Friday, August 29, 2008

I've seen teams suck before, but those guys had to have been the suckiest bunch of sucks who ever sucked!

It’s Friday! It’s Friday, so you know what that means, right? Labor day weekend! The busiest weekend for glory holes all year round! And I got a good feeling about Glory-Con ‘08, whether you’re a kneeler/sucker or a prodder, you know it’s gonna be a swinging good time. I was thinking about starting by the discarded mattresses near the Lincoln Park lagoon and then heading (no pun intended) down by the Union Station men’s room and then looping up to Wrigleyville, and the back room at Murphy’s Bleachers. I think I’m sticking to the standing side of the wall this year, (not literally! Heyooo!) as last year I wound up with some sort of parasite. Anyway….

I don’t know, man. It’s the end of summer. I didn’t go swimming once! I only went to three cubs games. I wrote two songs, I didn’t get so drunk I crapped my pants at all, and I don’t think it’s a stretch to call the amount of crystal meth-morphine speedballs I was able to do “negligible.” I must be getting old. Actually, yeah, I am. A week from Monday is my birthday. I’m already creaking. What a scene.

A few people wanted to know what to do in Chicago. Well, I wrote an article about this very subject for that “tiger beat—foolish hair edition” magazine called AP, but they chopped it up and made it nigh incomprehensible, (especially the last section…I was so disappointed when I read it that I didn’t even buy the magazine. Who’s the copy editor over there anyway, [this is the part where I’d name drop a semi-literate hatchet wielding mainiac if that sort of person was just readily available in our cultural lexicon…OJ?…close enough.] OJ?) so I understand if you didn’t get the full idea of where to go from that. I’ll offer a few suggestions here and there over the next few days. Here’s two for today:

The John Handcock building
-This is the second tallest building in Chicago (at least for now…that trump tower is catching it fast) and there’s a bar on the 96th floor. It’s the best view in the city (particularly, I’m told, from the ladies room) and you can get drunk and eat hot wings among the clouds just like Billy Dee Williams used to do.

Hot Dougs-
This place has hot dogs made from game meat (boars and venison and shit like that) and also vegan dogs and gourmet dogs (Duck dogs stuffed with pate, for example) and everything in between. In a city famous for hotdogs, hot Dougs is the best of the best. Get in there and eat. Doug’s also got a pretty healthy Madonna/ Britney fetish going on, so there’s tons of great stuff on the walls.
Okay, I’m off to work. More Chicago hot spots next time. Have fun out there this weekend, glory holers!

Thursday, August 28, 2008

You want to be in the show? come on...

Yo! It’s a workday. It’s an amazing thing, the workday. You already know for a fact that your day will suck from the moment you wake up. It’s not as though things happen at my job that are interesting or worthy of comment. Oh look, here’s some other dipshit ordering a coke and a ham sandwich! The dizzying highs! Just once, just once I’d like to be standing behind the bar and have someone come in and ‘discover’ me. That’s all I ask. Where is the rich Hollywood casting agent, in town to mourn the loss of her poor, recently departed father? She comes in for a stoli-o and seven (‘make it strong, please’) but then she notices something…wait, young man! Why, you’d be perfect for this role in Gremlins 3! The pizza guy, Randall. I would politely demure, say something about how she’s probably just letting the bereavement get the best of her, but she’d insist. Next thing you know, me and my baby are living in a prefabricated trailer in Culver City while I star as “Randall, the pizza guy” in the direct to dvd “Gremlins 3- All Night Drive Thru”.
That’s the thing. I’m not looking to be discovered in a Pam Anderson or Courtney Cox sort of way, where I’m plucked from the crowd and thrust dick first into superstardom. That’s not really my thing. No, I just want to be discovered enough to be able to look down the bar at whatever crap sack is sitting there drinking Jager and go “dude, fuck you. I think you’re gross, and I only listen to your dumb stories because I’m trapped back here.” That’s all I ask. Enough discovery that I can just burn the bridge of my job. Isn’t that what we all want? To be able to flip the table, spit on the boss’s shoe, tell everyone to fuck off, a la Half Baked? That would be great.
It’s funny because when I first got this job, it was a crappy job for slackers and marginally employable schlongs. Now, thanks to the economic adjustments that we’ve made in this country, I have a job that people with phd’s are applying for. So my job went from barely acceptable to highly coveted in about a year. At this rate, I’m gonna be president by the time I’m forty, but the country’s gonna be totally fucked. Ah, whatever. I’d rather be the king of a mountain of feces than a bartender in…nope. Not true. Never mind.
What’s that you say? Celebrities? Oh, I’d love to discuss them with you. Amy Winehouse looks like she smells terrible. So does Diddy. I don’t know anything about the Jonas Brothers, Miley Cyrus, Demi Lovato or that other one, uh…Selena Gomez, or Zac Efron for that matter. I’ve never seen any of these people move, I’ve only seen them in pictures. I don’t really know what they do (well, I’ve got an idea, but I couldn’t give any specifics at all.) This means I’m old. If you’re reading this and you don’t know who these people are, you’re old too. These are some of the biggest stars out there. What? I know. Life’s lame. It’s funny, you get old and they keep shoveling dumb, good looking, marginally talented douchebags in your face, like they always have, and suddenly you go, “no thanks. I’m all full up on douchebags. Just the check, please.” And that’s where your life stops. That’s why your mom can’t reference a sexy man without comparing him to Burt Reynolds and your dad still wears an REO Speedwagon shirt. It’s where they stopped caring. It’s like carbon dating, or counting the rings on a tree. Okay, enough? Who else, uh…Sean Astin, the fat hobbit. No one’s talking about him these days, right? Well, I’ll just throw this out there. I think he’s a pervert in real life. Just sayin. Pig fucking, sheep shaving, tubs of “I can’t believe it’s not Butter” all over his room. That’s right. I’m doing what I can to keep him in the media. You’re welcome, Sean. Also, that man who’s name is unfortunately Adrian on that Entourage show seems like a real turd. He says things like “tell me I’m famous” when he’s fucking. I don’t know. Jesus Christ, what a thing to picture…enjoy your day, everyone.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Nothing ever happens on Mars.

Well, it only took two months of writing every day, you know, except for the weekends, and it’s happened. I’m all out of things to say. Maybe I’m just tired. The little guy was up screaming from four to six, which has a way of kind of frazzling your brain and scattering your thoughts. I’ve been trying to write something for this class that I have tonight, and I can’t really do that either. It’s like the faucet has dried in my brain.
Yikes. I should take a nap or something. I wish I was comfortable just sitting around and playing video games, because that seems like a nice, mindless exercise, but I’m not. I can’t touch those things as a rule. I feel like I’m wasting my life when video games are on, and I get so antsy that I start to freak out. Watching TV can be the same, especially in the day.
As a general rule, I’m fine with that, since those things actually ARE pretty big life wasters, but every now and then, I’m all tired, full of coffee and sushi and unable to sleep or relax and I wish I could just stop typing for a second and play a little playstation. I can’t though. It’s impossible. I’m actually sweating right now just thinking about it. Jeez.
There are things that guys do that are masculine, that ultimately translate into a sexual energy that they give off. Things like, I don’t know, playing sports or doing construction or carpentry or something….more or less the shit I don’t do. And then, there are things that are so incredibly man-only that they shoot right past masculine and into the realm of ‘never ever been laid or even talked to a woman’. It’s quite the phenomenon. You blow right over “I killed this buffalo myself and built this guitar and now I’m gonna cook and sing for you” into ‘I live in the basement of my mom’s house and you could take my fingerprints by inking up my dick.” Video games fall into this category, along with Star Wars, figurine painting, Dungeons&Dragons, anything involving elves, pornography, comic books, Monty Python, rap metal, anime, toy collecting, fantasy football, fantasy baseball, fantasy novels, Insane Clown Posse, World of Warcraft (which actually falls into about ten of these categories) and anything involving some in depth description of noise frequencies. Anytime the punchline to a joke is “16K”, the people laughing are men; men with big gulps of diet dr. Pepper (no ice) in their hands.
Jesus, my brain feels like concrete today. I would like a Sparks.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

That's right! We got another body out here!

All right, it’s Tuesday and in the tradition of the modern age, I’m wating for the cable guy. I know this dude who does this sort of Mitch Hedbergian comedy routine and he’s got this joke that goes thusly:

So, I was fucking the cable guy yesterday, and it was kind of a drag because, well, you know how long it takes for the cable guy to come.

Honestly, I didn’t get it at first, but now, as I wait, I realize that he’s referring to the agonizing hours spent in fevered anticipation, just waiting for his paramour, his love, his cable guy to show up and lay him gently down. It’s actually quite a splendid joke, I think. Well done.
The baby sleeps all bound up in a little baby straightjacket. It’s because the impulses that shoot out of their brains and down their arms tend to make the arms flail wildly, which, in turn, makes the baby feel like he’s falling or generally in an out of control situation. So every night we bind up the baby like he’s a ham that we’re shipping across the country and every morning, we unwrap him. This is probably the best part of the day. Unwrapping a baby is like getting mail, a ham, perhaps. But this ham smiles at you. I KNOW, that’s a vagina euphemism,: the smiling ham. Good one. There are lots of great vagina euphemisms out there. For example-
Clam sandwich
The mound at Wrigley
Toothless, stuttering old man
Gravy boat
Well, you get the idea. Language is a wonderful tool, no?
Two of my very favorite people are in town today and I’m going to have the pleasure of brunching with them. I don’t know when the gender roles so completely switched in this city, or maybe it’s just my circle of friends, because it’s not only Chicago where all the dudes go out and lunch, babies in tow, dissecting the latest episode of SITC while the women slave away at the office. Whatever. I’m enlightened, y’all. Nothing says “I believe in the ERA” like being a stay at home dad. Throw your stones, sexists. Heh. Okay. I am going to offer a very small reading list, as it’s been asked for several times.

American fiction-
Catch 22-Joseph Heller
White Noise- Don Delillo
Native Son-Wright
You should probably read a little Steinbeck too, just so you know what’s going on. Don’t worry about getting into Grapes of Wrath right away, although it’s great. Go for Cannery Row, or Tortilla Flat. They’re quick little books.

Euro fiction
The Tin Drum- Gunter Grass
Death in Venice-Thomas Mann
Tropic of Cancer- Henry Miller
The Stranger- Camus. Early editions of this blog credited Kafka, due to me not really paying attention to what I was typing. I beg y'alls pardon.

Russian fiction (yes, I know where Russia is. Firstly, this is a unique enough category that it deserves to be addressed separately, and secondly, these mofo’s don’t really consider themselves Euros, so there)
Master and Margarita-Bulgakov
Crime and Punishment- Dostoyevsky
The Death of Ivan Ilych-Tolstoy (this one is massively depressing. It makes C&P seem like the Nose)
The Nose-Ivan Gogol

Asian Fiction
Satanic Verses, Midnight’s Children and Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie (yeah, he’s kind of a Brit…I know)
Wind up Bird Chronicles- Murakami (pretty odd)

Non Fiction
Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs- Klosterman
Fast Food Nation- Schlosser
Marching Powder-Rusty Young

Okay, This is just a tiny little list of some basics, it’s in NO way any sort of definitive or even particularly clever list. Just so that’s out there. I like all these books though, so if there’s one you’ve never read, maybe check it out. I wanted to try and do this without scanning the bookshelf, so I’m for sure forgetting some of my very faves. Whatever, there’s plenty of time for addenda, right?
Cool, so what else? Well, huh…Nothing real exciting to speak of. It’s my birthday in two weeks. I’m finna be a year older. I’d like a party, please. Thanks everyone. It’s on a Monday, which poses an interesting dilemma, namely, do I dare go to my dumb improv class on my birthday (last night was torture, by the way)? Tune in as this exciting saga unfolds!

Oh, and to the dude who can't stop thinking about his cunty-friend-he-wishes-he-wasn't-in-love-with-how-could-she-bang-that-christian-beardo...well, you're just gonna have to get out there and do some living. Do a little romancing of some other ladies, hang out with your friends and just accept the fact that this girl you kind of hate is gonna bum you out for a while. Sorry to say, but time and distraction are your only options. good luck

Monday, August 25, 2008

That's my pie!

Greetings turds! Welcome to the workweek. It’s a beautiful Chicago morning, and I’m really looking forward to some lunch. I’ve got a buddy in town, and he says he likes local and/or spicy things, so I’m thinking Arby’s. At Arby’s I try to get the most disgusting item on the menu, which is difficult, since everything is floppy, fat marbled meat like substance packed in thick, viscous drool. How does one choose? It’s like Sophie’s Choice…anyway. Do you need my advice? Yes you do, Lincoln Square Lunatic:

I got engaged at 22 while still in college. I loved that woman more than anything, and I at least thought it was reciprocated, but the stress of transitioning into the real world and a lot of infidelity (which I continually forgave like a spineless pussy) led to her eventually leaving me a couple years later, never having gotten married. Adding insult to injury, I had to move back into my parents basement. Coupling these two led to monumental amounts of drinking- and you're right, crazy crazy drunks do love Jameson. You'd be amazed how quickly one can make a bottle disappear four fingers at a time when you just add a tiny splash of seltzer to your rocks glass. But I digress....

Since that point, she and I have intermittent contact (as well as occasional genital-to-genital contact) and we've both been in relatively steady relationships, too. However, every time I start to feel something for someone new, I sabotage the relationship by starting up talking to her again, and she enables the behavior by feeding me just enough (likely) bullshit to make me believe that there's still actually a shot at some sort of Eternal Sunshine caliber reconciliation. Fast forward to right now, where I'm seeing an amazing woman with whom there could realistically be some semblance of a future, and I'm starting to feel that little burn in the back of my brain again. Now I know WHY I'm done this sort of thing; it's very clear that it's an unbelievable fear of having history repeat itself because the last time I got that close and came up short it nearly ended me, sprinkled with a dash of Stockholm Syndrome for a little extra zing. Which brings me to my question to you, oh sage of sages: how in the hell do I keep myself from doing this crap again?

Lincoln Square Lunatic

Okay, good one. Firstly, we live in the same neighborhood, so there’s that. Secondly, it seems like you’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s going on, so you’re about nine tenths of the way there, as I see it. Let’s check the facts right quick: You’ve got an ex that still excites you. You’re dating an awesome chick, and you’re getting that old familiar urge to go fuck everything up again, against your own better judgment. Man, oh man, do I feel you on this one. Relatable, for sure. All righty, here’s what you do: Talk to your girlfriend about it. Now, I’m not one for honesty at the expense of everything else, that’s a foolish pipe dream concocted by sixteen year olds to explain love in movies. Lies, good lies, are important in a relationship. Life is messy, and honesty is often brutal and unkind. I don’t want to live in a world where women actually take dumps and tell me that my friend actually IS better looking than me, and a better lay, for that matter. So, it’s not without a little bit of genuine thought that I suggest that you be upfront with your new girl about what’s going on. Will she be pissed? If she’s worth a shit, you bet. Will she understand what’s going on? Hmm…hard to say. The point is, you need a little shock therapy. Seeing this awesome new girl’s reaction to your self destructive impulses may just be the kick to the balls you need to free yourself from your exes grip. Nothing like watching a good girl cry or yell while some malicious bitch smiles in the background to make your brain quickly reprioritize things. So, that’s my take. Get it out there and see what happens. Otherwise, you’re just gonna fuck everything up anyway. Might as well try this, huh?

Okay, now here’s a quick piece of advice to punk rock persona, Ben Weasel:

Hi Ben, we’ve never met, but we share some things in common. We both sing in bands that come from Chicago and…okay, that’s about everything. Anyway, let’s get to the point here. Ben, starting a feud is like walking beneath a flock of birds. It’s crucial that you always look up. You’ve done some good stuff, and your career is kind of impressive. Sure, you’re no fat mike, or Tim Armstrong, or even a Jesse Michaels or Joe Escalante, but hey, you’ve made some important records. I mean, I, like everyone with any taste in pop punk, think ‘My Brain Hurts’ is great, and maybe unlike most people, think that ‘How to make Enemies’ is criminally underrated. But I digress…Okay, I’m no Fat Mike either. Hell, I’m not even a Ben Weasel, and I’m fine with that. I just like playing music and drinking beer with my friends. If you want to feud with someone for no reason (and you really have no reason to even breathe the name of my band to anyone. We’ve never met, shared a stage, been active on a label at the same time…nothing…it’s just odd) it’s important, once again, Ben, that you look up. Find a popular band full of dipshits, like, say the All American Rejects, just to use any old example, and say something like “those nancies spend all their time flat ironing their hair and aren’t fit to wash the jockstraps of the Jonas Bros. “ That’s how it works. You attack the big guys, and they hopefully respond, increasing your visibility in the process. Now, nothing against the All American Rejects. I’m sure those guys aren’t dipshits. Again, just an example. I actually like some of their music.
Anyway, I’m rambling again, but you get my point, right Ben? Now, when you pick on me and my band, you’re looking down, lashing out at someone less well known than you, and that is just backwards. Only assholes prey on the small and weak. It’s heroes who aim high. I’m not trying to call you an asshole, Ben. I just think you fail to understand how to effectively um…you know, Make Enemies and Irritate People, no pun intended.
See, your insistence, your stupid, misguided insistence on bringing us up as some sort of terrible band reference point is only flattering. Yeah, I’m flattered that you even know who my stupid band is. So there, buddy. Do what you want. Lord knows I’m not changing any lives over here, but I’m not interested in your pissing contest, either. I’ll never speak of this again, but I really feel like you should take my advice and do the same. Otherwise, you’re just going to make my crappy band more popular, while at the same time cultivating an image for yourself as some sort of ‘crazy asshole,’ and I’d hate to see that phrase applied to your name, Ben, That would be a real shame.
See you in the funny papers, everyone!

Friday, August 22, 2008

What?! What will come out no more?!

I just realized, I’m exactly what the world needs right now, y’all! I’m a semi employed, stay at home dad (so I’m not only in a moral ‘no kill zone’ but I’m already well underway replicating myself, don’t fret), just barely good looking enough to be able to be a dick to both the ugly and the beautiful. I went to a good college, but for nothing practical, so I’ve got that rare combo of being an intellectual elitist with no applicable knowledge. Oh, I’ve got it all so figured out, that I don’t even need a job, or money or anything. I’m just gonna make fun of you, or anyone who’s enthusiastic about anything. Did I mention that I blog? Yup, I do one of those ‘rant blogs’ that everyone does. Come on! There’s even one in the Onion now, guys! Yeah, it’s great. “Know what I hate?” Thank god there’s no shortage of that right now. What else? Oh yeah, I’m in not one, but two mediocre bands. And guess what? We’ve wormed our way into this position where we don’t even need to be popular to feel superior to almost all other bands. It’s really great.
I’ve got an unpublished novel, and a movie script that no one wants. Also, I’m a glorified waiter, did I mention that? Fuck yeah! Let’s hear it for day jobs! That’s not all though, you guys. I also ride a road bike, which means that, you know, I look down my nose at anyone else’s bike, except the fixed gear dudes, of course. They’re awesome, with their tiny little hats and mustaches and sweaters and big chains! I’m like a level 3 but those guys are nines at least. I’m working up to it.
I fancy myself as a jack of all trades when it comes to anything remotely art based, so I’ve got crappy paintings, drawings, poems, songs, books, movies, whatever, you name it, I’ve slaved over it and with negligible results! You know, they say that art is in the eye of the beholder (or something like that, who cares really, right…that’s so yesteryear, to care about getting things accurate, right? This is the era of approximation….or something like that) So that means as long as I put a little effort in, it’s art. So that crappy lightbulb painting: Art. That dumb short story: Art. That record: Art. The empty bucket of KFC that I meticulously scraped the flesh from the formerly contained chicken parts with my teeth, only to discard the bones and leave the empty, greasy, receptacle? Fuck yeah it’s art. What are you? Some kind of caveman? People were floating crucifixes in tubs of piss and shitting onto American flags like twenty years ago! It’s time for a bold new paradigm, and I’m part of it. No, I’m it! This is the new zeitgeist! Approximation by way of rants and slapdash art that no one, not even another rant blogger can assail without being called an anti-now fascist.
You know, this all started when I was a kid in little league, and they told me that everyone was the star of the team. Everyone got to bat, and everyone got to hit. It’s amazing to take competition and skill out of a skill based competition! It makes everything acceptable. I think it’s funny that our parents and grandparents find our lack of self awareness so perplexing. It was their own EVERYONE WINS philosophy, applied from schoolrooms to baseball diamonds to school dances to picnics at the park to college campuses that have freed us from the notion that some people are better than others at some things. They decry the celebrity obsessed culture, the vacuous anti-talent that gives birth to our brightest stars (Paris, Nicole, Kim etc) ignoring that it was them who taught us that you don’t need to be good at anything to succeed, you just need to show up, or have a note explaining why you couldn’t be here.
Well, I’m taking it to a whole new level, folks. I’m eschewing the celebrity too! So I’m just like Paris…Well, the way Paris is like Fred Astaire, but without the ability to dance, sing, act or speak intelligently. I’m like Paris but without the money or celebrity. Take that, world! Here’s your next generation of superstar! Semi anonymous assholes on the internet complaining about everything! Talk about green! I’m reducing everything to it’s most base and simple. I’m offsetting carbon footprints like a motherfucker, just by telling you all that Katy Perry is untalented. “Kissed a Girl” my balls! That was already a song, back when it was dangerous! Oops! I think another rant blogger has already touched on this topic. My bad! This blog’s gonna be nothing if not original. Fuck yeah! I feel so much better. I’m gonna go serve beers and sandwiches and call it art and you know what? If you don’t like it, you’re nothing more than an uncultured boob who still thinks that something as 18th century as the novel is an acceptable medium of artistic discourse. Get with the now, Great granddads!

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Appendix to "if there are gods they must be drunk"

This is just a small addendum, if a bartender offers you a free drink and you turn it down, you will never be offered a free drink again. This is universal. Also universal, if you suggest to a bartender that they should give you something for free, you will never, ever get anything for free from that bartender. These rules don’t apply to close friends/girlfriends/boyfriends/siblings/spouses/people the bartender is trying desperately to bone.
That is all.
Main post is below. Thanks.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

If there are gods, they must be drunk.

Not a lot of time today. The baby is going to the doctor soon. Here are my takes on what you’re ordering at a bar. These rules are, unfortunately, somewhat phallocentric since, as a general rule, women can get away with drinking whatever the fuck they want at a bar. This is in no way a guide to what tastes best, it’s more how you’re being perceived. Ladies, for better or worse, you’re being perceived as having tits and an ass, so what you drink is kind of irrelevant most of the time. Guys, you’re being scrutinized a little more, by everyone, so this is what they’re all thinking, if they think just like me.
Oh, for the homosexual version of this chart, take the guy advice (below) and apply it for lesbians and take the girl advice (above) and replace the word “tits” with “dick” and apply it for dudes. Cheers!

PBR, Old Style, Black Label, Natty Boh, Lone Star, Iron City, Yuengling, or any 40oz or somewhat unique beer offering (Mickey’s grenades/Tecate in cans etc.)

These are absolutely the best things you can order as a male in a bar. Firstly, if the bar you’re in doesn’t have one of these, or the local equivalent, well, the bar is lame. Is there a martini list? See? Lame. Local flavor (at least in the packaging/historical sense. Yes, these are all owned by Miller now, I think, and yeah, globalization this and that, but still), inexpensive, probably what the bartender is drinking. You can’t go wrong with a simple local beer. Cool, odd packages are always good too. There’s nothing like drinking a forty at a bar. You’ll feel like Diddy.

Miller Highlife and Budweiser.
These are decent alternatives. Highlife is great cold and terrible warm, and it’s got that sleek bottle that encourages fast drinking. It’s also got the most alcohol of any ‘American style’ cheap beer, so yeah. Budweiser is just so ubiquitous that it’s kind of like getting one of those beers from the movies that just says "beer" on the can. It’s not cool, but it’s not uncool either. You can’t really fuck with a guy for getting a Bud. It’s like fucking with someone for liking football. You’ll just come off looking like an effete hipster douchebag with a small penis and something to prove.

After these come your Miller light, bud light, MGD, and any other standard American crap. Here’s the thing. If you order a Bud Light, you’re dull, and you’re a wimp to boot. It’s a Bud with a “but I don’t wanna be fat” clause. Here’s a tampon for your beer. Miller Lite is a girl beer, because it’s famous for being so low in carbs, so you look kind of gay with a Miller Lite, but you’re probably evening that out a little by not being quite as sloppy, midsection wise, as Bud Light guy. If you’re drinking MGD, you’re almost certainly Mexican and just off of a construction site. Rolling rock is just a sad play for attention. Busch, well, actually Busch can go in the top category (cool, cheap, local), or it can mean you’re homeless, just kind of depending.

Are you drinking a Guinness? Are you fat and bald? Then it’s so lame that it hurts. Sorry, but there’s nothing douchier than being one of those guys who comes in wearing a soccer scarf, sits by the Guinness tap and orders a pint. Nah, that’s not true. There’s lamer stuff out there. For example:

…those crappy beers that are just so popular with people who think they want something off the wall, but they’re really just garbage. Blue Moon, Stella, Sierra Nevada, I’m looking in your direction. These beers are the liquid equivalent of Taco Bell. They’re gross, they’re hugely popular and technically, they’re doing something that’s “outside the bun” but it still kind of sucks. If you’re drinking this beer, look around at your friends. If they’re all drinking this shit too, you’re a bunch of dorks. If you’re the only one, they talk about you when you go pee.

Actual good foreign beer (non Latin America category): this could go either way. You’re a connoisseur, or you’re a dipshit who just backpacked around Europe, or you’ve got an Asian girl fetish or you’re in college and you’re ‘expanding your horizons’ or you’re bored of the regular shit. Hard to say, really. Wanna keep ‘em guessing? Get a Czechvar or a Grolsch.

Mexican/South American Beer- If it’s hot, you drink Latin American beer. No worries there. This also goes for Red Stripe. In the winter, if you’re drinking Corona, you look like the kind of person that gets plastic surgery and has gross fetishes that he makes his assistants act out.

American microbrews- You are a turd. You are such a stuck up hippy turd that I don’t even want to waste time telling you why your dumb ‘blueberry pie’ beer is retarded. You’ll just look down your nose, through your gross beard, over your tattered poncho and stupid sandals at me anyway and say, “what a close minded asshole. This Chocolate-cinnamon oatmeal stout with butter cream foam is absolutely great.” Nope, it’s gross, and you’re gross too. Dumb hippies.

Wine- Fine with dinner, kind of creepy at the bar. Just sayin.

Cocktails: If it’s night, you should probably be drinking whiskey. If you’re drinking vodka, it’s gotta be unflavored and like whiskey, with soda water or on the rocks are the only acceptable ways to go. No matter what your situation, no flavored liquor, and no fucking around with anything that contains sour mix or fruit. You’re only allowed to have a drink mixed with soda pop if it’s before three pm and you’re only allowed to have something with redbull if it’s specified that you want it strong and it’s obvious you’re hung over from a long night partying with synthetic drugs (though this isn’t exactly winning you any points with anyone either). Vodka and fruit juice is kind of a grey area. It can be fine, or super dorky, pretty much depending on the shape of the cocktail glass.

Gin is either classy or dangerous. Either way, that’s not a bad thing.

Rum is for pirates, sorority girls and mixing with coke in the morning when your head hurts. Keep it to a minimum, folks. People who order rum and diet are stupid. Rum is made from sugar. That’s like ordering a decaf while you’re smoking crack.

As far as shots go, Jagerbombs can go either way, but usually, they’re for dorks and cokeheads, so, there’s essentially a long, dull story at the bottom of every one, regardless, so watch out. RumpleMinze is for perverts, but it’s also great. Any form of blended (or chilled) shot is okay ONLY if a girl buys the round of them without asking you (actually, this goes for anything otherwise unacceptable, in round form, it's fine, provided you didn't order the round). If you’re drinking SoCo lime, you are disgusting…just absolutely disgusting. Shots of tequila are always fine. Shots of things like rum, gin, triple sec, amaretto, etc. are what sixteen-year-old kids with fake ID’s, middle eastern princes and serial killers drink.
Now, getting briefly back to whiskey- Jack Daniels is gross. This is the shot your dad orders when you go out for your graduation and he looks at you with that “your old man’s not such a square now, huh?” kind of look. It’s like the liquor equivalent of being Tim Allen in Wild Hogs. Jameson is for dumb hipsters and college boys who think they like good shit, but really like imported garbage juice. I said it before and I’ll say it again. Just because poop gets shipped overseas for consumption, that doesn’t make it any better than it was when it was just a freshly shat out pile of poop back home. Jameson is gut rot, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that crazy, crazy drunks like Jameson too, so there’s that.
Canadian Whiskey is the “I’m not fucking around here” choice, except when it comes to 7 and 7s and shit like that. That’s already been covered as unacceptable, so I’m really talking shots, rocks, or neat at this point. Drinking VO, 7 or Canadian Club is a little like drinking gas and actually, it’s a lot like Canada. It’s a lot more burly than you give it credit for.
The best whiskey is from Kentucky. That’s just all there is to it. Bourbon is the way to go if you’re drinking, and it’s one of the few areas where the fancy crap isn’t really that effete and pretentious. Bulliet is about the best shit I’ve ever tried (thank you Katie Degroote!), but Jim Beam isn’t far behind.
Jager is for fat people with brown stained teeth, tongues and breath.

Okay, so there you go. I’ve failed to cover lots of stuff, but I’m sure I’ll expand this a lot as time goes on. Get out there and make me proud, people!

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Sleep, that's where I'm a viking!

Good morning. It seems I’m almost never a Viking anymore, these days. Up early, drinking coffee, writing on this thing, jiggling this little dude around like he’s margarita ingredients, when do you sleep? That’s why your parents are so lame, kids. They’re fucking exhausted. They can’t go out and blow lines and listen to Dethklok and shit, they’ve got something in the neighborhood of fifteen years of missing sleep to catch up on. Also, they’re jealous of you being a younger, better looking version of them, and bitter jealousy + exhaustion = parents. Yup. I put this little guy in this tiger costume this morning, and he really, really hated it, almost to the point where I thought he was allergic, but no. he’s just a grumpy little shit sometimes.
Last night, I ditched my improv class, and I’ve never felt so good about anything in my life. While everyone else there was playing “Kitty wants a corner” (feel free to cringe right along with me, everyone) I was sitting on my porch eating a relaxing meal with my old lady. Nice one, delinquent behavior!
I’m a bit at a loss today. I know I’ve made some lists in the past that have been easy to write, so I’m kind of half assedly thinking of a list I could make…we’ve done drugs, we’ve done alcohol, we’ve done things that I hate and things I like…hmmm…ways to get blowjobs, that’s been done. Okay, how about this: things I absolutely hate to be asked, or told, in no particular order (except the first one)

You don’t remember me, do you?-
Nope, sure don’t. But thanks for making that even more awkward for both of us. You should have maybe been a little more interesting last time we met, or perhaps, maybe you shouldn’t assume that everyone on the earth has the same unbelieveable face/name cataloging skills that you do. That makes an ass of you and me, both. Next time try: Hey, dude, my name is Rupret, we met at the Christmas party last year.
Isn’t that nicer? No accusing, and I’m not on the defensive right away.

Tell me a funny story-
I get this one in interviews all the time. Firstly, that’s not a question at all. It’s a demand, so we’re already off to a bad start. Secondly, that’s kind of hard. I don’t think it’s too easy to just whip out a story out of nowhere. Listen, if we’re talking, and a story organically comes up, I’m happy to tell it, but just demanding one? That’s the conversational equivalent of shooting at my feet and telling me to dance.

Will you (fill in the blank) when you have a minute?-
This is a service industry pet peeve of mine. I understand that the euphamism here is meant to soften the slave like nature of the server-patron relationship and everything, but come on. I know I’m a bartender, first of all, so yeah, of course I’m gonna do whatever it is you want me to do. Secondly, yeah, I’m gonna wait until I have a spare minute. I’m not just gonna drop this plate of food on the ground to get you more Fresca. It’s one of those things that just kind of gets under my skin. Thanks, guy at bar, for telling me it’s okay to wait until I’ve got a minute. I was totally fucked trying to figure everything out, time wise, until you said that last bit.

What are your musical influences?
This is EVERY musician worth a shit’s most hated question. I promise. It’s irritating beyond belief. And it’s not that I don’t like to talk about bands I love,. I do. It’s, once again, the phrasing that’s so fucking irritating. Okay, I play this style of music, and I’m this old, and presumably you’ve heard my band, since you’re interviewing me. Therefore, let me ask you? What are my influences? It’s lazy journalism. This is one of those questions that people ask when they have nothing interesting to ask, or HAVEN’T heard the music of the band that they’re interviewing, or they just want to gauge how well they pegged the band’s plagarism. Here’s some much better versions of this question that I would happily answer:
What was the band that made you decide that you wanted to become a musician?
What was the first album you got that you discovered without the help of the radio/MTV?
Is there a particular song or record that you remember hearing for the first time that you felt changed your whole perspective upon first listen?
What was a dream lineup band for you when you were fifteen?

I think I’m gonna go ahead and answer this last one right now. Okay, Greg from Bad Religion would sing, on guitar and vocals would be Joe from the dead milkmen, on bass and vocals would be fat mike, on drums…hmmm, good one. Who was a drummer I really liked when I was fifteen? That dude from Underdog? Gorilla Biscuits? Well, whatever, looking back, that would be a pretty fucking goofy band, regardless of who’s on the drums, but hey, I was fifteen! Don’t hate!

Okay, what else do I hate to be asked or told? Eh, maybe it’s done, this is veering into becoming a little too self important, even for a blog, and that’s no small feat.
Yikes, my beast is stirring, so I’m gonna have to run.
Quick answers to quick questions left in the comments section of ‘Waas sappening’:

To the kid with the sad guy in his band? What do you think you’re gonna do? Snap him out of it? Nope. Someday he’ll just wake up and feel better. He’ll feel stupid for moping around about some chick, and things will be fine. But you’re not gonna be able to speed him through it, sorry.

Yes, I knew that I was your hero.

The best wine to pair with fish is Boones farm blue. It’s great with tuna from the can, at least. That’s what I had last night.

No, I would not like a former world leader’s head tattooed on my chest. Well, maybe Grover Cleveland. He had a good mustache.

Self depreciating humor IS a measure of confidence, as long as you’re really going for the jugular. So, for example, if you’re a five ten lard ass, but you’re making fun of yourself for being short, well, that’s transparent insecurity and deflection masquerading as self depreciating humor, but if you’re talking about how you sometimes camp out outside the bakery, that’s funny, and shows that you don’t even give a shit about your shortcomings, get it? Once you make fun of yourself, it becomes a non issue. Do you ever listen to Howard Stern? When people call Artie fat, it doesn’t have any impact, because he’s all over those jokes himself. Truly being able to mock yourself, brutally, mind you, is probably one of the best displays of confidence there is. As long as you’re funny. If you’re not funny, it’s just sad and pathetic.

So, you can’t write a song. Big deal. Most people can’t. Everything isn’t for everyone. I can’t play basketball, so I don’t. No big deal. (I can’t stand the way that everything in this day and age seems to revolve around telling people that they can do whatever they want to do. NO!!!! You can’t! Lot’s of people suck at lots of things. Everybody sucks at most things! Find something you enjoy and do it. You may suck, you may be so bad that you need to find something else to do, so go ahead and find something else. It’s a big world, people. Guys who say shit like “ I suck at everything” are probably not lying on purpose. They may suck at everything they try, but they haven’t tried everything. They may be great at shooting porn, or plucking chickens or calligraphy or sousaphone or whatever…that’s not my point here though. My point is, okay, you suck at something, whatever it is. We all suck at stuff, don’t be another asshole who just sucks everything up against all odds. Move on and find something that will satisfy, rather than frustrate you)

Now to songwriting guy, I don’t know, dude, keep trying for a while. Either you’ll come up with something or it will get frustrating and you’ll stop, or, your crappy songs will be loved by the dumb people in the world who love crap and you’ll get rich. Good luck.

I knew it, Suzanne. thank's for the confirmation.

Uh, nope. That song’s about something else.

Okay, that’s enough of that…more than enough, really. Sorry if that was dull for everyone, but that’s how it goes sometimes. Clean out the junk drawer and all that.

Oh, and my mom now reads this, so lets keep the talk of felching, buttfucking, blowjobs, rimjobs, ass torture, jizz drinking, bukkake, fisting, blumpkins, space docking (when you shit into a vagina), clam bumping, farting cum bubbles, dirty sanchez’s, double headed dildos, roman showers, golden showers, brown showers, and all that to a minimum, okay? She’s a grandma, after all.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Waas sappening?

Hey all, after another exciting wedding at a horse ranch (this time in Colorado) I’m home and more or less over the horrendous bout of bad luck I was dealing with when I last chimed in. I actually got hit by a car the next morning. It ended up being no big deal, but man, what the fuck, right? That’s what they say, god never shuts a window without farting in the room first, right? Is that what they say? Okay, good.
Anyway, over the weekend, I received a pretty good chunk of advice queries. I’m going to try to get to them all in this limited time that my baby is asleep. He woke me up at five thirty today, so I’m so jittery with caffeine and such that typing is proving quite difficult. Anyway, our first letter comes from Canada. Note the wacky spelling of words like ‘neighbor.’ Kooks!

Hey Brendan,
About a month ago, my girlfriend cheated on me. Big time. As in, my neighbour was pretty sure this incident was about to take place with her and another guy, neighbour comes and gets me, and we walk in on them in our friend's house across the street, doin' the nasty on our friend's bed. Dirty motherfuckers. It's been about a month since it happened - I've tried to convince myself that I'm staying with her, after all, we have two kids together (and we've been together nine years). We've done the fuckin' talks and of course I've gone through all the necessary motions of telling her how stupid I feel staying with someone who can't keep her legs together. Long story short, I still feel like I could leave her, based almost solely on the fact that I'm pretty much always going to be pissed that it happened.

So, am I stupid? Should this have been an open-and-shut case of "You cheated, it's over"? Or am I doing the right thing by trying to stick it out with her? It's almost like I'm stringing her along, since I've already told her that I'm going to try to stay and "rebuild" our relationship, when every day I'm actually still thinking about leaving her high and dry.

Thanks man. Larry's rock, by the way.

Pissed Off In The 'Peg.

Dude, wowzers. That really sucks. This is one of those letters where I was reading and thinking “oh, fuck man, just dump the bitch. Case closed,” until I got to “we have two kids together”. Man, kids fuck up everything, right? Even a good old fashioned case of dumping your slutty girlfriend. Fuck. Well, the kids are there, and the slutty girlfriend’s done been fucked, so like Macgyver or the A-team, we’re gonna have to work with the available materials to get out of this here jam.
Okay, here’s the bottom line: Regardless of if you leave or stay, you absolutely must get past this and have an amicable and mutually respectful relationship with this woman, at least when your kids, or their friends, or their friends parents, or anyone, save maybe your drinking buddies, are around. Go ahead and hate her if you have to, but you don’t want to be one of those dicks that makes your kids into weirdos because they have to deal with all the seething resentment between their folks. That’s where porn stars and dudes like Criss Angel:Mindfreak come from, and nobody wants their kids ending up like that, right?
So, what do you do? Well, I don’t know exactly. Trying to stick it out is extremely commendable. You said you’re always gonna be pissed, that’s understandable. What’s the way you can best minimize this feeling: Leaving her and getting some space, even if it means not seeing your kids as much? Or is that gonna bug you more because essentially you’ll be suffering for her misdeeds? Maybe you need to stay with her so the actual concrete experience of watching your kids grow with two parents can help to negate your bad vibes? Hmm…maybe you should start over, go on a vacation, bone some random tourist, come home feeling guilty, and rebuild from an even playing field. I admit, this last one, while exciting, probably isn’t the best thing to do mental health wise, but hey, whatever works, right? The bottom line is, try everything, because it seems like right now you’re looking at resentment boiling over into a broken relationship and a long life of avoiding porn stores and TLC so you don’t have to see your weirdo kids and their creepy jobs. Don’t do anything too rash, but make sure that you’re actually venting your frustration, be it on some random person in a vacation spot, some sort of new exercise regimen, or whatever and not just bottling up your feelings, that’s gonna backfire at some point. This isn’t gonna be easy, no matter what you do, so good luck.

Okay, next we have the girl who said that now that her and her, ahem, crush have expressed that they like each other, shit’s awkward. What’s the deal? She asks. Here’s the deal. You guys like each other in terms of how you look and the very thin veneer of each other’s social appearance that you know. It’s not like you just go “I like you” and then he goes “Wow, me too” and suddenly you’re Paul Rieser and Helen Hunt. You guys don’t really know each other, right? There you go. I’d suggest doing something like going to a baseball game, where you have a long time to sit around, have a few beers if that’s your thing, and generally talk or not talk and just get used to being around each other. Awkwardness doesn’t just go away. You need to push through it a little. Okay, nice one. Next.

The guy who says his long distance girlfriend is hanging out with some dude all the time, but he’s ‘just a friend’. Should you be suspicious? Fuck yeah. Dude, that guy is definitely at least thinking about boning your girl. He’s a guy. When’s the last time you hung out with a girl every day and didn’t think about boning her (moms don’t count here, guys)? So, regardless of your girl’s level of denial (and all women deny this, even though I know for a FACT that they secretly know it’s true [‘oh, timmy doesn’t want to fuck me! You’re so paranoid!’ Yes he does, and you know it!!!! What’s with the denial anyway? Is it specifically to piss me off or to somehow fish for strange compliments or what? This is just one of those things that all male-female relationships go through, and it’s maddening]) you’ve got every right to be suspicious. What do you do about it? Nothing at all. Listen, I said it before and I’ll say it again, all women are attracted to one and ONLY ONE trait in men, and that’s confidence. What’s more pathetic than falling victim to this stupid game? You’ll end up looking like a jealous dick and you’ll make the other guy, who need not be jealous, as he’s the dude worming in, look vastly more confident and cool than you. So just chill, act like it’s not the most IRRITATING LOAD OF SHIT that anyone’s ever tried to pull over on you and let it be. Soon enough you’ll either pass this test, or get dumped or cheated on, and there’s absolutely no way you’re in charge of what happens, but you can either look like a fool, or look cool and confident in the meantime.

Next one: Where do you go to meet someone cool in a small town when you’re seventeen? Away to college. Good luck.

Okay, so that’s that for now. Advice doled out, everyone’s currently in a better spot than they were last Thursday night when key-gate threatened to become the biggest story of this Olympic season. I gotta get dressed. My mom’s in town.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

put the fucking lotion in the fucking basket!

I don’t know what the fuck just happened. I got home and I lost my keys and my ATM card. How is that possible? I’m so pissed off. Oh, lord. This is the kind of thing that makes me see red. I hate automated phone menus, I hate feeling like a complete idiot with no keys and no ATM card. I have to work and then I’m going out of town, so there’s no possible time for me to even fix this bullshit. I’ve got the bank's hold music on speaker phone, as though that somehow makes it less unfuckingbearable. Why do they need to insert advertisements and shit into every five seconds of the hold music? In fact, why even have hold music? Just have a shrill voice going CHAAAAAAAAAASE BAAAAAAAANK HAAAAAAS FEEEEEATURES! PREEEEEEEEEEEPARE TOOOOOO BEEEEEEE EEEEEVEN MOOOORE FUCKING ANNOYED! I think I’d appreciate the honesty. I don’t ever lose things. In fact, before my baby was born, I never EVER lost anything. I broke stuff, and had stuff stolen from me, but I never lost anything. Since little dude, I’ve lost my keys 3 times and this is my second ATM card. At least it was a temporary card. Actually, I don’t know if that’s any better. Losing the keys is a bitch, a real fucking bitch. I lost my key to my bike lock, and the house and the storage areas. MAN!!!! FUCK!!!!!! I’m so angry right now, it’s such a fucking nightmare!
Oh man, so I got out of my writing class and it was raining. I thought, I’m gonna ride slow and take the train if it gets crazy. Well, it proved to be too wet and slick to ride, so I headed for the train, but I only had a twenty, so I went to the store full of gangbangers to get some cheetos. Well, I guess that all the in and out action in my dumb pockets of my dumb pants that are too tight for me to have my entire wallet in shook my atm card loose. Man, I’m pissed. Have I mentioned that? Well, I scarfed the cheetos on the train and then got off to realize that everything was gone. I even looked through the fucking garbage at the train station. Nothing but a handful of half drool, half mister pibb.
My wife just got home. She lost her keys too. AAARGH!

Yall, I thought Europe WAS a country!

So there’s all this hullabaloo about Jerry Finn, punk rock music producer extraordinaire, dying, but it’s coming from all sorts of strange spots, like some hipster forum out of Williamsburg (by the way, hipsters, having an internet forum [SUBJEKTS: what kind of mustache are we bringing back next? I think we should all start dressing like matadors, lol, does everyone think pineapples can really replace unicorns? Music played with instruments is the new music played with computers, in that, it’s so fucking pathetic that I want to just sigh loudly], pretty passé. You should be on to something new by now, like smoke signals, or hiding your plans for getting everyone back into headbands in six concurrent headlines of Newsweek or something….anyway.) and then from some random other forum about music technology. It all seemed fishy to me. Then Billboard posted on it, and I was like, woah, Jerry Finn is dead! But as I sit here, I’m realizing, that’s not really that terribly credible of a source either. Now, I’m not doubting he’s dead, but I’m just saying I thought Finn was a big enough public figure that he’d be mentioned by, you know, some actual news outlets/ publications. I mean, that kid from Hawthorne Heights was all over the place. He even got his picture on Perez Hilton, for fucks gargles, and I gotta think people care at least that much about finn, right? Hey, maybe he’s not dead. Good work, Williamsburg hipsters, you’ve done it again. You’ve fooled the bigwigs at the bad sandwich chronicles and news teams. Heads will roll!
Nah, whatever, I didn’t/don’t know Jerry Finn, and the reality or fabrication of his death isn’t really important to me. (Listen to me, I don’t care. Please, no writing in with “he’s dead” or ‘he’s alive”. I don’t care.) I’m just smarting from the sting of finding out that the African kids getting high on shit thing wasn’t real. Man! That burns me up inside. Well, it’s a funny thing, I guess, because a huge, HUGE part of me is so incredibly happy that that’s not really a thing. It can’t get sadder than a bunch of kids in crappy tattered loincloths, all dirty and covered in flies, starving with distended bellies, dodging lions and drinking sewer water just to kill their thirst, topping off the whole sad affair by getting high on poo. What’s next? Plague? Warlords and genocide replete with gangrapes? Oh, wait.
Yeah, they’ve got it pretty bad over in Africa, so I’m glad they aren’t getting high on shit too. Hopefully they’re just huffing paint and cutting off their air supply and drinking Scope like Native American teenagers.
Some quick answers to some quick questions I’ve gotten from kids:

Do’s and Don’ts for touring bands:
Have as much fun as possible
Get along with your band members
Make an effort to play well no matter how few people are at the show

Demand things from people
Expect anything to come of you touring, ever.

There you go. Happy trails. What else? Someone wanted to know my thoughts on whiskey dick. Man, that’s like a breathalyzer for your penis. If you’re so drunk you’d just throw up/pass out, god stops your penis from working. If you must do the deed, and won’t heed gods advice, I suggest taping a toothbrush to the bottom of your dick, kind of like a brace. Works like a charm.
Hmmm…what else? Man, I don’t know what to think about the poo thing, or the Jerry finn thing. I think I’m beginning to question the validity of the things I read on the internet. The fifties of the internet are over, kids. No more picket fences around your porn and black milkmen bringing you email. No more big tailfins on your virtual poker tables and no more soda jerks down at the live webcams. The internet is getting weird, finally. Who knows what’s gonna be on here some day. Men kissing men? A horse and a pig having sex with a crackhead? Someone making bums fight each other? The future is a strange place, man.
Okay, so according to Google, at this point, more and more news sources are reporting Finn is dead. Such news behemoths as and I gotta get my mind on something else. If I lose faith in the internet, then I’m fucked. I’m up the fucking Mekong without a lookout, if you catch my meaning.
How about this:
What’s wrong with the Spanish basketball team? I mean, I’m so glad they did that, because it’s one of the most profoundly stupid, ill-advised things that a large group of supposedly intelligent people have all decided (somehow) wasn’t the most idiotic thing that could possibly be done in a given situation since we re-elected the president. At least these guys aren’t American. I’m pretty sick of how dumb we look/act these days. And I’m super duper pissed that there’s actually a movement in this country (thank you very much Bush, Larry the Cable guy, Foxworthy, Fergie, etc, etc, etc,etc) that purports that ignorance is the way to go. Being stupid and just keeping it simple is the American way! Since when? Last time I checked, this country was formed by a shady cabal of pissed off, revolutionary renaissance men. Revoloutionaries who were informed, angry, capable and interested in pushing things forward, not stagnating, not regression. My band had a bus driver who was actually so stupid that he believed that shopping at Wal Mart was good for America. (He also had never done laundry and still lived with his mom at 42). We tried to explain to him that Walmart thrived on foreign goods at the expense of American jobs and industry (look no further than rubber maid if you need an example) and all he said was “I ain’t interested in any fancy politics. Walmart is good, simple American folks, and I’m a-shoppin there.” Well, without getting any more into this, thanks Spanish basketball team, for doing something really really stupid. I’m sure we’ll return the favor soon.
Okay, I’m off to play with this baby. He needs some tummy time. Till the future!

Now, Reuters has picked up the story, so I get it, he's dead. thank god! Everything on the internet is still true! Also, How bout a little contest. Where do my headlines come from? Write in and tell me. Each one (with a few exceptions) is a famous quote. No googling please, only studious...ah, who am i kidding? There are no prizes anyway. Get fucked, new generation of wise asses.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

I'm getting what I deserve. I'm reaping what I sow.

I know you’ve all been dying to hear about the next installment of the improv class saga…well, it’s still lame. Last night it was determined that the teacher is A) surrounded by a misty odor not dissimilar to that of a dead salmon, and B) That he’s not very good at explaining things. How hard is it to explain, say, pretending to wait for a bus? Well, too hard for this guy, who, by the way was wearing the exact same outfit today as last week. This outfit consists of a pair of round, Bob Balaban-esque glasses, a shirt that’s a little to art deco to be considered a Hawaiian shirt (perhaps a Miami shirt?) some cargo shorts and some Velcro sandals. He wears a wedding ring, Hmmm. Anyway, class sucked but I was able to get a quick drink with some of the people in the class after work, and they seem okay, so god damn it, I think I’ll go back again next week. This is getting to be too much. My self esteem is already quite put upon by being barely employed, cloistered in my house, the less favorite parent of my child, getting old, the constant barrage of self reflection that comes with having too much free time, my lack of patience with others and the realization that all the pieces of my life are kind of in place ie, there’s not much more to it than this. Now, I really love my setup, but it’s a new frame of mind to get in when “when I grow up I’m gonna…”gets replaced with “Oh shit, I’m a grown up and all I’ve done is…” anyway, I digress. My point is, the improv class is too much to bear. My psyche is crumbling just thinking about going back there. It’s brutal.
My baby is in the next room becoming extinct, meaning he’s making noise and crying and shit when he should be napping, and I’m not supposed to go in there. Once again, brutal. You try this exercise some time. Make yourself some coffee, then sit down in your underwear and type out a list of things that bum you out while a baby screams in the background. Oh shit! He just went up to mach 5 with the screaming. I hear you, dude. Welcome to life. Guess what? It only gets crappier.
You know what’s a good drug I left off the list?

You can get this stuff if you’re afraid to fly, which I am. I only get it before big trips, like to Australia or Europe or something, but it’s great. A big Xanax and a glass of wine and the last thought before you pass out is usually something like ‘man, fuck it. I don’t even give a shit if this plane crashes.’ That’s mellow.

The baby stopped. This means he’s either A) sleeping or B) dead. I’m really, really, really hoping for A. if it’s B, the real problems of the extinction method are kind of showing themselves. I think I have to go check on him, which is a bad idea….ah, he just made a little beep of a sound and the baby monitor picked it up. Go A.

What do you order at a fast food restaurant? It’s an interesting question, actually. I rarely eat fast food, usually only when devastatingly hung over or in an airport, and even then it’s a rarity. It’s worth noting though, that I have some serious go-to favorites that are unrelenting, fast food wise. Quick list before I go shower, perhaps?

McDonalds- I get a double cheeseburger. If I’m starving, I may also get a six piece with hot mustard. I don’t really do fries or shit like that. Mostly just the double chee.

BK- Again, double cheeseburger. I don’t know which one I like better. It’s a mood thing, for sure. I do love the BK one, as it tastes WAY more like an actual burger than the mcdonalds one, which kind of tastes like a beef sweetroll. Sometimes I’ll get chicken fries from BK, just cuz it’s so fucked up that they even have those.

Taco bell- Bean burrito with sour cream, soft taco supreme, beef burrito thing from that new blue menu, any sort of exciting temporary item that’s really just one of these other things in a slightly different geometric shape. I’ll get two items at taco bell from the above list. After two items, my stomach will be bloated and full, and I’ll want another two items so badly that it’s all I can do to not turn the car around. Taco bell is like crack. It makes you feel like shit, it makes your skin bad, it makes you crap your pants, but fuck if you can stop.

Wendys- I’m not a fan. I guess I’d get a junior bacon cheeseburger, but I wouldn’t enjoy it. I like those frosties though. Yum.

White Castle- Five cheeseburgers. That’s right.

In n Out- Double double, hold the jesus, please

Jack in the Box- Ultimate cheeseburger is so fucking good! I’ll also get a taco, just to see the look on the face of whomever I’m with when they say “dude, did you just get a fucking taco from Jack in the Box?”

What’s left? Who cares. I’m bored. Oh and to the person who hasn’t had sex sober in over a year and wondered if that’s okay. Yeah, that’s what not being sober is for. Sober sex is for your little brother and his friends who have more access to pussy then they do to beer. No one else has it. Drunk sex is the only sex. Even people who think they have sex sober are usually either buzzed (read: drunk girls who don’t like to admit that they always get drunk and bone) or hungover (read: morning sex). So, yeah. Who cares if you’re always drunk when you fuck? That’s a good way to bust out the “uh, ever think about you know, the butt” or something like that, too. It can help everyone to relax, which can help them have more fun. Also, young dudes, the booze will give you a staying power you thought only porn stars had. Now, I’m in no way endorsing getting drunk and taking advantage of people, people. I’m just saying, next time you find yourself fucking, look around. Everyone’s drunk already. Nice. Hope I cleared that up for you. Okay, next stop, shower.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Don't you recognize your sam?

TGIM everyone. Welcome back to another installment in the endless series of soul crushing, mind numbing spirit snapping exercises designed to waste your precious few moments on this earth. I had a crappy night at work. I don’t even want to talk about it. I got a question from a guy who’s about to become a bartender and he wants to know some tips for being a great bartender. I have a few. These are real tips, not snarky jokes, so please treat them as gospel. Okay

Always acknowledge someone as soon as you see them. This sounds stupid, but nothing is more annoying than sitting at a bar, dying of thirst while some dildo bartender just goes on with their conversation or lime cutting or just standing there, staring blankly forward. You can get a lot of mileage out of “hey man, I’ll be with you in a minute.” For real.

Charge your friends for drinks. You don’t have to give them the nine dollar jack and coke that your bar wants you to charge, but make ‘em reach into their wallets a couple of times. That way, they’ll remember that they have to tip you something. And come on, you’re the one pouring them shots and getting them drunk. It’s reasonable to expect a little return. Conversely, if you’re a friend of a bartender and you’re drinking all night or whatever and they aren’t really charging you, what’s a good tip? If you’ve had a full night of drinking, and it’s been almost free, you should be putting down at least a twenty. If that’s too expensive, buy a sixer and stay home.

Let people drink as much as they want as long as they’re nice, and not bugging everyone else. Oh, so what. He’s wasted, big deal. That’s what whiskey does. Don’t cut people off when they’re drunk. Who cares if they’re talking loud, or slurring? If they pass out, well, they can’t drink anymore anyway. Pull ‘em out onto the sidewalk. Conversely, if someone’s bugging your other customers, or telling you to fuck yourself or anything like that, kick their asses out right away, drunk or not. Being drunk shouldn’t be the crime in a bar, being an asshole should.

Uh, don’t get so drunk that you fuck up the money- Obvious one right? You get a lot of leeway as a bartender, don’t fuck it up by messing with the bottom line. You know who suffers for that? You, and your fellow bartenders and your friends and everyone. So keep your shit together when you work. Fuck, it’s a job, after all. Save getting wasted for after work, or when your friend is bartending and you’re on the other side of the bar.

That’s everything. You’re all now master bartenders. Congratulations. That’s actually the entirety of a bartender college curriculum. Little secret, there’s no such thing as a fuzzy navel or a midori sour, it’s just shit that the bartending college cabal made up to get your tuition money. Now, get out there and get me drunk!
I want to make a list about drugs. I don’t know if I’m blowing my wad by doing this on a Monday, but I think it will be fun. Here’s a guide to drugs by Brendan Kelly

This shit is dangerous, kids. One minute you’re laughing about something funny that happened at the baroque choral performance over a glass of chardonnay, and the next you’re waking up in a random lawn with bloody knuckles, a sticky dick and no jacket. If you’ve ever had one too many cocktails, you’ve got some sort of embarrassing memory that will forever make you cringe and make a little noise every time you think of it. Be careful. Oh, and it makes you horny, or at least dumb enough to think fucking him/her/it is a good idea, so watch your dicks and pussies when you’re boozing. That’s where babies come from, son.

You smoke it, and it either makes you zone out completely or makes your mind race like crazy. I’m in the second camp. I can’t smoke weed because it makes me panic. Whatever, this isn’t about me. Weed is like the nerf ball of drugs. Yeah, it’s illegal, and yeah, it gets you fucked up, but if your grandma found it, she’d be like “stewart, is this your weed? I wish you wouldn’t do that stuff” and then give it back to you. If it’s not wigging out your grandma, it’s not much of a drug, Side effects of weed include being a shirtless dickweed like matthew Mcconahay and saying dumb shit about the celestial vortex and shit like that.

Mushrooms/ acid
You know when you have those moments of clarity; when you look in the mirror and go “holy shit! I’ve gotten fat” or you’re replaying some old conversation and you realize “man, I’m a selfish dickhead”? Now imagine being stuck in that moment for seven hours. That’s these. You better like yourself, starchild, cuz you’ll be spending lots of time in your brain.

Ecstasy- So, the night you’re on E, your entire body feels like an orgasm, and everything is a ten. Everyone is good looking. The room is beautifully designed. The dog is SO good. The beach boys are CRIMINALLY UNDERRATED! Oh, man! It’s just swell, guys! The next day, your entire body feels like a violated asshole, and you’re more depressed than you’ve ever, ever been. This lasts for three days. Wheee!

You know your one friend who’s kind of yellow and he’s always covered with a thin sheen of sweat? He shits a lot and he’s always cracking inappropriate jokes and he’s super happy one second and then something just sets him off? He’s on coke. What a cool drug. Jeez.

Like coke guy, but either gay or toothless. This is the drug that you do when you think just letting rats nibble your dick off is too boring and casual of a way to destroy yourself. Well, actually, that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens to people who are fucked up on meth. This shit is scary. Who wants to be high for four straight days? Ugh…no thank you. Word to the wise, for whatever reason, if you’re in a gay bar, and someone offers you coke, it’s at least got a forty percent chance of being meth. This also holds true in a roadhouse. I don’t know what it is about this drug that attracts the two ends of the personal appearance spectrum, but if you’re doing meth, you’re either a beautiful gay dude, or some creep covered in sores that lurks around the dumpsters at the Wendy’s.

It’s one of those things, right? You’re either gonna do heroin or not. I don’t think people get into heroin with a “hey, I’ll just casually party with some heroin here and there” kind of attitude. People kind of have an idea of what the lifestyle of a junkie is. Shitting explosively every six days, not eating, sleeping, drool, totally out there music. The cool thing about heroin is that one in every three users wakes up at the end of a big bender with model-quality good looks. It’s true.

There are kids in aftrica who get high off of poop. They shit and piss in a jar and then put a balloon over the top of the jar and leave it in the sun. The gas from the shit/pee mix fills up the balloon after a while and then you inhale it. Apparently it makes you hallucinate and really, really, really trip out. Huh. Kind of makes you feel like an entitled prick for complaining about your friend’s crappy weed the other day, huh?

I’m going to the post office. Drugs are bad everyone. Xo.

Friday, August 8, 2008

They're building landing strips for gay martians, I swear to god!

Wow, so we tried this thing called the extinction method on the baby last night. It’s called this because when you try it, you want to kill your baby, your spouse and yourself. It’s a great time. Essentially, its theory is this: This kid’s gotta learn how to calm himself down. Yes, you’ve been running in to comfort him at all hours for the past four months, but now he’s starting to form habits, and this sort of reinforcement only encourages him to keep crying, so starting now, let the little thing scream til its shrill banshee howls make everyone in the house shit their nerves into their pants. It’s fun.
So, I’m tired, my wife’s tired. My dogs are looking at me with a “what the fuck is that thing that just yells all the time still doing here?’ sort of look (as though they don’t shit in our room when they’re pissed at us). Domestic bliss. That’s the long and short of it, people. Yay.
Nah, it actually turned out okay, and when all the craziness was said and done, everyone slept until 7, which is no small feat. I’ve picked up some more shifts at the bar, so I’m up to three days a week, which I think technically makes me employed part time. That’s a big step up from ‘dependent’.
Well, technically, I’m also an advice columnist, right? And celebrity blogger? And just all around internet impresario? Yeah, that’s me. Step into the virtual lounge and have a virtual martini while I entertain you with my various virtual witticisms.
I hate music. It’s the worst. I can’t go see live shows anymore unless I really, really like the people in the band, or in very rare cases, really like the music. It’s a sad consequence of working in the live music world so intensely for so long. I used to love it, but I’ve been going to rock shows every day for the past fifteen years. I think even double blowjobs would get old after that amount of time. (eh, maybe not.)
Some dildo at my bar summed up all the conspiracy theories in the world for me yesterday. This guy’s in his forties and I’m pretty sure he’s always been a dork, but kind of got hip to pinko leftism in the very end of his college career or something. Anyway, he schooled me on the conspiracies of gas prices, airlines manipulating the economy, 9-11, the government sending anthrax to people, something that has to do with Chinese slaves being butlers for White house cabinet members during extended vacations somewhere, the commercial mailing industries hostile takeover by communist China and the White houses role in that and finally, how the NBA is totally fixed and he’s gonna go down to the United Center and start protesting, you know ‘just to get the word out there…expose the truth!’ then he sang me a song he had written. Four verses of it. Great. Thanks dude. I can barely stand to be in a room with a talented band made up of my friends, playing songs that are good. Listening to you (I’m not making this up) do the chicken clucks that comprise the chorus, FOUR TIMES is not cool. Not cool.
This is why I need to get out of the workforce. I can’t stand anyone. Not that I’m a barrel of fun to be around or anything. God, I think about what I’d do if I was my own customer at a bar…Christ. Thanks Joyce, Katie, Anne-Marie, people at Loafers, John, Dave, Martina, Tom, and various other poor suckers who have to deal with me on the increasingly rare occasions that I go out.
I gotta go to work. Enjoy your weekend.

Keep the advice coming. I don't think I need to tell you that blumpkin season is right around the corner! Let's talk about that.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Honest to Blog, you guys!

I’m just like a young Diablo Cody, y’all (except older)! It’s true! Think about it. We’re both sassy young things from the midwest, aspiring writers who do things on stages to pay the bills. All tatted up? You’d better believe it, daddio! And we both blog! Honest to motherfucking blog! What else, we both have kids? Nah, I don’t know about that…Oscars? Hmm…Okay, we both have arms that look too manly for a tight red cocktail dress? Ding ding ding ding ding! That’s the sound of another match, people! Man, my baby didn’t sleep at all last night and I was up late working on my screenplay. It’s about a pregnant man who, through snappy dialog and the help of his zany friends and aquaintences, decides, fuck it man, I’m pushing this baby out through my dickhole and giving it the chance it needs. Much like Juno, it’s already got some copycat pregnancies…high profile ones. Did you hear about the pregnant man? (By the way, not to be insensitive to the issues that face our transgender neighbors, but that person is simply NOT a pregnant man. It’s a titless pregnant woman with a light beard. Much less exciting when it’s told like it is). Oh, spare me. I know the poor ‘pregnant man’ was already dragged through the limelight kicking and screaming a few months ago (‘Oprah, I hope my neighbors aren’t looking out their windows, or at televisions, or internet, or buying magazines, or walking by the magazines that I’m on the cover of with the headline 'pregnant man'…I really don’t want them to know about this’...well, as long as they're Amish, they won't, pregnant man), and I’m not interested in revisiting that too much, after all, who am I? The fat, pre diet Perez Hilton, (as opposed to the gross, tubby post diet Perez of today) reporting on things that are so six months ago? Hello? But, okay, I need to say something because the pregnant man and my screenplay further link me to Diablo Cody, my other half.
Did you say she’s writing about vampires next? Highschool horrors? Me too! That’s such a great coincidence. Strangely enough, my own nom de plume is Demonio Tex, which is kind of like hers, right? It’s so weird, but the coincidences don’t end there, guys! We’ve both got dark hair, two legs, big wieners, supple thighs, pet lizards, a love of campell soup’s extra chunky “twice baked potato’ and a close relationship with our grandmothers. Come to think of it, have you ever seen us in the same room? Getting photographed together? I haven’t. I think I may be onto something.
Eh, how many people out there do this kind of thing? It’s like that Adam Sandler dude from my improv class that I was writing about the other day. People see success and they just ape the successful people completely, down to the tiniest detail, and it’s sad. That pregnant man was at least doing her own thing. The next closest thing is probably Buck Angel, and you should really check him out, but you should probably wait until you’re home from work to do so.
But anyway, how many young bloggers out there are blogging in combination with writing a screenplay about pregnancy because it worked for Diablo Cody? About a billion. There are no ideas left, people. It’s time to throw art into the fire and just stick to taping ourselves giving and receiving blowjobs and call it a day.
Have you heard that band Jet? There you go. God is dead.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

I thought I was looking at my mother's old douchebag, but that's back in Ohio

My baby is being such an asshole right now. He’s so needy. Whining, crying, insisting on not napping. It’s impossible to get anything done. Now, see. Here we are, seeped so deeply in irony and meta-story telling that I feel like I’m at the carnival, you know, in the house of mirrors. What am I not able to do? Well, my only real things to do today are take care of this baby and write about it here, so he’s actually fulfilling my needs by keeping me on my toes re: his needs, and giving me fodder to bitch about here. Also, he’s helping to make sure that I stay self aware and glib, you know, as per the style of the times. So, wow. Looks like we’re all the way back to square one. Of course, there are other things I could do. I could see how much of the Jim Beam bottle in the kitchen I could put away between crying bursts (mine, not the baby’s). I could get dressed, eat breakfast, take a shower or whack off, but none of these seem interesting to me right now. Besides, isn’t the notion of me in my underpants, unshaven and gross, sitting beneath a lone, bare lightbulb hanging from a wire, typing at my computer while my old timey fridge door hangs askew from its empty body a really romantic one? I think so. Man. I SHOULD drink some whiskey. That would really push this into pulp territory, huh?

The neighbors loved him, but he was a “Drunk Dad!”
(Tagline)- “Officer, I thought the baby was a bowl of pretzels!”

Nah, I’m not drunk. I don’t really plan on drinking whiskey today either. I like whiskey though. Whiskey and vodka are like two sides of a seesaw. So, I drink whiskey mostly in the winter and very late at night. With whiskey, I get mellow, slow and eventually kind of dumb, and maybe, if the mood is just wrong enough, a little depressed. Nevertheless, it’s the taste I like and the best way to unwind, drinking wise. I prefer bourbon on the rocks. Something nice if you’re buying, but generally, I’ll just do Jim Beam (but never Jack Daniels. That shit tastes like maple syrup. If I wanted the taste of Jack Daniels, I’d go to IHOP. Anyway…)
On the other side we have vodka. Vodka paired with club soda is refreshing when it’s warm out, immensely drinkable and somehow has the opposite effects on me as whiskey. It makes me more talkative, makes my brain work a little faster and puts me generally in a manic good mood. Vodka also tends to bring out my jokey, funny side. The thing is, vodka is also the drink that makes me think I’m really funny when I’m just being really offensive, and it makes me do dumb things, so it’s not all happy days with vodka. I usually drink vodka until the day that I wake up and I’ve pissed someone off, or just embarrassed myself, then I decide, ‘okay, hoss, enough vodka for a while. Let’s mellow you out.’ After this little talk, the next time I drink, it’s whiskey. That will last until I’m sick of the morning cobwebs and being such a lazy sack of shit. Then, guess what? That’s right! Vodka.
I know what you’re saying: Where’s beer fit into this equation? Well, beer’s not drinking. It’s beer. You have a beer with lunch, you know? You can have a beer in almost any situation…I mean, there’s a law in parts of Texas that say that if you can prove you’re on the shortest route to your house from work and you just got off, that you can drive and drink a beer at the same time. That’s not gonna fly with a gin and tonic, you know? Okay, mom! Yeah, people still get drunk from beer, and they crash cars and kill pregnant ladies and cut down young eagle scouts in the primes of their lives and all that. True. True. I can’t argue with that. All I know is, if you want to get wasted, why are you drinking beer? That’s like eating popcorn for dinner, or sitting through church for the wine…
You know what’s good? Sparks. It’s an energy drink/malt liquor. So, yeah, it’s basically Red Bull and Old English in the same can. It looks like battery acid and I always dismissed it as robot dog piss until my good friend Toby insisted I try one when I was hung over. “make sure to drink the whole thing” he told me with the bedside manner of a Costa Rican doctor. Well, sure enough, Toby was right. Sparks is a miracle hangover cure. I don’t care if you’ve been chugging beers or doing hits of E, a sparks or two will mop up those puddles of depression and make you feel like rubbing elbows at some lame party faster than you can say “stomach ulcer? What do you mean, doctor?”
I think maybe I’ll do a pairing list sometime soon, like different drinks and the best music to listen to, or the best activities to plan around your cocktails, something like that. I might even do it today if I get the time. You know what’s perfect for blogging in daytime? Sparks. There’s one in the old timey fridge now. Gotta run. Godspeed, dildos.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

steve langford has a huge penis

Well, yeah, so I had the first of my new term of Improv classes yesterday, and let’s just say my teacher was like the Bob Balaban character from Mighty Wind and the ‘eccentric’ republican woman in the class (wearing an outfit so outlandish that Andre 3000 would laugh out loud) picked a fight with him when he suggested that people might want to take off their shoes before we play tag. Yes, we played tag. I can’t take it any more. I’m gonna give that class one more chance, then fuck it. I’m done. Too soul crushing.
My baby is currently farting up a storm. He farts like a full sized guy, which is hilarious, especially when he’s being held by an unsuspecting person who carries themselves with dignity. Imagine my aunt (just for example) trying to explain that the echoing blast of a fart that just stalled every conversation in the room came out of the little tiny baby she’s holding and not her. Funny.
Last night there were tornadoes in Chicago. That’s not something you hear about every day. I mean, California gets earthquakes as punishment for all the leeway they give the gays, the rural Midwest gets floods and tornadoes for taking some sort of mongo pride their xenophobic blissful ignorance, the south gets hurricanes for all the underage fucking and the east coast get those hilarious accents for harboring all the jews, right?…I mean, that’s the way I thought god had it all worked out. Chicago gets the shitty winter and the horrible realization that 80% of the people out there think we’re on the eastern seaboard, despite being the third largest city in the US. Oh, and Texas gets to be fat…did I mention how fat Texas is? Why, you might even say a Texan gut is it’s own sovereign republic, just expanding and expanding over the straining rio grande of a belt, complete with a pokey longhorn buckle. Ah, but i digress...
Right, so I guess we did wrong in the eyes of god or something, because last night, two or three tornadoes touched down in Chicago. Thankfully I was in the ‘safe zone’ that only improv can offer, but my wife and baby were at home, huddled in the closet. I felt like a real dick. I was tossing an imaginary ball around a room with a bunch of dorks (including a guy who just impersonates adam sandler, like all the time, not just when acting. Even on break, standing by the soda machine, he’s just chilling, being Robbie from the Wedding Singer…it’s hilariously sad. I guess he’s a stand up wanna be, and he just doesn’t have any ideas…he’s like the comedic equivalent of one of those bands that just shamelessly apes the rolling stones…but way sadder, because he’s not getting laid. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do) while my family huddled, terrified in a small room filled with my underwear. Pretty lame, Millhouse, even for you.
So, yesterday’s post (Anal is the new Vaginal) dealt briefly with some things I like. I got all kinds of letters about this, and I feel compelled to respond. Now, most of you probably don’t need this kind of explanation given, as you can, you know, read, and therefore bring a certain level of cognition and comprehension to the table, so to you lot, sorry, bear with me while I get the dummies in the class up to speed.
That list was in no way supposed to be all encompassing, people. “You’re from Chicago. How can you not like hot dogs? Where’s bacon on that list? PBR? What gives?” Who said I didn’t like hot dogs? Do you honestly think that if I was going to list THE top twelve things that I like most in this world that dinosaurs and toupees would really be on that list? Okay, so for the record, yes I like other things that are not on the list. These were just SOME of the things I like.
Now, not to belabor the point, but if I did a list of the things I truly like most in the world, it would be so sappy and dull that I wouldn’t even have the patience to read it.
What’s on there: wife, baby, friends, dogs, bicycle, family, assortment of rainbow colored collectors dildos from the ‘On Golden Pond’ premiere. You see my point? It’s boring. Everyone likes bacon, and everyone should like hot dogs. So, yeah, in the interest of covering everything, here’s a list of things I don’t give a shit about, one way or the other. It’s comprehensive. There’s absolutely nothing on this earth or in this universe that I don’t have an opinion on if it’s not on this list:
Things I don’t give a shit about:
The environment
Barbie collectors
Race Relations
The AIDS epidemic in Africa and Black America
My family’s well being
Health Care
Pet grooming
Privatized prisons
Shit fetishists
Victory Records
The Iraq war
Dumb hillbillies ruining America’s status in the world
Foreign relations
Guys with big dicks
Guys with boomerang shaped dicks
The roadie for paul simon
Paul Mitchell Salons
Crest vs. Colgate
Roe vs. Wade
My appearance
Locking my doors
What I eat
Fellatio vs head- which one’s the better name for dicksucking?
Prince Charles
Prince Albert
Fat Albert
Macaroni and Cheese
Marconi and Chasez
America’s best Dance Crew
Motley Crue
Crew Pomade
The number seven
Pituitary glands
The remake of Alvin and the Chipmunks
Monkeys dressed as millionaires smoking cigars
The United Nations
The Klan
The isle of man
And finally…
Two of the Jonas brothers.
That is all.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Until later,

Monday, August 4, 2008

anal is the new vaginal

Good morning and happy Monday! It’s currently eleven thirty, and I’m just now caffeinated enough to attempt to expound in any sort of intelligent manner. Last night, my bar got slammed. Blame it on the Lollapalosers, or the people still on a chili dog high from Warped Tour if you must, but there were also two birthday parties in the bar, and everyone was chugging everything. It was a little nuts. I didn’t get out of there until three, which kind of sucks, but then I was so hungry that I had no choice but to put away a double cheeseburger and a McChicken on the way home. So, yeah, I’m farting zyklon b right now (google it). Also, I’m hungry, but I’m having that post junk food binge problem. Junk food is like smoking, doing drugs, compulsively looking at internet shit fetish videos, or any other vice. If you manage to avoid doing it for a while, its strangle hold on you begins to loosen, until you kind of wonder why you were ever so into it in the first place. HOWEVER, if you happen to, in a moment of weakness, you know, google ‘poo eating co-eds’ or drive thru the all night McDonalds, all of a sudden, BLAMMO! You’re right back where you started, craving that shit that you thought you’d never crave again. It’s brutal. All I want right now is a double cheeseburger from BK, or a pair of soft taco supremes. Fuck…I need a salad or something. Thank god that I’ve got the Perfect Pushup system (if you don’t know what this means, please see entry one, “hello blogosphere’ for a detailed explanation.) One day at a time, that’s how I’m gonna beat this thing. Just like Gary Busey did, man.
Quick aside, did anyone see Gary Busey on celebrity lard asses or whatever it’s called? He had the greatest inspirational acronym of all time, regarding sobriety. It was as follows:
S.O.B.E.R = Son Of a Bitch, Everything’s Real!
Say what you will about his lack of comprehension of what an endocrine system really is, or his totally great teeth caps, but man, that shit is amazing. Son of a bitch, indeed, gary! Everything IS real. Wow.
Kay, so in a follow up, sounds like the blueballed Eric of a few posts ago went ahead and took my advice and talked to his old lady, and without splashing his personal life all over the internets like some sort of creep, let’s just say that he wrote back to express gratitude, as the advice yielded some unexpectedly great results. He ended up borrowing my donkey costume and buying six yards of rubber tubing and a huge tureen of rice pudding. Just sayin. So yeah, thankfully, so far, the advice thing is working for people. Thanks for all the letters. If I don’t address your question or problem here, chances are, your letter or issue is boring. Get a more interesting life, please.
Our first letter of August comes to us from our neighbors to the north, Canada. It reads as follows:
I'm an 18 year old Canadian male. As of recently I started hanging out with this really rad girl, we share common interests in writing, literature and other things I generally don't share in common with a lot of people. I've been an atheist for some time now, I've just never had an interest in a god or any form of organized religion period. The girl in question is a DEVOUT christian. I'm talking church 3 nights a week, blogs about god, reads books only about god, you know, the works basically. It's never been an issue, yeah we have some differences but if it doesn't get in the way then whatever. Catch is due to her strict christian upbringing she's not allowed to date guys/definitely would never be allowed to see an atheist. I've never even been to this girls house because her parents would never ever approve. Now we've kind of been dating anyway but I can tell it really stresses her out. Am I simply denying the inevitable here? Should I just move on? I don't really know what to do, I like her a lot but I have a feeling that it may never work out.

Thanks for your time,
Cock Blocked by god

Okay, thanks for writing. So, your girlfriend likes jesus, you don’t, and other than the fact that she won’t let you meet her super religious parents, everything’s great, huh? You know, minus her obsessive god blogging and constant church attendence and her completely stressed out demeanor due to living a lie that her god can clearly see through. Well, seems clear enough to me, but I’m not an eighteen year old Canadian, god fearing or not, so I’m going to lay this one on the table as clearly as possible.
Your relationship is doomed. Not because of Jesus. Because you’re 18. It doesn’t matter if you guys both LOVE jesus, or get along great with each other’s parents or sneak around and rob gas stations together. It’s not going to last. It’s just an unfortunate truth. Young love is intense and fleeting. (Quick aside: save me the letters about your parents, who started dating when they were six and still fuck twelve times a day fifty years later or whatever. Yeah, there are exceptions to every rule. There are pack-a-day smokers who live to be ninety. It’s still pretty irresponsible advice to suggest that’ll happen to you, right? Okay, anyway…)
So, your relationship is doomed, Jesus or no, but who cares? If you like hanging out with this girl, hang out with her. Let her stress about her parents and blog about the dangers of secular temptation and perhaps she’ll come to realize that she’s putting constraints on herself that don’t jive with how she wants to live, or perhaps you’ll realize that Jesus is totally sweet. My point is, if you guys get along and have amazing talks about Raskolnikov’s personal dialogs and motivations or whatever, well, that’s a cool thing that doesn’t need to be turned on or off because of outside factors. Just relax and enjoy each other’s company while you can. Soon you’ll both be away at college, or home from college, or whatever is going to happen to you guys that will force you to drift apart (life changes fast at 18). So yeah. I’d say, hang in there. After all, you’re already going to hell, so enjoy your mortal life while you can.
One other thing, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t point this out. You’re dating an 18 year old girl, devout Christian (which is usually code for really repressed) who won’t let you meet her parents and sneaks around with you? That’s like winning the horny 15-45 year old male fantasy lottery. So, yeah, just consider that when and if she decides to rebel against her minister dad (who wouldn’t recognize you if you were shining his shoes, by the way) someone out there is going to be swimming in a sea of blowjobs. Might as well be you.

Well, that feels great. There you go Canada. We’re even now. My wife told me that she thought my list of celebs that I hate made me sound bitter. I respectfully disagree, but I thought I’d put a quick list of things I love up here, just, you know, to start the week off with some posi vibes. Here goes:

Cheese- Love it. Great on burgers, great on crackers, great by itself. Man, I love cheese.

Internet pornography- Have we talked about this before? Well, it’s nice to know that there’s an arbitrary depravity scale out there that I can easily reference when I’m feeling like a twisted freak. I check out what people are beating off to, and suddenly, I feel like an Amish guy banging my wife of twenty five years through a perforated sheet.

The Chicago Art Institute- Great collection, free on Tuesdays. It’s extremely humbling to walk through halls filled with honest-to-god masterpieces. It’s a great way to kill time and feel like your brain isn’t melting.

Pabst Blue Ribbon- Nothing beats a PBR. It’s great with cheese and crackers, while perusing internet porn, or right after a long day at the museum. Yup.

Pineapples- The toughest fruit. In a battle royal of all the fruits, Pineapple whups the shit out of everyone. Also, they’re delicious. Dubious websites say they make your jizz taste great (take note, gents) and they’re about to replace antlers and unicorns as the image du-jour of hipsters. You just wait and see. I’m calling it right now.

Baseball- I don’t even care. I don’t at all. It’s just so great that there’s an institution that everyone can get behind that celebrates sitting around eating hotdogs and nachos and chugging beer while people stand there and ‘strategize’. It’s brilliant. Also, the Cubs are great. So, the world’s about to end, huh?

Coffee- Wakes you up. Makes you poop. Thanks coffee.

White Castle- Man, these little guys are the best. What’s that? You don’t live in a place with a White Castle? Ha-ha. Your life stinks. Kidding. Go to the grocery store and get the frozen microwaveable ones. They somehow taste exactly the same as the ones you get from the actual castle. Oh, and my friend Paul cuts sliders up and makes White Castle omelets, so yeah, they’re versatile.

Gay friends- They’ll tell you if you look like shit. Every time.

The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass- This book is amazing. He wrote it when he was thirty, and wowzers. It makes me feel like a moron to hold myself up to that standard, but whatever. It’s great to know there are people like Grass out there, pushing what people are capable of forward.

Dick jokes- did you hear about the guy with five dicks? Yeah, his pants fit him like a glove.

Drugs- From keeping your AIDS in check to making sure you can ‘see the guitar solo’ at the Dave Matthews show, drugs are there for you. They’re like Jesus, in that they’re everywhere, and they can make you really hate yourself sometimes. Thanks drugs.

Dinosaurs- Try talking to a six year old. Now imagine doing it if dinosaurs didn’t exist. It’s a lot harder, right?

Toupees- Feeling blue? Check out that dude in the toupee. Yeah, it’s funny. Feel better? I thought so.

Okay, I’ve wasted a lot of time. Yay, me! Enjoy your day. See you tomorrow.

Confidential to Wasted in Tacoma: It’s cool bro. He didn’t mean anything by it. Just put down the pool cue and chill out.