ripped to shreds you say?

I woke up with a sense of impending doom…somehow it’s related to my dumb job or the state of the world or maybe my approaching solo performance in St. Augustine, Fla (April 10th at café 11) I dunno. It’s just that feeling of utter doom. I’ve heard of impending doom looming as a result of actual tangible problems, drug use, depression, or some combination thereof, but as near as I can tell, the culprit was a cheeseburger. Yeah. A fucking cheeseburger. I don’t believe it myself.
There’s this place called Kuma’s Corner here in Chicago and it’s becoming pretty famous for having great cheeseburgers. The whole place has a bit of a heavy metal theme (the burgers are all named after metal bands, some good [slayer] some bad [clutch]) and it’s always nuts to butts jam packed out the door. The girls that work there are all tattooed girls that make nerds fall in love with them and the bar plays loud heavy metal and serves a ton of stupid microbrews. You get the idea, right? Some dude who loved cheeseburgers, small batch beer and metal just kind of went for it and pulled it off pretty well. The burgers are good, but FUUUUCK, they will tear up your soul.
This is the second time that I’ve woken up feeling doomed after a meal at Kumas. ( Oh, I had the Clutch, add bacon, just by the way) Last time I went, it was my birthday and I chalked up the doomed feeling to potentially having had too many beers and also bravely attempting to eat a burger called the “insect warfare’ which had some sort of green chili and goat cheese thing going on…it completely destroyed me for a couple of days. I didn’t even have a birthday dinner because of the stupid insect warfare…but now I know, man. It’s just the place. I’m allergic to it. There’s no other explanation.
SO, I’m sitting here, doomed. There’s no way to fix it because aside from the usual things (we’re all gonna die, the world is in the shitter, I don’t know how I’m going to provide for my wife/baby/parents/whatever, life is a series of meaningless tasks that shoot us ever closer to the inevitable mental decay and poverty that mark our last pointless moments) there’s nothing wrong. So, I can’t un-doom myself. It’s a rough situation, man.
Here’s what I should do:
Go to the gym- they say that regular exercise does essentially the same thing as any antidepressants. Also, I love watching naked old men stand there waving their desiccated little wieners around, just talking about politics and other important stuff like there’s any way they could be taken seriously in their gross, saggy, naked man suits. It’s also a reminder of impending death though….so…
Drink beer- Usually makes me feel pretty good. And doom is a lot easier to stomach when you’ve got a beer. Hell, I think that’s what beer was invented to do.
Squeeze a baby- babies will cheer you up in a pinch. Unless they’re asshole babies, or ugly, or they’re missing an eye or they have a harelip or something…then they’re a real fucking bummer.
Try to wrangle a beej- These things will cheer you up faster than you can say ‘why yes. I would LOVE a blowjob”
Go see my dumb friends- being around people beats the crap out of sitting alone, listing off ways you could potentially shake the feeling of doom that’s ensconcing you while your baby moans in the next room. My friends probably have some dick jokes they’d like to tell me…did you hear about the guy with five dicks? His pants fit him like a glove. Heyo!
I found out this weekend that I’m not really Irish. That’s not really that astounding when you look at me…I don’t look irish, but my name is irish. Turns out, though, that my grandfather, who I thought was 100% irish is only half irish, making me only an eighth. That’s not really enough to count, is it? I don’t think so. Oh well…it’s the irish American community’s loss, not mine. Also, my dog’s got a serious case of the runs. It looked like someone melted a bunch of candybars all over the bathroom when I woke up this morning. Gnarly.
Sigh.

UUUUGH! DAWGS!

Good morning and happy Friday. It’s that time of the week again where everyone loosens their ties, takes a long lunch, orders a jagerbomb on the way home from work, calls up their boys, makes plans with a fat Mexican coke dealer, waits in the burger king parking lot, gets antsy, goes in and orders some chicken fries, stands back out in the parking lot, visibly fist pumps when old George (pronounced HORE-hay) rounds the corner in his shitty, put-upon little hatchback, climbs in, makes the exchange, walks back home to discover that all their roommates have already tapped the keg, calls some chicks, gets the party going, makes a burrito and ultimately ends up at the sports bar fucking some trashy, orange tanned girl with big chipmunk teeth who is only passibly hot through sheer force of her own will, right there in the urinal as the urinal cake skids across the underside of their balls. TGIF man. TGIF.
I was gonna do a “favorite things” list today…And I still may. It’s gonna be like Oprah. Everyone can look under their seats! Go ahead. That’s right! It’s the keys to a new PT cruiser! My favorite car! I have a friend (Sean Nader, for those of you out there who have been keeping track of the Nader/Kelly sagas that appear here) who thinks PT cruisers are really, truly the coolest cars. You might even say he considers them to be “the bomb”, and he has promised that when he makes a ton of money, he’s gonna get his dream car, a purple PT cruiser with black flames. Now, before we get too into that car, I’d like to point out a couple of things…Firstly, Nader’s best friend is named PT and I think that there’s more than a casual latent homosexual bond there, and I think that may have, subconsciously contributed to his fascination with these particular cars, and secondly, and this is much more significant: Nader can’t drive, and has never had a drivers license.
Nonetheless, on his short list of shit to buy with a zillion dollars: the purple PT cruiser with the black flames. You know who drives PT cruisers? Moms. Divorced moms. In that car, he’s gonna look like the freshly divorced lady principal of the local middle school out PT cruising around the singles bars, trolling for sausage, if you get my drift. But, hey, whatever. Nader’s got some ideas, man. AND I’ll be the FIRST person to fly up to Detroit and drive him around in his new PT cruiser when he strikes it bigtime. That’s a promise.
Okay, so my favorite things…Well, I’ve mentioned my favorite beer in the past, BUT I’m feeling like a bit of a lazy bastard today so I’m gonna do it all again…Here goes.

Beer- The greatest beer in the world is National Bohemian, but it’s only available in Baltimore. The next greatest beer is Miller High Life. BUT and this is huge, High Life MUST be cold. A warm high life is like drinking the pus out of a sore on Khloe Kardashian’s dick. Gross. If you’re the kind of asshole who wouldn’t be caught dead with a simple domestic beer, you can drink LaBatt Blue, Imperial, Pacifico, or Sol if you want to keep it in the Americas, and if you don’t, well…WAIT a second! This isn’t a guide to drinking! It’s MY favorite things. Okay, so beer: Labatt blue is my fave Canadian beer and Pacifico and Sol are my favorite Mexican beers. From South America, I go with Costa Rica’s Imperial…which is excellent, but NEEDS a lime or it tastes like melted down turds.
My favorite non-Americas beer is def. Drogba from the Ivory Coast. Nah. I don’t know...drinking African beer is just cool. That’s all.

My favorite Yogurt: cascade fresh blueberry. You get this in the organic section of your grocery store. The shit is GOOOOOOOOOOOD. I start my day with it every morning and it’s so fucking excellent. Um, eat this shit, because I really don’t want them to go out of business.

Favorite Drug- Running. Yeah that’s right. Nothing like a runners high. Close second- Heroin/ecstasy speedballs injected into your nuts.

Favorite cheese- Garrotxa. It’s a goat cheese from northern spain and it’s nutty, mild and semi firm…kind of like nader’s penis.

Favorite penis- You thought I was gonna say Nader’s right? Because it reminds me so much of my favorite cheese? That’s just weird. My favorite penis belongs to Harvey Kietel. He keeps it in the drawer of his nightstand.

Favorite thing to get at burger king- Double cheeseburger. What?

Favorite whiskey- Tullamore dew. This shit is like Jameson, if Jameson wasn’t terrible. It’s smooth and drinkable. It’s what I drink shots of as a rule.

Favorite porn star – Nick Manning. Look him up. He’s amazing. I know what you’re all thinking: “but Brendan, he’s a guy! Are you suggesting that you’re…” no dummies. This guy takes something as ridiculous as copulating in front of a camera so fat nerds can have something to whack off to during the dull moments in World of Warcraft, and in what I can only assume is a post modern bit of life-as-performance-art turns the entire thing upside down and makes it okay to laugh out loud. Also, he makes me very uncomfortable, but damn if he isn’t doing something great. Okay, okay, because I know you won’t look him up if you’re at work, or skittish, or lame or my mom or whatever, he, at the end of his scenes, when he’s supposed to jizz on the faces of his costars; he gets this deep booming voice and yells “UUUH! DROPPIN LOADS! ON YOUR FACE!”
that’s art, man.

Favorite candy- I just had those chocolate covered pop rocks. Those were good.

Favorite breakfast cereal- all bran buds with psyllium. Listen up anorexics, this stuff makes you dump. No two ways about it. Eat it one day, and the next day, you’ve got some serious movement. It’s not like the kind of thing where you have to run to the bathroom, it’s more that when you next end up going, it’s way better than you expect. Trust me on this one.

Favorite newscaster- uh…sorry. What’s happening in the world anyway? Are we rich again yet?

Enjoy your weekends, ladies. AND GO SEE THE FUCKING COBRA SKULLS AT BEAT KITCHEN ON SATURDAY NIGHT. THEY ARE THE BEST BAND IN THE WORLD RIGHT NOW!!!!!!

If you leave, I got nothing!

It’s night time and I’m home alone except for a sleeping baby and some sleeping dogs. Today I got an inch thick strip steak and I seared it three minutes, rotated it forty five degrees and seared it for another three minutes then did the same on the other side…this was all done over a hot grill, then I moved the steak to the other side of the grill, which was medium heat, and let it hang out there for five minutes. The result is the best steak I’ve probably ever grilled at home. I used liberal amounts of salt and pepper on both sides and that was it. If you’re the kind of person who finds steak to be enjoyable, I’d suggest this move…Don’t try this method with a steak thinner than an inch though, that’s not gonna work out.
My wife’s in New York and it’s just me and the baby. We’ve engineered a total rager here at the house. Actually, I watched a little south park and worked on a script for a while. Back in the day, if my wife went out of town, that meant I was going out to the bar and staying out until 2 am, guaranteed. Now, it means I’ve GOTTA go to bed early because I’m the only one wrangling the baby in the morning. Fuck. Interesting. Well, my life is dull. What else do I have?
Okay, so this dude wanted some advice and , in the spirit of laziness, I’m gonna give it to him. Here goes
Q:
hey Brendan!_asking for an advice (it's not about fucking but I hope you'll answer)._You say that confidence is the key with girls, but how can I be more confident?_I'm 24 and I'm with this girl for several months, she's nice and she says she love me, and I love her too, the problem is that before her I've been with a girl for 5 years and in the end of our relationship she cheated on me, so now I'm really distrustful and I can't live this relationship in a relaxed way and I'm very stressed._The girl I'm with now seems very sincere and she tried her best to have me (because before I met her I was going out with another girl) but I'm always worried to be cheated again and I've got always bad thoughts and I feel so pathetic..it sucks__teach me how can i be more confident

A:
Firstly, I can kind of hear your accent coming through in this letter, and it’s real adorable. I’d guess Germany, maybe Austria? Czech? Anyway, thankfully, confidence, cheating girlfriends and commitment are all international issues, much like global warming or Jews running everything, so I’m feeling qualified to reach overseas and help you with your issue…And that issue IS? “Confidence! How do I have it if I just don’t have it?”
It’s a great question and the best way I can guide you here is to reference a film. Have you seen Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? Well, there’s this scene in it where Indy has to cross this chasm. According to his dad’s little book, he just needs to take a leap (really more like a step) of faith. This seems crazy, but when the motherfuckers that are chasing them get close enough, Indy goes for it…He holds his breath and steps out into the chasm and LOW AND BEHOLD!!!!! There’s a rock bridge there that’s just perfectly camouflaged with the distant rocky ground below. He had no clue it would be there, and it went against every fiber of his being to take that step, but it paid off in the end.
Now, confidence is the same way, ESPECIALLY if you’re gun-shy after a bad relationship or you’re some bird chested wimp or whatever your problem is that makes you doubt yourself and not trust your old lady…Okay, here’s the deal. You’re kind of an un-confident pussy, right? Fine. Well then, you’re gonna feel insecure. She’s got a guy friend, or she’s out with her slutty girl friends, or she didn’t call you, or she’s got this really big project with this hot guy, you’re worried she’s a lesbian, she keeps buying cucumbers and locking the bathroom door…Whatever the thing is, it doesn’t matter. It’s all gonna concern you, and unless you’re a woman beater (not a good idea), the natural instinct is to whine around and be a sensitive weeni and guilt her into not doing what she wants to do, BUT! Here’s the facts: Confidence is attractive to women. Lack of confidence is pussy repellant on the level of sweatpants, lockets with pictures of your mom in them, binoculars, a porn movie just in your hand while you walk down the street…you get the idea. NOTHING will drive your girl into the arms of that guy friend/sexy coworker/lesbian/cucumber faster than you acting like a pussy about her hanging out with said guy friend/sexy coworker/lesbian/cucumber. So you can’t. No acting like a pussy about it. Period. It may burn you up inside. It may make you want to scream and punch walls and say things like “OF COURSE HE WANTS TO FUCK YOU, YOU DUMB BITCH!!!! HOW CAN YOU EVEN SAY THAT TO ME WITH A STRAIGHT FACE????”
But, see, you can’t say that. You need to be cool. Be unflappable. Never let her see you sweat because, and here’s the thing, if she’s gonna fuck around on you, she’s gonna do it anyway, so you can’t be stressed because there’s absolutely no tantrum you can throw that’s gonna prevent it, but if she’s AT ALL on the fence, your lack of confidence could, and often will be the thing that pushes her over the edge. I’ve been the pussy before and it’s no fun, and pretending that you don’t give a shit when you do is not fun either, but it’s important. Why? Because you SHOULDN’T care/worry about someone you like having a life besides her life with you, and you need to reteach yourself not to be a pussy about that stuff. Man, if I got hot and bothered every time my wife went out with her slutty friends or good looking coworkers, or whatever, I wouldn’t have time to blog or tour or anything. It’s an unhealthy waste of time and it is NEVER, in any case, and has never been, and will NEVER BE productive or positive in any way. Think of this as a mental health exercise…It’s killing irrational jealousy in yourself. You need to consciously suppress it at first, because you’re used to letting it overtake you. Once you’ve got it under control, your natural confidence will fill in and replace that jealousy.
This is not easy, but it’s gonna one of the best things you ever do for yourself. This is a promise. And again, if she’s gonna fuck around, you can’t do shit about it anyway. May as well escape with your dignity. This, by the way, is one of the few instances of this kind of thing that applies to women as well. In the case of jealousy and insecurity, it’s not sexy or healthy and it’ll never get you anywhere, so get rid of it. Even if you have to fake it at first, you’ll learn, and you’ll be so glad you did. Send nudes!
Bye.

barkbarkbarkbarkbark

I find myself absolutely enraged with my dog, Pancho, quite often these days. He’s a barker, and it’s in his nature to be loud. I mean, fuck, he’s a Chihuahua. They’re mouthy little dogs. But man, when that baby is asleep and he starts barking it’s all I can do not to kick him across the room. Not because I’ve got this parental mechanism of nurturing or anything like that. Not at all. No, it’s more that I’ve got just the tiniest little window each day to do EVERYTHING I need to do that I can’t do while making sure an increasingly speedy and curious little beast doesn’t fall in the toilet/fall off the porch/ stick his fingers in the light sockets/get too close to my dildo tree etc. SO, that means I’m cooking/brushing teeth/getting dressed/typing this dumb blog/making breakfast/working on music or scripts or whatever/perusing porn/having coffee/emailing/giving myself a haircut/shaving my balls/doing the dishes/wiping down the counters/filling out my tax organizer and you know, looking at internet porn (again) all in this tiny window of time. So when that fucking dog starts barking, I lose my mind. That’s not something to fuck with, Pancho. I have a new great game…for every bark he expels while the baby’s sleeping, that’s one day he goes without food. I don’t know how effective it is, but it’s saving me a fortune on dogfood.
Nah, Pancho’s cool. I just don’t have much time. I know there are people out there in an office with kids who would kill to have as much time as their kids as I do with mine and I’m not really overtly trying to shit on that desire, I’m just saying everything is delicious when it’s parceled out, but when you get it all the time…yeah, it’s rewarding. Heaven forbid you don’t mention how rewarding it is to have kids…fine, you happy? It’s rewarding, but it’s like eating a fucking box of frosting for dinner. First bite, awesome. After a while, gets to be a little much, you know? Touring is like this too, but that’s another story entirely.
Look, I had this rant many months ago and I mentioned that if someone wanted to leash their kid, it was their prerogative and that I didn’t get why people got so upset about parents tethering a small, fast, stupid thing that doesn’t know the word ‘no’ and has no idea about consequences of any kind to them. People shout “don’t put your kid on a leash” and shit, as though it’s their business. Hey, thanks for the advice. Here’s some for you: don’t fucking tell strangers how to raise their kids. Sheesh.
Anyway, that was the gist of the rant and this girl wrote in here and said something to the effect of “yeah, well I take care of my nieces all the time and I never ever would use a leash…I’m an experienced babysitter.” Yeah and you might think you’re great at giving handjobs too, but let me tell you something, honey: It ain’t nothing compared to having one of your own, if you get my drift.
Look, girls, you’re all pretty bad at handjobs and that’s fine…Nobody wants a handjob from you anyway. I mean, maybe if that’s the high bid item on the menu, we’ll take it, but it’s a whole lot like going out to a restaurant and getting a microwaved hotpocket. There’s no reason to get dressed and leave the house. You can get a handjob/hotpocket right in your kitchen. SO, while it may be technically fine (unlikely), it’s not anything anyone’s terribly stoked on. Unless you and the guy who’s wiener you’re giving the handjob to are like fifteenish, in which case, I shouldn’t even be writing this to you. Eeeeew.
I’m getting off the subject that is only tangentially related to the subject at hand (that’s a pun, assholes…that’s how you pun). Handjobs…no one wants a handjob, just like no one goes to the exit ramp. They use the exit ramp to get from the highway to the gas station, but no one actually has a destination at the exit ramp. The handjob is a basic introduction of the penis to the woman. “this is my penis. It’s about this size and these are the bumps/sores/jogs to the left/gonzo nose shaped shaft/enormous balls that you’ll be telling all your friends about later,” because essentially, every man is an agent for their penis. The penis is an actor, let’s say, and every guy’s job is to convince pretty much everyone that they can that their penis would be perfect in whatever part they’re offering (another pun…this time I’m not so happy with it though. It’s cheap. It’s the kind of pun that comedians who tell knock knock jokes use…let’s all forget it).
The handjob is the audition, really. That’s the chance to get it out there and show what it can do, but it’s not the movie. To get back to my original point, girls can’t give handjobs, everyone knows this inherently. Guys practice handjobs all day long, and you think you’re gonna waltz in and whip up a handjob that compares? Sorry ladies. Everyone knows this, as I said, and it’s fine, because as I also said, we’re really just looking for blowjobs or vagina or butt jobs anyway, so fine, we sit through the handjobs…no sweat. Cool.
What does this have to do with babysitting/keeping kids on a leash? I’m going to direct this to the smug babysitter who has wily nieces who she’d NEVER need to keep on a leash (just by the way, I don’t keep my kid on a leash…just so we’re clear).
Hey bitch! You get to go home!!!! You get to sleep! People who have kids wake up EVERY DAY at six, or five AM or three times in the night. They/we are tired. They/we have twelve hour days devoted to chasing some little shit around and we NEVER get to sleep in. SO, at the end of that exhausting day where you were such a rad babysitter, you get to go home, sleep through the night and sleep in until, I don’t know, benefit of the doubt let’s say 8. On the weekends, you can do what ever the fuck you want and sleep as long as you want. That’s amazing. You’re fucking READY to go on those days when you babysit. Heh! Babysit. Wow. You deserve a fucking medal. Listen, until you’ve gotten forty five hours of sleep in thirty days, don’t fucking compare your little trip around the mall with the walking zombie lifestyle that having one of these little monkeys entails. Whatever. Did I mention it’s rewarding? Good. Okay, so we’re clear? You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, right? Good.
Fuck.
Oh, and just one final thing, regarding the handjob thing, totally true, but let there be no mistake made, the male lack of understanding of the beaver is astounding. Women really just have to get the wiener to the right spot and blam! Everything’s great. Dudes, you (we) could probably all stand to brush up on our beaver handling techniques. Just throwing this out there, you know, because I don’t want this to seem sexist or anything.
Okay, go fuck yourselves (i don't think that's a pun...kind of an overt entendre with a clever, couched meaning, right? cool).

well we ran through the briars and we ran through the brambles...

Jesus Christ, the days just press on and on and on and on and every fucking morning there’s a new blank word document and I somehow have chosen to spend the one tiny little sliver of time in my life when I’m mercifully, totally alone, uninterrupted by tiny people crawling over to the toilet and trying to pull themselves in or wives pointing out that I did not, in fact fold any laundry or parents desperately seeking a little attention or various dickwallets asking me for another bud light…and somehow I’ve decided to spend it doing this. Typing out bullshit for no discernable reward. Seriously, there are so many posts on this fucking thing now, it’s like a book. Oh, it’s a terrible, and all over the place book, but it’s a book worth of material. What do you think of that shit, eh?
Yesterday was cool, I met with my friend Nick and we concocted a project which I’m really not going to go into here, but let’s just say it’s going to be the single biggest project I’ve ever undertaken in my life (not counting having kids you fucking irritating dildos in the back) but he also told me about this mega church he went to while filming a documentary on abe Lincoln impersonators. Still following me? Good.
So, apparently, in Kentucky there’s a tall gaunt man who wears trenchcoats and lurks around schools, but instead of candy and Vaseline in his pockets, he’s got a stovepipe hat and some Lincoln logs. Nick went to film this dude, and one of the highlights (well, sounds like it was also torturous, to be honest) was visiting this guy’s church, which is, I guess, a mega church. What’s a mega church? Well, it’s more like a stadium than a church apparently and this one had a set of Jerusalem on the stage, and a dude dressed as jesus who flew on wires and two angels that flew with him and there was lots of Christian rock and more than a little bit of an anti gay agenda on the table. Sounds cool. Sounds. real. Fucking. Cool.
I mean, how is it possible that people into jesus are so unanimously clueless when it comes to what’s cool and what’s lame? Religion, in and of itself is pretty stupid, granted, but it’s no more stupid than, say Star Wars or Australian Rules football. So why can’t it be packaged in a way that’s not completely just the antithesis of coolness? It seems someone would have figured something out by now, right?
Well, okay, I’m referring to Christianity here, first and foremost. There’s no doubt that Rastafarians have some cool ideas, from haircuts (dreads are perfectly cool on black guys-Europe, I’m looking your direction here), to rituals, (smoking weed, not for me, but it’s fairly cool, especially in big droopy joint form) and music (bob Marley is good, and make no mistake, that’s religious music). Of course they’ve got that whole thing about killing gay people, which is decidedly NOT cool, but look, I’m not trying to endorse Rastafarianism in any way, I’m just pointing out that they got one or two things right in terms of their marketing. In Hinduism they’ve got the Kama Sutra. That’s cool. Buddhists meditate, which is not COOL, but it’s not exactly Uncool. Jews have Hollywood which is cool, but Christians, what do they have? A middle eastern hippy that obviously traveled around getting loaded, hosting parties, most likely banging chicks…sounds cool, BUT they’re so terribly ashamed of this guy, that they’ve made him into a white virgin who only wanted to talk about how awesome his dad is. AND, they’re trying (quite aggressively) to market a party free, sexless, joyless existence of bad music, thinking about death, and fucking the same person through a sheet once a month (or something, I’m pretty sure that’s what they want) as the way to go. Sign me up, man! Fuuuuck. Sounds perfect. On a side note, you may notice that this is why George W Bush was so palatable to the American Christian population. He too was a loose cannon that was all fucked up who the flock was so ashamed of that they recapitulated him as a good and pure soul with a powerful dad. Good thing he was already white. I mean, it’s crazy how many liberties the egocentric white Christian flock have taken with their own mythology just to bend it to suit their completely baseless set of ideals. Do you really think that in Jerusalem, two thousand years ago, that Jesus’s best buddies were named Matt, Mark and John? Doubtful, man. They were a bunch of brown dudes named Saleem and they looked a lot, a LOT more like Osama than they do like James Caveziel, no offense, Mel Gibson….Wait, No. I take that back. Up your butt, Mel Gibson. Teehee!

Oh, you know what? The Mexicans have some cool takes on Christianity, actually. Guadalupe is pretty cool looking, and I don’t really know how much of a Christian holiday Dia de los muertos is, but it’s at least tangentially connected to all saints and all souls day, and honestly, that’s about the coolest imagery on the earth, for my money…So there you go. Shut my mouth. It’s white people who don’t know how to be cool. Not Christians. Well, I guess we all knew that, right? Hey, we’ll always have scrabble and Lefty Frizell, right?

i want my babyback babyback babyback

I kind of want chicken wings. Did you know that wing sauce is just hotsauce and butter? That’s it. No fanciness. That’s the whole list of ingredients, man. Wow. Simplicity is best about ninety nine percent of the time. I noticed, as a songwriter, traveling around and talking to other various self important dicks like myself about the way we come up with the bullshit that we come up with, that inevitably if you ask someone about a song, one you REALLY love, the song he/she wrote that is the song that kind of makes the album, defines the band or whatever, they will, 100% of the time say something like “oh yeah, it’s kinda weird. That song just came out in like, three minutes. It kind of wrote itself.” Simplicity is best when it works out, man.
When I write songs, if they don’t start coming together within about three minutes, I abandon them. This isn’t because I have a short attention span. It’s because if the best songs all come out immediately, then logic would dictate that the ones you slave over tend to not be as good, and I don’t want those songs on my records. There are a few exceptions to this rule, but for the most part, I stick to the basic, “if it’s not flying right out, writing itself, it’s no good” school of thought.
Here’s my lesson for you all out there. If you start something, and it doesn’t shape up immediately, well, quit. Never try. Nah, that’s really not the point. The thing is, I’ve written a ton of songs…thousands. Most of them are dogshit awful. There are lots of people on this earth who think ALL of them are dogshit awful, but whatever. Fuck those people. I’m not dealing with them right now. My point is, that after all this time, I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on if something is gonna work or not within the first few minutes.
Whatever. Is the songwriting process interesting? Nah. It’s dumb. I write words first, then music. There you go. Secrets revealed. I write a page or two of words and then start strumming a guitar. Ninety percent of the time, I put the guitar down, frustrated and go get a beer or something. The other ten percent of the time, my whole day is ruined, because that means I have to get out the 8 track and record the fucking thing so I don’t forget it. When I’m really cranking, like when I’m actively trying to write a record, I’ll write one to three songs a day. They almost all suck. But it’s like anything. If you want to do something well, up to the best of your ability, that is, you need to work at it, practice. There’s no way to write a good song without writing a bunch of bad ones. It can’t happen. It’s like comedy. Every stand up in the world will tell you that the only way to become a good stand up is to bomb over and over and over again. You can’t do a good act until you’ve done thousands of bad ones. This is true for anything. You can’t be a great basketball player, or orator, or bartender even without being terrible for a while. People think, for some reason, that songwriting is different. Like if you’ve got ‘it’ whatever it is, then you’ll just write good songs. No. Not the case. It takes work and it involves wading through a bunch of crap. I don’t care if your favorite songwriter is Billy Joel, Billy Corrigan, Tom Gabel or Cher. They all write turds. It’s only the BEST songs that even make it to a place where other people see them, and it’s only the BEST of those that get recorded, and then it’s only the BEST of those that make the record, and lots of records still end up with bad songs on them…you see?
Whatever. I don’t care. I’m getting hungry. Get out there and write me a record, people.

Shh!!!! They're WaTCHinG US! (we must stand together or perish, as all carbon based life must, but, you know, sooner than we would otherwise) Fuuuuck

Dudes, ladies, various asshole lurkers and parents, sluts, prudes, crips, tards, fatties, baldies, nerds, turds, pussies, pansies, total assholes, religious dicks, irreligious smart asses, various other smartguy bloggers, fellow bartenders, musicians, priests, officers, molested children, suicide bombers, hot dog factory workers and cabbies,
Welcome to Bad Sandwich Chronicles on this, the second or third Friday of either March or April. I’ve found something out there, on the internets that is incredibly disturbing. I’ve been meaning to write about it for a while, but I’ve been afraid.
They’re watching me. Oh, don’t I sound just like Gene Hackman in that one movie, or Mel “jews” Gibson in that other (pretty much the same) movie, or even Tom Cruise in that one other different movie that’s the same, but it takes place in a different time, or Will Smith in that other different, kind of the same, but more different, yet still EXACTLY the same, premise-wise, movie? Don’t I? Well, you know what Gene, Mel, Tom and Will all had in common (besides all buttfucking their way to the top of Hollywood [thank you mr. Travolta!])? THEY WERE ALL RIGHT!!!!!
They WERE watching them. And now they’re watching me. It started with the lesbian dildos thing. Some sexy robot approached me about helping her hock lesbian dildos here, right here in Bad Sandwich Chronicles. I politely said: “1000011010101010000101111110001010101010100010101000101111111010101010101010101010101010101010100000000111100001111100000010101010000000011111111111”
Or, “no” in robot, and I thought that was it. (If you need a recap of this, read the entry entitled “uh…hmm…see, the title I want to use really gives too much away”)
So, anyway, I went on with my life and I kept on doing that which it is I do, which is, essentially for those of you just tuning in, weaving various euphemisms for dicks and various dick jokes into everyday bits of discourse. So for example, if I wanted to tell you that I wasn’t looking forward to work today, I may say it like this: “I’d rather suck a neutered dog’s empty, floppity ball bag up through his disgusting melted jolly rancher of a wang than deal with carrying the sandwiches, opening the miller lites of and changing the channels for all these march madness assholes that are sure to infiltrate my stupid job today.”
It’s a little rough, but I was on the fly there, so you know, a little leeway would be nice. You get the idea though, right? Dick jokes/discourse—yadda yadda yadda.
ANYWAY, I’m getting off topic, which is also something I do here. Whatever right? We’re friends here. BSC is a safe place. A solace in the creepy cyber world of animal porn, butt stretching, people trying to sign kids up for the army and various religious/terrorist/hate group havens. No one here but us, right?
W
R
O
N
G
!!!!!!!!!
Go here if you doubt me: www.Badsandwichchronicles.com
WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT???? Chai? Bats? Fucking BLACK AUTHORS? HOW DO THEY KNOW? I mean, fuck. There’s no way that this website existed before I started this blog. NO. WAY. I mean, what are the odds of two people coming up with the name ‘bad sandwich chronicles’ for a website? It’s a terrible name. Fuck, that’s why I picked it in the first place. Oh, it’s tempting to think that because of all you lurkers that I get enough hits that some robot (and this is where the dildo salesbot comes back into play) invented an ad site with my domain name just to sell links and to hopefully get money from me when and if I get off my ass and decide I want to own the “real” domain name (uh…unlikely to happen, by the way). BUT, then look at it.
Romance Novels
Chai
Black author
Bats
Sand
SAND???? Dude, I LOVE sand. In fact, these are all things that have to do with me. I live in Chai-cago, man. I’m a black author and besides, even if I’m not technically “street black” or “actually black” I’m book black, and by that I mean I’ve read some Ellison and perused more than my share of Black Tail (which also falls under ‘black romance’ which is ALSO on this strange new badsandwichchronicles). And bats? Dude, anyone who knows me will tell you that I can’t go two seconds without talking about my two pet bats, Scratches and Scabs. They’re absolutely my world. I don’t write about them on the blog because some of my life needs to stay private (like how tom cruise never talks about the dudes attached to the bushels and bushels of dicks he sucks, or Brad Pitt never lets his actual kids be seen, or how Kevin Federline…you get the point). But they knew. This robot knew. This leads me to the only logical conclusion: The internet is a living entity that spies on us and will eventually enslave us all. Just like HAL in that one movie, but without the vacuum of space, and you know, more different videos of Jada Fire (black romance again! DAMN YOU INTERNET!!!!).
Fuck. This is a lot to swallow right before the weekend, huh?
I’m gonna go get a churro.

Hocus pocus and shit

Sheeeit am I ever behind this morning. I took a while to sleep in because last night I just couldn’t tear myself away from the most amazing television program maybe EVER. Of course I’m referring to the Magic Awards.
I was going through my channel listings when I saw that the magic awards were on, and I said to my wife, “you know, I bet this is the worlds gayest awards show” then I turned to it, and here’s what we saw: Neil Patrick Harris, who was the host saying “Let me please present my friend, living legend, Gay Blackstone!” Then this woman walked out who looked exactly like what you’d imagine a fag hag would look like at about age seventy, and THEN they pan to the audience, who’s giving her a standing ovation, and the first guy standing is in a thick, red and white striped suit jacket with a twirled up mustache, a bowtie and a combover.
Then this guy who looked like a cross between a ken doll and Bo from dukes of hazard, dressed like the lead in a broadway musical production of Indiana Jones did this uh…magic performance, but it was decidedly old school in that it featured no banter, only frantic, leaping, twirling dance and chicks in tight velour clothes. Amazingly, as the camera went in for the close ups, everyone (magician, slutty assistants, Neil Patrick Harris) was revealed to be fifty or older. Needless to say, it was one of the greatest programs I’ve ever seen. And I was right. Until there is an awards show specifically devoted to homosexuality, the magic awards wins the award for gayest awards show. Oh, well, I wasn’t counting the Tony’s I guess. Huh.
Not a ton of time today, as I mentioned earlier. Huh…I think I’m gonna quit while the quitting is good.
Jesus fucking Christ, man…That magic show is filling my brain. I can’t think of anything else, but I only caught like the last ten minutes of it, so I don’t have anything else to talk about but magic. Except, I bet that David Blaine gets laid like crazy. He’s creepy and dark and he’s got the confidence to levitate and just approach people on the street and he amazes them with his gloomy torturedness…he’s getting laid like a first time drug offender in a maximum security prison. I know it. HeyooooO!
Okay, enjoy your stupid Thursday. I’m going to work.

today, I'm breaking my rule and writing about punk rock. soak it up, dlidos

Man, music is in the most fucked up state of disrepair these days. Yesterday I wrote about a pretty horrendous band that had, until now, drifted by under my radar. Without really getting into details (you can just scroll down and read “Let’s Get Freaky Now” if you want those) let’s just say that I was shaken to the very core of my being. It raised a lot of questions: When did I become completely unable to stomach what’s passing as cool these days? Is this real? And finally, and most pressingly “what the fuck, man? Really?”
I’ve figured a few things out during my night of soul searching and I’ve come to the following conclusions:
Brokencyde (the band in question, who play screamo influenced crunk music [sic]) one must presume, is either A) serious or B) Joking. People usually ask this question immediately upon hearing this band…But I’ve determined that it is irrelevant and here’s why:
If they are, in fact, A) serious, then they’re a dreadful sounding band and if they’re B) joking, they’re not funny. SO, regardless of their intended criteria, they’re blowing it. BUT, I didn’t really want to go on a second rant about some dumb group of dickweeds. I only bring these guys up because it seems to me that they’re pretty popular, right? I mean they have 178 thousand myspace friends…but they’ve slipped completely under my radar. Why? I know that people around me like, no, that’s wrong, LOVE to shit talk bands that they think of as crappy who get popular. AND, this band, being SOOOO crappy, and SOOOO popular, you’d think would have made someone pissed enough that they’d go off on one of their stupid rants in my earshot, right? I mean, I can’t wipe my ass without someone telling me how much of a travesty it is that Against Me! or the Gaslight Anthem is huge, and those dudes are my friends! People in the ‘punk rock internet’ (don’t laugh too hard, asshole, you’re on it RIGHT now, so sit down with the rest of us and accept your lameness) sit around and bitch and moan and complain about cool bands getting popular all day long and just let this kind of bullshit slide by like it’s totally fine.
I’d like to posit that this has a great deal to do with what’s wrong in the world in general.
I remember when From First To Last (a terrible, worthless band) was blowing up rather quickly, all the punk rockers could talk about was how crappy they thought the newest Alkaline Trio record was. I know that disappointment registers pretty hard when you love something, but there’s NO WAY IN HELL that anyone is gonna tell me that Crimson is a bigger travesty than the meteoric rise of some craphole zombie emo boy band. (Crimson, by the way is probably my favorite record by the trio, just sayin). Yet that’s where all the vitriol goes.
Now, people are getting so hot and bothered about the Gaslight Anthem like they did last year about Against Me and they’re absolutely furious…DUDE, THERE ARE WAAAAAAY worse things out there. There are way worse things playing the SAME clubs the SAME festivals you go to, poaching the SAME subculture and making it WAY more unbearable than some band that you used to like but then decided not to like based on some unquantifiable abstraction.
Look, I’m not suggesting that you have to like Against Me! or Gaslight Anthem, but is it really worth getting worked up about? I mean, it’s GREAT to hear that kind of shit on the radio, and see them sell out clubs, isn’t it? Isn’t it cool to see a band that’s at least SORT OF doing what you like do well? Isn’t that cool?
No.
And here’s why—Because all of us got into punk rock, underground music for the thrill of the hunt, and once someone lame knows about what you’re into, it becomes cheap…You’ve no longer uncovered a great unknown band that you can deride some dildo for not being cool enough to have found for himself, you’re now sharing a love for something with said dildo. And that’s downright unpalatable. It makes YOU lame by association. SO, you decide to hate the band. OR, and this is a big OR, let’s say you’re bigger than that (not likely), and you only want success for your favorite bands…you just think Gaslight Anthem sucks…Here’s what your problem is: Suddenly, the people, the idiots, have come so close, so PAINFULLY close to embracing something that’s actually cool, and then they stop RIGHT on the precipice. DUDE! You would like to scream, IF YOU LIKE AGAINST ME! YOU’LL LOVE HOT WATER MUSIC!!!!! But no one cares. They want against me. And it burns you up inside, again. They’ve traveled to your cove of bands and then stopped at the one that’s being offered that moment. Nope, the success of the Gaslight Anthem is NOT gonna trickle down to the Cobra Skulls or the Menzingers or Dead to Me. SO, what is there to do but hate on the whole stupid, shitty process…It’s when people come close to doing something right and don’t go all the way that it’s the most annoying, right? That’s your problem? Look, man. I’d rather see a billion Against Me’s and Gaslight Anthems and Hold Steadys and whatever band is this year’s hold steady/against me/gaslight anthem (because there will be one this year, just you wait) get on the radio and get huge than one more fucking Brokencyde, and if you disagree, well my friend, maybe it’s YOU who’s actually broke inside.
Woooh! Going out with a clever, yet gravitas weighted pun is a pretty important and powerful move in oratory (this is, of course written to be delivered to a crowd of self important, preening assholes), but I’d rather go with the post modern analysis of what just happened and then, before the self congratulatory, didactic final paragraph ends, mid- sentence I’ll just

let's get freaky now

Okay, it’s the real st. Patricks day and I’m gonna drink my baby’s volume in green beer. It’s really gonna be swell. Actually, the other night I was bartending and these two girls walked in and asked if I was serving green beer and when I said ‘nope’ they left. WHO THE FUCK goes to a bar EXCLUSIVELY for miller lite with food coloring in it? Whatever. It’s not my job to talk people out of their stupid proclivities. Speaking of, a few of my friends were in town last night and I got to bust a rather nice hang, complete with being at a bar that I wasn’t working at, having a few beers, a late night burrito, all the simple pleasures that parenthood has robbed me of, and it was awesome. They did, however, in the course of the evening convince me that I HAD to go youtube this one band that they knew of. AND, I’m a little torn, because I really don’t want to advertise this band (because they stink) BUT it’s just the most horrifying dogshit I’ve ever seen and I want you all to know what I’m talking about.
Ah, fuck it. It’s not like this blog is O magazine or something…The band is called brokencyde (so clever, yeah?) and they’re like a crunk screamo thing…I’d think they have to be british, just because the whole thing is so fucking goofy but apparently they’re from New Mexico, which means they’re just a bunch of isolated weirdos who don’t have people around to tell them not to do stupid things. And stupid things is what they do, man. Fuuuuuck. It’s a dude singing through a vocoder and some other dude making these accent “I’m taking a brutal dump” sounds. I mean, at the risk of sounding like a grandpa, is this what the kids are listening to these days? Fucking seriously? I mean, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, music is none of my business, but THIS is the golden egg that I missed out on? You guys probably all know this band already, huh? I know, I’m out of touch. Anyway, if you don’t, look em up. I dare you. It’s seriously the audio equivalent of eating six bowls of clam chowder and six bowls of ice cream and then throwing it up and serving the clam/sugar barf together. It’s two ideas that don’t match very well mixed up and covered in stomach bile. Okay, that’s enough of that.
I just got a phone call where a dude called to ask me about our tour manager. As in, our TM is applying for a job and I’m the previous employer and they called to ask about his work ethic and shit. I mean, I’ve never felt like such a grown up as I do, typing this while my baby naps, taking calls about my employees and being completely flummoxed by the music that kids seem to be listening to.
You know what? I got work to do, so I’m done. Happy getting drunk, oh, and here’s an irish joke for you, just in case you’ve never heard it before:

What’s irish and hangs around outside?

Patio furniture.


AHHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHAHAH!
bye

irish you weren't such a fucking asshole

I was gonna write this whole thing about how dumb St. Patricks day is. I mean, I’ve got an Irish name…although, and this is the real germ of the issue that I have with St. Paddys…I’m not actually Irish. I’m American. I’ve never hung out in Ireland and although the ancestors I have who were Irish actually came to America and became cops (I think…someone needs to look that up. I need an intern) which is pretty Irish, for sure, I don’t actually know those people. I think they were dead by the time I was born.
I’ve actually told an irish guy in a bar that I was Irish, because my name was Brendan Kelly, and this was in Amsterdam, so I thought we’d have a nice little bond over being a couple of micks far from home. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was wrong. I may have an irish name, but that’s it. He was pissed, and looking back, sure, he was kind of an asshole, but he had a good point. I can’t just walk around claiming to be from a place I’ve never even been. That ain’t right. I mean, what are the irish traditions in my family? Drinking whiskey? I don’t even think I’ve ever seen anyone in the ‘irish’ line of my family drink whiskey, and they sure as shit never corned any beef, granted me any wishes or cried over blighted potatoes.
Really, let’s be honest, St. Patricks day is a day where everyone acts like a bigger asshole than they already are, and if you’re already a super big asshole, you’ll probably find it easy to justify your shitty behavior by saying something like “I’m Irish, man. This is my fucking DAY!” But guess what? YOU AREN’T. IT’S NOT. And besides, you already get too drunk and act like a dick every weekend, what’s the big deal?
Anyway, good thing I decided not to write about this, right?
Yeah. Instead I’ll write about this great moment in my life when I went to London with my friend Pete. We were there to see the original reformation of the pogues with Shane, and the first night, we went to this bar called the Underworld. At the door, people recognized me as the guy from the Lawrence Arms. Now, this was crazy for a few reasons- 1) this was a while ago, and I wasn’t really getting recognized very often anywhere, as my band was very new and completely unknown 2) I was in fucking LONDON, which is a far cry from getting recognized, you know, at my local dive bar and 3) I STILL don’t really get recognized for being in a band, even after all this tremendous, rocketship full of success that I’ve had…It was completely strange, but make no mistake, I was feeling pretty cool.
We walked into the bar and got busy drinking beers and doing shots and talking to these guys who were fans of my band and also Pete’s band (which was, lets be fair, an extremely popular band…so there’s that) and I started laughing at this guy who was down the bar. He looked just like Danzig. He was short and burly with long hair and big stupid porkchop sideburns and he was wearing all leather. I was smoking cigarettes, drinking shots, talking to Londoners about this danzig impersonator at the end of the bar, probably being loud enough that he could hear me. In short, I was really thinking that I was killing it. In my mind, I was absolutely the COOLEST. Fuck man, who knew I was so popular all the way in London, right? Hey, check it out dudes, Danzig is coming this way!
I stifled a laugh as the danzig guy came up and tapped me on the shoulder. Real dismissively, I turned around and through some really snide giggles said something like, “uh, yeah, what can I do for you, Danzig?”
And he said (I am not making this up…I swear. I’m actually laughing out loud as I write this, because it’s the funniest thing that’s maybe ever happened to me):

“You’re on fire.”

And I said “huh?”
And he repeated himself.

“You’re on fire.”

And he pointed at my leg, and guess what? He was absolutely right. I was on fire. My jeans were burning. Up in flames. Well…suddenly I got a little panicked, as sometimes happens when a danzig lookalike points out that you’ve set your highly greasy and flammable jeans on fire with your wildly gesticulating smoking hand in front of a bunch of strangers, and I kind of tried to pat the fire out, although, honestly, I was super flustered, holding a glass, and I really didn’t have the best handle on how to properly put out fires with my hand, and I wasn’t having much success, and that’s when Danzig grabbed my pint glass out of my hand, tossed my beer onto my burning pants, extinguishing the fire, and walked away, shaking his head.
Pretty awesome, Danzig. Pretty awesome.
And there I was. In crusty, stinky, burnt jeans with a huge part of the leg missing, doused in beer, far from home. Killing it. Absolutely the coolest.
So, as of then, and as it stands, the score is Danzig 1, me 0.
You’d think I’d learn my lesson, but nope. I’m still an asshole,
Interestingly, those pants caught fire AGAIN on that trip. Pretty wild, for sure man. Ah, London. That’s where I’m totally ON FIRE! Heh.

chocolate mousse!

Good morning viet nam!
The baby only slept until seven this morning, officially putting us back in the stink, as they say. I guess it’s true what they say about parenthood: It finds you, young, vital and good looking, robs you of sleep, forces you to acquiesce to the demands of the most selfish human beings in the world for two decades and then spits you out on the other side, old, out of touch, lame, bitter and ultimately ready for death still wearing the clothes that were in style oh so long ago, back when you still had dreams. Isn’t that what they say? Well, they should. This baby I have is getting at least three teeth right now, and as much as a few sharp pieces of bone ripping through soft, virgin gums sounds gnarly to me, it seems like he’s taking it in stride, so that’s good.
Hey, guess what? It’s Friday, which means the weekend is here, which means a stupid day of dealing with dipshits at my work.
Did you guys forget about my show? It’s on April 10 in St. Augustine, Fla and it only features three of the greatest musicians (with the handsomest dicks) from three of the greatest bands that all seemed like they were going places a few years ago. That’s right, it’s me, Dan Andriano and Tom “show me your schlongs, boys!” Gabel. Can you handle the awesome? Prove it, bitches. See you there. I’m trying to use this as an opportunity to write some new songs and try them out down there, sort of like when you hear some real out of touch band (aerosmith comes to mind) talk about how they just want to get out of their comfort zone for a sec and check out these new songs in a ‘raw, unscripted way’ or something…sheesh, I don’t know. The benefit of not becoming successful is that I’ve stayed IN touch with the people, by which, of course I mean filthy unwashed plebians who want nothing more than to take pictures and drink themselves into oblivion and sway to the pablum like fools before going home to their wretched lots in life, sweatily masturbating themselves into that dreamless sleep of the damned…right? Oh, maybe I did lose touch somewhere along the way. Who knew? Whatever, point being, I’m trying to write some jams, and hopefully, if they’re good enough, I’ll play a few in FLA. There is one song that’s already written, (and no, not that one on youtube) that translates marvelously to the acoustic guitar, that my band (the Lawrence Arms) has practiced already, that I will definitely be playing. Okay, enough horseshit. Here’s some advice for our armed servicewomen and men:


Q:

First, the usual background bullshit: I'm 26, a Computer Science
and Mathematics major, and in the Army Natty Guard. I joined the Guard
back in 2000, when Bin Laden was just some weirdo we didn't really
like, probably because of his poor hygiene, and the worst thing that
was going to happen to me was a vacation to Kosovo or Bosnia (a.k.a.
EUROTRIP!). And of course, I joined to pay for college. So, that said
and done, I went to college in 2002 and did that thing for a while. In
2003, I DID get called to go to Kosovo. Ok, no big deal. It was
boring, but I got some good experiences out of it. Back to school for
a few years, then in 2006, I was off to Iraq (calm down hippies, the
only thing I killed there was time, and I don't have PTSD). Then back
to school, and now to the present. When I'm not overseas or in class,
I'm working as a computer programmer. Fun stuff. On to the point:

WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? When I was younger, I had grand
dreams of living a lowly punk rock lifestyle as a traveling musician.
I would still love to do that. But the older I get, the more and more
I feel trapped. On the one hand, having a reliable career is important
to me, mostly as a means to live. On the other, is it _really_
important? I know I can at least say I've seen some pretty amazing
things in my travels with the Army, but that's about all I've got. So,
as graduation nears, I can't help but feel this impending doom of
being that yuppie in business casual who rolls up his sleeves at happy
hour to reveal tattoos that serve as reminders to a life once lusted
for, now lost. That's fucking sad, if you ask me. Is there a balance?
And if so, how do I find it?

Oh yeah, almost forgot: I've been talking to this chick and I'm going
to see her next week. Should I bang her?

A:
Okay, first things first…I guess I don’t know what the line “when I’m not overseas or in class” means. Are you still shipping out for brief stints in the army? Do they even do that? Okay, okay okay, I’m realizing that doesn’t really matter. Look, you’re twenty six and you’re in the army. You’ve seen a little bit of the world, you long for a grittier existence and you’re feeling the twin prisons of adulthood and current career pressing down on you and you want to explode? Is that the gist? Great. Well, here’s the thing man, you’re a capable programmer right? AND you were/are in the army? I’d say you sound like one of the more employable people on this planet. AND, you’re young…or at least young enough that you’ve got some years before shit needs to start getting serious (hell, in Maxim magazine they had a guide to lifestyle based on age, and you’re technically allowed to drink every day, do coke and never go to the doctor…that’s quite a prescription). SO, here’s what I’d say:
What are you doing with your life? Good luck figuring that question out. That’s one of those big ones man. Like, what happens when we die? What’s it like to bang Oprah? Is there other life in the Universe? Chances are, once you find out the answer, it’s too late to tell anyone, or even really enjoy the fact that you know…SOOOOOO, get out there and live man. If I was you, I wouldn’t waste my time trying to put together a band and get it going and start touring and use that as a way to see the world/live the dream…but I’ll concede that I might feel that way because that’s something that I’ve done for more than half my life, and as such, some of the finer points of why that’s important may be lost on me, so let me start over. IF you want to play music and that’s the main thing, realize that it’s going to take a LOT of time before you’re doing anything very interesting, and that’s in a scenario where you find like minded people who can play, you’ve all got chemistry both in the van and on the stage and you write good songs and people give a shit. I mean, if I had to start a new band and go on tour right now, from scratch, even with all the connections I have, EVEN if I could drop everything to do it, it would probably be bare minimum a year before I could even imagine having my (our) shit together enough to do a crappy tour of neighboring states…and that’s with NO competing obligations. By the time you’re seeing Europe with a band, or even California, you’ll have to have gotten completely lucky about nine times and you’ll have to have recorded, put it out there and you know, gotten a van, made some connections…I guess the point is, it sounds exhausting to me, but again, what do I know (that’s not meant to be snide, it’s a ‘forest for the trees’ type of sentiment, just by the way)? It’s definitely a great thing to do, but the parameters, based on the time you have, I’d say are maybe a little narrow. Is seeing your quarter of the country in a van enough of a goal? Only you can say, but you shouldn’t aim for much more, because it’s a lot of x factors, especially if you’re new to the biz. I mean, when we started, our goal was to play a show in Chicago…You know what I mean? I’m not saying you can’t have big dreams, only that you have to keep your dreams manageable so you’re not constantly disappointed, because dude, there’s a reason that musicians are bitter, and it all, ALL comes from unrealistic expectations.
If you have some money, I’d say travel. Do it on the cheap, do it alone and see as much of the world as you can in the next few years. Meet everyone, take every stupid opportunity that comes up, indulge in every dumb idea, follow every crazy custom, hit up all the best spots and all the remote spots. Sleep in hostels or camp out and get as much of an idea of where you live (earth) as you can, and then, if some crazy shit (like a greek girl you want to marry or a crazy software company in Thailand that you want to work at) hasn’t presented itself to you, come back to your hometown (or somewhere else that you’ve decided seems like a great place to live) and hand out your resume that says “computer programmer- US Army—Also, I’ve been EVERYWHERE” and get another job. It should be easy. Those are pretty unfuckwithable credentials.
Believe me, man, I’ve been to Europe so many times it’s ridiculous, but I’ve never been able to immerse myself in anything. Do I know about Vienna? Yeah, as much as a few days of walking aimlessly around and hanging out with drunk punk rock kids can teach me, but not as much as if I’d just gone there for a week…I dunno, man. Only you can really answer this one, but the way I see it, you can either see Omaha as a guy in a band, or you can see the world as a guy. OR, you can prove me wrong and do both. For fucks sake, I’m sick of everyone telling their kids they can do anything. That leads to complacent kids who want nothing and feel entitled to everything. SO, in the spirit of the old days, “You’ll never amount to anything! Just settle down and be a straight shooter!” there you go, if that doesn’t motivate you to fucking live, what will?
Bye assholes,.

you'd better chow down or it's gonna get cold...

Good morning. We’ve worked this miracle where we got everyone (except the dumb hicks in Indiana [who are worried that their god will punish them for messing with the ‘natural order of things’] and the meth heads in Arizona [who just can’t be bothered to give a fuck either way]) to turn their clocks forward an hour. It’s the most incredible thing, because now, thanks to all of you out there, my baby, our baby sleeps until 830!!!! That means I get to sleep in until 830. It’s unbelievable. This is like getting laid for the first time only better because it lasts way longer. I used to think, back in the old days, that waking up at 830 was a real go getter thing to do. Now, it seems like the height of indulgence and laziness, and I couldn’t be happier. Fuck off man! I’m sleeping the fuck IN! As this development is destined to affect how I conduct my mornings, one thing is becoming painfully clear…I’m not really gonna have the fifteen minutes I need to do this here dumb opinion dissemination exercise on the days that I work, because I have to take the baby to his baby prison and you know, get to work, which means I have to put on pants and shit like that. Oh usually when I write this, I’m buck naked. I know, ladies, gay men, straight men who just like to think in pictures (sure)…it’s one of the most erotic images your brains can muster…but it only happens on those days that I don’t have to work. On the days I work, I usually slip on my nested cock ring/leather leash thing and then wear a soup strainer on my head. I don’t know why, but it helps me focus on a day of asking people if they want cheese on that, or another diet coke.
Can we break from talking about my erotic blogwear just for a moment to point out that if you are a man and you’re ordering diet coke, I am, make no mistake, laughing at you with great prejudice. Here’s the thing, either you’re fat, or you’re so snivelingly pathetic, and either way, that diet coke isn’t helping you at all. Okay, fat guy: Here’s an idea- Walk around the block a few times. I mean, lets not fool ourselves into thinking that drinking a diet coke is providing you with any more health rewards, as compared to regular coke, than the most minimal bit of exercise you can do…So just do that, and have the real coke. OR, quit drinking soda all together. It’s SO fucking bad for you, and it’s gross. The only thing grosser than soda is diet soda. You’re already drinking the grossest thing on the earth. It should be easy to take that last step and just drink something else, right? Have a fucking iced tea, or some water or fuck, man, a beer is better for you than a soda is…whatever. Just saying. OR maybe you just embrace being kind of a fat dude (nothing wrong with it, after all) and drink the fucking real soda and just let shit roar a little bit. Confidence is what will get you laid. Not six pack abs, and let’s be honest, diet soda isn’t helping you achieve either one of those things anyway.
Now, the much more horrendous offender is the slim guy drinking diet coke. The fat dude at least has a reason. Society shames him for his weight and he just feels like he has to look like he’s putting forth a little effort because he feels like motherfuckers like you and me are judging him every time he consumes anything. You? What’s your excuse? You had BETTER be the son of the dude who invented diet coke. That’s the ONLY excuse that flies, skinny guy drinking diet coke. THE ONLY ONE. Okay, maybe if you’re diabetic or something…I don’t exactly know how that works, but look…your choices are the same as fat dude’s choices, but let’s talk man to man for a sec, kay? That stuff tastes like dogpiss. I know it does. It’s revolting. You’re drinking it why? You just couldn’t possibly have the full flavored coke? Your wife would kill you? It makes you jumpy? It’s just too much? You didn’t get skinny by cutting corners?
News flash asshole! DIET COKE IS CUTTING CORNERS! YOU SOUND AND LOOK PATHETIC WITH YOUR STUPID LADY DRINK. There is no excuse that makes it okay (aside from, like I said before, the diet coke legacy thing and possibly the diabetes thing pending a little research), just fucking drink the regular shit or switch to dignity and order a whiskey. Jeez.
Okay, what was I saying before that? Oh right, how I’m wearing next to nothing. WELL, actually, long story short, I’m writing this at night this time, so I don’t have to figure out how to rearrange all my time, because, as you may recall, tomorrow morning I’ll be sleeping in. SO, I know the question, what am I wearing, you know, since it’s night?
Well, I’ve got a wine cork in my ass and my dick stuffed into a diet coke can. It’s pretty masculine, in a Bowie-esque expectation destroying kind of way. Yeah.
Oh yeah. I’m playing a show. I’m gonna talk about this a lot because I’d love you all to go check out what it is that I do. Did you know I’m in a band? No, really. I’m a musician. However, this show isn’t going to feature my band. It’s gonna be just me. Just me? Well, not JUST me. It’s gonna be just me, followed by just dan (he’s also in a band called the Alkaline Trio) and just dan will be followed by just tom, who is in a band called Against Me! The show is taking place at café 11 in St. Augustine, Fla. On April tenth. Easter weekend bitches. Come get me jesus, you bastard. I heard your parents weren’t even married…Yeah, that’s your god I’m talking about, losers. Anyway, yeah, it’s gonna be great. What will my setlist comprise? Who knows? I think there will definitely be at least one new (and never before performed) Lawrence Arms song and Dan and I briefly discussed getting together to do a song or two…hmmm. What could that mean? Also, I’m going to describe toms balls in detail, and I’m going to draw his entire junk drawer from memory on a big sheet of butcher paper a la dimitri martin. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be the single greatest show on earth. Probably. Uh…you should go. Who cares if it’s far away? I’m going, you fucking baby. Ladies, uh, showing your tits won’t get you in free, but it will sure brighten the general mood, so consider it. Dudes, same goes for your sacks.
Xoxoxo

PS…He only slept until 730. Sigh. The dream is dead.

Blue

Hey hey dildroids, it’s Wednesday. I’m farting and trying to crank out this drivel while my baby pretends to sleep in the next room. Now who’s utilizing the valsalva maneuver, eh? Anyway, what’s happening in the world? The whole world seems to be running out of money, which I guess I don’t understand. I mean, as much as a dummy like myself can, I understand the idea of entropy when applied to energy. It makes sense to me. It all just turns to heat, can’t be reharnessed and drifts through the universe like the energy version of old TV guides and fish skeletons and shit…That’s understandable. BUT, there’s all this new energy being created, by stars, nuclear plants, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and so energy entropy, while scary in theory, not so much really in practice…energy in the universe, it’s an open system (or a large enough closed system that we’ve got a lot more immediate things to worry about, like money for example), but money…How the fuck is money obeying the laws of entropy? Is there a place in china that’s just shooting money into space?
Now, like energy, I know people make more money all the time, so where is the money going (and I’m fully aware of what flooding the market with currency does to inflation and all that, smartguy, so save it)?
Japan is in recession, Europe, recession, North America, in recession, Africa…hmmm…I’m guessing they’re not all suddenly wiping their asses with gold leaf in Africa…Is it population? Is it just that all the money in the world is getting spread around so much that places that need big concentrations of money to thrive are kind of getting fucked? I just don’t get it? How can EVERYONE get fucked at the same time? People blame china and India, but dude, if Slumdog Millionaire and Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern have teamed up to teach me anything, it’s that they’re not exactly showering in hundred dollar bills in those places either.

Whatever. I’m no economist, believe it or not. I have very little to offer in the way of fiduciary advice. Fuck me, man. I can’t even remember what I was going to write about today? How about the Oscars? That’s a good topic. As timeless as it is timely. And let’s talk about a group of OH SO deserving people who are living comfortably above this economic downturn. Man, do I love the Oscars. Nothing makes me happier than a bunch of vacuous assholes sitting around sucking each other off for their mediocre performances in their dumb, nearly pointless million plus salary jobs. Thanks for telling me how awesome Kate Winslet is, Kate Blanchett. That’s what dreams are made of.
In my mind, they both smell so much like rotten farts and crusty panties…but hey, that’s just me.
Man, in the last week or two I’ve heard THIS sentence a few too many times: “Mickey Rourke was robbed.“ Robbed? That guy’s an asshole with a demented face and some sort of Christ delusion. There are like a million guys like that in the world, and you know who’s sitting right near the top of the pile of them, as far as luck/happiness goes? Yup. Puff Daddy. But also Mickey Rourke.
I have no sympathy for people who don’t win awards for their dumb hobbies turned million dollar jobs. But hey, I’m an asshole with a demented face and a Christ delusion, too, so what do I know? Maybe I’m bitter. Maybe.
Here’s what I know: I know that I have a very limited time each day to write this dumb blog. I cannot, as per my extremely tight schedule, spend more than fifteen minutes on this. In the past ten minutes, I’ve seriously been interrupted six times as I’ve tried to formulate a cogent thought here. Tried to say something snappy and urbane that will make you all out there, sitting on various shitters, iphones in hand, opening small browsers next to your spreadsheets as so not to be caught by your boss, idly checking this out while you wait for your balls to replenish on your porn whack a thon Wednesday, crack a little smile. That’s all I’m trying to do, man. Entertain. Do I need the crying baby, the dozen phone calls, the other phone ringing, the uncontrollable urge to do a billion things at once (I need to pick up the house before the cleaning lady comes! I need to write some music while the baby is asleep. I NEED TO CATCH UP ON PHONE CALLS! THERE ARE A BILLION EMAILS TO SEND! I NEED TO RESTRUCTURE THAT SCENE IN MY MOVIE WHERE THE DUDE CRAMS THE OXYCONTIN UP HIS ASS!!!!) distracting me? fuuuuck.
By the way, that last distraction didn’t really cross my mind. That scene is pretty much perfect as is. I want a beer. I want lunch and a beer. It sounds SO good, but, I’ve got shit to do, and as such, a beer is, in this instance, probably counter productive. Some would argue that a beer at ten thirty is ALWAYS counter productive, but I’d argue that they’re a lame pussy/grandma that lives a life of absolutes in a nebulous universe. Today though, all I want is a ham sandwich and a beer. And a blowjob. Some money. A butler. Nice car. The ability to fly. Rap career. That’s all. Oh, did I say blowjob? Yeah? Okay.
Enjoy your day people, it’s the oldest and closest to death you’ve ever been!
Ta ta!

today, I have no title...

Well howdy everyone! Look, there was a great outpouring of support…support? Is that right? Maybe that’s not quite right, but lots of people came and left comments telling me pretty much one of two things, 1. They too are old and dig where I’m coming from and 2. oh jesus! You can’t quit making music! Your band is to me what Fifteen was to you! (for a clarification of what either of these things are in reference to, check out the previous post, entitled “someone came and punched her in the face” which was named after my favorite lyric on Buzz [which is a record…that’s also explained in the previous post). Okay, firstly, thank you so much. That’s why we started doing this band in the first place. That’s the whole thing I was getting at yesterday. I wasn’t trying to cheapen what I think we’ve done, and I think I said that overtly, but I know how tone sometimes sweeps over individual sentences and all that. I also realize, and I hope we all do, that there’s very little more pathetic than reciting a big, lame woe is me story to a captive audience of like minded sympathizers and that was, please believe me, NEVER my intent. I was really just thinking about that time when I found the fifteen record, and how it changed my perspective, and that it would probably be a somewhat interesting read. This is in no small part due to the entry “brush yo toof” in which I recalled, by request, my wisdom teeth getting removed. Wow, this is what it feels like when typing is actually beating off, eh? Okay, I’m gonna get to the point.
The point is, I’m not quitting anything, nor am I regretful for (of? Who knows?) anything. Fuck man, I rode in a plane to a show in Perth Australia and got fucking PAID for it. I have no regrets at all, and I’d rather be from the Lawrence Arms than from any other band on earth, from AFI to Fifteen (and even bands that aren’t from Berkeley, for that matter). Shit’s just different now, and it can’t go back. It’s like eggs. You can’t unscramble eggs, man. At this point in my life, for the first time, I can’t just up and say ‘fuck it’ and start a new band with a clean slate, because I’ve been around for so long that people have preconceptions (NOT, by the way, that I have any reason to need to start a new band you fucking alarmists)…I can’t just say ‘fuck it’ and take off from Chicago and go live in Peru for a while if I want to. I have a kid. It’s strange, and I think this is the real root of all this, but after a life of complete freedom and transience, I’ve found myself somewhat locked into my spot anyway. And I feel like it happens to everyone, and those who it doesn’t happen to (or hasn’t happened to yet) are just delaying it to a point where it will be even more terrifying and shocking than it is for me right now. NOT that any of this is a bad thing, it’s just different. It’s super fucking different. I mean, five years ago I probably woke up on someone’s floor, cracked a beer and passed out in the van on my way to some crappy basement/other floor…And I wasn’t any happier or sadder than I am now, typing this while my baby peeks through his baby jail at me while he performs the valsalva maneuver (if you don’t know what that is, well, you SHOULDN’T know what it is off the top of your head, for sure…but if you don’t know, you should look it up. Who knew that kind of thing had such a great name? Not coincidentally, I’m starting a heavy, HEAVY grind band and we’re calling ourselves the valsalva maneuver, so no stealing it, parasites!)

Jesus. Okay, enough of that shit. I hope I’ve clarified some things. In short 1)no one is quitting anything, but… 2) shit is very different now. Yeah. On to fun stuff:
SO someone asked about serial killers before and I’d really like to get into that. I have a lot to say on the subject. Firstly, killing people is gross. Blood, guts, brains, removed ballsacks and brainstems (good name for a band too! “Hi, we’re Ballsacks and Brainstems from Cleveland. Thanks for coming out.”) they’re all disgusting to me. I get fucking ill when I cut my finger. I really can’t stand the sound of someone getting punched…not the crack of a movie punch, but that dull meaty thud of a real punch. I hate it. I’m not into violence in any form. I find it to be gross and disturbing. That said, the only good serial killers are the ones who are super creative/non squeamish/into the sickest, most perverted sex. That’s just a given. Dahmer was great. Saving dicks in the fridge, injecting hydrochloric acid into dudes heads to make them “sex zombies”…OH! and how about that time that the kid escaped, naked and bleeding, and Dahmer talked the cops into releasing him back into his (dahmer’s) custody. THAT’S fucking calm under pressure. He should be a sniper, man. Cool as a cucumber…or as a penis left in the fridge, depending on where you’re from. Gein was pretty rad, but he didn’t really do much killing. He was really just a farm boy handyman who liked skinning corpses. That’s okay, but it’s a little folksy for my taste. I think for a serial killer to really be, you know, awesome, for lack of a better word, he needs to have that je nes sais quois, you know? The whole package (which Dahmer had several of…HEYOOOO!)
Okay, best serial killer? It’s a tie. Dead heat tie between Gacy and The nightstalker himself, good old dick Ramirez. Gacy was great because he was inhuman in his monsterness and he went all the way for it, no fucking holds barred. He was crazy, everything he did was crazy and disturbing and there is no way to make someone more perverse. Buffalo Bill and Hanibal Lecter combined don’t have SHIT on John Wayne Gacy, man. Quick rundown: John Wayne Gacy was a clown for kids parties. He was also a painter (such a great and somehow disturbing detail). What he did was, dressed as a clown, he’d grab kids, mostly boys, I think, kill them, fuck the corpses and then bury them in satanic patterns in his crawlspace. Do you know how many bodies it’s gotta take to make a PATTERN? Much less patterns? Dude was a busy clown/landscaper/painter/corpse fucker/murderer. I will say again, I find this to be horrific and completely unacceptable and while I’m not a death penalty guy, I don’t see any reason why someone like Gacy should be allowed to live at all (actually, there’s a good topic…people who I think, based on what they’ve done, actually deserve death…a segment I’ll call “if I were the king”…hmmm. I’ll workshop it), but as far as the craft of making oneself into a hideous, horrifying embodiment of evil, dude, this guy NAILED it. Kudos.
Richard Ramirez was called the nightstalker because he snuck into people’s homes and he killed kids (kids…so EVIL. That’s a good touch, you know? Killing drunks is no big deal. Killing hookers is just something that happens now and then, like twisting an ankle, but KIDS, man? That’s just cold). [ED. NOTE: It's come to my attention that Ramirez was killing old people (not kids) and raping them too...which is great, too. There was all this lore going around LA while ramirez was doing his thing about locking your windows so the nightstalker wouldn't get in and kill your kids, and that's where my misinformation stemmed from. That is all] The thing that was awesome about Ramirez was that he just didn’t give a fuck. He got caught on a city bus, just cruising around the day that his picture was on the front page of all the papers. When he stood trial, he showed up with a pentagram etched onto his palm and showed it off, he laughed during the descriptions of his crimes and he promised that he’d get out and kill more, he invoked satan several times during the trial and then, and THEN!!!!!!! He got married in jail to a woman who’s obviously got a hell of an eye for fixer uppers. Hey, the nightstalker was good looking. He paved the way for the mars volta, man. He fucking invented that “I’m Mexican and I’m rocking a giant fro and some seventies clothes and I’m doing some pretty out there shit, man” thing that those dudes are totally co opting these days. For all these reasons and more, Richard Ramirez is also my favorite serial killer. He just went for it. They both did.
It’s confidence, people. Half stepping gets you nowhere. Take a lesson from Gacy and Ramirez and get out there and go balls to the wall, kay? Kay. Bye.

Someone came and punched her in the face

Hey welcome to another week. As time whips past our chapped noses at the dizzying speed of one second per second and all of us just kind of piss in the wind while we try to find our bearings, make no mistake, when this bullshit finally slows down enough for any of us to really be able to notice what’s going on, it’s only gonna be to poetically illustrate how much we’ve blown it. “Holy shit!” you’ll say! “I’m forty two, my tits are saggy and I never saw paris when I was still fuckable. What the fuck happened?”
“Motherfucker! I’m fat and bald now, and I never made it out to LA to give that whole acting thing a go.” Or “Jesus fucking Christ! I’m gay and I’ve been closing my eyes and imagining Ashton Kutcher carrying a kielbasa in his mouth while I bang women (eew) for the last fifteen years! Do you know how many dicks I could have packed into myself in fifteen years? Christ.”
Christ, indeed. This is sort of inevitable. Well rounded lives take a lot of work, and if you’re anything like most of us, you’ve probably got one aspect that you really kick ass at (you’ve got a nice job and some money OR you’re truly happy in your hobbies, OR you’ve got a spiritual connection to animals or some shit, or whatever) some other aspects that just sort of come along for the ride effortlessly (you’re fastidious, or you have a circle of friends, or you just happen to be good looking so you get laid a lot) and then you’ve probably got a passion for relaxing every now and then, and that’s where the other part of your life (you know the one) comes into play. It’s atrophied. Your relationship with your daughter is in the shitter, you’re unemployable beyond being a barista, you’re fat as shit and it’s unhealthy, you haven’t been laid since the Clinton administration, you feel like your life is a soulless exercise in doing work for someone else and there’s no time for your own pursuits, or, again, whatever.
Make no mistake, everyone’s life is like this, man. It’s hard. It’s like exercising. You can have some sweet traps, but maybe you neglect your glutes, bro. Most people don’t have the time or the discipline to spend six hours a day in the gym and as a result, their toned arms are somewhat undermined by their fat ass, but hey! Toned arms are still something, right? And such is life. So, there’s a problem area here and there. Whatever man, we’re human beings. The only people on this world who have it all figured out are the most reprehensible shits on the planet. It’s that uncertainty and festering stink of potential failure that keeps you interesting. Without that, you’re puff daddy, and you know what people get when they approach puff daddy at a party? A big long speech about how puff daddy has it all figured out. sweet.
When I got my wisdom teeth pulled (go back to the entry from a few days ago entitled ‘brush yo toof’ if you need a recap) I bought the album “Buzz” by the band Fifteen as a way to pass the time, since for the first few days I couldn’t really do shit but lay there. I had never heard them before and picked up the record based on a recommendation from my friend Rob Kellenberger. Without being dramatic, let me say that there have been exactly three times in my life that I’ve put on records and just absolutely been blown away to the point that everything I thought about art and music changed. The first one was No Control by Bad Religion, the second one was How to Clean Everything by Propaghandi and then, finally, Buzz by Fifteen.
Suddenly, even the punk rock that I had previously thought was cool seemed square and dorky in comparison. These dudes did not give a FUCK, man. They played through PRACTICE AMPS! They were filthy, they had terrible sounding records, they were sloppy, the dude couldn’t sing, and they didn’t give a shit at ALL because they were passionate and the songs were great. They didn’t play to sold out rooms of three thousand people like Bad Religion or NoFx, they were playing in fucking kitchens of Moose Lodges to twenty kids who were practically crying because what this totally batshit crazy guy was barking was exactly what they were feeling and trying to say. It was a HUGE moment for me, honestly. One that would eventually lead to me quitting the band I was in, which suddenly, I no longer thought was cool, starting another band, and then starting yet another band. I still think that record is pretty great, although I’m not a fan of Fifteen’s whole catalog but one of the big BIG revelations from that moment is still sitting here with me, fifteen years later.
That day, I decided I didn’t want to be in a big band, I wanted to be in an IMPORTANT band. A band that made kids cry and get the words tattooed on themselves, and if we played for three hundred kids a night, that was perfect and if we just skated by under the radar, we’d always be awesome and that would be the best.
Well, hey! Check it out! Got my wish. And you know what? I really, really really wish I would have aimed a little higher. Not that I have any regrets regarding my band, but I didn’t realize the harsh reality of Peter Panning around the world for ten years back when I was deciding exactly how I wanted my life to go. Now I’m 32 with a kid and I’m noticing that tattoos on fans and two hundred fifty kids in Buffalo is cool, is GREAT, but it doesn’t exactly make for a cost effective way for me to live. I mean, I make a little money and that’s amazing. Living off art is the greatest feeling in the world, but I can’t live like a teenager forever. That sounds nice, but when you actually SEE an old guy cruising around the bars like a twenty one year old, living with roommates in some shitty whitewashed apartment, he just looks disgusting and deluded. I have some friends who never had a moment like I did with my Fifteen record and they play music for a living and they’re huge and some of them are still great at it, and some of them are terrible at it now…None of that matters. They’re able to do it for now, but they won’t be able to do it forever. And when THEY’RE done, fuck…they’re gonna be forty, maybe. Nice. You know how fucking TERRIBLE that would have to be? “Oh, I used to play to two thousand kids a day and ride around on a tourbus, now I’m an unpaid intern here at Expedia. Oh, and I’m forty. Wanna do some shots?” NO, dude! NO one wants to do shots with the forty year old intern, no matter who he used to play bass for. It’s gnarly.
Okay, so, this is reflective of my earlier point about all our lives being uneven, right? You all get the connection? Good. I’m going to the gym. I gotta work on my dick muscles.

she was a momgoloid, different from you and me.

Dude, the octo mom? She’s amazing. Someone wanted my opinion on the octomom, and I’m so thankful you asked, Buddy, because I’ve been dreaming, praying, hoping for a forum where I could be a one way conduit of truth, judgment and righteousness to a captive audience regarding the octomom, but I couldn’t quite figure out how. NOW, days later, the world has turned and no one gives two fucks about the octo mom anymore. She’s as passé a piece of news as when the Everliegh club actually allowed that negro prizefighter upstairs (look it up….great story) and here I am, toilet paper hanging off my heel, running in at the last possible minute to throw my two cents into the ring of punditry, shaming, and internet holier than thousisms! Here I am motherfuckers! Let me at that fucking octomom!
Okay, she’s gross. Have you seen her before her surgery? Gross. Have you noticed that she has had a complete new face put on in hopes of looking more like Angelina Jolie? Gross x2. Did you perhaps glean that she had EIGHT FUCKING KIDS AT ONCE? EEEEW. I don’t know what to be all disgusted about first, her garbage-bag-in-the-wind of a birth canal, her disgusting stomach (the pregnancy pictures of her were so unnaturally twisted…it looked like she was standing in front of a scale model of the earth of the future, once overpopulation has completely wreaked havoc on our environment and our landscape becomes nothing but disgusting red veiny highways. Also, this metaphor continues to her uterus, which was, of course overpopulated…how clever.), her obsession with celebrity, her cluelessness or the way her fridge (and underpants) absolutely must smell. Awful. Just awful.
And the kids look like bats. Oh, sorry. God forbid I make fun of those kids. They’ll get used to it pretty quick, I think. AND finally, I love her smeagol impersonation that she does when the paparazzi are chasing her and she growls “I’m not a celebrity!”
Thank god that someone has finally realized their place in the world…Fuck, man. Yeah, all you did was spend over a million dollars you didn’t have to attempt to recreate the face and family life of the most famous woman in the world. But, it’s true, you’re not a celebrity. You’re a grotesque dunce with kids that are going to grow up and look VERY little like either Angelina or Brad, unforch for you.
Oh, and octomom’s sponging off the system. Yawn. So’s everyone. So’s united airlines and GM, and they’re taking a lot more than some stamps for sixteen people to eat grilled cheeses with, man. Whatever. I actually don’t care about the octomom. I think she should just give tours of her spacious vagina to get the money to raise her bats with…that’s what I think. Also, she’s been offered a porn contract…which is gross, for sure. What are they gonna fuck her with? An automatic door?

Okay, I searched through the advice and this was probably the best question. It’s Friday and it’s warm and I’m not really interested in expending any energy this morning, so here goes:

Q:

hey brendan, long time reader, first time advice seeker. So, a few months ago I met a girl about my age (25) and following a brief courtship (a few hours) we consumated our relationship. I've never really been into this girl, but over the course of the past few months I answer her phone calls when I'm drunk and we inevitably bump. This happens about once a week or so, the problem is that I'm a real dick for never answering calls or texts when I'm sober, and while normally I wouldn't mind being a dick, this girl is a single mother of a two year old and head over heels for me (although I've made it pretty clear there is no relationship on the horizon). I feel like (maybe?) I'm taking advantage of the fact that she may be a little insecure about being a 24 year old single mom (she shouldn't, she's incredibly hot), so do I shamelessly continue laying drunken pipe or am I truly a fuckin prick?

A:
Hmmm…All right, firstly, you do NOT need to answer the phone when you’re sober, and you do not need to stop banging her IF the part where you said made it clear that there’s no relationship on the horizon is true. If she knows that’s how you feel, and she’s continuing to want to bang you when you’re drunk and be ignored in the day, well, that’s her gig. She’s not a kid, she’s 24 with a kid. That makes her responsible for herself, among other things. Perhaps she thinks she’ll wear you down. Whatever. Maybe she will, maybe she wont. The fact is, your ‘prickish’ behavior, for better or for worse is what’s getting you laid. I promise you this chick has a friend who listens to all her sob stories (probably some about you) who is trying so desperately to fuck her and be all things to all women for her and raise her kid and all this, and you know what? She’s never gonna fuck that guy. She’s got a better chance of turning you into a different guy than that dude does of getting laid. It’s not pretty, but it’s true. Look, who am I to tell you that you need to treat this chick with kid gloves? She’s a grownup. She’s got a kid. If you’ve really been honest with her, then your relationship, however dysfunctional, is fine. Does it feel kind of shitty? Maybe. Is it more exciting or more shitty? I’ll tell you for sure that for her, at least now, it’s more exciting. Drunken fuck flings never last too long anyway unless they turn into relationships, so whatever. Have fun, be honest and that’s about all you can really do.
B

Oh, and on another topic I don’t feel I really owe this dude any explanation, but I figured since he just wouldn’t let it go, and it became a topic in itself in the comments, I’ll comment too. Regarding us saying we were leaving the fest so we (specifically chris…who is NOT me, by the way) couldn’t play some house party and then playing a wharehouse after we were supposed to be gone…What gives bro? WHAT. GIVES? Well, did you talk to anyone at the warehouse show? No? That’s odd…No one told you how our set was? Really? At the whole fest? You didn’t talk to ONE SINGLE PERSON who attended our warehouse show after chris told you we were gonna be gone? Hmmm…that’s because WE WERE GONE, ASSHOLE. We were never gonna play a warehouse show. I can’t be responsible for what a bunch of drunk assholes convey to each other in a ten thousand man game of wasted telephone. No show. We were gone. That’s why. However, I wish he had lied to you about it and we had played a great warehouse show, because at least then your irritating insistence would have been A) somewhat justified and B) properly dealt with. Ah courtesy…It’s gonna kill Chris one day.

uh...hmm...see, the title I want to use really gives too much away

So I’m all suited up to dole out advice and as I go into my inbox to see what sick perversions you turds are being confused by (even though, let’s be honest, aren’t almost all the advice querries about some dude who is in love with some chick that he can’t have because A) he just did something shitty or B) she is in a relationship) when I notice an email from a woman named monika who wants to link exchange with my blog. Her tone was extremely uh…robotic, and it almost, ALMOST seemed like it was some sort of form letter. Except for her blog name, which is…duh duh DUH!

….(wait for it)….

“Lesbian Dildos”

SO, I’m thinking, well, I MUST go check this out. Sounds awesome, right? Well…it’s strange, because the lesbian dildos blog ALSO seems like it was written by a robot. It’s like they took a fascinating subject (lesbian dildos) and had some dudes write an encyclopedia brittanica entry on it (that’s an old type of alphabetized book series that used to have tons of information in it for you kids out there), THEN had some line cook translate it into Bulgarian and then used a free robot translator to put it back into English. I mean seriously, did you think the topic of lesbian dildos could get as dull and incomprehensible as this:

Others find that lesbian sex toys are for 'maama ' who need to meet their women just are sexually deficient and require lesbian sex helps to assistance them out. I do not intend to wound your pride just what businesses the lesbian sex toys are a lot before. Because our company is in battle over the rightness of sexual pleasure, it is not surprising that lesbian sex toys are case to numerous myths and controversies. While lesbian sex toys are usually used for alone sex, many lesbian couples love using sex toys together, no matter regardless of their gender or sexual orientation.

I’m a big fan of the fact that many lesbian couples, regardless of their gender or orientation use lesbian dildos. That’s good to know. So when I use lesbian dildos with my friend Neil, we’re just a couple of male, straight gay acting lesbians exploring the way that lesbian dildos can assistance us out. Sweet, bro.
Dude, this is blowing my mind. It’s like this site was actually typed BY a dildo. Not a person who could easily be described as a dildo, but an actual, animated lesbian dildo.
To further my theory that this was written by a machine, THIS is an excerpt from the email I got from “Monika”:

You have an interesting blog.
I would be glad to collaborate with you.
So here is a question for you: Can we carry out a link trade,
I mean your http://badsandwichchronicles.blogspot.com/ and my blog: http://lesbiandildos.blogspot.com/
Please can you use anchor "Lesbian Dildos" or just paste this code " Lesbian Dildos"
I think it would be relevant for both of us.
It would be nice to receive the answer to my letter.
Best regards, Monika Preston.

Okay, so that’s the whole letter…sounds like a robot, right? Monika has to be a robot. Which is awesome, because I went to her blog, and she’s hot. If that’s how they’re making the fuckbots look these days, I’m down. DUDE! Maybe SHE’S the new breed of lesbian dildo! A GIGANTIC HOT LESBIAN FUCKBOT THAT CAN BE USED BY ANYONE, REGARDLESS OF GENDER OR PREFERENCE TO ASSISTANCE THEM OUT!!!!!

Nah. That’s crazy.

Do you think it’s some sort of lesbian dildo search engine and it’s stumbled across my blog because I’ve used enough naughty terms that it’s finally peaked the “robot porn sextoy blog language meter thingy?” I don’t know man. My mind is BLOWN.
Really, I wish monika’s blog was a blog about lesbian dildos, the people, not the toys. That really was my ultimate wish: that this site would be some sort of Sapphic whipping post where lesbians come to call out other lesbians that are behaving like real dildos. That’s worth reading.

ENTRY 698:
Charlene:
Charlene is a real lesbian dildo because she doesn’t even think twice about eating the last piece of pizza even though she doesn’t have a job and she never drives to target because she doesn’t have a car cuz her broke ass hasn’t got no money and she never chips in for gas and her titties look like two pieces of beat up French toast just hanging there. For these reasons and more, Charlene is a lesbian dildo.

That’s what I want to read, man. Where’s that website? Maybe I should do it here. OKAY! LESBIANS! You’ve gotta be out there right? I want your gripes about your fellow lesbians. I will feature them all in a segment called “REAL lesbian Dildos!” This is gonna be great. As for you sad sack teenaged and early twentysomething boys who can’t figure out what to do…I swear I’ll get to you soon, but for now, it sounds like your problems can be solved with a few lesbian dildos. Peace.