Well well well. I’ve gotta do my taxes but instead I’m writing this. I’ve gotta paint a baby room, but instead, I’m writing this. I’ve got to tell you all about the streaming of some songs off my new split record with Joe McMahon over on the Red Scare and Anchorless myspace pages respectively and a contest that punknews.org is having where they’re giving away cool stuff, but instead…woah. That’s galactic, huh? That shit just kind of all happened at once there. Maybe my taxes are done too. Lemme check…
Nope. Still not done. The funny thing is, I don’t even really do my taxes. I just kind of go through my receipts and write the numbers down and send them to an accountant. Funny how that’s totally stressful, even without being a real task.
I dunno. I had good stuff to write about today, but I’m blanking. I’m having what’s known in the business as a ‘rough morning.’ Not because of a hangover or anything. I’m physically feeling tip top. I just have all these fucking meetings that are popping up left and right and making me kind of crazed and well, the first one didn’t go too terribly well, so uh…what do they say about getting off on the wrong foot? I dunno. I personally think that jizzing on feet is an odd thing to do, but I guess it’s just an expression. My meeting definitely jizzed on the wrong foot this morning.
Anyway, okay, here’s what I wanted to really get into with you all today: One of my faithful readers sent me an article about vajazzling, which is probably the single most…well, I don’t really know, I guess. It’s exactly how it sounds. It’s bedazzling your cunt. Actually, that makes me think they should have called cuntazzling which is way catchier and more awesome, methinks.
Okay, that’s not the point. I’m sure a rival company will start up cuntazzling. It’s too good of a name to not use, but let’s get to the nitty gritty, right? It’s putting little rhinestones all over where your pubes would be if you were gross enough to let your pubes exist. That’s basically the long and short of it. I guess it’s popular in places like NY and Miami (just kind of a guess, like I said) but this shit is probably gonna be huuuuuuge, man. I mean, if people are already piercing their pussies and bedazzling their jean jackets, this is pretty much a foregone conclusion. Vajazzling is here, folks.
And you know what’s next? Dongazzling, not to be confused with dong guzzling, which is what you will most surely receive if you dongazzle. I mean, what could be more beautiful than a smooth, hairless nutsack encrusted in jewels? Nothing, that’s what. Take that, peaceful sleeping baby, the Grand Canyon, aurora borealis, uh…Ashley Simpson’s new nose and the In n Out double-double. There’s a new most beautiful thing on the earth: the dongazzled junk of some random dude.
The real question though is this: Is it cool? Is it lame? It’s hard to say. It’s definitely cooler than asshole bleaching, though realistically it serves less of a purpose. I mean, asshole bleaching gets the brown off of your anus zone, which can be offputting, if you’re, you know, a perfectionist, but vajazzling is uh…it’s pure spectacle, man. It’s just form with no function. I don’t think that it could possibly feel good to bone a girl with rhinestones all over her bush type area, could it? And let’s be frank, if you’re bejeweling your junk, it’s gotta be at least on some level about sex, so the idea of going through something that costs money and is presumably time consuming and uncomfortable to get just so you can be a more pointy and irritating-to-the-skin partner is, well, uh…I guess it’s lame. I guess it is. Hmmm…
Although, I mean, it’s hard to fault a process that encourages young ladies to show off their various clams, innit? That’s sort of written into the whole purpose of being a man, to build something great, destroy something even greater and ultimately see a ton of clams, so I guess I’m on the fence here. Dongazzling though, that’s hot.
Hey, that’s two Paris Hilton copyrighted catch phrases that I’ve used here in this entry. I hope she doesn’t sue. That would be lame.
I gotta go. Taxes. Sheesh.
xoxoxo
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
this is the stupidest thing I've maybe ever written...
I woke up at five this morning with an idea for a television show rattling around in my head. Here’s the essence of the show: NBA stars taking dumps into toilets with scales in them. The idea is to see who takes the weightiest dump. The show would be called Pro-deucing! Say it out loud. Pretty rad, right? That’s true, by the way. That’s really what woke me up at five in the morning. Fucking outrageous. I should get a lobotomy.
I’ve got this problem. I don’t get out in the evenings too much these days, and when I do, I tend to wind up with a hangover that’s completely unfair and brutal. Here’s where it gets fucking crappy. The night AFTER the night I go out, after a day of recovery and all that, I always wake up in the middle of the night with my mind racing and panicking like crazy. I panic about money, friends, my reputation (I know, what?), my kid, my impending kid, the future, the past, all sorts of various things that I probably shouldn’t have said out loud and on and on and on like this.
I mean, I’ll wake up because of a train going by or a dog will bark or something, and it’s like there’s a little guy in my head who quickly turns on the light in his station and he just starts feeding thoughts into my thought processor, and he’s SPECIFICALLY trying to bum me out! “This guy doesn’t really like you. You don’t have a ton of money in the bank, you still haven’t done your taxes, your kid may possibly turn out creepy and it’ll be YOUR FAULT, your wife is about to stop putting up with your shenanigans, you haven’t heard back from the merch company in Europe, your dogs haven’t been to the vet in a while, you’ve not been to the dentist in thirteen years, why can’t you just relax and sleep? maybe you’re mentally ill. Now you’ve started sweating. Why? Is it because you’re actually sick. Is this what it’ll feel like to be sick and infirm and on the way to death’s door? We’re all gonna die someday. Even me. Even my wife and my kid and all my friends. There’s lots of perverts and violent motherfuckers out there. One moment’s all it takes for everything to change forever! You’re doomed! YOU’RE DOOMED! YOU! ARE! DOOMED!
That’s how it goes. And it just fucking goes on and on and on like that. Well, I went out to see my buddies play a show this weekend and so I was out two nights later than I’m used to/should be and so last night, the one that just ended, was the night after my hangover where I woke up and panicked about a bunch of shit that, frankly, in the light of day isn’t that scary. It’s only scary at four in the morning, for whatever reason, but at that time it genuinely wigs me out. It makes me sweat. I know this is a fairly common thing for people with sleep issues (of which I’m definitely one) but here’s the weird thing: Pro-Deucing. That’s what was going through my mind this morning. What the fuck is that about, eh? Why am I thinking of pro athlete shitting contests at five am? I’m sick. That’s something to worry about that’s way more immediate than if some dildo thinks I’m cool or lame or whatever.
Although….
Pro-Deucing is pretty funny. It’s a good name. Now, I know we’ve got some foreign and some elderly readers, so I’m gonna break down exactly why this is such a great name for this show.
Firstly, it’s literally a homonym for ‘producing’ which is what your body is doing when you crap. Secondly, here in America we’ve got a numerical slang system set up for all sorts of waste expulsion. Urinating, or ‘peeing’ as it’s colloquially known is referred to in certain circles as ‘number one’ and shitting, or ‘dumping’ is called ‘number two.’ Okay, so that’s out of the way. Some people prefer to spice up this numerical system by referring to ‘number two’ as a ‘deuce.’ “I just floated a sweet deuce up in your sister’s bathroom, bro” one may be heard to utter. So there you go. You’ve got the idea. Now, back to the show title: Pro, because they’re pro basketball players, deucing, because they’re taking dumps. Pro-deucing! Hillarious. And, again, you know, with the whole ‘producing feces’ angle, well, I’m sorry. I think it’s pretty good.
Actually, I’m starting to realize that I kind of missed a lot of sleep last night due to my crazy brain, and I think it’s making me a little loopy. Maybe I should take a nap or go to the gym or something.
Huh. Dunno. I gotta get my fucking will in order. That’s fun. I’m leaving it all to you guys! You guys will get all my various sheaves of early 80’s pornography and databases full of great ideas for wacky television shows. Uh…I don’t know, man. I’m out of here. Sorry about all this, really.
I’ve got this problem. I don’t get out in the evenings too much these days, and when I do, I tend to wind up with a hangover that’s completely unfair and brutal. Here’s where it gets fucking crappy. The night AFTER the night I go out, after a day of recovery and all that, I always wake up in the middle of the night with my mind racing and panicking like crazy. I panic about money, friends, my reputation (I know, what?), my kid, my impending kid, the future, the past, all sorts of various things that I probably shouldn’t have said out loud and on and on and on like this.
I mean, I’ll wake up because of a train going by or a dog will bark or something, and it’s like there’s a little guy in my head who quickly turns on the light in his station and he just starts feeding thoughts into my thought processor, and he’s SPECIFICALLY trying to bum me out! “This guy doesn’t really like you. You don’t have a ton of money in the bank, you still haven’t done your taxes, your kid may possibly turn out creepy and it’ll be YOUR FAULT, your wife is about to stop putting up with your shenanigans, you haven’t heard back from the merch company in Europe, your dogs haven’t been to the vet in a while, you’ve not been to the dentist in thirteen years, why can’t you just relax and sleep? maybe you’re mentally ill. Now you’ve started sweating. Why? Is it because you’re actually sick. Is this what it’ll feel like to be sick and infirm and on the way to death’s door? We’re all gonna die someday. Even me. Even my wife and my kid and all my friends. There’s lots of perverts and violent motherfuckers out there. One moment’s all it takes for everything to change forever! You’re doomed! YOU’RE DOOMED! YOU! ARE! DOOMED!
That’s how it goes. And it just fucking goes on and on and on like that. Well, I went out to see my buddies play a show this weekend and so I was out two nights later than I’m used to/should be and so last night, the one that just ended, was the night after my hangover where I woke up and panicked about a bunch of shit that, frankly, in the light of day isn’t that scary. It’s only scary at four in the morning, for whatever reason, but at that time it genuinely wigs me out. It makes me sweat. I know this is a fairly common thing for people with sleep issues (of which I’m definitely one) but here’s the weird thing: Pro-Deucing. That’s what was going through my mind this morning. What the fuck is that about, eh? Why am I thinking of pro athlete shitting contests at five am? I’m sick. That’s something to worry about that’s way more immediate than if some dildo thinks I’m cool or lame or whatever.
Although….
Pro-Deucing is pretty funny. It’s a good name. Now, I know we’ve got some foreign and some elderly readers, so I’m gonna break down exactly why this is such a great name for this show.
Firstly, it’s literally a homonym for ‘producing’ which is what your body is doing when you crap. Secondly, here in America we’ve got a numerical slang system set up for all sorts of waste expulsion. Urinating, or ‘peeing’ as it’s colloquially known is referred to in certain circles as ‘number one’ and shitting, or ‘dumping’ is called ‘number two.’ Okay, so that’s out of the way. Some people prefer to spice up this numerical system by referring to ‘number two’ as a ‘deuce.’ “I just floated a sweet deuce up in your sister’s bathroom, bro” one may be heard to utter. So there you go. You’ve got the idea. Now, back to the show title: Pro, because they’re pro basketball players, deucing, because they’re taking dumps. Pro-deucing! Hillarious. And, again, you know, with the whole ‘producing feces’ angle, well, I’m sorry. I think it’s pretty good.
Actually, I’m starting to realize that I kind of missed a lot of sleep last night due to my crazy brain, and I think it’s making me a little loopy. Maybe I should take a nap or go to the gym or something.
Huh. Dunno. I gotta get my fucking will in order. That’s fun. I’m leaving it all to you guys! You guys will get all my various sheaves of early 80’s pornography and databases full of great ideas for wacky television shows. Uh…I don’t know, man. I’m out of here. Sorry about all this, really.
Monday, March 1, 2010
shit that's wack, yo!
So, as your overlord, I know you all look to me as a sort of guide as you try to navigate what’s cool and what’s lame and what’s dangerous out there in this crazy mixed up world. I’ve compiled a list of things that are unequivocally lame to help you out along the way. Now, this list is by no means complete, and I didn’t include things that are MOSTLY but not always lame (like, for example, big pants. Totally lame about ninety percent of the time, but Redman looks pretty good, so, well, there you go…not always lame)
Without further ado…
Shit that’s wack, yo:
Pompadours- um, that’s your haircut? It sucks. It sucks so bad that I don’t even know where to begin. Firstly, it’s greasy and gross and…no. You know what? I don’t even need to justify this one. You all know why this haircut is stupid. It just conjures all the wrong things. Here’s some other things that are lame that can just fall under the blanket of ‘pompadours’: dice, goatees, slick, velvety short sleeve button ups with flames on em, uh..what else? Flaming skulls…uh, you get what I’m saying. Things that just sort of vaguely denote ‘gambling.’ Hey Mike Ness, nice legacy. Sheesh.
Smoking: Never a good move. It’s a real kick in the balls though, because it looks great. There’s no one on this earth that ever started smoking for a reason other than “it looks cool”. Oh, yeah, almost no one admits this. People have all sorts of convoluted bullshit reasons why they claim to have started smoking, but none of it holds up under scrutiny. I mean, there’s no way that people can innocently fall into a habit that requires you getting sick and hating life for about two weeks before your body adjusts to taking in a new kind of poison. No one on earth ever enjoyed the first cigarette they tried. NO ONE. That’s a fucking universal truth, up there with ‘if you stick a pin through your skin, you’ll bleed.”
Here’s the thing though: smoking IS cool. It’s reckless and it looks rad and it really shows the world that you don’t even give a fuck enough to not walk around smelling like shit. Unforch, it’s also really wack. And it makes you die, so there’s that.
Being Bald- Being bald is just barely better than a pompadour, simply because when you’re bald you’re a victim, whereas with a pompadour, you’re putting effort into looking like a turd. Yeah. I’m gonna be bald someday. Lots of my friends are bald and look terrific. It’s not that. I mean, look at Bruce Willis, Frank Black and Ami James. It’s not like being bald just makes you instantly revolting (all the time).
BUT, know why being bald is lame? I’ll tell you: because it eliminates freedom of choice. You’re fucked. Baldness is the fucking KGB of genetics. You WILL look like this forever. Or, I guess you can grow the toilet seat deal out. Wheee! What a great time.
Hippies- Fuck these dudes. They smell and they have dumb pants on and they made their own jewelry and the whole thing just blows. Oh, wow. You’re into drugs? Cool. Know who else is into drugs? Everyone, that’s who. You’re gross and your girlfriend needs a bra, a razor and some stridex. Also, nice fucking music.
Wiggers (wegroes)- Know why the beastie boys are cool and enduring? Because they don’t pretend to be black at all. They sing about smoking angel dust, shooting up saloons and driving drunk and shit like that…. You know, universal shared experience that’s not tied to racial identity. There’s never in the history of the world been anything good derived out of a white dude pretending to be black. It’s just a failing situation every time. Conversely however, Carltons are pretty dope.
Cel phones- Okay, if you’re lost, the shit’s convenient, but good lord. I can’t even fucking drive without surfing the internet anymore. It’s like the things that have been invented in my lifetime that are so crazily convenient and entertaining (internet porn/youtube/itunes) are already not enough to satisfy my newly non existent attention span. Cel phones and mobile internet have made us so desperate for stimulation and instant gratification that it’s not that out there to suggest that I’d like to pirate some new songs while skyping and whacking off to porn while also texting someone else. I mean, fuck.When the rapture comes and all the Comcast towers fall down, we’re all gonna be bored as shit. Oh, and these things give you cancer. Just you wait. We’re all doomed.
Child molesters- Oh, man. I’m pulling a regular anti flag with this one. I’m going out on a limb and condemning child molesters. It’s just so fucking gnarly. I agree with Howard Stern…He’s calling for castration for child molesters and well, why the fuck not? Get those dicks off those dudes for fucks sake. The shit is gross. I mean, not only is fucking kids so fucking morally reprehensible and physically disgusting, but can you imagine how many wine coolers and hours of barney these gross fucks endure? Ick. Ick. ick. Even worse than hippies, but just barely.
What else? Herpes: Not cool. I think we all have herpes, according to the literature that I’ve read. Sounds like sexually active young people are vastly more likely to have it than not to have it. Apparently a lot of it is symptomless, which, hey, if I’m gonna have herpes, that’s the type I’d like, please. And, if the stats I read are true, it’s really kind of more of a disease to not have it…so well, huh. Maybe I take this one back. Herpes is okay. Jesus, does this make it sound like I’ve got herpes? I don’t think I’ve got herpes just for the record. Good lord. Shutting up now.
Okay, that’s the list for today. It’s kind of bumming me out to type this, so I’m gonna stop. This can become one of those things though, like my quest to define every kind of person in the world…a recurring theme. Shit that’s wack, yo. Would that be cool?
Okay, have a good day, turds.
Without further ado…
Shit that’s wack, yo:
Pompadours- um, that’s your haircut? It sucks. It sucks so bad that I don’t even know where to begin. Firstly, it’s greasy and gross and…no. You know what? I don’t even need to justify this one. You all know why this haircut is stupid. It just conjures all the wrong things. Here’s some other things that are lame that can just fall under the blanket of ‘pompadours’: dice, goatees, slick, velvety short sleeve button ups with flames on em, uh..what else? Flaming skulls…uh, you get what I’m saying. Things that just sort of vaguely denote ‘gambling.’ Hey Mike Ness, nice legacy. Sheesh.
Smoking: Never a good move. It’s a real kick in the balls though, because it looks great. There’s no one on this earth that ever started smoking for a reason other than “it looks cool”. Oh, yeah, almost no one admits this. People have all sorts of convoluted bullshit reasons why they claim to have started smoking, but none of it holds up under scrutiny. I mean, there’s no way that people can innocently fall into a habit that requires you getting sick and hating life for about two weeks before your body adjusts to taking in a new kind of poison. No one on earth ever enjoyed the first cigarette they tried. NO ONE. That’s a fucking universal truth, up there with ‘if you stick a pin through your skin, you’ll bleed.”
Here’s the thing though: smoking IS cool. It’s reckless and it looks rad and it really shows the world that you don’t even give a fuck enough to not walk around smelling like shit. Unforch, it’s also really wack. And it makes you die, so there’s that.
Being Bald- Being bald is just barely better than a pompadour, simply because when you’re bald you’re a victim, whereas with a pompadour, you’re putting effort into looking like a turd. Yeah. I’m gonna be bald someday. Lots of my friends are bald and look terrific. It’s not that. I mean, look at Bruce Willis, Frank Black and Ami James. It’s not like being bald just makes you instantly revolting (all the time).
BUT, know why being bald is lame? I’ll tell you: because it eliminates freedom of choice. You’re fucked. Baldness is the fucking KGB of genetics. You WILL look like this forever. Or, I guess you can grow the toilet seat deal out. Wheee! What a great time.
Hippies- Fuck these dudes. They smell and they have dumb pants on and they made their own jewelry and the whole thing just blows. Oh, wow. You’re into drugs? Cool. Know who else is into drugs? Everyone, that’s who. You’re gross and your girlfriend needs a bra, a razor and some stridex. Also, nice fucking music.
Wiggers (wegroes)- Know why the beastie boys are cool and enduring? Because they don’t pretend to be black at all. They sing about smoking angel dust, shooting up saloons and driving drunk and shit like that…. You know, universal shared experience that’s not tied to racial identity. There’s never in the history of the world been anything good derived out of a white dude pretending to be black. It’s just a failing situation every time. Conversely however, Carltons are pretty dope.
Cel phones- Okay, if you’re lost, the shit’s convenient, but good lord. I can’t even fucking drive without surfing the internet anymore. It’s like the things that have been invented in my lifetime that are so crazily convenient and entertaining (internet porn/youtube/itunes) are already not enough to satisfy my newly non existent attention span. Cel phones and mobile internet have made us so desperate for stimulation and instant gratification that it’s not that out there to suggest that I’d like to pirate some new songs while skyping and whacking off to porn while also texting someone else. I mean, fuck.When the rapture comes and all the Comcast towers fall down, we’re all gonna be bored as shit. Oh, and these things give you cancer. Just you wait. We’re all doomed.
Child molesters- Oh, man. I’m pulling a regular anti flag with this one. I’m going out on a limb and condemning child molesters. It’s just so fucking gnarly. I agree with Howard Stern…He’s calling for castration for child molesters and well, why the fuck not? Get those dicks off those dudes for fucks sake. The shit is gross. I mean, not only is fucking kids so fucking morally reprehensible and physically disgusting, but can you imagine how many wine coolers and hours of barney these gross fucks endure? Ick. Ick. ick. Even worse than hippies, but just barely.
What else? Herpes: Not cool. I think we all have herpes, according to the literature that I’ve read. Sounds like sexually active young people are vastly more likely to have it than not to have it. Apparently a lot of it is symptomless, which, hey, if I’m gonna have herpes, that’s the type I’d like, please. And, if the stats I read are true, it’s really kind of more of a disease to not have it…so well, huh. Maybe I take this one back. Herpes is okay. Jesus, does this make it sound like I’ve got herpes? I don’t think I’ve got herpes just for the record. Good lord. Shutting up now.
Okay, that’s the list for today. It’s kind of bumming me out to type this, so I’m gonna stop. This can become one of those things though, like my quest to define every kind of person in the world…a recurring theme. Shit that’s wack, yo. Would that be cool?
Okay, have a good day, turds.
Friday, February 26, 2010
We're nowhere near the end...oh wait. It's the end.
Okay, so Boner is dead. That’s pretty tragic and I’m not trying to be a snide gen x blogger/pundit type using irony by-way-of-genuine-emotion-in-order-to- seem-appropriately-disaffected-but-appropriately-concerned-or-at-least-ambivalent. No, this is a real tragedy. Well, okay, I’m speaking a little dramatically, for sure. I mean, there are millions of people out there who die every day and I can’t be getting all misty about every single one of them, especially the ones I don’t know, but Boner held a special place in my heart and I’m gonna tell you all why.
Let me set the scene. It’s the 80’s. Most of your dads were just getting around to blowing the unfettered loads in your moms that would eventually congeal and become you, but I was already existing happily. The millionaire-widower family sitcom craze (Diff’rent Strokes/Silver Spoons/Webster) was ending and the Psychologist dad and the “hey! There’s a wacky non-relative family type family member in the house” family sitcom era was in full bloom. At any given hour of any evening, people like me (kids) could be treated to episodes of Family Ties, Who’s the Boss, Alf, Mr. Belvedere and of course Growing Pains.
Growing Pains was my personal favorite and here’s why: Great cast. Ben, (Jeremy Miller) the youngest kid was hideously ugly. Way too ugly to really be on television. Carol, (Tracey Gold) the sister was, in my young mind, extremely hot (turns out she had an eating disorder and always smelled like barf on the set, but hey, it was working for her, so whatever, right? Wait, what? No…No! Hey, I’m kidding. Seriously. She was much hotter when she no longer smelled of barf and looked of visible vertebrae. Sheesh…Okay, moving on) Maggie, (Joanna Kerns) the mom, was also pretty hot and Jason Sever, played by Alan Thicke oozed that kind of laid back sensitive charm that would eventually inspire me to become a stay at home father (of course) (oh, and he also wrote and SANG [no shit!] the Diff’rent Strokes theme song. Look it up if you doubt me). The GP theme song (also penned by Thicke), “show me that smile” was pretty unimpeachable and once, in a Subway, while waiting for my Veggie Delight, I heard the entire thing, complete with three verses and a sax solo. But the real star of the show was Mike, played by Crazy ol’ Jesus’s right hand man, Kirk Cameron.
Kirk played Mike, a troublemaker. Mike was not really a good kid, as far as I remember. His grades were bad and he didn’t really try and he loved stirring up shit and when he wasn’t grounded he kind of coasted on charm. He wasn’t Theo Huxtable, who was kind of a good kid who got into dumb situations because he really didn’t know what he was getting into. Mike was a delinquent all the way. And his best friend was named Boner.
No shit, man. The dude’s name was fucking BONER. How cool is that?
Boner was dumb and awesome and at least as down for trouble as Mike. In fact, it seemed to my young mind that Boner had no sense of consequences at all, and he was far and away my favorite character on television. There was an episode that really sticks out to me where they were performing a play (this was one of those episodes where Mike really shined…”Oh, he’s a talented kid. He just doesn’t apply himself,” the grownups all whispered. “It’s a shame that all that creative energy goes into making fart bombs and shit like that.” Anyway, this wasn’t the “Our Town’ one, I don’t think, which was later, once Kirk Cameron started executive producing and forcing his own goofy brand of Christian dogma into the plotlines of the show, but I could be wrong. Maybe it was the Our Town one…anyway,) and Boner was playing some kind of lawyer. He was worried about memorizing his lines (due, I think to always being super high, and I’m not kidding. Boner was known to smoke weed) so he decided to mic up his walkman (look it up) and pre record his lines and lip synch them during the performance. Well, wouldn’t you know, at the moment he’s supposed to deliver his lines, the tape flips and heavy metal starts blasting and Boner? Well, Boner just starts air guitaring right there on stage. Fuck it. May as well rock, right? Pretty dope moment, Growing Pains.
Now, everyone in Growing Pains went on to do something awesome. Uh…Ben grew up to continue to be gross looking, Kirk Cameron is fighting satan with a midget Australian that looks like Dirty Harry (the porn guy, not the Clint Eastwood character), Carol is probably still hot, and presumably no longer smells like barf, Maggie is also probably still hot (but old as shit) and Jason, well, he disturbed me to no end when I was about ten and saw the cover of playgirl at the airport and the caption on the cover said “Inside: Alan Thicke’s Growing Pains” and all I could think of was him popping some kind of extra long, painful boner and it’s haunted me to this day. He also hosted some gameshows and provided the jizz that made Robin Thicke. Who else? Oh, the teen bum that they brought in once Mike found jesus and Ben became unbearable to look at wound up being Leonardo DiCaprio. And Boner, well Boner went to the Olympics in Vancouver and killed himself in the woods this past week. Bummer.
This one’s for you, Boner (You can’t see it, but I’m popping a single-boner salute right now. Hold it….Hold it…and done.) Have a good weekend folks, and take care of each other. Depression is serious shit. So’s barfing up your food. Neither one is cool, folks.
Let me set the scene. It’s the 80’s. Most of your dads were just getting around to blowing the unfettered loads in your moms that would eventually congeal and become you, but I was already existing happily. The millionaire-widower family sitcom craze (Diff’rent Strokes/Silver Spoons/Webster) was ending and the Psychologist dad and the “hey! There’s a wacky non-relative family type family member in the house” family sitcom era was in full bloom. At any given hour of any evening, people like me (kids) could be treated to episodes of Family Ties, Who’s the Boss, Alf, Mr. Belvedere and of course Growing Pains.
Growing Pains was my personal favorite and here’s why: Great cast. Ben, (Jeremy Miller) the youngest kid was hideously ugly. Way too ugly to really be on television. Carol, (Tracey Gold) the sister was, in my young mind, extremely hot (turns out she had an eating disorder and always smelled like barf on the set, but hey, it was working for her, so whatever, right? Wait, what? No…No! Hey, I’m kidding. Seriously. She was much hotter when she no longer smelled of barf and looked of visible vertebrae. Sheesh…Okay, moving on) Maggie, (Joanna Kerns) the mom, was also pretty hot and Jason Sever, played by Alan Thicke oozed that kind of laid back sensitive charm that would eventually inspire me to become a stay at home father (of course) (oh, and he also wrote and SANG [no shit!] the Diff’rent Strokes theme song. Look it up if you doubt me). The GP theme song (also penned by Thicke), “show me that smile” was pretty unimpeachable and once, in a Subway, while waiting for my Veggie Delight, I heard the entire thing, complete with three verses and a sax solo. But the real star of the show was Mike, played by Crazy ol’ Jesus’s right hand man, Kirk Cameron.
Kirk played Mike, a troublemaker. Mike was not really a good kid, as far as I remember. His grades were bad and he didn’t really try and he loved stirring up shit and when he wasn’t grounded he kind of coasted on charm. He wasn’t Theo Huxtable, who was kind of a good kid who got into dumb situations because he really didn’t know what he was getting into. Mike was a delinquent all the way. And his best friend was named Boner.
No shit, man. The dude’s name was fucking BONER. How cool is that?
Boner was dumb and awesome and at least as down for trouble as Mike. In fact, it seemed to my young mind that Boner had no sense of consequences at all, and he was far and away my favorite character on television. There was an episode that really sticks out to me where they were performing a play (this was one of those episodes where Mike really shined…”Oh, he’s a talented kid. He just doesn’t apply himself,” the grownups all whispered. “It’s a shame that all that creative energy goes into making fart bombs and shit like that.” Anyway, this wasn’t the “Our Town’ one, I don’t think, which was later, once Kirk Cameron started executive producing and forcing his own goofy brand of Christian dogma into the plotlines of the show, but I could be wrong. Maybe it was the Our Town one…anyway,) and Boner was playing some kind of lawyer. He was worried about memorizing his lines (due, I think to always being super high, and I’m not kidding. Boner was known to smoke weed) so he decided to mic up his walkman (look it up) and pre record his lines and lip synch them during the performance. Well, wouldn’t you know, at the moment he’s supposed to deliver his lines, the tape flips and heavy metal starts blasting and Boner? Well, Boner just starts air guitaring right there on stage. Fuck it. May as well rock, right? Pretty dope moment, Growing Pains.
Now, everyone in Growing Pains went on to do something awesome. Uh…Ben grew up to continue to be gross looking, Kirk Cameron is fighting satan with a midget Australian that looks like Dirty Harry (the porn guy, not the Clint Eastwood character), Carol is probably still hot, and presumably no longer smells like barf, Maggie is also probably still hot (but old as shit) and Jason, well, he disturbed me to no end when I was about ten and saw the cover of playgirl at the airport and the caption on the cover said “Inside: Alan Thicke’s Growing Pains” and all I could think of was him popping some kind of extra long, painful boner and it’s haunted me to this day. He also hosted some gameshows and provided the jizz that made Robin Thicke. Who else? Oh, the teen bum that they brought in once Mike found jesus and Ben became unbearable to look at wound up being Leonardo DiCaprio. And Boner, well Boner went to the Olympics in Vancouver and killed himself in the woods this past week. Bummer.
This one’s for you, Boner (You can’t see it, but I’m popping a single-boner salute right now. Hold it….Hold it…and done.) Have a good weekend folks, and take care of each other. Depression is serious shit. So’s barfing up your food. Neither one is cool, folks.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
i'm sick of this place
I’ve been writing songs for a long time, and I’m pretty much of the mindframe that anything goes as long as it winds up sounding cool. I mean, if you can put a keytar and a tuba into a funk metal song and it’s got scat jazz vocals and it all ends up sounding awesome, well, that’s the result. It’s awesome. There should be no reductivity when it comes to music. You’d be an idiot to dislike something simply because a component of it was a style or instrument or style you’ve decided that you don’t like. Case in point, Kna’an’s song “If Rap Gets Jealous” features Kirk Hammet on guitar and is a full on rap/metal fusion song. That’s not something I generally get behind, but in the case of this song, it’s awesome, and I’d be a fool to not like it simply because of some preconceived idea about what should or shouldn’t be paired with rap or metal.
Similarly, there’s room to like parts of songs that are otherwise terrible. Take the song “last resort” by Papa Roach. The song is dumb, the band is dumb, the lyrics are stupid, the production is the sonic equivalent of a cheap plastic sports car covered in spoilers and decals, but fuck me if that main guitar riff isn’t totally FACE MELTINGLY KICK ASS. There’s just no way to deny it.
It’s finding shit like this that will ultimately make you an interesting songwriter. You should never be dismissive of something because it’s not cool. I mean, so, for example, you find that riff in Last Resort. It’s an amazing riff surrounded by poop. Well, here’s what you do, rip off that riff and put it into a song that you think is cool. That’s the fucking secret of success. To once again paraphrase Picasso, “brilliant minds create, geniuses steal.” Look at Willie Nelson, one of the greatest singer songwriters of all time. His entire vocal delivery and even guitar playing style is stolen. The way he waits, lilts until the very last possible minute, kind of singing almost slower than the beat of the music, being very, very cavalier with the idea of rhythm, that’s all stolen from Billie Holiday. He’s admitted it in interviews, and once you know that, it’s shocking how obvious it is, but the amazing thing is that since he recapitulated smooth parlor room crooning into fireside singalong/guitar soloing, it becomes its own cool thing. That’s pretty much the most important thing about making anything, songs or not. There’s really nothing that hasn’t been done, and there’s a zillion things out there that are awesome, but they definitely haven’t all been applied to whatever you’re trying to do, be it a computer game or a new way of delivering gasoline or a funk song. So yeah.
There is, in fact, only one thing in music that I can’t stand, and that’s a certain lyric that is for some dumb reason pretty pervasive in popular music. That lyric is “I don’t care.”
I think it’s fucking stupid on a lot of levels. Firstly, I deplore the idea of creative expression based on a lack of passion. That’s ridiculous. If you don’t care, songwriter, why did you write a song about it, and more to the point, why should I care? What impetus is there for me to empathize with the idea that you can’t be bothered to feel one way or the other about something? It’s stupid, it’s lazy and it’s, in general, a phrase that people constantly misuse. People say “I don’t care” when they mean “I don’t like that” all the time, and people say “I don’t care” when they mean “I’m desperately empty inside” both of which are GREAT hooks for an emotional response to a song, but “I don’t care?” fuck you, man. I don’t care either. Get out of here with your lazy gen-y songwriting bullshit.
Okay, so full disclosure, I definitely sing a song that’s out there for public consumption that prominently features the line “I don’t care.” It’s called “Sick of this Place” and it was performed by my old band, Slapstick. Here’s the thing, firstly: those lyrics were not written by me, and secondly, I was 18 when we recorded that song and it was, in fact, that very song that made me realize how much I despised that lyrical choice. I don’t know, man. I just think it’s terrible. That’s the one place where I reserve prejudice, is for songs that feature the phrase “I don’t care”. Pretty funny that I care so much about apathy, eh?
Is that galactic poetry?
Nah…grumpy old man wanna-be talk. And with that, I’m off to serve sandwiches to assholes.
Later!
Similarly, there’s room to like parts of songs that are otherwise terrible. Take the song “last resort” by Papa Roach. The song is dumb, the band is dumb, the lyrics are stupid, the production is the sonic equivalent of a cheap plastic sports car covered in spoilers and decals, but fuck me if that main guitar riff isn’t totally FACE MELTINGLY KICK ASS. There’s just no way to deny it.
It’s finding shit like this that will ultimately make you an interesting songwriter. You should never be dismissive of something because it’s not cool. I mean, so, for example, you find that riff in Last Resort. It’s an amazing riff surrounded by poop. Well, here’s what you do, rip off that riff and put it into a song that you think is cool. That’s the fucking secret of success. To once again paraphrase Picasso, “brilliant minds create, geniuses steal.” Look at Willie Nelson, one of the greatest singer songwriters of all time. His entire vocal delivery and even guitar playing style is stolen. The way he waits, lilts until the very last possible minute, kind of singing almost slower than the beat of the music, being very, very cavalier with the idea of rhythm, that’s all stolen from Billie Holiday. He’s admitted it in interviews, and once you know that, it’s shocking how obvious it is, but the amazing thing is that since he recapitulated smooth parlor room crooning into fireside singalong/guitar soloing, it becomes its own cool thing. That’s pretty much the most important thing about making anything, songs or not. There’s really nothing that hasn’t been done, and there’s a zillion things out there that are awesome, but they definitely haven’t all been applied to whatever you’re trying to do, be it a computer game or a new way of delivering gasoline or a funk song. So yeah.
There is, in fact, only one thing in music that I can’t stand, and that’s a certain lyric that is for some dumb reason pretty pervasive in popular music. That lyric is “I don’t care.”
I think it’s fucking stupid on a lot of levels. Firstly, I deplore the idea of creative expression based on a lack of passion. That’s ridiculous. If you don’t care, songwriter, why did you write a song about it, and more to the point, why should I care? What impetus is there for me to empathize with the idea that you can’t be bothered to feel one way or the other about something? It’s stupid, it’s lazy and it’s, in general, a phrase that people constantly misuse. People say “I don’t care” when they mean “I don’t like that” all the time, and people say “I don’t care” when they mean “I’m desperately empty inside” both of which are GREAT hooks for an emotional response to a song, but “I don’t care?” fuck you, man. I don’t care either. Get out of here with your lazy gen-y songwriting bullshit.
Okay, so full disclosure, I definitely sing a song that’s out there for public consumption that prominently features the line “I don’t care.” It’s called “Sick of this Place” and it was performed by my old band, Slapstick. Here’s the thing, firstly: those lyrics were not written by me, and secondly, I was 18 when we recorded that song and it was, in fact, that very song that made me realize how much I despised that lyrical choice. I don’t know, man. I just think it’s terrible. That’s the one place where I reserve prejudice, is for songs that feature the phrase “I don’t care”. Pretty funny that I care so much about apathy, eh?
Is that galactic poetry?
Nah…grumpy old man wanna-be talk. And with that, I’m off to serve sandwiches to assholes.
Later!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sport!
Okay, first things first. This is awesome and this is the most disturbing thing I’ve seen in a while. The first one was reader submitted. The second, well, that was just a google image search gone bad. Yipes.
Okay, so what’s going on here? How did my, and so many other people’s hero get his dick so thoroughly dragged through the dust? Of course I’m talking about speed skating living legend, Sven Kramer and his devastating turn to the inside track. I mean, shit, man! Just last week this guy is calling journalists idiots for not knowing who he is (or, more to the point, for daring to suggest that American spectators may not know who he is), and that’s the true measure of a world class superstar, if I’m not mistaken. When you get fucking outraged that people don’t know who you are, well, you’ve arrived. Do you think Tom Cruise puts his name in with the maitre d? Fuck no. He walks up and says something like “hey, Carl.” And Carl says “Good evening, Mr. Cruise. How many this evening, sir?” that’s how shit is supposed to go when you’re WORLD FAMOUS, man.
Can you imagine if Carl had said something as completely barbaric as ‘very good sir, what’s the name?’ Well, I can imagine that Tom would turn around, flash a winning smile and say something to the effect of “who’s this guy? What’s my name…Ha!” but that’s because Cruise is old. He’s worked out all his youthful aggression pretending his wife is his husband while he pummels her from behind. But Kramer? Hey, slow down, bitch! That’s THE Sven Kramer you’re daring to ask the name of, honey!
Well, anyway, you get the idea. Yesterday, he was obviously still so flummoxed by this complete affront that he made the grievous error of listening to his coach as his coach made a grievous error and shepherded him into the wrong lane and disqualifying him from the men’s ten thousand.
Hell, it seems, has frozen, ladies and gentlemen.
Okay, now let’s just get some things straight right away. America is, by nature a xenophobic and isolated spot, and it makes us dumb. It’s such a big and sequestered nation that there’s no experiential way to learn world geography from over here. Add to that the fact that we’re the only superpower in the world and an economic powerhouse (at least for now…I’m watching you, China) and you’ll see why most people in America don’t know shit about other places in the world. It’s far away. It’s irrelevant. There’s NO practical reason to know that Darfur is a region and not a nation, because that shit doesn’t come up, because we’ve got plenty of geography and different culture and all that right here in the good old US of A.
Now, that doesn’t explain why most Americans can’t locate California, Canada or Mexico on a map…I think you’ve gotta chalk that up to all the idiots and anti-intellectuals a-rearing their kids to be the next generation of global tards, combined with a world of technology and cushiness that’s rendered natural selection powerless. But anyway, I’m rambling.
The thing is, there’s an explanation why Americans don’t know about the world. I think it’s pretty pathetic, personally. But it’s not completely baffling. I mean, set out from Paris heading east. Do the same thing from Omaha. After 8 hours, the guy who started in Paris will have traveled through Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, Hungary, Romania, and into the Ukraine. The guy who started in Omaha will have traveled through Iowa. See my point? It doesn’t make it right, by any means, but I can see WHY people over here are so isolated and self centered. We’re the only-children of the globe. Well, we’ve got Canada and Mexico, and we ignore those too…Look, I’m not trying to figure it all out today, and I’m not defending ugly-americanism, I’m just saying is all.
The thing is, the Netherlands is a small, quirky very cool little country that doesn’t have a lot of cultural exports besides Heineken. I love the Netherlands. It’s beautiful, the laws and political climate is just my style, what with the hookers and the drugs and all that, but there’s one thing about the Netherlands that I find to be uh…hilarious, I guess is the word.
They LOVE speed skating. It’s a big, multimillion dollar sport there. These dudes, dudes like Sven Kramer, are HUGE stars in the Netherlands and they skate for stadiums full of people. That’s funny. Know why? Because speed skating is incredibly lame. Sorry. It is. No, YOU’RE wrong. It’s lame. It is. The idea that this kind of sport garners enthusiasm speaks very strongly to the notion that when weed becomes legal, the national consciousness will suddenly just sit down on the couch with some Doodlemunch and watch whatever crap is on tv.
Okay, so there’s that. Now let’s touch on the winter Olympics. Sure there’s shit like hockey and snowboarding and figure skating and okay, for the stoners and the lovers of the ironic, there’s curling. But that’s really it, man. The sports are all so bizarre and marginalized and goofy and man, nobody cares except for a few weirdos from a few countries that border the arctic circle who otherwise don’t get much recognition on the global level. I’m looking at you Scandinavia and Canada. I mean, the winter Olympics is basically tossing these poor frozen fuckers a bone in the spirit of global diplomacy, because let me promise you something. There was no speed skating going on in Greece back in the day. Which brings me to my point.
Hey Sven Kramer! You’re not famous! Look, maybe they know who you are back where you’re from, but everywhere else you are just a guy from a country that most people don’t know how to find on a map, and were they asked, couldn’t even tell you what the people from the Netherlands are called (they’re the Dutch, dummy). Don’t believe me? Okay, go into any city or any small town in the US, Canada, India, China, Japan, Mexico, Russia, all of South America, all of Africa, or anywhere in Australia and have someone point out where the Dutch live on a map. See how good they do. Oh, while you’re at it, ask them what speed skating is. You’re not famous.
Hey, everyone who lives in my house knows my name and what I do too, doesn’t mean I expect it from the guy at Dunkin Donuts.
Next, if you really ARE such an amazing phenom (and let’s be fair, he is. He was winning this race by the unbelievable margin of seven and a half seconds) and you’re really such a global household name, don’t you think it’s really not too much to ask to keep track of WHICH FUCKING LANE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE IN DURING ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT RACES OF YOUR LIFE, EH?
Sure. Blame the fucking coach, but you know the truth. You fucked up your uh…whatever your race is called, you big baby.
In closing, in order to write this, I had to look this dudes name up on Yahoo, and I even watched this whole thing unfold on the news, so suck it.
I promise never to write about the Olympics again. Gotta go string my guitar. Peace.
Okay, so what’s going on here? How did my, and so many other people’s hero get his dick so thoroughly dragged through the dust? Of course I’m talking about speed skating living legend, Sven Kramer and his devastating turn to the inside track. I mean, shit, man! Just last week this guy is calling journalists idiots for not knowing who he is (or, more to the point, for daring to suggest that American spectators may not know who he is), and that’s the true measure of a world class superstar, if I’m not mistaken. When you get fucking outraged that people don’t know who you are, well, you’ve arrived. Do you think Tom Cruise puts his name in with the maitre d? Fuck no. He walks up and says something like “hey, Carl.” And Carl says “Good evening, Mr. Cruise. How many this evening, sir?” that’s how shit is supposed to go when you’re WORLD FAMOUS, man.
Can you imagine if Carl had said something as completely barbaric as ‘very good sir, what’s the name?’ Well, I can imagine that Tom would turn around, flash a winning smile and say something to the effect of “who’s this guy? What’s my name…Ha!” but that’s because Cruise is old. He’s worked out all his youthful aggression pretending his wife is his husband while he pummels her from behind. But Kramer? Hey, slow down, bitch! That’s THE Sven Kramer you’re daring to ask the name of, honey!
Well, anyway, you get the idea. Yesterday, he was obviously still so flummoxed by this complete affront that he made the grievous error of listening to his coach as his coach made a grievous error and shepherded him into the wrong lane and disqualifying him from the men’s ten thousand.
Hell, it seems, has frozen, ladies and gentlemen.
Okay, now let’s just get some things straight right away. America is, by nature a xenophobic and isolated spot, and it makes us dumb. It’s such a big and sequestered nation that there’s no experiential way to learn world geography from over here. Add to that the fact that we’re the only superpower in the world and an economic powerhouse (at least for now…I’m watching you, China) and you’ll see why most people in America don’t know shit about other places in the world. It’s far away. It’s irrelevant. There’s NO practical reason to know that Darfur is a region and not a nation, because that shit doesn’t come up, because we’ve got plenty of geography and different culture and all that right here in the good old US of A.
Now, that doesn’t explain why most Americans can’t locate California, Canada or Mexico on a map…I think you’ve gotta chalk that up to all the idiots and anti-intellectuals a-rearing their kids to be the next generation of global tards, combined with a world of technology and cushiness that’s rendered natural selection powerless. But anyway, I’m rambling.
The thing is, there’s an explanation why Americans don’t know about the world. I think it’s pretty pathetic, personally. But it’s not completely baffling. I mean, set out from Paris heading east. Do the same thing from Omaha. After 8 hours, the guy who started in Paris will have traveled through Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, Hungary, Romania, and into the Ukraine. The guy who started in Omaha will have traveled through Iowa. See my point? It doesn’t make it right, by any means, but I can see WHY people over here are so isolated and self centered. We’re the only-children of the globe. Well, we’ve got Canada and Mexico, and we ignore those too…Look, I’m not trying to figure it all out today, and I’m not defending ugly-americanism, I’m just saying is all.
The thing is, the Netherlands is a small, quirky very cool little country that doesn’t have a lot of cultural exports besides Heineken. I love the Netherlands. It’s beautiful, the laws and political climate is just my style, what with the hookers and the drugs and all that, but there’s one thing about the Netherlands that I find to be uh…hilarious, I guess is the word.
They LOVE speed skating. It’s a big, multimillion dollar sport there. These dudes, dudes like Sven Kramer, are HUGE stars in the Netherlands and they skate for stadiums full of people. That’s funny. Know why? Because speed skating is incredibly lame. Sorry. It is. No, YOU’RE wrong. It’s lame. It is. The idea that this kind of sport garners enthusiasm speaks very strongly to the notion that when weed becomes legal, the national consciousness will suddenly just sit down on the couch with some Doodlemunch and watch whatever crap is on tv.
Okay, so there’s that. Now let’s touch on the winter Olympics. Sure there’s shit like hockey and snowboarding and figure skating and okay, for the stoners and the lovers of the ironic, there’s curling. But that’s really it, man. The sports are all so bizarre and marginalized and goofy and man, nobody cares except for a few weirdos from a few countries that border the arctic circle who otherwise don’t get much recognition on the global level. I’m looking at you Scandinavia and Canada. I mean, the winter Olympics is basically tossing these poor frozen fuckers a bone in the spirit of global diplomacy, because let me promise you something. There was no speed skating going on in Greece back in the day. Which brings me to my point.
Hey Sven Kramer! You’re not famous! Look, maybe they know who you are back where you’re from, but everywhere else you are just a guy from a country that most people don’t know how to find on a map, and were they asked, couldn’t even tell you what the people from the Netherlands are called (they’re the Dutch, dummy). Don’t believe me? Okay, go into any city or any small town in the US, Canada, India, China, Japan, Mexico, Russia, all of South America, all of Africa, or anywhere in Australia and have someone point out where the Dutch live on a map. See how good they do. Oh, while you’re at it, ask them what speed skating is. You’re not famous.
Hey, everyone who lives in my house knows my name and what I do too, doesn’t mean I expect it from the guy at Dunkin Donuts.
Next, if you really ARE such an amazing phenom (and let’s be fair, he is. He was winning this race by the unbelievable margin of seven and a half seconds) and you’re really such a global household name, don’t you think it’s really not too much to ask to keep track of WHICH FUCKING LANE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE IN DURING ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT RACES OF YOUR LIFE, EH?
Sure. Blame the fucking coach, but you know the truth. You fucked up your uh…whatever your race is called, you big baby.
In closing, in order to write this, I had to look this dudes name up on Yahoo, and I even watched this whole thing unfold on the news, so suck it.
I promise never to write about the Olympics again. Gotta go string my guitar. Peace.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
they're GRRRRREEEEEAT!
Good morning various dipshits and dipshittalinas, welcome to Tuesday, Bad Sandwich number 367. I’m waiting for the cable guy to come and look at my phone. It’s never worked and these lazy fuckers always seem to double talk their way out of fixing it properly. I don’t like the pressure of dealing with the cable guy if we’re being honest. Sounds pretty wimpy, right? Well, here’s the thing. I’m out of my element in that I know nothing about cable and phone installation and this guy, when he shows up is gonna be, and this is a guarantee, lazy as shit and not interested in doing anything. That puts us at odds right away. Now, add to the mix that I’ve got a pregnant wife with nesting syndrome who is also very easily riled to anger when dealing with bureaucracy and with my ineptitude and you’ve got a recipe for a sweaty man sitting there while the cable guy does nothing, worrying about what he’s gonna say to placate his wife who only wants the fucking phone to work. “Come on! Don’t be such a fucking pussy!” I scream to myself, but it’s no use. I’m lost in this world of fiber optics, man. Lost.
Well, sorry. My thing is a whole other thing, brah. I’ll stand in front of a thousand people and just start talking and have no idea what I’m gonna say and just kind of hope I stick the landing. That’s my talent here on this earth. Hell, that’s what I’m doing right now, man, just in print form. Handling housecalls though, not my forte.
Well, it’s too late. I’m stuck here, just waiting for this guy to come in, look around, say “hey, nothing I can do here” and then when I try to call his supervisor or whatever, my phone will cut out. that’s the twisted genius of these fucks at Comcast. I can’t even call to bitch because they won’t fix my phone. That’s some fucking M Night Shyamalan shit man. Well, I’m feeling doomed. That’s all there is to it. Any of you install phone jacks? Wanna help a brother out? Come on! This is three hundred and sixty six pages of free content I’ve given you. The least you can do is come over here and install some phone jacks and run a bunch of cable through my place, right? Right. See you soon.
Now, briefly let’s talk Tiger Woods, kay? I mean, I wouldn’t be an irresponsible media pundit if I didn’t weigh in on the public apology, right? Of course not. Okay, here’s how I see it. He’s a total pussy and for whatever reason, he needs to keep those millions of dollars coming in. I guess I get it. It’s hard to scale back. If you’re playing stadiums and then suddenly you’re reduced to playing theaters, it stings, even though playing theaters is still a real benchmark of great success. So, yeah. Tiger was getting kind of shined by his endorsements due to his moral slumming, so he had to announce his deep regret and stuff so they’d keep him on the wheaties boxes and on the shoes and shit, right?
I know! He’s already got millions and billions. Who cares if the cash train stops? Well, let me throw another analogy at you. Let’s say, arbitrarily that Tiger Woods has fourteen endorsements, right? Each one of these endorsements he puts in a little time with and they each satisfy him in his own little way, not unlike if he was, let’s say, fucking fourteen different women, right? Okay, you with me? Good. So, when you’re fucking fourteen different women, that’s great. And SURE, you only need three or four women to be totally satisfied, but man, fourteen is GREAT! And when they all stop fucking you at once, well, you’ll probably do whatever you can to get them back, because that’s what you’re used to, not because it’s what you need. You follow? We’re talking about endorsements here.
Anyway, point being, here’s what I think he should have said:
“Hey hey! It’s me, tiger. I’ve been in the news a lot lately. Yeah, I know. You all know all about it. Now listen up. Let me ask you all something? Ever been the best at something? At anything at all? No? Hmmm…Okay, ever been the best EVER at something? No? Okay, let me ask you all this, then: ever have fourteen women want to fuck you at the same time? How about two? No? Didn’t think so. So leave me alone. You have no fucking idea what my life is like or the pressure I face. Suck a dick, everyone. I’ve got plenty of money. Oh, and leave my wife and kids alone you parasitic assholes. I’m sorry you’re untalented, and you have to take pictures of me for a living but get off my neighbor’s lawn, kay? Thanks Adnan.”
I don’t know. I think a little honesty would have been refreshing, but hey, who am I to talk. I can’t even stand up to the fucking cable guy. Maybe I would have done the tears and mom hug too…I guess Tiger’s right. I have no idea what kind of pressure he’s under.
Okay, I’m out. One final question: Hey! Girl from NY! Did you get laid or what? Jesus.
Well, sorry. My thing is a whole other thing, brah. I’ll stand in front of a thousand people and just start talking and have no idea what I’m gonna say and just kind of hope I stick the landing. That’s my talent here on this earth. Hell, that’s what I’m doing right now, man, just in print form. Handling housecalls though, not my forte.
Well, it’s too late. I’m stuck here, just waiting for this guy to come in, look around, say “hey, nothing I can do here” and then when I try to call his supervisor or whatever, my phone will cut out. that’s the twisted genius of these fucks at Comcast. I can’t even call to bitch because they won’t fix my phone. That’s some fucking M Night Shyamalan shit man. Well, I’m feeling doomed. That’s all there is to it. Any of you install phone jacks? Wanna help a brother out? Come on! This is three hundred and sixty six pages of free content I’ve given you. The least you can do is come over here and install some phone jacks and run a bunch of cable through my place, right? Right. See you soon.
Now, briefly let’s talk Tiger Woods, kay? I mean, I wouldn’t be an irresponsible media pundit if I didn’t weigh in on the public apology, right? Of course not. Okay, here’s how I see it. He’s a total pussy and for whatever reason, he needs to keep those millions of dollars coming in. I guess I get it. It’s hard to scale back. If you’re playing stadiums and then suddenly you’re reduced to playing theaters, it stings, even though playing theaters is still a real benchmark of great success. So, yeah. Tiger was getting kind of shined by his endorsements due to his moral slumming, so he had to announce his deep regret and stuff so they’d keep him on the wheaties boxes and on the shoes and shit, right?
I know! He’s already got millions and billions. Who cares if the cash train stops? Well, let me throw another analogy at you. Let’s say, arbitrarily that Tiger Woods has fourteen endorsements, right? Each one of these endorsements he puts in a little time with and they each satisfy him in his own little way, not unlike if he was, let’s say, fucking fourteen different women, right? Okay, you with me? Good. So, when you’re fucking fourteen different women, that’s great. And SURE, you only need three or four women to be totally satisfied, but man, fourteen is GREAT! And when they all stop fucking you at once, well, you’ll probably do whatever you can to get them back, because that’s what you’re used to, not because it’s what you need. You follow? We’re talking about endorsements here.
Anyway, point being, here’s what I think he should have said:
“Hey hey! It’s me, tiger. I’ve been in the news a lot lately. Yeah, I know. You all know all about it. Now listen up. Let me ask you all something? Ever been the best at something? At anything at all? No? Hmmm…Okay, ever been the best EVER at something? No? Okay, let me ask you all this, then: ever have fourteen women want to fuck you at the same time? How about two? No? Didn’t think so. So leave me alone. You have no fucking idea what my life is like or the pressure I face. Suck a dick, everyone. I’ve got plenty of money. Oh, and leave my wife and kids alone you parasitic assholes. I’m sorry you’re untalented, and you have to take pictures of me for a living but get off my neighbor’s lawn, kay? Thanks Adnan.”
I don’t know. I think a little honesty would have been refreshing, but hey, who am I to talk. I can’t even stand up to the fucking cable guy. Maybe I would have done the tears and mom hug too…I guess Tiger’s right. I have no idea what kind of pressure he’s under.
Okay, I’m out. One final question: Hey! Girl from NY! Did you get laid or what? Jesus.
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