Good morning assholes, dongs, perverts, sluts, prudes, nuns, bankers, wife, mom, dad, Ryan, Toby, and all the rest of you various friends, family and pathetic turds that just sit there in front of your dumb laptop or iphone, waiting for your balls to refill, refreshing this page between trips to sixdicksatonce.com, welcome to the BSC year end list for 2009. It’s been a hellish year, people. Make no mistake. There’s no prize in Valhalla or beyond that could possibly make me ever want to re-experience the fiery ass-juice storm that was 2009. But, to be fair, in the words of the great William Murderface, “I’d rather die than live forever,” so fuck it. Let’s roll. First category:
Best casual pastime: Now, this wasn’t easy. There were lots of fun ways to while away the hours that really came into their own in this last year of the aughts, but none so succinctly embodied the feeling of 2009 like scrapbooking the disembodied vaginas that you remove from the hookers you kill. When I saw Sean Hannity and his mom doing this at his boyhood home in Franklin Square on his Christmas special, I said to myself, “wow, now THAT’S a trend that really took off in 2009.” I mean, who’d a thought it? Hannity? Pretty hip for a neo con, gotta say.
What? Look, in my public speaking class they told me you have to have an opener that’s gonna get the audience’s attention. Sheesh. Relax a little. Go have a drink, put some partitioned vulvas under some cellophane like the rest of us and come back when you’re mature enough to handle the subject at hand.
Anyway…
Up next, best infant Car Seat:
I’m gonna have to go with the Ricarro, simply because it’s got a uh…ease of, um, adjusting, and the range is, uh…and don’t forget the standards of excellence and safety set up by the…ah, fuck it. This is the only car seat that I’ve seen this year. My kid’s not dead, so it must be pretty sweet. New parents, take note.
Okay, best place to hide a cigar:
For the third year in a row ‘your ass’ wins again. Not only is it a highly pneumatic spot for a cigar to chill, but also, it’ll keep you from smoking cigars if you just scramble that ass cigar around with all the rest of your cigars, and hey, smoking kills. So there’s that. Funny story, my friend Eric and I once smoked a pair of Romeo y Julietta’s that his step mom had smuggled from cuba in her pussy. No joke.
Best excuse
I’ve got celiac disease! My mom died! I’ve got ADD! I’m chronically fat! My parents locked me in the basement for weeks at a time! Sure, there were lots of total bullshit excuses making their rounds in 2009, but in my world, none seemed to pop up more than the old tried and true “I’m pregnant.” Sheesh, who do you have to blow to get a blowjob and someone else to carry the new TV up the stairs around here? I mean, am I right?
Biggest personal regret:
This year I wrote and directed and starred in a movie. Now, I don’t regret that at all. I’m stoked to get it all done and up and running. However, why did I cast myself as the guy with the mustache? I’ve had this fucking mustache for almost six months now. No wonder my wife won’t look at me. First, a planned pregnancy and now a mustache? I’m more animal than man. Also, I’m kind of Italian, and I’m super sick of looking like the youngest Mario brother. Here’s to twenty ten, where my upper lip’s gonna be as hairless as toby Jeg’s dimpled chest all year long.
Best TV show:
Man vs Food. Finally, Americans have a nice, affable, clean cut guy to get behind in the great quest to completely perpetuate the stereotype that we’re wasteful, thoughtless pig-men who like nothing more than to ideologically shit onto the faces and souls of the millions of starving people in this world by sending some tubby choad around the world to try and stuff six pounds of pizza dough in his face for a free tee shirt. Also, Adam’s a funny dude and I really like watching the show, but hey, man. Competitive eating is like gay Christianity. Ideologically fucked, no matter how many rules you want to pretend aren’t there.
Best new snack:
Salmon in the can. I mix the shit with horseradish mustard and an onion and eat it and it’s healthy and delicious and if you eat that shit right after hitting the gym you’ll feel like you just got a shot of B12 into your nuts. Also, it’s revolting and you’d better make sure no one’s around or they’ll be disgusted by your stinky, stinky onion-fish can, but man, shit’s tasty and cheap. Hey, don’t you guys think it’s just so crazy that my old lady isn’t absolutely jumping all over my salmon/onion breath, mustache and filthy demeanor (I recently scratched my balls in my sleep, then, later, scratched my face. The smell of my hand caused me to wake up screaming in the night and had to go wash my face, balls and hand in abject terror, to the chagrin of my sleeping and now quite pregnant wife. I blame my friends Eric and Noelle, who we were staying with in Denver. They’re hippies and they use all that fake hippy soap that…you know what? New award:
Worst products
Hippy soaps:
Who the fuck came up with the idea that hippies had any authority at all to make products to clean things? Hippies are, by definition, stinky, filthy and dedicated to products and ideals that are slipshod and half assed at best (see peace, Ritchie havens, Volkswagen busses) and completely fucking terrible most of the time (Jefferson airplane, dream catchers, moveon.org) So, thanks Burt’s Bees, and Tom of Maine and Sally with her handsoap and all the rest of you, but after a week of using your products, I SMELL LIKE SHIT!!!!! So do all the people who use your products. Know why? Because the war’s over and the bums lost. Know why? Cuz you people can’t competently make anything but ice cream. That’s why.
Best Juggalo Based Event:
The tenth annual gathering of the Juggalos. Now, I wasn’t there, but I heard shit was absolutely POPPIN OFF, yo! There were titties, faygo, wrestling, hot dogs, campsites, titties, blowjobs, tons of rapes, fat people, face paint, pies, barbed wire, bad tattoos, titties, and even more fat guys. Congratulations Tenth annual Gathering of the Juggalos! You’re the definitive juggalo based event of 2009. Thank god.
Best completely meaningless phrase:
“There are two kinds of people in this world”
It seems like, with the rise of this manufactured outrage that has become so terribly popular in America this year, ever since every dumb dick taster got a blog or a tv show and decided to ‘tell it like it is’ and ‘not take it anymore’, these great, divisive statements have been all the rage. Well, let me let you all in on a little secret: This is what smart idiots say to impress dumber idiots. You can ALWAYS draw a line and notice that everyone falls on one side or the other. Want some examples? Here you go:
There are two kinds of people in this world, those who rape and murder little boys and then bury them in satanic patterns in their crawlspace and those who don’t.
Or
There are two kinds of people in this world, those who suck the dicks of seven random strangers just for the thrill of it, and those who don’t.
The funny thing is that you can use this with preferences too, like: there are two kinds of people, those who are pro cutting vaginas out of dead hookers and scrapbooking those selfsame vaginas, and those who are against it. This is effective because it DARES you to not be actively opposed, even though, come on, who’s opposed to 2009’s greatest pastime, am I right? Anyway, there’s even another way that this tricky little piece of oratorical magic works. It’s when it’s used with hot button issues: There are two types of people in this world, those who are for gay marriage, and those against it.
Well, there are ALSO all the people who don’t give a shit one way or the other, but guess what? They don’t give a shit, so they’re not gonna speak up and demand to be heard. It’s really a speaking and persuasion tool that epitomizes the level of intelligent discourse we’re having in this country. Now, there’s two kinds of people out there. Those who think that last statement is offensive, those who think it’s sadly true, and those who think it’s patriotic, AND those who are ready for the next category.
Best fecal matter disposal tool-
For the fifth straight year, the toilet wins again. Sorry Big Mac wrapper, couch cushions, and hole dug in the back yard, it was a valiant effort, but in the end, Thomas crapper’s little baby just managed to squeeze past ya.
Best spirit: Man, this year, I’ve been into vodka, and I got turned on to Tito’s when they got a free bottle delivered to my bar. This is far and away the best vodka I’ve ever tried. I drink vodka with club soda, and let me tell you, after one titos, I switched to Ketel just to have a little perspective, and Ketel tasted like fucking gas in comparison. Listen, the bottle design? Yeah, it’s shitty. It looks like something that you get in that old man/ rape bar over by the motel six, but trust me. that shit is GOOD. It’s clean, it’s even good neat. That’s traditionally IMPOSSIBLE for a vodka. Titos is distilled like six times or something. They’re taking real care in the creation of this product. I don’t have any affiliation with them, but man, they’re the last of the last, people doing something great because they know how to do it great without cutting corners or fucking around. AND, it’s not outrageously expensive. That’s cool. Uh, felching, Uh…barf. Uh…hardy har har. Okay, moving on.
Best Drug: Ritalin
Last year, this category went to adderal, but man, that shit’s too strong and clean. Want a viper? Want some money? Then suit up with some Ritalin. Just a couple of those little green pills in the beginning of the evening will make you a smooth talking limp dicked superman for the rest of your time at the bar. Added bonus: This shit’s prescribed to high school kids, who are super easy to beat the shit out of/coax with views of tits.
Most horrifying miscarriage of justice:
The death of sparks.
Man, oh man. What a tragedy. They took the mojo out of sparks. Yo, they didn’t fuck with Joose, did they? They didn’t fuck with Camo, they didn’t fuck with AM, they didn’t fuck with ANYTHING but sparks. Well, guess what? I’ve got a secret for you fuckers. You want a classic sparks but you don’t know what to do? Here’s the solution. Get a new, totally pussified sparks, and take a big swig, then dump a five hour energy in there. It’s sparks, baby. Yeah, sure. It’s not as easy, but hey, we need to get our Quaaludes from India now and you can’t even get a decent back alley abortion without heading down to mexico. All the best stuff is getting harder to come by, but it’s just making us smarter, folks. Let em try to break us. Am I right? Anyone? Bueller? Sheesh.
Hottest celeb:
Sean “puffy” combs- nobody is so utterly disgusting to me as this alien faced, revolting perfume doused foul breathed, open mouth, tongue out repulsazoid. Oh, what was the category? Oh. Never mind.
Hottest Celeb
Brendan Kelly-
Have you seen the dick and abs on this guy? You could root out your toilet and grate cheese respectively! Oh what’s that you say? He’s not actually famous? Well, uh…I dunno…benji madden? Um, Mateo? Fuck you guys. I like my answer. Who cares if he’s not famous. He’s a goddamn dreamsickle wrapped in a hot dicked dream and a forcefield of hyper-bonability and such.
Best Blog-
Once again, Bad Sandwich Chronicles narrowly beats out ishootporn.com for best blog. Never before has wit met the sloppy wetness of ballsacks slapping together idly with such timely and timeless zeal, such chutzpa, such a complete disregard for fact checking. Congratulations BSC! You’re the best, once again.
That’s all for now. Join us in the next couple of days for the BSC best of the decade!
Xoxoxoxo
Send nudes!
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
inter BSC office memo, please read:
I’ve realized something pretty fucked up today. Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Today, my kid slept until almost 8. that’s usually about the time I’d ideally like to shuffle him out the door so I can get back here before work and write this and catch up on emails and all that shit, right? Okay, so today we were running late. I just got him put into baby jail. It’s 9. I’ve gotta leave for work soon. Now, I’ve got all this stuff floating around in my head, little snips of songs, new shit, stuff I’ve written that I need to fine tune, and lots and lots of lyrics (mostly terrible) to sift through. BUT, I’m sitting here writing this instead. I’ve started prioritizing writing this blog over writing music. When I think about it, it’s really crazy. This time, this morning time when I have the house to myself is the ideal time for me to work on music, and yet I don’t. I sit here and write various vagina based hilarities and erudite social commentaries to you people, mindlessly whittling my time away. I must be fucking retarded.
I mean, let’s be frank. I started writing this thing last year as a sort of different type of outlet when I knew I was gonna be suddenly whisked off the road and trapped in my house, like a caged bird typing dick jokes between various catnaps and cups of coffee and beers. Well, here I am, doing everything I can to have just a little bit of output over here and where’s all my creative energy funneling to? Here, the BSC mainframe. Is that right? I don’t know. I just don’t know. I mean, on one hand, I’m still exercising my mind and entertaining assholes, but on the other hand, the very reason that lots of people read this is because I’m a musician. This is like, the greatest paradoxical quandary of all time. It’s like when superman had to give up his powers to be with lois lane, or when Sophie had to choose. Eh, maybe that’s a little overdramatic. I don’t know. I just got a new guitar. I should be fucking around with that thing right now.
Sigh.
Well, I’m not gonna figure it all out today. Maybe I need to write this at night and then post it in the morning and THEN work on music. That would be sensible, but I’m often tired in the evenings and I think most of my entries would be me bitching about being tired or complaining about one of my various dildo friends or coworkers. Nah. That’s no good. I dunno. Like I said, I’m not figuring all this out today. Just trying to lay out what’s going on here, as it’s (again) a fucked up quandary.
On another subject: What’s coming soon? The BSC best of 2009 awards as well as the BSC BEST OF THE DECADE awards. If you missed it last year, (check “It’s the end of the year as we know it”, parts 1 and 2) where we here at BSC tabulate all our votes for our various favorites and then celebrate the wondrous diversity that is our planet by mocking everything and presenting as many awards as possible to ourselves. It’s a great time. Last year, at the after party after the ceremony Jennifer Lopez drunkenly shit into a box and gave it to Ben Affleck, telling him it was a new gift for violet. HEYOOOO! The claws come out when the stars come out to play, boy. Let me tell you.
Anyway, we expect just as much pomp and circumstance at this year’s gala event, so get your tickets now (send your credit card number and a picture of your tits to the email address linked from this page) or, if you’re a cheap fuck, simply wait for me to publish the results right here in the next week or so. Okay, all right. I’m gonna go play guitar with this remaining seven minutes.
Huh…maybe if I just double my productivity all my problems would be solved. Or quit my job. That’s not bad either. Okay, hope you turds have a good weekend and you’re all getting stoked for jew Christmas, cuz I think that’s coming soon, right? Good. Okay. Bye.
I mean, let’s be frank. I started writing this thing last year as a sort of different type of outlet when I knew I was gonna be suddenly whisked off the road and trapped in my house, like a caged bird typing dick jokes between various catnaps and cups of coffee and beers. Well, here I am, doing everything I can to have just a little bit of output over here and where’s all my creative energy funneling to? Here, the BSC mainframe. Is that right? I don’t know. I just don’t know. I mean, on one hand, I’m still exercising my mind and entertaining assholes, but on the other hand, the very reason that lots of people read this is because I’m a musician. This is like, the greatest paradoxical quandary of all time. It’s like when superman had to give up his powers to be with lois lane, or when Sophie had to choose. Eh, maybe that’s a little overdramatic. I don’t know. I just got a new guitar. I should be fucking around with that thing right now.
Sigh.
Well, I’m not gonna figure it all out today. Maybe I need to write this at night and then post it in the morning and THEN work on music. That would be sensible, but I’m often tired in the evenings and I think most of my entries would be me bitching about being tired or complaining about one of my various dildo friends or coworkers. Nah. That’s no good. I dunno. Like I said, I’m not figuring all this out today. Just trying to lay out what’s going on here, as it’s (again) a fucked up quandary.
On another subject: What’s coming soon? The BSC best of 2009 awards as well as the BSC BEST OF THE DECADE awards. If you missed it last year, (check “It’s the end of the year as we know it”, parts 1 and 2) where we here at BSC tabulate all our votes for our various favorites and then celebrate the wondrous diversity that is our planet by mocking everything and presenting as many awards as possible to ourselves. It’s a great time. Last year, at the after party after the ceremony Jennifer Lopez drunkenly shit into a box and gave it to Ben Affleck, telling him it was a new gift for violet. HEYOOOO! The claws come out when the stars come out to play, boy. Let me tell you.
Anyway, we expect just as much pomp and circumstance at this year’s gala event, so get your tickets now (send your credit card number and a picture of your tits to the email address linked from this page) or, if you’re a cheap fuck, simply wait for me to publish the results right here in the next week or so. Okay, all right. I’m gonna go play guitar with this remaining seven minutes.
Huh…maybe if I just double my productivity all my problems would be solved. Or quit my job. That’s not bad either. Okay, hope you turds have a good weekend and you’re all getting stoked for jew Christmas, cuz I think that’s coming soon, right? Good. Okay. Bye.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
oh, I'm back, man. and good heavens...
Sheeeeit, it’s been a while, eh? Yeah, sure has. Well, here’s the thing: I’ve had a hell of a week. I’ve been doing some light recording and finding out important information regarding my future.
See, for the last couple of months, my wife’s just been getting bigger and bigger and finally, we said ‘fuck it’ and went to the doctor. Turns out she’s got a whole entire human girl baby growing inside her. What the fuck? I thought she was just kinda letting shit slide, though now that I think about it, I haven’t seen her have a drink since her birthday, which, well, that’s unusual I guess. Oh well. Hindsight and all that. So yeah, we found out all about this condition on Tuesday, which was pretty fun and then we went to an office party, which was LAAAAAAAAME, because no one got stupid and pulled out their tits or anything. Plus, they only served gin and sliders. That’s not an office party, that’s a death camp. To top it off, the chick I was talking to all night turned out to be pregnant. Ick.
Monday and Wednesday I went to my friend Justin’s house for a little recording sesh. I don’t know how much I’m at liberty to really spill the beans on this, so lets just say this is just a little project that’s ultimately gonna be fun to listen to but not really a big deal at all. I mean, you’ve already heard all these songs before. Granted, they’ve never been quite this awesome before, but well…yeah. Like I said, I’ll give you details as my overlords give the signal that it’s time.
Otherwise, I’ve been chilling. Gearing up for the holidays and all that. You guys know what you’re getting me for Christmas? I don’t want another two hundred candy cane dildos like last year. I’m still writing thank you notes for those.
Um, what else? Jesus, you’d think that the first two items on the agenda would fill up more space, right? Well, okay, here goes:
We were POSITIVE we were gonna have another boy. When the lady told us it was a girl, I think I blew a circuit in my brain. I seriously couldn’t even think or speak for like two hours. All our best laid plans were ruined. Names, for example. We don’t have girl names, or girl pajamas or girl toys or any idea how to change a girl’s diaper. I mean with a boy, you could, as I understand it, pack them beneath a solid inch of shit right up to their necks and essentially just hose em off and they’ll be fine. With a girl, jesus, you sneeze and she’s got an infection. Right? I don’t know, man. It's super duper cool, but it's also super duper complicated. Argh. Now that fucking Avril Lavigne song is in my head. man...
What if she’s ugly? Worse, what if she’s hot? I mean, good lord. All I know is that I have to pay attention to her because girls who get ignored by their dads wind up in the movies. And I’m not talking about Gone With the Wind here, people. I’m talking Fuck My Throat 29. AND, while I’m a firm believer in the benefits of the sex industry in general and I’m in no way trying to judge people who choose to work in it, I’ve got this lingering evolutionary tic that’s preventing me from wanting my daughter to be a porn actress. Remember when Chris Rock said that if you’re the dad of a little girl, you’ve got one job: Keep ‘em off the stripper pole? Yeah. Well, that’s true. It is. I mean, again, I’ve got nothing at all against strippers. Lord knows they’re doing, well, the lord’s work, but there’s just something between theory and practice that I can’t quite put my finger on that’s keeping me from being able to sign off on that just now. Maybe it’s because this particular daughter of mine is still so young. I mean, she’s negative five months at this point, so, maybe when she gets older, I’ll turn around on the whole thing and stop being so uptight, but for now, sheesh. I’m already paying attention to her in utero, asking her about her day and shit. AND, just like a fucking female child, she’s already ignoring me.
This shit is impossible. I’ve got enough to worry about. Justin’s coming into my work today with his mix of this new recording, which I did in a slightly unorthadox way, and if ultimately I’m not happy with it, I’m gonna feel like a grade A heel for thinking I could pull this all off so cavalierly.
Okay, you know what? This is all making me real nervous, so just forget we talked. I’ll holler at you guys tomorrow.
Um, yup. Cool.
Later.
See, for the last couple of months, my wife’s just been getting bigger and bigger and finally, we said ‘fuck it’ and went to the doctor. Turns out she’s got a whole entire human girl baby growing inside her. What the fuck? I thought she was just kinda letting shit slide, though now that I think about it, I haven’t seen her have a drink since her birthday, which, well, that’s unusual I guess. Oh well. Hindsight and all that. So yeah, we found out all about this condition on Tuesday, which was pretty fun and then we went to an office party, which was LAAAAAAAAME, because no one got stupid and pulled out their tits or anything. Plus, they only served gin and sliders. That’s not an office party, that’s a death camp. To top it off, the chick I was talking to all night turned out to be pregnant. Ick.
Monday and Wednesday I went to my friend Justin’s house for a little recording sesh. I don’t know how much I’m at liberty to really spill the beans on this, so lets just say this is just a little project that’s ultimately gonna be fun to listen to but not really a big deal at all. I mean, you’ve already heard all these songs before. Granted, they’ve never been quite this awesome before, but well…yeah. Like I said, I’ll give you details as my overlords give the signal that it’s time.
Otherwise, I’ve been chilling. Gearing up for the holidays and all that. You guys know what you’re getting me for Christmas? I don’t want another two hundred candy cane dildos like last year. I’m still writing thank you notes for those.
Um, what else? Jesus, you’d think that the first two items on the agenda would fill up more space, right? Well, okay, here goes:
We were POSITIVE we were gonna have another boy. When the lady told us it was a girl, I think I blew a circuit in my brain. I seriously couldn’t even think or speak for like two hours. All our best laid plans were ruined. Names, for example. We don’t have girl names, or girl pajamas or girl toys or any idea how to change a girl’s diaper. I mean with a boy, you could, as I understand it, pack them beneath a solid inch of shit right up to their necks and essentially just hose em off and they’ll be fine. With a girl, jesus, you sneeze and she’s got an infection. Right? I don’t know, man. It's super duper cool, but it's also super duper complicated. Argh. Now that fucking Avril Lavigne song is in my head. man...
What if she’s ugly? Worse, what if she’s hot? I mean, good lord. All I know is that I have to pay attention to her because girls who get ignored by their dads wind up in the movies. And I’m not talking about Gone With the Wind here, people. I’m talking Fuck My Throat 29. AND, while I’m a firm believer in the benefits of the sex industry in general and I’m in no way trying to judge people who choose to work in it, I’ve got this lingering evolutionary tic that’s preventing me from wanting my daughter to be a porn actress. Remember when Chris Rock said that if you’re the dad of a little girl, you’ve got one job: Keep ‘em off the stripper pole? Yeah. Well, that’s true. It is. I mean, again, I’ve got nothing at all against strippers. Lord knows they’re doing, well, the lord’s work, but there’s just something between theory and practice that I can’t quite put my finger on that’s keeping me from being able to sign off on that just now. Maybe it’s because this particular daughter of mine is still so young. I mean, she’s negative five months at this point, so, maybe when she gets older, I’ll turn around on the whole thing and stop being so uptight, but for now, sheesh. I’m already paying attention to her in utero, asking her about her day and shit. AND, just like a fucking female child, she’s already ignoring me.
This shit is impossible. I’ve got enough to worry about. Justin’s coming into my work today with his mix of this new recording, which I did in a slightly unorthadox way, and if ultimately I’m not happy with it, I’m gonna feel like a grade A heel for thinking I could pull this all off so cavalierly.
Okay, you know what? This is all making me real nervous, so just forget we talked. I’ll holler at you guys tomorrow.
Um, yup. Cool.
Later.
Friday, December 11, 2009
is this thing on?
Man, I’m just starting this entry and this is the time when I’m usually finished.
Here’s some things I love about Christmas:
Eggnog- Finally someone figured out how to make a seasonal, dairy, alcoholic beverage that tastes exactly the same going down as it does coming up. I say ‘finally’ but I know, man. Eggnog has been around for a while. It’s revolting, is what it is. Each glass is the caloric equivalent of drinking a pureed big mac and it makes you fucking loopy. My wife likes eggnog and white Russians. I make her brush her teeth after drinking those things before I’ll kiss her. When it comes to liquids, I’m a vegan. Well, I drink Guinness, which I guess has a little bit of fish oil or something in it, but otherwise, no thanks. Milk? Ew. Eggnog? Barf. Egg Cream or gin fizz? Don’t make me sick. I’m not drinking eggs. That’s what rocky does in the morning as an example of how hard ass he is. I’m not a hard ass. I weigh one hundred and seventy pounds. No animal products (except bull semen, which is great in sarsaparilla [it’s called a Rocky Mountain Root Beer]) in my beverages, thanks. Eggnog, this means you.
Family- It’s trite, sure, but is there anything more crazy than getting a bunch of people who are required by some sort of galactic law to love each other but who don’t REALLY know each other that well, stuffing them into the house of the oldest living one of them, cramming them with food and beer all the while forcing everyone to be ridiculously cognizant of the fact that they’re supposed to be having the time of their life? Ah shit, there’s aunt what’s-her-name talking about the Rapture again. Wanna go get another tiny little Dixie cup of wine? Oh, and god help you if your attractive cousin is there. Someone’s gonna catch you staring and you’ll catch them catching you. At that moment, when your eyes lock with your creepy uncle’s, your brain will race, wondering what your face was doing, and wondering what he thinks he knows and then, my friends, the haunting of your soul will begin in earnest.
Plus, jesus Christ. Who the fuck are all these girlfriends and shit that people bring by? She’s really gonna be in the picture? Okay. Way to ruin the picture by putting a reminder of cousin Cliff’s inability to commit right next to your grandfather. Years later, she’ll be mistaken as a distant cousin, visiting from Witchita.
Buying shit- This is horrible. I love giving gifts, but I can’t stand the fact that around this time I just have to figure it out and GO! Everyone you know! Perfect gifts! Go! GO! GO! GO! Fuck these stores and these websites and Oh, MAN, FUCK that one guy who comes in to wherever you happen to be and says, “just finished all my Christmas shopping. You?” Good for you. Really.
I mean, one of the best life lessons I’ve ever learned was taught to me by my friend Matt. One day, out of the blue, he told me he had a gift for me. He then gave me a shirt that said “Old Fart’s Wife.” I love it to this day. When I asked what the occasion was, he told me that the shirt made him think of me, and that when you see something that you know someone would like (if it’s not like, you know, a boat or something ridiculous) you just HAVE to get it for them. Otherwise, what’s even the point of making the correlation? It’s true, and if you employ this simple maxim, and get shit for your friends when you see something you know they’d like, just because, you’ll be happy and other people will be appreciative. However, when I’m dazedly walking around walgreens at six am December 25th looking for something to get my wife because I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT SHE WANTS and then I see a cactus or something that maybe looks like it didn’t come from the drugstore and maybe I should just get two, because I don’t have shit for my mom either, well….That’s not gift giving. That’s the societal equivalent of throwing shit at things.
What else do I love about the holidays? Oh, air travel. Man, this is turning into a Bobby Collins stand up routine. What’s the deal with airline food? Man, it’s terrible. Oh, don’t get me started on how old people smell. Look, assholes. I was just gonna spend this here time rattling off my favorite euphemisms, but I got sidetracked.
Here’s a few quick ones
“We gave each other blow jobs” is a euphemism for “I put my dick in his butthole”
“I put my dick in his butthole” is a euphemism for “I fucked his dog while he was asleep”
And finally, “I fucked his dog while he was asleep” is a euphemism for “I snuck into his house and rubbed taco meat all over my balls and had his dog and mom lick off the spices while I videotaped the whole thing over his wedding video.”
What are your favorite euphemisms? Huh? Huh?
Have a nice weekend, assbandits.
Here’s some things I love about Christmas:
Eggnog- Finally someone figured out how to make a seasonal, dairy, alcoholic beverage that tastes exactly the same going down as it does coming up. I say ‘finally’ but I know, man. Eggnog has been around for a while. It’s revolting, is what it is. Each glass is the caloric equivalent of drinking a pureed big mac and it makes you fucking loopy. My wife likes eggnog and white Russians. I make her brush her teeth after drinking those things before I’ll kiss her. When it comes to liquids, I’m a vegan. Well, I drink Guinness, which I guess has a little bit of fish oil or something in it, but otherwise, no thanks. Milk? Ew. Eggnog? Barf. Egg Cream or gin fizz? Don’t make me sick. I’m not drinking eggs. That’s what rocky does in the morning as an example of how hard ass he is. I’m not a hard ass. I weigh one hundred and seventy pounds. No animal products (except bull semen, which is great in sarsaparilla [it’s called a Rocky Mountain Root Beer]) in my beverages, thanks. Eggnog, this means you.
Family- It’s trite, sure, but is there anything more crazy than getting a bunch of people who are required by some sort of galactic law to love each other but who don’t REALLY know each other that well, stuffing them into the house of the oldest living one of them, cramming them with food and beer all the while forcing everyone to be ridiculously cognizant of the fact that they’re supposed to be having the time of their life? Ah shit, there’s aunt what’s-her-name talking about the Rapture again. Wanna go get another tiny little Dixie cup of wine? Oh, and god help you if your attractive cousin is there. Someone’s gonna catch you staring and you’ll catch them catching you. At that moment, when your eyes lock with your creepy uncle’s, your brain will race, wondering what your face was doing, and wondering what he thinks he knows and then, my friends, the haunting of your soul will begin in earnest.
Plus, jesus Christ. Who the fuck are all these girlfriends and shit that people bring by? She’s really gonna be in the picture? Okay. Way to ruin the picture by putting a reminder of cousin Cliff’s inability to commit right next to your grandfather. Years later, she’ll be mistaken as a distant cousin, visiting from Witchita.
Buying shit- This is horrible. I love giving gifts, but I can’t stand the fact that around this time I just have to figure it out and GO! Everyone you know! Perfect gifts! Go! GO! GO! GO! Fuck these stores and these websites and Oh, MAN, FUCK that one guy who comes in to wherever you happen to be and says, “just finished all my Christmas shopping. You?” Good for you. Really.
I mean, one of the best life lessons I’ve ever learned was taught to me by my friend Matt. One day, out of the blue, he told me he had a gift for me. He then gave me a shirt that said “Old Fart’s Wife.” I love it to this day. When I asked what the occasion was, he told me that the shirt made him think of me, and that when you see something that you know someone would like (if it’s not like, you know, a boat or something ridiculous) you just HAVE to get it for them. Otherwise, what’s even the point of making the correlation? It’s true, and if you employ this simple maxim, and get shit for your friends when you see something you know they’d like, just because, you’ll be happy and other people will be appreciative. However, when I’m dazedly walking around walgreens at six am December 25th looking for something to get my wife because I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT SHE WANTS and then I see a cactus or something that maybe looks like it didn’t come from the drugstore and maybe I should just get two, because I don’t have shit for my mom either, well….That’s not gift giving. That’s the societal equivalent of throwing shit at things.
What else do I love about the holidays? Oh, air travel. Man, this is turning into a Bobby Collins stand up routine. What’s the deal with airline food? Man, it’s terrible. Oh, don’t get me started on how old people smell. Look, assholes. I was just gonna spend this here time rattling off my favorite euphemisms, but I got sidetracked.
Here’s a few quick ones
“We gave each other blow jobs” is a euphemism for “I put my dick in his butthole”
“I put my dick in his butthole” is a euphemism for “I fucked his dog while he was asleep”
And finally, “I fucked his dog while he was asleep” is a euphemism for “I snuck into his house and rubbed taco meat all over my balls and had his dog and mom lick off the spices while I videotaped the whole thing over his wedding video.”
What are your favorite euphemisms? Huh? Huh?
Have a nice weekend, assbandits.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
gluga gluga gluga
Not a lot of time today. I got a good advice query that I think I can handle though.
Q: Hey Beex, when can I start asking my girlfriend to blow me again? We had a kid almost a year ago and so far- nothing. I’m dying over here. We live together and we still have sex semi-regularly, but I miss the bj. She says she’s tired all the time. She reads the bad sandwich every day. maybe she’ll listen to you. Don’t let me down!
Thanks.
A: Wow. Now, ladies and gentlemen, THIS is what this here blog is for. Our buddy here isn’t getting BJ’s but he’s still getting laid. Not the end of the world, but it’s a pickle, for sure. It’s a pickle that probably every man in a long term relationship has dealt with at least for a while here and there. It’s also, on the flipside, the source of the whining, completely unsexy and therefore pretty unblowable boyfriend that every woman in a long term relationship has probably dealt with for at least a while here and there. This shit becomes self fulfilling, and not just when it comes to blowjobs. I’ve been in relationships where the boning just stops. Any attempt to get to the source of why the boning stops just pushes the person who’s cruelly withholding the boning further and further away. It’s, to a point, the difference between the way men and women bargain, but that’s not all, and that’s not what’s going on here, either. Just throwing it all out there to get started.
Okay, on to this specific issue. Firstly, your girlfriend had a kid. That means, unless you guys are super young or already up to your necks in kids, that she’s probably got a new body, a new self image and a whole new set of responsibilities. That’s gonna have an effect on someone’s feelings of self confidence which will, in turn have an effect on how someone acts while getting their hump on. It’s not just reasonable to give space to someone who’s going through huge adjustments like that, it’s pretty much the only decent thing to do. I mean, she blew out her guts and clam squeezing out your fucking kid, for fucks sake. Beat off for a while, you selfish bastard.
Now, that being said, you’ve got a whole new set of responsibilities too. You too are tired all the time and I’m guessing that before you had this baby, you were probably getting bj’s on at least a semi regular basis, right? Sure. Otherwise why complain now? Okay, so here you are with a kid and you’re tired and suddenly, on top of everything, your bedroom routine is all switched up too. The reasons are pretty unassailable (see the paragraph above) but it’s a bummer. Well, it should be, and here’s why:
You’re stuck with her now. You’ve got a kid. You probably entered into this commitment with an idea of how the fucking was and was going to be. Now that you’re roped in, for her to change the rules on you is not just fucked up, it’s misleading and borderline cruel. Sure, she’s tired. Sure her needs are different. Sure. BUT this shit’s a two way street. You’re tired too. Your needs are still there. Just because hers have changed doesn’t mean that yours suddenly go away. That’s not how shit works. Relationships involve compromise, be it heading to bed bath and beyond, pretending to like your boyfriends shitty band, dealing with parents and even (gasp!) giving the occasional beej while sleepy AND/OR going without the occasional beej when horny. It’s fucking KEY that you give and take like this, and communicate, man. Otherwise, you’re just gonna get resentful, and so’s she. And that’s not a recipe for exciting banging and beejing at ALL. That’s the recipe for cheating and disaster.
Now, if I can address the lady in question here (presuming that this dude is telling the truth about his girl’s fealty to the BSC cannon): Listen up! You’re not sick of giving blowjobs. I know this. Want me to prove it? Okay, think about this, if you were suddenly single and out with say, brad pitt or that fucking vampire dude or one of the Jonas brothers or that one waiter from the place you go for lunch or will smith or whoever blows your hair back, and shit started getting exciting, you’d blow him. Maybe just as a warm up, but you know it’d happen. If you were suddenly single and out there dating and shit started getting serious, you’d blow the dude. You’re sick of blowing THIS ONE PENIS, and that’s lame. Not fair. Boning and the trappings of boning should be fun and exciting, not some chore. And yeah, shit gets stale. That’s why it’s IMPORTANT AS HELL TO KEEP SHIT SPICEY! And listen good: that spice: blowjobs and the like, is a LOT more conducive to stable relationships and keeping people together than anything else on the earth. Think about it: People have kids to keep marriages together all the time, and how well does that work? Not at all. Conversely, people who CAN’T STAND each other still wind up going back for more and more great boning. It’s simple science. Therefore, talk, communicate make him wash his balls or whatever, and get back in there. You gotta, man.
Wow, who knew I’d come down on the side of blowjobs? I even surprise myself sometimes.
Anyway, everyone, here’s your homework. Get out there and blow someone (my parents are exempt from this assignment). You’ll be glad you did.
Good luck everyone!
Q: Hey Beex, when can I start asking my girlfriend to blow me again? We had a kid almost a year ago and so far- nothing. I’m dying over here. We live together and we still have sex semi-regularly, but I miss the bj. She says she’s tired all the time. She reads the bad sandwich every day. maybe she’ll listen to you. Don’t let me down!
Thanks.
A: Wow. Now, ladies and gentlemen, THIS is what this here blog is for. Our buddy here isn’t getting BJ’s but he’s still getting laid. Not the end of the world, but it’s a pickle, for sure. It’s a pickle that probably every man in a long term relationship has dealt with at least for a while here and there. It’s also, on the flipside, the source of the whining, completely unsexy and therefore pretty unblowable boyfriend that every woman in a long term relationship has probably dealt with for at least a while here and there. This shit becomes self fulfilling, and not just when it comes to blowjobs. I’ve been in relationships where the boning just stops. Any attempt to get to the source of why the boning stops just pushes the person who’s cruelly withholding the boning further and further away. It’s, to a point, the difference between the way men and women bargain, but that’s not all, and that’s not what’s going on here, either. Just throwing it all out there to get started.
Okay, on to this specific issue. Firstly, your girlfriend had a kid. That means, unless you guys are super young or already up to your necks in kids, that she’s probably got a new body, a new self image and a whole new set of responsibilities. That’s gonna have an effect on someone’s feelings of self confidence which will, in turn have an effect on how someone acts while getting their hump on. It’s not just reasonable to give space to someone who’s going through huge adjustments like that, it’s pretty much the only decent thing to do. I mean, she blew out her guts and clam squeezing out your fucking kid, for fucks sake. Beat off for a while, you selfish bastard.
Now, that being said, you’ve got a whole new set of responsibilities too. You too are tired all the time and I’m guessing that before you had this baby, you were probably getting bj’s on at least a semi regular basis, right? Sure. Otherwise why complain now? Okay, so here you are with a kid and you’re tired and suddenly, on top of everything, your bedroom routine is all switched up too. The reasons are pretty unassailable (see the paragraph above) but it’s a bummer. Well, it should be, and here’s why:
You’re stuck with her now. You’ve got a kid. You probably entered into this commitment with an idea of how the fucking was and was going to be. Now that you’re roped in, for her to change the rules on you is not just fucked up, it’s misleading and borderline cruel. Sure, she’s tired. Sure her needs are different. Sure. BUT this shit’s a two way street. You’re tired too. Your needs are still there. Just because hers have changed doesn’t mean that yours suddenly go away. That’s not how shit works. Relationships involve compromise, be it heading to bed bath and beyond, pretending to like your boyfriends shitty band, dealing with parents and even (gasp!) giving the occasional beej while sleepy AND/OR going without the occasional beej when horny. It’s fucking KEY that you give and take like this, and communicate, man. Otherwise, you’re just gonna get resentful, and so’s she. And that’s not a recipe for exciting banging and beejing at ALL. That’s the recipe for cheating and disaster.
Now, if I can address the lady in question here (presuming that this dude is telling the truth about his girl’s fealty to the BSC cannon): Listen up! You’re not sick of giving blowjobs. I know this. Want me to prove it? Okay, think about this, if you were suddenly single and out with say, brad pitt or that fucking vampire dude or one of the Jonas brothers or that one waiter from the place you go for lunch or will smith or whoever blows your hair back, and shit started getting exciting, you’d blow him. Maybe just as a warm up, but you know it’d happen. If you were suddenly single and out there dating and shit started getting serious, you’d blow the dude. You’re sick of blowing THIS ONE PENIS, and that’s lame. Not fair. Boning and the trappings of boning should be fun and exciting, not some chore. And yeah, shit gets stale. That’s why it’s IMPORTANT AS HELL TO KEEP SHIT SPICEY! And listen good: that spice: blowjobs and the like, is a LOT more conducive to stable relationships and keeping people together than anything else on the earth. Think about it: People have kids to keep marriages together all the time, and how well does that work? Not at all. Conversely, people who CAN’T STAND each other still wind up going back for more and more great boning. It’s simple science. Therefore, talk, communicate make him wash his balls or whatever, and get back in there. You gotta, man.
Wow, who knew I’d come down on the side of blowjobs? I even surprise myself sometimes.
Anyway, everyone, here’s your homework. Get out there and blow someone (my parents are exempt from this assignment). You’ll be glad you did.
Good luck everyone!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
WAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!
Any parent worth a shit will tell you that there’s a small window in which you can put your little one down for a nap, that’s all. It’s not like finally putting someone out of their misery after exhausting them in a brutal duel, a la mortal Kombat, it’s much more like re entering the earth’s atmosphere. Do it at the right time, shit, it’s easy. Do it any other time at all, you’re fucked. Burnt. No hope.
Now, I’m kind of a ninja at getting this kid of mine down. I can spot the fucking window a mile away. I never have problems and I have a daily routine that’s very much built around by my ability to get him down and sleeping at the right time.
Well, yesterday he was barfing. Later in the day that turned into liquid shits which continued while I was giving him a bath to try and wash off the sheen of liquid shits that he’d coated himself in. Nothing like cleaning a toddler in a tub and then suddenly seeing a massive brown jettison seeping from the general ass region to wreck your evening. It’s disheartening. Well, today, against EVERY SINGLE BIT OF BETTER JUDGMENT I HAVE, I decided to try and change his diaper before putting him down for a nap, just because I didn’t want him to have to sleep with a diaper full of liquid shit. Long story short-He’s in there just wailing and screaming. He’s not going to nap and I’m FUCKED. This is enough to make me insane. After yesterday, when I had to change his clothes six times and do four different loads of wash, I can’t deal with a day without a nap today. I mean, honestly…Jesus, if you’re out there, good one. You got me good for calling you a zombie hippy with lame friends and making fun of your dad. We’re even now, so just knock the kid out for about two and a half hours, would you? Use some of that magic. Be a sport.
At first, I used to write this blog daily while he wailed in the other room, but that was when he was an infant. He’d eventually pass out. That’s how infants are sometimes. Now he’s got big ideas about what’s supposed to be going on and where he’s supposed to be and for a little guy who literally gets his ass wiped by almost everyone he knows, he’s cultivated a pretty hearty sense of outrage. So, he’s in there standing up, screaming at me to come get him and it’s not going to stop. I’ll get another chance to try and put him down in a few hours, but that’s gonna be sketchy too, and THAT, people is going to lead to a bad night of sleep for everyone involved. I’m supposed to be writing a god damned pitch for a television show right now, but I can’t. My fucking nerves are shot because of this stupid lapse in judgment.
I’m so pissed.
He’s not going to shut up. He’s not.
In Utah, they have these billboards that say “real men don’t shake babies’ and man, that’s true. Shittiest thing you can do is shake a baby. But man. I’ve gotta shake SOMETHING around here and I’d LOVE it if shaking that something shut up that kid. Maybe I’ll shake one of the dogs. Nah. That’s cruel. Oh, man. Oh man.
Now, I recognize that a lot of you out there are in your early twenties and reading my thoughts as I have a breakdown because I parented slip-shoddily is hardly relevant to all your PBR by way of bisexual friends and neon V-neck day-to-day, but guess what? That’s what you get today, turds. This is, as I’ve mentioned before a one way conduit from my brain to your lunch break and here’s what’s on the menu today. BSC world HQ is in shambles!!!!!! There’s fucking screaming, shitty diapers everywhere, dishes in the sink, I’m all sweaty. The Christmas decorations are still in their boxes, that trip to the grocery store surely missed a bunch of key items that I’m gonna hear all about later. What else? Oh, these fucking dogs are driving me nuts. My fucking…wait. Wait. Just a sec. I think he’s…nah, can’t be. Is he asleep? Is he down? He’s been quiet for almost a minute. This is unprecedented. My nerves dare not relax. I’m tense. This is like how tom cruise felt when they lowered him on that string down in front of that computer or when he had to scrape together a hard on and a smile before banging his wife. Holy fucking A! He’s either asleep or dead. That’s either the best or the worst possible scenario, right there folks. Absolutely split right down the center.
See, I know this kid real well, and there’s no way that he’s just sitting in there kicking it in silence. He’s either dead (unlikely) or asleep (slightly less unlikely). Either way, I’m gonna go get my new guitar and try to figure out a song or two and then put this goddamned pitch together.
Oh, and while we’re on the subject, thanks so much for all the advice on buying guitars. Did anyone else find it um, how you say…funny that so many people knew exactly what I needed and had all sorts of great advice for me on how to pick out a good guitar and what I should do and what kind of money I needed to spend? Hey, dildos. I’ve spent more time in more stupid guitar shops than ALL OF YOU, okay (except for you, Danny). I’ve been buying guitars and playing guitars longer than most of you have been feeding yourselves or producing semen/ovulating. Thanks for all the fucking advice, but uh…do you remember why you started coming to this dumb blog page in the first place? I’m from a band. I make the bulk of my living being in a band and I have for more than a decade. I know what I want. So thanks, everyone, but in the words of everyone who’s ever heard someone else say it first, I don’t come down to where you work and tell you how to suck the dicks that come through the glory hole (slightly adjusted from the original for relevance).
Hey, while you’re fixing all my problems, tell me how to put my kid down for a nap now, you fucking teenagers. Go on. I’m dying to hear your pearls of wisdom.
Sheesh.
Now, I’m kind of a ninja at getting this kid of mine down. I can spot the fucking window a mile away. I never have problems and I have a daily routine that’s very much built around by my ability to get him down and sleeping at the right time.
Well, yesterday he was barfing. Later in the day that turned into liquid shits which continued while I was giving him a bath to try and wash off the sheen of liquid shits that he’d coated himself in. Nothing like cleaning a toddler in a tub and then suddenly seeing a massive brown jettison seeping from the general ass region to wreck your evening. It’s disheartening. Well, today, against EVERY SINGLE BIT OF BETTER JUDGMENT I HAVE, I decided to try and change his diaper before putting him down for a nap, just because I didn’t want him to have to sleep with a diaper full of liquid shit. Long story short-He’s in there just wailing and screaming. He’s not going to nap and I’m FUCKED. This is enough to make me insane. After yesterday, when I had to change his clothes six times and do four different loads of wash, I can’t deal with a day without a nap today. I mean, honestly…Jesus, if you’re out there, good one. You got me good for calling you a zombie hippy with lame friends and making fun of your dad. We’re even now, so just knock the kid out for about two and a half hours, would you? Use some of that magic. Be a sport.
At first, I used to write this blog daily while he wailed in the other room, but that was when he was an infant. He’d eventually pass out. That’s how infants are sometimes. Now he’s got big ideas about what’s supposed to be going on and where he’s supposed to be and for a little guy who literally gets his ass wiped by almost everyone he knows, he’s cultivated a pretty hearty sense of outrage. So, he’s in there standing up, screaming at me to come get him and it’s not going to stop. I’ll get another chance to try and put him down in a few hours, but that’s gonna be sketchy too, and THAT, people is going to lead to a bad night of sleep for everyone involved. I’m supposed to be writing a god damned pitch for a television show right now, but I can’t. My fucking nerves are shot because of this stupid lapse in judgment.
I’m so pissed.
He’s not going to shut up. He’s not.
In Utah, they have these billboards that say “real men don’t shake babies’ and man, that’s true. Shittiest thing you can do is shake a baby. But man. I’ve gotta shake SOMETHING around here and I’d LOVE it if shaking that something shut up that kid. Maybe I’ll shake one of the dogs. Nah. That’s cruel. Oh, man. Oh man.
Now, I recognize that a lot of you out there are in your early twenties and reading my thoughts as I have a breakdown because I parented slip-shoddily is hardly relevant to all your PBR by way of bisexual friends and neon V-neck day-to-day, but guess what? That’s what you get today, turds. This is, as I’ve mentioned before a one way conduit from my brain to your lunch break and here’s what’s on the menu today. BSC world HQ is in shambles!!!!!! There’s fucking screaming, shitty diapers everywhere, dishes in the sink, I’m all sweaty. The Christmas decorations are still in their boxes, that trip to the grocery store surely missed a bunch of key items that I’m gonna hear all about later. What else? Oh, these fucking dogs are driving me nuts. My fucking…wait. Wait. Just a sec. I think he’s…nah, can’t be. Is he asleep? Is he down? He’s been quiet for almost a minute. This is unprecedented. My nerves dare not relax. I’m tense. This is like how tom cruise felt when they lowered him on that string down in front of that computer or when he had to scrape together a hard on and a smile before banging his wife. Holy fucking A! He’s either asleep or dead. That’s either the best or the worst possible scenario, right there folks. Absolutely split right down the center.
See, I know this kid real well, and there’s no way that he’s just sitting in there kicking it in silence. He’s either dead (unlikely) or asleep (slightly less unlikely). Either way, I’m gonna go get my new guitar and try to figure out a song or two and then put this goddamned pitch together.
Oh, and while we’re on the subject, thanks so much for all the advice on buying guitars. Did anyone else find it um, how you say…funny that so many people knew exactly what I needed and had all sorts of great advice for me on how to pick out a good guitar and what I should do and what kind of money I needed to spend? Hey, dildos. I’ve spent more time in more stupid guitar shops than ALL OF YOU, okay (except for you, Danny). I’ve been buying guitars and playing guitars longer than most of you have been feeding yourselves or producing semen/ovulating. Thanks for all the fucking advice, but uh…do you remember why you started coming to this dumb blog page in the first place? I’m from a band. I make the bulk of my living being in a band and I have for more than a decade. I know what I want. So thanks, everyone, but in the words of everyone who’s ever heard someone else say it first, I don’t come down to where you work and tell you how to suck the dicks that come through the glory hole (slightly adjusted from the original for relevance).
Hey, while you’re fixing all my problems, tell me how to put my kid down for a nap now, you fucking teenagers. Go on. I’m dying to hear your pearls of wisdom.
Sheesh.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
and now for something completely offensive
Okay, I feel compelled to respond to a comment left in the Sock Drawer yesterday. Someone mentioned that the casual use of the word “Guido” while describing MTV break out hit and axe body spray infomercial, “Jersey Shore” was offensive. Perhaps, this person suggested, the commenters and, in fact the blogmaster himself (that would be me) should be a little more careful with their choice of words when describing our greasy, oiled up neighbors out there on the shore. Welllllll, I just don’t even know where to begin. Firstly, as I said yesterday, the terms “Guido” and “guidette” are terms that THE PEOPLE IN THE SHOW USE TO REFER TO THEMSELVES. THE SHOW ITSELF ADVERTISES THE STARS AS GUIDOS. THE GUIDETTES SAY SHIT LIKE “I’M DOWN HERE TO MEET SOME FINE ASS GUIDOS.” I would NEVER use the word guido to describe someone. Not because it’s offensive, because honestly, I don’t think it is. Rather, it’s kind of a pussified and stupid sounding word. I’m not into it. I was simply using the cultural parlance of the relevant paradigm, bro. That’s all.
Now, I know where this is all going. If there’s a show on tv with a bunch of black dudes calling each other ‘nigger’ it doesn’t make it cool for me to call them ‘nigger.’ Yup. That’s true. Why is this different? Let me tell you why:
1. These dildos CHOOSE to be these fucking people they are. “Nigger” pejoratively implies race, which isn’t a choice, and, let’s face it, it’s a culturally loaded and very significant word. “Guido” implies hair gel and spray tans and gold chains. That shit’s all shit you do to yourself. Calling someone a ‘guido’ is more like calling some one a “Juggalo” than calling them a ‘nigger.’
2. I kind of touched on this in point one, but man, there’s a HUGE difference between some bullshit phony ‘racism’ based on style and real honest to god hegemony. Everyone and their mom now says that their own little marginalized group has a term “that’s the equivalent to the N word.” No it’s not. Know why? Because if it was, other groups could use YOUR term to describe how hurtful the terms that hurt them are. They’d say, ‘you know, calling an irish guy a mick is like calling an italian a guido.’ But they don’t. Everyone goes back to the N word. Know why? Because that shit’s just different. Sorry Italians and irish guys and women and midgets. You don’t get an N word. Settle for not having to grow up black in a world that’s afraid of you. How bout that? Jesus fucking Christ. Everyone LOVES to pretend they’re persecuted these days. sigh.
3. I didn’t call these motherfuckers guidos. The actual pejorative term for Italians is not Guido, as we’ve discussed. It’s Dago. And THAT my friend, is what I called these people. Why? Check out point four.
4. I am of Italian descent, so I’ll a-say whatever the fucka I wanna. Shuddupayouface.
5. Now, I’m not gonna sit here and tell you that I’m hilarious or brilliant or anything, so leaving aside that we’re talking about something I wrote, I’d like to touch generally on the difference between racism and things that have to do with race. Racism requires two parts. 1) it must be thoughtless and 2) it can’t be funny. Anything that’s thoughtful and funny will not sound like racism. Know why? Because there’s nothing funny or thoughtful about racism. If something is racially motivated, but it’s thoughtful and funny, it might be edgy and it might make you nervous, but if you find it to be racist, frankly, you’re a pussy. And hey, since it’s come up, why stop at guido, we should be pissed off that I’m using feminine reproductive organs as a synecdoche for a weaker or less properly adjusted person. No. I’m tired. I’m very tired. It’s shit like this that gets motherfuckers at each other’s throats and prevents any sort of real conversations about cultural difference or race from ever taking place in this country. Someone shouts out that being called a midget is as offensive as being called a nigger. Next thing you know, you’ve got assholes who don’t believe that (because, as we’ve gone over, they shouldn’t. It’s manufactured outrage at worst and at best it’s hyperbolic exaggeration correlated by lack of true empathy) throwing around the word nigger like it’s no big deal. For every dildo that freaks out about every little word that’s uttered that may seem offensive to someone, and organizes groups to protest (for example) jersey shore, a show that’s made up entirely of people who know EXACTLY what they’re doing and how they’re representing themselves (sorry, Italians), there’s several other dildos who completely dismiss it all as PC thuggery. So what’s the solution?
6. Use your fucking brain. There’s patent idiocy in the world and then there’s humor, there’s rational discourse, there’s real issues that are thorny that need to be navigated and there’s lots of grey area. Getting pissed off about the use of a stupid term to describe a bunch of idiots on an MTV show that’s being marketed using that very term isn’t doing anything but creating knee jerk reactions in people who are sick to death of the litigious nature of our culture. The same impulse that makes us compulsively seek apologies and manufacture outrage across racial and political lines in the sand is the EXACT same impulse that has clogged our courts with so many ridiculous lawsuits. My coffee’s too hot. My cel phone provider shouldn’t let me text and drive. I’m too fucking fat to fit into a seat and I’m not gonna take it any more! It’s all the same. Lazy, manufactured outrage. I bet, within 3 blocks of any of us there’s something going on that’s GENUINELY outrageous and terrible. This is a dark and depressing world. Hunger, sexual abuse, juggalos breeding etc. That’s the shit to be outraged about. Not this bullshit.
In closing, uh…whatever. Throw your fucking stones. I can’t even think about this anymore. My kid’s barfing today.
Now, I know where this is all going. If there’s a show on tv with a bunch of black dudes calling each other ‘nigger’ it doesn’t make it cool for me to call them ‘nigger.’ Yup. That’s true. Why is this different? Let me tell you why:
1. These dildos CHOOSE to be these fucking people they are. “Nigger” pejoratively implies race, which isn’t a choice, and, let’s face it, it’s a culturally loaded and very significant word. “Guido” implies hair gel and spray tans and gold chains. That shit’s all shit you do to yourself. Calling someone a ‘guido’ is more like calling some one a “Juggalo” than calling them a ‘nigger.’
2. I kind of touched on this in point one, but man, there’s a HUGE difference between some bullshit phony ‘racism’ based on style and real honest to god hegemony. Everyone and their mom now says that their own little marginalized group has a term “that’s the equivalent to the N word.” No it’s not. Know why? Because if it was, other groups could use YOUR term to describe how hurtful the terms that hurt them are. They’d say, ‘you know, calling an irish guy a mick is like calling an italian a guido.’ But they don’t. Everyone goes back to the N word. Know why? Because that shit’s just different. Sorry Italians and irish guys and women and midgets. You don’t get an N word. Settle for not having to grow up black in a world that’s afraid of you. How bout that? Jesus fucking Christ. Everyone LOVES to pretend they’re persecuted these days. sigh.
3. I didn’t call these motherfuckers guidos. The actual pejorative term for Italians is not Guido, as we’ve discussed. It’s Dago. And THAT my friend, is what I called these people. Why? Check out point four.
4. I am of Italian descent, so I’ll a-say whatever the fucka I wanna. Shuddupayouface.
5. Now, I’m not gonna sit here and tell you that I’m hilarious or brilliant or anything, so leaving aside that we’re talking about something I wrote, I’d like to touch generally on the difference between racism and things that have to do with race. Racism requires two parts. 1) it must be thoughtless and 2) it can’t be funny. Anything that’s thoughtful and funny will not sound like racism. Know why? Because there’s nothing funny or thoughtful about racism. If something is racially motivated, but it’s thoughtful and funny, it might be edgy and it might make you nervous, but if you find it to be racist, frankly, you’re a pussy. And hey, since it’s come up, why stop at guido, we should be pissed off that I’m using feminine reproductive organs as a synecdoche for a weaker or less properly adjusted person. No. I’m tired. I’m very tired. It’s shit like this that gets motherfuckers at each other’s throats and prevents any sort of real conversations about cultural difference or race from ever taking place in this country. Someone shouts out that being called a midget is as offensive as being called a nigger. Next thing you know, you’ve got assholes who don’t believe that (because, as we’ve gone over, they shouldn’t. It’s manufactured outrage at worst and at best it’s hyperbolic exaggeration correlated by lack of true empathy) throwing around the word nigger like it’s no big deal. For every dildo that freaks out about every little word that’s uttered that may seem offensive to someone, and organizes groups to protest (for example) jersey shore, a show that’s made up entirely of people who know EXACTLY what they’re doing and how they’re representing themselves (sorry, Italians), there’s several other dildos who completely dismiss it all as PC thuggery. So what’s the solution?
6. Use your fucking brain. There’s patent idiocy in the world and then there’s humor, there’s rational discourse, there’s real issues that are thorny that need to be navigated and there’s lots of grey area. Getting pissed off about the use of a stupid term to describe a bunch of idiots on an MTV show that’s being marketed using that very term isn’t doing anything but creating knee jerk reactions in people who are sick to death of the litigious nature of our culture. The same impulse that makes us compulsively seek apologies and manufacture outrage across racial and political lines in the sand is the EXACT same impulse that has clogged our courts with so many ridiculous lawsuits. My coffee’s too hot. My cel phone provider shouldn’t let me text and drive. I’m too fucking fat to fit into a seat and I’m not gonna take it any more! It’s all the same. Lazy, manufactured outrage. I bet, within 3 blocks of any of us there’s something going on that’s GENUINELY outrageous and terrible. This is a dark and depressing world. Hunger, sexual abuse, juggalos breeding etc. That’s the shit to be outraged about. Not this bullshit.
In closing, uh…whatever. Throw your fucking stones. I can’t even think about this anymore. My kid’s barfing today.
Monday, December 7, 2009
oh, hi mark.
There are some exciting things happening out there in the wasteland of modern pop culture, kids. Of course I’m referring to Jersey Shore, first and foremost. Have you seen this show? My friend Katie turned me onto it the other night, and it’s pretty wild. Essentially, they took a gigantic tub of gel and a gigantic can of axe body spray and a bunch of self tanner and put it in a house on the jersey shore along with about six apelike dagos, and their various nicknames and abs. There’s also alcohol. Did I mention that? Good. So you’ve got the setting right? A bunch of browned spiky greasy things grunting their way through a real-world like scenario each wearing so much cologne that you can actually smell it wafting out of your television. There’s punching, girl on girl hot tub action and everything else that you’ve come to expect from MTV’s reality experiments. The difference with this one is that it’s SO fucking racially motivated and it absolutely wallows in the most hilarious stereotypes. It’s a little bit like if they had “mexican house” and then went and gathered up a bunch of illegal immigrant busboys with mustaches and cowboy hats as their cultural representatives. I dunno…that actually seems better. Well, here’s the real thing that’s awesome about Jersey Shore: The ‘stars’ are so absolutely repellant that there’s no sense of guilt. It’s fun to watch these muscled sleeveless gold chain wearing hair gel hosts grunt around and try against all odds not to wind up pregnant or with a new strain of herpes.
The true genius of the show, however, is that they all fully recognize the stereotype and relish in it as well. They refer to themselves as “Guidos and guidettes” and they talk at length about the boons and benefits of hair gel, cologne, muscles, spray tans and tanning beds (one dude has a tanning bed in his fucking HOUSE…yeah, I said dude), lip gloss for the guys as well as the chicks and general perpetuation of the whole greasy dago subspecies. Therefore, you can’t really effectively hate on them. They know what they’re about. They’re into it. It’s like the whole theory about open relationships, if you can fuck other people, you’re not going to cheat. It’s kind of a bizarre loophole, but by gum! These guidos seem to have pulled it off.
Did I mention the punching? Oh, there’s punching.
Up next, pop cultural phenomenon The Room, a film that’s so amazingly amazing that I don’t even want to give anything away, but, well, I’ve got some space to fill here, so I’m going to. Okay, the room is the pet project of Tommy Wiseau, who wrote, directed, produced and starred in what can only be called the most transcendently awful piece of wonderful garbage ever brutally bludgeoned onto film (and digital video! He shot the whole movie with two cameras both on the same mount, which may explain the focus and framing problems that plague the movie [though Wiseau claims these are all artistic choices]). Here’s the thing. It’s a heavy drama about a love triangle, and it was expensive to make. It’s said that the budget was something crazy like six million bucks. But it’s hilarious. At its first screening in LA, Wiseau got limos, red carpet and the whole deal. By all accounts, people were rolling in the aisles laughing within the first ten minutes. It’s not a comedy, though. It’s a heavy drama. BUT, shamelessly, Wiseau decided to run with it, and he now claims that it’s funny on purpose and even the trailer now says something like “experience this hilarious dark comedy! It’s a riot!” But dude, there’s no way. Go to youtube and search “you’re tearing me apart lisa” or “oh, hi mark” if you want an idea of this shit. The clips are short and safe for work and all that, and man, we need to start getting into this shit. It’s now a cult phenomenon and it does midnight showings once a month in most major cities, and he’s there a lot of the time reading sonnets and doing q and a sessions. For real. Now it’s gaining momentum and there’s rocky horror like interaction that goes on. People toss spoons and dress up and the whole deal. Let’s go? Kay? Good. Oh, and Tommy Wiseau looks like the rock and roll attorney for the Scorpions or something. That won’t make sense until you see him. Then it will make perfect sense.
Yeah. So, what have we learned? Shamelessness is the key to great entertainment in these closing moments of the first decade of the new millennium. That, and….What else do Tommy Wiseau and the greaseballs on Jersey shore have in common? That’s right kids. Confidence! It goes a long way. Sometimes it can turn you into a folk hero just by being earnestly terrible and ballsy and sometimes it can get you a blumpkin right there in your shorehouse.
Shuddupayouface!
The true genius of the show, however, is that they all fully recognize the stereotype and relish in it as well. They refer to themselves as “Guidos and guidettes” and they talk at length about the boons and benefits of hair gel, cologne, muscles, spray tans and tanning beds (one dude has a tanning bed in his fucking HOUSE…yeah, I said dude), lip gloss for the guys as well as the chicks and general perpetuation of the whole greasy dago subspecies. Therefore, you can’t really effectively hate on them. They know what they’re about. They’re into it. It’s like the whole theory about open relationships, if you can fuck other people, you’re not going to cheat. It’s kind of a bizarre loophole, but by gum! These guidos seem to have pulled it off.
Did I mention the punching? Oh, there’s punching.
Up next, pop cultural phenomenon The Room, a film that’s so amazingly amazing that I don’t even want to give anything away, but, well, I’ve got some space to fill here, so I’m going to. Okay, the room is the pet project of Tommy Wiseau, who wrote, directed, produced and starred in what can only be called the most transcendently awful piece of wonderful garbage ever brutally bludgeoned onto film (and digital video! He shot the whole movie with two cameras both on the same mount, which may explain the focus and framing problems that plague the movie [though Wiseau claims these are all artistic choices]). Here’s the thing. It’s a heavy drama about a love triangle, and it was expensive to make. It’s said that the budget was something crazy like six million bucks. But it’s hilarious. At its first screening in LA, Wiseau got limos, red carpet and the whole deal. By all accounts, people were rolling in the aisles laughing within the first ten minutes. It’s not a comedy, though. It’s a heavy drama. BUT, shamelessly, Wiseau decided to run with it, and he now claims that it’s funny on purpose and even the trailer now says something like “experience this hilarious dark comedy! It’s a riot!” But dude, there’s no way. Go to youtube and search “you’re tearing me apart lisa” or “oh, hi mark” if you want an idea of this shit. The clips are short and safe for work and all that, and man, we need to start getting into this shit. It’s now a cult phenomenon and it does midnight showings once a month in most major cities, and he’s there a lot of the time reading sonnets and doing q and a sessions. For real. Now it’s gaining momentum and there’s rocky horror like interaction that goes on. People toss spoons and dress up and the whole deal. Let’s go? Kay? Good. Oh, and Tommy Wiseau looks like the rock and roll attorney for the Scorpions or something. That won’t make sense until you see him. Then it will make perfect sense.
Yeah. So, what have we learned? Shamelessness is the key to great entertainment in these closing moments of the first decade of the new millennium. That, and….What else do Tommy Wiseau and the greaseballs on Jersey shore have in common? That’s right kids. Confidence! It goes a long way. Sometimes it can turn you into a folk hero just by being earnestly terrible and ballsy and sometimes it can get you a blumpkin right there in your shorehouse.
Shuddupayouface!
Friday, December 4, 2009
this machine is toooo fucking expensive
I want to play the guitar. My guitar is a piece of shit though. It sucks. It used to be okay, and for a while it was ‘decent’ but here’s the thing: it’s a cheap guitar and I’ve had it for twenty years. It’s no longer good, but for the longest fucking time it was good enough, which prevented me from upgrading it. “It’s just for dicking around with at home” I told myself. “I don’t need anything more than this crappy epiphone. WELL, guess what? I do. Now, my guitar is kind of fucked up and hard to play and I’m old, and the idea of having a nice guitar kind of excites me. And that’s cool. I mean, I’ve got a couple of really nice basses. Why not have a nice guitar too, right? I’ll tell you people why. Because those shits are fucking expensive, that’s why. I went to four (FOUR!) shops yesterday and I couldn’t find anything that wasn’t embarrassingly reprehensible for under fifteen hundred bucks. Who do they think I am? The sultan of Brunei? Tim McIlrath? I mean, come on. Waste of time, that’s what that shit was.
My wife has been out of town for a week and she comes home today. I’ve got dead hookers all over this place and the dogs and the kid have just been running free, shitting wherever they want/can and scavenging food from the floor. I’ve gotta go to work in fifteen minutes and I don’t really know how I’m gonna ‘spruce up the gash’ so to speak, before she gets home. What’s a good lie to tell to your wife when she confronts you with your pile of dead hooker parts? “Uh, I’m letting the med students house some cadavers here while they clean out the cooler at Northwestern. Hey! I’m an alum! What was I gonna do?” nah. Chances are good she’d bring up the decomposing flesh and the baby and the maggots and all that. I gotta hire a maid. That’s all there is to it. But a man maid, someone with some strength and guts. Steve Segal, maybe, or Bruce Willis.
Fuck. My head’s not in the game today. After my hideous experience with the guitar shopping, I juggled my kid for a few hours and then went to band practice way after I should have already been asleep. The falcon, my other band, is playing a secret (shhhh!) show tomorrow, and we had to get the dust off our dicks and relearn the songs. The good thing about the falcon and the bad thing about the falcon are the same: we just have a few songs. That makes it easy to practice and write a setlist, but hard to change up too much. Whatever. The songs are all golden hits about sucking penises in back alleys or down on the docks and drinking strong drinks to sanitize your tonsils afterwards. Don’t know if you guys knew that, but it’s true. Oh, there’s some anti religious, anti stupidity, and pro stupidity jams too. For those of you keeping score. Whatever. They’re almost all getting played tomorrow (and a couple of surprises! Yay!) so come on down, provided you already have tickets, that is. Shit’s private, yo. So you can’t just show up and get in. Plus, it’s in a secret location. How’s THAT for classing up the shit? MmmmHmmm.
As you all may or may not remember, I give advice here too. Recently, one of my dogs of war wrote in for advice. Seems he dumped his long term old lady for the chick that he’s been pining over for years, who also happens to be his GF’s close friend. The problem arose when the new chick wanted to take shit slow. He freaked, because he’s used to being in a long term relationship, and wanted to know if he should patch shit up with his ex or go for the casual dating with the new chick, though the casual nature of it made him uncomfortable. THEN, he wrote in to say that I could just forget about the advice because they neither one want anything to do with him anymore.
Well. Well. Well. What do you think I have to say to this?
Sounds to me like he engineered the switcheroo pretty well (they ended up making out and then severing ties with their various significant others) but then something went wrong. What was it? Hmmmmmm….Anyone? Bueller?
Confidence, man. You can do anything you want. It’s like the fucking invisible bridge in the Last Crusade. If you just have faith that it’s there, it WILL carry you through to the other side. This dude was NOT confident with casually dating a new girl (which, let’s be frank, you HAVE to do. You can’t just start up with a new chick where you left off with the old one. Doesn’t work that way.) and the results? Everything blew up in his face. No one wants to see effort or strain or uncertainty. You can look at a man’s suit as an example of this. People don’t want to see the way it gets put on. That’s why the belt goes over the clasp, the tie goes over the buttons and the collar goes over the tie. The illusion of impossible simplicity. No one wants to see the effort. Confidence is the ONLY WAY TO IMPRESS UPON OTHERS THAT YOU ARE WORTH A SHIT. AND, once again, IT IS THE ONLY THING THAT ALL (I wish I could make that ‘all’ even more capitalized), REPEAT, ALL WOMEN FIND ATTRACTIVE. Nine times out of ten if you’re having a problem, it’s because you’ve failed to understand this simple and applicable maxim. This time, this was it.
Okay, these corpses aren’t gonna stuff themselves into hefty bags. Gotta run.
xo
My wife has been out of town for a week and she comes home today. I’ve got dead hookers all over this place and the dogs and the kid have just been running free, shitting wherever they want/can and scavenging food from the floor. I’ve gotta go to work in fifteen minutes and I don’t really know how I’m gonna ‘spruce up the gash’ so to speak, before she gets home. What’s a good lie to tell to your wife when she confronts you with your pile of dead hooker parts? “Uh, I’m letting the med students house some cadavers here while they clean out the cooler at Northwestern. Hey! I’m an alum! What was I gonna do?” nah. Chances are good she’d bring up the decomposing flesh and the baby and the maggots and all that. I gotta hire a maid. That’s all there is to it. But a man maid, someone with some strength and guts. Steve Segal, maybe, or Bruce Willis.
Fuck. My head’s not in the game today. After my hideous experience with the guitar shopping, I juggled my kid for a few hours and then went to band practice way after I should have already been asleep. The falcon, my other band, is playing a secret (shhhh!) show tomorrow, and we had to get the dust off our dicks and relearn the songs. The good thing about the falcon and the bad thing about the falcon are the same: we just have a few songs. That makes it easy to practice and write a setlist, but hard to change up too much. Whatever. The songs are all golden hits about sucking penises in back alleys or down on the docks and drinking strong drinks to sanitize your tonsils afterwards. Don’t know if you guys knew that, but it’s true. Oh, there’s some anti religious, anti stupidity, and pro stupidity jams too. For those of you keeping score. Whatever. They’re almost all getting played tomorrow (and a couple of surprises! Yay!) so come on down, provided you already have tickets, that is. Shit’s private, yo. So you can’t just show up and get in. Plus, it’s in a secret location. How’s THAT for classing up the shit? MmmmHmmm.
As you all may or may not remember, I give advice here too. Recently, one of my dogs of war wrote in for advice. Seems he dumped his long term old lady for the chick that he’s been pining over for years, who also happens to be his GF’s close friend. The problem arose when the new chick wanted to take shit slow. He freaked, because he’s used to being in a long term relationship, and wanted to know if he should patch shit up with his ex or go for the casual dating with the new chick, though the casual nature of it made him uncomfortable. THEN, he wrote in to say that I could just forget about the advice because they neither one want anything to do with him anymore.
Well. Well. Well. What do you think I have to say to this?
Sounds to me like he engineered the switcheroo pretty well (they ended up making out and then severing ties with their various significant others) but then something went wrong. What was it? Hmmmmmm….Anyone? Bueller?
Confidence, man. You can do anything you want. It’s like the fucking invisible bridge in the Last Crusade. If you just have faith that it’s there, it WILL carry you through to the other side. This dude was NOT confident with casually dating a new girl (which, let’s be frank, you HAVE to do. You can’t just start up with a new chick where you left off with the old one. Doesn’t work that way.) and the results? Everything blew up in his face. No one wants to see effort or strain or uncertainty. You can look at a man’s suit as an example of this. People don’t want to see the way it gets put on. That’s why the belt goes over the clasp, the tie goes over the buttons and the collar goes over the tie. The illusion of impossible simplicity. No one wants to see the effort. Confidence is the ONLY WAY TO IMPRESS UPON OTHERS THAT YOU ARE WORTH A SHIT. AND, once again, IT IS THE ONLY THING THAT ALL (I wish I could make that ‘all’ even more capitalized), REPEAT, ALL WOMEN FIND ATTRACTIVE. Nine times out of ten if you’re having a problem, it’s because you’ve failed to understand this simple and applicable maxim. This time, this was it.
Okay, these corpses aren’t gonna stuff themselves into hefty bags. Gotta run.
xo
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Poke her face.
I’m getting stood up by the fucking BBC as we speak. I’m, in theory, supposed to be conducting a live, on air interview with BBC 1 regarding (I’m guessing) how generally awesome I am, but they’re not calling. I tried getting in touch with my publicist, but she seems to be kind of ignoring me too. What’s going on here? I took the day off work for this shit, man. This is like that one twilight zone where I’m the same and everyone else is different. Right? Huh? Heh? Anything? Anyone? Fuckit.
Okay, Seinfeld references aside, the world’s most terrifying thing happened to me yesterday. My kid, who is usually very, very good about scooting down the stairs backwards decided to just fully go for it and step down the top stair outside our door while I was in the midst of pulling on my shoe. Guess what happened? Go on.
Nope. That’s really your guess? Come on. Correct answer: He fell down the stairs. It was his first stair falling and while he recovered just fine, except for some minor rugburn on the side of his nose, I was pretty shaken up about the whole thing for the entire day. I mean, I just keep seeing him tumbling down the (carpeted and not that many) stairs and just….man, yipes. I can’t even really talk about it here. It makes my hands shake. I know most of you don’t have kids and can’t relate to watching something so scary happen to someone you made that you’re in charge of not letting die, but let’s put it this way: You know when you’re in the midst of a good whack and suddenly your internet goes out and there you are, helpless watching your wiener just deflate with disappointment? It’s way, WAY worse than that. No shit.
Okay. So, on to bigger and better things. What did I promise to talk about today? Buttfucking, Lady Gaga, Felching and uh…Oh right: Buck Angel. No. Not Buck Angel (thank god). It was Juggalos. We’ve touched on Juggalos a lot lately, so let’s get it out of the way first: Stupid Juggalos. Eat some more pies, why don’tcha? Okay. That’s that. Up next: Felching.
Felching is revolting, but it’s a great word and it’s a great thing to talk about if you want to wig out the squares.
Next up: Lady Gaga. Her song should be called Butterface! Ha!!!!!! Man, I bet NO ONE has said that before. Funny little aside, in my band, the Lawrence Arms, we somehow all started calling each other Buthisfaces, which is funny, especially if you say it out loud. It’s particularly funny when you consider that all of us are much more buthisbodies than buthisfaces, or maybe we’re all more buthisbodyandfaces, or perhaps buthiseverythingbutthosegreatschlongs. Yeah. I think that’s pretty accurate. Also, I think that’s probably the category that Lady Gaga falls into, don’tcha think? Probly.
Okay. This is easy. Man. Next up: Buttfucking:
Best form of birth control there is. Period. Also, you’re still a virgin if you buttfuck. Did you know that? It’s true. SO, wanna stay pure in the eyes of your stupid Jesus? Well, just buttfuck your way to eternal bliss and happiness. In heaven, buttfucking is like shaking hands, but with your ass. Everyone just does it on the streets just to be polite. Not that you need to be polite in heaven. I mean, I’d like to think that if I ran into some dildo that I couldn’t stand up there, I’d be able to tell him exactly what I thought of him. It’s fucking heaven. I shouldn’t be limited by decorum, should I? Well, that’s probably a big part of the reason why I’ll end up in hell. That’s fine. I mean, there’s buttfucking in hell too. Know the difference? Gayness. Heard it here first kids. (side note: I once saw a gay dude wearing a shirt that said “fags hate god” and I thought that was pretty bad ass. Not gonna win a lot of popular opinion polls with that kind of rhetoric, but hey…God gets it, right? And after all, he DOES supposedly hate the, ahem, fags, so what’s the big deal? Tit for tat, right? Sure. Fine. Good.)
What’s next? Did buttfucking run its course? It did? Good. Up next is Buck Angel. Buck Angel is totally fucking mind meltingly disturbing but god bless him (him? Eh…I guess) for being out there freaking out the dorks…and everyone else, I guess. Good on ya, Buck Angel.
Ah, shit! I wasn’t even supposed to talk about Buck Angel today. That was a freebie kids. Enjoy it while you can. I’m gonna make breakfast and stare at the phone, hoping in vain for it to ring, in an imitation of what all of our mothers are doing right now.
Toodles. And thanks for all the good words. You kids are sweeties.
xoxoxox
Okay, Seinfeld references aside, the world’s most terrifying thing happened to me yesterday. My kid, who is usually very, very good about scooting down the stairs backwards decided to just fully go for it and step down the top stair outside our door while I was in the midst of pulling on my shoe. Guess what happened? Go on.
Nope. That’s really your guess? Come on. Correct answer: He fell down the stairs. It was his first stair falling and while he recovered just fine, except for some minor rugburn on the side of his nose, I was pretty shaken up about the whole thing for the entire day. I mean, I just keep seeing him tumbling down the (carpeted and not that many) stairs and just….man, yipes. I can’t even really talk about it here. It makes my hands shake. I know most of you don’t have kids and can’t relate to watching something so scary happen to someone you made that you’re in charge of not letting die, but let’s put it this way: You know when you’re in the midst of a good whack and suddenly your internet goes out and there you are, helpless watching your wiener just deflate with disappointment? It’s way, WAY worse than that. No shit.
Okay. So, on to bigger and better things. What did I promise to talk about today? Buttfucking, Lady Gaga, Felching and uh…Oh right: Buck Angel. No. Not Buck Angel (thank god). It was Juggalos. We’ve touched on Juggalos a lot lately, so let’s get it out of the way first: Stupid Juggalos. Eat some more pies, why don’tcha? Okay. That’s that. Up next: Felching.
Felching is revolting, but it’s a great word and it’s a great thing to talk about if you want to wig out the squares.
Next up: Lady Gaga. Her song should be called Butterface! Ha!!!!!! Man, I bet NO ONE has said that before. Funny little aside, in my band, the Lawrence Arms, we somehow all started calling each other Buthisfaces, which is funny, especially if you say it out loud. It’s particularly funny when you consider that all of us are much more buthisbodies than buthisfaces, or maybe we’re all more buthisbodyandfaces, or perhaps buthiseverythingbutthosegreatschlongs. Yeah. I think that’s pretty accurate. Also, I think that’s probably the category that Lady Gaga falls into, don’tcha think? Probly.
Okay. This is easy. Man. Next up: Buttfucking:
Best form of birth control there is. Period. Also, you’re still a virgin if you buttfuck. Did you know that? It’s true. SO, wanna stay pure in the eyes of your stupid Jesus? Well, just buttfuck your way to eternal bliss and happiness. In heaven, buttfucking is like shaking hands, but with your ass. Everyone just does it on the streets just to be polite. Not that you need to be polite in heaven. I mean, I’d like to think that if I ran into some dildo that I couldn’t stand up there, I’d be able to tell him exactly what I thought of him. It’s fucking heaven. I shouldn’t be limited by decorum, should I? Well, that’s probably a big part of the reason why I’ll end up in hell. That’s fine. I mean, there’s buttfucking in hell too. Know the difference? Gayness. Heard it here first kids. (side note: I once saw a gay dude wearing a shirt that said “fags hate god” and I thought that was pretty bad ass. Not gonna win a lot of popular opinion polls with that kind of rhetoric, but hey…God gets it, right? And after all, he DOES supposedly hate the, ahem, fags, so what’s the big deal? Tit for tat, right? Sure. Fine. Good.)
What’s next? Did buttfucking run its course? It did? Good. Up next is Buck Angel. Buck Angel is totally fucking mind meltingly disturbing but god bless him (him? Eh…I guess) for being out there freaking out the dorks…and everyone else, I guess. Good on ya, Buck Angel.
Ah, shit! I wasn’t even supposed to talk about Buck Angel today. That was a freebie kids. Enjoy it while you can. I’m gonna make breakfast and stare at the phone, hoping in vain for it to ring, in an imitation of what all of our mothers are doing right now.
Toodles. And thanks for all the good words. You kids are sweeties.
xoxoxox
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
....in a fucking cantilevered goldfish bowl
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Get a brain, Morans!
Good morning and welcome to bad sandwich chronicles, thanksgiving edition. I just went over last year’s thanksgiving entry, and if I’m not mistaken, this place has really gone to hell in a handbasket since this time last year. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m still cranking out extremely high quality shit here on a daily basis, but I used to rant and spit hyperbolic vitriol, and that shit’s fun to read. Ever read the middle page of the AV club in the Onion (for those of you who don’t know what that is A) look it up online, I promise it’s worth it and B) Move to a better town) where it’s just that one bitch constantly hating everything? I believe her name is Amile, and she’s got an acerbic wit and razor tongue and blah blah blah, wocka wocka wocka and it is, on occasion very, very funny. But here’s the thing: punditry, punditry regarding everything on earth is now such public domain that there’s nothing inherently interesting about just hating on shit because you (any dildo with a keyboard) now has a platform (badsandwichchronicles.blogspot.com) to relay your various witty remarks about how stupid the (for example) battle between DVD and blu ray has become, or the problems with Clerks II or whatever the fuck your problem is, to a bunch of bored assholes who have nothing better to do than go to dumb free opinion bulletin boards between trips to porn sites while they’re pretending to be working while they’re stuck at their offices (you turds).
There’s nothing really interesting about just hating EVERYTHING, and I’ve tried, oh, dogs of war, how I’ve tried to avoid just rambling on and on about my disgust with this fetid shithole of an existence we’re all stuck in. You might even say it’s been something of an unspoken resolution-turned-mission-statement, that I’m not just gonna sit here and talk shit about Kanye or Taylor Swift (team Kanye, just by the way…kidding. They’re both the worst things to happen to my television since the screen cracked during a drunken beer bottle tossing contest) or about how much I can’t stand the mongaloids at the grocery store, or how basketball has sunken from the best televised sport to almost unwatchable or how that shit where they get Faith Hill or whoever the fuck it is to sing about Monday night football to the tune of an old Joan Jett song makes me want to barf blood, or how that transformer HumVee that turns into a football player thing (also on Monday night football) is pretty much the artistic sum total of everything that’s wrong with the first world, and MAN oh fucking MAN don’t even get me started on these fucking imbeciles working against their own best interests at these fucking town hall meetings or the dudes that bring guns to see the president because it’s ALLOWED (hey, there’s no law against me specifically sticking my dick in a light socket, but just because it’s allowed doesn’t make it cool. What are you, four?) or this ‘god hates fags’ family…Actually, you know what? I was talking about this with my good buddy Toby the other day, and I gotta say, Fred Phelps is doing some good work. Not because I agree with his stance on anything. In fact, I don’t think there’s a person on this earth I disagree with more, but he’s really, really, really really, really really really really going for it. I mean, that motherfucker is OFFENSIVE to EVERYONE. That’s no easy task, man. Ask GG Allin. Ask Hitler. Ask Sid Viscious or ask Imus. Hard as they try to offend everyone, they’ve still got their fans. Not Phelps, man. He’s got this genius knack for bumming out EVERY SINGLE MOTHERFUCKER ON THIS EARTH. And, okay, let’s make no mistake, the guy is just horrendous, but you gotta give him that. He’s done what no one else has ever been able to do. I mean, there’s dudes in Hindustan eating corpses and shitting into human skulls and then eating it and I’d rather hang out with THEM than the Phelps family. That’s a pretty amazing level of putridity, right? Right. Okay.
Firstly, when it comes to hating gays; like, really, really, really hating gays like dedicate-your-life-to-hating-gays hating gays, there’s only one reason, there’s only one way you get to that point: You’re gay. You’re gay and the lifestyle frightens and intrigues you and there’s nothing you can do to rectify your (foolish) belief that being gay is wrong with your desire to chug random cocks until you’re hoarse. There’s pretty much no way to develop such a crazy hatred without waking up after having somewhere in the neighborhood of 8 dicks on your face at once the night before and feeling the shame of your pretend god and your (supposed) natural but stunted sexual urges just burning you up like a piece of baloney in a juggalo frying pan. Somewhere out there, there’s a basketball team’s worth of guys that have gotten their balls and assholes licked by Fred Phelps, and Fred Phelps is mad as shit about it. I’m not even really gonna go too far into this, because it’s so incredibly self evident that frankly, it’s about as boring as gay-hypocrite scandal can be. Here’s what’s truly great about Fred Phelps:
You get these mongos who see the “god hates fags” signs and think “yeah. Hell yeah. I can get behind that…that’s cool.” BUT THEN these people, these Westboro Baptist people, turn their signs around and they’re protesting some soldier’s funeral with a sign that says “Fag Troops” not because the soldier was gay, but just because he or she gave her life for a country that doesn’t (uh…I don’t even know…Kill? Imprison? Torture? Let’s go with imprison just to give the benefit of the doubt, kay? Kay.) imprison gay people just for being gay. Suddenly, the dumb-dumb that was all for “god hates fags” is in a funny position. Can’t really back the “fag troops” sign, can you? Nope. Actually, kind of pulls back the curtain and exposes ALL the crazy, don’t it? Yeah. Little bit. AND, really, if there’s even one retard out there that was forced to re-think about the craziness of the idea that “god hates fags” because of Fred Phelps’s OTHER crazy signs and ideas, then well, he’s actually probably doing some good in this world, because I don’t think, and I COULD be wrong, but I don’t think there’s really anyone joining that church except for people that he specifically breeds, right? Can’t be.
Whatever. In conclusion, Fred Phelps is gay, and that’s great, because in a strange way, he’s actually fighting the dumb notion of homophobia in this country. Be thankful we live in a place with so many malleable idiots, so many magic markers and so many dumb signs. Without it, that amazing website http://moronswithsigns.blogspot.com/ would be pretty much empty, and that would be a real shame.
Be nice to each other and don’t eat too much tomorrow. You’re already so fat.
XOXOXOXO
There’s nothing really interesting about just hating EVERYTHING, and I’ve tried, oh, dogs of war, how I’ve tried to avoid just rambling on and on about my disgust with this fetid shithole of an existence we’re all stuck in. You might even say it’s been something of an unspoken resolution-turned-mission-statement, that I’m not just gonna sit here and talk shit about Kanye or Taylor Swift (team Kanye, just by the way…kidding. They’re both the worst things to happen to my television since the screen cracked during a drunken beer bottle tossing contest) or about how much I can’t stand the mongaloids at the grocery store, or how basketball has sunken from the best televised sport to almost unwatchable or how that shit where they get Faith Hill or whoever the fuck it is to sing about Monday night football to the tune of an old Joan Jett song makes me want to barf blood, or how that transformer HumVee that turns into a football player thing (also on Monday night football) is pretty much the artistic sum total of everything that’s wrong with the first world, and MAN oh fucking MAN don’t even get me started on these fucking imbeciles working against their own best interests at these fucking town hall meetings or the dudes that bring guns to see the president because it’s ALLOWED (hey, there’s no law against me specifically sticking my dick in a light socket, but just because it’s allowed doesn’t make it cool. What are you, four?) or this ‘god hates fags’ family…Actually, you know what? I was talking about this with my good buddy Toby the other day, and I gotta say, Fred Phelps is doing some good work. Not because I agree with his stance on anything. In fact, I don’t think there’s a person on this earth I disagree with more, but he’s really, really, really really, really really really really going for it. I mean, that motherfucker is OFFENSIVE to EVERYONE. That’s no easy task, man. Ask GG Allin. Ask Hitler. Ask Sid Viscious or ask Imus. Hard as they try to offend everyone, they’ve still got their fans. Not Phelps, man. He’s got this genius knack for bumming out EVERY SINGLE MOTHERFUCKER ON THIS EARTH. And, okay, let’s make no mistake, the guy is just horrendous, but you gotta give him that. He’s done what no one else has ever been able to do. I mean, there’s dudes in Hindustan eating corpses and shitting into human skulls and then eating it and I’d rather hang out with THEM than the Phelps family. That’s a pretty amazing level of putridity, right? Right. Okay.
Firstly, when it comes to hating gays; like, really, really, really hating gays like dedicate-your-life-to-hating-gays hating gays, there’s only one reason, there’s only one way you get to that point: You’re gay. You’re gay and the lifestyle frightens and intrigues you and there’s nothing you can do to rectify your (foolish) belief that being gay is wrong with your desire to chug random cocks until you’re hoarse. There’s pretty much no way to develop such a crazy hatred without waking up after having somewhere in the neighborhood of 8 dicks on your face at once the night before and feeling the shame of your pretend god and your (supposed) natural but stunted sexual urges just burning you up like a piece of baloney in a juggalo frying pan. Somewhere out there, there’s a basketball team’s worth of guys that have gotten their balls and assholes licked by Fred Phelps, and Fred Phelps is mad as shit about it. I’m not even really gonna go too far into this, because it’s so incredibly self evident that frankly, it’s about as boring as gay-hypocrite scandal can be. Here’s what’s truly great about Fred Phelps:
You get these mongos who see the “god hates fags” signs and think “yeah. Hell yeah. I can get behind that…that’s cool.” BUT THEN these people, these Westboro Baptist people, turn their signs around and they’re protesting some soldier’s funeral with a sign that says “Fag Troops” not because the soldier was gay, but just because he or she gave her life for a country that doesn’t (uh…I don’t even know…Kill? Imprison? Torture? Let’s go with imprison just to give the benefit of the doubt, kay? Kay.) imprison gay people just for being gay. Suddenly, the dumb-dumb that was all for “god hates fags” is in a funny position. Can’t really back the “fag troops” sign, can you? Nope. Actually, kind of pulls back the curtain and exposes ALL the crazy, don’t it? Yeah. Little bit. AND, really, if there’s even one retard out there that was forced to re-think about the craziness of the idea that “god hates fags” because of Fred Phelps’s OTHER crazy signs and ideas, then well, he’s actually probably doing some good in this world, because I don’t think, and I COULD be wrong, but I don’t think there’s really anyone joining that church except for people that he specifically breeds, right? Can’t be.
Whatever. In conclusion, Fred Phelps is gay, and that’s great, because in a strange way, he’s actually fighting the dumb notion of homophobia in this country. Be thankful we live in a place with so many malleable idiots, so many magic markers and so many dumb signs. Without it, that amazing website http://moronswithsigns.blogspot.com/ would be pretty much empty, and that would be a real shame.
Be nice to each other and don’t eat too much tomorrow. You’re already so fat.
XOXOXOXO
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
this one goes out to my one true love, Tbaby
Now my ads are gone. I don’t know what happened. It’s like I offended the gods of revenue or something. My magic search engine is still here, but where are all the fucking TJ maxx ads? That’s what I want to know. My revenue stream is trickling to a halt and there’s no one to talk to over at google. It’s all robots and Indian guys. I’m fucked, people. Totally fucked. Oh well, whatever, right? It’s not like this is the most streamlined swiss watch of a website anyhow. Maybe they’re just trying to figure out some more appropriate ads for this here page. OR (and this would be way better) perhaps I used the term “felch” or ‘Buttfucking’ one too many times and set off some sort of alarm. One can only dream, I suppose.
But you know what? Dreams ARE coming true over here at BSC world HQ. I got a little mention in the juggalog, which is um, if you’ll pardon the pun, too dope (ha!). That puts me in dangerous proximity with the juggalo zeitgeist, which I’m pretty okay with.
Let’s talk juggalos for just a second, can we? I know it’s a pretty well tread topic here, but man, these are dangerous days. Juggalos are everywhere and they seem to be constantly expanding. Soon enough, the smaller, wiry juggalos will be orbiting the really, really massive ones like tiny, greasepainted interplanetary systems. I read in that juggalog that ICP sells 6XL shirts. SIX EX EL!!!!!!!! That’s fucking revolting. I could quite literally live in a 6xl shirt. With my wife, my kid and a separate half bath. What the fuck do you have to be eating in order to plump yourself up to six times an extra large? Cheesecake pizzas? Every fucking day? I mean, good heavens. I’ve seen some fat motherfuckers walking around. I’ve got some fat friends. I’ve even got some fat friends who drink and smoke and never exercise and just eat whatever the fuck they want and they don’t care at all. They’re fat. They’re down with being fat and they like donuts and soda and potato chips and ranch dressing on their pizzas and all that kind of shit and they are, just to put a fine point on it here, as fat as they could possibly get. They can’t be any fatter. AND YET they’re not six XL fat. I can’t even wrap my head around what the fuck is going on over in Shangri-La that these clowns are able to make themselves so humongous. I can’t. Anyway, this isn’t about fat juggalos, or why they’re so fat (although, if you think about it, any sort of cultural phenomenon that centers around people spraying copious amounts of soda on one another definitely appeals to the chunkier side of things). I want to tell you a little story about my friend Sean Nader and his awesome experience the one time he was, for just a fleeting moment, a member of the Dark Carnival.
Okay, full disclosure: I don’t remember the details of this story too well, so I’m gonna do my best to get it right. Nader, I know you’re out there reading this and I’m sorry about the fudged details, but like I said, after the new found alliance that’s been formed between BSC and the Juggalog, I feel compelled to rap juggalos with everyone, so whatever. Deal with it.
Firstly, Nader is from Detroit. Nader is NOT an ICP fan, and Nader is a bit of a local crew carnie type, in that he bartends special events, he sets up and tears down tents and shit for festivals and he’s generally a hired gun for when people doing events or other big shit around Detroit need some spare hands. (And when he’s not doing that he’s a spectacular bartender and a totally kick ass painter. In fact, I’m gonna start linking to his art on here as soon as he gets off his lazy dick and makes a website, and then you all can see firsthand how rad his stuff is, but whatever…I’m digressing like a woman. Forgive me.) Okay, so here’s the scene. St. Andrews hall in Detroit (above the shelter where eminem famously battlerapped his way into the hearts of genuine black people [as made famous in the closing moments of 8 mile]) is hosting ICP and Nader is stationed at the back door of the hall to guard something. I don’t remember what it was. Some boxes of shit, or maybe even just the door itself, but you get the idea. He’s there as a guard. Stationed in his position, a fill in dude just working there for the day as sort of ‘juggalo control’, or what have you. Suddenly a truck screeches up. It’s full of Faygo. Faygo is the off brand soda that juggalos spray on each other for some reason that I don’t think could possibly ever be explained to me in a way that doesn’t result in my saying or thinking “wow, that’s fucking retarded.” This stressed out dude gets out of the truck and looks at Nader and barks “come on, we gotta get this faygo to the stage right away!”
I’d like to pause for a moment to let that sink in. Some guy, a grown man, mind you, is so harried and desperate to get the FAYGO to the STAGE that he’s just barking orders at strangers. What kind of a fucking universe is this, man? Anyway, nader says something to the effect of “nah. Not touching the faygo. I’m here to guard this door/stack of boxes/bag of dildos/whatever the fuck it was.” And kind of just turns around and keeps smoking, at which point the guy gets in nader’s face a bit and says “dude, you don’t understand! This is ICP!” as though that is somehow significant in any way.
I mean, yeah, there’s no other reason that a truck of Faygo would be at the back of St Andrews hall, that’s for sure. But at what moment did this guy think that the bargaining chip would be that “Hey bro! There’s a bunch of fat clowns upstairs and if you don’t help me get this here faygo up there, they’re not gonna have anything to spray on each other, nobody’s gonna go home sticky and well, you’ll have ruined everything”? Could he possibly have imagined that this guy by the back door, smoking, not painted up at all (at least the way Nader tells it) could possibly give a shit about this? Or is this guy so dick deep in his faygo delivery job that he can’t see the forest for the big fat sticky trees? I mean, what a life. I get worried about picking my kid up on time from school, miscounting the money in my cash drawer, neglecting my blog or my songwriting and letting my brain atrophy, taking my wife or best friends for granted, growing old, disease, unstable economy, unstable crazy people, figuring out the future, making peace with the past, the health of everyone I love and the inevitable day that all the great luck I’ve had in this world runs out, but man, fuck me, no KILL me if a concern of mine is EVER getting the fucking faygo to the fucking stage. Good lord.
So, long story short, nader just stood there, told the dude to fuck himself and the dude, furious, told nader that he was gonna get him fired due to insubordination, BUT, can’t fire the temp carnie, man. Can’t be done. Plus, guess who’s not gonna take your side about the lack of Faygo in the venue? The people who run the venue and have to clean up the pink syrupy drool that you and your dumb carnival leave sticking and pooling all over everything.
On the same subject, but at another time, once in Cincinatti, I read some graffiti that the big guy from ICP wrote backstage. It was a bit of an essay about how these sized rooms (it was the Agora, which is about sixteen hundred capacity, I think) are perfect, and if you never let your ambition make you try to go bigger, you’ll have some longevity in this biz. Well, he’s right. I’ve never tried to headline a room bigger than the agora, and here I am, still going strong, my ninjas. Still going strong. Peace, love, faygo, hatchets and murder or whatever dumb shit they say. I gotta go.
XOOXOXOXOX
Oh, and once I read an interview where the same fat one (shaggy?) that wrote the graffiti essay about success in music bragged about how he just boned some chick and she took the rubber off him and ate the jizz out of it. It’s the hands down grossest thing I’ve ever heard. And now you’ve heard it too. Ick. Take it to your graves.
But you know what? Dreams ARE coming true over here at BSC world HQ. I got a little mention in the juggalog, which is um, if you’ll pardon the pun, too dope (ha!). That puts me in dangerous proximity with the juggalo zeitgeist, which I’m pretty okay with.
Let’s talk juggalos for just a second, can we? I know it’s a pretty well tread topic here, but man, these are dangerous days. Juggalos are everywhere and they seem to be constantly expanding. Soon enough, the smaller, wiry juggalos will be orbiting the really, really massive ones like tiny, greasepainted interplanetary systems. I read in that juggalog that ICP sells 6XL shirts. SIX EX EL!!!!!!!! That’s fucking revolting. I could quite literally live in a 6xl shirt. With my wife, my kid and a separate half bath. What the fuck do you have to be eating in order to plump yourself up to six times an extra large? Cheesecake pizzas? Every fucking day? I mean, good heavens. I’ve seen some fat motherfuckers walking around. I’ve got some fat friends. I’ve even got some fat friends who drink and smoke and never exercise and just eat whatever the fuck they want and they don’t care at all. They’re fat. They’re down with being fat and they like donuts and soda and potato chips and ranch dressing on their pizzas and all that kind of shit and they are, just to put a fine point on it here, as fat as they could possibly get. They can’t be any fatter. AND YET they’re not six XL fat. I can’t even wrap my head around what the fuck is going on over in Shangri-La that these clowns are able to make themselves so humongous. I can’t. Anyway, this isn’t about fat juggalos, or why they’re so fat (although, if you think about it, any sort of cultural phenomenon that centers around people spraying copious amounts of soda on one another definitely appeals to the chunkier side of things). I want to tell you a little story about my friend Sean Nader and his awesome experience the one time he was, for just a fleeting moment, a member of the Dark Carnival.
Okay, full disclosure: I don’t remember the details of this story too well, so I’m gonna do my best to get it right. Nader, I know you’re out there reading this and I’m sorry about the fudged details, but like I said, after the new found alliance that’s been formed between BSC and the Juggalog, I feel compelled to rap juggalos with everyone, so whatever. Deal with it.
Firstly, Nader is from Detroit. Nader is NOT an ICP fan, and Nader is a bit of a local crew carnie type, in that he bartends special events, he sets up and tears down tents and shit for festivals and he’s generally a hired gun for when people doing events or other big shit around Detroit need some spare hands. (And when he’s not doing that he’s a spectacular bartender and a totally kick ass painter. In fact, I’m gonna start linking to his art on here as soon as he gets off his lazy dick and makes a website, and then you all can see firsthand how rad his stuff is, but whatever…I’m digressing like a woman. Forgive me.) Okay, so here’s the scene. St. Andrews hall in Detroit (above the shelter where eminem famously battlerapped his way into the hearts of genuine black people [as made famous in the closing moments of 8 mile]) is hosting ICP and Nader is stationed at the back door of the hall to guard something. I don’t remember what it was. Some boxes of shit, or maybe even just the door itself, but you get the idea. He’s there as a guard. Stationed in his position, a fill in dude just working there for the day as sort of ‘juggalo control’, or what have you. Suddenly a truck screeches up. It’s full of Faygo. Faygo is the off brand soda that juggalos spray on each other for some reason that I don’t think could possibly ever be explained to me in a way that doesn’t result in my saying or thinking “wow, that’s fucking retarded.” This stressed out dude gets out of the truck and looks at Nader and barks “come on, we gotta get this faygo to the stage right away!”
I’d like to pause for a moment to let that sink in. Some guy, a grown man, mind you, is so harried and desperate to get the FAYGO to the STAGE that he’s just barking orders at strangers. What kind of a fucking universe is this, man? Anyway, nader says something to the effect of “nah. Not touching the faygo. I’m here to guard this door/stack of boxes/bag of dildos/whatever the fuck it was.” And kind of just turns around and keeps smoking, at which point the guy gets in nader’s face a bit and says “dude, you don’t understand! This is ICP!” as though that is somehow significant in any way.
I mean, yeah, there’s no other reason that a truck of Faygo would be at the back of St Andrews hall, that’s for sure. But at what moment did this guy think that the bargaining chip would be that “Hey bro! There’s a bunch of fat clowns upstairs and if you don’t help me get this here faygo up there, they’re not gonna have anything to spray on each other, nobody’s gonna go home sticky and well, you’ll have ruined everything”? Could he possibly have imagined that this guy by the back door, smoking, not painted up at all (at least the way Nader tells it) could possibly give a shit about this? Or is this guy so dick deep in his faygo delivery job that he can’t see the forest for the big fat sticky trees? I mean, what a life. I get worried about picking my kid up on time from school, miscounting the money in my cash drawer, neglecting my blog or my songwriting and letting my brain atrophy, taking my wife or best friends for granted, growing old, disease, unstable economy, unstable crazy people, figuring out the future, making peace with the past, the health of everyone I love and the inevitable day that all the great luck I’ve had in this world runs out, but man, fuck me, no KILL me if a concern of mine is EVER getting the fucking faygo to the fucking stage. Good lord.
So, long story short, nader just stood there, told the dude to fuck himself and the dude, furious, told nader that he was gonna get him fired due to insubordination, BUT, can’t fire the temp carnie, man. Can’t be done. Plus, guess who’s not gonna take your side about the lack of Faygo in the venue? The people who run the venue and have to clean up the pink syrupy drool that you and your dumb carnival leave sticking and pooling all over everything.
On the same subject, but at another time, once in Cincinatti, I read some graffiti that the big guy from ICP wrote backstage. It was a bit of an essay about how these sized rooms (it was the Agora, which is about sixteen hundred capacity, I think) are perfect, and if you never let your ambition make you try to go bigger, you’ll have some longevity in this biz. Well, he’s right. I’ve never tried to headline a room bigger than the agora, and here I am, still going strong, my ninjas. Still going strong. Peace, love, faygo, hatchets and murder or whatever dumb shit they say. I gotta go.
XOOXOXOXOX
Oh, and once I read an interview where the same fat one (shaggy?) that wrote the graffiti essay about success in music bragged about how he just boned some chick and she took the rubber off him and ate the jizz out of it. It’s the hands down grossest thing I’ve ever heard. And now you’ve heard it too. Ick. Take it to your graves.
Friday, November 20, 2009
If you're too young to drive, click away now
I am old. I am as old as the hills and the trees and the wind whistling through the distended anuses of women with daddy issues from here to San Fernando to Prague. I’ve got an offspring. My offspring probably has offspring (he’s a good looking kid, after all) and as such, I’m out of touch. Now, I’m aware that the readership of BSC spans generations and I’m hardly the oldest among us, which is precisely why I feel comfortable turning you all onto something that frankly, most of you probably know about, being younger, cooler and more “in the know” than me. I’m talking about my favorite show, Madventures.
Have you seen this show? It’s two crazy dudes from Finland traversing the globe and doing absolutely crazy shit. I mean (adjusting tie nervously) they make the Wildboys look like mama’s boys! HEYOOOOO!!!!!!!! Anyway, it’s just these two guys, both with cameras, filming each other, no security, no producers with them, just the two of them and they get into shit like hanging out and shooting machine guns with coke dealers in the deadly slums of Rio, eating horse dicks in china, doing DMT in the Amazon Rainforest, riding along in the backseat of a car doing illegal Tokyo drift drag racing down a mountainside, doing illegal bungee jumping off the roof of an abandoned St. Petersburg Communist tenement, hanging out INSIDE Chernobyl! The shit is absolutely crazy and it’s hands down the best show about travel on television and probably the best show on tv, period. The guys are named Tunna and Riko for fucks sake. Can’t beat that. Anyway, you gotta watch the show. It’s awesome. I can’t recommend it highly enough. Now, I know, I know. You’ve all already watched it and made your decisions. Didn’t I already tell you I was old and out of the fucking loop? Fucking A. You people are monsters. There. I said it. Absolute monsters.
What else? Nothing really. This entry is gonna be short today because, like yesterday, I need to take these precious moments before work to work on my new song. Um…nothing else to say, really. Have a nice weekend and be careful. There’s lots of perverts out there. Oh, and remind me to tell you what a dickhole my boss is. He's such a dickhole. no respect for other people's time. That's his problem. Well, that and he's a total pussy. Yup.
Tooodles!
Have you seen this show? It’s two crazy dudes from Finland traversing the globe and doing absolutely crazy shit. I mean (adjusting tie nervously) they make the Wildboys look like mama’s boys! HEYOOOOO!!!!!!!! Anyway, it’s just these two guys, both with cameras, filming each other, no security, no producers with them, just the two of them and they get into shit like hanging out and shooting machine guns with coke dealers in the deadly slums of Rio, eating horse dicks in china, doing DMT in the Amazon Rainforest, riding along in the backseat of a car doing illegal Tokyo drift drag racing down a mountainside, doing illegal bungee jumping off the roof of an abandoned St. Petersburg Communist tenement, hanging out INSIDE Chernobyl! The shit is absolutely crazy and it’s hands down the best show about travel on television and probably the best show on tv, period. The guys are named Tunna and Riko for fucks sake. Can’t beat that. Anyway, you gotta watch the show. It’s awesome. I can’t recommend it highly enough. Now, I know, I know. You’ve all already watched it and made your decisions. Didn’t I already tell you I was old and out of the fucking loop? Fucking A. You people are monsters. There. I said it. Absolute monsters.
What else? Nothing really. This entry is gonna be short today because, like yesterday, I need to take these precious moments before work to work on my new song. Um…nothing else to say, really. Have a nice weekend and be careful. There’s lots of perverts out there. Oh, and remind me to tell you what a dickhole my boss is. He's such a dickhole. no respect for other people's time. That's his problem. Well, that and he's a total pussy. Yup.
Tooodles!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
AAAAAAAAAAAARGH! Reality blows.
Well, shit. I have to go to work today. I know what you’re thinking: What about all the ad revenue and the blimp and shit? Well, firstly, it’s a zeppelin. Secondly, I checked my account, to see how much I’ve earned so far with the ads that run on the side of this page…about five bucks. I get a check when it rolls over to 100, so MAYBE I’ve over estimated things a bit, eh? Long story short, I gotta work today. What a kick in the balls.
Regardless, let’s say today is the depressing crash back to earth that I’ve probably needed ever since I monetized my blog and went out on my whirlwind world tour/airborne adventure. Also, I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol since my brother’s wedding and let me tell you something: I still feel terrible. Worse. Way, way worse. This “livin clean is the best livin” horseshit might work for some people, but, well, first thing I thought when I woke up this morning was “wow, I’m hung over as shit!” Hardly makes any sense, because all I’ve consumed in the past few days is natural food and tea and water. Fucking hippies and Californians. What a crock of organic toilet paper. Look, I’m done with this. Today is too depressing. I wrote this new song and I’m gonna figure out the end before work. It’s a “Chapter 2” type song for an old song I wrote, a kind of ‘where are they now,’ if you will. Could that be less interesting? “Oooh. Here’s some insight into another dumb song! Again, ooooh.”
Okay, no. I’m staying. You know what drives me up the fucking wall? Listening to artists talk about what they do. It’s fucking irritating beyond belief. Here’s the type of story that I like: Keith Richards, in the midst of a drug induced stupor, wakes up in the night and plays the opening riff to “Satisfaction” into a dictaphone. Next morning, he had no memory of doing it, but he liked the riff and it went on to become the most famous piece of guitar playing, probably ever. THAT’S the kind of thing I’m interested in. I don’t give two fucks what Christian Bale thinks his character in the Machinist might think about modern society at large. I don’t give a fuck what any dumb artist has to say behind the scenes. It should be there in your art. Period. If it’s not, then it’s not there. Again, period.
Yes, I know I just spent this very space talking about what a song I recently released meant to me, and that’s because it’s tempting to do and it’s fun and it fills space and all that. I’m not immune to this dipshit move just because I decry it. Heavens no. Fuck, man. If I never did any of the things that I thought were lame and questionable, I’d be a pretty boring and downright different man. My tastes depend wildly on my own stupid actions and the self congratulatory pride, feelings of inadequacy or self loathing that they produce. Isn’t that how everyone works? Eh, maybe not.
Regardless, people that make art, myself included, tend to think that they’ve got some special gift and that they’re touched and that everyone needs to hear about the process, but the truth is this: People who create fall into one of two categories: They do it compulsively and almost without pleasure, or they’re doing their best to imitate those who do it compulsively and without pleasure. Both methods can produce great work and both methods can produce complete shit, but make no mistake, that’s it. Anyone who gives you an intentionality behind their art as anything other than the above is bullshitting you. I’m not even really counting actors here, because they’re so fucking self important and barely artists that it’s ridiculous and deserves it’s own fucking entry. Acting. They call it a ‘craft’ as though it’s somehow more on the same level as carpentry than with painting. Hey, dildo, news flash! You’re standing up there next to Tom Cruise pretending to be a talking dog. It barely qualifies as anything, much less a fucking craft.
Now, don’t get me wrong, acting isn’t easy. BUT, it’s a ‘you get it or you don’t’ type of things, as with most things. There are tons of people out there who will never be great actors, and there are tons of people out there who will never be great musicians or carpenters or comedians or salesmen or DJ’s or gymnasts or lawyers or dominatrices, but man, lots of people fall right in and they’re good at it INSTANTLY. That’s no craft, Will Smith. That’s just dicking around. If Cuba Gooding Jr. can win an oscar, the shit’s working on a pretty wacky scale. Just saying.
Okay, I gotta play through this song and go to work. I hope they have fucking zeppelin parking on the roof of my bar. Never really checked before. Oh well, the captain will figure it out. Turns out he’s a pretty good guy after all.
Thanks for the translation, by the way.
See you tomorrow.
Sigh.
Regardless, let’s say today is the depressing crash back to earth that I’ve probably needed ever since I monetized my blog and went out on my whirlwind world tour/airborne adventure. Also, I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol since my brother’s wedding and let me tell you something: I still feel terrible. Worse. Way, way worse. This “livin clean is the best livin” horseshit might work for some people, but, well, first thing I thought when I woke up this morning was “wow, I’m hung over as shit!” Hardly makes any sense, because all I’ve consumed in the past few days is natural food and tea and water. Fucking hippies and Californians. What a crock of organic toilet paper. Look, I’m done with this. Today is too depressing. I wrote this new song and I’m gonna figure out the end before work. It’s a “Chapter 2” type song for an old song I wrote, a kind of ‘where are they now,’ if you will. Could that be less interesting? “Oooh. Here’s some insight into another dumb song! Again, ooooh.”
Okay, no. I’m staying. You know what drives me up the fucking wall? Listening to artists talk about what they do. It’s fucking irritating beyond belief. Here’s the type of story that I like: Keith Richards, in the midst of a drug induced stupor, wakes up in the night and plays the opening riff to “Satisfaction” into a dictaphone. Next morning, he had no memory of doing it, but he liked the riff and it went on to become the most famous piece of guitar playing, probably ever. THAT’S the kind of thing I’m interested in. I don’t give two fucks what Christian Bale thinks his character in the Machinist might think about modern society at large. I don’t give a fuck what any dumb artist has to say behind the scenes. It should be there in your art. Period. If it’s not, then it’s not there. Again, period.
Yes, I know I just spent this very space talking about what a song I recently released meant to me, and that’s because it’s tempting to do and it’s fun and it fills space and all that. I’m not immune to this dipshit move just because I decry it. Heavens no. Fuck, man. If I never did any of the things that I thought were lame and questionable, I’d be a pretty boring and downright different man. My tastes depend wildly on my own stupid actions and the self congratulatory pride, feelings of inadequacy or self loathing that they produce. Isn’t that how everyone works? Eh, maybe not.
Regardless, people that make art, myself included, tend to think that they’ve got some special gift and that they’re touched and that everyone needs to hear about the process, but the truth is this: People who create fall into one of two categories: They do it compulsively and almost without pleasure, or they’re doing their best to imitate those who do it compulsively and without pleasure. Both methods can produce great work and both methods can produce complete shit, but make no mistake, that’s it. Anyone who gives you an intentionality behind their art as anything other than the above is bullshitting you. I’m not even really counting actors here, because they’re so fucking self important and barely artists that it’s ridiculous and deserves it’s own fucking entry. Acting. They call it a ‘craft’ as though it’s somehow more on the same level as carpentry than with painting. Hey, dildo, news flash! You’re standing up there next to Tom Cruise pretending to be a talking dog. It barely qualifies as anything, much less a fucking craft.
Now, don’t get me wrong, acting isn’t easy. BUT, it’s a ‘you get it or you don’t’ type of things, as with most things. There are tons of people out there who will never be great actors, and there are tons of people out there who will never be great musicians or carpenters or comedians or salesmen or DJ’s or gymnasts or lawyers or dominatrices, but man, lots of people fall right in and they’re good at it INSTANTLY. That’s no craft, Will Smith. That’s just dicking around. If Cuba Gooding Jr. can win an oscar, the shit’s working on a pretty wacky scale. Just saying.
Okay, I gotta play through this song and go to work. I hope they have fucking zeppelin parking on the roof of my bar. Never really checked before. Oh well, the captain will figure it out. Turns out he’s a pretty good guy after all.
Thanks for the translation, by the way.
See you tomorrow.
Sigh.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
the horror! The horror! Part 2
How am I supposed to get anything done around here? Without Claudio, my manservant, things have gone into a ridiculous tizzy. I can’t communicate with the captain of the Monitor, as he speaks only Portuguese, and besides that, he’s frankly beneath my social strata, right? Right. The result? We’ve been circling Kilimanjaro for hours on end. It’s fucking vexing is what it is. DAMN YOU GABE SAPORTA!!!! DAMN YOUR THEIVING SIREN SONG!
Sorry. I got carried away. It’s just…you know what it’s like? It’s like suddenly having a one and a half year old running around for sixteen fucking hours every day, but now, it’s too cold to go outside, so you just run around the house chasing this fucking guy who’s trying about as hard as he can to just fuck up everything. He’s like a divining rod for the closest thing to him that will injure or kill him and he knows exactly what to do when he shows up and grabs it. Butcher knife? Put it in your mouth. Light socket? Put it in your mouth. Pot of boiling water? Pull it off the stove. And on and on and on like this. Imagine if you will, that you’re (for example) a rock and roll personality who’s just been living it up in the fecund deltas of southern California and then at a wedding for about fourteen days where you, in the entire span of the two week period, slept less than 48 hours due to important late night business meetings. Now, imagine that you come home to a sick and dangerously active, but grumpy child, weather too cold to take him outside in and a wife who is forced to work (likely story) until midnight every night, forcing you to chase this sick, grumpy child around the house like a lunatic while he wails and screams and tries to pull bookshelves down onto himself. Oh, and then you catch his cold. THAT’S what this is like stuck up in this godforsaken Zeppelin circling this dreadfully boring mountain without Claudio. Almost exactly. Did you know the on-board sushi bar is out of salmon? We might as well be living in a fucking tent city by the sewers of Calcutta up here. It’s depressing. We’re down to our last ten bottles of vodka and we’re dangerously low on mixers. I’m living in a nightmare, if I’m being honest. The prostitutes are getting surly and settling for routine and the furnace men are starting to ask questions about their paychecks. Hey Shovel Man! How am I supposed to collect my fucking ad revenue from above the Serengeti plains? Tell me that! Or is that why I’m the trillionaire and you’re the fucking furnace guy? Mmmmmmhmmmmm. Yeah. Keep shovelin’ pal. You’ll get your check as soon as I can get back to civilization, restock the bar, get a suitable replacement for Claudio and find some decent sushi chefs that aren’t Germans. What a fucking joke. At least lie to me with some Mexicans in headbands, am I right?
Okay, sorry. I’m off topic here. Or rather, I haven’t even introduced the topic yet, have I? Forgive me. It’s the constant circling. It’s making me dizzier than a pregnant lady on a sybian. Okay. Topic at hand: the terrorist freedom fighters in the splinter cel ‘Sock Drawer’ (not to be confused with the benevolently ruled principality beneath each blog post, also called the sock drawer) have openly declared war on both the Monitor and myself, and have announced a planned coup of Bad Sandwich Enterprises LLC, (trademark pending). Gotta say, I’m pretty excited about that. See, there are leaders like Barack Obama, Gordon Brown, Angela Merkel and to a lesser extent Nicolas Sarkozy (who’s dealt with some pretty heavy shit this past term, let’s be honest) who never, ever have to deal with the idea of credible threats of coups. They’re what I call the ‘total pussies’ of world leadership. I’m more like a warlord in some sort of compound surrounded by dust and bones and my most trusted men (damn you Claudio!), just waiting, stroking my gun, eating my monkey brains right out of a human skull and wearing a fez, saying shit like “let them come” while I pet a tiger and watch two women have some sort of cramming contest involving phallic vegetables. In my kingdom, there can be only one ruler, but without a resistance, what will I use to galvanize the hordes? I need a terrorist threat. Without it, I’m no better than Dick Cheney, relying on sound governmental practices and actual leadership, rather than fear mongering, xenophobia, preying on the stupid and shooting everyone in the face that disagrees. And man, I hate Dick Cheney. I don’t want to be anything like him at all. So terrorists, bring it on! And to all the rest of you: these fanatics hate you and your freedom and the free and open forum that is Bad Sandwich. That’s their endgame. To make you sad, repress you and take away your televisions and football. Never mind that there’s no running water in the other sock drawer. Never mind the pestilence. Have you seen them? Savages, to the last. Women baring their breasts! Men, drunk! Uh…um…uh…you get the idea, right?
Nah, I dunno. I like those guys, actually. Met a bunch of ‘em on the tour or at our Chicago show . They’re all cool. I don’t want a war, or even an airborne zeppelin battle (though the Monitor IS strapped to the tits) I just need a new manservant. This solitude is going to my head. Sorry. Forgive me, terrorists. I guess you guys win.
Anyway, how do you say “Get me to Belarus immediately you swine” in Portuguese? Does anyone know?
Thanks.
Edit: That article that someone posted a link to in yesterday's sock drawer about the fear of clowns is indeed interesting as shit. Recommended.
Sorry. I got carried away. It’s just…you know what it’s like? It’s like suddenly having a one and a half year old running around for sixteen fucking hours every day, but now, it’s too cold to go outside, so you just run around the house chasing this fucking guy who’s trying about as hard as he can to just fuck up everything. He’s like a divining rod for the closest thing to him that will injure or kill him and he knows exactly what to do when he shows up and grabs it. Butcher knife? Put it in your mouth. Light socket? Put it in your mouth. Pot of boiling water? Pull it off the stove. And on and on and on like this. Imagine if you will, that you’re (for example) a rock and roll personality who’s just been living it up in the fecund deltas of southern California and then at a wedding for about fourteen days where you, in the entire span of the two week period, slept less than 48 hours due to important late night business meetings. Now, imagine that you come home to a sick and dangerously active, but grumpy child, weather too cold to take him outside in and a wife who is forced to work (likely story) until midnight every night, forcing you to chase this sick, grumpy child around the house like a lunatic while he wails and screams and tries to pull bookshelves down onto himself. Oh, and then you catch his cold. THAT’S what this is like stuck up in this godforsaken Zeppelin circling this dreadfully boring mountain without Claudio. Almost exactly. Did you know the on-board sushi bar is out of salmon? We might as well be living in a fucking tent city by the sewers of Calcutta up here. It’s depressing. We’re down to our last ten bottles of vodka and we’re dangerously low on mixers. I’m living in a nightmare, if I’m being honest. The prostitutes are getting surly and settling for routine and the furnace men are starting to ask questions about their paychecks. Hey Shovel Man! How am I supposed to collect my fucking ad revenue from above the Serengeti plains? Tell me that! Or is that why I’m the trillionaire and you’re the fucking furnace guy? Mmmmmmhmmmmm. Yeah. Keep shovelin’ pal. You’ll get your check as soon as I can get back to civilization, restock the bar, get a suitable replacement for Claudio and find some decent sushi chefs that aren’t Germans. What a fucking joke. At least lie to me with some Mexicans in headbands, am I right?
Okay, sorry. I’m off topic here. Or rather, I haven’t even introduced the topic yet, have I? Forgive me. It’s the constant circling. It’s making me dizzier than a pregnant lady on a sybian. Okay. Topic at hand: the terrorist freedom fighters in the splinter cel ‘Sock Drawer’ (not to be confused with the benevolently ruled principality beneath each blog post, also called the sock drawer) have openly declared war on both the Monitor and myself, and have announced a planned coup of Bad Sandwich Enterprises LLC, (trademark pending). Gotta say, I’m pretty excited about that. See, there are leaders like Barack Obama, Gordon Brown, Angela Merkel and to a lesser extent Nicolas Sarkozy (who’s dealt with some pretty heavy shit this past term, let’s be honest) who never, ever have to deal with the idea of credible threats of coups. They’re what I call the ‘total pussies’ of world leadership. I’m more like a warlord in some sort of compound surrounded by dust and bones and my most trusted men (damn you Claudio!), just waiting, stroking my gun, eating my monkey brains right out of a human skull and wearing a fez, saying shit like “let them come” while I pet a tiger and watch two women have some sort of cramming contest involving phallic vegetables. In my kingdom, there can be only one ruler, but without a resistance, what will I use to galvanize the hordes? I need a terrorist threat. Without it, I’m no better than Dick Cheney, relying on sound governmental practices and actual leadership, rather than fear mongering, xenophobia, preying on the stupid and shooting everyone in the face that disagrees. And man, I hate Dick Cheney. I don’t want to be anything like him at all. So terrorists, bring it on! And to all the rest of you: these fanatics hate you and your freedom and the free and open forum that is Bad Sandwich. That’s their endgame. To make you sad, repress you and take away your televisions and football. Never mind that there’s no running water in the other sock drawer. Never mind the pestilence. Have you seen them? Savages, to the last. Women baring their breasts! Men, drunk! Uh…um…uh…you get the idea, right?
Nah, I dunno. I like those guys, actually. Met a bunch of ‘em on the tour or at our Chicago show . They’re all cool. I don’t want a war, or even an airborne zeppelin battle (though the Monitor IS strapped to the tits) I just need a new manservant. This solitude is going to my head. Sorry. Forgive me, terrorists. I guess you guys win.
Anyway, how do you say “Get me to Belarus immediately you swine” in Portuguese? Does anyone know?
Thanks.
Edit: That article that someone posted a link to in yesterday's sock drawer about the fear of clowns is indeed interesting as shit. Recommended.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
send in the clowns...they're already here
Here’s what excites me- genuine insight into things I’m interested in but which occur in locales or within cultures where I fear tread. Have you seen thejuggalog.tumblr.com? One of my many dogs of war posted this link in the sock drawer (which is, for you new folk, the name of the comments section located beneath each post. There is ALSO a radical splinter faction ‘sock drawer’ that’s located elsewhere on the internet, comprised of radical freedom fighters [terrorists?] who felt, perhaps rightly, that the sock drawer that your benevolent dictator [yours truly] provides wasn’t packed with enough mindless bullshit and special buttons) and it (the juggalog, that is) is awesome.
Some poor fucker got it in his head that working for ICP for something like ten or eleven weeks selling tshirts to tubby juggalos and jugalettes would be a great social experiment. Now, I too, would probably think this, and I too, had I not been turned onto the juggalog would probably even consider doing it, just like this poor, poor man ended up doing. But MAN oh man, some of the photos and passages are genuinely haunting and dark. It’s, believe it or not, completely fucked up. This little excerpt from today’s entry may whet your whistle:
“When I look back at the last 10 weeks of my life it’s hard to admit to myself that everything I remember actually happened. Just to put it in perspective for you: The amount of time that I have been protecting myself from (over-generalization) over weight, drug infused, uneducated, mindless, brainwashed, closed minded, soda soaked clowns with the shittiest make-up that I could possibly imagine is just short of the amount of time that it would take for you to complete one semester of photography class at your mid-level art school.”
Yipes, folks. That’s what sometimes happens when you immerse yourself in a strange and depraved culture. You go batshit insane. But this guy and his expose may just be the catalyst that the juggalos need to start a true subcultural civil war where they break out their hatchets and take back what’s theirs; namely the KFC’s, Taco bells, Hot Topics and hockey jersey manufacturing concerns. It could become one of those situations where clowns stop being polite and start getting real. They could call their new country Juggalarica, Or Juggalo-ville, Oooh! Juggalosreal. Oh, yeah. That’s what they should call it. But, nah, they’d probably just call it Shangri-la. Dumb fucking juggalos.
This leads me to something that I find irritating: the fear of clowns. Everyone reveals this phobia like it’s some sort of iconoclastic fear that proves that they see the real essence of terror in this otherwise-thought-to-be-docile-lovable and, you know, for-the-kids incarnation, but listen up dildos: for as long as there have been clowns, they’ve been portrayed as scary. You aren’t outwitting the matrix. You’re in it, man. Ever fucking hear of Pagliacci? Look, my point here is, as long as there’s been the idea of clowns there’s been juggalos, kay? You got it? Great. So, no more bragging about clowns being scary. That’s like saying rapists are scary, or minorities. WOW. What a bold new fear you’ve cooked up there.
Lamos.
Sigh.
Okay, look. I didn’t mean to go off on you guys there. I’ve been having problems with my manservant Claudio for the last hour or two. He took off on the Monitor’s life blimp with that dildo from the Cobra Ships or whatever the fuck they are. Apparently our meeting in Tibet the other day made quite an impression on Claudio, and just this morning he told me that he’d rather listen to children’s dance music than talk about opening NRO accounts, or Hulbert’s Financial Digest. I told him that without that shit, I’ve got ads, no revenue, no Monitor and no money for menservants and you know what he said? Get this. He said “I don’t care, sir. It’s dull.” Then he took off in the life blimp. It was pathetic, really. Just Claudio, floating out there like some sort of chick clasped in the talon of a fat goose, disappearing into the arctic sunset above the ice floes and…excuse me a moment.
…
No, no. I’ll be fine. After all, I still have my trillions and Dick Branson and I are meeting tomorrow at a Stuckeys outside of Oklahoma city to talk global finance over some chicko sticks and milkshakes. Should be a pretty cool time. Maybe I’ll get one of the waiters from the main restaurant on the Monitor (the steakhouse) to fill in for Claudio. Or, maybe Claudio will come back. Who knows anymore? Okay, I’ve got to go. I’m hunting polar bears from up here with some Russian, ahem, businessmen, and I’m up.
Good luck out there. Let’s rap tomorrow.
Some poor fucker got it in his head that working for ICP for something like ten or eleven weeks selling tshirts to tubby juggalos and jugalettes would be a great social experiment. Now, I too, would probably think this, and I too, had I not been turned onto the juggalog would probably even consider doing it, just like this poor, poor man ended up doing. But MAN oh man, some of the photos and passages are genuinely haunting and dark. It’s, believe it or not, completely fucked up. This little excerpt from today’s entry may whet your whistle:
“When I look back at the last 10 weeks of my life it’s hard to admit to myself that everything I remember actually happened. Just to put it in perspective for you: The amount of time that I have been protecting myself from (over-generalization) over weight, drug infused, uneducated, mindless, brainwashed, closed minded, soda soaked clowns with the shittiest make-up that I could possibly imagine is just short of the amount of time that it would take for you to complete one semester of photography class at your mid-level art school.”
Yipes, folks. That’s what sometimes happens when you immerse yourself in a strange and depraved culture. You go batshit insane. But this guy and his expose may just be the catalyst that the juggalos need to start a true subcultural civil war where they break out their hatchets and take back what’s theirs; namely the KFC’s, Taco bells, Hot Topics and hockey jersey manufacturing concerns. It could become one of those situations where clowns stop being polite and start getting real. They could call their new country Juggalarica, Or Juggalo-ville, Oooh! Juggalosreal. Oh, yeah. That’s what they should call it. But, nah, they’d probably just call it Shangri-la. Dumb fucking juggalos.
This leads me to something that I find irritating: the fear of clowns. Everyone reveals this phobia like it’s some sort of iconoclastic fear that proves that they see the real essence of terror in this otherwise-thought-to-be-docile-lovable and, you know, for-the-kids incarnation, but listen up dildos: for as long as there have been clowns, they’ve been portrayed as scary. You aren’t outwitting the matrix. You’re in it, man. Ever fucking hear of Pagliacci? Look, my point here is, as long as there’s been the idea of clowns there’s been juggalos, kay? You got it? Great. So, no more bragging about clowns being scary. That’s like saying rapists are scary, or minorities. WOW. What a bold new fear you’ve cooked up there.
Lamos.
Sigh.
Okay, look. I didn’t mean to go off on you guys there. I’ve been having problems with my manservant Claudio for the last hour or two. He took off on the Monitor’s life blimp with that dildo from the Cobra Ships or whatever the fuck they are. Apparently our meeting in Tibet the other day made quite an impression on Claudio, and just this morning he told me that he’d rather listen to children’s dance music than talk about opening NRO accounts, or Hulbert’s Financial Digest. I told him that without that shit, I’ve got ads, no revenue, no Monitor and no money for menservants and you know what he said? Get this. He said “I don’t care, sir. It’s dull.” Then he took off in the life blimp. It was pathetic, really. Just Claudio, floating out there like some sort of chick clasped in the talon of a fat goose, disappearing into the arctic sunset above the ice floes and…excuse me a moment.
…
No, no. I’ll be fine. After all, I still have my trillions and Dick Branson and I are meeting tomorrow at a Stuckeys outside of Oklahoma city to talk global finance over some chicko sticks and milkshakes. Should be a pretty cool time. Maybe I’ll get one of the waiters from the main restaurant on the Monitor (the steakhouse) to fill in for Claudio. Or, maybe Claudio will come back. Who knows anymore? Okay, I’ve got to go. I’m hunting polar bears from up here with some Russian, ahem, businessmen, and I’m up.
Good luck out there. Let’s rap tomorrow.
Monday, November 16, 2009
and like a phoenix rising from the asses, I've returned
What’s that you say? You’ve missed me? Well, that’s nice to hear. Sure it is. It’s always nice to be missed. Where have I been? Oh, thanks for asking. As some of you may recall, two weeks ago I monetized this blog and since then I’ve been traveling the world, funding the trip with my new source of revenue. It’s been wonderful. For the ten days it’s been just my manservant Claudio and I in my new solid gold, private zeppelin, the Monitor. Of course, it’s fully staffed with waiters, busboys and prostitutes, but I don’t deal directly with them. Claudio handles all my transactions now. Dealing with money is so tacky, you know? Of course you don’t. Listen, when you get to a certain level of fiduciary excess, you learn these things. It’s like when your dick gets to be thirteen inches long, you learn that you need to make sure it doesn’t drop into the toilet water while you’re dumping. But, most of you wouldn’t know about that either, and that’s fine. There’s no need to concern yourselves with the trivialities of the elite few, right? Right. Good. Glad that’s settled.
My DJ on the Monitor, a german fellow with whimsical hair and endless colorful suits of leather clothing, turned me onto a new sound while we were over Aburiria scattering Krugerands down on the villages in hopes of causing riots for our amusement. It was a song called “good girls go bad” by an artist known as Cobra Starship. Man, shit. Man. Wowzers. That shit’s pretty fucking catchy, innit?
Okay, look. I know what you’re thinking. Something like this, probably: “Cobra fucking starship, dude? Seriously? Seriously? Listen, man, I put up with your lil wayne bullshit and your crap about Britney Spears and all that but this is TOO FAR. You don’t like Cobra Starship. That shit’s garbage. Period. End of story. Move on. You mentioned earlier that there were whores on your zeppelin. Expand on that.” Well, firstly, sure. I’ll get to the whores, but secondly. Nope. You’re wrong. The german knows what I like, and man, fuck me if I don’t like that song. That bitch from whatever that show is has a pretty radical and sexy vocal delivery (only in that song…The german played me a song from her album which was unlistenable jazzy, late 80’s crap that sounds like the inoffensive grossness that moms put on before they masturbate in the tub) and sure, overall, the song’s got a VERY Bloodhound Gang quality. AND the weird sample is highly reminiscent of the Pee Wee Herman sample in “Just Lose It” by Eminem, and yeah, the song is childish, but really, honestly none of that matters. When the German puts it on, I start tapping my foot. When my bathers wake me up in the night for my midnight penis cleansing it’s stuck in my head. You get the idea. And I don’t feel guilty. Nope. It’s not a guilty pleasure, because, as of course you don’t know, money removes the need for guilt. It’s like when you get a dog and you can throw out the mop and broom. Or how when you get a television you can throw away all your books. So therefore, I’d classify the song as a pleasure, a guilt-free pleasure.
Now, the german also played me another song by the same artist, called Hot Mess. This song. Man. Fuck. Shit, man. Wow. Okay, it’s not as good as the first song, given. But man. It’s tapped into the zeitgeist of what’s popular right now in a way I can NOT believe. This Saporta guy is some sort of super genius. I had Claudio schedule us a meeting. I flew him, via luxury airboat to meet us in Tibet where we dined on the endangered flesh of tigers among the clouds. Turns out, I know this fucking guy. I’ve known him forever. I met him when I was sixteen or seventeen and he was in a band called Humble Beginnings. How far we’ve both come since those days in those various gymnasiums and VFW’s in New Jersey. He’s a megastar with a number one song and I’m an advertising genius with hordes of devoted slaves and followers. Man, humble beginnings indeed.
See, the thing that’s blowing my mind here, when I listen to this pair of Cobra Starship songs is the following: This dude is my age. How the FUCK can a dude my age write songs like this? I’m not hating on it. Sincerely, I’m impressed as shit. I mean, “You’re a hot mess and I’m falling for you and I’m all, ‘hot damn, I’ma make you my boo.”????? DUDE! That shit’s hilarious. And timely. And yes. Yes yes yes yes, it’s gonna age poorly and the whole thing’s kind of a joke and all that, but at the end of the day that shit don’t matter because that dude’s sitting on a pile of money the size of the furnace that powers the Monitor. And money, everyone, alleviates the need for everything else, as we’ve mentioned before. So, Good on ya, Gabe. Seriously. Seriously. That shit’s impressive as hell.
Okay, I’m being telegraphed to let me know that the Monitor is waiting on the roof to take me to Panama City for lunch, so I have to bow out. Good to see you all again. See you tomorrow.
Xoxoxxox
Oh, and thanks for coming out to the shows. They were a blast. And finally, congratulations to Ryan and Anne Kelly on what’s sure to be an unbelievably happy and successful marriage. Love you both.
My DJ on the Monitor, a german fellow with whimsical hair and endless colorful suits of leather clothing, turned me onto a new sound while we were over Aburiria scattering Krugerands down on the villages in hopes of causing riots for our amusement. It was a song called “good girls go bad” by an artist known as Cobra Starship. Man, shit. Man. Wowzers. That shit’s pretty fucking catchy, innit?
Okay, look. I know what you’re thinking. Something like this, probably: “Cobra fucking starship, dude? Seriously? Seriously? Listen, man, I put up with your lil wayne bullshit and your crap about Britney Spears and all that but this is TOO FAR. You don’t like Cobra Starship. That shit’s garbage. Period. End of story. Move on. You mentioned earlier that there were whores on your zeppelin. Expand on that.” Well, firstly, sure. I’ll get to the whores, but secondly. Nope. You’re wrong. The german knows what I like, and man, fuck me if I don’t like that song. That bitch from whatever that show is has a pretty radical and sexy vocal delivery (only in that song…The german played me a song from her album which was unlistenable jazzy, late 80’s crap that sounds like the inoffensive grossness that moms put on before they masturbate in the tub) and sure, overall, the song’s got a VERY Bloodhound Gang quality. AND the weird sample is highly reminiscent of the Pee Wee Herman sample in “Just Lose It” by Eminem, and yeah, the song is childish, but really, honestly none of that matters. When the German puts it on, I start tapping my foot. When my bathers wake me up in the night for my midnight penis cleansing it’s stuck in my head. You get the idea. And I don’t feel guilty. Nope. It’s not a guilty pleasure, because, as of course you don’t know, money removes the need for guilt. It’s like when you get a dog and you can throw out the mop and broom. Or how when you get a television you can throw away all your books. So therefore, I’d classify the song as a pleasure, a guilt-free pleasure.
Now, the german also played me another song by the same artist, called Hot Mess. This song. Man. Fuck. Shit, man. Wow. Okay, it’s not as good as the first song, given. But man. It’s tapped into the zeitgeist of what’s popular right now in a way I can NOT believe. This Saporta guy is some sort of super genius. I had Claudio schedule us a meeting. I flew him, via luxury airboat to meet us in Tibet where we dined on the endangered flesh of tigers among the clouds. Turns out, I know this fucking guy. I’ve known him forever. I met him when I was sixteen or seventeen and he was in a band called Humble Beginnings. How far we’ve both come since those days in those various gymnasiums and VFW’s in New Jersey. He’s a megastar with a number one song and I’m an advertising genius with hordes of devoted slaves and followers. Man, humble beginnings indeed.
See, the thing that’s blowing my mind here, when I listen to this pair of Cobra Starship songs is the following: This dude is my age. How the FUCK can a dude my age write songs like this? I’m not hating on it. Sincerely, I’m impressed as shit. I mean, “You’re a hot mess and I’m falling for you and I’m all, ‘hot damn, I’ma make you my boo.”????? DUDE! That shit’s hilarious. And timely. And yes. Yes yes yes yes, it’s gonna age poorly and the whole thing’s kind of a joke and all that, but at the end of the day that shit don’t matter because that dude’s sitting on a pile of money the size of the furnace that powers the Monitor. And money, everyone, alleviates the need for everything else, as we’ve mentioned before. So, Good on ya, Gabe. Seriously. Seriously. That shit’s impressive as hell.
Okay, I’m being telegraphed to let me know that the Monitor is waiting on the roof to take me to Panama City for lunch, so I have to bow out. Good to see you all again. See you tomorrow.
Xoxoxxox
Oh, and thanks for coming out to the shows. They were a blast. And finally, congratulations to Ryan and Anne Kelly on what’s sure to be an unbelievably happy and successful marriage. Love you both.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
