Hello scum. Now that I’m a maven of the advertising world, I think it’s safe to say that I’m on the fast track to success. I can’t wait for all the checks to start pouring in from Google and various peanut butter concerns, all of them begging for my powerful endorsement. This is great. This is the real adrenal gland of the fucking American dream, people. Take notes Horatio Alger and Raoul Duke…You sit on your dick and type mindless drivel to unwashed filthy hordes of retards and plebians and then sit back and let the forty five cent checks add up until you can afford to buy a free standing Quiznos and a yacht. Yes, it IS TOO the American dream! It’s got all the components: impractical opulence, healthy disrespect for the public, money for nothing, swelling sense of superiority gained without any sense of meritocracy, obesity, extra mayonnaise, and of course, yachts. What else could you ask for, America? Forget it. I’m not asking you people anything. Maybe someday when you’re ad men like me, you’ll understand and then, when we’re down at the country club, at the bar in the great room, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking goat blood out of African baby skulls, we can all laugh about these early days, when the world seemed so wide open and there was that brief, fleeting moment of white hot terror when we suspected and then KNEW that someday we’d have to toil. Then, along came TJ Maxx and Lil’ Wayne’s World ads, and now, well, call over the slave, would you? I’m almost finished with my goat’s blood.
Seriously, though, since diving headfirst into the world of monetized blogging and endless streams of revenue, I’ve made a few changes. That’s right: Hair plugs, tummy tuck, pec and calf implants, new dick, better, unchafable nipples, a bicycle built for two, new granite countertops, a ballsack massager and a place in the storage space for him to sleep when he’s not working the knots out of my balls. I know, lavish. But man, you should see me. Did I mention teeth caps? Oh yeah. When I smile I look like that wall of refrigerators down at Circuit City. And I got a whole new layer of epidermis on my back to insure that I’ll never again deal with the horrors of back hair. Thank god! Although, really, at this point my appearance is irrelevant. I can buy and sell women as though they were mere Mexicans. You don’t like my back hair, well, back to the jizz mines, my dear. I’ll find someone who positively loves me for me and my yacht and my back hair and for all the endless revenue that my ads for the Hulbert Financial Digest provide. That’s right ladies. No more kicking me around. In fact, NO ONE can tell me what to do anymore, except the good people at google and TJ Maxx. Besides them I’m on top of the heap, and you can either get on this yacht or let the foamy spray hit you in the face, beeeeyotches! Yeah, boye!
What else? Um…I leave on tour tomorrow. It’s gonna be great. Well, it was gonna be cool enough to fly out and avoid that whole texas/iowa/south Dakota stretch of nothingness, but now, now I’m flying out on a private jet and when I get there, I’m gonna do what I please. You want to hear songs? Heh. Maybe. If I feel like it. That’s how it works now. Maybe I’ll just get up there and tell stories, or whack off, or fling my shit like some sort of colobus monkey. Maybe I’ll just toss nickels out to you guys and laugh like some sort of robber baron as my time traveling zeppelin floats me gently up and into the future. You never can tell with renegade millionaires like me or that one toothy bastard from Virgin. We’re unpredictable. That’s sort of the compelling risk taking that turned us into billionaires in the first place, innit? Um…what’s that guys name again? Um…branson. Dick Branson. Kind of a folksy ozarky name for a trillionaire, isn’t it? I’ll have to get one of my girls to put me in touch with him. I need other mavericks on my speed dial. I can’t just hang out with you guys forever. You understand, right? Nevermind. Who cares? Okay, memo sent. Perfect.
Yeah, so my flight leaves at ten am and I don’t know what the situation is gonna be like while I’m out on the road. I’d really like to do a sort of “dispatch from the trenches” kinda deal if I can, but we’ll see. It’s a short tour and I’ve got a lot of living to do, I can’t just be sitting around at the computer all day. I mean, as I dictate this to my man-servant, Claudio, (hi guys! [don’t worry, I told him he could do that]) I’m already becoming dry-mouthed and bored. I tire of this, Claudio. No, don’t write that down? Are you still taking dictation? Jesus Christ, Claudio, no wonder they didn’t want you in Honduras!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Hey there Dogs of War!
Good morning everyone! Hey, you know what I love? Peanut butter. But not just any old peanut butter. Heavens no! Why, I love rich, thick Jif brand peanut butter. That’s right, kids. Can’t get enough of it. In fact, when I’m sitting around, drinking my Dunkin Donuts brand coffee in the morning, sometimes I dump a little Jif in there just to spruce it up. Not that Dunkin Donuts delicious coffee needs any sprucing up, you know? Of course you do. How could America’s Favorite Coffee possibly get any better? Well, Jif brand creamy peanut butter is one way. Another way? Jim Beam old fashioned Bourbon Whiskey. Nothing says “top o’ the morning” to you like a wee nip of Jim Beam brand whiskey while the rooster’s still a-crowin.’ Am I right? Of course I am. Okay, just thought I’d throw that out there real quick, apropos of nothing. Um, what’s up everyone? Having a good beginning of your week?
I sure am. I’m making money from home, using a patented, tried and true method that allows me to just sit here, stewing in the smells of my own farts as they waft through my Hanes brand terrycloth robe and ensconce me, like a homemade aromatherapy. You too can create your own aromatherapy at home, by the way! It’s true. Try White Castle brand sliders and wash about nine of them down with a delicious twelver of Bud Select 55: all the gayness of drinking a cosmo, all the bloating of chugging real beer, but without that pesky feeling of heightened self esteem or relaxed lucidity. That’s right, kids! Bud Select 55! The quickest way to look picky and unsophisticated at the same time!
Okay, sorry. I kind of went off there. Can’t help it though. It just seems like there are so many great products out there, you know? It’s almost crazy. I mean, I don’t even know what to buy these days. It can be overwhelming. Okay, let’s say I want to buy a catamaran. Of course I’ll start out by using Google brand search engines and then compare prices to see if anyone is even coming close to beating the ridiculously low prices offered by Bass Pro online, and then, after all that, I’ll make a choice. Of course this is an idle example, because South African Gunboat brand Catamarans are the only choice for the discerning Catamaraner, but you get my point. If only there was a way for companies to get the word out there to people like me, and hey, people like you, well that would be great. I mean, I don’t know about you guys, but if I had a place, like perhaps on the internet where I went every day because of consistently high quality content that could somehow link me, the consumer in the coveted 18-49 demographic, to products and services that I may like or need or maybe not even know that I need, why, that would be a dream come true to me. Don’t you guys think? Like, for example, I go to this one blog every day…it’s okay, nothing great, but the other day I went to it and I saw an ad for John Strong brand titanium vibrating buttplugs (his and hers) and I thought to myself “Huh, never thought about getting a matching set of his and hers buttplugs that come with a lifetime warranty and can be engraved for only ten extra dollars, but maybe I should, you know…put that in the maybe pile for Christmas.” It would be a good gift, after all. For my parents, I mean. Come on. What did you think I meant?
Anyway, today’s shaping up to be pretty good. My mother in law is coming, via Frontier Airlines, and then I’m going to take her out to Wendy’s for a delicious sandwich of her choice. Did you know she can get a baked potato or chili instead of fries with her value meal for no extra charge? That’s just some of the bold new shit that’s popping off over at Wendy’s, son! Yeah. Holla!
Sorry. Where was I? Oh yeah…I leave on tour in a few days. That should be pretty cool. I’m coming your way West coast, so watch out In n Out brand burgers, Vivid brand pornography, Ashley Blue brand latex molded vagina and asshole, Everlasting Gobstopper brand candies, Provinex brand ether, Home Depot house-brand Rubber tubing and latex rope, Chevy brand unmarked windowless vans and Three Olives Bubble brand vodka. It’s gonna be a hell of a time!
Can I get a “Coke is it!” from everyone?
Amen.
I sure am. I’m making money from home, using a patented, tried and true method that allows me to just sit here, stewing in the smells of my own farts as they waft through my Hanes brand terrycloth robe and ensconce me, like a homemade aromatherapy. You too can create your own aromatherapy at home, by the way! It’s true. Try White Castle brand sliders and wash about nine of them down with a delicious twelver of Bud Select 55: all the gayness of drinking a cosmo, all the bloating of chugging real beer, but without that pesky feeling of heightened self esteem or relaxed lucidity. That’s right, kids! Bud Select 55! The quickest way to look picky and unsophisticated at the same time!
Okay, sorry. I kind of went off there. Can’t help it though. It just seems like there are so many great products out there, you know? It’s almost crazy. I mean, I don’t even know what to buy these days. It can be overwhelming. Okay, let’s say I want to buy a catamaran. Of course I’ll start out by using Google brand search engines and then compare prices to see if anyone is even coming close to beating the ridiculously low prices offered by Bass Pro online, and then, after all that, I’ll make a choice. Of course this is an idle example, because South African Gunboat brand Catamarans are the only choice for the discerning Catamaraner, but you get my point. If only there was a way for companies to get the word out there to people like me, and hey, people like you, well that would be great. I mean, I don’t know about you guys, but if I had a place, like perhaps on the internet where I went every day because of consistently high quality content that could somehow link me, the consumer in the coveted 18-49 demographic, to products and services that I may like or need or maybe not even know that I need, why, that would be a dream come true to me. Don’t you guys think? Like, for example, I go to this one blog every day…it’s okay, nothing great, but the other day I went to it and I saw an ad for John Strong brand titanium vibrating buttplugs (his and hers) and I thought to myself “Huh, never thought about getting a matching set of his and hers buttplugs that come with a lifetime warranty and can be engraved for only ten extra dollars, but maybe I should, you know…put that in the maybe pile for Christmas.” It would be a good gift, after all. For my parents, I mean. Come on. What did you think I meant?
Anyway, today’s shaping up to be pretty good. My mother in law is coming, via Frontier Airlines, and then I’m going to take her out to Wendy’s for a delicious sandwich of her choice. Did you know she can get a baked potato or chili instead of fries with her value meal for no extra charge? That’s just some of the bold new shit that’s popping off over at Wendy’s, son! Yeah. Holla!
Sorry. Where was I? Oh yeah…I leave on tour in a few days. That should be pretty cool. I’m coming your way West coast, so watch out In n Out brand burgers, Vivid brand pornography, Ashley Blue brand latex molded vagina and asshole, Everlasting Gobstopper brand candies, Provinex brand ether, Home Depot house-brand Rubber tubing and latex rope, Chevy brand unmarked windowless vans and Three Olives Bubble brand vodka. It’s gonna be a hell of a time!
Can I get a “Coke is it!” from everyone?
Amen.
Monday, November 2, 2009
I'm a mofuckin cash money millionaire
Good morning. It’s Monday and I couldn’t be happier to be rapping at you turds and turdettes today. I’m currently jamming some Asia (heat of the moment) and drinking a little coffee. Last night I was trying to convince my friend Matt about the greatness of Lil’ Wayne and he (understandably) was having none of it. He said he didn’t ‘get it’ which I dig. That shit’s not for everyone. But it made me realize something and it sort of knocked my entire pompous sensibility on its ass.
See, I’m a dismissive prick when it comes to consumption, and there’s lots of things out there that I don’t get. AND, and this is the key point, I sort of feel smug and superior about not getting certain things. “Oh, you like Nirvana, eh…” I’ll think, “well, I guess I just don’t get it (and, frankly, that’s because secretly, it sucks and your taste is unrefined, lame, terrible etc.)” You’re familiar with this train of thought, no? Sure you are. It’s not just music either. What about your great uncle that cooks spam in the frying pan? What about your friend that watches Twilight? What about your buddy who collects stamps or obsessively watches NASCAR or whatever it is? It’s everywhere. Something in this popular consciousness has turned everyone into smug, superior cocksuckers. Everyone. Me included.
But last night, while I was listening to Lil’ Wayne and talking to Matt, I realized something huge, and I texted it to myself so I wouldn’t forget it. This is the text, verbatim:
“The superior perspective isn’t the one that doesn’t get it, but the one that does.”
Now, this is no dig on matt, nor is it some new way for me to feel superior to someone because they’ve pooh-poohed something I enjoy, (because let’s face facts, in much the same way that not liking something makes us feel superior, liking something that everyone laughs at you for liking is a bummer of a feeling). In fact, Matt’s a brilliant guy and he has every reason in the world to not legitimately like Lil Wayne and I’m not questioning that but I AM suggesting that he’s missing out by not liking it. Same with everyone who doesn’t like everything. This world is a shitstorm of sadness, decay, hatred, whimsical tragedy and ugliness. There are so few things out there that are enjoyable, the idea that NOT enjoying something is some sort of claim to superiority is just fucking foolish. It’s sort of like when I realized how ass backwards the morality of the Puritans was. Suddenly up is down, good is bad, cats and dogs are living together, man. This shit’s the same. All these smug hipster dipshits (of which I am, unfortunately, one) that are too cool for school who condescend to us because we enjoy J Lo or Nickelback or Monday Night Football or Taco Bell or (god forbid!) something that’s on television, they’re the ones who can’t make the jump to see the good in something and thereby enjoy it. They’re the ones lacking the ability to process consumption into enjoyment, they’re the ones who will never know the visceral emotion that (for example) rushes into me when I’m listening to Lil’ Wayne really loudly. And that’s not better. That’s worse. There’s NOTHING cool about not being able to enjoy something. Nothing at all.
Now, this isn’t to say that people aren’t allowed to dislike something, or that they’re stupid for not liking it. To go back to my original situation, Matt doesn’t like Lil’ Wayne. I’m not suggesting he’s dumber than me, or that his intellect is dimmer or that I’m better than him or anything like that. That would be stupid. I AM suggesting that he’s the one missing out by not liking it, and that makes his existence that much less enjoyable. Sure, it’s infinitesimal, but it’s the kind of thing that adds up if it runs rampant all over every facet of your life. I don’t know, man. It’s strange. There’s no reason that the idea that enjoying something is better than not enjoying it should be a statement that even needs to be made, but that’s how fucking stupid and twisted our times are, folks. I’m revolted by all of us.
Oh, and obviously this isn’t the kind of thing that holds true in extreme circumstances. Like, for example, kid porn or torture or Skrewdriver records or whatever. There’s lots of fucked up shit out there that’s a product of hate and evil and that shit’s obviously antithetical to what I’m talking about, so gimme a fucking break you goddamn lawyers. Jesus. Try to bring a little perspective out and all anyone wants to do is talk semantics.
Fucking vultures. Forget I said anything.
See, I’m a dismissive prick when it comes to consumption, and there’s lots of things out there that I don’t get. AND, and this is the key point, I sort of feel smug and superior about not getting certain things. “Oh, you like Nirvana, eh…” I’ll think, “well, I guess I just don’t get it (and, frankly, that’s because secretly, it sucks and your taste is unrefined, lame, terrible etc.)” You’re familiar with this train of thought, no? Sure you are. It’s not just music either. What about your great uncle that cooks spam in the frying pan? What about your friend that watches Twilight? What about your buddy who collects stamps or obsessively watches NASCAR or whatever it is? It’s everywhere. Something in this popular consciousness has turned everyone into smug, superior cocksuckers. Everyone. Me included.
But last night, while I was listening to Lil’ Wayne and talking to Matt, I realized something huge, and I texted it to myself so I wouldn’t forget it. This is the text, verbatim:
“The superior perspective isn’t the one that doesn’t get it, but the one that does.”
Now, this is no dig on matt, nor is it some new way for me to feel superior to someone because they’ve pooh-poohed something I enjoy, (because let’s face facts, in much the same way that not liking something makes us feel superior, liking something that everyone laughs at you for liking is a bummer of a feeling). In fact, Matt’s a brilliant guy and he has every reason in the world to not legitimately like Lil Wayne and I’m not questioning that but I AM suggesting that he’s missing out by not liking it. Same with everyone who doesn’t like everything. This world is a shitstorm of sadness, decay, hatred, whimsical tragedy and ugliness. There are so few things out there that are enjoyable, the idea that NOT enjoying something is some sort of claim to superiority is just fucking foolish. It’s sort of like when I realized how ass backwards the morality of the Puritans was. Suddenly up is down, good is bad, cats and dogs are living together, man. This shit’s the same. All these smug hipster dipshits (of which I am, unfortunately, one) that are too cool for school who condescend to us because we enjoy J Lo or Nickelback or Monday Night Football or Taco Bell or (god forbid!) something that’s on television, they’re the ones who can’t make the jump to see the good in something and thereby enjoy it. They’re the ones lacking the ability to process consumption into enjoyment, they’re the ones who will never know the visceral emotion that (for example) rushes into me when I’m listening to Lil’ Wayne really loudly. And that’s not better. That’s worse. There’s NOTHING cool about not being able to enjoy something. Nothing at all.
Now, this isn’t to say that people aren’t allowed to dislike something, or that they’re stupid for not liking it. To go back to my original situation, Matt doesn’t like Lil’ Wayne. I’m not suggesting he’s dumber than me, or that his intellect is dimmer or that I’m better than him or anything like that. That would be stupid. I AM suggesting that he’s the one missing out by not liking it, and that makes his existence that much less enjoyable. Sure, it’s infinitesimal, but it’s the kind of thing that adds up if it runs rampant all over every facet of your life. I don’t know, man. It’s strange. There’s no reason that the idea that enjoying something is better than not enjoying it should be a statement that even needs to be made, but that’s how fucking stupid and twisted our times are, folks. I’m revolted by all of us.
Oh, and obviously this isn’t the kind of thing that holds true in extreme circumstances. Like, for example, kid porn or torture or Skrewdriver records or whatever. There’s lots of fucked up shit out there that’s a product of hate and evil and that shit’s obviously antithetical to what I’m talking about, so gimme a fucking break you goddamn lawyers. Jesus. Try to bring a little perspective out and all anyone wants to do is talk semantics.
Fucking vultures. Forget I said anything.
Friday, October 30, 2009
I'm afraid you're just too loud.
As far as I can tell, there are three types of time traveling that really bear talking about. First, there’s the regular old time traveling, as in: I’m currently traveling into the future at a rate of one second per second. Not terribly exciting, but it’s time travel. It’s like if you’re flying to LA and you have a 2 hour layover in the Kansas City airport. Not the dry rub ribs and burnt ends, hookers under the viaduct, line dancing at the Beaumont, Royals and Chiefs extravaganza you’ve probably always dreamed of, but technically, yeah, you were in Kansas City. That’s the way this first time travel works. It’s the technicality of space time quantum excitement (to misuse several words and theories) or the through-the-pants-handjob…no. the wet dream. No. Okay, maybe this one time there is no appropriate semen analogy. I don’t know. Readers, I throw it to you. How is dull old “into the future at one second per second” time travel like jizz? You guys will come up with something. That’s what you do. Anyway, enough jib jab about jizz. I’ve got two more types of time travel to get to and I’ve got about ten minutes until I have to leave for work (stupid regular time travel).
Up next is the good old fashioned Doc Brown school of time travel, involving deloreans and specific dates and some sort of grid or matrix or futuristic abacus-type dealie that the time traveler uses to pinpoint the exact moment she’s headed to. (I know, women don’t time travel this way. Not sexist. FACT. I’m doing my part for gender politics [and undoubtedly weakening the scientific value of this essay, but whatever] by imposing the female pronoun here even though you expected the male pronoun. Take that hegemony!) This time travel usually involves going into the past and making some trivial change that has sweeping consequences. Then, you go back to your own time and HOLY SHIT!!!!! There’s a new reality! Lots of people also zip way into the future (like uh…was it the memento/Priscilla queen of the desert dude who went way into the future and had to fight the moorlocks? Probably. Sounds like something he’d do), and I understand the temptation. See what goes on after you die. That’s pretty exciting shit, man. Also, you can’t fuck up the present or the future future, because presumably, this time trip is already built into the future’s continuum, it being the future and all. You still following me McFly? Good. This shit moves pretty quick. Pseudo science is no laughing matter. Anyway, I think the future trip is dumb for one big reason. Confidence. In the past, you’d have so much confidence you could pretty much bang your way through whatever era you chose. I mean, go to Woodstock and look at some group of filthy mondo bushed hippy chicks and say “Ritchie havens is gonna be on first. He’s gonna do a ten minute jam about a motherless child” and see what happens. Clam city. I don’t even need a time machine to predict THAT future of the past, or whatever you want to call it. Go to 1776 and scoop paul revere. You’re a hero. Anywhen you go, you’ve got the edge, man. There’s nothing that says confidence like being from the future. That’s why Marty’s mom couldn’t keep her hands off him, despite how gross we all thought it was. Okay, you get the idea. Problem is, you don’t know what you’re gonna bang into existence back there. Could end up turning your happy little apartment into a smoldering crater in the middle of a future/present shit swamp, you know? No. That’s right. With time travel, you never know. That segues nicely into time travel method number three:
Massive drunkenness. This is a truly out there form of time travel. One minute you’re saying “I bet you any amount of money I can chug this Singapore sling in fifteen seconds!” to some forty five year old woman at a Rockville Center motel bar and the next second you’re on some living room floor a day later with no pants on and a family you’ve never seen before is above you trying to eat breakfast and get the kids out the door. You’re covered in bruises. You’ve got a car key that you’ve never seen before and one dollar. Your wallet is gone but a note on your hand, scrawled in your handwriting in Sharpie says “Don’t forgit the fukkin CHICKEN!” That’s time travel, for you. Discombobulating and disturbing. Thrust into a future you don’t understand left with no tools with which to deal with anything. All you can do is go find those regular people who just lived their lives traveling the first, boring form of time travel and get them to tell you what you skipped over. You can’t go into the past with this method, though it’s reported that during time travel, most time travelers spend a lot of time talking about the past like it was “way fucking awesome.” This is probably the second most dangerous form of time travel, but every single one of these will eventually kill you. No shit.
Okay, it’s late and I have to go. My kid had Halloween at school and he’s dressed as satan. It’s real cute. His best buddy was gonna be Yoda, but he didn’t like the hat or the jacket, so he opted out of the festivities. Regardless, nothing cuter than toddlers in costumes. Huh. Pretty lame end to a science fiction post, man. Even for me.
Okay, I think the dude that filmed my band’s show has a little preview set up that he’s gonna post on line today. It’s still unmixed sound, and we all look disgusting, so don’t worry about telling us, we know all about it. Anyway, I’ll post the link when I get it, should be today or tomorrow at the latest. Or just google the shit. Dude’s name is travis.
Okay, into the future I go.
Later, queefs.
Edit- here's the link: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=540215910908
Up next is the good old fashioned Doc Brown school of time travel, involving deloreans and specific dates and some sort of grid or matrix or futuristic abacus-type dealie that the time traveler uses to pinpoint the exact moment she’s headed to. (I know, women don’t time travel this way. Not sexist. FACT. I’m doing my part for gender politics [and undoubtedly weakening the scientific value of this essay, but whatever] by imposing the female pronoun here even though you expected the male pronoun. Take that hegemony!) This time travel usually involves going into the past and making some trivial change that has sweeping consequences. Then, you go back to your own time and HOLY SHIT!!!!! There’s a new reality! Lots of people also zip way into the future (like uh…was it the memento/Priscilla queen of the desert dude who went way into the future and had to fight the moorlocks? Probably. Sounds like something he’d do), and I understand the temptation. See what goes on after you die. That’s pretty exciting shit, man. Also, you can’t fuck up the present or the future future, because presumably, this time trip is already built into the future’s continuum, it being the future and all. You still following me McFly? Good. This shit moves pretty quick. Pseudo science is no laughing matter. Anyway, I think the future trip is dumb for one big reason. Confidence. In the past, you’d have so much confidence you could pretty much bang your way through whatever era you chose. I mean, go to Woodstock and look at some group of filthy mondo bushed hippy chicks and say “Ritchie havens is gonna be on first. He’s gonna do a ten minute jam about a motherless child” and see what happens. Clam city. I don’t even need a time machine to predict THAT future of the past, or whatever you want to call it. Go to 1776 and scoop paul revere. You’re a hero. Anywhen you go, you’ve got the edge, man. There’s nothing that says confidence like being from the future. That’s why Marty’s mom couldn’t keep her hands off him, despite how gross we all thought it was. Okay, you get the idea. Problem is, you don’t know what you’re gonna bang into existence back there. Could end up turning your happy little apartment into a smoldering crater in the middle of a future/present shit swamp, you know? No. That’s right. With time travel, you never know. That segues nicely into time travel method number three:
Massive drunkenness. This is a truly out there form of time travel. One minute you’re saying “I bet you any amount of money I can chug this Singapore sling in fifteen seconds!” to some forty five year old woman at a Rockville Center motel bar and the next second you’re on some living room floor a day later with no pants on and a family you’ve never seen before is above you trying to eat breakfast and get the kids out the door. You’re covered in bruises. You’ve got a car key that you’ve never seen before and one dollar. Your wallet is gone but a note on your hand, scrawled in your handwriting in Sharpie says “Don’t forgit the fukkin CHICKEN!” That’s time travel, for you. Discombobulating and disturbing. Thrust into a future you don’t understand left with no tools with which to deal with anything. All you can do is go find those regular people who just lived their lives traveling the first, boring form of time travel and get them to tell you what you skipped over. You can’t go into the past with this method, though it’s reported that during time travel, most time travelers spend a lot of time talking about the past like it was “way fucking awesome.” This is probably the second most dangerous form of time travel, but every single one of these will eventually kill you. No shit.
Okay, it’s late and I have to go. My kid had Halloween at school and he’s dressed as satan. It’s real cute. His best buddy was gonna be Yoda, but he didn’t like the hat or the jacket, so he opted out of the festivities. Regardless, nothing cuter than toddlers in costumes. Huh. Pretty lame end to a science fiction post, man. Even for me.
Okay, I think the dude that filmed my band’s show has a little preview set up that he’s gonna post on line today. It’s still unmixed sound, and we all look disgusting, so don’t worry about telling us, we know all about it. Anyway, I’ll post the link when I get it, should be today or tomorrow at the latest. Or just google the shit. Dude’s name is travis.
Okay, into the future I go.
Later, queefs.
Edit- here's the link: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=540215910908
Thursday, October 29, 2009
mornin'
I’m sitting here buck naked. I’m at the window. If my neighbor exits his house, as history has time and time again proven he will, he’s gonna have no choice but to look in here and see me typing at the kitchen table, completely naked. I need to get a tuxedo fitting this morning before work, but that’s not why I’m naked. That’s why I’m typing this an hour early and why I’ve blown off my shower and THAT’S why I’m naked. I don’t have time for this bullshit today, clothes…neighbors. I’m gonna have to be naked, bosses, customers. Fucking eh, man. (that’s the Canadian way to say Fucking A, just by the weigh).
So yeah, I was thinking I’d figure something great and profane out this morning, like what is really going through the mind of a porn actress when she’s sitting there begging for the big greasy dude that’s just fucked her in the ass to come all over her face. I bet it's not "oh finally!" I'm guessing it's something more like “jesus, I’m almost done with this horrible job. Just blow your gross load so I can get a rag and head over to the cocaine table.”
Well, honestly, I don’t know. I sense a little genuine enthusiasm there on occasion, which, let’s be honest, is both odd and awesome.
I was watching man vs food last night and my wife was wondering if he hates his job. I would hate that job, but I think if you’re the right type of guy it would be amazing. Just gorging every night and being a general pig. Kind of similar to being a male pornstar, really. People think what you do is gross and immoral, but when it’s all said and done, it’s pretty fun. Sure you have to ignore some basic truths and all that, but hey, if you’re into living in the now and not really having to answer to your parents, well, Man Versus Food or Buttfuck Sluts Prime Cuts number 22 could be the job for you, I guess.
Look. I can’t really write this today. The baby’s diaper pail is full, my ribs are killing me, I’m naked, I’ve got to get my measurements taken for a tux (I tried writing in 9” dong, but they said they needed more precise measurements. I said how fucking precise do you want me to get? Centimeters? Cuz that’s un-American.)
I think my point here is proven. Namely, this morning is a dreaded hellscape. My kid’s about to spill French toast on some Chihuahuas….sigh.
So yeah, I was thinking I’d figure something great and profane out this morning, like what is really going through the mind of a porn actress when she’s sitting there begging for the big greasy dude that’s just fucked her in the ass to come all over her face. I bet it's not "oh finally!" I'm guessing it's something more like “jesus, I’m almost done with this horrible job. Just blow your gross load so I can get a rag and head over to the cocaine table.”
Well, honestly, I don’t know. I sense a little genuine enthusiasm there on occasion, which, let’s be honest, is both odd and awesome.
I was watching man vs food last night and my wife was wondering if he hates his job. I would hate that job, but I think if you’re the right type of guy it would be amazing. Just gorging every night and being a general pig. Kind of similar to being a male pornstar, really. People think what you do is gross and immoral, but when it’s all said and done, it’s pretty fun. Sure you have to ignore some basic truths and all that, but hey, if you’re into living in the now and not really having to answer to your parents, well, Man Versus Food or Buttfuck Sluts Prime Cuts number 22 could be the job for you, I guess.
Look. I can’t really write this today. The baby’s diaper pail is full, my ribs are killing me, I’m naked, I’ve got to get my measurements taken for a tux (I tried writing in 9” dong, but they said they needed more precise measurements. I said how fucking precise do you want me to get? Centimeters? Cuz that’s un-American.)
I think my point here is proven. Namely, this morning is a dreaded hellscape. My kid’s about to spill French toast on some Chihuahuas….sigh.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
precious mammaries
What a fucking weekend, eh? I gotta tell you fuckers, that was one of the best times of my life. No shit. The whole show went off without a hitch. Thanks to everyone who came out, particularly those of you who traveled insane distances to be there. I saw kids from Texas, California, Virginia (and it’s cousin banging sidekick, West Virginia), London, Norway, Australia, New Zeland, and fucking Michigan, man. That’s just insane. There are no words to express my gratitude to all you fucking weirdos.
Here are some of my highlights from the weekend:
Everything coming together without a hitch for the filming of the show. We got a full board mix and I think seven cameras. It was pretty great to watch something so potentially clusterfuckable run completely smoothly.
The Menzingers playing an amazing set and Sean Nader turning to me and saying “these guys are gonna be huge!” in utter amazement. There’s something so great about turning people you respect onto cool things. It’s like giving a gift you don’t have to buy. They were great. Amazing set for sure.
The crazy, crazy singalongs in Brick wall views and Ramblin Boys of Pleasure.
Dan Andriano’s version of First Eviction Notice.
Mike Park just making up lies on stage and laughing about it backstage.
Going into the Gingerman before the show and seeing it packed with stoked people from all over the world. (this was the number one best memory of the weekend).
That fucking amazing pumpkin that had the wizard on it. Holy shit. The dude that did that is a waiter. He should be running the country or something.
Joe Menzinger playing 106 south with us.
La Plebe just melting everyone’s faces off and then coming off stage and being absolutely the nicest most courteous and humble people I’ve ever met.
Sean Nader being stoked on how good his designs and poster design turned out.
Morning cocktails on Sunday and not working Sunday night.
Mike Park’s amazing version of Happy Birthday to the Lawrence Arms
I dunno…the whole thing was great. I couldn’t have had a better time. You people are awesome. Let’s do it again soon, eh? How about on the west coast? How about in 2 weeks! We’re going out to Arizona and California to bring this rock shit to the promised land. We were gonna go up to the northwest, but my brother decided to get married right then, and it became cost prohibitive to fly back and all that shit, so sorry. Man…
I’m a little depressed today. That was a lot to look forward to and prepare for and now that the high of having everything work out great has worn off, I feel a little hole inside where all this planning and excitement and worry had been. Eh. Whatever. Shit happens, right? Right.
Our record comes out today and while I know that most of you pirate fuckers have already gotten your greedy mitts on it, I’m stoked to have everyone see the whole thing. I don't know what's up with fat selling the colored vinyl. That wasn't supposed to happen. I think maybe it's different vinyl. Obviously a miscommunication or something, but sorry if you feel cheated. I swear, I was being honest and forthright when I announced that shit. Anyway...What else? Oh! Did you guys know that I play guitar and Chris plays Bass on the last song? It’s true. First time that shit’s happened since our very first practice where we thought that maybe I’d be the guitar player. That was before we wised up and recognized that Chris is a much, much better player than me, and that would be stupid. That’s also me singing that song. Yes. The whole song. Yes. Yes it is. Stop emailing me. I don’t know why it’s so impossible to believe. I sing like that for at least a little bit on EVERY SINGLE ALBUM SINCE THE SHADY VIEW TERRACE SPLIT. YES. YES I DO. Oh well, whatever. And for the record, yes. I’m aware that when I sing like that I sound nasal, warbly and out of tune. That’s the charm you dildos. Right? Eh…I don’t know any more.
Okay, gotta go. I got an interview to do then I have to go get my dogs’ ass glands expressed.
I’m a busy man.
Here are some of my highlights from the weekend:
Everything coming together without a hitch for the filming of the show. We got a full board mix and I think seven cameras. It was pretty great to watch something so potentially clusterfuckable run completely smoothly.
The Menzingers playing an amazing set and Sean Nader turning to me and saying “these guys are gonna be huge!” in utter amazement. There’s something so great about turning people you respect onto cool things. It’s like giving a gift you don’t have to buy. They were great. Amazing set for sure.
The crazy, crazy singalongs in Brick wall views and Ramblin Boys of Pleasure.
Dan Andriano’s version of First Eviction Notice.
Mike Park just making up lies on stage and laughing about it backstage.
Going into the Gingerman before the show and seeing it packed with stoked people from all over the world. (this was the number one best memory of the weekend).
That fucking amazing pumpkin that had the wizard on it. Holy shit. The dude that did that is a waiter. He should be running the country or something.
Joe Menzinger playing 106 south with us.
La Plebe just melting everyone’s faces off and then coming off stage and being absolutely the nicest most courteous and humble people I’ve ever met.
Sean Nader being stoked on how good his designs and poster design turned out.
Morning cocktails on Sunday and not working Sunday night.
Mike Park’s amazing version of Happy Birthday to the Lawrence Arms
I dunno…the whole thing was great. I couldn’t have had a better time. You people are awesome. Let’s do it again soon, eh? How about on the west coast? How about in 2 weeks! We’re going out to Arizona and California to bring this rock shit to the promised land. We were gonna go up to the northwest, but my brother decided to get married right then, and it became cost prohibitive to fly back and all that shit, so sorry. Man…
I’m a little depressed today. That was a lot to look forward to and prepare for and now that the high of having everything work out great has worn off, I feel a little hole inside where all this planning and excitement and worry had been. Eh. Whatever. Shit happens, right? Right.
Our record comes out today and while I know that most of you pirate fuckers have already gotten your greedy mitts on it, I’m stoked to have everyone see the whole thing. I don't know what's up with fat selling the colored vinyl. That wasn't supposed to happen. I think maybe it's different vinyl. Obviously a miscommunication or something, but sorry if you feel cheated. I swear, I was being honest and forthright when I announced that shit. Anyway...What else? Oh! Did you guys know that I play guitar and Chris plays Bass on the last song? It’s true. First time that shit’s happened since our very first practice where we thought that maybe I’d be the guitar player. That was before we wised up and recognized that Chris is a much, much better player than me, and that would be stupid. That’s also me singing that song. Yes. The whole song. Yes. Yes it is. Stop emailing me. I don’t know why it’s so impossible to believe. I sing like that for at least a little bit on EVERY SINGLE ALBUM SINCE THE SHADY VIEW TERRACE SPLIT. YES. YES I DO. Oh well, whatever. And for the record, yes. I’m aware that when I sing like that I sound nasal, warbly and out of tune. That’s the charm you dildos. Right? Eh…I don’t know any more.
Okay, gotta go. I got an interview to do then I have to go get my dogs’ ass glands expressed.
I’m a busy man.
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