this one goes out to my one true love, Tbaby

Now my ads are gone. I don’t know what happened. It’s like I offended the gods of revenue or something. My magic search engine is still here, but where are all the fucking TJ maxx ads? That’s what I want to know. My revenue stream is trickling to a halt and there’s no one to talk to over at google. It’s all robots and Indian guys. I’m fucked, people. Totally fucked. Oh well, whatever, right? It’s not like this is the most streamlined swiss watch of a website anyhow. Maybe they’re just trying to figure out some more appropriate ads for this here page. OR (and this would be way better) perhaps I used the term “felch” or ‘Buttfucking’ one too many times and set off some sort of alarm. One can only dream, I suppose.
But you know what? Dreams ARE coming true over here at BSC world HQ. I got a little mention in the juggalog, which is um, if you’ll pardon the pun, too dope (ha!). That puts me in dangerous proximity with the juggalo zeitgeist, which I’m pretty okay with.
Let’s talk juggalos for just a second, can we? I know it’s a pretty well tread topic here, but man, these are dangerous days. Juggalos are everywhere and they seem to be constantly expanding. Soon enough, the smaller, wiry juggalos will be orbiting the really, really massive ones like tiny, greasepainted interplanetary systems. I read in that juggalog that ICP sells 6XL shirts. SIX EX EL!!!!!!!! That’s fucking revolting. I could quite literally live in a 6xl shirt. With my wife, my kid and a separate half bath. What the fuck do you have to be eating in order to plump yourself up to six times an extra large? Cheesecake pizzas? Every fucking day? I mean, good heavens. I’ve seen some fat motherfuckers walking around. I’ve got some fat friends. I’ve even got some fat friends who drink and smoke and never exercise and just eat whatever the fuck they want and they don’t care at all. They’re fat. They’re down with being fat and they like donuts and soda and potato chips and ranch dressing on their pizzas and all that kind of shit and they are, just to put a fine point on it here, as fat as they could possibly get. They can’t be any fatter. AND YET they’re not six XL fat. I can’t even wrap my head around what the fuck is going on over in Shangri-La that these clowns are able to make themselves so humongous. I can’t. Anyway, this isn’t about fat juggalos, or why they’re so fat (although, if you think about it, any sort of cultural phenomenon that centers around people spraying copious amounts of soda on one another definitely appeals to the chunkier side of things). I want to tell you a little story about my friend Sean Nader and his awesome experience the one time he was, for just a fleeting moment, a member of the Dark Carnival.
Okay, full disclosure: I don’t remember the details of this story too well, so I’m gonna do my best to get it right. Nader, I know you’re out there reading this and I’m sorry about the fudged details, but like I said, after the new found alliance that’s been formed between BSC and the Juggalog, I feel compelled to rap juggalos with everyone, so whatever. Deal with it.
Firstly, Nader is from Detroit. Nader is NOT an ICP fan, and Nader is a bit of a local crew carnie type, in that he bartends special events, he sets up and tears down tents and shit for festivals and he’s generally a hired gun for when people doing events or other big shit around Detroit need some spare hands. (And when he’s not doing that he’s a spectacular bartender and a totally kick ass painter. In fact, I’m gonna start linking to his art on here as soon as he gets off his lazy dick and makes a website, and then you all can see firsthand how rad his stuff is, but whatever…I’m digressing like a woman. Forgive me.) Okay, so here’s the scene. St. Andrews hall in Detroit (above the shelter where eminem famously battlerapped his way into the hearts of genuine black people [as made famous in the closing moments of 8 mile]) is hosting ICP and Nader is stationed at the back door of the hall to guard something. I don’t remember what it was. Some boxes of shit, or maybe even just the door itself, but you get the idea. He’s there as a guard. Stationed in his position, a fill in dude just working there for the day as sort of ‘juggalo control’, or what have you. Suddenly a truck screeches up. It’s full of Faygo. Faygo is the off brand soda that juggalos spray on each other for some reason that I don’t think could possibly ever be explained to me in a way that doesn’t result in my saying or thinking “wow, that’s fucking retarded.” This stressed out dude gets out of the truck and looks at Nader and barks “come on, we gotta get this faygo to the stage right away!”
I’d like to pause for a moment to let that sink in. Some guy, a grown man, mind you, is so harried and desperate to get the FAYGO to the STAGE that he’s just barking orders at strangers. What kind of a fucking universe is this, man? Anyway, nader says something to the effect of “nah. Not touching the faygo. I’m here to guard this door/stack of boxes/bag of dildos/whatever the fuck it was.” And kind of just turns around and keeps smoking, at which point the guy gets in nader’s face a bit and says “dude, you don’t understand! This is ICP!” as though that is somehow significant in any way.
I mean, yeah, there’s no other reason that a truck of Faygo would be at the back of St Andrews hall, that’s for sure. But at what moment did this guy think that the bargaining chip would be that “Hey bro! There’s a bunch of fat clowns upstairs and if you don’t help me get this here faygo up there, they’re not gonna have anything to spray on each other, nobody’s gonna go home sticky and well, you’ll have ruined everything”? Could he possibly have imagined that this guy by the back door, smoking, not painted up at all (at least the way Nader tells it) could possibly give a shit about this? Or is this guy so dick deep in his faygo delivery job that he can’t see the forest for the big fat sticky trees? I mean, what a life. I get worried about picking my kid up on time from school, miscounting the money in my cash drawer, neglecting my blog or my songwriting and letting my brain atrophy, taking my wife or best friends for granted, growing old, disease, unstable economy, unstable crazy people, figuring out the future, making peace with the past, the health of everyone I love and the inevitable day that all the great luck I’ve had in this world runs out, but man, fuck me, no KILL me if a concern of mine is EVER getting the fucking faygo to the fucking stage. Good lord.
So, long story short, nader just stood there, told the dude to fuck himself and the dude, furious, told nader that he was gonna get him fired due to insubordination, BUT, can’t fire the temp carnie, man. Can’t be done. Plus, guess who’s not gonna take your side about the lack of Faygo in the venue? The people who run the venue and have to clean up the pink syrupy drool that you and your dumb carnival leave sticking and pooling all over everything.
On the same subject, but at another time, once in Cincinatti, I read some graffiti that the big guy from ICP wrote backstage. It was a bit of an essay about how these sized rooms (it was the Agora, which is about sixteen hundred capacity, I think) are perfect, and if you never let your ambition make you try to go bigger, you’ll have some longevity in this biz. Well, he’s right. I’ve never tried to headline a room bigger than the agora, and here I am, still going strong, my ninjas. Still going strong. Peace, love, faygo, hatchets and murder or whatever dumb shit they say. I gotta go.
XOOXOXOXOX
Oh, and once I read an interview where the same fat one (shaggy?) that wrote the graffiti essay about success in music bragged about how he just boned some chick and she took the rubber off him and ate the jizz out of it. It’s the hands down grossest thing I’ve ever heard. And now you’ve heard it too. Ick. Take it to your graves.

Tweetily deetily deet!

Okay, this new baby nap schedule is a beast. No more idle hours of 9 to 11 or noon just blogging and imagining a world in which I never, ever had to do anything else again and could just coast on my past success, a la Bobby Brown or Mike Tyson for the rest of my life. That would be sweet. Those guys seem like they’re handling it well, at least, right?
Well, anyway, point is, I think I’m gonna either have to start writing this at night and posting it in the morning or writing it at this time (2ish) if I’m gonna keep up the level of excellence you dildo’s seem to think you deserve (because I’ve been foolishly providing nothing but spit shined excellence to you ungrateful hordes for free for the past year and a half). OR, I could just make this blog trivial and brief. Like a twitter. A daily tweet. No more long, epic treatises about beating off and taking dumps…from now on it’s just gonna be trivial, unimportant stuff. Like this:
Today I was at the gym and I was struggling to figure out what to do, since this broken rib (yeah…I think the fucker’s broken. Sigh.) makes every exercise kind of hurt. So I was on the elliptical machine reading US weekly like any other self respecting heterosexual male on the earth would be, when I got to the ‘who wore it best’ section, which is, in essence, a one on one battle of highly insecure and anorexic celebrity women who are pictured side by side because they were foolish, nay, idiotic enough to be photographed in the same outfits. There’s some bullshit percentage at the bottom that’s from some fictional poll that determines who the hotter celebrity is. It’s really cultural discourse on a very, very high level.
Well, as great as this usually is, the one I saw today was even better. Today it was Olive Baron-Cohen versus Violet Affleck. That’s right, assholes! We’re pitting little toddler girls against each other now. Well, Olive was clearly the pig of the two and she lost by a wide margin. She looked like shit in that Dora the Explorer longsleeve (Target Kids) while Violet absolutely glowed. Honestly. What was Borat thinking dressing his hog-daughter like that, in the very SAME top that the cherubic Affleck child was born to wear? Maybe it was another one of his undercover comedy bits. Probably was. That borat has ice water in his veins. He’ll even let his own disgusting, craven pig of a child get photographed and cruelly and capriciously compared to a much more beautiful child in a vapid and horrible magazine while mongaloid pseudo journalists make comments about her as long as his movie gets a laugh. Great Success!!! I can’t wait to see the next Borat movie. It’s gonna be awesome if this is any indication of his level of dedication. You know what borat character I hate though? that smug Englishman who’s always winning awards and walking around with the fuck puppet from Bridefuckers or whatever that movie was called. That guy hardly says anything funny at all. Hey borat! Stick to the fags and the foreigners from funny countries, please! Thanks.
Okay, where was I? Oh yeah. I’m deliriously tired and I’m gonna take a nap, which is dangerous, because I’ve GOT TO get our Tshirt designs out today or there’s gonna be no new shirts at our show (and I still need to design them! Yipes!!!) but first I’m gonna tell you about the first concert I ever saw…It was the Dead Milkmen at the metro when I was twelve. That was a while ago. The last (most recent) concert I ever saw was…that’s right assholes, the Dead Milkmen at the Metro. Full circle! That’s it! I’m never watching live music again. My life should, nay MUST! Be lived in perfectly cylindrical poetry. Look out Julie Morelli! You’re gonna be the last person on earth I ever bang! Look out floor of Barnes hospital! You’re gonna be the last place I ever crap! Look out sweet embrace of dark, dreamless sleep! I’m on my way. You get the idea, right? Good.
For the love of god, I’m tired. Stupid band practice and baby combination.
Oh, and the Dead Milkmen played too much funk. After the show I tried to punish them but once I got past “great show” I had nothing to say, cuz let’s be honest, it was just all right. How do you comment on how great it was if there weren’t really any great moments, you know?
Joe was wearing snow pants or something. And they played “Right Wing Pigeons” second. Who wants to see that? No one likes that song, dudes. Where’s “Life is Shit?” Where’s “Bad Party?” Where’s fucking “Takin Retards to the Zoo?” I mean, come on.
Okay, that’s it. I’m out. If you have great tshirt designs for me, send a high res image to my inbox by the end of the day and I’ll make em. Otherwise, we’re all fucked. It’s on you, now Dogs of War. Don’t let yourselves down.
Off to bed.
Ta!

hey, you're a crazy bitch, but you fuck so good i'm on top of it!

Okay assmasks and assmaskettes, welcome to Wednesday at the BSC. Not a lot going on here except for one truly exciting development. That’s right folks. The fresh pear cider I bought at the farmers market last week has fermented and turned into booze! Get this: They TOLD me that was going to happen, and apologized and said that since it was so close to becoming booze, they’d sell me two jugs for the price of one!!!! Talk about crazy! That’s like selling Action Comics number 27 for a nickel because it’s an old storyline, or giving me a discount on a Wright brothers stamp because the image was accidentally printed upside down. I mean, am I right, nerds? Well, anyway, it’s delicious. That’s for sure, and I don’t know how strong it is, but something tells me that today is going to be a pear-y good day. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
Oh, mercy. Seriously, folks, I don’t have shit going on today. I want to take my kid somewhere fun and do something he likes, but his main interests are bottlecaps, opening drawers, his dog (izzy) and taking dumps right there in his pants. That doesn’t give me lots of ideas as far as getting him out into the world. We go to playgrounds all the time, and it seems like we’re always hanging out in bars, so those are out. Huh. I’m a little stumped. I guess we could just go to the park or something, but I would really like to blow his mind today. If there was a water slide around we could go there. He likes the zoo, maybe we could head back there. OR if all else fails, we’ll just go to the strip club and he can hang out in the nursery while I watch all the other baby’s moms work.
That reminds me of a tale of five star parenting that I heard recently. My friend was the bartender at a pretty nice skin shack in Denver. One day he was working and the cops roll in looking for the owner of a car in the parking lot. This dude who’d been sitting at the stage for about an hour was all “yo! That’s my car officer” at which point the cops dragged him out because…are you ready? There was a baby in the car. Dude had spent an hour getting table dances while he left a baby in his car. Truly a class act, right? Well, gets better. It seems that once the cops did a little investigating, they discovered that the baby was not his, but was in fact his girlfriend’s. This is the same girlfriend who had given him money and told him to take the baby down to McDonalds and get some lunch, the very same money that he had been getting the table dances with. How bout that, folks? Unbelievable, right? Not as unbelievable as the time Sean Nader and I got kicked out of the mutant strip club of horrors by the midget in the tuxedo, but still pretty good.
Look, my baby is awake and I think I speak for everyone involved when I say this is sort of a waste of time right now, so I’m gonna dip out. Have a good one, my gentle dogs of war. Let’s rap tomorrow.

Edit: Oh jesus! I already told this story once! This is a rerun! I had no idea. Look. Tomorrow's gonna absolutely slay. I guess I owe you fucks that much, eh? Christ...

crystal shit

Well, well, well, look who’s back? Just take a few days off and leave us all hanging, eh? No, that’s fine. What do we need with regular updates anyway? After all, we’re only FUCKING DYING out here with nothing to do while you ignore your fucking update window. How does it feel? Posting again, that is? Is it like working out after slacking off for a week? When every single line is just fucking a painful reminder of your sloth and decadence? Is that how it feels right now? Good. Good. I’m glad. We’re all glad, frankly. Don’t be so lazy next time, you fucking Calligula.

Yeah, it’s been a minute. What can I tell you? I’m lazy. I’m a lazy calligulan sloth with no soul. Don’t believe me? Well, yesterday my wife and my houseguest and my kid and I were sitting down to breakfast, a lovely meal I cooked consisting of eggs made with green chiles, a slab of bacon and some mimosas and we were all enjoying our Sunday, when suddenly my wife looks up and says, “hey, what’s the date today?” I said “September 20th.” She said “oh, happy anniversary.” And you know what? She was right. Yesterday was our sixth anniversary. Neither of us remembered and neither of us did anything for each other, and besides that, no one else remembered either. Well, Matt Alison, our recording engineer, remembered but only because our wedding favors were beer cozies with our anniversary date on them and he was sitting around drinking one yesterday. That’s some shit, huh? I mean, I’ve heard of the seven year itch, but not so much the six year ‘eh, whatever’. Well, eh, whatever. It’s all come and gone now. It was our houseguest’s birthday at midnight last night so I took the liberty of getting him a prostitute, and even with a pocket full of twenties, he STILL couldn’t score. Sad state of affairs around here, man. It’s gotta be all these town hall meetings and public displays of anger. It’s taking a toll on the national consciousness, man. You know it is.

So, I’ve got this idea for a book. It’s pretty good, I think. Here’s how it goes. What if, instead of dying and being buried beneath a dumb bust of himself, Jim Morrison (who I’ll refer to from here on out as ‘the poet’) instead faked his death and developed a utopian community on a west Indian Island based on the philosophy behind his * ahem*, rad poetry? Good idea, right? Well, here’s the thing. That’s ALREADY a book. And guess who wrote it? Ready? That’s right. Doors keyboardist and gigantic sycophant douche Ray Manzarek. How about that, huh? First, this guy’s got the misfortune of being the nerdiest looking bassist of all time because, well, instead of playing a bass he plays a fucking keyboard, which is not rocking, man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. There is NOTHING cool about playing a keyboard. And the more you groove with it and jump around and all that, the more you’re highlighting exactly how lame the keyboard is. We’ve played with some band where dude jumps up on the keyboard and then does some kind of ‘rad kick jump’ off it, and let me tell you something: shit’s gay. It’s mondo, mondo gay. “um, excuse me, sir…That’s a keyboard, not a trampoline, and certainly not a guitar, so uh, relax. You chose the fucking thing. You could have picked up the guitar or the drums or whatever, but you CHOSE the keyboard, so face facts and try not to embarrass yourself any more than you have to, how bout that?” Did he listen? No.
Anyway, back to Ray Manzarek. He was the total gimp arm of the Doors to begin with. Didn’t even have a respectable part in the band. He was essentially filling in for the bassist they never had with one hand and with his other hand turning their self indulgent garbage dirges into some sort of awful white soul/baseball game organ hybrid that should never, ever be. That’s bad enough. But why stop there? Nah, come on Ray. Take the only famous guy from your band and write a novel about him that exalts him to jesus-like status, thereby making you just as pathetic as your legions of dorky fans. I mean, for fucks sake, you knew the Poet, right Ray? You had to have been sick of his shit. The Poet was a total dipshit. I’ve heard his songs. I’ve read his ‘poems’ and I’ve seen his interviews (thank you very much Doors fan Eric Halborg for forcing me to sit through that crapfest). The dude was a complete dildo and I’m pretty sure that any sort of utopian community that he helmed would be full of fat, drunk slobs wondering why Morrison gets all the pussy and they just hang out on the sidelines waiting for him to die so they can get theirs only to eventually realize that once he DOES die, they’re nothing but lackies to a complete turd, and the only way to really get anything of value from the whole experience is to write a book about their time with him. Uh, what would happen on that island, Ray? Well, to paraphrase the great line from the gay guy in Boiler Room: “Guess what, buddy? You’re on it.”
This isn’t even why I hate the doors. Just the tip of the iceberg, folks. Let’s rap soon.
XOXO

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

who does number two work for?

Life is shit. For me at least, this is terribly and sadly true. Every day, first thing in the morning, I wake up, go into my kid’s room, where I’m greeted with the scent of freshly crapped pants and a smiling little man standing in the corner of his crib. Then, I go clean up dogshit. By this time, I have to dump, so I do that, and then I make coffee and eat bran cereal. That’s the whole morning. It’s almost completely devoted to shit. I don’t even need to get into the metaphorical way that life is shit, I’ve got a lifetime of literally shitty mornings to look forward to.
On tour, life becomes extremely routine. I guess it’s pretty routine when I’m not on tour, but I guess the thing that’s different is that it’s a completely compromised routine. You, your bandmates and crew all eat at the same time, sleep at the same time, ride around in a little box all day, deal with all the same people, go drinking at the same bars, etc. There’s a lot of down time, and not really a lot to talk about because, well everyone is doing the exact same thing you’re doing. Not a lot of new material coming out. There’s no “I ate at a really good place last night” sort of small talk, because everyone already knows that place. They ate there too. With you. Had the same meal. They know it was good. The end result is that bands on tour end up talking a LOT about shitting. It’s the only thing that’s left that’s a unique experience that’s not beating off.
Shitting on tour is very difficult. It’s almost like getting Yhatzee to be lucky enough to have to take a dump at a place where you actually CAN take a dump. Your standards plummet pretty quick. There was a time when I’d only crap at home. Now, I draw the line at outside onto the ground, although I’m really not a fan of portapotties. Anyway, not the point. The point is you WILL be at that Love’s truckstop in Wyoming sitting there on a filthy toilet dumping between two gigantic grunting sweating truckers. And your mind will suddenly remove all the stall walls and you’ll kind of float out above your body and look down and see you, just mere inches from these hulking, laboring men and you will say “wow…this is living the dream, huh?” And there will be sounds. There will be horrendous sounds coming out of these giants. You will want to laugh and cry, but you will just sit there and stew in the whole thing. It’s a real scene.
Club toilets are almost always gross, but you’ll use em, and you’ll talk about them and you’ll maybe take up writing graffiti, because all you do is sit and read all this crap and at some point you think “hey, if I’d been writing my name in all these stalls, I’d be pretty famous, graffiti wise.” I don’t know, maybe you won’t.
The diet is pretty much just junk, beer and very little sleep. Touring often starts with about two or three days of no one dumping at all, (just kind of what happens for some reason) but then it starts getting interesting. Sometimes, everyone has to shit at once. Sometimes there’s just no stopping it. A buddy of mine pulled his van off to the side of the highway and dove into the woods to crap during an all night drive. We talked about that for weeks.
This is not just for small bands either. The universality the quest for and inevitable lack of shittable bathrooms reaches from Coldplay to the Menzingers. You can’t shit on a tourbus. The toilets are made for liquid only. Shitting on a bus is a great way to get the driver to hate you. Drivers also don’t just pull over willy-nilly. They’re like truckers. They go and go so they can get to where you’re all going so they can go to sleep, score some meth and get a hooker. They don’t have time to be pulling over everytime the drum tech has to crap. End result? There’s Chris Martin in the stall at the Truckstop, middle door, between the two greasy large mustached men. Dumping. It’s the great leveler, really.

Okay, look. I’m not trying to sit here and reminisce about poop. I don’t even really like the subject at all. It’s gross. Also, I know from experience that once someone starts talking about poo, everyone who thinks they’ve got a good tale pipes up and it gets gross so fast. I don’t want to hear about it. There’s etiquette to talking shit. You don’t talk about the actual shit itself. I don’t want to hear about size or corn or spray (well, actually spray is okay. For example, if you just shit a whole bowl of drool…that’s not something you should have to keep bottled up…but see, it’s really gross, so keep it to a minimum). I NEVER EVER EVER want to see pictures of shit. AND, and this is very important, I never want to hear women talk about shitting. I know! I know! It’s sexist or something, but look, man. They took santa claus from me, they took the tooth fairy and jesus from me. They took gay marriage. Don’t take away my idealized world in which women don’t shit. Please. PLEASE. I’m not alone on this either. There’s not a man out there that wants to hear about women shitting. Well, no man that shouldn’t be under some sort of surveillance, at least.
My friend Sean’s ex wife once pushed her plate of eggs away and said “Sean. Let’s go home! I’ve gotta crap!” and I didn’t eat eggs for a year as a result. They also ended up divorced. Coincidence? No, man. No way. She shattered the mirror. There’s no coming back from something like that. God. This is all so disturbing. I think I’m gonna go lay in the fetal position in the shower.
Enjoy your day!

The darker the berry the sweeter the Juuuuuuice!

Brian Austin Green and Megan Fox. That’s a topic, right? I mean, people are talking about that shit like crazy. What are they saying? She’s hot, the hottest chick in the world and he’s just some schlubby dildo who used to be on 90210 and had a rap album (yes, he did) and is currently unemployed. People also talk about her bad tattoos, but mostly they talk about how it’s just inevitable that the two of them will break up and she’ll start dating someone who’s uh…you know, not David Silver.
Well, firstly, let’s not knock people with questionable tattoos, people who are unemployed and people who have put out bad music, kay? That’s um…I dunno. For some reason, I don’t like that. Second, David Silver, he’s a pretty good looking guy, isn’t he? I mean, I’ve got this picture of him in an unzipped, silver hoodie exposing his chest and…wait. No. Yeah, she’s super duper hot, and he’s a malorkus. That does kind of suck. Stupid, suck ass David Silver.
Seriously though, that chick is one of the best arguments against letting people pick tattoos when they’re young. She’s got some terrible portrait of Marilyn Monroe and some Shakespearean bullshit about gilded butterflies. Honey chile! That’s just nasty, baby. BUT, it’s not as bad as this picture I saw yesterday.
I saw, via the internet, a photo of this dude in a swimsuit. He’s either at some kind of pool party or beach or something and he’s got his arm around this pretty hot girl and on his arm there’s a tattoo of what looks like the little box at the bottom of a movie trailer that gives the rating and then kind of explains what the rating means, but where the PG or the R or the NC-17 would be, there’s a P, and then next to it, it says * ahem* “Player for life. Looking for luv? You’ve come to the wrong place.”
I don’t think there’s enough virtual ink on the internet for me to effectively list all the reasons that this is one of the most asinine things I’ve ever seen, but suffice it to say, I’m blown away. The dude kind of looks like a meaty Jim Carey and I dunno. Really? That’s your tattoo, bro? “Luv????” You couldn’t even be bothered to spell love correctly? I mean, what. The. Fuck?
Okay, I found the picture. Here’s the offending dumb dumb:
http://loltatz.com/2009/07/18/player-4-life-really/hcwdb/
My baby isn’t napping. He’s in his crib stomping around and kind of singing to himself. I wish he’d nap, because I have kind of a lot that I want to do right now, during this naptime, but it’s not looking good, man. Aye Chihuahua. He’s amped it up now. It’s wailing. I broke the coffee pot over the weekend and it’s really putting a damper on my morning routine. I mean, I’m used to about two hours here where I can get shit done and drink coffee while he sleeps. Today though, I got no coffee, no napping baby, AND I got a fucking ticket on my car for having no city sticker, but I DID HAVE THE FUCKING THING!!!!AND IT’S ON THE CAR!!!!! I’m so pissed about that, I can barely fucking see straight. It’s already extortion the way they make Chicagoans buy these fucking stickers, but this whole new program of just writing tickets then seeing who contests them, the ‘mail in rebate’ style of city revenue collection, really chaps my sack.
They’re trying to get the Olympics here. That’s what this is about, apparently. I dunno. I’m just sick of it all, man.
Well, according to that kid from the Sock Drawer, I can still get the original Sparks down at this liquor store right down the road, so that’s a silver lining in an otherwise horribly oppressive shit storm of a life, right? Suuuuure. Well, that and I’m going to get a sweet tattoo today. It’s gonna be a picture of Brian Austin Green shirtless, and tattooed on HIS chest, it’s gonna say “playa!” What do you think? Oh, and he’ll be showing off his tongue stud. Maybe it’ll be Sean Nader instead of Brian Austin Green, now that I think about it. He’s a rapper too. Okay, I got some thinking to do, folks. Don’t want to wind up with something stupid on my body forever, right? That would be horrible.

I think of all the really cool things I could do or say, then you go and you tell me that you found out dean was gay...

Okay, man. What the fuck? Do you people think I have nothing but time on my hands? This is ridiculous. Oh sure, blame it on the internet and the general culture of depravity that we’ve fostered here in cyberspace! Blame it on divorce rates and daddy issues if you must, but know, Sock Drawer, KNOW that I blame you. Of course I’m referring to isshefilthy.blogspot.com. One of you socks turned me on to this one yesterday and FUUUUUUUCK. How am I supposed to get anything done with that website out there, man? I mean, shit, look what time it is! Okay, quick primer: Is She Filthy is set up a lot like guesshermuff, in fact, if it’s not set up by the very same people, it’s set up by seriously uncreative impersonators. THIS website’s little ‘game’ involves you guessing if the girl in the picture is ‘filthy’ which, in the context of the website seems to mean ‘sexually active’ (spoiler alert: The answer is always yes) and then clicking on the link to see said girl, oh, I don’t know…hogtied and buttfucked with big red handslap prints all over her ass and thighs, just for example. It’s captivating, I’ll say that much for it. Anyway, I don’t know what it is, the presentation or what, because it’s so much more compelling than just regular pornography. It’s kind of this real impressionist storytelling. You see one person in two various states and there’s this little connection that my brain tries to make as far as what happened between the pictures. I don’t know, man. That’s pretty philosophical for porn, I guess, and lord knows I’m no Nick Manning (DROPPIN LOADS!!!) Let’s just suffice it to say I’m thrilled and disgusted at the same time. Okay, enough of my life has been wasted on this thrilling website already. On to bigger topics.
Yesterday, late, someone posted in the sock drawer looking for advice. It’s pretty funny, I think, so I’m gonna give it a whirl. Here goes:

Q
So there's this girl, I've known her since 6th grade, we dated for 3 and a half years from when we were 19-23 and I treated her like shit. I cheated on her frequently. I was not a good person, at all. I broke her fucking heart.__Since we've been broken up, we've always fooled around still when we were both single. But since about January she's been in a long distance relationship with this guy (he lives in Oregon, we live in Minnesota).__Needless to say, this guy hates me. Because, while I did pretty unforgivable things to this girl, she forgave me and we have remained best friends. We talk every day and still hang out once every couple weeks. Her boyfriend hates the fact that we're so close and is insecure.__He has every right to be, because, while at first after they started dating, when her and I would hang out, it was obvious there was sexual tension, but we never acted on it. Then a few weeks ago, I was coming off a pretty hard night of drinking and was at her place recovering from the hangover and we ended up sleeping together.__And then she got a call from him that same day and he broke up with her. He didn't even know that her and I were hanging out right then, he was just generally unhappy in the relationship. She was devastated and asked me to stay the night. Which I did. But the next day they got back together and she told me that we could no longer be as close as we were because she needed to try to make it work with him.__That was all fine and good, and at first we were more distant, but the more we hung out and talked, the closer we became again. After we got drunk together at a Lucero show the other night I spent the night over there again.__The next morning I left my phone there and she went through it and found some texts I had sent to a booty call I have. And while she knew about this girl, seeing the texts in print was too much for her to take. She just told me that she only wants to talk me once a month and only to hear that I am doing all right. She says she is going to move to Oregon at the end of July and is probably going to marry the guy out there. She says she doesn't feel about him, the way she did and does feel about me, but she's just not willing to get crushed again.__I don't want her to go. I have been trying to get her back for the past few months. But I know I fucked shit up in the past, and I feel like I owe it to her to let her go and to just see what happens. What should I do Brendan? Did I blow any chance of getting her back? Is it hopeless? Be as blunt as possible.

A
Dude, you know exactly what’s going on here, okay. You’ve been manipulating this girl successfully for a while now, and there’s no reason that I can see that you should stop now. You obviously like doing it, she obviously likes you doing it. What’s the question here? This seems less like a quest for guidance and more like a proclamation of awesomeness. You’re fucking STOKED on yourself and your dick sharing ways and this chick’s goofy drama. This much is very, VERY clear in this letter. And good on ya, man. I’m not here to judge. Someone in the drawer wrote in some sort of reply that’s like “just let the poor girl get her life together and be thankful she doesn’t hate you!” But that’s really missing the point here. She’s obviously got self destructive tendencies, and masochistic tendencies (why else would she go snooping through your text history?) and this dude obviously has a love of exploiting those tendencies. What’s the actual question? Can you get her back? Yeah, sure. Seems like you’ve already done that more times than I’ve toured Japan. Do you owe anything to her? Probably. Are you a dick? Most likely. Does any of this matter the next time you guys see each other and get drunk and end up posting pictures of it on isshefilthy.blogspot.com (she is, by the way)? Nope. Not even a little. I mean, what’s my role here? Should I say “nah, dude. Don’t go for it. Leave the poor girl be”? Are you gonna listen to me? No. and if you do (which you won’t), the second she gets drunk and texts you, it’s all gonna go out the window anyway. At this point your behavior and her behavior are so molded to each other’s various dominant and submissive tendencies, that she’s really gonna have to step up and get a sack to ever get rid of you. Is she gonna? Only she really knows, but I’d say that she’s all yours until that fateful day when she really, truly doesn’t want you around. At that point, you’ll just need to find another chick with low self esteem. Good luck.

Nerds, pussies out there. Take note. This guy uses the confidence method perfectly. Now, you don’t have to create a swath of destruction behind you, but if you employ my method of unflappable confidence, you’ll at least have the OPTION of creating said swath of destruction. We’re teaching powerful techniques here at BSC, mofos. Yeah. Okay, what else?
Ah, someone wanted to hear a good wedding story. Well, I don’t really have any, but my friend Sean Nader has a bunch. There was one wedding where by the time everyone got to the reception (which, if I’m not mistaken took place in the early afternoon) Nader was already shirtless and shotgunning beer. I believe he and his date (a dude, to bring it all back to yesterday’s advice concerning bringing a buddy to a wedding but not getting too fucked up) were actually both staggering drunk and shirtless and ended up fistfighting and getting kicked out. I don’t know if I’m telling this story entirely right, but I’m not far off. He’s amazing, ladies and gentlemen. Maybe I’ll talk to him and get the full and correct story for tomorrow. Hmmm…okay.
What else? Man, I got nothing. We practiced last night and I’m beat. All right, I got a lot of chicks to guess the filth level of before my baby wakes up. Good luck down there, Sock Drawer. See you tomorrow!

i was stabbed by satan on the day that i was born

Jesus christ. The weekend is over and I’m back. Did you miss me? good. Great, in fact. I need that kind of reinforcement these days. Okay, it’s Monday and it’s beautiful and I want to get outside, so I’m gonna hurry. This is so late in being posted because I’m in the midst of writing the strangest song I’ve written in a while. I hesitate to say it sounds African, because, well, that sounds like it’d be terrible…but I’ve been listening to a lot of K’naan lately, and I really think that besides having a cool whole thing going on, that when he’s not being too cheesy (which definitely happens) he writes great melodies and great rhymes. This latest song I’m working on is in no small part inspired by said melodies and rhymes. Sounds terrible, I know, but keep in mind, I have a very formulaic and limited approach to songwriting, so everything I do pretty much ends up sounding like all the rest of my songs anyway…Jesus, never mind. But, if you’re into African/hip hop/reggae type shit, definitely check out K’naan. The records are all good, but I think Troubadour is the best, (though the best individual song is on Dusty Foot Philosopher). Anyway, I back him fully. I mean, I even like the song with Kirk Hammet playing guest lead guitar, and that sounds like a recipe for a shit sandwich party sub. Whatever. On to the advice.

Q
Brendan,__I'm twenty-three years old, and I've been a misfit loser pretty much my entire life.__I've recently gotten involved with a girl who I met through a friend, and we've hung out together at shows and with other friends in the local music and art scene. She's a really cool girl, and she's really into me. We've really hit it off after our first real date. We went exploring in this old military base and it went from shooting bb guns at wine bottles to rolling around on the floor making out and listening to Your Gravest Words.__My biggest concern is that she is much more experienced than I am. I've never had a girlfriend, and I've barely so much as made-out with a girl before, so I am obviously a virgin (I was able to hide behind my being straight edge for, but I drink too much whiskey now for that to be believable anymore). In a sense, anyone would be more experienced than I am. While I am ecstatic about being with her and the way things are working out so far, I am completely clueless about everything whatsoever.__I never had a big brother, and I guess what I'm looking for is some general big brotherly advice for relationships, and the ever important issue of sex._

A
Okay, firstly, don’t panic. Aside from a few very, very unlucky people, everyone is a virgin at some point and need to deal with overcoming this mess of emotions and excitement and expectations and all that. EVERYONE can sympathize with your predicament; me, Jenna Haze, your best friend, your teachers, the cops in your town, the butcher, and even this girl. Yeah, it’s funny to rib people about stuff like this because it’s an easy mark. Comedy in its essence is the build up and release of tension (heh…not unlike boning, right? Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t know…See, that’s funny) and since sex is a sensitive subject, it easily creates tension and lends itself to lots of easy and potentially mean spirited jokes (see above for an example), but that’s nothing to be deterred or distracted by. If everyone who was ever an inexperienced virgin completely clammed up when they thought that the potential for their inexperience to be exposed was possible, well, there’d have been a VERY short period when there were sentient humans on the earth, right? Okay, I know this isn’t exactly your question, but I’m trying to make a point. You have, rightly, a big emotional stake in hooking up with this girl-you like her, it’s the first time you’ve been able to get this close to someone emotionally/physically for whatever reason and you’re understandably apprehensive, but it’s nothing everyone who’s ever gotten to that point hasn’t gone through, INCLUDING HER. If you sit her down, casually and say “Hey, listen. I’m inexperienced. In fact, I’m a virgin. I like you, but I don’t really know what I’m doing and I just wanted to let you know that’s why I’m nervous/shy/unsure of where to stick what etc” and she does ANYTHING besides smile, tell you that’s great and that she’s flattered and not to worry about it, and it’s really not a big deal, no one’s born experienced, well, she’s probably not the girl you want to enter into this stage of a relationship with. Doesn’t sound like that’s gonna be the case though, right? She’s cool already, so it’s simple. Tell her what’s up. She’s gonna be sweet and nurturing, or equally inexperienced…don’t rule that possibility out either, and either way, learning about that stuff is one of the most exciting and fun things that you’ll ever do in your life. So relax and enjoy it.
I noticed that down in the old Sock Drawer, some people offered you essentially this same advice. That makes me feel good. You guys aren’t all bad, you know that?
Anyhow, there’s time for you to learn about fingerbanging and how to feel tits or fist assholes or eat pussies in the future. Right now, the best person that can explain what feels good to a girl is the girl you’re with. She’s the person to ask for “big brotherly” advice, because she’s the only one that can tell you what works for her. Women are like old video game cartridges. Each one requires a different style of touch and blowing on to really get working, so there’s no playbook. What makes one girl scream with pleasure will make another punch you in the face, (although, I would say, in general, you want to lightly rub the clam. Don’t jam your fingers in there. That’s just not the way to fingerbang…it’s a rubbing, or wiping move, not an inserting and thrusting move….that’s for your dong to do later). Jesus, is any of this helpful?
I’m going outside. Here’s to ya!

Oh, and to answer the parenting question in the sock drawer (the natural next question after the 'how do i bone' question), I swaddled my baby for the first three months. I found it to be really helpful until he got big enough to start wanting to flip around. You can try it again. It's not like once you stop, that's your chance and it's done. As much as they struggle, they say that's usually somewhat uncontrollable muscle movement, because they haven't yet learned how to move or control their limbs, so in that first three months, they really like being bound, because it makes them feel more in control. At least that's what I read somewhere, and it seemed to be true for my kid. We also stopped swaddling his legs after a while because those eventually got strong enough to kick through the whole little cocoon, but we still did his arms. Wow, fascinating, huh? Congratulations on the baby. We should get breakfast at 715 sometime. Sheesh.

Why don't you open your eyes and see?

This is a highly unusual morning. My wife, who tends to be busy, and as a result, successful, is home. She’s on her computer right across from me, working from home as she waits to go to a meeting or something. This is preventing me from doing what I usually do, which is type this blog naked with a banana up my ass while watching german shit porn on the television. Oh, quit being such a puritan. The baby’s at daycare.
This is a hell of a segue into my new installment--Types of people:
Germans- These fucking people, man. Wow. Germany is the only place where I’ve seen a guy on the street with frosted tips, leather pants and a suede motorcycle jacket sparing for change. We told him to suck it up and go back to his salon and beg for his chair back. German men, as a rule have a very particular idea about how shit should be done, and they can be amazingly unbending when it comes to compromise. I know there’s a historical precedent for this that’s uh, what’s the word? Huge? Not quite right, but anyway, I’m not trying to suggest anything like that. Germans, in general, tend to be outspoken and absolute in their ideas of what’s stupid/great/working/not working and these opinions and ideas don’t tend to shift very often. This leads to lots of german guys coming across as a bit robotic and cold and German women coming off as either robotic and cold or completely fucking awesome. An outspoken, slightly bitchy frau with huge pointy cans is a fun frau to down some steins with, for sure. Prost.
Some funny Germans I know:
I know a 44 year old German with only a few teeth who’s about five five, bald, with a barbed wire tattoo around his neck. He wears XXL basketball jerseys and flannel pajama pants all the time. His ex girlfriend’s name is tattooed on his neck, on his wrist and huge on his belly. He told me once “yeah, I’m still not really getting over her.” No shit, dude. Your body is quite literally a shrine to her…Not surprising that you’re still attached in some way. This guy, who’s one of the best guys in the world, by the way, only eats two things: sugar and faces. I know, what the fuck does that mean? It means I’ve only ever seen him eat candy, but I’ve heard him threaten to eat more than a few people’s faces. The best time was when some security guards tried to encircle us in a London McDonalds. They were North African dudes, and my German friend didn’t even look up. He just sat there and said, “you think your dick is big? I’ll eat your face.” This, somehow, did the trick. They left us alone.
Keep in mind that we were being encircled because the other guy we were with had tried to pass a counterfeit 20 pound note and was being arrested. Somehow, instead of going to jail, he ended up picking up some chick and going back to her house and, you know, pumping her. Nice. Nothing like picking up a counterfeiting foreigner who’s on his way to jail in a McDonalds at two in the morning and taking him home. That’s just so well thought out, you know?
I think I may have written about this before…Okay, more Germans.
Nah, I don’t want to get into all these Germans. There are tons of them, but here’s the thing about germans, they will, make no mistake, insult you every single time that they try to compliment you. It’s called a German compliment, and anyone who’s EVER traveled through Germany extensively (especially in a band) knows all about it. It’s a compliment laced with an insult, AND the insult is as insulting as the compliment is flattering, so you (the non-german) usually walk away a little pissed off. Here are some German compliments:
“I love your records, but tonight you were so terrible.”
“Your voice is great, but you have gotten so fat”
“I think your band is awful, but tonight was not so bad.”
“Kids like your band, I don’t know why they don’t like your t shirts. Maybe it’s because the designs are so bad, or maybe it’s because you played so poorly”
“It’s funny that the girls all like you, because in my opinion you’re really not that good looking, you know?”
“Last time, you guys were great. This time it was so boring.’
“I think this show was much better than the last. That was terrible, right?”
“my friend, I think wants to have sex with you for some reason”
This last one needs to be punctuated with an index finger swirling at the temple to indicate the absolute crazy stupidness of the idea of sleeping with you.
Yeah, so you get it. German compliments. Reading over these, it seems like maybe we’re just not a very good band, and I’m at ease with that, but I swear to you, EVERY person who travels through Germany knows these compliments. God, I just had a vision of the backstage/bunkhouse in Schweinfurt and it gave me a cold chill. I don’t know why, though. That place has great food and good looking bartenders. Germany, man.
Once, we were hanging out after the last show of our tour, we were in Berlin at the guy with the sugar/face only diet that I was telling you about earlier’s house. His roommate, who I called half-a-mouth-of-teeth for some reason I don’t feel like I need to go into, and I were awake smoking some hash. Everyone else was asleep and I was dying to go to sleep. We flew out the next day and I was exhausted and we had to wake up in about two hours. I had tried to excuse myself politely a few times, but there was a certain germanness that could not be penetrated with polite suggestion, so eventually, I stood up and said, “dude. I’m going to bed. Thanks for the hospitality.” And he said, “okay, no problem. Just let me ask you one question before you go to sleep.”
“sure”
“What do you think about the attacks of September the eleventh?”

That’s Germans folks. Up next: gay French guys. But first, come see me at café 11 in St. Augustine tomorrow. Make some requests, and if they line up with the songs I’m already playing, I’ll take them. Later days, better lays.

Ladies! you know what to do!

Wow, I have NO time this morning, and it’s Friday which is the hardest day to make something happen on the internet. I’m just a whirlwind of emotions right now. Some readers have been kind enough to point out all the other badsandwich rip offs that have popped up lately and I’m at once flattered and appalled. What the fuck? Okay, firstly, Bad Sandwich started out as the worst band name I could think of. This was a game that we would play while on the road. We’d sit around and when someone would say something that could be a terrible band name, we’d write it on a list. It would go something like this….

INT. THE LAWRENCE ARMS VAN - MORNING

The Lawrence Arms are on tour and driving out of LA. NEIL drives while a visibly hung over NADER sits shotgun. He’s rubbing his bloodshot eyes and sweating a bit. He turns around to address PT, who’s grossing everyone out by running his big sausagey fingers all over the velour ceiling of the van. BRENDAN and CHRIS are both laying down behind PT trying not to pay attention to his fingernails on the velour.

NADER: Man, dogs! I think I may have pissed my pants last night, and I definitely tried to bone that girl.

CHRIS (sitting up in the back with huge smile): WHAT?

PT: That shouldn’t surprise you, McCooch. Doesn’t surprise me. (shit eating giggle)

NEIL: Oh man. (beat) How do you feel right now?

NADER: Oh, well, I’m gonna be pretty hung over eventually, but right now, I’m still mostly monster.

BRENDAN (sitting up): Dude, did you say mostly monster?

CHRIS: That’s a band name.

NEIL: That’s a GREAT band name!

NADER (miming talking into a microphone): What’s up Syracuse! We’re Mostly Monster. This is our first song. Ladies, get your tits out!

NEIL: Hey, I need to take a dump so I’m gonna stop up here. Is anyone hungry? There’s an arbys and a taco time.

So, anyway, Bad Sandwich was one of the best bands we came up with, along with Interesting Cafeteria (Chris in Germany: “It kind of smells like an interesting cafeteria in this place”), Chin Business (due to mocking some completely inappropriate facial hair on some San diego style dildo [parenthetical note: the ‘just the chin’ action is dumb looking. Yes. Even on you. Be a man and grow a mustache. Sheesh]) Uh…Technical Sex was a good band name we came up with…well, you get the idea. I’m not spilling all the great secrets of terrific band names here. I know how uncreative all you cock farmers are, and I don’t need to get some myspace message from some band called Chin Business next week thanking me for inspiration. Come up with your own band names. Nah, never mind. Use Chin Business. I dare you. I’ve still got like a nineteen page list somewhere.
Anyhoo, that’s where bad sandwich came from. We started talking about the awesome band, BAD SANDWICH, as a way to have fun with uncreative interview questions about influences, favorite bands to tour with, etc. NOW, there’s a fucking ska-funk band from England called bad sandwich. I don’t know if they’re ripping me off, or if they just came up with the name on their own, and honestly, I have no idea which one is lamer.
That’s the name of your band? Bad Sandwich? Fuck. And you play what? FUNK? IT’S 2009! AND YOU’RE FROM ENGLAND!!!! England is about as funky as fargo, man. (see, THAT’S a good band name. “Hey, we’re Funky as Fargo from Brighton. Ladies, get your tits out!)
Now there’s this other badsandwich blog started by some lame amateur penis enthusiast douche from Wyoming. It’s literally like what fifth grade kids write when they’re trying to write their own porn. Very well done. Then there’s the one that’s run by robits that we’ve already discussed (see the entry I, robit for explanation of what a robit is), and THEN there’s the scary one. The bible one. The one that’s all about the rapture and 666 and mega churching and all that shit. HOW THE FUCK DID THEY COME ACROSS ME???? This is not the work of robits, man. This is way crazier. Take the S and the P in ‘blogspot and switch them in my URL to see this wacky shit. I guess Jesus has a computer after all. AND he reads my blog. Pretty cool. Okay. Fuck this. I’m going to work. Um…it’s Friday, so that means it’s gonna suck out there. Bye.
(personal message below)
Hey summer! You wanna hang? It’s been too long. Come over later.

UUUUGH! DAWGS!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which one are you? I'm Stephen.

Okay, so I was all geared up to write something this morning. I had a specific topic when I woke up, which currently escapes me. It probably had something to do with going to work, as I’m doing that in just a few minutes, but whatever. It wasn’t gonna be that interesting, at least not anything innovative for this particular corner of the internet. Again, whatever. So I took my kid to daycare (where I have the distinct feeling that a lot of, not all, but a lot of the girls who work there [college girls in sweatsuits] are perpetually hung over cockhounds….I could be wrong, I’ve been wrong before. This is just my impression, and they all seem real good with kids, so I don’t care. This is pure empirical observation, people. Their personal lives, besides being fodder for me to speculate about publicly, are really none of my business, and I’m not judging, unless you count ‘cockhound’ as a term of judgment, in which case I just feel bad for you, but as usual, I digress…) and when I was driving home, I was listening to Howard Stern interviewing Michael Lohan and Stephen Baldwin. Now, this is what erased my mind. Do you know what these two guys have in common (besides both being insanely jealous of Alec Baldwin and wanting to fuck Lindsay Lohan)? That’s right everyone! JC! They’re both Christians. AND they said some prayers, talked about their charity work (some dumb quasi celebrity boxing match) their mission work (going to brothels in Thailand and getting kids out of there [which is commendable. Once, I was in a mountain town with my in laws and our waiter was this guy who was just gross. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but besides his comb over, brown teeth, sloppy disgusting Jabba-body and creepy elocution, there was an eeeew factor just dripping, oozing out of this guy. THEN he volunteered the information that he had just gotten back from a solo trip to Thailand. Now, gents, here’s a little word to the wise. Are you going to Thailand by yourself? Okay, now if you answered yes, please carefully look over the following questions: Is it on business? Are you some sort of Martial Artist or aspiring chef? Is there ANY good reason {besides some bullshit, like ‘oh, I just love the architecture’ which is the reason that this guy gave} for you to be going so far all by yourself? Okay, now I’m not saying that every guy who goes on a solo vacation to Thailand is exclusively interested in pumping kids, trannies, goats in coconut bikinis, what have you…I’m just saying that everyone is going to THINK that’s what you’re doing, so just be aware of that while planning your trip. So, long story short, the waiter seemed even creepier after that. Okay.]) And then, Stephen and Michael tried to get Howard to convert his show to a Christian show, promising 15 million more listeners.
Well, this whole thing struck me as odd. Nah, that’s not exactly right. It just seemed like proof. “Huh?” you ask. Well, at the risk of going off on yet another tangent, have you ever seen that “Way of the Master” shit with Kirk Cameron where he points to a banana and calls it every atheists nightmare and then he goes through all this bullshit with the banana to prove that evolution is a farce, and that God is hooking shit up right here, right now? (Bear in mind, he’s one of those guys who thinks dinosaurs and humans walked the earth together, so we’re dealing with a complete fucking mongoloid) He says shit like “it’s got a protective seal and a pop top and it fits right in your hand! Thanks God!” Of course, this is ignoring the fact that the modern banana is completely engineered by human controlled artificial selection, not to mention all sorts of pesticides and shit like that, but whatever, he’s a mongo, like I said. Anyway, if the banana, according to Kirk, is proof of god, I’d like to argue that this appearance by Michael Lohan and Stephen Baldwin is the counter argument. Proof that there is no god. It’s hard to disprove something. That’s the greatest problem in science. It’s nigh impossible. However, sometimes shit comes together and you kind of look at all the data and say to yourself ‘woah, there’s no god.’
This isn’t gonna be long and drawn out, it’s pretty simple. Howard Stern’s show is probably the biggest show in the history of radio, right? I mean, he’s for sure the only A list celebrity to ever come out of the medium. Now, you’re telling me that God got some time on the Stern show to talk Jesus with millions of people – Heathen people, mind you- and he sent fucking MICHAEL LOHAN and STEPHEN BALDWIN???!??!?!?!?! Sorry, don’t buy it for a second. These two cock farmers couldn’t get cast in a direct to DVD tampon commercial; there’s no way that they’re the two members of the flock chosen by god to go on the stern show. AND, lest you think that God’s too busy doing other things, first of all, they (Mike and Steve) talked to him on the air, and it sounded, from what they were saying, like he heard them, and secondly he’s really not doing shit anywhere else. Didn’t we talk about this before? There are kids sucking gross waiter penises in Thailand, and kids eating dirt in Africa and kids in my very town who have to shit into grocery bags because they have no toilets. God’s not doing shit, and yet these representatives of god (not just Mikey and Stevie, mind you, but they’re on my list today), these unbelievable fucks have the nerve to tell these people “it’s cool, you’ll get yours in heaven.” Easy for you to say, Jerry Falwell, Stephen Baldwin, Ted Haggard, George Bush, any number of self righteous millionare douchebags who use people’s own hopeless ignorance against them. YOU SLEEP IN A HEATED HOUSE AT NIGHT!!! “You’ll get yours in heaven.” What an unbelievable pile of bullshit. That’s how I’m gonna start paying my bills. “Hey, yeah, I saw I owe a hundred fifty six bucks for cable, but how bout you just wait til we get to heaven and I’ll get you back then. Hey, fuck it, I’ll double it. How can you afford NOT to wait until we get to heaven?”
Well, there you go. Jesus has ruined my day again. Thanks Jesus. It’s funny, Cisco Adler (the guy with the huge, droopy ballsack) has a really powerful dad, and though he doesn’t really do much, he has this magnetic energy that makes people compulsively watch everything he does and really celebrate him as something special, even though he’s essentially just a long-haired douchebag with a powerful dad and nothing else really going on. Sound familiar, Jesus? Mmm hmmm.
I got drinks to pour. Bye.

(Oh, and just by the way, have you guys seen that M&M's commercial where Stephen Baldwin gets handily out-acted by a CGI M&M? Pretty good work there. Pretty, pretty good.)