Wednesday, December 31, 2008

it's the end of the year as we know it part II

This is part two of the BSC year end list for 2008. The first section is directly below and entitled “It’s the end of the year as we know it.”

On to the good stuff:

Most self indulgent waste of time-
Narrowly beating out whacking off in the dark while your baby cries in the next room, year end lists were voted the most self indulgent waste of time again this year. Perhaps in a different era, where a select group of well known people’s opinions were in some way linked to the perceived hipness or artistic integrity of a publication/institution, there could be some sort of argument that year end lists weren’t totally worthless. However, in this day and age, that’s not the case. Every dipshit on earth has an opinion, a blog and a dumb website that can just keep going and going even if no one reads it. Why would I possibly care about your opinion, random asshole? Why would you even take the time to categorize and list said opinion? Oh, because you ‘write’ for a ‘website.’ Cool. That sounds important, and not at all like a pretend job. You thought Quantum of Solace was the best film of the year, eh? Wow. Fascinating. If I wanted lists and categories strung arbitrarily together by any rambling schlong with an opinion, I’d go to an old folks home and ask the residents if they had any complaints. Congratulations year end lists! You’ve won an award.

Best year end list-
Bad Sandwich Chronicles “It’s the end of the year as we know it” parts one and two-
Finally, a year end list that takes year end lists and makes a year end list about them! Take that, you post modern meta-art self reflexive fucks! Not only am I having a fucking year end list about year end lists, but I’m fucking winning the whole thing because of it. Like Kevin Spacey in Seven, I believe some day you’ll all look back in awe at what I’ve just done here.

Blackest President-
Congratulations Dr. Lomax of the United Negro College Fund! You’re the blackest president of 2008!

Best Dad-
Tom Cruise- Putting aside his love of space aliens and cocks, Tom, truly a gifted actor has mastered living his lie of a life and has also somehow managed to not publicly do anything that would make the world go “That fucking guy has kids? Don’t we have laws in place to prevent that?” Congratulations.

Best Mom-
That mom that uh…what did she do? She killed her baby and blamed it on the sitter, right? Look, raising a kid can be rough. I’m the first to admit that it’s not all coos and laughter. Sometimes you just want to scream. And, depending on who you are, sometimes that leads to tossing your toddler’s corpse into some woods and then waiting thirty one days to report her missing. And it takes guts to pretend to have to identify some remains, and all that. Remains smell terrible, man. AND, since baby sitters are all tramps, at least according to my aunt, it seems to me that this mom made all the hard calls, and did her best to lay the blame on the next most guilty party. She’s just a little stupid, but that’s not a crime, is it? I mean, what is this, Russia?

Best Religion-
Okay, this was a tough one, but in the end, we all decided that uh…what’s it called? The one religion that’s absolutely ridiculous when you actually take the time to examine its mythology? You know the one…It’s followers twist the doctrine to justify doing really shitty stupid things? The whole thing is so fucking dumb, and predicated on such an absolutely retarded beginning, constructed out of lies, fairy stories, nonsensical bullshit and ‘miracles’ that fall apart under just the tiniest bit of scrutiny that if someone tried to pull shit like it nowdays, the followers and the founders would all be locked up (or burned alive)? You know what I’m talking about, right? It hates sex for some reason…Uh, full of perverts…Anyone?…fuck…oh well, let’s just give it to the mormons.

Best leisure activity (sexual)- Felching.
How could it not be felching? It’s offensive, it feels slimy, it tastes like rust, it smells like an untended porcupine farm, it won’t get you pregnant, it’s both gay and straight, and for the first time this year, felching came full force into the public eye when McCain told Larry King that to pass the time in the Hanoi Hilton he and his fellow POW’s “just felched and felched each other. There was nothing else to do, Larry, but felch our goddamn brains out.”

Best leisure activity (non sexual)- Ball sack depth charging.
Look, sure, it involves balls, but make no mistake, there’s nothing sexual about stuffing your ballsack into someone’s butt. It’s like trying on shoes. Yeah, some people get off on it, but those people are twisted. Ball sack depth charging is just something for bros to do with each other while they’re watching the game and eating hot wings.

Coolest trend-
I just learned what this is, because I’m such an old dad, but apparently, you kids like everyone to know where you are and what you’re doing at all times. Totally cool. When I was a kid, we tried to HIDE our activities from people. We were under the impression that broadcasting that you were off getting stoned, huffing paint, and eating cheeseburgers would probably eventually end up with some shithead you don’t like showing up and killing the fun, and later, someone like a potential boss or teacher or something knowing business about you that’s really none of theirs, but hey, I’m old school. Put your dumb lives on the internet. See if I care. What could possibly go wrong?

Best trend (tattoo)-
The ACAB tattoo. When I was playing a show in Montana, I saw a dude with this in big bold letters on his forehead. I listened to him talking about the awesome skatepark down the way a few miles or whatever, and then I said “uh…what’s the, uh, ACAB stand for?” “All cops are bastards.” He said. Wow.

Best Ass-
Bristol Palin
When she admitted on “Good Day Anchorage” that she could hold a full pint of liquid in there for twenty five minutes, I knew this particular category was sewn up.

Best death-
You thought it was gonna be Charlton Heston. We all did, but in the end, Eartha Kitt pried the title out of his cold, dead hands.

Things I’m looking forward to in 09
Finally getting on that spaceship and heading up to heaven with the rest of the squares while all you sodomites and electric car drivers drown in the sweet lord’s rivers of blood.

That’s it for 08 everyone! Keep those naked pictures coming and keep watching the skis.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

It's the end of the year as we know it

So, as promised, here are the year end ‘best of’s’ for 2008 AD. Some of these will feature ‘worst of’s’ as well, depending on my mood. In compiling this list, I surveyed over seven hundred people-some in person, some by phone and some by mail in the form of an anonymous pamphlet. I synthesized the answers and then, using a team of international judges, we determined what (or who) the final winners would be based on a series of complex equations and traditional Greek democratic tabulation methods (at least one of which involved logarithms and one of which involved sucking penises through a hole in the wall). Once our winner list was finalized, we scoured the sleazy side of the entertainment industry looking for publicists who were interested in buying winning slots for their clients. Finally, we got blackout drunk. The last person standing, with the vague knowledge of all that came before in this most complicated of processes, filled out the final winner sheet. I think it was me (but it could have been Akimbe, who is the judge from Ivory Coast. That guy can really put away the Drogbas).
Anyway, I know that the one thing the world is desperately short of these days is year end lists, so, without further ado, I present:


BSC Best of 08 List.

Best Genitals (BSC reader submission)
David (age 29)- Cedar Rapids
The gentle slope of David’s balls remind us of why we got into photo submission nudes in the first place. Taken in his back yard, with his jeans at his knees and his Pekinese puppy on a leash, manhandling what looks like the remnants of a slip n slide, this photo really has it all. Congrats, Iowa! You’ve got the best balls!
Nora (age 47)- Orange county
Gotta love a hairy butt! How very un-OC! Here at BSC we thrive on going against the grain, and Nora showed us all just how little she cares for the so-cal buttholesploitation that’s all the rage these days. There’s no asshole bleaching in this bathroom shot, featuring a kids bath in the tub and a burt and ernie bikini top. (It’s also a little bit fucking disgusting to have a hairy ass, eh? …BUT, we didn’t get that many submissions, honestly. In fact, Nora wins both best and worst genitals for her hairy butt crack. Congratulations, and for shame!)

Best genitals (General populace)
B. Kelly- Chicago, Illinois
Never has the world seen such magical balls, incredible buttocks and such a dignified wiener. Congratulations, whoever you are, for decimating the competition, yet again.

Best book
The Hungry Caterpillar.
He ate through absolutely everything! No wonder he had a tummy ache on Sunday night.

Best movie
Buttfuck Sluts with fat butts chugging nuts seventeen
Finally, a return to form! While BFSWFBCN 12 through 16 seemed like tired genre retreads, volume seventeen is an epic tour de force, complete with magical set pieces, sweeping cinematography, humbling vulnerability from the performances and a definite ten on the repeat spankability meter.

Best website (non BSC)
Garfield minus Garfield.
This site is too funny, man. I know it’s already been reported on in the NY times, and there’s a book and all that, but I’m just getting on board. This shit is too much. This Irish guy took Garfield (and Odie and Nermal [fucking Nermal; he’s like the Raven Simone of Garfield] out of all the Garfield strips to expose the loneliness and pathos of Jon, because, let’s face it, cats and dogs don’t talk back in the real world. It’s seriously hilarious, and it turns out that Jon’s kind of a stalker and bipolar. Funny stuff.

Best website (general)
Bad Sandwich Chronicles—
The funniest, greatest, most profoundly entertaining website that doesn’t feature gaping anuses. Don’t believe me? Check out the wildly entertaining year end list that was recently posted! This guy is amazing!

Best band
The Lawrence Arms
These guys didn’t even need to do much this year to sew up this award! What can you say about these three studs that hasn’t already been said about Jon Wayne Gacy? They’re from Chicago, they absolutely slay the kids, and they sure know how to wear a mustache. Also, they’re clowns, and bloody (amazing).

Most deserving of hype
Bad Sandwich Chronicles-
This website proved that sometimes the pundits and journalists get it right. From the AP wire to BBC, and everywhere in between, it was as though you couldn’t find a single negative word about BSC in all the media. Kudos!

Most hyped (undeserving)
It’s a tie between some lame pop emo band I’ve probably never heard of and Bud light Lime- Who cares about all this fusion? No one. Also, gross. For both.

Best whiskey
In a world of gross Tennessee mash posing as sipping whiskey, and foul, uninteresting bourbons with overbearing cherry flavor, these guys are doing it right. Delicious, smooth and so fucking strong that it’ll peel the skin off your dick, nothing beats Bookers. Haven’t gotten me a Christmas preset yet? How about some Bookers? Thanks!

Best beer
High Life
Although National Bohemian is the greatest beer in the world, there’s no denying that this is the year of High Life. The bottle’s shape and the brew’s drinkibility promote chugging like no other, and it’s also the strongest and least pussified beer of the big name domestics. Save your lectures about flavor and disgusting ‘good’ beer. High Life wins. You knew it would. Get over it.

Best recreational drug
Sparks- It’s not quite a beer. It’s not in any way a pill. But in a strangely delicious way, it’s both! It’s more than both. Is it a drug? Who knows, but the government is trying to crack down on it, so that’s kind of saying something. Nothing gets you going in the morning like a Sparks. Nothing kicks your ass into high gear like a sparks. Nothing like a Sparks, period. Except for a vodka and redbull, which is like sparks for assholes and sluts.

Best perscription drug
It’s like cocaine that you get from your friend who has an uncanny ability to tell a doctor what she wants to hear. This year, Adderal stepped out of the minors and into the big leagues with everyone from Shia Leboeuf to Sherry Shepherd to Clint Eastwood extolling the virtues of crushing up these little pills.

Best Completely Fucked Up Drug
Nothing says “hey, don’t bother coming over, I really have nothing to say or any interest in seeing you” like a nice heroin habit. It constipates you, but it makes the idea of eating disgusting, so everything kind of evens out. With three fun ways to get it into you (and counting!) it’s the easiest, most fun way to completely ruin your life out there. Also, it makes you green, and die. So, you know…caveat emptor.

Best bar (Chicago)
Dude, this is where Katie works. And she’s cool. It’s also next door to the Metro, and if you want to see the guy that plays the back of Jon Cusack’s head, well, he’s a bartender there too. Also, they’re right by Wrigley and they have a shittable men’s room. Take that LnL!

Best place to fart
In the shower-
Why does it stink so much worse in the shower? Who cares? Just enjoy it.

Best live performance
The Lawrence Arms-
It seems like almost every concert I went to this year was a Lawrence Arms concert, and they were consistently great, whether making inappropriate comments about acquaintances, tumbling into drums or ripping through the hits, these guys showed they have what it takes to rock cocks in 2008.

Best place to drink (non bar)
A beer is always better on the porch, walking down the sidewalk, in the back seat of a car, at the ballgame, on the roof, riding your bike…etc. than it is inside. Hmm…

Most common lie told
I love you-
Don’t let them fool you. They just like your car/cd collection/low self esteem and subsequent acquiescence to buttsex.

Best lie told
I AM wearing a condom-
You’ve seen the condom ads that say “the next best thing to wearing nothing at all”? Well, this is better than that.

Best snack (new category)
Jalepeno Cheetos. Holy shit! Why didn’t they think of this sooner? These fuckers are awesome! That’s really all.

Best crossover (unpopular punk music to unpopular blog category)
Um, come on. Tom Gabel. Oh, wait.

Monday, December 29, 2008

I'm having a blast with this crew...

That's right assholes and asshettes! Year end lists are a coming from BSC. Best dick! Coolest band! Gayest entendre! Coolest blog (duh). I'm compiling and compiling. Look forward to it. I'm handing down judgement! Get your pens out, cuz I'm gonna tell you all what to like/hate.
Happy holidays

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

holiday cheer!

I’ve got two thoughts for a merry Christmas tale of excitement to leave you all with, as I’m not going to be updating that often for a couple of days starting tomorrow, but I can’t decide between the history of the dumb bands I used to like and aspire to emulate and the tale of the most amazingly hilarious strip club that I’ve ever been in.
Well, as I look back over these options, it seems that one is so obviously appropriate for the holidays and one is simply not…So, here goes.

The Most Hilarious Strip Club I’ve Ever Been To
Brendan Kelly

In the fall/winter/spring (I don’t remember, but I know it was cold in a lot of places) of some year that predates 2005, I found myself in Ft. Worth, Texas at the Ridglea theater. We played a show there with our friends and tourmates in Hot Water Music. I don’t remember the show, but almost all shows in the greater Dallas/Ft. Worth area are a little crappy, so let’s just say the show kind of blew. It’s not important either way. What is important is that just down the road from the Ridglea, if you walk out the front door, cross the street and turn left is this white motel. The motel plays hardcore porn on three channels in every room. It’s not pay per view. It’s just straight up porn feeds included with the price of the room, which was, as per my recollection, about 23 bucks.
After the show, we retired back to the hotel and as almost always happened during this phase of our touring life, our roadie, Nader and I decided to head out to find some trouble. Often, someone else from our squad would accompany us, but the two of us almost always ventured out. Tour can be extremely boring and repetitive, and heading out to see what’s going on after we got settled was our little way of attempting to make the most of a day that almost always could otherwise be summed up as “woke up in a hotel, drove all day. Got to the club, soundchecked, played a show, went to a hotel, slept.”
Anyway, we headed out, just the two of us this time, but we didn’t have to go far, because right across the street was a shack that was advertising as a strip club. Now, strip clubs are expensive and frustrating and not that great to go to on tour. The exception to all these rules is when they’re obviously gross. And THIS place was so clearly busted from the outside that I don’t even think Nader and I had to so much as look at each other or speak…we just crossed the street and walked in on the most fucked up spectacle I’ve seen, maybe ever.
Okay, so the place was floored in two by fours, the bar was a cheap linoleum affair, the clientele was exclusively drunk Mexicans. The lights were up as though it was a McDonalds at two in the afternoon. There was no cover, the beers were two bucks and the shots of whiskey were three.
We approached the bar and set to work drinking and surveying the scene. The bartender was a fat lady who was super nice to us, (if memory serves, she even gave us a free shot of whiskey right away) and then we saw the stage.
The stage was made of unpainted plywood and had a waist high banister on either side made of two by fours. It wasn’t actually so much a stage as a runway. It was about ten feet long, two feet wide and it just started and ended right in the room. It wasn’t like it came out from a curtain or backstage or something. The nails weren’t well hammered in, and could have snagged a panty or teddy or something without too much trouble. I remember thinking “fuck man, that thing looks pretty unstable” before I saw any dancers even traverse it. We sat down at a table (at this point we were pretty stoked, because this place was shaping up to be TERRIBLE, which, for what we were looking for, translated to PERFECT) and waited for the first dancer.
Now, this is fucked up. Based on some pretty asinine stereotypes put forth by ignorant hicks, there’s no way to say this without sensitive people deciding I’m racist, and so I’m just going to have to say it and you can decide for yourself. The first stripper who came out looked exactly like a gorilla. She had the face of a gorilla. YES, she was black, but man, if she’d been white with the exact same face, she would have looked just as much like a gorilla. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. People say that Bush looks like a chimp, and I can see that, but not anywhere near as much as this woman looked like a gorilla. It was nuts. She was also way, way fat with tits the size of my torso. Dangerous ground, ettiquite wise, I know. Whatever. It’s all in god’s hands now…anyway…
SO, I decided that I absolutely had to give this woman with the gorilla face a dollar, but I didn’t know what to do…it wasn’t like a stage where you go sit at the base of it…it was this fucked up runway with a banister. Then one of the other guys in the place approached and held his dollar up, just standing there and she leaned over the banister and took the dollar. I followed suit only to realize, in a fit of horror, what giving a dollar entailed. She started at my wrist and licked my arm all the way up to my shoulder. That was what a dollar gets from the gorilla faced stripper at the budget club. A real arm licking. Nader and I were dying of laughter, almost unable to breathe. Then the next stripper came out. She had a giant crooked witch nose. You could see her pubes crawling down her thighs with her panties on. Then out came the girl who looked pretty cute until she took off her bra to reveal red infection lines heading out 360 degrees from both nipples, then this woman came out with the most fucked up stomach I think I’ve ever seen.
You know how when you stuff a Kleenex box into a garbage bag it leaves that point in the bag that doesn’t just go back? She had a point like that sticking out of the side of her stomach. She (garbage bag stomach) and the girl with the overgrown kudzu bush asked if we wanted them to give us a lesbian show, which would have probably been about as sexy as watching people barf on each other (which is what we probably would have been doing in response. A symbiotic show for the girls…ah well, hindsight being what it is and all…)
All the while this is going on, Nader and I are ordering more and more shots and beers and laughing and having a great time. We weren’t being dicks to these girls, because that’s just a crappy thing to do. They’re just working for a living, but we were quietly cataloging them for future reference…gorilla face, witch pubes, infection tits, garbage bag stomach…it was a real scene, man.
SO, here’s where it gets good. Last call comes and we each order two shots and two beers. As we’re finishing our beers, the bouncer comes over to tell us it’s time to bail. BUT there’s something odd about this bouncer. Hmmm…what is it? What could it be? Oh yeah, he’s a MIDGET IN A TUXEDO!
I’m not talking about a short guy…He’s literally a midget. And he’s literally in a tux. And he’s literally the bouncer and he’s literally kicking us out. SO, we said, ‘yeah, cool.’ And we left, and along with everyone else in the place, we headed back to the hotel. That’s right! That’s why the porn is free on the tvs in that hotel. All the strippers bring the dudes back over there for after hours gross fun. The place was sweating and groaning all night as I slept in all my clothes on top of the sheets wrapped in plastic.
The next day was uneventful.
Happy holidays. Send nudes.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

The weather outside is frightful

People always talk about fuck bots when they talk about the future. They seem to be the meterstick by which we measure our mastery of applied science. “How close are we to the days of the fuckbot?”is, in a very real way, the most important question that any medium of social discourse, from nerdy message boards to hip hop songs to films, has ever asked about our trajectory as a society. It seems like no matter what technology we, as a species manage to invent, the fuck bot is always just out of reach. I mean, we’ve got nanobots that go into your blood and clean it out, for fucks sake. That seems, to my untrained scientific mind to be more difficult to construct than a nice, soft realistic fuck bot, but I guess not. The art/science of erotic robotics is truly the last great frontier. Cancer? Treatable. The moon? We’ve been there (actually, of course we haven’t…but hey! We’ve convinced everyone we have, and that’s even more impressive, at least in my opinion) little cubes that taste like beef? We got those. Malt liquor and energy drink in one can? For a few more precious days, anyone with a decent ID can enjoy one. But try to find a fuckable robot in this crazy mixed up world…Go ahead, try. It’s nigh impossible. I suppose there’s a guy in Japan who recently made a pretty good one. She apparently gets him beer and blows him and stuff.
They say he started out trying to make a robot to help the elderly but fell off track somewhere. Oh Pygmalion! Falling in love with your granny helper bot. I’d like to see the footage of how that all unfolded. How do you end up falling in love with an under-construction robot? Maybe it was early one morning and the guy was naked, you know, pre-coffee, and he was trying out the vacuum feature on the helper bot when his dick got sucked into the intake valve? Next thing you know, he can’t sleep…He gets butterflies every time he looks at his tool belt, and suddenly, he’s fitting the helper bot with a set of cans (heh…get it? Cans? Heh.). I mean, is that what happened? Who knows? Is the robot attractive? Again, who knows?
The funny thing is, that people who like to be penetrated already have pretty affordable fuck bots available to them, but those are kinda unsatisfactory as a general rule. I mean, it’s not going to listen to your story about your coworkers, it’s not going to split a tab of ecstasy with you, it’s not going to impress your parents with its great job and/or witty anecdotes. It’s just going to vibrate and hum in your drawer/butt. Sure, they’re great. I’ve seen all those documentaries where forty five year old British women talk about how they’ve never had such raging orgasms as with their dildo/vibrator. It’s brought them to tears! Oh! Wow! The pleasure! BUT there’s just something missing. You know? If they were really ALL THAT, organic dicks would be out of a job. I mean, the horse got replaced by the car, right? Superior technology. Is the dick in danger of getting out moded? Not really. I think the point stands. This guy in Japan, though…He doesn’t seem like he’s gonna need to look for an organic girlfriend any time soon. I mean, the bot gets him beer and blows him, and she probably doesn’t bitch about him keeping odd hours, looking at porn, being a slob, not flushing, being drunk, never wanting to go anywhere, or whatever it is that this guy does that makes him the kind of person who needs to invent a girlfriend. He sounds like he’s all set for a while. Good for him.
I have to get my baby a passport today. He’s going to mexico for some surf and sun in about a month. Both parents have to be present to get a passport for a baby in order to insure that one parent isn’t just getting all set to take the baby out of the country and never return. Some society we live in. I know I sound like a crochety old shit, but fuck, man. Everyone’s stealing kids, and now I’ve gotta go jump through all these hoops like a criminal and prove I’m not some dick child abductor just so I can go down to Mexico with my kid and enjoy cheap hookers, Quaaludes, and affordable cocaine. It’s a real shame, is what it is. I mean, I know babies are worth a lot of money these days, but you really need to think about it…How much is a baby worth? Fifty grand? Five hundred grand? I don’t know for sure, but mine is pretty nice…he’s a high end model to be sure. And I’m guessing that even if I got a pretty good price for him, let’s say five hundred grand, well, I’d blow through that, and then when it came time for me to retire, I’d be fucked. Now, if I instead raise this kid to be a decent guy, and along the way convince him that I’m not a total raging asshole, when I retire, HE’S gonna take care of me. That’s worth a lot more, especially because we’re talking about future money, so, inflation and all that…Plus, I’d need to get a job in order to be able to retire from one, so that’s gonna be a while right there…I guess the point is, financially, it doesn’t really make sense to sell your babies. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal, and I think there’s only like, a pretty small chance that you’ll be selling him/her into any sort of better life. For every wealthy, loving barren couple out there using the black market there’s also someone who runs a shoe factory or dick suckery. And, well, let’s face it, that’s not a great life either way. SO, don’t sell your babies, everyone. I’m keeping mine. And that’s final.

Monday, December 22, 2008

AMY WINEHOUSE NAKED!!!!!!! Oh, wait...ew.

The Christmas party at my bar was awesome. The dick boss and I were wearing the same sweater. I got a picture. He wasn’t pleased, but what could he do? Heh. No one really did anything embarrassing. This is pretty much due to the fact that the girl who really traditionally busted with the bad behavior got fired this year. I walked in on a bunch of the Mexican guys’ from the kitchen’s friends in the bathroom doing coke and that was funny. They were frightened at first, but then decided that I was “crazy” so they acquiesced and let me pee. Nice. Other than that, nothing really that exciting at the Christmas party. Now it’s done and I have a whole year to wait before the next one. Such a shame.
On friday night, we played in Minneapolis and it was okay. When I was about fifteen this guy named Pete from a band called oblivion (who is one of those bands that gets worse with every release…their demo, “think tightrope boobjob” is one of the best collections of songs I’ve ever heard, don’t judge them based on their late-era output [sweatpants USA]) explained to me that for a show to be great, truly great mind you, the band and the audience have to each do their job, A bad show can be salvaged by an enthusiastic audience, and likewise, a crappy audience can be made up for by a stellar performance, but for a concert to truly, truly be great, both sides have to do their jobs. This is 100% true. I think, in Minneapolis, we did our job. It featured funny banter, we were tight, and even though my bass kept coming unplugged due to a short cord, it was, from the stage, a good showing. The crowd though…a bit of a dead lay. I can’t fault the people in attendence, it just didn’t quite feel right, and as someone who’s fucked up my share of shows, I know when it’s not my fault. SO, I give the show in Minneapolis a six out of ten. The actual fun (shots, hookers, felching the strangers in that blindfold ‘who’s felching who’ game) was about a ten out of ten,. The drive there and back were terrible. Nothing but snow, skidding and tense shoulders. That gets like, a two out of ten, I think.
A lot of you have informed me that Sparks is being taken off the market. I’m, of course, devastated. I did my best to drink as many sparks as possible this weekend, and I’m gonna continue until it’s all gone. I don’t understand why they’re doing this to me. A neon brown drink that obviously causes obesity and heart problems and adult onset diabetes is being banned???? BUT IT’S THE ULTIMATE HANGOVER CURE, YOU INSENSITIVE DICKS!!! That’s it. I’m going back to oxycontin/adderal speedballs.
Fuck. I gotta do some Christmas shopping. Have you all already gotten me something? Pictures of your nuts/clam would be great. Thanks.
Oh yeah, I'm stark naked and drinking a rum and coke as i type this. Just so we're on the same page.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

The ONE HUNDREDTH post. No sappy shit, kay?

So the office party was a success. I Xeroxed my ass and balls, got a few beejes from a few secretaries and generally wore the lampshade. It was held at a restaurant that I’ve always wanted to go to and the food proved to be pretty okay. I did a lot of my hanging with the argumentative Mexican-by-way-of-Missouri wunderkind and the gay dudes. Of course, as an office spouse (did I not make this crystal clear? This was my wife’s office party…My office party [if you can call it that] is on Sunday and involves drunk slutty cocktail waitresses and drunk Mexican guys and me. That’s gonna be fun) I was on my best behavior. I stuck to whiskey, except for with the meal, then I had wine and whiskey. Oh, and then the bosses wife wanted me to drink sake with her, so I did that. It was fun and not at all embarrassing, even when I spilled sake on her. Hey, lots of people were spilling things.
The big news was that suddenly I was talking to this guy from New York who introduced himself as the guy who had lost a couple of babies earlier in the year. As in miscarriage, not gross negligence. I politely recalled and condoned, as a good office wife should. We chatted for a while, then it got pretty weird pretty quick. My wife approached and we were all talking, still about his babies n such, then about how we have a new baby. Yeah, the baby is great…not a lot of sleep, but you know, he’s cool. That’s when he busts out with “See, he (that would be me) doesn’t understand. I HELD MY DEAD BABIES IN MY HANDS!”
I just kind of walked away. Dude, seriously? Quite the move, eh? I mean, I guess he held ‘em. They were apparently twins that made it about five months. So, they’d clotted and everything. Which means, you know, technically, holding them was possible. Still, man…This is an office party. Talk about how you wanna bang Marge from accounts receivable or something. Don’t hit some stranger with your fetus-clutching story. That’s like tenth date shit.
I got to go to work and my wife is off to NYC for office party part two. That means it’s just me and the midget at the crib tonight, which means HOUSE PARTY!!!!! See you all there. It’s BYOS (the S stands for syzurp)

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

I'll pitch my voice where ever I PLEASE!!

Today is my baby’s 8 month birthday. I don’t technically know if that’s a birthday, but it seems as good as any other time to decide that he’s officially been alive for a certain amount of time, right? Fuck, I’m not gonna bake him a cake or anything. He just gets some bananas and then he gets to go with me to the DMV. Happy two thirds of a year, dude. Life is one gigantic crappy line after another, get used to standing here. Not that he stands. You know what? I’m done with these semantics.
I still have to get Christmas gifts for everyone. What’s worse, I have to tell people what I want. I don’t want anything. Well, I mean I’m sure there’s shit out there that I want…Like maybe I’d like some shoes that have traction, don’t allow my feet to freeze in the winter and don’t look like they were made for someone who works on the enterprise or for some hippy turd. I mean I want that, but that’s like saying I want world peace, or a cure for AIDS or a black president. Whatever, man.
So yeah, I have to go to the DMV and then head out to some gigantic stores (which, as you may or may not know I cannot stand) to shop for people for Christmas all while toting a baby. Also, it’s my wife’s office party tonight and for whatever reason, that thing that hangs down in the back of my mouth (my uvula, for the nerds out there) got all swollen while I slept and now it’s dragging on my tongue and kind of vaguely making me feel like I’m going to choke at any minute. All I need is a lump on one of my testicles or maybe to step in dogshit with my face and this day’s just about perfect. God.
So, someone asked me recently if I ever draw a blank when I’m writing this thing. The answer is, pretty much every single day. Some days it’s worse than others, and today is one of those days. I have nothing interesting to discuss. I mean, I’m going to Minneapolis in two days to play a rock show at the ten year anniversary of this club called the Triple Rock, which is cool, but it’s not really, you know, interesting. There are some really interesting people out there though. They’re the ones who should be writing blogs and telling stories.
For example:
Mexicans- Now, I’m not talking Mexican Americans here, but honest-to-god, I-work-as-a-busboy-or-cook-and-I’m-here-illegally Mexicans. These guys ALL have at least one story that’s better than any story I have. It involves them sitting in the pitch black trailer of some truck or swimming across some river or climbing some fence and running and running and then figuring out how to get by in a place where technically, they’re illegal. I mean, I live in Chicago. That’s a LONG fucking way from Mexico. However these dudes that I work with ended up in the kitchen at my bar, I promise you it’s a way better story than the time that me and Marcus cooked pot resin in a spoon behind the bushes at the conservatory when we ran out of weed in high school.

Buzzards- These are the guys with the long hair that hang out behind the school or by the reservoir and they’re always dipping their joints in embalming fluid and shit like that. They’re not hippies at all but they’re not quite metal heads either. Cliff Burton is pretty much the most famous buzzard to ever live. They usually hang out in groups of two or three and they probably don’t say much at first, but let me tell you…I hung out with some buzzards my sophomore year of highschool, and between all the acid and wicky sticks and AC/DC and Sabbath and Public Enemy tapes they somehow still had time to steal their friends gold mercedes’ and cruise four counties over to the dude who cooks up PCP in his basement all while the fourteen year old girl that one of them was banging freaked out on acid in the back seat the entire way there and back. Usually, these stories involve cop chases and cornfields and all that. These guys often end up kind of grizzled and mean, so if you catch a young buzzard, you should get all the stories you can out of him, while he’s still excited about his shenanigans and before he’s completely crushed by realizing the consequences of not playing by the man’s fucking rules, dude.

Old women with lots of tattoos- These women aren’t just everywhere, sure, and by the time I’m old, this will no longer be an interesting segment of society, but back in the day, when people who are currently old were young, being a woman and getting a tattoo was crazy. There’s not even an equivalent now. People split their dicks in half for cosmetic reasons these days for fucks sake (uh, by the way, that’s a bad look and it um, how do I put this? COMPLETELY FUCKS UP YOUR ABILITY TO USE YOUR DICK!!!!!!!!!! I’d like to point out to all the lizard men and future primitive dudes out there that I’m not shocked, okay. You get no satisfaction. I’m not shocked. I’ve been seeing split dicks and guys who have their palates surgically altered to look like cat faces since I was a wee tot, so there. You’re not interesting. You’re stupid. I see splitting your dick down the middle as a really expensive, slow version of getting in a drunk driving accident—it’s dumb, it could have been prevented, it’s all your fault and you’re gonna have to live with the consequences of your rash stupidity forever…but it’s not shocking, sorry Xero, or whatever your dumb new name is) people do all sorts of dumb shit in an attempt to shock. Hell, that chick that got all the abortions and then painted pictures with the discharge didn’t even raise as much of a stink as these grannies did back in the day when they got that big bald eagle tattooed between their tits. That shit was crazy for the times, hence pretty cool stories. That’s the old days though. Tattoos are absolutely, positively, no two ways about it, no longer cool. Just like skateboarding and legal graffiti. Sure, it’s still an art form/sport/art form, but it’s no longer a COOL art form/sport/art form. Thanks a lot X games.
Anyway, these old birds probably have some great stories, but you know, they’re old, so they’ll probably be pretty drawn out and not really go anywhere.

Gay people- Most gay people have a pretty good little line up of stories. In my experience it goes ‘first overtly sexual gay fantasy story’ accompanied by confusion, excitement, some shame and some more confusion. (My friend in college used to tell me that he had this early fantasy that he was trapped in a room with dicks coming out of everything, the walls, the Kleenex boxes, everything; and he had to suck them all to get out of the room. Thousands of dicks…that’s way better than my lame fantasies of wanting to see naked tits bouncing.) Then the story of coming out, which is sometimes depressing, but almost always interesting, and finally the story of going fucking buck wild once they finally were able to be comfortable with who they are for the first time in their lives. This is often pretty graphic…as the best stories often are.

So there you go. A small sampling of people with something to say. I’m just a dull semi- young, straight white guy who has to go to the DMV with my baby. Wow. Some blog you picked to read, huh?

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Don't leave me hangin on like a yo yo!

People who never get laid:

Dungeon Masters- And/or their disciples, or prisoners, or whatever it’s called when you aren’t a dungeon master yourself, but you put your avatar in whatever dungeon the master is the master of. Jesus. See why these guys never get laid? These are the same guys on the forefront of fleshlight/pocket vagina/electronic blowjob sleeve technological innovation though, so for the sake of science and all the rest of us, let’s hope these dudes never invent a way to make women think orcs and wizards and shit are sexy, or we’re all doomed.
See also: Star Wars Guy, Lord of the Rings guy, Obsessive (more than you) Video game/Internet guy

Self proclaimed ‘nice guys’—Pussies who quote John Cusack and make overtly sappy romantic gestures (again, a la Lloyd Dobler himself) like showing up places with flowers, playing favorite songs on boom boxes held aloft, getting too-expensive christmas gifts for coworkers they have crushes on…these guys look like potential stalkers without exuding any of the ‘first impression’ charm that most actual stalkers possess.
See also: Poets, Best friends, obsessive regular at the coffee shop/bar/restaurant some girl works at.

The extremely gross—You never, ever shower/ you’re over four hundred pounds/ you’ve got a scab covering your whole face/ there’s insertion porn photos right on the cover of your trapper keeper/ you have white sweatpants on with visible shit stains…You’d think this would be a no brainer, but really, it’s not. If you can’t even be bothered to do the minimum maintenance to prevent people from being grossed out to the point of barfing just by looking at you, well…who’s gonna pump your wang? Answer- You and you only.

The clueless prick—
Here’s the scene: Regular bar, populated by regular folk is infiltrated by a bunch of guys in hockey jerseys, leather jackets, slicked back hair and gold trim. There are a few goatees and a few greased back balding heads, for sure. They talk loudly. They’re covered in cologne. They have their numbers already written on the insides of a bunch of different matchbooks. They all order cosmos. They loudly make fun of the fat chicks and other dudes in the bar. They fist pump a lot. More cosmos. They send inappropriate drinks down the bar to chicks who are with dudes then they leer. They make comments like “nice ass” and try to dance with groups of women. They try to start a fight. They go home. They masturbate to the thought of each other’s sisters and wonder what the fuck went wrong again tonight. These guys watch ‘The Pick Up Artist’ and try the moves, forgetting that we’ve all seen that show, guy, and we know what you’re up to. “Hey, I need a woman’s opinion real quick…I gotta meet my friend in a second.” Not so fast, Matador.

People who get laid sometimes, but only by each other-

The curly haired sensualist-
Usually large breasted and wearing too much makeup, the curly haired sensualist is quick to insert a double entendre into a conversation or drop tidbits about her donging preferences like it’s no big deal. She almost certainly writes poetry and has a bit of a mustache if you look closely. It’s no stretch to imagine her listening to Enya with some oils and a toolbox of dildos in the whirlpool tub. She never understands why her sensuality fails to be as provocative as it seems like it should, forgetting that she’s pretty much acting like a dude, which is great, but only if you’re not also reminding everyone of their horny aunt.
They do sometimes get laid, though, by:

The ponytailed/trenchcoat sensualist:
This guy…Y.U.C.K. I went to highschool with a few of this dude. Always with the penthouse letters style short stories in creative writing class and a young girlfriend who he does god-knows-what to in god-knows-where. This is the type of guy who has tribal tattoos up his spine, is into massage and probably tai chi or something that involves posing. He’s fit and every bit as easy to picture listening to Enya in the whirlpool with a box of dildos. He’s got nipple rings and a tattoo around his bellybutton, or a tattoo around his nipples and a bellybutton ring. Either way, ugh. He maybe puts honey on his nipples and an ice cube in his mouth too, you know, when he’s alone…so gross. So just incredibly gross. I’d say Mystery himself falls into this category. This is the dungeon master graduate program for dudes who are sick of using the internet as a monogamous sex partner.

These two find each other occasionally, and let’s be honest, they’re probably having more fun than any of us. I want nothing to do with it, and I’m sure they emerge smelling like a rotten barn and sticky from head to toe, but hey, they’re living the dream.

People who get laid constantly:

Guys who have bad reputations as dudes that fuck chicks and then ditch them-
It never fails to infuriate the guys from the ‘people who never get laid’ category, but it’s the truth. These guys have tapped into the competitive nature of women and figured out the ultimate loophole. Banging around a social circle is a lot like having a heart attack—each time it happens another one following is more likely. This works best if it’s a situation like a bar that has a bunch of regulars or school, rather than say, a group of six specific friends, although both ways tend to work. Much in the same way that predatory men charm women because they want to bang them, predatory women bang men because they want to charm them. These guys who seem uncharmable, despite all the banging, are exactly like the women who seem unbangable, despite all the charming.
This is why dildos like Tucker Max write about mistreating women and as a result have more pussy on their dockets than they could possibly ever work through in six lifetimes with a truckload of borrowed dicks. Treacherous? Oh yeah. Unbelievably successful? Mmmmhmmm.

Drug dealers- Pretty obvious, right? You want something that goes in the lungs/nose/arm? Well here’s something that goes in the pussy/mouth/ass.

Most women- There’s a real jes ne sais quois about a woman who CAN’T get laid. I don’t know what that factor is, but some possess it. Most women, however could get laid in almost any situation. The issue is that most women have standards of some sort that tend to get in the way. This is pretty sensible since there are some real creepy dudes out there (Ed Gein just as an example) but it’s a roadblock nonetheless. Listen ladies, if there was a Let’s Make A Deal type situation where Monty Hall came into your office and said “I’ll give you (whatever it is you most desire, a billion dollars, a whole grip of slaves, a house in the sky, world peace, the cure for cancer, your grandma’s back from the dead and she can dance again, whatever) if you can get yourself laid, by a man, in the next five minutes, you could almost all do it. That’s gotta be a little comforting/very disturbing to think about.

Gay dudes- Nothing but dudes means all pretense and rules are out the window. It’s like your parents being out of town for the rest of your life.

There are many people who are not on the above list, and I look forward to attempting to get to all of them, including the foreigner from Europe, the foreigner from South America, the dude with too many muscles, the guido, the guy in that shitty party shirt (stripey and button up [or Ed Hardy] with some of those dumb designer jeans that have all that garbage on the pockets) the old man, the metal head, the burnout, the racist, mustachioed strongman, the farmer, the quadriplegic and of course the model UN president.
Good luck out there.

Monday, December 15, 2008


A few months ago I was drinking whiskey in an outdoor hot tub with a member of the secret service who had overseen the safety of the prince of Qatar while he was in America to get his penile implant serviced. Now, I’ve been all around the world, and I’ve done some wacky stuff, but believe me when I tell you that I know when I’m outclassed, story wise. This guy had tons of great stories, some of them involving his tenure as a member of the Men In Black and some involving his special ops deployment in Iraq. So, for every story I had about a drunk Austrian girl punching me in the face out of nowhere, THEN trying to grab my dick through my jeans, then barfing on the floor, THEN trying to kiss me, THEN passing out, face first into the bar, this dude had a story about tracing the aerial trajectory of missiles that blew up his jeep back to some remote village and searching through the local chicken coops to find the old lady with the keys to the rocket launcher. That’s just a better story, no two ways about it.
SO, of course, as often happens when humans drink whiskey in hot tubs, we ended up pretty drunk and I, being the kind of guy who (especially after some cocktails) figures that everyone can always empathize with my hilarious world view, made some pretty dumb, standard, privileged white guy blanket generalizations about war, soldiers etc. And guess what? He was pretty bummed. I don’t know if it was my dumb teen angst just bubbling over due to drinks or maybe some sort of latent jealousy due to his vastly cooler stories, but either way, pretty lame of me, especially because I really want to hear some more of dude’s stories, but if I was him, I wouldn’t waste my time telling my good stories to some peacenik dipshit knowitall judgmental smartass who’s never so much as gotten his teeth knocked out, much less had guns shot at him.
I used to have the small minded view that if you were involved in the military for any reason at all, you were a dick. My general theory was the typically simplistic “Don’t be part of the fascist machine! ‘I was just following orders’ is no excuse for the rampant militarism that we practice with our bloated military, bro!” This is a great view, if you’re white and privileged and don’t really have to worry about money and you can afford to sit in your safe neighborhood and cast stones at people who often have very limited options, career wise, but if you’ve done any sort of real thinking about the way the world, and specifically America really is, you’d realize how absolutely shitty this whole theory is. I don’t like militarism any more than you, but blaming some kid who went to an army job to try to better his situation and feed his family for military aggression is a lot like a guy blaming his dick when his girlfriend finds him fucking the neighbor. It’s really kind of oversimplifying, passing the buck and generally, it’s not gonna hold up under any sort of scrutiny, unless you’re a totally self righteous judgmental dickbag, in which case, whatever, you’ve already got it all figured out, I guess.
So, I suppose the point is, snap judgments about people based on their jobs almost always make you look like an asshole. Now, there are a few jobs that almost always DO attract assholes, and if you have one of these jobs, it’s really kind of on you to prove you’re not a total bag of shit. A small list:

Cop- At the risk of sounding melodramatic, the cops are essentially the occupying army in America. Their enemy is us. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, from my grandma to seven year old kids, have a story about some insufferable prick cop just using his power to make their lives miserable in some small way. There’s absolutely never been a time when I’ve felt safe because a cop was around and there’s never been a time when I’ve felt served or protected by a cop. I know, I know, there are some bad apples everywhere. Nope. In this case it’s the other way around. Cops fucking call me on the phone and intimidate me to try to make me donate money to their charities and then threaten me with thinly veiled promises of less protection or more scrutiny when I suggest that I’m not really interested in donating to them. Cops come into my bar, and without fail act like such sociopaths that it’s just as easy to spot a plain clothes officer as a uniformed one just by saying ‘hi there.’ They glare at me like I'm just fucking a dog right there or something and keep walking. Cops in my town don’t even really hide the fact that they despise the civilians. I’ve seen three cops laughing and punching a girl in the face in the middle of a busy street, and that’s in a fairly nice white neighborhood. I can’t even begin to imagine how shitty the cops are to people they REALLY don’t have to be accountable to. There ARE a few good cops out there. I know two myself. That’s the thing, though. They’re the exception. If you’re a cop, it’s really on you to let people know you’re not a total dildo. Just sayin.

Religious Job (all religions)- First of all, people in this line of work generally think they’ve got all the answers, which is an extremely irritating quality (unless, of course you have a blog and you’re barely employed and you just like to rant). The character flaws in religious professionals are varied and many splendored, from the Catholic tradition of feeding dicks to children to the Hare Krishna tradition of handing me books as though you’re giving them away and then trying to make me pay for them. I’m not interested in hearing about your god in any form. Your job is to convince hobos, junkies and destitute hookers that there’s a better way, keep the people who already believe whatever it is you’re selling that dying isn’t gonna be so bad, and you know, persecuting gays. Please, please stay away from me. I’m still quite a few pints of whiskey away from having any sort of spiritual crisis. Thanks. Oh, and Satanists, you’re all just dorks. All the talk of sexual rites and the sensuality of evil won’t change the fact that there’s no women in your “religion” and all you guys are fat with goatees and you paint figurines in your mom’s basements. I guess that’s not a job. Whatever. Had to be said anyway.

Bureaucrat- Hey! What the fuck are you even doing reading this???? There is a line of people who want their fucking license plates right on the other side of your screen that have been waiting forever while you just sit here surfing the internet and talking to that fat bitch next to you about your daughter’s new ‘creepy’ boyfriend. I realize that life is hell and everything, but Jesus fucking Christ. How bout a tiny bit of customer service? Like looking up? Anything at all? No? Sigh. (okay, spare me the condescending emails. I realize that complaining about the DMV is a lot like talking about how women can’t drive or how jews love money, in that it’s true but it’s been said a billion times. Whatever, asshole. Go write your own list then).

Drug dealer- You! Here you are. Finally. You said you were gonna be here at three. No, you said three, for sure. Whatever. Anyway, what happened to you last month when I was waiting on the corner in the fucking snow for three hours while my girlfriend called my cell phone every five minutes asking me where the fuck you were? You were playing poker, eh? Well, I’m pretty fucking pissed, man. You ruined my weekend. HEY! Where are you going? No! I was kidding, bro. No, it’s cool. Poker’s a great game…I totally lose track of everything when I play pok…What? Fifty? It was forty last time. It looks like the EXACT same shit…Really? He got busted? Fuck…Okay, but this better not be that shit that just made me fucking get a headache and shit my pants. No! No. No dude, of course I appreciate you coming all the way across town. Hey, man. You’re the best. Thank you so much! Okay. We’re cool? Sorry about that. Let’s talk soon! How’s your kid?
These guys are all dicks. Total abusive boyfriends. They treat you like shit and then make you apologize to them. Heh. Whatever. Don’t be so into drugs then, retard.

Cable company- You are not helpful and you ruin my day, EVERY day.

DJ at the strip club- Hey, cool bald head, goatee, full sleeve, and flaming short sleeved button up silk shirt, brah! What are the chances you’re not a raging motherfucker? Probably about the same as the chances that you don’t have an eightball and a dick covered in herpes sores in your pocket.

SO, there you go. There are more of these kinds of jobs, to be sure, but I’ve gotta go to band practice, so this ends here. Oh, and my trip to Colorado was great. I got over the shits and the pukes and had a lovely time out there doing what I went out there to do, which was model butt plugs with horse tails on them for a local catalog.
I think my friend Antonia wanted to be included in this entry. She is a yoga instructor. Here’s the thing about yoga, gentlemen. Good for you if you do it, just know that it’s a little bit gay. Yes, that’s right. If you’re a guy and you’re into yoga, you’re a little gay. There's absolutely nothing wrong with gayness or yoga, but don't fool yourself into thinking they're not connected. On the gay meter, it’s between ‘i’m straight but I like it when chicks play with my butt’ (not gay, but some unimaginative people will be confused anyway) and ‘I just suck dicks, but I don’t, you know, do the whole buttfucking thing’ (extra kind of gay). Yoga’s right in between there. I don’t care how good your body looks because of yoga. That’s gay too, by the way. Women and gay men are the ones who tend to obsess over their bodies, because, well, they’re trying to attract men, and men are clods who only care about what guys/gals look like.
Women, on the other hand, don’t usually care about that stuff as much, which is why rock hard abs are mostly the territory of gay looking guys (that’s right, dude with abs, you don’t look tough, you look like you spent all week in front of a mirror), and guys without any abs often have the beautiful girls on their arms. If you want to impress girls, work on your confidence. Or just keep up with the yoga and prove me wrong. That’s cool too.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

The horror! The horror!

Well, last night and this morning were interesting. I lay down around nine thirty (hey, I have a baby) next to a wife complaining of nausea and occasionally running to the bathroom to throw up. After being assured that she wasn’t pregnant, I passed the fuck out as a gentleman of my social stature is wont to do. I woke, at eleven pm, with the following warning screaming in my brain: “You have five seconds until you shit. This is non-negotiable. Try to get somewhere relatively appropriate.”
I made it to the bathroom only to discover that I, like my wife, was the victim of food poisoning (off brand goyzas and questionable sesame oil seem to be the most likely culprits). It was, to put it mildly, brutal. I was pulling the old barf-into-the-garbage-can-while-you-shit-water-into-the-toilet move about every fifteen minutes from eleven to eleven. In that period of time, if my bathroom scale is to be believed, I lost seven pounds. I went through one whole roll of toilet paper and, once I was forced to get up and attempt to take care of my baby this morning, I shit my pants twice. That’s two distinct pairs of pants mind you-- not the same pair of pants shat into two different times. Not that THAT makes it any better. Ugh. It’s been a hell of a day. Tomorrow I’m supposed to go to Denver with my family. Until last night at eleven, I was really looking forward to this trip. Now, however, not so much. I don’t know how you pull the old double-headed-sprinkler move in a airplane bathroom, but if I’m still feeling like this tomorrow, I’ll let you know what I do.
It’s funny when you throw up water. That’s when your body is telling you in no uncertain terms to get fucked. Last night, I was so thirsty and dehydrated but every time I drank water, I’d start barfing again. AND, I was doing some serious barfing of water from my ass too, so in a way, I was like a beautiful fountain with two spouts. Hmmm…
Okay, enough of that. The response to the essay contest has been great. I encourage anyone who still wants to write an essay to go ahead and submit one. The contest is going to be open for a while. I believe that I’ve told my panel of judges that I want the final winner chosen no later than March of 2012, so that means you’ve got until March 2011 to get those essays in.
Anything else? Nah. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, check out the post below for an outline of the essay contest. See you guys Monday!

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon? -or- for sophisticates only

There are things that women go through that men absolutely have no idea about, and vice versa. This is, I’m pretty sure, in a large part due to the fact that if we all knew everything about each other, we’d be so revolted that the species as a whole would quickly drop off. My ex girlfriend told me that when a woman is giving birth that it’s quite common for them (doctors, hopefully) to slice her, beav to asshole, to get the baby out. Apparently women know this, but let me tell you, men don’t. There’s a good reason for this. Women really need to be prepared for something that fucking horrifying and should probably begin preparing as soon as they can locate their pussies and assholes on a map, while men are probably better off just being surprised at the last possible second. Finding this information out shocked me, to be sure, and of course, since I’ve recently had a child, I got the full skinny on the ass to beav slicing…It’s not really encouraged any more, they prefer natural tearing (jesus fucking Christ…that doesn’t exactly sound pleasant either) but it’s called an episiotomy, and it apparently (and unsurprisingly) makes shitting quite difficult. Now, my baby was born with none of these unfortunate and painful sounding situations, so in theory, I could still be blissfully unaware of tearing, incontinence, episiotomies and so forth. BUT, I do know, and now you all know too.
Ladies, here’s what happens to men—Our balls stick to our legs. About a billion times a day our balls glom onto our inner thighs like a wacky wall walker (that’s for those of you who were kids in the early 80’s…for those of you who are younger, a wacky wall walker is this spider like toy that you throw at a wall that then sticks to the wall much in the same way that the human ballsack clings to the human thigh). About fifty percent of our time that’s spent with our hands down our pants is spent detaching our balls from our thighs. It’s no episiotomy, sure, but ladies, did you know about that? Did you? Huh…I guess some people call this “bat wings” because it makes your balls look like a bat or something, but I think that’s childish, and besides, bat wings is what you get when you fuck a woman who’s just had a dump deposited in her vagina (which is done by a process known as ‘space docking’ due to the difficulty of lining up the orifices). “Dude, I totally got my batwings from the lunch lady last night after Fernando and her space docked in the walk in cooler!” is a nice way to use this in a sentence, but alas, I’m off topic.
So, last night, I’m in bed and my balls are stuck to my leg and I’m doing my best to convince my wife to dislodge them for me, because, well, everyone knows what dislodging a sweaty ballsack can lead to, right? So I’m using my sexiest moves, saying things like “hey, my balls are stuck to my leg. Little help?” And finally, she caves, just for the dislodging, mind you. How she could have resisted me at that point is a topic for another day. Anyway, immediately after, she rolls over, and with a tone that could only be accurately described as mildly grossed out, she says “you’re lucky you have me.” This is true, but I don’t want her knowing that I know that, so I say “why?” and she says, get this! That there’s no one else out there who would dislodge my ‘gross’ sack from my thigh. HA!
I told her that there are literally thousands of men and women out there who are just dying for a chance to unstick, or peel my balls off my thigh, and she just rolled her eyes at me. So, I told her I was going to open it to the public.
SO, here’s the deal: Essay contest (open to residents of north America, Europe, Africa, asia and south America (no islanders, sorry) why you’d like to help me dislodge my stuck balls. It can be as long or as short as you want it to be (the essay, smartguy) and it’s open to anyone, males and females and trannies over the age of 18, because it would just be creepy otherwise. The winner gets a bad sandwich teeshirt if I ever end up making those, the satisfaction of vanquishing a ton of foes and maybe a beer or something. Unfortunately, actually unsticking my ballsack is a reward that is reserved just for me and my wife and when I’m on tour, our roadie, so there can be none of that, but maybe we can work out a simulation with a wacky wall walker and a sigh of satisfaction from me.
Just post em in the comments. Hmmm….You know what? I think this is the best entry ever.

Monday, December 8, 2008

ich bin ein full of wieners

There’s this girl at the bunny ranch (which is, for those of you who don’t know, the most famous legal brothel in the US) who’s seven months pregnant. You can go to the website and check out her belly and all that and then make an appointment to go bang her. Pretty interesting move. I guess people need money, and if she’s already a prostitute and that’s how she makes her money it’s not as though things are really all that different, but something strikes me as odd. No? Maybe I’m just a prude. Fuck man. What ever happened to not working when you got knocked up…barefoot and pregnant, that’s how the expression went, right? BUT, those were simpler times. Now, if your job is blowing carloads of sweaty dudes while they high five and chug Bud Lite Lime, well, getting pregnant isn’t the cushy vacation it used to be. In fact, my limited research seems to indicate that it’s actually a boon for her business…so strange. I thought people went to prostitutes to get away from the bloated, gassy, irritable pregnant women that they lived with. Huh. Hey man, whatever floats your boat. I guess it’s one of those things, where when faced with the opportunity to try something new, people overwhelmingly stick with what they know. Maybe they should get a prostitute at the bunny ranch who won’t blow you at all, complains about your appearance and only lets you fuck her in the shower once every few months. Oh, and she should, about half way through the act, probably suddenly say something like “Oh shit! I’ve gotta call the guy about getting the carpets shampooed!” There you go, bunny ranch. This first idea’s free. A gift from me to you.
In Austria, they put the hardcore porn magazines right next to the kids magazines in gas stations. There’s none of those black shields to block the covers, there are no plastic bags and there’s sure as shit no sequestered rack behind the counter. This is a truly awesome setup. When we’d pull into gas stations, we could all go peruse the crazy Austrian porn while our driver and tour manager handled all the gas getting, etc. SO, this one particular magazine that I saw there, which haunts me to this day featured a woman, nine months pregnant, stuffed to the brim with dicks, being choked with a dog collar, wearing a gimp mask while a guy pissed on her face and into her open mouth. This was actually on the COVER of the magazine. Talk about going for it. What was the pictoral like? How did they kick THAT up a notch? Fuck that, actually. The real question is what does she do to get off in private? Have people shit into her asshole and fuck her bones? Jesus. Anyway, it struck me as odd that someone would be so interested in carrying a baby to term and at the same time so disinterested in you know, her own situation that this sort of picture could ever exist. But as I’ve grown up a bit, I’ve realized that this is a pretty crappy way to consider this. In fact, I’m a real dick.
First, it’s Austria and they’re into some pretty freaky stuff, and who am I to stuff my morality down her throat like it was some giant schlong? Realizing this makes me feel like a prude. There’s really, as long as everyone’s healthy and all that, nothing wrong with getting double penetrated in a gimp mask while you suck two other dicks and a fifth guy pisses on you during the last month of your pregnancy. If that’s how you roll, hey, keep a-rolling, babe. I guess it’s actually great that there are people out there challenging the definition of what’s acceptable and making wussy douche liberals like me examine how free of judgment I really am. Wow. Turns out that pregnant Austrian leather fetish porn star might be one of the greatest heroes of free expression in the history of the world! Man, and I was all ready to condemn her and suggest that her child (probably at least four years old by now) was going to have a pretty strange and unique set of issues. Fuck me, man.
Honestly, if people could back off each other and stop with all the judging, the world would be a much better place. I think that’s really the political definition of Anarchy, just slimmed down to an easily digestible little sentence. Don’t judge me, bro! Like, institutionally, that is. Nice.
Interestingly, in my experience, there’s almost no one on this earth as judgmental and shitty as armchair teen anarchists, by the way. You know those stinky, grimy punks with sleeveless, yellowing shirts, dogs on ropes, bad songs about being free and their own labels? Wow. Those guys and girls have it all figured out. It’s hard to discern why they chose to scientifically eliminate everything fun and joyful from their lives for nothing in return. It’s not like the Christians who do it for the glory of getting a nice apartment in the sky where they’ll be young again and their grandma will be young too and live next door. Nope. It’s not like the hippies who eschew traditional societal norms (and act like fucking dickweeds) so they can get high and fuck each other, and it’s not even like organized protesters like Ghandi or MLK because there’s zero organization, or even tangible enemies, beyond sweeping generalizations, dumpster diving for bums (which, by the way, in the form of Food not Bombs is one of the more condescending moves in the world. Hey bum, I went and got you some food from the garbage and prepared it for you, and it’s all vegetarian, because that’s how I think you should eat. Never mind that you already get your food from the garbage. This is more righteous…sheesh.) and a few protests against things like the world bank that are really not going to be brought down by the one flaccid protest every year that these stinkies attend.
Way to take all the problems with punk rock, combine them with all the things that suck about hippies and somehow make something ten times less desirable than either. I’d rather hang with fucking Ultraviolet Hippopotamus than a bunch of teen anarchists. AND, to bring this full circle, I’d rather hang with pregnant whores and pornstars than hippies, although that wouldn’t really be that great…
Jesus…I think I’d actually just rather hang with my friends. Okay, I’m off to get some lunch. Xoxox0

Friday, December 5, 2008

I need a place to defecate.

There’s not a lot of time today. Fuck, I’m late for work already. It’s Friday and everyone wants a little schlong/clam action over the weekend, right? Well, I’m just gonna list a few of the best places to go to get laid, and let you guys do the rest. Think of the great beej you get on Sunday morning as the last paragraph of this blog.
Okay, here goes:

Prison- There’s no guarantee on this earth more solid than this one. If you go to prison, you will have sex had with you. You’ve been beating off to those movies where one girl is in the middle of the room sucking ten or twelve giant black dongs for years. Now you can be her. Ta dah!

AA meetings- Or sex addict meetings, whatever. Like prison, this is a pretty sure thing. Emotionally fragile people who have most likely alienated everyone close to them are, as a rule, pretty easy to bang. Oh, this is also horribly exploitive and wrong, but that’s for another entry.

The old man bar in your neighborhood- There is, in that bar, a person over the age of fifty who is down for some dirty, dirty times. But which one? Well, here’s a guide: The woman is usually wearing lipstick around, but not on her lips, talking loudly, gesturing with her tall vodka-tonic and sporting some crazily dyed hair. The man is all of them.

Beauty school- These girls/guys are to abortion clinics what gamers are to Doritos, man. When’s the last time you woke up next to a stranger who WASN’T in beauty school (or a former student)? Warning: Straight ladies, there’s no one for you here.

Hollywood- In Hollywood, from what I’ve read in my religious monthly magazines, all you have to do is pull out your dick on the street and someone/something will eventually, like steel to a powerful magnet, just fly right up and glom onto it. If you’re a woman, just stand on a corner looking lost. You’ll be taken care of soon enough.

Thailand- Hey, if you’re rich enough to just go to Thailand this weekend on a whim, you should really be able to get laid right here at home…Unless you want one of those underage trannies, in which case, Thailand (and jail) is probably the place for you.

Hmmmm….Oh, those parks- You know the parks, the ones that are full of creepy dudes in sunglasses from about sundown to sun up? Cheeseman park in Denver, the Lagoon in Lincoln park in Chicago, I think like 80% of the parks in SF…I don’t know the others, but they’re in every town and they’re up there with prison as far as sure things go.
Funny story, well, it’s not a story, it’s more of a situation-- when we were kids, this park (the lagoon in Lincoln Park) is one of the many places we’d go to get high/drink beers, so we’d always be walking around with a bag of weed or a case of beer or a bottle of MD 20/20 or something and of course, we’d be terribly nervous, because we were kids off doing something exciting and without fail, we’d round the corner on some mattress in the woods or some guy sucking some other guy off or just some very polite older gentleman in a trenchcoat waving us over or waving a handkerchief our direction. I bet their parents didn’t know what they were up to either.
Okay, Happy hunting. I’m off to work.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

I just want something I can never have.

My friend Katie told me the following joke:
What’s the difference between a goth couple?
About 100 pounds.
Now, that’s just funny. Why is it that with the goth kids, there’s a super skinny, mummy type and a gigantic scary powdered donut type but pretty much nothing in between. Every goth couple on earth looks like a number 10 walking around. Funny.
Actually, some of the girls can be pretty good looking if you ignore the…well, you know, corpse paint. I first went to this place in Atlanta called the Masquerade a few years ago for Halloween. It’s got three floors and each floor has a name. There’s heaven, hell and purgatory. It used to be a pretty great place (back when I was first there) but it’s become the most fetid shit stink box of a building in the universe in subsequent years. I think all the pipes that carry shit from the toilets to wherever shit ultimately goes just sort of burst behind the walls and so now, whenever anyone shits in the masquerade, it just goes right into the ventilation system. Whatever, that’s really neither here nor there.
The point is, I was at this place back when it was nice and they were having this goth rave thing and it was wild. Chicks were just in crazy outfits. One girl was in a spangly thong and pasties with angel wings and stripper heels. There was another whole gaggle of chicks dressed as various Hitlers. There were tons of your standard goth girls in sheer clothing, and a lot of these girls were quite attractive, but every dude in the place was SUCH a dork. Pantyhose arms, lipstick, some sort of dumb collar, belly straining against his mesh shirt…you know the dudes. It was at this moment I realized ‘wow, these goth guys really have it all figured out’. I mean, they’ve inserted themselves into a subculture that, however dorky, actually embraces the idea of boning being fun. Sure, that’s the case with metal too, but there are no girls. I guess that in the 80’s there was a pretty hedonistic thing going on in LA with all the fake metal, but that seems like it was kind of one sided. The girls were kind of bimbos and the dudes were assholes. This goth thing is much more bizarre. The girls are kind of in control and the guys are fucking NERDS. Nice work nerds!
In fact, is goth the mathematical answer to the eternally unanswerable equation (Nerds+X=Pussy)??? I think it may be. Think about it…highly sexualized music, absolutely no regard for what everyone else in the world deems to be acceptable. Physical shortcomings (I’m looking your direction, number 10 couple) are completely fine because you slather yourself in crap and always use candles as lighting. There’s a highly feminine aspect (makeup, panty hose leather, boots, fashion in general), and as a result lots of girls flock to the scene and it prizes the sensual above all. Nerds…congratulations. You’ve done it. I feel like I just discovered the secret island where all the white seals escaped to or something. Holy shit! That’s why goth dudes are so nerdy! They’re GENUINE nerds in disguise! Actually, in advanced calculus, once all the pretenders have failed out or moved to different areas of study, the professor puts down the protractor and he’s like “okay gentlemen, here it is!” and he pulls up the map to reveal on the blackboard “X=Goth bullshit when Nerds+X=Pussy.” Then they all clumsily high five and go out for Blizzards.
So anyway, at this thing (back at the Masquerade) they started doing ‘suspensions’ (a transparent nerdism now that I’ve cracked the code…they never got suspended from school, so they’ve figured out a way to do it at their nerd/goth functions. Brilliant…) where they put meathooks through your back or your dick or your butt or whatever and they hoist you up and you just float around the room like some sort of side of beef from Rocky I. Gross. I have a friend named Sebas, a Sicilian who lives in Berlin who insists that there is no better feeling than being suspended by a meathook above a room of copulating goth dorks. My theory is that he’s never received a blowjob.
Fuck man. I gotta work today. Happy Thursday to all.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008


The internet is full of assholes. I know, what a profound statement. Believe it or not, I wasn’t even at when I came up with this little maxim. It’s crazy though, because on paper, it seems pretty flawless. Anonymous dickheads with no fear of reprisal or improper syntax/grammar/spelling just free to say whatever they want with impunity? How could that promote assholiness? The rampant shitheadian orthodoxy on the internet is really just a sad testament to mob mentality, the malleability of the human spirit, the lack of any sort of ingrained sense of protectiveness for our fellow man. Or, perhaps it’s stupidity manifesting and quarantining itself as people with any sense of actually wanting to, you know, DO something don’t tend to spend a lot of time on the internet dicking around and commenting on youtube posts and such, while marginalized dickheads who never get listened to anywhere else suddenly have a forum with which to volley the insults they’ve collected by being human bags of shit back at the world. Is that a fair assessment?
I don’t know where the idea that everyone should have a platform for their opinion came from. The greeks? Ben Franklin and his merry band of slave owning sexual predators/great thinkers? As far as my research reveals, these people didn’t really think that EVERYONE deserved a voice, and sure, they had some arbitrary and somewhat fucked up logic (uh, you’re black. Uh, YOU don’t have a penis. Sorry) but they had a system. I’m not suggesting that we take all the computers with internet hookups away from women and black folks, because let’s face it, everyone on this mother fucker is a white guy anyway. You want proof that the founding fathers/cradle of western thought had the wrong ideas about who to shut up? Look no further than the internet, where white males are doing an excellent job of unraveling any sort of argument for the superiority of the sex/race. It’s a victory in that sense, I suppose. AND if our collective consciousness is actually acting as a profoundly ingenious performance artist attempting to completely level the intellectual prejudice in this world, and it’s doing so by way of message boards and blogs, well, wow. My bad. This is a pretty great species after all.
But I kind of doubt that, honestly. Here’s the thing. Everyone has an opinion. This is a fact. Most people however, don’t actually express their true opinions. They take the road more traveled, or less traveled depending on their own level of perceived iconoclasm, or they completely ignore their instincts and go with what they THINK they should like/dislike, or they let arbitrary social mores (racism, sexism, I’m from Germany) get in the way of what could be something they would otherwise like or perhaps hate. OR in the case of people who write about things, the people who supposedly have the opinions worth hearing about, they take the tack of whichever opinion is the easiest to argue. (A great example of this is Gavin McGuinness [I don’t think that’s spelled properly] who is the guy who started the Vice ‘do’s and don’ts’. He’s said that he looks at the picture, figures out the best joke and bases his opinion on that. And he’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever read. Just pointing out that writing about something necessarily puts your opinion in the back seat and your ability to write about it shotgun)
This isn’t always true, but it’s true more times than not. Have we discussed the laziness of journalists before? Well, when it comes to constructing a half page review of a movie, for example, someone could list all the great (perceived) cinematic tips of the hat, the masterful lighting and editing, the pedigree of the director and/or actors or they could just say “eh…it kind of blew.” This is the backwards way, though, because it’s almost always easier to negatively write at length about something. This is why so many reviews are negative and so many blogs (BSC included) are mostly rants about things that suck. It’s not that I (we) hate everything. It’s that effusive praise is short in the tooth. Negativity feeds the vocabulary because people always want a new way to call someone an asshole (shit socket!) and people always want a new way to say something sucks (that licked the crisco off a retarded pig’s distended nutsack). That’s the currency of modern opinion. What’s the flipside? “That was good.” “That was great.” “This is the single best thing that ever occurred.” That’s how British journalists write things. Don’t believe me? You should go check out Kerrang’s archives and see how many bands have singlehandedly saved rock n roll in 2008.
Okay, anyhow. I hate the whole “well, if you’re gonna have an opinion on (for example) a record, let’s hear your band. It better be a better band!” line of defense that accompanies so many dumb message board arguments because that’s just stupid. You don’t need to be able to do something in order to think someone else is bad at it. For example, I recently saw (on tv) a guy try to jump a motor bike onto a roof but instead he hit the back porch. I think my “that guy’s a pretty bad stunt biker” opinion is perfectly valid. I am not interested in proving that I could do said stunt (of course I can do it, that’s neither here nor there). It’s the same with movies or music or what have you. You can’t hide your own sucking at something behind the fact that someone else sucks at something too. I can’t do stand up. I think it’s very hard and the people who do it are incredibly brave. I also believe that Dane Cook is terrible at stand up, and I’m at ease with the coexistence of this pair of facts.
The one place where this falls flat, however is with writing. If someone is critiquing someone else’s writing…Let’s say, for example someone is critiquing my blog, and they, themselves rant against it. That’s fine. I’m not the funniest, smartest guy in the world. Cut me down to size. Rant away. BUT you had better be funnier than me if you’re gonna go there. Otherwise, you’re doing EXACTLY what I’m doing here, but worse, and that only outs you as the same, but inferior, type of stupid, blowhard asshole that you were so jazzed up to decry on the internet in the first place. Bad move, eh? That’s why I’ll never comment about anyone else’s blog specifically (except Perez, who is revolting.) I’m much more comfortable broadly swinging insults at large groups. Hmmm…this is the internet, after all.
Does that make sense? Probably not. Now, this is just a kind of a dumb example, because everyone in the world loves my blog (at least, that’s what I glean from the hundreds of thousands of emails I get each week) I’m just using an example that is at once aggrandizing and humbling to prove a point. People are assholes on the internet. And in real life too I guess.
I have a class tonight and I haven’t written shit. I have to clean the house and go to the gym and I haven’t even thought about what kind of porn to look at. Jesus. It’s a busy day.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008


Yeah, I meant heather mills. Fuck, man.

Number 8, number 8, number 8

There’s nothing that will so instantly insure that the baby begins screaming more than me beginning to write this thing in the morning. This is a test of the baby broadcast system. Right now he seems happy. He’s developed this interest in talking/shouting, but of course he can’t say anything (he busts out ‘dad’ and ‘dadadada’ on occasion, but even I have to admit that he’s probably not connecting those phonemes to any sort of meaning) so he kind of blathers like a drunk old man from eastern Europe, just screaming these sounds I don’t understand. Another interpretation would maybe be that he’s a little evangelical and he’s already speaking in tongues, but I don’t think he’s that stupid. Anyway, let’s move on.

I’d fuck Oprah. Oh sure, I’ve got a kid and fucking Oprah would violate the trust I have with his mother and ultimately do bad things to his mental health and all that. Okay, fine, you fucking party pooper…I wouldn’t fuck Oprah. Jesus. But it would be great, wouldn’t it? It would be just exactly like fucking your therapist’s big leather couch, if we presuppose that the couch is rich and never shuts up. I think it would be better to fuck Oprah than Tyra (to stay in the rich leather couch that never shuts up category for a moment) despite what some would say about Tyra being the much more attractive giant couch. Tyra is obsessed with herself on a level that even Oprah can’t come close to, and that would make for some pretty bad couch fucking, in my opinion. Of course, since this is hypothetical, my golden rule stands, namely, that you MUST always fuck a famous person if you have the chance, no matter how gross or self obsessed they may be, if for no other reason than at some point in the future, you’ll be sitting there in an airport bar watching an old rerun of Roseanne while you’re waiting for the unseasonable ice storm to blow over Omaha and you can lean over to the old guy next to you in the tinted glasses, point to the screen when Roeseanne walks in and say, “see her, yeah, the fat one? I fucked her. No seriously, we stayed in the same hotel in Fresno once and it just kind of happened. Nah, she had already divorced Tom Arnold. Oh sure it was gross. What do you expect? I’d do it again though.”
It’s a good rule, and it applies to girls too. Here’s how it works for girls. You’re dating some guy and he’s being a cocky dick and he’s treating you like shit in front of his friends and blah blah blah and you pretty much know you’re going to break up with him, well, that’s when you spring “you know, I fucked Lars Ulrich when I was in highschool” on him. Watch Lars Ulrich instantly become his most hated celebrity ever. Oh, he’ll spiral out of control with jealousy that can’t really be confined to either one of you. He’s jealous of Lars because he got there first, but he’s jealous of you because you fucked someone famous and he’s still just dreaming of the day that he’s gonna somehow get the opportunity to strike up that conversation with the chick that played the wife on Everybody Loves Raymond at the Laundromat. Oh, shit man. It’s a great rule. And yes, of course, once you have kids, all rules are out the window. Rules like “I’ll never wipe someone else’s ass” or “I won’t ever wear sweatpants outside” just kind of go out the window. So does “I’ve gotta fuck a famous person if I get the chance.” But for those people without kids, and established deadbeat dads and moms out there, keep it in mind. In the spirit of the morning, here are some people who are famous that I’d have sex with (non hot chicks category):

Grace Jones- Yup, she’s scary. No, I don’t think she’s hot. This is the non hot chicks category, man! I just said that shit. Okay, she’s scary, did we get that out of the way? It’s gotta be like nothing I’ve ever done before. And that’s a good reason, right? Okay…well then, without further ado:

Linda McCartney- She’s got one leg. That’s crazy, no? I mean, not to fetiishize the differently limbed, but yeah…I guess that’s not really the right way to start that sentence since that’s exactly what I’m doing. Well, fuck it then. That’s what I’m doing. Just to tread where a Beatle has dared is not enough, man. I’m not gonna fuck, say, for example…wait, nevermind. I guess that brings us to:

Yoko Ono- She’s gross, for sure, but at a time when he could have banged anyone on earth, from Boutros Boutros Gahli to Liz Taylor, John Lennon chose this crazy bitch. You know what that means? It’s most likely pretty exciting down there.

Bridget the Midget- Speaking of it being exciting down there, here’s a midget porn star. Oh sure, throw your stones. This one’s kind of cheating, since she’s pretty hot, but whatever. I’m just here to challenge your conventions as far as who’s fuckable and famous, so you midget haters out there can consider yourselves served.

Monique- She’s really fat and sassy. That’s a new one for me, honestly. Also black. That would be new too. Did I mention black? Accompanied with fat and sassy, I’m powerless, at least in theory. And don’t start with the “what about Grace Jones, she’s black too?” shit, okay. Grace Jones is from space. Monique is from Maryland.

Dolly Parton- She, along with Pam Grier are both no longer hot but they get a by since they were both SO hot at one time. Now, I don’t want to come off as an asshole saying they’re no longer hot. They both look great for their ages, BUT show your teenaged nephew a picture of Dolly Parton and a picture of Mindy Main and see how hot he still thinks Dolly is. No worries. We live in an ageist society, man. It’s a bummer. Or something. I guess.

Bill O’reilly, Sean Hannity, or Dick Cheney- I would so happily forfeit my heterosexuality just to bang any of these three dudes and then appear on every news channel in the hemisphere and tell everyone all about it. There’s little to no doubt in my mind that Hannity has chugged a cock or two, but he’s just such a prick…the other two, I mean, I’d be revolted but I’d be thrilled just knowing that within an hour, I’d be face to face with Anderson Cooper saying “yeah, the former VP loves it when you spit into his asshole”. Dream come true, man.

Okay, that’s all for today. And just to clarify, the above list isn't a list of 'favorites' or anything like that. Just a slice. Okay, good. I’m going to the fucking gym, where maybe Amber, winner of Rock of Love 2 is still working out, that is if she hasn’t moved to LA to pursue a career in softcore milf porn. xoxo

Monday, December 1, 2008

Let your star just shine on, bro

Well, I’m thankful that’s all over. It was great, but fuck man, there were dishes in my house until today…We cooked for fifteen people including a very old Englishman with his own bottle of gin, a seven month old and three guys who call themselves the Cobra Skulls. I’d say Thanksgiving was a success. Take that, Indians.
On Friday night, after work, I went with some friends to watch the Cobra Skulls play. They were absolutely great. I was really, really happy after the show and as we went next door to the adjacent bar to spend a few complimentary drink tickets I felt like the night was shaping up perfectly. Then I saw them.
On the stage in all their waterproof boots and cargo pants and dumb sweaters and five string basses and sparse, overthought goatees and floppy knitted hats and fifteen minute songs and irritating smug “jam faces” and hemp chokers and hackey sack calluses and beads and braided belts and dreadlocks and bongos and windchimes and instrumental interludes were a bunch of fucking hippies. HIPPIES! And they were jamming. This is unacceptable, man. Hippies? Now? In this fucking day and age? Haven’t you hippies gotten the Lebowskian memo? The bums lost, man. Besides, there’s just nothing threatening about being a hippy. You know who was a hippy? The guys who started Ben and Jerry’s. That’s a real rebellious and dangerous paradigm you’re forcing on everyone, BRO. Ugh. It’s enough to make me sick.
Okay, so these hippies—they were called, and I’m not kidding, Ultraviolet Hippopotamus. Did you read that shit correctly? Ultraviolet Hippopotamus!!!! ULTRAVIOLET HIPPOPOTAMUS?????????????????? FUCK, MAN!
I was pissed. I was so pissed. Here’s the thing, I’m thirty two. Phony, bullshit wealthy hippies in fancy hiking boots and jeep Cherokees and crappy jam bands are the very thing that got me angry with mainstream culture and into punk rock in the first place. When I was in highschool, the fake hippies were the dominant class. They were the athletes (oh, and they’d just wear the letter jacket and the rasta hat at the same time, like ANYONE could ever believe that shit’s acceptable) they were in the bands that played at all the functions. Hell, in my first band in highschool, we had a bona-fide hippy on the fucking guitar, complete with a poncho! They were everywhere! You couldn’t even throw together a group of dudes to start a punk/funk/pseudo stoner rock band without a hippy being in there. These were the people I vowed to never be. These fake ass hippies made me sick when their band (called Smile High, as though THAT'S somehow okay) rigged the fucking battle of the bands my sophmore year and pretty much stole the prize money from my punk/funk/pseudo stoner rock band, and then, in the same month, held me down and shaved my head with sheepshears at a hockey practice. These were the hippies of the early nineties—entitled rich bully douchebag, aggressive, dicks with a ‘hey bro, I’m just chillin, what’s your beef?’ attitude in their back pockets for when people decided to call them on their completely unacceptable bullshit.
When I started traveling, going on tour, and visiting a large collection of my friends from highschool out in Boulder, I was shocked. The hippies ran the town. Everywhere I went was some dick in two hundred dollar corduroys and a fully loaded SUV ASKING ME FOR CHANGE?!?!?! This was a new low. Now these fucks, who had more money than me were expecting me to bankroll their glass pipe/kind bud fetish? Unacceptable, man. Just unacceptable. (On a bit of a side note, in my experience, these hippies, with their crystally weed and their glass pipes and their dogs on a rope and all that, were as a general rule, SO STINGY with their weed. They were, as per my recollection, mind you, to the last, a bunch of uptight pricks who would rather look at weed [and make you smell it and comment on the ‘red hairs’ or whatever] and tell you all about how great it is and then put it back in a jar than let you try it. This is neither here nor there, just sayin.)

Okay, so that’s out of the way, and we’re back. I’m absolutely furious at Ultraviolet Hippopotamus. AND, these guys are in their early twenties? You know what that means, man? They’re still making hippy jam bands! Didn’t the death of hippy santa, the subsequent disbanding of the Dead, the slowdown and hiatus of Phish, the completely stupid name of the Stringcheese incident and the general realization that these people are a bunch of stinky dildos teach the kids anything? HOW ARE PEOPLE STILL DOING THIS? Anyway, I was through the roof, so I did what any self respecting person would do.
I booed.
I booed the shit out of this band. Over and over and over and over as loud as I possibly could. Their gross merch skank with her hairy armpits and new york slice of a bush was ‘grooving to the energy’ and giving me a dirty look at the same time, so I booed her ass too. Booo! Stupid hippies! Boo!
I guess I kind of see it as when your parents shame you when you do something ridiculously stupid. I was helping these kids out, man. I booed them mercilessly. I was trying to show them the consequences of being so recklessly unacceptable. And you know what they did? They smiled and kept jammin’ bro. How cool is that? They didn’t let the neg vibes harsh their mellow, not for a bit, bro. The groove must go on, bro. The groove must go on. Ugh.
I seriously thought their band was called Electric Rhinoceros, too, or Technicolor Rhinoceros, and that was pissing me off, until I realized that their actual name was so much worse than that. See, though, the thing about an ultraviolet hippopotamus is, he’s not visible to the naked eye. Chew on that, bro.
This is all making me very angry. Let’s just suffice it to say I don’t like hippies. And you didlos in Smile High, if you’re out there, you guys suck too, and regardless of your bullshit shenanigans that cost Gladhand (yes, I know) the BHS battle of the bands title in 92, your dumb hippy ways have only made me stronger. I don’t care how big your parents house was, or how big yours is now. I played real music in fucking Japan, Europe, Australia, Mexico and Cleveland and got paid for it, you fucking fake hippy dicks. Heh.