Friday, October 10, 2008
But, I heard that Google has developed technology that will prevent people who are drunk from emailing using their gmail accounts. Amazing, eh? We can't figure out the stock market, why our politicians are crooked rich homos and we can't cure cancer, but sayonara to the days of emailing your ex-fuckbuddy with testimony that they have crabs; or your boss and telling him that his wife went down on the entire accounting department at the Christmas Party and it was all captured on film...so I guess that's a good thing.
Wait. That's a bad thing. The accounting department is a bunch of assholes. The sales department deserved those hummers. Whore.
Anyway, I am sure that this technology is past my time. You see, I am 33 years old. Gone are the days of my getting drunk and attempting to get in touch with the special someone of my past/current life when those life altering moments afix themselves to my cerebral cortex. And that time is usually after a long night of sitting with Stinky Pete the homeless psychiatrist at the bar, sucking back Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers and Mickey's widemouths, vomiting on the pool table, stumbling out of the bar (see: physically removed, see: thrown fifteen yards) and then finding a phone to make those monumentous thoughts known...at three in the morning.
Or worse, stumbling across town to that lovely lady's residence and gently throwing (see: 80 mph fastball) rocks at their window to alert them of your arrival and need to pleasantly talk at 4 a.m.
So I am told.
You know what? Now I am pissed.
Where were you then, AT&T, to prevent me from calling my girlfriend at 2:00am at her parents house forty-two times in seven minutes from The Wharf Rat in downtown Baltimore?
Where were you, Lord Almighty, to strike me down with an sudden acute case of tendinitis while throwing rocks at my ex girlfriend's window on the second floor of her house at four-thirty in the mornin', rendering my arm as inaccurate as a porno star wearing a cock ring during the money shot?
Nowhere, and for that, I faced humiliation and despair at those moments, which mean nothing because I don't recall any of them I was so plastered, so they really didn't happen.
Nice work Google. Make the fuckers learn the hard way. Even if I do get a kick out of receiving drunk emails from some people. Just don't get rid of drunk blogging, because most of my stuff would be gone.
Friday, September 5, 2008
I say that with the utmost endearment of course. I mean, we need the rain here. The good Lord has bestowed nothing but abundant sunshine our way for three months, leaving a trail of brown grass, attack bees the size of Boeing jets and shit smelling foulness from all the baking manure being sewn upon the celery farms over here. Now we get rain...as a precursor for that same good Lord reminding us that, 'Hey! You live in West Michigan, remember? Heads up because in a few months I'm gonna sock you in the nuts with about twelve feet of snow! Ha ha, dipshit!"
What was I saying?
Oh yeah. Since it was raining, people this morning were freaking the hell out while driving. Apparently, we have forgotten about precipitation and how it relates to driving conditions. Well, how rain doesn't affect the driving conditions much. But, you could have fooled a half a million people here, because it was backed up on the expressway like shit stalls at a local taverns "Beat the bladder Night".
Of course, this gave me time to release a lot of the pent up dirty words due to my Tourette's that I have been avoiding and observe...LICK MY SWEATY BUTT HOLE ASS COCK...some strange things on the roads.
Which brings me to this.
When you see a fuel truck, or an oil truck, you always see that red flame sticker marked "flammable" right? I mean, should that thing ever get a lit cigarette flicked at it while parked at the local Gas N Sip, sayonara Grand Rapids, right? So that's a no-brainer.
And we know that methane gas, released when one breaks wind after eating Taco Bell and drinking Miller High Life, amongst other things, is pretty lethal in itself. I mean we all know that cow's are fucking up our environment with their poots, and we know that one can light a fart if the conditions are right.
So let me ask you this.
Why don't those Septic Trucks aka "shit wagons" that haul tons of human crap, have a "flammable" sticker on them? I mean, can you imagine the gas built up in those things? All sloshing around like a Dr. Jeckyl mixture of used corn and sauerkraut? What do you think would happen if that fucker caught a lit match? How horrible would that be?
It's too horrible to imagine.
God, I love juvenile humor.
This might be the single most stupid, idiotic, retarded post in the history of writing. A new low.
Monday, August 25, 2008
And for the love of Pete, I hope that we have seen the last of Michael Phelps and his incredible douchbagginess all over the damn place, although I doubt it. Nothing against his accomplishment in the pool, the guy is a sideways hat wearing freak to be sure, but just like NBC always does with everything, they have over killed that dude and every possible good story out of the entire 16 days. I'm pretty sure that most American males, and half the females, want to kick Phelps' ass if they see him on the street.
I see that the Americans dominated in Beach Volleyball again this Olympics. I guess I'll lead off with "no shit". Let me see. A sport invented by a bunch of ignorant beach bums on the West Coast of the U.S. amongst complete tools named "Biff" and bikini wearing attention whores named "Sindi", with witty sayings like "that's a side out, brah", and we dominate a bunch of countries that are lucky to have seen a volleyball outside of Tom Hanks' sex partner in Cast Away. You don't say. I'm less surprised by that than I will be when one of those Chinese gymnasts finally gets her first period...in 2011.
What I really want to know us somebody please tell me how beach volleyball is an Olympic sport? I mean, apparently, volleyball wasn't good enough on its own, so they have to go and add sand and a bunch of tall, skinny women in panties. I don't quite get that, either. I mean, are panties and uni-boob bras supposed to help the ladies play better? If that is the case, why don't regular volleyball teams do the same thing? And, speaking for the gay guys reading, why don't men do the same thing? (Just trying to help the International Olympic Commitee add another demographic here).
The closest thing I can come up with as an excuse is that the original Olympics held, back when the Lord baby Jesus was sucking back Enfamil, all athletes were in the nude, and this was the closest thing they could do to re-create the original spirit of the Olympic Games.
What I say is that if they want to switch over to the full nudity, I am all for it. I hate things half ass.
I say, go full ass.
And this...if were talking full nudity being involved.
That's what I would call "ratings gold", too.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Just kidding. I'm just hell bent on putting songs into peoples heads this week, that's all.
The Kid (my son) is off away with his grandparents a few hundred miles away this week. No big deal, I have my girls to bond with, like all good fathers should. Those of you that know me know that in the past I have tried to take an interest in what it is my little girls do. But, I am a boy. Brought up in a time when it was cool to play with toy guns and wear baseball jerseys while playing outside and the only time I ever went inside was when it was time to eat or it was dark.
Therefore, when it comes to girly things, like playing dress up, or Barbie's or whatnot, I look at these things like I'm gazing at a blip way out on the horizon and my eyes just glaze over. I get that look at strip joints too, but, let's separate the two.
So, my girls and I, after gymnastics practice, ended up just hanging out at the house, watching Disney crap that these kids enjoy. Hannah Montana, Suite Life of Dick and Pokey, that one show "Witches of Whatever" with the girl that is super skinny and a large head...like an orange on a toothpick.
When it was time for bed, I tucked them in and turned to turn the television off, when I noticed a "Disney 365" something or other, and they were featuring The Cheetah Girls. A group of three girls and their gay-boy entourage dancing like retards all over stages in front of impressionable kids that want to be just like them. They dress like little skanks and sing classic hit tunes as Girl Power, Strut and Do Your Own Thang to screaming girls that want to be just like them. Apparently, these soon-to-be-cokeheads are on tour this summer and they want you to see them.
This is standard fare, right? I mean, who hasn't been whored out in the last decade by Disney?
The part that got me though was the quote by one of the parents of a fat-assed little brat that saw them live. She belched, "The Cheetah Girls really are so inspiring to little girls everywhere and empower girls to achieve what they want to."
Uhhh...are you serious? These Cheetah Girls dance on stage to prewritten pop tunes, half of which were written back in the 70's, and they are empowering little girls everywhere to achieve anything?
I am all for empowering girls to achieve whatever they so desire, believe me. But, what ever happened to empowering little girls to become doctors, or architects or writers or lawyers? You mean to tell me that little girls see these trollops on stage and think, 'Sweet Jesus, I want to be a firefighter!' No. Uh-uh. Its entertainment for pre-pubescent girls at its mediocre best, not a play on becoming the best physicist ever.
And if it is, I don't want my daughters listening to one idiot in the group that, when asked "Where is this tour taking you this summer", her answer was, "We'll be going all across America to places near cities."
Near cities. All across America.
As opposed to farm houses in Angola. Got it.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Being at my grandmothers funeral service in Pennsylvania last week reminded me of something I wrote long ago. Well, it wasn't my grandmothers funeral per se, but it was seeing a plethora of coal mining town skanks trapsed all over some fellas at the local town festival that, quite frankly, in my world, wouldn't be able to get a piece of ass if it were on special at the local Denny's.
I'm too busy (see: too lazy) to write a new one. But, its a good story, so read the bastard already.
When I was about nine or ten years old, I was visiting my grandmother in Pennsylvania, as I usually did during summers of my youth. I used to trapse around her old home, a row home built on a hill like many of the other homes in coal mining country, a home that my father and his brothers and sisters grew up in many years before.
When I wasn't hanging around my friends and relatives, playing baseball on non-busy street cornes (we could do that back then, we even didn't wear helmets when we rode our bikes, gasp!) I was usually searching around trying to find old stuff around the house, digging through the attic that at night time, scared the living shit out of me, but by day was nothing more than a dusty remnant of the house with tons of old memories.
I'd often find some funny shit up there in that attic. Pictures of my old man and his brothers playing baseball in the backyard, or my dad sporting a perm in the 1970's a la Mike Brady. I once found a collection of old record albums with the likes of Elvis Presley's "Pot Luck" and a old 45, "Blowing in the Wind" by Bob Dylan.
But my prized find was an old Gibson J-45 acoustic guitar that had collected a mountain of dust and was sitting in the corner or the back room in the attic.
My grandmother had no idea that a) I was dicking around in her attic and wondered what the hell I was doing and b). had no clue it was there, the afterthought of a family since moved away to move on in life.
I held onto that thing all summer, tried picking away at it and even pretended like I was John Cougar Mellencamp or prancing around like I was in Journey. I freaking sucked on that thing as a player, but it provided hours of entertainment and even led to me contemplating my taking lessons to play.
Alas, none of that came to be and I, to this day, can't play a lick (other than the first notes to Silent Lucidity) and I have no idea what the hell happened to that old guitar.
I wish I knew why I let it go.
I tell you that story to tell you this one.
I was tuned into Dee Snider's "House of Hair", a syndicated radio program designed to bring us all back to the glorious days of hair band metal. Lucky for me, it was on several different stations along the way, so I got to re-live the days of Ratt, Guns n' Roses and Ronnie James Dio the entire two hours.
Fuckin' awesome, I tell you.
A friend of mine called me along the way, long since moved on to her life in the South, but someone I consider a good friend (one of a very few) from my days in High School. She dated a guy back then that played guitar, and when she heard what I was air jamming to old shit along Interstate 69 (sixty-nine...hahahaha), she let out a loud snort and the times came a-rolling back.
Now, I often wondered what a person of her looks and personality did dating a guy that looked like Slash, since the guy she was soooo in love with then had the brains of asphalt and the personality of a garden snake. She couldn't pinpoint why, other than he played guitar in a band.
And the truth, as the conversation went on, came out.
I still don't get it.
I asked then, what is it about guys that play guitar, or even in a band at all, that gets women all sopped up in the meat curtains like they'd just sat in a vat of KY Jelly?
She had no answer. None.
I mean, if you go back twenty years ago or longer, ladies, would you be willing to fawn all over a guy that looks like Gary Cherone from Extreme?
Or how about Steve Perry from Journey?
Don't forget Ric Ocasek.
Do you mean to tell me that Steven Tyler, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards in a random bar in your local neighborhood, not famous, would get you all hot and bothered? So much so that you'd volunteer to lower yourself onto them at a moments notice?
I surmise it is the whole "starfucker" potential. You never know at the time when guys that played would make it big, and the potential and the lights must be overwhelming to young women that dream of being the next Pamela Des Barres, or a world famous groupie.
So, where does that leave us normal dudes? We don't play any instruments, passing back in the day to play sports, get good grades in school or be regular assholes. Just once I'd love to hear, "Damn, that Zerox copy repair man really get my snail tracks a-sopping when he fixes that machine." or "Did you see that UPS driver today? Boy, if that zipper didn't hold him back I might've sucked him like a circus seal."
The truth is, it rarely happens. Strike that. It never happens. Unless you read Penthouse Forum.
And it made me think that I'm a fucking idiot for not taking those guitar lessons and continuing on with my band from when I was ten called, "The Desert Snowmen".
And maybe I should've kept my mullet.
I think of all the ladies I would've had. And all the STD's I've missed out on. There ain't nothing like combing through ones cabbage patch looking for rampant crabs, or so I am told.
I miss that guitar.
Some rant, I know. But I want answers. Why do guys in bands, especially fugly looking dudes that weigh in at 120 pounds and snort coke like Tony Montana, get all the ladies?
Thursday, June 5, 2008
I can't say that I have a particularly exciting topic in mind to write about today, since I was up rather late watching the hockey season officially end (Go Wings) and something about Energy Drinks that kept me up later than I needed to be, like God was holding my eyelids up with His toothpicks.
With that in mind, I just have a few points that I was thinking about and that I wrote down. I suppose that I could expand on the ideas at some point, maybe not. After all, I am very lazy and quite frankly, this isn't my life, I got other shit to do today.
- Is there anyone more positive yet more clueless about life than a graduating High School Senior? Really, they're all of 18, never been out of the enclave of their homes and towns but seem to walk around like they matter.
Hey kid. You don't know shit. Sure the sky's the limit - but did I mention that you have to build your own plane? Get cracking. (Or have Daddy buy you one...)
- My kid went out and bought a bag of those Big M&M's the other day. Do we really need bigger M&M's? Seriously, if I feel like I am so hungry that I want more M&M's, I'll just go nuts and eat two.
- Rumor has it that there were tons of women lined up outside of theaters waiting to see the new Sex and the City movie dressed as the characters, complete with stiletto heels, toting martini glasses sipping Cosmos and transporting inserted diaphragms.
It's too bad that there wasn't a new release of a Star Trek film the same weekend, because we were all one strategically placed Lindsay Lohan poorly attempted parallel parking job away from taking out twice as many losers.
- How are those "Economic Stimulus Checks" we are all getting treating you? Let me guess...you all got a full tank of gas with them didn't you?
- Whatever happened to "The Proclaimers"? "Now I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more, just to be the man that'd walk 1,000 miles to fall down at your door...dead, apparently". You know what? I don't care, really.
- I firmly believe that there is a direct negative correlation between a man's ability in bed and his desire for noise emitting from his vehicle.
Case in point.
Rednecks that have no mufflers on them thar pick-up trucks and Douchebags riding organ donor-cycles that wake my groggy ass up with them at 3 in the morning are five pump chumps that tell their women to lay there while they pile drive into them while dreaming of the cover model on the latest Road Head magazine.
The flip side to that is Lance Armstrong, in top physical shape, tapping hot chicks for hours...with one testicle.
Comments are required.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
..."I don't run unless I am being chased and I don't lift weights because they are heavy."
I have gotten away with this slice of life for the better part of a decade, despite my best intentions to ruin it and perform some form of physical activity a few times over the past few years.
I don't know where I am headed with this other than to mention that last night I actually went out, ran, used some of my remaining agility and performed athletically at a pretty decent level. Yeah, no shit. The Kid has returned.
How did I do this, you ask?
I played in a beer league slow pitch softball game.
Yep. I was that guy last night. Out there with grown men in full uniforms, running after fly balls, fielding grounders, waiting on flourescent green softballs to float my way harmlessly while at the plate, heaved by some dude wearing a head band and a pink shirt, undoubtedly wondering if he could pull some (male) ass at a local watering hole called "Sneaky Pete's".
I played a flawless shortstop, went two for three at the plate, could have easily stretched a double out of each hit, but why be greedy? I stayed at first because it wasn't Game 7 of the World Series ( I was fucking winded), just a friendly game played by grown men who are desperately trying to gasp for air in between gulps of brew. Besides, we crushed the other team 12-2 in a game that took all of 45 minutes. Perfect.
Then I went out on the town and watched the Detroit Red Wings snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and come 38 seconds from winning the mother truckin' Stanley Cup, only to lose in the third overtime to those rat bastard Pittsburgh Penguins.
All of that meant that I ended up schnockered. I mean, I had to have had at least 12 Old Styles, a few Oberons and one misguided shot of Tequila over that time, which led to me making a complete ass of myself in a drunken stupor all the way around, in the company of many others that were equally douchebaggish.
Ahhhh...soy un perdedor.
It felt good to be like a 21 year old again...last night.
Because today I feel like I have been fucked by a train.
Any questions? No? Good. My head hurts.