u'membah me?

Yo! Nation! How’s it swingin? Sorry, I know it’s been a while since I rapped at ya, but I’ve been busier than an Islamic fundamentalist with a ticket from boston to new york on a flying whorehouse lately… Today would be my tenth straight day of shooting if the rain wasn’t giving us all a much needed day off. The other day I robbed a convenience store using shaving cream as a disguise. I’ve been forced to smoke so many cigarettes that I’m a little concerned about the ease of returning to my non smoker status at the end of this whole thing and I’m sore in every single muscle in my body, due mostly to running from an el camino driven by a group of crazed, fencing-sword wielding film school hooligans through neck high grass. I’m doing all my own stunts in this bitch, man. Ah, art. It’s like being on PCP but with a more acceptable excuse.
Today is one of my favorieist people in the world’s birthday. My friend Toby turns the big three three today, putting him all the way up there with my wife in terms of ancient-ness. I’m gonna take him out for liver and onions and some shuffleboard right after I roust through his underwear drawer and steal all his candy and take the belt his niece gave him for Christmas. I got him some depends, a bottle of sweet vermouth and one of those comb holders that they have at the gym with all that blue shit in it for his birthday. Guys, explain it to the ladies if you’d be so kind.
Seriously though, it’s rainy and my lungs hurt and my friend’s having a birthday and I NEED to go to the gym (and not just to get one of those combs) and my baby is eating all the other babies at his daycare and it’s threatening to become a huge problem and my wife and the management over at the daycare have exchanged * words* and well, I kind of have to side with my old lady on this one. There’s some rules at the daycare. If you bite three times, you have to go home. Well, the other day my kid bit three times within ten minutes of being there. The general consensus at my place was that if he was able to bite three times in ten minutes (keep in mind, he’s not even one and a half and he doesn’t really understand or say much) that’s not really controlling or defusing the situation, that’s just waiting to send him home without doing anything about the problem…The consensus at the daycare: We got rules. Rules is rules. That’s Stalinism in my book, but you throw Stalinism at a middle management child care worker before ten AM, shit’s gonna get ugly real quick, at least in my experience. Plus, I was busy watching hot chicks in bikinis drink goldschlager with a fat guy in his underpants while he handed them hundreds at the time when all this was going down, so I was doing my part to combat socalist doctrine by at least witnessing an artful interpretation of capitalist immorality and physical decay, right? Right. So anyhoo, my wife decided to use a capitalist approach and say, ‘hey man, if you aren’t able to watch our kid, and I’m gonna have to keep leaving work to come get him and thereby lose money while you refuse to do the job we’re paying you to do, well, we’re not gonna pay.” The response was not good. There was a back and forth. I, now, am decidedly unsure of if my kid still has a spot in this daycare BUT, I’m gonna attempt to store him there for the day anyway.
Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.
Middle management childcare workers, as a rule, like all middle management peons who are stuck in the bullshit service/childcare/mailroom/security/valet/summer camp etc industry, that’s really just a summer job, or school job or job you do so you can pursue artistic or athletic or other endeavors, like all poor, sad fucks stuck in CAREERS in one of these industries, they love nothing more than to swing their dicks around and exercise the tiny little power that they have. Think about it. Remember your last crappy job from last summer or whatever? Okay, now pretend you’d worked there for ten years. Now, pretend you still work there. NOW pretend that you know, in your deepest recesses of your pathetic little soul, that you’ll be there forever. Suicide time, right? Well, maybe not, because there’s still those tiny droplets of joy that you can suck from the flower of making other, freer, less completely fucked people feel the stinging pain of your pathetic helplessness for a tiny moment, right? That’s right. Tell that waitress she MUST work Christmas. Tell that poor young couple that they MUST pick up their kid and lose/endanger their job in the process. Tell the cashier that he’d better get in there and clean the bathroom. Tell the altar boy that these balls aren’t gonna produce perfectly good but for some reason useless priest jizz on their own, there’s sucking in your future, my son…(funny story, I actually read that a diocese [maybe in new England] recently tried to use the following as an excuse when confronted with all the counts of young boy sexual abuse that they’d racked up over the years: “uh, certainly we knew it was a moral transgression, a sin in the eyes of god, but none of us knew it was against the laws of man.”
Really? That’s the party line, eh? Okay, I’m paraphrasing a bit, but let’s examine this, shall we? Firstly, yes you did. Secondly, you’re PRIESTS!!! THE LAWS OF MAN ARE NOTHING, REPEAT, NOTHING IF THEY GO AGAINST THE LAWS OF YOUR DUMB GOD, RIGHT? THAT’S WHY JESUS GOT IN ALL THE FUCKING TROUBLE IN THE FIRST PLACE, INNIT? Fucking retards. Third, yes you did.
I think people in positions of power like that [and priests are the ULTIMATE middle managers, and their ‘flock’ the ultimate summer jobbers, especially the kids, and well, being forced to blow a priest is a TON worse than picking up your kid or having to work Christmas {although, that could be considered the same thing if the timing worked out, right? Like, a quick beej to celebrate a midnight mass well done? Heh.}] who use their pathetic little power to hurt kids, and fuck up their brains by messing with them sexually or whatever, bad news. Yeah, you heard me. I’m not down with child molesters. I’m taking a stand, man. Actually, that’s a new Anti Flag song. It’s called “Fuck off Child Molesters!” and it’s a scathing indictment of the entire child molsestation scene. I don’t believe they went there. Ah, I kid. I love those dudes, and you heard it here first: one of the absolute best live bands I’ve EVER been lucky enough to tour with. Okay, enough covering my ass. What were we talking about?)
Point being, I’m about to take my kid to daycare and I really don’t know how it’s gonna go. He’s a biter. I’m dedicated to the idea of biting him back if he bites me, but he doesn’t bite me. I guess he can sense my eye of the tiger. Heh. I really hope none of those kids are very delicious in there today. I gotta take Toby around and I can’t be fucking toting a baby around like an early 80’s Michael Keaton, can I? Not if I’m gonna be smoking PCP with Toby I can’t. And it’s not a Tobias Jeg birthday without a little bit of angel dust. That’s for sure. Okay, okay, okay. I gotta go. Thanks for your patience, sorry these posts aren’t more regular these days. We’ll return soon, but know this, I love all my little dogs of war, and all my socks and all the various drawers. God bless all the readers of the sandwich.
Uh...
Not that god has much to do with anything. Nah, fuck it. Do your worst to 'em, god. I'll take my chances with evil, reckless fun and a general sense of depravity. May that bless you all. Trust me, it's way better.
Xoxoxox

You know what to do, so I won't say please -or- Welcome to my lovely new color scheme.

So yeah, I spruced the place up a bit. I kind of figured that this page is like a virtual rec room, you know, where you go to hear your crass uncle expound on how shitty his job/kids/wives/friends are while he pounds a high life or two before heading to work. So, I used the colors that to me most represent a basment in the 70’s. There’s beer in the fridge. Oh, that? That’s a picture of me backstage at Subterranean last week. The old lady actually took it. Yeah, I think it turned out pretty good down here.
Funnily enough, as I’ve learned bartending, playing music, being a husband, being a dad, doing a limited amount of design and illustration work, that old maxim ‘no one is ever satisfied’ is truly, truly always fulfilled. People love to bitch. People hate the taste of Coke, it changes, they hate the new taste and demand the original that they hated in the first place. It’s like a wife. You hate her guts and you talk shit and write songs about how she should die and you undermine her confidence with shitty remarks about her ass in that dress and all that, but the second she blows her tennis pro, you’re all weepy. Everyone hated Russia, then we got the Taliban, now everyone seems to want Russia back. Everyone hates the old colors, everyone hates the new ones. No one will be truly satisfied until their own crappy tastes get justified by a graphic designer/chef/production crew/five star general and they can sit back there and languish in the stench of their own turds.
Don’t believe me? Everyone loves the smell of their own farts. My friend Mike scoops his farts from his ass right to his nose. It’s gross. He also chews up one Triscuit, spits it onto another and eats it like some sort of gnarly appetizer, so there’s that. Maybe he’s just a little nasty. Nonetheless.
Fuck, man. My baby is crying, my dogs are barking at a helium balloon, my wife is trying to pack and get me to help her do laundry as she’s going to Texas in a few hours for a wedding. Our house looks like someone got chased through it by a huge rapist (in that shit’s all scattered everywhere, it’s not like it’s all covered in Vaseline or blood…do rapists carry Vaseline? I guess the conscientious ones do) and I’m about to go to my shitty job and hang out with the rainy-Friday crowd, which means just enough douchebags blabbing at me that I can’t relax, but not enough to make money.
Tonight my friend Chris is picking my boy up from daycare and putting him down (a parental parlance that means put to bed), since my wife is gonna be eating jerky and shooting at satellites down in the Great Republic of Texas, and I’m gonna be stuck late at work. It’s going to be funny. I picture a rather charming little montage set to a tune by Alan Thicke (dad from Growing Pains. He also wrote and performed [get ready to have your minds blown] the Diff’rent Strokes theme song [“Now the world don’t move to the beat of just one drum…”] Yeah, for real. That’s him. He’s also dad of pop sensation Robin Thicke, and he’s Canadian. AND once when I was about 8 and in an airport, I saw, in that part of the airport newsstand where they have the porn [a classy move, by the way, reading Juggs or Shaved Snizz right there on the plane] an issue of Playgirl with Alan Thicke on the cover. The bumper headline, or whatever it’s called, said “Alan Thicke’s Growing Pains” and I was forced to picture his penis, and it grossed me out so completely that I’m still a little queasy, not from the memory, but actually from that moment. It’s lasted twenty four years. No shit)…okay, that was quite an aside. Back to Chris and the baby, I picture a charming little montage in which baby powder poofs thickly into Chris’s surprised face, the baby giggles while Chris gets tangled in the coat hangers in his closet…it’s gonna be like three men and a baby with only one man and a baby. Where are my Hollywood friends when I need them?
“Okay, it’s like Three Men and a Baby”
“okay, good. So far me likey”
“except for with ONE man.”
“Kelly, you’ve done it again! Have some money!”
Don’t steal that shit, okay? You can’t copyright ideas. I found that out the hard way when I told the wrong person about how I wanted to get, like Barbies, but dress them up as whores and sell ‘em to little girls. They’re doing that now, and I’m not in on it. ALSO, the Pussycat Dolls? That was my idea. I was like “yo, you know what we need? Some sluts singing about getting fucked. Here’s the beauty! They don’t even have to be good looking OR talented. We’re not selling the steak, we’re selling the snizzle!”
Fucked, right?
What else have I created, only to be thwarted by conniving dicks? Oh, you know when you say something and then you say NOT! At the end of it, and it like, totally negates it? I made that up. It was also me who first said that I didn’t want to be told what to do by anyone smarter than me. I also called for lax regulation regarding property appraisals and encouraged irresponsible lending in hopes that everyone could someday afford to own valuable homes. AND, I was like the first, maybe second guy to say that John Kerry was no hero. OH, and I coined the term “nibble on my dick like a rat does cheese” before the 2 Live Crew was even a fucking thought.
So, as you may have guessed, I’m pretty pissed. I’m gonna sit here and stew in my baby tears, barking dogs, piles of laundry, absentia wives, messy home, new barf colored blog and general malaise that comes every Friday morning and just kind of think about all the fucking money I should be counting right now. And Alan Thicke’s gross penis. That’s still just burned in there.