Flammable?
Current mood: dorky
Category: Quiz/Survey
Oh, Gustav, you wily little gay bitch. You petered out over Louisiana and have been trudging ever so woefully up our way, today dumping your wet shit all over us and wreaking havoc in my little enclave known as "Biblethumpaville".
I say that with the utmost endearment of course. I mean, we need the rain here. The good Lord has bestowed nothing but abundant sunshine our way for three months, leaving a trail of brown grass, attack bees the size of Boeing jets and shit smelling foulness from all the baking manure being sewn upon the celery farms over here. Now we get rain...as a precursor for that same good Lord reminding us that, 'Hey! You live in West Michigan, remember? Heads up because in a few months I'm gonna sock you in the nuts with about twelve feet of snow! Ha ha, dipshit!"
What was I saying?
Oh yeah. Since it was raining, people this morning were freaking the hell out while driving. Apparently, we have forgotten about precipitation and how it relates to driving conditions. Well, how rain doesn't affect the driving conditions much. But, you could have fooled a half a million people here, because it was backed up on the expressway like shit stalls at a local taverns "Beat the bladder Night".
Of course, this gave me time to release a lot of the pent up dirty words due to my Tourette's that I have been avoiding and observe...LICK MY SWEATY BUTT HOLE ASS COCK...some strange things on the roads.
Which brings me to this.
When you see a fuel truck, or an oil truck, you always see that red flame sticker marked "flammable" right? I mean, should that thing ever get a lit cigarette flicked at it while parked at the local Gas N Sip, sayonara Grand Rapids, right? So that's a no-brainer.
And we know that methane gas, released when one breaks wind after eating Taco Bell and drinking Miller High Life, amongst other things, is pretty lethal in itself. I mean we all know that cow's are fucking up our environment with their poots, and we know that one can light a fart if the conditions are right.
So let me ask you this.
Why don't those Septic Trucks aka "shit wagons" that haul tons of human crap, have a "flammable" sticker on them? I mean, can you imagine the gas built up in those things? All sloshing around like a Dr. Jeckyl mixture of used corn and sauerkraut? What do you think would happen if that fucker caught a lit match? How horrible would that be?
It's too horrible to imagine.
God, I love juvenile humor.
Poot. Hehehe...
This might be the single most stupid, idiotic, retarded post in the history of writing. A new low.
A very good friend of mine from waaaaay back in college and I made our rounds to a few local establishments Saturday night, despite the fact that I am in serious "money deficiency mode".
But, I watched Thank You For Smoking for the 104th time the night before, so I felt extremely confident in my ability to argue and to weasel drinks out of people like the cheap bastard that I am through debating why I needed those drinks despite the fact that I don't have much cash.
My argument was along the lines of, "Hey, the price to play with Matty is at least three beers. No beers, no Matty."
Worked like a charm. I had twelve.
I'm not going to mindlessly drivel on about the night and how intoxicated I was (actually, I wasn't, I was a good boy) or how some youngster was growing balls in front of myself, my friend and Mike, a six foot four, 250 pound ex-wrestler, because he found "liquid courage" in the form of a Pabst Blue Ribbon 24 ounce can.
That would not only be obvious, but boring. And boring sucks.
But, I will reveal two truths from the three hours I was out that night that I feel need to be mentioned then addressed. You need to know this if you are ever going to partake in a night of drunken debauchery with me, because, well, I'll not shut up about it all night long.
I never said I wasn't annoying.
1). My brain must contain the largest stash of useless, turd like information on Earth.
With respect to Mr. Jones (who does not grace us with his presence on here anymore. I guess he has a life), I am the person with the second most knowledge of useless shit on Planet Earth.
I love trivia games. I don't know why, put me in front of a Trivial Pursuit, Scene-It, Buzz or NTN at a bar and I can be a one man wrecking crew. (Not a pain in the ass, "in your face you dumb ballsac", kind of trivia player, by the way, those losers). I played at least six different career bar trivia people the other night (the ones with something like 1 million plus points nationwide) and mopped their asses up. It wasn't even close. They looked at me like I was at first some smartass punk kid that had no business making them look like fools at their game in their house (a bar).
But, after the second game, I was looked at like I was their god, sent from the outside where the sun shines.
And after the third, well, I was anointed King of the Dipshits, a crown I proudly wear because I am, in fact, a dipshit.
Lesson: I may not be able to figure out how to balance a checkbook or make a birdhouse, but ask me who produced the song "Thank You Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin" in 1969 and you're going down.
It's Sly and the Family Stone, for the record.
2). Alcohol creates an increase in tone deafness.
This is for all of you serial karaoke singers out there.
Ninety percent of you suck. Myself included. (see: Paradise by the Dashboard Light). But here is the kicker.
I know I suck at it. And to many of your defenses, you know you suck, too.
I am referring to the people that think they're auditioning for American Idol, despite being ten beers and a few shots deep. They can't even speak coherent sentences, but they go right on up and sit up there and belt out "With or Without You" thinking they sound like Bono, when in fact, they sound like Boner from Growing Pains. They're so serious, too. Their body movements, all flailing around like ferrets in water, like they are in concert, dancing, trying to get the crowd all whooped up. I've seen comedy shows less funny that those asshats up there.
Oh, and by the way, Boner. Tell your girlfriend that L.A. Gear and Stonewashed jeans went bye-bye two decades ago. Did you get the memo?
And even the neighborhood cat is covering its ears from her attempt at Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors".
Lesson: If you want to sing for fun and knowingly make yourself look like an ass, you'll get my full props and drink up. If you plan on singing seriously, stay off the sauce.
Consider yourselves taught.
"I don't have an M.D. or a law degree. But I have a bachelor's degree in kicking ass and taking names." - Nick Naylor
Who wants to hang out sometime with me? It's always fun and I'll even make sure I have some money on me.
And actually, I agree that the "kid growing a sac in front of us thanks to PBR" would've been a better blog. Next time.
Because the story needs to be told and told again
Current mood: tired
Category: Quiz/Survey
This is one story that bears repeating, especially since it has been over a year since I last told it. The perpetrator already knows I am doing this, so, oh well. Perhaps things have changed since this little incident, eh? Nope, assuredly not. ****************************************************************
A quickie for this morning. And as anyone who knows how I operate, a quickie is damn near consistent with my performance.
(Did I write that one out loud? Sorry. So much for bragging.)
I have a good friend of mine whom I will name "Ricky Bobby" who had an episode that bears writing about. Yes, it involves sexual activity, so, those of you that think that I write way too much about "gettin' it on" are absolutely correct. It must have to do with the Cialis I've been taking as a vitamin of late. But I digress.
We all were at another friends house last week. This friend is in need of a "slump buster". His name may or may not be Guido. Now you all should know what a "slump buster" is by now, from our last lesson, right boys and girls? Well, we were at his house sipping on Miller High Life, watching Dutch and Claudette crush Vic Mackey on "The Shield", strategizing how we were going to get him some poonani.
Simple enough. Call anyone with two tits, a hole and a heartbeat. I didn't have to do any work, since I know very little female life forms in this area, even after a year of being here. So that fell into the lap of Ricky Bobby. He called a few women and the banter went back a forth, "Get over here. We're having a few drinks." In pretty much every case, that line was not working. But, it did once. And two women agreed to partake. After they went to the bar, of course.
So, the night went along. There are three guys, watching TV, drinking the High Life, a total circle jerk, without the "jerk" part, until it gets late and us visitors excuse ourselves to head to our respective homes, pass out and get to work on time the following morning. Too bad for Guido, the friend in the slump. No poonani tonight.
A few hours later, Ricky Bobby, who is now safely tucked away in his own bed, receives a phone call from the drunk females who intended on joining in that night. He informs the females that he was now at home and that the party was over. They don't care, for it is him they want to see. Being a super nice guy, as well as in a complete drunken stupor, he agrees to let them come over to his house and crash.
Bad move.
Here's why.
There are two women and one other dude that my friend Ricky Bobby does not know. Once they get to the house, one of the women and the random hoagie that SHE picked up at the bar head to one bedroom and the rest can be heard in audio tape of two monkeys fucking a football. They were going at it. That right good, too.
The other female, from all accounts, through thick beer goggles, was the size of a Buick, and she virtually attacks Ricky Bobby and ends up giving him a blow job. OK, no man can resist one of those, especially from some woman the size of a Buick (fat girls give the best blow jobs...I heard that rumor somewhere...just think of someone else is all). He finishes, they both pass out, night over.
The next morning, Ricky Bobby sees the carnage next to him. He immediately ushers the people out of his house and gets ready for work. Upon return to his house later on in the day, he notices that his bed is unusually wet, soaking wet, in one large spot. He examines more closely, wondering what it could be. Beer? No. Sweat? Good god, those are some active sweat glands on that beast. Uh-oh...
It was piss.
The Buick lady peed all over his bed in the middle of the night. I suggested he might've given her a golden shower during some point. He assured me otherwise.
Now RB's mattress is a funky, smelly cesspool of stale used beer and Taco Bell.
He is, how do you say...a tad upset?
I said that he was paying for the blow job, whether he liked it or not.
My question to you is, is that a fair price for a blow job these days?
If so, I better save my money and pick up some matches and lighter fluid. Because I will burn the fucking bed before I have to deal with that shit.
What do you think? Is that nasty? Does it "serve him right"? Who wants to get it on with my friend Guido, for God's sake?
Currently
listening
:
It's Hard
By
The Who
Release date: 1997-06-03
"Back to school, back to school, to prove to my dad that I’m not a fool"
Current mood: okay
Category: News and Politics
Okay. I've seen them all now at the local Wal-Marts and grocery stores and even, in some cases, young ladies slumming around the beer stores trying to get perverted old men like me to purchase alcohol for them, which I am glad to do if I can get invited back to their dorm room, sit in the corner, watch them disrobe after two wine coolers and jerk off while wearing batting gloves.
Yep. The college kids are back!
Actually, I stumbled upon an article that I want to reference and label "bullshit".
The article was "Healthy Advice for College", written under the guise of guiding college freshman into the first of four (maybe five, six or, if you're Tommy Boy, seven) years of college life. It was filled with the usual blah, blah crap that most parents fill their spawn with upon leaving. Stuff like "You get out of it what you put into it", "Don't be afraid to change course" and "Self destructive behavior is no way to start". And at the risk of me sounding like a pussy, it's good advice, don't get me wrong, but let's be real.
This is what it's really all about, children. And all I have to say is, "Time to face the music or head back to the womb, losers. You're now small fish in a large pond. Take it from me, a former fisherman. Deal with it".
So, I've decided to come up with my own list of three things college freshman should know. Sage advice I am more than willing to pass on, ingrained from my own experiences and observations. Granted, these experiences and observations were done over 11 to14 years ago under a severe alcoholic haze, but what the hell. Do it anyway, you dinks.
1. Never head to college with a boyfriend/girlfriend back home, or at another campus somewhere.
I am a big proponent of this one. I've written about it before. So, you left High School "like, sooo in love" with Billy Tinyweener or Kelly Stinkypanties who decided to stay at home and pursue a career in the Automotive Arts or Retail Technology, or maybe they headed to another school 200 miles away. The fact remains that you haven't met anyone yet outside of your tiny town, so you have no idea what "love" is really like and will find so many of your fellow coeds attractive, moreso while drinking, that it'll never work. In fact, it'll implode by October, which is a mere six weeks from now. That's a fact. As consistent as gravity.
So, save all of the home visits, the pictures plastered all over your dorm room and the hours of sad, sappy phone calls to the other party and move on. Trust me, the other person, especially if that other person is male, has moved .. day one. So, drink up buttercup. The Vultures are waiting.
2. Never, ever, schedule a Friday class.
You'll learn week one that weekends in college start on Thursdays. So, actually attending a Friday class is going to be tough.
That's putting it way too nice.
You aren't going to fucking make it.
Initially you'll all be gung ho about starting and getting yourself off on the right foot, that's cool. But, even if you are gung ho, odds are your roommate is a complete wastoid and will stay up until 4 am most nights, so, you're a complete tool if you think that heading to class on fridays will last past the opening of the football season. My advice? Mickey's Wide Mouth bottles, open and enjoy all night long.
3. The "Freshman 15" is very real, better start a running program...or start buying bigger clothes.
This goes for dudes and chicks, although it is more prevalent in women since, in most cases, women are smaller anyway. Some of you will be homesick, so you'll want to delve into the fine dormitory cuisine three times a day (or more). Maybe you'll order the Domino's special for $7.00 five times a week. Haagen Dasz in the cafeteria? Sweet Jesus, you'll pile that shit in your gullet faster than a prom queen in a farm town gets impregnated.
It's a good bet that after a semester, especially after your "High School Sweetheart" drops the hammer on the fact that he has been pile driving the women's soccer team...the whole team (or she has been lowering herself on some raging musician with an "expanded mind"), you're going to look like a weeble-wobble. I suggest you head to Hollister, or Express, or wherever you buy your sleazy/metrosexual clothes at with a large gift certificate and with it in mind you're gonna need a much larger size. Do it, fatty.
I could give way more advice for the freshman of the world. I could say allow yourself to try booze and the lowered inhibitions it brings. Or that starting fights with the entire football team is a great idea. Maybe volunteering to drive everyone home from the bar intoxicated is a winning plan, too. But all of that'd be irresponsible for such a respected advice columnist like myself.
Now, off to college, you clueless ass clowns! Don't forget to thank me when you realize everything I've told you is dead nuts correct. I'll be awaiting your calls and emails...sometime around October? Yeah...
Is my advice to the freshmen of America sound and of good moral stature? I think I should be paid for this shit, don't you?
Currently
watching
:
Back to School Release date: 2003-06-26
C’mon IOC. Get with the program.
Current mood: busy
Category: Web, HTML, Tech
OK. The Olympics are now over.
And for the love of Pete, I hope that we have seen the last of Michael Phelps and his incredible douchbagginess all over the damn place, although I doubt it. Nothing against his accomplishment in the pool, the guy is a sideways hat wearing freak to be sure, but just like NBC always does with everything, they have over killed that dude and every possible good story out of the entire 16 days. I'm pretty sure that most American males, and half the females, want to kick Phelps' ass if they see him on the street.
Moving on.
I see that the Americans dominated in Beach Volleyball again this Olympics. I guess I'll lead off with "no shit". Let me see. A sport invented by a bunch of ignorant beach bums on the West Coast of the U.S. amongst complete tools named "Biff" and bikini wearing attention whores named "Sindi", with witty sayings like "that's a side out, brah", and we dominate a bunch of countries that are lucky to have seen a volleyball outside of Tom Hanks' sex partner in Cast Away. You don't say. I'm less surprised by that than I will be when one of those Chinese gymnasts finally gets her first period...in 2011.
What I really want to know us somebody please tell me how beach volleyball is an Olympic sport? I mean, apparently, volleyball wasn't good enough on its own, so they have to go and add sand and a bunch of tall, skinny women in panties. I don't quite get that, either. I mean, are panties and uni-boob bras supposed to help the ladies play better? If that is the case, why don't regular volleyball teams do the same thing? And, speaking for the gay guys reading, why don't men do the same thing? (Just trying to help the International Olympic Commitee add another demographic here).
The closest thing I can come up with as an excuse is that the original Olympics held, back when the Lord baby Jesus was sucking back Enfamil, all athletes were in the nude, and this was the closest thing they could do to re-create the original spirit of the Olympic Games.
What I say is that if they want to switch over to the full nudity, I am all for it. I hate things half ass.
I say, go full ass.
And this...if were talking full nudity being involved.
That's what I would call "ratings gold", too.
Did any of you watch the Olympics? Care to share what you liked/disliked about them?
Care to pimp my blog out? It's Gold, Jerry. Gold...
Currently
listening
:
10,000 Days
By
Tool
Release date: 2006-05-02
The Smartest Girls Alive
Current mood: inquisitive
Category: Podcast
This here's as story all about how, my life got flipped, turned upside down...
Just kidding. I'm just hell bent on putting songs into peoples heads this week, that's all.
The Kid (my son) is off away with his grandparents a few hundred miles away this week. No big deal, I have my girls to bond with, like all good fathers should. Those of you that know me know that in the past I have tried to take an interest in what it is my little girls do. But, I am a boy. Brought up in a time when it was cool to play with toy guns and wear baseball jerseys while playing outside and the only time I ever went inside was when it was time to eat or it was dark.
Therefore, when it comes to girly things, like playing dress up, or Barbie's or whatnot, I look at these things like I'm gazing at a blip way out on the horizon and my eyes just glaze over. I get that look at strip joints too, but, let's separate the two.
So, my girls and I, after gymnastics practice, ended up just hanging out at the house, watching Disney crap that these kids enjoy. Hannah Montana, Suite Life of Dick and Pokey, that one show "Witches of Whatever" with the girl that is super skinny and a large head...like an orange on a toothpick.
All crap.
All night.
When it was time for bed, I tucked them in and turned to turn the television off, when I noticed a "Disney 365" something or other, and they were featuring The Cheetah Girls. A group of three girls and their gay-boy entourage dancing like retards all over stages in front of impressionable kids that want to be just like them. They dress like little skanks and sing classic hit tunes as Girl Power, Strut and Do Your Own Thang to screaming girls that want to be just like them. Apparently, these soon-to-be-cokeheads are on tour this summer and they want you to see them.
This is standard fare, right? I mean, who hasn't been whored out in the last decade by Disney?
The part that got me though was the quote by one of the parents of a fat-assed little brat that saw them live. She belched, "The Cheetah Girls really are so inspiring to little girls everywhere and empower girls to achieve what they want to."
Uhhh...are you serious? These Cheetah Girls dance on stage to prewritten pop tunes, half of which were written back in the 70's, and they are empowering little girls everywhere to achieve anything?
I am all for empowering girls to achieve whatever they so desire, believe me. But, what ever happened to empowering little girls to become doctors, or architects or writers or lawyers? You mean to tell me that little girls see these trollops on stage and think, 'Sweet Jesus, I want to be a firefighter!' No. Uh-uh. Its entertainment for pre-pubescent girls at its mediocre best, not a play on becoming the best physicist ever.
And if it is, I don't want my daughters listening to one idiot in the group that, when asked "Where is this tour taking you this summer", her answer was, "We'll be going all across America to places near cities."
Near cities. All across America.
As opposed to farm houses in Angola. Got it.
So. What do you recommend we do to "empower" girls of an impressionable age?
Currently
listening
:
Blood Sugar Sex Magik
By
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Release date: 1991-09-24
Further Proof that Radio is intent on douche-ing me up
Current mood: peeved
Category: Quiz/Survey
OK. I have to follow up yesterdays diatribe about some things bugging the hell out of me in radio with the following:
Tell me who in their right mind wants to hear "I Wanna Sex You Up" by Color Me Badd three times within a half hour?
Me, apparently, because within a period of 29 minutes and 4 seconds yesterday, over three different FM stations, I heard that wimpy-ass, "put-your-rolled-up-Guess-Jeans-and-hi-tops-on-my-shoulders-while-I-plow-you-in-my-K-car" song three mudda-fuckin' times. And if that wasn't bad enough, what with trailer parks everywhere going berserker with soppy snail tracks, for the life of me, I could not turn it off! I have no clue why, but I can only surmise that through frequency modulated radio waves, that dude that looks like Stephen Wright in that band has some tractor beam vortex pushing me toward being an 18 year old douchebag, circa 1990.
I hate you, retro lunch, 90's at noon or whetever you people call it. I hate you. And because I am always wanting to share with you, my dear friends, all my misery, I am letting you listen AND watch these hosers perform that shit for you. Try scrubbing this song out of your head, people. HA HA!
Just some thoughts over the airwaves
Current mood: artistic
Category: Web, HTML, Tech
Today I put on over 200 miles on my vehicle. 90% of those miles were work related. Drive all over the damn place doing shit that quite frankly, we should have Rhesus monkeys doing, but, whatever.
I am not about to bitch about driving. Nor am I about to bitch about the asshat in the left lane driving slow, the truck that decides to pass another truck at exactly one mile per hour faster than the truck they are passing, or the fucking construction at every turn in this State which makes traffic as fun as sitting on a bee's nest with an asshole plugged with Daisies.
I'm gonna bitch about radio. Not satellite radio because I don't have it nor do I think I ever will. And seeing as how my personal income is derived from terrestrial radio, I have to be careful. Yet, still I have to take exception with some of it.
See if you can follow along with me.
1). Those comedy subscriptions that a lot of morning shows subscribe to are fucking terrible. I've heard better jokes written on my kids' Disney shows and enhanced with canned laughter like a gall damned hyena was off-set. This morning I actually heard a song written in comedic fashion about Julia Child written to the tune of Guns N' Roses...you guessed it...Sweet Child O' Mine. Both Julia Child, spy or not, and G N' R were popular in the days of stone washed jeans, L.A. Gear and mullets and not one day since. Yet this service wrote this like it was comedy gold. It sucked. Royally. Good God. I can't wait to see what's next. A song about Hammer being bankrupt to the tune of Billy Joel's "Piano Man"? Just writing that thought out proves it sucks. I do too, I guess.
2). I like Kid Rock. Really, I do. His ability to cross genres from Rock to Country to Rap to poorly performed slow songs with Sheryl Crow is pretty amazing. He puts on one hell of a show, too. And he is from Michigan, so even if I know him as "Bob", I still pretty much like his shit. I used to like the song All Summer Long until, like all good songs, it has been played ad nauseum until even now I hear the opening riff to Sweet Home Alabama and I want to kick a hobo in the nuts repeatedly while giggling like a little bitch. Another good song killed by research subjects whose iPod consists of four songs, three by Great White and that one.
3). Has anyone ever heard the lyrics to Julio Iglasias/Willie Nelson's version of To All The Girls I've Loved Before? I'm going to guess that maybe there are four of us worldwide, which immediately puts me under homo-suspicion. Why? Well, it is pretty old and the baby boomers that like to pop Viagra and seduce hot GrandMilfs at the local Steak and Shake seem to still like it. I don't know why I had a station on that even plays that crap, but I was entranced by the lyrics. What are they, you ask?
To all the girls I've loved before... Who travelled in and out my door, I'm glad they came along, I dedicate this song, to all the girls I've loved before.
Repeat 4,032 times, half in a bad Spanish accent, the other in "I just smoked a pound of kind bud"-ese.
That's it. And this guy made millions with this song. Further proof that you don't need to be a lyrical gangster (word 'em up) to get rich. In fact, I just wrote a song. Wanna hear it? Here it goes...
I just fucked the mailbox last night Got liquored up and it felt just right. My neighbor gave me static, drillin' his postal plastic, the load I dropped gave him a fright.
Lyrics. Done. Genius.
4). To the stations that "play everything". Nice concept. Total fabrication. If you in fact played everything, why do I hear "Pour Some Sugar On Me" seven times a day? Your "everything" library is shit. Blow me.
5). How did the Goo Goo Dolls ever become a famous rock band? Iris? Name? A remake of Supertramp's Give a Little Bit? Really? C'mon...I hear those and I want to slice my wrist, or at least Meg Ryan's, with a Del Monte Peach can. The dull side. Knock it off.
I guess that's it. There are quite a few more, but I'll save that for a later date.
I'm anxious to hear what you have to say. Is this topic over killed? Shit yes. But, I have an excuse.
I am in radio.
Currently
listening
:
Breakfast in America
By
Supertramp
Release date: 2002-06-11
I saw something really damn funny yesterday. I don't know if I've ever seen it before, because quite frankly, I might not have ever paid attention. But, I saw it yesterday and that is all that matters.
I deal with a lot of advertising in my line of work. Most advertisng is shit. Poorly made commercials with bad actors or worse yet, the actual business owners themselves. Good Lord. Anyone that sounds like Tammy Faye Whatshernameitdoesntmattershesdead, or looks like her, has no business being in television unless he/she is the other half of a domestic on COPS.
Anyway, I was leafing through my local newspaper yesterday and actually took the time to read some of the advertising inserts. To me, on a normal day, these things are huge wastes of advertising dollars. I'd be willing to go on record to say that 90% of the readership circulation could give a monkey piss about these ads, so on this day I guess I was part of the 10% that did. If only because I laughed my ass off.
I came across an ad for a local Chinese buffet. You know the ones. Gluttony heaven to many overweight individuals that take pride in gorging themselves with tons of carbohydrates and enough MSG to bring down a large Yak.
Anyway, I have been to this buffet once before on a business lunch and because there are days that I, too, prefer to pack enough Sweet and Sour shrimp and General Tso chicken down my gullet to feed a small African country. I've met the owners, in fact. A small chinese man and woman who enjoy speaking in broken English mixed in with Mandarin chinese (I think...how many dialects are there?).
My point? I noticed right off the bat that the ad in the paper was written in the same broken English that the proprietors speak. The words "Call for Reservation", "Celebrate 14th Anniversary" and "All You Eat" jumped right out at me...the exact way it would be said in broken English with a Chinese dialect.
At first I thought that maybe it was a typo or poor editing, maybe a rush job at the printer. Then I thought that it could be to authenticate the place, make it seem like it was a real Chinese restaurant run by real Chinese immigrants. This, I thought, was pure genius, if so.
What if every small chain restaurant advertised in such a stereotypical way? I wonder if it would work?
Imagine a Waffle Barn ad: "Y'all need to get on up to Waffle Barn fur chicken and waffles so good y'all aint never gonna leave! Stripper pole included! Truckers welcome!"
Or an ad for Pigs and Slop Barbeque: "Yo, G. Is all about this ribs and chicken are the rizzle dizzle, motha fucka. Dis barbeque be da shit. A'ight?"
How about an ad for Schnitzengiggle and their authentic German fare: "You must come and eat our wienerschnitzel and beer or the Jews will die...Hogan?" (Only you have to imagine Colonel Klink from Hogans Heroes speaking in that accent of his.)
Juarez Juan's Mexican Fiesta's ad would clearly say: "What up, homes? Hey, Ese, don't be a bolsa de pelota and eat here, homes. Refried beans, corn tortillas, loss a salsa. Is juss like you cross the border, amigo."
Finally, the ad for the Abu Ghraib Desert Oil Field: "Derka Derka, Mohammed Jihad."
I guess that means they have some mean hummous and lamb shanks in this place. I'd check it out.
I think I am on to something. It certainly adds some credibility to a restaurant in my opinion.
Although the German one scares me a bit.
Have you ever seen an ad like this? Can you come up with some more?
*No ethnicities were offended or hurt in any way...well, they shouldn't be offended or hurt. If so, lighten up. It's not meant to be racist. It's called "sarcasm".
Currently
listening
:
Jar of Flies
By
Alice in Chains
Release date: 1994-01-25
I read an article this afternoon asking the question, "Can you eat like Michael Phelps?" and then it went on and on describing how the human water breather eats roughly 12,000 calories a day.
Wait. First of all, most of you can tell me who Michael Phelps is, right? I mean I don't want to go any further with this if none of you know who the man is. If you don't know who Michael Phelps is, well I recommend you crawl out from under that slimy ass rock you live under, enjoy the sunshine and get a fucking sniff.
OK?
*He's an Olympic swimmer on the U.S. team.
*He is shooting for a record number of Gold Medals in the Beijing Olympics, which happen to be going on right now. (see: crawl out from under rock, get fucking clue, etc.)
*He is a freak of nature.
Anyway, apparently the man's diet is consistent with that of a Sperm Whale, calorically speaking. 12,000 calories a day, with a menu that looks like: Breakfast: 3 fried egg sandwiches with cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, fried onions, and mayonnaise 2 cups of coffee 1 5 egg omelet 1 bowl of grits 3 slices of French toast with powdered sugar 3 chocolate chip pancakes
Lunch: 1 pound enriched pasta with tomato sauce 2 large ham and cheese sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise 1,000 calories of energy drinks
Dinner: 1 pound of pasta with tomato sauce 6 to 8 slices of pizza 1,000 calories of energy drinks.
My question to all of you comes in two parts.
1). Is asking this question to a bunch of sheep in the fattest nation in the world who follow every little thing a celebrity does really the right thing to do? I mean, how long will it be before some lard ass, gelatinous Orka Whale sized piece of crap tries this little diet thinking "if an athlete can do it, so can I" and needs to have the roof of his home removed in six months because he weighs a god damn ton?
Michael Phelps swims the equivalent of the English Channel every day. Most average Americans swim the length of a cereal bowl every day. See the difference?
2). Doesn't that friend egg sandwich sound outrageously good and can you guess who missed lunch today?
We the fat really don't need another reason to eat more. But I'm guessing there will be a few that try to "Be Like Mike".
Get the cranes ready.
Currently
listening
:
Sublime
By
Sublime
Release date: 1996-07-30
I weep for the future...or whatever that wimpy Maitre ’D in Ferris Bueller says
Current mood: irritated
Category: Podcast
Dear Teenage Mini-Golf/Ice Cream Bar Trollop,
Hi. I'm still here, just wondering where the hell you went.
I hope you don't mind that I scratched the sliding screen you geniuses use to separate your little smelly enclave from us "coming to a slow boil" patrons out here.
I should understand that it might take quite a while to get that kiddie chocolate/vanilla swirl cone for my whiny five year old who is baking out here, I mean especially since I'm positive that texting your wannabe petty criminal thug of a boyfriend while he tries to pass a McDonald's drug screen is vital to life and all.
It's OK. I can wait.
Take your time with that other kiddie Vanilla cone for my quiet daughter, too. But don't forget the sprinkles, though. You know, the ones I had to tell you about after you said "What?" and "Huh?" to me four times because you were embroiled in a cell phone conversation with your 16 year old pregnant ho of a friend. I mean I should have known better. That conversation is sooooooo, like, important n stuff, yo.
I really hope they come through with that dental plan for you though. Your grill isn't that messed up...from 20 yards away that is.
Hold on while I write the name "Dick Head" into the wood of the counter with my keys.
Oh yeah! I guess I should thank you for reminding me so politely that when finished with my round of over-priced miniature golf that I return the rubber piece of shit putters to their proper place as well. That rash of putter theft has turned into a full blown epidemic. If I see John Daly, I'll tell him to return his putter. He owes you a smoke too. Kool Menthols right? I can smell.
Lastly, I need to thank you for providing me eight minutes of entertainment while waiting for you to get our stuff. That very detailed point-by-point speech you made to your weeble-wobble of a colleague about how your life and the song "Take a Bow" by Rihanna parallels each other was a truly riveting yarn. I mean, your description about your ex boyfriend and how he gets the "award for best liar" and needs to get home before the sprinklers come on was really poetic. I really feel for you. He must be a turd! You should kick him to the curb! But then again, you are the one that "slashed your name into his leather seats and took a Louisville Slugger to both headlights" and probably think that "you're irreplaceable" or whatever popular tune by and about jaded bitches is airing on WCGS - FM. (White Chicks and Gang Signs FM)
You're such a free thinker. Ummm...my Blueberry Slushee por favor?
Anyway. I think you are doing a wonderful job. You deserve for me to throw some coin into the "tip jar" because your service was as top notch as our local cable company.
Thanks again! Good luck with that GED, yo!
With Love,
The guy that took a frothy beer whiz in your waterfall on hole 14 because you suck at what you do, you retard.
Currently
listening
:
Hysteria
By
Def Leppard
Release date: 1990-10-25
i dont no wat ur sayng
Current mood: cynical
Category: Podcast
I like to think of myself as a professional. A professional asshole for certain, but in general, I am a pro at what I do. Therefore, I have the job of dealing with some other professionals, but mostly complete ass clowns.
Take this example.
In my line of work, I have to put on a smile and schmooze and partake in other unsavory shit like that. (More on this tomorrow). I have to obtain information that a lot of people don't really want to give me if at all possible, and I am sure that they would rather tell me to shave my ball sack with a slivery kitchen spoon. Hey, I don't want to be there anymore than they do, but I can't be a rude fuck hole like some of these people can. (I'd rather be having the all-you-can-eat Prime Rib Lunch Buffet special at the local strip joint. I'll take a chance at some Hep C if I can wolf down some Prime Rib by the gluttonous pound while seeing toothless wonders' c-section scars dance away, thank you.)
Anyway. Be it as it may, sometimes I do get through and I get the information that I need. In a lot of cases, I get that information emailed to me and I can be on my merry way without using a drop of gasoline. Good deal, right?
In most cases, yes. Until I received the following email from the secretary of one of my new clients:
Dear Mr. ________,
im send the info u r reqiring, Mr. (Client) told me to send. He told me 2 tell u that if you are needing any more info to call his cell and he can get it 2 u asap. Or you can call me an i can tell him wat ur looking for.
sincerly,
stacee"
What? The? Fuck? Are you serious? What is this language? Southern California Twatwaffle?
Yes. This person has a job. Now, I need you all to tell me what is wrong with this email. Really look at it. Grammatically, spelling, the message itself, and so on. Is this really that common a thing nowadays? People in places of responsibility for dealing with other professional people, and they write like they are planning a date of drinking Grey Goose with a splash of Rohypnol while they go down on local douchebag like a circus seal with three of their air headed friends? All the while I am left to decipher this drivel by asking the local JV Cheerleading squad to translate it for me because I am an old fucking man with sagging balls?
Great. I can't wait for my girls to become teenagers. Bury me now, already.
So how does this person have a job?
Well, "Stacee" apparently is 23 years old blonde with a set of firm, anti-gravity "DD's", paid for by Visa, so I am told.
Aren't you women proud of the progress you've made?
I need me some Kool Menthols, yo
Current mood: irritated
Category: Travel and Places
It was a random day today for me. My gig took me out to a small town in the middle of nowhere really, I had some people to chat with and some air to sell.
But first, I have to ask, do you remember this chick from yesterday?
Yeah. That retard. The one with the cigarette in her mouth yet worried about jackhammers, even though the whole reason that Marble Rye ended up in her gunt was due to being jackhammered, but I digress.
Anyway, I am pretty sure that I saw her daughter today in this said small town. In fact, I'm positive of it. Because stupid and nasty never seems to skip a generation.
This town has a County Fair happening in it this week. Lots of pigs, horses and other farm creatures milling around...they have animals at this thing too. There's rides, carny's, not a dentist within a five square mile radius, you see my point. I was on the phone with a friend of mine this afternoon just waiting and observing these town folk, when I let out a "What the fuck?" to this person that now seemed taken aback, like I was rear ended by one of those douchebags driving a lifted pick up with no muffler and a "no fat chicks" bumper sticker. When asked what the hell I was talking about, I flabbergastedly mentioned that there was a girl, about 7 years old meandering in front of some wiffle pig sucking on a heater. This woman was with a friend and pushing a stroller, ignoring her little brat. More importantly though, this little girl was dressed like a hooker, complete with the glittery mini-skirt and, I shit you not, pleather boots up to the knees, aka FMP's (Fuck Me Pumps).
I then realized once again that Darwinism is a good thing, for what type of dildo lets her young daughter out on the town to a County Fair looking like she's working for rent money.
The woman above would. She's probably charge a percentage above what she'd earn too, just so she can upgrade to Kool Menthols.
Nothing like pandering to Carnival perverts, I guess.
Seen anything like this recently?
PS - How about some pimpage from the masses? I need to resort to begging to get people back in the fold y'all. Madge? Are you reading this? (I know she hates when people do this. Hehehe...)
Currently
listening
:
Who’s Next
By
The Who
Release date: 1995-11-07
Oh, how I love election years
Current mood: grumpy
Category: News and Politics
You know what? Election years suck. And I don't mean suck in a "Holy crap, that hooker has no teeth" kind of way. Because, well, that would be OK.
I mean Election years suck like "Holy crap, that hooker has massive chompers, lock jaw...and braces, too" kind of way. Catch my drift?
Anyway. Why do election years suck?
Is it the political ads? Nope.
Is it those damn placards in peoples front yards? Not really.
Is it those annoying ass pundits like Nancy "I just like to blow everything out of proportion" Grace and Larry "What day is it today? Actually what YEAR is it" King on television blatthering endlessly about political minutae? Well, yes, but...
Allow me to explain.
I was standing in line today at one of my all time favorite places to get a good old hot dog. Yesterdog. Eastown in Grand Rapids. Best in the fucking Universe, I tell ya.
Notice they aren't those nasty ass fish or tofu dogs that you tree fuckers like to splurge on. Nope. All meat, all the fixin's, slide right down the old gullet chili hot dogs. Which is odd considering that Yesterpooch is smack in the god damned middle of the most liberal, pseudo wannabe Woodstock, I look like a total-fucking-dickwad-yet-I'm-a-chick part of the city. You'd think that anything with meat on or near it would be grounds for immediate protesting.
Amazing how these people procreate, actually. But I digress.
Where was I?
I was in line at this place. Suit, tie, nice shoes, big dick...standard fare. I was behind some of these "enlightened ones" and they were talking about the election in November. And this one toolbox was babbling endlessly about how she was going to vote for Barack Obama because he is sooooo cool. And he is sooooo young. Another one said, and this is a direct quote now, "that creepy old dude will just, like, keep us down, man, and shit."
So, I interrupted them. And, after politely apologizing for intruding on their conversation, I asked a simple question of them, one that I would expect these people to have an answer to:
"I think there are some flaws in Obama's, well, both candidates thinking as it pertains to Energy policy. What do you think?"
Everybody has an opinion on that, right? Do we drill for more oil? Do we expand our technological resources to seek alternative energy sources to ease our reliance on foreign oil? How about a mixture of both? Maybe we can use Jessica Simpson's oily face for energy? Fucking A.
What I got was, "I don't know. I don't even have a car."
And this is why I hate election years. These people are going to vote. Stupid people. People who know less than 1% of anything as it pertains to anything, especially elections, are spewing their shit filled mouths and when the time comes to stand there and punch the ballot and make their decisions based on what celebrity said what, who looks cool and what the rest of the crowd is doing. People like this:
We call it Democracy.
I really would just stick a gas pump up their assholes.
Hello. Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me...
Current mood: inspired
Category: MySpace
Hello.
I'm popping up on your "New Blog Subscription Post" alert out of nowhere, like a stinky fart left on the seat cushion of an '80 Chevy Citation hatchback with the windows rolled up on a hot summer day.
A lot of you may be wondering who in the hell this is writing on here, this cesspool known as "Myspace blogging".
Some of you are wondering why this blog isn't about Christianity, Politics, Cliques amongst the 'Space masses and overall douchebaggery.
Allow me to put it to you all this way.
Most of you may know me already, having crossed my path many moons ago.
I had hair and then went bald.
I was fat, now I am only kind of fat.
I am the consummate gentleman, a beer swilling, hot dog eating, baseball loving haberdasher with a penchant for visiting strip joints solely for participating in "DJ Amateur Night". (see: Whiskey Pete's Academy of Strip Club Technology)
I pick out the insane things we see on a daily basis and I crush them with the fervor of a closet whore on a vibrator.
Yeah, you know me.
You used to love me, maybe you still kind of do, just like that old boyfriend of yours that had a monster cock but was a total lying, user, mooching, skank riding dick hole.
Maybe I am him?
I was elsewhere for months and now I am back.
If you can't figure it out, no worries.
Just laugh and we'll call it a day. See you after the jump.
Any questions?
Currently
listening
:
The Wall
By
Pink Floyd
Release date: 1987-07-07
dorky
awake
tired
okay
busy
inquisitive
peeved
artistic
sad
irritated
cynical
grumpy
inspired
