Scotland, you're amazing! Hope you crazy sounding, mean looking but very very nice in practice bunch of weirdos had fun at the show. Tonight I'm in leeds, home of our first ever good show east of the atlantic and I'm pretty stoked. I've broken a glass and the guitar head on this tour just went and took a dump with only four days left...not enough time to get another, so uh...guess we're just kind of hoping that the openers have good guitar gear for the remainder. Pretty cool. Uh, what else? oh, i know, due to this country's fascination with a two thousand year old dead hippy, the trains are shit (or shite, as they're sometimes called) on friday because everyone's gonna be too busy looking at dumb statues of this dumb dead hippy to run trains, apparently. I dunno. Maybe he wasn't dumb, but this whole "let's stop time because some hippy got nailed to a tree two thousand years ago" business is fucking up our program in a major way. Long story short: you going to the kingston show? You wanna drive us to london after it ends? That would be great. Neil will blow you or, if you're a woman, treat you with a distant but profoundly sincere respect. Any takers? Cool. Oh yeah. I opened a pack of bass strings and there was a vial of illegal indeterminate powder inside. No shit. Took the shit out of the plastic wrap and there was some form of drugs in a little amber vial. INSIDE THE SHRINK WRAP!!!! How crazy is that? Now, as drugs are generally bad, and drugs that you don't know what they are are completely, in all cases off limits unless you're completely fucking retarded (in the figurative [sub mongaloid] or literal sense, because well, when you're retarded, you probably have to take a lot of drugs that you dont know what they are, but this aside is all kind of academic at best and pretty fucking rude at worst, so moving on...) we ditched it with some folks that have pretty low standards for what they put in their bodies ("came prepacked in a pack of bass strings that you ordered over two years ago and you have no idea what it is? We'll try it!") the truly frightening notion is that i inadvertantly traveled with that in my baggage. And let's be honest, the claim that I had no idea that there were drugs in the factory sealed strings wouldn't go far were they somehow discovered when the customs cops assessed that we were in a band. It would have been nightmarish. But, thankfully, like stepping back just before a car rounds a corner or walking by as a safe falls from above just behind you, shit's fine and nothing's changed, though it's uh....either an awesome christmas or a serious case of the heebie jeebies or death for those dudes who may or may not have ended up partying with random substances...i dunno. wasn't my drugs. All I bought was bass strings. got em straight from the factory. and there's drugs in it. and two years ago, whoever was supposed to get these drugs probably was pretty bummed out. whatever. I'm just the storyteller.
hi mom.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
news from abroad
so check this out, the other night I was walking to a bar after our show with my pal toby. As we rounded the corner it became obvious that the woman standing on the corner was giving a handjob to the pantsless man standing next to her while another couple looked on and kind of casually bullshitted with them. The guy smiled and said "sorry" and I said, rather loudly "Wow man, toby! Dick is out over there!" That brought down the house, so to speak, and the handjob was interrupted for a while as laughter echoed through the chilly england evening. We then went to a bar and toby told some chick to fuck off. In fairness, she was a real bitch. What else has happened? Not much. We're having a great time, complete and utter exhaustion notwithstanding. that's all, shitheels. Tonight we get to see the mighty Jez Courdelle! Terribly splendid.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
hey dicks!
I'm in england. I'm finna be brief since I'm on chris's computer and there are at least three other people who still need to whack off after me before our soundcheck. The shows so far have been excellent. That buckfast tonic wine shit, a product i was turned onto by someone in the sock drawer and first given by some irishmen 2 days ago (it's like if sparks was made with cocaine and bacardi 151 instead of redbull and old english) is indeed the work of the devil (it's responsible for something astounding like 80% of all crimes in the place where it's brewed).
In response to the latest trending in the sock drawer, let me throw out there that I, like so many before me have also been forced to drink a little urine here and there, so there's that. Don't hate on my clown friend, he's obviously got enough problems, you jackals.
In other news, our friends in Under Stars and Gutters are not only a great band, and really nice guys, but they drink whiskey by the pint glass and have an anarchist vegan driver who looks forward to "workers tribunals" the way some people look forward to judging a blowjob contest. I'm so stoked to be over here and I just want to thank everyone who's made the last two nights awesome. Come say hi if you're over here in the UK/Ireland and we'll get a pint, eh? Good.
Okay, gotta run
Ta!
In response to the latest trending in the sock drawer, let me throw out there that I, like so many before me have also been forced to drink a little urine here and there, so there's that. Don't hate on my clown friend, he's obviously got enough problems, you jackals.
In other news, our friends in Under Stars and Gutters are not only a great band, and really nice guys, but they drink whiskey by the pint glass and have an anarchist vegan driver who looks forward to "workers tribunals" the way some people look forward to judging a blowjob contest. I'm so stoked to be over here and I just want to thank everyone who's made the last two nights awesome. Come say hi if you're over here in the UK/Ireland and we'll get a pint, eh? Good.
Okay, gotta run
Ta!
Monday, March 22, 2010
freshen your drink, governor?
Out to my east, over the Atlantic and beyond the lost continent of Atlantis lies England. England is a small, often rainy place notable for not only having influenced and colonized most of the world, but also for sending all their criminals to a tropical paradise in the southern hemisphere and driving the most prude, stuck up assholes out across the sea where they discovered the most resource-rich continent on the planet. The Brits, for their part, just kind of stayed on the rainy little island that fate dealt them and, well, the criminals went on to create an amazing free society in the most beautiful place on earth and the prude assholes, well, they’re running the world now. What can you say about that? Takes tenacity to just stay there, in the rain, right? Sure. Let’s give em tenacity. I mean, right now there’s an Australian guy waking up and stepping down onto the most beautiful beach in the world for a quick dip before his job at the petrol station, and here in America, we’re celebrating being able to completely mismanage every possible aspect of our country/diplomatic relationships and still somehow be the only superpower. Huh. Pretty good. What you got, England? Pasties? Crumpets? Lots of people saying “jolly good.”
Heh. Jolly good then.
Now, here in America, we’ve got this crazy group of people who broke off from another crazy group of people because they weren’t quite crazy enough for them. This kind of shit happens all the time. Hell, this whole anarcho punk debate that’s been ‘raging’ lately is part of what could be perceived as a bunch of crazies not being crazy enough for a sub group who split off and upped the ante. I mean, I don’t see it that way, but I bet the lady that works at the dry cleaners at the end of my block would.
Kay, so I’m not talking about punks. I’m talking about mormons, specifically, the ones who have all the wives. I Just read (skimmed, mostly to see how the wives looked…um, yipes!) this article in National Geographic about the whole thing and well, this dude has five wives and forty six kids. His buddies are married to some of his daughters (as in, he’s got a buddy who’s married to TWO of this guys daughters) and well, the whole thing’s pretty wild.
One guy has sixty wives. That’s a lot of ANYTHING to share a place with. If I had sixty basketballs in the house I think after a while I’d be like “jesus fucking Christ. I gotta do something with all these basketballs!”
I dunno. Sounds like a lot of work to me. I can barely do all the things I need to do in order to keep one wife generally happy and not thinking I’m a total waste of space. Sixty? Sorry. I’m not the man for that job.
Now, I bring up the polygamists because this take on polygamy (nothing to do with folding paper, believe it or not) is so uniquely American, and completely backwards and to me, at odds with all the advantages that polygamy could seem to provide.
These folks are deeply prude. I saw a shot of a bunch of wives swimming and their swim suits were leggings to the ankle, dresses with turtlenecks and long sleeves. Pretty hot beachwear.
Only in America does someone hoard wives pretty much only so no one else can have wives (that’s a big problem in this sect, and apparently they use this scarcity of women [based on the simple biology/math equation that states that if one guy’s got sixty wives, some other guys aren’t gonna have any] to keep people in line, as they can reassign wives of ‘non pious’ men to other men, or prevent marriage [and thereby withhold the ability for a guy to ever…uh, you know, bust a nut{since whacking off is presumably frowned upon}]) and keep these wives all stabled like breeding cows, only to be brought out to fuck through a sheet and jar up some preserves here and there. Way to go America. You got this one just right!
I mean, isn’t the whole thing about having a bunch of wives that you want to pump lots of women and you want god to be cool with it? Why don’t you just make up a cooler god? I mean, you’ve already uh…pimped out your god with this new set of specs that allows for sixty wives, why not just make it that you can pump whoever you want? Bceause this shit’s about ownership, not four boobs and three dicks and crazy parties out in the woods and stuff. How lame does it get? These people have almost got their god sold on orgies and they stop at the gate, dress the women up like mummies and box em up like (again) cows or something. Not cool, polygamists. Even for you.
BUT, these people seem happy. I guess it’s not my place to say some old man can’t have five wives and let his buddy marry two of his twenty nine daughters if that’s what they’re all into. Sure, there’s this whole thing about brainwashing that always comes up when you’re talking polygamy and hey, maybe they’re brainwashed. The thing is, they live in an isolated part of the world, they subscribe to the world view that surrounds them and they exist happily within it. It’s not much different than growing up in the Shang Province and thinking that China is the best or growing up in England and thinking that Princess Di was super hot. Maybe, probably it’s brainwashing but whatever, man. Brainwashing is going on all the fucking time. Army? Brainwashing. Small town mob punditry? Brainwashing. Big city liberal douche mob punditry? Brainwashing. Sitting in your cube everyday and not freaking the fuck out and punching a hole through the walls to escape? Ever see a dog in a cage? They don’t like that shit until they’re ‘trained’ or ‘broken’. What does that say about you there?
There’s lots of ‘brainwashing’ going on out there, folks. Don’t think there ain’t.
AND, the thing is, just because I think that what the polygamists do is pretty out there and uncool, I kind of think they should be allowed (which, I guess they kind of are, since they do it) just simply because they’d set their sights right on me and all my homo friends if THEY got to outlaw something that they thought was out there and uncool, so what am I saying here?
That’s right. I’m going to England this evening. I’m going to dine on the finest gas station sandwiches, check out the straight white teeth, deep, rich healthy tans and toned bodies that the citizenry there is known for and generally settle into their beautiful weather and jaw dropping natural scenery. Oh, and I’ll be sure to marvel at how inexpensive everything is!
I’m gonna try to blog from over there, but I’m also gonna be filming the whole thing with my trusty steed Toby for a tv show type thing that we do, so check that out.
Um, what else? I love you guys! Be excellent to each other and uh, I dunno…if you’re English, let’s get a beer or something in the next couple weeks, kay?
Cool. I can’t wait.
xoxoxoxoxoxo
Heh. Jolly good then.
Now, here in America, we’ve got this crazy group of people who broke off from another crazy group of people because they weren’t quite crazy enough for them. This kind of shit happens all the time. Hell, this whole anarcho punk debate that’s been ‘raging’ lately is part of what could be perceived as a bunch of crazies not being crazy enough for a sub group who split off and upped the ante. I mean, I don’t see it that way, but I bet the lady that works at the dry cleaners at the end of my block would.
Kay, so I’m not talking about punks. I’m talking about mormons, specifically, the ones who have all the wives. I Just read (skimmed, mostly to see how the wives looked…um, yipes!) this article in National Geographic about the whole thing and well, this dude has five wives and forty six kids. His buddies are married to some of his daughters (as in, he’s got a buddy who’s married to TWO of this guys daughters) and well, the whole thing’s pretty wild.
One guy has sixty wives. That’s a lot of ANYTHING to share a place with. If I had sixty basketballs in the house I think after a while I’d be like “jesus fucking Christ. I gotta do something with all these basketballs!”
I dunno. Sounds like a lot of work to me. I can barely do all the things I need to do in order to keep one wife generally happy and not thinking I’m a total waste of space. Sixty? Sorry. I’m not the man for that job.
Now, I bring up the polygamists because this take on polygamy (nothing to do with folding paper, believe it or not) is so uniquely American, and completely backwards and to me, at odds with all the advantages that polygamy could seem to provide.
These folks are deeply prude. I saw a shot of a bunch of wives swimming and their swim suits were leggings to the ankle, dresses with turtlenecks and long sleeves. Pretty hot beachwear.
Only in America does someone hoard wives pretty much only so no one else can have wives (that’s a big problem in this sect, and apparently they use this scarcity of women [based on the simple biology/math equation that states that if one guy’s got sixty wives, some other guys aren’t gonna have any] to keep people in line, as they can reassign wives of ‘non pious’ men to other men, or prevent marriage [and thereby withhold the ability for a guy to ever…uh, you know, bust a nut{since whacking off is presumably frowned upon}]) and keep these wives all stabled like breeding cows, only to be brought out to fuck through a sheet and jar up some preserves here and there. Way to go America. You got this one just right!
I mean, isn’t the whole thing about having a bunch of wives that you want to pump lots of women and you want god to be cool with it? Why don’t you just make up a cooler god? I mean, you’ve already uh…pimped out your god with this new set of specs that allows for sixty wives, why not just make it that you can pump whoever you want? Bceause this shit’s about ownership, not four boobs and three dicks and crazy parties out in the woods and stuff. How lame does it get? These people have almost got their god sold on orgies and they stop at the gate, dress the women up like mummies and box em up like (again) cows or something. Not cool, polygamists. Even for you.
BUT, these people seem happy. I guess it’s not my place to say some old man can’t have five wives and let his buddy marry two of his twenty nine daughters if that’s what they’re all into. Sure, there’s this whole thing about brainwashing that always comes up when you’re talking polygamy and hey, maybe they’re brainwashed. The thing is, they live in an isolated part of the world, they subscribe to the world view that surrounds them and they exist happily within it. It’s not much different than growing up in the Shang Province and thinking that China is the best or growing up in England and thinking that Princess Di was super hot. Maybe, probably it’s brainwashing but whatever, man. Brainwashing is going on all the fucking time. Army? Brainwashing. Small town mob punditry? Brainwashing. Big city liberal douche mob punditry? Brainwashing. Sitting in your cube everyday and not freaking the fuck out and punching a hole through the walls to escape? Ever see a dog in a cage? They don’t like that shit until they’re ‘trained’ or ‘broken’. What does that say about you there?
There’s lots of ‘brainwashing’ going on out there, folks. Don’t think there ain’t.
AND, the thing is, just because I think that what the polygamists do is pretty out there and uncool, I kind of think they should be allowed (which, I guess they kind of are, since they do it) just simply because they’d set their sights right on me and all my homo friends if THEY got to outlaw something that they thought was out there and uncool, so what am I saying here?
That’s right. I’m going to England this evening. I’m going to dine on the finest gas station sandwiches, check out the straight white teeth, deep, rich healthy tans and toned bodies that the citizenry there is known for and generally settle into their beautiful weather and jaw dropping natural scenery. Oh, and I’ll be sure to marvel at how inexpensive everything is!
I’m gonna try to blog from over there, but I’m also gonna be filming the whole thing with my trusty steed Toby for a tv show type thing that we do, so check that out.
Um, what else? I love you guys! Be excellent to each other and uh, I dunno…if you’re English, let’s get a beer or something in the next couple weeks, kay?
Cool. I can’t wait.
xoxoxoxoxoxo
Friday, March 19, 2010
Uh...are they gone?
Wow. Yesterday was something, huh? It’s like we here at BSC international are some small Midwestern town and all of a sudden thousands of people flood in like we staged the gathering of the juggalos or something. Well, sadly, that’s all behind us now. It’s just us. I’ll say for the record that I hate that my opinions were broadcast as news, though I’m not dumb enough to pretend I don’t know why that happened, and I’d also like to mention that those anarchist kids, or those Against Me haters or whatever you want to call them, are the most humorless bunch of people, maybe ever. I mean, Sarah Palin is probably more fun. She at least likes to fuck and party a bit, right? Right.
Oh, and fucking and partying are fun, random anarchist lurkers. Get out of here if you don’t like the truth. I don’t want anyone lingering here that doesn’t believe in the sanctity of the natural pleasures provided to us by being born, and dirty boning is definitely included in that, so yeah…I dunno…shit. Every thing’s been so serious lately. It’s kind of hard to chill…
Nah, we can’t hide it, can we? There’s been record traffic here on the blog, based mostly on dildos who think their dumb opinions and passionate arguments about fake, non existent versions of actual, touchable bands mean a goddamned thing in the real world (and at least one guy who thinks that I’m a protégé of Ben Weasel…Hey, listen bud, I promised I’d never mention B weez again in this space, and well, I’m gonna leave it at this: I’d rather go on a week long camping trip, just me and Ben Weasel, than have dinner with you, random dildo. Google Brendan Kelly/Ben Weasel, or check out the BSC post entitled “that’s my pie” if you need a primer on why that’s an interesting statement. )
Okay, so yeah. These anarchists and former against me fans and general haters obviously all have dirty, dirty diapers and well, who can blame em, right? No one has come along and changed them, and lord knows they’re not changing anything just sitting there on the internet and dumpster diving for bike parts and day-old hoagie rolls.
Listen, dildos, I was once like you. And yes. Now I’m old and jaded. Sold out. I think food not bombs is a pretentious organization that lets privileged white kids get into garbage and prepare said garbage for people who are hungry mostly to let aforementioned privileged white kids feel like they’ve done something when really, what have they done? Fed garbage to bums? Wow. They would have probably never gotten that garbage if it wasn’t for you, Gavin!
I used to do this too. I know how hard it is to try and fit into a struggling culture when you’re not struggling yourself. Fuck. I mean, shit. You guys all stayed in last night and busted my balls for being a drunk asshole/ not seeing the whole trajectory of Against Me’s full arc from anarchists to wanna be foo fighters. What do you think happened to all those homeless? They probably died without the gentle soft hands of privileged white folks picking through the Dunkin Donuts dumpsters, eh? Probably.
Now, I don’t hate the attempt to make a difference in this world. It’s the most important thing you can do as an earthling. I think there is nothing so toxic as not trying. I also think there’s nothing as stupid on this earth as picking a fight with a bunch of ideologically driven morons on an anonymous forum such as the internet. Last night, reading all the comments that streamed in here, I was confronted by two distinct notions.
1. Jesus, everyone should take a lesson from the history of Against Me and NEVER try to appeal to this uniquely uncool and unbendable subculture of joy-impared dorks and:
2. these fuckers are just like Sarah Palin. They get all hung up on semantics. I say the phrase “stupid basement shows” as though I’m not someone who’s been to more basement shows than all of you. I STILL play basement shows. I played them Twenty, yes, TWENTY years ago and if I want to look at a facet of my life and refer to it as stupid, regardless of the fact that I’ve had amazing AMAZING experiences in basements while various bands (including mine) have played, it’s my fucking prerogative. Doesn’t mean I’m insulting your life, doesn’t mean I’m denying my own experience. It means I don’t have this dumb humorless existence based around semantics and propriety. Jeeeeeeeez. I thought that was why we got into punk rock in the first place: To kill the sacred cows. Now I can’t say a basement show is dumb? How bout this: Fuck a basement show. Fuck free water. Fuck the bums. Fuck the kids. Fuck the zines. Fuck all ages clubs that don’t serve booze, fuck bands that screen their own shirts, fuck hippies, fuck people getting paid in hugs/joints/full tanks of gas, fuck sleeping on floors, fuck sharing gear, fuck tours fuck vans fuck the internet and fuck the shit out of hand screened vinyl. Kay? How bout that? You people are so fucking interested in denying everything, but god forbid someone doesn’t like chaste hand holding, vegan cookies, the show at the local coffee shop, bangs and a buzz and stinky armpits. Then it’s a fucking mob scene, complete with torches, scapegoats, slogans and unwavering belief in a party line. Sounds uh…exactly like sarah palin, (uh…Hitler) don’t it? Well, that’s right you stinky shitsacks. You’re nothing but the young, ineffectual counterpoints to those who you most despise and your lack of motivation only helps them and proves their points. (oh, and just to restate, I love the idealism that drives people to care and attempt to change our shitty world. I think it’s really important. I’m just proving a point here about humorless dickheads and, well, generally trying to piss those self-same dickheads off. Why? Because it’s fun).
I mean, think about it, what have we done? There’s been an anarchist movement in this country for decades (the whole of the 1900s!). What do we have? A cookbook? Some shitty bookstores in basements with stained carpets? Tim McVeigh? Vegan meatloaf recipes? Wow. That’s an even lamer legacy than Chris Hannah spelled out for white people in “the only good fascist…” and that’s pretty sad, anarchists.
Oh, save me the time of sitting around on your internet and proving me wrong in times new roman, by the way. I’m on your side, actually. How bout you get out there and do something? Something real? Not protesting the cafeteria at your school, or the sexism at your office. That’s dull…Well, obviously you know nothing about saleability or commerce or how to get the ball rolling or how to get large groups of people galvanized or else you’d be following Against Me’s lead (or at least figuring out your own, better ways of doing it) and doing it, instead of sitting around and complaining and picking on me for sticking up for my friends, but then again, you’re anarchists and passionate, former against me fans, right? The only thing you affect is message boards and other people’s noses (by stinking, duh). And no. For the record, I do nothing. I’m everything you hate. I’m lazy and self serving and I want nothing more in life than to make money, eat bacon and die happy and fat. Fuck all y’all. So save yourselves the trouble.
But hey, y’all are punks too! I’m sure you lived it. I’m sure you could tell me a thing or two. Lord knows I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. I mean, punk? Tour? Anarchy? Peer education? Groundswell movements? Life long dedication to a subculture or cause at the expense of commercial success? Yeaah, what the fuck could I possibly know about any of that?
Here’s the real test, assholes. A motivated, truly inspired disciple of his doctrine would get out there and prove me wrong. A lazy dipshit would just settle for trying to point out my own hypocrisy and fight a meaningless battle here, or on some other message board, even after I’ve already stated that I’m not interested in listening. I mean, I’m obviously too much of an asshole to move or be swayed.
Which one are you?
Oh, and fucking and partying are fun, random anarchist lurkers. Get out of here if you don’t like the truth. I don’t want anyone lingering here that doesn’t believe in the sanctity of the natural pleasures provided to us by being born, and dirty boning is definitely included in that, so yeah…I dunno…shit. Every thing’s been so serious lately. It’s kind of hard to chill…
Nah, we can’t hide it, can we? There’s been record traffic here on the blog, based mostly on dildos who think their dumb opinions and passionate arguments about fake, non existent versions of actual, touchable bands mean a goddamned thing in the real world (and at least one guy who thinks that I’m a protégé of Ben Weasel…Hey, listen bud, I promised I’d never mention B weez again in this space, and well, I’m gonna leave it at this: I’d rather go on a week long camping trip, just me and Ben Weasel, than have dinner with you, random dildo. Google Brendan Kelly/Ben Weasel, or check out the BSC post entitled “that’s my pie” if you need a primer on why that’s an interesting statement. )
Okay, so yeah. These anarchists and former against me fans and general haters obviously all have dirty, dirty diapers and well, who can blame em, right? No one has come along and changed them, and lord knows they’re not changing anything just sitting there on the internet and dumpster diving for bike parts and day-old hoagie rolls.
Listen, dildos, I was once like you. And yes. Now I’m old and jaded. Sold out. I think food not bombs is a pretentious organization that lets privileged white kids get into garbage and prepare said garbage for people who are hungry mostly to let aforementioned privileged white kids feel like they’ve done something when really, what have they done? Fed garbage to bums? Wow. They would have probably never gotten that garbage if it wasn’t for you, Gavin!
I used to do this too. I know how hard it is to try and fit into a struggling culture when you’re not struggling yourself. Fuck. I mean, shit. You guys all stayed in last night and busted my balls for being a drunk asshole/ not seeing the whole trajectory of Against Me’s full arc from anarchists to wanna be foo fighters. What do you think happened to all those homeless? They probably died without the gentle soft hands of privileged white folks picking through the Dunkin Donuts dumpsters, eh? Probably.
Now, I don’t hate the attempt to make a difference in this world. It’s the most important thing you can do as an earthling. I think there is nothing so toxic as not trying. I also think there’s nothing as stupid on this earth as picking a fight with a bunch of ideologically driven morons on an anonymous forum such as the internet. Last night, reading all the comments that streamed in here, I was confronted by two distinct notions.
1. Jesus, everyone should take a lesson from the history of Against Me and NEVER try to appeal to this uniquely uncool and unbendable subculture of joy-impared dorks and:
2. these fuckers are just like Sarah Palin. They get all hung up on semantics. I say the phrase “stupid basement shows” as though I’m not someone who’s been to more basement shows than all of you. I STILL play basement shows. I played them Twenty, yes, TWENTY years ago and if I want to look at a facet of my life and refer to it as stupid, regardless of the fact that I’ve had amazing AMAZING experiences in basements while various bands (including mine) have played, it’s my fucking prerogative. Doesn’t mean I’m insulting your life, doesn’t mean I’m denying my own experience. It means I don’t have this dumb humorless existence based around semantics and propriety. Jeeeeeeeez. I thought that was why we got into punk rock in the first place: To kill the sacred cows. Now I can’t say a basement show is dumb? How bout this: Fuck a basement show. Fuck free water. Fuck the bums. Fuck the kids. Fuck the zines. Fuck all ages clubs that don’t serve booze, fuck bands that screen their own shirts, fuck hippies, fuck people getting paid in hugs/joints/full tanks of gas, fuck sleeping on floors, fuck sharing gear, fuck tours fuck vans fuck the internet and fuck the shit out of hand screened vinyl. Kay? How bout that? You people are so fucking interested in denying everything, but god forbid someone doesn’t like chaste hand holding, vegan cookies, the show at the local coffee shop, bangs and a buzz and stinky armpits. Then it’s a fucking mob scene, complete with torches, scapegoats, slogans and unwavering belief in a party line. Sounds uh…exactly like sarah palin, (uh…Hitler) don’t it? Well, that’s right you stinky shitsacks. You’re nothing but the young, ineffectual counterpoints to those who you most despise and your lack of motivation only helps them and proves their points. (oh, and just to restate, I love the idealism that drives people to care and attempt to change our shitty world. I think it’s really important. I’m just proving a point here about humorless dickheads and, well, generally trying to piss those self-same dickheads off. Why? Because it’s fun).
I mean, think about it, what have we done? There’s been an anarchist movement in this country for decades (the whole of the 1900s!). What do we have? A cookbook? Some shitty bookstores in basements with stained carpets? Tim McVeigh? Vegan meatloaf recipes? Wow. That’s an even lamer legacy than Chris Hannah spelled out for white people in “the only good fascist…” and that’s pretty sad, anarchists.
Oh, save me the time of sitting around on your internet and proving me wrong in times new roman, by the way. I’m on your side, actually. How bout you get out there and do something? Something real? Not protesting the cafeteria at your school, or the sexism at your office. That’s dull…Well, obviously you know nothing about saleability or commerce or how to get the ball rolling or how to get large groups of people galvanized or else you’d be following Against Me’s lead (or at least figuring out your own, better ways of doing it) and doing it, instead of sitting around and complaining and picking on me for sticking up for my friends, but then again, you’re anarchists and passionate, former against me fans, right? The only thing you affect is message boards and other people’s noses (by stinking, duh). And no. For the record, I do nothing. I’m everything you hate. I’m lazy and self serving and I want nothing more in life than to make money, eat bacon and die happy and fat. Fuck all y’all. So save yourselves the trouble.
But hey, y’all are punks too! I’m sure you lived it. I’m sure you could tell me a thing or two. Lord knows I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. I mean, punk? Tour? Anarchy? Peer education? Groundswell movements? Life long dedication to a subculture or cause at the expense of commercial success? Yeaah, what the fuck could I possibly know about any of that?
Here’s the real test, assholes. A motivated, truly inspired disciple of his doctrine would get out there and prove me wrong. A lazy dipshit would just settle for trying to point out my own hypocrisy and fight a meaningless battle here, or on some other message board, even after I’ve already stated that I’m not interested in listening. I mean, I’m obviously too much of an asshole to move or be swayed.
Which one are you?
Thursday, March 18, 2010
concerning keisha
Yesterday in the sock drawer (the name for the comments section located at the bottom of each post here at BSC, so named for the preponderance of jizz therein, not unlike the sockdrawer of a teenaged boy) the following was posted:
Side note: I saw on Tom Gabel's Twitter a link for the new AM! video which has a short article with it. In this article is this: "But while Against Me!'s sound works in tiny clubs, Gabel says he hopes that this album, produced by Butch Vig, and its anthemic, Tom Petty-inspired punk songs is the one that finally catapults them to selling out stadiums worldwide." Is that really what they're going for? You know the guy, what's up?
Now, I kind of don’t even know where to begin. I guess I’ll start like this: Ambition is a hallmark of successful, important and generally cool and worthwhile people. If you have no ambition, I personally want nothing to do with you. Ambition exists at every level and is not always the DETERMINING factor on if someone is cool (see Hitler or some dipshit that wants to be the head of his sector at the DMV) but there’s no one out there who’s worth a shit who has no ambition. Fact. Sorry lazy stoners and various vagabond hipster dildos, you’re lame.
Modest ambition is fine. “I just want to get my own place and move out of my parents house” is an ambition, and it’s a good one. “I just want to look cool.” Great. No judgment there. The key is that healthy restlessness and desire to improve things, however slightly. Without ambition what do you have? Complacence. And complacence my friends, IS the hallmark of the complete disgrace of a human being, or dildo.
“Oh, what about people who have already risen to the tops of their respective fields?” you ask snidely. “Surely they are allowed a little complacence, no?”
No. Fuck no. Jesus. What’s wrong with you?
Take Shaun White for example. He’s a world champion in at least snowboarding, and sometimes skateboarding too. That’s the top of a game if I’ve ever heard it, right? But here’s the thing…He’s not complacent. He’s so far and away the best snowboarder in the world that he didn’t even have to do his final run in the Olympics. White’s so dominant that it’s no stretch to say that he’s up there on par with the most successful people in their fields; the Trumps and Gateses and all that, right? But is he complacent? No fucking way. He’s out there trying to push snowboarding to exciting new places and do shit that no one’s ever done before. He’s got ambition that can’t be stunted just because he’s reached a point where he can rest. And THAT is exactly why he’s the best. Because he can’t stop pushing himself.
So we’ve got that established, right? Good.
Now, to switch gears for a second, people have this fucked up notion that music is art and not commerce. Sure, music is art. No doubt about it. And beyond art, there’s this abstract notion of connecting with people and doing it for the love and going on tour and all that and it’s great. It is. I love all that stuff and that’s why I make music. BUT, along with all that is commerce and compensation. It’s part of it, and why people have somehow decided that it’s gauche to factor money and success into the equation is so fucked up that it borders on perverse. Here’s what I mean:
The notion that people will come see me play music and sing along with songs I’ve written is awesome. The idea that people want to PAY to see me is also awesome. The idea that they want to buy things that I want to sell or pay to have words that I’ve written tattooed on themselves is so cool. It’s all part and parcel with the experience of sharing something kind of unquantifiable with large groups of people. You get to do it, and these people love what you do so much that they become your patrons, essentially funding your existence so you can continue to devote your life to making the music that they love. That give and take is an awesome gift to give and receive and it’s every bit as transcendent as singing along to a really sweet chorus.
In lots of cases with small bands, there just aren’t enough patrons for them to keep doing it and the results are fewer and fewer moments where they can sneak off and write songs and therefore less music gets made.
Now, to bring all this full circle, let’s talk about the tattoo artist that gives you the tattoo of your favorite band’s logo or lyrics. That guy is an artist. He’s doing tattoos because he loves tattoos, he loves connecting with people and he loves pushing the art form. He also charges you for it. He also has aspirations to be more popular and more successful and more nationally and internationally known, and no one minds that. There’s a marriage of art and commerce that goes hand in hand in tattooing and that’s just a given, but in music, for some reason it’s gauche to have ambition or to aspire to bigger audiences. What the fuck is that?
There’s no other profession in the world where achieving desired success is frowned upon. If your dad came home and told you he’d turned down a promotion because he does middle management insurance claim adjustments for the love you’d slap him across the face. But if Tom Gabel’s kid’s dad passed up an opportunity for advancement in his music career, for some reason people would laud him for keeping it real and “doing the right thing”. Even though that’s completely fucking retarded.
See, the reason you all like Against Me! in the first place, the reason that they’re even a band you’ve HEARD OF is because Tom et al have ambition that can’t be contained by playing dumb basement shows and working as waiters. They aspire to be career musicians. And before you get all snippy about that being a bad thing, let me remind you that making tee shirts, sweaters, patches and beer cozies are the trappings of a lifestyle boutique, not a musical troupe, it has NOTHING AT ALL TO DO WITH MUSIC. AND THAT’S FINE! That’s fucking great. That’s the thing. Propaghandi, Tragedy, whoever, they all fucking deal in commerce. They all want fans. They all want to play to full rooms. Some people have different aspirations and despite the fact that they’re in popular bands, music remains a hobby, and those people don’t have to tour, don’t have to put out music if they don’t want to, because their music is a hobby and their ambition lies elsewhere, but Aganst Me!’s ambition is wrapped up in music, and therefore, they should take it to the furthest point they can, and that’s pretty much what Tom seems to have summed up in that statement that started this, right? Right.
Finally, there are people out there (I was one of them) who say shit like “all I want is to play music to two or three hundred kids a night. I don’t want to be big. I think this is much cooler.” They say that because that’s an ambition point that they have not yet reached. Ask Avail. Ask the Suicide Machines. Ask the Lawrence Arms or Strike Anywhere or Matchbook Romance or anyone who’s gotten to that point and gotten stuck if that was where they hoped their career topped out. Go ahead. Ask them. They’re all working at bars and landscaping jobs and shit like that. Meanwhile, Tom is asleep on a bus and he’s gonna wake up and write songs and then play some songs for a bunch of happy people tonight and it’s because he’s realizing his ambition. What’s cooler? You tell me. Go ahead. Come into my bar today and see how many of your favorite songs I sing you. Yeah. I’m real glad I “decided” not to play stadiums for thousands of people.
Now, I realize how that last sentence sounds and I’d like to mention that I’m not bitter about this. I know it sounds like I feel like I missed the boat and I’m owed something, but I don’t feel that way. I love the musical career I’ve had. I just hate seeing my friends get chastised or questioned because they’re lucky enough to be able to keep doing music full time and doing what everyone else on the earth that’s worth a shit is doing, namely trying to advance their careers.
And you’ll notice, this isn’t JUST about money, it’s about bigger fan bases, more opportunities and the freedom to experiment with different genre styles that aren’t just punk rock TOO. But there’s no fucking shame in money being a factor. Look around. Your Yerba Mate costs money. Your dildo collection costs money. Your cable box costs money. Your books cost money. Everything costs money but music. The fact that anyone’s even still IN the music industry is proof enough that they’ve got their hearts in the right place.
Except for Keisha. She seems like she’s just in it for the wangs.
Side note: I saw on Tom Gabel's Twitter a link for the new AM! video which has a short article with it. In this article is this: "But while Against Me!'s sound works in tiny clubs, Gabel says he hopes that this album, produced by Butch Vig, and its anthemic, Tom Petty-inspired punk songs is the one that finally catapults them to selling out stadiums worldwide." Is that really what they're going for? You know the guy, what's up?
Now, I kind of don’t even know where to begin. I guess I’ll start like this: Ambition is a hallmark of successful, important and generally cool and worthwhile people. If you have no ambition, I personally want nothing to do with you. Ambition exists at every level and is not always the DETERMINING factor on if someone is cool (see Hitler or some dipshit that wants to be the head of his sector at the DMV) but there’s no one out there who’s worth a shit who has no ambition. Fact. Sorry lazy stoners and various vagabond hipster dildos, you’re lame.
Modest ambition is fine. “I just want to get my own place and move out of my parents house” is an ambition, and it’s a good one. “I just want to look cool.” Great. No judgment there. The key is that healthy restlessness and desire to improve things, however slightly. Without ambition what do you have? Complacence. And complacence my friends, IS the hallmark of the complete disgrace of a human being, or dildo.
“Oh, what about people who have already risen to the tops of their respective fields?” you ask snidely. “Surely they are allowed a little complacence, no?”
No. Fuck no. Jesus. What’s wrong with you?
Take Shaun White for example. He’s a world champion in at least snowboarding, and sometimes skateboarding too. That’s the top of a game if I’ve ever heard it, right? But here’s the thing…He’s not complacent. He’s so far and away the best snowboarder in the world that he didn’t even have to do his final run in the Olympics. White’s so dominant that it’s no stretch to say that he’s up there on par with the most successful people in their fields; the Trumps and Gateses and all that, right? But is he complacent? No fucking way. He’s out there trying to push snowboarding to exciting new places and do shit that no one’s ever done before. He’s got ambition that can’t be stunted just because he’s reached a point where he can rest. And THAT is exactly why he’s the best. Because he can’t stop pushing himself.
So we’ve got that established, right? Good.
Now, to switch gears for a second, people have this fucked up notion that music is art and not commerce. Sure, music is art. No doubt about it. And beyond art, there’s this abstract notion of connecting with people and doing it for the love and going on tour and all that and it’s great. It is. I love all that stuff and that’s why I make music. BUT, along with all that is commerce and compensation. It’s part of it, and why people have somehow decided that it’s gauche to factor money and success into the equation is so fucked up that it borders on perverse. Here’s what I mean:
The notion that people will come see me play music and sing along with songs I’ve written is awesome. The idea that people want to PAY to see me is also awesome. The idea that they want to buy things that I want to sell or pay to have words that I’ve written tattooed on themselves is so cool. It’s all part and parcel with the experience of sharing something kind of unquantifiable with large groups of people. You get to do it, and these people love what you do so much that they become your patrons, essentially funding your existence so you can continue to devote your life to making the music that they love. That give and take is an awesome gift to give and receive and it’s every bit as transcendent as singing along to a really sweet chorus.
In lots of cases with small bands, there just aren’t enough patrons for them to keep doing it and the results are fewer and fewer moments where they can sneak off and write songs and therefore less music gets made.
Now, to bring all this full circle, let’s talk about the tattoo artist that gives you the tattoo of your favorite band’s logo or lyrics. That guy is an artist. He’s doing tattoos because he loves tattoos, he loves connecting with people and he loves pushing the art form. He also charges you for it. He also has aspirations to be more popular and more successful and more nationally and internationally known, and no one minds that. There’s a marriage of art and commerce that goes hand in hand in tattooing and that’s just a given, but in music, for some reason it’s gauche to have ambition or to aspire to bigger audiences. What the fuck is that?
There’s no other profession in the world where achieving desired success is frowned upon. If your dad came home and told you he’d turned down a promotion because he does middle management insurance claim adjustments for the love you’d slap him across the face. But if Tom Gabel’s kid’s dad passed up an opportunity for advancement in his music career, for some reason people would laud him for keeping it real and “doing the right thing”. Even though that’s completely fucking retarded.
See, the reason you all like Against Me! in the first place, the reason that they’re even a band you’ve HEARD OF is because Tom et al have ambition that can’t be contained by playing dumb basement shows and working as waiters. They aspire to be career musicians. And before you get all snippy about that being a bad thing, let me remind you that making tee shirts, sweaters, patches and beer cozies are the trappings of a lifestyle boutique, not a musical troupe, it has NOTHING AT ALL TO DO WITH MUSIC. AND THAT’S FINE! That’s fucking great. That’s the thing. Propaghandi, Tragedy, whoever, they all fucking deal in commerce. They all want fans. They all want to play to full rooms. Some people have different aspirations and despite the fact that they’re in popular bands, music remains a hobby, and those people don’t have to tour, don’t have to put out music if they don’t want to, because their music is a hobby and their ambition lies elsewhere, but Aganst Me!’s ambition is wrapped up in music, and therefore, they should take it to the furthest point they can, and that’s pretty much what Tom seems to have summed up in that statement that started this, right? Right.
Finally, there are people out there (I was one of them) who say shit like “all I want is to play music to two or three hundred kids a night. I don’t want to be big. I think this is much cooler.” They say that because that’s an ambition point that they have not yet reached. Ask Avail. Ask the Suicide Machines. Ask the Lawrence Arms or Strike Anywhere or Matchbook Romance or anyone who’s gotten to that point and gotten stuck if that was where they hoped their career topped out. Go ahead. Ask them. They’re all working at bars and landscaping jobs and shit like that. Meanwhile, Tom is asleep on a bus and he’s gonna wake up and write songs and then play some songs for a bunch of happy people tonight and it’s because he’s realizing his ambition. What’s cooler? You tell me. Go ahead. Come into my bar today and see how many of your favorite songs I sing you. Yeah. I’m real glad I “decided” not to play stadiums for thousands of people.
Now, I realize how that last sentence sounds and I’d like to mention that I’m not bitter about this. I know it sounds like I feel like I missed the boat and I’m owed something, but I don’t feel that way. I love the musical career I’ve had. I just hate seeing my friends get chastised or questioned because they’re lucky enough to be able to keep doing music full time and doing what everyone else on the earth that’s worth a shit is doing, namely trying to advance their careers.
And you’ll notice, this isn’t JUST about money, it’s about bigger fan bases, more opportunities and the freedom to experiment with different genre styles that aren’t just punk rock TOO. But there’s no fucking shame in money being a factor. Look around. Your Yerba Mate costs money. Your dildo collection costs money. Your cable box costs money. Your books cost money. Everything costs money but music. The fact that anyone’s even still IN the music industry is proof enough that they’ve got their hearts in the right place.
Except for Keisha. She seems like she’s just in it for the wangs.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
be excellent to each other!
Sheeeeeeit doogies, I’m typing this with a quickness. My kid’s in the other room watching Jack’s Big Music Show, which is apparently less terrifying than Elmo’s special expose on the lives of wild animals, and I just put the final dabs of excellence on a terrific new song. That makes, I believe, nine songs that I’ve got done. This shit’s shaping up to be either the best or the worst record I’ve ever been a part of, which is really saying something when you consider the masterpieces/total crap that I’ve put out there. This is one of the two, but I don’t know which. It’s unusual. I can say that much for sure.
Hey, speaking of total crap, me and Joe McMahon just came out with a split yesterday. The vinyl and digital versions are being handled by the gentle chaps over at Anchorless Records and the Cds are coming courtesy of the ball handlers over at Red Scare. It’s already garnering positive reviews as well as the requisite backlash/dismissive shit talking that lets you know that yes, you’re on the internet. Hey, it’s cool. I got thick skin. I’m ready for the inevitable barrage of comments about how marginal to nonexistent my talent is. Good thing I don’t try very hard, or I’d be really depressed. Now, when people insult the blog, well, that’s when I retreat to my room with a bag of double stuff oreos, a pint of haagen daaz and a Friends DVD and just sit in my robe with the lights off. This here page is my lifeblood, folks. I meticulously prepare every single one of these entries over the course of about a week. Did you know that? It’s true! I started this project when I was fourteen. I’m currently (as I write this) nineteen (Ed note-But I’m posting it at 33). Look, you get the idea. Long process, making a blog. I know what you’re thinking: “How the fuck did you know that you’d be releasing this split today back when you were nineteen, huh?”
Well, firstly, way to be a smartass. Secondly, my life is a meticulously constructed ‘concept life’ that I prepared, cradle to grave when I was fourteen as part of a project for space camp. I used a probability matrix to account for things I can’t control, and so far, knock on wood, it’s turned out pretty right on.
But let’s say, just for turds and guffaws (since I know what you’re REALLY thinking) that time travel was, in fact, possible. Where would you go? There’s lots of exciting choices out there. Distant future? Prehistoric past? What would be the place for you?
Oh, and like so many hypothetical time machines (in stark contrast to the real time machines out there) this one not only transports you in time, but to a place too, so if you typed in 1 BC because you wanted to see the last reigning days of the jews, for example, you wouldn’t just end up in prehistoric Sandusky Ohio, or where ever the fuck you are now, but back in time AND where you want to be on earth, so I guess you’d be in Jerusalem or whatever. Get it? Okay.
I for one would definitely want to go to a time and place where my access to looking at cans and clams would still be high. So no puritanical colonial America, no Sparta…Um, also I’d like there to be good food. So no England or Canada at any time (nah. I kid. Tim Horton’s is alright and I LOVE me some poutine AND I’ve had some dynamite meals in BC…Sorry England, you’ve yet to wow me. Prove me wrong next week, how bout that?). Feudal Japan? That sounds pretty wild. I’d probably get run through with swords pretty quick though. Ancient Egypt? Ancient Rome? Greece? These all sound good, but there’s the whole issue with the crappers, and also there’s so much crazy killing for show and shit like that. I’m a little squeamish about seeing people die right there in front of me and seeing big puddles of blood and fat cells in the torn flesh of the dying and all that. Call me a pussy if you must.
I think hanging out with Franklin and Washington would be really cool, though I don’t know why they’d want to hang out with me…maybe I could impress them with my knowledge of the future and my colorful tattoos. Then I could get in on the framing of the constitution and say things like “you realize that there’s gonna be a lot of mongaloids in the future that use this bit here to try to subjugate women and marginalized groups and outlaw abortion rights (ben franklin, consummate fucker of almost anything that moved [for real. Look it up] is no doubt the kind of dude that could see the benefits of sucking a fetus or two out of someone, ahem, unbecoming, here and there…On a side note, what was the abortion procedure like back then? Flight of stairs? Wow. Rough stuff) and this bit here they’re gonna say gives them the right to pack automatic firearms in crowds in cities. No, really. That’s what they’re gonna think.”
I think I could be really helpful in the moments leading up to independence here in the states. I’d also tell them all about benedict Arnold, and then, well THEN we’d have this whole new name for eggs with hollandaise probably, right? Well…huh. He was a traitor, so they probably weren’t honoring him with the namesake, huh?
Well, this is hard. I don’t know if I can figure it all out today. Head to Anchorless, Redscare or Interpunk and buy my record. How bout that?
Good deal. Nice work today. Hit the showers!
Hey, speaking of total crap, me and Joe McMahon just came out with a split yesterday. The vinyl and digital versions are being handled by the gentle chaps over at Anchorless Records and the Cds are coming courtesy of the ball handlers over at Red Scare. It’s already garnering positive reviews as well as the requisite backlash/dismissive shit talking that lets you know that yes, you’re on the internet. Hey, it’s cool. I got thick skin. I’m ready for the inevitable barrage of comments about how marginal to nonexistent my talent is. Good thing I don’t try very hard, or I’d be really depressed. Now, when people insult the blog, well, that’s when I retreat to my room with a bag of double stuff oreos, a pint of haagen daaz and a Friends DVD and just sit in my robe with the lights off. This here page is my lifeblood, folks. I meticulously prepare every single one of these entries over the course of about a week. Did you know that? It’s true! I started this project when I was fourteen. I’m currently (as I write this) nineteen (Ed note-But I’m posting it at 33). Look, you get the idea. Long process, making a blog. I know what you’re thinking: “How the fuck did you know that you’d be releasing this split today back when you were nineteen, huh?”
Well, firstly, way to be a smartass. Secondly, my life is a meticulously constructed ‘concept life’ that I prepared, cradle to grave when I was fourteen as part of a project for space camp. I used a probability matrix to account for things I can’t control, and so far, knock on wood, it’s turned out pretty right on.
But let’s say, just for turds and guffaws (since I know what you’re REALLY thinking) that time travel was, in fact, possible. Where would you go? There’s lots of exciting choices out there. Distant future? Prehistoric past? What would be the place for you?
Oh, and like so many hypothetical time machines (in stark contrast to the real time machines out there) this one not only transports you in time, but to a place too, so if you typed in 1 BC because you wanted to see the last reigning days of the jews, for example, you wouldn’t just end up in prehistoric Sandusky Ohio, or where ever the fuck you are now, but back in time AND where you want to be on earth, so I guess you’d be in Jerusalem or whatever. Get it? Okay.
I for one would definitely want to go to a time and place where my access to looking at cans and clams would still be high. So no puritanical colonial America, no Sparta…Um, also I’d like there to be good food. So no England or Canada at any time (nah. I kid. Tim Horton’s is alright and I LOVE me some poutine AND I’ve had some dynamite meals in BC…Sorry England, you’ve yet to wow me. Prove me wrong next week, how bout that?). Feudal Japan? That sounds pretty wild. I’d probably get run through with swords pretty quick though. Ancient Egypt? Ancient Rome? Greece? These all sound good, but there’s the whole issue with the crappers, and also there’s so much crazy killing for show and shit like that. I’m a little squeamish about seeing people die right there in front of me and seeing big puddles of blood and fat cells in the torn flesh of the dying and all that. Call me a pussy if you must.
I think hanging out with Franklin and Washington would be really cool, though I don’t know why they’d want to hang out with me…maybe I could impress them with my knowledge of the future and my colorful tattoos. Then I could get in on the framing of the constitution and say things like “you realize that there’s gonna be a lot of mongaloids in the future that use this bit here to try to subjugate women and marginalized groups and outlaw abortion rights (ben franklin, consummate fucker of almost anything that moved [for real. Look it up] is no doubt the kind of dude that could see the benefits of sucking a fetus or two out of someone, ahem, unbecoming, here and there…On a side note, what was the abortion procedure like back then? Flight of stairs? Wow. Rough stuff) and this bit here they’re gonna say gives them the right to pack automatic firearms in crowds in cities. No, really. That’s what they’re gonna think.”
I think I could be really helpful in the moments leading up to independence here in the states. I’d also tell them all about benedict Arnold, and then, well THEN we’d have this whole new name for eggs with hollandaise probably, right? Well…huh. He was a traitor, so they probably weren’t honoring him with the namesake, huh?
Well, this is hard. I don’t know if I can figure it all out today. Head to Anchorless, Redscare or Interpunk and buy my record. How bout that?
Good deal. Nice work today. Hit the showers!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
IMPORTANT REQUEST
hey y'all. I'm putting some shit together and I need some pictures. If you've got a picture of you and me, or me and your friends or just me and it's high quality (like in terms of print quality, not in terms of photographic integrity, though the subject matter is obviously radical) would you please attach and send it to me via the email address on this page ASAP? The older the picture, the better. Um, what else? That's all. Carry on. Below is today's proper entry entitled "it was the heat of the moment". It's about trannies.
it was the heat of the moment
I’m looking for inspiration around the internet to find something to type for you people. Here’s what I got.
In Hawaii there’s little boys that are raised like little girls (called mahus) that are kind of holy and they kind of have this chicks with dicks situation that is reflected in a lot of pacific islander culture even as far west (or is it back east) as Thailand, where chicks with dicks rule the roost, so to speak.
Personally, I find nothing interesting about chicks with dicks. Well, that’s not true. I find the notion that people get born into the wrong bodies to be one of the most tragic and eternally fascinating things that happens on this planet. I mean, what a fucking drag. Born into a body that’s not your own…sheesh. That’s the worst. And, I know that the internet has blunted people’s general ability to distinguish, understand and digest sarcasm so let me just say overtly that this is not sarcasm, kay? Okay. Good. We’re clear. Nicely.
I mean, do you know what the process is to go about getting a dick turned into a cunt? It’s brutal. They cut off your dickhead, scoop out your shaft, invert everything, put the head back on as some sort of clit and then just kind of hope for the best. That’s not cool. It’s, in fact, terrible. Now, I’m sure that my version here is an oversimplified retelling of what a m/f sex reassignment is like, but if it’s even REMOTELY like this, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!!! That’s not something you do because you don’t like your parents or you’re bored or Guess doesn’t make the jeans you like in a mans cut. That’s serious “my soul is tortured and I’d rather mutilate this improperly assigned body and get a half assed version of the one I want then go on another day like this” type shit. I’ve never felt that. You? Probably not. Thank god. I mean, born into the wrong body. That’s a fucking serious kick in the fake pussy, right? Fuuuuuuuuck.
Now, that being said, the mahus are raised as girls from the time they’re born and ascribed a sort of holy status so they’re not tortured souls…well, maybe they are. I gotta imagine that’s pretty a pretty weird way to get started in life, raised as a woman but being male. Call me old fashioned.
Here’s the thing. Gender bending is cool to me. I’m into it. I like drag and I like feminine dudes and masculine chicks. I think it’s alright. It’s groovy. Whatever. BUT, I can’t help it, sex change situations kind of gross me out. I can’t look at buck angel and not be disturbed. I can’t look at a dude with tits (or a ‘chick with a dick’ if you feel that’s a more apt description) and not be just kind of put off. It’s not an intellectual thing…like I said up above here, I couldn’t feel worse for someone who has to deal with that kind of self evaluation and subsequent series of choices, and lord knows I’m not here to judge anyone. Fuck. I’d probably look GREAT with a couple of DD cups swingin off me, but I can’t. I’m a prude. I’m a Midwestern boy with a low threshold for weird, I guess, because tranny shit, the surgical stuff, mind you, not the cosmetic stuff, really, really really kind of freaks me out.
I knew this dude in highschool. He was gayer than Christmas back then and he went on to become kind of a ladyboy, and good for him. Glad he went for it. Really. BUT, the day I saw him at the L and L tavern and he asked me if I wanted to see his “new titties” that he’d grown by taking some sort of hormone cocktail, I kind of lost my passion for the “I’m going to just love and be down with everyone” game. And it’s not that I’m not down with this dude’s choices. It’s not that I think any less of him. It’s that his pill-induced new tits are just fundamentally gross to me. Sorry. I’d be disingenuous if I said otherwise. It’s not a cultural or learned thing. It’s a fundamental gut thing that I can’t help. He also mentioned that I’ve aged horribly, but I don’t think that has anything to do with my revulsion at his tit set, do you? I mean, I’m the first person to admit that I’m no me at twenty two, but is that really an issue when you’re face to face up against some cokehead’s gross overgrown hairy man tits on display, chemically altered to be something other than what they were sort of genetically designed to be (mental state of the host of the body notwithstanding).
Like I said, good on ya, trannies. Fer real. I’m sorry I can’t go all the way to the hospital with y’all, and I’m sorry there aren’t better options for ya. Though buck angel looks pretty good, really. And there was Tula. Remember her? No. Of course you don’t. You’re just kids. Your trannies are probably all gorgeous. This whole thing is probably gonna be so dated so soon when scientists figure out one or two things regarding fake cocks and cunts and all that.
Well, enjoy your brave new world. I, for one, can’t wait. Because I’ve grown up with these trannies all around me my whole life (my childhood neighborhood was, no shit, the ‘tranny hooker’ zone in Chicago in the 80’s when I was living there) and I think I’m a little traumatized as a result.
Okay. That’s all.
In Hawaii there’s little boys that are raised like little girls (called mahus) that are kind of holy and they kind of have this chicks with dicks situation that is reflected in a lot of pacific islander culture even as far west (or is it back east) as Thailand, where chicks with dicks rule the roost, so to speak.
Personally, I find nothing interesting about chicks with dicks. Well, that’s not true. I find the notion that people get born into the wrong bodies to be one of the most tragic and eternally fascinating things that happens on this planet. I mean, what a fucking drag. Born into a body that’s not your own…sheesh. That’s the worst. And, I know that the internet has blunted people’s general ability to distinguish, understand and digest sarcasm so let me just say overtly that this is not sarcasm, kay? Okay. Good. We’re clear. Nicely.
I mean, do you know what the process is to go about getting a dick turned into a cunt? It’s brutal. They cut off your dickhead, scoop out your shaft, invert everything, put the head back on as some sort of clit and then just kind of hope for the best. That’s not cool. It’s, in fact, terrible. Now, I’m sure that my version here is an oversimplified retelling of what a m/f sex reassignment is like, but if it’s even REMOTELY like this, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!!! That’s not something you do because you don’t like your parents or you’re bored or Guess doesn’t make the jeans you like in a mans cut. That’s serious “my soul is tortured and I’d rather mutilate this improperly assigned body and get a half assed version of the one I want then go on another day like this” type shit. I’ve never felt that. You? Probably not. Thank god. I mean, born into the wrong body. That’s a fucking serious kick in the fake pussy, right? Fuuuuuuuuck.
Now, that being said, the mahus are raised as girls from the time they’re born and ascribed a sort of holy status so they’re not tortured souls…well, maybe they are. I gotta imagine that’s pretty a pretty weird way to get started in life, raised as a woman but being male. Call me old fashioned.
Here’s the thing. Gender bending is cool to me. I’m into it. I like drag and I like feminine dudes and masculine chicks. I think it’s alright. It’s groovy. Whatever. BUT, I can’t help it, sex change situations kind of gross me out. I can’t look at buck angel and not be disturbed. I can’t look at a dude with tits (or a ‘chick with a dick’ if you feel that’s a more apt description) and not be just kind of put off. It’s not an intellectual thing…like I said up above here, I couldn’t feel worse for someone who has to deal with that kind of self evaluation and subsequent series of choices, and lord knows I’m not here to judge anyone. Fuck. I’d probably look GREAT with a couple of DD cups swingin off me, but I can’t. I’m a prude. I’m a Midwestern boy with a low threshold for weird, I guess, because tranny shit, the surgical stuff, mind you, not the cosmetic stuff, really, really really kind of freaks me out.
I knew this dude in highschool. He was gayer than Christmas back then and he went on to become kind of a ladyboy, and good for him. Glad he went for it. Really. BUT, the day I saw him at the L and L tavern and he asked me if I wanted to see his “new titties” that he’d grown by taking some sort of hormone cocktail, I kind of lost my passion for the “I’m going to just love and be down with everyone” game. And it’s not that I’m not down with this dude’s choices. It’s not that I think any less of him. It’s that his pill-induced new tits are just fundamentally gross to me. Sorry. I’d be disingenuous if I said otherwise. It’s not a cultural or learned thing. It’s a fundamental gut thing that I can’t help. He also mentioned that I’ve aged horribly, but I don’t think that has anything to do with my revulsion at his tit set, do you? I mean, I’m the first person to admit that I’m no me at twenty two, but is that really an issue when you’re face to face up against some cokehead’s gross overgrown hairy man tits on display, chemically altered to be something other than what they were sort of genetically designed to be (mental state of the host of the body notwithstanding).
Like I said, good on ya, trannies. Fer real. I’m sorry I can’t go all the way to the hospital with y’all, and I’m sorry there aren’t better options for ya. Though buck angel looks pretty good, really. And there was Tula. Remember her? No. Of course you don’t. You’re just kids. Your trannies are probably all gorgeous. This whole thing is probably gonna be so dated so soon when scientists figure out one or two things regarding fake cocks and cunts and all that.
Well, enjoy your brave new world. I, for one, can’t wait. Because I’ve grown up with these trannies all around me my whole life (my childhood neighborhood was, no shit, the ‘tranny hooker’ zone in Chicago in the 80’s when I was living there) and I think I’m a little traumatized as a result.
Okay. That’s all.
Monday, March 15, 2010
...maybe just amusement.
I remember a long time ago, I was hanging out with some buddies and they asked me if I wanted to see something fucked up. Of course, I said ‘sure’ so they put on this VHS tape of a chick getting fucked by a horse. Then this other chick fucked a dog and then a pig and then some chick fucked an eel or something. I know this only because they fast forwarded to each scene to give me the idea of the spectrum of the whole thing when I threatened to leave. At a certain point some people started shitting on each other and that’s when I pulled the ripcord and took off. No amount of fast forwarding could have gotten me to stay at that point.
Now, technically fucking animals is way grosser than shitting on people. I mean, really what’s the harm in a little shit play among people who want to be shitted on/shit on someone? Right? So why is fucking animals technically easier to watch? Fucking animals is like playing god if god were real and into stuff like cross species banging, which, with the exception of horses and donkeys, he’s obviously not, or else he would have made the DNA strands hang together or whatever, right? So we could have babies that are half eel, half puma, or half rooster, half sperm whale. You get the idea. Obviously, that kind of thing is frowned upon, cosmically (this would probably be a good time to mention that I in no way endorse the idea that god or evolution sanctions certain sex acts by providing offspring as a final result. That’s a theory for bigoted dipshits and while it does conveniently put fucking pigs and rabbits into the ‘naughty’ category, it also unfavorably fucks with blowjobs, buttfucking, whacking off onto the faces/butts of people, handjobs muff diving, tit fucking etc. and hey, who wants to live in a world without tit fucking? Not me, man.)
Funny thing though, people still get out there and fuck their animals, don’t they? You don’t really see that happening too much elsewhere in the animal kingdom though, right? I don’t know the answer to this. If any of you are animal husbandry majors, I’d love a primer. Do monkeys fuck hyenas out there in the bush or whatever? Do squirrels get fucked by various raccoons and possums? Doesn’t really sound right. No. It seems like a depravity cooked up by human males to A) fuck something that’s not smart enough to realize what a gross loser the person that wants to fuck them is (which is where get the ‘man found fucking dog/llama/cat’ news stories and B) exploit women with drug problems and prove that they WILL in fact fuck someone more revolting than them (and that’s where we get the gross porn movies like the one these guys showed me so long ago, but which is still burnt into my brain).
Porn, in general is a wild and crazy thing. It’s (sometimes) beautiful women and men doing something that’s really, really fun, but for whatever reason the lions share of the people who do it have terrible unhealthy relationships with fucking. It’s such a weird and wild scene. That’s like if the only people in the NBA were people that hated basketball or had serious trauma because their dads used to sneak in to their room at night and make em practice lay ups.
The result is an incredibly sad industry disguised as a constant party. I know, people in the adult film world always talk about how much they love the business, but it just never really sounds convincing, does it? I mean, the guys? Sure. I get that. They get to walk in and bang hot chicks that will do pretty much anything and never deal with them again. That’s a dream job. That’s why porn exists. It’s a billion dollar industry based on guys at home being so stoked for these guys that they’ll watch them do their weird jobs. Not that I’m suggesting that all men would love to be in porn. I wouldn’t. I’ve seen some behind the scenes stuff and it’s weird. They say that the average boom guy in porn’s career is less than one shoot. That RIGHT THERE means the whole thing is more bizarre and disturbing than everyone imagines it could ever be. It’s a weird thing, capturing two (or three or four or five or six) people fucking in what’s supposed to be a spontaneous way, constantly interrupted by trips to the craft services table to scarf down handfuls of Doritos and to the bathroom to poo, take Viagra, do lines, cry etc.
My point is, I’ve heard that the guys that do porn are kind of as a rule weird dudes, and hey! No shit? Really? Good on them, though. Good on ‘em for doing porn for the rest of us. I believe those guys when they say that they love their jobs (I’ve also heard that almost all the male talent in porn is bisexual, but that’s another topic for another time). But the women?
Nah. I don’t buy it. It’s too much of a man’s game. Sure. Sure. There’s adventurous women out there and all that and it’s not fair for me to suggest that men can do this and women can’t and on and on and on.
Nah. Sorry. My position stands. Men are creepier than women. All the time. Porn is a creepy thing dreamed up by men and enjoyed by men and even sometimes by women. BUT there’s no fucking way that this girl enjoys these six strange, out of shape creeps calling her a whore and blowing random goopy loads on her face. She doesn’t. Maybe she’s high or drunk or something or she likes the humiliation for the moment (not bloody likely) but still. That shit’s degrading, man. Sorry, porn fan. It’s true. These chicks don’t like it. Nope. Sorry. Save it lady. You don’t like it.
OKAY, calm down! There’s obviously exceptions to everything. Out there, there ARE women who like getting fucked on camera by strangers and getting manhandled while tubby AV nerds eat slim jims and adjust lights. They exist. Just like there are dudes out there who like to eat cow brains and play Frisbee golf and shit like that. There’s dudes out there that get off on sticking pencils in their dickholes for fucks sake. But those folks are rare. So, uh…what am I saying here?
I guess the point of all this is that the animal porn is pretty disturbing. The shit porn is pretty disturbing and regular porn COULD also be considered pretty disturbing, but it’s also awesome, so I don’t like to think about it. Much in the same way that my shoes, my jeans, my sandwich and my coffee and my bag of weed are all pretty disturbing but I don’t like to think about that either. Also, my car. And all the bottles of beer in my favorite bar. Oh, and my prescriptions and my puppy and my heat and my chicken nuggets and the milk I give to my kid and my bananas and my tee shirt and my shoelaces and on and on and on. BUT, can you whack off to shoelaces? Well, some of you can. Like I said, there’s lots of different people with lots of different proclivities out there, man.
PS I realize the argument out there exists that says something to the effect of “those animals obviously enjoy it, so what’s the harm?” That’s a gross argument put forth by people who condone fucking animals and I would like to discourage you from putting said argument forth, kay? Good. Thanks. Oh and for the record, you’re gross.
PPS to the dude that sent me the email about the short story book. I’m into it, but I lost your email. So email me again. Okay. Good times. Bye.
Now, technically fucking animals is way grosser than shitting on people. I mean, really what’s the harm in a little shit play among people who want to be shitted on/shit on someone? Right? So why is fucking animals technically easier to watch? Fucking animals is like playing god if god were real and into stuff like cross species banging, which, with the exception of horses and donkeys, he’s obviously not, or else he would have made the DNA strands hang together or whatever, right? So we could have babies that are half eel, half puma, or half rooster, half sperm whale. You get the idea. Obviously, that kind of thing is frowned upon, cosmically (this would probably be a good time to mention that I in no way endorse the idea that god or evolution sanctions certain sex acts by providing offspring as a final result. That’s a theory for bigoted dipshits and while it does conveniently put fucking pigs and rabbits into the ‘naughty’ category, it also unfavorably fucks with blowjobs, buttfucking, whacking off onto the faces/butts of people, handjobs muff diving, tit fucking etc. and hey, who wants to live in a world without tit fucking? Not me, man.)
Funny thing though, people still get out there and fuck their animals, don’t they? You don’t really see that happening too much elsewhere in the animal kingdom though, right? I don’t know the answer to this. If any of you are animal husbandry majors, I’d love a primer. Do monkeys fuck hyenas out there in the bush or whatever? Do squirrels get fucked by various raccoons and possums? Doesn’t really sound right. No. It seems like a depravity cooked up by human males to A) fuck something that’s not smart enough to realize what a gross loser the person that wants to fuck them is (which is where get the ‘man found fucking dog/llama/cat’ news stories and B) exploit women with drug problems and prove that they WILL in fact fuck someone more revolting than them (and that’s where we get the gross porn movies like the one these guys showed me so long ago, but which is still burnt into my brain).
Porn, in general is a wild and crazy thing. It’s (sometimes) beautiful women and men doing something that’s really, really fun, but for whatever reason the lions share of the people who do it have terrible unhealthy relationships with fucking. It’s such a weird and wild scene. That’s like if the only people in the NBA were people that hated basketball or had serious trauma because their dads used to sneak in to their room at night and make em practice lay ups.
The result is an incredibly sad industry disguised as a constant party. I know, people in the adult film world always talk about how much they love the business, but it just never really sounds convincing, does it? I mean, the guys? Sure. I get that. They get to walk in and bang hot chicks that will do pretty much anything and never deal with them again. That’s a dream job. That’s why porn exists. It’s a billion dollar industry based on guys at home being so stoked for these guys that they’ll watch them do their weird jobs. Not that I’m suggesting that all men would love to be in porn. I wouldn’t. I’ve seen some behind the scenes stuff and it’s weird. They say that the average boom guy in porn’s career is less than one shoot. That RIGHT THERE means the whole thing is more bizarre and disturbing than everyone imagines it could ever be. It’s a weird thing, capturing two (or three or four or five or six) people fucking in what’s supposed to be a spontaneous way, constantly interrupted by trips to the craft services table to scarf down handfuls of Doritos and to the bathroom to poo, take Viagra, do lines, cry etc.
My point is, I’ve heard that the guys that do porn are kind of as a rule weird dudes, and hey! No shit? Really? Good on them, though. Good on ‘em for doing porn for the rest of us. I believe those guys when they say that they love their jobs (I’ve also heard that almost all the male talent in porn is bisexual, but that’s another topic for another time). But the women?
Nah. I don’t buy it. It’s too much of a man’s game. Sure. Sure. There’s adventurous women out there and all that and it’s not fair for me to suggest that men can do this and women can’t and on and on and on.
Nah. Sorry. My position stands. Men are creepier than women. All the time. Porn is a creepy thing dreamed up by men and enjoyed by men and even sometimes by women. BUT there’s no fucking way that this girl enjoys these six strange, out of shape creeps calling her a whore and blowing random goopy loads on her face. She doesn’t. Maybe she’s high or drunk or something or she likes the humiliation for the moment (not bloody likely) but still. That shit’s degrading, man. Sorry, porn fan. It’s true. These chicks don’t like it. Nope. Sorry. Save it lady. You don’t like it.
OKAY, calm down! There’s obviously exceptions to everything. Out there, there ARE women who like getting fucked on camera by strangers and getting manhandled while tubby AV nerds eat slim jims and adjust lights. They exist. Just like there are dudes out there who like to eat cow brains and play Frisbee golf and shit like that. There’s dudes out there that get off on sticking pencils in their dickholes for fucks sake. But those folks are rare. So, uh…what am I saying here?
I guess the point of all this is that the animal porn is pretty disturbing. The shit porn is pretty disturbing and regular porn COULD also be considered pretty disturbing, but it’s also awesome, so I don’t like to think about it. Much in the same way that my shoes, my jeans, my sandwich and my coffee and my bag of weed are all pretty disturbing but I don’t like to think about that either. Also, my car. And all the bottles of beer in my favorite bar. Oh, and my prescriptions and my puppy and my heat and my chicken nuggets and the milk I give to my kid and my bananas and my tee shirt and my shoelaces and on and on and on. BUT, can you whack off to shoelaces? Well, some of you can. Like I said, there’s lots of different people with lots of different proclivities out there, man.
PS I realize the argument out there exists that says something to the effect of “those animals obviously enjoy it, so what’s the harm?” That’s a gross argument put forth by people who condone fucking animals and I would like to discourage you from putting said argument forth, kay? Good. Thanks. Oh and for the record, you’re gross.
PPS to the dude that sent me the email about the short story book. I’m into it, but I lost your email. So email me again. Okay. Good times. Bye.
Friday, March 12, 2010
What is this, some kinda tube?
There’s this girl I know who’s from space. She has been a visitor here on earth for lord knows what reason, or how long. She claims to be about thirty two, but she looks maybe nineteen. She dresses like Punky Brewster and when certain songs come on the radio, she makes great effort to contain herself, but she ends up pogoing around the room in spite of herself, regardless of the situation. I work with her. I’ve seen her with a pained, embarrassed expression on her face, involuntarily bouncing around a crowded bar to the dulcet tones of “Boom Boom Pow” before. Once, our manager had to call her about something and was surprised to find that A) she had no cell phone, and B) that her answering machine asks you to wait for after the howl, and then she (SHE!) howls loudly to signal when the machine starts recording.
She’s from space. She’s here for some reason I don’t want to know, and whoever trained her to fit into the American-white-people-service-industry society back on her home planet did a commendable job, but uh…the human lady is like an onion, er…uh. No, okay, the human female is like a house of cards. Urgh…mmmm…Look, it’s close but no cigar with this crazy bitch, kay? She’s got the right idea and if I ever went undercover on her planet, I’d love to hope that I could fit in as well there as she does here, but she’s missing some stuff, and she’s got some extra stuff. I don’t know. She’s from space.
Here’s what happened yesterday that kind of sealed the deal:
There’s a new girl at my work who’s from Oklahoma. She’s 22 and just arrived in the big city. (This would be a good time to point out that this girl is pretty hot and probably into getting wasted and making bad decisions, since, well, she’s from Oklahoma City, where in my experience people just get wasted and make bad decisions all day long, and here she is in the big, cosmopolitan city, where people are new and exciting and sophisticated and all that…so yeah. I dunno. Maybe you guys should come down to my work and ask her if she wants to go on a date or something. She don’t have lotsa friends yet, y’all!)
Kay, so yesterday I worked with Oklahoma and space alien. It was just the three of us. Oklahoma was asking questions about what was cool in the city, where to go and shit like that.
I mentioned that there was a lot to do here, definitely more than in OKC, although, I told her, last time I was in OKC I celebrated St. Patricks day at a street fair by eating five feet worth of corn dogs (true story. Sean Nader was there). When she asked why I’d been in OKC, I replied that in my other job I had to take lots of business trips. I know, kind of dorky sounding, but hear me out.
I’m an old guy at a bar talking to some wide eyed “fallen angel” type young pretty girl and the LAST thing I want to do is come across as some dildo flexing my dick about how radical I am and inserting that I’m in a band into conversations unnecessarily. That’s just gross, you know? So yeah. I said that at which point Oklahoma said, “business trips? What are you, in a band?” and my plan of not looking like a creep unraveled. I said ‘yeah,’ and kind of stopped the conversation, but it kept on going.
“That’s cool that you traveled with a band.” She said.
“Yeah, it’s a great time. I have a kid now and another one on the way so these days I kind of…”
here comes the space girl, who’s getting very interested in all this. She busts in with:
“So, when you do that stuff, do you guys just set up on the street anywhere and play? How does that work?”
Now, okay. I can forgive this, I guess. I mean, she’s from space. She has no idea what’s going on, and I’ve also noticed in my years on this (my native) planet that people who are really disconnected from the world of entertainment tend to think of concepts like “getting shows” and “going on tour” as impossible tasks on par with harnessing the sun, cold fusion and sucking your own dick. So, whatever. I asked her if her question was serious, and she assured me that it was. At which point I said, “no, we have an agent and she books us in clubs and bars and shit like that,” And I thought that would be kind of it. But THEN, Oklahoma asks me “Oh, you’re into the scene here. Where are some cool places to check out local music?”
Now, this question, to me, is kind of a tricky one, because with very few exceptions (and even then only if you’re the right kind of person) a club is only as good as the show that’s going on there. Okay, sure there are clubs that are always terrible, but even a great club sucks if Ultraviolet Hippopotamus is the headlining act. Sometimes you get a Fireside Bowl or something where there’s a real community sort of vibe and it’s more of an attraction than the bands, but again, that’s really rare, and lemme tell you, this chick wouldn’t have liked hanging out in the freside bowl. This I know.
SO, I’m trying to think of how to answer this question when space girl pipes in and says (I swear this is true) “The United Center has some pretty good shows.”
I mean, what? That’s where the Bulls play. The United center is a gigantic, 21000 capacity indoor stadium. When someone “plays a show” there, it’s like Madonna or Lady Gaga or Hootie or someone like that. (well, hootie’s not playing any stadiums these days, but you get what I’m saying.) Who in the world would EVER suggest a goddamned stadium as an answer to the question “what are some cool places to check out local music?”
Space person. It’s the only fucking answer. I’ve been trying to think of an analogy that encapsulates this amazing disregard for everything I know about society and I can’t. It’s too fucking out there. Now, this may come as a shock to you people but I usually find analogizing things to be almost instinctive. The fact that this particular BIZARRE little exchange is completely shorting my analogy circuits is evidence enough that this is other worldly shit we’re dealing with here. I mean, the United Center? Really? REALLY?
Well, whatever. She quit. Yesterday was space girl’s last day. Probably getting transmissions from the mothership or something. I asked her though. “Where are you from?” and she got all weird. She mumbled around how she’s from the suburbs of Chicago, mentioned a few towns and then looked at me and asked “why? Does it seem like I’m from really, really far away or something?”
I’m telling you. District 9. They Live. Alien Nation, erm…uh, V. Battlefield Earth. All that shit’s real man.
Be careful out there.
She’s from space. She’s here for some reason I don’t want to know, and whoever trained her to fit into the American-white-people-service-industry society back on her home planet did a commendable job, but uh…the human lady is like an onion, er…uh. No, okay, the human female is like a house of cards. Urgh…mmmm…Look, it’s close but no cigar with this crazy bitch, kay? She’s got the right idea and if I ever went undercover on her planet, I’d love to hope that I could fit in as well there as she does here, but she’s missing some stuff, and she’s got some extra stuff. I don’t know. She’s from space.
Here’s what happened yesterday that kind of sealed the deal:
There’s a new girl at my work who’s from Oklahoma. She’s 22 and just arrived in the big city. (This would be a good time to point out that this girl is pretty hot and probably into getting wasted and making bad decisions, since, well, she’s from Oklahoma City, where in my experience people just get wasted and make bad decisions all day long, and here she is in the big, cosmopolitan city, where people are new and exciting and sophisticated and all that…so yeah. I dunno. Maybe you guys should come down to my work and ask her if she wants to go on a date or something. She don’t have lotsa friends yet, y’all!)
Kay, so yesterday I worked with Oklahoma and space alien. It was just the three of us. Oklahoma was asking questions about what was cool in the city, where to go and shit like that.
I mentioned that there was a lot to do here, definitely more than in OKC, although, I told her, last time I was in OKC I celebrated St. Patricks day at a street fair by eating five feet worth of corn dogs (true story. Sean Nader was there). When she asked why I’d been in OKC, I replied that in my other job I had to take lots of business trips. I know, kind of dorky sounding, but hear me out.
I’m an old guy at a bar talking to some wide eyed “fallen angel” type young pretty girl and the LAST thing I want to do is come across as some dildo flexing my dick about how radical I am and inserting that I’m in a band into conversations unnecessarily. That’s just gross, you know? So yeah. I said that at which point Oklahoma said, “business trips? What are you, in a band?” and my plan of not looking like a creep unraveled. I said ‘yeah,’ and kind of stopped the conversation, but it kept on going.
“That’s cool that you traveled with a band.” She said.
“Yeah, it’s a great time. I have a kid now and another one on the way so these days I kind of…”
here comes the space girl, who’s getting very interested in all this. She busts in with:
“So, when you do that stuff, do you guys just set up on the street anywhere and play? How does that work?”
Now, okay. I can forgive this, I guess. I mean, she’s from space. She has no idea what’s going on, and I’ve also noticed in my years on this (my native) planet that people who are really disconnected from the world of entertainment tend to think of concepts like “getting shows” and “going on tour” as impossible tasks on par with harnessing the sun, cold fusion and sucking your own dick. So, whatever. I asked her if her question was serious, and she assured me that it was. At which point I said, “no, we have an agent and she books us in clubs and bars and shit like that,” And I thought that would be kind of it. But THEN, Oklahoma asks me “Oh, you’re into the scene here. Where are some cool places to check out local music?”
Now, this question, to me, is kind of a tricky one, because with very few exceptions (and even then only if you’re the right kind of person) a club is only as good as the show that’s going on there. Okay, sure there are clubs that are always terrible, but even a great club sucks if Ultraviolet Hippopotamus is the headlining act. Sometimes you get a Fireside Bowl or something where there’s a real community sort of vibe and it’s more of an attraction than the bands, but again, that’s really rare, and lemme tell you, this chick wouldn’t have liked hanging out in the freside bowl. This I know.
SO, I’m trying to think of how to answer this question when space girl pipes in and says (I swear this is true) “The United Center has some pretty good shows.”
I mean, what? That’s where the Bulls play. The United center is a gigantic, 21000 capacity indoor stadium. When someone “plays a show” there, it’s like Madonna or Lady Gaga or Hootie or someone like that. (well, hootie’s not playing any stadiums these days, but you get what I’m saying.) Who in the world would EVER suggest a goddamned stadium as an answer to the question “what are some cool places to check out local music?”
Space person. It’s the only fucking answer. I’ve been trying to think of an analogy that encapsulates this amazing disregard for everything I know about society and I can’t. It’s too fucking out there. Now, this may come as a shock to you people but I usually find analogizing things to be almost instinctive. The fact that this particular BIZARRE little exchange is completely shorting my analogy circuits is evidence enough that this is other worldly shit we’re dealing with here. I mean, the United Center? Really? REALLY?
Well, whatever. She quit. Yesterday was space girl’s last day. Probably getting transmissions from the mothership or something. I asked her though. “Where are you from?” and she got all weird. She mumbled around how she’s from the suburbs of Chicago, mentioned a few towns and then looked at me and asked “why? Does it seem like I’m from really, really far away or something?”
I’m telling you. District 9. They Live. Alien Nation, erm…uh, V. Battlefield Earth. All that shit’s real man.
Be careful out there.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Really??
Different dude, huh? Oh. Well, in that case they're both mondo wack. How bout that. Thanks for settin me straight, y'all.
red and blue garbage and the pleasure derived...
You know how there’s certain shit that you hate and the reason you hate it is because sometimes, against your better judgment, you like it, and it makes you so fucking furious that suddenly, in the darkest recesses of your brain, you’re kind of singing along to that Owl City song and loving it and suddenly, not only are you forced to acknowledge, on some level that no, this music isn’t COMPLETE dogshit, but also, now YOU’RE one of THEM, one of ‘those turds that likes this shit’. You’ve betrayed yourself, and why? How? I’ll tell you. Because anyone can accidentally do something good every once in a while, in exactly the same way that anyone can do something bad. Hell, even Tiger Woods makes mistakes here and there, man. There’s no real reason that, using that same sort of probability machine that Daughtry can’t accidentally crank out a tune that’s good. Not that he has, mind you, but…well. Read on.
God. So much to talk about today regarding this. I don’t even know where to begin. I’m not a Daughtry fan. I think they’re wack. I consider Daughtry to be in generally the same category as turtlenecks. They’re not for me and there’s nothing cool about them, but hey, you’re into em? Cool. Fine. No problem. I mean, Will and the boys are just playing some good old fashioned crappy rock music. Nothing terribly offensive in that, AND he’s said in interviews that when reviewers attempt to discredit them by saying they’re nothing but Nickelback 2, well, he loves that comparison because Nickelback has sold millions of records, and that’s what he’s here to do. That’s refreshing, I think. I mean, for how many people out there write songs like music is nothing but commerce, it’s nice to hear someone actually mention the commercial aspect of it in a way that’s not just whining and crying because the world turned a few clicks and now you’re stuck in an outmoded business model with a pile of cds and a chip on your shoulder about the old days and how shit used to work.
Fuck yeah, Daughtry! Get out there and sell that crappy music to those people with bad taste and buy a ton of those vests and jeans and boots that you love!
Truly, there’s a sinister motive here. That new Daughtry song is called Life After You, and it’s not so good. I mean, it’s bad. Downright bad, but I don’t change the station. It’s, to borrow a phrase from our brethren in Boston, wicked embarrassing, but I can’t quite hate the song. I mean, it’s a song for PUSSIES, by pussies about being a total pussy and at first I started listening to it because I noticed that Daughtry and Tim from Rise Against do lots of real similar things in terms of melody and structure. Now, I’m not saying that they sound the same or that in almost any other circumstance you should be putting these two acts up for comparison because well, look it’s obvious. One’s cool. One’s daughtry. But the fact remains, very different genres, but they’re approached similarly, and I found it to be fascinating.
But then the fucker got its hooks in me. It’s like in Super Size Me when suddenly, three weeks in, Morgan Spurlock is talking about how good the food at McDonalds tastes and you want to be like “NoooooooOO!” but you get it. You get inculcated into ingesting trash, you adjust. Fuck. That’s me and daughtry. Oh well. Keep it our secret, kay? Good.
On the other hand we have Owl City. I don’t know much about this band but I know that dong nozzle that’s in every other band in the world is doing the singing. This guy drives me nuts. Firstly, Death Cab for Cutie is the DUMBEST band name EVER. BAR NONE. And it’s a band full of fat guys. Okay, that’s not a deal breaker or anything. Some of the best bands in the world are nothing but fat guys. Like…uh, the Fat Boys, for example. But the thing is, these Death Cab dudes aren’t even embracing their ‘wacky fat dude’ personas and always having a pizza or a chicken leg within arms reach or constantly being shirtless or anything that fat dudes pretty much HAVE to do to be in a band. These guys are just nerdy, bookish fat dudes that now, somehow are in one of the biggest bands in the world. And man, the music is so fucking pussified that it borders on being audio castration. Fiest had more kick ass songs than these guys, for fucks sake. I mean, why oh why do I need to listen to a fat millionaire that’s somehow circumvented all the rules of rockstardom and become the main guy in three huge bands despite the fact that he’s a chubby nerd, drone on about how he feels disconnected and alone and the world is a lovely, sad, touching whimsical place if you can just harvest the energy of the light and trees and souls or whatever. Fuck off, duder. I don’t like that at all.
Although…sometimes it comes on and you have to admit, that guy’s good. He’s got it, whatever “it’ is. Just one turn of phrase here or there and it’s like “ah GIBBARD!!! YOU BASTARD! You win again!” and that makes me hate him more.
He sounds like John K Samson imitating Tom Delonge by the way. Listen to “Vanilla Twilight” (the all time gayest song title ever, by the way) by Owl City if you need evidence of this gross misappropriation of sound.
Also, I hate Will Smith but I love him in movies. Same with Tom Cruise. Same with Tory Lane. Nah. Tory’s cool.
Actually, no. She’s probably not. She seems like she’d be mean, right? I think so. Look, speaking of things I hate, it’s time for me to get ready for work, so I’m out. Later turds.
God. So much to talk about today regarding this. I don’t even know where to begin. I’m not a Daughtry fan. I think they’re wack. I consider Daughtry to be in generally the same category as turtlenecks. They’re not for me and there’s nothing cool about them, but hey, you’re into em? Cool. Fine. No problem. I mean, Will and the boys are just playing some good old fashioned crappy rock music. Nothing terribly offensive in that, AND he’s said in interviews that when reviewers attempt to discredit them by saying they’re nothing but Nickelback 2, well, he loves that comparison because Nickelback has sold millions of records, and that’s what he’s here to do. That’s refreshing, I think. I mean, for how many people out there write songs like music is nothing but commerce, it’s nice to hear someone actually mention the commercial aspect of it in a way that’s not just whining and crying because the world turned a few clicks and now you’re stuck in an outmoded business model with a pile of cds and a chip on your shoulder about the old days and how shit used to work.
Fuck yeah, Daughtry! Get out there and sell that crappy music to those people with bad taste and buy a ton of those vests and jeans and boots that you love!
Truly, there’s a sinister motive here. That new Daughtry song is called Life After You, and it’s not so good. I mean, it’s bad. Downright bad, but I don’t change the station. It’s, to borrow a phrase from our brethren in Boston, wicked embarrassing, but I can’t quite hate the song. I mean, it’s a song for PUSSIES, by pussies about being a total pussy and at first I started listening to it because I noticed that Daughtry and Tim from Rise Against do lots of real similar things in terms of melody and structure. Now, I’m not saying that they sound the same or that in almost any other circumstance you should be putting these two acts up for comparison because well, look it’s obvious. One’s cool. One’s daughtry. But the fact remains, very different genres, but they’re approached similarly, and I found it to be fascinating.
But then the fucker got its hooks in me. It’s like in Super Size Me when suddenly, three weeks in, Morgan Spurlock is talking about how good the food at McDonalds tastes and you want to be like “NoooooooOO!” but you get it. You get inculcated into ingesting trash, you adjust. Fuck. That’s me and daughtry. Oh well. Keep it our secret, kay? Good.
On the other hand we have Owl City. I don’t know much about this band but I know that dong nozzle that’s in every other band in the world is doing the singing. This guy drives me nuts. Firstly, Death Cab for Cutie is the DUMBEST band name EVER. BAR NONE. And it’s a band full of fat guys. Okay, that’s not a deal breaker or anything. Some of the best bands in the world are nothing but fat guys. Like…uh, the Fat Boys, for example. But the thing is, these Death Cab dudes aren’t even embracing their ‘wacky fat dude’ personas and always having a pizza or a chicken leg within arms reach or constantly being shirtless or anything that fat dudes pretty much HAVE to do to be in a band. These guys are just nerdy, bookish fat dudes that now, somehow are in one of the biggest bands in the world. And man, the music is so fucking pussified that it borders on being audio castration. Fiest had more kick ass songs than these guys, for fucks sake. I mean, why oh why do I need to listen to a fat millionaire that’s somehow circumvented all the rules of rockstardom and become the main guy in three huge bands despite the fact that he’s a chubby nerd, drone on about how he feels disconnected and alone and the world is a lovely, sad, touching whimsical place if you can just harvest the energy of the light and trees and souls or whatever. Fuck off, duder. I don’t like that at all.
Although…sometimes it comes on and you have to admit, that guy’s good. He’s got it, whatever “it’ is. Just one turn of phrase here or there and it’s like “ah GIBBARD!!! YOU BASTARD! You win again!” and that makes me hate him more.
He sounds like John K Samson imitating Tom Delonge by the way. Listen to “Vanilla Twilight” (the all time gayest song title ever, by the way) by Owl City if you need evidence of this gross misappropriation of sound.
Also, I hate Will Smith but I love him in movies. Same with Tom Cruise. Same with Tory Lane. Nah. Tory’s cool.
Actually, no. She’s probably not. She seems like she’d be mean, right? I think so. Look, speaking of things I hate, it’s time for me to get ready for work, so I’m out. Later turds.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Death...by stereo (thanks summer!)
This is my last day of freedom. My kid will no longer be attending his school and I will be back on full time dad duty. More than ever, in fact, because he will be home every day and I’ll be that thin blue line that separates him from madness, tantrums and various light sockets. It’s a good thing my life is so empty and pointless, or else I’d have this feeling right now that the very last day to get anything done in my whole life was slowly slipping through my fingers and what was I doing with it? Blogging? For real? Sheesh. Like I said, good thing I’ve got nothing to do and nothing on the horizon.
So yeah, today is a sad day. Not because of my impending new job as full time dad, which hey, can be trying but is mostly pretty fun. No, today’s sad because the dignity of American celebrity infidelity was forever sullied this morning when Howard Stern had Tiger Woods’ mistresses on for a beauty contest. Oh, and Corey Haim died.
Honestly, I don’t know what to think. I really liked it when Tiger’s mistresses were just a flock of random whores that I could hate comfortably from my couch while Hoda and Kathy Lee shit talked them over one another on my behalf. Now, Howard Stern has the nerve to bring these girls on and ask them questions, get inside their heads and explain how they got seduced by celebrity and how they have feelings and dreams and friends and families and well…well shit. I can’t hate these hoes anymore. I can’t even really call them hoes in good conscience. It’s like fucking someone suddenly ISN’T this horrible deed that turns you into a piece of garbage with a demon and a lump of melted rubber for a soul. Huh. Well, that’s not a feeling I’m comfortable with, so I’m gonna move right on to the other tragedy of the day, namely, the death of Corey Haim.
Now, Corey Haim, career-wise, has been dead for years. Recently, he starred in a show with former-partner-in-dildodom Corey Feldman, where he somehow managed to make Feldman look like a level headed talented actor with the bright future. No easy task if you consider that on the Surreal Life, Corey Feldman looked like an untalented raging lunatic has-been washed up, deluded dingus and he was hanging around the likes of Tammy Faye Baker, Vanilla Ice, Erik Estrada and some skank from the real world, respectively. That’s saying something.
The Haimster was said to have been in trouble. Reports had been coming in for years that he was homeless in Milwaukee and high on drugs and so on and so forth. When he finally emerged (on that show with Feldman) he was bloated and gross. The rumors seemed true. He put some ad in Variety that said something to the effect of “yeah, I’ve fucked up for a while, but I’m back. I’m ready to make amends and I’m ready to work again. Please put me in your movie!!!!” and well, surprisingly, that didn’t go too well.
At this point, my knowledge of late-era Haimisms comes to an abrupt end, but I’d like to speculate that he probably reffed a few backyard rasslin matches and maybe jumped around to a few ICP albums.
I dunno. I’m sure his family is sad. I’m sure Feldman is somewhere having very mixed emotions. On one hand, he’s the winner. “FELDMAN BEATS HAIM!!!! WHO’D A THUNK IT?” the headlines blare in his bespectacled dome. But then, there’s gotta be that lingering dread. This shit happens in threes, you know. First Michael Jackson, then Corey Haim. There’s only ONE person that can complete that trifecta. And that’s Feldman. AND HE KNOWS IT!!!!!
Right Now, he’s hiding in his room, looking at pictures of his ex wife’s playboy shoot, window shades drawn, walls and ceilings covered in foil, lost boys on the television, Remember the Time on the stereo and a copy of the DaVinci code in his hands just to tie everything together. He should be scared. They’re coming for you, Feldman. Believe it! You can’t hide. Where are your precious animals now, Feldman? Huh? HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Nah, like I said, I’m sure the Haims are bummed. Canada, probably also bummed, as they lost one of their best and brightest. It’s never fun when bloated former cute kids die young, folks. Well, exept…no. No. I’m gonna stick with it. Never fun.
Okay, in the spirit of my last day of grownup freedom, making the most of life because you never know when it will be cruelly snatched from you and the notion that all of tiger woods’ mistresses were maybe not just wanton dickwarmers, I’m gonna get out there and live. Maybe I’ll go get a corned beef sandwich or something.
Oh, the dizzying highs!
Later folks.
So yeah, today is a sad day. Not because of my impending new job as full time dad, which hey, can be trying but is mostly pretty fun. No, today’s sad because the dignity of American celebrity infidelity was forever sullied this morning when Howard Stern had Tiger Woods’ mistresses on for a beauty contest. Oh, and Corey Haim died.
Honestly, I don’t know what to think. I really liked it when Tiger’s mistresses were just a flock of random whores that I could hate comfortably from my couch while Hoda and Kathy Lee shit talked them over one another on my behalf. Now, Howard Stern has the nerve to bring these girls on and ask them questions, get inside their heads and explain how they got seduced by celebrity and how they have feelings and dreams and friends and families and well…well shit. I can’t hate these hoes anymore. I can’t even really call them hoes in good conscience. It’s like fucking someone suddenly ISN’T this horrible deed that turns you into a piece of garbage with a demon and a lump of melted rubber for a soul. Huh. Well, that’s not a feeling I’m comfortable with, so I’m gonna move right on to the other tragedy of the day, namely, the death of Corey Haim.
Now, Corey Haim, career-wise, has been dead for years. Recently, he starred in a show with former-partner-in-dildodom Corey Feldman, where he somehow managed to make Feldman look like a level headed talented actor with the bright future. No easy task if you consider that on the Surreal Life, Corey Feldman looked like an untalented raging lunatic has-been washed up, deluded dingus and he was hanging around the likes of Tammy Faye Baker, Vanilla Ice, Erik Estrada and some skank from the real world, respectively. That’s saying something.
The Haimster was said to have been in trouble. Reports had been coming in for years that he was homeless in Milwaukee and high on drugs and so on and so forth. When he finally emerged (on that show with Feldman) he was bloated and gross. The rumors seemed true. He put some ad in Variety that said something to the effect of “yeah, I’ve fucked up for a while, but I’m back. I’m ready to make amends and I’m ready to work again. Please put me in your movie!!!!” and well, surprisingly, that didn’t go too well.
At this point, my knowledge of late-era Haimisms comes to an abrupt end, but I’d like to speculate that he probably reffed a few backyard rasslin matches and maybe jumped around to a few ICP albums.
I dunno. I’m sure his family is sad. I’m sure Feldman is somewhere having very mixed emotions. On one hand, he’s the winner. “FELDMAN BEATS HAIM!!!! WHO’D A THUNK IT?” the headlines blare in his bespectacled dome. But then, there’s gotta be that lingering dread. This shit happens in threes, you know. First Michael Jackson, then Corey Haim. There’s only ONE person that can complete that trifecta. And that’s Feldman. AND HE KNOWS IT!!!!!
Right Now, he’s hiding in his room, looking at pictures of his ex wife’s playboy shoot, window shades drawn, walls and ceilings covered in foil, lost boys on the television, Remember the Time on the stereo and a copy of the DaVinci code in his hands just to tie everything together. He should be scared. They’re coming for you, Feldman. Believe it! You can’t hide. Where are your precious animals now, Feldman? Huh? HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Nah, like I said, I’m sure the Haims are bummed. Canada, probably also bummed, as they lost one of their best and brightest. It’s never fun when bloated former cute kids die young, folks. Well, exept…no. No. I’m gonna stick with it. Never fun.
Okay, in the spirit of my last day of grownup freedom, making the most of life because you never know when it will be cruelly snatched from you and the notion that all of tiger woods’ mistresses were maybe not just wanton dickwarmers, I’m gonna get out there and live. Maybe I’ll go get a corned beef sandwich or something.
Oh, the dizzying highs!
Later folks.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
If you want him this bad, I'm not letting him go!
So here’s what I did. I just wrote a children’s style song about killing people and then laughing while the birds of prey eat their flesh. It’s a pretty funny song. It’s also got references to me being a gay cruiser in parks and bathrooms and it also kind of references Master and Margarita, an old Broadways song, the movie Crusin’ staring Al Pacino, Larry Craig, an old joke that my camp counselor told me when I was thirteen, and I think that there’s a tiny bit of redemption in there. This is all, again, set to pretty much children’s music. I feel a twisted sense of accomplishment/filthiness, like right after you fuck a puma.
Just throwing that out there.
Okay, what’s going on today? Have we all recovered from the oscars? I know my ass was still a hot butterscotch hose as recently as this morning due to my bad case of Oscar fever, but I think I’m pretty much recovered. What is there to talk about today? I guess we can go over the results of yesterday’s query, “does Cuba Gooding Jr. have an equivalent?”
For those of you who missed the question, please refer to yesterday’s entry entitled “ima let you finish’
I think your answers varied from pretty good to terrible. Mike Tyson is probably the best answer. In fact, Cuba has nothing on Mike Tyson, honestly. Cuba was just one guy out of many who wins awards every year. Sure, those are ‘prestigious’ awards, but they don’t really stack up to rounding up all the various heavyweight belts in the country and combining them into one grand championship belt and then being the most feared man in the world who threatened to ruin a multi million dollar industry by being so dominant.
Also, he married (and stair pushed) Robin Givens. That’s cool (and terrible). Yup. Iron Mike was the man (and a monster). There’s no fucking two ways about it.
Think about this- Mike Tyson’s Punch Out is one of the best video games ever. Have you ever played As Good As It Gets: the game? Well, let me tell you, it sucks, and Cuba is BARELY even in that shit. But Mike Tyson? He used to be synonymous with championship, man. He had a goddamned Will Smith song about him. How ‘bout that? Who can say that the most profitable film actor of ALL TIME wrote and performed a song about their dominance? Only Tyson. Plus, he’s got those chicken dinners, so there’s that.
Buuuuuut, like Cuba Gooding, he couldn’t stay on top forever. No, soon he’d pushed Robin down one too many flights of stairs, he’d bitten off one too many ears, he’d bought one too many flocks of highly trained pigeons and he’d tattooed one too many of his faces. Net thing you know, Tyson’s air drumming to Phil Collins(!) for the amusement of aging hipsters and hordes of young people who think he’s just a high-pitched bum.
That’s worse than Snow Dogs, man.
Although, in fairness, the Hangover is a much better film than Snow Dogs (I’m guessing. Believe it or not, I’m not one of the few who watched Snow Dogs) and Tyson is kind of still in the news…mostly for being in and out of jail and being broke though, right? So yeah. He wins. Or loses. I don’t know how to award this one. Um…well, let’s just say that uh (hold on, gotta go look this up..) “R.” wins the sock drawer award for best answer. How bout that? When you’re dealing in Mike Tyson and Cuba Gooding Jr., there can be no winners, really.
Okay, look. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got shit to do and not a lot of time to do it in. Hope you turds are surviving your Tuesdays. Good talk. Now get out there and live!
Just throwing that out there.
Okay, what’s going on today? Have we all recovered from the oscars? I know my ass was still a hot butterscotch hose as recently as this morning due to my bad case of Oscar fever, but I think I’m pretty much recovered. What is there to talk about today? I guess we can go over the results of yesterday’s query, “does Cuba Gooding Jr. have an equivalent?”
For those of you who missed the question, please refer to yesterday’s entry entitled “ima let you finish’
I think your answers varied from pretty good to terrible. Mike Tyson is probably the best answer. In fact, Cuba has nothing on Mike Tyson, honestly. Cuba was just one guy out of many who wins awards every year. Sure, those are ‘prestigious’ awards, but they don’t really stack up to rounding up all the various heavyweight belts in the country and combining them into one grand championship belt and then being the most feared man in the world who threatened to ruin a multi million dollar industry by being so dominant.
Also, he married (and stair pushed) Robin Givens. That’s cool (and terrible). Yup. Iron Mike was the man (and a monster). There’s no fucking two ways about it.
Think about this- Mike Tyson’s Punch Out is one of the best video games ever. Have you ever played As Good As It Gets: the game? Well, let me tell you, it sucks, and Cuba is BARELY even in that shit. But Mike Tyson? He used to be synonymous with championship, man. He had a goddamned Will Smith song about him. How ‘bout that? Who can say that the most profitable film actor of ALL TIME wrote and performed a song about their dominance? Only Tyson. Plus, he’s got those chicken dinners, so there’s that.
Buuuuuut, like Cuba Gooding, he couldn’t stay on top forever. No, soon he’d pushed Robin down one too many flights of stairs, he’d bitten off one too many ears, he’d bought one too many flocks of highly trained pigeons and he’d tattooed one too many of his faces. Net thing you know, Tyson’s air drumming to Phil Collins(!) for the amusement of aging hipsters and hordes of young people who think he’s just a high-pitched bum.
That’s worse than Snow Dogs, man.
Although, in fairness, the Hangover is a much better film than Snow Dogs (I’m guessing. Believe it or not, I’m not one of the few who watched Snow Dogs) and Tyson is kind of still in the news…mostly for being in and out of jail and being broke though, right? So yeah. He wins. Or loses. I don’t know how to award this one. Um…well, let’s just say that uh (hold on, gotta go look this up..) “R.” wins the sock drawer award for best answer. How bout that? When you’re dealing in Mike Tyson and Cuba Gooding Jr., there can be no winners, really.
Okay, look. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got shit to do and not a lot of time to do it in. Hope you turds are surviving your Tuesdays. Good talk. Now get out there and live!
Monday, March 8, 2010
Ima let you finish.
So last night was the Oscars. Funny night, man. The oscar red carpet is such a bizarre phenomenon, because it marks the only place on earth where the true confluence of total success and barely, BARELY realizing any semblance of your dream occur. Here’s what I mean: Out of everyone who’s ever wanted to entertain anyone in movies or television, the Oscars are a show for those few who have risen to the tippity top of the heap. And there, waiting for the stars on the red carpet, holding microphones, are the people who just BARELY squeaked in at the buzzer. “celeb correspondents” are the lowest form of journalistic/entertainment life that there is. It’s the field where failed actors, failed models, failed legitimate journalists and newscasters and various dumb bimbos and himbos who have sucked an influential dick or two go to congeal before teeth whitening, barfing and tanning some more.
On oscar day, these two groups face off on the red carpet. It’s fucking hilarious. These parasitic ‘journalists’ are more botoxed and wild-eyed and giddy than the stars that they’re interviewing/being catty about/terribly jealous of/veterans of the same acting coach as, and they stand there and smile and shout asinine questions to some of the most self important dickheads in the entire world, every single one of which looks terribly uncomfortable.
This is the revenge. This is where Joey Fatone, Mellissa Rivers and Juliana Rancic get their revenge for not having sustainable careers as thespians or entertainers. They’re stuck on the backs of the beasts, eating the barnacles out of the flappity back skin of Julia Roberts and Kate Winslet. So, throughout the year they have these cheaply produced shows that star Mario lopez most of the time, and they sit there and they act like snippy cunts when they see Gerard Butler (whoever the fuck that is) in sweatpants at the safeway, but then, that one special day comes and they’re all there; the stars and the turds, almost in a cage match, surrounded by screaming fans. It’s the pathetic-barely-clinging-to-the-dream-of-being-entertainers versus the self-important-dipshit-actor-who-keeps-getting-told-how-important-he/she-is-despite-the-fact-that-he/she’s-just-an-actor-and-really-isn’t-important-at-all.
Suddenly, these celeb bots are screaming “who are you wearing?” and “Steve Carell!!! Come here! Brendan Kelly from E news! Just a few questions! Please! PLEASE STEVEN!!!!!! Thanks so much. I’m here with Steve Carell on the red carpet. Good to see you.” Silence. “Okay, well, I think the question everyone wants the answer to tonight is of course…um…How’s your night so far?”
This is really the level of journalism on the red carpet. For real. “Anyone you’re looking forward to seeing?” “Actually, yes, Brendan. I’ve heard that Mary J Blige is going to stuff a stillborn kitten into her pussy right before the dead celebrity montage. That’s something I’m gonna try to not be in the bathroom doing blow during.”
It’s a magical night, to be sure. Tinsel, lights, crazy old jewish ladies bum rushing documentarians and showing off the full effect of nine martinis and a speech impediment. Um, lots of people breathing really heavily. Lots of cheering and tears and so much fucking self importance. I mean, did you people watch this thing yesterday?
How about that whole rigmarole with the ‘best actor/actress’ category? I mean, these people are, not to put too fine a point on this, MOVIE STARS already. That means they get plenty of attention, money and adoration from the world as is. Now we’ve got a show where they can get awards. Fine. I’ll buy that. But then, they’ve got them just standing out there at the beginning in this sort of “look at these magnificent examples of cipher-artistry! This is the new pantheon of gods for the week” situation. AND THEN!!!! AND THEN they get their friends out there to just kind of talk each one of them up? What the fuck is that? “Oh, morgan freeman, totally good dude. Great actor. I’m pullin for you buddy!” said Tim Robbins (I’m paraphrasing a little). Do they need that last extra bit of dick suckery? Do they? They’re there, millionaires, sitting at a prestigious event being honored for essentially playing a childs game really well and THESE eight or so people have been picked as the top 8 for the year, and even then they need a further little editorial about how rad they are? God. Not since the AVN awards have so many people gotten their dicks sucked simply for getting their dicks sucked.
Oh, and I gotta wonder, do you guys think that Precious girl is gonna lose a foot, go blind or have a heart attack first? That’s about as unhealthy as a person can be and still be walking around, innit?
Finally, one question that was plaguing my friends and I last night: Cuba Gooding Jr. was at one time a respected, and some would even argue great actor. He won the best supporting actor oscar for Jerry McGuire which was pretty cool, if for no other reason than his career trajectory kind of was set up to mimic the purported trajectory of his character’s, with the oscar standing in for the great recovery from the brutal tackle. Still with me? Okay, so as we all know, Cuba Gooding Jr. ended up making a movie with CGI sled dogs and one where he and Horatio Sands end up on a gay cruise…not exactly oscar winner shit. It’s probably the worst plunge ever in acting. Is there a person or group that has done this in any other entertainment discipline? Fallen from the absolute TOP of the world to total ridicule? People who stop, or fade away don’t count. I’m talking about the total plunge. I’d offer that Metallica is close, but they’re still HUGE, so that’s not quite right. Axl Rose is closer, but he’s too odd and still kind of respected in a howard Hughes kind of way a little bit. It’s like, if Vanilla Ice’s first record had been a masterpiece, his decent to juggalodom would be right on target for the Cuba Gooding trajectory, but he kind of started out as a joke. I leave it to you, dogs of war? Who’s the Cuba Gooding Jr of music (or anything, for that matter)? Keep in mind, if they weren’t SUPER famous and successful, they don’t count. So ska bands and dumb shit like that don’t count, kay? This isn’t a time to show off your knowledge of the obscure. Got it? Good. Have a good Monday.
On oscar day, these two groups face off on the red carpet. It’s fucking hilarious. These parasitic ‘journalists’ are more botoxed and wild-eyed and giddy than the stars that they’re interviewing/being catty about/terribly jealous of/veterans of the same acting coach as, and they stand there and smile and shout asinine questions to some of the most self important dickheads in the entire world, every single one of which looks terribly uncomfortable.
This is the revenge. This is where Joey Fatone, Mellissa Rivers and Juliana Rancic get their revenge for not having sustainable careers as thespians or entertainers. They’re stuck on the backs of the beasts, eating the barnacles out of the flappity back skin of Julia Roberts and Kate Winslet. So, throughout the year they have these cheaply produced shows that star Mario lopez most of the time, and they sit there and they act like snippy cunts when they see Gerard Butler (whoever the fuck that is) in sweatpants at the safeway, but then, that one special day comes and they’re all there; the stars and the turds, almost in a cage match, surrounded by screaming fans. It’s the pathetic-barely-clinging-to-the-dream-of-being-entertainers versus the self-important-dipshit-actor-who-keeps-getting-told-how-important-he/she-is-despite-the-fact-that-he/she’s-just-an-actor-and-really-isn’t-important-at-all.
Suddenly, these celeb bots are screaming “who are you wearing?” and “Steve Carell!!! Come here! Brendan Kelly from E news! Just a few questions! Please! PLEASE STEVEN!!!!!! Thanks so much. I’m here with Steve Carell on the red carpet. Good to see you.” Silence. “Okay, well, I think the question everyone wants the answer to tonight is of course…um…How’s your night so far?”
This is really the level of journalism on the red carpet. For real. “Anyone you’re looking forward to seeing?” “Actually, yes, Brendan. I’ve heard that Mary J Blige is going to stuff a stillborn kitten into her pussy right before the dead celebrity montage. That’s something I’m gonna try to not be in the bathroom doing blow during.”
It’s a magical night, to be sure. Tinsel, lights, crazy old jewish ladies bum rushing documentarians and showing off the full effect of nine martinis and a speech impediment. Um, lots of people breathing really heavily. Lots of cheering and tears and so much fucking self importance. I mean, did you people watch this thing yesterday?
How about that whole rigmarole with the ‘best actor/actress’ category? I mean, these people are, not to put too fine a point on this, MOVIE STARS already. That means they get plenty of attention, money and adoration from the world as is. Now we’ve got a show where they can get awards. Fine. I’ll buy that. But then, they’ve got them just standing out there at the beginning in this sort of “look at these magnificent examples of cipher-artistry! This is the new pantheon of gods for the week” situation. AND THEN!!!! AND THEN they get their friends out there to just kind of talk each one of them up? What the fuck is that? “Oh, morgan freeman, totally good dude. Great actor. I’m pullin for you buddy!” said Tim Robbins (I’m paraphrasing a little). Do they need that last extra bit of dick suckery? Do they? They’re there, millionaires, sitting at a prestigious event being honored for essentially playing a childs game really well and THESE eight or so people have been picked as the top 8 for the year, and even then they need a further little editorial about how rad they are? God. Not since the AVN awards have so many people gotten their dicks sucked simply for getting their dicks sucked.
Oh, and I gotta wonder, do you guys think that Precious girl is gonna lose a foot, go blind or have a heart attack first? That’s about as unhealthy as a person can be and still be walking around, innit?
Finally, one question that was plaguing my friends and I last night: Cuba Gooding Jr. was at one time a respected, and some would even argue great actor. He won the best supporting actor oscar for Jerry McGuire which was pretty cool, if for no other reason than his career trajectory kind of was set up to mimic the purported trajectory of his character’s, with the oscar standing in for the great recovery from the brutal tackle. Still with me? Okay, so as we all know, Cuba Gooding Jr. ended up making a movie with CGI sled dogs and one where he and Horatio Sands end up on a gay cruise…not exactly oscar winner shit. It’s probably the worst plunge ever in acting. Is there a person or group that has done this in any other entertainment discipline? Fallen from the absolute TOP of the world to total ridicule? People who stop, or fade away don’t count. I’m talking about the total plunge. I’d offer that Metallica is close, but they’re still HUGE, so that’s not quite right. Axl Rose is closer, but he’s too odd and still kind of respected in a howard Hughes kind of way a little bit. It’s like, if Vanilla Ice’s first record had been a masterpiece, his decent to juggalodom would be right on target for the Cuba Gooding trajectory, but he kind of started out as a joke. I leave it to you, dogs of war? Who’s the Cuba Gooding Jr of music (or anything, for that matter)? Keep in mind, if they weren’t SUPER famous and successful, they don’t count. So ska bands and dumb shit like that don’t count, kay? This isn’t a time to show off your knowledge of the obscure. Got it? Good. Have a good Monday.
Friday, March 5, 2010
news briefs
Okay, so there’s some fucked up, crazy, inexplicable shit going on in the world and last night, when I was supposed to be trying to find a nanny online (any of you with credentials [nice cans] are welcome to apply) I found myself instead wandering the darkest recesses of the internet that don’t feature people licking someone else’s asshole off a stranger’s dong…Of course I’m referring to pop-news websites. I came across some disturbing things. This is seventh seal shit, people. Okay, onto the stories:
The lady killed by the orca. She was a trainer at seaworld and she got mauled and chomped and now she’s dead. Not really all that surprising when you consider that the colloquial term for the orca is the killer whale, and well, you don’t get a name like ‘killer’ by just sitting around eating perch. Now, sure, it’s sad and I know she loved marine life and all that and it sucks that she was brutally killed. The thing that’s unbelievable about this story was the interview with her family where they said “she died doing what she loved.” Really? What’s that? Being brutally crushed? Realizing that the people that warned her that this shit was dangerous and she was gonna get hurt were right and she was wrong? Sorry. Look, a guy who’s a skydiving enthusiast who hit the ground too hard died doing what he loved, a pilot who lost control of his cesna, a deep sea diver who ran out of air, a creepy old pervert collapsing with a heart attack on top of an underage thai whore, a stunt guy crashing after jumping the biggest fountain in Vegas, these are people ‘dying doing what they love.’ This lady got fucking eaten by a giant dolphin. No one loves that. Promise.
Sarah Palin is talking about doing stand up comedy, I guess. That sounds like it’s gonna be real good. If I wanted to listen to some quasi braindead hick mom tell stale jokes about how John Stewart’s a limp dick I’d head down to the Applebees in Naperville and sit at the bar with a pile of twenties and a copy of the National Review.
I hope she does this. Really, truly I do. It’s so misguided that it’s gotta be great. I can’t even imagine her various handlers and the bricks they must be shitting (on a side note, what a fucking job THAT’S gotta be. ‘okay, keep sarah palin from looking dumb, please. You start now. Oh, and you’ll have to deal with all the massively stupid shit she’s already done. Sorry. The last person with your job killed themselves, so we’re kind of playing catch up.”)
There’s good ideas, like vajazzling. There’s bad ideas that seem good at the time, like a tattoo of barbed wire, there’s bad ideas that seem bad but are so stupid they just might work, like the big mac wrap, and then there’s just dumb ass bad ideas, like robbing the convenience store your mom works at or being one of the most openly ridiculed people in the world famous for stupidity and shortsightedness and trying to parlay that reputation into some sort of three night stint at the Laugh Shack.
Good luck, lady.
According to the local police of celebrity fatness, the latest star to pull a K fed is none other than Saul Hudson, or Slash. I’d like to offer the new nickname “Slush” to uh…I don’t know, all those idiots that say shit like ‘brangelina’ or TomKat or whatever it is that’s being passed off as a legitimate relationship these days. This is simply a case of people not having any priorities. Slash is a retired millionaire in his forties. Let him be fat in peace you fucking turds. Just because YOUR lame 23 thousand a year correspondent job isn’t gonna allow you to get a piece of cake with that, don’t take it out on Slash. He’s done his time, man. He lived on a bus with Axl, for fucks sake. Next thing you know we’re all gonna be talking about if Shiloh is dressed too much like a boy.
Wait, what? Really? sigh.
Finally, it’s been suggested that Olympian Johnny Weir is ‘too gay for skating.’ I find this to be, uh, one of the most profoundly flummoxing assertions of all time. Too gay for skating, eh? That’s like being too tall for basketball or too evil for the death penalty or too strong for the world’s strongest man competition, too rich to retire, too delicious to be a pizza, too stupid to be governor of Alaska/stand up sensation. You get the idea.
I think that couples figure skating, where they have to be all sexual with each other is the biggest affront to homosexuality since Stonewall, personally.
There’s NOTHING gayer than male figure skating, folks. Just for the record, Johnny Weir finishes sucking a pair of dicks, wipes his mouth and says to his buddies “okay, now I’m gonna go do something REALLY gay” before he hits the ice. Now, I’m not knocking sucking a bunch of dudes’ dicks, and I’m not knocking figure skating. Both are rad, as far as I’m concerned, but puh-LEASE. Too gay for skating? That’s like being too gay for an all male bath house or too gay for the Lady GaGa show. I could go on all day, folks, but I gotta take my kid to school and go to work.
God, what the fuck is wrong with this planet, eh?
Have a nice weekend.
The lady killed by the orca. She was a trainer at seaworld and she got mauled and chomped and now she’s dead. Not really all that surprising when you consider that the colloquial term for the orca is the killer whale, and well, you don’t get a name like ‘killer’ by just sitting around eating perch. Now, sure, it’s sad and I know she loved marine life and all that and it sucks that she was brutally killed. The thing that’s unbelievable about this story was the interview with her family where they said “she died doing what she loved.” Really? What’s that? Being brutally crushed? Realizing that the people that warned her that this shit was dangerous and she was gonna get hurt were right and she was wrong? Sorry. Look, a guy who’s a skydiving enthusiast who hit the ground too hard died doing what he loved, a pilot who lost control of his cesna, a deep sea diver who ran out of air, a creepy old pervert collapsing with a heart attack on top of an underage thai whore, a stunt guy crashing after jumping the biggest fountain in Vegas, these are people ‘dying doing what they love.’ This lady got fucking eaten by a giant dolphin. No one loves that. Promise.
Sarah Palin is talking about doing stand up comedy, I guess. That sounds like it’s gonna be real good. If I wanted to listen to some quasi braindead hick mom tell stale jokes about how John Stewart’s a limp dick I’d head down to the Applebees in Naperville and sit at the bar with a pile of twenties and a copy of the National Review.
I hope she does this. Really, truly I do. It’s so misguided that it’s gotta be great. I can’t even imagine her various handlers and the bricks they must be shitting (on a side note, what a fucking job THAT’S gotta be. ‘okay, keep sarah palin from looking dumb, please. You start now. Oh, and you’ll have to deal with all the massively stupid shit she’s already done. Sorry. The last person with your job killed themselves, so we’re kind of playing catch up.”)
There’s good ideas, like vajazzling. There’s bad ideas that seem good at the time, like a tattoo of barbed wire, there’s bad ideas that seem bad but are so stupid they just might work, like the big mac wrap, and then there’s just dumb ass bad ideas, like robbing the convenience store your mom works at or being one of the most openly ridiculed people in the world famous for stupidity and shortsightedness and trying to parlay that reputation into some sort of three night stint at the Laugh Shack.
Good luck, lady.
According to the local police of celebrity fatness, the latest star to pull a K fed is none other than Saul Hudson, or Slash. I’d like to offer the new nickname “Slush” to uh…I don’t know, all those idiots that say shit like ‘brangelina’ or TomKat or whatever it is that’s being passed off as a legitimate relationship these days. This is simply a case of people not having any priorities. Slash is a retired millionaire in his forties. Let him be fat in peace you fucking turds. Just because YOUR lame 23 thousand a year correspondent job isn’t gonna allow you to get a piece of cake with that, don’t take it out on Slash. He’s done his time, man. He lived on a bus with Axl, for fucks sake. Next thing you know we’re all gonna be talking about if Shiloh is dressed too much like a boy.
Wait, what? Really? sigh.
Finally, it’s been suggested that Olympian Johnny Weir is ‘too gay for skating.’ I find this to be, uh, one of the most profoundly flummoxing assertions of all time. Too gay for skating, eh? That’s like being too tall for basketball or too evil for the death penalty or too strong for the world’s strongest man competition, too rich to retire, too delicious to be a pizza, too stupid to be governor of Alaska/stand up sensation. You get the idea.
I think that couples figure skating, where they have to be all sexual with each other is the biggest affront to homosexuality since Stonewall, personally.
There’s NOTHING gayer than male figure skating, folks. Just for the record, Johnny Weir finishes sucking a pair of dicks, wipes his mouth and says to his buddies “okay, now I’m gonna go do something REALLY gay” before he hits the ice. Now, I’m not knocking sucking a bunch of dudes’ dicks, and I’m not knocking figure skating. Both are rad, as far as I’m concerned, but puh-LEASE. Too gay for skating? That’s like being too gay for an all male bath house or too gay for the Lady GaGa show. I could go on all day, folks, but I gotta take my kid to school and go to work.
God, what the fuck is wrong with this planet, eh?
Have a nice weekend.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
High, everybody!
I can’t find the remote control. It’s driving me crazy. It’s making me sweat. I’ve got a real equilibrium problem and bending down and getting up repeatedly makes me feel terrible. I think lots of people probably get this, but right now I feel sick. I was trying to turn on the television so my kid could watch his favorite show while I typed this thing out and, well, suffice it to say I’m dizzy and have kind of a headache now and as a result, I’ve got nothing interesting to say here and no time in which to say it. I need some K2.
Now, K2 is some new drug I just read about. Apparently it’s legal and it gets you pretty fucked up. It’s called “fake weed” because it’s some incense stuff that they’ve been selling in headshops that’s sprayed with something. Ha! You kids are on fire. I love a brand new drug. Not to do, mind you, but I love the way that introducing a new drug into the world just makes everyone flip out.
The scientific community describes the effects as pretty shitty- discombobulation, dizziness, increased heart rate, hallucinations, but I mean, if you read between the lines just a TINY bit, that sounds pretty good, right? Sure it does. It never fails. Cops and scientists provide the side effects of all drugs in the least appealing possible language, as though that’s gonna somehow combat the fact that EVERYONE takes drugs (not you, tight ass straight edge guy who doesn’t understand hyperbole. Just calm down). I mean, if weed really just made you dizzy, psychotic and delusional, Dave Matthews shows would look more like the bus station and less like a place where you just want to punch everyone in the back of the head for being such a content dildo. The idea of fighting drugs is so stupid it borders on religion, but hey, I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said a zillion times already. I’m just excited that there’s a new guy out there that can get all the parents excited and terrified.
When I was a kid there was an expose on Jimson weed which apparently got you super high and made you hallucinate and, according to the news, made one in three people who did it die. Well, they showed these two guys on the news that were locked up in a holding cell after apparently smoking the jimson, and okay, firstly these dudes were classic hesher paint huffers: sweat pants, mustache, long hair, Def Leppard tee shirts, the whole deal. They were such fucked up dudes just in general that they were obviously real scores as cautionary examples in the war on drugs campaign. Well, we watched these dudes smoke imaginary cigarettes and go to sit in chairs that weren’t there and shit and we all laughed our asses off and then discussed how fucking awesome it would be to get our hands on some of that jimson weed.
Now, full disclosure, I don’t know anything at all about jimson weed. Never saw it, never tried it. Fuck. It may really kill you, so don’t try it based on this story. I’m only illustrating the completely backwards effect that ‘scare tactics’ have on reckless teens.
Remember when those people made up the story about the African kids shitting and peeing into jars and then huffing the vapors when it all got heated by the sun? I wrote about it here about a year ago. That shit was awesome. There was FOR SURE a bunch of gullible teens around the globe huffing shit because some clever pranksters claimed that it produced hallucinations and euphoria on the internet. Be careful what you read, kids. Not everything on the internet is true. If it were, I’d be the president of Nigeria right now.
About five (eight?) years ago, they came out with that salvia stuff, which by all accounts that I’ve read produces a very disturbing hallucinatory state that’s really no fun at all, but hey! It’s legal, so kids party with that like crazy.
Now there’s K2, and it’s all over the news. Sounds familiar to me. I dunno. I personally think drugs are for losers and the elderly, but, like I said, I love it when they roll out the new drugs in time for spring “parent terror” season. It’s kind of fun.
Okay, gotta go. I got work to do.
Now, K2 is some new drug I just read about. Apparently it’s legal and it gets you pretty fucked up. It’s called “fake weed” because it’s some incense stuff that they’ve been selling in headshops that’s sprayed with something. Ha! You kids are on fire. I love a brand new drug. Not to do, mind you, but I love the way that introducing a new drug into the world just makes everyone flip out.
The scientific community describes the effects as pretty shitty- discombobulation, dizziness, increased heart rate, hallucinations, but I mean, if you read between the lines just a TINY bit, that sounds pretty good, right? Sure it does. It never fails. Cops and scientists provide the side effects of all drugs in the least appealing possible language, as though that’s gonna somehow combat the fact that EVERYONE takes drugs (not you, tight ass straight edge guy who doesn’t understand hyperbole. Just calm down). I mean, if weed really just made you dizzy, psychotic and delusional, Dave Matthews shows would look more like the bus station and less like a place where you just want to punch everyone in the back of the head for being such a content dildo. The idea of fighting drugs is so stupid it borders on religion, but hey, I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said a zillion times already. I’m just excited that there’s a new guy out there that can get all the parents excited and terrified.
When I was a kid there was an expose on Jimson weed which apparently got you super high and made you hallucinate and, according to the news, made one in three people who did it die. Well, they showed these two guys on the news that were locked up in a holding cell after apparently smoking the jimson, and okay, firstly these dudes were classic hesher paint huffers: sweat pants, mustache, long hair, Def Leppard tee shirts, the whole deal. They were such fucked up dudes just in general that they were obviously real scores as cautionary examples in the war on drugs campaign. Well, we watched these dudes smoke imaginary cigarettes and go to sit in chairs that weren’t there and shit and we all laughed our asses off and then discussed how fucking awesome it would be to get our hands on some of that jimson weed.
Now, full disclosure, I don’t know anything at all about jimson weed. Never saw it, never tried it. Fuck. It may really kill you, so don’t try it based on this story. I’m only illustrating the completely backwards effect that ‘scare tactics’ have on reckless teens.
Remember when those people made up the story about the African kids shitting and peeing into jars and then huffing the vapors when it all got heated by the sun? I wrote about it here about a year ago. That shit was awesome. There was FOR SURE a bunch of gullible teens around the globe huffing shit because some clever pranksters claimed that it produced hallucinations and euphoria on the internet. Be careful what you read, kids. Not everything on the internet is true. If it were, I’d be the president of Nigeria right now.
About five (eight?) years ago, they came out with that salvia stuff, which by all accounts that I’ve read produces a very disturbing hallucinatory state that’s really no fun at all, but hey! It’s legal, so kids party with that like crazy.
Now there’s K2, and it’s all over the news. Sounds familiar to me. I dunno. I personally think drugs are for losers and the elderly, but, like I said, I love it when they roll out the new drugs in time for spring “parent terror” season. It’s kind of fun.
Okay, gotta go. I got work to do.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
What's it is strange and unusual to me
Well well well. I’ve gotta do my taxes but instead I’m writing this. I’ve gotta paint a baby room, but instead, I’m writing this. I’ve got to tell you all about the streaming of some songs off my new split record with Joe McMahon over on the Red Scare and Anchorless myspace pages respectively and a contest that punknews.org is having where they’re giving away cool stuff, but instead…woah. That’s galactic, huh? That shit just kind of all happened at once there. Maybe my taxes are done too. Lemme check…
Nope. Still not done. The funny thing is, I don’t even really do my taxes. I just kind of go through my receipts and write the numbers down and send them to an accountant. Funny how that’s totally stressful, even without being a real task.
I dunno. I had good stuff to write about today, but I’m blanking. I’m having what’s known in the business as a ‘rough morning.’ Not because of a hangover or anything. I’m physically feeling tip top. I just have all these fucking meetings that are popping up left and right and making me kind of crazed and well, the first one didn’t go too terribly well, so uh…what do they say about getting off on the wrong foot? I dunno. I personally think that jizzing on feet is an odd thing to do, but I guess it’s just an expression. My meeting definitely jizzed on the wrong foot this morning.
Anyway, okay, here’s what I wanted to really get into with you all today: One of my faithful readers sent me an article about vajazzling, which is probably the single most…well, I don’t really know, I guess. It’s exactly how it sounds. It’s bedazzling your cunt. Actually, that makes me think they should have called cuntazzling which is way catchier and more awesome, methinks.
Okay, that’s not the point. I’m sure a rival company will start up cuntazzling. It’s too good of a name to not use, but let’s get to the nitty gritty, right? It’s putting little rhinestones all over where your pubes would be if you were gross enough to let your pubes exist. That’s basically the long and short of it. I guess it’s popular in places like NY and Miami (just kind of a guess, like I said) but this shit is probably gonna be huuuuuuge, man. I mean, if people are already piercing their pussies and bedazzling their jean jackets, this is pretty much a foregone conclusion. Vajazzling is here, folks.
And you know what’s next? Dongazzling, not to be confused with dong guzzling, which is what you will most surely receive if you dongazzle. I mean, what could be more beautiful than a smooth, hairless nutsack encrusted in jewels? Nothing, that’s what. Take that, peaceful sleeping baby, the Grand Canyon, aurora borealis, uh…Ashley Simpson’s new nose and the In n Out double-double. There’s a new most beautiful thing on the earth: the dongazzled junk of some random dude.
The real question though is this: Is it cool? Is it lame? It’s hard to say. It’s definitely cooler than asshole bleaching, though realistically it serves less of a purpose. I mean, asshole bleaching gets the brown off of your anus zone, which can be offputting, if you’re, you know, a perfectionist, but vajazzling is uh…it’s pure spectacle, man. It’s just form with no function. I don’t think that it could possibly feel good to bone a girl with rhinestones all over her bush type area, could it? And let’s be frank, if you’re bejeweling your junk, it’s gotta be at least on some level about sex, so the idea of going through something that costs money and is presumably time consuming and uncomfortable to get just so you can be a more pointy and irritating-to-the-skin partner is, well, uh…I guess it’s lame. I guess it is. Hmmm…
Although, I mean, it’s hard to fault a process that encourages young ladies to show off their various clams, innit? That’s sort of written into the whole purpose of being a man, to build something great, destroy something even greater and ultimately see a ton of clams, so I guess I’m on the fence here. Dongazzling though, that’s hot.
Hey, that’s two Paris Hilton copyrighted catch phrases that I’ve used here in this entry. I hope she doesn’t sue. That would be lame.
I gotta go. Taxes. Sheesh.
xoxoxo
Nope. Still not done. The funny thing is, I don’t even really do my taxes. I just kind of go through my receipts and write the numbers down and send them to an accountant. Funny how that’s totally stressful, even without being a real task.
I dunno. I had good stuff to write about today, but I’m blanking. I’m having what’s known in the business as a ‘rough morning.’ Not because of a hangover or anything. I’m physically feeling tip top. I just have all these fucking meetings that are popping up left and right and making me kind of crazed and well, the first one didn’t go too terribly well, so uh…what do they say about getting off on the wrong foot? I dunno. I personally think that jizzing on feet is an odd thing to do, but I guess it’s just an expression. My meeting definitely jizzed on the wrong foot this morning.
Anyway, okay, here’s what I wanted to really get into with you all today: One of my faithful readers sent me an article about vajazzling, which is probably the single most…well, I don’t really know, I guess. It’s exactly how it sounds. It’s bedazzling your cunt. Actually, that makes me think they should have called cuntazzling which is way catchier and more awesome, methinks.
Okay, that’s not the point. I’m sure a rival company will start up cuntazzling. It’s too good of a name to not use, but let’s get to the nitty gritty, right? It’s putting little rhinestones all over where your pubes would be if you were gross enough to let your pubes exist. That’s basically the long and short of it. I guess it’s popular in places like NY and Miami (just kind of a guess, like I said) but this shit is probably gonna be huuuuuuge, man. I mean, if people are already piercing their pussies and bedazzling their jean jackets, this is pretty much a foregone conclusion. Vajazzling is here, folks.
And you know what’s next? Dongazzling, not to be confused with dong guzzling, which is what you will most surely receive if you dongazzle. I mean, what could be more beautiful than a smooth, hairless nutsack encrusted in jewels? Nothing, that’s what. Take that, peaceful sleeping baby, the Grand Canyon, aurora borealis, uh…Ashley Simpson’s new nose and the In n Out double-double. There’s a new most beautiful thing on the earth: the dongazzled junk of some random dude.
The real question though is this: Is it cool? Is it lame? It’s hard to say. It’s definitely cooler than asshole bleaching, though realistically it serves less of a purpose. I mean, asshole bleaching gets the brown off of your anus zone, which can be offputting, if you’re, you know, a perfectionist, but vajazzling is uh…it’s pure spectacle, man. It’s just form with no function. I don’t think that it could possibly feel good to bone a girl with rhinestones all over her bush type area, could it? And let’s be frank, if you’re bejeweling your junk, it’s gotta be at least on some level about sex, so the idea of going through something that costs money and is presumably time consuming and uncomfortable to get just so you can be a more pointy and irritating-to-the-skin partner is, well, uh…I guess it’s lame. I guess it is. Hmmm…
Although, I mean, it’s hard to fault a process that encourages young ladies to show off their various clams, innit? That’s sort of written into the whole purpose of being a man, to build something great, destroy something even greater and ultimately see a ton of clams, so I guess I’m on the fence here. Dongazzling though, that’s hot.
Hey, that’s two Paris Hilton copyrighted catch phrases that I’ve used here in this entry. I hope she doesn’t sue. That would be lame.
I gotta go. Taxes. Sheesh.
xoxoxo
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
this is the stupidest thing I've maybe ever written...
I woke up at five this morning with an idea for a television show rattling around in my head. Here’s the essence of the show: NBA stars taking dumps into toilets with scales in them. The idea is to see who takes the weightiest dump. The show would be called Pro-deucing! Say it out loud. Pretty rad, right? That’s true, by the way. That’s really what woke me up at five in the morning. Fucking outrageous. I should get a lobotomy.
I’ve got this problem. I don’t get out in the evenings too much these days, and when I do, I tend to wind up with a hangover that’s completely unfair and brutal. Here’s where it gets fucking crappy. The night AFTER the night I go out, after a day of recovery and all that, I always wake up in the middle of the night with my mind racing and panicking like crazy. I panic about money, friends, my reputation (I know, what?), my kid, my impending kid, the future, the past, all sorts of various things that I probably shouldn’t have said out loud and on and on and on like this.
I mean, I’ll wake up because of a train going by or a dog will bark or something, and it’s like there’s a little guy in my head who quickly turns on the light in his station and he just starts feeding thoughts into my thought processor, and he’s SPECIFICALLY trying to bum me out! “This guy doesn’t really like you. You don’t have a ton of money in the bank, you still haven’t done your taxes, your kid may possibly turn out creepy and it’ll be YOUR FAULT, your wife is about to stop putting up with your shenanigans, you haven’t heard back from the merch company in Europe, your dogs haven’t been to the vet in a while, you’ve not been to the dentist in thirteen years, why can’t you just relax and sleep? maybe you’re mentally ill. Now you’ve started sweating. Why? Is it because you’re actually sick. Is this what it’ll feel like to be sick and infirm and on the way to death’s door? We’re all gonna die someday. Even me. Even my wife and my kid and all my friends. There’s lots of perverts and violent motherfuckers out there. One moment’s all it takes for everything to change forever! You’re doomed! YOU’RE DOOMED! YOU! ARE! DOOMED!
That’s how it goes. And it just fucking goes on and on and on like that. Well, I went out to see my buddies play a show this weekend and so I was out two nights later than I’m used to/should be and so last night, the one that just ended, was the night after my hangover where I woke up and panicked about a bunch of shit that, frankly, in the light of day isn’t that scary. It’s only scary at four in the morning, for whatever reason, but at that time it genuinely wigs me out. It makes me sweat. I know this is a fairly common thing for people with sleep issues (of which I’m definitely one) but here’s the weird thing: Pro-Deucing. That’s what was going through my mind this morning. What the fuck is that about, eh? Why am I thinking of pro athlete shitting contests at five am? I’m sick. That’s something to worry about that’s way more immediate than if some dildo thinks I’m cool or lame or whatever.
Although….
Pro-Deucing is pretty funny. It’s a good name. Now, I know we’ve got some foreign and some elderly readers, so I’m gonna break down exactly why this is such a great name for this show.
Firstly, it’s literally a homonym for ‘producing’ which is what your body is doing when you crap. Secondly, here in America we’ve got a numerical slang system set up for all sorts of waste expulsion. Urinating, or ‘peeing’ as it’s colloquially known is referred to in certain circles as ‘number one’ and shitting, or ‘dumping’ is called ‘number two.’ Okay, so that’s out of the way. Some people prefer to spice up this numerical system by referring to ‘number two’ as a ‘deuce.’ “I just floated a sweet deuce up in your sister’s bathroom, bro” one may be heard to utter. So there you go. You’ve got the idea. Now, back to the show title: Pro, because they’re pro basketball players, deucing, because they’re taking dumps. Pro-deucing! Hillarious. And, again, you know, with the whole ‘producing feces’ angle, well, I’m sorry. I think it’s pretty good.
Actually, I’m starting to realize that I kind of missed a lot of sleep last night due to my crazy brain, and I think it’s making me a little loopy. Maybe I should take a nap or go to the gym or something.
Huh. Dunno. I gotta get my fucking will in order. That’s fun. I’m leaving it all to you guys! You guys will get all my various sheaves of early 80’s pornography and databases full of great ideas for wacky television shows. Uh…I don’t know, man. I’m out of here. Sorry about all this, really.
I’ve got this problem. I don’t get out in the evenings too much these days, and when I do, I tend to wind up with a hangover that’s completely unfair and brutal. Here’s where it gets fucking crappy. The night AFTER the night I go out, after a day of recovery and all that, I always wake up in the middle of the night with my mind racing and panicking like crazy. I panic about money, friends, my reputation (I know, what?), my kid, my impending kid, the future, the past, all sorts of various things that I probably shouldn’t have said out loud and on and on and on like this.
I mean, I’ll wake up because of a train going by or a dog will bark or something, and it’s like there’s a little guy in my head who quickly turns on the light in his station and he just starts feeding thoughts into my thought processor, and he’s SPECIFICALLY trying to bum me out! “This guy doesn’t really like you. You don’t have a ton of money in the bank, you still haven’t done your taxes, your kid may possibly turn out creepy and it’ll be YOUR FAULT, your wife is about to stop putting up with your shenanigans, you haven’t heard back from the merch company in Europe, your dogs haven’t been to the vet in a while, you’ve not been to the dentist in thirteen years, why can’t you just relax and sleep? maybe you’re mentally ill. Now you’ve started sweating. Why? Is it because you’re actually sick. Is this what it’ll feel like to be sick and infirm and on the way to death’s door? We’re all gonna die someday. Even me. Even my wife and my kid and all my friends. There’s lots of perverts and violent motherfuckers out there. One moment’s all it takes for everything to change forever! You’re doomed! YOU’RE DOOMED! YOU! ARE! DOOMED!
That’s how it goes. And it just fucking goes on and on and on like that. Well, I went out to see my buddies play a show this weekend and so I was out two nights later than I’m used to/should be and so last night, the one that just ended, was the night after my hangover where I woke up and panicked about a bunch of shit that, frankly, in the light of day isn’t that scary. It’s only scary at four in the morning, for whatever reason, but at that time it genuinely wigs me out. It makes me sweat. I know this is a fairly common thing for people with sleep issues (of which I’m definitely one) but here’s the weird thing: Pro-Deucing. That’s what was going through my mind this morning. What the fuck is that about, eh? Why am I thinking of pro athlete shitting contests at five am? I’m sick. That’s something to worry about that’s way more immediate than if some dildo thinks I’m cool or lame or whatever.
Although….
Pro-Deucing is pretty funny. It’s a good name. Now, I know we’ve got some foreign and some elderly readers, so I’m gonna break down exactly why this is such a great name for this show.
Firstly, it’s literally a homonym for ‘producing’ which is what your body is doing when you crap. Secondly, here in America we’ve got a numerical slang system set up for all sorts of waste expulsion. Urinating, or ‘peeing’ as it’s colloquially known is referred to in certain circles as ‘number one’ and shitting, or ‘dumping’ is called ‘number two.’ Okay, so that’s out of the way. Some people prefer to spice up this numerical system by referring to ‘number two’ as a ‘deuce.’ “I just floated a sweet deuce up in your sister’s bathroom, bro” one may be heard to utter. So there you go. You’ve got the idea. Now, back to the show title: Pro, because they’re pro basketball players, deucing, because they’re taking dumps. Pro-deucing! Hillarious. And, again, you know, with the whole ‘producing feces’ angle, well, I’m sorry. I think it’s pretty good.
Actually, I’m starting to realize that I kind of missed a lot of sleep last night due to my crazy brain, and I think it’s making me a little loopy. Maybe I should take a nap or go to the gym or something.
Huh. Dunno. I gotta get my fucking will in order. That’s fun. I’m leaving it all to you guys! You guys will get all my various sheaves of early 80’s pornography and databases full of great ideas for wacky television shows. Uh…I don’t know, man. I’m out of here. Sorry about all this, really.
Monday, March 1, 2010
shit that's wack, yo!
So, as your overlord, I know you all look to me as a sort of guide as you try to navigate what’s cool and what’s lame and what’s dangerous out there in this crazy mixed up world. I’ve compiled a list of things that are unequivocally lame to help you out along the way. Now, this list is by no means complete, and I didn’t include things that are MOSTLY but not always lame (like, for example, big pants. Totally lame about ninety percent of the time, but Redman looks pretty good, so, well, there you go…not always lame)
Without further ado…
Shit that’s wack, yo:
Pompadours- um, that’s your haircut? It sucks. It sucks so bad that I don’t even know where to begin. Firstly, it’s greasy and gross and…no. You know what? I don’t even need to justify this one. You all know why this haircut is stupid. It just conjures all the wrong things. Here’s some other things that are lame that can just fall under the blanket of ‘pompadours’: dice, goatees, slick, velvety short sleeve button ups with flames on em, uh..what else? Flaming skulls…uh, you get what I’m saying. Things that just sort of vaguely denote ‘gambling.’ Hey Mike Ness, nice legacy. Sheesh.
Smoking: Never a good move. It’s a real kick in the balls though, because it looks great. There’s no one on this earth that ever started smoking for a reason other than “it looks cool”. Oh, yeah, almost no one admits this. People have all sorts of convoluted bullshit reasons why they claim to have started smoking, but none of it holds up under scrutiny. I mean, there’s no way that people can innocently fall into a habit that requires you getting sick and hating life for about two weeks before your body adjusts to taking in a new kind of poison. No one on earth ever enjoyed the first cigarette they tried. NO ONE. That’s a fucking universal truth, up there with ‘if you stick a pin through your skin, you’ll bleed.”
Here’s the thing though: smoking IS cool. It’s reckless and it looks rad and it really shows the world that you don’t even give a fuck enough to not walk around smelling like shit. Unforch, it’s also really wack. And it makes you die, so there’s that.
Being Bald- Being bald is just barely better than a pompadour, simply because when you’re bald you’re a victim, whereas with a pompadour, you’re putting effort into looking like a turd. Yeah. I’m gonna be bald someday. Lots of my friends are bald and look terrific. It’s not that. I mean, look at Bruce Willis, Frank Black and Ami James. It’s not like being bald just makes you instantly revolting (all the time).
BUT, know why being bald is lame? I’ll tell you: because it eliminates freedom of choice. You’re fucked. Baldness is the fucking KGB of genetics. You WILL look like this forever. Or, I guess you can grow the toilet seat deal out. Wheee! What a great time.
Hippies- Fuck these dudes. They smell and they have dumb pants on and they made their own jewelry and the whole thing just blows. Oh, wow. You’re into drugs? Cool. Know who else is into drugs? Everyone, that’s who. You’re gross and your girlfriend needs a bra, a razor and some stridex. Also, nice fucking music.
Wiggers (wegroes)- Know why the beastie boys are cool and enduring? Because they don’t pretend to be black at all. They sing about smoking angel dust, shooting up saloons and driving drunk and shit like that…. You know, universal shared experience that’s not tied to racial identity. There’s never in the history of the world been anything good derived out of a white dude pretending to be black. It’s just a failing situation every time. Conversely however, Carltons are pretty dope.
Cel phones- Okay, if you’re lost, the shit’s convenient, but good lord. I can’t even fucking drive without surfing the internet anymore. It’s like the things that have been invented in my lifetime that are so crazily convenient and entertaining (internet porn/youtube/itunes) are already not enough to satisfy my newly non existent attention span. Cel phones and mobile internet have made us so desperate for stimulation and instant gratification that it’s not that out there to suggest that I’d like to pirate some new songs while skyping and whacking off to porn while also texting someone else. I mean, fuck.When the rapture comes and all the Comcast towers fall down, we’re all gonna be bored as shit. Oh, and these things give you cancer. Just you wait. We’re all doomed.
Child molesters- Oh, man. I’m pulling a regular anti flag with this one. I’m going out on a limb and condemning child molesters. It’s just so fucking gnarly. I agree with Howard Stern…He’s calling for castration for child molesters and well, why the fuck not? Get those dicks off those dudes for fucks sake. The shit is gross. I mean, not only is fucking kids so fucking morally reprehensible and physically disgusting, but can you imagine how many wine coolers and hours of barney these gross fucks endure? Ick. Ick. ick. Even worse than hippies, but just barely.
What else? Herpes: Not cool. I think we all have herpes, according to the literature that I’ve read. Sounds like sexually active young people are vastly more likely to have it than not to have it. Apparently a lot of it is symptomless, which, hey, if I’m gonna have herpes, that’s the type I’d like, please. And, if the stats I read are true, it’s really kind of more of a disease to not have it…so well, huh. Maybe I take this one back. Herpes is okay. Jesus, does this make it sound like I’ve got herpes? I don’t think I’ve got herpes just for the record. Good lord. Shutting up now.
Okay, that’s the list for today. It’s kind of bumming me out to type this, so I’m gonna stop. This can become one of those things though, like my quest to define every kind of person in the world…a recurring theme. Shit that’s wack, yo. Would that be cool?
Okay, have a good day, turds.
Without further ado…
Shit that’s wack, yo:
Pompadours- um, that’s your haircut? It sucks. It sucks so bad that I don’t even know where to begin. Firstly, it’s greasy and gross and…no. You know what? I don’t even need to justify this one. You all know why this haircut is stupid. It just conjures all the wrong things. Here’s some other things that are lame that can just fall under the blanket of ‘pompadours’: dice, goatees, slick, velvety short sleeve button ups with flames on em, uh..what else? Flaming skulls…uh, you get what I’m saying. Things that just sort of vaguely denote ‘gambling.’ Hey Mike Ness, nice legacy. Sheesh.
Smoking: Never a good move. It’s a real kick in the balls though, because it looks great. There’s no one on this earth that ever started smoking for a reason other than “it looks cool”. Oh, yeah, almost no one admits this. People have all sorts of convoluted bullshit reasons why they claim to have started smoking, but none of it holds up under scrutiny. I mean, there’s no way that people can innocently fall into a habit that requires you getting sick and hating life for about two weeks before your body adjusts to taking in a new kind of poison. No one on earth ever enjoyed the first cigarette they tried. NO ONE. That’s a fucking universal truth, up there with ‘if you stick a pin through your skin, you’ll bleed.”
Here’s the thing though: smoking IS cool. It’s reckless and it looks rad and it really shows the world that you don’t even give a fuck enough to not walk around smelling like shit. Unforch, it’s also really wack. And it makes you die, so there’s that.
Being Bald- Being bald is just barely better than a pompadour, simply because when you’re bald you’re a victim, whereas with a pompadour, you’re putting effort into looking like a turd. Yeah. I’m gonna be bald someday. Lots of my friends are bald and look terrific. It’s not that. I mean, look at Bruce Willis, Frank Black and Ami James. It’s not like being bald just makes you instantly revolting (all the time).
BUT, know why being bald is lame? I’ll tell you: because it eliminates freedom of choice. You’re fucked. Baldness is the fucking KGB of genetics. You WILL look like this forever. Or, I guess you can grow the toilet seat deal out. Wheee! What a great time.
Hippies- Fuck these dudes. They smell and they have dumb pants on and they made their own jewelry and the whole thing just blows. Oh, wow. You’re into drugs? Cool. Know who else is into drugs? Everyone, that’s who. You’re gross and your girlfriend needs a bra, a razor and some stridex. Also, nice fucking music.
Wiggers (wegroes)- Know why the beastie boys are cool and enduring? Because they don’t pretend to be black at all. They sing about smoking angel dust, shooting up saloons and driving drunk and shit like that…. You know, universal shared experience that’s not tied to racial identity. There’s never in the history of the world been anything good derived out of a white dude pretending to be black. It’s just a failing situation every time. Conversely however, Carltons are pretty dope.
Cel phones- Okay, if you’re lost, the shit’s convenient, but good lord. I can’t even fucking drive without surfing the internet anymore. It’s like the things that have been invented in my lifetime that are so crazily convenient and entertaining (internet porn/youtube/itunes) are already not enough to satisfy my newly non existent attention span. Cel phones and mobile internet have made us so desperate for stimulation and instant gratification that it’s not that out there to suggest that I’d like to pirate some new songs while skyping and whacking off to porn while also texting someone else. I mean, fuck.When the rapture comes and all the Comcast towers fall down, we’re all gonna be bored as shit. Oh, and these things give you cancer. Just you wait. We’re all doomed.
Child molesters- Oh, man. I’m pulling a regular anti flag with this one. I’m going out on a limb and condemning child molesters. It’s just so fucking gnarly. I agree with Howard Stern…He’s calling for castration for child molesters and well, why the fuck not? Get those dicks off those dudes for fucks sake. The shit is gross. I mean, not only is fucking kids so fucking morally reprehensible and physically disgusting, but can you imagine how many wine coolers and hours of barney these gross fucks endure? Ick. Ick. ick. Even worse than hippies, but just barely.
What else? Herpes: Not cool. I think we all have herpes, according to the literature that I’ve read. Sounds like sexually active young people are vastly more likely to have it than not to have it. Apparently a lot of it is symptomless, which, hey, if I’m gonna have herpes, that’s the type I’d like, please. And, if the stats I read are true, it’s really kind of more of a disease to not have it…so well, huh. Maybe I take this one back. Herpes is okay. Jesus, does this make it sound like I’ve got herpes? I don’t think I’ve got herpes just for the record. Good lord. Shutting up now.
Okay, that’s the list for today. It’s kind of bumming me out to type this, so I’m gonna stop. This can become one of those things though, like my quest to define every kind of person in the world…a recurring theme. Shit that’s wack, yo. Would that be cool?
Okay, have a good day, turds.
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