How many times have you opened the newspaper to see a picture of a really old person there, with two of their kids behind them, a cake in front and a headline reading "Happy 100th Birthday!"?
Too many times, right?
You know why? Because one time is too many times.
The 100th Birthday picture/celebration is way overrated and has made me think about how much I don't want to be that old.
I want to make it to 99 and 364 days old and croak. Before that though, I want my kids, or whoever, to plan a big birthday party for me down in the hall downstairs from where I live in the highrise. I hope the photographer is a really charmer, god-loving person that takes his/her job really seriously and gets to know everyone, so that when he/she finds out the horrible news about not having to come in to work, they cry.
Because the 100th birthday celebration is not heartwarming to me. It's sad. Congradulations, you're really old. You've seen many, probably all of your friends in a casket at some point in life, some younger, some older. You've likely outlived your husband, most of your kids. At that age, all you're good for is shakily dealing cards and keeping your heartrate down during a really intense old movie that reminds you of when you could move your legs. At that age, you can't even blow out the candles. You over-jumpy, over-diagnosed ADHD grandchildren blow them out for you. What fun is that shit?
And let's face it, no matter what pills you take, there's no way sex is even remotely interesting at that age.
100 doesn't sound like a good time; it seems like an endurance challenge, The Eliminator, The Family Double Dare Final Dare. Even if they invented newer drugs that lengthen the average age to 114, I'd still opt to die before 100, that way there people will say, "He died way too early. He had so much more life left to live."
But knowing my sense of humor and the likely chance my kids inherit that sense of humor, they'll still prop me up in a chair and tape my eyes open just to get me into the newspaper somehow. Then say I'm dead.
Maybe this is a tad too morbid for most to want to think about, but this is just a smidgen of the thoughts that somehow roll into my skull during the day.
The leftover scrambled eggs:
1. You have GOT to watch the link above to the eliminator. The way the chick Koya falls consecutively is great. Add that with the post-eliminator interview with Hulk Hogan after and you have a solid viral video.
2. Chicken Parm is made with mozzerella, and not parmisan. I don't care what anyone says, that shit is stupid.
3. When it comes down to it, all Gatorade Propel tastes the same after one sip.
4. When I read one critic say The Road (movie) was "very depressing" I was confused. I thought it was an action movie and not about a boy and his father dying alongside each other.
5. There can't possibly be any more terribly unfunny jokes about the new KFC heartattack sandwich being said right now.
6. Does anybody else have a fantasy football league right now? Becuase I've been invited to about 30 already and I think I have time to fit one more in. By the way, I couldn't be any less interested in fantasy football.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Food for thought.
Today, let us talk lettuce, people.
Not your average conversation, I take it. I don't even like lettuce, but I'll riff about it. Sure.
Oh, I get it, you're wondering what I could say about lettuce that could be so enthralling and entertaining, right? Well, you may be right in thinking that, afterall, not many could pull off a discourse involving lettuce.
I came across the idea a while ago at a local bar while attending a trivia night. The question came up what food had been aptly renamed because of it's cool, crispy texture.
Not just lettuce, but Iceberg lettuce from what was previously titled Crispehead lettuce. I wondered to myself, that's an interesting renaming, so I looked it up.
Back in the 1930's this guy started sending shizerloads of this green business across the country, protected by ice on top. When the trucks came in, supposedly, people would yell, "The icebergs are here" a la Paul Rivere's famous phrase warning tea sipping of the Redcoats or British (which I still like to translate his words into modern Bostonian speak, "Hea come dose queers").
I hardly believe people couldn't wait to have this tasteless lettuce arrive at their doorstep, let alone have a nickname for it. So I got to wordering some more.
My conclusion is a conspiracy theory, but a theory nonetheless. I believe some sick bastard was talking some seriously ill will about lettuce and compared the crunchiness to the sound made when the Titanic first made impact with an iceberg. In his pretend words, I believe he said: "Every time, I bite I envision people sliding down the edge of the boat, ya know? But without the screaming and stuff."
After a while the phrase caught on, like all do. We call this guy "Wobbles" at Beef Barn, because of the way he walks. He's a big dude, so it's funny. It's even more funny when we call him it and 2he thinks we're calling him by his real name, which happens to be Bobby.
Now, granted, the guy that came up with Iceberg lettuce's name was probably knee slapping his way to the bank for a long time, but nowadays he's probably in a grave somewhere. Can't we rename this pathetically tasting part of our diets?
You have to admit, Crispehead isn't that bad in itself.
The forgotten part of my blog:
1. More food for thought: The difference between a western omelette and an eastern is peppers. Is that because peppers don't grow in the east or something? Or was somebody just too lazy to name it correctly?
2. Instead of saying pina coladas, I chose to say Pinas, which turned into a million puns involving the word penis.
4. screw 3.
5. When I see loud, giggly little girls, I think to myself, "Oh, dear god. That could be the next Ayiia from Real World 33 in Cancun."
6. On my run today I saw a guy from behind that was walking like a zombie. I balked at the opportunity to twist his head right off his shoulders.
7. Now that I think of it, Zombie movies are completely unrealistic. They move to slow, they're too weak to push their way out of their own six foot deep grave. Oh, and they're dead, and never coming back to life. Just a minor detail.
8. It's inevitable: every chick my age reads those Twilight novels, therefore I must condone the reading of them, else I be single forever.
Not your average conversation, I take it. I don't even like lettuce, but I'll riff about it. Sure.
Oh, I get it, you're wondering what I could say about lettuce that could be so enthralling and entertaining, right? Well, you may be right in thinking that, afterall, not many could pull off a discourse involving lettuce.
I came across the idea a while ago at a local bar while attending a trivia night. The question came up what food had been aptly renamed because of it's cool, crispy texture.
Not just lettuce, but Iceberg lettuce from what was previously titled Crispehead lettuce. I wondered to myself, that's an interesting renaming, so I looked it up.
Back in the 1930's this guy started sending shizerloads of this green business across the country, protected by ice on top. When the trucks came in, supposedly, people would yell, "The icebergs are here" a la Paul Rivere's famous phrase warning tea sipping of the Redcoats or British (which I still like to translate his words into modern Bostonian speak, "Hea come dose queers").
I hardly believe people couldn't wait to have this tasteless lettuce arrive at their doorstep, let alone have a nickname for it. So I got to wordering some more.
My conclusion is a conspiracy theory, but a theory nonetheless. I believe some sick bastard was talking some seriously ill will about lettuce and compared the crunchiness to the sound made when the Titanic first made impact with an iceberg. In his pretend words, I believe he said: "Every time, I bite I envision people sliding down the edge of the boat, ya know? But without the screaming and stuff."
After a while the phrase caught on, like all do. We call this guy "Wobbles" at Beef Barn, because of the way he walks. He's a big dude, so it's funny. It's even more funny when we call him it and 2he thinks we're calling him by his real name, which happens to be Bobby.
Now, granted, the guy that came up with Iceberg lettuce's name was probably knee slapping his way to the bank for a long time, but nowadays he's probably in a grave somewhere. Can't we rename this pathetically tasting part of our diets?
You have to admit, Crispehead isn't that bad in itself.
The forgotten part of my blog:
1. More food for thought: The difference between a western omelette and an eastern is peppers. Is that because peppers don't grow in the east or something? Or was somebody just too lazy to name it correctly?
2. Instead of saying pina coladas, I chose to say Pinas, which turned into a million puns involving the word penis.
4. screw 3.
5. When I see loud, giggly little girls, I think to myself, "Oh, dear god. That could be the next Ayiia from Real World 33 in Cancun."
6. On my run today I saw a guy from behind that was walking like a zombie. I balked at the opportunity to twist his head right off his shoulders.
7. Now that I think of it, Zombie movies are completely unrealistic. They move to slow, they're too weak to push their way out of their own six foot deep grave. Oh, and they're dead, and never coming back to life. Just a minor detail.
8. It's inevitable: every chick my age reads those Twilight novels, therefore I must condone the reading of them, else I be single forever.
Monday, August 3, 2009
One bad idea deserves another.
I'm sorry about yesterday. I simply shouldn't have started another 7 in 7 without a computer. These things happen. I'd say it will never occur again, but Thursday is coming up. and Friday... and another Saturday.
We'll see.
Anyway, this post is by request from a good friend named Fox. I schooled this kid in basketball some three or four weeks ago and have felt sorry ever since. I had zero business taking his lunch money, but when the H is O, I can't let go. You know.
So, this is for him. He asked me why I don't go to local newspapers, like Providence Journal and NY Times and ask if I could drop a column in weekly on our local pitch league at Parenti's in Smithfield, RI. I told him the idea is hot and has never been done before. I also let him know I'd take this idea as far as it could go.
I drove home and this is literally as far as it'll go.
Justin Townsend
www.what-townie-learned.blogspot.com Columnist
SMITHFIELD - "Whatever happened to getting cards, you slut?"
At least twelve people said that phrase and more Monday night at Parenti's Restaurant in the first round of pitch playoffs, looking for cards like a midget trying to find the stage at a U2 concert.
The cards never responded, instead giving the desperate a measely ace dry and five low cards the next hard. After the game, seven of the twelve left in disgust adding: "I need a smoke."
Another grim statement, "It just isn't meant to be tonight," was said by almost every team except team 24, who could be seen gazing into each others' eyes knowing full-well tonight was meant to be. Later, the two could be seen in a grey 96 Toyota fogging up the windows, giving one another jacks of all suits.
The lack of cards gave an overall feeling of hopelessness in the first week of playoffs, scheduled for three weeks, but could extend if necessary, or depending on if the owner loses in the first two weeks.
"We'll see how it goes," Dennis's mustache said. "You win some, you lose some. If you lose, we advance. If we lose, we play best of seven. If after that we lose, best of nine. We'll see how the cards fall."
The real upset came later in the night when team 33 overcame a fourteen point deficit to move into the second round of the playoffs. Team 33 team captain and league veteran, Brandon Biron, could be seen constantly wiping sweat from his brow and mouthing the word, "Wow," continuously. Or maybe it was "now." Or maybe said journalist wasn't close enough to tell.
"Early on in the fifth game, I thought to myself, 'What would Jesus do,'" Biron said. "Inevitably, I figured Jesus would bid 4 with Jack dry to make the game go longer. Jesus don't care about time, though, because he's in heaven for eternity. These schmucks have early tee times or some bologne."
His brother came over and hugged him for the first time in his 24 year lifetime, adding drunkenly, "This is the only time in my life I've been proud to call you brother, brother."
The kissed, then hug, then kissed again, then proceeded to eat 20 buffalo wings, three bowls of popcorn and one celery stick each.
Another upset came after Team 21 was taken down in the fifth game to a couple nobody's with no talent. Team 21, who has two titles to claim, was constantly one final bid away from going out, but couldn't seal the deal, as they say in pitch leagues.
"I looked under the table to see if he still had balls," Elliot Darling said of his hack of a teammate. "He won't be my partner next time. I can guarantee you that. I'll let my sister play with me before him."
Of the winning teams, eight were heard saying, "tough luck", and "good game", but later saying to their teammates, "Easy win."
Of those eight, three would go home and watch Friends on TBS.
Four teams failed to show up and forfeit. Sources close to one team said one of the guys' wife was about to give birth. The opposing team sent a statement via text, "What a homo."
Next week in the sweet 16 matchups, four more teams will fail to show up, allowing four more undeserving teams to advance and needlessly drink two more pitchers of Coors Lite at the low cost of five sheckles.
We'll see.
Anyway, this post is by request from a good friend named Fox. I schooled this kid in basketball some three or four weeks ago and have felt sorry ever since. I had zero business taking his lunch money, but when the H is O, I can't let go. You know.
So, this is for him. He asked me why I don't go to local newspapers, like Providence Journal and NY Times and ask if I could drop a column in weekly on our local pitch league at Parenti's in Smithfield, RI. I told him the idea is hot and has never been done before. I also let him know I'd take this idea as far as it could go.
I drove home and this is literally as far as it'll go.
Justin Townsend
www.what-townie-learned.blogspot.com Columnist
SMITHFIELD - "Whatever happened to getting cards, you slut?"
At least twelve people said that phrase and more Monday night at Parenti's Restaurant in the first round of pitch playoffs, looking for cards like a midget trying to find the stage at a U2 concert.
The cards never responded, instead giving the desperate a measely ace dry and five low cards the next hard. After the game, seven of the twelve left in disgust adding: "I need a smoke."
Another grim statement, "It just isn't meant to be tonight," was said by almost every team except team 24, who could be seen gazing into each others' eyes knowing full-well tonight was meant to be. Later, the two could be seen in a grey 96 Toyota fogging up the windows, giving one another jacks of all suits.
The lack of cards gave an overall feeling of hopelessness in the first week of playoffs, scheduled for three weeks, but could extend if necessary, or depending on if the owner loses in the first two weeks.
"We'll see how it goes," Dennis's mustache said. "You win some, you lose some. If you lose, we advance. If we lose, we play best of seven. If after that we lose, best of nine. We'll see how the cards fall."
The real upset came later in the night when team 33 overcame a fourteen point deficit to move into the second round of the playoffs. Team 33 team captain and league veteran, Brandon Biron, could be seen constantly wiping sweat from his brow and mouthing the word, "Wow," continuously. Or maybe it was "now." Or maybe said journalist wasn't close enough to tell.
"Early on in the fifth game, I thought to myself, 'What would Jesus do,'" Biron said. "Inevitably, I figured Jesus would bid 4 with Jack dry to make the game go longer. Jesus don't care about time, though, because he's in heaven for eternity. These schmucks have early tee times or some bologne."
His brother came over and hugged him for the first time in his 24 year lifetime, adding drunkenly, "This is the only time in my life I've been proud to call you brother, brother."
The kissed, then hug, then kissed again, then proceeded to eat 20 buffalo wings, three bowls of popcorn and one celery stick each.
Another upset came after Team 21 was taken down in the fifth game to a couple nobody's with no talent. Team 21, who has two titles to claim, was constantly one final bid away from going out, but couldn't seal the deal, as they say in pitch leagues.
"I looked under the table to see if he still had balls," Elliot Darling said of his hack of a teammate. "He won't be my partner next time. I can guarantee you that. I'll let my sister play with me before him."
Of the winning teams, eight were heard saying, "tough luck", and "good game", but later saying to their teammates, "Easy win."
Of those eight, three would go home and watch Friends on TBS.
Four teams failed to show up and forfeit. Sources close to one team said one of the guys' wife was about to give birth. The opposing team sent a statement via text, "What a homo."
Next week in the sweet 16 matchups, four more teams will fail to show up, allowing four more undeserving teams to advance and needlessly drink two more pitchers of Coors Lite at the low cost of five sheckles.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
I don't think this particular blog came out how I wanted it to.
Believe it or not, I can be a very traditionalistic person sometimes.
When it comes to certain things like baseball stadiums, "in God we trust", Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, and other non-sequitious, somehow sentimental stuff people came to hold onto with ravenous fortitude. Obviously, I could care less about the above subjects. I have little to no power over any of them, and they're so inconsequential to my life.
If they got rid of God in the pledge, I litarally wouldn't be affected in any way.
There was once a young lady that told me using italics in writing was a good sign of a bad writer. She read it in a book somewhere, from somebody "reputable" and somehow I should abide by his opinion, as if it really means anything. That's how it goes, I guess. All over what? Italics? Come on.
Whenever I see examples of this time-wasting, frustration-producing stuff, I always say to myself, "I hope that's not me someday."
BUT there is always an exception.
Case and point: anytime a book or former television show gets made into a movie I get irked.
I simply don't condone. I'll see it, but I won't agree with the production.
For example, I'm very interested in seeing the film adaptation for The Road, but I won't agree with the making.
The main reason I bring this up is one part GI JOE, two parts Harry Potter.
Let's start with GI Joe. Who came up with the idea that this would be a great idea? The show itself wasn't anything to hoot and holler about. It grabbed the attention of a lot of us early to mid-twenty somethings back in the day, but we all know the strength in this show wasn't the show, but the action figures. Do we really care enough about a movie coming out that was primarily interesting because it was moderately fun to play with its toys?
I don't know who will watch this movie, but bravo to you. Your interest only provokes future comparable movie versions of bad shows we were only interested in becuase of the toys. Eventually, the continuous remaking will lead to worse ideas and lead to a movie based on sex toys transforming into monuments that Power Rangers use to get off weird fifty-story tall aliens.
Harry Potter fans calm down. I'm not gonna blast you for, essentially, loving a children's book about a kid wizard that plays a made-up sport, but as an adult. That's excusable. You're allowed to feel like a kid, even when it comes to reading levels.
I will say, though, that I'm not a fan, simply because I don't want to have the conversation about whether the film stayed true to the novel. The story and cinematics could be mind-blowing, but I don't want to have that conversation. I can't even escape this conversation when I haven't watched the movie:
Person A: did you see harry over the weekend?
Person B: no, i decided to knit a quilt instead. you don't want your knitting skills to fade over the summer months.
Person A: oh, no kidding. well, if you want to see it, it's really gnarly and stays true to the book closely.
Person B: well, maybe when there isn't a real housewives of jupiter marathon, i'll rent it or something. i'd read the book, but why waste my time, now, when the movie depicts the novel so closely already.
I'll lie about this topic of conversation and say it's really because it provokes less reading, but that doesn't really bother me. I'll also say on occasion that the adaptation, no matter how accurate, will only show the interpretation of the director, screen writer, and producer. They'll tell you what the film is about, instead of letting you visualize, analyze and make your own conclusions. That's more or less how I really feel, but that doesn't grind my gears.
It's that conversation about whether the film stayed true.
When it comes to certain things like baseball stadiums, "in God we trust", Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, and other non-sequitious, somehow sentimental stuff people came to hold onto with ravenous fortitude. Obviously, I could care less about the above subjects. I have little to no power over any of them, and they're so inconsequential to my life.
If they got rid of God in the pledge, I litarally wouldn't be affected in any way.
There was once a young lady that told me using italics in writing was a good sign of a bad writer. She read it in a book somewhere, from somebody "reputable" and somehow I should abide by his opinion, as if it really means anything. That's how it goes, I guess. All over what? Italics? Come on.
Whenever I see examples of this time-wasting, frustration-producing stuff, I always say to myself, "I hope that's not me someday."
BUT there is always an exception.
Case and point: anytime a book or former television show gets made into a movie I get irked.
I simply don't condone. I'll see it, but I won't agree with the production.
For example, I'm very interested in seeing the film adaptation for The Road, but I won't agree with the making.
The main reason I bring this up is one part GI JOE, two parts Harry Potter.
Let's start with GI Joe. Who came up with the idea that this would be a great idea? The show itself wasn't anything to hoot and holler about. It grabbed the attention of a lot of us early to mid-twenty somethings back in the day, but we all know the strength in this show wasn't the show, but the action figures. Do we really care enough about a movie coming out that was primarily interesting because it was moderately fun to play with its toys?
I don't know who will watch this movie, but bravo to you. Your interest only provokes future comparable movie versions of bad shows we were only interested in becuase of the toys. Eventually, the continuous remaking will lead to worse ideas and lead to a movie based on sex toys transforming into monuments that Power Rangers use to get off weird fifty-story tall aliens.
Harry Potter fans calm down. I'm not gonna blast you for, essentially, loving a children's book about a kid wizard that plays a made-up sport, but as an adult. That's excusable. You're allowed to feel like a kid, even when it comes to reading levels.
I will say, though, that I'm not a fan, simply because I don't want to have the conversation about whether the film stayed true to the novel. The story and cinematics could be mind-blowing, but I don't want to have that conversation. I can't even escape this conversation when I haven't watched the movie:
Person A: did you see harry over the weekend?
Person B: no, i decided to knit a quilt instead. you don't want your knitting skills to fade over the summer months.
Person A: oh, no kidding. well, if you want to see it, it's really gnarly and stays true to the book closely.
Person B: well, maybe when there isn't a real housewives of jupiter marathon, i'll rent it or something. i'd read the book, but why waste my time, now, when the movie depicts the novel so closely already.
I'll lie about this topic of conversation and say it's really because it provokes less reading, but that doesn't really bother me. I'll also say on occasion that the adaptation, no matter how accurate, will only show the interpretation of the director, screen writer, and producer. They'll tell you what the film is about, instead of letting you visualize, analyze and make your own conclusions. That's more or less how I really feel, but that doesn't grind my gears.
It's that conversation about whether the film stayed true.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Riding the rides for free
Show me a genus of people cooler than carnies and I will straight up button-hook you. Truth is, carnies are the coolest and I don't even want to think about other lifestyles that might rival their majesty.
Carnies, if you don't know (and quite frankly, if you don't know then keep it to yourselves), are carnival workers.
I call carnie a lifestyle because it truly is a decision to go days without bathing, spend over ninety percent of the day shirtless, and be willing to have sex on church grounds. All this while travelling the country, drunkenly allowing our great nation's children access to dangerous rides that are a wiggling, loose screw from falling apart from the inside out.
Nothing, my friends and astute readers, comes close to that.
Hobos? Not a chance. Anyone can hop on a train and steal food. I've never met a hobo, but I'm pretty positive they'd crumble two weeks into being a carnie; it takes a certain unabashed delinquincy to pull off a summer filled with sunburns and unprotected sex on church grounds. It takes finesse.
A roadie? While the showering thing holds up and having a plethora of sexual partners, they get to listen to awesome music and check out hot chicks (*unless it's a Dixie Chicks concert, of course). Roadie and carnie sound alike too, but in no way, shape or form, does a roadie compare to the rigorous chosen lifestyle of the carnie. Hot chicks? The hottest carnie has permanent UTI, four kids with four different guys she works with, has a tattoo of tweety bird on her ankle and drinks scotch straight out of the bottle. She just so happens to work the cotton candy with her bare hands and her name is Doris.
The lifestyle, for the most part, is arcane to most, for the same reason boats don't get any close to icebergs. They see the inherent danger with colliding and decide to stay away.
In years past, I came as close as I ever wanted to carnie folk. I was working at Our Lady Queen of Martyrs and went out to collect trash and re-beautify my church's holy ground. That's when I found Kenny Chesny and his soulmate tucked underneath one of our trailers with Coors Lights cans scattered around them like flies on carnies. He was shirtless and very dirty. She was exposed, her farmer jeans somewhere close by.
Hours later I saw the two running the kid's rides, the man still shirtless and very dirty, while his alleged girlfriend and newly acquirer of several vanerial diseases sported a stained halter top.
That day I decided, no matter what I do in life, I'll always be doing alright, so long as I never averted to being a carnie.
Several scattered thoughts that should have been pushed down the garbage disposal had it been working:
1. As I said last night to a friend: "Whatever you end up getting out of your mom's attic, it's not cool."
2. "Life's a catalogue... order it" is my new favorite phrase.
3. How did anyone ever like Big Pun's music? It sounds like he has a mouthful of jujubee's every song.
4. I wonder why we named it hide and go seek instead of skulk and go prowl. Skulk is such a better word than hide.
5. I never thought of chowder as a breakfast food until this morning.
6. Telling people your hard drive crashed is just asking to be pelted with jokes about internet porn. That's the toughest part of having your hard drive crash.
Carnies, if you don't know (and quite frankly, if you don't know then keep it to yourselves), are carnival workers.
I call carnie a lifestyle because it truly is a decision to go days without bathing, spend over ninety percent of the day shirtless, and be willing to have sex on church grounds. All this while travelling the country, drunkenly allowing our great nation's children access to dangerous rides that are a wiggling, loose screw from falling apart from the inside out.
Nothing, my friends and astute readers, comes close to that.
Hobos? Not a chance. Anyone can hop on a train and steal food. I've never met a hobo, but I'm pretty positive they'd crumble two weeks into being a carnie; it takes a certain unabashed delinquincy to pull off a summer filled with sunburns and unprotected sex on church grounds. It takes finesse.
A roadie? While the showering thing holds up and having a plethora of sexual partners, they get to listen to awesome music and check out hot chicks (*unless it's a Dixie Chicks concert, of course). Roadie and carnie sound alike too, but in no way, shape or form, does a roadie compare to the rigorous chosen lifestyle of the carnie. Hot chicks? The hottest carnie has permanent UTI, four kids with four different guys she works with, has a tattoo of tweety bird on her ankle and drinks scotch straight out of the bottle. She just so happens to work the cotton candy with her bare hands and her name is Doris.
The lifestyle, for the most part, is arcane to most, for the same reason boats don't get any close to icebergs. They see the inherent danger with colliding and decide to stay away.
In years past, I came as close as I ever wanted to carnie folk. I was working at Our Lady Queen of Martyrs and went out to collect trash and re-beautify my church's holy ground. That's when I found Kenny Chesny and his soulmate tucked underneath one of our trailers with Coors Lights cans scattered around them like flies on carnies. He was shirtless and very dirty. She was exposed, her farmer jeans somewhere close by.
Hours later I saw the two running the kid's rides, the man still shirtless and very dirty, while his alleged girlfriend and newly acquirer of several vanerial diseases sported a stained halter top.
That day I decided, no matter what I do in life, I'll always be doing alright, so long as I never averted to being a carnie.
Several scattered thoughts that should have been pushed down the garbage disposal had it been working:
1. As I said last night to a friend: "Whatever you end up getting out of your mom's attic, it's not cool."
2. "Life's a catalogue... order it" is my new favorite phrase.
3. How did anyone ever like Big Pun's music? It sounds like he has a mouthful of jujubee's every song.
4. I wonder why we named it hide and go seek instead of skulk and go prowl. Skulk is such a better word than hide.
5. I never thought of chowder as a breakfast food until this morning.
6. Telling people your hard drive crashed is just asking to be pelted with jokes about internet porn. That's the toughest part of having your hard drive crash.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
You're middle aged and not cool, gramps.
If there's one vehicular companion I could do without it is most definitely bikers. Emphatically too.
I said it. What's going to happen? Nothing. You wanna know why?
Because it's too nice of a day for them to get off their bikes and not have the wind blowing through their hair. That's why.
I don't want this to sound like I'm complaining about motorcyclists or bikers. I just want to point out some discrepancies within the subculture we've pandered to for the latter part of this decade.
I'm done pandering.
First off, I don't get the whole hand waving thing they do. Have you seen this? When they're riding, if they see another guy on a motorcycle coming up (and it doesn't matter what kind of bike, so long as its on two wheels with a motor), they're inclined to wave. The other guy, or gal, depending on how you look at it, waves back.
This is really funny to me because one time within the last two weeks (our last sunny day, probably), a guy continuously waved at dudes. Then he got two in a row by surprise. He successfully waved at one then put his hand down, only to see one more. He threw the hand out again, but lost balance of the bike and ended up swerving. After that he'd get waves, but he wouldn't wave back. It was great and almost the greatest moment of my life.
I get chuckles wondering what I'd be like trying to help the man after he did that. I hope to god I'd be able to control my laughter and excitement to be able to help him out.
I'm not a prick (for the most part) and I'd like to think I'd understand the situation, but being polite is one thing and this hand-waving thing is something I have yet to understand. If those two people were walking down Main Street, Woonsocket, neither would have the friendliness to give a wave. They're more likely to not even look at each other than throw a wave.
The other part of this is that when I wave to motorcyclists, they won't wave back. Well, what the hell is wrong with my Honda? Don't we have something in common too? Human? Low mileage? Both have faces?
Another thing, and this may be nitpicking, but let's say perhaps you're on a dumpy ass wanna-be chopper with a couple buddies and you see a yard sale. You're not interested, but your nagging-ass wife grasping for dear life really wants to see what this crappy-ass yard sale has to offer.
Now, there are several things to point out in this highly probably event.
1. You're not hardcore if your wife is on your chopper with you.
2. The two guys you ride with are going to be pissed off you're making them wait because of a yard sale.
3. The table your manly wife has picked out can't be thrown anywhere on your bike, and when you come back in two hours, the table will be gone.
4. In two years, you'll figure out your wife is seeing the friends you ride with.
Here's a list of other things you can't do with a motorcycle:
1. Stuff the trunk with bodies.
2. Have a hot coffee between your legs.
3. Make sweet, sweet love to woman in the backseat.
4. Have demolition derbies.
5. Rent.
6. See an actual deer give the classic deer-in-the-headlights look. They're simply not scared of your two wheels.
The last thing I want to point out is that because you ride a bike, you're not suddenly a really hot shot, gun slinging, huge cock sporting, living-on-the-edge Hell's Angel.
I understand you have something to prove, to somebody. That's okay. You're not automatically Chuck Norris or the really jacked Asian dude from Blood Sport. You have to earn some respect. I see guys all the time acting tough, then I'll see them bringing the communion plate up for mass.
Maybe when it comes down to it, you're more adventurous than me and my Civic, but I prefer two extra wheels to get me where I need to go. I can listen to music, roll the windows down and still get that wind going through my hair.
Other thoughts I probably wish I hadn't thought of:
1. Nobody is more glad to see my four-week intensive obsession with chicken pot pie go more than me.
2. Most advertisements undoubtedly work on me simply because I can't stop making fun of them.
3. That's twenty straight posts with the word "undoubtedly" in it.
4. The asian dude from Iron Chef America is the wildest character on television going. The way he says the secret ingredient and "alla cuisine" is completely comical. They even added whip-like sounds for when he turns his head. You can't make that show any better.
5. I don't have a timetable for the next time I post, but I am for sure taking a much needed siesta. 7 in 7 was successful and at times a chore, but I pulled it off. There were a lot of naysayers, and I have to say, I surprised myself. I think I achieved my goal in showing you that I don't prepare anything I write on here and that I'll literally write about anything at any time.
6. For the second time in a week, I've sat down on the toilet without the lid on. It was so cold.
7. The other day I walked, talked and did everything with my boxers on backwards, only to find out way late at night.
I said it. What's going to happen? Nothing. You wanna know why?
Because it's too nice of a day for them to get off their bikes and not have the wind blowing through their hair. That's why.
I don't want this to sound like I'm complaining about motorcyclists or bikers. I just want to point out some discrepancies within the subculture we've pandered to for the latter part of this decade.
I'm done pandering.
First off, I don't get the whole hand waving thing they do. Have you seen this? When they're riding, if they see another guy on a motorcycle coming up (and it doesn't matter what kind of bike, so long as its on two wheels with a motor), they're inclined to wave. The other guy, or gal, depending on how you look at it, waves back.
This is really funny to me because one time within the last two weeks (our last sunny day, probably), a guy continuously waved at dudes. Then he got two in a row by surprise. He successfully waved at one then put his hand down, only to see one more. He threw the hand out again, but lost balance of the bike and ended up swerving. After that he'd get waves, but he wouldn't wave back. It was great and almost the greatest moment of my life.
I get chuckles wondering what I'd be like trying to help the man after he did that. I hope to god I'd be able to control my laughter and excitement to be able to help him out.
I'm not a prick (for the most part) and I'd like to think I'd understand the situation, but being polite is one thing and this hand-waving thing is something I have yet to understand. If those two people were walking down Main Street, Woonsocket, neither would have the friendliness to give a wave. They're more likely to not even look at each other than throw a wave.
The other part of this is that when I wave to motorcyclists, they won't wave back. Well, what the hell is wrong with my Honda? Don't we have something in common too? Human? Low mileage? Both have faces?
Another thing, and this may be nitpicking, but let's say perhaps you're on a dumpy ass wanna-be chopper with a couple buddies and you see a yard sale. You're not interested, but your nagging-ass wife grasping for dear life really wants to see what this crappy-ass yard sale has to offer.
Now, there are several things to point out in this highly probably event.
1. You're not hardcore if your wife is on your chopper with you.
2. The two guys you ride with are going to be pissed off you're making them wait because of a yard sale.
3. The table your manly wife has picked out can't be thrown anywhere on your bike, and when you come back in two hours, the table will be gone.
4. In two years, you'll figure out your wife is seeing the friends you ride with.
Here's a list of other things you can't do with a motorcycle:
1. Stuff the trunk with bodies.
2. Have a hot coffee between your legs.
3. Make sweet, sweet love to woman in the backseat.
4. Have demolition derbies.
5. Rent.
6. See an actual deer give the classic deer-in-the-headlights look. They're simply not scared of your two wheels.
The last thing I want to point out is that because you ride a bike, you're not suddenly a really hot shot, gun slinging, huge cock sporting, living-on-the-edge Hell's Angel.
I understand you have something to prove, to somebody. That's okay. You're not automatically Chuck Norris or the really jacked Asian dude from Blood Sport. You have to earn some respect. I see guys all the time acting tough, then I'll see them bringing the communion plate up for mass.
Maybe when it comes down to it, you're more adventurous than me and my Civic, but I prefer two extra wheels to get me where I need to go. I can listen to music, roll the windows down and still get that wind going through my hair.
Other thoughts I probably wish I hadn't thought of:
1. Nobody is more glad to see my four-week intensive obsession with chicken pot pie go more than me.
2. Most advertisements undoubtedly work on me simply because I can't stop making fun of them.
3. That's twenty straight posts with the word "undoubtedly" in it.
4. The asian dude from Iron Chef America is the wildest character on television going. The way he says the secret ingredient and "alla cuisine" is completely comical. They even added whip-like sounds for when he turns his head. You can't make that show any better.
5. I don't have a timetable for the next time I post, but I am for sure taking a much needed siesta. 7 in 7 was successful and at times a chore, but I pulled it off. There were a lot of naysayers, and I have to say, I surprised myself. I think I achieved my goal in showing you that I don't prepare anything I write on here and that I'll literally write about anything at any time.
6. For the second time in a week, I've sat down on the toilet without the lid on. It was so cold.
7. The other day I walked, talked and did everything with my boxers on backwards, only to find out way late at night.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Jacko Lives
Michael Jackson lives.
He's in the Caribbean with Tupac and Biggie, being hand-fed grapes by Jacko's former chimp Bubbles. They're doing body shots off Anna Nichole's limp, drug-induced body. Ed McMahon is announcing the event with a microphone that isn't plugged in. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Jacko!
Steve McNair is there too. Well, his fat head anyway. He's actually dead. You can't survive four bullets. That's real.
Cardiac arrest? Please, way too easy to fake that. He fakes being white for how long? He faked being interested in women for how long?
The way I see it, he's finally getting some color on that skull he's been wearing the past couple years. Face it, he wouldn't be merely as creepy a public figure if he didn't dye his skin white and get over 1,000 cosmetic surgeries. Perhaps aspiring to be the living version of Skeletor wasn't the best idea.
Now, he's at peace. Not in a coffin, but climbing palm trees and playing dominos with Tupac's baby. They've created the most elaborate recording studio, which they're using to write the highest anticipated album of all time, set to drop Spring of 2023.
Of course, I say all of this because me and Jacko were tight and you should believe everything I say. At least, I'm reputable, not like those other dudes on television, dropping notes and tidbits that TMZ is picking up and flushing out like a bad burrito.
Suffice to say, I was lying about the whole living on the island thing. I don't really know that. It's possible, though, considering the kind of life he actually did live. He did have a pet monkey, kids sleeping in his bed, change his skin color, and write Thriller.
That's why I let the perpetual media overload on MJ cool off before writing a blog; it's alway tough to see how far and to what extent people will go to get a story about somebody that's dead, surpassing respect along the way. At no point did any medium stop and ask questions of how credible people were. I saw some guy claiming he was MJ's friend talk about his drug use. That's a pretty incriminating piece of information that he's finally very willing to let people know over national television. Some friend? No, probably a dude that never knew Michael that well.
The worst part of Michael Jackson dying was that we had to see his ugly, creepy face on television non-stop. I don't have fond, heart-wrenching memories of the iconic pop star. I don't care enough about musicians or actors to be moved when they die. Unless I know you, I probably won't. I don't need to be spoon fed information about why I should care.
My favorite Michael Jackson moment wasn't even something he did, instead, it was South Park. If those guys died tomorrow, I'd probably cry. MJ, though? Nah.
Breakdown on All-Muslim Wedding:
1. Wedding last night was exceptionally interesting and fun and filling. We never stopped eating it seemed and the event became more of an eating challenge than an actual wedding.
2. Besides seeing my friend tie the knot, my top 2 moments of the night: (A) Friend Jon walks up to us at a window, looking down onto the ground floor, some 300 feet below, and sees a farm with animals. His remark? Yep, "So are we going to be sacrificing any animals tonight?" (B) Me and friend, Jay, get awesome sun burns on face riding a BMW convertable down to NYC. We joke about how we'll look like we've eaten Volcano tacos. We get to the place and while we're waiting a dude comes over and asks if we ate any Volcano tacos. We laugh.
3. There is a Chinatown in Queens and it far surpasses the one in Manhatten in both dinginess, safety and size. They also have Flushing Mall, which is more like a flea market than a mall. They have a place where you can get harp lessons. Haven't you always wondered where people learn the harp?
4. I've never been less disappointed by not seeing a crepe station. The dessert room was out of control... Waffle Bar + Ice Cream Bar + Fondue = homemade pleated pants.
5. Spanish people love when you try and talk spanish to them. The dude at this little bodega in queens was pumped when I dropped a buenos dias on his face.
6. I created a social experiment on the highway. I tried to see which demographic of truck drivers responded to my "honk the horn" motions and which didn't. The whites were terrible and barely responded, while spanish people didn't comprende what I was doing (maybe flipping them off? I don't know.). African Americans were emphatically awesome at honking the horn and for reasons I don't know. All I know is it made my day and I'm pretty sure it made their days too. They seemed like they were having such a good time.
He's in the Caribbean with Tupac and Biggie, being hand-fed grapes by Jacko's former chimp Bubbles. They're doing body shots off Anna Nichole's limp, drug-induced body. Ed McMahon is announcing the event with a microphone that isn't plugged in. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Jacko!
Steve McNair is there too. Well, his fat head anyway. He's actually dead. You can't survive four bullets. That's real.
Cardiac arrest? Please, way too easy to fake that. He fakes being white for how long? He faked being interested in women for how long?
The way I see it, he's finally getting some color on that skull he's been wearing the past couple years. Face it, he wouldn't be merely as creepy a public figure if he didn't dye his skin white and get over 1,000 cosmetic surgeries. Perhaps aspiring to be the living version of Skeletor wasn't the best idea.
Now, he's at peace. Not in a coffin, but climbing palm trees and playing dominos with Tupac's baby. They've created the most elaborate recording studio, which they're using to write the highest anticipated album of all time, set to drop Spring of 2023.
Of course, I say all of this because me and Jacko were tight and you should believe everything I say. At least, I'm reputable, not like those other dudes on television, dropping notes and tidbits that TMZ is picking up and flushing out like a bad burrito.
Suffice to say, I was lying about the whole living on the island thing. I don't really know that. It's possible, though, considering the kind of life he actually did live. He did have a pet monkey, kids sleeping in his bed, change his skin color, and write Thriller.
That's why I let the perpetual media overload on MJ cool off before writing a blog; it's alway tough to see how far and to what extent people will go to get a story about somebody that's dead, surpassing respect along the way. At no point did any medium stop and ask questions of how credible people were. I saw some guy claiming he was MJ's friend talk about his drug use. That's a pretty incriminating piece of information that he's finally very willing to let people know over national television. Some friend? No, probably a dude that never knew Michael that well.
The worst part of Michael Jackson dying was that we had to see his ugly, creepy face on television non-stop. I don't have fond, heart-wrenching memories of the iconic pop star. I don't care enough about musicians or actors to be moved when they die. Unless I know you, I probably won't. I don't need to be spoon fed information about why I should care.
My favorite Michael Jackson moment wasn't even something he did, instead, it was South Park. If those guys died tomorrow, I'd probably cry. MJ, though? Nah.
Breakdown on All-Muslim Wedding:
1. Wedding last night was exceptionally interesting and fun and filling. We never stopped eating it seemed and the event became more of an eating challenge than an actual wedding.
2. Besides seeing my friend tie the knot, my top 2 moments of the night: (A) Friend Jon walks up to us at a window, looking down onto the ground floor, some 300 feet below, and sees a farm with animals. His remark? Yep, "So are we going to be sacrificing any animals tonight?" (B) Me and friend, Jay, get awesome sun burns on face riding a BMW convertable down to NYC. We joke about how we'll look like we've eaten Volcano tacos. We get to the place and while we're waiting a dude comes over and asks if we ate any Volcano tacos. We laugh.
3. There is a Chinatown in Queens and it far surpasses the one in Manhatten in both dinginess, safety and size. They also have Flushing Mall, which is more like a flea market than a mall. They have a place where you can get harp lessons. Haven't you always wondered where people learn the harp?
4. I've never been less disappointed by not seeing a crepe station. The dessert room was out of control... Waffle Bar + Ice Cream Bar + Fondue = homemade pleated pants.
5. Spanish people love when you try and talk spanish to them. The dude at this little bodega in queens was pumped when I dropped a buenos dias on his face.
6. I created a social experiment on the highway. I tried to see which demographic of truck drivers responded to my "honk the horn" motions and which didn't. The whites were terrible and barely responded, while spanish people didn't comprende what I was doing (maybe flipping them off? I don't know.). African Americans were emphatically awesome at honking the horn and for reasons I don't know. All I know is it made my day and I'm pretty sure it made their days too. They seemed like they were having such a good time.
Friday, July 10, 2009
My Friend's Big Fat Muslim Wedding
My friend Andrew is getting married today and there's a protocol to everything and none of his friends really know what's going to happen.
I'll explain.
Who knows how long ago, maybe eight years, he met his fiance and soon to be wife, Hina. She's Muslim. Years later, in the middle of the night, Andrew converted. I respect his decision, in fact, I don't believe it was a decision as much a life choice. Whether or not others respect that is another story, and that's the reason for this blog.
You see, this is an all-Muslim type of wedding (whatever that means) and we don't really know how to act or behave. There's no dancing, no drinking, but there is a dessert room with crepe station.
Yes, crepe station.
This is how I see my trip to NYC and wedding going down:
8:34 - Hitting the road to pick up friends
9:05 - Leave for NYC
9:10 - First spat with diarrhea stems
9:11 - Pull over and walk into woods with socks on, walk out without socks off
10: 40 - Somebody makes first Muslim joke of the day
10:40:20 - Somebody makes first Catholic fondling joke of the day
11:34 - I say for the first time, "I hope they sacrifice an animal."
1: 20 - We arrive in NYC an hour early and can't check in. We go to Brooklyn and have drinks. For the second time today I mention sacrificing a lamb and drinking the blood would be exceptional.
2:15 - We miss check in by about four shots of Jim Beam.
2:35 - First member of friends goes missing, only to be found puking incessantly in the hotel lobby.
3:14 - While changing for the wedding we find cockroaches in our bathroom. One of us tries to catch it, bangs head on corner of bureau.
3:45 - Leave for pictures with friend.
4:11 - Friend wonders why we're late and notices puke on one of our shoes, getting noticeably more nervous about that than actual ceremony.
4:30 - Pictures are over, we attempt to revive one member of friends with hot coffee.
7:30 - Ceremony starts
7:31 - Ceremony ends. That's right, one minute, the way it should be.
7:35 - I meet some laid back, chill Indian dude and shoot the shit. We talk about baseball and I promptly end the conversation with a question about sacrificing animals and drinking blood.
8: 14 - Really drunk member of friends makes off-color remark about Muslims with group of Muslims present. The band stops playing weird music and everyone looks at friend.
9:20 - Supper is served. 10 minutes early, just like the program promised.
10:00 - Nobody is dancing and awkward conversations are held between various members of my friend Andrew's family and her family. One elder on Andrew's side asks, "Where's Jesus fit into this again?"
11:42 - Dessert rooms are opened. I hallucinate and picture Peter opening the gates of heaven. Crepes are devoured by the dozen. I have a full body erection. A feeling of euphoria overcomes my nether-region like blood rushing to your finger after you nail it with a hammer.
1:30 - Midway through fortieth crepe I quit.
1:56 - My lactose intolerance kicks up and firewater begins to flow.
2:01 - They sacrifice a lamb.
2:14 - I return to the room to cheers and blood dripping from all my friends' faces. I missed it.
5:38 - I try for the eleventh time to go to bed, only to find myself back in the bathroom, reading the miniature shampoo bottle, memorizing the spanish version.
5:55 - I tell myself I'll never eat another crepe every again. I realize I've gotten drunk on crepes.
I'll explain.
Who knows how long ago, maybe eight years, he met his fiance and soon to be wife, Hina. She's Muslim. Years later, in the middle of the night, Andrew converted. I respect his decision, in fact, I don't believe it was a decision as much a life choice. Whether or not others respect that is another story, and that's the reason for this blog.
You see, this is an all-Muslim type of wedding (whatever that means) and we don't really know how to act or behave. There's no dancing, no drinking, but there is a dessert room with crepe station.
Yes, crepe station.
This is how I see my trip to NYC and wedding going down:
8:34 - Hitting the road to pick up friends
9:05 - Leave for NYC
9:10 - First spat with diarrhea stems
9:11 - Pull over and walk into woods with socks on, walk out without socks off
10: 40 - Somebody makes first Muslim joke of the day
10:40:20 - Somebody makes first Catholic fondling joke of the day
11:34 - I say for the first time, "I hope they sacrifice an animal."
1: 20 - We arrive in NYC an hour early and can't check in. We go to Brooklyn and have drinks. For the second time today I mention sacrificing a lamb and drinking the blood would be exceptional.
2:15 - We miss check in by about four shots of Jim Beam.
2:35 - First member of friends goes missing, only to be found puking incessantly in the hotel lobby.
3:14 - While changing for the wedding we find cockroaches in our bathroom. One of us tries to catch it, bangs head on corner of bureau.
3:45 - Leave for pictures with friend.
4:11 - Friend wonders why we're late and notices puke on one of our shoes, getting noticeably more nervous about that than actual ceremony.
4:30 - Pictures are over, we attempt to revive one member of friends with hot coffee.
7:30 - Ceremony starts
7:31 - Ceremony ends. That's right, one minute, the way it should be.
7:35 - I meet some laid back, chill Indian dude and shoot the shit. We talk about baseball and I promptly end the conversation with a question about sacrificing animals and drinking blood.
8: 14 - Really drunk member of friends makes off-color remark about Muslims with group of Muslims present. The band stops playing weird music and everyone looks at friend.
9:20 - Supper is served. 10 minutes early, just like the program promised.
10:00 - Nobody is dancing and awkward conversations are held between various members of my friend Andrew's family and her family. One elder on Andrew's side asks, "Where's Jesus fit into this again?"
11:42 - Dessert rooms are opened. I hallucinate and picture Peter opening the gates of heaven. Crepes are devoured by the dozen. I have a full body erection. A feeling of euphoria overcomes my nether-region like blood rushing to your finger after you nail it with a hammer.
1:30 - Midway through fortieth crepe I quit.
1:56 - My lactose intolerance kicks up and firewater begins to flow.
2:01 - They sacrifice a lamb.
2:14 - I return to the room to cheers and blood dripping from all my friends' faces. I missed it.
5:38 - I try for the eleventh time to go to bed, only to find myself back in the bathroom, reading the miniature shampoo bottle, memorizing the spanish version.
5:55 - I tell myself I'll never eat another crepe every again. I realize I've gotten drunk on crepes.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Your Weather Sucks, not mine.
Let's not kid ourselves, it's been a rainy couple months of summer here in New England.
It's been wry, it's been raw, it's been more wet than Anna Nicole on the phone with a new pharmacist.
There are some things I'd like to talk about, a few talking points, as they say in radio.
First is this: you don't need to talk about the weather. Now, I realize this is somewhat of a hypocritical curveball, but I'm not going to go into how much it sucks to be kept from those beautiful Rhode Island beaches during the summer months (... and for those of you that can't comprehend sarcasm, I'll interpret: RI beaches aren't anything special. They have seaweed, screaming kids kicking sand in your bag of Lays and water so cold the guys from Deadliest Catch would have trouble getting into).
The main point here is that nobody cares what you have to say about the weather, ever. You can't change the way the weather works, unless you pump more CFC's into the ozone. Nothing you say will even remotely contribute to any conversation about the weather.
You what I do? I act like I care about the weather. I'll repeat words that others use. If I hear somebody say, "Yuck! Is it raw out there!" I say the exact phrase continuously until that person understands. I'll also use various terminology lamen folk don't understand. Words like "barametric pressure", "cumulonimbus", or "heat index". If I'm in a jam, the Ghiorse factor is always a hot button to push. There's a number some dude on local television made up to make himself feel like he was creating some new way to look at weather.
This technique I call bullshitting is something I also use with anyone when talking about cars, watching Nascar, or writing papers in college.
My second point of contention is that if we are going to be talking about the weather to at least be using accurate terminology.
Raining or pouring buckets is not correct. Can you imagine somebody dumping a bucket on your head continuously for hours? That's a lot of water.
Another one is "showers". When somebody says showers, you think what? There's not that much rain coming down, right? Imagine taking a shower and not that much water coming out. You'd be pissed. So, you should be pissed when there's rain showers in the area, too.
My last talking point is that when the sun finally pokes its head out, don't say, "Great! Now, the sun's in my eyes." Choose a side. Do you want to be a vampire or a solar panel?
The area you wish you hadn't stepped in:
1. On Day 2 of 7 I was already tired of saying this was a bad idea.
2. It's day four and I've successfully covered two very terribly boring topics: the weather and dogs vs. cats. What next?
3. In the past couple days I've come across two people that resemble males, but could've been females. My tip to everyone: check for bra straps. If they're wearing a black shirt, check the package. It's the only way you can be sure. By all means, don't make eye contact.
4. Me and my roommate have a Wednesday night ritual of watching Top Chef, Real World and then Conan. After that we tea bag each other and drink Merlot at room temperature.
5. Put hershey pies from Burger King on the list of Things That Make the Toilet Paper Run Out.
6. Whenever I see somebody out in public with a Naughty America shirt I laugh uncontrollably.
7. Shopping for groceries has been reduced to a simple list and my roommate has figured it out: one frozen pizza, milk, eggs, juice of some sort or gatorade, cereal, and some sort of snack. The snack lasts one day, the milk goes bad, the pizza is cooked within a day, the cereal goes stale, I forget which eggs are mine and assume they're bad.
It's been wry, it's been raw, it's been more wet than Anna Nicole on the phone with a new pharmacist.
There are some things I'd like to talk about, a few talking points, as they say in radio.
First is this: you don't need to talk about the weather. Now, I realize this is somewhat of a hypocritical curveball, but I'm not going to go into how much it sucks to be kept from those beautiful Rhode Island beaches during the summer months (... and for those of you that can't comprehend sarcasm, I'll interpret: RI beaches aren't anything special. They have seaweed, screaming kids kicking sand in your bag of Lays and water so cold the guys from Deadliest Catch would have trouble getting into).
The main point here is that nobody cares what you have to say about the weather, ever. You can't change the way the weather works, unless you pump more CFC's into the ozone. Nothing you say will even remotely contribute to any conversation about the weather.
You what I do? I act like I care about the weather. I'll repeat words that others use. If I hear somebody say, "Yuck! Is it raw out there!" I say the exact phrase continuously until that person understands. I'll also use various terminology lamen folk don't understand. Words like "barametric pressure", "cumulonimbus", or "heat index". If I'm in a jam, the Ghiorse factor is always a hot button to push. There's a number some dude on local television made up to make himself feel like he was creating some new way to look at weather.
This technique I call bullshitting is something I also use with anyone when talking about cars, watching Nascar, or writing papers in college.
My second point of contention is that if we are going to be talking about the weather to at least be using accurate terminology.
Raining or pouring buckets is not correct. Can you imagine somebody dumping a bucket on your head continuously for hours? That's a lot of water.
Another one is "showers". When somebody says showers, you think what? There's not that much rain coming down, right? Imagine taking a shower and not that much water coming out. You'd be pissed. So, you should be pissed when there's rain showers in the area, too.
My last talking point is that when the sun finally pokes its head out, don't say, "Great! Now, the sun's in my eyes." Choose a side. Do you want to be a vampire or a solar panel?
The area you wish you hadn't stepped in:
1. On Day 2 of 7 I was already tired of saying this was a bad idea.
2. It's day four and I've successfully covered two very terribly boring topics: the weather and dogs vs. cats. What next?
3. In the past couple days I've come across two people that resemble males, but could've been females. My tip to everyone: check for bra straps. If they're wearing a black shirt, check the package. It's the only way you can be sure. By all means, don't make eye contact.
4. Me and my roommate have a Wednesday night ritual of watching Top Chef, Real World and then Conan. After that we tea bag each other and drink Merlot at room temperature.
5. Put hershey pies from Burger King on the list of Things That Make the Toilet Paper Run Out.
6. Whenever I see somebody out in public with a Naughty America shirt I laugh uncontrollably.
7. Shopping for groceries has been reduced to a simple list and my roommate has figured it out: one frozen pizza, milk, eggs, juice of some sort or gatorade, cereal, and some sort of snack. The snack lasts one day, the milk goes bad, the pizza is cooked within a day, the cereal goes stale, I forget which eggs are mine and assume they're bad.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Not Missing the Point
For anyone that's ever dabbled with Craigslist, you know about a little section called "Missed Connections" and if you don't then you should.
Because people are awesome and they do even more awesomer stuff. That's right, more awesomer. What do you do when something is way more awesome? Write more awesomer.
Here's what you have to do. First, X out the various porn sites (plural because I know my audience is a bunch of perverts) you've been traveling. Open a new, clean browser. Perhaps clean your monitor. Go to craigslist.com and find the personals section and a little bit further is a little thing I consider to be the savior of American literacy. If we gave kids craigslist missed connections everyday in school, they're undoubtedly continue reading.
Essentially the site is there for people that believe in love at first sight, but not having the CNBs to say anything. This combination is a perfect match for the internet, where you can seemingly say anything you want and never have to think of it again (eerily just like this blog...).
As you'll see, this Dating Game-gone-wrong website is particularly lewd at times, and almost always hilarious. Some say sad, I say hilarious. Synomous, really.
Here's a really good example titled "APPLE STORE":
Because people are awesome and they do even more awesomer stuff. That's right, more awesomer. What do you do when something is way more awesome? Write more awesomer.
Here's what you have to do. First, X out the various porn sites (plural because I know my audience is a bunch of perverts) you've been traveling. Open a new, clean browser. Perhaps clean your monitor. Go to craigslist.com and find the personals section and a little bit further is a little thing I consider to be the savior of American literacy. If we gave kids craigslist missed connections everyday in school, they're undoubtedly continue reading.
Essentially the site is there for people that believe in love at first sight, but not having the CNBs to say anything. This combination is a perfect match for the internet, where you can seemingly say anything you want and never have to think of it again (eerily just like this blog...).
As you'll see, this Dating Game-gone-wrong website is particularly lewd at times, and almost always hilarious. Some say sad, I say hilarious. Synomous, really.
Here's a really good example titled "APPLE STORE":
"I talked you into buying the next level of computer. You were with your friend and have a pierced lip. We had a good convo. If you want to get together tell me what color hat I was wearing."
Next level of computer? Very solid. I took a shot on the one called Apple Store, but essentially it turned out better than I expected, which turns out to be the case 98 percent of the time.
See "NK Walmart Stacked":
"You were the incredibly stacked brunette with a phenomenal body, wearing a green tank and shorts with shoes laced up to your calves. What body soap did you decide on?"
Incredibly stacked. What kind of soap? This guy sure has the moves. Missed connections tip: Whenever "stacked" is in the title, you got a winner.
I mention this because I almost lost my baby not to long ago. For those around me during the craigslist killer debacle, you know what I'm talking about. I was agitated. "Are they going to get rid of the personals?" I asked sometimes in the lonesome and outloud. I'd slam books whenever Wolf Blitzer spoke, even though he never talked about this topic.
"What else will grab my attention like missed connections did so long ago?"
That brought me back to the time I was first introduced to missed connections. I'd like to illustrate that experience in the same way they do on Missed Connections, in a piece titled "Love at first Connection":
"We were strangers living in a large world: mine, the RIC Student Union; your's, a vast technological superhighway known as the Internet. My fair skinned Jewish friend, Matt, talked about you in a way much like certain scenes from The Notebook. You were perfect. In an feebish attempt, somebody on your site met eyes with another beauty at a funeral. Hearts fluttered. 'Of course,' he thought. 'She'll be on Missed Connections, looking for me, too. I better post something rediculous.' The words couldn't be written better by Walt Whitman. They were beautiful, comical and downright pathetic. Everything I love in a good writer."
There is even a psychological thing going on too. I know I'm not hitting the ball out of the park, but I do know that I'm not on Missed Connections. At least not yet. Until then, the site will continue to be a place of downright slapstick, knee slapping fun.
The part your brain should be allergic to:
1. You are perverts. Don't disagree. I read my counter at the bottom of the page before the whole jerkoff record story two days ago and that was read more than any other story. I caught you.
2. Watching the guy from the basement operate outside this morning was much like when I used to watch the stray cat we called Garbage living in our parking lot.
3. I wonder if when people use my phone they think of how I watch youtube videos on the can with it.
4. The other day I threw a bunch of pennies out the window at some friends and yelled, "For last night!" That just shows you how obsolete the penny has become, when I'm willing to make an ill-fated bad joke at its expense.
5. At work there's two people teaching me the bad words in French, but neither of them are on the same page. Manville isn't big enough to have two different dialects of French is it?
6. I've eaten so many bagels in the past two months I should be either fat or Jewish or both.
7. Does being gay make you better at being organized? Because I'll be gay for one day and not tell anyone just so get shit done.
Next level of computer? Very solid. I took a shot on the one called Apple Store, but essentially it turned out better than I expected, which turns out to be the case 98 percent of the time.
See "NK Walmart Stacked":
"You were the incredibly stacked brunette with a phenomenal body, wearing a green tank and shorts with shoes laced up to your calves. What body soap did you decide on?"
Incredibly stacked. What kind of soap? This guy sure has the moves. Missed connections tip: Whenever "stacked" is in the title, you got a winner.
I mention this because I almost lost my baby not to long ago. For those around me during the craigslist killer debacle, you know what I'm talking about. I was agitated. "Are they going to get rid of the personals?" I asked sometimes in the lonesome and outloud. I'd slam books whenever Wolf Blitzer spoke, even though he never talked about this topic.
"What else will grab my attention like missed connections did so long ago?"
That brought me back to the time I was first introduced to missed connections. I'd like to illustrate that experience in the same way they do on Missed Connections, in a piece titled "Love at first Connection":
"We were strangers living in a large world: mine, the RIC Student Union; your's, a vast technological superhighway known as the Internet. My fair skinned Jewish friend, Matt, talked about you in a way much like certain scenes from The Notebook. You were perfect. In an feebish attempt, somebody on your site met eyes with another beauty at a funeral. Hearts fluttered. 'Of course,' he thought. 'She'll be on Missed Connections, looking for me, too. I better post something rediculous.' The words couldn't be written better by Walt Whitman. They were beautiful, comical and downright pathetic. Everything I love in a good writer."
There is even a psychological thing going on too. I know I'm not hitting the ball out of the park, but I do know that I'm not on Missed Connections. At least not yet. Until then, the site will continue to be a place of downright slapstick, knee slapping fun.
The part your brain should be allergic to:
1. You are perverts. Don't disagree. I read my counter at the bottom of the page before the whole jerkoff record story two days ago and that was read more than any other story. I caught you.
2. Watching the guy from the basement operate outside this morning was much like when I used to watch the stray cat we called Garbage living in our parking lot.
3. I wonder if when people use my phone they think of how I watch youtube videos on the can with it.
4. The other day I threw a bunch of pennies out the window at some friends and yelled, "For last night!" That just shows you how obsolete the penny has become, when I'm willing to make an ill-fated bad joke at its expense.
5. At work there's two people teaching me the bad words in French, but neither of them are on the same page. Manville isn't big enough to have two different dialects of French is it?
6. I've eaten so many bagels in the past two months I should be either fat or Jewish or both.
7. Does being gay make you better at being organized? Because I'll be gay for one day and not tell anyone just so get shit done.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Dog eat Dog
Look, I like dogs. Don't believe the rumor that I don't. Because I do.
I'm a dog man.
I don't care for cats. Cats are assholes. They don't understand the plight of the man. They don't comprehend our lazy Sunday's, where we rely on our dogs to get the paper.
There hasn't been a famous cat since Garfield and even he was a douchebag. No shocker, right? All cats in the history of television and life have been douches.
The Chesire Cat, Heathcliff, Sylvester, Felix, Hobbes. All jerks. Think of all the different types of dangerous cats, too. Panthers, Tigers, Bobcats, Lions, Cougars, Leopards. All dangerous. None of those will bring in a newspaper.
When people eat something terrible they say, "This tastes like cat food." That's how much cats suck. We give them the crappiest stuff to eat.
The only cats that were ever cool were the Thundercats.
How about famous dogs?
Lassie anyone? Dude saved Billy in the well. He could communicate with humans in a supernatural way. He could tell time. He scored higher than me on the SAT. Cats are out doing their nails and chasing mice. Perhaps Lassie is the reason I like dogs so much, in some subconscious way. I feel like I can talk to them and they'd understand me, really understand me.
Turner and Hooch? Awesome. Beethoven? The British Bulldog? Give me a break. I'd have a drink out of the toilet bowl with all of them.
I like hot dogs.
So where does the confusion come in?
Well, I may yell certain obscenities while being chased by dogs every now and again. I may have been found guilty of carrying snowballs on several runs while in high school. I maaaay have been found guilty of parking my car last week and telling a dog barking at me, "Fuck You." Maybe I did that. I don't really know. And there's no truth that whenever a dog is around I give it the evil eye.
I assume all dogs bite and attack on a whim, no matter how big or how small. I'm allergic to them. I can't pet them and I don't like how they eat everything in sight.
AND still, after all these faults, both my own and the dogs, I'm still a dog guy. Just imagine now how much I don't like cats. Go ahead.
The kittylitter:
1. A day isn't complete until you see a 1992 Subaru POS protected by the club with a window busted in. I saw mine at 8 a.m. today. I'm in cruise control.
2. Paying seven bucks for corn bread mix isn't right.
3. If you sneeze consistently for six hours, your brain will slowly begin oozing out your nose.
4. I like to think of my house as the evolution chain. The primitive in the basement is clearly retarded. One floor up is a guy that we believe to deep fry skunks. On the second floor are friends, and they're intelligent, but essentially they're in love and that shit isn't smart. We're on the fourth floor and neither of us are taken, deep fry rodents, or are retarded.
5. Funny, educated heckling is my thing and I raked it at the Red Sox game last night, just eight rows from Nomah's crotch and the Oakland dugout.
6. I totally guessed that Oakland first basemen Jason Giambi and third base coach Gary Gallego were lovers. Giambi eventually got on third base and put his arm around Gallego and stared into his eyes. Minutes later the two were scissoring on the infield grass in front of 38,000 fans.
7. Independence Day will never sound like the right thing to say after Will Smith and that terrible script ruined the phrase forever. Fourth of July is still there, though, until they need a name for another crappy summer blockbuster action movie.
I'm a dog man.
I don't care for cats. Cats are assholes. They don't understand the plight of the man. They don't comprehend our lazy Sunday's, where we rely on our dogs to get the paper.
There hasn't been a famous cat since Garfield and even he was a douchebag. No shocker, right? All cats in the history of television and life have been douches.
The Chesire Cat, Heathcliff, Sylvester, Felix, Hobbes. All jerks. Think of all the different types of dangerous cats, too. Panthers, Tigers, Bobcats, Lions, Cougars, Leopards. All dangerous. None of those will bring in a newspaper.
When people eat something terrible they say, "This tastes like cat food." That's how much cats suck. We give them the crappiest stuff to eat.
The only cats that were ever cool were the Thundercats.
How about famous dogs?
Lassie anyone? Dude saved Billy in the well. He could communicate with humans in a supernatural way. He could tell time. He scored higher than me on the SAT. Cats are out doing their nails and chasing mice. Perhaps Lassie is the reason I like dogs so much, in some subconscious way. I feel like I can talk to them and they'd understand me, really understand me.
Turner and Hooch? Awesome. Beethoven? The British Bulldog? Give me a break. I'd have a drink out of the toilet bowl with all of them.
I like hot dogs.
So where does the confusion come in?
Well, I may yell certain obscenities while being chased by dogs every now and again. I may have been found guilty of carrying snowballs on several runs while in high school. I maaaay have been found guilty of parking my car last week and telling a dog barking at me, "Fuck You." Maybe I did that. I don't really know. And there's no truth that whenever a dog is around I give it the evil eye.
I assume all dogs bite and attack on a whim, no matter how big or how small. I'm allergic to them. I can't pet them and I don't like how they eat everything in sight.
AND still, after all these faults, both my own and the dogs, I'm still a dog guy. Just imagine now how much I don't like cats. Go ahead.
The kittylitter:
1. A day isn't complete until you see a 1992 Subaru POS protected by the club with a window busted in. I saw mine at 8 a.m. today. I'm in cruise control.
2. Paying seven bucks for corn bread mix isn't right.
3. If you sneeze consistently for six hours, your brain will slowly begin oozing out your nose.
4. I like to think of my house as the evolution chain. The primitive in the basement is clearly retarded. One floor up is a guy that we believe to deep fry skunks. On the second floor are friends, and they're intelligent, but essentially they're in love and that shit isn't smart. We're on the fourth floor and neither of us are taken, deep fry rodents, or are retarded.
5. Funny, educated heckling is my thing and I raked it at the Red Sox game last night, just eight rows from Nomah's crotch and the Oakland dugout.
6. I totally guessed that Oakland first basemen Jason Giambi and third base coach Gary Gallego were lovers. Giambi eventually got on third base and put his arm around Gallego and stared into his eyes. Minutes later the two were scissoring on the infield grass in front of 38,000 fans.
7. Independence Day will never sound like the right thing to say after Will Smith and that terrible script ruined the phrase forever. Fourth of July is still there, though, until they need a name for another crappy summer blockbuster action movie.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
TMI: Too Much Information
There are records and then there are records.
To this date, my mind has probably registered a little over 10,000 records with 9,500 of those coming from watching Sportscenter. All sorts of stats and meaningless information I call banal minutiae. Nobody cares about the records but the people that hold them. Does the home run record really effect you enough to throw batteries at Barry Bonds? Does it put your kids in college? Does it help you make kids? If you answer yes to either of those, you are, in fact, a kid.
What gets me more are these people trying to get into Guiness Books of World Records for something, training for months to perfect one simple task as stupid as balancing a book on their head for three days straight, then failing, or perhaps worse, achieving then getting handed a piece of paper that resembles the old honor roll certificates in elementary school.
The reason I start my blog with this isn't because of Roger Federer and his 15th and record-breaking major championship, but it was impressive. Not important in my life, but impressive. The reason for this isn't even that Joey Chestnut eating 68 hot dogs in 10 minutes. Impressive, but not important.
What is more impressive is a record I have recently come across as an historic day: the day (name shall remain anonymous) manually achieved climax 14 times.
That's an round-about way of saying jerked off. Seeing that I just explained what I meant, there was no reason to actually say it in a round-about fashion.
This record is actually significant to me.
For one, it makes my personal record very, very small. Almost to the point where I feel I should be manually achieving climaxation more, that I'm insufficiently producing in the lonesome.
It makes me feel less like a pervert, which feels pretty good.
The number, I must say, is a little daunting for any regular in the self-pud-pounding committee. 14! That's one more than a baker's dozen.
Now, I know somebody out there has done more, but this number alone makes me ask so many questions. Perhaps more startling is that when I asked around a couple more people said they had gotten above 10 times! I can't believe that. That's like multiple people breaking the color barrier in major league baseball. Jackie Who?
Don't get me wrong, I've been around the bases in my day. Never have I gone above three times. That was a lonely ass day. Nothing going on. Nobody was around. Still, STILL, only got to three. I think if I went further into the game my arm would've needed Tommy John.
The endurance shown on such a day is shear athleticism, like seeing somebody hit for the cycle twice in one game.
How does one have enough time for that kind of feat? After every time you need a nap or a cold shower to process the shame. And forget about the actual state of your johnson afterwards. I can't even imagine holding it to take a piss after 14 times. I'd have a better time climbing Mount Everest with snakes biting me and diarrhea.
Other notable moments of TMI:
1. On boxers: if the dickhole points to the right, my c-n-b's flap out, but if it points to the left, they won't.
2. Ask me to pose for a picture and I will give you what I call "The Senior Portrait".
3. I felt more American because I ate four hamburgers on the Fourth.
4. Job Lot doesn't sell obnoxiously ugly Patriotic shirts so don't try. Where do these people find them?!
5. I also felt more American when somebody complained about the fireworks on Spring Lake when they were essentially put on and funded by residents on the Lake. Kind of brought things into perspective a little bit, ya know?
6. The best investment I made in the past three months has been this little Lasko fan that blows directly into my face, no more than 15 inches away from me.
7. I'll likely never golf at 6 a.m. ever again.
8. There's a lady that comes into Beef Barn with Parkinsins and if I don't register that she's got the disease right away, when she looks up at me, I think, "What the hell's her problem?"
To this date, my mind has probably registered a little over 10,000 records with 9,500 of those coming from watching Sportscenter. All sorts of stats and meaningless information I call banal minutiae. Nobody cares about the records but the people that hold them. Does the home run record really effect you enough to throw batteries at Barry Bonds? Does it put your kids in college? Does it help you make kids? If you answer yes to either of those, you are, in fact, a kid.
What gets me more are these people trying to get into Guiness Books of World Records for something, training for months to perfect one simple task as stupid as balancing a book on their head for three days straight, then failing, or perhaps worse, achieving then getting handed a piece of paper that resembles the old honor roll certificates in elementary school.
The reason I start my blog with this isn't because of Roger Federer and his 15th and record-breaking major championship, but it was impressive. Not important in my life, but impressive. The reason for this isn't even that Joey Chestnut eating 68 hot dogs in 10 minutes. Impressive, but not important.
What is more impressive is a record I have recently come across as an historic day: the day (name shall remain anonymous) manually achieved climax 14 times.
That's an round-about way of saying jerked off. Seeing that I just explained what I meant, there was no reason to actually say it in a round-about fashion.
This record is actually significant to me.
For one, it makes my personal record very, very small. Almost to the point where I feel I should be manually achieving climaxation more, that I'm insufficiently producing in the lonesome.
It makes me feel less like a pervert, which feels pretty good.
The number, I must say, is a little daunting for any regular in the self-pud-pounding committee. 14! That's one more than a baker's dozen.
Now, I know somebody out there has done more, but this number alone makes me ask so many questions. Perhaps more startling is that when I asked around a couple more people said they had gotten above 10 times! I can't believe that. That's like multiple people breaking the color barrier in major league baseball. Jackie Who?
Don't get me wrong, I've been around the bases in my day. Never have I gone above three times. That was a lonely ass day. Nothing going on. Nobody was around. Still, STILL, only got to three. I think if I went further into the game my arm would've needed Tommy John.
The endurance shown on such a day is shear athleticism, like seeing somebody hit for the cycle twice in one game.
How does one have enough time for that kind of feat? After every time you need a nap or a cold shower to process the shame. And forget about the actual state of your johnson afterwards. I can't even imagine holding it to take a piss after 14 times. I'd have a better time climbing Mount Everest with snakes biting me and diarrhea.
Other notable moments of TMI:
1. On boxers: if the dickhole points to the right, my c-n-b's flap out, but if it points to the left, they won't.
2. Ask me to pose for a picture and I will give you what I call "The Senior Portrait".
3. I felt more American because I ate four hamburgers on the Fourth.
4. Job Lot doesn't sell obnoxiously ugly Patriotic shirts so don't try. Where do these people find them?!
5. I also felt more American when somebody complained about the fireworks on Spring Lake when they were essentially put on and funded by residents on the Lake. Kind of brought things into perspective a little bit, ya know?
6. The best investment I made in the past three months has been this little Lasko fan that blows directly into my face, no more than 15 inches away from me.
7. I'll likely never golf at 6 a.m. ever again.
8. There's a lady that comes into Beef Barn with Parkinsins and if I don't register that she's got the disease right away, when she looks up at me, I think, "What the hell's her problem?"
Friday, June 5, 2009
Just another one of the white man's lies: Water.
Look - listen - whatever, just stay with me here and nobody loses a cuticle. I'm about to tell you something that you need to hear. Today, it's not what-townie-learned-today as much what-I-learned-from-townie-today.
Repeat: It's not water. Again. Say it to yourself, you fool.
Did you take that in? Because I know I've riffed about water in the past, but this is different. This isn't me telling you not to buy bottled water. This is me telling you it's not water that you're buying. Totally different.
And you know damn well what I'm talking about. So shut it. I don't want to hear it.
It's the "new, refreshing way to water." It's "enhanced water." It's the antichrist. And you know what I'm talking about.
I'll start over, just in case you have some of this vitamin water shit in your ears.
It's not water.
I'll tell you what water is and you tell me what it ain't... or isn't.
Water equals clear. Water equals liquid. Water equals the chemical components of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. Water is in our blood, our lakes, our streams, the clouds above us, and, most of all, in the toilet you crap all over after an elegant, neatly-wrapped bacteria-filled sushi from Super Wal-Mart.
Water is NOT colored, unless you pee, bleed (or after the situation above, where all three might happen at once), or happen to be in Chicago during St. Patrick's Day. You don't find water in pink and peach and purple.
It doesn't have vitamins. I grew up believing that water was the only thing that essentially was nothing. I believed that when I drank water nothing would happen besides being hydrated.
The last thing I need to state is that water has taste. It doesn't. When I was in third grade, Grove St. school, I used to say to other kids, "Wow, this water tastes like pineapples," just to mess with them. I was eight years old. I was messing with them. Even back then I knew the basic principles of water. No taste. No color. No stupidity. We can say water tastes like piss, but we know that's only because somebody very well might have pissed in that water.
You know what happens when you flavor water? That water becomes known as that flavor. If you dump six scoops of Country Time into a jug of water, it's pink lemonade, not pink-colored flavor enhanced water. When somebody farts, we don't say we "smell-enhanced air." We say, "Good job." Or, "How bout not in my eye?"
So, just to clarify: don't buy bottled water, and if you do, don't buy juice that's disguised as water.
And in the words of The Waterboy: "Water sucks, it really, really sucks."
The Random M&M's found in your couch:
1. Hey, America! Got good news for ya. Yes, I do. Me, little old townie, has good news. You only lost 345,000 jobs last month. Feels pretty good being so successful, huh? Reason #34 I hate Yahoo! News.
2. Overdramatic Facebook Status Of The Day: "Live for something or die for nothing: Your Call." You don't by any chance write scripts for Steven Segal, do you?
3. After watching The Hangover, I felt much like a dragster getting out of Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. I felt like I had to drink a lot. Instead, I ate a lot of KFC.
4. I love being introduced to people that I think I'll only know for one night, just because I can tell them my name is Mitchell. Sometimes this backfires when people I know start to use my real name.
5. A lot of people think I'm lying 80 percent of the time. I think I may have said this before on here. That just shows you how much I need to reiterate this fact.
6. Writing down people's license plate numbers and the reason why I did so, is going to come in handy some day. You watch.
7. There's a good chance that if you end up in my blog, it's only because you did something so rediculously funny to me that I had to write it down. If I don't write something down, I'll forget it.
Repeat: It's not water. Again. Say it to yourself, you fool.
Did you take that in? Because I know I've riffed about water in the past, but this is different. This isn't me telling you not to buy bottled water. This is me telling you it's not water that you're buying. Totally different.
And you know damn well what I'm talking about. So shut it. I don't want to hear it.
It's the "new, refreshing way to water." It's "enhanced water." It's the antichrist. And you know what I'm talking about.
I'll start over, just in case you have some of this vitamin water shit in your ears.
It's not water.
I'll tell you what water is and you tell me what it ain't... or isn't.
Water equals clear. Water equals liquid. Water equals the chemical components of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. Water is in our blood, our lakes, our streams, the clouds above us, and, most of all, in the toilet you crap all over after an elegant, neatly-wrapped bacteria-filled sushi from Super Wal-Mart.
Water is NOT colored, unless you pee, bleed (or after the situation above, where all three might happen at once), or happen to be in Chicago during St. Patrick's Day. You don't find water in pink and peach and purple.
It doesn't have vitamins. I grew up believing that water was the only thing that essentially was nothing. I believed that when I drank water nothing would happen besides being hydrated.
The last thing I need to state is that water has taste. It doesn't. When I was in third grade, Grove St. school, I used to say to other kids, "Wow, this water tastes like pineapples," just to mess with them. I was eight years old. I was messing with them. Even back then I knew the basic principles of water. No taste. No color. No stupidity. We can say water tastes like piss, but we know that's only because somebody very well might have pissed in that water.
You know what happens when you flavor water? That water becomes known as that flavor. If you dump six scoops of Country Time into a jug of water, it's pink lemonade, not pink-colored flavor enhanced water. When somebody farts, we don't say we "smell-enhanced air." We say, "Good job." Or, "How bout not in my eye?"
So, just to clarify: don't buy bottled water, and if you do, don't buy juice that's disguised as water.
And in the words of The Waterboy: "Water sucks, it really, really sucks."
The Random M&M's found in your couch:
1. Hey, America! Got good news for ya. Yes, I do. Me, little old townie, has good news. You only lost 345,000 jobs last month. Feels pretty good being so successful, huh? Reason #34 I hate Yahoo! News.
2. Overdramatic Facebook Status Of The Day: "Live for something or die for nothing: Your Call." You don't by any chance write scripts for Steven Segal, do you?
3. After watching The Hangover, I felt much like a dragster getting out of Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. I felt like I had to drink a lot. Instead, I ate a lot of KFC.
4. I love being introduced to people that I think I'll only know for one night, just because I can tell them my name is Mitchell. Sometimes this backfires when people I know start to use my real name.
5. A lot of people think I'm lying 80 percent of the time. I think I may have said this before on here. That just shows you how much I need to reiterate this fact.
6. Writing down people's license plate numbers and the reason why I did so, is going to come in handy some day. You watch.
7. There's a good chance that if you end up in my blog, it's only because you did something so rediculously funny to me that I had to write it down. If I don't write something down, I'll forget it.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Sorry, I've been a little slllloooowww lately. Get it?
In the words of Timberland midway through the late Aaliyah, "It's been a long time baby girl/shoulnt of left you, without a dope beat to step to, step to, step to, step to..."
That's how he says shouldn't, too.
Anyway, here's a whole bunch of stuff from May that I thought of:
Whoever is putting signs up in Woonsocket needs to take a lesson in sensitivity.
I'll throw it out there that I'm not exactly the most sensitive person in the world (see: forty times per week I put my foot in my mouth because of making some classless joke about somebody recent that died in the news that nobody knew beyond said person looking hot in an episode of Top Chef.)
These two signs illustrate what I never would do: step over the lines. Sure, I took the pictures, and looked reasonably rediculous doing so, but I didn't nail them to a pole on the same street. One, reading "Handicapped Child" is posted no more than a quarter mile away from "Slow Children."
Why do we need to alert drivers of handicapped people in a neighborhood? I'm just wondering why its necessary. We don't put signs up outside of buildings and say, "These ramps are here because some people had their legs amputated", or, "People in handicapped parking spaces might back up into your car parked behind it."
Now, even though I already wouldn't have nailed them up there, I would've at least had the decency to not draw a happy camper trucking it, Terminator 2-style on the sign. They're not quick on their feet. We got the point the first time when you just said it simply that there might be handicapped people in the area. You don't need two signs and you more certainly don't need to rub it in their faces with an insulting picture.
I'm flabbergasted.
Couple Questions:
1. Years ago, way the f back, Copernicus proved that the world revolved around the sun and not that the sun revolved around Earth. I'm not going to ask if you believe this or not. That's dumb. What I will ask is this: Why in heaven's name would we say "Sunrise" and "Sunset" if the sun's not actually doing anything? The sun is remaining in the same exact position as its always been.
2. This is more splitting hairs, but I don't care. If when two people marry they become One, how come when they fornicate, its not called masturbating? Isn't that having sex with oneself, too?
Quote of the month:
Its from some Segal movie about saving the planet back in the day, playing on USA, as usual. The Gas Man from Dumb and Dumber goes up to Segal acting all tough and Segal and his pony tail ask the dude to play "slaps" and game we all probably played around middle school level. After a couple successful slaps, Segal asks the Gas Man this: "What does it take to change the essense of a man?" All from a game of slaps. Remarkable.
Random buoys floating in my mind:
1. The Boy Who Could Fly shouldn't have been watched. Imdb that ish and you'll see why. I was driven by some other force that had to make me watch it. Why I decided to watch a cheesy, made-for-tv, 1980's kids movie, is beyond me.
2. Maine doesn't have black bears just running around, but Florida most certainly has a shizer load of gators running around.
3. Alright, so Alvin and his two brothers are all the size of little human kids, right? Did we all miss out on the key detail that Dave and his pleated pants having unprotected sex with a chipmunk to produce these things? I'm just saying, that's a key detail.
4. The rooster in my G1, google phone, wakes me up every day and will get thrown across the room soon.
5. SAT time! Opening credits of X-Men: Wolverine is to prejac as closing credits of X-Men: Wolverine is to blue balls.
6. I really like the song "My name is..." by somebody I don't know and will never put enough effort in to remembering.
7. I only use the word flabbergasted when I'm being really, really sarcastic.
8. I wrote recently about how a banana peel was placed right outside my door at a Dunkin Donuts, I'd like to follow up with a picture of ANOTHER banana peel that was recently placed outside my door at New England Country Club. I don't know which one of you cartoon characters is trying to kill me, but bet your ass I'm going to. That is, right after I find the recipe for triple chocolate muffins.
That's how he says shouldn't, too.
Anyway, here's a whole bunch of stuff from May that I thought of:
Whoever is putting signs up in Woonsocket needs to take a lesson in sensitivity.
I'll throw it out there that I'm not exactly the most sensitive person in the world (see: forty times per week I put my foot in my mouth because of making some classless joke about somebody recent that died in the news that nobody knew beyond said person looking hot in an episode of Top Chef.)
These two signs illustrate what I never would do: step over the lines. Sure, I took the pictures, and looked reasonably rediculous doing so, but I didn't nail them to a pole on the same street. One, reading "Handicapped Child" is posted no more than a quarter mile away from "Slow Children."
Why do we need to alert drivers of handicapped people in a neighborhood? I'm just wondering why its necessary. We don't put signs up outside of buildings and say, "These ramps are here because some people had their legs amputated", or, "People in handicapped parking spaces might back up into your car parked behind it."
Now, even though I already wouldn't have nailed them up there, I would've at least had the decency to not draw a happy camper trucking it, Terminator 2-style on the sign. They're not quick on their feet. We got the point the first time when you just said it simply that there might be handicapped people in the area. You don't need two signs and you more certainly don't need to rub it in their faces with an insulting picture.
I'm flabbergasted.
Couple Questions:
1. Years ago, way the f back, Copernicus proved that the world revolved around the sun and not that the sun revolved around Earth. I'm not going to ask if you believe this or not. That's dumb. What I will ask is this: Why in heaven's name would we say "Sunrise" and "Sunset" if the sun's not actually doing anything? The sun is remaining in the same exact position as its always been.
2. This is more splitting hairs, but I don't care. If when two people marry they become One, how come when they fornicate, its not called masturbating? Isn't that having sex with oneself, too?
Quote of the month:
Its from some Segal movie about saving the planet back in the day, playing on USA, as usual. The Gas Man from Dumb and Dumber goes up to Segal acting all tough and Segal and his pony tail ask the dude to play "slaps" and game we all probably played around middle school level. After a couple successful slaps, Segal asks the Gas Man this: "What does it take to change the essense of a man?" All from a game of slaps. Remarkable.
Random buoys floating in my mind:
1. The Boy Who Could Fly shouldn't have been watched. Imdb that ish and you'll see why. I was driven by some other force that had to make me watch it. Why I decided to watch a cheesy, made-for-tv, 1980's kids movie, is beyond me.
2. Maine doesn't have black bears just running around, but Florida most certainly has a shizer load of gators running around.
3. Alright, so Alvin and his two brothers are all the size of little human kids, right? Did we all miss out on the key detail that Dave and his pleated pants having unprotected sex with a chipmunk to produce these things? I'm just saying, that's a key detail.
4. The rooster in my G1, google phone, wakes me up every day and will get thrown across the room soon.
5. SAT time! Opening credits of X-Men: Wolverine is to prejac as closing credits of X-Men: Wolverine is to blue balls.
6. I really like the song "My name is..." by somebody I don't know and will never put enough effort in to remembering.
7. I only use the word flabbergasted when I'm being really, really sarcastic.
8. I wrote recently about how a banana peel was placed right outside my door at a Dunkin Donuts, I'd like to follow up with a picture of ANOTHER banana peel that was recently placed outside my door at New England Country Club. I don't know which one of you cartoon characters is trying to kill me, but bet your ass I'm going to. That is, right after I find the recipe for triple chocolate muffins.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Am I getting soft?
Am I? Because last I checked I like a lot of hardcore stuff. Explosions in movies, heavy metal guitars, cutting things and lighting random shit on fire. All the Rocky movies, even five. Hot dog eating competitions.
Really any competition. Even figure skating. Remember Nancy Kerrigan? Because of her I hold out hope that every shitty Olympic competition ends up with a lead pipe in the ice rink and Colonel Mustard.
But I had to question all this recently, as hard as it may be, and ponder: am I getting soft?
Well? I'm actually asking this time. Tell me because if you don't I'll never know. I'll continue getting softer and softer, wearing more and more padding when I go riding a bike, buying more organic foods, and, perhaps worst of all, cutting out coupons. I need to know right now.
Images of Sly trudging through two-feet of Russian snow start to feel like a waste of film.
This is all in question for one reason and one reason only: my losing at minigolf on a date.
My roomie asked me if I lost at minigolf on purpose and I said, "No. I lost straight up." I walked into my room, shut the door and cried myself to sleep. I'm not ashamed of myself, my manhood. I'm just disappointed. Like a father-son relationship gone sour.
She said she wouldn't tell anyone, that it'd be our secret, but I declined. I will tell everyone. I lost at minigolf. It was like when Neo gets his powers sucked out of him in the Matrix. Like when Starr Jones lost all that weight. Like when Ellen told everyone she was lesbian and became unfunny instantly.
I had a ton of excuses prepared, just in case I lost straight up. Wind. Too early in the season. Too many pine needles. My cholesterol spiked. But when it comes down to it, I just flatout lost. I couldn't control the curvy features of the seventh hole. It was like Mickleson trying to get the chip onto the green at Augusta and it rolling back to his feet three consecutive times.
I went down several strokes at that hole, a deficit I could never quite come back from even with a hole-in-one on 15. The damage was done. I will never be the same. I'll fall in love with nature, start reading philosophy and romance novels from the 18th century. I'll get a dog and the alergy shots. I'll start to think Coldplay is awesome.
That is unless you throw hot coffee in my face and tell me to cut the shit. The latter is much more preferred of course.
Question you need to ask yourself: Are you ready for this Jelly?
1. Walked out of my car, saw nothing. Went into Dunky Doos, got a coffee, came back to my car and what do I see? A banana peel right outside my door. Is a cartoon character trying to kill me?
2. The dude that cleans Park Square Credit Union has the most underrated long hair in the history of hairdome.
3. The above story is the most sports-writing I've done in about three months.
4. After not having my check for this week, I threatened my boss that Tito and Ramon would hunt him down. Who knows if this was affective or believable to any amount.
5. Why does every cop that comes into Beef Barn get a bar-b-que chicken sandwich on wheat toast? This goes for Woonsocket, North Smithfield and State Troopers.
6. Telling somebody they're lucky they got sick and lost 12 pounds is a sure-fire sign you have a mental disorder regarding weight, food and empathy.
7. I don't like wasting things, so believe me when I say I hope I get a cold and flu really soon, so the extra tussin, niquil and theraflu will get used.
Really any competition. Even figure skating. Remember Nancy Kerrigan? Because of her I hold out hope that every shitty Olympic competition ends up with a lead pipe in the ice rink and Colonel Mustard.
But I had to question all this recently, as hard as it may be, and ponder: am I getting soft?
Well? I'm actually asking this time. Tell me because if you don't I'll never know. I'll continue getting softer and softer, wearing more and more padding when I go riding a bike, buying more organic foods, and, perhaps worst of all, cutting out coupons. I need to know right now.
Images of Sly trudging through two-feet of Russian snow start to feel like a waste of film.
This is all in question for one reason and one reason only: my losing at minigolf on a date.
My roomie asked me if I lost at minigolf on purpose and I said, "No. I lost straight up." I walked into my room, shut the door and cried myself to sleep. I'm not ashamed of myself, my manhood. I'm just disappointed. Like a father-son relationship gone sour.
She said she wouldn't tell anyone, that it'd be our secret, but I declined. I will tell everyone. I lost at minigolf. It was like when Neo gets his powers sucked out of him in the Matrix. Like when Starr Jones lost all that weight. Like when Ellen told everyone she was lesbian and became unfunny instantly.
I had a ton of excuses prepared, just in case I lost straight up. Wind. Too early in the season. Too many pine needles. My cholesterol spiked. But when it comes down to it, I just flatout lost. I couldn't control the curvy features of the seventh hole. It was like Mickleson trying to get the chip onto the green at Augusta and it rolling back to his feet three consecutive times.
I went down several strokes at that hole, a deficit I could never quite come back from even with a hole-in-one on 15. The damage was done. I will never be the same. I'll fall in love with nature, start reading philosophy and romance novels from the 18th century. I'll get a dog and the alergy shots. I'll start to think Coldplay is awesome.
That is unless you throw hot coffee in my face and tell me to cut the shit. The latter is much more preferred of course.
Question you need to ask yourself: Are you ready for this Jelly?
1. Walked out of my car, saw nothing. Went into Dunky Doos, got a coffee, came back to my car and what do I see? A banana peel right outside my door. Is a cartoon character trying to kill me?
2. The dude that cleans Park Square Credit Union has the most underrated long hair in the history of hairdome.
3. The above story is the most sports-writing I've done in about three months.
4. After not having my check for this week, I threatened my boss that Tito and Ramon would hunt him down. Who knows if this was affective or believable to any amount.
5. Why does every cop that comes into Beef Barn get a bar-b-que chicken sandwich on wheat toast? This goes for Woonsocket, North Smithfield and State Troopers.
6. Telling somebody they're lucky they got sick and lost 12 pounds is a sure-fire sign you have a mental disorder regarding weight, food and empathy.
7. I don't like wasting things, so believe me when I say I hope I get a cold and flu really soon, so the extra tussin, niquil and theraflu will get used.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Snot rags from the past week.
First off, I have to apologize for not posting anything good this week. I've been sick, really sick. Instead of giving you blow-for-blow, snot-for-snot, recollections of my week behind mucus bars, I felt like saving you the tissues.
I'll give you a couple things I did during this time, however, to try and hold you over for a couple more days:
1. Saw the movie "The Boy Who Could Fly". There's a definite story behind this movie, but its not good enough to mention and the movie isn't good enough to imdb. Just know that I made my roommate rent it on Netflix and burn it for me.
2. I really only look forward to Playboy to see who's being interviewed. The interviews are about seven pages long.
3. Cottonelle is the best toilet paper to blow your nose with. I haven't done research on this, but I've blown my nose 1,000 times this week and not once has my nose been uncomfortable or red from it.
4. Sleep, in 8-hour doses, isn't painful. Sleep, 20-hour doses, damaging.
5. New phone today means new ephoto blog-journalism. Probably better picture quality too.
6. Small Lenders bagels are the best bagels, but the larger Lenders bagels aren't that good. What's wrong here?
7. New Metallica Guitar Hero makes me feel like a rock star again.
8. I have zero jokes to tell when I'm sick, so I must be getting better.
I'll give you a couple things I did during this time, however, to try and hold you over for a couple more days:
1. Saw the movie "The Boy Who Could Fly". There's a definite story behind this movie, but its not good enough to mention and the movie isn't good enough to imdb. Just know that I made my roommate rent it on Netflix and burn it for me.
2. I really only look forward to Playboy to see who's being interviewed. The interviews are about seven pages long.
3. Cottonelle is the best toilet paper to blow your nose with. I haven't done research on this, but I've blown my nose 1,000 times this week and not once has my nose been uncomfortable or red from it.
4. Sleep, in 8-hour doses, isn't painful. Sleep, 20-hour doses, damaging.
5. New phone today means new ephoto blog-journalism. Probably better picture quality too.
6. Small Lenders bagels are the best bagels, but the larger Lenders bagels aren't that good. What's wrong here?
7. New Metallica Guitar Hero makes me feel like a rock star again.
8. I have zero jokes to tell when I'm sick, so I must be getting better.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Writing one hour behind.
I will not turn my clocks forward or back. My cell phone, fine. My computer, okay. Those are set up to the internuts and satellites (yes, the same satellites from the Dave Matthews song). I can't do anything about those. But my car, no way. Time will come back to me. It makes me feel powerful and god-like.
For the past couple years, I've disobeyed daylight savings time (DST) and I haven't been shot in the head by a sniper yet. It's weird. I haven't walked into my car to see the clock adjusted, and when I put my key into the ignition the car didn't explode. I'm holding my breath.
You know DST was only put in to help farmers and retailers with the minute exchange? Basically, we gave an extra hour of sunlight so those jerkoffs at the kiosks in the mall could barrage us with fliers and new cell phone plans.
Half the world doesn't even use DST. A quarter of the world never used it. And by half of the world I include myself. What are people doing with their extra time? Watching internet porn. That's what.
When are we going to stand up for ourselves? When are we going to tell the higherups that we're mad as hell and we're not going to let you turn our clocks back and forward anymore!
And don't tease us with this extra light bullshit. You know you're just going to take it all away in November, when we're cold, depressed and eating baked beans straight out of a can.
Most of Americans don't grow corn or wheat on the prairie. We may prairie dog, but we don't have one. So leave our clocks alone. And our cocks, leave our cocks alone. Scramble the letters DST anyway you want, and we don't want them. Whether its DST, STD or TDS (testicular dysgenesis syndrome: I don't know what it is, but it doesn't sound fun just by the name).
Just leave us alone already.
Serious question of the week. This is serious, okay? So answer truthfully.
How come it's called teeing off in golf? You tee up, but you don't tee off. Is it becuase whacking off would be inappropriate? Becuase, truthfully, its more like whacking than anything else.
The pig pen of my day:
1. It goes without saying that the kid from the Mount golf team with huge cans is a dude. I'm not going to post about a 16-year old girl on a golf team with exquisite breasticles.
2. I've listened to the new Mastodon over 30 times already. 6-7 times already this week. My bosses are not happy with my music selection.
3. I will not run out of ways to describe this bottom list.
4. I like dropping mom-jokes on little kids when playing Call of Duty 4, mainly because they have to see their mom everyday and tell her the meatloaf is delicious.
5. The only deoderant I trust is Old Spice Red Zone.
6. Con-Air, no matter how you cut it, is an absolutely awful movie with a lot of awesome action movie-type stuff.
7. I shouldn't say "awesome" to a random guy when not listening and he just so happens to be telling me about a house burning down and dogs being inside. (1) I should be listening. (2) I should "yea" and "uh huh". (3) I should pretend to care a lot better.
For the past couple years, I've disobeyed daylight savings time (DST) and I haven't been shot in the head by a sniper yet. It's weird. I haven't walked into my car to see the clock adjusted, and when I put my key into the ignition the car didn't explode. I'm holding my breath.
You know DST was only put in to help farmers and retailers with the minute exchange? Basically, we gave an extra hour of sunlight so those jerkoffs at the kiosks in the mall could barrage us with fliers and new cell phone plans.
Half the world doesn't even use DST. A quarter of the world never used it. And by half of the world I include myself. What are people doing with their extra time? Watching internet porn. That's what.
When are we going to stand up for ourselves? When are we going to tell the higherups that we're mad as hell and we're not going to let you turn our clocks back and forward anymore!
And don't tease us with this extra light bullshit. You know you're just going to take it all away in November, when we're cold, depressed and eating baked beans straight out of a can.
Most of Americans don't grow corn or wheat on the prairie. We may prairie dog, but we don't have one. So leave our clocks alone. And our cocks, leave our cocks alone. Scramble the letters DST anyway you want, and we don't want them. Whether its DST, STD or TDS (testicular dysgenesis syndrome: I don't know what it is, but it doesn't sound fun just by the name).
Just leave us alone already.
Serious question of the week. This is serious, okay? So answer truthfully.
How come it's called teeing off in golf? You tee up, but you don't tee off. Is it becuase whacking off would be inappropriate? Becuase, truthfully, its more like whacking than anything else.
The pig pen of my day:
1. It goes without saying that the kid from the Mount golf team with huge cans is a dude. I'm not going to post about a 16-year old girl on a golf team with exquisite breasticles.
2. I've listened to the new Mastodon over 30 times already. 6-7 times already this week. My bosses are not happy with my music selection.
3. I will not run out of ways to describe this bottom list.
4. I like dropping mom-jokes on little kids when playing Call of Duty 4, mainly because they have to see their mom everyday and tell her the meatloaf is delicious.
5. The only deoderant I trust is Old Spice Red Zone.
6. Con-Air, no matter how you cut it, is an absolutely awful movie with a lot of awesome action movie-type stuff.
7. I shouldn't say "awesome" to a random guy when not listening and he just so happens to be telling me about a house burning down and dogs being inside. (1) I should be listening. (2) I should "yea" and "uh huh". (3) I should pretend to care a lot better.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Curse of Mrs. Martin
Probably the only one. Ever.
Sure, she's got a wig, pushing 97 years of ripeness, has sons that are actually 70 years old, but she's one hot piece of old-lady eye candy.
I can't help it. You should see the way she dresses. Old people pants with old people shirt. You know she ain't wearing a bra either. Nasty. She's asking for it. You know what it is. I don't need to explain.
"Hey, Mrs. Martin. How are you?"
When she talks, she doesn't. Words don't come out. She mouths something and you're left assuming she wouldn't say those types of things out loud in a restaurant. Not an old lady at least. It looks like she's saying, "Good, how are you?" But you know she's not. She's probably regurgitating some lyrics from a Ludacris song.
So you put them away in a vault, your secret hiding place in your brain until you get home, rest on the couch, only to be unlocked when you shut off Ellen during the dancy parts.
The other day my heart almost broke to see a walker by her table. When she got up, I thought it was a miracle.
"Mrs. Martin, you can walk again."
She couldn't hear. How can she unclog 97 years of filth. Instead, she walks crisply to the counter to pay for her meal and left.
"You left your walker Mrs. Martin! Mrs. Martin." Nothing. Just kept walking. She knows she wants it.
Old people: you keep getting older, and they stay the same age. It's like playing catch-up.
(Townie shakes head and realizes what's been typed cannot be untyped. He wishes for a virus to poke its head into his already lousy laptop. There is no turning back. He must forever go through life convincing people he has no lust for old people, especially said Beef Barn regular, Mrs. Martin. It is his curse.)
Question of the day:
Did referring to women as "maam" come from their maamories?
Up, Up, Down, Down, A, B, A, B, start:
1. I'm a fan of free t-shirts. Give me one and I'll promote whatever you got.
2. BUT when it comes down to it, no free t-shirt will ever be as good as the "My Vote Counts" tee I got way back in 2003. Wearing a shirt like that post-election seems ironic when the person you voted for never got into office.
3. G-chat is a new technoword I can't wrap my head around or forgive.
4. Cutting your fingernails too short is detrimental to playing ripping solos on my guitar.
5. Saying "word" was never cool, but that don't stop me.
6. There's a kid on the Mount golf team with a set of huge knockers. At least C-cup.
7. I have the type of relationship with my boss, a 70-year old lady, where I can tell her "I also have skills with wood," and she can retort without a pink slip.
8. "After Billingsly finished the second inning, he told team trainers that he felt a little discomfort in his groin. They pulled him." Is this a good thing or a bad thing?
8. "After Billingsly finished the second inning, he told team trainers that he felt a little discomfort in his groin. They pulled him." Is this a good thing or a bad thing?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Filling Your Cup With Knowledge
I spent Saturday night in Boston and saw a good share of homeless people. For the first time in my life, I don't think I gave any of them my wallet. That was weird to me because in year's past I have. Without thought. Without provocation.
It dawned on me. I have rules now. And when you have a set of rules, you must list them. While it may sound like I'm talking to bums in this post, I'm not, bums certainly don't have a laptop in their dormroom. I'm merely encouraging you good-hearted people to stop being so good-hearted like me.
Here is my "If you're a bum, I'm no longer giving you money" criteria:
1. You're not disgusting. If I've looked worse than you on any given Friday night, you're certainly not getting money from me. This is a depression, son. Get used to people not having money for ya.
2. You're standing in front of liquor store. Come on, buddy. You're that lazy that you can't move away from that place? Try a Denny's or a supermarket.
3. You don't have a bell like those guys from the Salvation Army. It's just tougher to ignore somebody with wild-bell-technique.
4. You're collecting people's loose change in a Starbucks coffee cup. I can't even afford Starbucks! You need to start getting that Newman's own shit at McDonalds or that Green Mountain hot black tar they sell at Cumberland Farms for 69 cents a cup.
5. You don't have a beard. This includes the homeless women too. If you're more well-groomed than me and most of my friends, I want your razors. You need a Moses-like beard for me.
6. If you're good looking. Just a code of conduct. You were dealt a better hand than millions of people and Mark Cuban, Ben Wallace and the chick from Ugly Betty still became more successful than you.
There's the criteria for feeding the homeless. Go now and share your new-found knowledge.
Question of the day:
Why does all German porn look like rape? I'm not admitting to watching porn here (okay, I am. shocker, right?) but there's some very important questions that need to be answered and never get cleared up because people are too scared.
Other useless knowledge:
1. I've officially accomplished the post-4-mile-run/weight lifting workout-trip to McDonald's. A McGriddle sandwich and McCafe later, I'm certifiably McFatass.
2. Speaking of being a McFatass, I think it's time to try one of those waffle sandwiches at Dunkin.
3. I probably would've used that phonebook in the street to call Park Ave. Pizza, but it's been run over 211 times.
4. I ate Japanese food for two straight nights and my shits were strong, healthy lincoln logs. Then I eat American food once and my shit turns to gravy.
5. Spring is back, which means unnaturally orange tans and guys with jacked upper bodies sporting guts are back.
6. Nobody believes a word I say 90% of the time.
It dawned on me. I have rules now. And when you have a set of rules, you must list them. While it may sound like I'm talking to bums in this post, I'm not, bums certainly don't have a laptop in their dormroom. I'm merely encouraging you good-hearted people to stop being so good-hearted like me.
Here is my "If you're a bum, I'm no longer giving you money" criteria:
1. You're not disgusting. If I've looked worse than you on any given Friday night, you're certainly not getting money from me. This is a depression, son. Get used to people not having money for ya.
2. You're standing in front of liquor store. Come on, buddy. You're that lazy that you can't move away from that place? Try a Denny's or a supermarket.
3. You don't have a bell like those guys from the Salvation Army. It's just tougher to ignore somebody with wild-bell-technique.
4. You're collecting people's loose change in a Starbucks coffee cup. I can't even afford Starbucks! You need to start getting that Newman's own shit at McDonalds or that Green Mountain hot black tar they sell at Cumberland Farms for 69 cents a cup.
5. You don't have a beard. This includes the homeless women too. If you're more well-groomed than me and most of my friends, I want your razors. You need a Moses-like beard for me.
6. If you're good looking. Just a code of conduct. You were dealt a better hand than millions of people and Mark Cuban, Ben Wallace and the chick from Ugly Betty still became more successful than you.
There's the criteria for feeding the homeless. Go now and share your new-found knowledge.
Question of the day:
Why does all German porn look like rape? I'm not admitting to watching porn here (okay, I am. shocker, right?) but there's some very important questions that need to be answered and never get cleared up because people are too scared.
Other useless knowledge:
1. I've officially accomplished the post-4-mile-run/weight lifting workout-trip to McDonald's. A McGriddle sandwich and McCafe later, I'm certifiably McFatass.
2. Speaking of being a McFatass, I think it's time to try one of those waffle sandwiches at Dunkin.
3. I probably would've used that phonebook in the street to call Park Ave. Pizza, but it's been run over 211 times.
4. I ate Japanese food for two straight nights and my shits were strong, healthy lincoln logs. Then I eat American food once and my shit turns to gravy.
5. Spring is back, which means unnaturally orange tans and guys with jacked upper bodies sporting guts are back.
6. Nobody believes a word I say 90% of the time.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Cat Scratch Fever
Like I said previously, we have a stray cat that lives here on 187 The Cottage. Sadly, that cat will live here for ever, as I don't have the time to kill it nine times.
So, instead of going ape on this feline, I'm basking in its glory.
How, just how, have I done this?
Well, for starters, I've taken some time recently to watch this little pussy scratching itself, slashing trash bags in our dumpster and protecting my house, under armour style.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, ever happens during this time of significance, but I have taken the whole experience as watching those stupid Animal Planet shows. I have, in my brain and to a very small extent, become a zoologist -- save the hot wife and education and the money and the house on hill, splashing cash like I wrote Thriller.
In my amatueric observations, I've noticed that pussy can jump. Get these things on the court with some human hands, 80's style short-shorts and a pair of slick-ass Converse All-Stars and we're talking back-to-back-to-back AAU titles Tom Emansky-style.
I figured the cat jumped a good four and a half feet or the height of my dumpster, which is about a foot more verticle leap tha that of Kobe Bryant. And we call Kobe a great athlete? Please, Garfield would be dropping triple-doubles every night if he had real hands; 10 points, 10 blocks and 10 cat turds all over your face!
So I say screw Kobe, screw Air-Bud, screw Jordan wearing the 45. There's a new pussy in town, and it sells.
Tough question:
Why is it "you're full of bologna?" We couldn't find a better deli meat to pick from?
Other things I learned today, that quite frankly, nobody gives a shit about:
1. If I sing alternative lyrics to songs that incorporate somebody's name that's around me, ultimately, nobody will know I really don't know the lyrics to any songs.
2. The last two things you want to hear a cook say are, "Oops" and "I remember you, you're the asshole that delivers my mail."
3. You should never invest your time in a 4-hour pitch game. That kind of time is invested for Risk and Risk only.
4. I used to weigh eight pounds.
5. The newspaper business is treading water in a puddle.
6. I have no idea what to do with the remaining five percent of my last three bars of soap.
7. My apartment didn't have a smell before I cleaned, now it smells worse.
So, instead of going ape on this feline, I'm basking in its glory.
How, just how, have I done this?
Well, for starters, I've taken some time recently to watch this little pussy scratching itself, slashing trash bags in our dumpster and protecting my house, under armour style.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, ever happens during this time of significance, but I have taken the whole experience as watching those stupid Animal Planet shows. I have, in my brain and to a very small extent, become a zoologist -- save the hot wife and education and the money and the house on hill, splashing cash like I wrote Thriller.
In my amatueric observations, I've noticed that pussy can jump. Get these things on the court with some human hands, 80's style short-shorts and a pair of slick-ass Converse All-Stars and we're talking back-to-back-to-back AAU titles Tom Emansky-style.
I figured the cat jumped a good four and a half feet or the height of my dumpster, which is about a foot more verticle leap tha that of Kobe Bryant. And we call Kobe a great athlete? Please, Garfield would be dropping triple-doubles every night if he had real hands; 10 points, 10 blocks and 10 cat turds all over your face!
So I say screw Kobe, screw Air-Bud, screw Jordan wearing the 45. There's a new pussy in town, and it sells.
Tough question:
Why is it "you're full of bologna?" We couldn't find a better deli meat to pick from?
Other things I learned today, that quite frankly, nobody gives a shit about:
1. If I sing alternative lyrics to songs that incorporate somebody's name that's around me, ultimately, nobody will know I really don't know the lyrics to any songs.
2. The last two things you want to hear a cook say are, "Oops" and "I remember you, you're the asshole that delivers my mail."
3. You should never invest your time in a 4-hour pitch game. That kind of time is invested for Risk and Risk only.
4. I used to weigh eight pounds.
5. The newspaper business is treading water in a puddle.
6. I have no idea what to do with the remaining five percent of my last three bars of soap.
7. My apartment didn't have a smell before I cleaned, now it smells worse.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Zapping Zombies at the Machine
Fellas and fellettes, I've seen the gates of heaven in all its majesty and not many people are in there these days.
In other words, I've been to the Dartmouth Mall recently and saw this ------>>>>
Was it possible? A childhood kingdom of yesterday's majestic Lincoln Mall arcade hast moveth away to behest the unfaithful proprietors in Land of Dartmouth? Where's the Duke of Dartmouth? We need to chat.
And, No! Saint Peter didn't have a roll of quarters. No! There wasn't a line. There wasn't anyone really. All the games, all for one.
Just like heaven, only no line and lots of judging.
All the eyes from the stuffed animals were watching me play Dance Dance Revolution, stumbling over my own feet to the highly energetic music. The 17-year old behind the counter was steering me down, ready to put the fake handcuffs on me for trespassing her adolescent haven.
Across the hall, at Asia Palace or whatever they called it, people dropped their chop sticks to watch a grown man shooting zombies.
I didn't care. I was reliving a childhood memory at an inflation rate of 50 cents per game, some a dollar.
Just as I was polishing off my zombie-killing pink handgun, a sudden glimpse of reality dawned on me. That while I was in there, all this economic hoopla, finger pointing and all, had subsided. In some small way, my reliving of childish memories of zapping rats at the 'cade had made my quasi-shitty economic state non-existent and meaningless; it made me feel like I was shooting the bad bankers and greedy CEO's that got us into this mess and could care less about what they've done.
Then, I got some penny candy with the tickets I made from skeeball and went to a meaningless high school basketball game.
Moment of the day when time stopped:
This was when I watched a stray cat in my driveway for around five minutes.
The junk draw in my brain:
1. The Coors Light life-size that previously welcomed me at the top of my stairs startles me now that the light is burned out. It's time for a breakup. It's nobody's fault.
2. Chicago's rampant time and key changes mixed with an uncompromising horn section are what makes me a fan.
3. The second step coming into my apartment looks like it'll collapse any minute, but the third one is vastly underrated. That thing is hanging by less than a nail. And, yes, I talk about my steps like athletes in the NBA draft.
4. Anyone over 60, or anyone with gray hair, wearing a backpack will undoubtedly make me think of Benjamin Button.
5. I like my coffee like I like my women... 1. ... by the pound. 2. ... under three dollars. 3. ... strung out on black tar herion.
6. I should go to a different GNC everyday and ask where they keep all the good stuff baseball players are using these days.
7. If a drink has a Caution! section, you probably shouldn't even bother trying it.
In other words, I've been to the Dartmouth Mall recently and saw this ------>>>>
Was it possible? A childhood kingdom of yesterday's majestic Lincoln Mall arcade hast moveth away to behest the unfaithful proprietors in Land of Dartmouth? Where's the Duke of Dartmouth? We need to chat.
And, No! Saint Peter didn't have a roll of quarters. No! There wasn't a line. There wasn't anyone really. All the games, all for one.
Just like heaven, only no line and lots of judging.
All the eyes from the stuffed animals were watching me play Dance Dance Revolution, stumbling over my own feet to the highly energetic music. The 17-year old behind the counter was steering me down, ready to put the fake handcuffs on me for trespassing her adolescent haven.
Across the hall, at Asia Palace or whatever they called it, people dropped their chop sticks to watch a grown man shooting zombies.
I didn't care. I was reliving a childhood memory at an inflation rate of 50 cents per game, some a dollar.
Just as I was polishing off my zombie-killing pink handgun, a sudden glimpse of reality dawned on me. That while I was in there, all this economic hoopla, finger pointing and all, had subsided. In some small way, my reliving of childish memories of zapping rats at the 'cade had made my quasi-shitty economic state non-existent and meaningless; it made me feel like I was shooting the bad bankers and greedy CEO's that got us into this mess and could care less about what they've done.
Then, I got some penny candy with the tickets I made from skeeball and went to a meaningless high school basketball game.
Moment of the day when time stopped:
This was when I watched a stray cat in my driveway for around five minutes.
The junk draw in my brain:
1. The Coors Light life-size that previously welcomed me at the top of my stairs startles me now that the light is burned out. It's time for a breakup. It's nobody's fault.
2. Chicago's rampant time and key changes mixed with an uncompromising horn section are what makes me a fan.
3. The second step coming into my apartment looks like it'll collapse any minute, but the third one is vastly underrated. That thing is hanging by less than a nail. And, yes, I talk about my steps like athletes in the NBA draft.
4. Anyone over 60, or anyone with gray hair, wearing a backpack will undoubtedly make me think of Benjamin Button.
5. I like my coffee like I like my women... 1. ... by the pound. 2. ... under three dollars. 3. ... strung out on black tar herion.
6. I should go to a different GNC everyday and ask where they keep all the good stuff baseball players are using these days.
7. If a drink has a Caution! section, you probably shouldn't even bother trying it.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Is Communion Gluten and Guilt Free?
We don't need to lie about this: I'm a sinner, you're a sinner, we're all sinners, right? My frequency might be a little more or less (probably more), so it goes without saying that when I say I went to church for the first time in around six or seven years, you know I'm having a tough time.
I sweat profusely in the front row, like Patrick Ewing in opening game warm-ups. I should have brought a sweat rag for my face. The candles were just burning. It was like a eulog on a summer day.
And that music?! How come Chris Brown isn't getting violent on these dudes? Why's he gangbanging the hotties with good voices? Take down the choir directors for christ sakes. How am I supposed to focus on when to sit, kneel and stand if you're putting me to sleep with this non-top 40 elevator music? I got an attention you're supposed to keep.
Oh, and I liked when they got to the hymn with a weird rhythm, seemingly too many words to fit in a four-measure bar, the director just stopped singing and left his choir under the bus like Keanu Reeves did in the movie Speed.
I was nervous. I felt a pain in Da-Chest like Chris Farley in Da-Bears sketch with John Goodman.
I was behind enemy lines. I felt every set of eyes on the back of my head, which is why when I saw a total milf walk by me, I hesitantly followed her to her seat even though she sat all the way in the back. Hey, I'm heartless, not dickless.
I felt like John-Wilkes Booth caught in a southern barn, surrounded by a hundred gun-toting infantry.
I prevailed, though, and my wallet was still in my pants. Apparently, if you don't want to give money you don't have, you just don't give it. What a misconception.
Thing I did while bored today:
Watched Peter Gammons continuously slur words when talking about the Toronto Blue Jay's bullpen depth.
Random, yet, unsinful things I learned today:
1. The man/woman ratio at Christmas Tree Shop is around 1:14. I also discovered the ratio of happy men/happy women is around 0:14. It seems men don't really enjoy being lugged around by their spouses while they shop for fake decorative fruit or the perfect scented candle.
2. A line forms at Guitar Center on Sundays.
3. There's no way to test a guitar's sound when jerk--white-kid-with-the-backwards-Dodgers-hat is ripping solos from And Justice For All.
4. Hearing emo-punks from behind the counter at Newbury Comics sing oldies is actually heartwarming.
5. People shouldn't be biking in freezing rain.
6. It's tough to tell somebody you don't want to help with community service because you have an addiction to playing Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare on Xbox Live.
7. I can find a way to make a pun with "a broad" (as in skank) with "abroad" (overseas).
I sweat profusely in the front row, like Patrick Ewing in opening game warm-ups. I should have brought a sweat rag for my face. The candles were just burning. It was like a eulog on a summer day.
And that music?! How come Chris Brown isn't getting violent on these dudes? Why's he gangbanging the hotties with good voices? Take down the choir directors for christ sakes. How am I supposed to focus on when to sit, kneel and stand if you're putting me to sleep with this non-top 40 elevator music? I got an attention you're supposed to keep.
Oh, and I liked when they got to the hymn with a weird rhythm, seemingly too many words to fit in a four-measure bar, the director just stopped singing and left his choir under the bus like Keanu Reeves did in the movie Speed.
I was nervous. I felt a pain in Da-Chest like Chris Farley in Da-Bears sketch with John Goodman.
I was behind enemy lines. I felt every set of eyes on the back of my head, which is why when I saw a total milf walk by me, I hesitantly followed her to her seat even though she sat all the way in the back. Hey, I'm heartless, not dickless.
I felt like John-Wilkes Booth caught in a southern barn, surrounded by a hundred gun-toting infantry.
I prevailed, though, and my wallet was still in my pants. Apparently, if you don't want to give money you don't have, you just don't give it. What a misconception.
Thing I did while bored today:
Watched Peter Gammons continuously slur words when talking about the Toronto Blue Jay's bullpen depth.
Random, yet, unsinful things I learned today:
1. The man/woman ratio at Christmas Tree Shop is around 1:14. I also discovered the ratio of happy men/happy women is around 0:14. It seems men don't really enjoy being lugged around by their spouses while they shop for fake decorative fruit or the perfect scented candle.
2. A line forms at Guitar Center on Sundays.
3. There's no way to test a guitar's sound when jerk--white-kid-with-the-backwards-Dodgers-hat is ripping solos from And Justice For All.
4. Hearing emo-punks from behind the counter at Newbury Comics sing oldies is actually heartwarming.
5. People shouldn't be biking in freezing rain.
6. It's tough to tell somebody you don't want to help with community service because you have an addiction to playing Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare on Xbox Live.
7. I can find a way to make a pun with "a broad" (as in skank) with "abroad" (overseas).
Monday, February 16, 2009
As the Red Coats would say, "Who would wear those bloody pants?"
I wear red sweatpants. Often. Unabashed.
Seriously red, seriously ugly, and seriously comfortable. They're like Uggs, only affordable.
Let me break down for you. These aren't just any old sweatpants, these pants have a story. One Halloween I said to myself, what's the grossest, easiest costume I can come up with that people won't understand if I'm dressed up or really taking matching to another level.
So, I decided I would be a used tampon. Screw it, we're all adults. Looking back, probably not the tasteful costume I ever came up with, but I wasn't trick-or-treating with my nephews ("Your kids are so cute, but what are you dressed up as??" Oh, I'm a grown-up used tampon. I fit in the largest of vaginas.)
Finding a red sweatshirt wasn't a problem, I got one that I keep locked away that I wear once a year on Christmas. The hard part of this costume was finding the same red sweatpants I love and adore today. I went to all sorts of sporting goods places to no avail. "What kind of self-respecting sporting good store doesn't carry red sweatpants?!" I yelled. Turns out, every one actually has respect for themselves and doesn't carry the most noticable of sweatpants.
Finally, I said to myself, "Who wears red sweatpants?" Santa Clause, homeless people, the pope. Then, I ask, "Where do homeless people shop?" Trashcans, Wal-Mart, any place that has condiments on the counter that they can steal.
I went to Wal-Mart and I see the pants in the corner of my eye glaring through a sea of trash: some kid is crying, some old man looking at bra's and panties in the women's section, some really old guy is trying to put a smiley sticker on me. I walk over and there they were in all their majesty. A white string and everything.
Suddenly, the terrible idea of going through with this stupid, stupid, tasteless costume, subsided. The stars aligned. "All this awesome and still only three bucks?" I said. I bought them immediately. The best thing is that the cashier didn't give me the awkward "you're-buying-this?" look because she's so accustomed of ugly things going over her little scanner.
I wore them and only two people found the costume funny. The others, didn't want to know me. I wasn't the same god-fearing Justin Townsend they remembered from high school. I changed. (Picture: notice the x-mas sweater, then the white string to tighten my red pants.)
Nowadays, I wear these Santa-pants everywhere. They sufficiently succeed in making me look like one of two people I scarily admire: gym teachers and homeless people (which are a whistle away from being the same person, if you think about it).
Oh, and the classic, person-that-just-rolled-out-of-bed-with-a-hangover-trying-to-get-to-work.
Personality trait that failed me once again:
Being caught picking my nose. We all do it, not as many do it as anti-covertly as me.
Random stuff I learned that you didn't:
1. Nothing quite makes me laugh like infomercials for Snuggies and Hip Hop Abs. If you ever catch me watching these or asking to, just consider it like any other friend asking to watch George Carlin or that no talent ass-clown Dane Cook.
2. Why Dunkin Donuts puts jimmies on absolutely everything is beyond me. Do they think its easy driving, texting, and trying to keep these virtually tasteless yet colorful irritants from getting into every tiny crevise in my car?
3. I don't love my car that much. I just needed something stupid to write about the otehr day.
4. Spelling mistakes don't bother me, but when a person doesn't know the first president of the greatest nation I get ripping mad and ashamed.
5. Turns out I'm not the only one confused by your stupid shoes. MSN.com is apparently asking the same questions.
Seriously red, seriously ugly, and seriously comfortable. They're like Uggs, only affordable.
Let me break down for you. These aren't just any old sweatpants, these pants have a story. One Halloween I said to myself, what's the grossest, easiest costume I can come up with that people won't understand if I'm dressed up or really taking matching to another level.
So, I decided I would be a used tampon. Screw it, we're all adults. Looking back, probably not the tasteful costume I ever came up with, but I wasn't trick-or-treating with my nephews ("Your kids are so cute, but what are you dressed up as??" Oh, I'm a grown-up used tampon. I fit in the largest of vaginas.)
Finding a red sweatshirt wasn't a problem, I got one that I keep locked away that I wear once a year on Christmas. The hard part of this costume was finding the same red sweatpants I love and adore today. I went to all sorts of sporting goods places to no avail. "What kind of self-respecting sporting good store doesn't carry red sweatpants?!" I yelled. Turns out, every one actually has respect for themselves and doesn't carry the most noticable of sweatpants.
Finally, I said to myself, "Who wears red sweatpants?" Santa Clause, homeless people, the pope. Then, I ask, "Where do homeless people shop?" Trashcans, Wal-Mart, any place that has condiments on the counter that they can steal.
I went to Wal-Mart and I see the pants in the corner of my eye glaring through a sea of trash: some kid is crying, some old man looking at bra's and panties in the women's section, some really old guy is trying to put a smiley sticker on me. I walk over and there they were in all their majesty. A white string and everything.
Suddenly, the terrible idea of going through with this stupid, stupid, tasteless costume, subsided. The stars aligned. "All this awesome and still only three bucks?" I said. I bought them immediately. The best thing is that the cashier didn't give me the awkward "you're-buying-this?" look because she's so accustomed of ugly things going over her little scanner.
I wore them and only two people found the costume funny. The others, didn't want to know me. I wasn't the same god-fearing Justin Townsend they remembered from high school. I changed. (Picture: notice the x-mas sweater, then the white string to tighten my red pants.)
Nowadays, I wear these Santa-pants everywhere. They sufficiently succeed in making me look like one of two people I scarily admire: gym teachers and homeless people (which are a whistle away from being the same person, if you think about it).
Oh, and the classic, person-that-just-rolled-out-of-bed-with-a-hangover-trying-to-get-to-work.
Personality trait that failed me once again:
Being caught picking my nose. We all do it, not as many do it as anti-covertly as me.
Random stuff I learned that you didn't:
1. Nothing quite makes me laugh like infomercials for Snuggies and Hip Hop Abs. If you ever catch me watching these or asking to, just consider it like any other friend asking to watch George Carlin or that no talent ass-clown Dane Cook.
2. Why Dunkin Donuts puts jimmies on absolutely everything is beyond me. Do they think its easy driving, texting, and trying to keep these virtually tasteless yet colorful irritants from getting into every tiny crevise in my car?
3. I don't love my car that much. I just needed something stupid to write about the otehr day.
4. Spelling mistakes don't bother me, but when a person doesn't know the first president of the greatest nation I get ripping mad and ashamed.
5. Turns out I'm not the only one confused by your stupid shoes. MSN.com is apparently asking the same questions.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Losing My Car
My dear 5-year-old sweet Silver Bullet, will you ever forgive me?
I may have named you after a trashy beer, but I never expected you to get hit by somebody that looked like she had a few.
It was icy. I understand and you don't deserve what you're going through. You should have your owner by your side.
You see, you didn't do anything wrong and you get punished. It's not like you came out and hit that moving car. You were parked and that's what makes me so upset. You could be perfectly happy right now; enjoying my loud music, hot coffee spills and being used as my dirty clothes hamper, but, no, you're locked up in an unheated garage in West Warwick, of all places.
West Warwick. What a shithole.
I know you miss your owner, and I miss you too.
I've had my share of shit stacked high too. I have to deal with these customer service people, two insurance companies, a rental car company. Did you know how many times I was asked to hold? A thousand.
"Your street, sir?"
Cottage.
"Ok. Please hold."
two seconds later.
"Your city, sir?"
Woonsocket.
"Okay. Pleeeeeease hold."
two seconds later.
"Zip code?"
"02895"
"Ok. Can you hold for me?"
That's not fun. Nor is cheating on you with another car. Sure, the Dodge Avenger has a much better name than Civic, and may have a V6, and satellite radio built in, and a more stylish look to it, but it's not you, Silver Bullet. I may be driving some more beautiful than you, but I'm not replacing you. You know you do things to me that no other car can replicate. Plus, we all know it's not cheating if you're in a different zip code.
I miss you and I can't wait to have you back. That's a fact.
But before I have you back, though, I'm going to need to hold. Can you hold?
While I was bored:
Played a new 3-on-3 NHL game for the Xbox 360. Very fun. swoosh.
Supplemental shit that doesn't earn me supplemental CASH:
1. My barber pats my hair, on an average, 79 times. He also takes a 45-minutes to cut it.
2. When I was going to Grove St. Elementary, the spiked haircut was the shit. Nothing was better. Now, Grove St. Elementary is luxary apartments and every tenant sports a fauxhawk. Whats-the-world-coming-too Moment No. 200! Dynasty.
3. Triple chocolate chip muffins continue to baffle me, but I will continue my investigation. I hope that by 2012 - or type-2 diabetes - I can close the case of the triple-chocolate chip muffin.
4. With a slight rip of Chappelle's Show's skit "The Mad Real World", where one white dude is thrown in with a house-full of black people, I'd like to make another version, using the current as my backdrop. It'd be a house-full of transvestites and just one very straight, homophobic dude.
5. Karaoke can't be fun unless the crazy people sing. So stop shaking your head.
6. Not many Xbox 360's work for too long.
7. I'll say it: Rihanna shouldn't have opened her mouth. I don't care. Jay Z doesn't read my blog.
I may have named you after a trashy beer, but I never expected you to get hit by somebody that looked like she had a few.
It was icy. I understand and you don't deserve what you're going through. You should have your owner by your side.
You see, you didn't do anything wrong and you get punished. It's not like you came out and hit that moving car. You were parked and that's what makes me so upset. You could be perfectly happy right now; enjoying my loud music, hot coffee spills and being used as my dirty clothes hamper, but, no, you're locked up in an unheated garage in West Warwick, of all places.
West Warwick. What a shithole.
I know you miss your owner, and I miss you too.
I've had my share of shit stacked high too. I have to deal with these customer service people, two insurance companies, a rental car company. Did you know how many times I was asked to hold? A thousand.
"Your street, sir?"
Cottage.
"Ok. Please hold."
two seconds later.
"Your city, sir?"
Woonsocket.
"Okay. Pleeeeeease hold."
two seconds later.
"Zip code?"
"02895"
"Ok. Can you hold for me?"
That's not fun. Nor is cheating on you with another car. Sure, the Dodge Avenger has a much better name than Civic, and may have a V6, and satellite radio built in, and a more stylish look to it, but it's not you, Silver Bullet. I may be driving some more beautiful than you, but I'm not replacing you. You know you do things to me that no other car can replicate. Plus, we all know it's not cheating if you're in a different zip code.
I miss you and I can't wait to have you back. That's a fact.
But before I have you back, though, I'm going to need to hold. Can you hold?
While I was bored:
Played a new 3-on-3 NHL game for the Xbox 360. Very fun. swoosh.
Supplemental shit that doesn't earn me supplemental CASH:
1. My barber pats my hair, on an average, 79 times. He also takes a 45-minutes to cut it.
2. When I was going to Grove St. Elementary, the spiked haircut was the shit. Nothing was better. Now, Grove St. Elementary is luxary apartments and every tenant sports a fauxhawk. Whats-the-world-coming-too Moment No. 200! Dynasty.
3. Triple chocolate chip muffins continue to baffle me, but I will continue my investigation. I hope that by 2012 - or type-2 diabetes - I can close the case of the triple-chocolate chip muffin.
4. With a slight rip of Chappelle's Show's skit "The Mad Real World", where one white dude is thrown in with a house-full of black people, I'd like to make another version, using the current as my backdrop. It'd be a house-full of transvestites and just one very straight, homophobic dude.
5. Karaoke can't be fun unless the crazy people sing. So stop shaking your head.
6. Not many Xbox 360's work for too long.
7. I'll say it: Rihanna shouldn't have opened her mouth. I don't care. Jay Z doesn't read my blog.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Wrestling is still real in my eyes.
If there's one thing I'm wrong about in this whole blog thing, it'll probably be in this one specific blog. All the others are factual and if you contest it, I'll dropkick you.
Because tonight. I watched. Wrestling.
Thee Royale de Rumble, to be specific. With my Dad and Mem and Pep. Three Generations of family, 30 wrestlers, and it was good.
There's a lot to say about this.
The first person I want to eliminate and throw over the top rope is my brother.
Russ, you wanted a shout out on my blog? You got it, like Undertaker cold-cocking The Big Show with twenty straight haymakers to the jugular. He was alright, though, because, you know wrestling is real and stuff.
All I'm saying is, at least The Big Show showed up. And he knew an ass kicking was coming his way. The entire ride to the Joe Louis Arena in Detroit he sat in his car, trying to get his mind off being triple-teamed by a bunch of sweaty dudes.
What's wrong with you, dude? How do you miss the Royal Rumble? Nonetheless, I don't care if you got some weird bubonic plague-like rash on your face that even House can't figure out. You can't miss the Royal Rumble. Better men have climbed mountains to get a chance at earning first-contender rights at Wrestlemania.
Way to ruin Christmas. That's all I'm saying.
(please note: said writer of said blog recognizes the outward hypocracy in missing Super Shitty Bowl next week due to a basketball game that will most likely be forfeited, yet still berating big brother about wrestling.)
The second person I want to close-line over the top rope, and while he's hanging for dear life is me.
How did I sit through that and not drop 30-40 F-bombs? I can't believe I refrained from calling anyone a cocksucker at least once. And you know I hate that cocksucker Shawn Michaels with all my heart. Maybe if my Mem and Pep dropped a "jerkoff"or an "asshole", I would've.
Whatever, there's always Wrestlemania.
Lastly, I want to throw every fan in Joe Louis over the ropes. But only because that'd be an incredibly large Royal Rumble concept.
Things I've learned while reliving my adolescent passion for fake competitions:
1. Hacksaw Jim Duggan is still alive, and willing to risk his life at 69 years old to revive his career, only to be throw out of the ring in a little over one minute.
2. Bras no longer get ripped off during the women's matches. Apparently, they're legitimate now or something.
3. Shawn Michaels still looks 25 and I still can't believe he double-crossed Martie Genetie.
4. Gimmicks are a thing of the past. Everybody uses stage names like, Randy Orton and shit like that. No more Dunk the Clown or Papa Shongo. Just two guys with the last name Hardy that are gay for each other. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
5. Watching guys with their shirts off in tights fighting each other = really awesome. Watching guys with their shirts off in tights dancing = Chippendales.
6. Wrestling is real.
7. Cowboy hats are very fashionable.
8. I couldn't refuse thinking of Mickey Rourke's performance in "The Wrestler" the entire time.
Because tonight. I watched. Wrestling.
Thee Royale de Rumble, to be specific. With my Dad and Mem and Pep. Three Generations of family, 30 wrestlers, and it was good.
There's a lot to say about this.
The first person I want to eliminate and throw over the top rope is my brother.
Russ, you wanted a shout out on my blog? You got it, like Undertaker cold-cocking The Big Show with twenty straight haymakers to the jugular. He was alright, though, because, you know wrestling is real and stuff.
All I'm saying is, at least The Big Show showed up. And he knew an ass kicking was coming his way. The entire ride to the Joe Louis Arena in Detroit he sat in his car, trying to get his mind off being triple-teamed by a bunch of sweaty dudes.
What's wrong with you, dude? How do you miss the Royal Rumble? Nonetheless, I don't care if you got some weird bubonic plague-like rash on your face that even House can't figure out. You can't miss the Royal Rumble. Better men have climbed mountains to get a chance at earning first-contender rights at Wrestlemania.
Way to ruin Christmas. That's all I'm saying.
(please note: said writer of said blog recognizes the outward hypocracy in missing Super Shitty Bowl next week due to a basketball game that will most likely be forfeited, yet still berating big brother about wrestling.)
The second person I want to close-line over the top rope, and while he's hanging for dear life is me.
How did I sit through that and not drop 30-40 F-bombs? I can't believe I refrained from calling anyone a cocksucker at least once. And you know I hate that cocksucker Shawn Michaels with all my heart. Maybe if my Mem and Pep dropped a "jerkoff"or an "asshole", I would've.
Whatever, there's always Wrestlemania.
Lastly, I want to throw every fan in Joe Louis over the ropes. But only because that'd be an incredibly large Royal Rumble concept.
Things I've learned while reliving my adolescent passion for fake competitions:
1. Hacksaw Jim Duggan is still alive, and willing to risk his life at 69 years old to revive his career, only to be throw out of the ring in a little over one minute.
2. Bras no longer get ripped off during the women's matches. Apparently, they're legitimate now or something.
3. Shawn Michaels still looks 25 and I still can't believe he double-crossed Martie Genetie.
4. Gimmicks are a thing of the past. Everybody uses stage names like, Randy Orton and shit like that. No more Dunk the Clown or Papa Shongo. Just two guys with the last name Hardy that are gay for each other. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
5. Watching guys with their shirts off in tights fighting each other = really awesome. Watching guys with their shirts off in tights dancing = Chippendales.
6. Wrestling is real.
7. Cowboy hats are very fashionable.
8. I couldn't refuse thinking of Mickey Rourke's performance in "The Wrestler" the entire time.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Only you can prevent people from wearing stupid-looking boots
Today is the day I warn the general public about a serious epidemic spreading across the greater Northeast: UGGly boots.I don't care if you wear them, this isn't for you; your brain failed you the moment you saw these over-priced, unfashionable footwear and thought you could be more popular with them. I can't reason with you. You're already a lost cause.
What I can reason with, however, is the on-the-fence-of-a-ridiculous-purchase-people. I'm here for you. We can get through this.
Yes. We. Can.
This is an epidemic and it is seriously sweeping away mine and your best friends, family members and the Olsen twins. They're lining up at salad bars and the 12-items or less line at the supermarket. They're in your bathroom and in your pantry. They're in your dreams kicking snow and sledding down Dead Man's Hill.
Don't go down Dead Man's Hill with them!
You see, you wouldn't put a brown paper bag over your feet would you? I wouldn't. You wouldn't. Now, what if I said that brown paper bag might be legitimately warm, unquestionably ugly, and coming in at a whopping $250 cash.
That's drug money. You don't have drug money do you? I know I don't and if I did I wouldn't drop a portion of it for a brown paper bag.
I'd also like to point out something else. Look outside. Take a good look. In your front yard is there a sled with, let's say, 16 Alaskan huskies? Is there, perhaps, over two feet of snow?
No? Oh, that's probably because you don't live in the Yukon or are participating in the Iditarod. Hey! Seeing that you don't live there, you probably shouldn't dress like you do. The Yukon isn't that cool. On Planet Earth there was nothing about people in the Yukon sipping on mocha lattes and asking Bret Bretterson to the prom. They don't even know who Barack Obama is. How can you be cool and not know Barack?
And I'm not even going to get into the folks that wear these furry, calf-high boots with skirts. That's another story for another time.
So, folks who are on the fringe of minor mental retardation, don't waste your cash to look like an extra in Willow.
And by all means if you have a friend questioning whether or not they'll look ridiculous in a pair of unfashionable boots, help them out. Friends don't let friends look stupid. It's a law.
While bored:
Looked at my laundry pile up.
Feeble attempts at humor:
1. I frequently call friend's babies/nephews/kids, "it" instead of he or she/him or her. When I do call them him or her, I choose the opposite sex. The parents don't really enjoy that.
2. Dick's sporting goods store never has your size shoe.
3. Tall people should be working really hard to not look goofy. You stick out more than us short people. Work on being a little coordinated, else be smacked in the head with a snowball. By all means, don't dance.
4. Writing checks don't necessarily make you an adult. Oddly enough, bouncing checks does.
5. It wouldn't be Cambridge if a student-made indie film wasn't being shown on a projector in a bar at 11:00pm.
6. Obama should've been given a better welcoming to the White House than Michael Jordan used to in Chicago.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Almost old enough to say, "I told you so."
Am I getting old or what?
Here I am, just two days away from being veinte-seis, and I can't think of getting head-over-heals smashed. I'm losing it, man. I'm friggan losing it.
Let's take it from the top, alright?
Last night, I stayed up, and had people over, to watch Top Chef. I have inside jokes with friends about Top Chef and firmly believe that watching Top Chef and having inside jokes about Top Scallop are true signs of growing old.
You need more proof, right? How about if I told you that during Top Scallop, there was a commercial for The Real Wives of the OC and I wanted to see the episode?
What if I told you that I won't shave unless I absolutely have to?
How about if I told you I'm learning French one word at a time from a retired French teacher at the high school?
What if I told you that when the really old jerks (what? they're too afraid of technology to have a computer) come into Beef Barn and talk about cribbage night, I actually flirt with the idea of joining them. Flirt.
Do you need more proof?
I don't think so.
So, If you ever feel like hanging out with an old geezer like me, I'll be down at the VFW playing bocce or something. Waiting in line to die with everyone else.
Thing I did while bored today:
Looked up words that end with the letter "Z". Yes, I'm playing Scrabble online again folks. Just another sign of old age.
Random stuff I learned while slipping on ice:
1. Cumulus clouds are the best for picturing boobs in. Stratus, the larger ones that bring 8-10 inches of snow, are best for cursing at the top of your lungs.
2. After years, I've finally realized there is no reason why I should write "L7" instead of "L8" when ending a conversation online. At first, it was cheeky, but only because I really didn't know what L8 was referring too. I learned that night what it was, but I never changed my habit.
3. I had a dream Rocco and his Dad made people pay money to talk to them about his coming to the Red Sox.
4. You can't precede anything with "I had a dream" without sounding like Martin Luther King Jr. Even if it's something as rediculous as what I just wrote.
5. Jack Bauer is a pretty bad man.
6. American Idol now has four judges. Three more than it needs. Hang them I say!
7. A modern-day, made-for-tv movie about The Crucible would be great. Imagine Mark McGwire wearing the same clothes Winona Ryder wore as Abigaile Williams.
Here I am, just two days away from being veinte-seis, and I can't think of getting head-over-heals smashed. I'm losing it, man. I'm friggan losing it.
Let's take it from the top, alright?
Last night, I stayed up, and had people over, to watch Top Chef. I have inside jokes with friends about Top Chef and firmly believe that watching Top Chef and having inside jokes about Top Scallop are true signs of growing old.
You need more proof, right? How about if I told you that during Top Scallop, there was a commercial for The Real Wives of the OC and I wanted to see the episode?
What if I told you that I won't shave unless I absolutely have to?
How about if I told you I'm learning French one word at a time from a retired French teacher at the high school?
What if I told you that when the really old jerks (what? they're too afraid of technology to have a computer) come into Beef Barn and talk about cribbage night, I actually flirt with the idea of joining them. Flirt.
Do you need more proof?
I don't think so.
So, If you ever feel like hanging out with an old geezer like me, I'll be down at the VFW playing bocce or something. Waiting in line to die with everyone else.
Thing I did while bored today:
Looked up words that end with the letter "Z". Yes, I'm playing Scrabble online again folks. Just another sign of old age.
Random stuff I learned while slipping on ice:
1. Cumulus clouds are the best for picturing boobs in. Stratus, the larger ones that bring 8-10 inches of snow, are best for cursing at the top of your lungs.
2. After years, I've finally realized there is no reason why I should write "L7" instead of "L8" when ending a conversation online. At first, it was cheeky, but only because I really didn't know what L8 was referring too. I learned that night what it was, but I never changed my habit.
3. I had a dream Rocco and his Dad made people pay money to talk to them about his coming to the Red Sox.
4. You can't precede anything with "I had a dream" without sounding like Martin Luther King Jr. Even if it's something as rediculous as what I just wrote.
5. Jack Bauer is a pretty bad man.
6. American Idol now has four judges. Three more than it needs. Hang them I say!
7. A modern-day, made-for-tv movie about The Crucible would be great. Imagine Mark McGwire wearing the same clothes Winona Ryder wore as Abigaile Williams.
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