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.
Friday, May 30, 2008
It was that I was watching for a bit last night on ESPN.
I have to admit, in some ways those ladies out there playing softball I find entertaining. They bust their asses to get as far as they have, some of the players have mad skills, and lesbian jokes aside, some of them are pretty cute.
But the question I have for you is one that comes up every time I see this on the field of play.
I have nothing against the gender equity in coaching. Seriously. I feel that there are many women coaches in basketball or whatever that are highly qualified and better than many of their male counterparts as to the job of coaching Men's teams. (Pat Summit comes to mind).
So, why is it that I find that men coaching high school or college women's sports really high on the creepiness factor? It just bothers me and maybe that is my own issue I have to deal with. I just always imagine some middle aged dude with a porn 'stache, nut-hugger shorts and a dicky-doo uniform shirt on.
And they're out there to spend inordinate amounts of time with 15-22 year old females not to teach them the finer points of the sport they coach, but to find a way to get some seedy crotch and cameltoe photos to submit to voyeur porn sites.
Hence the question. Do you find that there is a certain level of creepiness in male coaches of H.S. and college female teams?
And why is it that half of the women on said teams have a larger cock than I do? And I ain't exactly swinging like a field mouse, if you know what I mean...
You didn't honestly think I wouldn't throw a gratuitous "softball player lesbian" crack in there, did you? Sheee-it!
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Then again, a lot of you are clueless about life, you douchebags.
You see, television technology has jumped leaps and bounds over the past 25+ years. I can rememeber when cable TV was a novelty, like when only the rich, fuckheaded, tool-boxy neighbors "The Johnson's" could afford that shit. I was stuck with five channels and an antenna, wondering what it would be like to see a movie un-cut and maybe even a bad word thrown in for good measure.
VCR's were a big deal too. Record television and movies? Fo' real? Watch movies, uncut over and over again until the machine ate the tape? That was awesome!
Over time, those things came and went, upgraded and improved. Obviously, as you can tell by my assholish behavior and seedy language, I did eventually get that cable, partaking in many nights of Skinemax After Dark and movies that an 11 year old has no business watching (Revenge of the Nerds, Deliverance, Anything with Eddie Murphy), but I did, and I am now an angel to prove it.
We've moved onto TiVo, Satellite Television, DVD players, Digital Recording devices, Digital Cable, Plasma Screen TV's, Flat Screens, YouTube, Webcasts, so on and so forth. And in reality I have tried to keep up with the technology as best I could, without being such a dick hole that I have to have the latest thing all the time, like you credit rich assholes that HAVE to have all the latest to show off to your buddies that hate you until football season, and compensate for that "Lack of Weiner Girth Syndrome" that you have.
With all of that palaver being said, I have seen, for the 1,902nd time, that commercial stating that after February 2009, if you still use an antenna to receive television, you'll need some kind of converter box to watch TV as everything is going digital.
I'll take it a step further.
If you still receive your TV solely by antenna, that means that you still have to turn the dial to change channels, in which my polite advice is to GET WITH THE 21ST CENTURY, YOU HORSE AND BUGGY DRIVING RETARDS! Good Lord! It's 2008! Buy a new television and get with the program called Cable TV or something! Now, I get that some people might be out in the "Boonies of North Dakota" and they don't get cable out there, yeah fine sure. But you aren't still farming with Oxen and Push Plows, are you? No. And do you know why? They are inefficient antiques that were state of the art at the turn of the last century, for God's sake. For the Love of all that is Holy, get a satellite dish, since, well, we do live in a country that has landed a man on the moon (allegedly), landed some piece of shit on Mars (allegedly), has a missile Defense System (allegedly) and put about 100 million floaty thingies in our Earth's atmosphere to keep us ahead of the times information-wise.
So, do it already, before you end up watching NBC and Kelly Ripa blatther on about nothing like the crack-headed wind-up doll she is while a tornado rips through your Wagon Train, which would not happen had you had the Weather Channel.
Get the picture?
Do any of you actually use an antenna for TV anymore? If you do, ever comsider stealing cable, because, well, you are a loser if you don't have at least that?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Correct me of I am wrong, but back in 1992, (or was it 1996?), the Presidential General Election's focus was on the 'soccer moms', a group that irritates the living hell out of me so much so that I'd rather pack my asshole with a Roman Candle and squat over a lit Weber grill than spend five minutes observing them in their natural environment.
They bitched and moaned about everything and basically determined that a slick dude that can play the sax and shag strange pussy would get in the White House.
Well, here it is, 2008. And I believe that we are witnessing another group of voters join in en masse to not only voice their opinions on the Presidency, but voice them on just about anything. Starting with American Idol, I guess.
I am talking about Cougars. What is a Cougar? Well, a Cougar is:
The proof that the Cougars of America are growling loudly is the recent conclusion to Idol, where David Cook won convincingly. Apparently, a large portion of the 12 million votes that crushed David "Mommy what are these little hairs on my change purse?" Archuleta came from said Cougars. Or as an apparent sign said, "Cougars 4 Cook".
Now, I can't think of anything more irrelevant in this world than voting even once for the American Idol. I mean, if you read the article, one particular cougar voted for Cook 473 times, which is amazing considering that her natural environment is in a bar scouting the 20 something males while opening a Miller High Life with her cameltoe bottle opener. That pay phone was worn out by nights end.
But, if the numbers are correct, then we can hopefully expect a similar number of voters out there come November, determining who the next person will be to sit in the Oval Office and become fodder for mediocre Saturday Night Live impersonations.
Come to think of it, the Cougars of today ARE the Soccer Moms of yester-year. I guess that bodes well for Barack Obama, because John McCain is way too old for the Cougar to sink her teeth into.
Cougars unite! And I am way too old for you cougar ladies, by the way.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Dear Blue Haired, Buick Regal driving, Geriatric Woman:
You are old.
I understand that.
I understand that your life has been decades of ups and downs, of trials and tribulations and of living life as a little girl all the way to the frail, hair net, orthopaedic shoe wearing woman you are today.
I also understand that those years were frought with oodles upon oodles of decisions that you had to make.
Sure, some decisions weren't that hard to make. Like, whether or not to switch from a regular broom to a Swiffer (gasp!) or whether or not only buying a microwave, but using it once every year really is easier to use than a stove top.
That decision about whether to send a check for $6, or should you make it $7, to your great-grandson for his birthday was kind of hard.
But then there are those difficult decisions, you know. Should you have gone down on your knees in the front seat of that '39 Studebaker Champion back in 1943 with your soon to be husband and potentially get the rap as a "trollop"? Or perhaps should you have allowed said alcoholic husband to use his belt buckle, or maybe the wrench, in the ritual beating of your oldest boy for clogging the toilet?
That last one is a toughie. That's for sure. So, never let it be said that I don't admire the challenges you've faced.
So, here you are today, you little minx, as I see you in that tank you call an "automobile", you are forced to make yet one more in a long list of decisions in your life.
Should you or should you not ease into the intersection at the county's busiest four way stop sign intersection?
I know, I know...it's difficult. Difficult to determine who actually goes first. Is it the truck on your left that got to the intersection a smidge after you did? Or is it the mini-van full of groceries turning left ahead of you? Dear Lord...what was that rule in drivers training again?
Oh, wait. Silly me. You didn't take drivers training. It was your drunk ex-husband that taught you to drive, so you could go and pick him up from his Poker games at Roy "Stinky Thumbs" Arbuckles farm back during the FDR Administration. You shouldn't have to remember such mundane details.
In light of that, take your time. Nevermind the traffic jam behind you, roughly twenty vehicles deep. Nobody here is in a hurry. We've got all the time in the world. Most of the people behind you have bosses that could care less if we get to work on time.
In fact, it was your old granny said, "late is better than not at all, better safe than sorry", and all that old school "ain't got shit to do but wait here and die" palaver, right?
Quite frankly, watching you struggle to push that gas pedal is a reminder of the thoughful acts needed for the aging, and of the trail you have all blazed before an ever respectful me.
Have a great day!
That guy behind you using raunchy expletives and vowing to push your wrinkled ass into that busy intersection in three seconds if you don't utilize that vertical gas pedal on the right.
Can you guess what my morning drive time was like?
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Much to nobody's surprise, gas prices have hit $4.00 a gallon here in the States. I don't know if it is more or less outside of this cesspool known as "Michigan", we seem to get the plunger handle to the proverbial poop chute before you all now, so, I'm guessing "no".
If not yet, it's coming. And not "coming" in a way we all like.
Anyway. As I was driving from locale to locale doing my sales schlep thang, I came across a sign here in West Michigan (Hubs Inn, for those that are local) that spoke volumes to me. After you see the research done, you'll understand it and appreciate it even more.
The perspective I gained when I saw this sign in person was mind boggling. I figured the scale had finally tipped. Kind of like another day in my life.
The day when the Canadian dollar, all Monopoly Money looking-like, was worth more than our dollar, and I marched right into that store that wouldn't ever accept Canadian coins because it was always worth less. Well lo and behold the day came and when I presented the quarter, that toothless wonder said to me, 'Sorry, no Canadian money...", I told her to shut that pie hole of hers and take it, because she was making more money now...or the financial equivalent of saying, "fuck off, hillbilly and get me some ripple."
Imagine my feeling then when I saw this beer sign. The day had finally arrived where it was now cheaper for me to stay at home and get plastered than drive anywhere, paving the way for me to get fired and join the thousands of other Michigan folks that are unemployed, because I am all about solidarity. Fight the Power, yo!
Think about this though. We Human Beings have become more efficient than machines officially. How you ask?
A study found that the average American drives roughly 12,000 miles per year. Americans use an average of 706 gallons of gas annually in those vehicles.
That means on average, Americans get 17 miles per gallon in our vehicles.
Another study by the American Beer Institute found that Americans walk 900 miles in a year. Americans drinks an average of 22 gallons (2,816 ounces) of beer a year.
That means, on average, Americans get approximately 41 miles per gallon.
Think about that. Pretty freaking efficient if you ask me.
Do what the sign says. Drink...don't drive, the way Mother Nature intended.
Have a cold one (or ten) and a great day!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
I've seen and heard way too many hackneyed things and ideas before, but this one really just takes the cake.
I am pretty sure that we as an entertainment starved society has really hit bottom now. At first I thought it was the wild popularity of rip off music artists "sampling" tunes from the 70's-90's. Then I heard that New Kids On The Block are reuniting, giving their once pre-pubescent fan base wet spots in the panties, although that is probably from sneezing with weak bladders.
Now they are planning a 21st century version of Beverly Hills, 90210.
Yes, before there was the O.C., Laguna Beach and Veronica Mars, there was the original bullshit called Beverly Hills, 90210.
It was a bad idea then, but we gave the show a pass because, well, we had outgrown the Cosby Show and Growing Pains, quite frankly. We (and I use 'we' because I am part of that weenie-ass generation) didn't mind Brenda Walsh's bitchiness, or Dylan McKay's male pattern baldness as a teen, or Gabrielle Carteris' "42 is the new 17" take on high school life. Tori Spelling's horse face looking ass? No problem.
In fact, I dare you to ask the woman next to you (assuming they aren't blue haired, Murder She Wrote watching old farts) what they were doing on Thursday nights in the early to mid-90's, and odds are, they were wondering if Dylan McKay really did have some smack, would he do it...like OMG!
Now the idea has come full circle. Tell me if you've heard this story line before:
The good news to come out of a 90210 remake? Lori Loughlin has another job. As does Jennie Garth. Ian Ziering surely is pushing for some screen time, too.
So, kudos to those unoriginal bastards out in Hollywood for regurgitating a mediocre idea from the 1990's and spewing forth this bile. I can't wait to see what the next big thing to come out of there will be.
I propose a Little House on the Prairie remake. Only this time, Laura Ingalls' is now of Vietnamese descent, and her and her retarded adopted brother Albert's farm house is bought out by Wal-Mart, where Laura ends up working as a nail tech at 'Regal Nails'.
And I am not a Hollywood writer why?
What is your take on a new 90210?
Monday, May 12, 2008
Most women know who Danica Patrick is.
She is a hero amongst women who reaches for the broken glass ceiling that Indy Car racing strives to provide.
And she is hot as hell.
Well, she did this weekend what most men with no brains and Hooter's jackets openly think, as well as those of us with brains keep our mouths shut about.
She ran over a dude in Pit Row at Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
Ran. Him. Over.
And it was bad.
My man had a concussion, facial abrasions and clean up smacked the back tire of Miss Patrick's rig the other day.
I was at a bar the other night, and the bartender was baffled as to how this could happen. In fact, he openly asked, "how the hell did she hit the guy?"
Is it any secret?
My answer, as quick as lightning, despite my intense inebriation was, "she was clearly putting on her makeup".
Further proving that I, Matty, the smartass of all smartasses, still has a penis, has some quick wit and can offend people, uh, women, like no other.
Guys...go ahead and laugh. You know you were thinking the same thing.
Ladies...send me hate mail. I expect nothing less.
It was just too good an opportunity to pass up.
And I hit it on the barrel of the bat.
Now, Kardashian's "pole dancing, lower-yourself-onto-a-cock on video" daughters, everyone's favorite (mostly Joel McHale's and E's "The Soup's) "dead from the neck up" sisters, are putting on their philanthropy jewels for the sake of Burma.
Yep. I mean, who knows third world plight better than these three? With their closets full of clothes, their expensive cars and the fact that nobody on the planet matters more to them, than them. Burma had better send these three a gold plated stripper pole (for the two skinny ones, the fat one can have a 2 lb. burrito), because I can see the money rolling in after viewing this farcical attempt at a Public Service Announcement.
It would be more from the heart if I knew what they were trying to accomplish here or if they weren't reading from a script, much like their show. Well, that and it would help if they knew where Burma was on a map.
Thesis my ass.
Look. I am all for celebrities trying to use their star power to help people in need. But, this just screams "bullshit".
What do you think?
Thursday, May 8, 2008
This does not, however, make me a full fledged critic.
Even though I will say that the Sex and the City flick looks about as good and intriguing as my pooch taking a shit and spinning around to try and see it come out. Let me guess. Samantha whores her way around, Charlotte will be gullible and whiny, Miranda is neurotic and fugly and the one that looks like a foot will get the shivers and walk away from Big from at the altar.
There you go. I just saved all you "fans" that think that Sex and the City is your "Bible" about $15.00. You can thank me by sending me some Cubs tickets and a twelve banger of Old Style.
No, what I am writing about today is a movie, but not that one.
I saw the trailer for What Happens In Vegas... for the 104th time this week and I gots to admit...
It looks like a turd. A "big, fat, wrap-around the bowl, sunken Edmund Fitzgerald look-alike, leaving skiddies turd".
Really. The entire trailer is of them running around acting like fools because they happened to get hammered drunk and unknowingly got married and then follows the shenanigans after they figure it out, blah blah blah...it's crap. Besides, I am pretty sure that Friends played out this story line a decade ago. You know. Ross and Rachel get drunk in Vegas, end up eating Macadamia Nuts in the room and get hitched, with them looking like this:
"Hello, Missus Ross!"
"Hello, Mister Rachel!"
Ha Ha. Funny Funny...I am officially gay for even referencing this.
Anyway. This story line is about as fresh as a New Kids On The Block reunion tour...
And, if the funniest joke in the whole hour and a half movie is...
"Hi. My name is Richard Banger."
"Your name is Dick Banger? Well, you just supplied us with all the jokes for the night."...
...then this movie will stink. I mean, you can dress up a pig in a nice gown and put purfume on it, but at the end of the day, it is still...
Anyone seen this movie yet? Tell me I am wrong, if you please. Or concur.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
And considering the plight of our Nation's economy, I wouldn't be surprised to see that this business was and is one of the fastest growing over the past few years, especially here in Michigan. (Note to the Governor of Michigan...if you want to create jobs here, lure these debt collection agencies to Michigan. There are plenty of people available to work the phones, it creates jobs, which allows people to earn money, easing the burden on the government, which in turn stimulates economic growth...so on and so forth...you see how it works?)
Anyway, I guess the real issue here in the article is not that the agency is trying to collect a measly $16.96 from a Columbia House record account, which could easily be wiped away as a write off or something, but the fact that the fella actually signed an affidavit saying that he did not open the account under the name "Shit Face".
Bullshit. I know that clown is actually Shit Face. Do you wanna know why?
I did the same thing quite a few times. I had all sorts of accounts under different names. Now I will say that I never had one under such brain busting creativity such as "Shit Face" or "Cock Smoker" or anything of that ilk. I don't know, call me wanting to sound more legit by coming up with something somewhat unique and not sound like some faghole who thinks he's so daring, funny and wears a Hooters jacket everywhere.
But, I had a Columbia House account under the name "Marvin Wiskeydink".
I had a Wall Street Journal account under the name "Heywood Jablome".
I had a Playboy magazine account under the name "Phil Rupp" (clever, I know) and another one while I was at Michigan State under the name "Bradley Xavier Martino".
So, I know it has been done more than by myself. I'm sure millions of people have done this.
Therefore, I certainly cannot believe for one second that this collection agency, out of the blue, decided to pick a random account out of the pile and send a letter calling the man "shit face", violating a staunch piece of debt collection legislation to not badger customers, thrusting them into a potentially expensive legal battle.
Hence the declared shenanigans.
The problem is, the guy will probably win 50x the amount he owed because of the letter and because the suit will settle out of court. Yep, the clever Hooter's jacket wearing turd will win again.
And I get nothing for being clever.
Stupid Marvin Whiskeydink