How was y’alls weekend? I played a show with the Smoking Popes and I witnessed the greatest single feat of human endurance I’ve ever seen. Okay, I’ve got a kid. He’s not quite two. The thing that’s really the life changer that comes with having kids is the hours. They wake up early. They’re morning people. All of them. There’s never a day where they decide to just sleep in because they can. It’s 715? They’re awake.
Now, my kid is a late sleeper by kid standards. He sleeps in until between 730 and 8 most days. Lots of kids always wake up at 530 or 6, so we’re lucky. Sunday morning, however, my kid slept in until 1130!!!!!!!!
Now, I know most of you don’t give two shits about the ins and outs of child rearing as you’re a bunch of coked up highschool kids who are more worried about contracting crabs than big dull issues like health care reform, and that’s fine. I’m not here to usher you into the world of dull adult subjects. I’m just pointing out that my one year old slept in until 1130. Ask someone you know with kids. That shit is FREAKISH, man. It was great, because it was my day to get up with him. Ha! Take that, pregnant wife. How cool is that? I also made some delicious peanut butter cookies last night. I’m a regular Paula Dean, y’all.
Okay, enough domesticity. I want to know if our homegirl with the query about fucking the guy in the band this weekend was able to seal the deal (and I kind of want to know what band the dude’s from too…just for gossip purposes). I want to discuss the single biggest event of my lifetime, which happened on Friday, but first, a wee bit of advice for a dude with a pretty simple, but sticky problem,
Q
The background: Some buddies and I have been playing in a "poker league" for a couple years now, which basically involves us getting together once a month to fart and eat pizza and drink a beer or two while debating what new girl we'd like to hypothetically nail. (I know, cliche, but it really is fun) At the beginning of this year, we invited a few new guys into the 'league' in order to expand and share the joy, however one of the new members is, to put it bluntly, annoying as sin. I can't figure out if he's got the absolute worst case of ADD that ever existed, or if it's just his personality, either way, he has to go. We can't really kick him out this season, because we each throw a bit of money into a "pool" for the end of the year, but at the beginning of next season it just has to be done. I was the dolt that invited him in, so I believe it's going to be up to me to deliver the bad news. Is there a tactful way to do this? Is it wrong to lie to him? I'm not so coldhearted that I can tell him, "dude, no one likes you," but I feel like lying is the cheap way out.
I know this isn't your regular "i'm jamming a 40 y/o who wants me to toss her salad after anal," but I still need some advice!
A
Okay, every human relationship involves compromise and this one is no different. I understand your reluctance to get down there and potentially eat your own jizz out of some distended old asshole, but she obviously craves the oral-anal stimulation, and it’s kind of shitty (no pun intended) to just withhold something someone wants in bed. It’s a recipe for resentment and it can quickly become a deal breaker. That being said, you’ve got a good case for not going down there, too, so that’s where compromise comes into play. Perhaps offer to bang her ass for a little while, stop for a little salad tossing and THEN get back in there to finish the job, OR maybe you warm her ass up with a little salad tossing and THEN bang her ass. That could work, right?
I mean, as a good partner it’s up to both of you to indulge each other, but not at the expense of something that makes you uncomfortable. If this sort of compromise won’t work, hey, maybe you guys just have different ideas about what’s okay and fun in bed and maybe you’re not meant to be. Right? Sure. Of course. Let me know how everything turns….OH, wait. Okay, I wasn’t reading your letter properly (I usually start at the bottom and read backwards just to save time). Starting over.
Okay, so you’ve got an annoying buddy and you want him out of your poker league after the big final game, but you don’t want to be a dick and you don’t want to lie. Okay, easy. You guys meet once a month, right? And this is his first ‘season?’ So just at the end of the last game, make a deal about how you’ll figure out when the next season’s gonna start and you’ll let everyone know. Then you all leave, then you don’t call dude and tell him when you’re starting again. Done.
You’ll probably have to change when the game is, but it’s one night a month, it’s not like you’re doing this every couple days, so if it’s the third Friday, make it the second Friday or something like that. Look, those details aren’t important. What is important is that you make the last game of the season final. Say, “okay, great. Skippy won this season and I can’t wait to see what the next one holds. I’m going to (do something totally lame with my mom/girlfriend/job) next month, so I’ll call all yall and we’ll figure out when to get the next season started. Then you just don’t call the guy. When he inevitably asks about when shit’s gonna start up again, you’ll have no choice but to be honest, but you can say something that’s not specific about him. You can say “we decided to shrink it back down. It was too many people” or “we’re keeping it low key this time.” And those things, my friend, aren’t lies. You ARE shrinking the league back down (by one guy) and you are keeping it more low key (by eliminating this annoying douche) so you aren’t REALLY lying.
Now, if you don’t like this advice, there’s really only one decent thing to do, and that’s level with the dude. “Buddy, I like you, but you’re too much to deal with at these poker games and frankly, it’s not the vibe we’re trying to cultivate over there, so we’re gonna keep going but without you. Sorry. I know it’s kind of shitty, but hey, you should have been cooler. What can I tell you?” BUT, you’re probably not gonna say this, right? So go with the first option. It’s a lot less shitty.
Okay, on to the most important event of my lifetime: Tiger Woods little speech! Actually, you know what? I’ve already taken up a lot of space here, and I think I could write on tiger’s speech and the subsequent reaction for quite a while, so I’m gonna save it for tomorrow. Um, tonight I’m making cheese from scratch. Watch out Martha Stewart, you fucking dishonest cunt! I’m gunning for you!
Monday, February 22, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Litter is my most treacherous foe. I would like to eat its children
That guy crashed his plane into the IRS building in Austin, eh? That’s fucked up, man. He didn’t even get to live in the world without taxes that he created. That’s kind of beautiful and sad, like when a award winning showdog gets fucked in its dogpussy by a highschool all-state gymnast. Beautiful and tragic, all at once.
The world is going to hell in a sack. I should know, I’m on the side of satan and it’s my duty to bring down as many of you turds as I can before the rapture hits and it’s nothing but Growing Pains reruns, Twighlight films and Daughtry and Smoking Popes albums for the rest of eternity.
Hey! Speaking of, I’m playing with the Smoking Popes tonight! I think my unique take on irreverent antitheism should really blend nicely with their whole ‘that guy singing is born again, but the rest of us like to get high and receive blowjobs’ vibe that they like to project. Who knows? Maybe it’ll suck. I dunno anymore. I’ve been thinking about making shirts. Would you guys wear a shirt that said “Brendan Kelly isn’t someone to be fuckin with.” ? I would. But, well, if I’m wearing it, that’s one of those through the looking glass moments that borders on galactic poetry, like when Michael Jackson held the Bubbles impersonator while the Michael Jackson impersonator held Bubbles. Oh, you’re too young to remember that (assuming that’s something that ever actually happened)? Well, this is like that was.
Okay, so that’s all just minor league rambling. I’ve got a topic. We’ve touched on this before, but in the spirit of the guy flying his plane into the IRS building, it bears repeating.
It’s completely insane, fucked up people who are somehow just wandering around like everything’s cool and no one seems to say anything about it. Here’s an example, that we’ve discussed here at BSC before: Chuck Sheen. He’s a serial prostitute customer. Now, that’s no crime (well, it’s a crime…so I guess that’s ENTIRELY inaccurate, but what I mean is, that’s fine. Fuck whores if you want to. Someone’s gotta fuck ‘em. I mean, at the end of the day, a whore can come home and say “wow. What a lousy day at work. I hate being a whore, but look at all this money! Let’s call Sergio and get some blow” or she can say “wow, I hate being a whore and no one even fucked me today so now I’m suffering the triple whammy of A) being a whore B) not making any money and C) not having any cocaine and thereby really, really being even more bummed about A and B. In conclusion, fucking whores isn’t traveling to Haiti and making sure people have clean drinking water, but it’s not cutting people’s dicks off and storing them in the fridge either) BUT, Chuck Sheen is also a serial wife beater. That’s fucked, man. He hits chicks. Yeah. Okay, let’s back up, even. He hits PEOPLE. That’s fucked up enough. I’ve never hit anyone except for when they’ve been hitting me and there’s no way out but to punch a hole in the situation (not the guy from Jersey Shore, but rather the improper noun version of ‘situation’). This guy (Sheen, or Carlos Estevez, which is what it says on his birth certificate) not only has hit people, he’s hit women. He’s not just hitting women. He’s hitting the women he supposedly LOVES. And he’s hit them enough times that he’s been arrested for it SEVERAL TIMES. That makes him a fucking psychopath.
I’ve got buddies that are sketchy, not beating women sketchy, mind you, but sketchy just the same. I won’t let them into my house. CBS is hanging a fucking network on this nutcase. That’s fucked. I mean, doesn’t John Cryer, or the mom of that tubby little butterball on the show get a little nervous with Sheen just walking around un-Lechtered? It’s fucked. I mean, he’s just cruising around. Never mind that he’s a dangerous, fucked up, proven to be completely not-safe-to-be-around individual. Motherfuckers just don’t care. It’s fine. But you know who’s worse?
Mike fucking Tyson. That dude not only pushed Robin Givens down the stairs and served time in jail for being a fucking rapist, but he also BIT OFF A DUDE’S EAR RIGHT ON TELEVISION!!!!!!!!!! The other day, the Hangover won a golden globe and my good buddy Ed Helms and all the rest of those dipshits in that movie got up there and accepted the award with mike Tyson. Hey, yeah. Heh. Ha. Heh. It’s….uh, well. It’s sure nostalgia and it’s funny and it’s schadenfreude and all that, but dude, come here. Let me whisper something to you. Ready? Okay. Here goes: that dude, yeah. That one there. Right next to you. Yeah. Okay, that dude’s a FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!!!!!! What the fuck are you thinking? Get the fuck away from that guy. He could, at any moment, just decide to snap off your arm and beat your dumb, tubby buddy to death with it just because the notion pleases him. I mean this is a dude that spent his millions on a flock of harrier pigeons. For Real! Fuck.
What’s with us in this country and specifically in the world of entertainment? Oh, that dude made some money once so his behavior, (the same behavior that, were it perpetrated by my own BROTHER would be cause for me never speaking to him again) is forgivable, quirky even. I mean fuck. Michael Vick fought some dogs and he’s never gonna forget it, but hey, he's done his time. Whatever. Lesson learned. don't tell the white people you fight dogs, apparently. Chuck Sheen fights one chick every couple months with his own hands and knives and he’s got Denny’s knocking on his door the next day trying to get him to promote the newest scram slam or whatever. Tyson's more unstable than a grocery bag full of plutonium and kiddy porn and he's up on stage with his tattooed face just giggling along with a bunch of goofs in tuxedos and getting prestigious awards just because he was able to put the face eating on hold long enough to air drum to some fucking Phil Collins. Wowzers.
Fucked up, America. This is why we’re losing the space race. No morals. Just ask what’s his name. Pat Robertson. He’ll tell you all about the deals we make with the devil.
Okay, come see me tonight at Reggies. 8 pm. I gotta go to work.
Peaches.
The world is going to hell in a sack. I should know, I’m on the side of satan and it’s my duty to bring down as many of you turds as I can before the rapture hits and it’s nothing but Growing Pains reruns, Twighlight films and Daughtry and Smoking Popes albums for the rest of eternity.
Hey! Speaking of, I’m playing with the Smoking Popes tonight! I think my unique take on irreverent antitheism should really blend nicely with their whole ‘that guy singing is born again, but the rest of us like to get high and receive blowjobs’ vibe that they like to project. Who knows? Maybe it’ll suck. I dunno anymore. I’ve been thinking about making shirts. Would you guys wear a shirt that said “Brendan Kelly isn’t someone to be fuckin with.” ? I would. But, well, if I’m wearing it, that’s one of those through the looking glass moments that borders on galactic poetry, like when Michael Jackson held the Bubbles impersonator while the Michael Jackson impersonator held Bubbles. Oh, you’re too young to remember that (assuming that’s something that ever actually happened)? Well, this is like that was.
Okay, so that’s all just minor league rambling. I’ve got a topic. We’ve touched on this before, but in the spirit of the guy flying his plane into the IRS building, it bears repeating.
It’s completely insane, fucked up people who are somehow just wandering around like everything’s cool and no one seems to say anything about it. Here’s an example, that we’ve discussed here at BSC before: Chuck Sheen. He’s a serial prostitute customer. Now, that’s no crime (well, it’s a crime…so I guess that’s ENTIRELY inaccurate, but what I mean is, that’s fine. Fuck whores if you want to. Someone’s gotta fuck ‘em. I mean, at the end of the day, a whore can come home and say “wow. What a lousy day at work. I hate being a whore, but look at all this money! Let’s call Sergio and get some blow” or she can say “wow, I hate being a whore and no one even fucked me today so now I’m suffering the triple whammy of A) being a whore B) not making any money and C) not having any cocaine and thereby really, really being even more bummed about A and B. In conclusion, fucking whores isn’t traveling to Haiti and making sure people have clean drinking water, but it’s not cutting people’s dicks off and storing them in the fridge either) BUT, Chuck Sheen is also a serial wife beater. That’s fucked, man. He hits chicks. Yeah. Okay, let’s back up, even. He hits PEOPLE. That’s fucked up enough. I’ve never hit anyone except for when they’ve been hitting me and there’s no way out but to punch a hole in the situation (not the guy from Jersey Shore, but rather the improper noun version of ‘situation’). This guy (Sheen, or Carlos Estevez, which is what it says on his birth certificate) not only has hit people, he’s hit women. He’s not just hitting women. He’s hitting the women he supposedly LOVES. And he’s hit them enough times that he’s been arrested for it SEVERAL TIMES. That makes him a fucking psychopath.
I’ve got buddies that are sketchy, not beating women sketchy, mind you, but sketchy just the same. I won’t let them into my house. CBS is hanging a fucking network on this nutcase. That’s fucked. I mean, doesn’t John Cryer, or the mom of that tubby little butterball on the show get a little nervous with Sheen just walking around un-Lechtered? It’s fucked. I mean, he’s just cruising around. Never mind that he’s a dangerous, fucked up, proven to be completely not-safe-to-be-around individual. Motherfuckers just don’t care. It’s fine. But you know who’s worse?
Mike fucking Tyson. That dude not only pushed Robin Givens down the stairs and served time in jail for being a fucking rapist, but he also BIT OFF A DUDE’S EAR RIGHT ON TELEVISION!!!!!!!!!! The other day, the Hangover won a golden globe and my good buddy Ed Helms and all the rest of those dipshits in that movie got up there and accepted the award with mike Tyson. Hey, yeah. Heh. Ha. Heh. It’s….uh, well. It’s sure nostalgia and it’s funny and it’s schadenfreude and all that, but dude, come here. Let me whisper something to you. Ready? Okay. Here goes: that dude, yeah. That one there. Right next to you. Yeah. Okay, that dude’s a FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!!!!!! What the fuck are you thinking? Get the fuck away from that guy. He could, at any moment, just decide to snap off your arm and beat your dumb, tubby buddy to death with it just because the notion pleases him. I mean this is a dude that spent his millions on a flock of harrier pigeons. For Real! Fuck.
What’s with us in this country and specifically in the world of entertainment? Oh, that dude made some money once so his behavior, (the same behavior that, were it perpetrated by my own BROTHER would be cause for me never speaking to him again) is forgivable, quirky even. I mean fuck. Michael Vick fought some dogs and he’s never gonna forget it, but hey, he's done his time. Whatever. Lesson learned. don't tell the white people you fight dogs, apparently. Chuck Sheen fights one chick every couple months with his own hands and knives and he’s got Denny’s knocking on his door the next day trying to get him to promote the newest scram slam or whatever. Tyson's more unstable than a grocery bag full of plutonium and kiddy porn and he's up on stage with his tattooed face just giggling along with a bunch of goofs in tuxedos and getting prestigious awards just because he was able to put the face eating on hold long enough to air drum to some fucking Phil Collins. Wowzers.
Fucked up, America. This is why we’re losing the space race. No morals. Just ask what’s his name. Pat Robertson. He’ll tell you all about the deals we make with the devil.
Okay, come see me tonight at Reggies. 8 pm. I gotta go to work.
Peaches.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
fuck it. We're doing six blades.
I have a hairy chest. It’s been hairy since I was about seventeen. Oh, relax. It’s not gross and it’s not thick and brillo-y but it’s definitely an even covering. I’m no sellick, or Reynolds, but I’m definitely no Zac Effron or Nick Lachey either. I’ve never shaved it, because, hey, what the fuck, right? I’m not a fucking woman/backup dancer/Olympic swimmer and I don’t really care enough to navigate a fucking razorblade around my nipples. There’s a time and a place for that, and that time and place is when you were unfortunate enough to have hairy tits but still be a woman and you can’t get to the waxer so you shave your unfortunately hairy tits. Wow, that’s a bummer of a concept. Not hating, you hairy titted ladies, just saying, I feel your pain. Ah, to grow up in a world that doesn’t understand…
Sigh.
Anyhoo. Here’s what I do. About twice a year, I take a clipper at about a two guard and even everything out. that’s because while most of the hairs just stop growing on their own, some just keep on keeping on, and about every six months or so, it starts to get weird. So I tirm the shit up. It’s been going on for years. It’s not really something I give a terrible amount of thought to, it’s just something that I bust out, usually if I’m really sprucing things up for a special evening; you know, generally some time when I think I’m about to get laid and I really want to make sure all the I’s are dotted and the t’s are crossed, etc. Whatever. Not important at all. Just throwing out a bit of my personal grooming habits, because, well, hmmmm….okay.
Not long ago, I went to trim my chest hair. Now, usually when I take the clipper and run it across my chest, there’s not really a noticeable difference. It’s just a little maintenance that is probably only appreciated by me…but this time, and I’m forgetting what the occasion was, there was a clear line where I’d drawn the clipper across my sternum. The hair was noticeably shorter. “Hmmm. That’s odd. Must have really been a long time since I’ve done this” I thought to myself, and then continued on as though everything was normal, until, about three or four passes in, I realized that I didn’t have the fucking guard on the clipper. So, there I am, presumably sprucing myself up for what’s gonna maybe be some boning, and I’ve got this hole shaved in the middle of my chest like some sort of fucking pre surgery heart patient.
What’s a boy to do, right?
I shaved the whole thing. I mean, what else is there? I can’t walk around with the hole. And I can’t just go get a sharpie and draw the shit back in. I was fucked. Rock and a hard place style. I shaved my chest. Not with a blade, mind you. I finished with the clippers. So at the end of it all, my chest looked like george michael’s face in the Faith video.
It was a little stubbly. It looked WAY stupid. I looked like one of those dipshits that somehow comes to the conclusion that shaving your chest is the right move, and lord knows, I’m not one of those dipshits. Of course, I’m speaking from a fairly blessed perspective. If I had one of those thick pelts that completely submerged the skin, well, maybe I’d be whistling a different tune. I know some dudes like that and, well…ew. Anyhow, not the point. The point is, as I pointed out yesterday, yesterday I had to go to tot swimming, where I stood in the pool (as per usual on Wednesdays) with a bunch of moms and babies and tried to pretend that I wasn’t the only man in the pool or the only person with a large portion of his body tattooed or the person with the child with the longest hair of any child in the pool, male or female. I mean, fuck. We’re sore thumbs as it is, and it’s a real scene as a general rule, but yesterday was even better, because I suddenly had this stubbly shaved chest. And sure, these ladies are all saggy and granny style one pieces and “flattering’ sarongs and all that, but uh…I’m the only guy in there and suddenly I’m rocking a shaved chest? They must think I just got back from france or something…So lame. Maybe they thought I was trying to impress ‘em, thinks I. So I fucked a few of them in the family locker room afterwards and everything turned out fine.
It was the last day of class, after all.
Oh, and I met tommy Wiseau the other day. Just saw him on the street and got a picture. No shit. Promise. If I knew how to do pictures on this bad boy I’d post it. Hell, let’s give it a try, right?
…
Okay, you know what? It’s not working. Oh man! This must be the first time EVER that tommy wiseau has been photographed and the results have seemed half assed and unpresentable. I’m ashamed.
Oh, google him already! Jesus.
Sigh.
Anyhoo. Here’s what I do. About twice a year, I take a clipper at about a two guard and even everything out. that’s because while most of the hairs just stop growing on their own, some just keep on keeping on, and about every six months or so, it starts to get weird. So I tirm the shit up. It’s been going on for years. It’s not really something I give a terrible amount of thought to, it’s just something that I bust out, usually if I’m really sprucing things up for a special evening; you know, generally some time when I think I’m about to get laid and I really want to make sure all the I’s are dotted and the t’s are crossed, etc. Whatever. Not important at all. Just throwing out a bit of my personal grooming habits, because, well, hmmmm….okay.
Not long ago, I went to trim my chest hair. Now, usually when I take the clipper and run it across my chest, there’s not really a noticeable difference. It’s just a little maintenance that is probably only appreciated by me…but this time, and I’m forgetting what the occasion was, there was a clear line where I’d drawn the clipper across my sternum. The hair was noticeably shorter. “Hmmm. That’s odd. Must have really been a long time since I’ve done this” I thought to myself, and then continued on as though everything was normal, until, about three or four passes in, I realized that I didn’t have the fucking guard on the clipper. So, there I am, presumably sprucing myself up for what’s gonna maybe be some boning, and I’ve got this hole shaved in the middle of my chest like some sort of fucking pre surgery heart patient.
What’s a boy to do, right?
I shaved the whole thing. I mean, what else is there? I can’t walk around with the hole. And I can’t just go get a sharpie and draw the shit back in. I was fucked. Rock and a hard place style. I shaved my chest. Not with a blade, mind you. I finished with the clippers. So at the end of it all, my chest looked like george michael’s face in the Faith video.
It was a little stubbly. It looked WAY stupid. I looked like one of those dipshits that somehow comes to the conclusion that shaving your chest is the right move, and lord knows, I’m not one of those dipshits. Of course, I’m speaking from a fairly blessed perspective. If I had one of those thick pelts that completely submerged the skin, well, maybe I’d be whistling a different tune. I know some dudes like that and, well…ew. Anyhow, not the point. The point is, as I pointed out yesterday, yesterday I had to go to tot swimming, where I stood in the pool (as per usual on Wednesdays) with a bunch of moms and babies and tried to pretend that I wasn’t the only man in the pool or the only person with a large portion of his body tattooed or the person with the child with the longest hair of any child in the pool, male or female. I mean, fuck. We’re sore thumbs as it is, and it’s a real scene as a general rule, but yesterday was even better, because I suddenly had this stubbly shaved chest. And sure, these ladies are all saggy and granny style one pieces and “flattering’ sarongs and all that, but uh…I’m the only guy in there and suddenly I’m rocking a shaved chest? They must think I just got back from france or something…So lame. Maybe they thought I was trying to impress ‘em, thinks I. So I fucked a few of them in the family locker room afterwards and everything turned out fine.
It was the last day of class, after all.
Oh, and I met tommy Wiseau the other day. Just saw him on the street and got a picture. No shit. Promise. If I knew how to do pictures on this bad boy I’d post it. Hell, let’s give it a try, right?
…
Okay, you know what? It’s not working. Oh man! This must be the first time EVER that tommy wiseau has been photographed and the results have seemed half assed and unpresentable. I’m ashamed.
Oh, google him already! Jesus.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Ann Landers is a boring old biddy!
Well, well. It’s Wednesday. It’s tot swimming day over here, which is pretty exciting. Also, it’s uh…what? Um, well, fuck. That’s about it. I suppose I’m playing at Reggies with the Smoking Popes this Friday, which should be cool. I’ve always wanted to meet those guys, so that’s exciting.
What’s in the news? The Olympics? That’s cool. Uh. I like the Olympics. Look. I’m just stalling, okay. I got two advice questions this week (one that’s pretty rough) and I’m trying to figure out how to answer them. I think I’m just gonna go for it.
First up, the guy with the…uh, well, here’s the query:
Q:
So, this past Friday, my grandfather, a man of 81 years of age, attempted to shoot himself in the head. My father ending up getting there in time to wrangle the gun away from him, but in the end, they had to send him to the Veteran's Affair's equivalent of an institution for observation. I'm living in New York now, so I had to catch a flight back home to Chicago just to 'show solidarity' as my step-mother would say. My grandmother, his wife of 50 years, died two years ago and he has understandably, been unable to get over it. Now we're having the uncomfortable 'What do we do with grandpa?' talk. I'm 26 and have a rather pregnant girlfriend back in New York whom I can't really uproot (the whole finding a job back home thing, I could care less about- I miss Chicago). My father lives a good hour and a half from my grandfather, and we really don't want to ask one of my grandfather's brothers to put him up. Couple that with the fact that he's stated very flatly that he intends to try it again. I feel like I'm in that episode of South Park where Stan's grandfather keeps trying to kill himself. So, I think the question is, how the hell can anyone address this sort of thing? If someone wants to die, I feel they have the right to do just that. It's sort of selfish, but your life is your life. I know this is a bit of a ways off of your normal sex/dick joke advice mailbag, but another set of eyes would be cool.
A:
Uh, well. Hmmmm. Uh, well you nailed it. This is a pretty far cry from the usual dick joke mailbag, but let’s see if I can’t squeeze one in anyhow. Not that it’s appropriate, but hey, that little pun was a nice start, right? Okay, down to business. There doesn’t seem to be any nice way around this. Your grandpa wants out. there’s no one around to keep him company and make him feel like life’s worth living (and let’s be honest, that’s nobody’s fault. When your life partner dies, sons and grandsons stopping by here and there are little to no comfort, so I wouldn’t beat myself up about that, were I you, your dad or your great uncles.)
Obviously, I can’t tell you what to do with a member of your family, but the advice I can offer is this: You’ve got extremely limited time with this man, one way or the other. Do you feel at peace with the idea of him being gone? If not, make some peace. If so, hey, you’re right. Mofos want to die, mofos should be allowed to die. He’s 81, he’s been around and he’s done. I leave parties before everyone else all the time. No shame in it. What you do with him is really something that only your family and his care providers can really determine (though if I was old and ready to die and I wanted to kill myself, I’d be pretty stoked if someone just set me up in a cabin somewhere) but you can be a catalyst for your family to make sure that they’re all on the same page in terms of recognizing your grandfather’s wishes, rooting out selfish wishes that aren’t in his best interest (often, children keep their parents alive against the parent’s will because, for a variety of reasons they can’t bear to have the parent die. I think we can all agree that’s not a very cool move, even if it does prolong life) and generally keeping the lines of communication in your family open. You seem to have a good handle on this, so shepherd the people in your family who maybe don’t. Not very good advice, maybe, but this right to die shit is sticky business, man. Um…hope that helps. Jeez. Oh, and uh…did you hear about the guy with five dicks? Oh, you did? Fuck. Next time, duder. Good luck.
Okay, up next, a recent divorcee is finally sticking her clam back in the dating pool and she doesn’t know how to go about properly wrangling the dong of the dude she’s flying across the country to see. Well, in fairness, she’s flying for business and she hopes to see this dude while she’s on her trip. She was married ten years and is understandably out of practice. What else can I tell you about her? Her emails are extremely long (hence this summary) and she’s apparently pretty hot. Dude’s in a band. She’s gonna go see his band play one of the three nights she’s out there, and she wants some dong out of the deal. The guy makes her nervous and makes her drink too fast and she ends up wasted. She’s smitten! It’s been so long! She’s nervous! What to do????
Well, okay. This is MUCH easier than the last one. Fuck. Here’s what you do. First, send me some pictures of yourself. I gotta know what I’m working with here. Preferably topless. Okay. That’s step one. Step two: You call the dude. Do you have his number? Oh, but you can get it? Good. Then call him, or email him or whatever and let him know that you’re gonna be in town and see if he wants to get dinner or get a beer on a day that’s NOT the day of his show. Say something dumb like “I’m just gonna be dicking around and I really don’t have any friends/plans. You wanna get a beer or a burger or something?” Here’s what this does: it innocently puts out there that you’re interested in seeing HIM specifically. Now, the day of the show is probably a bad time for your one-shot-at-schlong. Here’s why: He is gonna have a shit ton of friends around, he’s probably gonna have to go back to his practice space and unload his gear, he’s gonna have after parties and shit all planned out and if, in the past, you’ve been wasted together at shows and it hasn’t all worked out well, WELL, this isn’t gonna be a very different situation. Now, I’m not saying that you can’t make it happen that day. Hell, listen, if you’re good looking and want to bone and this guy is single and you get along and you live on opposite sides of the country, he’ll bone you. That’s a fucking promise. All you have to do is make sure that you get some time when he’s not just dicking around with his friends/ in the same room with the girl from his immediate circle that he likes that he doesn’t want to seem like a skeez in front of etc. (and if such a girl exists, she’ll be at the show, so keep that in mind. He may be less receptive at the show because he’s got his sights on some local tang. That’s no problem for you, just a temporary roadblock.)
I’m rambling a little, but here’s the advice in a nutshell: diversify your options. The show is NOT the place to go all-in, because you don’t know the myriad situations that could be preventing him from being able to devote the attention to you he may like to. Send him an email, or call him. This clearly, CLEARLY will say “I’d like to bone, please” and he’ll respond appropriately. As for when you’re face to face…um, I dunno, get drunk and whisper to him a lot. That seems to work. I mean, fuck. Keep the conversation light and don’t do shots. Nothing kills excitement like talk of an ex or sudden barfing. And nervous girls tend to pound shots way faster than they should. SO, I think we’re good here. Make your intentions ‘innocently’ known beforehand, don’t bank on the show, and stick to cocktails and beer. Whisper. Uh…dress kind of sexy. Dicks are easy devices to work. They’re like garage doors. They go up and down and pretty much anyone can master the controls in like, fifteen seconds.
Um, good luck? Let us know how it goes!
Okay,
I’m out of here. Swim time. Later dildos!
What’s in the news? The Olympics? That’s cool. Uh. I like the Olympics. Look. I’m just stalling, okay. I got two advice questions this week (one that’s pretty rough) and I’m trying to figure out how to answer them. I think I’m just gonna go for it.
First up, the guy with the…uh, well, here’s the query:
Q:
So, this past Friday, my grandfather, a man of 81 years of age, attempted to shoot himself in the head. My father ending up getting there in time to wrangle the gun away from him, but in the end, they had to send him to the Veteran's Affair's equivalent of an institution for observation. I'm living in New York now, so I had to catch a flight back home to Chicago just to 'show solidarity' as my step-mother would say. My grandmother, his wife of 50 years, died two years ago and he has understandably, been unable to get over it. Now we're having the uncomfortable 'What do we do with grandpa?' talk. I'm 26 and have a rather pregnant girlfriend back in New York whom I can't really uproot (the whole finding a job back home thing, I could care less about- I miss Chicago). My father lives a good hour and a half from my grandfather, and we really don't want to ask one of my grandfather's brothers to put him up. Couple that with the fact that he's stated very flatly that he intends to try it again. I feel like I'm in that episode of South Park where Stan's grandfather keeps trying to kill himself. So, I think the question is, how the hell can anyone address this sort of thing? If someone wants to die, I feel they have the right to do just that. It's sort of selfish, but your life is your life. I know this is a bit of a ways off of your normal sex/dick joke advice mailbag, but another set of eyes would be cool.
A:
Uh, well. Hmmmm. Uh, well you nailed it. This is a pretty far cry from the usual dick joke mailbag, but let’s see if I can’t squeeze one in anyhow. Not that it’s appropriate, but hey, that little pun was a nice start, right? Okay, down to business. There doesn’t seem to be any nice way around this. Your grandpa wants out. there’s no one around to keep him company and make him feel like life’s worth living (and let’s be honest, that’s nobody’s fault. When your life partner dies, sons and grandsons stopping by here and there are little to no comfort, so I wouldn’t beat myself up about that, were I you, your dad or your great uncles.)
Obviously, I can’t tell you what to do with a member of your family, but the advice I can offer is this: You’ve got extremely limited time with this man, one way or the other. Do you feel at peace with the idea of him being gone? If not, make some peace. If so, hey, you’re right. Mofos want to die, mofos should be allowed to die. He’s 81, he’s been around and he’s done. I leave parties before everyone else all the time. No shame in it. What you do with him is really something that only your family and his care providers can really determine (though if I was old and ready to die and I wanted to kill myself, I’d be pretty stoked if someone just set me up in a cabin somewhere) but you can be a catalyst for your family to make sure that they’re all on the same page in terms of recognizing your grandfather’s wishes, rooting out selfish wishes that aren’t in his best interest (often, children keep their parents alive against the parent’s will because, for a variety of reasons they can’t bear to have the parent die. I think we can all agree that’s not a very cool move, even if it does prolong life) and generally keeping the lines of communication in your family open. You seem to have a good handle on this, so shepherd the people in your family who maybe don’t. Not very good advice, maybe, but this right to die shit is sticky business, man. Um…hope that helps. Jeez. Oh, and uh…did you hear about the guy with five dicks? Oh, you did? Fuck. Next time, duder. Good luck.
Okay, up next, a recent divorcee is finally sticking her clam back in the dating pool and she doesn’t know how to go about properly wrangling the dong of the dude she’s flying across the country to see. Well, in fairness, she’s flying for business and she hopes to see this dude while she’s on her trip. She was married ten years and is understandably out of practice. What else can I tell you about her? Her emails are extremely long (hence this summary) and she’s apparently pretty hot. Dude’s in a band. She’s gonna go see his band play one of the three nights she’s out there, and she wants some dong out of the deal. The guy makes her nervous and makes her drink too fast and she ends up wasted. She’s smitten! It’s been so long! She’s nervous! What to do????
Well, okay. This is MUCH easier than the last one. Fuck. Here’s what you do. First, send me some pictures of yourself. I gotta know what I’m working with here. Preferably topless. Okay. That’s step one. Step two: You call the dude. Do you have his number? Oh, but you can get it? Good. Then call him, or email him or whatever and let him know that you’re gonna be in town and see if he wants to get dinner or get a beer on a day that’s NOT the day of his show. Say something dumb like “I’m just gonna be dicking around and I really don’t have any friends/plans. You wanna get a beer or a burger or something?” Here’s what this does: it innocently puts out there that you’re interested in seeing HIM specifically. Now, the day of the show is probably a bad time for your one-shot-at-schlong. Here’s why: He is gonna have a shit ton of friends around, he’s probably gonna have to go back to his practice space and unload his gear, he’s gonna have after parties and shit all planned out and if, in the past, you’ve been wasted together at shows and it hasn’t all worked out well, WELL, this isn’t gonna be a very different situation. Now, I’m not saying that you can’t make it happen that day. Hell, listen, if you’re good looking and want to bone and this guy is single and you get along and you live on opposite sides of the country, he’ll bone you. That’s a fucking promise. All you have to do is make sure that you get some time when he’s not just dicking around with his friends/ in the same room with the girl from his immediate circle that he likes that he doesn’t want to seem like a skeez in front of etc. (and if such a girl exists, she’ll be at the show, so keep that in mind. He may be less receptive at the show because he’s got his sights on some local tang. That’s no problem for you, just a temporary roadblock.)
I’m rambling a little, but here’s the advice in a nutshell: diversify your options. The show is NOT the place to go all-in, because you don’t know the myriad situations that could be preventing him from being able to devote the attention to you he may like to. Send him an email, or call him. This clearly, CLEARLY will say “I’d like to bone, please” and he’ll respond appropriately. As for when you’re face to face…um, I dunno, get drunk and whisper to him a lot. That seems to work. I mean, fuck. Keep the conversation light and don’t do shots. Nothing kills excitement like talk of an ex or sudden barfing. And nervous girls tend to pound shots way faster than they should. SO, I think we’re good here. Make your intentions ‘innocently’ known beforehand, don’t bank on the show, and stick to cocktails and beer. Whisper. Uh…dress kind of sexy. Dicks are easy devices to work. They’re like garage doors. They go up and down and pretty much anyone can master the controls in like, fifteen seconds.
Um, good luck? Let us know how it goes!
Okay,
I’m out of here. Swim time. Later dildos!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
evacuate the dancefloor!
Gentlemen: It’s night. You’re at some dumb bar/club. You’ve been drinking. You want to get laid, or perhaps you just want a blowjob. You begin to notice that all the girls that feature the kind of external indicators that get you in the mood for blowjob receiving are on the dance floor. “But I don’t dance.” You think to yourself. You look out onto the dance floor. There are dipshit dudes dancing around. Some are great dancers, most look kind of stupid. You think to yourself “hey, fuck it. I’m drunk. I don’t really dance, but I can’t possibly be as bad of a dancer as that greasy dipshit with the sweatstains and the three hundred dollar jeans over there” and you decide to get out there and go for it. I mean, fuck. Check out that guy! He’s dancing with two hot chicks! They seem into him. Again, fuck it. You gulp down the last of your beer, grab a new one and hit the floor, bobbing up and down like a flailing mongo, holding your beer over your head and kind of smiling/raising your eyebrows at girls that you happen to be in the proximity of.
And it begins.
You’ve just painted the scarlet letter of the total loser on your own forehead, my friend. Sorry. We’ve pretty much all tried this, and I can safely say that the success rate of this plan is pretty close to zero percent (I’m only counting the entire history of biped mammals here, though). This is like trying to get to the moon by reinforcing the springs on your trampoline or trying to get high smoking banana peels. It’s a nice little try, but you’re ignoring some empirical and immutable data that’s just not gonna change, no matter how hard you try to believe.
See, women go out to dance. They call up their girlfriends and they go out to dance. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about those clubs in Miami or wherever when dudes just happen to end up dancing with hot chicks, then they sit down, they’re all hot from the sensual magnetism of their shared love of dance and all that and next thing you know: boom! Pussy town!
Well, no. That’s not how it works. Women go out dancing in groups and the first rule to picking up chicks is there’s almost no way to separate one girl from a group of girls under any circumstances. Women rely SO much on what their friends think of their choices. That’s why you’ll constantly hear women mention that they dress sexy for other girls, not guys (which, frankly is obvious, because if they dressed sexy for guys it would be pretty simple: tits out, minimal beav coverage. Boom! Guys are impressed. [oh, and any guy that says that they think that is disgusting is JUST saying that as part of a more advanced ploy to get laid, by the way. Sure, it may be disgusting. Hell, it’s USUALLY kind of disgusting. But dicks speak loudly, and when shit’s out there, it can be both disgusting and bangable, so don’t let him fool you, ladies.]) Now, back to the situation (heyooo!). You’re trying to lure one girl away from a group of girls, well, chances are you have some fundamental flaws in the eyes of at least one of the girls in the group, and therefore, in the eyes of the girl you’re trying to impress, EVEN IF SHE LIKES YOU, you equal a potential bad decision, frumpy bag or ugly pair of shoes in the eyes of her friends. No chick is just gonna walk away from her group of friends and bone you. Sorry, you’re not Robert Pattinson, bro. And that’s just in ANY situation. Okay, back to dancing.
The girls go out dancing together. First clue that they aren’t looking to get laid. Women that go out to get laid go out to places where they can be approached, and go in either pairs, mixed groups or alone. Period. Sure, there’s a wayward drunk slut here and there, but that’s not something you can bank on, and in my experience, she ends up barfing or getting too stupid to deal with before deal-sealing time anyhow. So anyway…
Know why I’ve never had a girlfriend of mine ever ask me if I wanted to go dancing? She knows the answer. SURE, she’ll say shit like, “well, I wish you’d come dancing with us” but that’s doublespeak-jive-talk, man. She wants a Man. That’s why she’s interested in me. If she wanted a guy that would go dancing, she would have picked a VASTLY different dude, and she knows this. Look at all her friends. They don’t like dudes who dance either. Know why? Because dudes that dance fall into three categories: Gay, Jersey Shore, and Creepy Loner Who Still Hasn’t Figured Out That Groping A Stranger’s Ass Is Still Totally Unacceptable, Even On A Dance Floor. Which one are you? Okay, then. You’re not getting laid. No one’s ever gotten laid on the dancefloor, don’t let the Pussycat dolls fool you. Just let those ladies enjoy their girls night out. If you really, truly think you can fuck em, go to the Ihop at 4am, because that’s where they’ll all wind up. Drunk and messy and shoveling pancakes in their mouths and farting up a storm. Good luck.
And it begins.
You’ve just painted the scarlet letter of the total loser on your own forehead, my friend. Sorry. We’ve pretty much all tried this, and I can safely say that the success rate of this plan is pretty close to zero percent (I’m only counting the entire history of biped mammals here, though). This is like trying to get to the moon by reinforcing the springs on your trampoline or trying to get high smoking banana peels. It’s a nice little try, but you’re ignoring some empirical and immutable data that’s just not gonna change, no matter how hard you try to believe.
See, women go out to dance. They call up their girlfriends and they go out to dance. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about those clubs in Miami or wherever when dudes just happen to end up dancing with hot chicks, then they sit down, they’re all hot from the sensual magnetism of their shared love of dance and all that and next thing you know: boom! Pussy town!
Well, no. That’s not how it works. Women go out dancing in groups and the first rule to picking up chicks is there’s almost no way to separate one girl from a group of girls under any circumstances. Women rely SO much on what their friends think of their choices. That’s why you’ll constantly hear women mention that they dress sexy for other girls, not guys (which, frankly is obvious, because if they dressed sexy for guys it would be pretty simple: tits out, minimal beav coverage. Boom! Guys are impressed. [oh, and any guy that says that they think that is disgusting is JUST saying that as part of a more advanced ploy to get laid, by the way. Sure, it may be disgusting. Hell, it’s USUALLY kind of disgusting. But dicks speak loudly, and when shit’s out there, it can be both disgusting and bangable, so don’t let him fool you, ladies.]) Now, back to the situation (heyooo!). You’re trying to lure one girl away from a group of girls, well, chances are you have some fundamental flaws in the eyes of at least one of the girls in the group, and therefore, in the eyes of the girl you’re trying to impress, EVEN IF SHE LIKES YOU, you equal a potential bad decision, frumpy bag or ugly pair of shoes in the eyes of her friends. No chick is just gonna walk away from her group of friends and bone you. Sorry, you’re not Robert Pattinson, bro. And that’s just in ANY situation. Okay, back to dancing.
The girls go out dancing together. First clue that they aren’t looking to get laid. Women that go out to get laid go out to places where they can be approached, and go in either pairs, mixed groups or alone. Period. Sure, there’s a wayward drunk slut here and there, but that’s not something you can bank on, and in my experience, she ends up barfing or getting too stupid to deal with before deal-sealing time anyhow. So anyway…
Know why I’ve never had a girlfriend of mine ever ask me if I wanted to go dancing? She knows the answer. SURE, she’ll say shit like, “well, I wish you’d come dancing with us” but that’s doublespeak-jive-talk, man. She wants a Man. That’s why she’s interested in me. If she wanted a guy that would go dancing, she would have picked a VASTLY different dude, and she knows this. Look at all her friends. They don’t like dudes who dance either. Know why? Because dudes that dance fall into three categories: Gay, Jersey Shore, and Creepy Loner Who Still Hasn’t Figured Out That Groping A Stranger’s Ass Is Still Totally Unacceptable, Even On A Dance Floor. Which one are you? Okay, then. You’re not getting laid. No one’s ever gotten laid on the dancefloor, don’t let the Pussycat dolls fool you. Just let those ladies enjoy their girls night out. If you really, truly think you can fuck em, go to the Ihop at 4am, because that’s where they’ll all wind up. Drunk and messy and shoveling pancakes in their mouths and farting up a storm. Good luck.
Monday, February 15, 2010
down in the dumps
Okay, so I’ve got this billion dollar idea and I figured, what smarter thing to do than to just broadcast it over the internet, right? Right. Okay, so here goes: As some of you may know, I’ve got a kid. He’s almost two, pretty cool and generally, besides his early schedule, his constant throwing of things and his pants-shittery, he’s pretty all right to be around. Hell, I’d even say it’s some of my favorite times I’ve ever had, just hanging with the little dude. Now, I’ve got another kid on the way. That too is pretty cool. I’m sure I’m gonna like her at least as much as I like this old one, and well, that’s why we do it, right? That’s the whole instinct-to-propagate-the-species thing. You trade in your dignity and your late mornings and your hangovers and your friends and your sense of being ‘with it’ for some sort of nebulous joy-like feeling that you can only truly access as a memory. Nice.
Well, here’s the other thing about kids: they’ll scare the shit out of you. Oh, it’s not just child molesters, safes falling from the sky and swine flu either. There’s all sorts of shit that will absolutely TERRIFY you about having a kid. Is she too stupid? Too smart? A biter? A pussy? A bully? Retarded? An asshole? Gonna grow up to do interracial gangbang porn? Are we gonna be friends? Will we have a rapport? Is he gonna get into (the) drugs? The list goes on and on.
Now, the very intelligent people who puppeteer the western world vis a vis corporate globalism have picked up on this crazy fear that parents have and they’ve made products to combat them all. And this shit sells, boy. Go to Babies R Us (actually, don’t. It’s a horrible place) and you’ll see sheets that are marketed essentially as “the only sheets that WON’T kill your baby!!!!” and crib bumpers that are ‘the choice of non-negligent parents everywhere.’ It’s the kind of marketing that most sectors can only dream of employing. They’re capitalizing on an irrational and all consuming fear and pushing products on (by and large) people who have NEVER dealt with this shit before.
It’s brilliant.
So, I’m sitting here on day three of my five-day weekend and I’m thinking, “how can I maximize my earning potential, eh?” Of course, marketing something to parents comes instantly to mind. I mean, just from where I sit, I see some baby wipes, a truck, a changing pad, a face-down panda, some of those fucking things that keep babies out from under the sink and plug guards, and we’re generally pretty relaxed as far as panicking/buying unnecessary shit. So, that’s settled. If I’m gonna get rich quick, I’m marketing some shit that will purport to improve or otherwise save your baby.
Okay, what’s the biggest problem that kids and parents seem to have? That’s easy: messy room. I mean, watch any sitcom or any kids show or ANYTHING at all and you’ll quickly notice that the messy room is the lynchpin of child-parent skirmishing. There we go. Problem identified. Next: Solution.
I was thinking, well, you need to get the child to WANT to keep their room clean, right? Obviously, our worn out tactics of nagging and hiding the xbox aren’t doing shit. We need to reprogram them. So a little Freud later, I’ve got the solution:
My new book, entitled “Nobody Poops But You!” is guaranteed to keep your child’s room (and the rest of your house, probably) absolutely spotless until they go away to college. Just read “Nobody Poops But You” to your child from about eight months until they’re about nine after every bowel movement and you’ll be on your way to a fastidious, tidy child, and hey, what could be better than that? Am I right? Of course I am. Best part about it? No drugs, no surgery, no yelling. Just a simple reprogramming that makes your child feel like the most filthy, anal retentive being on the planet. That’s right. Send your check for 49.95 to….ah fuck. I just went to nobodypoopsbutyou.com and apparently there’s already some wise ass out there using my idea. And it doesn’t even seem to be properly marketed as a child improvement device. Total bullshit if you ask me. Fuck.
Did I mention that playing that show that benefited the darfurian refugees was really fun? It was. The kids in the audience were all about seventeen and I’ve never felt so ancient. I mispronounced the name of “medina lake” I made the first word rhyme with vagina, instead of subpoena. But what the fuck? I can’t keep up with this nu metal bush league bullshit. I’ve got last year’s unimportant punk rock to study. Um, what else? I was drinking tea on stage and my kid was there. It was a real old-ass man kind of feeling up there. Except for the fact that I cursed like a sailor, only to be notified afterwards that cursing was strictly forbidden. Oh well. Not like they all got brutally rounded up and executed or anything. I’m sure these kids will get over the occasional ‘go fuck yourself’ just fine.
Okay, I got shit to do. I gotta get a new scheme in place, and fast.
Peace.
Well, here’s the other thing about kids: they’ll scare the shit out of you. Oh, it’s not just child molesters, safes falling from the sky and swine flu either. There’s all sorts of shit that will absolutely TERRIFY you about having a kid. Is she too stupid? Too smart? A biter? A pussy? A bully? Retarded? An asshole? Gonna grow up to do interracial gangbang porn? Are we gonna be friends? Will we have a rapport? Is he gonna get into (the) drugs? The list goes on and on.
Now, the very intelligent people who puppeteer the western world vis a vis corporate globalism have picked up on this crazy fear that parents have and they’ve made products to combat them all. And this shit sells, boy. Go to Babies R Us (actually, don’t. It’s a horrible place) and you’ll see sheets that are marketed essentially as “the only sheets that WON’T kill your baby!!!!” and crib bumpers that are ‘the choice of non-negligent parents everywhere.’ It’s the kind of marketing that most sectors can only dream of employing. They’re capitalizing on an irrational and all consuming fear and pushing products on (by and large) people who have NEVER dealt with this shit before.
It’s brilliant.
So, I’m sitting here on day three of my five-day weekend and I’m thinking, “how can I maximize my earning potential, eh?” Of course, marketing something to parents comes instantly to mind. I mean, just from where I sit, I see some baby wipes, a truck, a changing pad, a face-down panda, some of those fucking things that keep babies out from under the sink and plug guards, and we’re generally pretty relaxed as far as panicking/buying unnecessary shit. So, that’s settled. If I’m gonna get rich quick, I’m marketing some shit that will purport to improve or otherwise save your baby.
Okay, what’s the biggest problem that kids and parents seem to have? That’s easy: messy room. I mean, watch any sitcom or any kids show or ANYTHING at all and you’ll quickly notice that the messy room is the lynchpin of child-parent skirmishing. There we go. Problem identified. Next: Solution.
I was thinking, well, you need to get the child to WANT to keep their room clean, right? Obviously, our worn out tactics of nagging and hiding the xbox aren’t doing shit. We need to reprogram them. So a little Freud later, I’ve got the solution:
My new book, entitled “Nobody Poops But You!” is guaranteed to keep your child’s room (and the rest of your house, probably) absolutely spotless until they go away to college. Just read “Nobody Poops But You” to your child from about eight months until they’re about nine after every bowel movement and you’ll be on your way to a fastidious, tidy child, and hey, what could be better than that? Am I right? Of course I am. Best part about it? No drugs, no surgery, no yelling. Just a simple reprogramming that makes your child feel like the most filthy, anal retentive being on the planet. That’s right. Send your check for 49.95 to….ah fuck. I just went to nobodypoopsbutyou.com and apparently there’s already some wise ass out there using my idea. And it doesn’t even seem to be properly marketed as a child improvement device. Total bullshit if you ask me. Fuck.
Did I mention that playing that show that benefited the darfurian refugees was really fun? It was. The kids in the audience were all about seventeen and I’ve never felt so ancient. I mispronounced the name of “medina lake” I made the first word rhyme with vagina, instead of subpoena. But what the fuck? I can’t keep up with this nu metal bush league bullshit. I’ve got last year’s unimportant punk rock to study. Um, what else? I was drinking tea on stage and my kid was there. It was a real old-ass man kind of feeling up there. Except for the fact that I cursed like a sailor, only to be notified afterwards that cursing was strictly forbidden. Oh well. Not like they all got brutally rounded up and executed or anything. I’m sure these kids will get over the occasional ‘go fuck yourself’ just fine.
Okay, I got shit to do. I gotta get a new scheme in place, and fast.
Peace.
Friday, February 12, 2010
something and vicodin...you're talking shit again -or- Huh huh huh huh!
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