What's In a Gang?

So you’ve decided to join a gang. Look, the decision is never an easy one. Perhaps you’ve been the victim of a love, unrequited. Maybe you were made fun of as a student, your science-fair entry smashed upon the ground like a million forgotten Mickey’s big-mouth bottles. It could be that your step-father Rick never hugged you, and maybe he took your bike that real-dad gave you for Christmas and he sold it to a Mexican guy he worked with—you know, for his kids. Regardless of the reason, it’s come down to this: you need a family composed of violent strangers whose main concern is territory and biggest threat is the encroachment of law enforcement and/or gentrification.

You’ve come to the right place.

Because, while picking a gang can be as hard as choosing a respected optometrist, it can also be made easy by knowing what each individual club stands for.

And that’s where I come in.

So read, and learn. And with my help, you’re sure to find a crew that fits your specific needs; after all, a gang is like a known vagina. It should fit snugly, but never be an overbearing, sloppy mess.
Bon appetite.
Latin Kings:

Formed in the 1940’s in Chicago and composed primarily of Mexican and Puerto Rican teens (duh) the Kings are one of the most devilish gangs to ever bare a bandanna. With 35,000 members nationwide, the LK’s are one of the world’s most popular outfits.

But are they for you?

Well, that’s all a matter of personal opinion, I’d suppose.

Are you Mexican or Puerto Rican? Good! That’s a valuable start. But say you’ve made it that far—meaning, you were born Mexican—well what’s next? What valuable information should you know about your potential lifelong affiliation?

Colors: Black and Gold. This will be exceptionally handy if you attended the University of Missouri—all of your clothes are already black and gold. Nothing to buy!

Symbol: The 5 or 3 point star/crown. You know, whatever you have the most time to graffito tag, I suppose.

Food: Varies. Chili, burritos, Cool Ranch Doritos and pork tenderloins are all favorites of the Latin Kings.

Bitches: Hardcore faction of scary chicks named the Latin Queens. If you’re into Sharpie’d eyebrows, thick makeup, tramp stamps and lollipops, you’ll love the LQ’s. Just be careful to not impregnate an LQ… their brothers HATE that shit!

Crips:

Along with the Bloods and Latin Kings, one of the premiere street gangs in the world. Founded in LA in 1969 by Raymond Washington and Stanley “They Fried My Gangsta Ass/Tookie” Williams, the Crips are one of the most preeminent sources of violence in the nation. With 35,000 members, factions can be found in nearly every crack, crevice and fetus-littered alleyway in the United States.

Colors: Blue, muthfucka. Dodgers? Royals? NY Giants? You’re all covered. Duke Blue Devil fans? Sure, why not. There’s nothing funnier than a gangster in an Ivy league Starter jacket.

Symbol: 5%. No idea what that means…. 5 point star (seems like we need to come to a consensus on who owns this one—or murder each other for the right to use it… gangster’s choice!)

Food: Tilapia, Sour Cream and Onion Pringles. Flavored Jerky. Chipotle.

Bitches: Oh, fo sho.

Bloods:

Started in the early 1970’s by a factional split of the Los Angeles Crips, the Bloods carved their own path of bloody mayhem throughout the west coast crack epidemic of the 80’s and 90’s. Less organized than their sworn enemies the Crips, the Bloods are primarily known for their use of razors in attacks, and their lack of post-secondary education.

Colors: Red all day. Acceptable team-wear includes the St. Louis Cardinals (fucking boo), the Arizona Cardinals (what a joke), Philadelphia Phillies (Cliff Lee and Roy Halladay—both Bloods) and the Detroit Red Wings (black dudes love hockey, right?)

Symbol: 5 pointed star… wait… are you fucking serious? Because if I’m not mistaken, my research has taught me that ALL gangs use the 5 point star. I call that lazy-reppin’. For shame, gangs of America, for shame. Also: the Bloods do that one thing with your hands across your chest that all suburban white kids learn to do when you’re like, 10. You know, where you spell ‘bloods’ with your two hands put together. Would be way cool if every fucking dumb white kid in America couldn’t do it.

Food: Nachos, pizza pie, strawberries and cream, cheese-fries.

Bitches: You’d better believe it. The Baby Bloods are the female faction of the gang, a group of merciless lady-gangsters who are often as vicious—if not more so-- than their male counterparts (I made this whole part up).

These are the main three. But what if you haven’t found your niche just yet? Then press on, my friend…. That’s what I’D say.

Black P-Stone Rangers:

Formed in 1950’s Chicago in response to the Civil Rights movement (way to keep up the cause, fucking idiots), the Black P-Stone Rangers (also known as El Rukn tribe of the Moorish Science Temple of America—not even making this up) sound more like a kidney disease than a gang. I am not afraid of the ‘Black P-Stone Rangers.’ I’m sorry, I know… they’re badass. But while I may indeed be killed by a BPSR, I laugh. I can’t help it. P-Stone? Really fellas?

Folk Nation:

Not really much of a gang. Started in the—you guessed it—70’s, by a bunch of black dudes in—you guessed it again—Chicago—the Folk Nation is mostly not a gang now. And why should they be? “Folk Nation”? Are you fucking kidding? I expect Joni Mitchell to pop out of nowhere and begin a contemplative piece with Bob Dylan’s nephew accompanying her on the organ. Fuck off, Folk Nation. You were lame to begin with. Nobody was impressed.
Conservative Vice Lords:

Started as the Almighty Vice Lord Nation. Where? Take a fucking guess.

Brief aside: What’s wrong with the Windy City? Aside from the Crips and Bloods, all of the stupid-douchey gangs start in the Second City. Maybe it’s a Capone thing.

In any case, the Conservative Vice Lords will always be remembered as the gang with the pussiest name ever. Really, guys? “Conservative”? That’s priceless. I’m glad there are at least 30,000 “conservative” blacks in Chicago. With murderous tendencies. Hilarious.




United Native Gangster Nation:

Started in the 1980’s by tribal dissidents on Native reservations, the UNGN is primarily a copycat of most modern day gangs. Founded by tribal-junior Zack Wilson (aka Stabbing Bear), the group claims some 300 members, most spread throughout the Upper-Plains. Their mission, as stated by their ‘tribal constitution,’ aims to take back land from the white-devil and get money, ho’s and power, and not necessarily in that order.

Colors: Mostly brown, with a little red and gold thrown in—you know, whatever the bangers can get at the thrift store.

Symbol: Severed buffalo head, inverted pitchfork… lots of weird circles and swirls and shit that nobody understands, but it kinda means something, like Chinese characters or whatever.

Food: McDonalds, maize, buffalo steaks, turkey, pumpkin pie, potato casserole, stuffing, cranberry sauce.

Bitches: Eh… that’s such a subjective word, right? I mean, there are some girls, or whatever, but they’re mostly cousins and indiscriminately related kin. I probably wouldn’t mess with any of the Buffalo Bitches. Oh yeah—they’re called ‘Buffalo Bitches.’ You figure that one out.

(this whole last part is made up… I just REALLY want there to be a badass Indian gang that would let me join… you know, because I’m a fourth Indian or whatever)

And there you have it. Gangs. You’re either in, or you’re out. And you should be in. Why? Because you’ll never feel more accepted than when you’re a part of a street gang. Promise.

Advice to the Parolee

Any day now, my cousin Brian will be released from prison. Why was he originally in prison? Not sure. Neither is my mom. That’s the beauty of my family. They’re so routinely ridiculous, their consequences no longer warrant so much as an eyebrow raise. The only reason I know he’s incarcerated in the first place is because of his [most recent] baby-momma’s Facebook post (brief aside: when will really stupid, white trash people learn simple privacy settings? Hopefully never) describing A) the physical abuse that led to his arrest (“Motherfucker think he can choke me in front of my kids n my dad and threaten to kill my dad fuck him he get what coming to him”) and B) the follow-up post that mentioned the outstanding warrants that required transport back to Missouri (from Arkansas, where he has apparently resided for the past couple of years... who knew!?) to serve a term.

Anyway, she recently posted that he’ll be released in September and he’s told her (via tinny, collect calls from the big house, no doubt) that, if she won’t have him back, he wants nothing to do with the two kids she bore him. Me? I’m not shocked. And I’d be sad, but let’s face it, those kids are headed for a life of copper-theft and meth-addiction. It’s a sad fact that haunts my family. Brian’s presence—or lack thereof—will do nothing to change that situation.


Cousin Brian and his 'ho' in better times.



He does have the chance to start anew, however, a proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes of failure and soiled Burger King wrappers strewn about the floorboard of his EZ-Credit ride. And I’d like to help him on that path. With an open letter. That I hope he’ll (never) read.



Dear Brian:

What’s up, dude? Long time no talk. How was prison? Was the food as bad as they make it sound? What about the ass-rape? I hope you’re leaving “in-tact”. Haha. J/k. (sort of).

So anyway, look… I know we’ve had our differences, but I want to see you succeed. You’re family, man, (though not a family man—zing!) and as much as you’ve let me down throughout the years, I hate paying hard earned money to keep you off the streets. See, I’m a firm believer that you should be ON the streets—but only if you learn how to act like a human being. And I really think you can. I think you just need a little guidance. And who doesn’t like receiving life-coaching from their younger cousin? So listen up.

First—you’ve gotta keep your un-condomed dick out of the ladies. I get it, I get it. Fucking with a condom sucks. But man, it’s a necessity! Seriously. There’s a reason I’m childless (not quite ready financially) and you have… 7? 8? By… how many different women? 4? 5?

You made your first baby with a teacher from your alternative school when you were 14 or 15. I remember that she fled to Idaho in the wake of the disaster. Hopefully that means that child had a chance (but genetics are a bitch, so who knows?). You were at the alternative school because when you were at regular kid school, you tried to cut another kid’s neck with a box-cutter. Damn, B! See, that’s the kind of shit normal people DON’T do… but I digress. So you knocked up a teacher from your special school, and she left, and you were living with me and my parents because your mom couldn’t handle you anymore and your dad remarried and tried to have a normal family… and every morning, your bus would show up to take you to school-- the short-bus, no less-- and my dad would yell down the stairs, “Brian! The short-bus is here!” And he loved you, buddy, but he was sick of your shit, too. We all were. You just didn’t get it.

Again, I’m off-track here… forgive me.

So you made a baby then, and eventually, you left my home. I wasn’t sad, really, but I was still rooting for you. I know you bounced around, met some fly-ass ladies and threw illegitimate children into them. You had a couple of kids with a chick named Jessie (one of them named Quentin—after Tarantino—yikes) and I know that Jessie subsequently hung herself. To death. Dang, B! You’ve sure got a way with the women’s, man. And then you made a couple of other kids with some other floozy, a few more with someone else, and then you met Adena, your most recent victim. You gave her children named “Damien” and “Cobain LaVey.” You always were a poet, bro. Oh, and by the way, way to NOT fuck those kids' chances up from birth with satanic, suicidal names, man. j/k.

But see, this is a big part of the problem. You’re procreating. And you shouldn’t be. You’re not Catholic, and you’re not an aristocrat with wealth to spread around. You’re a societal leech and I don’t want to pay for your fucking mistakes. Knock it off, buddy! : )

Next—you need to keep your anger in check. Look, I know this one is like telling a rabid dog to mind its p’s and q’s You’re wild, you don’t know any better. When you were younger, you were diagnosed as having a “chemical imbalance.” They gave you lithium for a while. If you saw a mental health professional nowadays, you’d probably be told you’re bi-polar or something as equally un-surprising. In fact, none of this is surprising.

When we were younger, we used to play the shit out of some GI Joes. We’d have them fight with guns and with fists, bayonets and grenades. We loved our Joes. We’d give them consequential existences—build them shoe-box residences and make them live real lives (it was either really gay on our part, or really creative) with wives and bills and shit. And sometimes, as a part of life, they’d die. We’d blow them up on the 4th and make elaborate back-stories about their demise. Once, a terrible natural disaster swept their imaginary community and 10 brave souls were lost. This was all fine.

It was weird when you’d hang them in the fireplace from the flue-chain and start a fire, though. Or when you’d microwave them to death. For no good reason. I couldn’t get behind that, man, and you cost me some really good action-figures with your craziness. That was wack. It was like the time you nailed the real-life kitten to the tree when you were six. That was messed-the-fuck-up, dude. That’s serial killer shit.

So I think you should probably see someone who can help you with all of that. Perhaps you just need to talk to someone (though I suspect that you honestly just need lots of psychotropic medication—but let’s see what the professional says).

Finally, you need to learn a trade. Look, I think you sneaked out of (alternative) high school with a diploma. Great job! But unfortunately, only moving past high school won’t get you far these days. Look, I know, I know… Bill Gates didn’t graduate college. Neither did Mark Cuban, or Richard Branson. But they’re all geniuses, Brian. You listen to Disturbed and have Jim Morrison lyrics tattooed underneath the silhouette of a howling wolf on your shoulder. Honestly, with your disdain for authority and love of poorly executed, homemade facial piercings, you’re probably not cut out to mop the bathroom at Hardee’s. But that’s cool, too. That’s why God created HVAC training. Do I want you coming into my house to fix the furnace? Probably not. I’ll never forget the time you stole my social security card from my desk drawer and I ended up with a warrant out for MY arrest when, after a routine traffic stop, you told the cops you WERE me and then you failed to appear in court. That sucked, dude. So yeah, you probably shouldn’t look into home-residence HVAC work-- too much temptation… but maybe like, you can fix the boilers in schools after-hours or something. How much trouble could you get into then? (don’t answer that)

So look, pal, this is only a start. I don’t expect these simple steps to change your life immediately. You have to work at things, brother. It takes time. But start small, and dream big. That’s what I always say.

So remember:

1) Condoms, condoms, condoms!
2) Ix-nay on the Emper-tay.
3) Learn a trade/ gainful employment

Before you know it, you’ll be on the road to normalcy, champ. Hang in there, slugger!

Your Cousin,
Brandon

An Interview With William Lee Golden

Started in the 1940’s as ‘The Oak Ridge Quartet,’ the Oak Ridge Boys have been what is arguably the face of gospel music for the past 60+ years. Since 1964, baritone duties have been handled by William Lee Golden, perhaps best known for his waist-length hair and beard. I had a chance to sit down with the 72 year old recently at his ‘Golden Era Plantation’ in Hendersonville, Tennessee.




Me: First of all, thanks for having me. You’ve got a lovely estate here.

WLG: Why, thank you. Yeah, the home was actually built in 1786 and is recognized as being the oldest brick structure in this part of Tennessee.

Me: Well, it certainly is stately.

WLG: Oh, absolutely. We had to renovate and remodel—R and R, as I like to call it—after a tornado hit us in 2006. Took the whole top of the house off.

Me: Oh, wow.

WLG: Yeah, but life goes on. God is good.
Me: So William, tell me about the history of the band—your history with the band, I should say—you’ve been doing it since ’64. That’s mighty impressive.

WLG: Well, thank you. Again, all praises due to God. It’s been a long road, but I love touching the lives of so many people. It’s been an amazing opportunity. To see the smile on kids faces when we start into ‘American Made’ or ‘So Fine,’ it just feels great.

Me: Wait… kids really come to your shows? See, I wouldn’t think that anyone under 60 would be in the audience.

WLG: Well, grandparents often bring the young ones.

Me: I see…

WLG: Yeah, we’re building up new fans everyday. We’ve got a website and we had a fan club for teens where you could get autographed photos and a little card you carry in your billfold. Really cute stuff. And Joe (Bonsall, tenor) set up a Myspace page for us a few years back, but it got hacked and there were lots of pornography bots on the page and so we had to shut ‘er down.

Me: Well, yeah, I’d imagine. You’re a gospel group, very wholesome, and I’m sure you wouldn’t be supportive of stuff like that.

WLG: Absolutely not. And Richard (Sterban, bass) had a pornography addiction back in the 80’s—he’s very open about it—and it really almost sent him into a tailspin. ‘Technology is a necessary evil.’ I think Ben Franklin said that.

Me: No he didn’t. That doesn’t make any sense.

WLG: Regardless, I don’t use the computer too much.

Me: So tell me about the backstory. How did you meet up with the group, what were you doing before, that kind of thing.

WLG: Well, I was 25, maybe 26 when I joined the band. Before that, I kicked around the south a lot, playing in honky-tonks with my band Billy Rape and Rapers—this was before rape meant what it does today, mind you—

Me: That doesn’t make any sense. Rape has always meant the same thing.

WLG: No, no—it’s like ‘fag’ or ‘gay.’ See, back in the olden times, a fag was a smoke and if you were gay, you were just a happy person, not someone corn-holing another male in the back of a pornographic bookstore. See, Rape was Billy’s last name, so that’s what we went with. Anywho, it was a dark time. I was doing lots of pills—speed, mostly—and hustling strangers at billiards after gigs. It wasn’t the way the Lord wanted me to live.

Me: Obviously.

WLG: Luckily, I met Richard at a gig in Paducah—kind of a funny story, he was stabbing a cat to death in the alley outside of the bar—and he asked me to come sing with him and some friends and the rest is history.

Me: Whoa—stabbing a cat to death? That’s insane. Please explain.

WLG: No, I don’t think I will. Let’s talk about "Elvira". (stroking beard)

Me: Really? I thought that maybe you’d be tired of talking about it.

WLG: Are you shitting me? It’s the only hit we ever had. But the ORB’s on the map. Love that fucking song.

Me: Oh, alright. So, tell me about writing "Elvira"—how did it come about?

WLG: Honestly, I don’t remember. I was actually in the hospital for most of ’81 when it was being written. I think they wrote it in April of that year and I’d OD’d on amphetamines the February before, so I don’t rightly recall, but I think Joe mostly came up with it. Once I was out of the hospital, we went to Nashville and cut the track over the course of three days. It took off like a rocket after that, started getting lots of spins and before we knew it, it was winning a Grammy in ’82. Holy shit, that was some kinda crazy.

Me: Wait—can we go back to the overdose thing? That seems pretty important.

WLG: Nah. (pets beard) It’s almost lunchtime and I gotta get a scoot on.

Me: Um… oh… well, yeah, okay. I guess? So then, what’s for lunch?

WLG: Chicken nuggets and tater tots.

Me: Wow! You can still eat that kinda thing at your age?

WLG: Well, I ain’t s’posed ta, but if you won’t tell my doctor, I won’t either. (winks)

Me: Um, that was kinda creepy.

WLG: What’s that, now?

Me: I said that was creepy—when you winked at me just then.

WLG: Really? Or was it that you liked it a little too much, friend? (rubs beard seductively, winks again)

Me: Please stop that.

Dad's Day (Because Every Other Day is About You)

Look, we’ve all got dad’s, you know? (unless your father is dead—in which case, I’m very, truly sorry for bringing it up. What happened, anyway? He was so young!) But anyway… dads… gotta love ‘em. Be they biological or a step-peppers, they’ve been there for you your whole life. He was there when you graduated high school and accidentally shit your pants with the nervousness of being on a stage in front of thousands of people. He stuck up for you when you were learning to ride a bicycle and you accidentally crashed it into your douchebag neighbor’s Ferrari and put a scratch in it and that greasy Mexican screamed at you and called you a worthless piece of shit, berating you until you felt like ending your life at the tender age of 5.

Dad’s. God bless each and every one of them. But the truth is, you haven’t done enough for him. Trust me… you haven’t. But the good news is, you can start this coming Sunday on Father’s Day. Selecting an appropriate gift is one way of beginning to build the bridge you burned when you stole $15,000 from his savings account and ran off to Thailand where you met a chick who didn’t turn out to be a chick at all (not that you knew that before you married it in an opiate haze).

Choosing a gift can be tricky, though. What kind of dad is he? Is he a nice dad or a really nice dad? Does he have muscles? Like muscle cars?

Dad’s are like snowflakes, no two are alike and an accumulation of them can cause car-accidents. Knowing your dad is the first step in selecting the perfect gift. If you don’t know your father at all, and shudder at the idea of learning more about him, why don’t you just buy something I suggest? Problem solved.



For the dad who likes to golf:

Buy him some golf tees. They’re cheap, useful and sometimes, you can find tees painted to resemble teeny little penises. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? Your dad hitting the links with a bag full of baby penises? What a hoot!



For the dad who likes sex:

Get your dad a prostitute. (but don’t skimp!!!) The options here are limitless. Does he like greased up black ladies? That can be arranged. Needle-marked, unwed teenaged mothers? Check. Little Chinese boys who have been sold into sex slavery? Sick.



For the dad who likes Don Cheadle:

This one’s easy. Hyperion’s Don Cheadle Collection on Blu-Ray. Featuring 8 of Cheadle’s best known works (Traffic, Boogie Nights… um, that one where he plays that guy… was he a cop? Shit. He was really good in it! You know the one I’m talking about). Anyway, if your dad likes Cheadle, he’ll fucking go nuts for this shit. Each movie has a commentary done by Cheadle himself and the collection comes with an autographed 8 x 10 photo of the Donster himself.

Sex Cheadle


For the dad who doesn’t like Don Cheadle:

Sex in the City on Blu-Ray. Are you kidding? Who doesn’t fucking love Don Cheadle? Your pep-pep must be a fruit.



For the dad who likes the outdoors/wildlife:

The possibilities here are wide open. You can get him some fishing lures. Or bug repellant. Maybe he needs some new waders or some hiking boots. Who knows? The folks over at www.daddybear.com have some great info, I’m sure (I’m not positive, though… I didn’t check it out, but it’s the internet. What could possibly go wrong, you know?)



For the dad who likes to read:

Kindle out of your price range? Get him a library card. He can check out VHS copies of forgotten 80’s classics like ‘Gung Ho’ with Michael Keaton, as well. The gift that keeps on giving (kind of).


Happy Dad, surrounded by books


For the dad who likes cars:

Check it: get him a Hot-Wheel of his favorite classic car. Include a card with it that says some bullshit like, ‘If this car were as big as the love for you in my heart, you’d have the real car.’ That’s pretty fucking lame, but sometimes, dads like that.



For the dad who likes food:

Get him a gift certificate to Don’s Tacos in Belton. The tacos there are really cheap, so even though you’re only spending $10 ($20 if you’re a real money-bags) he can take his girlfriend and her daughter and only end up spending like, $15-$20 out of his own pocket. Just tell him to stay away from the margaritas! Don mixes them strong and the last thing your dad needs is another DUI!


A dad, enjoying an afternoon at Don's Tacos




For the dad who likes his family:

Spend some time with him. Maybe you can grill out in the backyard or watch a ballgame on the television. It’s free—which means you won’t be spending any of your hard-earned plasma-selling money—and he’ll appreciate it. (you cheap, sad, son-of-a-bitch)

Forward from "DMX: Get at Me, Dog- The Autobiography of Earl Simmons"

The year? 1988? The show? Growing Pains. I, of course, was Seaver family patriarch Jason, a funny, family-first psychologist. The episode? Season 4’s ‘Second Chance’ a ‘very special episode’ where Carol’s boyfriend (played by Matthew Perry) is involved in a drunken driving accident.

This was the first time I met Earl. See, when I met him, he was Earl; you probably know him as DMX, superstar rapper. Back then, he was an 18-year-old kid with a frilly afro and an aspiration to be in the spotlight. In the episode, he played Matthew Perry’s friend who leaves the party and ends up injured in the accident. The part wasn’t huge, but even with something so insignificant, it was pretty apparent that this kid had talent.

I really got to know him between takes. I found out that he was a smart, thoughtful kid who had a lot going for him. He was polite and respectful (this probably won’t help his ‘street cred,’ but it’s the God’s honest) and willing to go the extra mile. Since he was around my son Brennan’s age, I invited him over to ‘chill.’ To be honest, we didn’t have a lot of black people where we were living at the time, and I was afraid that Brennan was going to grow up isolated (sad fact: when I brought him over, my fears were confirmed—Brennan had never seen an actual black person).

As they bonded, I got to know Earl and in time, came to think of his as the chocolate kid I never could have.

This was until he got Brennan hooked on crack cocaine.

Earl was around so much that after awhile, he became background noise, like a television left on or a screaming Mexican family sharing a common wall with your apartment. That’s why I didn’t notice when shit began disappearing from around our mansion and Brennan began keeping such odd hours. I didn’t notice the hollow eyes, the bad skin and the god-awful yellow complexion he developed. I didn’t notice how Earl constantly shook and fidgeted or how he and my son hid in the dark corners of my stately manor wearing heavy winter clothes in the hottest part of the summer.

The final straw came two years after that fateful day when I first met Earl on set. High on crack and feeling quite invincible (I’m sure), Earl fucked my wife Gina, impregnating her in the process. That was it. I took out a restraining order. I sent Brennan to rehab. I forbade him to associate with the piece of shit I once considered one of the fam. Thankfully, Brennan got clean and hasn’t had a problem since. Earl, on the other hand… look at his track record. A failed music career. Further drug problems. Animal neglect charges.

Big fucking surprise.

Look, the bottom line is, if I see that motherfucker, I’m going to hit him in his mouth. I am going to knock his teeth down his throat and, while he’s begging me for mercy, I’m going to take a box-cutter and remove his genitals.

Fuck you, DMX. You are a worthless piece of shit and a terrible human being. I hope you die a painful death and are buried in an unmarked grave.


Alan Thicke- 2011

Papaw's Joke-Book (post-apocalyptic ha-ha's)

I didn’t have anything of consequence to write, but the wife was harassing me to write a blog, so I decided to whip something up. According to 89 year old religious crackpot Harold Camping, we were supposed to have a badass rapture today, but my sister-in-law is uploading pictures to her Facebook and she’s the most religious person I know, so apparently it didn’t work. I thought about writing a lengthy diatribe about the evils of organized religion, and possibly ridiculing various cults throughout history (Koresh, Heaven’s Gate, Jim Jones), but that would have required some work that I didn’t feel compelled to complete. Instead, I thought I’d share some of the jokes my grandfather used to tell me… on his death-bed. When he was stone-cold crazy and out of sorts. Please feel free to use them at your next office get-together, and get ready to be thought of as ‘the funny guy from accounting with the harelip’ instead of just, ‘the guy from accounting with the harelip’.

Enjoy!




What’s the difference between a Jew and a dairy cow? Three pints of kissing potion and a savings account.




Hercules walks into a bar toting his girlfriend’s poodle. He asks the bartender for a beer and a book of matches. The bartender takes on look at the dog and says, ‘look, pally, that dog can’t be on the bar.’ Hercules takes one look at the bartender and flexes his bicep. ‘Does this change anything?’ he asks with a wink. The bartender says, ‘nope. It most certainly does not.’





Two sparrows walk into a bar. Actually, they flew in, but don’t tell your mother that.





Why do they say everything is bigger in Texas?

Because that’s where your grandmother was from, and boy is she fucking fat.





What’s the best way to make a ghost cum? A handjob.





Jesus, Sandy and a Taco Bell cashier are on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean. Jesus says, ‘man, this is fucked up,’ because he remembers that he used to date Sandy back in the 80’s. The cashier from Taco Bell picks a scab from his forearm and tosses it into the sea. Jesus says, ‘I can get us out of here, but you’ll have to do whatever I say.’ Sandy is cool with that, and the Taco Bell cashier doesn’t speak any English, so he just nods. Turns out, the guy claiming to be Jesus wasn’t Jesus at all. He was a car-wash attendant at Murray’s Wax and Ride over off of 15 Highway.





What’s blue and green and sleeps in an airplane hanger? Your fucking grandmother.





How can you tell the difference between a liberal arts major and an orthodox rabbi from Minnesota?
Ask them to name three members of the 1980’s NL Champion Philadelphia Phillies.


Ric Ocasek is on a transatlantic flight with the Pope. An hour or so into the journey, he leans over and introduces himself to the His Holiness. The pope had never heard of him, but promised politely to buy some stuff on iTunes when he gets back to the Vatican.





What’s Montana’s state bird?
The black-beaked swallow.





How is driving a car a lot like playing mini-golf? They both end up with you laying in a cold, cold grave.





Two soldiers walk into a car wash. One of them tells the guy behind the counter, ‘I’ll have a Sex on the Beach.’ The car-wash attendant, quite fearful that the two men in uniform are there to deport him to his native Pakistan, begins crying softly before excusing himself to the restroom.




How to you keep Alicia Silverstone from killing your rabbit? You move to a different city and change your identity to something very unassuming.

Hey, Brother! An Introspection on Brother's Day

Next Tuesday, April 19th marks the 153rd annual celebration of Brother’s Day, an under-appreciated, yet no less important familial holiday often overshadowed by Mother’s and Father’s Day.

Started in the 1800’s by Pennsylvanian Quakers, a group notorious for loving their brothers, Brother’s Day gained minor notoriety in the very early 1900’s when then president Teddy Roosevelt made it a national holiday, famously proclaiming, ‘hey, brothers are pretty fucking cool.’

Though the holiday never gained enough traction in the United States to truly take off, it is a much bigger deal the world over.

In Canada, Brother’s Day is celebrated by taking your brother out for pancakes and then purchasing him a prostitute. In South Africa, ‘Brother Gypsy’ brings presents to your brother the night before the holiday; think jolly Saint Nick in sequins and curled-toe shoes. Commonly depicted as a half-man, half-gorilla like creature, Brother Gypsy leaves gifts in return for fresh cinnamon and soiled underwear. Stranger still, the Germans celebrate Brother’s Day by a night of hard drinking with your brother, followed by the tag-team murder of a transient. It is estimated that 3,400 transients are killed annually on Brother’s Day in Deutschland.

In honor of this year’s fraternal celebration, I thought it pertinent to take a look at some of histories famous male siblings. Though some are already well known, their stories are worth telling again. Others still live in the shadows like creeps. This is fitting because face it, a lot of brothers ARE creeps.





Billy Carter

Billy Carter, brother of bumpkin president Jimmy, shook the world to its very core in 1976 by introducing Billy Beer, a product of the Falls City Brewing Company that was ‘specifically designed’ for Billy, a notorious lover of all things hoppy and yeasty. Ultimately, the beer became much more of a punch line than anyone’s choice of refreshment, and Billy, a life-long, hardcore alcoholic, died at the age of 51 from pancreatic cancer. Oops!





Jeb Bush

Jeb Bush, brother of former president George and son of another former president George, was the 43rd governor of Florida until 2007. Bush is widely heralded as a pioneer in the field of killing retarded people on death row and being a general, smug asshole. His aspirations of one day running for president are enough to make even the most hardened (retarded) criminal dream of fleeing to Canada.



The handi-assasin





Ben Burns

Older brother of documentary filmmaker Ken, Ben- or ‘Benny’ as he is sometimes called- owns a series of do-it-yourself salvage yards in the Frankfort, Kentucky area. Though he is admittedly impressed with his brother’s directorial abilities, he remains unfazed by the success it has garnered. “You want a catalytic convertor for an ’82 Camaro? Fuck yeah. I got some of those.”





Roosevelt Gandhi


Roosevelt has the distinction of having the greatest age separation from his more famous brother. Born some 32 years after Mahatma, Roosevelt (who prefers the name ‘Rosie’) took a very distinctive path. Considered a trailblazer in Indian death metal, Roosevelt’s band Satan’s Labia has often been called the forefather of Hindu-core. It is also worth noting that Satan’s Labia has the privileged honor of being the only non-sitar driven music played on Indian airwaves.


Satan's Labia promotional photo






Rory Caulkin

Though Rory hasn’t quite achieved the notoriety of older brother Macaulay, he isn’t exactly loafing. With appearances in Richie Rich (where he played a younger version of his brother), the Good Son (where he appeared in a photograph as a younger version of his older brother) and Signs (what a piece of shit THAT was), Rory is poised for stardom with a large role in the newest incarnation of the Scream franchise. Oh, and he looks like a woman. Seriously. Look at that shit!

Dude looks like a lady.







Stanley Hussein


Saddam’s younger brother Stanley invented a reflective material for bicyclist’s clothing that lasts longer and shines brighter than previous reflective material on the market. A quiet man, he lives in Lakewood, Colorado with his wife Rebecca and their two cats, Ignatius and Pickles. Oh, and he really doesn’t approve of the atrocities perpetrated by his brother—he’d like you to know that.





Billy Ripkin

It’s hard to live up to greatness; Billy barely even bothered to try. Though he did play in the major leagues alongside older brother Cal for a spell, he is best known for his explicit Fleer baseball card. I think he coaches in the minor leagues somewhere now. Serves him right. Fuck Face indeed, Billy.

Fuck Face Ripken