Strengthen Your Bones

What's In a Gang?

2011-10-15T01:44:00.004-05:00

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

2011-09-05T16:50:00.003-05:00

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

2011-07-30T12:09:00.004-05:00

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)

2011-06-11T15:07:00.004-05:00

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"

2011-05-29T16:39:00.002-05:00

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)

2011-05-21T20:01:00.003-05:00

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

2011-04-16T20:45:00.003-05:00

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

A Concession Speech

2011-03-05T14:10:00.003-06:00

Friends, family, well-wishers, supporters, I’d first like to thank you all for coming out tonight under the circumstances. It’s never a joyous occasion when one must concede. It’s an admission of failure, ultimately, but Bud Stansbury is all about life’s little experiences, folks, and there was plenty to be learned over the past 12 months. Before I really dig in here, get to the meat and potatoes if you will, I’d also like to thank the fine folks here at Denny’s for allowing us to use their banquet room. I’d also like to thank Shirley, the general manager for providing free soft swirl. What a class act.

(wait for applause)

You know, it’s like the 1960’s psychedelic rock band the Grateful Deaths used to say, ‘what a long, crazy trip it’s been.’ Am I right? When my lovely wife Judy and I started out on this campaign trail 12 months ago, people told us we were crazy. They said that we had no idea what we were in for, how the muckraking would take a toll on our home life. They said, ‘Bud, when the press gets wind of the small Vietnamese child you drunkenly ran over and killed while studying pre-law at Ohio State, they’ll have a field day.’ They told me that my wife’s harelip would be ridiculed and laughed-at, that everything, everything, right down to the breakfast cereal I ate would be picked apart and analyzed. And just for the record, it’s Frosted Flakes, folks. Theyyyy’re GOOOOOD!

(Pause for laughter)

But I’ve always been a man of change. Those of you who know me well, you know that best. And more than anything else, I wanted change for this fine city of ours. I had big ideas—some thought TOO big, it’s worth noting—and I was ready to sacrifice my privacy for the chance to implement these changes.

Oh sure, I heard the snickers. When it comes to politics, people aren’t shy, folks. They’ll tell you how they feel up and down and six ways from Sunday, and they’ll just look for a chance to pounce. If they think your idea is harebrained, they’ll let you know, you bet your sweet bippy. They’ll sneak into your house at night and slit your throat with a rusty box cutter, and then smear your neck blood all over their penis and use it as masturbatory lubrication… metaphorically, of course.

When I introduced my Gladiatorial Homeless policy at the debate against Duke Granger back in March, you would have thought I suggested murdering infants in the name of some weird voodoo ritual. It was simple, folks. All I wanted to do was generate tax revenue by forcing Footsburgh’s growing homeless population to fight lions after Friday night football games. This was a simple plan that had a multi-tiered success factor that my opponents weren’t willing to consider. First, we get rid of the indigent. We don’t like ‘em, we don’t need ‘em, and we don’t need a constant reminder that some people have it bad off every time we have to step over one of the son-of-a-bitches when we’re going to Lucille’s Diner to get a piece of apple pie or a turkey melt. Am I right, or am I right, folks?

(wait for applause)

In addition to ridding ourselves of smelly nuisances, we also get some notoriety. We get some videos up on Youtubes, we bring in some out of town curiosity seekers, everyone benefits. Restaurants get visitors, hotels get people willing to—get this—pay to stay here in Footsburgh. Now I admit, that does sound a bit crazy, doesn’t it? Money pours in, we’re able to build a library, next thing you know, we might have young citizens with the financial means to attend college someday down the road! How ‘bout that, folks! Would you like that? A college graduate who was born right here in Footsburgh? Wild idea, I know.

(wait for more applause)

It’s cruel, they said. It’s inhumane. You’re certifiably insane, others said, and a few even begged me to get professional psychiatric help. To the doubters, I ask you this: Would an insane man have the wit to smear human feces inside his attacker’s car ventilation system so that Duke Granger was literally inhaling small particles of Bud Stansbury's fecal matter every time he used the AC or the heat? I think not, folks.

(wait for applause)

Oh, the detractors took a big ‘numeral dos’ all over most of my ideas. Opening a Good Burger fast-food restaurant here in town and dedicating opening week as ‘Kenan and Kel Week’? Absolutely preposterous, they all said. Nobody’ll care. Movie’s too old. Movie was no good to begin with.

Horse shit, I say. It’s a hilarious tale of friendship and teamwork and it. Is. TIMELESS.

(make sure to pound fist to palm between each of the last three words—also, wait for applause).

They said a combo indoor waterpark/ retirement home was senseless. They said it would cause completely avoidable drowning deaths among our town’s elderly. To this, I give two words-- and a one-fingered salute, truth-be-told—water-stinking-wings, people. The water park—like the lions eating the homeless and a Kenan and Kel themed restaurant—would bring in much needed revenue and if that means Duke Granger’s frail, cancer riddled mother dies with her lungs full of water? I say it’s a small price to pay.

(wait for applause)

Duke 'Mouse-Penis' Granger

Folks, there are no simple answers in the game of life. We’re given our balls and our brains and shoved off the train by Jesus, and it’s up to us how we spend the rest of our life. Some are put on this earth to dig ditches, to change break pads or to educate the young. Others of us still are put here for a higher calling: we’re built to lead, and lead we shall. Know this: I’ve lost the election for the 3rd seat city council selectman position to Duke ‘I Have Intercourse with Horses’ Granger, but I will not go away folks. I’ll be right back here next time with some more ‘crazy’ ideas and ‘irresponsible’ schemes. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you all and hope that you’ll be right beside me, fighting against the tyranny and oppression that the Duke Granger’s of the world represent.

Now let’s eat some soft swirl, folks!

Here's How Awesome My Family Is (was)

2011-02-25T23:06:00.000-06:00

Uncle Ray was the one who got out. While the rest of his family was spending time in lock up for various dalliances—drug possession, drug sales, generally being worthless humans—he packed up and headed to Florida. He found happiness there, and I believe he remarried (‘believe’ being the operative word, and a sad testament to how often actual news is shared on my mom’s side of the family). Rumor has it, he managed a motel in Sarasota and guided deep-sea fishing tours in the Gulf. This sounds pretty lofty, though, given the familial lack of ambition. For all I know, he may have managed a Chick-Fil-A. Doesn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was out of Kansas City, his sordid past a distant memory.

He wasn’t always so clean. There was a time when he was into pills and meth and god knows what else, just like his brothers and sisters. He spent a little time in jail, lost his kids and lost a couple of wives.

Before this, even, he was someone else entirely. When I was young, he lived in my grandparent’s basement, and to me, he was mysterious and a little intimidating. Though his soft, soothing voice betrayed his Hulk-like stature, he was still into things that made dudes badasses in the 1980’s: karate, mullets, mustaches and boa constrictors. He put away booze like Andre the Giant and could roundhouse-kick over the head of other adults. He could also rip a phonebook in half. Wait. I’ll say that again. He could rip a phonebook in half.

He befriended my dad in high school and subsequently, my dad began dating Ray’s younger sister. Had it not been for my mustachioed, phonebook-destroying uncle, I wouldn’t be here. (Or I suppose I might—but I wouldn’t be able to draw or have my father’s large nostrils). The fact that he was friends with my dad is also a testament to Ray’s coolness. Sure, they shared a love of weed, prog-rock and blacklight posters, but it spoke deeper to Ray’s true personality. Had my dad met uncle Tommy or uncle Randy first, he likely would have walked away shaking his head and again, I would have been born with much smaller nostrils. In that way, Ray was an enigma. He was a different animal than the rest of the clan, and that was a very good thing indeed.

And this is likely what allowed him to clean himself up, to get out of the mire that sunk his siblings.

Unfortunately, blood runs deep and at some point, Ray decided to come back for a spell. It was while staying back in KC that his heart gave out. I can’t remember if they found anything in his system—I don’t think they did, but honestly, it’s not that important. Doubtlessly, years of abuse long past played some sort of role. He died on New Year’s Day back in his hometown, like I’m sure he didn’t want to.

The funeral was short and filled with my people, a virtual reunion of several America’s Most Wanted episodes. Ray’s oldest son eulogized him. Thankfully, Jesse was raised mostly on his mom’s side of the family and turned out to be a really solid adult. Ray would have been proud of his son who, besides myself, was one of the few males in attendance not wearing a clip-on tie.

Then again, Ray was probably a bit of a clip-on tie guy himself. You can only outrun your roots as far as your heart will let you. Eventually, everything comes full circle. Unfortunately for our family, Ray’s circle was smaller than most. Hopefully his years spent in Florida filled him with enough happiness to make up for the rest of everything else; hopefully he’s karate-kicking people with Jesus in Heaven, standing next to a stack of Yellow Pages just waiting to be torn apart.

More Worst First Sentences

2011-02-20T13:00:00.006-06:00

Thought he repeatedly told himself, 'don't drop the soap, don't drop the soap,' Winston did and soon found himself begin penetrated by an unfriendly, gargantuan black man.

Amy joined the cult for the promotional t-shirt and the oatmeal raisin cookies, but ended up staying for the free brainwashing.

Although Mike Tobler planned on saving his wife when he went back in time, he messed up the machine and ended up giving a handjob to James K. Polk on a camping trip in Wisconsin.

Though moles are considered a mark of beauty on some, nobody would ever call the real mole that lived on Darren Fairbanks' face 'beautiful.'

If anything, the hastily scrawled note from Tunnel Town management that read, 'Please Dont Let You're Kids Poop in the Balls' had the opposite effect.

After a chance trip to 'Tiny P's Pawn,' Hamaad pitched his anatomy textbook and picked up a Les Paul, resolutely deciding to become the world's first Muslim rockstar.

My obsession with the 1980's sitcom 'Night Court' began after a fortuitous encounter with Harry Anderson in a Tucson airport restroom.

Tonya was, like many in her family before her, born in a Papa John's toilet.

15 year old Taylor Wells was winning the battle against acne, but losing the war against his nighttime jizz dreams.

The reviews for Michael Woodard's debut novel were slightly odd, particularly the one from the Winnetka Times that read, 'Cries in the Moonlight has more twists and turns than a retarded kid's sense of reality.'

Due to an untimely erection, the press was quick to dub the robber, 'the Boner Bandit.'

Super Bowl Sundae!

2011-02-06T13:44:00.008-06:00

Typical Super Bowl Party

So it’s come to this: you’ve decided to host a Super Bowl party. And why not? The Super Bowl has grown into something much larger than a mere football contest played between two teams. These days, it’s about pageantry as well. The commercials. The ambiance. And yes, the parties. So what’s a novice party planner to do? By following this helpful guide, you can ensure that your party will go down for years to come as, ‘that year John Host threw that really fucking weird party where a bunch of shit went wrong, people got blackout drunk and nobody wanted to look in the mirror the following afternoon.’ (because trust me, you’re not going to work the day after this nonsense).

First thing’s first, a party needs guests.

Hmm.

So, who to invite? Traditional party planning etiquette says to invite a small group of fairly close friends. I say bullshit. If you truly want this to be a party to remember, invite as many people as possible. Invite your boss, his boss, his secretary and that one cunt in charge of approving your vacation time. Next, invite your reverend (or priest), the smelly Iranian guy who works at the Gas N’ Gulp, a bunch of retarded people from an assisted living facility and a drifter or two.

In this day in age, invitations needn’t be formal affairs involving fancy stationary and postage stamps; feel free to send an e-vitation or, simply verbally request their presence (this is probably the best because you don’t know the email addresses of the drifter(s), the retards OR Hasmed… plus, do you really want Reverend Walters to see that your email address is hornyassrapist53@hotmail.com? Didn’t think so).

Congratulations! You’ve rounded out the guest list and guaranteed that everyone in attendance will be uncomfortable (well, except the hobos and the mentally deficient—they don’t know any better).

Next, you need food and drinks. Everyone agrees that to truly enjoy a Super Bowl party, one must be satiated from gullet to gut. Food and drinks break down into two key components: food and drinks. First, here’s a handy list of food ideas. Remember, this is a day for excess so please, buy as many of these things as possible. No skimping!

Hot wings w/dipping sauce
Sliders
Cheetos
Corn Chips
Vegetarian Chili
Roasted pheasant
Korean BBQ
Pickled cucumbers
Hummus w/ pita wedges
Potted meats
Kale
Build your own sundae station
Jello molds
Creamed corn
Chili cheese dip
Chili cheese lobster tails
Oysters Rockefeller
Beef Wellington
Another kind of vegetarian chili
Veggie tray w/ ranch dipping juice

Bam. There’s something for everyone on that list, from the heartiest carnivore to your brother’s faggoty wife, the vegetarian.

Next, you need drinks. After all, we’re all adults (except the retards, I guess… wait, should they be drinking? Maybe you should check local laws before boozing them up) and adults don’t really know how to hang out in groups without some fire-water. As with the food, be sure to buy as much 'drank' as possible. If it doesn’t get finished (and that’s a big if, lol), you’ll have plenty of leftovers. NOM NOM NOM.

Uncle Steve’s Hard Wang Ale
Newchester Brewery’s Triple IPA
Wild Irish Rose
Coors
Grape Robitussin
Third Reich Vodka
Boone’s Farm Wine, assorted flavors
Bud Ice
Bud Light
Bud Light Ice
Bud Lice
Larry’s Extra Stout Dangle
Cherry Robitussin
Blue River Brewery’s Harvest Murder Pilsner
Sean John Wheat
Sean John Pale Ale

Look at you, party-animal! You’re all set.

$3.69 MSRP, tastes like success.

So gameday’s finally here. Certain things go without saying: make sure there is plenty of ample parking. Make sure you’ve hired a person of color to take coats (see, you’re thinking that’s a racist statement… well maybe I didn’t mean a black person—now who’s the racist, you racist fuck?). Make sure you’ve taken the video camera you use to make your weird fetish videos with your wife from the tripod by the bed, just in case one of the retarded people accidentally wanders in or one of the drifters intentionally goes in to masturbate and take a nap. If you’ve got children, make sure they’re at a sitters for the next two or three days, as they needn’t be subjected to the depravity that’s sure to occur. Let the game begin!

Look out, he's headed for your bedroom!

This part is fairly self-explanatory—watch the fucking game. If you’re going to talk, make sure you make football related statements, like, ‘that naked bootleg was totally reminiscent of Doug Williams in the 1988 Redskins crushing of the Denver Broncos, you know, where Williams set a record by passing for 4 TD’s in the 2nd quarter alone,’ or ‘you know who had a nice ass? Andre Reed.’ Mostly, just watch the game. Dan Dierdorf and Al Michaels will do a fine job with the play-by-play, you only need to listen and nod.

Before you know it, it’ll be halftime. Halftime shows are always absolutely terrible. Look, if you want to watch the Who’s Rod Daltrey crack his 72 year old hip by doing a high-kick, be my guest. I find that halftime is a perfect chance to pee, chat, throw up in a bucket or on the lawn and make awkward passes at the females in the group. To liven things up, jokingly suggest some sort of orgy, or, at the very least, command your wife to fellate all of the males in attendance (including the special-ed contingent but excluding the drifters—if she sucks off a drifter, you’ll forever be tasting wet-hobo penis when you kiss her and you don’t want that). Who wouldn’t love to get a beej at a Super Bowl party? THAT sounds like a night to remember!

So after you’ve ushered your crying, vomiting wife into the spare bathroom and locked her in, head back for the second half. At this point, you and most of your guests should be blackout drunk, so it doesn’t really matter what happens from here… Make out with a retarded lady, threaten your pastor with a loaded pistol… basically, the world is your oyster.

Your crying, obese wife.

Before your guests leave, remember to thank them for coming and make sure they all have the keys to match the car—you don’t want any goddamned overnight guests, after all! LOL.

Congratulations, champ! Yours will be a party that will live on in laughter-filled tales and tearful therapy sessions for years to come.

Redneck Rejects

2011-01-22T10:52:00.002-06:00

Comedian Jeff Foxworthy shot to fame in the 1990's by telling 'you might be a redneck jokes,' anecdotal quips that poked fun at 'white-trash' or 'hillbilly' culture in the United States. Now, his star has fallen and he's resigned to earning millions of dollars making adults feel stupid when compared to children. It is my hope that these jokes- crafted by myself and without assistance from a professional comedian- will get Foxworthy back on the track where he needs to be: doing standup specials on Country Music Television (CMT). If someone knows him, please pass these along, and remember-- enjoy!

Oral sex: if you’ve ever received it from, or performed it upon your daughter, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever seriously assaulted someone with a food item—a sausage, a can of instant biscuits-- you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever given your infant enough Mountain Dew to cause grand mal seizures, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever been arrested for buying a case of Sudafed from Walgreens, you might be a redneck.
If you’ve ever made unprotected love to two women in one day, one of who has genital herpes, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever needed medical assistance after getting your tongue stud caught on the lip of a can of generic Dr. Pepper (i.e. Dr. Shasta, Dr. Fizz, Dr. Twister or Dr. Pop), you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever added a bay window to your home using only plywood, duct tape and an acetylene torch, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever repaired a busted shock in your powder-blue-hubcapped 1983 Nissan Sentra with a wad of newspaper, you might be a redneck.

If you leave out more than 6 cans of beer for Santa Claus, you might be a redneck.

If you have the name of a band tattooed on your upper left shoulder and it’s misspelled (i.e. Metalica, Leonard Skinnard, Quite Riot), you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever struck your child for spilling baby powder in your Monte Carlo more than twice in a month, or more than four times in a consecutive 3 month period, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever made your own tampons, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever traded used bicycle tires for sex with someone twice your weight, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever worn a thrift-store bought necktie to the Olive Garden (or a Japanese steak house) and gotten violent after spilling alfredo sauce (or a chef-flipped shrimp) on it, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever tongue kissed livestock—not because you were curious, but because you really were in love with that animal, you might be a redneck.
If your mustache is thicker than your eyebrows in your mugshot, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever spiked your husband’s Berry Blast Kool Aid with crystal meth so he’ll fail his drug test at the freight place and won’t be offered the job despite the fact that he has years of forklift experience, all so you can continue to get government assistance AND spend more time together, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever swung a dead snake like a lasso in an effort to win the heart of a girl in your apartement complex, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever impregnated someone twice (or two women, one time a piece) at the ‘Free Summer Movie Night’ in the park, you might be a redneck.

Loving You: Histories Greatest Forgotten Love Ballads

2011-01-08T11:36:00.006-06:00

The art of the love song is a tricky one. Often, the artist must find a balance; tow the line between complete schmaltz and real emotion. There seems to be a limit to how many ways a crooner can express such a universal feeling, though. Have all of the good love songs already been written? Is there anything left to say? There is, it’s just up to the listener to find the treasure. Allow me to present a collection of previously unreleased ballads by some of histories greatest Lotharios.

“Let’s Do It (in the Butt, My Dear)”

Marvin Gaye, 1983

Written shortly before he was murdered by his father, this unearthed gem deals with an (unfortunately) unpopular theme in pop music: anal sex. With classic lines like ‘ooooooh, it’s tight and hot!’ and ‘lemme love up that puckered rosebud,’ it was unlikely that ‘Let’s Do It’ would have ever received significant radio play. It remains, however, one of Gaye’s most hauntingly melodic tracks and a testament to the artist’s love of anal intercourse.

“Alabama Black Snake”

Isaac Hayes, 1973

Hot off of his Oscar win for the Shaft soundtrack, Hayes got down and dirty with a graphic track about his meaty black penis. While conga drums and primitive synthesizers grind in a sweaty mass of confusion, Black Moses whispers lines about his hefty cock, ‘black as the back of an Alabama snake.’ Due to label protests, the track was pulled as the b-side from 1973’s ‘Joy’ which ultimately reached number 16 on the US Billboard charts.

“Silver and Gold”

R. Kelly, 1997

In what certainly should have been seen as a prelude to future proclivities, Kelly’s ode to the golden shower found it’s way onto his 1998 platinum selling album ‘R.’ as a hidden track. In 4 minutes and 45 seconds, Kelly manages to make the brunt of his affection into a virtual port-o-potty with lines like, ‘gonna wet you down, girl/ with my salty bladder sauce’ and ‘if you don’t like me urinating on you/ you should probably prosecute.’

“Small Asian Girl”

Curtis Mayfield, 1983

This track from 1983’s commercially unsuccessful ‘Honesty’ was a bit too honest for Taiwanese authorities, who handed Super Fly a lifetime ban from entering the country. With aggressively sexual lines about ‘chinky-child-honeypots’ and ‘tight-slitted-slantys,’ Mayfield aroused protests throughout Asia, including a riot at a Bangkok record store where 15 people were seriously injured.

“Let’s Stay Together (if for no Other Reason Than You do That One Thing No Other Lady Will Do)”

Al Green, 1973

The cryptic follow-up to 1972’s smash hit ‘Let’s Stay Together’ found the reverend pining for something illicit, so unmentionable in fact, that music scholars still debate the meaning behind the song. Paul Wilkens of Rolling Stone very matter-of-factly stated in a review, ‘it’s apparent that Green likes a digit dropped in the pooper now and again, but deciding to record this proclivity to tape is a questionable decision at best.’ Though Green now declares the song never existed, grainy master copies can still be found on internet music sharing sites.

“A Giraffe, Two Hippos and a Fuck-load of Ostriches”

Harry Nilsson, 1982

While this song is about a kind of love, its inclusion on this list is suspect, at best. Folk-pop troubadour Nilsson recorded this soft ditty about taking his son Ben to a petting zoo. Clocking in at just under 7 minutes, the track name checks every animal they saw and Ben’s thoughts on each one. Again, not a love song in a traditional sense.

Normal Hobo, or Scary Santa?

2010-12-11T08:45:00.008-06:00

Welcome back! We're going to jump right into the lightning round here on America's fastest growing game show, 'Normal Hobo, or Scary Santa!' In this round, contestants must accurately identify whether the photo being shown is that of a normal hobo or a scary Santa Claus. Mort, please start the timer!

A

B

C

D

E

F

G

H

7

8

9

Answer Key:
A) 'No-Stockings' Anderson, definitely a scary hobo
B) Santa from Woodland Lakes Mall in Duluth, MN. (fake)
C) Black dude. Santa's not black.
D) Leo Tolstoy, prolific Russian author
E) Boxcar Teddy Nelson, moderately scary hobo
F) Santa Claus
G) Mike McKinney, retired welder from Amarillo, TX.
H) Sex pervert
7) Santa Claus
8) Leonard Riley, drifter
9) 'Study Head of Old Man with White Beard' ca. 1617-1620 (Anthony van Dyck (Flemish, Antwerp 1599–1641)

It's Beginning to Look a Little Bit Like Christmas

2010-12-05T10:53:00.005-06:00

Another year has passed. The air is turning cold, homeless people are starting to pee in their clothes to stay warm and the holidays are knocking at our door. You want to get in the spirit, but you're just not feeling it this year.

You've been unemployed for 10 months. Your Suburu needs a new steering wheel. You had most of your teeth knocked out in a go-kart accident and you've got no dental coverage to fix it.

So what's gonna get you in the mood, for fuck's sake? Christmas movies, that's what. And while there are many classic Christmas films, you've seen 'em all a million times. It's a Wonderful Life? Yeah, not anymore it's not. A Christmas Story? Are you fucking high, lady? That thing’s on 8 million times around Christmas. You can quote that bullshit at the drop of a hat.

So why don't you give some of these other pictures a chance? As history's greatest singer Drake says, you'll thank me later.

‘It’s Jesus Birfday, Yo’

A poignant drama that begs the question, just what is the meaning of Christmas? Bumbling car-thief LaFarious Jackson (Mekhi Phifer) gets more than he bargained for when he steals Jesus Christ’s custom hotrod. Will Jesus forgive LaFarious? Or will he shoot his ass for ganking his whip? Only watching the film in its entirety will tell.

‘A Ponypenis Family Christmas’

Everyone’s favorite wacky Greek family is back, this time with a Christmas adventure. When Grandpa Ponypenis’ (Dick Van Dyke) flight from the east coast is cancelled, it’s up to the rest of the family to get him back to Detroit for the holidays by any means necessary. Tom Arnold reprises his acclaimed role as patriarch of this highly unusual clan. Fun for the whole family!

‘Revenge of the Grinch’

(Animated)
Everyone’s favorite Christmas curmudgeon is back, but this time, it’s in less-than-heartwarming circumstances. ‘Revenge’ picks up where Seuss left off—the Grinch’s sexual abuse trial for the molestation of Cindy Lou Who. Boris Karloff is back, which is really fucking crazy because he’s been dead for a while. INAPPROPRIATE FOR CHILDREN AND MOST ADULTS.

‘Stuart the Uninteresting Reindeer’

We all know the story of Rudolph, but we often overlook his older brother Stuart. A Christmas travesty you ask? Not really. While Rudolph had heart, Stuart was just kind of shitty. He was mostly into online gaming and Supertramp records. In this classic holiday tale, Stuart is trying to get a fake ID to buy some Old Milwaukee’s Best. In a season full of blessings, we’re truly blessed this piece of shit is only 24 minutes long.

‘Grandma’s Liberal Use of the N-Word Ruins Christmas Dinner’

Things get awkward for Melanie Hartford (Candace Cameron Bure) when she brings a black boyfriend home for Christmas dinner and Grandma Hartford (Irene Ryan) let’s loose with the N-bombs. Will grandma’s lifelong hatred of black people be swayed by Paul Walters (Mekhi Phifer), or will he justify her resentment by stealing her jewelry on a ‘trip to the bathroom’? Who knows!

‘Dolph Lundgren’s Holiday Themed Variety Special’

Join America’s favorite Swede-who-you-thought-was-Russian as he celebrates the season with a slew of special guests, including Mr. T, Leonard Cohen, Dana Carvey and Bill Gates. There’ll be dancing, cooking, singing, and lots of Russian jokes (see, this is why we’re fucking confused, Dolph) in this soon-to-be holiday classic. Somebody pass the borscht!

Giving Thanks

2010-11-20T10:46:00.006-06:00

Dear Friends and Family,

I wanted to take a second to send you all this Facebook message about what’s been going on. This is the time of the year where we take stock of our surroundings and give thanks and all that shit. So I guess I wanted to do that, and in the process, explain why I probably won’t be at Aunt Jean’s this year to celebrate the liberation of our fine country. Go USA!

See, as of right now, I’m officially not working and the unemployment I’m drawing is barely getting us by. Dee-Dee started getting more hours at Carl’s Jr., now that a lot of the summer workers are back in school, and so that ain’t half-bad, but Christ-in-a-shopping cart if everything else ain’t all fucked to shit.

(Dee-Dee doing her thing)

For starters, Dee-Dee is ‘with child’ once again. It’s gonna be a boy (I can tell) and we’re gonna name him Wade, but fuck, babies are fucking expensive. I can’t wait for the little crumb-snatcher to get here, don’t get me wrong, but I may have to sell one of the other ones to pay for him. LOL, j/k.

Another thing that happened is, I was in the shitter a few weeks ago minding my own, and my motherfucking ponytail caught fire. No shit. One second I’m engrossed in an article about the sibling rivalry between the Undertaker and Kane when I smell some funky ass-shit going on (and I ain’t talking about the funky-ass smells my Busch Light drinking ass was making, neither, LOL). Then, my back starts getting real hot-like, and the next thing I fucking know, I’m flinging my Pro Wrestling Illustrated across the dump-drop and my goddamned ‘tail is ablaze. I shit you not. Seems that fucking Dee-Dee’s scented candle—you know, Apple Orchid or Apple Orchard or some happy hosrsehit—was too close to my back and fuck-it-all-to-hell, I got burned. My neck was fine, as was the back of my dome, but my ponytail was fucking gone, man. And that’s a real big-ass bummer.

(Happier, hairier times)

So I called Wigs for Kids, or whatever that fucking place is, and those cocksuckers acted all indignant and shit. ‘Excuse me sir, you mean to say you want to replace your ponytail?’ And that uppity bitch had a real un-cool tone, so I was like, ‘you know what, fuck it. You can shove that fucking wig up your chute, if you know what I mean,’ and she threatened to call the cops on me for some verbal abuse bullshit. I don’t even think she can do that, but I wasn’t taking no chances. I still got tickets for driving expired and not having my Monte Carlo’s tags up to date and shit. Swear to God, these governmental motherfuckers like to rape you dry and won’t even give you the courtesy of a reach-a-round handy, you know?

(The Carlo)

Anyways, I was kinda down in the dumps about the hair thing, so I called in sick to TJ’s Tires and More on Monday and Tuesday of that week, and on Wednesday when I tried, that infected prick Randy said ain’t no bother in making up some excuse, cause he was canning my ass. Some fucking nerve, right? He’s been there all of 6 months and thinks he’s hot horseshit because he’s got some Associates degree in mechanical technicianship or something. I’m like, motherfucker, you ain’t busted knuckles for ONE-TENTH the time I have, I don’t care what some piece of paper says. YOU AIN’T SHIT. So I defriended him on Facebook and took a piss in the gas-tank of his fucking F150. I got you high-octane fuel right here, motherfucker (I would have liked to have said to his face).

But it ain’t all kicks in the balls, I guess. Some bitch that Dee-Dee works with had a Playstation she was selling, and I’ve been wanting to get my hands on one of them for awhile, so we scraped together the $50 and so now I’ve got something to do during the days. I’ve been playing this badass game called Renegade Racing, and it’s like NASCAR but there’s fucking zombies and ninjas and shit driving the cars. And you can customize your car and shit and even build racetracks. Fuck to the yes!

And baby Wade’s on the way, as previously stated. So that’s alright, too.

But because of all of this bullshit I got going on, we can’t make it to Thanksgiving this year. I extend my sincerest gratitude at the invite, but with money being what it is, we just can’t afford the gas and shit. Fuck, I can’t even afford to give Dean the rest of the money he wants to finish up my ink. I’ve got a half-fucking wolf-face on my shoulder, ain’t that some sorry-ass shit?

(T.I.P. aka Tat in Progress)

Eat some turkey for me, tell Gary to keep his dick out of the gravy and tell Gramma and Grampa that I said ‘what’s up.’ Hopefully we’ll be making it out for Christmas. I’ve got a lead on a dealership mechanic gig and wouldn’t that be some shit? Health benefits and paid vacay and all that. Fuck yes, God is good.

Peace out.

'And the Monkey Flipped the Switch'

2010-11-13T09:38:00.003-06:00

Some folks blog because they have an endless running internal dialogue that keeps them up at night. Others blog because they hope that someone, anyone will take notice and they can quit their shitty job in data entry and become a world-renowned scribe for the common man. A good majority of folk blog, however, because they get bored talking out loud when no one else is around. They treat their blog like an online diary for all to see; Greg Beck was in the last camp (with maybe a bit of the first thrown in for good measure-- he was a definite page-jumper at times).

I first came across Greg's blog, 'Death's Door: The View From the Spanish Announcer's Table' sometime in 2002 or 2003. I was looking for a good fried chicken recipe and Google hit upon his nearly infamous 'How to Fucking Fry Chicken' offering. The recipe was a nice summation of the blog itself: a bit cheeky, playful, full of harmless vitriol and lots of 'fucks,' 'shits,' and 'cocksuckers' thrown in for good measure. The chicken hooked me and I kept reading.

Greg was a fascinating guy. He was large, black and into heavy metal (with some old school hip-hop and blues thrown in for good measure). He lived in Midtown, worked for FEMA and spent Friday nights hanging out with friends at the Hurricane (now known as the Riot Room), listening to rock music and drinking whiskey and Coke. Although he was in his mid-40's (and again, large, and black) his best friend was a white chick in her late 20's named Michelle. They'd spend Saturday nights on his couch having mini-movie marathons. Greg was partial to science fiction. He was heartbroken when Buffy the Vampire Slayer went off the air.

He also like to blog. And he was pretty fucking prolific. He posted several times a week. Something would catch his eye on the news and he'd share his caustic opinion. He'd share stories about taking the bus to work, about his past (he was a bouncer for 20 years, had been stabbed and shot at, knew lots of old blues guys from his days working at clubs and preferred the company of strippers in his younger years) and about his day-to-day life. These last posts were probably my favorite. He would always warn you before hand that his 'journal-like' posts were probably going to be boring, but I didn't see it that way at all. I got to know his friends, Mito, Michelle and a host of other Hurricane regulars. I laughed when he talked about cooking 'butt-ass-nekked' and cringed when he shared his health scares. See, as I mentioned, Greg was a big dude and he had a history of heart problems. In fact, he'd had a few heart attacks and so when he'd share stories about fast-food drive thrus, his efforts to quit smoking and the need to start taking it easy on the weekends with the whiskey and Coke, it makes one wish for time travel.

See, if I could go back in time to '02 or '03 and share what I know-- the fact that he died in 2007-- he might have given more of a shot at healthy living. But maybe not (he was pretty fucking excited when he learned how to make a proper pot-roast and really, who could blame him?)

I myself found out of his death one day a few months ago, 3 years after it happened. And that's the nature of an internet world. After reading his blog for a period of time a few years ago, I simply forgot about it. It was the first blog I'd ever read with any sort of regularity but I lost it along the way.

Easy come, easy go.

That's why it was awful to finally remember his site, go to check in and see a post from Michelle from September of '07 announcing his passing, stating simply that his 'big, generous heart had finally given out.' And that's too fucking bad. Because even though I didn't know Greg, I did know him, you know? I knew him really fucking well. But I never got to meet him. And now I never will.

So I'm going back through and re-reading his entire catalogue, thousands and thousands of entries. And I'm cringing when I read that he slept all day Saturday and all the way through the night into Sunday because, as you and I know, sleeping for 24 straight hours isn't for healthy people. And even though it's slightly sad and uncomfortable and weird because I know how the movie ends, I'm also laughing because he's calling people 'snow-cone eatin' retards' and sharing stories about being attacked by housecats 'whilst butt-ass-nekked' and carrying a plate of chicken.

RIP, Greg.

"and the monkey flipped the switch"

Laugh at Fake Ballas with Bad Jewels

2010-10-23T16:05:00.003-05:00

The toughest thing about getting married isn’t the song selection, the seating arrangements or the choice of cuisine. It’s not about finding a venue to host your loutish family and friends or picking out an elegant tuxedo. For me, the toughest part about getting married is getting used to wearing a ring.

See, there are two types of guys in this world. There are jewelry guys and there are non-jewelry guys. I am definitely the latter.

Jewelry guys are weird. Usually, these are middle aged men predisposed to flaunting their tangle of chest hair in an under-buttoned button-up shirt. The wear creased, light-colored slacks, smoke cigars and have skin the color of excrement. They smell nice, if not a bit overwhelming, and drive convertibles late into the fall (unless, of course, they live in Florida, which often, they do). They also have never met a gaudy knuckle-nugget they don’t like.

But they don’t stop with a ring.

They also buy gold chains of varying thickness with a delicately dangling emblem proclaiming something: they believe in God, sometimes to such a degree that it becomes necessary to show his crucified corpse on the cross. They enjoy a particular state (usually Florida) with such voracity that said state must be outfitted with small diamonds and hung from their neck. Sometimes, they’re Italian and they just want you to know by wearing a fucking gorny (see, you always knew it as a chili-pepper necklace).

The thing is, you’re BORN a jewelry guy. You can’t BECOME one. I’ve tried. And failed. Here’s a brief history of my attempts at body adornment.

-Cross necklace-

I don’t come from a particularly religious background—my only forays into the house of the Lord came from a friend whose mother was slightly fanatical—so why I wanted to wear a cross, I’ll never know. I did, however, when I was younger. I owned a few in my time, probably in the 8-10 year old age range, but they always poked my chest and made me uncomfortable, so I gave it up. Praise Jesus.

-Weed Necklace-

I bought my marijuana leaf necklace from the Swap-N-Shop when I was 11. I was a huge fan of Dr. Dre’s ‘The Chronic’ and felt the need to proclaim my love by looking like a complete piece of crap. Nothing is trashier than a weed necklace, especially when it’s being rocked by an 11 year old white kid from the suburbs. Though my parents were completely liberal, I still didn’t think they’d be cool with the statement I was making and I never showed them. I sold it shortly after purchasing it, to another 11 year old classmate who I’m fairly certain ACTUALLY smoked pot. That’s right, I’m looking at YOU, Eric Manes.

-Africa Medallion-

Very similar to the weed necklace. Fairly certain I purchased it at the Swap-N-Shop (oh, what a glorious purveyor of goods!) around the same age. I also read Malcolm X’s ‘By Any Means Necessary’ twice and sympathized with the Black Panther Party. I was 11. What!

-Shell Necklace-

Everyone had one of these at some point. There were several variations, but the one I wore most often was bought by a stalker/girlfriend while she was vacationing in Florida and given to me as a gift. It was white and composed of tiny little white plastic pieces. I really liked this necklace, though I’m not sure what sort of message I was trying to convey. ‘I’m a surfer from Missouri?’ ‘I’ve seen pictures of the beach?’ Whatever the case, the necklace broke. Thankfully. Or I might still be tempted to bust it out in the summer months.

-Cowrie Shell Necklace-

This was an ACTUAL shell necklace composed of approximately 15 small shells on a black, rope-like material. It was given to me by a street musician in New Orleans who freestyle-rapped while keeping rhythm on a bucket. His name was Trinidad and he was absolutely awesome. Though he probably drowned in the Katrina flooding (didn’t everyone?), his memory lived on in the necklace he gave me that I can no longer find. So I guess his memory doesn’t live on. You know, if he’s even dead. Which he might not be. But probably is. RIP, Trinidad.

-Chain Necklace w/ Padlock-

You know, like Sid Vicious. Because I am PUNK. AS. FUCK. (As I type this, I’m wearing a suit and tie and closely monitoring the Dow). I was never punk, never purported to be, but I liked the way it looked falsely intimidating. My friend Devon bought one first, I copied, and we went through a phase where we tried to see who could wear the biggest, thickest hunk of chain. Thank God neither one of us ever fell overboard on a boating trip during this period; I wouldn’t be here sharing this right now. I got rid of this one because a) I realized I looked absolutely ridiculous and b) it would get really cold in the winter months.

-Earrings-

I got my ears pierced when I was like, 18, probably because my dad could no longer tell me not to. I went to the mall—the fucking MALL—and sat in a chair and had some chunky 15 year old girl do it. After the probationary period of wearing the small, bb-like earrings, I moved up to some classic silver hoops. I looked like a retarded pirate. A worthless, retarded pirate. I also bleached my hair until it was almost white and wore Ecko hoodies. I, my friends, was a fucking tool.

-Ring-

I’ve owned one ring, once. It was a gift from a girlfriend, small silver band that had some sort of vaguely Aztecian design. It was kind of hip in the early 2000’s, but so was Limp Bizkit, Three Doors Down and Train’s ‘Drops of Jupiter.’ I wore it, and didn’t mind it, but again, I’m not a jewelry guy. See, in my mind, there’s only one piece of jewelry a guy should ever wear. A simple wedding band.

The Truth About John Stamos

2010-10-08T12:26:00.005-05:00

It was announced today that a Michigan couple accused of attempting to extort money from actor John Stamos will receive 4 years in prison for their efforts. Stamos-- best known for his role as Uncle Jessie on 'Full House,' as well as roles on 'ER' and 'Glee'-- was being blackmailed with supposedly illicit photographs showing drug-use with strippers at a 2004 party. Relieved to have his name cleared, I was able to sit-down with the handsome actor and discuss the case, his love-life and his distinguished small screen career.

Me: John, welcome.

John Stamos: Thanks, Matt. Can I call you Matt, or is it Matthew?

Me: Actually, it's Brandon.

(awkward silence)

Me: So tell me, how does it feel to 'have the air cleared,' so-to-speak.

JS: Well, it's a huge relief, obviously, but anyone who knows me knew unequivocally that it wasn't true. I haven't done cocaine since 1988 when we were on the set of Full House. I call it 'FH: The Lost Years.' Yeah, from about '88 until '91, we were all pretty blown out of our minds on nose-candy. We finally stopped because Bob (Saget, actor who portrayed patriarch Danny Tanner) was getting nose-bleeds on every take. His dealer was out of town over Memorial Day weekend and we were taping a two part episode, and he was really bent out of shape, I mean, just blasted off his tits, but he started coming down pretty hard and he, he couldn't get any more, and he just kicked the shit out of the dog on the show, Comet.

Me: Wow, really?

JS: Oh, absolutely. MK and Ash (Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, the twins who portrayed Michelle Tanner) were in tears and their handler was threatening to call the cops. It was fucked.

Me: Unbelievable. Do you still keep in touch with any of the cast?

JS: You know, not as much as I'd like. Bob is working-- he does the voice-over on How I Met Your Mother and he does some independent film directing, I think-- Lori (Laughlin) who played my wife is good... We dated while the show was going on and it ended kinda sour. I gave her a really funky STD, something you can typically only get in rural fishing villages in South Africa-- so she doesn't return my calls much anymore. I think she's married and happy. Dave... geez... where to begin, right? Well, he's homeless now. He blew all of his money from the show and from stand-up on some pyramid scheme involving Russian land-grants. It's terrible. I feel awful, but what can you do? I saw him in Santa Monica combing the beach with a metal detector and eating a cheeseburger he found in a trashcan outside of Shakey's.

Me: That's awful. I had no idea. And the twins? Mary Kate and Ashley? Have you talked to them lately?

JS: No, not really. I mean, we're cordial and all, but they're so goddamned big now, you know? Haha. Won't even return calls from ol' Unk J, you know? I love 'em, though.

Me: They've obviously gone on to have the greatest success of anyone else in the cast. What was it like seeing them blossom? Describe your feelings for them in one word.

JS: Love.

Me: John? Be honest now.

JS: Fine. 'Boner.'

Me: There we go, that's better.

JS: (checking watch) Is this thing almost over?

Me: Tell me about getting involved with Glee. Everyone likes that show. I can name at least six people who actually watch it. And I mean WATCH IT-watch it.

JS: Well, the producer of Glee, Dante Di Loreto, he used to date my little sister Tandy.

Me: Tandy Stamos?

JS: Tandy Stamos. And anyway, I know all kinds of weird things about him. Really creepy shit that no one should ever know about you. I'm talking about the kind of shit you hide from your wife.

Me: Like?

JS: Well, I'm not gonna say anything, because he's a sweetheart. Except for the whole, mice-penis thing. That's not sweet at all. But I'm still not gonna say anything.

Me: Okay, moving on. What's next for John Stamos?

JS: Oh, I've got a lot of things in the hopper. I'm touring with the Beach Boys this summer, and then you know, the whole Glee thing. I'm also having sex with a lot of college chicks, which is pretty great. I'm still pretty good looking, so you know... It's just... whatever's clever, man.

Me: John? It's been an absolute pleasure. Let's do this again soon.

JS: Sure thing, Matt.

Animals, in Order of Importance

2010-10-01T18:40:00.002-05:00

A lot of my students ask for my opinions on animals. This is normal, I suppose, as I am their Animal Studies professor.

‘Rick?’ they’ll ask. And they’ll wait. And wait. And I won’t fucking answer because they’re NOT ADDRESSING ME BY MY SURNAME.

Eventually, they’ll get it. They’ll blush. I’ll make a mental note to have sex with their mother at the next Teacher and Parent conference.

‘Mr. Dorsey?’ they’ll continue. This time, I’ll turn to them with my biggest, phoniest smile, picturing the porking I’ll be giving their mamacita. ‘Mr. Dorsey? What’s the bestest animal?’

And at this point, I hand them this pamphlet. Mostly it’s because I don’t want to talk to them. Plus, I printed a bunch of these things up at Kinko’s and I aim to get my dollar’s worth.

Best Animals:

1) Rhino- You just can't fuck up a rhino. Oh sure, maybe you could with a tank or a military helicopter. But do you have either one of these things? Of course you don't. Therefore, a rhino will always smash you. Their leathery hides make penetration nearly impossible and their horns act as natural stabbers. (notable rhinos include either Bee-Bop or Rocksteady from the Ninja Turtles... I can't recall which was the rhino and which was the warthog)

2) Elephant- Elephants are really fucking big. Were an elephant so inclined, it could sit on your car and crush it. Look, I know it sounds like something from a cartoon, but it's absolutely NOT. It's a terrifying reality that you should be aware of. If an elephant wanted to marry your daughter, you'd probably have to let him. They're just that fucking huge. (notable elephants include Dumbo and Casey, who was the trainer-killing elephant at my local zoo when I was a child)

3) Bear- There are all kinds of bears, for starters. Polars, koalas, grizzlies, alaskan, pandas, and brown to name bu a few. They're ALL pretty insanely scary, too. A polar bear does not want to share a Coke with you or be a part of your documentary film. Do you hear me Timmy Treadwell? A bear will straight eat your ass and act like it was nothing. Bears also have claws. While this does inhibit their ability to engage in manual labor, it does make it easier for them to rip your face off. And then eat it. (notable bears include Yogi, Gentle Ben, and Tara Reid. It's also a type of gay)

4) Crocodile- Alligators are pretty goddamned scary. First of all, they look like some sort of crazy prehistoric science experiment. What's up wit' dat? Second, they do something called a death roll (not to be confused w/ the Death Roll at Hiroshi's Fish House and Antique Mall... LOL). A crocodile death roll will straight fuck you up. It crunches your bones and makes you drown. It's a double-goddamned death. That's right, alligators are dangerous. Thankfully, they're confined to Louisiana, Texas, and Chicago. (notable crocodiles include the Sugar Smacks Cereal mascot and that one from that movie with Lou Diamond Phillips)

5) Giraffes- Giraffes are really neat. They're tall and they have beautiful camel faces... Long, thick eyelashes, pouty lips, sleepy bedroom eyes. Yeah, I'd do it with a giraffe. Whatever. Like YOU'RE any better than that. You still live at home with your mom and you buy Scratch-N-Wins with her disability checks. Fuck off. Like you seriously wouldn't stand on a step ladder and give it to a sexy giraffe. Liar. (notable giraffes include Geoffrey from Toys R Us and that's it).

6) Stegosaurus- Stegosaurus' aren't even animals anymore. Girl, you trippin'! Read on.

7) Hippopotamus- They're sort of like rhinos, but they're not as scary. Except they're more dangerous, I think. But the chance of you seeing one is slimmer than the chance of you seeing a rhino (hippos are native to Africa; rhinos can be found throughout the US with heavy concentrations in Oklahoma and northern Texas). Hippos are mostly herbivores, which means they eat plants, but they also eat human limbs, so I think that makes them cannibals as well. (notable hippos include the Hungry Hungry ones from that game).

8) Chickens- While not threatening (unless you're my fiancee, who is scared of birds), chickens are delicious. Their culinary versatility begs for inclusion into the best animals ever list. From General Tso and Chicken ala King, to Chicken and Dumplings and fried chicken, there's nothing that can't be done with this tasty, tasty bird. (notable chickens include the San Diego Chicken and that annoying thing on Family Guy that was NEVER funny-- not even when they obnoxiously reintroduced him to just piss the previously annoyed people off)

9) Lions- Lions are fucking gay. They lost like, 16 games that one year! And that's NEVER happened! Yeah, the Lions are pretty worthless. Go Bears! (notable Lions include Matthew Stafford, the Royals mascot Sluggerrr and Hall of Famer Barry Sanders)

10) Locusts- The have streets named after them and they're supposed to be part of a big plague someday. Works for me. (there are no notable locusts)

11) Hyenas- Have you heard one laugh? Fucking NIGHTMARISH. It's like the sound of all my worst fears. So hauntingly human. Imagine hearing that on a dark African plain some night. Why are you on an African plain? At night? That's right, cause you 'bout to be ate, muthafucka. (notable hyenas include the ones from the Lion King)

12) Zebras- Dig it: zebras are like if your old college roommate Zack sold a bunch of acid to God and then when God was all messed up, some hot chick from Brenner Hall asked him to make an animal... and he was pretty fucked up, you know, so he was like 'fuck it, I'ma take a horse, make it fuck a donkey and then let the set designer from 'Three Men and a Baby go sick with the paint.' That's why zebras are cool. (notable zebras include... wow... I just really can't think of any at all)

Fall TV Lineup

2010-09-24T10:37:00.002-05:00

The leaves are changing, the temperatures are dropping and around this great country of ours, millions of morbidly obese Americans are parking in front of the television to eat Cheetos and take in this year’s newest crop of rehashed shit from network executives who think that the public is more retarded than a busload of participants at the Special Olympics.

But what to watch? There are so many options that at times, it can make your head spin. Glee? If you’re gay, or a lady, go ahead. Community? Look, I like Joel McHale as much as the next gay or lady, but honestly, the show just isn’t that great. Parks and Recreation? I’ve seen that show before and it was much funnier when it was called the Office (wait… when did I turn into David Spade?).

The point is, television is shit. For every quality show (Justified, Louie) there are 90 less than stellar efforts (I’m looking at you Outsourced, Cougar Town, the Middle, Big Bang Theory, Shit My Dad Says, CSI: Spokane, JAG, any reality show or talent contest, New Adventures of Old Christine, Chuck, 187: Detroit, Burn Notice, Damages and any non-animated Fox show, to name but a few).

Here are some shows starting this fall that may offer some relief. In no particular order, here are some promising looking programs. You’re welcome.

- Still Dinosaurs (ABC, 7pm Thursday) Remember that show from the early 90’s called Dinosaurs with giant, fleshy dinosaur puppets instead of actors? That’s right, this is the same fucking thing. If you never tired of the baby dinosaur screaming ‘Not the momma!’ then this is for you… you sad, sad person.

- Growing Up Goblin (NBC, 8pm Tuesday) This… reality show?... offers a sneak peek into the private lives of goblins, flesh eating monsters who live on the fringes of society. I can’t figure this one out, because I didn’t think goblins were real. Very confusing.

- Homeroom (CBS, 7:30pm Monday) Details are sketchy on this assuredly subpar offering, but I think it stars Dabney Coleman and the ghost of Brittany Murphy. Dabney Coleman plays a child molester who, through poor vetting, becomes an elementary school teacher. The ghost of Murphy plays a specter eternally haunting Coleman, as his happy-hands years earlier caused her to take her own life. Oh yeah, and it’s a comedy.

- Make Room for Anthony Michael Hall (NBC, 9pm Wednesday) Like the aforementioned …Goblin, it’s tough to tell if this is a reality show or not. Anthony Michael Hall plays a freelance tow-truck driving single father of two teenage girls. This may or may not be actually happening right now, as we speak. IMDB lists Hall as ‘himself’ in the credits and the kids are really, really unfortunate looking so it's entirely possible that they could be his daughters. Who knows?

- America’s Fastest Midget Cake Eaters (FOX, 8pm Wednesday) Everything you need to know about this show is right there in the title. Apparently, competitive cake-eating is a huge deal amongst little persons and this reality based/talent show gives an unprecedented backstage glance at the lives of the participants. Sign. Me. Up.

- Celebrity Doo-Doo (FOX, 7pm Friday) This is another reality show concept wherein contestants analyze—by scent, appearance and weight—the fecal leavings of Hollywood heavyweights and attempt to identify the pooper. Though the premise is a bit nauseating, it figures to be a hit as it is being hosted by a rapidly ballooning and perpetually sweaty Adam Richman, star of Travel Channel’s Man vs. Food.

- Landfill Logic (CBS, 8pm Friday) Kevin James stars as a popular former small-town mayor who tires of the fast-paced life of a politician, instead finding refuge in refuse. The townspeople are reluctant to let him go, though, and make it their mission to bring him back. Will their collective desires be enough to pull him from the junkyard and put him back behind the podium? Honestly, who fucking cares, but if you really MUST know, tune in on Fridays at 8.

And there you have it. It’s all utter crap. I suggest watching reruns of Good Times, instead of ANY of this. It wasn’t funny, but it is an interesting sociological time-capsule of race and poverty in 1970’s Chicago.

And Thelma had it going on.

A Review for a Movie That Needs to be Made

2010-09-23T23:37:00.002-05:00

To write ‘Salt and Pepper’ off as nothing more than a pedestrian buddy-cop flick, you’re doing the film a disservice; to claim that the movie has deep social incantations or a poignant message is giving it too much credit. It is what it is, a classic cop pic ‘seasoned’ with a few laughs and a few tears and when it’s at its best, it’s an above-average effort from veteran director Alan Kemp (‘Neckties and Broomsticks’).

Salt and Pepper tells the tale of a hilarious unlikely cop pairing, veteran detective Greg Salt (Greg Boss) and his fresh-faced rookie partner Lemanuel ‘Pepper’ Jackson (Bruce Nugent). We know the drill, so nothing’s new here; Salt is the grizzled vet who’s seen it all and then some while Pepper—nicknamed by his late father for fearlessly eating the jalapenos they grew in their inner city yard’s garden—is the college football star who was on his way to the pros before being derailed by a career ending knee injury.

Flashbacks shed light on Pepper’s story throughout the course of the film. Twelve-year-old Pepper’s father (Samuel L. Jackson) was a sergeant with the LAPD before being gunned down by gangbangers. Emotionally shattered, Lemanuel turns to football for salvation. When his body fails him, he makes the life-altering choice to join the force, just like daddy.

Again, it’s a tale that’s been told a thousand times, but Kemp makes bold directorial decisions that lend relevance to the picture. It is at times brilliantly acted— when Salt is cradling a wounded Pepper in the street and he lets out a blood-curdling cry of ‘LEMANUELLLL!!!!’ it sticks with you like Wells’ ‘Rosebud,’ or Jim Carrey’s explosive diarrhea scene in ‘Dumb and Dumber.’

Though no one will garner serious award consideration, veteran character actor Greg Boss, best known for his recurring roles on television’s TJ Hooker and 21 Jump Street, expertly portrays the part of Salt. People will be tempted to blast Boss for his understated delivery and unflinching demeanor. This would be a mistake. Boss is at his best when simply eating a sandwich or cocking an eyebrow; his is a textured portrait of a hardened man.

Similarly, newcomer Bruce Nugent manages to convey serious emotion with little arm flailing. He’s the quiet type for sure, but he understands the importance of facial expression, perhaps more so than many of his modern day peers. It’s easy to expect big things in the future for Mr. Nugent.

All in all, there’s really not a lot to dislike. Solid acting, interesting directorial choices (though the gratuitous 15 minute masturbation scene in the shower is a bit unsettling) and a story with enough twists and turns to keep even the most cynical viewer interested.

An Afternoon at the Office

2010-09-05T13:30:00.000-05:00

(Opening Shot: Interior of wood-paneled office. Behind a large, cluttered oak desk is a lady alligator in a chair. She’s wearing a Minnie Pearl style hat, white gloves, cat’s eye glasses and a large, floral print dress. Her alligator arms are typing at an antique typewriter. The phone rings.)

Alligator: Good afternoon, thank you for calling Choley Pee Problems, this is Ruth Gator Binsburgh, how may I hep’ you?

Caller: Ruth? Ms. Binsburgh? This is Rebecca Edelman. Mr. Roger Edelman’s wife? Is Mr. Edelman in the office today, or is he off sexing some… some floozy?

RGB: Excellent Mrs. Edelman. One moment please.

(She places the call on hold. A thought bubble appears above her head and she stares up at it. In the bubble, we see a roly-poly like man, Mr. Edelman. He is behind a bent over woman who has her dress pulled over her back. He is pounding at her furiously and smiling, his tomato-face dripping with sweat. The thought bubble disappears.)

RGB: Mrs. Edelman?

Mrs. Edelman: Yes, Ruth?

RGB: Mr. Edelman is at a business meeting with some associates. They’re having Chinese food, I believe.

Mrs. Edelman: Very well, Ruth. You WILL have him call me once he’s in, won’t you?

RGB: Absolutely. Is there anything else I can hep’ you with, Mrs. Edelman?

Mrs. Edelman: No Ruthie dear, that will be all. Goodbye.

RGB: And a good day to you too, ma’am.

(Ruth Gator Binsburgh hangs up the phone. Another thought bubble appears above her head. This time, Mr. Edelman is wiping the sweat from his expansive forehead. He then hands Ruth a thousand dollar bill. The thought bubble disappears and Ruth smiles.)

Here's How Awesome My Family (was) Vol. 1

2010-09-05T11:40:00.002-05:00

Like worthwhile music or brilliant pieces of cinema, my grandfather defied labels.

He wore overalls proudly, an homage to his Kentucky kin’s heritage. His body was painted with crude tattoos; he had his wife’s name on his bicep, and ‘sweet’ tattooed above one nipple, ‘sour’ above the other. His hair gave him a slight Rockabilly look; heavily pomaded on the sides, but a near flattop on the crown. He spoke with a heavy twang and always smelled strongly of cheap but pleasant aftershave. He was tall and razor thin, Hank Williams Sr. minus the Nudie suit, a scarecrow in finer garb. He was million different people; conman, tradesman, proud father and grandfather, tow-truck driver, pizza-man, disciplinarian, manual laborer, walking, talking country-song come to life. Most of all, though, what brought all of these incongruities together, was his bad-assery, plain and simple.

To whit: A year or two before I was born, my grandfather was blown up. Now look, I know you THINK you know someone who was blown up, but you don’t. Blown-up people don’t live. Sure, you had a drunken uncle making methamphetamine in his trailer and it exploded. He may have lost his eyebrows, possibly even some skin. I’ll give you that. ‘Pop,’ as I called him, actually blew the fuck up.

Kaboom.

See, he worked in a flour mill in North Kansas City, a dirty, smelly dust-filled monstrosity where the rats grew as big as lap-dogs. Now I don’t know the chemistry involved that makes regular ol’ white flour so combustible, but it is. And one day, the place exploded. A bunch of people died. But not Pop. Oh, he was mangled and scorched and singed and crisped to bits; I’ve seen the unappetizing hospital photos. He survived and eventually recovered fully. He’d go through the remainder of his years with a permanent tan, though, and oddly ‘pock-marked’ skin; I use quotation marks because it wasn’t like a traditional pock-mark—it was mostly confined to his arms and they were actually tens of thousands of tiny divots where hair would no longer grow. His jailhouse tattoos remained unharmed, though.

Totally badass.

Another time, at a renegade, white-trash, backyard pyrotechnics show using pilfered display quality fireworks, Pop caught fire. As flames rained upon him, and his hillbilly children tried to beat the flames out, I was terrified. I shouldn’t have been, though. He was a complete badass. He’d been burned before. What real harm could a little sky-candy do?

Maybe it had something to do with the 7 children he had, the constant struggle to keep them fed and clothed. Maybe not. Maybe it was his wife Faye, a tough as nails lady with a no shit-taking attitude who wouldn’t tolerate his shenanigans, the rabble-rousing and whiskey drinking that hung over his younger years like a wet blanket. Who knows? Maybe it was his formative years, hard-scrabble Depression era times full of black eyes from brothers and thin wallets.

It was probably a little bit of everything.

He was a temperamental Irish cuss with a penchant for whiskey. He’d fight you just as soon as look at you (but never without reason). To his friends and family, he was as loyal as a junkyard pit-bull and to me, he was almost mythical in his kind-heartedness. He adored me and I loved him right back. For a reason that no one can now answer, he called me ‘Rebug.’ He’d take every opportunity to spoil me in his own, budget-challenged way; a soda here or there, some circus peanuts or some Russell Stover Orange Sticks.

He’d take me driving with him. In the winter, we’d go around looking at Christmas lights in the old Northeast area of the city. He’d take me to the swap meet on Saturday mornings, proudly exhibiting me as his finest accomplishment. I’d lap it up as scary dudes with intimidating scars plied me with baseball cards and irregular athletic socks.
On one such jaunt, he ran into a gas station to but a bottle of Pepsi for us to share. I was young, 3 or 4, and I decided that I’d handle the drive back home. I hopped across the bench seat of his pickup, threw the sonofabitch in neutral and started rolling. I was grinning like a baboon as I coasted across the station’s parking lot. Pop, however, wasn’t so thrilled. After bolting from the store and leaping into the rolling truck to stop it, he gave me a stern-talking to (see: ‘hollering’). And although he would have made one of his own children go ‘cut a switch’ for a whipping, he was smart enough to know that a.) times had changed and b.) Rebug didn’t mean to.

I could do no wrong.

Unfortunately, as bad-ass as Pop was, his love of drink and general disregard for health was stronger than his will. A lifetime of poor dietary choices—where a chili-cheeseburger from Hayes was a mighty fine breakfast selection—coupled with his omnipresent menthol cigarette and glass of Canadian Mist whiskey did him in early. Way early. At 63, he left the only hometown he’d ever know in Kansas City and moved into his sister’s trailer in Wichita, Kansas. It was a nice place—trailers in Wichita needn’t be as comically depressed as they are in a normal city—but it was small and sad. The hospital bed where he spent his remaining weeks dominated the living room. He shrunk and shriveled, which was hard to do for a guy already so slight. I went to see him a week or so before he passed away. His once proud hair had thinned out overnight and turned a shocking white. He was lucid, though, and happy to see me. I’ve always been grateful for that. I still prefer to remember him as he had been, however. A bad-ass dude with bony knuckles covered in gaudy rings, a comforting cheek full of Stetson and an end-table brimming with gummi spice drops and black licorice nuggets.

That was my Pop.

From a Foreign Language Textbook

2010-07-17T09:57:00.000-05:00

Peter: Good morning, friend. How are you today?

Jan: I am fine, Peter, and how are you today?

Peter: All is well, friend. Say, how did you fare on that arithmetic examination?

Jan: High marks all around, Peter!

Peter: Most excellent, friend Jan. It is in order that we celebrate our high marks, then.

Jan: Did you achieve satisfactory scoring on your examination as well?

Peter: You bet you. I received all ‘above-expectations’ markings!

Jan: Outstanding, friend. Let us celebrate by attending the discothèque, then! They have a hot new disc jockey who will be spinning today’s popular music!

Peter: Friend, that sounds like an enjoyable time. Perhaps we should engage Robert and Thompson to see if they too would like to attend.

Jan: For sure! Please call them and inform them of the plans, after we disconnect our call.

Peter: That is right, Jan. First, I must use the restroom to expel waste.

Jan: Out of sight! Where is the bathroom?

Peter: The bathroom is located within the first door on the left hand side. It has a green door.

Jan: Are you for certain? I thought the bathroom had a blue door, Peter.

Peter: Jan, I am certain that I would know whether my bathroom door was blue, green, yellow, purple, white, orange, black or teal. You are acting silly!

Jan: Be that as it may, I would like to get something to eat, as well. I cannot decide, though, if I would prefer a sandwich with a glass of milk or some ham and a cola.

Peter: All fine choices, my friend. I was considering having a pizza pie and some water or a salad and some juice. What kind of juice do you prefer?

Jan: All fruit juices are enjoyable choices.

Peter: What, do you not enjoy drinking vegetable juices as well? Do you ever drink carrot, radish, beet, cabbage, celery, and potato or onion juice?

Jan: Potato juice is my least favorite! I enjoy fruit juices such as banana, apple, grape, pineapple, tomato and plum!

Peter: All of the juices you mentioned are delicious options, my friend.

Jan: If you will excuse me from the conversation, I must now leave the telephone. We spoke too long and I evacuated my bowels all over my bed, quit and sheets.

Peter: Oh no, friend! I too have shit on myself. I will see you at the discothèque at 8 o’ clock. Good-bye!

Jan: So long, Peter. I too will see you at the café for some coffee and scones. Good-bye!

Jerry Springer Running Diary

2010-06-26T11:02:00.001-05:00

The Jerry Springer Show debuted in 1991. Take a minute to let that sink in. Before Nirvana burst onto the national music scene, before Bill Clinton reintroduced good old-fashioned presidential sexin’ back to the White House, Jerry Springer was on the air, offending sensibilities and frightening the masses with his potent blend of trash-core television. Well, it didn’t start off that way. See, in the beginning, he interviewed Jesse Jackson and Oliver North. He tried to provide an insightful look and a fresh opinion on political matters at home and abroad.

It didn’t sell.

So he revamped.

He started broadcasting weirdoes and social misfits, bonafide circus freaks and loud-mouthed bigots. He had two-headed sisters who sang country music, grand-wizards of the KKK and misunderstood transsexuals. Eventually, it wasn’t enough that a transsexual was on the show. What really drew in the ratings, he found, was if that same transsexual gave a blowjob to some unsuspecting redneck. The redneck was then told about this transgression in front of a studio audience and if all went well, the two would fistfight.

Now, the show is formulaic. It’s hilarious in its simplicity and yet people continue to watch. It’s on for two hours everyday and shows no signs of disappearing. Although I’m sure there’s some sort of statement to be made about the degeneration of our culture, that’s not my objective. I simply aim to share an episode with you. Well, a half episode, really. Because man, an hour is a really fucking long time to watch this show. It’s outright impossible. Behold, a Jerry Springer Show Running Diary.

The show starts off with a camera panning the studio. It’s an industrial themed set, replete with airplane hanger wall fans and exposed, rusted copper pipes. Seems about right.

0:00- There’s an –ahem- fireman’s pole in the corner and, holy shit! here comes Jerry! He slides down the pole and is greeted with chants of Jerry, Jerry, Jerry! as he makes his way to the crowd. He shakes hands for a few minutes as the studio audience continues to mindlessly chant.

This brings me to an aside. Throughout the program, there are various standards that the crowd will chant, much like an English soccer stadium filled with rabid fans. To whit:

Lesbians! Lesbians! Lesbians! (This one is pretty obvious)
Show us your tits! Show us your tits! (As is this one)
Go to the pole! Go to the Pole! (Urging a guest to spend time on the stripper pole)
Don’t hurt the midget! Don’t hurt the midget! (Obviously, this is utilized when there is a little person on the stage and the crowd is concerned for his or her welfare)

You get the idea.

0:01- Jerry tells us that the title of today’s sordid episode is ‘It was the best night of my life.’ Typically, the title applies only to the first segment and more often than not has nothing to do with any portion of the show. I wonder if they have some sort of ‘title-generating machine.’

0:02- We’re introduced to Drew, a man who looks shockingly normal for the Springer show. We’re told that he ‘fulfilled everyman’s fantasy’ by engaging in a manage-a-trois with his girlfriend and her roommate, Sophie. He has flowers on his lap, he’s smiling. He’s on the show today to tell his girlfriend how much he enjoyed that night and hoping to broach the subject of a repeat occurrence (they haven’t talked about it since it happened a few weeks ago). The crowd erupts as he describes the threesome itself. He is Oprah and he is giving the audience free Pontiacs.

0:04- Drew’s girlfriend is brought onstage. She’s a reasonably attractive blond, again, pretty rare for Springer. Wait, is she a man? No, nevermind. Just tall, muscular. She’s got one of those weird face piercings, though, which is just awful. Not a lip ring, mind you, but a metal dot-like piece of jewelry through the area above her lip. It’s looks like her cousin shot her in the face with a BB gun. When did people decide that this looks good? I wasn’t consulted.

Drew, never one to beat around the bush, comes right out with it—does she want to have another threesome? No, she doesn’t. Turns out, she’s only wanted to be with Sophie since that night. Curveball! In fact, the whole thing was a ruse to begin with. They only used him as an intermediary so they could try each other out and they loved it! Let’s meet Sophie!

0:05- Sophie is actually more attractive then her jewelry faced friend. They make out. The crowd chants Jerry’s name—did he have anything to do with this (other than providing a format, of course)? Drew smiles awkwardly, shuffles his feet.

0:11- Back from commercial, Jerry welcomes ‘Juicy,’ a fat blond chick in a tiny dress. Wait… was the other thing resolved? The threesome thing? I don’t feel like it was. Whatever.

0:12- Juicy begins her story. As she talks, I notice a spot above her lip—it’s either one of those goofy face piercing things or a mole. That’s the risk you run when you get one of those things—it may be perceived that you have a metal mole. Anyway, she met her future husband at the diner where she worked. She and her mother were down on their luck, so they moved in with him. They became ‘cutty-buddies’ which is apparently what the white trash are now calling ‘fuck-buddies.’ For some reason (never explained- is it important?) she went to jail.

At this point in her story, Jerry interrupts to ask ‘and you became a lesbian?’ It's important to note that, to this point, lesbianism was never broached. Jerry’s question was the equivalent of my mechanic telling me that his retriever just had a litter of puppies and me stopping him in the middle to ask, ‘and then you became gay?’ Completely unprovoked, wholly unrelated question. All I can figure is that Springer’s brain is absolute mush at this point in his career.

0:13- Juicy doesn’t bat an eyelash, though. ‘Well Jerry, I known I was bisessual since I was 12.’ She continues her woeful tale of incarceration, stopping once to correct Jerry when he refers to it as ‘prison.’ It’s jail, Jerry, jeez. Get it right. While she talks, they put up a picture on the screen, a photo she brought in. It’s the day of her release and wouldn’t you know it, there’s her man Eddie, down on one knee, popping the question. He’s decked out in sweatpants and a red and black-checkered flannel shirt. Interestingly enough, I was wearing the exact same thing when I proposed to my fiancée. Guy’s got class, obviously.

0:14- Another picture on the screen. Their wedding. He’s got a tie on this time, but he’s still wearing a baseball cap. Jerry cracks that, to Eddie’s credit, his tie almost reaches his belt. First genuinely funny thing he’s said all day. Oh yes, and we’re informed that the wedding happened the same day as the proposal and therefore, the same day of the release from the clink. That’s right, they got married on the day she got paroled.

0:15- It turns out that Juicy’s not just there to share the wedding story, though. Before she can continue with the agenda at hand, however, Jerry stops her. ‘He looks older than you,’ he says. ‘How old are you?’ She says, ‘yep, I’m 20 and he’s 39.’ Now I’m not a betting man, but had you put the over-under on her age at 40, I probably would have taken the over.

0:17- When Juicy says things like ‘multiple’ and ‘older’ it comes out like ‘mode-ubble’ and ‘odor.’ I’m busy trying to figure out what finishing school she went to.

Anyway, turns out she began encouraging him (?) to go to strip-clubs, because their sex life was bad (?) and she hoped he’d fall in love with someone else (?) and she wouldn’t have to stay married (?) but now that he’s had ‘mode-ubble’ encounters with one particular dancer, she decided she wants her man back. Who she doesn’t like sex with. And whom she wants to divorce.

0:18- So here comes the stripper. She’s surprisingly hot—hotter than the two lesbians in the first segment, for sure. Her name is Makenna, which is kind of depressing, as that is the name of my best friend’s 8-month-old daughter.

They charge at one another throwing ‘bitches!’ and slap-punches. Interesting side-note: when females come out, and there’s obviously going to be a physical altercation, they’ll take their heels off. If they forget to do so, the omnipresent security guard on the stage will remind them.

0:20- For the most part, the fight is broken up. They continue calling one another names, though, and a few seconds after separating, a ringside bell sounds. They charge at each other again. It’s another funny thing the show producers do—they elicit a Pavlovian response with the sound of the bell. It means, ‘look bitches… you’ve got nothing of value to add. So fight. And if you can manage, can you pop a boob out along the way? Kthanks.’

0:22- Wait, Makenna spells her name ‘McKenna.’ Thank God. I feel like texting Kevin to tell him that his daughter won’t end up a skanky stripper, but I fight the temptation.

0:24- (McKenna, breathing heavily from the fight): ‘He came up to me and I said, do you want a table dance, he gave me $20 and from then on, it was money, money, money, oral, oral, oral (someone’s been memorizing lines from Citizen Kane, I see).

0:25- BAM! POW! KERPLUNK! FIGHTING NOISES!

0:26- Here comes Eddie, the hunk what got these bitches fighting. He’s built like the 1980’s WWF superstar One Man Gang. He says, ‘I’m sorry baby, but what I’m s’pose to do? I try to kiss you and you push me away. You don’t gimmee no sex.’

Hey you in the fire engine red 6XL dress shirt with a giant hoop earring and frighteningly trimmed soul patch: YOU sir, are a poet.

0:27- Juicy begins hitting Eddie. For some reason, McKenna begins dancing for the crowd. They begin chanting—go to the pole! go to the pole!—so she sprints across the stage to hit up Jerry’s entrance pole. She trips as she steps to the podium, nearly going ass-over-tea kettle, but nobody else seems to notice.

0:28- Eddie’s nose-ring catches the stage light and sparkles.

0:29- Juicy says ‘what if I went and found some guy to fuck?’ and begins walking towards the audience. The audience in the back— those in no real danger of being approached—hoot and holler while the men in the front row visibly cringe. She sits on the lap of a random guy and begins grinding. He looks horrifically uncomfortable but he’s smiling, too. He may be retarded?

And SCENE.

We cut to commercial and I vow never to watch this much Jerry Springer in a single sitting again. I feel dazed almost, like I’ve been the one getting hit on the head in front of a room full of voyeuristic weirdoes. I’m noticeably dumber and I pray that this isn’t a long lasting side effect.

Dispatches from a Crazy 82 Year Old Man

2010-06-16T13:59:00.002-05:00

Good morning ladies and gentlemen. My grandson Rory showed me this website and told me that I could share my thoughts and wisdom and that everything I put on here would be saved for eternity, or at least until the internet runs out of space and they have to begin deleting stuff. Therefore, please read what I have to say. Thank you.

- If you ask me, nothing beats Col. Tex Jefferson's Good Time Vitality Tonic. Too bad they don't make it anymore. It sure made you feel like a million bucks. And then all of those little Jewish children went blind. But the vitality tonic company paid them nicely, so what's the big deal?

- Why isn't there anything good on television anymore? In better times, we had shows like the Munsters, where human monsters lived peacefully among us (and with hilarious consequences!) and Bewitched, where sexy witches created comical mischief. Nowadays, the only shows on the air are about horny middle-aged men trying to make coitus and people who work in offices. And everyone talks right at the camera! Where's the sense of magic?

- Speaking of old television shows, where's Leave it to Beaver? That show doesn't seem to be on anymore. That's a shame. I went to a boat show once and the man who played Lumpy was there signing autographs. What a sweet man he was. He posed for photos and shook hands. Nowadays, people from the shows have no dignity, no class. They'll as soon spit in your soup as say hello.

- Nobody says hello anymore. Have you noticed this? If you're at the market, and you walk past someone, time was you'd nod politely or tip your cap. Now, people are liable to flick you off the bird or give you the evil-eye. I say it's time we brought civility back to our market aisles.

-Speaking of the market, what's a Cheetos? Some sort of chip? They certainly don't appear to be natural, that's for sure. And Mountain Dew. More like 'Mountain Don't.' I make light, but in all honesty, there are so many flavors. When I was a youngster, we had three soda flavors: plain, celery and bitter. We drank it until our teeth ached because it was a delicious treat. 'Ma,' you'd say, 'give me a Col. Tex Jefferson Celery Soda Water, please!' And you'd drink it and be happy.

- Two things I can't have anymore: cheese and hard-ons. Oh sure, I could probably take pills for both, but I don't like drugs. Never have.

- Why are there so many transsexuals all over the place? They're on television and on the websites I look at and at the bus stop. Time was, the only place you could see a transsexual was at 53rd and Lexington on the lower westside. There was a place named Romeo's that catered to that kind of thing. You'd go in and if Romeo was working the bar, you'd just saunter up and tell him you were looking for your friend 'Jack Randy.' If he nodded, that meant there was transsexual in the back. If he didn't, that meant that there was good chance you'd be arrested by the police after leaving the bar. But that was okay. That was the price you paid. Nowadays, it seems as though every lady has a wiener.

Thank you for taking a minute to read my opinions. I hope that you all enjoyed it.

After High School...

2010-06-16T10:25:00.002-05:00

(1979, Weston Oil Arena, Lafayette, Indiana. Two teens are resting against the rear bumper of a primer-painted El Camino smoking cigarettes. The car is in a crowded parking lot and the parking lot is crowded because Electric Light Orchestra is playing at the Weston.)

Gator: This is gonna be ACE, bro! Fucking E.L.O. man. (Shouting to no one in particular) E. Fuckin' L. O.!

Teddy: You got that right, man. I can dig. (He cracks open a fresh tall boy of Iron City and takes a sip. Some of the brew clings to his blond mustache) So why couldn't Debra make it?

Gator: Cause she's a fucking lame-a-stoid, bro. Nah, I'm just jivin'. It's her dad's birthday or some shit. Whatever, man. I think we're done.

Teddy: Yeah?

Gator: Yeah, she's been ridin' my ass about applying to schools and whatnot. Says I'ma waste my life if I don't go to school. Fuck that, man. Like Greenfield fucking Community College is gonna make two squirts of piss whether or not I actually make something of my life.

Teddy: (scratching head contemplatively) Well...

Gator: Wells is for water, bro. What'choo talkin' 'bout, Willis? Ha ha! You dig?

Teddy: Totally, totally. Well, I mean I guess what are you gonna do?

Gator: (spits, shrugs, takes a swallow of beer) Dude, I got some fuckin' plans, bro.

Teddy: Like?

Gator: Well, I'ma start by takin' some time off. You know... some quality 'Gator-time.' Gonna sleep late. Hit up Splashies, try and score some strange, work on my tan-tan.

Teddy: So you're going to spend your life at a water-park?

Gator: Ain't done. Hear me out. Once fall rolls around, I'm hittin' the road with E.L.O. My grandma set aside a chunk of dough for my college but legally, she can't make me use it for school. I've read up on that shit. So I'm gonna take it, spruce up the 'Mino and hit the open fucking road. I'm gonna score tickets at each stop and sleep wherever I happen to crash. If it happens to be at some coed's dorm room, so much the better. If I gotta crash in the car, big fat hairy deal, you know?

(Teddy stares blankly)

Gator: Figure if I run low on cash, I can mow lawns in whatever town E.L.O.'s playin' at that night or whatever. Maybe do handyman type shit. I can fix anything. You fucking know that, bro.

(Teddy continues to stare blankly)

Gator: Don't need no fucking college. I figure E.LO.'s got 10, 20 years left in 'em and I aim to be there all along the way. If I get tired of following them, I'll stop and find some other shit to do, but it ain't gonna be Greenfield fucking CC, you know? You think Jeff Lynne went to college? Fucking Roy Wood? Hell fucking no, they didn't. They just went out there and lived the dream. Well, me to.

Teddy: Gator, they didn't have to go to college because they were super talented musicians. They formed a band. You're not forming a band. You're just following one around.

Gator: I might.

Teddy: You might what?

Gator: Might form a band.

Teddy: Well, you didn't include that in your plans. From what I can tell, you're gonna stalk chicks at Splashies for the summer, then head out to follow an average band for... 20 years maybe, mowing lawns along the way.

Gator: Take that back, bro. E.L.O.'s way fucking better than average. Spaz.

Teddy: Okay, you're right. E.L.O. is far out. But... but really? Enough to dedicate your life to?

Gator: Fucking a-right.

Teddy: Okay. If you say so. Let's head in.

(they drain their cans of beer and head into the arena)

Hit the Road, Jack

2010-05-22T18:47:00.003-05:00

It's that time of year, ladies and gentleman. The sun is out, the wifey has been binging and purging in order to fit into her swimsuit, the kids are wrapping up classes and your vacation time is burning a hole in your pocket. It's time to hit the road for a classic family summer trip. So here it is, the final checklist that will determine if your trip is a 'stud' or a 'dud.'

Where Ya Headed?

Picking a destination is as integral as checking the tread on your tires (don’t bother) and changing your oil (waste of time). Here are some destination vacations, places that set a tone in their own special way.

-Iowa: I don't know why anyone would go here. It's mostly corn. Oh, there's the field from Field of Dreams, but that's it. Seriously? You're going to drive hundreds and hundreds of miles to visit a fucking cornfield. Whatever dude. Enjoy (this part should be read sarcastically).

-Thailand*: Do you like teenage prostitutes of ambiguous sexuality infecting you with crazy hybrid-STDs that science has no cure for? Then by all means, go to Thailand. They also have good food.

-Germany*: Nothing but sausages and Nazis. Oh, and weird German art-fags who will spill your blood to use on their canvases. Germany is so messed up. I can't believe anyone would EVER go here. So you probably shouldn't.

-Dollywood: Nestled in the deep, bosomy hills of Tennessee (I think), Dollywood is like Branson, MO for dudes who like boobs. From what I understand (and this isn't properly researched, I assure you) Dollywood is a boob-themed amusement park. Do you enjoy rides? You'll LOVE the Lactator, The Inverted Nippler and, new for this year, the Tit-Quake. (Note: you will NOT want to ogle the breasts of most of the other attendees... they will undoubtedly be 'scary-boobs.')

-Hollywood: Who in their right mind would go here when they can go to Dollywood? Huh? Riddle me that, Romeo.

-Texas: Texas is the home of Sandy Duncan (unverified), George Bush (duh) and the Chicken Fried Steak. What does this all mean? Most of the people here are really stupid, but you can get a nice, home-style slab of cube steak, breaded and deep-fried.

-New Jersey: If you've ever considered going to New Jersey, do us all a favor and stab yourself in the throat RIGHT NOW. That's right, grab the nearest, pointiest instrument and jab it into your throat. Please. There is NOTHING redeeming about New Jersey.

-Ohio: Sunny Ohio boasts not two but THREE of America's largest auto-glass manufacturing companies and the Toledo Mud Hens, a minor league baseball team. It doesn't get any better than this, folks. Soak it in... you're in Ohioooo.

(Locations with an asterisk* indicate an overseas destination. Don't go overseas. Waste of time. We're the best country in the WORLD, motherfucker!- Toby Keith)

(Just kidding. If you want to go overseas, by all means, go. Just make sure you take your Kia Frogger, the world's first amphibious/land vehicle. Otherwise you'll drown. Who wants to drown on their vacay? Not this guy! Lol).

What ya’ Packing?

Food: You gots to eat. You're liable to go into a diabetic coma if you don't, fatty. Here are some snack-tastic suggestions sure to please the Prius.

Spider Eggs: Like it or not, spider eggs provide valuable vitamins, protein and electric-lights.

Jerky: Buffalo, turkey, beef, spider... Doesn't fucking matter, man. Jerky is awesome.

Chicken Tenders: Don't forget the dipping sauces!

Cheetos: (don't let anyone else know you brought the Cheetos. They will WANT the Cheetos).

Generic Soda: Suggested variations include: Lemon-Lightning, Dr. Sugar, Grape, Carbo-Cola and Steve's Brand FizzWater. Don’t spring for name-brand, asshole. Nobody likes a show-off.

Eggs: By not cooking the eggs first, you’re leaving yourself open to a world of possibilities, up-to but not excluding: egg salad, over easy, scrambled, over hard, boiled, shredded, fried, tuna salad. Variety is the slice of life!

Trail Mix: Don't buy trail mix. Nobody actually likes trail mix. They just pick out the M & M's.

M & M's: See above.

Lucky Strikes: Cigarettes provide essential nutrients and keep you from careening off the road. 2:30 am on I-44 in Billings, MT is pretty boring. Stay alert, soldier!

Accoutrements:

Maps: Where's your sense of adventure? You don't need a map, pussy. Did the Indians use maps? Did the pilgrims? I didn't think so. Wait... So you mean to tell me you're dumber than a bunch of dead Indians? Wow. I bet your parents are really proud that they spent all of that money on the pre-law degree from Vassar. Idiot.

Bandages: You WILL get bloody on this trip. Don't ask me how, but you will. Be like a boy-scout, though and be prepared.

Head Ache Powder: Those kids just won't stop, will they?! It's cool, though. Just snort come BC Headache Powder (I assume you snort it... could be wrong).

Axe: The car can certainly get stuffy. Make sure you've done your part to smell like an asshole with Chocolate Axe Body Spray.

Sports Magazines: Magazines keep you from actually having to pay attention (to your car-mates OR the road). Set the cruise control, crack a Lemon-Lightning and read all about Danica's upbringing. Now you're on vacation, yeah?

Mix Tapes: All of your mix tapes should be the same 4 Huey Lewis songs over and over again. Doesn't matter which 4, as long as one of them is 'I Want a New Drug.'

Nintendo: Kids love a Nintendo! What better way to have them shut the fuck up than a handheld video gaming system?!

Kanye West: Sure he’s an annoying, entitled, insufferable prick, but he’s undeniably talented. Perhaps he’ll 'lay a rap-track' using only things he sees on the highway! Who knows?!

The Night Before/ The Morning of:

Kill your kids: Look, you want a second honeymoon? Not gonna get it if you have some lame-ass children cock-blocking you. Bury 'em on your neighbor's property to deflect the blame. You're welcome.

Defecate on neighbor’s driveway: It's just a joke. You actually like Steve and Gloria, for fuck's sake. They'll think it's funny too. (Don't tell them you buried your children in their back yard, though. They won't find this funny.)

Pack the car: This is pretty self explanatory. You... pack the car.

Throw all of your food away: All of your meat and veggies will be rotten when you get back.

Turn all of your lights and appliances ON before you leave: You'd be amazed how many people get this backwards. Leaving the oven on ensures that, even in the event of a break-in, the thief will think you’re inside cooking a nice holiday ham. Jokes on him!

Get Drunk, Quit Work: In the travel industry, we call this move the 'GDQW.' You're not fooling anyone- you hate account services and they’ve fucked with you for the last time. In your voicemail, make sure to threaten the lives of both your boss AND his disabled daughter. Leave no bridge unburned.

Plan Your Route:

(Ed. Note: I wrote this part well after I wrote the first part where I said NOT to use a map. I guess I changed my mind?)

GPS is a mechanical apparatus that tells you where to turn. If you’re fucking fancy-pants, by all means, use it. If you’re poor, or technologically retarded, use a map. Maps are inexpensive and fun. Additionally, they can be found at ANY gas station. What does this mean to you? It means you’ve got a nearly endless supply of maps. Dropped a Whopper Jr. on your map? Spilled bodily fluids on it? Get a new one! Try spilling malt liquor all over your ‘GPS,’ Mr. Wizard.

Decide what type of trip you want. If you’ve got endless amounts of time, plan a route taking scenic back-roads.If you're in a rush, avoid traffic lights, stop signs and speed-limits at all costs. If a cop gets lippy with you, let him sleep with your wife and explain the 'sitch. He's been on vacation too. He knows where you're coming from.

Hit the Road:

Congrats! Your adventure is just ahead! A summer trip is your chance to create memorable, unforgettable times with family (probably not) and friends (you don’t have any). Soak it in, buddy, because what you don’t know—and what your doctor hasn’t told you—is that the cancer you thought was gone is eating your bladder like a fat kid at a pie-eating contest. Make your journey count!

My Family, Uncle Randy Edition

2010-05-01T08:45:00.002-05:00

When I was 10 years old, I thought my uncle Randy was the coolest fucking thing since Pee-Wee's Playhouse.

He seemed old, but not decrepit. He seemed 'cool-old,' as in, 'I've got my own apartment, I can eat chocolate donuts for dinner and all I do is watch NWA wrestling and play Nintendo.' He was probably in his late 20's when I looked up to him. He lived in an apartment below his dad (not so cool) with his girlfriend Tina (totally cool) and was an absolute grownup (but a cool one).

He had a mustache, smoked Salem menthol cigarettes, drank Pepsi like it was water and doused his satin jackets in so much Brute it was difficult to breathe around him. He drove a compact pickup truck and rented furniture and appliances to poor people at Avenue Rentals. On Friday nights, he'd come home from a long week of pushing Westinghouse and crack open a Budweiser. On Saturday mornings, he'd tape hours of wrestling from television and we'd watch it later, though he fast-forwarded through 90% of the programming, pausing only to catch the interview highlights and the ends of matches. I'd stay the night some Saturdays and we'd spend all evening playing Tecmo Super Bowl on the Nintendo. We'd do seasons; I'd be the Bills and he'd be the Chiefs and we both ended up slaughtering the computer opponent. He'd go to bed but he'd let me stay up and watch 'Skin-emax' or HBO. I saw a lot of boobies from my post on the couch, the sound down low so I didn't wake him (or Tina) up. Once, he gave me coffee, told me it'd put hair on my chest.

Eventually, we grew apart. He and Tina split up and he moved out. I'm not really sure where he went, but he may have battled a drug problem for a period (unlike the rest of my mother's family, his problems weren't as public; perhaps they lacked in gossip-worthy severity). He lost a tooth, one of the front ones. He cleaned himself up and met a new lady. They had a couple of kids and he got a pretty good job driving a forklift. After a number of years (8? 10?) the company he worked for shut down and he was out of work.

He called my mom asking for help. As 'luck' would have it, I was at a low-point in my life, driving a forklift for a place called Watkins Motor Lines. My mom asked if I could get Randy a job. I'd been there 4 months at this point. I spent my work days terrified that I'd puncture a large drum of chlorine with a fork blade and poison the entire warehouse, so I didn't know how much of a pull I really had. I told her to tell him to put in an application, though, and I'd pass along the good word.

I 'forgot' to pass along any words, good or otherwise.

The HR director, a fat, boll-weevil of a man named Steve approached me, though, and said, 'this fella on the application has your last name. You related?' I confirmed that indeed we were. Steve nodded and waddled away. I got a call from my mom a few days later thanking me for getting Randy the job. You're welcome, I said.

We worked at Watkins-- which became FedEx-- for another 4 months before I jumped ship. I would have rather been paid to disinter corpses and French kiss them than I would work another week at the place. In the 4 months we both worked there, we didn't see each other once. Easy to do when you work for a 24 hour operation and happen to be on opposite ends of the schedule.

Before I quit though, my uncle Ray-- Randy's oldest brother-- passed away. As dead people are apt to do, he had a funeral. At the service, before the preacher spoke, I saw Randy in the vestibule of the church where people were milling about, hugging one another and whispering soft condolences and blessings. Inspired by the moment, I went over and shook his hand.

'It's good to see you, Randy. I'm really sorry for your loss. It must be hard... Older brother and all. If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know.'

'Yeah, I appreciate it,' he said.

As I walked away, off to find someone new to comfort with my kind, heartfelt words, I heard him turn to my mom who had been standing nearby.

'Who was that guy?' he asked.

It was good to see you too, Randy.

I guess that's what happens when you see family members infrequently... you have absolutely no idea who they are, whatsoever.

What Eddie Doesn't Do

2010-05-01T08:22:00.003-05:00

So in honor of this Monday's upcoming Pearl Jam show, I've decided to dedicate this column to an examination of things that I just can't see Eddie Vedder doing. There are are some things you can't picture ANYONE doing-- stabbing a baby, eating a 'Double Down' from KFC, sitting in the stands at a Royals playoff game-- but there are simpler, more common things that you can't picture celebrities doing.

For your review:

- Making a sandwich.
This one's kind of tricky because I can see him making certain kinds of sandwiches-- tuna salad, turkey on whole-wheat-- but for the most part, I can't picture him making a sandwich.

-Mowing the lawn.
I feel like he probably has someone that does this for him.

-Dancing in a social setting.
I can picture him 'gyrating' or 'moving to the music' at a concert. In fact, I've seen it. I can't picture him dancing at his niece's wedding, though. I can picture him sitting at his assigned table eating mini-meatballs and drinking wine from a plastic wine glass, but not doing the Macarena. Doesn't make sense.

-Driving a car.
It doesn't matter what kind of car... I just can't see it. If he DOES drive, I picture it being a Volvo and I picture him driving very slowly. I bet he's a cautious driver.

-Paying taxes.
This is a given considering his income. However, he seems like an independent man when it comes to finances. I can see him checking stock prices, reallocating his portfolio to be less aggressive and so forth, but I cannot picture him sitting at a table in his office adding columns A-H.

-Giving thanks, apologizing.
This is a line from a Pearl Jam song. Trust me, this is funny if you know Pearl Jam's music.

-Cleaning out the gutters.
I bet he has a big house. Again, I imagine he has someone to do this for him and although it may seem 'racist' (it's not) I bet it's a Mexican fella.

-Waiting in line at an amusement park.
Look, I don't even know if he LIKES amusement parks. I can see it both ways, how me may love them and how he may dislike them. I don't really see him standing in line there, though. I bet he rents out the Six Flags Seattle for his family and friends so he doesn't have to wait.

-Wearing a cowboy hat.
He probably has, but I don't think I've ever seen it and I can't really picture it.

-Listening to 'You Can Call Me Al' by Paul Simon.
It's a good song, and Eddie may recognize that, but I just can't picture him listening to it. I can see it being on his iPod, but I mostly just see him hitting next when it comes up on shuffle.

Breaking the Ice

2010-04-24T10:01:00.002-05:00

Ever find yourself on a crosstown bus with no one to talk to? Sure you do! We all do. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Sure you're going to the free clinic or to turn your application in at Arby's (fingers crossed!) but that doesn't mean you can't take the time to make a friend or two. But what to say, what to say? It's simple. By utilizing a few of the simple conversation starters provided below, you'll be in Friend-City before you know it! You're WELCOME. :)

'Do I smell, or did you shit your pants?'

(Regarding a person who is obviously inebriated) 'I'll have what he's having!'

'You sir, look like a pigeon. A real, live pigeon.'

'You look familiar. Where did you go to prison?'

'I like the vomit splashes on your Golden State Warriors Starter jacket. It adds a certain... panache.'

'Dude, you just lost a tooth.'

'You look familiar. Where did you go to finishing school?'

'I like your tie. Did you make that yourself? Out of trash bags? Amazing!'

(To a man who is obviously indigent) 'Dr. Taylor! So nice to have you aboard!'

'If you could have dinner with any 19th century French philosopher-- excluding Saussure and Henri Bergson, of course, ha ha-- who would it be?'

(To a Mexican woman you'd like to make love to) 'Yeah, I used to wrestle in Mexico. Ever heard of el Toro Diablo? That was me.'

'Hey lady, wanna sell me one of those six chirrun' you're toting?'

'Horchata! Get your luke-warm horchata here! Get it before it spoils!'

'You know what would make this ride more enjoyable for the both of us? Thumb wrestling tournament.'

'Hey Sport, what's on the Discman?'

'Wanna go see Salt N Pepa with me tonight at the City Market? I've got an extra ticket.' (this should only be used in the event that you do, in fact, have an additional ticket to the Salt N Pepa show at the City Market... If you don't, you may incur scorn, a sorrowful response from the invitee or a stabbing.)

'How would YOU feel about giving ME a tattoo? I've got a sewing needle, a Bic lighter and a ballpoint pen. My abdomen is your canvas.'

'How would YOU feel about letting ME give YOU a tattoo? All we need is a sewing needle, a Bic lighter and an ink pen. I've got a hankering to draw a tiger with big, human muscles.'

'You know Dave Mustaine from Megadeath? My cousin Eddie used to work with him at a coffee shop. Before he was famous.'

'Let's get off at the next stop and get biscuits and gravy, your treat. I'd buy, but I left my wallet at home.'

'Are your moccasins made out of real rat fur? Daddy likey!'

'Too bad this bus isn't a hovercraft. Think about how much time it's taking and how much money you're missing out on when you're here and not hassling people for nickels outside of Panera. Sheesh.'

Fan Fest '08

2010-04-10T09:26:00.002-05:00

(Taps microphone)

'Is this thing on? Hello? Hello?'

(feedback)

'Yowsers! Hey! Good afternoon everyone and welcome to day one of Cheers Fan Fest 2008. Yeah! Glad to see everyone here. For our returning guests, I need no introduction. For you newbies, my name is Barry Anderson and you may just recognize me as the man who played Sam's cousin Max in Season 4's 'From Beer to Eternity.' Claim to fame, you could say. Ha ha. Everyone always asks what Ted was like and I always tell them the same thing: nicest guy you could ever hope to meet. Friendly, chatty, always eating beef jerky. Just joshing about the last part. But he did eat beef jerky the whole time I was on set. Some sort of diet thing.

But without further ado, I want to get everything started. I'd like to thank Shaun Trimball, Fan Fest assistant coordinator and unofficial treasurer for all of the hard work he's put into this weekend's festivities. He's been a huge help. Couldn't have put it all together without you Shauny. I'd like to also extend thanks to the Tacoma Hyatt Regency for having all of us. We're a rowdy pack, ha ha, as anyone who's been here in the past can tell you, and they're always super gracious.

We've got a lot planned for a short period of time, so I'll try and keep myself to a minimum. Later tonight, we've got a special treat. As you all already know from the e-newsletter, this year's winner of the song parody contest was Erin Ketchum from Beaver Creek, Montana who wrote an AMAZING song, 'Sam and Diane.' It was based off of the Cougar Mellencamp song 'Sam and Diane,' you know, 'little ditty/about Jack and Diane,' only Erin made it say 'little ditty/about SAM and Diane.' Awesome stuff. Really, really funny.

(listening to someone offstage)

'What do you mean? What'd I say? (agitated) I think they knew what I meant, Shaun.'

(turning back to crowd)

'Sorry. Shaun says that I said the Cougar Mellencamp song was 'Sam and Diane', but it's actually 'Jack and Diane.' I misspoke. Happens to everyone, folks. Ha ha. You all know what I meant, right?

(tips wink to audience)

'So anyhow, Erin wrote us a really awesome song and tonight, I'm every excited to announce that the song will be performed by none other than the number 2 parody performer in the country, 'Wacky' Will Hermanson!'

(pause for applause)

'WACKY WILL, everyone!'

(hold for more applause)

'That's only one thing we have planned. We're also bringing back the ever popular 'What's Woody Wearing,' contest, so we're accepting entrants for that, and this year, we've got a really awesome prize for the grand champion. I don't want to give it away, but let's just say I wouldn't be surprised if the winner ended up with something they could autographed that they could frame and hang on their wall.'

(listening to someone offstage again)

'No, I DON'T think that was too revealing, Shaun... What do you... No, I didn't. Sheesh, Louise.'

(turns back to crowd)

'Sorry about that folks. Just pretend like you didn't hear anything about a prize-gift.'

(winks again at audience)

'On a more serious note, this year's panel discussion will revolve around the 'Coach Years,' when the late, great Nicholas Colasanto so brilliantly portrayed Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso. As I'm sure you all know, last February marked the 25th anniversary of Nick's passing and we miss him daily. Sometimes people at work stop me and they say, 'Barry, what's the deal with you and Cheers? You can't keep a girlfriend, ha ha, you have a hard time paying bills on time, you really don't have a lot of friends and you're morbidly obese... How has this show, you know, helped your life? Because really, your life seems pretty crappy.' And all I have to do is point to my coffee mug with Coach's picture on it, or the 'Coach-isms' calendar that I put together that's hanging in my cube. All I have to do is point, because Coach's wisdom has made me smarter than these people and put me in a place where, it's taken me to a level where I don't have to prove myself, you know? That's what Coach did for me, and he changed my life, and we're going to pay homage to him, right here TONIGHT!'

(hold for applause, probably raucous)

'Well folks, let's get this party started RIGHT! We're gonna break into groups and get started on the 'Favorite Episode Debates' in just a sec, but there are appetizers and cocktail weenies and mini-meatballs in the back, so help yourself. Let's make it a year to remember, everyone!'

MY Family, Uncle Tommy Edition

2010-03-27T09:41:00.002-05:00

Trying to describe my uncle Tommy is like trying to figure out how you got the flu... It could have been the handshake with the Japanese businessman, it could have been the homeless guy you made out with, it could have been the hours spent in the preschool where your niece works, snapping photographs of the kids taking turns wearing the chicken costume. The point is, it's difficult. Tommy, like the flu, is kind of all over the place. Unfortunately, you don't see him until it's too late and suddenly, there he is beside you. A warm cloud of beer would envelop you and suddenly, you were being pile-drived despite the fact that he was in his late 20's and far too old to believe that wrestling is real.

Admittedly, I don't know much about my uncle Tommy. My only real memories of him come from my formative years, probably 4 to 13. After my early teenage years, he just disappeared. Oh, I'd get updates. 'Your uncle Tommy's in jail again,' my mom would explain with an exasperated sigh. At that point, Tommy's penal visits were no different than a flat tire or a trip to the dentist. Something unpleasant, perhaps, but nothing more than a minor point of inconvenience. Tommy, like too many of my mother's brothers and sisters, fell into the meth-trap, a disgusting place characterized by decaying teeth, scabby skin and late-night marathon attempts at reconstructing a recently disassembled lawnmower.

When I was little, he was different.

He was the 'funny' uncle, the one that cracked jokes and did impressions. Everyone knows that guy in the office who memorizes some one-liners he heard on the local morning zoo and does an above-average Bill Cosby imitation-- everyone tells this guy that he's 'hilarious,' and suggests that this guy hit up the local comedy club for an open-mic night. Hopefully, this office-Seinfeld never does-- and while Tommy never did, the suggestion was made a time or two, I'm sure.

He was born sometime in the mid 60's... Obviously I don't care enough to know when, exactly. He was twins with Tammy, born after my mom, Ray and Donna, but before Randy and Sandy, I think. My first memories of him would put him in his mid to late 20's, I think, but to me-- as is often the case when you're a little kid-- he seemed MUCH older. He had a son born the year I was born-- 1981-- and in a flash of brilliant creativity, he named him Tommy. I don't remember who Tom Jr.'s mom was, but God-bless her, she wisely pulled him far, far away from that side of the family. He grew up relatively normal (as far as I know) and if I'm not mistaken, he is now a male-nurse.

Tommy next began making babies with a thin, Greek woman named Barbara. Together, they had Danny, a perpetually shirtless boy with a blond mullet and perma-Kool-Aid lips and Nia, a girl who seemed destined for pregnancy by her 13th year (to Nia's credit-- or perhaps infertility-- I don't believe she birthed a child early, if at all). Tommy and Barbara split up and he turned to the only place he could-- his father's apartment. That's how, in his late 20's, it came to pass that Tommy lived with his father in a 2 bedroom apartment. He laid carpet during the day, when there was work to be had and at night, he drank Budweiser from bottles and ate Swiss Cake Rolls. Growing up, that was literally all I ever saw the man put into his body. He'd eat his Little Debbie, get drunk and argue with his new flame Gina. After words failed him, he'd get angry and punch a whole in the thin wall or sometimes, through a window. He'd weep and cradle his bloodied hand, waiting for the ambulance to arrive.

This is the era that I remember most vividly of Tommy. I'd see him when I visited my grandpa. I'd see him at family functions, like the 4th of July at aunt Tammy's house when Tammy's truck driver friend (whose name escapes me) pilfered a bit of one of his loads of pyrotechnics meant for the Worlds of Fun fireworks spectacular... this lead, not surprisingly, to my grandfather's jacket being set ablaze when UNTRAINED, drunken, white-trash buffoons began setting off displays in the backyard that were meant for a whole city to view. But I digress...

There'd be Tommy, ever-present beer in fist, barefoot (seriously), clad in overalls with no undershirt (totally serious), his strawberry blond mullet blowing softly in the breeze, his permanent mustache catching the foam from his warm Bud. After getting good and liquored up, he'd watch wrestling on television and then want to wrestle myself and my other young cousins. This was fun, a bit touching, even-- until he forgot that he had 150 pounds on us and we were NOT in a ring with give to it. He'd bodyslam us on the dry summer dirt. Our mother's would yell at him, and he'd listen, but it just meant that next time he'd suplex us into a bush to soften the blow.

Eventually, he and Gina had a little girl. They named her Ginger, dooming her to a life of exotic dancing or styling-hair at discount cutteries like Fantastic Sam's and Super Cuts. Shortly thereafter, Tommy got into the meth. Not sure how, not sure why. Before too long, his once ropey muscles melted into nothingness. His face caved in on itself. He began getting arrested for his passion of the arts (methamphetamine manufacturing) and architectural appreciation (burglary) and eventually, he got sent away for some serious time. Only recently was he released. My mother invited him over for Christmas dinner, much to the chagrin of my father and thankfully, my fiance and I were unable to make it due to inclement weather.

What my mother often fails to realize is that, unlike friends and boogers, you cannot pick your family. When I want crude, cheap prison body art or shank-sharpening technique advice, I'll call uncle Tommy. When I want holiday family bonding time, I'll turn to my dad's brothers and sisters, my fiance's family, my friends or a bar full of strangers... You know, people who I identify with and care about.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

2010-03-20T10:06:00.003-05:00

I've been in exactly two physical confrontations in my life. Neither was the sort of thing that would make a sadist MMA fan salivate with bloodlust and neither really had much substance.

The first was in the 4th grade. There was a black kid named Chris Jones who rode my bus, who actually shared my bus stop. He popped in sometime in the middle of the year, a new student none-too eager to make friends. In fact, it seemed that he went out of his way to isolate himself. He introduced himself to others as 'the leader of the Crips,' a far-fetched proposition for a 4'2" 10 year old with a bushy afro who routinely wore ripped sweatpants. Classmates called him on this, and when he felt threatened, he'd offer to fight them. He was generally taken up on this offer and he always ended up losing. After a few months, everyone on the bus-- with the exception of the girls and Stephen, the sort-of retarded kid-- had beaten Chris up. My friends were pressuring me with nerve-racking taunts like 'why haven't you fought him? Are you ascaird of him?' and 'don't be a pussy, Brandon. Just fight him, already.'

I've always been a reasonable, logic-based individual, and even at the age of 10 I knew I couldn't fight him unless I perceived some sort of slight, real or imagined.

One day, on the bus ride home, he got into an argument with Chris Holman, a kid who I was acquainted with because a) I went to school with him, and b) I once went to his birthday party. I shouldn't have liked Holman because in the second grade, he purposely chucked a rock that hit me in the eye, nearly blinding me. Regardless of our tumultuous past, when Jones eventually punched Holman in the face, I decided that Holman was my best friend and his assault simply couldn't be left unavenged.

After we got off of the bus, I confronted Jones with a shove. I think our conversation went something like this:

'Hey. What was the big idea with punching my closest friend in the world?'

'He's dumb. Maybe I should punch you too.'

'Maybe you should try.'

We ran at each other and locked up like professional wrestlers. The crowd of kids around us began chanting 'fight! fight! fight!' I got him in a side-headlock like I was Hulk Hogan and he was the Iron Sheik. I was doing this not only for Chris Holman, dammit, but for every single American across the land who needed someone to stand up and fight for them.

Eventually, we toppled and rolled down the brown-grass hill. His afro, always unkempt and nasty, attracted broken, dead blades of grass. We came to a stop and before anyone could land any punches, I was suddenly hoisted into the air by some unseen hand. For a moment, lost in such a singularly focused mind-frame, I thought it was THE HAND OF GOD HIMSELF. I'd done such a remarkable job of righting all of societies wrongs that I was being raptured, right then and there. Goodbye fractions and cold nachos on nacho day, goodbye all of elementary school and life as I knew it-- I was going to HEAVEN for fuck's sake! I remember a brief moment of pure, holy elation before my adrenaline subsided and I saw that it wasn't the hand of Jesus lifting me up by the back of my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle's sweatshirt, but my dad.

And he looked PISSED.

'WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!' he bellowed. It terrified me, as this outburst was completely out of character for my calm, even tempered father.

Jones and I threw accusations back and forth, continuing to kick at each other as we were both held in the air, a father's wingspan apart. Eventually, we were both set down and my opponent scampered away crying. My father took me home and I got a lecture about how fighting doesn't solve anything. Although I do recall being able to convince my father that it was stupid that Jones claimed to be the leader of one of the nation's largest street gangs, he did instill within me the notion that this did not make it alright to fight him.

I didn't fight again until I was 19 or 20, and then, it was even less of a fight.

One night on Bourbon Street, after a lot of boozing, I found myself in the middle of a confrontation between a group of beefy dudes and one dude who seemed alone and outnumbered. Something about drinking always makes me want to be a peacemaker. It's not always necessarily because I think violence is a poor solution; sometimes, I just like to find out what's going on and intervening in the name of peace and love is a sly way to get involved without incurring any of the potential wrath... usually.

On this occasion, however, my tactic backfired.

I sauntered dangerously close to the group-- you can always smell a fight as easily as seeing it-- there's a tension that hangs in the air, as impossible to miss as a suspended cattle carcass in the slaughterhouse. I asked the nearest gentleman-- who happened to be the biggest, mind you-- what was happening.

'This motherfucker's trying to fuck with us,' he slurred, gesturing to the equally as intoxicated motherfucker who seemed to be outnumbered.

'Look,' I began, 'I don't know that guy, and I don't know what actually happened, but don't you think all of you guys beating him up is a bad idea?' I mean, look at all of those cops over there. You guys'll all go to jail.' I motioned toward the 8 cops patroling less than 30 feet away.

'What?' He asked, looking at me for the first time. 'Fuck you,' he said. As I started to back away, he swung once, connecting with my forehead. It nailed me. Square in the skull. Bulls-eye. Direct shot.

The punch staggered me backwards, but I didn't go down. In fact, much to everyone's amazement, I did that bad-ass Kung-Fu film move where I used the back of my hand to check my mouth for blood before looking up slowly and smiling. I SMILED at him as if to say, was that all you got, cowboy? Before I could follow it up with some awesome quip like, let's dance, the police finally caught wind of the commotion and rushed over. This was good because had the fight progressed, I most assuredly would have been pulverized. The guy who punched me was probably 6'5" and 280 pounds. No fooling.

The cops began questioning everyone and in the middle of the confusion-- the guy's group continued to try and fight the solo dude-- I sneaked away. Although I really wasn't guilty of anything, I was under age and drunk. It's a pretty common misconception that anything goes on Bourbon Street. It was my experience that New Orleans cops loved to give fines and tickets to drunken, stupid tourists.

As we blended back into the crowd, my friends caught back up with me. We'd been separated for a period and they were a block or so away when Andre the Giant slugged me. They saw it, though, and they were all completely impressed with my toughness. I think I gained a little more respect that night because of my ability to take a punch-- I promptly lost that respect later, though, when they caught me eating chicken fingers out of a trashcan with a homeless man, but for awhile, I felt pretty cool.

This all brings me around to my initial point of this column. Scientists recently found an all black penguin in the South Arctic, something they call 'extraordinarily rare,' and 'a one in a zillion find.' They captured this mutant on film and the thing about the picture is, the penguin kind of looks like a dick.

The more I looked at it, in fact, the more I realized 'I'd like to fight that penguin. And I bet I could fuck him up.'

See, I think penguins would be easy to fight for a few simple reasons.

1.) They're small.
2.) Flippers aren't as useful as hands.
3.) Probably pretty stupid.

And before you all get up in arms about the 'wrongness' of this happening, what about this:

1.) Penguins are uppity. I mean seriously, who do they think they are? See, there's a reason rich snobby people wear tuxedos everywhere: it's because the tuxedo is modeled after the penguin, nature's original asshole.

2.) Penguins are overrated. You know, my mating habits would be pretty interesting too, if they were captured on wide-angled lenses and narrated by Morgan Freeman. That doesn't make me some sort of hero. It just means that I'd be looked at in a loving light as a result of slick Hollywood editing and favorable reviews from people like Richard Roeper and... shit... who else reviews movies these days? Shawn Edwards?

Anyway, it is with great excitement that I announce my plan to fight a penguin-- it doesn't have to be the all black one (I don't want to seem like a racist after having 50% of my previous fights with black people)-- but it will be a penguin. May 15th. Tickets available through Ticketmaster or the box office. Get 'em before they're gone, folks.

2010-03-07T01:46:00.001-06:00

It’s an irrefutable fact that you tie songs, albums and1 artists to a certain person or memory. I’ll forever associate Bob Dylan’s ‘Nashville Skyline’ with Christy Gann, a girl who I once dated for a handful of months. Rage Against the Machine is filed under ‘Dennis Oberfoell,’ a red-headed soccer player who I palled around with for a brief period of time my senior year of high school. Anytime I hear ‘Trans DF Express’ by the Dungeon Family, I think of my fiancé. You can’t help it. Your brain works in mysterious ways (a song by U2 that reminds me of my friends in St. Joe, for some unfathomable reason). Occasionally, it’s because you listened to that particular artist or song while you were with that person; other times, there’s no discernible reason.

“Whiter Shade of Pale,” by Procol Harum is one such song. It reminds me of Justin O’Dell, a kid who I grew up with who ultimately ended up blowing his brains out on a trailer park lawn.

Let’s start at the beginning.

I met Justin in the second grade. He was a slightly rambunctious kid with a shock of red hair and chubby cheeks that betrayed his otherwise slender frame. He was cool and he knew it. His older cousin Charlie was the neighborhood number one bad-ass—he’d literally punch your lights out for no good reason. His other cousin Chris was just as bad—a five foot hellion who couldn’t be tamed.

Justin and I got along because we liked Guns N Roses and drawing. I taught him how to draw a cartoon face, and he taught me how to draw that ‘S’ that every kid learns how to draw at some point—the one composed of 6 interlocking straight lines.

Justin wasn’t a great student—he preferred heavy metal and weed to social studies and arithmetic—but he found his way. We drifted apart after elementary school because, well, that’s what happens.

He was one of those kids that was able to remain in the shadows without causing a ruckus. At some point, he got a homemade ‘Dead Kennedy’s’ tattoo on the web of his hand. He stayed in his basement and listened to records and smoked some pot and thought that it would be cool if he could make music himself. Unfortunately, he had the musical aptitude of a house-fly. He knew it, though, and never kidded himself.

School was a chore, and when he was 15 or 16, he quit. He lived in his parent’s basement and smoked pot and listened to Sepultura records. People would come over to visit, to smoke his pot and listen to his records, and he liked it. He had friends, and that was the most important thing. Due to mutual friends, we re-connected around this time. Although he never became a friend who I hung out with on a ‘one-on-one’ basis, we’d hang out a couple of times a month in a group setting.

He had a girlfriend, an equally badass girl who took no shit and gave none in return. They seemed to be a match made in heaven. Unfortunately, his girlfriend grew upset with Justin’s lot in life—she wasn’t down with a slightly chubby redhead who was content in his basement existence. Eventually, she called it off and Justin took it as one would expect—he withdrew from the limited group of friends that he had and listened to a lot of Lou Reed. All pretense of humanity gone, he accepted the basement as his tomb. He spiraled. I hung out with him infrequently in this period, and although he seemed happy enough (isn’t that what you always hear? Once someone’s made the decision to end it all?), he was being slowly consumed by depression.

A few months after the split, before he could legally sit at a bar and bemoan his situation to strangers, Justin took his own life.

After a drunken confrontation with his cousin Chris, and while standing on Chris’ front lawn, Justin produced a pistol and shot himself in the head. He died instantaneously.

There was an awkward funeral, an open casket affair where we all got to see Justin’s waxy corpse while home videos of his smiley childhood played on a loop in the background. Although the event itself was Standard Operating Procedure, I call it awkward because of the nature of the affair; anytime a teenager is buried, the service is chock full of just about everyone…. Friends, family, kids who he went to school with who knew him, kids who he went to school with who sort of knew him, and those who went to school with him and had no idea who he actually was.

And although I never listed to ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ with him, it resonates…. I have no idea why.

On My Reading List

2010-03-06T10:15:00.003-06:00

The following are on my 'to read' list as of 3/6/10.

"Disco Daze," by the Reverend Darrel Watley

"Smelly Growths and Other Medical Uh-Oh's," by Dr. Margeaux Hamlin

"101 Things That Don't Belong in Your Nose," by Sam Patterson

"101 Sexy Beaches: Minnesota," by Sam Patterson

"Weed: A Retrospective," by Snoop Doggy Dogg

"Eternity: How to Select a Tombstone That Fits," by Ira L. Finchsetter

"Mama, Why my Butt Stink? Simple Answers to Children's Common Queries," by Dr. Elvin McGregor

"More Danish Folktales of Love and Lust," by Luke Simmons

"How Not to Fuck Up Pancakes and Six Other EZ Recipes," by Letitia Ottinger

"Mustache Rides, $0.50: A History of Hilarious Headware," by Perry K. Donalds

"I Am Jason Priestly," by Jason Priestly

"Kitten Bladders!" by Shelby Lorens

"Murder Most Fowl," by L. William Pryor

"Poop-Bucket Balance and Other Games for Poor Children," by Sara Stevens

"Adults with Braces and Other Creepy Things," by Lindsey Markum

"101 Portuguese Knock-Knock Jokes," by Samantha Patterson

"McBesity: A Collection of Poems About Fat Kids," by Michelle Revington

"For Us, By Us: The Ruthless History of the Black Fashion Industry," by Russel Thomas

"Twinkle Toes: My Life on the Ice," by Barry Atkins

"Are You There, God? It's Me, Abdul," by Anwar Akir Mohammed

"Go Ask Abdul," by Anwar Akir Mohammed

"Friendz 4 Ever: The N*Sync Story," by James Randall III

Bus Stop Wisdom, Vol. 5

2010-03-02T19:46:00.002-06:00

Without further ado...

"I had a friend who I hadn't seen forever, and he sent me a picture, and so I took it to Kinko's to scan it, and it took $0.25, only you have to re-size it and then it's $0.30. They won't let you use Google or even a JPEG."

"Say you want to buy a car, or a vehicle, like for instance one time, I, they told me that I should get a real nice car, and so I bought a Chevy Love truck once I got my treasuries, but they can print the manual in any language, or a bunch of languages if they want."

"Say one lady wants a Power of Attorney, because she wants to, well, she can't go to, well, a Power of Attorney is when a lady wants to go to the Bank of America on 11th and Main, or wait-- say the Bank of the Plaza, only she can't get there because she doesn't have a car or doesn't take the bus, or say she doesn't even know HOW to take the bus, she doesn't think it's for her, or like a cab. Some people won't take a cab, even though it can be pretty expensive if you don't know what you're doing. Say I want to go down the street and a cab can take me- boom, five bucks."

"I bought my first stick, which is an MP3 at Radio Shack for, it was expensive, and it didn't even last a year or even 5 months, so I just bought this one at the Family Dollar. But say you want to put music on it, or say there's one guy who invented a guitar. Only he put a synthesizer on the guitar and you play it like this (at this point, he played a brief, albeit stoic air-guitar while making electronic beeping noises). He could put that on a stick, or start a website."

"One lady was a real genius, and she didn't believe me when I told her that you can open any website you want. You don't EVEN have to be a genius to do it. Say there are two guys who want to open carpentry websites, and one guy, he opens one hundred websites, which is just foolish, and the other guy opens one hundred websites and on each website are one hundred other websites. You can just type, say, KROGERS in the google field, and anyone can go to it."

"Did you ever watch McHale's Navy? Pretty much, they put everyone in either blue or white, but they were all fake 14 year old kids, and it's just foolish. They're running around, driving cop cars, and they're all not even, they're all pretty much lying, which, I don't even think you can drive until 16, but sometimes you can have a learner's permit. And that's fine. Sometimes, it's kind of sad because they die."

"They won't even let you check your email. Say you can have an email called Gabriel1 or Gabriel2 or Gabriel123@Rock.com, or anything up to one thousand, but it doesn't even have to be a real name. You don't have to use your real name. My real name is Danny."

X-Mas Maximus!

2010-02-27T23:53:00.002-06:00

With Christmas only some 300 days away, I've decided to take the guess work out of gift-giving. Nobody really knows what Grandpa wants and Dad has enough 'executive-desk' golf themed items (exceptionally funny because Dad doesn't work at a desk-- he's 'slicer' on the hog-slaughtering assembly line... Get real). Surprise them with a gift for the ages! Have them talking for weeks afterwords! Whatever... Just buy them something.

- A real OPOSSUM!

- Unrated director's cut of 'Dodgeball'.

- Gift certificate, K-Mart.

- 1st season of 'Mr. Belvedere,' Blu-Ray.

- Porter's brand Macaroni and Cheese.

- New eyeglasses

-Strawberry Flavor-Ade

-Turquoise Jewelery

- Orange Juice

- Orange Juicer Machine

- Those socks with the fuzzy balls on the heel

- New teeth

- Tibetan Mastiff

- 2 lbs. Black licorice

- Hot glue gun

A History of Violence

2010-02-25T17:09:00.001-06:00

So the Shroud of Turin is going on display in a few months and more than 2 million visitors are expected to view a cloth that supposedly bares the image of Jesus Christ’s corpse. Whether you’re a steadfast believer in J. Christ and his Holy empire or not, you’ve got to wonder about the authenticity of an old blanket that his image was purportedly ‘burned’ into. Carbon-dating done on a piece of the cloth in the 1980’s determined that the fabric dated back no further than the 1300’s. Hardcore Shroud fanatics contest that the fabric tested was part of a patch used to repair damages sustained in a fire. Regardless, it’s an old blanket. And there’s a face on it.

My first thought when I read about the upcoming display concerned the Shroud's value. A late period Van Gogh painting recently sold for $85 million. Superman’s debut comic—pretty poorly illustrated I might add—recently sold for $1 million. Alex Rodriguez makes $25 million dollars a year to (until last year) be a postseason disappointment with questionable taste in lady friends. Given these facts, and the recent global economic troubles, I’d like to see us start the bidding at a cool $1 billion. This would limit the number of bidders and limit potential buyers to those who would give the object the integrity it necessitates. I don’t want to see the creator of Spawn, a Russian steel magnate, the owner of the Cleveland Storm and a group of smiley Japanese businessmen pooling their resources to purchase the Shroud. Doesn’t seem right. I also don’t want some stiff Italian art collector who we’ve never heard of buying it only to keep it locked away in some storage vault and out of the view of slack-jawed hillbillies and crooked-spined old Catholic ladies.

I want someone who will buy it and enthusiastically share it. Perhaps someone who will wave it wildly at sporting events like a Pittsburg Steelers’ fan with a Terrible Towel. Someone who will let people pet it at NASCAR travks, but only if they’ve wiped the barbecue sauce from their grubby digits with a moist towelette. That’s why I’d like to nominate Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban. He’s got more money than God, a lot of energy and seems to have a pretty good sense of adventure about him. He’s also a fairly savvy investor and would understand that this cloth is only likely to INCREASE in value going forward-- especially when JC comes back to murder all of the non-believers.

Hopefully he’ll read this blog. If not, I’ll make sure to send lots of cryptic, poorly spelled letters to him. I’m SURE he reads fan mail.

My second thought when reading about the Shroud of Turin was this: Jesus Christ HAS to be the most famous murder victim in history, right? He’s got all the elements of a 1^st class killing—betrayal, deceit, brutality, intrigue and a fantastically crafted back story. The only thing missing was an ornate funeral service complete with a wailing, heavyset black woman pounding on his casket screaming, ‘WHY!? WHY!?’

So if Jesus is the consensus number one, that got me to thinking—who rounds out the top 10? I put some thought into it and compiled the following list. This is a rough sketch… As creator, I reserve the right to change the order and participants at my whim. Enjoy!

10). Jack the Ripper Murders. Solid piece of murdery circa 1880's England. London in the 1880’s is pretty badass in its own right. Everyone has teeth that look like Raisenettes, it’s always foggy and people have crazy facial hair. Come to think of it, it’s probably not all that different today. Anyway, the bottom line is that a bunch of prostitutes end up getting murdered in vicious, barbaric ways—guttings and filletings and severings. Lots of disemboweling. The thing is, Scotland Yard couldn’t catch the person doing it. To this DAY it hasn’t been figured out. Was it an East End butcher? The Royal surgeron? Classic.

9). Lindbergh Baby. Somebody kidnaps famed aviator Charles Lindbergh’s kid and holds him for ransom. Although this sounds hilarious, a la Raising Arizona, the result isn't nearly as funny. In fact, the baby ends up dismembered. Yikes. Bruno Richard Hauptmann, a 34-year old German immigrant carpenter is later arrested and executed for the crime. This case, commonly referred to as ‘the Crime of the Century,’ reaffirmed my grandfather’s belief that ‘you cain’t never trust a German immigrant carpenter, Brandon, you just cain’t’.

8). Biggie Smalls/ Tupac. Two ground-breaking (but overrated, in my opinion) rappers with long histories of bragging about shockingly violent exploits are not-so-shockingly killed in a violent fashion. It is my contention that the ghost of whichever one died first gunned the other one down. I’m working on a complex equation that will ultimately prove my belief. I will write a blog about it when I feel it’s airtight. Until then, I think I’ll blow off some steam by airbrushing their faces on a 4XL T-Shirt in memorium.

7). In Cold Blood. At some point in the 50’s (I’m really shining on the research side of things today) two guys with ducktail haircuts stepped off of the Stand by Me movie set and killed a farm family in rural Kansas. The entire thing was sensationalized by Truman Capote’s novel In Cold Blood and he later boned one of the killers. Ewww.

6). Frankenstein. In Mary Shelley’s classic novel, a bunch of people kill Frankenstein’s monster, a misunderstood soul who only wanted to pet a pretty girl’s hair. For those of you intent on designing your own creature, make sure you take this part of the brain out. You'll thank me when your monster reaches lives a fruitful life without being murdered.

5). Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman. Former USC standout tailback and star of the silver screen OJ Simpson shocked the nation by stabbing his ex wife and her gay boyfriend to death in front of her Brentwood home. In a 1995 trial watched the world over, Simpson was acquitted of all charges, leading America’s black populace to rejoice and America’s white people to go, ‘Wait a minute… What?’ I was rooting for him, but in my defense, I was a retarded 13 year old at the time. I was only a few years removed from listening to militant black rap and rocking an African medallion necklace that I purchased at the Swap and Shop swap-meet.

4). Kenny Loggins. Okay, so this hasn’t happened, but wouldn’t it be totally weird if the 1980’s soundtrack hit machine responsible for classic tracks like ‘I’m Alright’ and ‘Highway to the Danger Zone,’ was murdered? I mean, why would anyone even think of doing that? That would be pretty messed up. He’s a nice family man. Leave him alone!

3). Sharon Tate. In the late 60’s, a frightening, imp-like douche bag named Charles Manson had his cult of followers kill a pregnant Tate and some of her friends who were sleeping over. Although the reason behind the slayings is muddled at best, I believe it had something to do with what Manson perceived to be a coming race-war and his inability to get into the Monkees. Tate’s husband, acclaimed director Roman Polanski, was so rattled by the events that he was forced to begin a lifetime of pedophilia and molestation.

2). Emmett Till. This wasn’t funny at all. A 14 year old black kid was lynched in Money, Mississippi for whistling at a white woman. Horrible, horrible stuff.

1). Jesus. That’s right, Jesus. Whipped and lashed and crucified on a big wooden cross. No wonder our world is such a scary, unforgiving cesspool. If something like this can happen to a polite, Jewish carpenter, it can happen to anyone.

Now go hug your kids.

Bus Stop Wisdom, Vol. 4

2010-02-23T19:48:00.002-06:00

'Monday... No, Sunday is the last day of February.' (For some reason, 'Gary' is enamored with the end of February-- it's as though he feels the first day of March will automatically bring 60 degree days and chirping sparrows)

'See, today I was on grants.gov, which stands for government, and I think it may all be one big joke, because one guy says hey, I can get $25 billion dollars as a genius, but really, he may have to go to the DMV's website and enter his information and print out a card, but he needs probably the right kind of printer. But it doesn't work with a normal piece of paper. You have to have a sheet where you can punch the cards out. (Like Spring, farms, grants and motorcycles, 'Gary' is infatuated with the DMV. A couple of months ago, he had to get his license renewed which spawned a week long diatribe about the 'foolish' cost... And don't get him started on organ donation.)'

'Say you want to listen to music, so you go to orchestra.music, only the next time you go there, it remembers what you were listening to, right at the same point, and only THIS time, it says THEorchestra.music.'

'See, you can drive a brand new Porsche one time and the then boom, it breaks, but you can have say, a Chevrolet Luck, and you'll have no problem. You just have to buy an engine hoist to crank it up. You can get one at, say, the Dollar General store and it's made of steel links, but you can also buy another one somewhere else that's made out of something like steel, or metal.'

'They tell you, don't eat canned food, you know, because it's foolish. They're all farmers and everything has to be fresh, but now, you don't have a choice.'

'Say one girl who goes to the University of Kansas in Lawrence, on campus, and she gets a grant for $25 billion dollars. Well, that's pretty good. $10 is one zero, $100 is two zeros, $1000 is four zeros and a googleplex... A googleplex. Well, that's 100 million zeros, you know? And you could have one guy who would just take a regular paper grocery bag, write his name, his address, and send it off telling them how much he wanted for his grant, and he'd GET it. It's foolish.'

'It's cold out today. I had to wear my face covering. With the face covering, let's say, and my gloves, it's like 40 degrees warmer. You take it off and MAN! (he laughed here at his own... joke?)'

Bus Stop Wisdom, Vol. 3

2010-02-18T21:32:00.003-06:00

'Gary' was at the library again today, as he is every weekday. Our conversations always follow the same structural format. It goes like this:

Gary: (as I approach) How you doin'?

Me: Good, and you?

Gary: I'm alright.

(we stand silently for a few seconds)

Me: So did you go to the library today?

Gary: Yeah, I was working on...

(It always begins with 'I was working on,' as though he's a paid employee of the Plaza Library.)

2/18/10

"Well, what I was working on today is an online government grant, in which, I think they can give you one billion dollars, but they want you to fill out a phone book, not a pamphlet, and they can come around and destroy the internet at any time (He used the word 'destroy' no less than 10 times in our conversation-- when he gets on a kick, he uses one word over and over again. I feel like it should be like Pee Wee's Secret Word-- when he says the word, I scream)."

"It felt pretty good out today. Almost like Spring. I think we're 10 days away from March, and we're past President's Day (for reasons beyond my comprehension, he's spoken often about President's Day, as though it marks some significant point on the calendar)."

"I got an email, and it said basically that I haven't used it in a long time, the email, and they were probably just going to cancel it because they can. Maybe it was Netzero. And I think they just buy the website for $270, and they can just destroy it anytime they want. It's like that tree over there. It could be, say a bear or a coyote, when my grandparents grew up on a farm, they had a bear that would kill you, and the bear would be as big as, well, I want to say as big as a car, and you have to run from it. They tell you to run from it. And they'll cut the tree down, and the bears will... They'll sell the tree in pieces."

"On the internet, you can just go to say, dictionary.com and it'll tell you how to pronounce the words, or you can say, go to the online theo-saurus (I assume he meant 'thesaurus'), depending on what it is you're working on, you can learn the dictionary or the theo-saurus or even your ABCs. But anyone can buy a website and tell you what they want, even if it's, say even if it's not true. You can, say, put on a badge that says Potato Head Police (he laughs) and they can just go around and get rid of all your, cut all of your cables."

Bus Stop Wisdom Vol. 2

2010-02-16T19:47:00.003-06:00

From the desk of 'Gary', the crazy guy at my bus stop:

"Man, I haven't seen the moon in awhile. You think that they wouldn't even let you."

"So I was working on grants today (at the library). See, I don't even think they're real, but they've got $5 billion dollars, so you've got to fill out the forms, and it doesn't even matter if you went to college or not. And so he (he often goes into jags about an unnamed 'he') had to go see the treasurer, you know, up at the airport, and he showed me a Visa card. And I told him they need to put it on a stick, see, or a laptop, but probably a stick because that's what they do. They used to call them mp3's, but now they say it's a CD or maybe even a DVD, but before they had a name for them, they were mp3's."

"They want to level everyplace my grandparents lived, for example, when they lived in Westport, and I'd go walk over by KU Medical Center, and the next thing you know, they say 'we have to take all of this land, and these cobblestones,' which are like nice rocks, you know, and the next thing you know, they're at your door and they tell you to get out. It's so mysterious. (He used the word mysterious to describe several things throughout our conversation, none of which were actually very mysterious.)"

"My grandparents used to live on a farm in Bonner Springs, and everyone would get in trouble for murdering bears, but you'd wake up and there'd be one bear laying at the front door and one bear laying at the back door. Murdering bears (he laughed at the absurdity of this). And you'd only have, say, maybe one gallon of water per family member to last you one week, and you'd carry it with you around the farm."

"I'd tell God, I'd say, 'put it on the stick,' you know? Or say, maybe God told you 'just put it on the stick,' but they'd laugh at you because they'd say, 'dang, he don't even have a car,' you know? ('sticks,' a frequent topic of conversation, are used to store everything from precious data to Wham songs... by his description, they sound almost like a flash drive, but I'm not sure how he'd have any idea what that is).

Lunch, Crips and Puke

2010-02-13T10:02:00.002-06:00

(to the tune of Warren Zevon's Lawyers, Guns and Moneys)

Crazy people aside, there are lots of other things at the bus stop. Well, specifically, there are things at my morning bus stop. My evening bus stop is a clean, almost sterile environment. Were it not for my free-thinking friend, you'd swear my evening bus stop was a royal bidet. Where I wait in the morning, however, closer to 20th and Main, is a different story. There are three things that really jump out about that stop. The lunch, the Crips and the puke. Allow me to extrapolate.

Lunch: Every Monday when I show up to the bus stop, I am greeted by lunch. Once a brown bag beaut, it has been deconstructed into its components, no longer a solid experience waiting to be ingested. Usually, there's a sandwich. Now, we're not talking about a PB&J or a soggy, Carl Buddig infused nightmare... The sandwich that sits on the bench is the real deal, a triple decked mass of high quality cold-cut, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes. It's wrapped in a sandwich bag and there are usually a couple of accompanying packets of mayo and mustard, single-shooters easily procured at any local convenience mart. In addition to the sandwich, there is usually a bag of chips, a nice looking piece of fruit and an individually wrapped , single serving fruit pie. Sometimes the fruit pie is 'chocolate pudding fill,' and others, it's a standard apple or blueberry.

The lunch is laid out carefully on the bench, almost as though someone sat down due to ravenous hunger, tore open the lunch and was prepared to go to town on the feast when they either a) decided they didn't actually want what they'd so carefully packed, b) were interrupted by an arriving bus and didn't have time to gather their goods or c) were chased off by a scarier hobo before they could eat. The third theory falls apart only because I don't understand why Alpha Hobo wouldn't then take the lunch himself.

So anyway, this lunch appears on Monday morning, sits on the bench untouched throughout most of the week and is replaced by a new lunch on the following Monday.

Once, while waiting for my chariot, I saw a homeless man staggering towards the stop, blindingly drunk at 8:50am. He approached the shelter, gave me a curious glance-- wondering if it was all some diabolical plan wherein I would kidnap him after he fell prey to the drugged sammy, I guess-- sat down and began consuming the sandwich. Finders keepers, I suppose.

Crips: Once upon a time, a few months ago, there was graffiti at my stop. Only it wasn't artfully sprayed bubble letters proclaiming 'Skeez' or 'Spazz' or 'Tommy!' It was done with a dried Sharpie and said unintelligible, fairly nonthreatening things like 'KC Crips,' and 'LA Crips 2 KC.' Based off of this very literal information, I am led to believe that, while there are not only Crips hanging out in the Crossroads Arts District, they are are also taking the bus to get where they're going. While I applaud their sensibilities regarding the reduction of their carbon footprint, I question the fright factor of a gangster waiting on the MAX 3rd to Plaza/Waldo bus. Not very intimidating.

In addition to the 'KC Crips,' my stop also appears to house the 'Broadway Boys,' a gang that sounds like they came straight out of a 1940's gang movie, back when the weapon of choice was a baseball bat and everyone wore matching jackets. I am less afraid of the 'Broadway Boys' than I am of the 'KC Crips.'

It is my hope that I may someday witness the most pussified fight ever between the 'Boys and the Crips. I picture a lot of tears and hair pulling.

Puke: There's always a big pile of puke at the stop on Monday mornings. This one's pretty self explanatory, but no less disgusting. Especially in the Winter when it freezes and stays for days.

Animals. Nothing but animals.

Randomness

2010-02-07T23:47:00.002-06:00

So a few weeks ago, I was watching the news, and they had a 'breaking news update,' which is usually a crock of shit, and while this was no different from a crock standpoint, it was slightly interesting nonetheless.

Rural County deputies-- and I cannot remember which county (and does it really matter?)-- found the body of a young woman in a ditch. She was... well, dead, and the only identifying features were a tattoo (probably of a Warner Brothers cartoon character, I cannot remember) and a Backyard Burgers work shirt. For the uninitiated, Backyard Burgers is a small fast food chain specializing in 'authentically cooked' grill style burgers. Basically, they're built to taste like something your father pulled off of the Grillmaster 3000. What I didn't get, and what obviously keeps me from joining a prestigious law enforcement group, is a simple question: Did anyone check with the nearest Backyard Burgers locations? Identification seems a simple matter of 'call and receive,' as in, 'I call you, ask some really simple questions, I receive an answer.' For example:

"Thank you for callin' Backyard Burgers, my name is Tanisha, how can I help you?"

"Hello Tanisha, this is Louis Jefferson with the Peanut County Sheriff's Department, and I was hoping you could answer a few questions."

"We're open from 11am until 10pm on Mondays through Fridays, and we open from 9am until 11pm on Saturdays and Sundays."

"Ha ha. No Tanisha, we're not looking for your hours, we're merely hoping that we can find out some general information about employees at your locations"

"What you mean?"

"Well, have any of your coworkers been missing for their past few shifts? Any notable absences?"

"Such as?"

"Such as... Has anyone not shown up recently? Have you experienced any unexplained absences at your particular location?"

"Well... Lisa ain't been in in awhile? Girl that work the fry-machine? we been all fucked up due to her lack of participation."

"And how might you describe this Lisa, Tanisha, you know, physically?"

"Oh, she about 5 feet and some inches... 5 feet 6, maybe? And she thick. Like, maybe 200 lbs, or so. Curvy ass bitch."

"Thank you, Tanisha, you've been very helpful."

And there we go.

Tanisha let us know that the victim was 28 year old Lisa Chunkstyle, a diligently employed mother of three, a diehard employee in line for a supervisory promotion.

As it was, she remained unidentified for three or so weeks, until, led by mysterious tipsters, she was given a name. Then she was given a proper burial and shockingly, her husband and his methed-out friend were charged with her murder.

All I'm saying is that this whole episode took weeks. And my tax dollars paid for Sheriff Reginald P. Gravy to crack the case... And it seems to me as though it all could have been solved with a quick call to Backyard Burgers. Am I right?

Commericial Time

2010-02-07T12:00:00.002-06:00

On the precipice of tonight's televised Super Bowl contest, when as much attention is paid to the commercials as the game, I thought it would be a fine time to tell you how TERRIBLE commercials are by providing a few examples. These currently airing advertisements not only enrage and disgust me, they also ensure that I will NEVER purchase any of the goods hocked therein. To whit:

Cricket Wireless: I don't know how widely seen these ads are, as they reek of 'local-production,' but they infuriate me to no end. If you've seen it (and there's actually more than one), you know what I mean. In the most prevalent one, a middle aged lady sits on a bench in a darkened city park, staring at her laptop and smiling softly as she watches some obnoxious child-- a niece? her estranged daughter?-- bellow an awful rendition of Aretha Franklin's "Respect." At one point, the camera cuts back from the screen of the laptop to the side-shot of the viewer. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, as though she's thinking, 'oh, that crazy kid.' It is after this head shake that I pray some stranger will leap from the bushes and attack her, or at the very least, take her 'Cricket-Wireless' powered computer and throw it to the ground before stomping it to bits. This commerical raises all sorts of questions: Who is this lady? Who sits in the park after dark and watches videos on their laptop? Do affluent looking white women actually use Cricket Wireless? ENOUGH already.

Taco Bell: Their latest contradictory campaigns really chap my hide. In the first, a previously chunked woman tells us in no uncertain terms that, although she wanted to shed some pounds, no WAY was she going to give up her bountiful fast food intake. What to do, what to do? Well, she ingeniously devised a plan that allows her to stuff her formerly slightly-fat face with Taco Bell products not laden with sour cream, derelict beef and nacho cheese. The result? Not-typical weight loss. Way to keep those fatties dreaming, T. Bell! In a newer, heavily rotated ad, Charles Barkely, the former NBA All-Star known just as well for his drunk driving, heavy gambling and love of prostitutes as his hardwood skills, sits in a high-backed throne, adorned in a velvet robe, composing a verse about the enormous amounts of food he can get for only $5. That's right, he can get a Double Decker Taco, a Cheesy Gordita, a Burrito Supreme, some Cinnamon Twists AND a Large Coke for only $5. 'That's a lot of food for not a lot of money,' this ad may or may not say. I say, every dollar counts when you routinely lose hundreds of thousands a year due to your nominal gambling debts.

AT&T (I think): First of all, it's a telltale sign when you can't remember what a commercial is advertising-- that means you FAIL, ad-men. This spate of commercials is for one cell phone provider-- either AT&T or Verizon-- and it aims to make you believe the other is inferior in any number of ways... It attempts to drive this point home with a pudgy, disheveled guy who looks like Luke Wilson. This bozo even SOUNDS like the talented actor who I enjoyed in such fantastic films as The Royal Tenenbaums and Bottle Rocket. Apparently, AT&T (or Verizon) couldn't shell out the high dollars necessary to land the heralded thespian who made us laugh in classic comedies like Old School and Anchorman. I say, if you can't get the real deal, why even try, you know?

Freecreditreport.com: Everyone associated with these abominations should be killed; The writer, the directors, the poor guys who only want to be legitimate actors but are stuck singing and rapping their way to hell... Yeah, these NEVER should have happened. I've yet to meet one person who is even INDIFFERENT about these ads. Nobody says, 'Eh, I don't mind them,' let alone, 'Oh, those Credit Report commercials? I love those spots!' How is it possible that millions of people hate what they see, but the folks in charge continue to beat the same idea to death, time after time?

Although these are just a few examples, I'm sure tonight will leave me with more. I'm sure I'll see my fill of babies talking about investments, animals talking about beer and pro football hopefuls pushing their religious agendas on me. What happened to the days of yore when old ladies just screamed about missing beef and other old ladies screamed about their inability to rise after taking a light spill? I think I'm going to watch some TV Land, eat some soup and go to bed.

Bus Stop Wisdom

2010-02-02T20:28:00.002-06:00

So every evening after work, I cross Main Street to wait at the bus stop to catch my ride home. Every night, the same man is there. I do not know his name-- though for some indefinable reason I believe it to be Gary-- but throughout the course of the past couple of months, I've gotten to know a lot about him. His most defining quality is probably his absolute fucking craziness. He looks normal enough-- his clothes are always clean, he's always freshly shaven. By all outward appearances, he's just another person waiting on the bus. Get to know him, however-- and you will; he gives you no choice-- and you'll see that he is quite possibly the most insane person ever.

We wait on the bus for about 20 minutes. We are always the only two people at that stop. In that time, he tells me story after story-- some little more than short sentences with no real point-- and he hardly takes a breath in between his musings or allows an interjection from the listener.

It is my intention to share the wisdom that he imparts with each visit. It is not groundbreaking, nor is it usually intelligible or sensible. Nothing will be gained from reading it. It is not fair, however, that I am the only one who must listen to it. You have been warned.

Tuesday, February 2nd:

"I got a package at my house today. I think it's the stimulus package, but I don't know. It's a lot of pamphlets and paperwork and I think I'll just wait until a simpler form comes out." ('The Stimulus Package' is a recurring theme with 'Gary.' He is under the impression that he is entitled to some sort of Governmental severance. In fact, he spends his pre-bus stop time at the Plaza library researching 'government forms' and grants.)

"When computers first started, we'd just put our music on sticks. You'd plug it into your laptop and listen to it. Now, you need probably two laptops, one for $5000 and another for $5000, knowing me, and you get your music from, I think, either music.com or music.net or music dot... music dot... I think it's music.edu, but I don't know. I don't think you can get that one, but if you CAN, you can sell it back to whoever wants it. I think everything all together is like, $290 billion dollars." (Computers are a huge topic of discussion as well. It is also worth noting that, much like Rain Man, 'Gary' has NO sense of money. Nothing-- including new shoes-- cost less than a thousand dollars.)

"You can get a job as a cab driver, sometimes. I drove a cab once. And you can get $50,000, say, for one tip. You just have to know where the treasuries are. It's all about treasuries. Or an ice cream man. Have you ever been an ice cream man? (This is one of the few times he's ever actually addressed a question to me. He once asked me what I do for a living, another time he asked me where I worked, and another time, he asked me if I knew much about the 'stimulus.')The thing about driving an ice cream truck is, in the Book of Wisdom, it says, 'let he who leads the hungry not wont for himself,' and you're in an ice cream truck. (He laughed heartily at this point).

"You might want to get a job, say, like once when I worked at Kentucky Fried Chicken, but it was stupid because you need TWO jobs then, and it's pretty irresponsible to buy a motorcycle, which is what I did-- what I WANTED to do, and then they want to see your license. And on the back of your license, say, you can tell them if you want to donate your body to science, and your organs, and I just don't know how I feel about that." (Motorcycles come up A LOT. He claims that he used to own one. Driver's licenses are also a topic. He recently had to renew his for the state of Kansas, and went on for DAYS about the price. He also speaks frequently about organ donation; is has come up more than once.)

And thus concludes our first installment... as he speaks, it shall be written.

Area Man Smells Someone Cooking in His Building; Likely Chicken or Turkey

2010-01-30T11:44:00.001-06:00

Canton- OH.

Upon arriving home from work on Tuesday, area man Todd Stuckey noted that someone in his building was cooking something, and by scent alone, he identified it as a chicken or turkey dish.

“Man, that really smells alright,” the 31 year old spot-welder remarked.

He admitted that he briefly entertained a delusional fantasy wherein his ex-girlfriend Rebecca Holt was in his apartment, preparing a meal that the two would share.

“She used to make some pretty good stuff,” he said. “She’d do turkey tetrazzini, or chicken parm with homemade sauce. Really good stuff,” he continued.

He acknowledged that returning home to find her in their once shared apartment was nothing more than a fleeting daydream. The pair split up in March after Holt, tired of Stuckey’s inability to ‘get his shit together,’ moved in with a colleague from Applebee’s, where she is an Assistant General Manager.

“I don’t blame her,” Stuckey said. “I’ve been with Blue Panther Manufacturing for like, 5 years now, and it’s pretty dead end.” She also cited various examples of late nights spent drinking with friends, simple repairs that were never completed around the apartment and a ‘total lack of drive,’ as reasons for the split.

“I don’t deserve her, man,” he said while pulling the top off of his Hamburger Helper Beef Stroganoff. “She definitely deserves more. I would love to have just one more meal with her, though.”

Stuckey also admitted that he needed to be more personable to neighbors in the future. “If I knew who was cooking that chicken or turkey tonight, there’s a chance I could get invited over. That’d be sweet.”

Because of long work hours, and few interests outside of independent league hockey and drinking, however, he has never actually spent time with any of his fellow tenants.

“There’s this older lady—probably my mom’s age—who lives in 6C. I bet she’s cooking the food. She lives alone, I think. Maybe I could try to buddy up to her. Maybe I could get a meal out of it.”

Shaking his head, Stuckey realized that this was unlikely. “I’d probably just spook her if I started being too friendly,” he resigned, opening a can of Stroh’s. “I just need to start being more outgoing,” he said before taking a bite of Stroganoff.

More Openings to Books I Don't Want to Read

2010-01-30T08:56:00.002-06:00

Skip Hewitt, our trusted Tulsa weatherman for over 23 years, was a vampire, but I didn't know how to prove it.

Although it originated in 1984, my father didn't learn to appropriately do the Safety Dance until 1996.

The school janitor looked out of the window and shrieked in horror when he saw the floating penis staring back at him.

There was a brief moment, as my car glided across the ice and right before it slammed into the GMC pickup when I realized, "Holy shit. I'm about to crash into TV's Mario Lopez."

Darrell drank all of the moonshine before going to bed.

Crystal was a stripper; Crystal's MOTHER was a stripper; Crystal's mother's MOTHER was a stripper.

Sperm Jefferson came into the world with one functional eye and a left leg 3 inches longer than the right; He left it as the 53rd President of the United States.

Long before he captured the hearts of American moviegoers with his seminal 1987 hit Harry and the Hendersons, writer and director William Dear was making films in his backyard with his two pals, Alex and Stinky.

In order to keep his street-cred at an acceptable level, J-Dogg, one time leader of the 8^th Street Goblins, would go to the Piggly Wiggly to shoplift a chunk of expensive cheese.

Heifer? I hardly knew her.

He hadn’t showered in two weeks, simply because he didn’t have the time.

Cassandra lost the will to live in 2115, shortly after the belligerent, asshole spiders officially assumed control of the federal government.

Paul Echols never intended to become the superhero the papers began referring to as ‘Recycle Man;’ It only happened because he was passionate about recycling and owned a pair of green spandex tights. Oh yeah, and that fucking X-Ray vision thing, that was a part of it, too.

At 6’7, and 255 pounds of solid muscle, Khaleid Jones excelled at athletics, but never at algebra.

I didn’t learn to read until I was 12 years old, and I place the blame squarely on the shoulders of my deaf, dumb and blind mother who insisted on home-schooling me.

As a dentist, the children feared me; When I broke into their house in the middle of the night and left money under their pillows in payment for their precious, precious teeth, however, they absolutely adored me.

The next thing I knew, it was noon, I was atop a veritable pile of crushed Cheetos and the TV was blaring the weather channel in Spanish.

Me and Rachael Ray? Yeah, we got to third base. No biggie.

Programming Alert

2010-01-09T13:27:00.002-06:00

The best time to watch the Mask (Cher, Eric Stoltz) in order of day, time of day:

-Saturday Afternoon
-Sunday Afternoon
-Saturday Early Evening
-Sunday Morning
-Friday Evening
-Thursday Afternoon
-Thursday Evening
-Friday Afternoon
-Saturday Evening
-Tuesday Afternoon

Under no circumstances should the film be watched on Monday or Wednesday.

Happy viewing!

Take Home Pamphlet, 3rd Trimester

2009-12-12T08:42:00.003-06:00

Dear Mom-to-be,

Your belly is growing, your feet are aching and your breasts are beginning to swell beyond your Victoria's Secret bra, causing your homemade nipple piercings to wreak havoc on the musty fabric: Congratulations mom, you're just weeks away from unleashing your 'joy' into the outside world!

Hi, I'm Dr. Dennis Windsor, Chief Director of Prenatal Sciences and Life Mapping for the Greater Appalachian Health Care Contingency. It is with great warmth-- and a solid measure of trepidation-- that I welcome you into the magical world of parenthood. The warmth is easy-- everyone loves a baby-- but the trepidation grows from years of observation. You see, the fact of the matter is, less than 9 months ago, you were ringing up purchases at the Walmart on Catlick Drive, or if you were really ambitious, pole-dancing at the Ginger Pickles on Rural Route 8. Now, you're 'laid-up' in the double wide smoking unfiltered Pall Malls (against my wishes!!!!) and waiting for your water to break. In a matter of weeks you will be the sole delegator of whether another human being lives or dies-- scary thought, I know!!!-- and to make the best possible decisions, you'll need to be armed with knowledge. It is with these thoughts in mind that I provide you with a easy to follow guide of do's and do not's when it comes to your baby.

Getting the Child Home: Effective June 23rd, 2006, we will no longer allow the child to be driven home in the following modes of transport:

Dirt-bikes, motorcycles, bicycles or any other 'uncovered' vehicular transport that requires the child to be 'strapped-on.'

The child may not be placed in a boat, on a flatbed or on any other kind of 'hitch' attached to the rear of a pickup truck.

It must be visually evident that the car or truck have a solid, factory attached floor-board. Spot-welded corrugated steel, cardboard and tautly stretched blankets are unsafe and provide little resistance to flying bits of road debris that could potentially pose a danger to your newborn.

Please keep in mind that the admittance nurse-- patient volume permitting-- WILL check out the babies 'chariot' upon sign-out. If you are unable to provide a safe, road-ready mode of conveyance, your child will be held, AT YOUR EXPENSE, until such a mode of transportation is available.

At Home:

The first few days are the toughest. Pre-dismissal, you will be given instruction on feeding the baby and some tips on basic infant care. Although this information was brief-- we're running a hospital here, people-- it was comprehensive and enlightening. Unfortunately, you were probably 'jacked-up' on the Xanax and/or Codeine that your friends sneaked into you. Thankfully, you're reading this now. Follow the steps listed below to keep that little bugger alive for a month or more!

The child should be fed multiple times throughout the course of the day. Although breast-feeding is recommended, previously untreated infected nipple piercings may have rendered your breasts useless and scarred. If this is the case, your child may be provided FDA approved formula (please do not attempt to make your own formula by 'drying out milk' or 'grinding up stuff').

Under NO circumstances should your child be fed ANY of the following: Corn chips, tortilla chips, Bugles, M&Ms, trail mix, Papa Johns, Papa Murphys, Steak-Umms, crab rangoon, quesadillas (frozen or fresh, chicken or veggie), Mountain Dew, Mountain Dew: Code Red, Mountain Dew: Live Wire, soda of any kind, Natural Light, Coors Light, any kind of beer, any kind of food other than breast milk or the aforementioned formula.

DO keep your child away from windows. Although they may not be 'open' your trailer's windows are drafty and thin. In addition, a carelessly thrown beer bottle or wine jug will easily damage the window, causing glass shards to rain upon the baby.

ALWAYS place your child in a crib. A water-bed is NEVER safe for a child under eight years old and a futon fails to provide the necessary cranial support. If a crib is unavailable, buy one. Your bed is unsafe, as there are no rails to prevent the baby from rolling off the edge; whoever the man in the bed is also poses a hazard, as he has passed out and would fail to notice if he rolled atop the child while in an unconscious state.

Do NOT place your child in the washing machine or dishwasher and do NOT leave he or she unattended in the bathtub. To bathe the child, use your approved Tub-Buddy or similarly licensed product. If an infant bath-aide is unavailable, please use caution if utilizing the kitchen sink. Prior to submersion, ensure that there are no forks and knives present, and make sure that all dishes have been washed and put away. The tiniest bit of residual Ham and Cheese Hot Pocket can prove to be a scourge to your child's health.

To dry the child after their bath, refrain from toilet tissue, paper towels or the clothes-dryer. Your child should be wrapped comfortably in a bath towel. In addition, NASCAR wall tapestries should be avoided, as they are too thin to provide adequate warmth.

Do not provide your child with drugs to aide sleep, no matter how little he or she seems to be sleeping. A babies sleep cycle is a delicate flower that takes many months to blossom. Forcing the issue by providing pills, marijuana and cough syrup may lead to mental and physical developmental issues and can often times prove fatal.

Do NOT let your friends put cigarettes, lit or unlit, in your child's mouth and take photographs. These photographs WILL end up online and 'those bitches you hated' from high school will see them on Facebook and report you to the proper authorities.

Do have your child vaccinated for any and all childhood diseases. Do NOT attempt to do this yourself, under any circumstances.

Do NOT shake, thump, pinch or punch your child if they are being fussy and/or failing to be quiet during VH1's 'For the Love of Ray J.' Your child is delicately assembled and is susceptible to such careless handling. In all likelihood, he or she is tired, hungry or in need of a diaper change; that week's episode of Ray-J will re-air several times and is not worth hurting your child.

Remember, your child needs a cognizant person acting in a responsible manner in order to survive. Questionable decisions may have brought it into this world but answers will keep the baby alive. Following these simple rules can ensure that you can enjoy your welfare earnings for years to come.

Happy parenting!

Interesting People I Have Known Vol. 4

2009-11-07T08:11:00.002-06:00

Although my time with Carl was brief, he made an indelibly substantial impact on my life.

I first met Carl when I began a weekend job washing dishes at the Olive Garden, the armpit of Italian dining. I had several friends who already worked there, as is often the case with teenage jobs, and had heard stories about Carl before I even stepped foot through the doors.

He screamed a lot.
He was temperamental.
He had the capacity to be sweet, but his friendliness should only be trusted as one might entrust a coyote or black bear.

You see, Carl was retarded. Born with a case of Down's Syndrome, he was functional to a point. While spraying plates clean and sending them through the dish machine on a green, plastic racks was manageable, Algebra and Personal Finance were elusive subjects that he'd never tackle. Therefore, Carl was relegated to the dish ring, a place he often referred to as his 'hole.'

When new servers, unaware of what lurked unseen behind the other side of the partition, would stack plates in what Carl deemed to be an unfavorable manner, he would bellow, 'Get out my HO'! Get out my shit! You get you shit, you get you BUTT, an' GET OUT MY HO!!!' Often, the terrified waitresses would drop their plates and run. Carl, furious that someone would have the tenacity to disrespect his hole, would turn to you and shake his head in sorrowful resignation. 'Damn, buh-ee,' he'd say.

Carl got a job at the Olive Garden through familial connections. Anthony the kitchen manager grew up as a friend of Carl's parents. Sensing Carl's need for independence, Anthony hired him on and became personally responsible for Carl's uneven temperament and frequent outbursts. 'You just have to be nice to him,' Anthony explained after a coworker complained that Carl threw a ravioli that struck them in the eye. 'He just gets excited.'

Carl was a round man with giant, bug eyes and thick, plastic frame glasses. A veritable human candied apple, he'd remove his sauce stained work shirt after his shift ended at 3pm on Saturday and parade in front of the building, proudly waiting for his parents to pick him up. Although presented with the unappetizing sight of Carl in nothing but a tank top and marinara encrusted black pants, diners looked the other way. 'Isn't that sweet, honey?' they'd ask their spouse. 'They gave that crazy man a job.' Carl would pace in loping strides, pausing occasionally to study an insect or throw rocks a squirrel.

For all of his negative behavior, however, Carl showed a penchant for conversation with his coworkers. While everyone sat around the break-room smoking, Carl would come in to 'shoo the shih,' as well. He'd pace in the break-room-- an area big enough to only accommodate 4 or 5 people and two stools-- and share his plans for the evening.

'Me an' my brother gonna smoke some wine,' he'd explain, oblivious to the incredulous stares of his break-mates.

He'd share his weightlifting techniques, pantomiming the action as he did so. 'First, gonna lift one-hunner. Then two, three, four, one THOUSAN, FUUUUUHHHHHK,' he'd exclaim, dropping his invisible barbell and wiping the non-existent sweat from his brow.

My friend Saleh was unaccustomed to the mentally infirm. Because the mentally handicapped weren't often allowed out of the home or an institutional setting in his native Jordan, Carl was like an exotic creature that had to be studied.

'Carl-dude,' Saleh would say. 'How much money do you make this week, dude? Please check your pay-stub,' he'd request, handing Carl the invoice paperwork for the kitchen's linen service.

Carl would study the figures explaining that we received a count of 1000 white hand towels, 1000 red cloth napkins and 250 dish-rags with a furrowed brow. "I mae fifty-thousand and one hunner,' he'd say with absolute certainty.

'Wow dude! You are RICH man!' Saleh would respond.

'You righ' buh-ee,' Carl would say, grinning.

Sadly, a year or so after I started, Carl quit the Olive Garden. The work was getting to be too much, his parents explained, and they were worried about his health. Within another year, he was dead.

Some say that late at night, you can still hear the ghost of Carl walking across the rocks that hedge the restaurant's exterior; or probably, nobody says that at all. What is true, however, is that whenever I'm driving past Olive Garden, I think fondly of Carl, a pretty good guy who just wanted to work like a normal person.

Rest in Peace, buh-ee.

Fall Into Fashion

2009-10-23T21:08:00.002-05:00

So the sun is gone, the leaves have made their obligatory transition and everywhere, people are putting away their jorts and Hobie tank-tops in favor of warmer threads. With this in mind, I proudly present to you the 3^rd annual Bransonbones Fall Fashion Spectacular. Learn what to wear and why, never be caught high and dry!

-Canes: Everybody looks classier with a cane. Just ask Boyz II Men or assorted pimps. Be they bamboo, oak or titanium alloy, nothing screams 'cold-hard-cash-money' like a good walking stick. Canes are versatile, practical and can double as a weapon. Getting robbed by no-goodniks? Never fear! You've got a CANE.

-Zubaz: Zubaz were (never) fashionable in the the late 1980's/ early 1990's. Typically adorned by rabid sports fans, Zubaz are comfy, slick and a perfect coupling for a vomit caked sleeveless tee. Although the pant is not boner-friendly, it makes a fly addition to any wardrobe. In fact, Zubaz are so user-friendly, they can be hemmed (with rusty scissors) to make a breezy summer option.

-Pageboy/Newsboy Cap: Ever wanted to look like a complete douche? This is the hat for you! Snapped bill or unsnapped, passerby's will stop and marvel: 'Who is that complete tool?'

-Afro: This is a hairstyle and not attire. Afros are ALWAYS cool.

-Flannel: Everything's better in flannel. This versatile, warming material was popularized by lumberjacks in the 1800's and once again made relevant by Clint Cobain of the Nirvanas. Despite it's recent cultural absence, flannel is poised to make a big return this fall. Find this fantastic fabric in pants, shirts and, who'd-a-thunk-it, UNDERWEAR!

-T-Rowe Price: This is an online based investment company, not a piece of clothing. Happy trading!

-Fingerless Homeless-Guy Gloves: Having trouble getting that bus pass out of your ass-pocket? Fishing completely smoked cigarette butts from outside of that office building's receptacle? Have we got a glove for you! The fact that these gloves don't have fingers makes roach-holding easier and allows you unencumbered access to your lip scabs. Just make sure you're rubbing those pickings somewhere nice, won't you?!

-Sweatpants: Getting married? Why not make the most stressful day of your life as comfortable as possible?! Just make sure that you pull them down on the dance-floor to eliminate any sort of barrier between you and any number of lucky, lucky lasses.

-Ed Hardy: Why won't you die already?!?!?!

There we have it. Just remember, you can't get naked if you're not already dressed.

Halloween Special

2009-10-17T10:20:00.002-05:00

I love Halloween.

Candy is nice, weather-wise it's my favorite time of year and it allows poor kids to throw on a discarded box and pretend that they're a television.

Although I don't believe in a great majority of it, the supernatural is also quite interesting. I love stories about ghosts, draculas and werewolves despite the fact that I'm unlikely to ever see any of the aforementioned walking down the street (with a Chinese menu in their hand).

'Monster Mash' is quite possibly my favorite song ever. In fact, I once drunkenly sent a rambling, complimentary email to the song's writer, Bobby 'Boris' Pickett that concluded with me asking him for an autograph. What I failed to realize, however, was that he was in the throes of terminal cancer and died shortly thereafter, my unopened email blinking meekly in his Yahoo! account.

I also love scary movies. All kinds. Some people are horror-film snobs, dissecting certain on-screen bludgeonings with a meticulousness usually reserved for 18th century British literature. Not I. While I appreciate the artistry and psychological horrors that make an 'Exorcist,' I have no problem watching 'Prom Night' or 'The Funhouse.'

It is with these things in mind that I present the consummate (not really) list of scary movie markings. I am hopeful that Johnny Producer from Hollywoodville sees this list and makes a movie incorporating all of the listed variables. It would undoubtedly be the most frightening thing ever committed to celluloid.

Masks: Masks are just freaky. Jason wore one. Michael Myers did. Same with those people in The Strangers. The thought of looking out of your window and seeing a mask staring back at you makes you piss in your pants a little. See? I just did it.

Caves: Bats live in caves, as do trolls and hobgoblins. Caves are dirty, dark and smelly and a good place to never be found.

Stilts: I think what terrifies me about stilts is that they're so unnatural. Here you have a normal sized man with normal sized arms and a normal sized head and then BAM! GIGANTIC LEGS. Plus, if someone is really adept at stilting, I assume they could probably chase you down pretty quickly.

Coffins: There's a difference between a coffin and a casket. Caskets really aren't that scary. Everyone you know was buried in a casket. Unless you were born in the 1830's, nobody you know was buried in a coffin. Coffins are flimsy and soft, providing no protection against the zombie-fied recently deceased.

Black and White: Everything's scarier in black and white. Schindler's List? Scared the SHIT out of me.

Graveyards: This one's a no-brainer. It's weird to be in a place where you're standing literally feet above rotting, stinking corpses. If those corpses come back to life (Night of the Living Dead), well, then that's even worse.

Alaska: It's desolate and cold. There are also big whales and drunken Inuits.

Forests: There's a massive forest in Japan where people go to kill themselves. It's such a vast place that they are often never found (which I believe is their intention). In addition, weird hill-people live in American forests. Did you hear about that census worker who was found hanging in a rural Kentucky 'holler' a few months ago? Yeah, fuck that shit.

Carnivals: Nothing good ever happens at a carnival. When the best thing you can say about a place is that the funnel-cake induced diarrhea held off until after you got home, and you won a kick-ass gold-framed 8x10 of Winger, you may as well stay away. Plus, they've got fun-houses and clowns and dudes on stilts and dudes with megaphones. No thanks.

Whistling: Nobody that's sane whistles. It's a scientific fact. Whistling is reserved for killers coming up behind you in the fog and crazy guys who are trying to block out the voices in their head.

Snarling Dogs: A dog baring its teeth and snarling, growling and/or straining at its leash are scary. In real life and in the movies.

Dudes in Dirty Butcher Aprons: You're either Leatherface or some scary German guy turning people into sausage. I know what you're up to.

Rusty Tools: Regular tools are scary... Chainsaws, regular saws, pliers, pick-axes... Now add a little rust. Yep. 35% scarier.

Cabrini Green (project in Chicago): It was scary enough because regular dudes would kill you there. Thanks to Candyman, you also had to worry about weird-ass hook-handed, pimp-coated guys with a ribcage full of bees. Cabrini Green just got 10% scarier.

There you have it. Now make the movie.

Here's How Fucked Up My Family Is, Pt 3.

2009-09-24T01:37:00.003-05:00

Aunt Tammy...

Oh, where to begin.

Perhaps we should start at the holiday dinner in 2005.

Tammy, stroke-ridden and nearly incompetent, was joining me, my girlfriend and my parents for Thanksgiving dinner. Only problem was, Aunt Tam was deep into her meds and unable to tackle the turkey-riffic feast laid before her.

While the gathered mass was beginning to shovel stuffing into their face, Tammy was dozing into her pile of cranberry.

"TAMMY!" my father shouted. "BRIAN'S ON HIS WAY OVER!"

"WAKE UP!" he forcefully intoned. He spoke to her much like one might speak to an inattentive child... And with good reason.

Tammy's head stopped its unceremonious dip into the potatoes and she jerked back to semi-consciousness. Her son was on his way, and she needed to be alert.

See, I've known Tammy all my life (obviously-- she's my mother's younger sister), but in recent years, I've only grown accustomed to what she has become; a turkey-munching, pill-popping miscreant. Yet it wasn't always this way.

Growing up, Tammy was my favorite aunt. She had a son close to my age. A world-weary wisdom that stopped at 25. An appreciation of modern hard rock that I envied. Any given weekend found her at the kitchen table, poised over the phone, eager to win Bon Jovi tickets or a Dokken T-Shirt...

Her son Brian was a year older than me, and we were best friends, so I spent the night often. Only problem was, she lived with her new husband Brian in Brian's mother's house. Brian's mother was a shrewd older lady who would just as soon fix you a bowl of powdered milk cereal as she would shoot you a smile. Shortly into our acquaintanceship, Laverne died. From there, things got weird.

Brian and Tammy lived in the now-motherless house with Brian's sister Jean, a bedridden behemoth of a woman who spent her social security dollars on QVC dolls... Her bed teemed with the purchases, and it was a wonder that she was able to fit her ample frame into the room, let alone the bed.

Occasionally, Jean would scream from her room-- the joyful cries of children were apparently poison to her ears-- but her disabilities left her unable to rectify the situation in a manner she found befitting. She'd lie in bed and pound on her door with her cane, threatening us with everything from famine to rapture; per Jean, no evil was too good for my cousin and I.

Tammy and Brian, meanwhile, occupied the basement. Brian worked nights at a paper company and in his absence, Tammy would fuck a local truck-driver for discount hopes. These trysts paid out around July 4th, when the truck driver would supply the household with fireworks meant for large, outdoor displays. Because of Aunt Tammy's 'goods' he'd pilfer the pyrotechnics from the back of his truck and bring them over sheepishly, the way a younger boy might present a fairway won teddy-bear.

An important thing to know about my aunt Tammy is that she had ENORMOUS breasts. She was a double D cup if she was a day, and she knew how to work her assets to her advantage. I once found a forgotten Polaroid buried deep in a drawer. In the picture, Tammy was lifting her tank-top with one arm and pointing to one massive breast with the other. The pointer-arm was in a large cast and a cigarette dangled from her lips. If I remember correctly, my cousin Brian, her son, pocketed the picture to keep as his own... Lord only knows what occurred beyond that point; knowing my family, I don't want to know.

Eventually, Tammy and Brian split. Rumor has it, they brought a third wheel into their operation; once Tammy decided that Brian was enjoying 'Bob' a bit too much, she gave him an ultimatum: It's me or Bob.... Their divorce finalized, Brian died of rectal cancer and Tammy began dating a man named Hans. Hans was straight off the boat, but an overall good guy... Therefore, their relationship was doomed to fail. In her haste to find someone to replace Brian, Tammy gave up her son Brian. She decided, in her infinite wisdom, that she could no longer care for her boy, as he had recently turned into a heathen. My parents took him on, let him live in the basement, and saw him unto the world, an eventual proud graduate of the alternative high school that he attended.

Tammy, meanwhile, continued on her merry path of questionable decisions. After Hans, she found her self in a dry-spell, homeless and unloved. Being my mother's favorite sister, she was invited into our stead and given a room on the ground floor.

At night, I'd lay in the basement and listen to the footsteps of her lovers as they came and went. My favorite was a man who's name I can no longer remember, but who's voicebox will always hold a place in my heart. He was 6'5" if he was a day, a mountain of a man with a large, white beard and a vocoder precipitated by years of smoking. While I laid in bed I could hear the drone of his voice-box.

"Tammy, let's fuck," he'd (try-to) exclaim in his robotic tone.

Once, I heard him talking dirty as his batteries wore down. To this day, I've never laughed so hard.

After a time, their relationship dried up. He joined a long list of gentleman-- Brian, Hans, Brian Birmingham with the claw-hand-- who had tested the waters of Tammy, but had never saw the shore.

Eventually, my dad kicked Tammy out. She'd nearly started a fire with a burning jasmine incense and being a responsible homeowner, my father could take no more. She made her way, though, as she was apt to do.

Depravity finally caught up with Tammy, though, and she began having strokes. Once a buxom young woman known for her beer swilling prowess, she was quickly turned into an old lady with a walker and some stories.

At some point, she found meth. Eventually, her meth use led to pills. Her maniacal consumption of downers gave her one stroke, then another. When she continued with her pill-tastic adventures, she received an angioplasty....

Then another.

She no longer gets along so well.... She needs a walker to make it from the living room to the kitchen. Sadly, I'm fairly certain that she still loves the pills that got her there. Regardless, she'll always be my aunt, stuck on a bed somewhere, her Aerosmith T-Shirt straining against it's seems, her mind eager to carve a better tomorrow.

(Oh yeah, and I forgot to mention that her first husband Jeff (Brian's father) has her name tattooed on his penis. Pretty fucked up, huh?)

This is Pretty Touching

2009-09-23T23:25:00.002-05:00

See, the running back, Matt Ziesel, has Down syndrome. His team was getting blown out 46-0 when his coach asked the opposing coach if it would be okay to run the play. The opposing coach readily agreed and the rest is played out on camera. Ziesel takes the hand off and runs a sweep down the sideline, ultimately going 63 yards for a touchdown.

While the instinctual part of me says, 'tackle the sonofabitch!' the better part of me (the REAL part of me) almost cries.

Sometimes, life is really beautiful.