Good morning, happy Friday and happy Maifest, my dogs of war. It’s gonna be a hell of a weekend, right? Good. Um, let’s see here. I was rustling through the sock drawer and found a loooooooong query for advice from a guy who sounds like he’s truly bummed.
He’s one of us, though, right? So let’s listen.
Q
I have semi recently moved to a town away from home and long term friendships and all that. I moved here for a change of pace and for a better working opportunity and have been really succesful in work and it has definitely been a change of pace. I never got a free second when I was back home. There was always someone calling or someone stopping by or a million things to do and so on. After a while I began to feel really overwhelmed, thus the desire for the change of pace. Well (in reference to your many writings about confidence and Wednesdays post about coolness) back home I was brimming with confidence and cool. I would walk into a place and literally start fighting off ladies. It was weird, but whatever. Now that I'm in this new town and after I ended a relationship with a woman that was continually railroading my selfconfidence that I started dating about the time that I moved in to town (I won't ever date a girl in her early twenties again) I'm having a really hard time making friends and meeting new women. I get out in a place and start freaking out. I get around people that I've known for a while (not really friends but aquantices) and I don't have anything to say. I'm completely out of conversation material and I'm finding that I am having a hard time getting along with the people that I am meeting. I've been following your blog and the advice you've given for a while and I've tried switching up where I'm hanging out because the bars definitely weren't working. I've been going to shows, out to all different sorts of cool places to eat different cool food, going to art exhibits and spending alot of time in general in the greater downtown area of the town I'm living in. You know, all the normal things that you get involved with to find other people that are into subculture. I have been extremely let down by the people that I have met (the people that I have met I usually have some kind of dramatic confrontation with after knowing them only a short time and I hate confrontation now a days), and being even more let down by the fact that I'm not meeting any cool people, and that is what I feel is creating this whole social anxiety thing that is really starting to become an issue for me. I went from going out to places and having women offer me beej's in the bathroom (I never was down with accepting beej's from women I didn't know. I've always been a punk rocker and thought that your comment about punk rockers being prudes a couple of months back was right on with me regardless of if I wanted it to be that way or not.) and getting wrecked with the bands traveling through town to my phone not ringing ever. As a result, like I've said I went from being way confident and way cool to having zero confidence and a mounting social anxiety problem that I've never had before (I've been going out and hanging out for years and always felt ill at ease), and as a result of that I have zero friends in my new town and zero love interests.
A
Okay, you’re out of your element. That part is simple. Why do you lack the confidence you once had? Because you no longer have a girlfriend, and as your last one was long term, you haven’t been single for a while. AND you’re in a new town where you don’t know people and you’re having trouble meeting guys/chicks worth hanging out with. And to top it all off, those mysterious offers of bathroom head have dried up. And THAT, to put it mildly, is a definite bummer, which, combined with all that you’ve got going on, will drain your confidence quicker than a thai tranny will drain your wallet/balls. I feel like you already know this part though. AND I feel like you are taking some good steps to overcome this already (doing different shit besides just being a drunk mope) but you’re kind of missing the BIG picture, and that’s where, hopefully, I can help:
Most people are not cool, nor are they fun to be around, nor are they the types that engender feelings of inspired conversation or desire to kind of let shit roar. I notice that you didn’t say that you were having a hard time making conversation with friends or people you really like, you’re not interested in talking to uninteresting hothead dipshits who insist on bumming you out. Hey man, guess what? I don’t like talking to people like that either.
In your old town, you had worthwhile buddies because you’d been there long enough to sift through the assholes and have formative experiences with the ones that were just borderline assholes. Friends create confidence, familiarity breeds confidence. Now, you’re out there with no friends in an unfamiliar zone trying to distinguish the dildos from the good people (which is like a 30:1 ratio) and you’re getting frustrated. Sure. Who wouldn’t? It’s tough out there, man.
You need to own your situation a little bit. You’re not in your town where you know everyone and feel overwhelmed (sounds like you weren’t terribly happy there either), you’re a dude in a new town who’s wary about meeting people, and you don’t HAVE to have shit to say. Think about it this way: you’re putting pressure on yourself to act exactly like you did in a very different set of circumstances. I’d liken this to trying to get a boner. Easy in a room with someone you want to bang, not so much at the doctors office with your parents in the room. You don’t NEED to be conversational and get offers for blowjobs. That’s the combover, not the confidence. You need to own the person you are, quit being a pussy and quit putting undo pressure on yourself to meet people/get blowjobs/find an old lady. That shit takes time, and it tends to happen when it’s least expected, but for fucks sake, it sounds like you’re beating yourself up over having a very natural reaction to realizing that the world is full of assholes. That’s an unnerving discovery to make. I mean, as people travel and move they tend to realize that they and their friends back home are the exact same as the people you’re meeting now. Just some random group of uninteresting dipshits to someone passing through, you know? I don’t want any of this to sound harsh, because it’s not meant to be, and you’re in a rough spot for sure. I’d like to offer a few more pieces of advice though:
1. Don’t mourn the loss of the bathroom blowjob offers. If you were turning them down anyway, that’s really just some sort of shallow ego boost thing that’s not empirically important. Yeah, getting overtly hit on feels good, but if you’re not the kind of guy to act on it, then remember, it’s also terribly uncomfortable. Plus, overt acts like that usually come from desperation that only occurs when the chick KNOWS that you’re unlikely to fuck her and she wants to really go all-in. You’re not that dude in this new town. You WANT blowjobs. SO, you don’t exude that anymore, AND THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT. See what I’m saying? You need to be confident in who you CURRENTLY ARE, not in competition with your past. I liken this to bands who listen to their own old records for inspiration. That’s like eating your poo to get nutrients. Don’t eat your poo, Danny. Don’t.
2. Since you’re out of your comfort zone to a ridiculous extreme already, why don’t you try some shit that really makes you nervous? What did you want to do back home but you had too much to lose? Go to a hooker? Skydive? Leave the church? Take ballet? Buy a trip to Headonism? I don’t know what it is, but you may (and you may not…this one’s difficult to think about practically) and this is the time to do that shit. When you next think “that would be cool, but nah…I can’t” Yup. You can. Nothing like just fucking doing it to help you feel vital. Don’t worry about THEM, worry about yourself. You just severed ties with all your friends/favorite spots and old lady for better or worse, your choice or not. Don’t be hard on yourself. You may be the only friend you’ve got in your new town, so hang out with yourself like the buddy you’d want to have there. Push yourself to try shit, don’t put pressure on yourself, enjoy your memories but realize that this is a new chapter, and encourage yourself to TAKE those bathroom BJ’s man. I can’t, in good conscience as a fully licensed and bonded advice columnist let that go unsaid.
Good luck. The rest of you Dogs Of War enjoy the wonderful weekend. Prost! See you in the sock drawer.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
time capsule
Do you guys believe that Nicole Ritchie and that one tubby twin are finally getting married? That’s dreamy. It’s, like, a dream, right? I mean, they’ve already got a beautiful baby and another one on the way, and he’s into jesus and Mormonism and as a result, he’s been rewarded with a former junkie retard turned inspirational earth bimbo who’s famous for some reason, that he gets to bone while Lionel Ritchie hangs around on the kitchen ceiling. So sweet. Just throwing this out there- I bet when they bang it smells like asscracks, begonias, leather and dreams. Kind of like what a hot topic smells like after a rainstorm.
Who else is in the news? Uh…Selma Hayek? Nah. Not really. I DO like her cans though. Um…Oh, you know who’s really big right now? That gay Australian guy who’s actually not gay. Um, Huge Jackoff? No. Um…Yahoo Serious. That’s his name. Jesus Christ! None of you guys probably even remember Yahoo Serious, do you? That’s just sad, man. He was one of the greatest thespians the stage has ever known.
See, I’m making some attempts at timeliness here at Bad Sandwich. Why? The world is disposable, man. Have you looked around? That’s what the internet is for- going crazy about what’s going on RIGHT NOW( and of course archiving every piece of footage ever shot of people buttfucking). This is how we make these disposable, phony celebrities. It’s beautiful, because we don’t pay for anything, that way we can all be in love with Afro Ninja today, and leave him to deal with his brain damage tomorrow. He’s broken and never got paid, but he’s famous, we’re still the same, and everyone moves on.
I mean, have you seen “Cold in the D”? That shit is off the hook (ebonics from the nineties, meaning ‘reccomended’), and from what I can tell, T baby was pretty fucking big for a minute there. That’s what the internet says, but see, I don’t know when that was, or even if it’s actually true. We live in a world of frozen moments where at any given time you can read that the new Star Trek is about to come out, or Heath Ledger at a Manhattan Starbucks with daughter Matilda and on again ex [whatever the fuck her name is…Oh, michelle Williams] and considering renting a SoHo loft, or whatever. The only way to know if what you’re reading is up to date or not is to search for telltale signs of timeliness right there, embedded in the meat of the page.
Like, for example, you see two people on the internet, they’re uh…let’s just use buttfucking again, to keep it simple. They’re buttfucking and she (the woman, or buttfuckee) says “oh yeah, let me taste this nineteen year old asshole right off your big veiny wiener” or something like that. The issue of her age becomes an interesting one, because firstly, is she really nineteen? No one knows. I’ve definitely seen plenty of movies (both featuring buttfucking and not featuring any buttfucking at all) where the people that they say are nineteen are clearly thirty six. BUT, there’s also the question of WHEN this shit went up on the internet. She could actually be nineteen in the movie, but currently be thirty six with a bunch of seventeen year old ass babies from this VERY slice of the frozen past. To use an example closer to my heart, the girl on Guesshermuff with the Lawrence Arms poster…Is she a fan of that poster now, or was she playing the guessing game five and a half years ago when that record came out? It’s impossible to tell.
That’s why, in the spirit of dating shit (never mind that all these posts are dated…that could just be when I post already written material, right?) I’m talking about what’s in the news today.
So, let’s get started…we got, maybe, a new supreme court justice. That’s okay. Um, there’s something going on with north korea. The gays are having some issues in California and finally, um…Chris Brown is speaking out that he’s not a monster. Yipes. Good luck with all that. I’d LOVE to be his PR guy. Next up, Octomom…No. She's done. Miley in a bathing suit? Um, new evidence suggests that servings of whole grains will...Sheesh. No wonder I don’t talk about what’s going on in the world. I gotta go to work. I’m not cut out for this shit.
Who else is in the news? Uh…Selma Hayek? Nah. Not really. I DO like her cans though. Um…Oh, you know who’s really big right now? That gay Australian guy who’s actually not gay. Um, Huge Jackoff? No. Um…Yahoo Serious. That’s his name. Jesus Christ! None of you guys probably even remember Yahoo Serious, do you? That’s just sad, man. He was one of the greatest thespians the stage has ever known.
See, I’m making some attempts at timeliness here at Bad Sandwich. Why? The world is disposable, man. Have you looked around? That’s what the internet is for- going crazy about what’s going on RIGHT NOW( and of course archiving every piece of footage ever shot of people buttfucking). This is how we make these disposable, phony celebrities. It’s beautiful, because we don’t pay for anything, that way we can all be in love with Afro Ninja today, and leave him to deal with his brain damage tomorrow. He’s broken and never got paid, but he’s famous, we’re still the same, and everyone moves on.
I mean, have you seen “Cold in the D”? That shit is off the hook (ebonics from the nineties, meaning ‘reccomended’), and from what I can tell, T baby was pretty fucking big for a minute there. That’s what the internet says, but see, I don’t know when that was, or even if it’s actually true. We live in a world of frozen moments where at any given time you can read that the new Star Trek is about to come out, or Heath Ledger at a Manhattan Starbucks with daughter Matilda and on again ex [whatever the fuck her name is…Oh, michelle Williams] and considering renting a SoHo loft, or whatever. The only way to know if what you’re reading is up to date or not is to search for telltale signs of timeliness right there, embedded in the meat of the page.
Like, for example, you see two people on the internet, they’re uh…let’s just use buttfucking again, to keep it simple. They’re buttfucking and she (the woman, or buttfuckee) says “oh yeah, let me taste this nineteen year old asshole right off your big veiny wiener” or something like that. The issue of her age becomes an interesting one, because firstly, is she really nineteen? No one knows. I’ve definitely seen plenty of movies (both featuring buttfucking and not featuring any buttfucking at all) where the people that they say are nineteen are clearly thirty six. BUT, there’s also the question of WHEN this shit went up on the internet. She could actually be nineteen in the movie, but currently be thirty six with a bunch of seventeen year old ass babies from this VERY slice of the frozen past. To use an example closer to my heart, the girl on Guesshermuff with the Lawrence Arms poster…Is she a fan of that poster now, or was she playing the guessing game five and a half years ago when that record came out? It’s impossible to tell.
That’s why, in the spirit of dating shit (never mind that all these posts are dated…that could just be when I post already written material, right?) I’m talking about what’s in the news today.
So, let’s get started…we got, maybe, a new supreme court justice. That’s okay. Um, there’s something going on with north korea. The gays are having some issues in California and finally, um…Chris Brown is speaking out that he’s not a monster. Yipes. Good luck with all that. I’d LOVE to be his PR guy. Next up, Octomom…No. She's done. Miley in a bathing suit? Um, new evidence suggests that servings of whole grains will...Sheesh. No wonder I don’t talk about what’s going on in the world. I gotta go to work. I’m not cut out for this shit.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
with my nuts on your tonsils while you're onstage rapping at your wack ass concert...
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Tuesday, May 26, 2009
R O C K in the USA!
This weekend was great. The falcon show was off the proverbial heezy (are kids still saying off the heezy? I don’t even know what a heezy is…a hook? I think it’s a hook, meaning that I’m essentially saying [in weegro] ‘off the hook’ which was, if I’m not mistaken, a colloquial turn of phrase from my college years. SO, regardless, probably a little dated now, right? Anyway…) and afterwards I went to the International Men of Leather gathering at the Metro where I hung out shirtless with 1300 other shirtless men. It was pretty great. My friend Katie was there too, notable for having the only vagina in the whole place (unless someone had one in their handbag or something, psycho murderer style).
All in all, great times were had by me, even though I really fucked up my fingertip and some girl called me a ‘total douchebag’. Whatever, right? I’m not here to NOT be a total douchebag. Uh, anyhoo…
Okay, so I was rummaging through the Sock Drawer looking for some good content for today, when I came across this little query for advice:
Q:
Hey Brandon_
Im working on my senior thesis project for my degree in music industry at drexel university and im writing/presenting about booking agents and bands experiences. I'd love to ask you like 4 or 5 questions and use your quotes in my presentation, if you can please drop me an email at rmh44@drexel.edu it would be suchhh a big help. keep on rockin.
Cliff
A:
Oooookay. Where do I begin here? There’s just so much going on, I’m not entirely sure what tack to take. Well, fuck it, let’s start at the top. You’re doing a little presentation, right? Involving a little bit of research, yes? Okay. Good. Here’s a little bit of research you’ve already jumped right past…My name isn’t Brandon. I actually am a little bit amazed that you could get all the way to the comments section of my blog and leave a comment and not somehow stagger across my actual name. It is, in fact, just by the way, spelled brEndAn, which is, not to belabor the point, a whole different name. I’m actually looking through the sock drawer and noticing that my name appears just four comments above yours, RIGHT THERE on the same page. Oh well. Honest mistake. For the record though, nothing too pro about asking someone a favor and getting their name wrong right in the same breath. I mean, I’m a swishy Hollywood type, man. I need to be coddled and told how great I am, and constantly referred to by my properly spelled, properly pronounced name, you know? Look, here’s another hint, booking agents, band people, they NEED validation in the form of being properly addressed. If you’re gonna do a presentation about bands and agents, you should DEFINITELY put that in there. You can even use that quote, if you want.
Next, if you want me to help you, YOU should really be the one doing the work as far as facilitating contact. Don’t ask me to email you on a public forum. It’s laziness. It doesn’t look good, Cleff. It just doesn’t. Besides, what would I say in the initial email to you? “Hey Cllif, Brendan here. Just email me over those questions now. Thanks.” You see how odd that shit is, man? It’s just awkward, and frankly, it’s not my job to ask for the work I’d be doing for you. I’m not doing that. I can’t. Too awkward. Next time, what you should do is click the link right here on this page that leads to my email, and email me something like this:
Hey dude, I’m doing a presentation on rock bands and agents and shit for school. Would it be cool if I sent you a couple of questions to this email address?” That’s how you get people to do you favors, man. Keep it simple and easy. I mean, as it stands, I’m seeing a guy who is going to have a terrible research presentation because even his preliminary research has been, I think we can agree, up to now, pretty sub par, AND this is the same guy who wants me to email him and provide him with the majority of the content for said presentation. Clifff, buddy, I don’t think I can move forward in this partnership. Sorry. It’s just not a project I feel confident in, bro.
Oh, and finally, if you’re gonna elongate the word “such” to emphasize what a great help it would be if I wasn’t instead just being kind of a dick, you should really go with “Suuuuuuch” instead of “Suchhh.” I don’t have any idea how you even pronounce a series of repeating H’s, but yeah, kinda odd.
Anyway,
I hope these answers help. Good luck out there, man.
I was gonna write a whole thing about how coolness is underrated, but I’ll save that for tomorrow.
Oh, and Cliff, I’m fucking with you. Just send me the questions and I’ll help you out. Sheesh. Don’t cry. Good game. See you in the showers.
All in all, great times were had by me, even though I really fucked up my fingertip and some girl called me a ‘total douchebag’. Whatever, right? I’m not here to NOT be a total douchebag. Uh, anyhoo…
Okay, so I was rummaging through the Sock Drawer looking for some good content for today, when I came across this little query for advice:
Q:
Hey Brandon_
Im working on my senior thesis project for my degree in music industry at drexel university and im writing/presenting about booking agents and bands experiences. I'd love to ask you like 4 or 5 questions and use your quotes in my presentation, if you can please drop me an email at rmh44@drexel.edu it would be suchhh a big help. keep on rockin.
Cliff
A:
Oooookay. Where do I begin here? There’s just so much going on, I’m not entirely sure what tack to take. Well, fuck it, let’s start at the top. You’re doing a little presentation, right? Involving a little bit of research, yes? Okay. Good. Here’s a little bit of research you’ve already jumped right past…My name isn’t Brandon. I actually am a little bit amazed that you could get all the way to the comments section of my blog and leave a comment and not somehow stagger across my actual name. It is, in fact, just by the way, spelled brEndAn, which is, not to belabor the point, a whole different name. I’m actually looking through the sock drawer and noticing that my name appears just four comments above yours, RIGHT THERE on the same page. Oh well. Honest mistake. For the record though, nothing too pro about asking someone a favor and getting their name wrong right in the same breath. I mean, I’m a swishy Hollywood type, man. I need to be coddled and told how great I am, and constantly referred to by my properly spelled, properly pronounced name, you know? Look, here’s another hint, booking agents, band people, they NEED validation in the form of being properly addressed. If you’re gonna do a presentation about bands and agents, you should DEFINITELY put that in there. You can even use that quote, if you want.
Next, if you want me to help you, YOU should really be the one doing the work as far as facilitating contact. Don’t ask me to email you on a public forum. It’s laziness. It doesn’t look good, Cleff. It just doesn’t. Besides, what would I say in the initial email to you? “Hey Cllif, Brendan here. Just email me over those questions now. Thanks.” You see how odd that shit is, man? It’s just awkward, and frankly, it’s not my job to ask for the work I’d be doing for you. I’m not doing that. I can’t. Too awkward. Next time, what you should do is click the link right here on this page that leads to my email, and email me something like this:
Hey dude, I’m doing a presentation on rock bands and agents and shit for school. Would it be cool if I sent you a couple of questions to this email address?” That’s how you get people to do you favors, man. Keep it simple and easy. I mean, as it stands, I’m seeing a guy who is going to have a terrible research presentation because even his preliminary research has been, I think we can agree, up to now, pretty sub par, AND this is the same guy who wants me to email him and provide him with the majority of the content for said presentation. Clifff, buddy, I don’t think I can move forward in this partnership. Sorry. It’s just not a project I feel confident in, bro.
Oh, and finally, if you’re gonna elongate the word “such” to emphasize what a great help it would be if I wasn’t instead just being kind of a dick, you should really go with “Suuuuuuch” instead of “Suchhh.” I don’t have any idea how you even pronounce a series of repeating H’s, but yeah, kinda odd.
Anyway,
I hope these answers help. Good luck out there, man.
I was gonna write a whole thing about how coolness is underrated, but I’ll save that for tomorrow.
Oh, and Cliff, I’m fucking with you. Just send me the questions and I’ll help you out. Sheesh. Don’t cry. Good game. See you in the showers.
Friday, May 22, 2009
shades of motherfuckin' Greeeeeey!
I have a confession to make: When I go to guesshermuff.blogspot.com, I don’t even guess. Never. I just look at the picture, and then click on the little “here” to see the reveal shot. My favorite reveals are the ones where they’re obviously wasted. It’s funny. Am I misusing the internet? It’s possible, but I don’t know if I can bring myself to hazard a guess, and I suppose I’m just gonna have to accept that. Wow. I feel better now. Thanks for listening, Dongs of War. Much appreesh.
As I hinted yesterday, I’ve been to some gross places on tour but this one place in Omaha was by far the most disgusting place I’ve ever been. First, we played at a place called the cog factory. This was a club that had been around for a really long time. Slapstick (my ooooooold band) played there in 94 on our tour with 7 seconds and skankin pickle. Back then, it was pretty okay. Well, it was a dumpy shitbox, but it was fine. It had a kitchen, four walls, ceiling, power, light rig, bathrooms…you know, typical shitty punk rock no booze club. Every time we went back however, it got a little worse.
This is currently happening in Atlanta. The first time we played the Masquerade in Atlanta it was a BEAUTIFUL club. That was on the first Plea for Peace tour. Yeah, it was old, but it was well maintained and super fun AND there was a porn star there, but that’s a whole other story. Anyhoo, since then, for reasons too boring to go into, it’s steadily declined into one of the shittiest Hepatitis farms in the country. The walls sag, the smell is that of poo. The toilets are always flooded. The ground is sticky and the back stage looks like it’s never been cleaned. I think it’s still an okay place to SEE a show, but when you’re on tour and your options for shitting are pretty much what you can run to when the bus/van pulls up, I can say with authority that the Masquerade is no one’s favorite place to play. Of course it’s right around the corner from an amazing (and famous) strip club where the fat and the old dance naked and crush beercans betwixt their big saggy old tits and drinks are cheap and everything is wonderful. It’s called the Clermont, and it’s in the basement of a really, really nice hotel. Heh. The Clermont alone makes the Masquerade great, actually.
Anyway, we were talking about the Cog Factory in Omaha (just down the street from where my friend Leeann gave that crackhead ten bucks to video tape him trying to suck his own wang…I wrote about it in one of the earlier entries [back when BSC was still black and white]) and it’s demise. By the last time we played there, everything was done. The water was turned off, the power was on again-off again and the bathroom…well, man. It was a mountain. Of poo. It was SOOOOOOOOOOOO nasty. There was a toilet, right there, where toilets should be, in the bathroom, and people had been shitting in it, just like you’re supposed to, but HERE’S the bad part. No water. No water= no flushing. But, this deterred NO ONE. SO, people kept dumping and dumping and eventually the mountain of poos crested the seat, and still people kept shitting on it. When I saw it (I peeked in on a dare and almost barfed after half a second) I think it was safe to say that it rose, not unlike Kilimanjaro above the Serengeti, mind you, a good five inches above the rim of the seat. Gross. I mean, seriously? Who’s squatting, balanced on the seat, going through all that effort to shit onto this pile? What kind of depraved, sick, horrendously twisted…jesus Christ. You get the idea, right? It was gross. And of course, it stunk up the whole fucking place. Oh, but that’s not the grossest place. The grossest place was the house we went to party at after the show.
The kitchen was full of black garbage bags. I would say there were literally twelve of them, and an animal had eaten through a few of them and strewn shit everywhere. On the counters were food items that had long ceased to be recognizable crusted and molded into casserole dishes and onto plates and forks. Large black flies swarmed. The whole place smelled bad, and I definitely didn’t go anywhere else in the house but the living room and the kitchen. AND, I only went to the kitchen to escape the living room, which had, and I’m not shitting you people here, one of those plastic yellow mop buckets on wheels that janitors use filled with water and another mountain of shit, but in THIS one, someone bad had been putting their cigarettes out in the poos. Man. They said we could stay there, but we decided to risk it elsewhere.
Once in Soux Falls, these people invited us to trash this house they’d been evicted from. We were literally having a party while smashing windows, pulling up carpet, destroying built in shelving and someone lit a couch on fire, but when our buddy brian started peeing in the corner, the guy who’s house it was got super pissed and started wigging out. “Come on, dude! What the fuck are you doing?” Guess you gotta have standards, right?
Okay, happy Friday everyone. You know how it is on Fridays, and I’m out of here. Work’s gonna suck the dick off a dog, and I got a show tomorrow at Reggies. See you there, Sock Drawer!
As I hinted yesterday, I’ve been to some gross places on tour but this one place in Omaha was by far the most disgusting place I’ve ever been. First, we played at a place called the cog factory. This was a club that had been around for a really long time. Slapstick (my ooooooold band) played there in 94 on our tour with 7 seconds and skankin pickle. Back then, it was pretty okay. Well, it was a dumpy shitbox, but it was fine. It had a kitchen, four walls, ceiling, power, light rig, bathrooms…you know, typical shitty punk rock no booze club. Every time we went back however, it got a little worse.
This is currently happening in Atlanta. The first time we played the Masquerade in Atlanta it was a BEAUTIFUL club. That was on the first Plea for Peace tour. Yeah, it was old, but it was well maintained and super fun AND there was a porn star there, but that’s a whole other story. Anyhoo, since then, for reasons too boring to go into, it’s steadily declined into one of the shittiest Hepatitis farms in the country. The walls sag, the smell is that of poo. The toilets are always flooded. The ground is sticky and the back stage looks like it’s never been cleaned. I think it’s still an okay place to SEE a show, but when you’re on tour and your options for shitting are pretty much what you can run to when the bus/van pulls up, I can say with authority that the Masquerade is no one’s favorite place to play. Of course it’s right around the corner from an amazing (and famous) strip club where the fat and the old dance naked and crush beercans betwixt their big saggy old tits and drinks are cheap and everything is wonderful. It’s called the Clermont, and it’s in the basement of a really, really nice hotel. Heh. The Clermont alone makes the Masquerade great, actually.
Anyway, we were talking about the Cog Factory in Omaha (just down the street from where my friend Leeann gave that crackhead ten bucks to video tape him trying to suck his own wang…I wrote about it in one of the earlier entries [back when BSC was still black and white]) and it’s demise. By the last time we played there, everything was done. The water was turned off, the power was on again-off again and the bathroom…well, man. It was a mountain. Of poo. It was SOOOOOOOOOOOO nasty. There was a toilet, right there, where toilets should be, in the bathroom, and people had been shitting in it, just like you’re supposed to, but HERE’S the bad part. No water. No water= no flushing. But, this deterred NO ONE. SO, people kept dumping and dumping and eventually the mountain of poos crested the seat, and still people kept shitting on it. When I saw it (I peeked in on a dare and almost barfed after half a second) I think it was safe to say that it rose, not unlike Kilimanjaro above the Serengeti, mind you, a good five inches above the rim of the seat. Gross. I mean, seriously? Who’s squatting, balanced on the seat, going through all that effort to shit onto this pile? What kind of depraved, sick, horrendously twisted…jesus Christ. You get the idea, right? It was gross. And of course, it stunk up the whole fucking place. Oh, but that’s not the grossest place. The grossest place was the house we went to party at after the show.
The kitchen was full of black garbage bags. I would say there were literally twelve of them, and an animal had eaten through a few of them and strewn shit everywhere. On the counters were food items that had long ceased to be recognizable crusted and molded into casserole dishes and onto plates and forks. Large black flies swarmed. The whole place smelled bad, and I definitely didn’t go anywhere else in the house but the living room and the kitchen. AND, I only went to the kitchen to escape the living room, which had, and I’m not shitting you people here, one of those plastic yellow mop buckets on wheels that janitors use filled with water and another mountain of shit, but in THIS one, someone bad had been putting their cigarettes out in the poos. Man. They said we could stay there, but we decided to risk it elsewhere.
Once in Soux Falls, these people invited us to trash this house they’d been evicted from. We were literally having a party while smashing windows, pulling up carpet, destroying built in shelving and someone lit a couch on fire, but when our buddy brian started peeing in the corner, the guy who’s house it was got super pissed and started wigging out. “Come on, dude! What the fuck are you doing?” Guess you gotta have standards, right?
Okay, happy Friday everyone. You know how it is on Fridays, and I’m out of here. Work’s gonna suck the dick off a dog, and I got a show tomorrow at Reggies. See you there, Sock Drawer!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
excavation
The last three nights I’ve been out until eleven or twelve, practicing with my fake band and drinking beer. This is the only time that we can all get together and practice. For me, a daddy, this is late. I’ve also been having nightmares. I had a dream at around five forty five that I was laying in bed with my wife and it was about five forty five and there was a giant centipede on our bed crawling towards me. After that, I was pretty much up for the day. I want to just relax and hang out with my old lady because she’s going out of town this weekend, but I can’t, because by the time I get off work tonight my parents will have just gotten into town. SO, it’s not stopping. I’ve got the show on Saturday (THE FALCON!!!! WOOOO! LIVE! AT! REGGIES! IN! CHICAGO!) I think it’ll be cool. We’re gonna play a new song that’s called “spit shining shit” which I think is a pretty classy title. Come out. The next night is the busiest night of the year for drunk dickheads and I’m gonna be bartending. I love making jagerbombs ten at a time. Love it.
You know, back when I was constantly on the road, and I’m talking about before we made any money, back in the early days of the Lawrence Arms we used to live like bums. We never showered, we slept in our van or on floors and once every couple of days we’d buy a package of American cheese and a loaf of bread and we’d eat cheese sandwiches for a few days until that ran out. Once in New Jersey, we found a twenty pack of microwaveable bean and cheese burritos for five bucks, but usually it was cheese and bread. When we WOULD watch TV, it was always in a large group and the chances of it being something I was even remotely interested in were quite slim. I feel like it was mostly sportscenter and wild police chases and shit like that.
Usually, we would sit on barstools or on the floor, or in our van. Comfortable chairs and/or couches were rarities, mattresses even more so. And god, we smelled terrible. And it was fun, sure. We had a good time, but this isn’t one of those wistful memories of stinking and suffering and loving every minute of it, because well, for one thing, that’s kind of boring, for another thing, it kind of goes without saying that we liked it or we would have stopped…I mean, it was self imposed, you know? Nah, I’m just remembering the fantasy I used to have back then. I remember that on the days when I was the most homesick, or just sick of being on the road (because in those days I had no residence) I dreamed of taking a hot shower, stepping out with my skin still red and tight and wrapping myself in a fluffy robe, sitting on the couch, watching Conan Obrien (back then, he was still really funny), holding the remote control myself and getting a blowjob. That was the dream. That was EVERYTHING I wanted in the world. Clean skin, a comfy place to sit, control of the tv, something worth watching and of course, the beej.
I don’t know that this ever happened. In fact, I’m pretty sure it never did. I never owned a big, white fluffy robe. Sigh.
We went to the Modern Wing of the Art Institute yesterday and it was amazing. I have pictures of my baby in front of some of the greatest paintings and sculptures of the last hundred years. Super cool. I recommend it. The zoo was okay, but they were out of Polar Bears and Zebras by the time we got there. Lame.
I think I’m gonna end early and play some guitar before I head to work. Sock drawer, how you holdin’ up down there? Good. Uh…I dunno, get out there and live, or something.
xoxoxoxoxox
You know, back when I was constantly on the road, and I’m talking about before we made any money, back in the early days of the Lawrence Arms we used to live like bums. We never showered, we slept in our van or on floors and once every couple of days we’d buy a package of American cheese and a loaf of bread and we’d eat cheese sandwiches for a few days until that ran out. Once in New Jersey, we found a twenty pack of microwaveable bean and cheese burritos for five bucks, but usually it was cheese and bread. When we WOULD watch TV, it was always in a large group and the chances of it being something I was even remotely interested in were quite slim. I feel like it was mostly sportscenter and wild police chases and shit like that.
Usually, we would sit on barstools or on the floor, or in our van. Comfortable chairs and/or couches were rarities, mattresses even more so. And god, we smelled terrible. And it was fun, sure. We had a good time, but this isn’t one of those wistful memories of stinking and suffering and loving every minute of it, because well, for one thing, that’s kind of boring, for another thing, it kind of goes without saying that we liked it or we would have stopped…I mean, it was self imposed, you know? Nah, I’m just remembering the fantasy I used to have back then. I remember that on the days when I was the most homesick, or just sick of being on the road (because in those days I had no residence) I dreamed of taking a hot shower, stepping out with my skin still red and tight and wrapping myself in a fluffy robe, sitting on the couch, watching Conan Obrien (back then, he was still really funny), holding the remote control myself and getting a blowjob. That was the dream. That was EVERYTHING I wanted in the world. Clean skin, a comfy place to sit, control of the tv, something worth watching and of course, the beej.
I don’t know that this ever happened. In fact, I’m pretty sure it never did. I never owned a big, white fluffy robe. Sigh.
We went to the Modern Wing of the Art Institute yesterday and it was amazing. I have pictures of my baby in front of some of the greatest paintings and sculptures of the last hundred years. Super cool. I recommend it. The zoo was okay, but they were out of Polar Bears and Zebras by the time we got there. Lame.
I think I’m gonna end early and play some guitar before I head to work. Sock drawer, how you holdin’ up down there? Good. Uh…I dunno, get out there and live, or something.
xoxoxoxoxox
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
bad daddy chronicles...
Good Christ! It’s been a rough morning. The baby got into a bowl of almonds, and I had to fish them out of his mouth. He bit my finger pretty hard, and he’s got a lot of fucking teeth, man! That shit hurts. He already had a little bit of peanut butter a few weeks ago, so I don’t think he’s got a nut allergy, but still, that shit’s scary. For those of you who don’t know, nut allergies are an epidemic in the US, and kids who respond particularly poorly to tree nuts (which almonds are) can go into anaphylactic shock, which, you know, can kill you pretty dead. So, I’ve got my eye on him. BUT apparently not closely enough, because then, I was playing guitar for him (which he likes…and is a good way for me judge if my songs are working on a basic level or not. He’s a kid, after all) when he made a dive between my feet, where I THINK he bit one of our chihuahuas. I KNOW the dog snapped back at him. There was a tiny spot of blood eventually. I cleaned it up good with soap and hydrogen peroxide…but man, fuck. Rough day already. I had to reprimand a dog, clean up a screaming baby, got bit in the finger, worried myself sick about nut allergies, got the house ready for the cleaning lady, looked at all these pictures from the latest Juggalo gathering, all while being exhausted because of these fucking falcon practices.
My kid’s best friend at his daycare and my kid bite each other. It’s kind of what happens at this age. No big deal, and hopefully they’ll learn that biting hurts you know, by getting bitten. The other kid got bit bad in the face by his dog. I don’t know what they did about it. My kid is bigger than my dog, by a lot, and the dog was cornered as shit. I know what they say about dogs and kids and biting and all that, but this seems like a bit of a different circumstance. I mean, I’m pretty sure that the kid bit the dog first. That’s a fairly reasonable response, right? I don’t know. It’s such a bummer. I’m going to the museum today with the kid to give him the most awesome, educational fun day of his small life to make up for the rough morning. Good lord.
Okay, on to your questions for me
Q
So, my girl who I've been with for about three and half years broke up with me last week. We got along great until about 3 months ago when she got pregnant and had an abortion (plan B pill, we both decided it was best choice for us). She said she felt like she woke up pregnant and married (we're not, but might as well have been)and it scared the shit outta her. So she started staying at her parents house (we still hung out quite a bit though) and she's been re-evaluating her life and feeling lost and like the spark in life is gone. We moved in together last June and until the pregnancy things have been great. We did definitely get in a rut of being lazy and watching too much tv and stuff (stupid weed). But we've always got along great (and the sex was fantastic!). We haven't had one real fight EVER. Even now she was so damn honest with me (and didn't cheat) that it's hard to be mad at her for turning my life upside down. I love her more than anything and I've never hurt this bad in my whole life. I sit around at home, work or go to the super market and I find myself trying to not break down balling. My insides feel scooped out. I just never thought this could hurt so bad. She said she hopes she realizes this is the biggest mistake ever, but she can't make any promises and she just needs to do this right now. _What should my gameplan here be?_I have to try to get her back, but I definitely want to give her time to think and figure shit out. She's staying at her parents house and I'm moving into a place with a roommate next month. So that should help her not feel married. What should I do? How long should I wait until I try get us hanging out again? And what's the best way to go about doing this without being annoying and/or pathetic.__Any advice would be great. (I'll take the sock drawer's advice too, if ya have some for me).__p.s. we also a 10 month old puppy that we got last year. She already had a dog, so I can't seperate them._If we don't get back together, would it be wrong of me to ask for visitation rights? I really love that fucking dog.
A
Okay, you’ve got a pretty good handle on this so far, it seems. Moving out, giving her some space…those are the right moves. You’re bummed, massively. That’s to be expected. This is a difficult situation, and I think it’s slightly different than you’re seeing. You guys have never had a fight, you kind of sit around a lot, she woke up after a traumatic experience with an unexpected pregnancy and rationally decided that she felt trapped and told you simply and honestly that she was moving out. It sounds to me like there’s a lack of passion in this relationship that she’s been cognizant of for a while and that she’s now ending it because of. People fight. People who CARE about each other fight. People in stressful situations fight. I mean, not all the time, sure, but if you guys dated for 3.5 years, never fought, terminated a pregnancy and still never fought, I’d wager that the complacence meter was reading off the charts. This might be news to you (it usually is to dudes) but there’s your problem. That’s what’s going on here. That’s her ‘trap’ that she feels like she’s in. Anyway, that’s not your question.
You can get her back. Sure you can. I have two guesses why I don’t think you will though: 1. You’re too much of an emotional basket case to properly do things the way they need to be done right now in order to get her back and 2. By the time you ARE ready to do these things, your feelings of hopelessness and despair will have hardened into a little bit of resentment, and the rekindling of the relationship will no longer be as appealing as it seems now.
This was my experience when I went through this, and has been the experience of everyone I’ve ever seen go through this, but hey, I’m not here to discourage, and like I said, you CAN get her back. For sure you can. Here’s how:
She saw you and thought you seemed interesting at one point, right? Then she talked to you, got to know you and realized you were cool. At some point, she let you bang her, and at some point, she decided she loved you. All that shit is still in there, she’s just bored shitless by your relationship. SO, all you have to do is become the person you were when you guys met. I don’t mean that you need to revert back to listening to Simple Plan and telling dick jokes and acting like you did four years ago. I mean, back then, you probably hung out with your friends, checked out girls, went around to places that weren’t the entrenched haunts of your relationship and kind of let shit roar a bit, right? Right. Now, it’s been three years and you’re thinking shit like, “maybe I’ll run into her down at Joe’s Diner, that’s a romantic little coincidence, ain’t it? That’s OUR spot” and that’s just not gonna do. Not at all. You, the old you that got her interest the first time, you didn’t hang out at Joes, okay. And if you did? Well, you certainly weren’t trolling there looking for her, so STOP with everything that has to do with your dead relationship. That includes the dog, that includes everything. The relationship is DEAD. You MUST think of it this way. You don’t want to revive THIS relationship, because it’s DOOMED. You need to start a NEW relationship with this girl. Are you understanding me? No pathetic phone calls or emotional talks about the past with her. No lurking. This involves you getting back to being the dynamic guy who hangs out with his friends and does fun shit for yourself, NOT for the two of you. You must be the new, older, wiser version of the you you once were. IF you can do this, and like I said, I know it’s rough, but IF you can, she will, mark my words, be interested in you. I don’t care if she’s got another boyfriend, I don’t care what the deal is. This WILL work if properly done. But, TALKING ABOUT THE DEAD RELATIONSHIP IS NOT ALLOWED WITH HER!!!!!!!!! If she insists on bringing something up, shrug it off and change the subject. You need to be a little emotionally distant. Not rude, but not ‘soulmate close’ either. You’re not there to talk about her ex boyfriend (you), you’re there to steer this girl towards her new relationship (with you).
There you go. Good luck dude. And just to reiterate, no dog visitation. You cannot simultaneously not look pathetic and ask for dog visitation. Bummer? Oh yeah, but which one of them do you want in your bed more? That’s the choice there, man.
Good luck!
Oh, and in response to another hot button topic in the sock drawer- Firstly, it’s really none of your business why I have a cleaning lady, and I don’t need to justify my life or decisions to anyone, but, in the spirit of transparency, the reason I have a cleaning lady is because I’m a thirty two year old man with a kid, two dogs and not enough time to clean my house and a desire for a clean house and enough money to pay for some help every two weeks. I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you turds? It’s not like she’s my stepdaughter or something. She’s ALREADY a cleaning lady. I’m giving her work. Is that a satisfactory answer dickheads? If not, please, by all means, advise me. I mean shit, even raskolnikov had a cleaning lady, and he was completely broke. Jesus fucking Christ.
See you all later.
My kid’s best friend at his daycare and my kid bite each other. It’s kind of what happens at this age. No big deal, and hopefully they’ll learn that biting hurts you know, by getting bitten. The other kid got bit bad in the face by his dog. I don’t know what they did about it. My kid is bigger than my dog, by a lot, and the dog was cornered as shit. I know what they say about dogs and kids and biting and all that, but this seems like a bit of a different circumstance. I mean, I’m pretty sure that the kid bit the dog first. That’s a fairly reasonable response, right? I don’t know. It’s such a bummer. I’m going to the museum today with the kid to give him the most awesome, educational fun day of his small life to make up for the rough morning. Good lord.
Okay, on to your questions for me
Q
So, my girl who I've been with for about three and half years broke up with me last week. We got along great until about 3 months ago when she got pregnant and had an abortion (plan B pill, we both decided it was best choice for us). She said she felt like she woke up pregnant and married (we're not, but might as well have been)and it scared the shit outta her. So she started staying at her parents house (we still hung out quite a bit though) and she's been re-evaluating her life and feeling lost and like the spark in life is gone. We moved in together last June and until the pregnancy things have been great. We did definitely get in a rut of being lazy and watching too much tv and stuff (stupid weed). But we've always got along great (and the sex was fantastic!). We haven't had one real fight EVER. Even now she was so damn honest with me (and didn't cheat) that it's hard to be mad at her for turning my life upside down. I love her more than anything and I've never hurt this bad in my whole life. I sit around at home, work or go to the super market and I find myself trying to not break down balling. My insides feel scooped out. I just never thought this could hurt so bad. She said she hopes she realizes this is the biggest mistake ever, but she can't make any promises and she just needs to do this right now. _What should my gameplan here be?_I have to try to get her back, but I definitely want to give her time to think and figure shit out. She's staying at her parents house and I'm moving into a place with a roommate next month. So that should help her not feel married. What should I do? How long should I wait until I try get us hanging out again? And what's the best way to go about doing this without being annoying and/or pathetic.__Any advice would be great. (I'll take the sock drawer's advice too, if ya have some for me).__p.s. we also a 10 month old puppy that we got last year. She already had a dog, so I can't seperate them._If we don't get back together, would it be wrong of me to ask for visitation rights? I really love that fucking dog.
A
Okay, you’ve got a pretty good handle on this so far, it seems. Moving out, giving her some space…those are the right moves. You’re bummed, massively. That’s to be expected. This is a difficult situation, and I think it’s slightly different than you’re seeing. You guys have never had a fight, you kind of sit around a lot, she woke up after a traumatic experience with an unexpected pregnancy and rationally decided that she felt trapped and told you simply and honestly that she was moving out. It sounds to me like there’s a lack of passion in this relationship that she’s been cognizant of for a while and that she’s now ending it because of. People fight. People who CARE about each other fight. People in stressful situations fight. I mean, not all the time, sure, but if you guys dated for 3.5 years, never fought, terminated a pregnancy and still never fought, I’d wager that the complacence meter was reading off the charts. This might be news to you (it usually is to dudes) but there’s your problem. That’s what’s going on here. That’s her ‘trap’ that she feels like she’s in. Anyway, that’s not your question.
You can get her back. Sure you can. I have two guesses why I don’t think you will though: 1. You’re too much of an emotional basket case to properly do things the way they need to be done right now in order to get her back and 2. By the time you ARE ready to do these things, your feelings of hopelessness and despair will have hardened into a little bit of resentment, and the rekindling of the relationship will no longer be as appealing as it seems now.
This was my experience when I went through this, and has been the experience of everyone I’ve ever seen go through this, but hey, I’m not here to discourage, and like I said, you CAN get her back. For sure you can. Here’s how:
She saw you and thought you seemed interesting at one point, right? Then she talked to you, got to know you and realized you were cool. At some point, she let you bang her, and at some point, she decided she loved you. All that shit is still in there, she’s just bored shitless by your relationship. SO, all you have to do is become the person you were when you guys met. I don’t mean that you need to revert back to listening to Simple Plan and telling dick jokes and acting like you did four years ago. I mean, back then, you probably hung out with your friends, checked out girls, went around to places that weren’t the entrenched haunts of your relationship and kind of let shit roar a bit, right? Right. Now, it’s been three years and you’re thinking shit like, “maybe I’ll run into her down at Joe’s Diner, that’s a romantic little coincidence, ain’t it? That’s OUR spot” and that’s just not gonna do. Not at all. You, the old you that got her interest the first time, you didn’t hang out at Joes, okay. And if you did? Well, you certainly weren’t trolling there looking for her, so STOP with everything that has to do with your dead relationship. That includes the dog, that includes everything. The relationship is DEAD. You MUST think of it this way. You don’t want to revive THIS relationship, because it’s DOOMED. You need to start a NEW relationship with this girl. Are you understanding me? No pathetic phone calls or emotional talks about the past with her. No lurking. This involves you getting back to being the dynamic guy who hangs out with his friends and does fun shit for yourself, NOT for the two of you. You must be the new, older, wiser version of the you you once were. IF you can do this, and like I said, I know it’s rough, but IF you can, she will, mark my words, be interested in you. I don’t care if she’s got another boyfriend, I don’t care what the deal is. This WILL work if properly done. But, TALKING ABOUT THE DEAD RELATIONSHIP IS NOT ALLOWED WITH HER!!!!!!!!! If she insists on bringing something up, shrug it off and change the subject. You need to be a little emotionally distant. Not rude, but not ‘soulmate close’ either. You’re not there to talk about her ex boyfriend (you), you’re there to steer this girl towards her new relationship (with you).
There you go. Good luck dude. And just to reiterate, no dog visitation. You cannot simultaneously not look pathetic and ask for dog visitation. Bummer? Oh yeah, but which one of them do you want in your bed more? That’s the choice there, man.
Good luck!
Oh, and in response to another hot button topic in the sock drawer- Firstly, it’s really none of your business why I have a cleaning lady, and I don’t need to justify my life or decisions to anyone, but, in the spirit of transparency, the reason I have a cleaning lady is because I’m a thirty two year old man with a kid, two dogs and not enough time to clean my house and a desire for a clean house and enough money to pay for some help every two weeks. I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you turds? It’s not like she’s my stepdaughter or something. She’s ALREADY a cleaning lady. I’m giving her work. Is that a satisfactory answer dickheads? If not, please, by all means, advise me. I mean shit, even raskolnikov had a cleaning lady, and he was completely broke. Jesus fucking Christ.
See you all later.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
leonard bernstien!
Oh, good morning. I didn’t see you come in. I’ve been pondering my existence lately, and I’ve come to a conclusion. I’m either going to the zoo this afternoon, or going downtown to the art institute to check out the new modern wing. Either way, my baby’s coming too (thank you very much child protective services). The zoo is close and free and I could conceivably convince some buddies to go because, well, shit man, watching a little kid get stoked on penguins and shit is pretty fun. ALSO, we could keep our standing Tuesday lunch date with my friends Toby and Katie if we just went to the zoo. Me and the baby tend to head down to this closed up bar and watch kegs come in and eat lunch on Tuesdays.
Now, the Art Institute modern wing, that’s a different story. It’s an all day affair. It’s been getting built for a while and this week, the shit’s free. It’s down in the real busy part of town, so parking would be a bitch and it’s also the kind of thing that I don’t want to rush through, you know? It’s big and supposedly amazing, which makes sense, because the Art Institute is a world class museum. Millennium park is down there too, and it’s worth hanging out in just on its own, so yeah. It’s the question of WAY cooler day with way more effort, or pretty good day (probably better for the baby, honestly) with minimal effort and maybe a beer. Hmmm…
I think this has solved itself, don’t you? We’ll go to the museum tomorrow when my cleaning lady is here and we have to be out of the house. Fuck. I’m so smart and clever and good with my time…no wonder you guys read this fascinating blog! You’re right. It IS the best thing on the internet.
Nah, giving myself superlative accolades is just part of the existence pondering thing I’ve been doing. Definitely, filling my days up with things to do seems like a big part of what makes life uh…more bearable, I guess, but there’s always that lingering malaise. I mean, I don’t have an answer to what constitutes a good, solid existence, but I know that really nothing that anyone tells you is important actually is. I mean, right now, I’m involved in filmmaking, practicing for the falcon show on Saturday, preparing for a Lawrence Arms tour, writing this dumb blog, being a dad, writing songs for 2 bands (in the very limited time where I’m unencumbered by a baby’s mischief, able to make noise AND inspired [it’s like getting yhatzee, not impossible, but it doesn’t happen all the time either]), working a job that, while it’s unchallenging and kind of shitty, puts decent money in my pocket (which, these days is more than a lot of people can say, unfortunately), raising a pretty cute baby and cruising along in a pretty fun marriage and associating, in general with people who I think are interesting, and somehow I still feel vaguely dissatisfied all the time. What the fuck is that about? I mean, if creative challenges and family life don’t make you happy, what’s the answer? More money? I doubt it. I feel like if I had more money it would just be something else.
People always have a rap about priorities, but, and I’ve said this before, it’s all so fleeting that none of it makes sense. None of it makes you happy if the circumstances aren’t right. I mean, think about this, if tomorrow you woke up and everyone you knew was dead…let’s say there was a massive cataclysmic event…Yellowstone erupted, nah…bigger, a huge magnetic polar shift that just wiped out 90 percent of the earth, would you care if you suddenly had six pack abs or a great head of hair or a bank full of money? Nah…nothing matters at that point. Maybe, MAYBE you can point to something you’ve done and be a little bit happy. You may find solace in your offspring, there at the end of the world (a la the Road) “Oh, look at my kid,” you may say. “That’s a reason to live”…but he’s of course, dying, or at least in a lot of danger, right? I mean, you’re living in a post apocalyptic shitscape. Don’t fool yourself. He’s in trouble. So, that one’s a little bittersweet, to put it mildly. So you try something else to find happiness. “Oh, I can listen to my record, or read my book I wrote, or watch my movie or fondly look back over my portfolio.” Nah…that’s not really gonna do it either. What would make you happy at that point? Food. Someplace safe to live. Maybe a beer. That’s it. Nothing else in the world. When you’re on the brink of serious, serious shit, all that matters is safety and nourishment. Nothing else is gonna compare, in terms of satisfaction.
Well, we have that stuff, right? But as soon as that’s taken care of, suddenly there’s all this self actualization bullshit that comes along and takes over and makes everyone obsessed and pissed off and generally miserable. Oh, suddenly it’s back to being about abs or the quality of people you bang or the fact that you have writers block or weren’t good enough to be a pro lacrosse player or whatever. At any level, this is bound to happen. I don’t know what a carefree existence is like. To a person in Somalia, I’m already living one. Hell, to a lot of people on the southside of Chicago, I’m living one. But it’s not.
It’s interesting, Dogs of War…Because, there need not be a cataclysmic event to knock your world on its ass. You just need to be walking along with someone you love and see them get hit by a car. That shit happens every day…Or you, you could get hit by the car. No legs. Or you’re dead. I mean, you could just be sitting there, where you are RIGHT NOW and some shit could just randomly fall on you and hit you just right and you’d be dead. Just as dead as the people from Hiroshima, or in the twin towers or as the people who will die in the cataclysmic event that proceeds the survivors of said event eating each other’s legs to survive…Do you see what I’m saying, Sock Drawer? There’s nothing that’s gonna ever be satisfying out there, so do a little dancing and fucking and go to the art institute and the zoo and don’t let whatever’s bumming you out eat you alive. Because there’s NO WAY OUT. Your problem: insurmountable, right? Yeah, so’s everyone’s. Welcome to earth.
Yipes. Maybe we should talk about felching and jizz, or anything to lighten the mood, please.
Oh, and to comment on the comment from yesterdays Sock Drawer (the comments section, for any of you who have missed this monumental title bestowal) that suggested that my advice yesterday was off the mark, and that it flew in the face of my espousal of confidence as a magic panty peeler…Lying about something that you do not understand is a stupid thing to do. It is a transparently UNCONFIDENT thing to do. Confidence involves laying it out there, using your own good attributes, not faking the funk. I mean, by your logic, having a comb over is a more confident move than shaving your head. It makes NO sense. Either way, you can see right through that shit, man. No experience or no hair or no money or no whatever, the best thing to do is own it. (And, yes. Fine. Bullshitting your way through something CAN be a measure of confidence, but that’s if you’re already confident that you’ll be able to bullshit people. In that case, it’s not a question of being a confident ‘doctor’ it’s a question of being a confident ‘con artist,’ to borrow a situation from Catch Me If You Can). Look, just be the goddamned bald virgin with no money. And just rock that program. Trust me.
Now, the Art Institute modern wing, that’s a different story. It’s an all day affair. It’s been getting built for a while and this week, the shit’s free. It’s down in the real busy part of town, so parking would be a bitch and it’s also the kind of thing that I don’t want to rush through, you know? It’s big and supposedly amazing, which makes sense, because the Art Institute is a world class museum. Millennium park is down there too, and it’s worth hanging out in just on its own, so yeah. It’s the question of WAY cooler day with way more effort, or pretty good day (probably better for the baby, honestly) with minimal effort and maybe a beer. Hmmm…
I think this has solved itself, don’t you? We’ll go to the museum tomorrow when my cleaning lady is here and we have to be out of the house. Fuck. I’m so smart and clever and good with my time…no wonder you guys read this fascinating blog! You’re right. It IS the best thing on the internet.
Nah, giving myself superlative accolades is just part of the existence pondering thing I’ve been doing. Definitely, filling my days up with things to do seems like a big part of what makes life uh…more bearable, I guess, but there’s always that lingering malaise. I mean, I don’t have an answer to what constitutes a good, solid existence, but I know that really nothing that anyone tells you is important actually is. I mean, right now, I’m involved in filmmaking, practicing for the falcon show on Saturday, preparing for a Lawrence Arms tour, writing this dumb blog, being a dad, writing songs for 2 bands (in the very limited time where I’m unencumbered by a baby’s mischief, able to make noise AND inspired [it’s like getting yhatzee, not impossible, but it doesn’t happen all the time either]), working a job that, while it’s unchallenging and kind of shitty, puts decent money in my pocket (which, these days is more than a lot of people can say, unfortunately), raising a pretty cute baby and cruising along in a pretty fun marriage and associating, in general with people who I think are interesting, and somehow I still feel vaguely dissatisfied all the time. What the fuck is that about? I mean, if creative challenges and family life don’t make you happy, what’s the answer? More money? I doubt it. I feel like if I had more money it would just be something else.
People always have a rap about priorities, but, and I’ve said this before, it’s all so fleeting that none of it makes sense. None of it makes you happy if the circumstances aren’t right. I mean, think about this, if tomorrow you woke up and everyone you knew was dead…let’s say there was a massive cataclysmic event…Yellowstone erupted, nah…bigger, a huge magnetic polar shift that just wiped out 90 percent of the earth, would you care if you suddenly had six pack abs or a great head of hair or a bank full of money? Nah…nothing matters at that point. Maybe, MAYBE you can point to something you’ve done and be a little bit happy. You may find solace in your offspring, there at the end of the world (a la the Road) “Oh, look at my kid,” you may say. “That’s a reason to live”…but he’s of course, dying, or at least in a lot of danger, right? I mean, you’re living in a post apocalyptic shitscape. Don’t fool yourself. He’s in trouble. So, that one’s a little bittersweet, to put it mildly. So you try something else to find happiness. “Oh, I can listen to my record, or read my book I wrote, or watch my movie or fondly look back over my portfolio.” Nah…that’s not really gonna do it either. What would make you happy at that point? Food. Someplace safe to live. Maybe a beer. That’s it. Nothing else in the world. When you’re on the brink of serious, serious shit, all that matters is safety and nourishment. Nothing else is gonna compare, in terms of satisfaction.
Well, we have that stuff, right? But as soon as that’s taken care of, suddenly there’s all this self actualization bullshit that comes along and takes over and makes everyone obsessed and pissed off and generally miserable. Oh, suddenly it’s back to being about abs or the quality of people you bang or the fact that you have writers block or weren’t good enough to be a pro lacrosse player or whatever. At any level, this is bound to happen. I don’t know what a carefree existence is like. To a person in Somalia, I’m already living one. Hell, to a lot of people on the southside of Chicago, I’m living one. But it’s not.
It’s interesting, Dogs of War…Because, there need not be a cataclysmic event to knock your world on its ass. You just need to be walking along with someone you love and see them get hit by a car. That shit happens every day…Or you, you could get hit by the car. No legs. Or you’re dead. I mean, you could just be sitting there, where you are RIGHT NOW and some shit could just randomly fall on you and hit you just right and you’d be dead. Just as dead as the people from Hiroshima, or in the twin towers or as the people who will die in the cataclysmic event that proceeds the survivors of said event eating each other’s legs to survive…Do you see what I’m saying, Sock Drawer? There’s nothing that’s gonna ever be satisfying out there, so do a little dancing and fucking and go to the art institute and the zoo and don’t let whatever’s bumming you out eat you alive. Because there’s NO WAY OUT. Your problem: insurmountable, right? Yeah, so’s everyone’s. Welcome to earth.
Yipes. Maybe we should talk about felching and jizz, or anything to lighten the mood, please.
Oh, and to comment on the comment from yesterdays Sock Drawer (the comments section, for any of you who have missed this monumental title bestowal) that suggested that my advice yesterday was off the mark, and that it flew in the face of my espousal of confidence as a magic panty peeler…Lying about something that you do not understand is a stupid thing to do. It is a transparently UNCONFIDENT thing to do. Confidence involves laying it out there, using your own good attributes, not faking the funk. I mean, by your logic, having a comb over is a more confident move than shaving your head. It makes NO sense. Either way, you can see right through that shit, man. No experience or no hair or no money or no whatever, the best thing to do is own it. (And, yes. Fine. Bullshitting your way through something CAN be a measure of confidence, but that’s if you’re already confident that you’ll be able to bullshit people. In that case, it’s not a question of being a confident ‘doctor’ it’s a question of being a confident ‘con artist,’ to borrow a situation from Catch Me If You Can). Look, just be the goddamned bald virgin with no money. And just rock that program. Trust me.
Monday, May 18, 2009
i was stabbed by satan on the day that i was born
Jesus christ. The weekend is over and I’m back. Did you miss me? good. Great, in fact. I need that kind of reinforcement these days. Okay, it’s Monday and it’s beautiful and I want to get outside, so I’m gonna hurry. This is so late in being posted because I’m in the midst of writing the strangest song I’ve written in a while. I hesitate to say it sounds African, because, well, that sounds like it’d be terrible…but I’ve been listening to a lot of K’naan lately, and I really think that besides having a cool whole thing going on, that when he’s not being too cheesy (which definitely happens) he writes great melodies and great rhymes. This latest song I’m working on is in no small part inspired by said melodies and rhymes. Sounds terrible, I know, but keep in mind, I have a very formulaic and limited approach to songwriting, so everything I do pretty much ends up sounding like all the rest of my songs anyway…Jesus, never mind. But, if you’re into African/hip hop/reggae type shit, definitely check out K’naan. The records are all good, but I think Troubadour is the best, (though the best individual song is on Dusty Foot Philosopher). Anyway, I back him fully. I mean, I even like the song with Kirk Hammet playing guest lead guitar, and that sounds like a recipe for a shit sandwich party sub. Whatever. On to the advice.
Q
Brendan,__I'm twenty-three years old, and I've been a misfit loser pretty much my entire life.__I've recently gotten involved with a girl who I met through a friend, and we've hung out together at shows and with other friends in the local music and art scene. She's a really cool girl, and she's really into me. We've really hit it off after our first real date. We went exploring in this old military base and it went from shooting bb guns at wine bottles to rolling around on the floor making out and listening to Your Gravest Words.__My biggest concern is that she is much more experienced than I am. I've never had a girlfriend, and I've barely so much as made-out with a girl before, so I am obviously a virgin (I was able to hide behind my being straight edge for, but I drink too much whiskey now for that to be believable anymore). In a sense, anyone would be more experienced than I am. While I am ecstatic about being with her and the way things are working out so far, I am completely clueless about everything whatsoever.__I never had a big brother, and I guess what I'm looking for is some general big brotherly advice for relationships, and the ever important issue of sex._
A
Okay, firstly, don’t panic. Aside from a few very, very unlucky people, everyone is a virgin at some point and need to deal with overcoming this mess of emotions and excitement and expectations and all that. EVERYONE can sympathize with your predicament; me, Jenna Haze, your best friend, your teachers, the cops in your town, the butcher, and even this girl. Yeah, it’s funny to rib people about stuff like this because it’s an easy mark. Comedy in its essence is the build up and release of tension (heh…not unlike boning, right? Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t know…See, that’s funny) and since sex is a sensitive subject, it easily creates tension and lends itself to lots of easy and potentially mean spirited jokes (see above for an example), but that’s nothing to be deterred or distracted by. If everyone who was ever an inexperienced virgin completely clammed up when they thought that the potential for their inexperience to be exposed was possible, well, there’d have been a VERY short period when there were sentient humans on the earth, right? Okay, I know this isn’t exactly your question, but I’m trying to make a point. You have, rightly, a big emotional stake in hooking up with this girl-you like her, it’s the first time you’ve been able to get this close to someone emotionally/physically for whatever reason and you’re understandably apprehensive, but it’s nothing everyone who’s ever gotten to that point hasn’t gone through, INCLUDING HER. If you sit her down, casually and say “Hey, listen. I’m inexperienced. In fact, I’m a virgin. I like you, but I don’t really know what I’m doing and I just wanted to let you know that’s why I’m nervous/shy/unsure of where to stick what etc” and she does ANYTHING besides smile, tell you that’s great and that she’s flattered and not to worry about it, and it’s really not a big deal, no one’s born experienced, well, she’s probably not the girl you want to enter into this stage of a relationship with. Doesn’t sound like that’s gonna be the case though, right? She’s cool already, so it’s simple. Tell her what’s up. She’s gonna be sweet and nurturing, or equally inexperienced…don’t rule that possibility out either, and either way, learning about that stuff is one of the most exciting and fun things that you’ll ever do in your life. So relax and enjoy it.
I noticed that down in the old Sock Drawer, some people offered you essentially this same advice. That makes me feel good. You guys aren’t all bad, you know that?
Anyhow, there’s time for you to learn about fingerbanging and how to feel tits or fist assholes or eat pussies in the future. Right now, the best person that can explain what feels good to a girl is the girl you’re with. She’s the person to ask for “big brotherly” advice, because she’s the only one that can tell you what works for her. Women are like old video game cartridges. Each one requires a different style of touch and blowing on to really get working, so there’s no playbook. What makes one girl scream with pleasure will make another punch you in the face, (although, I would say, in general, you want to lightly rub the clam. Don’t jam your fingers in there. That’s just not the way to fingerbang…it’s a rubbing, or wiping move, not an inserting and thrusting move….that’s for your dong to do later). Jesus, is any of this helpful?
I’m going outside. Here’s to ya!
Oh, and to answer the parenting question in the sock drawer (the natural next question after the 'how do i bone' question), I swaddled my baby for the first three months. I found it to be really helpful until he got big enough to start wanting to flip around. You can try it again. It's not like once you stop, that's your chance and it's done. As much as they struggle, they say that's usually somewhat uncontrollable muscle movement, because they haven't yet learned how to move or control their limbs, so in that first three months, they really like being bound, because it makes them feel more in control. At least that's what I read somewhere, and it seemed to be true for my kid. We also stopped swaddling his legs after a while because those eventually got strong enough to kick through the whole little cocoon, but we still did his arms. Wow, fascinating, huh? Congratulations on the baby. We should get breakfast at 715 sometime. Sheesh.
Q
Brendan,__I'm twenty-three years old, and I've been a misfit loser pretty much my entire life.__I've recently gotten involved with a girl who I met through a friend, and we've hung out together at shows and with other friends in the local music and art scene. She's a really cool girl, and she's really into me. We've really hit it off after our first real date. We went exploring in this old military base and it went from shooting bb guns at wine bottles to rolling around on the floor making out and listening to Your Gravest Words.__My biggest concern is that she is much more experienced than I am. I've never had a girlfriend, and I've barely so much as made-out with a girl before, so I am obviously a virgin (I was able to hide behind my being straight edge for, but I drink too much whiskey now for that to be believable anymore). In a sense, anyone would be more experienced than I am. While I am ecstatic about being with her and the way things are working out so far, I am completely clueless about everything whatsoever.__I never had a big brother, and I guess what I'm looking for is some general big brotherly advice for relationships, and the ever important issue of sex._
A
Okay, firstly, don’t panic. Aside from a few very, very unlucky people, everyone is a virgin at some point and need to deal with overcoming this mess of emotions and excitement and expectations and all that. EVERYONE can sympathize with your predicament; me, Jenna Haze, your best friend, your teachers, the cops in your town, the butcher, and even this girl. Yeah, it’s funny to rib people about stuff like this because it’s an easy mark. Comedy in its essence is the build up and release of tension (heh…not unlike boning, right? Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t know…See, that’s funny) and since sex is a sensitive subject, it easily creates tension and lends itself to lots of easy and potentially mean spirited jokes (see above for an example), but that’s nothing to be deterred or distracted by. If everyone who was ever an inexperienced virgin completely clammed up when they thought that the potential for their inexperience to be exposed was possible, well, there’d have been a VERY short period when there were sentient humans on the earth, right? Okay, I know this isn’t exactly your question, but I’m trying to make a point. You have, rightly, a big emotional stake in hooking up with this girl-you like her, it’s the first time you’ve been able to get this close to someone emotionally/physically for whatever reason and you’re understandably apprehensive, but it’s nothing everyone who’s ever gotten to that point hasn’t gone through, INCLUDING HER. If you sit her down, casually and say “Hey, listen. I’m inexperienced. In fact, I’m a virgin. I like you, but I don’t really know what I’m doing and I just wanted to let you know that’s why I’m nervous/shy/unsure of where to stick what etc” and she does ANYTHING besides smile, tell you that’s great and that she’s flattered and not to worry about it, and it’s really not a big deal, no one’s born experienced, well, she’s probably not the girl you want to enter into this stage of a relationship with. Doesn’t sound like that’s gonna be the case though, right? She’s cool already, so it’s simple. Tell her what’s up. She’s gonna be sweet and nurturing, or equally inexperienced…don’t rule that possibility out either, and either way, learning about that stuff is one of the most exciting and fun things that you’ll ever do in your life. So relax and enjoy it.
I noticed that down in the old Sock Drawer, some people offered you essentially this same advice. That makes me feel good. You guys aren’t all bad, you know that?
Anyhow, there’s time for you to learn about fingerbanging and how to feel tits or fist assholes or eat pussies in the future. Right now, the best person that can explain what feels good to a girl is the girl you’re with. She’s the person to ask for “big brotherly” advice, because she’s the only one that can tell you what works for her. Women are like old video game cartridges. Each one requires a different style of touch and blowing on to really get working, so there’s no playbook. What makes one girl scream with pleasure will make another punch you in the face, (although, I would say, in general, you want to lightly rub the clam. Don’t jam your fingers in there. That’s just not the way to fingerbang…it’s a rubbing, or wiping move, not an inserting and thrusting move….that’s for your dong to do later). Jesus, is any of this helpful?
I’m going outside. Here’s to ya!
Oh, and to answer the parenting question in the sock drawer (the natural next question after the 'how do i bone' question), I swaddled my baby for the first three months. I found it to be really helpful until he got big enough to start wanting to flip around. You can try it again. It's not like once you stop, that's your chance and it's done. As much as they struggle, they say that's usually somewhat uncontrollable muscle movement, because they haven't yet learned how to move or control their limbs, so in that first three months, they really like being bound, because it makes them feel more in control. At least that's what I read somewhere, and it seemed to be true for my kid. We also stopped swaddling his legs after a while because those eventually got strong enough to kick through the whole little cocoon, but we still did his arms. Wow, fascinating, huh? Congratulations on the baby. We should get breakfast at 715 sometime. Sheesh.
Friday, May 15, 2009
I just wrote this fucking thing and now I need to come up with a title? Fuuuuuck.
Things I will do this weekend:
See the Menzingers!
Eat a banana out of a midget’s asshole.
Play through that new falcon song a few times
Fart the alphabet.
Go to that Mexican restaurant around the way that everyone can’t stop talking about.
Fight off a hangover.
Play the guitar quietly in the fleeting moments of freedom that I still possess.
Talk on my cell phone even though I’m with perfectly decent people and I really should have no reason not to just pay attention to them.
Drink a beer.
Decide that yes, I would like an ice cream sandwich.
Watch pornography.
Openly mock someone’s world view.
Catch at least a few minutes of Thomas the Train, which will, in turn lead to me being vaguely creeped out.
Wipe another human being’s ass.
Check my email.
Badger my poor wife for some blowjobs.
Reconstruct my post Chimpgate face.
Guess her Muff.
Did I mention fart the alphabet? Oh.
Call up someone I haven’t spoken to in a long time with the intent of catching up. BUT I’ll do this at a stupid moment, like right before I walk in the door, SO, then I’ll hang up and there it’ll be in my call log…the evidence that I ATTEMPTED to think about catching up with, and being a good friend to Dave (for example…Hi dave!) but instead selfishly waited until it was impossible and then aborted the whole mission.
There are other things too. Sorry, I'm distracted. My wife’s out of town. I don’t want to go to work. The whole thing is devastating. I’m not in a thinking mood, as you can probably tell. I saw you guys down in the sock drawer are thinking about starting a forum. Good luck with that. I have no problem with it, but it seems superfluous. I mean, don’t you like your sock drawer? You guys are getting too good for your sock drawer? Your father and I work very hard to put good content into this main page every day so you have things to chat about in there and this is the thanks we get? No. Fine. Go ahead. Start a forum. I think you should. Have fun in your fancy forum. Just send us a card every now and again. sigh.
Ahhh…it’s Friday. Remember last Friday? No one cares about the internet on Friday, and I’m no exception. Is this a remarkably half assed entry? Yes. Do I care? Yes. Deeply. Uh…I LOVE the idea of a naked BSC gathering, BUT is that ever really gonna happen?…Oh, okay, how bout this? You guys start a forum and all your avatars have to be your dicks, or your cans or something? That’s good, right?
Jesus Christ. I gotta go. Pffffffffft.
See the Menzingers!
Eat a banana out of a midget’s asshole.
Play through that new falcon song a few times
Fart the alphabet.
Go to that Mexican restaurant around the way that everyone can’t stop talking about.
Fight off a hangover.
Play the guitar quietly in the fleeting moments of freedom that I still possess.
Talk on my cell phone even though I’m with perfectly decent people and I really should have no reason not to just pay attention to them.
Drink a beer.
Decide that yes, I would like an ice cream sandwich.
Watch pornography.
Openly mock someone’s world view.
Catch at least a few minutes of Thomas the Train, which will, in turn lead to me being vaguely creeped out.
Wipe another human being’s ass.
Check my email.
Badger my poor wife for some blowjobs.
Reconstruct my post Chimpgate face.
Guess her Muff.
Did I mention fart the alphabet? Oh.
Call up someone I haven’t spoken to in a long time with the intent of catching up. BUT I’ll do this at a stupid moment, like right before I walk in the door, SO, then I’ll hang up and there it’ll be in my call log…the evidence that I ATTEMPTED to think about catching up with, and being a good friend to Dave (for example…Hi dave!) but instead selfishly waited until it was impossible and then aborted the whole mission.
There are other things too. Sorry, I'm distracted. My wife’s out of town. I don’t want to go to work. The whole thing is devastating. I’m not in a thinking mood, as you can probably tell. I saw you guys down in the sock drawer are thinking about starting a forum. Good luck with that. I have no problem with it, but it seems superfluous. I mean, don’t you like your sock drawer? You guys are getting too good for your sock drawer? Your father and I work very hard to put good content into this main page every day so you have things to chat about in there and this is the thanks we get? No. Fine. Go ahead. Start a forum. I think you should. Have fun in your fancy forum. Just send us a card every now and again. sigh.
Ahhh…it’s Friday. Remember last Friday? No one cares about the internet on Friday, and I’m no exception. Is this a remarkably half assed entry? Yes. Do I care? Yes. Deeply. Uh…I LOVE the idea of a naked BSC gathering, BUT is that ever really gonna happen?…Oh, okay, how bout this? You guys start a forum and all your avatars have to be your dicks, or your cans or something? That’s good, right?
Jesus Christ. I gotta go. Pffffffffft.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
tomato? tomato? Potato? Potato?
Well, I’m afraid I have nothing today. This constant entertainment that you people need…it’s getting tiresome, honestly. I feel like one of many millions of monkeys just typing away at one of many millions of computers. This, the blogosphere, is the actual acting out of that old, dumb adage about probability. It’s happening now. The complete works of Shakespeare? Maybe not here at BSC, but go ahead, peruse the back catalog and I think you’ll find that what I offer makes Shakespeare look like a mere Juggalo in comparison.
For my next trick, I will use my tried and true fall-back method, the neverending quest to define everyone in the world, and combine it with a new and exciting trip to the comments page (the sock drawer) to really, really rattle some tight boxes (to borrow a phrase). Up next- Smart guys.
Hey, smart guy. Are you technically correct even though it doesn’t matter at all in the context of what’s going on and your technically correct knowledge is irrelevant? Yeah. Of course. I am guilty of this one. People will be talking, and I’ll find myself jumping in to point out why what they’re saying is wrong because of a dumb technicality. NOT because what they’re saying is wrong, mind you, but because it was a SEVEN state crime spree, not a NINE state crime spree, just for example.
I have this need encoded in my DNA. I say this because both of my parents are complete monsters when it comes to this shit. (That’s right. I know you read this.) My wife, also one of these people. (Yup. You too.) When it’s family time we just sit around and bite our tongues, cringing at how completely fucking wrong all the unimportant details are in each other’s stories. Except my mom who just ratchets up the volume and interrupts and begins talking about something else entirely. BUT, that’s a whole other category-Grandmothers. We’ll get to them. What’s my point here? Ah yes. The Sock Drawer.
Fuck you and your “Hindi and Mandarin are more spoken languages than English.” I phrased that shit like I did as a test of you assholes! I KNEW someone wouldn’t be able to resist sticking their sphincter in and correcting that little gem. Thankfully, one of the astute among you has already pointed out that English is a more widely SPREAD language than Hindi or Mandarin. Look, smart guy. Here’s a test for you. Fly somewhere in the world that’s not India, England or China. Now, you have 2 minutes to find someone who speaks one of these languages. Which one do you think you’re gonna come across first? Eh? Eh? Spare me the whole thing, okay. I get it, you’re very clever. You’ve got the facts straight. Nice fucking work. Really. Let me just state for the record that localized population density is a little bit irrelevant to world wide popularity, and that was really the point, innit?
Oh, and the whole thing about Spanish actually being the most spoken language…Yeah. That makes sense to me. I thought about that, but then I thought, “nah…Spanish? Who the fuck speaks Spanish outside of North and South America (and of course Spain?) Guess there’s a lot of mofos in those places. Makes sense. Look, who cares? I was just making a fucking point.
See, that’s the great thing about having a blog. It’s a one way conduit of information/shit talking/shaming/etc. This is why the “smart guy” that we’re defining today often arms themselves with a blog as a way of spitting erroneous information out into the world and taking snide jabs at loved ones. And, the blog format is also sweet for telling dick jokes, but you know, that’s another topic.
In closing, as you sit there, taking a dump while digging this on your blackberry, or squinting at a small window tucked into the corner of your office computer, or leisurely turning to this palate cleanser between vigorous masturbation sessions while laying on your couch as your dog licks your feet, think of me, Dogs of war…I’m at my dumb job, dealing with motherfuckers I absolutely cannot STAND, and I’m biting my tongue and not correcting their stupid asses at all. Even though, make no mistake…They are getting practically EVERYTHING wrong.
xoxox
Oh, and last night we practiced the new Falcon song. Let me be objective for a second and say, it's awesome. It will be unveiled at the Windy City Soundclash which takes place…uh, I don’t know, next weekend at Reggies. Get down there early and slap obnoxious stickers all over that fucking place like all the drunk dicks at Reggies did to my friend’s bar after getting all dickhoused at the cubs game last week. Never mind that the bar they trashed had a fucking poster for The Soundclash in the very fucking WINDOW THEY STUCK ALL THEIR CHEAP SHITTY STICKERS ON!!!! Dumb fucking mongaloids. Yup. That’s right. I said that shit.
Peace.
For my next trick, I will use my tried and true fall-back method, the neverending quest to define everyone in the world, and combine it with a new and exciting trip to the comments page (the sock drawer) to really, really rattle some tight boxes (to borrow a phrase). Up next- Smart guys.
Hey, smart guy. Are you technically correct even though it doesn’t matter at all in the context of what’s going on and your technically correct knowledge is irrelevant? Yeah. Of course. I am guilty of this one. People will be talking, and I’ll find myself jumping in to point out why what they’re saying is wrong because of a dumb technicality. NOT because what they’re saying is wrong, mind you, but because it was a SEVEN state crime spree, not a NINE state crime spree, just for example.
I have this need encoded in my DNA. I say this because both of my parents are complete monsters when it comes to this shit. (That’s right. I know you read this.) My wife, also one of these people. (Yup. You too.) When it’s family time we just sit around and bite our tongues, cringing at how completely fucking wrong all the unimportant details are in each other’s stories. Except my mom who just ratchets up the volume and interrupts and begins talking about something else entirely. BUT, that’s a whole other category-Grandmothers. We’ll get to them. What’s my point here? Ah yes. The Sock Drawer.
Fuck you and your “Hindi and Mandarin are more spoken languages than English.” I phrased that shit like I did as a test of you assholes! I KNEW someone wouldn’t be able to resist sticking their sphincter in and correcting that little gem. Thankfully, one of the astute among you has already pointed out that English is a more widely SPREAD language than Hindi or Mandarin. Look, smart guy. Here’s a test for you. Fly somewhere in the world that’s not India, England or China. Now, you have 2 minutes to find someone who speaks one of these languages. Which one do you think you’re gonna come across first? Eh? Eh? Spare me the whole thing, okay. I get it, you’re very clever. You’ve got the facts straight. Nice fucking work. Really. Let me just state for the record that localized population density is a little bit irrelevant to world wide popularity, and that was really the point, innit?
Oh, and the whole thing about Spanish actually being the most spoken language…Yeah. That makes sense to me. I thought about that, but then I thought, “nah…Spanish? Who the fuck speaks Spanish outside of North and South America (and of course Spain?) Guess there’s a lot of mofos in those places. Makes sense. Look, who cares? I was just making a fucking point.
See, that’s the great thing about having a blog. It’s a one way conduit of information/shit talking/shaming/etc. This is why the “smart guy” that we’re defining today often arms themselves with a blog as a way of spitting erroneous information out into the world and taking snide jabs at loved ones. And, the blog format is also sweet for telling dick jokes, but you know, that’s another topic.
In closing, as you sit there, taking a dump while digging this on your blackberry, or squinting at a small window tucked into the corner of your office computer, or leisurely turning to this palate cleanser between vigorous masturbation sessions while laying on your couch as your dog licks your feet, think of me, Dogs of war…I’m at my dumb job, dealing with motherfuckers I absolutely cannot STAND, and I’m biting my tongue and not correcting their stupid asses at all. Even though, make no mistake…They are getting practically EVERYTHING wrong.
xoxox
Oh, and last night we practiced the new Falcon song. Let me be objective for a second and say, it's awesome. It will be unveiled at the Windy City Soundclash which takes place…uh, I don’t know, next weekend at Reggies. Get down there early and slap obnoxious stickers all over that fucking place like all the drunk dicks at Reggies did to my friend’s bar after getting all dickhoused at the cubs game last week. Never mind that the bar they trashed had a fucking poster for The Soundclash in the very fucking WINDOW THEY STUCK ALL THEIR CHEAP SHITTY STICKERS ON!!!! Dumb fucking mongaloids. Yup. That’s right. I said that shit.
Peace.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
This is the point from which I can never return, cuz if I back down now then forever I'll burn
Yo! Hey! Dogs of war, what’s happening? It’s Wednesday and there seems to be a very real threat of DANGEROUS WEATHER in the Midwest. I’ve got my bunker in the basement stocked to the tits. I based what I put down there on the bunker that the man and the boy find in the Road that saves them from starvation the first time. I figure if it’s good enough to keep a man and his skinny, half dead ward alive in a post apocalyptic greyscape of death, roving hillbilly rapists, ash, legless living meals and catamites on leashes, well, hey, it’s good enough for THIS man and boy to live on while it hails this afternoon, right? I’ve already written off any chance of ever seeing anyone again who’s not lucky enough to be terrified of this dangerous weather pattern. I mean, these are the same assholes who foolishly didn’t panic over the swine flu, the Iraqi nuclear threat, heavy metal lyrics, gay marriage and you know…anything that generally pisses off that angry, vengeful, racist yet somehow still infallible god that we have. Good luck. See you in hell, as I look down from heaven, of course.
Man, this segues nicely into the film I watched this weekend. Religulous. For those of you who don’t know, it’s a documentary by Bill Maher that starts off as a sort of quasi humorous questioning of the mythology surrounding religion and becomes, by the end, a pretty serious call to arms to abandon religion on the grounds that it’s one of the stupidest, and most dangerous inventions of mankind. Now, make no mistake, I hate Bill Maher. I think he’s a smug dick. I hate his show, I hate his voice and his face and his standup and I once stood next to him at the Rainbow in LA and had a drink. He was hanging out with Larry David. They were both completely mummified in concealer and pancake makeup. Maher came up to my shoulder (I’m 5’ 10” or 178ish centimeters) and Larry David towered over me. No real point to the story. I didn’t shake his hand or anything…I’m sure they were just both sitting there sucking each other off and talking about the various things that they’re into that the rest of the world it too stupid to ‘get’. Anyway…enough of my railing against Hollywood-by-way-of-Long Island-pseudo-jew-liberal-millionaire-dipshits. I’m way off topic. The point is, the movie was good. I thought that within the context of the film, where Maher was talking to people vastly more smug than him (because these people in this movie, who just know they’re doing right by god, are, to an almost holy degree smug…judgmental, smug, and pitying) his smugness and wit become MY (the angry viewer’s) weapon against these ritualist dildos. Yup. It’s a good movie. Here are my two very broad points regarding Religulous:
1. People (the ones who don’t become overly smug) tend to become very, very afraid when religion gets questioned. Why? It doesn’t make sense. God, the vengeful one, really shouldn’t care if you’re standing around while some blasphemer flaps his gums. After all, it’s HIS soul on the line…Not yours. You’re not agreeing, just standing there, maybe even (and in the case of this movie, usually) arguing against the blasphemy. That’s a good move, in the eyes of god, at least, ain’t it? Besides, the demonstrative god of the old testament seems to have packed away his lightning bolts and locusts. He’s not doing that shit these days, so why the fear? Why does the trucker practically RUN out of the church when Maher starts asking the ‘tough’ [read: obvious] questions? You know why? Because deep down, beneath your kirk Cameron like certainty, you know…you KNOW that the bible or the Koran (yipes) or the Talmud or the (heh) book of mor(m)on or whatever is fucking duuuuuuuuuumb. You believe that shit in there? Really? No you don’t. You don’t. You pretend to for social reasons, because you’re afraid of the unknown and because your dad/pappy/grandma/niece whoever always did and the idea of them being wrong and somewhere more confusing, scary or just straight up unknowable breaks your heart and leaves you with a ton of questions. But you know it. YOU KNOW IT. That’s why you’re afraid. Sure, fall back on faith if you must, but know, realize, understand, faith is not IN ANY WAY, FOR ANY REASON, a virtue. Faith is unquestioning acquiescence to established dogma regardless of consequence. It’s trite to compare everything to Nazism, though in this case it’s rather tempting, but I’m not going there today. Instead, I’ll say it’s like the manson girls, or the idiots who all drank the Jonestown kool aid or the fucking city block of corpses who took pills and put on new shoes to get on the spaceship to go see god. The only difference between a cult and religion is bankroll and time. Watch out Christians, jews, muslims, because in 2000 years, if you haven’t already blown everything up in a fucking dumb hell that you created yourselves by being such fucking mindless retards, well, the Scientologists will probably be major players and they’re coming for you. You think Israel is a hot button issue? Wait until the Hubbardcost when they establish Dianeticstan. Then you’re gonna see some fucking Molotov cocktails and rocks, boy. Just wait.
2. Up next is this guy, Propa-Ghandi. He’s a muslim rapper, and wait…is this dude even real? Is he? Because firstly, there’s a band that ALREADY has that name, and secondly, I can’t find shit about him except when I google him along side the word ‘religulous’. Well, he’s a defender of the general doctrine of killing infidels that comes part and parcel with fundamentalist islam these days…but seriously? That’s your name? Propaghandi is a pretty popular band. They’re, in fact, probably MY favorite band. THIS GUY is the one misappropriating their name? In the name of what, now? Now, I’m not even so concerned about his politics. Whatever, politics that are also religious are stupid 100% of the time. We’ve already talked about that too much. I’m more bummed that he’s doing that ‘rap with an English acccent’ thing. It’s just strange. It’s like a chick with a dick or someone with no eyebrows. Just don’t seem right, you know? I mean, ask almost anyone that loves opera and they’ll tell you that an opera has to be in Italian. Yeah, sure, Wagner is big, Porgy and Bess all that…I get it. But you know what I’m saying…Opera is, really, when done like it’s supposed to be, Itaian. Rock and Roll is sort of like that with English…Sure it’s a xenophobic thing to say…But there’s a reason that Rock and Roll that’s in English is vastly the most popular rock and roll in the world. It sounds right. Eh, I guess the fact that English is far and away the most spoken language in the world doesn’t hurt, but come on, you get my point. I’m not trying to take away from non-english rock. Lord knows I see the appeal, especially if you don’t speak English…and hey, man, I love me some Crudos. Whatever, here’s the thing. There’s plenty of room in the world of music for non English rock, and even non English rap, There’s great rap out there that’s not in English. Rap in fact needs the English language LESS than rock n roll does. BUT…let’s be honest, shall we? Rap in the English accent just sounds goofy. It does. Face facts. Lady Sov? That’s who you’re throwing out there to defend britrap? MIA? Yeah, she’s cool, but in actually sounding good, she doesn’t sound like hip hop, she sounds like indy dance music. The Streets? Look, the streets are more like William Shatner’s spoken word than Run DMC. Heh. I’m done here. Throw your crumpets.
I think today, without meaning to, I'm afraid I’ve alienated plenty of people. Enough for a while… Well, fuck it. that’s what good discourse about thought provoking film will do though, you know? So, in conclusion, this Matt guy from the comments section (the Sock Drawer) says he’s going to bang Riley Mason with his old lady’s blessing. Is that true? Because that’s pretty cool, for sure. I hope she yawns and smokes during the whole thing and tells you to hurry up and finish and get your fat/skinny/old/young/sloppy/metrosexual (whatever Matt actually is) ass out the door. That’s a good porn/hooker experience, right? Maybe she’ll mock your dick size. I mean, that’s what I’d want.
Toodles!
Man, this segues nicely into the film I watched this weekend. Religulous. For those of you who don’t know, it’s a documentary by Bill Maher that starts off as a sort of quasi humorous questioning of the mythology surrounding religion and becomes, by the end, a pretty serious call to arms to abandon religion on the grounds that it’s one of the stupidest, and most dangerous inventions of mankind. Now, make no mistake, I hate Bill Maher. I think he’s a smug dick. I hate his show, I hate his voice and his face and his standup and I once stood next to him at the Rainbow in LA and had a drink. He was hanging out with Larry David. They were both completely mummified in concealer and pancake makeup. Maher came up to my shoulder (I’m 5’ 10” or 178ish centimeters) and Larry David towered over me. No real point to the story. I didn’t shake his hand or anything…I’m sure they were just both sitting there sucking each other off and talking about the various things that they’re into that the rest of the world it too stupid to ‘get’. Anyway…enough of my railing against Hollywood-by-way-of-Long Island-pseudo-jew-liberal-millionaire-dipshits. I’m way off topic. The point is, the movie was good. I thought that within the context of the film, where Maher was talking to people vastly more smug than him (because these people in this movie, who just know they’re doing right by god, are, to an almost holy degree smug…judgmental, smug, and pitying) his smugness and wit become MY (the angry viewer’s) weapon against these ritualist dildos. Yup. It’s a good movie. Here are my two very broad points regarding Religulous:
1. People (the ones who don’t become overly smug) tend to become very, very afraid when religion gets questioned. Why? It doesn’t make sense. God, the vengeful one, really shouldn’t care if you’re standing around while some blasphemer flaps his gums. After all, it’s HIS soul on the line…Not yours. You’re not agreeing, just standing there, maybe even (and in the case of this movie, usually) arguing against the blasphemy. That’s a good move, in the eyes of god, at least, ain’t it? Besides, the demonstrative god of the old testament seems to have packed away his lightning bolts and locusts. He’s not doing that shit these days, so why the fear? Why does the trucker practically RUN out of the church when Maher starts asking the ‘tough’ [read: obvious] questions? You know why? Because deep down, beneath your kirk Cameron like certainty, you know…you KNOW that the bible or the Koran (yipes) or the Talmud or the (heh) book of mor(m)on or whatever is fucking duuuuuuuuuumb. You believe that shit in there? Really? No you don’t. You don’t. You pretend to for social reasons, because you’re afraid of the unknown and because your dad/pappy/grandma/niece whoever always did and the idea of them being wrong and somewhere more confusing, scary or just straight up unknowable breaks your heart and leaves you with a ton of questions. But you know it. YOU KNOW IT. That’s why you’re afraid. Sure, fall back on faith if you must, but know, realize, understand, faith is not IN ANY WAY, FOR ANY REASON, a virtue. Faith is unquestioning acquiescence to established dogma regardless of consequence. It’s trite to compare everything to Nazism, though in this case it’s rather tempting, but I’m not going there today. Instead, I’ll say it’s like the manson girls, or the idiots who all drank the Jonestown kool aid or the fucking city block of corpses who took pills and put on new shoes to get on the spaceship to go see god. The only difference between a cult and religion is bankroll and time. Watch out Christians, jews, muslims, because in 2000 years, if you haven’t already blown everything up in a fucking dumb hell that you created yourselves by being such fucking mindless retards, well, the Scientologists will probably be major players and they’re coming for you. You think Israel is a hot button issue? Wait until the Hubbardcost when they establish Dianeticstan. Then you’re gonna see some fucking Molotov cocktails and rocks, boy. Just wait.
2. Up next is this guy, Propa-Ghandi. He’s a muslim rapper, and wait…is this dude even real? Is he? Because firstly, there’s a band that ALREADY has that name, and secondly, I can’t find shit about him except when I google him along side the word ‘religulous’. Well, he’s a defender of the general doctrine of killing infidels that comes part and parcel with fundamentalist islam these days…but seriously? That’s your name? Propaghandi is a pretty popular band. They’re, in fact, probably MY favorite band. THIS GUY is the one misappropriating their name? In the name of what, now? Now, I’m not even so concerned about his politics. Whatever, politics that are also religious are stupid 100% of the time. We’ve already talked about that too much. I’m more bummed that he’s doing that ‘rap with an English acccent’ thing. It’s just strange. It’s like a chick with a dick or someone with no eyebrows. Just don’t seem right, you know? I mean, ask almost anyone that loves opera and they’ll tell you that an opera has to be in Italian. Yeah, sure, Wagner is big, Porgy and Bess all that…I get it. But you know what I’m saying…Opera is, really, when done like it’s supposed to be, Itaian. Rock and Roll is sort of like that with English…Sure it’s a xenophobic thing to say…But there’s a reason that Rock and Roll that’s in English is vastly the most popular rock and roll in the world. It sounds right. Eh, I guess the fact that English is far and away the most spoken language in the world doesn’t hurt, but come on, you get my point. I’m not trying to take away from non-english rock. Lord knows I see the appeal, especially if you don’t speak English…and hey, man, I love me some Crudos. Whatever, here’s the thing. There’s plenty of room in the world of music for non English rock, and even non English rap, There’s great rap out there that’s not in English. Rap in fact needs the English language LESS than rock n roll does. BUT…let’s be honest, shall we? Rap in the English accent just sounds goofy. It does. Face facts. Lady Sov? That’s who you’re throwing out there to defend britrap? MIA? Yeah, she’s cool, but in actually sounding good, she doesn’t sound like hip hop, she sounds like indy dance music. The Streets? Look, the streets are more like William Shatner’s spoken word than Run DMC. Heh. I’m done here. Throw your crumpets.
I think today, without meaning to, I'm afraid I’ve alienated plenty of people. Enough for a while… Well, fuck it. that’s what good discourse about thought provoking film will do though, you know? So, in conclusion, this Matt guy from the comments section (the Sock Drawer) says he’s going to bang Riley Mason with his old lady’s blessing. Is that true? Because that’s pretty cool, for sure. I hope she yawns and smokes during the whole thing and tells you to hurry up and finish and get your fat/skinny/old/young/sloppy/metrosexual (whatever Matt actually is) ass out the door. That’s a good porn/hooker experience, right? Maybe she’ll mock your dick size. I mean, that’s what I’d want.
Toodles!
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
I cut more limes than Sarahara Oh. Wait...that can't be right.
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Monday, May 11, 2009
Michigan possible
Jesus, I almost forgot about you guys today. I was working on this song, and time just kind of slipped away from me. Now it’s after noon and I still have all sorts of bullshit to do…I have to contest a ticket and call the pediatrician and fun shit like that. Woo! Also, I have to go….look, that’s not important. It’s, frankly dull. I’m bored just writing it. Well, I guess that those of you out there who like my band can take heart in knowing that I’m getting close to finishing a pretty cool song. That’s something, right? Sigh.
The weekend was nice. I have a friend who rocks a pretty unrepentantly savage program of wastedness who turned thirty this weekend and I swear, I think he made the whole city hung over through the sheer force of his own revelry. Last night, every single person who came into my bar looked like they’d been slapped silly with a bottle of nyquill and a bag of cheap blow the night before. So many chicken wings were consumed. So many embarrassing moments were silently remembered and cringed at. So many people didn’t show up at all and I just kind of stood there doing nothing for hours on end.
Well, as much as I love the idea that one guy’s party agenda can make a whole city hung over, I think the real reason was mothers day. Everyone had to get up and hang with their moms, and hangovers were therefore not properly dealt with.
Fuck. Look. I can’t just be explaining this to you people. We’ve got things to do. We’re trying to turn this blog into an interactive community and as I go through these comments, I gotta say, I’m a little stumped…Okay, let’s give it a try.
Let’s see I’m going through these now…Have I ever jacked off at work? Dude, I lived in a van on the road for a job…so yeah. For sure. Right into chris’s socks. He loves it.
Ah, now we’re talking. This is a really nice comment:
“I accidentally jizzed inside a 30 year old single mom on friday night...it would have been better had it been on or around the tit area. She was still really nice though.”
Now, that’s a great story, but also a bit of a pickle, because well, if she’s a mom, you know she’s fertile, not terribly into abortions and at least somewhat down with kids in general, AND due to her age, she’s probably fully aware that her fecundity is, like the browning leaves on an autumn oak, withering and you know, dying…so, hey, I’d say, nice work. Awesome, in fact. Worst case scenario, please consider the name Brendan, or Bad Sandwich if it’s a girl. Beautiful name for a little girl.
Someone wanted me to write about neil. Neil is the drummer of my band and he’s fucking goofy as shit. One time, we were at bob evans following a show in St. Louis the night before. I ordered the cheddar potato soup. Neil ordered the eggs benedict. When the waitress came, she placed my soup in front of neil by mistake and he picked up his spoon to dig in. When I said, “hey man, are you gonna eat my soup?” he said, without a hint of irony or humor, “Oh, sorry. I thought this was eggs benedict.”
Now, this is strange for several reasons. Firstly, who the fuck thinks eggs benedict comes in a bowl or looks like soup, right? It’s a common dish. It’s described on the menu. It’s, not to belabor the point, NOT SOUP. Secondly, who orders something off a menu that they don’t even have a general concept of? I mean, I’m as adventurous as the next guy, but how do you even get to the point where you decide on ‘eggs benedict’ without the benefit of having even the remotest idea of what it is? I’ve been to sushi places where I don’t have any idea what anything on the menu is, and I ask for recommendations, because, well, how the fuck do you make a choice with NO information at all? Right? I know…like I said, goofy as shit, man.
Anyway, this story is 100% true. It was a while ago, though. And I’m pretty sure that Neil’s an old hat at eggs benedict now. Yup.
Everything else seems to be about jizz, Candice, or some combination of the two, except for the guy who wants to hear about the broadways. That’s my old band…We were um…unpopular in our time. Let’s put it that way. We actually made a kid cry in California because he came to see us based on the band some of us had been in previously (a ska band called slapstick). While we were on stage, I saw him ask the door guy when the ex slapstick band was gonna play. The doorguy pointed at us and said “that’s them now.” The kid burst into tears. Ha! Dumb kid. Stupid expectations. They’ll burn you every time.
xoxoxo
The weekend was nice. I have a friend who rocks a pretty unrepentantly savage program of wastedness who turned thirty this weekend and I swear, I think he made the whole city hung over through the sheer force of his own revelry. Last night, every single person who came into my bar looked like they’d been slapped silly with a bottle of nyquill and a bag of cheap blow the night before. So many chicken wings were consumed. So many embarrassing moments were silently remembered and cringed at. So many people didn’t show up at all and I just kind of stood there doing nothing for hours on end.
Well, as much as I love the idea that one guy’s party agenda can make a whole city hung over, I think the real reason was mothers day. Everyone had to get up and hang with their moms, and hangovers were therefore not properly dealt with.
Fuck. Look. I can’t just be explaining this to you people. We’ve got things to do. We’re trying to turn this blog into an interactive community and as I go through these comments, I gotta say, I’m a little stumped…Okay, let’s give it a try.
Let’s see I’m going through these now…Have I ever jacked off at work? Dude, I lived in a van on the road for a job…so yeah. For sure. Right into chris’s socks. He loves it.
Ah, now we’re talking. This is a really nice comment:
“I accidentally jizzed inside a 30 year old single mom on friday night...it would have been better had it been on or around the tit area. She was still really nice though.”
Now, that’s a great story, but also a bit of a pickle, because well, if she’s a mom, you know she’s fertile, not terribly into abortions and at least somewhat down with kids in general, AND due to her age, she’s probably fully aware that her fecundity is, like the browning leaves on an autumn oak, withering and you know, dying…so, hey, I’d say, nice work. Awesome, in fact. Worst case scenario, please consider the name Brendan, or Bad Sandwich if it’s a girl. Beautiful name for a little girl.
Someone wanted me to write about neil. Neil is the drummer of my band and he’s fucking goofy as shit. One time, we were at bob evans following a show in St. Louis the night before. I ordered the cheddar potato soup. Neil ordered the eggs benedict. When the waitress came, she placed my soup in front of neil by mistake and he picked up his spoon to dig in. When I said, “hey man, are you gonna eat my soup?” he said, without a hint of irony or humor, “Oh, sorry. I thought this was eggs benedict.”
Now, this is strange for several reasons. Firstly, who the fuck thinks eggs benedict comes in a bowl or looks like soup, right? It’s a common dish. It’s described on the menu. It’s, not to belabor the point, NOT SOUP. Secondly, who orders something off a menu that they don’t even have a general concept of? I mean, I’m as adventurous as the next guy, but how do you even get to the point where you decide on ‘eggs benedict’ without the benefit of having even the remotest idea of what it is? I’ve been to sushi places where I don’t have any idea what anything on the menu is, and I ask for recommendations, because, well, how the fuck do you make a choice with NO information at all? Right? I know…like I said, goofy as shit, man.
Anyway, this story is 100% true. It was a while ago, though. And I’m pretty sure that Neil’s an old hat at eggs benedict now. Yup.
Everything else seems to be about jizz, Candice, or some combination of the two, except for the guy who wants to hear about the broadways. That’s my old band…We were um…unpopular in our time. Let’s put it that way. We actually made a kid cry in California because he came to see us based on the band some of us had been in previously (a ska band called slapstick). While we were on stage, I saw him ask the door guy when the ex slapstick band was gonna play. The doorguy pointed at us and said “that’s them now.” The kid burst into tears. Ha! Dumb kid. Stupid expectations. They’ll burn you every time.
xoxoxo
Friday, May 8, 2009
the itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout
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Thursday, May 7, 2009
Droppin' loads! Edward James Olmos!
Shit. Man. Fuck. Hmmmm…..Well, I’m just gonna go ahead and say what we’re all thinking. Congratulations, Sickie 27! That’s pretty spectacular. If, by some chance you have no idea what I’m talking about, simply read the comments from yesterday’s entry “Hold On Dodge”. Easily the single greatest comment this dumb blog has ever generated. For those of you who don’t have the time or the patience, she just let some dude blow a load on her cans for the first time ever. Again, congrats!
Sexual firsts are pretty hilarious across the board, right? I mean, the first time I put my hand in a girl’s pants my brain completely scrambled because there was no wiener. I had never put my hand in any pants but my own, and the disconnect was too much for me to bear. I panicked, couldn’t figure out what was going on, never found the uh, entrance…and gave up in a huff, kind of like Nick Lachey when he tries to snowboard in that one episode of that dumb show about him and his mongaloid wife (although I didn’t throw the girl’s pussy down the stairs and stomp on it like Nick did to his snowboard…I’m a gentleman, after all.)
The first time someone put their hand in MY pants…Honestly, I don’t remember the situation, or who it was or anything like that, but I remember distinctly feeling like my hand was numb. I was already proficient in whacking off, so I was used to the feeling of wang in hand, hand on wang. It was burned into my synapses, so when suddenly the hand on my wang wasn’t mine, my brain misfired and read the whole thing as it STILL being my hand, but my hand just not being able to feel my wang, due to, I suppose, numbness.
I don’t know if I’m explaining this the right way. It was monumentally confusing.
I’m struck though, by Sickie27’s awesome comment. She let this dude blow a load on her chest…I’ve never in my life ‘let’ a girl do something interesting to me. That’s men versus women for you. You’ll never hear a guy say “I let her blow me” Nah, not true. More to the point, you’ll totally hear some asshole dude say that, but it’s taken as a given that what he means is “I totally bought her drinks, told her how pretty she was, took her to my house/her house/the car/the mensroom and begged for a beej/kind of nudged her head towards my crotch while we were making out/frantically and pathetically texted over and over again/etc, and now that I’m done with all that, I feel like a dork for being such a pussy and chatting up some girl and ignoring all my friends who were actually having a fun night just so I could get this blowjob from this dumb chick that I shouldn’t even be wasting my time with but I can’t help it because I’m kind of pathetic, so I’m gonna pretend that the ball was in my court the whole time and that I finally broke down and granted her the honor of blowing me.”
But let’s be honest…guys really aren’t ‘letting’ things happen. I’ve never allowed anything. My expectations, pants wise, have always been more like what they want from the chicks on rock of love or flavor of love. “Hey, welcome. Feel free to just hang out and do nothing if you don’t care about getting a pass to the next episode, but I’d also like to suggest that you are more than welcome get drunk and go as absolutely butt wild as you possibly can imagine.” I think this is almost every man’s general party line when it comes to this sort of thing….I mean, right? Of course.
Women really are the gatekeepers, and not just because vaginas are like gates and dongs are like keys (but with sores and warts instead of teeth), but because they are the ones allowing things. Fuck, you think at gay bars or bathhouses there’s a question of chest-load etiquette? Doubtful. Look, this is nothing new, and I’m aware of that. Men are horny slobs. Women deal with them in exchange for being able to tell long stories about shoes and coworkers and have someone listen. Right? I know, it’s the subject of BILLIONS of stand up routines already. I’m not original. Whatever, I gotta wash this load off my chest and get to work. Peace.
Sexual firsts are pretty hilarious across the board, right? I mean, the first time I put my hand in a girl’s pants my brain completely scrambled because there was no wiener. I had never put my hand in any pants but my own, and the disconnect was too much for me to bear. I panicked, couldn’t figure out what was going on, never found the uh, entrance…and gave up in a huff, kind of like Nick Lachey when he tries to snowboard in that one episode of that dumb show about him and his mongaloid wife (although I didn’t throw the girl’s pussy down the stairs and stomp on it like Nick did to his snowboard…I’m a gentleman, after all.)
The first time someone put their hand in MY pants…Honestly, I don’t remember the situation, or who it was or anything like that, but I remember distinctly feeling like my hand was numb. I was already proficient in whacking off, so I was used to the feeling of wang in hand, hand on wang. It was burned into my synapses, so when suddenly the hand on my wang wasn’t mine, my brain misfired and read the whole thing as it STILL being my hand, but my hand just not being able to feel my wang, due to, I suppose, numbness.
I don’t know if I’m explaining this the right way. It was monumentally confusing.
I’m struck though, by Sickie27’s awesome comment. She let this dude blow a load on her chest…I’ve never in my life ‘let’ a girl do something interesting to me. That’s men versus women for you. You’ll never hear a guy say “I let her blow me” Nah, not true. More to the point, you’ll totally hear some asshole dude say that, but it’s taken as a given that what he means is “I totally bought her drinks, told her how pretty she was, took her to my house/her house/the car/the mensroom and begged for a beej/kind of nudged her head towards my crotch while we were making out/frantically and pathetically texted over and over again/etc, and now that I’m done with all that, I feel like a dork for being such a pussy and chatting up some girl and ignoring all my friends who were actually having a fun night just so I could get this blowjob from this dumb chick that I shouldn’t even be wasting my time with but I can’t help it because I’m kind of pathetic, so I’m gonna pretend that the ball was in my court the whole time and that I finally broke down and granted her the honor of blowing me.”
But let’s be honest…guys really aren’t ‘letting’ things happen. I’ve never allowed anything. My expectations, pants wise, have always been more like what they want from the chicks on rock of love or flavor of love. “Hey, welcome. Feel free to just hang out and do nothing if you don’t care about getting a pass to the next episode, but I’d also like to suggest that you are more than welcome get drunk and go as absolutely butt wild as you possibly can imagine.” I think this is almost every man’s general party line when it comes to this sort of thing….I mean, right? Of course.
Women really are the gatekeepers, and not just because vaginas are like gates and dongs are like keys (but with sores and warts instead of teeth), but because they are the ones allowing things. Fuck, you think at gay bars or bathhouses there’s a question of chest-load etiquette? Doubtful. Look, this is nothing new, and I’m aware of that. Men are horny slobs. Women deal with them in exchange for being able to tell long stories about shoes and coworkers and have someone listen. Right? I know, it’s the subject of BILLIONS of stand up routines already. I’m not original. Whatever, I gotta wash this load off my chest and get to work. Peace.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Hold On, Dodge!
Okay, so first things first. Yesterday some Mexican dude took issue with me talking about swine flu and Mexico and all that. I understand that this is a sensitive issue these days. My buddy Lupe told me that several people have given him dirty looks talked shit to him and tried to get away from him just because he’s Mexican. Never mind that he lives in Chicago, and he’s from Guadalajara, many miles from any swine flu…Whatever, you get the idea. People are idiots, which is EXACTLY what I was saying yesterday when I referenced the swine flu. It was a joke. I realize humor doesn’t always translate across language barriers, but suffice it to say, I’m no more scared of the swine flu than the regular flu. In fact, if you didn’t get a flu shot this year, you shouldn’t be any more scared of the swine flu either. The regular flu infected and killed way more people than the swine version, so relax, or go curl up in a bunker or whatever. It’s just a different flu with no vaccine (read:flu shot). That’s the difference, dummies (oh, and spare me the lesson on how pig genetic material is mixing with avian and blah blah blah…that’s not practically applicable to alleviating or causing fear, you smarty pants dildo. You either know exactly what that means [you’re a biologist] or you have NO IDEA what that really means and you’re swinging your dick around. Which is it? Thought so.)
People aren’t still talking about the swine flu, are they? It’s like the William Hung of diseases. Huge here for about ten seconds then shipped off to Asia. Heh.
Enough. I don’t want to talk about the dumb swine/avian flu anymore. In six months when it mutates and returns and is actually a dangerous disease, then we can talk, but for now, let’s drop it. Everyone, Kay? Good.
Heh.
Okay, that’s that. On to bigger and better things. I don’t know what’s going on in the world of celebrities anymore. It’s kind of sad. My kid took up all the energy I used to have for reading Perez or Us Weekly or watching access Hollywood. Thank god, right? I mean, those are horrible pastimes. Beating off is more rewarding and mentally challenging. There’s nothing inherently cool about knowing about Rhianna and Chris Brown or Demi Lovato or whatever the fuck we’re calling these puppets and retards this week, but there is something SO uncool about being completely clueless. That’s like when your parents said things like “what is this music? It just sounds like people talking. Anyone could do this,” and you’re all “dad, that’s Ice Cube. You couldn’t do that” and then he’s like “oh yeah?” and he starts trying to rap and it’s the most horrendously embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you, even though it’s just the two of you in the car. Why? Because in that moment, when your drunk dad is suddenly dick deep in a sea of popculture that he has no idea how to navigate, you see your future self, lost in a world of dumb bullshit you can’t possibly make yourself want to care about, and it’s frightening.
Well, I’m there, I think. I mean, I know that britney’s pussy was hanging out one night and then the next night her tampon string was swinging around…(at this point, shouldn’t she have someone that’s just in charge of keeping her pussy…you know? Not out there? It’s like a wily dog that keeps hopping the fence, that vagina of hers) and I know about the chris brown thing, as we discussed already, and I’ve heard Flo Rida and I’ve got a pretty good idea that Star Trek and Wolverine are the movies that everyone’s gonna be talking about all summer, but I don’t know what the fuck is really going on…I’m a parent. I get Old MacDonald stuck in my head when I’m working, for fucks sake. Coolness…dissipating…urge to own sweatpants and sandals…overwhelming.
Fuck me, man. I’m gonna go. I’m gonna contest this parking ticket by mail and try and figure out if I’m too sore to go to the gym today. I think the answer is yes, but you never know. I feel like I should leave you all with something good though, before I go.
Hmmmmm….
Okay, in my quest to define everyone in the world, I’d like to present you with my next installment- Shameless corporate shills-
You think immediately of say, Jared from Subway, though let’s be honest, Jared was a lard ass that somehow slimmed down by eating footlong subs (which suggests to me that he was, bare minimum, eating whole pigs for every meal before he started his “fast food hoagie” diet) and in doing so greatly improved his life. He’s just giving back. That’s not shameless shilling. I think more of the chicks who wear Jagermiester shirts and carry around test tubes and let drunk scumbags ogle their tits all in the name of brand promotion. Of course, as celebrity comes into play, people tend to be more critical of shameless corporate shills, but really, it’s no different than any other job. If brad pitt gets a million bucks to be on a box of hot pockets that’s a MILLION BUCKS for one day of work. You do stupid shit that you hate at your dumb job every day in the name of promoting or furthering some agenda that’s most likely not purely yours, and you’re not getting a million bucks either. Fuck. You WISH your job was as fun as posing on a box of hot pockets…
Point being, the new Menzingers seven inch, on Red Scare Industries is now available for download on itunes. For those of you who don’t know, the Menzingers are a Clash-y, Against Me! ish band of rabble rousers who aren’t afraid to play straight ahead punk rock when it’s necessary. Three singers, great live show. Awesome dudes. Amazing seven inch. It’s called Hold On, Dodge and listen, I know what you’re thinking. At first I thought they sounded like the ramones, just based on the name, but you know what? They don’t. It’s, like I said, a great, great new band that will have you all crying and bitching in 2 years when they start getting big, so get on the trolley now so you don’t look like Johnny come lately dickheads when they turn all gaslight anthem on your ass and start playing in front of a banner.
Uh, later.
People aren’t still talking about the swine flu, are they? It’s like the William Hung of diseases. Huge here for about ten seconds then shipped off to Asia. Heh.
Enough. I don’t want to talk about the dumb swine/avian flu anymore. In six months when it mutates and returns and is actually a dangerous disease, then we can talk, but for now, let’s drop it. Everyone, Kay? Good.
Heh.
Okay, that’s that. On to bigger and better things. I don’t know what’s going on in the world of celebrities anymore. It’s kind of sad. My kid took up all the energy I used to have for reading Perez or Us Weekly or watching access Hollywood. Thank god, right? I mean, those are horrible pastimes. Beating off is more rewarding and mentally challenging. There’s nothing inherently cool about knowing about Rhianna and Chris Brown or Demi Lovato or whatever the fuck we’re calling these puppets and retards this week, but there is something SO uncool about being completely clueless. That’s like when your parents said things like “what is this music? It just sounds like people talking. Anyone could do this,” and you’re all “dad, that’s Ice Cube. You couldn’t do that” and then he’s like “oh yeah?” and he starts trying to rap and it’s the most horrendously embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you, even though it’s just the two of you in the car. Why? Because in that moment, when your drunk dad is suddenly dick deep in a sea of popculture that he has no idea how to navigate, you see your future self, lost in a world of dumb bullshit you can’t possibly make yourself want to care about, and it’s frightening.
Well, I’m there, I think. I mean, I know that britney’s pussy was hanging out one night and then the next night her tampon string was swinging around…(at this point, shouldn’t she have someone that’s just in charge of keeping her pussy…you know? Not out there? It’s like a wily dog that keeps hopping the fence, that vagina of hers) and I know about the chris brown thing, as we discussed already, and I’ve heard Flo Rida and I’ve got a pretty good idea that Star Trek and Wolverine are the movies that everyone’s gonna be talking about all summer, but I don’t know what the fuck is really going on…I’m a parent. I get Old MacDonald stuck in my head when I’m working, for fucks sake. Coolness…dissipating…urge to own sweatpants and sandals…overwhelming.
Fuck me, man. I’m gonna go. I’m gonna contest this parking ticket by mail and try and figure out if I’m too sore to go to the gym today. I think the answer is yes, but you never know. I feel like I should leave you all with something good though, before I go.
Hmmmmm….
Okay, in my quest to define everyone in the world, I’d like to present you with my next installment- Shameless corporate shills-
You think immediately of say, Jared from Subway, though let’s be honest, Jared was a lard ass that somehow slimmed down by eating footlong subs (which suggests to me that he was, bare minimum, eating whole pigs for every meal before he started his “fast food hoagie” diet) and in doing so greatly improved his life. He’s just giving back. That’s not shameless shilling. I think more of the chicks who wear Jagermiester shirts and carry around test tubes and let drunk scumbags ogle their tits all in the name of brand promotion. Of course, as celebrity comes into play, people tend to be more critical of shameless corporate shills, but really, it’s no different than any other job. If brad pitt gets a million bucks to be on a box of hot pockets that’s a MILLION BUCKS for one day of work. You do stupid shit that you hate at your dumb job every day in the name of promoting or furthering some agenda that’s most likely not purely yours, and you’re not getting a million bucks either. Fuck. You WISH your job was as fun as posing on a box of hot pockets…
Point being, the new Menzingers seven inch, on Red Scare Industries is now available for download on itunes. For those of you who don’t know, the Menzingers are a Clash-y, Against Me! ish band of rabble rousers who aren’t afraid to play straight ahead punk rock when it’s necessary. Three singers, great live show. Awesome dudes. Amazing seven inch. It’s called Hold On, Dodge and listen, I know what you’re thinking. At first I thought they sounded like the ramones, just based on the name, but you know what? They don’t. It’s, like I said, a great, great new band that will have you all crying and bitching in 2 years when they start getting big, so get on the trolley now so you don’t look like Johnny come lately dickheads when they turn all gaslight anthem on your ass and start playing in front of a banner.
Uh, later.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
the guide to casual drinking 2009 summer edition
Good morning assholes and uh…what’s the feminine of asshole? Vagina holes? Sure. Fine, whatever. Good morning ass and vagina holes! Welcome to another wonderful edition of BSC. Today the topic is drinking. Just a tiny little guide that I thought I’d throw together as summer (the drinking season) approaches:
Beer is what you drink when you’re out with your parents/inlaws or when you really want to make sure you don’t end up doing something dumb. For example, you’re out with your ex boyfriend and you ALWAYS end up accidentally fucking him, just drink beer this time. It’ll keep your panties on. Unless you secretly WANT to get so drunk that your inhibitions go to shit…which is a super common move in these kinds of situations. Well, look, if you’re into self sabotage, then the guide isn’t for you.
Vodka- Vodka is the opposite of beer, in that it tends to make you manic, which is a clinical term that means ‘loud and irritating.’ If you are looking to be the life of the party (read: bang the fat chick and tell inappropriate jokes to people) then this is the spirit for you…Mix it with redbull if you’re concerned that you’re not being obnoxious enough, or you’re still feeling a little shy about whipping out your tits/dick.
Whiskey- Whiskey usually makes me quiet. Whiskey is good for drinking when you want to just kind of sit somewhere for a long time. I tend to think it slows the brain down, which is great if you’re unwinding, but not so much if you’re (for example) trying to prove to your girlfriend’s dad that you’re not a retard. Apparently whiskey gives you a great dick, because, though I have no idea what it means, I hear about ‘whiskey dick’ all the time. My guess? Whiskey can make you flushed, so it probably gives the shaft a rosy hue.
Gin- This shit is for old men and people who want desperately to be ‘off the grid’ when it comes to drinking. You don’t drink gin. No you don’t. Quit it. Gin is like a mustache or a scarf or carrying a riding crop around. You just make everyone roll their eyes when you walk in the room. Who are you? The red baron? Just relax.
Tequila- Summer means tequila. Margaritas, shots, tequiza, eating your cheerios with Sauza. Tequila is great, for sure. However, somewhere along the way, tequila went from being something that a dude in a sombrero dumps into your mouth from a plastic bottle against your will to the domain of connoisseurs. Now, there are all these people talking tequila like it’s wine, and everywhere you go there’s a tequila flight and some wealthy black guy in an amazing suit talking about some small batch of some shit no one’s ever heard of and then he says “oh, if you ever get to Cozumel, you need to try it.’ And I’m like, “Yo! Ever hear of the swine flu?”
Some people can’t drink it because it makes them violent/angry. That’s a pretty good reason not to fuck around with something, I’d say. Good self control. Talk to the vodka chicks, please.
Wine-Wine is a great one, because for every self important, cork sniffing asshole sending something back because it’s from the shady corner of the vineyard (“who gives a fuck if it’s an '86 if it’s from the back of the vineyard, you moron!”), there’s a bum chugging a three dollar bottle and shitting in someone’s vestibule. Wine is big with girls who don’t want beer and mistakenly think that wine won’t get them as hammered as a cocktail. Chicks that drink white wine at bars fall into two distinct categories. 1. The single glass just so her boyfriend can chug 3 jack and cokes or so her and her girlfriends can catch up. And 2. The “I’m switching to vodka after the fifth glass and by the end of the night, someone’s gonna be fucking me up against the wall of the mens room stall.” Nothing cooler than an old ass man drinking a glass of chardonnay by himself on a nice day while sitting in the park and contemplating the lawn.
Rum- You’re going for it, but you don’t really know much about drinking. That’s the rum drinker. Captain and diet is the badge of the weekender. Either that or you’re brutally hung over. Nothing cures a hangover like a rum and coke, man. I’m not even hung over and just writing this almost makes me wish I was just so I could properly enjoy one. Rum is also great to drink on tropical vacations. Word to the wise, anyone who does shots of rum is a sociopath. Be careful.
Okay, I think I’m gonna go to the cubs game today so I’m gonna wipe the dust off my dick and get it together….Happy drinking.
Beer is what you drink when you’re out with your parents/inlaws or when you really want to make sure you don’t end up doing something dumb. For example, you’re out with your ex boyfriend and you ALWAYS end up accidentally fucking him, just drink beer this time. It’ll keep your panties on. Unless you secretly WANT to get so drunk that your inhibitions go to shit…which is a super common move in these kinds of situations. Well, look, if you’re into self sabotage, then the guide isn’t for you.
Vodka- Vodka is the opposite of beer, in that it tends to make you manic, which is a clinical term that means ‘loud and irritating.’ If you are looking to be the life of the party (read: bang the fat chick and tell inappropriate jokes to people) then this is the spirit for you…Mix it with redbull if you’re concerned that you’re not being obnoxious enough, or you’re still feeling a little shy about whipping out your tits/dick.
Whiskey- Whiskey usually makes me quiet. Whiskey is good for drinking when you want to just kind of sit somewhere for a long time. I tend to think it slows the brain down, which is great if you’re unwinding, but not so much if you’re (for example) trying to prove to your girlfriend’s dad that you’re not a retard. Apparently whiskey gives you a great dick, because, though I have no idea what it means, I hear about ‘whiskey dick’ all the time. My guess? Whiskey can make you flushed, so it probably gives the shaft a rosy hue.
Gin- This shit is for old men and people who want desperately to be ‘off the grid’ when it comes to drinking. You don’t drink gin. No you don’t. Quit it. Gin is like a mustache or a scarf or carrying a riding crop around. You just make everyone roll their eyes when you walk in the room. Who are you? The red baron? Just relax.
Tequila- Summer means tequila. Margaritas, shots, tequiza, eating your cheerios with Sauza. Tequila is great, for sure. However, somewhere along the way, tequila went from being something that a dude in a sombrero dumps into your mouth from a plastic bottle against your will to the domain of connoisseurs. Now, there are all these people talking tequila like it’s wine, and everywhere you go there’s a tequila flight and some wealthy black guy in an amazing suit talking about some small batch of some shit no one’s ever heard of and then he says “oh, if you ever get to Cozumel, you need to try it.’ And I’m like, “Yo! Ever hear of the swine flu?”
Some people can’t drink it because it makes them violent/angry. That’s a pretty good reason not to fuck around with something, I’d say. Good self control. Talk to the vodka chicks, please.
Wine-Wine is a great one, because for every self important, cork sniffing asshole sending something back because it’s from the shady corner of the vineyard (“who gives a fuck if it’s an '86 if it’s from the back of the vineyard, you moron!”), there’s a bum chugging a three dollar bottle and shitting in someone’s vestibule. Wine is big with girls who don’t want beer and mistakenly think that wine won’t get them as hammered as a cocktail. Chicks that drink white wine at bars fall into two distinct categories. 1. The single glass just so her boyfriend can chug 3 jack and cokes or so her and her girlfriends can catch up. And 2. The “I’m switching to vodka after the fifth glass and by the end of the night, someone’s gonna be fucking me up against the wall of the mens room stall.” Nothing cooler than an old ass man drinking a glass of chardonnay by himself on a nice day while sitting in the park and contemplating the lawn.
Rum- You’re going for it, but you don’t really know much about drinking. That’s the rum drinker. Captain and diet is the badge of the weekender. Either that or you’re brutally hung over. Nothing cures a hangover like a rum and coke, man. I’m not even hung over and just writing this almost makes me wish I was just so I could properly enjoy one. Rum is also great to drink on tropical vacations. Word to the wise, anyone who does shots of rum is a sociopath. Be careful.
Okay, I think I’m gonna go to the cubs game today so I’m gonna wipe the dust off my dick and get it together….Happy drinking.
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