that serves food. Anyhow, moving on.
I got this problem. I want to do a rap record. I’m a pretty good MC, I think. I love freestyling. However, I’m a white guy and I’ve got a rock and roll history and that’s a bad fucking combo. Rockers should never rap and vice versa. It’s kind of like the way that actors shouldn’t sing and singers shouldn’t really act. It’s never great. I mean, yeah, Tom Waits is pretty good in Stranger than Paradise and Marky Mark is great, (though a very real argument could be made that he should have never EVER dipped into being a musician in the first place) but for the most part, it’s simple math. You’re good at what you love for a reason. You’re drawn to it because you think that way and you see the genre from an interesting and expandable point of view. The second you move out of your zone, you suddenly become just another dipshit that’s no good at something that they don’t have the vision and wherewithal to conquer.
Oh, you want examples? How bout Tommy Lee? That dude was a great rock drummer. It pains me to say that, by the way, because I hate the shit out of tommy lee. Why? Because he’s a dumb dildo that every single woman on earth, if pressured, sullenly admits to wanting to fuck. I’m terribly jealous of how much he gets away with, frankly. However, one thing he couldn’t get away with was his juggalo side project, Methods of Mayhem. He doesn’t bring any noise, man. Not even close. He’s a dorky white scarecrow jumping around bragging about fucking pam Anderson as though that’s not the only thing we know about him already. He doesn’t have the sack to be a rapper. It’s posturing and it’s super phony and it just sucks.
Likewise, Lil Wayne just made a rock album and it’s something in the neighborhood of the worst thing I’ve ever heard. It makes Puddle of Mudd look like erudite and compelling songsmiths. And you know why it sucks? Because Weezy is a rapper and he knows the tropes and pitfalls of the hip hop game. He knows how to construct a verse. He knows how to expand the genre and dominate in what’s established but he has no fucking clue about rock and roll. He didn’t grow up rocking, if you’ll excuse the lame expression. Regardless of what he listened to as a kid, he grew up grooming himself to be a rapper, and he did a hell of a job. However, once he stepped into rock and roll, he’s like Tyson stepping in to the ring with the Undertaker. There’s a tiny little bit of understanding of the format, but in general, it’s a whole new set of rules. It’s something that you can’t just translate easily. That’s why there aren’t more (or any) great musicians with rock AND rap records. They’re different frameworks, man. If Lil Wayne can’t rock, and Tommy Lee can’t rap, what hope is there for the rest of us? Right?
Well, those guys both seem like massive dildos and maybe I can buck the odds by being my own awesome self. However, I’m 33 and I’d be surprised if anyone my age has put out a decent rap ablum, excepting Jay Z. Rap is youth music in its inception, that’s the nature of the beast with MCing.
So, screw it. Maybe I’ll just stick to rock and roll. Come see me tonight at the Mutiny. The show’s free you cheap fuck!
I got this problem. I want to do a rap record. I’m a pretty good MC, I think. I love freestyling. However, I’m a white guy and I’ve got a rock and roll history and that’s a bad fucking combo. Rockers should never rap and vice versa. It’s kind of like the way that actors shouldn’t sing and singers shouldn’t really act. It’s never great. I mean, yeah, Tom Waits is pretty good in Stranger than Paradise and Marky Mark is great, (though a very real argument could be made that he should have never EVER dipped into being a musician in the first place) but for the most part, it’s simple math. You’re good at what you love for a reason. You’re drawn to it because you think that way and you see the genre from an interesting and expandable point of view. The second you move out of your zone, you suddenly become just another dipshit that’s no good at something that they don’t have the vision and wherewithal to conquer.
Oh, you want examples? How bout Tommy Lee? That dude was a great rock drummer. It pains me to say that, by the way, because I hate the shit out of tommy lee. Why? Because he’s a dumb dildo that every single woman on earth, if pressured, sullenly admits to wanting to fuck. I’m terribly jealous of how much he gets away with, frankly. However, one thing he couldn’t get away with was his juggalo side project, Methods of Mayhem. He doesn’t bring any noise, man. Not even close. He’s a dorky white scarecrow jumping around bragging about fucking pam Anderson as though that’s not the only thing we know about him already. He doesn’t have the sack to be a rapper. It’s posturing and it’s super phony and it just sucks.
Likewise, Lil Wayne just made a rock album and it’s something in the neighborhood of the worst thing I’ve ever heard. It makes Puddle of Mudd look like erudite and compelling songsmiths. And you know why it sucks? Because Weezy is a rapper and he knows the tropes and pitfalls of the hip hop game. He knows how to construct a verse. He knows how to expand the genre and dominate in what’s established but he has no fucking clue about rock and roll. He didn’t grow up rocking, if you’ll excuse the lame expression. Regardless of what he listened to as a kid, he grew up grooming himself to be a rapper, and he did a hell of a job. However, once he stepped into rock and roll, he’s like Tyson stepping in to the ring with the Undertaker. There’s a tiny little bit of understanding of the format, but in general, it’s a whole new set of rules. It’s something that you can’t just translate easily. That’s why there aren’t more (or any) great musicians with rock AND rap records. They’re different frameworks, man. If Lil Wayne can’t rock, and Tommy Lee can’t rap, what hope is there for the rest of us? Right?
Well, those guys both seem like massive dildos and maybe I can buck the odds by being my own awesome self. However, I’m 33 and I’d be surprised if anyone my age has put out a decent rap ablum, excepting Jay Z. Rap is youth music in its inception, that’s the nature of the beast with MCing.
So, screw it. Maybe I’ll just stick to rock and roll. Come see me tonight at the Mutiny. The show’s free you cheap fuck!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I'm too fucking rich and too fucking famous!
Okay, so first things first. Someone stole my fucking phone last night. It’s an iphone and I’m PISSED OFF. Stupid hip hop night at subterranean. I’ve changed my email and facebook passwords. What else do I need to do to protect myself against whoever it is that has my phone? What a fucking kick in the dick. This is something like my fourth iphone. I’m gonna have to start buying these fuckers in bulk. Dumb thieves.
So, while I was looking in vain for my phone, I found some girl’s little coin purse/wallet situation. I tried to drive it over to her house this morning, but she wasn’t there, so I left a note. I mean, she’s gonna get that shit hand delivered by a gorgeous semi notorious rambler (with all the money still in it by the way) and I’m getting constantly punched in the ball-pump by this whole situation. I should get into heaven for this. I mean, right? This should really make up for almost everything I’ve done.
Okay, last night I saw a band that’s so awesome, I’ve gotta share it with you. They’re from Chicago and they’re called Pet Peeve. They’re fucking SICK. The main dude is Romanian and he sings in Romanian sometimes, and last night, his band had all these crazy euro dudes hugging and dancing in circles and it was absolutely fucking awesome. Go to their myspace page http://www.myspace.com/mypetpeeve and check it out. The recordings are lo-fi for sure, but hey man, they’re a brand new band. Leave em a comment and tell them I sent you. I got nothing but insane high hopes for these guys. AND, they’re a bunch of super nice dudes, so there’s that. Okay, enough of my night last night. I had some big interesting shit that I wanted to share with y’all today. What was it?
Well, this isn’t it, but can we talk about heidi montag for a sec? Okay, she’s all surgeried up now, right? And people are going nuts about it. I guess I don’t really see why. I mean, sure, cosmetic surgery is one of those things that’s big in Hollywood that everyone in Kansas kind of pooh-poohs as something they’d never consider. “It’s only for those terribly insecure Hollywood types” they say to each other over bacon cheeseburgers served on glazed donuts. However, I think that’s oversimplifying things. I liken this dismissal to dudes that are quick to condemn other dudes for cheating on their old ladies and just judge and judge and swear up and down that they’d never ever do that kind of thing and that it’s SO reprehensible (which, I mean, most of the time, it is, I’m not endorsing cheating here, folks), but you know why they say that shit? Because they are slobs or they’re dipshits or they contain whatever the personality defect is that prevents them from ever getting laid by strange women. They’ve found one girl that will put up with their pimply back and disgusting breath and they’re clinging onto her pussy for dear life like Cubans cling to tires south of florida. No man that’s ever had a woman legitimately try to bang them while they’re in a relationship will be too judgmental when it comes to that stuff. Because, they’ve got dicks. And those dicks talk, boy. They talk fast and make a lot of sense when some good looking girl you aren’t supposed to bang is giving you the eye. And I’m not implying that men are all cheaters by any means. I’m just saying, it’s like quitting smoking. Once you see how fucking hard it is to resist that temptation, you’re not so quick to call someone a sniveling pussy for succumbing, even if you, yourself don’t succumb.
That’s how I feel about this cosmetic surgery thing. These bitches in Michigan don’t see themselves (and their jiggly guts) on tv all the time or live in a permissive spot where surgery is somewhat normal. Now, like with the cheating analogy, I’m not suggesting that all these heartland ladies and dudes would suddenly be getting tit tucks and shit if they moved to LA, but I AM saying that the idea of that shit’s not even really on the table in Michigan. In LA they have walk in augmentation clinics. AND tons of people have procedures done all the time. That makes shit much easier to consider.
Put it this way: maybe you don’t really smoke weed or drink but then you go away to college, or you go on a backpacking trip across south America or something and all of a sudden you see all these people just drinking and partying and having a good time. Suddenly, you’re back home saying something like “Yeah, and I never really drink, but the culture was so different and everyone was drinking all the time and before I knew it, I was having beers with lunch just like Javier.” I think it’s not a great leap to imagine someone who constantly sees their body scrutinized in the media, constantly sees distorted images of themselves in magazines and on tv and in movies, and sees the way that surgery has helped other people deal with the same mounting self doubt that they’re facing, deciding that it’s not a totally stupid thing to do. But of course no one in your office would ever get surgery. That’s because nobody is wasting their time putting those people on tv or in magazines or comparing them to other surgically enhanced celebs. No one’s trying to fuck them, to borrow from my earlier analogy, so they can flap their gums all they want about moral high ground, but they’ve never been in the position, and they never will, so they’ll never be called on their harsh judgments.
Now, getting back to Heidi, let’s not mince words, kay? She was fucking ugly before. And sure, she looks odd now too, but she’s a ton more fuckable, I’d say. AND, it’s not like she’s cool or anything. I mean, she’s a vacuous cunt that’s married to one ot the crown prince dildos of all of dildodom. What the fuck? Why cant some horrible cunt of a talentless woman cut up her body and stuff it full of various viscous liquids as she sees fit? Who fucking cares? She’s not really even famous for anything. She can’t act or sing or dance or fuck on film. She’s not smart or athletic or cool or on the cutting edge of anything. She’s famous for standing there, and frankly, I didn’t really like the way she was standing there before all this surgery. I’m not crazy about it now either, but sheeeit. I’m definitely not ‘concerned for her’ or anything. And neither are you and neither is people magazine. In fact, they would LOVE for her to get more surgery and fuck her face up even more so they can put her on more covers and watch her slow, painful descent into madness, drugs, death, all that, then all the journalists can sell magazines and marvel at the wonderful work they’ve done for their bottom line over skinny margaritas or whatever’s all the rage right now.
So yeah. I still don’t remember what I was gonna write about today, but I gotta get some lunch.
Peace.
So, while I was looking in vain for my phone, I found some girl’s little coin purse/wallet situation. I tried to drive it over to her house this morning, but she wasn’t there, so I left a note. I mean, she’s gonna get that shit hand delivered by a gorgeous semi notorious rambler (with all the money still in it by the way) and I’m getting constantly punched in the ball-pump by this whole situation. I should get into heaven for this. I mean, right? This should really make up for almost everything I’ve done.
Okay, last night I saw a band that’s so awesome, I’ve gotta share it with you. They’re from Chicago and they’re called Pet Peeve. They’re fucking SICK. The main dude is Romanian and he sings in Romanian sometimes, and last night, his band had all these crazy euro dudes hugging and dancing in circles and it was absolutely fucking awesome. Go to their myspace page http://www.myspace.com/mypetpeeve and check it out. The recordings are lo-fi for sure, but hey man, they’re a brand new band. Leave em a comment and tell them I sent you. I got nothing but insane high hopes for these guys. AND, they’re a bunch of super nice dudes, so there’s that. Okay, enough of my night last night. I had some big interesting shit that I wanted to share with y’all today. What was it?
Well, this isn’t it, but can we talk about heidi montag for a sec? Okay, she’s all surgeried up now, right? And people are going nuts about it. I guess I don’t really see why. I mean, sure, cosmetic surgery is one of those things that’s big in Hollywood that everyone in Kansas kind of pooh-poohs as something they’d never consider. “It’s only for those terribly insecure Hollywood types” they say to each other over bacon cheeseburgers served on glazed donuts. However, I think that’s oversimplifying things. I liken this dismissal to dudes that are quick to condemn other dudes for cheating on their old ladies and just judge and judge and swear up and down that they’d never ever do that kind of thing and that it’s SO reprehensible (which, I mean, most of the time, it is, I’m not endorsing cheating here, folks), but you know why they say that shit? Because they are slobs or they’re dipshits or they contain whatever the personality defect is that prevents them from ever getting laid by strange women. They’ve found one girl that will put up with their pimply back and disgusting breath and they’re clinging onto her pussy for dear life like Cubans cling to tires south of florida. No man that’s ever had a woman legitimately try to bang them while they’re in a relationship will be too judgmental when it comes to that stuff. Because, they’ve got dicks. And those dicks talk, boy. They talk fast and make a lot of sense when some good looking girl you aren’t supposed to bang is giving you the eye. And I’m not implying that men are all cheaters by any means. I’m just saying, it’s like quitting smoking. Once you see how fucking hard it is to resist that temptation, you’re not so quick to call someone a sniveling pussy for succumbing, even if you, yourself don’t succumb.
That’s how I feel about this cosmetic surgery thing. These bitches in Michigan don’t see themselves (and their jiggly guts) on tv all the time or live in a permissive spot where surgery is somewhat normal. Now, like with the cheating analogy, I’m not suggesting that all these heartland ladies and dudes would suddenly be getting tit tucks and shit if they moved to LA, but I AM saying that the idea of that shit’s not even really on the table in Michigan. In LA they have walk in augmentation clinics. AND tons of people have procedures done all the time. That makes shit much easier to consider.
Put it this way: maybe you don’t really smoke weed or drink but then you go away to college, or you go on a backpacking trip across south America or something and all of a sudden you see all these people just drinking and partying and having a good time. Suddenly, you’re back home saying something like “Yeah, and I never really drink, but the culture was so different and everyone was drinking all the time and before I knew it, I was having beers with lunch just like Javier.” I think it’s not a great leap to imagine someone who constantly sees their body scrutinized in the media, constantly sees distorted images of themselves in magazines and on tv and in movies, and sees the way that surgery has helped other people deal with the same mounting self doubt that they’re facing, deciding that it’s not a totally stupid thing to do. But of course no one in your office would ever get surgery. That’s because nobody is wasting their time putting those people on tv or in magazines or comparing them to other surgically enhanced celebs. No one’s trying to fuck them, to borrow from my earlier analogy, so they can flap their gums all they want about moral high ground, but they’ve never been in the position, and they never will, so they’ll never be called on their harsh judgments.
Now, getting back to Heidi, let’s not mince words, kay? She was fucking ugly before. And sure, she looks odd now too, but she’s a ton more fuckable, I’d say. AND, it’s not like she’s cool or anything. I mean, she’s a vacuous cunt that’s married to one ot the crown prince dildos of all of dildodom. What the fuck? Why cant some horrible cunt of a talentless woman cut up her body and stuff it full of various viscous liquids as she sees fit? Who fucking cares? She’s not really even famous for anything. She can’t act or sing or dance or fuck on film. She’s not smart or athletic or cool or on the cutting edge of anything. She’s famous for standing there, and frankly, I didn’t really like the way she was standing there before all this surgery. I’m not crazy about it now either, but sheeeit. I’m definitely not ‘concerned for her’ or anything. And neither are you and neither is people magazine. In fact, they would LOVE for her to get more surgery and fuck her face up even more so they can put her on more covers and watch her slow, painful descent into madness, drugs, death, all that, then all the journalists can sell magazines and marvel at the wonderful work they’ve done for their bottom line over skinny margaritas or whatever’s all the rage right now.
So yeah. I still don’t remember what I was gonna write about today, but I gotta get some lunch.
Peace.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
that's huuuuuuge
When I was a kid, my mom traveled a lot for her job. She’d bring me back various crap from her destinations and as such, I became something of a collector. Smurfs. Oh, I used to own some smurfs, boy. Let me tell you. For those of you who are too young to remember, the smurfs were little blue figments of Gargamel’s imagination that dressed like Dutch painters on their break, lived in mushrooms and were, supposedly, according to Gargamel, delicious and also a key ingredient in making gold.
Now, that explanation obviously begs the question, ‘well then, who the fuck is gargamel?’ That, my friends is not so easy to address. Who indeed was gargamel? Old wizard? Reclusive shut in? Toby Jeg in the future? All of these answers hint at the character of the man who tormented the smurfs, but none really, concisely drum up the appropriate image. Okay, he’s an old, bald grump of an asshole who wears a brown bag and talks to his cat. He also sees tiny blue things everywhere which he’s constantly trying to capture (for gold and/or food, as we discussed earlier) and that’s probably a bit of a circular narrative, because no one that chases blue mushroom dwellers around and constantly screams at his cat about being foiled is gonna be able to get audience with too many good homies that aren’t feline, if you dig. And THAT perverse loneliness has to be exactly what probably manifests itself in Gargamel’s hallucinogenically induced rages. I mean, right? Sure.
Okay, so that’s that. We’re not gonna figure everything out about gargamel today, and that’s fine. Back to the point.
The other thing my mom would bring me was mesh hats. She worked in the agricultural industry and the style of the time was to put your logo for your saw and blade company, or your cotton concern or your slaughterhouse on a mesh hat. I have about a zillion mesh hats and I love them.
Now, Ashton Kutcher came along and kind of fucked up the mesh hat for a while. So did Britney spears and paris Hilton and everyone. Now, you can’t go into a dumb dance club/fern bar/dildo emporium without seeing some choach in a party shirt and a rhinestone studded mesh hat.
They started calling them ‘trucker hats’ which is irritating to me for reasons to nebulous to explain here and well, they generally reduced my awesome, twenty-years-in-the-making collection of hats to a pile of garbage.
It’s okay though. Because now that whole trend is kind of gone, and I could maybe start wearing those hats again if I wanted to, BUT there’s nothing stupider looking than a grown man in a mesh hat. Between the ages of about 28 and 65 you really shouldn’t be wearing that shit. You probably shouldn’t be talking about smurfs either, I guess. It’s kind of, uh…windowless van at the playground style, innit?
Okay, so, those are a few of the things I used to collect. I also collected license plates and uh..what else? Records and cds and tapes. And comics. I used to collect some comics, man. I have x men number twelve. I’ve got all the original odd sized first printings of all the tick comics. I have all the orginial Akiras. And yet, I’ve still managed to have sex with a human woman (of legal age!). Not bad for a smurf collecting, trucker hat wearing comic enthusiast, right? Am I right folks?
Look, I’m just putting off the inevitable discussion of how John Mayer has descended so deeply into horrible dildodom. It’s becoming impossible to ignore. No, actually, he’s symptomatic of a bigger issue, namely that these celebrities and their dumb relationships are swamping the fucking news and the discussion about John Mayer beating off and checking out buttholes before he gets around to making coffee is just…well, why is there a forum for that kind of thing? Eh? Because he used to pump Jen? Is that all you need now? I know he’s hugely popular and man, I can’t really figure out why. I guess he was kind of funny before he became all sweet on himself, but that music…really? That’s popular? That’s like the shit that the nerd with the Stratocaster in your highschool gets on stage and plays at the talent show, bro. That’s not hugely popular, revenue generating music, is it? That shit’s Dave Matthews without the commitment to genre, which is essentially the Dead filtered through the terrible musical ideas of the nineties and with their dusty balls removed and replaced with violins and dreadlocks. All those bands and musicians make the music that moms put on before masturbating. And that, friends, is not cool. AND!!!! I’m not talking hot moms here. I’m talking YOUR moms. Yup.
No, I’m not a fan of John Mayer, or the Dead or Dave Matthews for that matter. And I really, really don’t care who he bangs or what his favorite body part to beat off to is or when he does it (spoiler alert-it’s assholes and first thing in the morning.)
Oh, and I guess brad pitt is single again, eh? Who fucking cares. Christ. Get me off this dumb ride. I’d rather chase smurfs for fucks sake. At least you can maybe get some gold out of the whole thing. Right?
Fuck this. I’m out.
Now, that explanation obviously begs the question, ‘well then, who the fuck is gargamel?’ That, my friends is not so easy to address. Who indeed was gargamel? Old wizard? Reclusive shut in? Toby Jeg in the future? All of these answers hint at the character of the man who tormented the smurfs, but none really, concisely drum up the appropriate image. Okay, he’s an old, bald grump of an asshole who wears a brown bag and talks to his cat. He also sees tiny blue things everywhere which he’s constantly trying to capture (for gold and/or food, as we discussed earlier) and that’s probably a bit of a circular narrative, because no one that chases blue mushroom dwellers around and constantly screams at his cat about being foiled is gonna be able to get audience with too many good homies that aren’t feline, if you dig. And THAT perverse loneliness has to be exactly what probably manifests itself in Gargamel’s hallucinogenically induced rages. I mean, right? Sure.
Okay, so that’s that. We’re not gonna figure everything out about gargamel today, and that’s fine. Back to the point.
The other thing my mom would bring me was mesh hats. She worked in the agricultural industry and the style of the time was to put your logo for your saw and blade company, or your cotton concern or your slaughterhouse on a mesh hat. I have about a zillion mesh hats and I love them.
Now, Ashton Kutcher came along and kind of fucked up the mesh hat for a while. So did Britney spears and paris Hilton and everyone. Now, you can’t go into a dumb dance club/fern bar/dildo emporium without seeing some choach in a party shirt and a rhinestone studded mesh hat.
They started calling them ‘trucker hats’ which is irritating to me for reasons to nebulous to explain here and well, they generally reduced my awesome, twenty-years-in-the-making collection of hats to a pile of garbage.
It’s okay though. Because now that whole trend is kind of gone, and I could maybe start wearing those hats again if I wanted to, BUT there’s nothing stupider looking than a grown man in a mesh hat. Between the ages of about 28 and 65 you really shouldn’t be wearing that shit. You probably shouldn’t be talking about smurfs either, I guess. It’s kind of, uh…windowless van at the playground style, innit?
Okay, so, those are a few of the things I used to collect. I also collected license plates and uh..what else? Records and cds and tapes. And comics. I used to collect some comics, man. I have x men number twelve. I’ve got all the original odd sized first printings of all the tick comics. I have all the orginial Akiras. And yet, I’ve still managed to have sex with a human woman (of legal age!). Not bad for a smurf collecting, trucker hat wearing comic enthusiast, right? Am I right folks?
Look, I’m just putting off the inevitable discussion of how John Mayer has descended so deeply into horrible dildodom. It’s becoming impossible to ignore. No, actually, he’s symptomatic of a bigger issue, namely that these celebrities and their dumb relationships are swamping the fucking news and the discussion about John Mayer beating off and checking out buttholes before he gets around to making coffee is just…well, why is there a forum for that kind of thing? Eh? Because he used to pump Jen? Is that all you need now? I know he’s hugely popular and man, I can’t really figure out why. I guess he was kind of funny before he became all sweet on himself, but that music…really? That’s popular? That’s like the shit that the nerd with the Stratocaster in your highschool gets on stage and plays at the talent show, bro. That’s not hugely popular, revenue generating music, is it? That shit’s Dave Matthews without the commitment to genre, which is essentially the Dead filtered through the terrible musical ideas of the nineties and with their dusty balls removed and replaced with violins and dreadlocks. All those bands and musicians make the music that moms put on before masturbating. And that, friends, is not cool. AND!!!! I’m not talking hot moms here. I’m talking YOUR moms. Yup.
No, I’m not a fan of John Mayer, or the Dead or Dave Matthews for that matter. And I really, really don’t care who he bangs or what his favorite body part to beat off to is or when he does it (spoiler alert-it’s assholes and first thing in the morning.)
Oh, and I guess brad pitt is single again, eh? Who fucking cares. Christ. Get me off this dumb ride. I’d rather chase smurfs for fucks sake. At least you can maybe get some gold out of the whole thing. Right?
Fuck this. I’m out.
Monday, February 1, 2010
yawn...
Hey dildos! It’s Monday and you know what that means, right? That’s right! It’s time to talk about the grammys! Now, I know that grammy is short for gramophone, which is appropriate, as the gramophone is an out dated dinosaur of a machine, and what better synecdochic metaphor is there for the music industry, am I right? Woot. That’s galactic poetry again, folks. Anyway, I was gonna make a joke about how the grammys could be named thusly because it was nothing but out of touch grandmothers and shit up there, but well, a few things happened. First, I realized that the gramophone thing was better, then I didn’t watch the grammys, so, well, this is what you call post modern, utilitarian, formalist comedy by way of essay. This is the future. The grammys, and music in general, is the past, man. Quit living in the past, kay?
I don’t really have a lot to talk about today. I’m tired. I was up late and I got up early to take my kid to his new school where all he seems to want to do is cry and reach for me and really put the screws to me in the whole daddying game. Wow. That’s not interesting. Uh, what else?
I have a show this Friday at the Mutiny. It’s free. I’m playing with Joe from Smoke or Fire, in honor of our cool new acoustic split record that’s coming out. Also, I guess punknews and some other fine folks are doing some auctioning for the people of Haiti, and one of the items you can bid on will be the test pressing of said record. Pretty exciting. It’s an analog leak. How future primitive.
Okay, I just ate a cheeseburger the size of my face, and I lost my atm card and I think I may need to take a nap. Also, I need to know where a good spot for hip hop in Chicago is. Like a bar, or a club or even a store or something. Any ideas? You’d be helping me out immensely.
I feel like there’s something else big going on right now that I’m just leaving out of this, but I’m tired and I don’t feel like thinking, so I’m gonna go rub cocoa butter all over my body and fall asleep on the bathroom floor like I usually do on Mondays.
Toodlooo hoes!
I don’t really have a lot to talk about today. I’m tired. I was up late and I got up early to take my kid to his new school where all he seems to want to do is cry and reach for me and really put the screws to me in the whole daddying game. Wow. That’s not interesting. Uh, what else?
I have a show this Friday at the Mutiny. It’s free. I’m playing with Joe from Smoke or Fire, in honor of our cool new acoustic split record that’s coming out. Also, I guess punknews and some other fine folks are doing some auctioning for the people of Haiti, and one of the items you can bid on will be the test pressing of said record. Pretty exciting. It’s an analog leak. How future primitive.
Okay, I just ate a cheeseburger the size of my face, and I lost my atm card and I think I may need to take a nap. Also, I need to know where a good spot for hip hop in Chicago is. Like a bar, or a club or even a store or something. Any ideas? You’d be helping me out immensely.
I feel like there’s something else big going on right now that I’m just leaving out of this, but I’m tired and I don’t feel like thinking, so I’m gonna go rub cocoa butter all over my body and fall asleep on the bathroom floor like I usually do on Mondays.
Toodlooo hoes!
Friday, January 29, 2010
No, donnie, these men are cowards
I have a pain in my guts that I can’t even begin to describe. I think it comes from eating all the pepperocinis at my work. I’m old. I mean, that’s what it is, right? Because I never got this kind of rotten stomach action before. Jesus. Nowdays it’s all sleep and mild foods and no more than a few cocktails or it’s some kind of dazed craptacular the next day. It’s a real dick punch, man.
Last night I watched the Big Lebowski again and I realized something pretty hilarious. I have no real idea what that movie is about. I mean, sure, I dig that there’s two guys named Lebowski, some mistaken identity and a slutty trophy bride who gets kidnapped and theres a ransom plot and a guy who makes the porn is somehow involved and what’s her name, who’s super hot even though she’s real old…uh, you know her…Julianne Moore! She’s the one with all the money and she wants Jeff Bridges’ child (explained with paper thin reasoning, I’d say) but really…there’s so much of that movie that just breezes by and I don’t have any fucking idea what’s going on, or what it has to do with the plot, or anything. Then, at the end, I’m not really sure what the results even are. It’s definitely not got traditional story arc where something either works out, or doesn’t or someone grows or they don’t or stasis is returned or things are heartbreaking or happy, that much, at least, I got.
Now, before this goes on too far, I’d like to point out that I’m not asking for anyone’s interpretation of the movie. I understand it as well as I’d care to (though I bet [watch for it in the sock drawer] I get at least one dumb asshole explaining the whole thing [poorly, mind you] to me anyway, but hey! That’s why god built the internet. So idiots could explain stupid things poorly to everyone else, whether they wanted an explanation or not).
My point is, I’ve seen this movie somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen times, and the fact that the story is so nebulous that I STILL don’t really know who the nihilists work for (I think they work for themselves but are friends with bunny from porn, right?) really says something about art and making shit for brain consumption, and that’s what I’d like to talk about today.
People forget that art is entertaining. It’s supposed to entertain. That’s what it does. Now, that doesn’t mean that people have to enjoy it. People can hate it. Hating something can be very entertaining. That’s why people love pro wrestling, throwing tomatoes at the bards in the theater in the round and going on internet message boards. People can be scared, people can be revolted, turned on, whatever. The objective to art is a visceral reaction, be it music, painting, film or uh…’performance art’ which, let’s be honest, is dumb. Heh.
-Now, let me pause for a moment here to talk about this last sentence, because it’s not entirely my opinion. The idea of performance art can be amazing. Especially when you take it to the philosophical, situationist or even Nietzsche-ian kind of level and you’re living your life as some sort of piece of art. That’s a pretty interesting way to go, art wise, even if it’s probably (like most art) not done well very often. However, usually, ‘performance art’ is a term for people who don’t quite dance, but do something that’s kind of not too far off from acting/dancing and/or stand in parks painted up like the tin man waiting for people to drop dollars in their dunkin donuts coffee cup. And that shit is just pussified half stepping (in the first case) or just a way to make crack money (in most cases). I mean, if someone tells me they’re a performance artist, my first instinct is to kind of laugh at them. It’s like calling yourself cutting edge. If you were REALLY cutting edge, the idea of defining yourself that way would be fundamentally at odds with what you’re doing, you know? Sure you do. So, anyway, to end this digression, performance art is dumb, unless you’re a genius or you’re real hot and you leave your tits out while you do it, then it’s fascinating.
Where were we? Oh, right. Visceral reactions. My point (and I’m running out of time, so I’ll be brief) is that people who get into the habit or business of making art tend to get to a point where they’re searching for perfection in what they do. The Perfect Manifestation of Brendan Kelly the Songwriter, for example. And that tends to lead into a process that I’d refer to as ‘softening the edges’ and ultimately ‘getting into a box.’ After a while, there’s such a catalog of things you’ve done, things that may have at one time been huge risks for you (or for the medium in general) that have worked out well, that it becomes very VERY hard to get away from those tropes, or tricks or techniques. This can be everything from doubling vocals to the way you paint noses to the gear you use, to the meticulous detail that goes into making everything just-so. The problem, though, is that though these things started out as risks, or interesting ways of interpreting some outside source, now they’re things you’ve done, and you’re being inspired by yourself, and it’s only gonna be diminishing returns at that point. To use the analogy from yesterday, it’s like eating your own shit for nutrients.
THE OTHER THING, and this is the big one, is that suddenly, you’re creating based on a set of expectations about you, and that’s the stupidest reason to create something in the world (except maybe for ‘to save the marriage’). The reason you should be creating is because you have an idea about something that looks/sounds/feels/ cool and you want to do it. That’s it. And ‘cool’ is subjective, sure. Your “cool” can be my “totally fucking repugnant” but you get the idea. People get to a point where they feel like they have to weave a message into things in order to give them value, but the opposite is true. If you’re making art that’s really based on the notion of doing something that just kicks ass, there will BE a message in it, because art, when it’s good, is ALWAYS rooted in something deeper than just being a painting or a song or a dance. But you don’t PUT IT IN THERE!!!! IT ENDS UP IN THERE WHEN YOU CREATE FREELY! When you put it in there, 100% of the time, you wind up with didactic crap. Period.
And, to bring it full circle, if you really just have fun with what you’re creating, it doesn’t even really matter if it all makes sense, or comes together. If it’s fun enough to view or listen to over and over again, people will love it, even if they don’t understand it. Even if it doesn’t wind up really tying the whole room together, man.
That’s the lesson for today people. Get out there and live. Have a good weekend.
Last night I watched the Big Lebowski again and I realized something pretty hilarious. I have no real idea what that movie is about. I mean, sure, I dig that there’s two guys named Lebowski, some mistaken identity and a slutty trophy bride who gets kidnapped and theres a ransom plot and a guy who makes the porn is somehow involved and what’s her name, who’s super hot even though she’s real old…uh, you know her…Julianne Moore! She’s the one with all the money and she wants Jeff Bridges’ child (explained with paper thin reasoning, I’d say) but really…there’s so much of that movie that just breezes by and I don’t have any fucking idea what’s going on, or what it has to do with the plot, or anything. Then, at the end, I’m not really sure what the results even are. It’s definitely not got traditional story arc where something either works out, or doesn’t or someone grows or they don’t or stasis is returned or things are heartbreaking or happy, that much, at least, I got.
Now, before this goes on too far, I’d like to point out that I’m not asking for anyone’s interpretation of the movie. I understand it as well as I’d care to (though I bet [watch for it in the sock drawer] I get at least one dumb asshole explaining the whole thing [poorly, mind you] to me anyway, but hey! That’s why god built the internet. So idiots could explain stupid things poorly to everyone else, whether they wanted an explanation or not).
My point is, I’ve seen this movie somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen times, and the fact that the story is so nebulous that I STILL don’t really know who the nihilists work for (I think they work for themselves but are friends with bunny from porn, right?) really says something about art and making shit for brain consumption, and that’s what I’d like to talk about today.
People forget that art is entertaining. It’s supposed to entertain. That’s what it does. Now, that doesn’t mean that people have to enjoy it. People can hate it. Hating something can be very entertaining. That’s why people love pro wrestling, throwing tomatoes at the bards in the theater in the round and going on internet message boards. People can be scared, people can be revolted, turned on, whatever. The objective to art is a visceral reaction, be it music, painting, film or uh…’performance art’ which, let’s be honest, is dumb. Heh.
-Now, let me pause for a moment here to talk about this last sentence, because it’s not entirely my opinion. The idea of performance art can be amazing. Especially when you take it to the philosophical, situationist or even Nietzsche-ian kind of level and you’re living your life as some sort of piece of art. That’s a pretty interesting way to go, art wise, even if it’s probably (like most art) not done well very often. However, usually, ‘performance art’ is a term for people who don’t quite dance, but do something that’s kind of not too far off from acting/dancing and/or stand in parks painted up like the tin man waiting for people to drop dollars in their dunkin donuts coffee cup. And that shit is just pussified half stepping (in the first case) or just a way to make crack money (in most cases). I mean, if someone tells me they’re a performance artist, my first instinct is to kind of laugh at them. It’s like calling yourself cutting edge. If you were REALLY cutting edge, the idea of defining yourself that way would be fundamentally at odds with what you’re doing, you know? Sure you do. So, anyway, to end this digression, performance art is dumb, unless you’re a genius or you’re real hot and you leave your tits out while you do it, then it’s fascinating.
Where were we? Oh, right. Visceral reactions. My point (and I’m running out of time, so I’ll be brief) is that people who get into the habit or business of making art tend to get to a point where they’re searching for perfection in what they do. The Perfect Manifestation of Brendan Kelly the Songwriter, for example. And that tends to lead into a process that I’d refer to as ‘softening the edges’ and ultimately ‘getting into a box.’ After a while, there’s such a catalog of things you’ve done, things that may have at one time been huge risks for you (or for the medium in general) that have worked out well, that it becomes very VERY hard to get away from those tropes, or tricks or techniques. This can be everything from doubling vocals to the way you paint noses to the gear you use, to the meticulous detail that goes into making everything just-so. The problem, though, is that though these things started out as risks, or interesting ways of interpreting some outside source, now they’re things you’ve done, and you’re being inspired by yourself, and it’s only gonna be diminishing returns at that point. To use the analogy from yesterday, it’s like eating your own shit for nutrients.
THE OTHER THING, and this is the big one, is that suddenly, you’re creating based on a set of expectations about you, and that’s the stupidest reason to create something in the world (except maybe for ‘to save the marriage’). The reason you should be creating is because you have an idea about something that looks/sounds/feels/ cool and you want to do it. That’s it. And ‘cool’ is subjective, sure. Your “cool” can be my “totally fucking repugnant” but you get the idea. People get to a point where they feel like they have to weave a message into things in order to give them value, but the opposite is true. If you’re making art that’s really based on the notion of doing something that just kicks ass, there will BE a message in it, because art, when it’s good, is ALWAYS rooted in something deeper than just being a painting or a song or a dance. But you don’t PUT IT IN THERE!!!! IT ENDS UP IN THERE WHEN YOU CREATE FREELY! When you put it in there, 100% of the time, you wind up with didactic crap. Period.
And, to bring it full circle, if you really just have fun with what you’re creating, it doesn’t even really matter if it all makes sense, or comes together. If it’s fun enough to view or listen to over and over again, people will love it, even if they don’t understand it. Even if it doesn’t wind up really tying the whole room together, man.
That’s the lesson for today people. Get out there and live. Have a good weekend.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I got a zit the size of a bait shop on my back...
Based on a new morning schedule, I’m typing this as my kid sits next to me, intermittently screaming at the dogs (who are licking his pacifier, which he threw on the ground) and manhandling a plateful of scrambled eggs with a hasslehoffian grace. It’s distracting. Also worth mentioning is that I’ve recently begun working on a dancy, islandy number that’s all about making people cry after they give you blowjobs and you throw them out of your house, and well, I can’t quite get it out of my head (HA! That’s a pun, assholes!)
What else is going on today? I have to work. The Menzingers finished up their record which sounds fucking AWESOME! I particularly like the songs I sang guest vocals on. Those seem like they’ve really got that special something extra. I watched the president last night, but it all just seemed like the extremely boring precursor to what’s sadly become the ‘real event’ in this country(which is, ironically the very thing that the Pres said the American people were sick of), namely, pundits synthesizing the speech, whittling it down to easy talking points and explaining how people should feel about it. Last night, millions of people patiently waited through the rhetoric and clapping and standing and sitting and longwindedness and oratorical zeal and all that crap and just sat there waiting for Brian Williams, Rachel Maddow, Sean Hannity, Keith Olbermann, Bill O’reily, or John Stewart to tell them how well Barack did. Nice one.
Here’s the funny thing. If you, in fact, didn’t watch the speech, which I’m guessing most of you didn’t, could you wager what these people above thought of it? I didn’t watch any punditry, but I’m guessing (and I’m predicting 98% accuracy on this guess) that it went, in order, cautiously saying it was pretty strong at times but had serious flaws, loved it, hated it, loved it, hated it, makes a dick joke tonight.
These pundits are so beholden to their party lines, and for good reason. They’re up against pundits that are so beholden to their party lines that if they’re not equally zealous, they look like simpering pussies in comparison, and that, my friends is the political equivalent of lacking confidence when you’re going in for the “blow me while I drive around the block” move. No, Lou Dobbs can’t afford to seem moderate, or give an inch, because he’s surrounded by hawks on both sides, and he and his ilk (on both sides) earn all their money pretending to be your old crotchety grandfathers who just hate the way the fags and the abortionists are turning the notion of the american fifties around and around in its grave, OR your (quasi) radical gay uncle who just hates the crotchety grandfather and swings wide to embrace everything he hates even when it’s kind of ridiculous.
Remember when you were a kid and you’d ask your mom “why do I have to make my bed? I’m just gonna sleep in it again.”? Remember that? Well, that’s what we’re doing here with this punditry. We’re skipping the part that takes energy, because fuck it, we’re just gonna lie in whatever ideological trench our favorite pundits (or rockstars or entertainers or lady on the view) have set up for us to pledge allegiance to. And that’s pretty pathetic, America. Even for you.
When you know, you KNOW someone’s gonna fuck you, you don’t want to skip right to the part where you sneak out of their house without waking them up at four thirty in the morning and leave your socks behind, right? When you buy a beer, you don’t just crumple the can up and wait for the headache, right? Right. Know why? Because the shit in between these moments, the meat of the activities, are active pastimes (is that some kind of oxymoron?) that are enjoyable. I’d like to suggest that paying attention to something and making your own mind up about it is as enjoyable as drinking a beer, or getting sloppy head from some fat skank while her roommate snores on the couch (eh, maybe not, but you get the idea). The thing is, most of us aren’t very smart. Our opinions aren’t that sophisticated and we don’t have the benefit of knowing what’s really being talked about all the time. When we watch the State of the Union and make our own decisions and formulate our own opinions, we risk exposing the gaps in our own knowledge of the system, the problems we face as a nation, our obliviousness to the news when we present that opinion. However, it’s Sean Hannity’s JOB to know the significance of every single shred of that speech, and it’s much easier to listen to him, synthesize his (asinine, by the way) viewpoint, and sort of learn by way of the punditry. It’s a little bit like eating someone else’s shit for nutrients though. Yeah, it’ll probably work for a while, but you aren’t building much of a healthy foundation AND you’re gonna wind up full of shit.
SO with that being said, I’d like to go. I’m going to take my kid to school and then step into line in our increasingly service based economy. God bless America. Sheeesh.
Oh, quick thing: Have you seen that ad for the Larry the cable guy special? It takes place at an outdoor arena in Nebraska or something and it’s packed to the gills with mongaloids who don’t care that Larry is really from Connecticut and fakes that accent. He says something like, “wow, fifty thousand of y’all! If you need to go to wal mart, now’s a good time to go.” And boooooy-howdy! The hicks practically shoot their guns at the sky they start hootin and a’ hollerin so loud!
How’s that for fucking great? Celebrate that you shop at a store that undercuts so mercilessly that it’s put American institutions like Rubbermaid out of business and shipped jobs and profits to China, all in the name of the bottom line, celebrating all the while at the altar of a New England sophisticate “faggoty entertainer” who’s mercenarily aping the very culture he appeals to. Everyone clap. Tomorrow it’s back to the photo counter at Walmart. It’s back to the tire rotating dock at walmart. It’s back to the couch on the porch. Sheesh, again, people. Sheesh. The state of the union is uh…well, I guess I don’t like the self righteous liberal douchebags that “see things so much more clearly” than their hillbilly brethren either, so uh, that’s it for me too, I guess.
We’re fucked.
Man, Barack could have saved us all some time and just said that, right? Would have been refreshing.
“Hello. I’m Barack Obama. We’re fucked. Good night. God Bless you and God bless the United States of America. Smoke if you got ‘em.”
What else is going on today? I have to work. The Menzingers finished up their record which sounds fucking AWESOME! I particularly like the songs I sang guest vocals on. Those seem like they’ve really got that special something extra. I watched the president last night, but it all just seemed like the extremely boring precursor to what’s sadly become the ‘real event’ in this country(which is, ironically the very thing that the Pres said the American people were sick of), namely, pundits synthesizing the speech, whittling it down to easy talking points and explaining how people should feel about it. Last night, millions of people patiently waited through the rhetoric and clapping and standing and sitting and longwindedness and oratorical zeal and all that crap and just sat there waiting for Brian Williams, Rachel Maddow, Sean Hannity, Keith Olbermann, Bill O’reily, or John Stewart to tell them how well Barack did. Nice one.
Here’s the funny thing. If you, in fact, didn’t watch the speech, which I’m guessing most of you didn’t, could you wager what these people above thought of it? I didn’t watch any punditry, but I’m guessing (and I’m predicting 98% accuracy on this guess) that it went, in order, cautiously saying it was pretty strong at times but had serious flaws, loved it, hated it, loved it, hated it, makes a dick joke tonight.
These pundits are so beholden to their party lines, and for good reason. They’re up against pundits that are so beholden to their party lines that if they’re not equally zealous, they look like simpering pussies in comparison, and that, my friends is the political equivalent of lacking confidence when you’re going in for the “blow me while I drive around the block” move. No, Lou Dobbs can’t afford to seem moderate, or give an inch, because he’s surrounded by hawks on both sides, and he and his ilk (on both sides) earn all their money pretending to be your old crotchety grandfathers who just hate the way the fags and the abortionists are turning the notion of the american fifties around and around in its grave, OR your (quasi) radical gay uncle who just hates the crotchety grandfather and swings wide to embrace everything he hates even when it’s kind of ridiculous.
Remember when you were a kid and you’d ask your mom “why do I have to make my bed? I’m just gonna sleep in it again.”? Remember that? Well, that’s what we’re doing here with this punditry. We’re skipping the part that takes energy, because fuck it, we’re just gonna lie in whatever ideological trench our favorite pundits (or rockstars or entertainers or lady on the view) have set up for us to pledge allegiance to. And that’s pretty pathetic, America. Even for you.
When you know, you KNOW someone’s gonna fuck you, you don’t want to skip right to the part where you sneak out of their house without waking them up at four thirty in the morning and leave your socks behind, right? When you buy a beer, you don’t just crumple the can up and wait for the headache, right? Right. Know why? Because the shit in between these moments, the meat of the activities, are active pastimes (is that some kind of oxymoron?) that are enjoyable. I’d like to suggest that paying attention to something and making your own mind up about it is as enjoyable as drinking a beer, or getting sloppy head from some fat skank while her roommate snores on the couch (eh, maybe not, but you get the idea). The thing is, most of us aren’t very smart. Our opinions aren’t that sophisticated and we don’t have the benefit of knowing what’s really being talked about all the time. When we watch the State of the Union and make our own decisions and formulate our own opinions, we risk exposing the gaps in our own knowledge of the system, the problems we face as a nation, our obliviousness to the news when we present that opinion. However, it’s Sean Hannity’s JOB to know the significance of every single shred of that speech, and it’s much easier to listen to him, synthesize his (asinine, by the way) viewpoint, and sort of learn by way of the punditry. It’s a little bit like eating someone else’s shit for nutrients though. Yeah, it’ll probably work for a while, but you aren’t building much of a healthy foundation AND you’re gonna wind up full of shit.
SO with that being said, I’d like to go. I’m going to take my kid to school and then step into line in our increasingly service based economy. God bless America. Sheeesh.
Oh, quick thing: Have you seen that ad for the Larry the cable guy special? It takes place at an outdoor arena in Nebraska or something and it’s packed to the gills with mongaloids who don’t care that Larry is really from Connecticut and fakes that accent. He says something like, “wow, fifty thousand of y’all! If you need to go to wal mart, now’s a good time to go.” And boooooy-howdy! The hicks practically shoot their guns at the sky they start hootin and a’ hollerin so loud!
How’s that for fucking great? Celebrate that you shop at a store that undercuts so mercilessly that it’s put American institutions like Rubbermaid out of business and shipped jobs and profits to China, all in the name of the bottom line, celebrating all the while at the altar of a New England sophisticate “faggoty entertainer” who’s mercenarily aping the very culture he appeals to. Everyone clap. Tomorrow it’s back to the photo counter at Walmart. It’s back to the tire rotating dock at walmart. It’s back to the couch on the porch. Sheesh, again, people. Sheesh. The state of the union is uh…well, I guess I don’t like the self righteous liberal douchebags that “see things so much more clearly” than their hillbilly brethren either, so uh, that’s it for me too, I guess.
We’re fucked.
Man, Barack could have saved us all some time and just said that, right? Would have been refreshing.
“Hello. I’m Barack Obama. We’re fucked. Good night. God Bless you and God bless the United States of America. Smoke if you got ‘em.”
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