Okay, so, big stuff on the agenda today. The best stuff, too: sex and drugs. Let’s start with drugs, because, well, because that’s usually how it starts, right? First the drugs then the sex. Especially if you’re a hooker, because then the cocaine keeps you from crying through the whole thing and well, that’s always a plus. Ah, look, I’m getting ahead of myself. Sorry. Okay. Let’s begin.
Drugs:
Mark McGwire just admitted he took some steroids which is shocking (SHOCKING!) to me, and no doubt to the rest of the world. Of course there’s the requisite stink being made and blah blah blah. “How dare he take performance enhancing drugs? What about the children? This calls into question his record” and so forth.
Look, firstly, the dude hit a ton of home runs. You could pump me so full of steroids that my jaw hits my shoulders and my balls turn into tiny raisins, and there’d still be no way I’d ever hit a ball tossed by a mlb pitcher, so there’s that. The dude is amazing. There’s no argument there. “Ah,” some say, “but wouldn’t he have been better if he’d done it without the drugs?” Well, firstly, no. He’d be just as good. Secondly, he wouldn’t have been able to do it, so it’s kind of a moot point, and thirdly, dude, it’s fucking entertainment! It was exciting as shit to watch him and sammy try to hit all those homers AND THAT IS THE WHOLE POINT OF SPORTS, YOU FUCKING WIERDOS! IT’S SOMETHING TO WATCH AND BE ENTERTAINED BY. PERIOD!!!!! When people are doing things for others entertainment, they need to fuck with reality to make it as good as possible. When actors play vampires or paraplegics they don’t really grow fangs or saw off their legs. When porn stars do anal scenes they don’t eat for days and then use enema bags to insure that they don’t shit all over the place. Is that cheating? NO! It’s what’s necessary to keep shit entertaining. Sure, sure. Steroids are bad for you. So’s using enemas and starving yourself! So’s smoking for a role or gaining or losing weight for a role or driving a fucking car around in a circle at two hundred miles an hour, or locking yourself in a glass box over central park, or eating as many horse penises as you can while Joe Rogan cheers you on. It’s all bad for you, man. Entertainment is built on the suffering of entertainers. That’s the WHOLE THING ABOUT ENTERTAINMENT!!! This is, also, an industry standard. Like it or not. We, the crowds, have demanded more exciting baseball and the result is we’ve got all these hopped up players who are doing whatever it takes to get their bodies into the shape it’s gonna need to be in to satisfy our outlandish expectations.
Finally, there are those who would say that it sets a bad example for children. To those people I would offer the following two pronged rejoinder: A) don’t be such a pussy, and B) Look at the fucking world you live in, man. There are women having sex with golden retrievers on the internet and your kid HAS SEEN IT! YES SHE HAS!!!!! If some guy using every advantage available to get ahead, make a name for himself in a cutthroat field and ultimately walk away a multi millionaire is the worst of your worries, well, you should also worry about George Bush, Donald Trump, Barack Obama, Sunny Bono, Brad Pitt, Marilyn Monroe, etc. etc. Save the manufactured, mock outrage, please. The dude looks like the Thing. Of course he’s juicing, man. Jeez.
Now, onto the sex. Ashley Dupree, or “Eliot Spitzer’s whore” as she’s affectionately known, was on howard stern today to talk about, among other things, her allegedly gorgeous vagina. It sounds, from all accounts, that she’s truly a gifted sex worker, and good for her. Prostitution is an important service and it sickens me that it’s so stigmatized. Getting laid is an instinctual need. When people can’t get laid they act out in creepy and sometimes dangerous ways, much like when people can’t eat or sleep.
ALSO, being attractive and/or good at fucking is not something that everyone can pull off, SO, therefore, we’re talking about a specialized skill with definite demand and ancillary societal benefits. What’s the fucking problem? It’s bad because it involves pussies?
Actually, there are two big problems: The unspoken male problem with it: Because it encourages a sort of brazen feminine sexuality that’s not necessarily tied to wanting to be with just one man.
And the oft repeated feminine problem: It’s objectifying and indicative of women’s lack of choices in this phalocentric economic society and it’s soul crushing and blah blah blah.
Look, yeah. In a perfect world, everyone could just get laid. Hell, in a perfect world everyone would be good looking and no one would starve and every place on earth would have a snowy winter and it would last four days, BUT this world is ugly and gross and there’s no chance at that, so here’s the thing: Men are afraid of brazen women, because women can SO EASILY get laid. The woman that doesn’t want to be tied down CANNOT be tied down, be she rich or poor, because there is ALWAYS a dude out there, right around the corner, ready to fuck her. This makes dudes crazy, but guess what? In the words of Bruce Hornsby, that’s just the way it is, so sack up, you fucking babies.
As for the whole thing about lack of choices and objectification and whoring and all that, well, I serve sandwiches to assholes at a bar. In my alley right now, garbage men are taking garbage bags of my baby’s shitty diapers from the dumpster to their truck. My friend unclogs toilets for a living. My other friend sits in a cubicle and makes graphs she couldn’t give two shits about. There are a lot of jobs out there that blow and make you feel like your soul is being sucked out of you. And yeah, sure, being a whore may be one of them, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an important and worthwhile job. Sex is fucking important people. Pretend it’s not. Go ahead. Deny your DNA. See how that works for you. Ten times out of ten it’ll bite you in the ass a lot harder than not getting a haircut or a sandwich or a timely graph made, that’s for sure.
Okay, I’m done. I just thought I’d throw this out there real quick. I’ve gotta get my kid into some new daycares. Ta ta.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
The greatest, best blog god ever gave the internet: A special.
Hey dicks, vaginas, various herms and mutilatioids, welcome to BSC 2010. You’ll notice some bold new changes around here. Right? Yeah! Fuck yeah! Firstly, no more bullshit. That’s firstly. Second, hitting the gym, and no more pizza and no more Jager bombs! Thirdly, I’m gonna get that novel published and finally, I’m gonna stop procrastinating. Heh. This is actually just a list of generic resolutions for losers that I think are fairly pathetic, but as I type em, turns out I could really stand to benefit from every single one of these. I guess it’s settled. I’m a housewife. Well, that’s fine. I did some pretty cool shit this weekend. I did a little freelance work and I wrote 2 (pretty totally badass) tunes and I saw some footage from my movie, and I finally trimmed up my neck hairs which were making me look a little bit like um…how do I put this politely? A Persian. That’ll do. Also, I served some girls at my bar who were so incredibly shitfaced that they walked in (11AM) having lost their panties, bras and socks. They chugged seven mimosas and two tequila shots each by 2 and then staggered off to get on a conference call. Gotta love sales. What a profession. Seems like I’ve got the credentials to handle doing sales. I’m a smooth talker with a gorgeous dick and the ability to handle seven mimosas. Not that I know if either of these chicks had good looking dicks, mind you. If their dicks were anything like the rest of them, they weren’t so great, but hey, whatever, man. They were having fun. My point is, and I can’t underscore this enough, it’s been a good weekend and generally a good decade so far. I’m pretty happy with everything as it stands. Even the rapture didn’t really slow me down. I’ll keep you posted for when things go officially to shit.
I don’t really have too much on the docket for today, I’ve been recording my aforementioned totally badass songs and I’m gonna hit the gym and then stop by and see the menzingers in the studio. Should be a hell of a time. As of press time, my kid hasn’t bitten anyone hard enough that I’ve received any phonecalls, and that’s cool. Yup. Pretty good day, even if it is colder than shit, we’re stuck in two wars, the country’s bitterly divided, people like Sean Hannity have tv shows…you know what? I was gonna go on and list my litany of things that kind of suck, but let me stop here. Sean Hannity. This dude is not too bright. I don’t say that because I don’t agree with his politics. I say that because I saw a special that he did called “America: the greatest, best country that god ever gave earth.” If the title isn’t just moronic enough, he actually berated a guest who said that America was just the best country god gave earth. Hannity actually responded with something like “oh, well, see, I think America is the GREATEST, best country god ever gave earth, guess you don’t love America like I do.” Now, I’m paraphrasing a bit, but boy…wow. That’s dumb. That’s like stick-your-tongue-on-the-flagpole-as-an-adult dumb. Also, and here’s the big thing: Hannity is so OBVIOUSLY gay. I CANNOT WAIT for the day that they find him chugging bushels of peen in some park district restroom. It’s gonna be the greatest, best gift god ever gave America, the greatest, best country he ever gave earth. Know what I’m saying? Sure you do.
What else? I dunno. I’m getting back into feeding my brain which is so important in order to produce creative output. For the longest time, the only thing I was consuming was garbage on the internet. Now, I’m watching tv and reading and listening to new music and it’s really paying off in terms of my output. Maybe you’re not noticing it here, on the old BSC, but that’s because I’ve been trying to keep the interweb use to kind of a minimum, you know? One second you’re just sitting there answering a quick email on your way out the door, next thing you know, you’ve gotta look at every single page of look at this fucking hipster dot com, and suddenly it’s eleven forty five and you haven’t even guessed any of your muffs for the day. The internet is addictive. Someday, they’ll have a show and they’ll make up some dumb, bullshit index where they’ll place internet addiction up there between sex addiction and heroin, right below cigarettes.
Jesus. This world is so fucking hell bent on quantifying everything and listing and making sure it’s obvious what’s worse and what’s better. I remember when I was about twenty two, my mom called me in a panic and, in order to scare me or something, she told me that getting tattoos was worse than being addicted to heroin. Besides being one of the most patently retarded statements I’ve ever heard, it served to exemplify just how fucking lost in the rathole we’ve become. In what way are those two things comparable? Sure, they both involve needles and they change the appearance of your arms, I guess, if we’re stretching it, but seriously? What’s wrong with us? Must everything be quantified on some grand, all encompassing scale? Now, I’m not trying to come down on my mom here. Fuck, I do the same thing. Even on the day to day level. Like when I’m at a restaurant and I ask the waiter, “what’s better? The double bacon burger or the pear salad?” as though those two things have any relevance to one another. Mark my words, people. This insistence of comparing and stacking EVERYTHING is gonna bite us in the greatest, best dick god ever gave earth one day. Instead of letting things be good or bad just on their own, it’s always gotta be relative. That’s unhealthy. That’s, not to be melodramatic, really the root of racism and sexism and all that shit. Relative worth. Here’s what I say, categorize things. Fine. That’s cool. Like “Ten things that look like Kevin Spacey” or “fun shit to do at the beach” but the actual rankings are for a very specific set of circumstances, like, for example the Olympics or a dog show. Otherwise, save your greater thans and less thans. I mean, except for America, which we all know is the greatest best country god ever gave America, boy! I’ll fucking defend that shit to the death.
xoxoxo
I don’t really have too much on the docket for today, I’ve been recording my aforementioned totally badass songs and I’m gonna hit the gym and then stop by and see the menzingers in the studio. Should be a hell of a time. As of press time, my kid hasn’t bitten anyone hard enough that I’ve received any phonecalls, and that’s cool. Yup. Pretty good day, even if it is colder than shit, we’re stuck in two wars, the country’s bitterly divided, people like Sean Hannity have tv shows…you know what? I was gonna go on and list my litany of things that kind of suck, but let me stop here. Sean Hannity. This dude is not too bright. I don’t say that because I don’t agree with his politics. I say that because I saw a special that he did called “America: the greatest, best country that god ever gave earth.” If the title isn’t just moronic enough, he actually berated a guest who said that America was just the best country god gave earth. Hannity actually responded with something like “oh, well, see, I think America is the GREATEST, best country god ever gave earth, guess you don’t love America like I do.” Now, I’m paraphrasing a bit, but boy…wow. That’s dumb. That’s like stick-your-tongue-on-the-flagpole-as-an-adult dumb. Also, and here’s the big thing: Hannity is so OBVIOUSLY gay. I CANNOT WAIT for the day that they find him chugging bushels of peen in some park district restroom. It’s gonna be the greatest, best gift god ever gave America, the greatest, best country he ever gave earth. Know what I’m saying? Sure you do.
What else? I dunno. I’m getting back into feeding my brain which is so important in order to produce creative output. For the longest time, the only thing I was consuming was garbage on the internet. Now, I’m watching tv and reading and listening to new music and it’s really paying off in terms of my output. Maybe you’re not noticing it here, on the old BSC, but that’s because I’ve been trying to keep the interweb use to kind of a minimum, you know? One second you’re just sitting there answering a quick email on your way out the door, next thing you know, you’ve gotta look at every single page of look at this fucking hipster dot com, and suddenly it’s eleven forty five and you haven’t even guessed any of your muffs for the day. The internet is addictive. Someday, they’ll have a show and they’ll make up some dumb, bullshit index where they’ll place internet addiction up there between sex addiction and heroin, right below cigarettes.
Jesus. This world is so fucking hell bent on quantifying everything and listing and making sure it’s obvious what’s worse and what’s better. I remember when I was about twenty two, my mom called me in a panic and, in order to scare me or something, she told me that getting tattoos was worse than being addicted to heroin. Besides being one of the most patently retarded statements I’ve ever heard, it served to exemplify just how fucking lost in the rathole we’ve become. In what way are those two things comparable? Sure, they both involve needles and they change the appearance of your arms, I guess, if we’re stretching it, but seriously? What’s wrong with us? Must everything be quantified on some grand, all encompassing scale? Now, I’m not trying to come down on my mom here. Fuck, I do the same thing. Even on the day to day level. Like when I’m at a restaurant and I ask the waiter, “what’s better? The double bacon burger or the pear salad?” as though those two things have any relevance to one another. Mark my words, people. This insistence of comparing and stacking EVERYTHING is gonna bite us in the greatest, best dick god ever gave earth one day. Instead of letting things be good or bad just on their own, it’s always gotta be relative. That’s unhealthy. That’s, not to be melodramatic, really the root of racism and sexism and all that shit. Relative worth. Here’s what I say, categorize things. Fine. That’s cool. Like “Ten things that look like Kevin Spacey” or “fun shit to do at the beach” but the actual rankings are for a very specific set of circumstances, like, for example the Olympics or a dog show. Otherwise, save your greater thans and less thans. I mean, except for America, which we all know is the greatest best country god ever gave America, boy! I’ll fucking defend that shit to the death.
xoxoxo
Friday, January 8, 2010
Repent!
That actually wasn’t so bad, that rapture. What WAS bad was the people in the daycare showing me the black eye on the kid that my kid bit this morning and me missing an important business call from Germany because of it. Now, I’m feeling like a bad business partner, and like I’m directly responsible for this strange looking one year olds black eye, and in a very real way, I guess I am. I produced a beast. Also, I’m listening to TV on the Radio like I’m some dipshit that drinks manhattans and reads spin while wearing stripedy sweaters, and you wanna know the worst part? I’m kind of liking it. That song DTZ is pretty awesome. The rapture has taken quite a toll. Jerry Falwell was right. I feel like everything is topsy turvy.
What’s going on out there? Joblessness is at an all time high in the US. Artie Lange tried to kill himself and it sounds very gruesome and sad. Fred Phelps has his sights on Lady Gaga. Uh, some girl that was dating Tila Tequila died. Jersey Shore is getting renewed. This is the end of times, people. Really. I’m gonna get a sandwich board and go stand on the corner and tell motherfuckers to start kissing each other’s asses goodbye, because frankly, well…it’s a better job than the one I’ve got now. Work outside, meet people, make your own hours, you can have your dick hanging out if you want to. It’s cool. AND, it’s a valuable public service. People need that kick in the balls on the way to work so they can sit there at TGIFridays, over their 550 calorie steaks and say “didja see that poor bastard with his dick out by the North/Clybourn stop with the sandwich board that said ‘kiss each other’s asses goodbye, motherfuckers, because the end is nigh’? What a nut! Hooo. Takes all kinds, I guess. (to disgruntled waitress) Hey sweetie, how bout another Rum Runner?”
A little old fashioned heralding of the end makes everyone feel like they’re not the craziest bastard out there. AND, when the end doesn’t come, as, well, it hasn’t, then suddenly everyone gets yet another reason to feel superior. And they kind of pity you. That’s why you never set a date for these things, fellow heralders of doom, because then, once that day comes and goes, no matter what happens, you’re out of a job and you’re just like the rest of the dipshits out there, worrying about how the fuck you’re gonna pay the bills, continue to socialize in your circle, keep your kid in that daycare with all the other delicious kids. It’s a fucking ratrace, I tell you, and no one is safe.
Fuck. Germany is calling me back. I’ve got to go. Have a great weekend and say hi to your mom for me. HA! I kill me.
Okay, bye. I didn’t even get to what I wanted to talk about today, which is a bummer. Oh well, see you Monday.
xoxox
What’s going on out there? Joblessness is at an all time high in the US. Artie Lange tried to kill himself and it sounds very gruesome and sad. Fred Phelps has his sights on Lady Gaga. Uh, some girl that was dating Tila Tequila died. Jersey Shore is getting renewed. This is the end of times, people. Really. I’m gonna get a sandwich board and go stand on the corner and tell motherfuckers to start kissing each other’s asses goodbye, because frankly, well…it’s a better job than the one I’ve got now. Work outside, meet people, make your own hours, you can have your dick hanging out if you want to. It’s cool. AND, it’s a valuable public service. People need that kick in the balls on the way to work so they can sit there at TGIFridays, over their 550 calorie steaks and say “didja see that poor bastard with his dick out by the North/Clybourn stop with the sandwich board that said ‘kiss each other’s asses goodbye, motherfuckers, because the end is nigh’? What a nut! Hooo. Takes all kinds, I guess. (to disgruntled waitress) Hey sweetie, how bout another Rum Runner?”
A little old fashioned heralding of the end makes everyone feel like they’re not the craziest bastard out there. AND, when the end doesn’t come, as, well, it hasn’t, then suddenly everyone gets yet another reason to feel superior. And they kind of pity you. That’s why you never set a date for these things, fellow heralders of doom, because then, once that day comes and goes, no matter what happens, you’re out of a job and you’re just like the rest of the dipshits out there, worrying about how the fuck you’re gonna pay the bills, continue to socialize in your circle, keep your kid in that daycare with all the other delicious kids. It’s a fucking ratrace, I tell you, and no one is safe.
Fuck. Germany is calling me back. I’ve got to go. Have a great weekend and say hi to your mom for me. HA! I kill me.
Okay, bye. I didn’t even get to what I wanted to talk about today, which is a bummer. Oh well, see you Monday.
xoxox
Thursday, January 7, 2010
and the rivers will flow with blood...
Well, it's finally happened. God's punishing us in the midwest for our depraved homosexual lifestyle. You've probably read about the tons of frozen water falling from the sky and the temperatures cold enough to kill a chihuahua or an infant or a grandma or a homeless guy, right? Well, it's happening. The end is fucking nigh, and I for one don't have time time to waste jib jabbin with you folks. I gotta get out there and get my end-of-all-things blowjob and repent and get jesus's autograph and find kirk cameron so he can laugh at me like I so richly deserve. SO, with that said, I gotta go. See you all in hell. I'll be by the pool that's shaped like Hitler's mustache, just chilling with Wilt Chamberlain and Judge Ito.
Cool?
All right. Enjoy the rapture!
Ta.
Cool?
All right. Enjoy the rapture!
Ta.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
of course I was high, Charlie!
My kid decided not to nap today, which is crazy because he had his first day of gym n swim, and I thought he’d be knocked the fuck out after, but nah. He’s sitting here eating eggs. Turns out maybe gym n swim made him real hungry too. I dunno. What does all this mean to you and me? Well, it means that this blog entry will probably be very short today, as I’ve got a person to deal with, also, I’m fucking wiped out…I was up working on shit late into the night, and as usual, I had to get up pretty early. Whatever. Not the first, nor the last time that shit’s gonna happen, right? Right.
So, briefly, tiger woods. Heh. He’s got two names that are nouns. That’s funny. What else? He’s a young billionaire athlete, the best in the history of his game, and in a SHOCKING (shocking) turn of events, he’s been found pumping tons of hot chicks. Wow. That’s fucking startling. I mean, if billionaires and pro athletes are suddenly practicing infidelity, what’s next? Corrupt government officials? Bad tattoos? Stray dogs fucking right there in the park like a couple of pro athletes? I mean, shit. I thought beating off in a porn theater was as low as it could sink, but no. Turns out there are men out there who use (get this!) their power and influence and reputation to have lascivious sex with women who aren’t even their wives. I mean, get the fuck out of here! I, for one, am extremely glad the media is covering this so thoroughly and that everyone in America is so pleasantly outraged. It’s really like a Christmas gift from the tiger, to the media to us. I want more details, more pictures, more disgusting and irrelevant tales about who wore no condoms and what amount of jizz was directly deposited into who’s vagina. Yes! That’s the stuff I want to read! More please!
Meanwhile, Charlie Sheen is back at work after holding a fucking switchblade up to his wife’s neck over Christmas. Good. That’s really good. Some dude that everybody SHOULD at least guess is probably screwing around gets outed when his wife physically assaults him (which is a totally acceptable thing to do, you know. There are times when swinging a golf club at an unarmed family member just can’t be avoided, right? Right), well, his life is as good as fucked, but a serial abuser sends his wife, shivering and crying into the kitchen where she makes one of the most chilling 911 calls I’ve ever heard, hey, you know that wacky Charlie sheen! Remember him when he played himself in Being John Malkovich? Oh, man that was great! He talked so cavalierly about drug use! He’s okay. And, he’s on that show where he plays the fun uncle, so he’s got that going for him, personality wise. I mean, you gotta look at the big picture. With tiger playing golf, well, golf looks cheap and tawdry, not to mention such classy brands as Gatorade and Nike! Can’t have people associating Gatorade with a strange, new vagina, can we? Of course not. But think, people! If we put the screws to Charlie sheen? Suddenly, we’ve only got ONE and a half men, and that’s not funny. It’s sad. It’s not even bravely sad, like a three legged dog. It’s just sad like an old homeless lady holding a locket at a bus stop as the wind whips through her tiny shawl on a cold December afternoon.
So yeah, I mean Gatorade an nike and golf still EXIST without tiger (though, it makes golf a lot less black and nike a lot less asian) but without Sheen, an emmy winning show would have to somehow find the cure for Parkinsons and replace its star with Michael J Fox, and who’s got that kind of time? Not the busy execs at NBC, that’s for sure.
I just wish he could have cut her in half before the cops arrived. Then he’d be in the middle of two and a half men and half a woman too. And that’s poetry, folks. Good poetry. Not the gay stuff that your bearded English professor with the yellowing armpits used to kind of mist up about during readings while you waited for ten after so you could go get high and whack off, nah. I’m talking GALACTIC poetry. Where the universe does something so mathematically awesome that you have to sit there and go, “wow. Something’s out there.” Like when they found that virgin mary grilled cheese or when Ian Stewart got hit by the bus driven by the black guy or when Tommy Lee finally sacked up and started wearing white linen suits and imitating uncle cracker. You know what I’m talking about, right? Sure you do. Okay, that wasn’t so bad, and the kid’s still alive. Wow. Uh, see you all tomorrow.
Woot.
xoxoxo
So, briefly, tiger woods. Heh. He’s got two names that are nouns. That’s funny. What else? He’s a young billionaire athlete, the best in the history of his game, and in a SHOCKING (shocking) turn of events, he’s been found pumping tons of hot chicks. Wow. That’s fucking startling. I mean, if billionaires and pro athletes are suddenly practicing infidelity, what’s next? Corrupt government officials? Bad tattoos? Stray dogs fucking right there in the park like a couple of pro athletes? I mean, shit. I thought beating off in a porn theater was as low as it could sink, but no. Turns out there are men out there who use (get this!) their power and influence and reputation to have lascivious sex with women who aren’t even their wives. I mean, get the fuck out of here! I, for one, am extremely glad the media is covering this so thoroughly and that everyone in America is so pleasantly outraged. It’s really like a Christmas gift from the tiger, to the media to us. I want more details, more pictures, more disgusting and irrelevant tales about who wore no condoms and what amount of jizz was directly deposited into who’s vagina. Yes! That’s the stuff I want to read! More please!
Meanwhile, Charlie Sheen is back at work after holding a fucking switchblade up to his wife’s neck over Christmas. Good. That’s really good. Some dude that everybody SHOULD at least guess is probably screwing around gets outed when his wife physically assaults him (which is a totally acceptable thing to do, you know. There are times when swinging a golf club at an unarmed family member just can’t be avoided, right? Right), well, his life is as good as fucked, but a serial abuser sends his wife, shivering and crying into the kitchen where she makes one of the most chilling 911 calls I’ve ever heard, hey, you know that wacky Charlie sheen! Remember him when he played himself in Being John Malkovich? Oh, man that was great! He talked so cavalierly about drug use! He’s okay. And, he’s on that show where he plays the fun uncle, so he’s got that going for him, personality wise. I mean, you gotta look at the big picture. With tiger playing golf, well, golf looks cheap and tawdry, not to mention such classy brands as Gatorade and Nike! Can’t have people associating Gatorade with a strange, new vagina, can we? Of course not. But think, people! If we put the screws to Charlie sheen? Suddenly, we’ve only got ONE and a half men, and that’s not funny. It’s sad. It’s not even bravely sad, like a three legged dog. It’s just sad like an old homeless lady holding a locket at a bus stop as the wind whips through her tiny shawl on a cold December afternoon.
So yeah, I mean Gatorade an nike and golf still EXIST without tiger (though, it makes golf a lot less black and nike a lot less asian) but without Sheen, an emmy winning show would have to somehow find the cure for Parkinsons and replace its star with Michael J Fox, and who’s got that kind of time? Not the busy execs at NBC, that’s for sure.
I just wish he could have cut her in half before the cops arrived. Then he’d be in the middle of two and a half men and half a woman too. And that’s poetry, folks. Good poetry. Not the gay stuff that your bearded English professor with the yellowing armpits used to kind of mist up about during readings while you waited for ten after so you could go get high and whack off, nah. I’m talking GALACTIC poetry. Where the universe does something so mathematically awesome that you have to sit there and go, “wow. Something’s out there.” Like when they found that virgin mary grilled cheese or when Ian Stewart got hit by the bus driven by the black guy or when Tommy Lee finally sacked up and started wearing white linen suits and imitating uncle cracker. You know what I’m talking about, right? Sure you do. Okay, that wasn’t so bad, and the kid’s still alive. Wow. Uh, see you all tomorrow.
Woot.
xoxoxo
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
I get wet without even trying!
Hey. Good afternoon and all that. Exciting times here. I signed my kid up for the ol’ gym n’ swim program today. He starts tomorrow. It’s gonna be me and a bunch of housewives and babies all in swimsuits in the pool. I’ve gotta imagine it’s gonna be pretty entertaining. Good lord. Um, what else is going on around here? Not much, honestly. The world is kicking back into gear and like everyone else I’m fucking reeling from all the parties and booze and junk food and so forth that’s just part and parcel with hanging around everyone you’re related to. Good heavens.
Speaking of heavens, did you guys hear the new Alkaline Trio song? Well, turns out, that if you watch it on Youtube, I’m the fucking dude that introduces it! Who knew? Not me, that’s for sure. You know what? This just feels wrong. I’m perched on an ottoman in my bedroom writing this for some reason. I’m almost always sitting at the kitchen table, but today I thought I’d kind of fuck around and see what’d happen if I wag my dick in the face of routine. Turns out, my back hurts. I’m moving to a comfortable chair.
Excuse me for a moment.
Okay, I’m back. And I’m much more comfortable. Also, I’m gonna take this opportunity to break my controversial silence (finally!) on the Andrew WK identity confusion thing that’s going on right now. Here’s the deal, for those of you who don’t know- AWK is a dude that wears lots of white, parties hard, and sings a lot about partying hard. He does some kicks, he does some air punching. His band is old men with rad sideburns and he also does some public speaking and motivational group sessions and shit like that. I heard that he gets a new white outfit for every tour and then never washes it. That’s neither here nor there, just kinda cool. Okay, so anyway, last week, Andrew ‘admitted’ that he’s not the real Andrew WK, or, more to the point, that Andrew WK is like the Green Lantern or The Queen of England, or Benji the Dog, in that it’s a post or a part, not a person. There’s apparently some guy with two first names who’s been running around the internet making all sorts of noise about the true identity of AWK or something and so Andrew recently held a press conference and said that he’s a different guy than the original AWK, he’s the second person playing AWK, and that AWK is, in fact, a persona concocted in a boardroom by him and his dad and several other entities, in an effort to make the best front man of a band ever. Yup. That’s what he said.
Here’s the thing though, man. Andrew WK is Andrew WK. His name is Andrew Wilkes-Krier. I don’t really know how else to say this. No dude. You’re Andrew WK. Even if (and this didn’t happen) there was some choach running around dressing like you for a while before you got famous, or even if someone else wrote your songs, or even if your persona was dreamed up in a boardroom [which I want to get back to in just a minute] you’re him. I’ve seen the fucking pictures of you, I’ve seen you live and I’ve even played a show with you. You’re you. YOU’RE FUCKING YOU!!!!! There is no fucking two ways about it. Cover of “I get Wet’: That’s you. That’s also your first album, with your name over the picture of your face. How are you not you? How?
Okay, and as for this boardroom thing…how the fuck were you and your dad in some sort of smoky room with decision and tastemakers before you were Andrew WK? Huh? Answer me that? Is it because you were somehow born into a secret, Davinci code like society? Masons? Is that it? Because otherwise, the way I see it, if you’re back there, making up this persona, naming it after you and bringing (of all the people) your DAD in on it, it’s because you appealed to the tastemakers as some sort of creative commodity. Therefore, you=you. And by the way, EVERYONE crafts their public persona. What do you think this blog is, man? I don’t really sit around with my mom and talk about felching and buttfucking. I’m taciturn and demure for fucks sake. SO, therefore, even if you ‘made up’ the persona, it’s STILL YOU. Ridiculous. The whole thing.
Now, that being said, I think Andrew WK is pretty rad, and I think this whole stupid stunt is pretty fucking awesome too. I mean, he’s got motherfuckers talking about him A LOT right now, and he’s coincidentally got a new record coming out. Pretty clever, mister WK, if that is your real name (it is). I’ve seen people say stupid things like “Ha! I knew this guy was bullshit! Glad I never got into him!” And to that I can only say ‘huh?’ He’s not your husband, dude. He’s an entertainer. Even if he WAS an imposter or whatever, it’s a show, a record and a tshirt we’re talking about here. That’s all. His identity has nothing to do with that. Menudo was a bunch of different kids. Does that make them bullshit? Okay, bad example, but you get my point. The idea of getting self righteous about some crazy hesher from Michigan’s latest ether-induced wacky scheme is a lot like getting bent out of shape at a bag of potato chips. It’s just perplexing and an irrelevant way to waste your energy.
In closing, Andrew WK is cool, whoever he is (he’s him) and that’s all I’m gonna say on that matter. Coming tomorrow: Tiger Woods and the fourteen or so ladies that love him.
Ta!
Speaking of heavens, did you guys hear the new Alkaline Trio song? Well, turns out, that if you watch it on Youtube, I’m the fucking dude that introduces it! Who knew? Not me, that’s for sure. You know what? This just feels wrong. I’m perched on an ottoman in my bedroom writing this for some reason. I’m almost always sitting at the kitchen table, but today I thought I’d kind of fuck around and see what’d happen if I wag my dick in the face of routine. Turns out, my back hurts. I’m moving to a comfortable chair.
Excuse me for a moment.
Okay, I’m back. And I’m much more comfortable. Also, I’m gonna take this opportunity to break my controversial silence (finally!) on the Andrew WK identity confusion thing that’s going on right now. Here’s the deal, for those of you who don’t know- AWK is a dude that wears lots of white, parties hard, and sings a lot about partying hard. He does some kicks, he does some air punching. His band is old men with rad sideburns and he also does some public speaking and motivational group sessions and shit like that. I heard that he gets a new white outfit for every tour and then never washes it. That’s neither here nor there, just kinda cool. Okay, so anyway, last week, Andrew ‘admitted’ that he’s not the real Andrew WK, or, more to the point, that Andrew WK is like the Green Lantern or The Queen of England, or Benji the Dog, in that it’s a post or a part, not a person. There’s apparently some guy with two first names who’s been running around the internet making all sorts of noise about the true identity of AWK or something and so Andrew recently held a press conference and said that he’s a different guy than the original AWK, he’s the second person playing AWK, and that AWK is, in fact, a persona concocted in a boardroom by him and his dad and several other entities, in an effort to make the best front man of a band ever. Yup. That’s what he said.
Here’s the thing though, man. Andrew WK is Andrew WK. His name is Andrew Wilkes-Krier. I don’t really know how else to say this. No dude. You’re Andrew WK. Even if (and this didn’t happen) there was some choach running around dressing like you for a while before you got famous, or even if someone else wrote your songs, or even if your persona was dreamed up in a boardroom [which I want to get back to in just a minute] you’re him. I’ve seen the fucking pictures of you, I’ve seen you live and I’ve even played a show with you. You’re you. YOU’RE FUCKING YOU!!!!! There is no fucking two ways about it. Cover of “I get Wet’: That’s you. That’s also your first album, with your name over the picture of your face. How are you not you? How?
Okay, and as for this boardroom thing…how the fuck were you and your dad in some sort of smoky room with decision and tastemakers before you were Andrew WK? Huh? Answer me that? Is it because you were somehow born into a secret, Davinci code like society? Masons? Is that it? Because otherwise, the way I see it, if you’re back there, making up this persona, naming it after you and bringing (of all the people) your DAD in on it, it’s because you appealed to the tastemakers as some sort of creative commodity. Therefore, you=you. And by the way, EVERYONE crafts their public persona. What do you think this blog is, man? I don’t really sit around with my mom and talk about felching and buttfucking. I’m taciturn and demure for fucks sake. SO, therefore, even if you ‘made up’ the persona, it’s STILL YOU. Ridiculous. The whole thing.
Now, that being said, I think Andrew WK is pretty rad, and I think this whole stupid stunt is pretty fucking awesome too. I mean, he’s got motherfuckers talking about him A LOT right now, and he’s coincidentally got a new record coming out. Pretty clever, mister WK, if that is your real name (it is). I’ve seen people say stupid things like “Ha! I knew this guy was bullshit! Glad I never got into him!” And to that I can only say ‘huh?’ He’s not your husband, dude. He’s an entertainer. Even if he WAS an imposter or whatever, it’s a show, a record and a tshirt we’re talking about here. That’s all. His identity has nothing to do with that. Menudo was a bunch of different kids. Does that make them bullshit? Okay, bad example, but you get my point. The idea of getting self righteous about some crazy hesher from Michigan’s latest ether-induced wacky scheme is a lot like getting bent out of shape at a bag of potato chips. It’s just perplexing and an irrelevant way to waste your energy.
In closing, Andrew WK is cool, whoever he is (he’s him) and that’s all I’m gonna say on that matter. Coming tomorrow: Tiger Woods and the fourteen or so ladies that love him.
Ta!
Monday, January 4, 2010
it's the end of the decade as we know it!
Hey welcome back. Did you have a nice vacation? Yeah, me too. Where’d you go? Uh huh. Yeah? Oh. Hey, listen. I really don’t care. It’s just something you idly say, like ‘have a nice day’ or ‘I love you.’ It means nothing. Sorry. I don’t mean to come down on you right now. It’s my first day back, after all. It’s just, well, I was all stoked to do my ‘best of the decade’ list and then suddenly disaster struck. My fucking iphone and my computer are fighting. The phone won’t recognize the computer and the computer won’t recognize the phone. Now, this is worse than it sounds because I plug the phone in and nothing happens. It’s not a situation where I’m getting notifications or anything. It’s just straight incommunicado between these two stubborn mac-born entities. I’ve tried different cords and shit, and I’ve restarted both devices, yet nothing has changed. I’d say this is the first official dick punch of the new decade.
Okay, but, but but but BUT! This decade is better than the last. Know why? Because the last one was terrible and if this one’s not better it’s not really worth living in, and I plan on kicking some major ass in this decade, therefore-it’s better. But enough of sucking the new guy’s dick, right? Let’s send this old bastard off with a little semblance of dignity-
Best of the decade:
Best Office buildings- (3 way tie) The World Trade Center towers 1&2 and 7 World Trade Center.
Man, I don’t know what it is, but these buildings really blew up this decade. It’s like one second people like my dad are just making casual arguments about whether or not the twin towers are taller than the Sears tower, next thing you know motherfuckers are going absolutely NUTS for them. Good on ya, towers one and two (and auxiliary building 7 World Trade Center), you’ve won best office building of the aughts.
Best city:
New Orleans
Say what you want about Venice and its gondoliers. I’ll just go to new Orleans and ride a shopping cart around the ninth ward, thanks.
Best industry:
(three way tie) Music, publishing and housing
Hey hey! How bout that publishing industry? The good news is that no one besides Dan Brown and Danielle Steel have ever made a dime writing books, so all the rest of the literati can now feel justified in working at little Caesars even though they’re ‘published.’ Over in the music world, Kid Rock will now need to get a job at little Caesars and so will I. Also my house is worth less than my car. So there’s that. Hey, if we all chant USA at the same time, maybe that’ll do something? Yeah? Maybe? Cool.
Best racist agenda:
Attacking people for looking vaguely Arab or muslim was a close second, but in the end this award went to Jersey Shore. Hey, guess what happens when you stuff six oiled up dagos into a house down at the shore? Well, turns out that they end up fighting and fucking like ALL twenty three year old kids, but it also turns out that they actually like each other and they’re kind of nice, and yeah they stink like cologne, but realistically, they’re the nicest, best behaved most respectful group of kids that ever got to see what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real. I’d rather hang out with Ronny, Pauly D and the Situation et al (and don’t even get me started on Jwow, she’s a fox) than absolutely any other cast of the real world or road rules or any of that shit. These are good little dagos with nothing wrong with them besides massive stylistic disorders, whereas all the other shows like this feature non dagos who are vacuous self centered dildos out to prove how bisexual/conservative/extreme they are. These shore folk all still love their parents, and they cook for each other and take care of each other and share each other’s self tanner. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so dull.
Best Slogan that Completely Fucks Up the Reality of How Completely Fucked the Situation Is:
“Mission Accomplished” was a good one. “Brownie, you’re doin a heck of a job” was another good one. But number one was definitely “Oh babe, no, don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I got most of it on your stomach.” In fifteen years, there aren’t gonna be teenaged boys lurking around trying to fuck New Orleans or Iraq, know what I’m sayin?
Best Tattoo:
Have you seen this girl named Adrenalynn? She’s got a tattoo around her (gasp) asshole that says (gasp) “Jarrod’s little fuck doll”. Around her asshole. Around. Her. Asshole. How fucking awesome is that? I’ll save you the trouble of answering. It’s awesome. Good on ya, Jarrod. Also, she’s a tattoo artist and piercer SLASH porn star, which I think means that, you know, since she’s got a job and money and stuff, she just mostly fucks for pleasure, as opposed to cocaine, which means you can feel free to enjoy the scenes too, ladies.
Best Song that Unintentionally Makes the Big Black Dude Singing it Sound Like A Catamite:
“Replay’
Okay, this is hands down the catchiest song of the decade. I bet R Kelly is FURIOUS that he didn’t write this jam. Yeah, it’s reminding me, as I type this that my Ipod is fucked, but let’s leave all that behind for a minute. Iyaz has hit pop gold with this little ditty about how the “shortie” that’s “stuck in his head” is like “the gun to [his] holster”. Wait. What? SHE’s the gun to YOUR holster? Now, I’m new to the whole concept of consensual sex, but don’t YOU have the gun and SHE has the holster? I mean, doesn’t the metaphor work a little more smoothly in that direction? I mean, if you said “I’m the gun to her holster” it would be the exact same rhythm, the same syllables and you wouldn’t sound like “she” has a penis and fucks you up the ass with it. But hey, if that’s what the song’s actually about, well, that’s even better. As is, the song is full of so many lines that are just NOT POSSIBLY what dude is really thinking that it makes me smile. “When I first saw you you were at the mall with your friends, I was scared to approach ya but then you got closer” Really? Iyaz, bro? You were at the mall scoping chicks and you were scared to approach this girl who was young enough to be hanging out at the mall with her friends? With a soulful musical gift like the one you’ve got? Confidence, man. What are you, twelve? Anyway, moving on. “I’m in the kitchen cookin’ things she likes” No you aren’t. Period. You’re from the British Virgin Islands and you don’t cook at all. And finally, “some day I’m’a make you my wife” is just something you say to get laid, ladies. He’s not finna make you his wife. Just like he’s not cooking for you, just like when he pulled you into the windowless van outside the mall, he felt no trepidation to speak of. Iyaz is a player girls, and if you really, really want to be the shortie stuck in his head, you’d better fuck him up the ass like he asks for in the song.
Best Parents:
Me. My old lady. Yup. Prove otherwise. Honorable mention to my parents and my wife’s parents too. What can I say? We know rearin over here.
Best Way to end Decade End Lists
Stopping in the middle of the sentence:
I’ve done this a few times before, which is exactly what makes it the most effective way to
Okay, but, but but but BUT! This decade is better than the last. Know why? Because the last one was terrible and if this one’s not better it’s not really worth living in, and I plan on kicking some major ass in this decade, therefore-it’s better. But enough of sucking the new guy’s dick, right? Let’s send this old bastard off with a little semblance of dignity-
Best of the decade:
Best Office buildings- (3 way tie) The World Trade Center towers 1&2 and 7 World Trade Center.
Man, I don’t know what it is, but these buildings really blew up this decade. It’s like one second people like my dad are just making casual arguments about whether or not the twin towers are taller than the Sears tower, next thing you know motherfuckers are going absolutely NUTS for them. Good on ya, towers one and two (and auxiliary building 7 World Trade Center), you’ve won best office building of the aughts.
Best city:
New Orleans
Say what you want about Venice and its gondoliers. I’ll just go to new Orleans and ride a shopping cart around the ninth ward, thanks.
Best industry:
(three way tie) Music, publishing and housing
Hey hey! How bout that publishing industry? The good news is that no one besides Dan Brown and Danielle Steel have ever made a dime writing books, so all the rest of the literati can now feel justified in working at little Caesars even though they’re ‘published.’ Over in the music world, Kid Rock will now need to get a job at little Caesars and so will I. Also my house is worth less than my car. So there’s that. Hey, if we all chant USA at the same time, maybe that’ll do something? Yeah? Maybe? Cool.
Best racist agenda:
Attacking people for looking vaguely Arab or muslim was a close second, but in the end this award went to Jersey Shore. Hey, guess what happens when you stuff six oiled up dagos into a house down at the shore? Well, turns out that they end up fighting and fucking like ALL twenty three year old kids, but it also turns out that they actually like each other and they’re kind of nice, and yeah they stink like cologne, but realistically, they’re the nicest, best behaved most respectful group of kids that ever got to see what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real. I’d rather hang out with Ronny, Pauly D and the Situation et al (and don’t even get me started on Jwow, she’s a fox) than absolutely any other cast of the real world or road rules or any of that shit. These are good little dagos with nothing wrong with them besides massive stylistic disorders, whereas all the other shows like this feature non dagos who are vacuous self centered dildos out to prove how bisexual/conservative/extreme they are. These shore folk all still love their parents, and they cook for each other and take care of each other and share each other’s self tanner. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so dull.
Best Slogan that Completely Fucks Up the Reality of How Completely Fucked the Situation Is:
“Mission Accomplished” was a good one. “Brownie, you’re doin a heck of a job” was another good one. But number one was definitely “Oh babe, no, don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I got most of it on your stomach.” In fifteen years, there aren’t gonna be teenaged boys lurking around trying to fuck New Orleans or Iraq, know what I’m sayin?
Best Tattoo:
Have you seen this girl named Adrenalynn? She’s got a tattoo around her (gasp) asshole that says (gasp) “Jarrod’s little fuck doll”. Around her asshole. Around. Her. Asshole. How fucking awesome is that? I’ll save you the trouble of answering. It’s awesome. Good on ya, Jarrod. Also, she’s a tattoo artist and piercer SLASH porn star, which I think means that, you know, since she’s got a job and money and stuff, she just mostly fucks for pleasure, as opposed to cocaine, which means you can feel free to enjoy the scenes too, ladies.
Best Song that Unintentionally Makes the Big Black Dude Singing it Sound Like A Catamite:
“Replay’
Okay, this is hands down the catchiest song of the decade. I bet R Kelly is FURIOUS that he didn’t write this jam. Yeah, it’s reminding me, as I type this that my Ipod is fucked, but let’s leave all that behind for a minute. Iyaz has hit pop gold with this little ditty about how the “shortie” that’s “stuck in his head” is like “the gun to [his] holster”. Wait. What? SHE’s the gun to YOUR holster? Now, I’m new to the whole concept of consensual sex, but don’t YOU have the gun and SHE has the holster? I mean, doesn’t the metaphor work a little more smoothly in that direction? I mean, if you said “I’m the gun to her holster” it would be the exact same rhythm, the same syllables and you wouldn’t sound like “she” has a penis and fucks you up the ass with it. But hey, if that’s what the song’s actually about, well, that’s even better. As is, the song is full of so many lines that are just NOT POSSIBLY what dude is really thinking that it makes me smile. “When I first saw you you were at the mall with your friends, I was scared to approach ya but then you got closer” Really? Iyaz, bro? You were at the mall scoping chicks and you were scared to approach this girl who was young enough to be hanging out at the mall with her friends? With a soulful musical gift like the one you’ve got? Confidence, man. What are you, twelve? Anyway, moving on. “I’m in the kitchen cookin’ things she likes” No you aren’t. Period. You’re from the British Virgin Islands and you don’t cook at all. And finally, “some day I’m’a make you my wife” is just something you say to get laid, ladies. He’s not finna make you his wife. Just like he’s not cooking for you, just like when he pulled you into the windowless van outside the mall, he felt no trepidation to speak of. Iyaz is a player girls, and if you really, really want to be the shortie stuck in his head, you’d better fuck him up the ass like he asks for in the song.
Best Parents:
Me. My old lady. Yup. Prove otherwise. Honorable mention to my parents and my wife’s parents too. What can I say? We know rearin over here.
Best Way to end Decade End Lists
Stopping in the middle of the sentence:
I’ve done this a few times before, which is exactly what makes it the most effective way to
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