Hey Mother Nature. Nice try, bitch. I know it was you, don't try to act all innocent like you don't know what I'm talking about. I know you were mad because not only was I not at all intimidated by 9.5 inches of snow (the official NWS total for my zip code), but I went out and went sledding with my kid in that shit. Had a good time, thanks. Then, on top of that, I had the stones to call you out for your weak attempt at winter mayhem on an internet blog potentially read by up to 13 people. Oh, yeah, I disrespected yo ass, bitch. That made you mad, didn't it? You wanted to get me back, and you figured that you'd throw down some ice overnight. However, you knew I wasn't going to be bothered by that shit, so you took it a step further. You took your evil genius and coupled it with a henchman with a third grade education in hopes of ruining my Sunday. It almost worked, you grumpy whore...almost.
You saw me spend an hour last night shoveling the snow behind my vehicles in preparation for leaving for work this morning and you saw your chance. You hired Cletus and his 1978 Chevy Silverado with the snow plow that his friend Carl drunkenly tack welded to the front bumper to come through and plow the road, building a wall of icy shit snow behind my vehicles. You knew that in that mound of ice chunks and oily powder that I would decide to back through because I didn't want to take the 15 minutes to shovel a path would be a block of ice big enough to high-center my truck, rendering four wheel drive useless and making me get creative with my swearing again. Nice one. It must have been hilarious for you to watch as I spent 20 minutes on my knees in the ice trying to break apart the iceberg that was lodged under my truck. I bet you were laughing your ass off, because you're a vindictive cunt. All this because I dissed you on the internet. I will give you credit for being creative in your retaliation, you didn't just set-up a drive-by like Biggie did, you put some thought into it. Well played.
But, in the end, your ploy failed, because here I am, at work. Yeah, my knees may be a little frostbitten, and my neighbors are probably mad because they had to listen to me curse you while breaking ice at 6:30 in the morning, but your plan was still sub-par. Oh yes I am. I am calling you out again. You're going to have to come harder than throwing some big block of ice under my truck to ruin my day, and quite honestly, I don't think you've got it.
As for you, Cletus, I know you're a sad old dumb bastard of a man who plows random places as a side job to supplement your moonshine habit and you were used as a pawn by a wicked fictitious entity, so I'm not mad at you. In fact, knowing that your beat up old Chevy is probably all you have after that cheating skank of a wife took the dog and left you for your brother almost makes me feel sorry for you. Let me give you a little common sense advice so you can take this part you've played in a game you can't understand and learn something from it: It does no fucking good whatsoever to plow streets if you block every fucking car on said street in behind a wall of snow and ice. Open thoroughfares (Y'uns call 'em streets, Cletus) are useless if cars cannot access them. Wait, I'm speaking above your level. Let's try this: It ain't no good to done scrape them thar roads iffun cars cain't get on 'em. Better? Run with it, Cletus; run. You're educated now.
This isn't over, Mother Nature. You keep bringing that weak-ass game, I'll keep telling my small group of devoted followers that you aren't the cutesy fucking butterflies and flowers chick you pretend to be. They'll know the truth about you, and they'll tell all of their Facebook friends. And those friends will tell their Facebook and LinkedIn and Classmates.com friends and before long, the world will know the truth about you. I'm like Mark Felt, only I'll have a better name than "Deep Throat." Maybe I'll go with "Thin Mint," since your evil wintry temper tantrums are keeping me from getting my motherfucking cookies. Bitch.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Mother Nature...
...I see my rant from yesterday fell on deaf ears. Bitch. Although I have to say, for all of the "storm of the decade" nonsense they were talking about on the news, that display was pretty weak. 8 inches of snow and some sleet? That's all you've got? Yeah, you talk a good game, Mother Nature, but I'm not impressed with the delivery. You're obviously not as mad as we thought you were. You're getting soft.
Speaking of soft, where the hell are those pansy-ass Girl Scouts with my fucking Thin Mints?
Speaking of soft, where the hell are those pansy-ass Girl Scouts with my fucking Thin Mints?
Friday, January 29, 2010
Mother Nature is a Bitch
OK, Mother Nature, I don't know who pissed you off. I don't know if someone killed your cat or insulted your carrot cake or what happened, but you're just being a disgruntled bitch lately. Maybe you're on some mission to tell the Global Warming crowd to shove that idea up their asses or something, but whatever the reason, we get it. I got the point after you whipped up a 8 inches of snow that I had to drive in coming home from work (don't even get me started on the stupid fuckers around here who obviously have zero clue how to handle driving in snow) and the 20-21 days in a row where the temperature didn't get above freezing. Yeah, I got it. You're mad, you're not gonna take it anymore.
So, this big ass storm that is coming into the area that is supposed to dump another 6-10 inches of snow and icy "fuck-you" and mess up everybody's weekend...totally unnecessary. You've gone beyond simply trying to prove whatever point you're trying to prove and now you're just being a vindictive whore. Your point loses validity if you keep annoying people with over-the-top, loud, meaningless bullshit (*ahem* PETA...Jesse Jackson...Kanye...FOXNews...). Maybe you should take a trip to the southern hemisphere where it is summer, take some Prozac, do some Jell-O shooters, and chill the fuck out.
Look, people like you most of the year. Spring? Yeah, you're a pretty cool chick. You could lay off the rain a little, but it's cool. Summer? You're awesome. It's hot and chicks are wearing less clothing and people can drink beer in the sunlight until 8pm...pretty fucking awesome. We thank you for that. Fall? It's a little cooler, but the leaves are changing and the days are perfect and it's great to be outside enjoying nature and shit...great job, Madame Nature. But this whole crazy fucking Arctic winter bullshit that you're pulling right now...not cool and really making people wish you'd just go the fuck away. You've become that annoying drunk bitch who is ruining the party. We'll remember this shit and you won't be invited to the next party.
So whatever the fuck is bothering you right now, Mother Nature, do something to fix the problem. But, stop taking that shit out on us. We didn't raise your insurance rates, we didn't make you pay $20 for your first checked bag, and we think your carrot cake is fucking awesome. So stop. Stop being a bitch, Mother Nature. Go ahead and make it spring and we might be able to forgive you for this temporary insanity. Maybe. We're pretty mad at you. Bitch.
A slightly related but completely useless sidenote: Al Roker is an annoying fucking douchebag. I'd rather listen to that dude who played Corky on Life Goes On try to explain barometric pressure in song than listen to Al Roker tell me it's going to be 31 degrees in Knoxville.
So, this big ass storm that is coming into the area that is supposed to dump another 6-10 inches of snow and icy "fuck-you" and mess up everybody's weekend...totally unnecessary. You've gone beyond simply trying to prove whatever point you're trying to prove and now you're just being a vindictive whore. Your point loses validity if you keep annoying people with over-the-top, loud, meaningless bullshit (*ahem* PETA...Jesse Jackson...Kanye...FOXNews...). Maybe you should take a trip to the southern hemisphere where it is summer, take some Prozac, do some Jell-O shooters, and chill the fuck out.
Look, people like you most of the year. Spring? Yeah, you're a pretty cool chick. You could lay off the rain a little, but it's cool. Summer? You're awesome. It's hot and chicks are wearing less clothing and people can drink beer in the sunlight until 8pm...pretty fucking awesome. We thank you for that. Fall? It's a little cooler, but the leaves are changing and the days are perfect and it's great to be outside enjoying nature and shit...great job, Madame Nature. But this whole crazy fucking Arctic winter bullshit that you're pulling right now...not cool and really making people wish you'd just go the fuck away. You've become that annoying drunk bitch who is ruining the party. We'll remember this shit and you won't be invited to the next party.
So whatever the fuck is bothering you right now, Mother Nature, do something to fix the problem. But, stop taking that shit out on us. We didn't raise your insurance rates, we didn't make you pay $20 for your first checked bag, and we think your carrot cake is fucking awesome. So stop. Stop being a bitch, Mother Nature. Go ahead and make it spring and we might be able to forgive you for this temporary insanity. Maybe. We're pretty mad at you. Bitch.
A slightly related but completely useless sidenote: Al Roker is an annoying fucking douchebag. I'd rather listen to that dude who played Corky on Life Goes On try to explain barometric pressure in song than listen to Al Roker tell me it's going to be 31 degrees in Knoxville.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Apologies and More Rambling.
O.K., so I have to apologize for my drunken rambling last night. I'm sorry. It's just that sometimes I get a little drunk and do things that seem like a good idea at the time, only to be looked back upon with a little bit of disdain, some remorse, and maybe even a laugh if whatever it was didn't cost me any money. Fortunately, all last night cost me was some of my literary integrity, which was pretty much non-existent in the first place, so I'll survive. I also lost a follower, but I knew that at some point my Grandma was going to have had enough and drop me. I guess she doesn't like Dave Chappelle. Whatever, Grandma, I have 13 other friends now, I don't really need you anymore. But you know, if you want to keep sending cookies, that's cool.
Anyway, I will try to be a little better today. Should be easy since I'm not drunk and yesterday's post was so incredibly stupid that anything worse would be immediately deleted from the internet by Al Gore's Quality Control Squad. Al Gore doesn't want us dumbing down his internet. How they haven't shut this piece of shit blog down yet just leads me to believe they are a little overburdened moderating forums over at runnersworld.com.
What to blog about today...hmm...well, I haven't had anymore run-ins with owls, so that's cool. Fucking owls. I think they know they pissed me off and are laying low for a while. Good idea, owls. You don't want to mess with me.
I still haven't had any Girl Scout Thin Mints. I know those little spoiled brats are going to say some stupid shit like "It's been too cold to stand outside the store" or something, but I don't want to hear it. I know you have the latest supply, bitches, harden the fuck up and get your asses out there so I can get my cookie fix.
Um...what else...oh, yeah...Fuck you, North Carolina emissions testing protocol. Your ultra-sensitive bitch of a testing machine failed my wife's car for some stupid fucking "evap leak sensor" bullshit. Thanks. Thanks for saving the Ozone from that untraceable amount of evaporated fuel that may or may not actually be leaking from the fuel system. Thanks for making me drop 50 bones (on top of your already stupidly high inspection fee) for a 2" inch piece of hose that may or may not fix what may or may not actually be a real leak. Thanks for being there, NC, making sure my wife's car doesn't destroy the world. Yeah, better take care of insensitive enviro-criminals like us; it's not like you could be handling all of the fucking city buses I see spewing 8 tons of black shit into the air every time they accelerate. Or all of that expensive equipment that your very own state agency employees are operating to fix roads that I see billowing smoke into the atmosphere (when those bastards are actually doing work). Nope, no need to take care of that big shit, your sensor found a micro-milligram of evaporated fuel coming from somewhere in my wife's ride, so her car is not worthy of being registered in North Carolina until we are sure that this particular vehicle isn't going to usher in the next batch of Global Warming.
Wow, two Al Gore based references in one blog. Not bad. I'm cereal, guys.
(See, my Grandma wouldn't even have gotten that joke. Then I would have had to explain it and then she would say she's never seen South Park and I'd just get mad. So it's probably good she's no longer my friend, buddy.)
Anyway, yeah, I understand the need for emissions testing, and I know that in reality I only lost a few hours and $50, but that's just fucking annoying. And, seeing as how I haven't had any Thin Mints, I don't think now is the time to be annoying me.
Man, I really need some Thin Mints.
Anyway, I will try to be a little better today. Should be easy since I'm not drunk and yesterday's post was so incredibly stupid that anything worse would be immediately deleted from the internet by Al Gore's Quality Control Squad. Al Gore doesn't want us dumbing down his internet. How they haven't shut this piece of shit blog down yet just leads me to believe they are a little overburdened moderating forums over at runnersworld.com.
What to blog about today...hmm...well, I haven't had anymore run-ins with owls, so that's cool. Fucking owls. I think they know they pissed me off and are laying low for a while. Good idea, owls. You don't want to mess with me.
I still haven't had any Girl Scout Thin Mints. I know those little spoiled brats are going to say some stupid shit like "It's been too cold to stand outside the store" or something, but I don't want to hear it. I know you have the latest supply, bitches, harden the fuck up and get your asses out there so I can get my cookie fix.
Um...what else...oh, yeah...Fuck you, North Carolina emissions testing protocol. Your ultra-sensitive bitch of a testing machine failed my wife's car for some stupid fucking "evap leak sensor" bullshit. Thanks. Thanks for saving the Ozone from that untraceable amount of evaporated fuel that may or may not actually be leaking from the fuel system. Thanks for making me drop 50 bones (on top of your already stupidly high inspection fee) for a 2" inch piece of hose that may or may not fix what may or may not actually be a real leak. Thanks for being there, NC, making sure my wife's car doesn't destroy the world. Yeah, better take care of insensitive enviro-criminals like us; it's not like you could be handling all of the fucking city buses I see spewing 8 tons of black shit into the air every time they accelerate. Or all of that expensive equipment that your very own state agency employees are operating to fix roads that I see billowing smoke into the atmosphere (when those bastards are actually doing work). Nope, no need to take care of that big shit, your sensor found a micro-milligram of evaporated fuel coming from somewhere in my wife's ride, so her car is not worthy of being registered in North Carolina until we are sure that this particular vehicle isn't going to usher in the next batch of Global Warming.
Wow, two Al Gore based references in one blog. Not bad. I'm cereal, guys.
(See, my Grandma wouldn't even have gotten that joke. Then I would have had to explain it and then she would say she's never seen South Park and I'd just get mad. So it's probably good she's no longer my friend, buddy.)
Anyway, yeah, I understand the need for emissions testing, and I know that in reality I only lost a few hours and $50, but that's just fucking annoying. And, seeing as how I haven't had any Thin Mints, I don't think now is the time to be annoying me.
Man, I really need some Thin Mints.
Cold Mountain Winter Ale Makes You Drunk.
Hey bitches. I'm drinking one of the best beers in the history of beer. Please forgive any typos and/or stupid, non-sense bullshit.
Highland Brewing Company in Asheville makes some stellar beer. They have for years. Their Gaelic Ale (oh, grow up) is always excellent, always reliable. Their Oatmeal Porter is good, and I don't even like Porter. But they outdid themselves this winter by releasing the latest version of the Cold Mountain Winter Ale. It is phenomenal, and if you don't get to try it, I feel badly for you. Your life is not complete if you don't try this beer. It tastes like angels peed in a bottle and then the Pope christened it perfect. Other beers aspire to be able to be considered half as good as this beer, but they fail on a daily basis. They are every kid who has ever tried to be Michael Jordan but couldn't make a free throw to save their grandmother's life. Stop trying, fatty, you can't be like Mike.
OK, maybe that's a little overdramatic, because I've had 5 or 6 at this point. Which brings me to an important public service announcement. Friends don't let friends blog drunk. It's just not safe. Sure, it starts off innocently enough; a few funny cracks about a friend's bitchy girlfriend here, a few inappropriate remarks about some chick's titties there...a few laughs. But it can go turribly awry. Quickly.
How, you ask? I don't know right now because I'm distracted by Dave Chappelle. Holy fuck, that dude is funny. Your life is not complete if you don't watch Dave Chappelle. That's not overdramatic, your life really isn't anything special if you don't watch Dave Chapppelle. "That dirty monkey was beatin' on my hood!" HAHA. Clayton Bigsby...if you don't know...your life sucks. No. I am not occifer, drunk, sir.
Sorry. Maybe that was a little harsh. Maybe you haven't been exposed to Dave Chappelle. Maybe you lived in a far-too uptight vacuum several years ago when cable television was revolutionized by the funniest motherfucker to ever have a show. I can't hold that against you. It's not your fault. Really, it's not your fault. Somebody just hated you in 2004. I don't know who it was, but you should harbor a grudge against them until they apologize. How they could have kept you from the brilliance of the "Wrap it Up Box", the outtakes from Roots, or Charlie Murphy's stories about Prince and Rick James is bewildering. And maddening. They owe you. Whoever they are, they owe you reparations. HAHA, another brilliant skit by Chappelle..."I'm rich bitch!"
OK, so maybe I've had too much to drink. I never promised you when I started this blog that I wouldn't get sloppy sometimes, I never promised you every entry would make sense. If I had any ability at all to be an angry drunk, this is where I'd punch you for wondering out loud what the fuck I am rambling about. But, I'm a goofy, happy drunk, so I'll just agree with you...yeah...I am an idiot. This entry is stupid. I should never hit "Publish Post." But, I will, because I've spent way too much time backspacing and re-writing shit that doesn't make sense to turn back now. I have to commit to the post...because I love you people. No, seriously, I love you guys like family. I would totally step in front of a bus for you guys. Well, maybe not really a bus, but definitely a Toyota Prius. Well, maybe not a Prius, but definitely a Segway. Or a kid on a skateboard. Yeah, I would definitely step in front of a kid on a skateboard for you guys. I know, that's deep. But I love you guys.
Sorry for the vomit on your shoes. But you should have made me stop, man. Hold on, I think I need to pee.
Wait, what? Oh, yeah. I'm totally going to regret this blog entry in the morning. But, sometimes you have to sleep with the ugly chicks when you're drunk to get the worm. Or whatever. Fuck it, I'm going to bed.
Ooh...Huddle House...let's get some bacon!
Highland Brewing Company in Asheville makes some stellar beer. They have for years. Their Gaelic Ale (oh, grow up) is always excellent, always reliable. Their Oatmeal Porter is good, and I don't even like Porter. But they outdid themselves this winter by releasing the latest version of the Cold Mountain Winter Ale. It is phenomenal, and if you don't get to try it, I feel badly for you. Your life is not complete if you don't try this beer. It tastes like angels peed in a bottle and then the Pope christened it perfect. Other beers aspire to be able to be considered half as good as this beer, but they fail on a daily basis. They are every kid who has ever tried to be Michael Jordan but couldn't make a free throw to save their grandmother's life. Stop trying, fatty, you can't be like Mike.
OK, maybe that's a little overdramatic, because I've had 5 or 6 at this point. Which brings me to an important public service announcement. Friends don't let friends blog drunk. It's just not safe. Sure, it starts off innocently enough; a few funny cracks about a friend's bitchy girlfriend here, a few inappropriate remarks about some chick's titties there...a few laughs. But it can go turribly awry. Quickly.
How, you ask? I don't know right now because I'm distracted by Dave Chappelle. Holy fuck, that dude is funny. Your life is not complete if you don't watch Dave Chappelle. That's not overdramatic, your life really isn't anything special if you don't watch Dave Chapppelle. "That dirty monkey was beatin' on my hood!" HAHA. Clayton Bigsby...if you don't know...your life sucks. No. I am not occifer, drunk, sir.
Sorry. Maybe that was a little harsh. Maybe you haven't been exposed to Dave Chappelle. Maybe you lived in a far-too uptight vacuum several years ago when cable television was revolutionized by the funniest motherfucker to ever have a show. I can't hold that against you. It's not your fault. Really, it's not your fault. Somebody just hated you in 2004. I don't know who it was, but you should harbor a grudge against them until they apologize. How they could have kept you from the brilliance of the "Wrap it Up Box", the outtakes from Roots, or Charlie Murphy's stories about Prince and Rick James is bewildering. And maddening. They owe you. Whoever they are, they owe you reparations. HAHA, another brilliant skit by Chappelle..."I'm rich bitch!"
OK, so maybe I've had too much to drink. I never promised you when I started this blog that I wouldn't get sloppy sometimes, I never promised you every entry would make sense. If I had any ability at all to be an angry drunk, this is where I'd punch you for wondering out loud what the fuck I am rambling about. But, I'm a goofy, happy drunk, so I'll just agree with you...yeah...I am an idiot. This entry is stupid. I should never hit "Publish Post." But, I will, because I've spent way too much time backspacing and re-writing shit that doesn't make sense to turn back now. I have to commit to the post...because I love you people. No, seriously, I love you guys like family. I would totally step in front of a bus for you guys. Well, maybe not really a bus, but definitely a Toyota Prius. Well, maybe not a Prius, but definitely a Segway. Or a kid on a skateboard. Yeah, I would definitely step in front of a kid on a skateboard for you guys. I know, that's deep. But I love you guys.
Sorry for the vomit on your shoes. But you should have made me stop, man. Hold on, I think I need to pee.
Wait, what? Oh, yeah. I'm totally going to regret this blog entry in the morning. But, sometimes you have to sleep with the ugly chicks when you're drunk to get the worm. Or whatever. Fuck it, I'm going to bed.
Ooh...Huddle House...let's get some bacon!
Monday, January 25, 2010
Fuck Owls.
I've never really cared for owls, no matter how smart that one in Winnie the Pooh was. That creepy 180 degree head turn and eery "whoo" thing they do had long put them on the list of animals/birds I really couldn't give a shit about.
Well, now, I hate them. All of them. Every damned pygmy owl or great horned owl or spotted owl (yeah, that's right, a blog with "hippie" in the name hates spotted owls...fuck those bitches). The reason for my newfound hatred? Well, last night, as I was driving home from work at 12:15, in the pitch black and fog of a North Carolina mountain night, I see something coming down a hill out of the corner of my eye. A millisecond later, this big fucking owl flies about a foot in front of my windshield. I'm not sure how I didn't hit it. It was huge, looked more like a condor or pterodactyl or something.
I don't scare easily, and I have perfected my facade of being a big, tatted, angry motherfucker. But that stupid fucking owl made me scream like a little girl on a roller coaster. If I hadn't taken a leak right before I left work, I probably would have peed a little. A few seconds earlier, I was passionately singing along with Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter," now I was driving wide-eyed, the sound of my heart pounding drowning out any music. Fucking owl.
So fuck you owls. All of you. Eagle owl, suck it. Burrow owl, double fuck you for being so dumb that you don't know that birds live in trees, not holes in the ground...stupid fucker. Sammy the Owl, the mascot of Rice University, eat a dick you big, freaky, stuffed piece of shit. Yeah, even you, Woodsy. Fuck you. I'm going to go litter in a park today just to piss you off and show that I most certainly don't give a hoot. Not now. Thank your inconsiderate cousin who scared the shit out of me last night.
I know that it's not necessarily acceptable to hate an entire order of birds based on the behavior of one rogue family member, but fuck it. I'm too mad at Mr. Wise for his failed Kamikaze run on my truck to consider forgiving the rest of you avian menaces. You bitches are lucky I don't have a gun, I'd be a one-man lynch mob walking through the forest at night, looking for revenge. "Who?" Me, motherfucker, thats who. *BLAM*
Fucking owls.
Well, now, I hate them. All of them. Every damned pygmy owl or great horned owl or spotted owl (yeah, that's right, a blog with "hippie" in the name hates spotted owls...fuck those bitches). The reason for my newfound hatred? Well, last night, as I was driving home from work at 12:15, in the pitch black and fog of a North Carolina mountain night, I see something coming down a hill out of the corner of my eye. A millisecond later, this big fucking owl flies about a foot in front of my windshield. I'm not sure how I didn't hit it. It was huge, looked more like a condor or pterodactyl or something.
I don't scare easily, and I have perfected my facade of being a big, tatted, angry motherfucker. But that stupid fucking owl made me scream like a little girl on a roller coaster. If I hadn't taken a leak right before I left work, I probably would have peed a little. A few seconds earlier, I was passionately singing along with Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter," now I was driving wide-eyed, the sound of my heart pounding drowning out any music. Fucking owl.
So fuck you owls. All of you. Eagle owl, suck it. Burrow owl, double fuck you for being so dumb that you don't know that birds live in trees, not holes in the ground...stupid fucker. Sammy the Owl, the mascot of Rice University, eat a dick you big, freaky, stuffed piece of shit. Yeah, even you, Woodsy. Fuck you. I'm going to go litter in a park today just to piss you off and show that I most certainly don't give a hoot. Not now. Thank your inconsiderate cousin who scared the shit out of me last night.
I know that it's not necessarily acceptable to hate an entire order of birds based on the behavior of one rogue family member, but fuck it. I'm too mad at Mr. Wise for his failed Kamikaze run on my truck to consider forgiving the rest of you avian menaces. You bitches are lucky I don't have a gun, I'd be a one-man lynch mob walking through the forest at night, looking for revenge. "Who?" Me, motherfucker, thats who. *BLAM*
Fucking owls.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
A 10k and Flabby Bellies
Hey Bitches. It's been a few days, and I know you're going through withdrawals, but everything is going to be o.k. now. That's right, just sit back and take it all in, that first hit after too long without it is good, right?
Anyway, I ran my first ever 10k yesterday, and it wasn't so bad. In fact, I finished under the goal I had set, which filled me with some sort of very odd feeling. The wife says it was probably pride, but since I don't really recall ever feeling that before, I don't know. I thought maybe I had pulled something in my brain during the race, but the wife insists I'm proud of myself. Whatever. All I do know is that I still hate running, even if yesterday went better than I had hoped. As always, there was enough eye candy at the race to make that alone worth my $25 entry fee.
There was the exact opposite of eye candy at the store this morning. I'm not overly interested in fashion (my standard outfit is either Dickies or shorts and a band t-shirt), I'm certainly no style maven. I do pay enough attention to other people, and I work part-time at a music venue, so I have at least some idea what is in style. I know that low-rise jeans are a trend right now, and on the right body, they can be a pretty nice thing.
What I saw this morning was not a nice thing at all. Hey random bitch shopping at Ingles, you are too fucking fat to wear low-rise jeans. If your pant size can be divided by 7 more than once, you cannot wear low-rise jeans. Ever. Never ever ever. Why clothing companies would even make low-rise jeans in that size is perplexing. Why your big ass would buy them is even more so. When you tried them on, did you not notice the big roll of flabby fucking stomach hanging over the waistline? When you were inhaling and holding your breath to get those motherfuckers to button, did you not think that maybe you should reconsider your choice in pants? When you saw that you looked like someone squeezing ground beef in their hand, did you get distracted by thoughts of burgers? Do you think that is attractive? It's not. I promise you it's not. Yeah, maybe there is some chubby chaser in the chips aisle who might look and say "Damn, I'd like to eat last Tuesday's Cheetos out of those rolls," but I promise you, that person would be the extreme exception. The rest of us want you to cover that shit up. We don't want to look at your muffin tops (that look like 6 cups worth of batter in one cup). That shit isn't cute. Buy some regular pants and a shirt that extends beyond the waistline, and keep that shit inside. Seriously. It's gross.
However, your vulgar display made me lose my appetite and as a result, I didn't spend very much at the grocery store; so I do have to thank you for that.
But still, burn those fucking pants.
And to whatever manufacturer is making that shit...stop. Stop tempting people who have no business wearing fashions meant for people who don't test the tensile strength of spandex to buy that shit. I know you're all about the money, but damn, maybe have a conscience for once. I realize that as America gets fatter and more and more obese people come to think of themselves as sexy because almost half the population is as big or bigger than they are, trends will change. But flabby fucking stomach fat hanging over pants will never be sexy, so stop making pants that allow these delusional bitches the opportunity to put it on display. Please. Fuck the children, think about those of us who don't want to see a size 18 stuffed into size 16 low-rise jeans.
You're welcome for the awesome visuals on a Sunday evening, Bitches. It's why you love me.
Anyway, I ran my first ever 10k yesterday, and it wasn't so bad. In fact, I finished under the goal I had set, which filled me with some sort of very odd feeling. The wife says it was probably pride, but since I don't really recall ever feeling that before, I don't know. I thought maybe I had pulled something in my brain during the race, but the wife insists I'm proud of myself. Whatever. All I do know is that I still hate running, even if yesterday went better than I had hoped. As always, there was enough eye candy at the race to make that alone worth my $25 entry fee.
There was the exact opposite of eye candy at the store this morning. I'm not overly interested in fashion (my standard outfit is either Dickies or shorts and a band t-shirt), I'm certainly no style maven. I do pay enough attention to other people, and I work part-time at a music venue, so I have at least some idea what is in style. I know that low-rise jeans are a trend right now, and on the right body, they can be a pretty nice thing.
What I saw this morning was not a nice thing at all. Hey random bitch shopping at Ingles, you are too fucking fat to wear low-rise jeans. If your pant size can be divided by 7 more than once, you cannot wear low-rise jeans. Ever. Never ever ever. Why clothing companies would even make low-rise jeans in that size is perplexing. Why your big ass would buy them is even more so. When you tried them on, did you not notice the big roll of flabby fucking stomach hanging over the waistline? When you were inhaling and holding your breath to get those motherfuckers to button, did you not think that maybe you should reconsider your choice in pants? When you saw that you looked like someone squeezing ground beef in their hand, did you get distracted by thoughts of burgers? Do you think that is attractive? It's not. I promise you it's not. Yeah, maybe there is some chubby chaser in the chips aisle who might look and say "Damn, I'd like to eat last Tuesday's Cheetos out of those rolls," but I promise you, that person would be the extreme exception. The rest of us want you to cover that shit up. We don't want to look at your muffin tops (that look like 6 cups worth of batter in one cup). That shit isn't cute. Buy some regular pants and a shirt that extends beyond the waistline, and keep that shit inside. Seriously. It's gross.
However, your vulgar display made me lose my appetite and as a result, I didn't spend very much at the grocery store; so I do have to thank you for that.
But still, burn those fucking pants.
And to whatever manufacturer is making that shit...stop. Stop tempting people who have no business wearing fashions meant for people who don't test the tensile strength of spandex to buy that shit. I know you're all about the money, but damn, maybe have a conscience for once. I realize that as America gets fatter and more and more obese people come to think of themselves as sexy because almost half the population is as big or bigger than they are, trends will change. But flabby fucking stomach fat hanging over pants will never be sexy, so stop making pants that allow these delusional bitches the opportunity to put it on display. Please. Fuck the children, think about those of us who don't want to see a size 18 stuffed into size 16 low-rise jeans.
You're welcome for the awesome visuals on a Sunday evening, Bitches. It's why you love me.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
It's Crack Time.
Anyone who knows me knows that I love cookies. Actually, "love cookies" is a gross understatement; I am a cookie junkie. Like a heroin addict chases the dragon, I chase the euphoria that accompanies putting a delicious cookie in my mouth. I would lie, cheat, and steal for cookies; hell, I would probably "disappear someone" for you if you offered me a few dozen homemade chocolate chips as payment. Throw some macadamia nuts in those bitches and I'll take out that person's whole family. I am a cookie whore, but while I would do anything for cookies, I won't don't that. (Thank you, Meatloaf.)
I love cookies. Almost any variety (except anything with coconut), and certainly any quantity. Chocolate chip are my favorite (GreenLife in Asheville makes the best ever, for the record), but I will eat whatever cookie is in front of me (except anything with coconut). I do not keep cookies in the house because I have no control when it comes to cookies. I will OD on cookies, and my wife will find me in the closet, empty package of Pepperidge Farm Sausalitos next to me, wide-eyed from the sugar high, chocolate all around my mouth, lamenting the cookies being gone and wondering where I'm going to get my next fix. "I swear, I was just going to have one. I don't remember anything."
Because of my cookie issues, this time of year is difficult. Yeah, Christmas is hard because people like giving cookies, but it's not as bad as when those cute little dealers in khaki uniforms take to the streets and peddle their colorful boxes of crack cookies. That's right, it's Girl Scout Cookie time. Fuck me.
I'm pretty sure the Girl Scout cookie thing is a front for massive drug dealings, because there is no way to explain the delicious irresistafuckingbility of their cookies. My grandma made some ridiculously good cookies, and I would eat them by the fistfuls in violent rages, but as good as they were, they never made me scrounge for change in my truck so I could get "one more box, man..." I imagine the Girl scout cookie factory to be windowless, employed by a bunch of people in their underwear, supervised closely to ensure they aren't stealing any product. The factory manager walks with a gilded cane, and everybody calls him "Daddy." He will beat your ass if you take a cookie. Just ask Pauly No-Toes what happens if you take a Tagalong. They produce these crack-laced happy pills, put them in colored boxes with the faces of Girl Scouts on the side, and words that say something...honestly I don't know what the words say because as soon as I have that box in my hand I'm tearing into it as if the secret of life and a million dollars are inside. What's inside is better than that. The boxes are distributed to smaller local dealers, and those little bitches stand outside the grocery store in broad daylight, just daring the cops to ask them what they're doing. Or they sub-contract their parents to sell shit at work, and the boss knows it's happening and doesn't care because the boss is hooked too. Everyone is doing it.
I buy mine from the daylight dealers at the grocery store. I get an instant fix, no waiting for a few days while Joan from finance "gets back to me." Fuck that, I need my cookies NOW, bitch. I get the green box. Damn right, Thin Mints. Thin Mints may very well be the most perfect cookie in the history of cookies. Mint, chocolate, and 100% pure Afghani black tar in a visually pleasing circular disc of addictive perfection. I love them chilled, so I have to buy several boxes, because if I only buy one box, that shit is gone well before I get anywhere near home and/or a refrigerator. I don't even pretend that I'm only going to have a couple. I'll sit and eat a whole sleeve of those motherfuckers. You want to say something to me about it? Try it. You think maybe I should slow down? I would get up and punch you in the face if I wasn't in the middle of this sleeve. You think I might need help? Fine, be a help and go back to the store and get me six more boxes. Get one for yourself if you want some, because I'm not sharing. Try to take one of my cookies and I will kick you in the chest. Ask my mom. I warned her.
I'm glad this time coincides with tax return time, because whatever I get back from the IRS is blown on Thin Mints. Yeah, my truck needs front end work, my kid needs some dental work, and there are a few bills to be paid, but Thin Mints, man. Thin Mints.
Thin Mints.
Whoever came up with the recipe for Thin Mints should be given a holiday. A day to honor the creation of cookie prefection. A day for junkies like me to celebrate in the open our love of Thin Mints. A day that will make others accept us for how we are and not look down on us. No more hiding in shame under my desk as I put away the fourth sleeve of the day. No more acting as if I only had a few while I visibly shake from the diabetic shock. No more having to explain it was the cookies when my wife finds me wandering aimlessly in Goodwill asking where they keep the midgets. "Ah, he's a Thin Mint addict, it's OK." Have another cookie, Matt, it's fine. Thanks, I will.
Now I need a fix. I'm going to the elementary school. "Hey, little kid...do you know where I can score some green box?"
I love cookies. Almost any variety (except anything with coconut), and certainly any quantity. Chocolate chip are my favorite (GreenLife in Asheville makes the best ever, for the record), but I will eat whatever cookie is in front of me (except anything with coconut). I do not keep cookies in the house because I have no control when it comes to cookies. I will OD on cookies, and my wife will find me in the closet, empty package of Pepperidge Farm Sausalitos next to me, wide-eyed from the sugar high, chocolate all around my mouth, lamenting the cookies being gone and wondering where I'm going to get my next fix. "I swear, I was just going to have one. I don't remember anything."
Because of my cookie issues, this time of year is difficult. Yeah, Christmas is hard because people like giving cookies, but it's not as bad as when those cute little dealers in khaki uniforms take to the streets and peddle their colorful boxes of crack cookies. That's right, it's Girl Scout Cookie time. Fuck me.
I'm pretty sure the Girl Scout cookie thing is a front for massive drug dealings, because there is no way to explain the delicious irresistafuckingbility of their cookies. My grandma made some ridiculously good cookies, and I would eat them by the fistfuls in violent rages, but as good as they were, they never made me scrounge for change in my truck so I could get "one more box, man..." I imagine the Girl scout cookie factory to be windowless, employed by a bunch of people in their underwear, supervised closely to ensure they aren't stealing any product. The factory manager walks with a gilded cane, and everybody calls him "Daddy." He will beat your ass if you take a cookie. Just ask Pauly No-Toes what happens if you take a Tagalong. They produce these crack-laced happy pills, put them in colored boxes with the faces of Girl Scouts on the side, and words that say something...honestly I don't know what the words say because as soon as I have that box in my hand I'm tearing into it as if the secret of life and a million dollars are inside. What's inside is better than that. The boxes are distributed to smaller local dealers, and those little bitches stand outside the grocery store in broad daylight, just daring the cops to ask them what they're doing. Or they sub-contract their parents to sell shit at work, and the boss knows it's happening and doesn't care because the boss is hooked too. Everyone is doing it.
I buy mine from the daylight dealers at the grocery store. I get an instant fix, no waiting for a few days while Joan from finance "gets back to me." Fuck that, I need my cookies NOW, bitch. I get the green box. Damn right, Thin Mints. Thin Mints may very well be the most perfect cookie in the history of cookies. Mint, chocolate, and 100% pure Afghani black tar in a visually pleasing circular disc of addictive perfection. I love them chilled, so I have to buy several boxes, because if I only buy one box, that shit is gone well before I get anywhere near home and/or a refrigerator. I don't even pretend that I'm only going to have a couple. I'll sit and eat a whole sleeve of those motherfuckers. You want to say something to me about it? Try it. You think maybe I should slow down? I would get up and punch you in the face if I wasn't in the middle of this sleeve. You think I might need help? Fine, be a help and go back to the store and get me six more boxes. Get one for yourself if you want some, because I'm not sharing. Try to take one of my cookies and I will kick you in the chest. Ask my mom. I warned her.
I'm glad this time coincides with tax return time, because whatever I get back from the IRS is blown on Thin Mints. Yeah, my truck needs front end work, my kid needs some dental work, and there are a few bills to be paid, but Thin Mints, man. Thin Mints.
Thin Mints.
Whoever came up with the recipe for Thin Mints should be given a holiday. A day to honor the creation of cookie prefection. A day for junkies like me to celebrate in the open our love of Thin Mints. A day that will make others accept us for how we are and not look down on us. No more hiding in shame under my desk as I put away the fourth sleeve of the day. No more acting as if I only had a few while I visibly shake from the diabetic shock. No more having to explain it was the cookies when my wife finds me wandering aimlessly in Goodwill asking where they keep the midgets. "Ah, he's a Thin Mint addict, it's OK." Have another cookie, Matt, it's fine. Thanks, I will.
Now I need a fix. I'm going to the elementary school. "Hey, little kid...do you know where I can score some green box?"
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
No Witty Title Today.
When I got into my truck this afternoon to come to work (yeah, I write my blog at work…who doesn’t?) I decided that I wanted to listen to something different. I have a fairly decent CD collection in my ride, but tend to stick to a rotation of the same 15-20 albums (mostly because they are the ones that aren't scratched). Today, I wanted something out of the rotation. So, I flip through my CD binder thingy and there it is, calling out to me with a bright red face…the Ultimate 80’s hair band compilation. Hell yes, I’m going high pitched scream my way to work.
You may be wondering “Matt, why the fuck do you have an ultimate 80’s hair band compilation?” The honest answer is that in 2005, on the second of my two drives across the country while moving from AZ to NC, I was getting bored with the music in my available collection. At a truck stop in some redneck Oklahoma town, I decided to drop $3 and relive some glorious 80’s music for a few miles. Hell, I was in Oklahoma, it actually seemed fitting. Perhaps rocking out to some Warrant would help me keep from getting my ass kicked should I have any run-ins with the locals. At the time, it was a safety measure easily worth 3 bucks. Plus, it was either that or Garth Brooks, and well, hair bands win. Seriously, they had 2 CDs.
I put the CD in and am immediately greeted by some Whitesnake. Here I go again on my own…aw yeah. Going down the only road I can to get to work. Yeah, I change lyrics sometimes. You don't? You should. Try it, it's fun. The next song, however, is where I get disappointed. It's “Wind of Change” by the Scorpions. Don’t get me wrong; when I heard that unmistakable whistling intro, I was into it. Here I am, driving in the rain, whistling like an idiot. Thank God no one can see me in my car when I’m driving (yeah, I’m taking a shot at you, in-car nose pickers). I remember when it came out; I thought that song was so deep, so meaningful. I’m sure it had everything to do with me being in high school at the time, thinking I knew something about international politics because I could find Berlin on a map and watched the CBS Evening News with Dan Rather while Mr. Gorbachev “[tore] down that wall.” Now, 20 years later, as I listen to the lyrics, it’s actually a pretty unimpressive song. The lyrics are fairly benign, and really don’t say much of anything beyond “Take me to the magic of a moment of a glory night,” which really could be about almost anything. Insert that line into any love song; it works. Insert that line into any song about getting high; it works. Shit, if you could find a way to work it into “Drop It Like It’s Hot”…it would probably work. While some would say that sort of versatility makes a lyric great, I would say it makes it fairly generic. I understand that there is meaning behind the song because of the timeframe in which it was released, but meaning doesn't always make up for lacking quality. I know I'm being picky, but it's my blog, motherfuckers, deal with it.
So there I am, driving and thinking “Damn, it’s just not the same anymore.” Not that I ever listen to the song, not that I ever listen to anything by the Scorpions, but it’s one of those songs I vividly remember from my teenage years and now will think “Meh” anytime I hear it. However, my disappointment was soon just a memory as I got blasted by a live version of Tesla’s remake of “Signs” (originally done by the Five Man Electrical Band)…and everything is o.k. I’m air drumming on my steering wheel like a retard once again. Thank you, Tesla.
There is a lesson to be learned here, and that lesson is that the next time you are tempted to play that Ultimate 80’s hair band compilation, you shouldn’t. It can do little more than taint the past.
You may be wondering “Matt, why the fuck do you have an ultimate 80’s hair band compilation?” The honest answer is that in 2005, on the second of my two drives across the country while moving from AZ to NC, I was getting bored with the music in my available collection. At a truck stop in some redneck Oklahoma town, I decided to drop $3 and relive some glorious 80’s music for a few miles. Hell, I was in Oklahoma, it actually seemed fitting. Perhaps rocking out to some Warrant would help me keep from getting my ass kicked should I have any run-ins with the locals. At the time, it was a safety measure easily worth 3 bucks. Plus, it was either that or Garth Brooks, and well, hair bands win. Seriously, they had 2 CDs.
I put the CD in and am immediately greeted by some Whitesnake. Here I go again on my own…aw yeah. Going down the only road I can to get to work. Yeah, I change lyrics sometimes. You don't? You should. Try it, it's fun. The next song, however, is where I get disappointed. It's “Wind of Change” by the Scorpions. Don’t get me wrong; when I heard that unmistakable whistling intro, I was into it. Here I am, driving in the rain, whistling like an idiot. Thank God no one can see me in my car when I’m driving (yeah, I’m taking a shot at you, in-car nose pickers). I remember when it came out; I thought that song was so deep, so meaningful. I’m sure it had everything to do with me being in high school at the time, thinking I knew something about international politics because I could find Berlin on a map and watched the CBS Evening News with Dan Rather while Mr. Gorbachev “[tore] down that wall.” Now, 20 years later, as I listen to the lyrics, it’s actually a pretty unimpressive song. The lyrics are fairly benign, and really don’t say much of anything beyond “Take me to the magic of a moment of a glory night,” which really could be about almost anything. Insert that line into any love song; it works. Insert that line into any song about getting high; it works. Shit, if you could find a way to work it into “Drop It Like It’s Hot”…it would probably work. While some would say that sort of versatility makes a lyric great, I would say it makes it fairly generic. I understand that there is meaning behind the song because of the timeframe in which it was released, but meaning doesn't always make up for lacking quality. I know I'm being picky, but it's my blog, motherfuckers, deal with it.
So there I am, driving and thinking “Damn, it’s just not the same anymore.” Not that I ever listen to the song, not that I ever listen to anything by the Scorpions, but it’s one of those songs I vividly remember from my teenage years and now will think “Meh” anytime I hear it. However, my disappointment was soon just a memory as I got blasted by a live version of Tesla’s remake of “Signs” (originally done by the Five Man Electrical Band)…and everything is o.k. I’m air drumming on my steering wheel like a retard once again. Thank you, Tesla.
There is a lesson to be learned here, and that lesson is that the next time you are tempted to play that Ultimate 80’s hair band compilation, you shouldn’t. It can do little more than taint the past.
Monday, January 18, 2010
French Fries and 5 am Rage.
Allow me to preface today's worthless rant by saying that 99% of the time, my wife is wonderful and life with her is fun. This morning would be part of that 1%.
My wife is not as militant about her eating as I am, and occasionally she will eat fast food from places I won't even consider. Last night, she decided to have McDonald's. That isn't really that big a deal, and certainly not worth blogging about. However, what she did when she didn't finish all of her french fries is.
With the exception of the occasional piece of fat from a steak or pork chop, our dogs do not get human food. Yes, I am a freak about what my dogs eat, too; they get high quality, all natural, corn-free hippie dog food. My wife, brilliant as she is, decided that last night, the dogs deserved the remainder of her french fries. Greasy, salty french fries. Now, I know that some of you will say, "They're dogs, they would eat shit if you didn't stop them...blah blah blah." Well yeah, maybe if I raise my dogs to eat whatever shit they can find, their digestive systems could handle half an order of french fries. Our older dog, who we rescued at age 6 and ate who knows what before we got him didn't seem to have any issue with the tasty fries. Our Shar Pei puppy, Maynard, who is 8.5 months old and has only ever eaten the hippie dog food, did. I went to bed around 1 am, which is normal for me since I work a lot of late night shifts.
3:08 am. That's what time I woke up to the sound of Maynard in the process of puking. Once I came out of my dream state (where I was riding an ATV in downtown Omaha...) and realized what I was hearing, I was fortunate enough to get to him and put an old towel down just before he yakked. Once he went and got a drink and laid back down, I fell back asleep, not too phased by the whole thing.
5:03 am. That's what time I woke up with Maynard's nose in my face, giving me the standard "You better take me out, quick!" grunt. If you've ever met a Shar Pei, you know that their short snout makes them sound a lot like the common pig, which is kinda cute when friends are visiting at 7 pm, not great in your face at 5:05 am. In my PJs, I take him into the frigid morning air, and all he does is take a leak. Damn you, dog.
5:12 am. That's what time I start hearing the absolutely insane and sinister sounds coming from Maynard's stomach. Some of the sounds were amusing, some of them were very blunt warnings that at any minute, Maynard's ass could explode all over the living room. I decide that it might be a good idea to take him back outside. I'm more than a little irritated at this point, because I know exactly why this is happening. French fries. Damn you, woman. We walk around for a while, me freezing my ass off, Maynard being distracted by wind through trees and anything that even pretends to move. Puppies are fun like that. He does nothing, so tired, impatient, and growing angrier with every second spent outside in the dark at 5 o'fucking clock in the morning, I take him back inside.
5:38 am. That's what time I realize that the sounds are getting louder, more intense, and starting to sound like demons chanting curses in Latin. Maynard is whining, so I get back up to take him out again. Now, I'm just pissed. Yeah, I feel bad for Maynard, an upset stomach sucks. But, that empathy is far overshadowed by the rage I feel about having to go outside again at 5 o'motherfucking clock in the morning while my wife stays snug under her electric blanket. You might ask why I didn't make her handle all of this. Well, she has that whole "I'm in a wheelchair" excuse that she uses to make me handle anything at night that requires a quick response. Yeah, I know, lazy, right? Anyway, I bundle up, take Maynard out, cursing every step of the way. Damn you, woman. Damn you, dog. And fuck you, McDonald's.
I don't know if your dogs are like mine, but my dogs will not take a shit until they have found the exact perfect spot in which to do so. Their sphincters could be on the edge of unleashing Armageddon and they wouldn't go unless they were completely satisfied with the aura or the view or whatever the fuck dogs look for in a place to shit. So, we wander around the forest while Maynard searches for crapping mecca, me cursing everyone in my house, everyone who has ever had anything to do with McDonald's, and the French. Yes, I know "french fries" is just a name, but it's way too fucking early in the morning for me to consider thinking logically. After what seems like half an hour, Maynard gets it out of his system. We go home, and I crawl back into bed, not being able to help wondering how many times in the previous hour or so I had said any variation of the word "fuck." It has to be a record. Quentin Tarantino would be proud.
So yeah, if you don't make a habit of feeding your dogs greasy crap, don't feed them greasy crap. I'm mostly talking to you, wife. While I love you a lot, I hated you at 5 this morning.
I told you this was going to be worthless, yet you read the whole thing anyway. Haha, Bitches.
My wife is not as militant about her eating as I am, and occasionally she will eat fast food from places I won't even consider. Last night, she decided to have McDonald's. That isn't really that big a deal, and certainly not worth blogging about. However, what she did when she didn't finish all of her french fries is.
With the exception of the occasional piece of fat from a steak or pork chop, our dogs do not get human food. Yes, I am a freak about what my dogs eat, too; they get high quality, all natural, corn-free hippie dog food. My wife, brilliant as she is, decided that last night, the dogs deserved the remainder of her french fries. Greasy, salty french fries. Now, I know that some of you will say, "They're dogs, they would eat shit if you didn't stop them...blah blah blah." Well yeah, maybe if I raise my dogs to eat whatever shit they can find, their digestive systems could handle half an order of french fries. Our older dog, who we rescued at age 6 and ate who knows what before we got him didn't seem to have any issue with the tasty fries. Our Shar Pei puppy, Maynard, who is 8.5 months old and has only ever eaten the hippie dog food, did. I went to bed around 1 am, which is normal for me since I work a lot of late night shifts.
3:08 am. That's what time I woke up to the sound of Maynard in the process of puking. Once I came out of my dream state (where I was riding an ATV in downtown Omaha...) and realized what I was hearing, I was fortunate enough to get to him and put an old towel down just before he yakked. Once he went and got a drink and laid back down, I fell back asleep, not too phased by the whole thing.
5:03 am. That's what time I woke up with Maynard's nose in my face, giving me the standard "You better take me out, quick!" grunt. If you've ever met a Shar Pei, you know that their short snout makes them sound a lot like the common pig, which is kinda cute when friends are visiting at 7 pm, not great in your face at 5:05 am. In my PJs, I take him into the frigid morning air, and all he does is take a leak. Damn you, dog.
5:12 am. That's what time I start hearing the absolutely insane and sinister sounds coming from Maynard's stomach. Some of the sounds were amusing, some of them were very blunt warnings that at any minute, Maynard's ass could explode all over the living room. I decide that it might be a good idea to take him back outside. I'm more than a little irritated at this point, because I know exactly why this is happening. French fries. Damn you, woman. We walk around for a while, me freezing my ass off, Maynard being distracted by wind through trees and anything that even pretends to move. Puppies are fun like that. He does nothing, so tired, impatient, and growing angrier with every second spent outside in the dark at 5 o'fucking clock in the morning, I take him back inside.
5:38 am. That's what time I realize that the sounds are getting louder, more intense, and starting to sound like demons chanting curses in Latin. Maynard is whining, so I get back up to take him out again. Now, I'm just pissed. Yeah, I feel bad for Maynard, an upset stomach sucks. But, that empathy is far overshadowed by the rage I feel about having to go outside again at 5 o'motherfucking clock in the morning while my wife stays snug under her electric blanket. You might ask why I didn't make her handle all of this. Well, she has that whole "I'm in a wheelchair" excuse that she uses to make me handle anything at night that requires a quick response. Yeah, I know, lazy, right? Anyway, I bundle up, take Maynard out, cursing every step of the way. Damn you, woman. Damn you, dog. And fuck you, McDonald's.
I don't know if your dogs are like mine, but my dogs will not take a shit until they have found the exact perfect spot in which to do so. Their sphincters could be on the edge of unleashing Armageddon and they wouldn't go unless they were completely satisfied with the aura or the view or whatever the fuck dogs look for in a place to shit. So, we wander around the forest while Maynard searches for crapping mecca, me cursing everyone in my house, everyone who has ever had anything to do with McDonald's, and the French. Yes, I know "french fries" is just a name, but it's way too fucking early in the morning for me to consider thinking logically. After what seems like half an hour, Maynard gets it out of his system. We go home, and I crawl back into bed, not being able to help wondering how many times in the previous hour or so I had said any variation of the word "fuck." It has to be a record. Quentin Tarantino would be proud.
So yeah, if you don't make a habit of feeding your dogs greasy crap, don't feed them greasy crap. I'm mostly talking to you, wife. While I love you a lot, I hated you at 5 this morning.
I told you this was going to be worthless, yet you read the whole thing anyway. Haha, Bitches.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday
Hey Bitches. No, I don't have any monster truck mayhem to announce. I just wanted to get the point across that today is Sunday. Once again, my blog proves invaluable. I will say that now that the NFL is into the later stages of the playoffs, I don't love Sundays as much as I do during the NFL season. Yeah, I know, without football, I could take advantage of the rare Sunday afternoon that I don't work and actually go outside to do something instead of sitting in my chair, eating too much and finding creative new ways to incorporate "fuck" into the things I yell at the TV when the Broncos are finding ways to throw away yet another season or the players on one of my fantasy teams (yes, I play fantasy football, I have already established I am a dork, get off me) isn't performing...but why? I like wasting 5 months of my year focusing on little else than the Broncos finding epic ways to fail and how many receptions DeSean Jackson might have in the next game. But hey, only 3 months, 5 days until the 2010 Draft.
Today's entry is not really about football, though. No, today's productive commentary on social issues is about people misusing handicapped parking spaces. The handicapped parking space is a pretty simple concept, really. Some people have been stricken with a true disability of some sort that makes walking difficult or impossible, or the need for extra space around a vehicle (ie: a van with a wheelchair ramp) a reality. So, as a courtesy (or because of ADA requirements, however you want to look at it) they get handicapped parking spaces to allow them the space they need or a shorter walk to the front doors of a business/church/whatever. The rest of us have to park in normal spots and walk the extra 20-30 feet...because we can.
Which brings me to the fat fucking bastards. Contrary to what some will say, sitting on your ass and eating yourself into a state of morbid obesity is not a disability. Cramming 6 donuts into your throat and washing them down with a gallon of chocolate milk for your mid-morning second breakfast is not the same as being born with Cerebral Palsy or breaking your neck in a freak accident. Having the inability to stop yourself from having that 9th slice of pizza at 11 pm while you're watching Skinemax and wishing you could find your dick does not mean you are handicapped. It means you are a fucking slob. You do not deserve a handicapped placard. In fact, your gargantuan ass should be parking in a lot at a totally different store 1/2 mile away and walking. You need the exercise. Oh, your knees hurt? Maybe you should have thought about the fact that human knees were not designed to handle the prolonged pressure of supporting the weight of a 6 month old Holstein when you were challenging your own personal daily hamburger intake record. Lose some of that weight and I bet your knees start feeling better. You know how to start losing some of that weight? Walk. From the back of the parking lot, for starters.
Oh, and asshole borrowing your grandma's car and using her handicapped placard to get a spot up front because you're too fucking lazy to walk an extra few feet...fuck you. Just because your grandma has a legitimate need for a placard does not entitle your perfectly capable ass to use it. Your lack of consideration and abject laziness makes me hope that you develop Crohn's Disease and find yourself unable to walk 6 feet without shitting yourself for the rest of your life. I can almost, almost find an ounce of care and forgive the gluttons, but you are inexcusable. I would love to crush your legs so you have a reason to use that spot.
I will admit that handicapped parking and accessibility were not things that I thought about extensively before it became a daily reality in my wife's life. However, I did know from a very young age that those spots with the signs and the blue paint are there for people who truly need them, not for fat people and lazy assholes. Although, the way things are going, I'm sure it won't be long until they start designating parking spots specifically for the obese. Everything else seems to be going the way of catering for the chronic over-eaters in our society, why not this? But, I can assure you, few things are more frustrating for a person with a legitimate need for a handicapped spot than not being able to find one available.
Sorry for the almost too serious rant today, had to get this one off my chest. I'll go back to making fun of commercials and eyebrow pictures and other inane crap tomorrow.
Later, Bitches.
Today's entry is not really about football, though. No, today's productive commentary on social issues is about people misusing handicapped parking spaces. The handicapped parking space is a pretty simple concept, really. Some people have been stricken with a true disability of some sort that makes walking difficult or impossible, or the need for extra space around a vehicle (ie: a van with a wheelchair ramp) a reality. So, as a courtesy (or because of ADA requirements, however you want to look at it) they get handicapped parking spaces to allow them the space they need or a shorter walk to the front doors of a business/church/whatever. The rest of us have to park in normal spots and walk the extra 20-30 feet...because we can.
Which brings me to the fat fucking bastards. Contrary to what some will say, sitting on your ass and eating yourself into a state of morbid obesity is not a disability. Cramming 6 donuts into your throat and washing them down with a gallon of chocolate milk for your mid-morning second breakfast is not the same as being born with Cerebral Palsy or breaking your neck in a freak accident. Having the inability to stop yourself from having that 9th slice of pizza at 11 pm while you're watching Skinemax and wishing you could find your dick does not mean you are handicapped. It means you are a fucking slob. You do not deserve a handicapped placard. In fact, your gargantuan ass should be parking in a lot at a totally different store 1/2 mile away and walking. You need the exercise. Oh, your knees hurt? Maybe you should have thought about the fact that human knees were not designed to handle the prolonged pressure of supporting the weight of a 6 month old Holstein when you were challenging your own personal daily hamburger intake record. Lose some of that weight and I bet your knees start feeling better. You know how to start losing some of that weight? Walk. From the back of the parking lot, for starters.
Oh, and asshole borrowing your grandma's car and using her handicapped placard to get a spot up front because you're too fucking lazy to walk an extra few feet...fuck you. Just because your grandma has a legitimate need for a placard does not entitle your perfectly capable ass to use it. Your lack of consideration and abject laziness makes me hope that you develop Crohn's Disease and find yourself unable to walk 6 feet without shitting yourself for the rest of your life. I can almost, almost find an ounce of care and forgive the gluttons, but you are inexcusable. I would love to crush your legs so you have a reason to use that spot.
I will admit that handicapped parking and accessibility were not things that I thought about extensively before it became a daily reality in my wife's life. However, I did know from a very young age that those spots with the signs and the blue paint are there for people who truly need them, not for fat people and lazy assholes. Although, the way things are going, I'm sure it won't be long until they start designating parking spots specifically for the obese. Everything else seems to be going the way of catering for the chronic over-eaters in our society, why not this? But, I can assure you, few things are more frustrating for a person with a legitimate need for a handicapped spot than not being able to find one available.
Sorry for the almost too serious rant today, had to get this one off my chest. I'll go back to making fun of commercials and eyebrow pictures and other inane crap tomorrow.
Later, Bitches.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Running and On-Line Dating Douchebags.
Hey Bitches. It's Friday, and I'm having a hell of a time trying to figure out how to start today's blog. I figured that if I rambled for a few sentences about having difficulty trying to start the paragraph, eventually I will find a way to segue into something resembling relevance. So far, no luck. But, after this sentence, I'll feel it.
Still not feeling it, but here I go anyway. I ran 7.2 miles today. I know that for some of you runner freaks, 7.2 miles is a warm-up for your daily after dinner marthon, but for me, 7.2 miles is an accomplishment. So take that condescending "Meh" and shove it up your ass, runner freaks. If nothing else, today accomplished the feat of making my ass hurt. For those who don't know, I'm big on fitness. However, until recently, I didn't ever run, because quite honestly, running sucks. It's painful, it's boring, it's painful, it's stupid, and it's painful. If it wasn't for the hot chicks at races and the marginally cool T-shirts I never wear, I probably wouldn't run. I don't enjoy running. I don't believe anyone truly enjoys running, they just tell themselves they do so they aren't tempted to punch themselves in the throat every time they do it. I'll admit, it was nice to be outside, but it's hard to enjoy the nice weather when your legs feel like they are shattering under the weight of the hatred you carry for yourself because you subject yourself to this torture. But, I did it, and I am happy. Mainly that I didn't die in the process.
Yes, I went through first-person, second-person, and third person narrative all in one paragraph. Pretty impressive, right?
I don't do on-line dating. I have no reason to, because I was fortunate enough to trick some unsuspecting chick into putting up with my lame ass a long time ago. She's still trying to figure out what the fuck she was thinking, I'm still thankful that she wasn't thinking. I do, however, have friends who do the on-line dating thing. I do not object to the concept, I think it can be a very valuable tool in meeting other people, much like lies and chloroform.
Some of these friends have been so kind to share photos of some of the people who various dating websites have suggested they contact. I must say, it is both entertaining and sad. It's entertaining because I like laughing at stupid people. It's sad because these people obviously are really that lame. Why would you go to a dating website, type in a bunch of shit about yourself that may or may not be entirely true, and then post a series of completely ridiculous pictures that portray you as a complete and total fuckstick?
Pictures that look like mughshots? That is what you think is going to win the heart of Ms. Right? If pseudo-mugshots turn Ms. Right on, you might want to check Ms. Right for a penis.
Pictures of your fucking eyebrows? Are you that proud of the fact that you can operate tweezers that you showcase your eyebrows? I know chicks don't like unibrows (or monobrows, or as they're referred to in Swahili; "Scary fucking caterpillar face fuckers" [a loose but accurate translation]), but your strategy is flawed, Mr. Eyebrow Picture Guy. You need to not creep chicks out so they'll get close enough to your face to notice your plucking skills. Posting a close-up of your eyebrows just gives the chicks a chance to memorize a target at which to aim the pepper spray should you ever see them in real life.
Shirtless pictures? Really, Mr. 30 pounds Overweight With No Muscular Definition? Hey, self-confidence is good. Self-delusion is not. Put your fucking shirt back on, Tubby. You may be an awesome guy, 30, but when you look like that, you have to woo the chicks with your sense of humor and personality before you bore them with your incredibly unimpressive physique. A lot of chicks can look past glaring physical imperfections, but not usually if you showcase them in poorly taken digital photographs as your first impression. If they think that's the best you have to offer, they're not going to be eager to meet your bad points.
Look, I know you guys may have great personalities. You may be funny, you may be rich, and you may have other physical attributes that can make up for your poor judgment in choosing photographs. But come on guys, if you don't take at least a little bit of pride in what you present to the ladies, you're going to get nothing (or the bottom of the barrel...and if you're slumming on an on-line dating site, you need a hobby). You wouldn't show up at a bar or church or PTA meeting dressed like a homeless person, stinking like ass and onions, and yelling at people "LOOK AT MY EYEBROWS!" then expect to land a chick, would you? No, because you know it doesn't work like that. You know you need to put some effort into it. So dudes, step it up, even a little. Stop making it so easy for douchebags with Harleys to land all of the tail.
To my friends who have been subjected to these losers, you're welcome. Any minute, you can expect much better stock to choose from.
With that, I'm going to see if I can't find more stupid people to laugh at. Peace, Bitches.
Still not feeling it, but here I go anyway. I ran 7.2 miles today. I know that for some of you runner freaks, 7.2 miles is a warm-up for your daily after dinner marthon, but for me, 7.2 miles is an accomplishment. So take that condescending "Meh" and shove it up your ass, runner freaks. If nothing else, today accomplished the feat of making my ass hurt. For those who don't know, I'm big on fitness. However, until recently, I didn't ever run, because quite honestly, running sucks. It's painful, it's boring, it's painful, it's stupid, and it's painful. If it wasn't for the hot chicks at races and the marginally cool T-shirts I never wear, I probably wouldn't run. I don't enjoy running. I don't believe anyone truly enjoys running, they just tell themselves they do so they aren't tempted to punch themselves in the throat every time they do it. I'll admit, it was nice to be outside, but it's hard to enjoy the nice weather when your legs feel like they are shattering under the weight of the hatred you carry for yourself because you subject yourself to this torture. But, I did it, and I am happy. Mainly that I didn't die in the process.
Yes, I went through first-person, second-person, and third person narrative all in one paragraph. Pretty impressive, right?
I don't do on-line dating. I have no reason to, because I was fortunate enough to trick some unsuspecting chick into putting up with my lame ass a long time ago. She's still trying to figure out what the fuck she was thinking, I'm still thankful that she wasn't thinking. I do, however, have friends who do the on-line dating thing. I do not object to the concept, I think it can be a very valuable tool in meeting other people, much like lies and chloroform.
Some of these friends have been so kind to share photos of some of the people who various dating websites have suggested they contact. I must say, it is both entertaining and sad. It's entertaining because I like laughing at stupid people. It's sad because these people obviously are really that lame. Why would you go to a dating website, type in a bunch of shit about yourself that may or may not be entirely true, and then post a series of completely ridiculous pictures that portray you as a complete and total fuckstick?
Pictures that look like mughshots? That is what you think is going to win the heart of Ms. Right? If pseudo-mugshots turn Ms. Right on, you might want to check Ms. Right for a penis.
Pictures of your fucking eyebrows? Are you that proud of the fact that you can operate tweezers that you showcase your eyebrows? I know chicks don't like unibrows (or monobrows, or as they're referred to in Swahili; "Scary fucking caterpillar face fuckers" [a loose but accurate translation]), but your strategy is flawed, Mr. Eyebrow Picture Guy. You need to not creep chicks out so they'll get close enough to your face to notice your plucking skills. Posting a close-up of your eyebrows just gives the chicks a chance to memorize a target at which to aim the pepper spray should you ever see them in real life.
Shirtless pictures? Really, Mr. 30 pounds Overweight With No Muscular Definition? Hey, self-confidence is good. Self-delusion is not. Put your fucking shirt back on, Tubby. You may be an awesome guy, 30, but when you look like that, you have to woo the chicks with your sense of humor and personality before you bore them with your incredibly unimpressive physique. A lot of chicks can look past glaring physical imperfections, but not usually if you showcase them in poorly taken digital photographs as your first impression. If they think that's the best you have to offer, they're not going to be eager to meet your bad points.
Look, I know you guys may have great personalities. You may be funny, you may be rich, and you may have other physical attributes that can make up for your poor judgment in choosing photographs. But come on guys, if you don't take at least a little bit of pride in what you present to the ladies, you're going to get nothing (or the bottom of the barrel...and if you're slumming on an on-line dating site, you need a hobby). You wouldn't show up at a bar or church or PTA meeting dressed like a homeless person, stinking like ass and onions, and yelling at people "LOOK AT MY EYEBROWS!" then expect to land a chick, would you? No, because you know it doesn't work like that. You know you need to put some effort into it. So dudes, step it up, even a little. Stop making it so easy for douchebags with Harleys to land all of the tail.
To my friends who have been subjected to these losers, you're welcome. Any minute, you can expect much better stock to choose from.
With that, I'm going to see if I can't find more stupid people to laugh at. Peace, Bitches.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Facebook is Out of Control.
Hey Bitches. I told myself that I wasn't going to blog twice in one day, because the internet can only handle so much brilliance per day, and also because doing so might make me go blind. However, I didn't blog yesterday, so I feel o.k. putting this one out.
Today, I got an e-mail from my dentist advising me that I can now follow them on Facebook. My dentist's office is on Facebook. Let me re-type that in a more disbelieving italicized font for effect: My dentist's office is on Facebook. Really? What the fuck would make my dentist's office think that anyone would want to friend them? Dr. L, you provide a valuable service, and I appreciate the free ancient manual toothbrushes and travel sized toothpaste that you give out, but dude...people hate you. You charge us a shitload of money and then torture us for an hour every 6 months. I'm sure you're a cool guy after working hours, but you're not really a friend. None of my friends chastise me regularly for not flossing properly. None of my friends annoy me with shit like "Maybe you should spend some more time on your molars." Yeah, well maybe you should get the fuck out of my mouth. And give me my $400 back.
It's no secret amongst those who know me that I don't Facebook. I never have, and will avoid it until I am forced to sign up at gunpoint by militant Facebook guerillas. Because of that, I'm no Facebook expert. However, I spend enough time on the internet to have an idea of what goes on. People post a bunch of random shit about themselves, their life, their kids, whatever; they post pics; they take inane little surveys and quizzes and find out important stuff like their Heavy Metal 2000 gargoyle name would be Assblaster Spelunkmeister; and some even play some stupid fucking farming game or something (which sounds about as enjoyable as licking sandpaper and drinking lemonade). It's a place for people who think highly of themselves to share their life with 5 people they really like and 450 people they really don't care about but befriend because they like feeling wanted. I'm not bashing people who Facebook, obviously, I think highly enough of myself to share my thoughts with the world through this magnificent blog. But, you don't need pics of my ugly ass getting shit-faced at my daughter's 9th birthday party to make the experience better.
Which brings me to a complaint I've heard from people who do Facebook...kid updates. As a public service to my bitches, I will type this out and you can cut and paste or link or whatever to those people who annoy you with kid updates: Look, everyone knows you're proud of your kid. Everyone understands that the laws of nature took a break and allowed you to procreate, and now you feel the need to share that with the world. But seriously, no one but Grandma and Grandpa, maybe one or two aunts, and that one creepy chick friend who doesn't have any kids because she's too fucking annoying to get a date, much less get laid cares about your kid. No one gives a fuck that Baby Zoe took a shit that sounded like a harmonica and looked like smurf pudding. No one wants to know that Baby Jack looked cute in his gay little sailor outfit on the first day of pre-school. Stop bothering people who have a life. I have a kid. She's awesome. But I certainly wouldn't annoy the people I call friends by calling them every 3 minutes to tell them she did something marginally funny. Post a pic so everyone can go "Aww, so cute!" or "Eww, that's an ugly fucking monkey baby" and let it go.
Moving on...what I don't get is what the fuck my dentist's office could possibly do to make spending any amount of time on their page worth the click. What would the status updates be? "Just spent 38 minutes digging steak gristle out from between Mrs. Jenkin's 14 and 15." Or "The sores in Mr. Jacobson's mouth aren't going away, will require further treatment." Seriously, why would anyone befriend their dentist? I don't want to see pics of anyone's fucked up dental X-rays, I already know what the staff looks like, and I really don't give a rat's ass that Dr. L's rice plantation took a hit during an e-drought. I don't listen to my dentist during the time I'm in his office, why would I make any effort to follow him on Facebook?
Because society is so enamored with Facebook, places like my dentist's office feel the need to further make the experience of interacting in cyberspace as lame as it can be. I'm glad I'm not a chick, I can't imagine what it would be like to get an e-mail from the Gynecologist saying "Follow us on Facebook!"
Although...I might actually sign...nevermind.
Today, I got an e-mail from my dentist advising me that I can now follow them on Facebook. My dentist's office is on Facebook. Let me re-type that in a more disbelieving italicized font for effect: My dentist's office is on Facebook. Really? What the fuck would make my dentist's office think that anyone would want to friend them? Dr. L, you provide a valuable service, and I appreciate the free ancient manual toothbrushes and travel sized toothpaste that you give out, but dude...people hate you. You charge us a shitload of money and then torture us for an hour every 6 months. I'm sure you're a cool guy after working hours, but you're not really a friend. None of my friends chastise me regularly for not flossing properly. None of my friends annoy me with shit like "Maybe you should spend some more time on your molars." Yeah, well maybe you should get the fuck out of my mouth. And give me my $400 back.
It's no secret amongst those who know me that I don't Facebook. I never have, and will avoid it until I am forced to sign up at gunpoint by militant Facebook guerillas. Because of that, I'm no Facebook expert. However, I spend enough time on the internet to have an idea of what goes on. People post a bunch of random shit about themselves, their life, their kids, whatever; they post pics; they take inane little surveys and quizzes and find out important stuff like their Heavy Metal 2000 gargoyle name would be Assblaster Spelunkmeister; and some even play some stupid fucking farming game or something (which sounds about as enjoyable as licking sandpaper and drinking lemonade). It's a place for people who think highly of themselves to share their life with 5 people they really like and 450 people they really don't care about but befriend because they like feeling wanted. I'm not bashing people who Facebook, obviously, I think highly enough of myself to share my thoughts with the world through this magnificent blog. But, you don't need pics of my ugly ass getting shit-faced at my daughter's 9th birthday party to make the experience better.
Which brings me to a complaint I've heard from people who do Facebook...kid updates. As a public service to my bitches, I will type this out and you can cut and paste or link or whatever to those people who annoy you with kid updates: Look, everyone knows you're proud of your kid. Everyone understands that the laws of nature took a break and allowed you to procreate, and now you feel the need to share that with the world. But seriously, no one but Grandma and Grandpa, maybe one or two aunts, and that one creepy chick friend who doesn't have any kids because she's too fucking annoying to get a date, much less get laid cares about your kid. No one gives a fuck that Baby Zoe took a shit that sounded like a harmonica and looked like smurf pudding. No one wants to know that Baby Jack looked cute in his gay little sailor outfit on the first day of pre-school. Stop bothering people who have a life. I have a kid. She's awesome. But I certainly wouldn't annoy the people I call friends by calling them every 3 minutes to tell them she did something marginally funny. Post a pic so everyone can go "Aww, so cute!" or "Eww, that's an ugly fucking monkey baby" and let it go.
Moving on...what I don't get is what the fuck my dentist's office could possibly do to make spending any amount of time on their page worth the click. What would the status updates be? "Just spent 38 minutes digging steak gristle out from between Mrs. Jenkin's 14 and 15." Or "The sores in Mr. Jacobson's mouth aren't going away, will require further treatment." Seriously, why would anyone befriend their dentist? I don't want to see pics of anyone's fucked up dental X-rays, I already know what the staff looks like, and I really don't give a rat's ass that Dr. L's rice plantation took a hit during an e-drought. I don't listen to my dentist during the time I'm in his office, why would I make any effort to follow him on Facebook?
Because society is so enamored with Facebook, places like my dentist's office feel the need to further make the experience of interacting in cyberspace as lame as it can be. I'm glad I'm not a chick, I can't imagine what it would be like to get an e-mail from the Gynecologist saying "Follow us on Facebook!"
Although...I might actually sign...nevermind.
Thursday Granola and Van Halen
Hey Bitches. It's Thursday. I know you all knew that, but I am going to try to keep this blog somewhat informative. You know, have social value and shit. Also, I have learned by reading other blogs over the course of time that it is important to tell everyone what you have recently eaten. People (myself included) love to talk about food, and you can always strike up a conversation with a mention of something tasty you ate. Unless you're talking to a starving person in a third world country, then maybe you shouldn't mention your tasty breakfast cereal that costs more per box than they'll make this month. I'm going to assume none of you are in a third world country or starving, so I'll tell you I had Nature's Path Peanut Butter Granola for breakfast. Damn right, hippie cereal. It is some tasty stuff. Oh, to any Nature's Path executives who might read this, there is no need for you to put a picture that is enlarged to show texture on the front. I buy your cereal because I like granola and I like peanut butter. Not because your granola nuggets have a perfect shape and look good on a spoon.
Now that your day is complete because you know what I had for breakfast, allow me to move on. The other day, while cleaning up around the house, I had Music Choice blaring through the surround sound. I had it on the "Retro Rock" station, because it plays a (usually) great mix of 70s, 80s, and 90s rock. Yeah, I'm old, fuck you. Anyway, at one point, the station plays Van Halen. It was them doing a horrific cover of "Oh, Pretty Woman". Not that "Oh, Pretty Woman" was really a genius musical effort when Roy Orbison created it, but a band like Van Halen covering it just makes it unbearable to listen to. Tat2wife and I looked at each other and just said "Really?"
Here's where I piss off some 40-somethings. Van Halen sucks. They sucked, they still suck, and they will suck worse as the band ages. They are into that stage of their careers where they check their dignity at the door and do little productive beyond cashing in on the nostalgia of children of the 80's. No, I don't blame them, I'd dupe suckers out of $80 a ticket as many times as I could, too. But they have to know that no one listens to them because of their talented contributions to the annals of music history. Yeah, Eddie can play the guitar, but so can a lot of guys making $7.25/hr at Best Buy. Certainly, no one listens for lyrical quality. Take for example this brilliant excerpt from "Hot For Teacher": "I brought my pencil, Gimme something to write on, man." Wow. That is some totally awesome 7th grade innuendo right there. Or how about this from "Panama": "Got an on-ramp comin' through my bedroom." Seriously? Got an on-ramp. Coming through...my bedroom. What the fuck? That is just fucking stupid. I could give a drunken baboon a pen and paper and he could come up with something equally impressive (and probably sing whatever it is better than any of the men who have fronted Van Halen).
O.K., I understand that Van Halen makes a lot of people remember the good times in high school; feathered hair that required a can of AquaNet per day, bandanas around the leg, high-tops, muscle shirts, and smoking doobies in your friend's bitching Camaro while rocking out to Diver Down. That's great. I also know the band inspires heated (but not always intellectual) debates about David Lee Roth v. Sammy Hagar. Save it. There is no debate, they both sucked. (Note that I didn't mention Gary Cherone, and that's because everyone says "Who?" when he is mentioned.) I will say that I'd rather listen to hyenas drowning in boiling water than hear that stupid fucking "ah-AH" scream that Roth did every 7 seconds in every song he's ever sung (you just did it your head, didn't you?), but that doesn't mean Hagar is any better. Being less annoying doesn't equal quality.
Anyway, Van Halen sucks. They were the Nickleback of the 80's. Bad hair, generic music, stupid fucking lyrics, and some sort of inexplicable appeal to the general radio listening public. Maybe it's subliminal. Maybe they pipe in some sort of hidden messages that make drunken soccer moms want to flash their titties and douchebags who still part their hair in the middle throw out their shoudlers doing emphatic air guitar solos. I don't know. I do know that if Van Halen had never formed, the music world would never have missed them. And maybe there never would have been Nickleback. Hey, any scenario where there is never a Nickleback is worth thinking about.
I'm off to listen to some good music to wash the thoughts of shitty rock bands out of my head. Later, Bitches.
Now that your day is complete because you know what I had for breakfast, allow me to move on. The other day, while cleaning up around the house, I had Music Choice blaring through the surround sound. I had it on the "Retro Rock" station, because it plays a (usually) great mix of 70s, 80s, and 90s rock. Yeah, I'm old, fuck you. Anyway, at one point, the station plays Van Halen. It was them doing a horrific cover of "Oh, Pretty Woman". Not that "Oh, Pretty Woman" was really a genius musical effort when Roy Orbison created it, but a band like Van Halen covering it just makes it unbearable to listen to. Tat2wife and I looked at each other and just said "Really?"
Here's where I piss off some 40-somethings. Van Halen sucks. They sucked, they still suck, and they will suck worse as the band ages. They are into that stage of their careers where they check their dignity at the door and do little productive beyond cashing in on the nostalgia of children of the 80's. No, I don't blame them, I'd dupe suckers out of $80 a ticket as many times as I could, too. But they have to know that no one listens to them because of their talented contributions to the annals of music history. Yeah, Eddie can play the guitar, but so can a lot of guys making $7.25/hr at Best Buy. Certainly, no one listens for lyrical quality. Take for example this brilliant excerpt from "Hot For Teacher": "I brought my pencil, Gimme something to write on, man." Wow. That is some totally awesome 7th grade innuendo right there. Or how about this from "Panama": "Got an on-ramp comin' through my bedroom." Seriously? Got an on-ramp. Coming through...my bedroom. What the fuck? That is just fucking stupid. I could give a drunken baboon a pen and paper and he could come up with something equally impressive (and probably sing whatever it is better than any of the men who have fronted Van Halen).
O.K., I understand that Van Halen makes a lot of people remember the good times in high school; feathered hair that required a can of AquaNet per day, bandanas around the leg, high-tops, muscle shirts, and smoking doobies in your friend's bitching Camaro while rocking out to Diver Down. That's great. I also know the band inspires heated (but not always intellectual) debates about David Lee Roth v. Sammy Hagar. Save it. There is no debate, they both sucked. (Note that I didn't mention Gary Cherone, and that's because everyone says "Who?" when he is mentioned.) I will say that I'd rather listen to hyenas drowning in boiling water than hear that stupid fucking "ah-AH" scream that Roth did every 7 seconds in every song he's ever sung (you just did it your head, didn't you?), but that doesn't mean Hagar is any better. Being less annoying doesn't equal quality.
Anyway, Van Halen sucks. They were the Nickleback of the 80's. Bad hair, generic music, stupid fucking lyrics, and some sort of inexplicable appeal to the general radio listening public. Maybe it's subliminal. Maybe they pipe in some sort of hidden messages that make drunken soccer moms want to flash their titties and douchebags who still part their hair in the middle throw out their shoudlers doing emphatic air guitar solos. I don't know. I do know that if Van Halen had never formed, the music world would never have missed them. And maybe there never would have been Nickleback. Hey, any scenario where there is never a Nickleback is worth thinking about.
I'm off to listen to some good music to wash the thoughts of shitty rock bands out of my head. Later, Bitches.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Taco Bell Can Suck It
Good Morning, Bitches. It's Day 2 of the new and exciting journey into blogdom, and I gotta say, I am excited. Not that fake kind of excited you throw out when your grandparents get you a soccer board game meant for a 12 year-old when you're 28, but really excited. I think this whole thing is going to be quite therapeutic, and may even wind up keeping me out of jail.
Because I get to vent about things like the latest stupid fucking Taco Bell commercial. If I don't vent here, I might just wind up walking into the nearest Taco Bell and punching whatever dumbass kid is behind the counter. "You can thank your corporate advertising office for that shiner, Taco Punk!" The commercial in question features some douchebag walking into a Taco Bell and asking the girl behind the counter (who is about 100 times hotter than any chick I've ever seen working at any fast food joint, so much for any believability...) if some other chick is working because he feels more comfortable dealing with her. The chick being requested comes up (also hotter than any greasy burrito slinger I've ever seen) and the douchebag commences to ask her for an 89 cent burrito like she cut him a deal or some stupid shit as if no one knows that Taco Bell burritos are 89 fucking cents everywhere on the planet. Kids in Borneo who have never even seen a TV know they can scrounge up a dollar and get a burrito.
Anyway, fuck you, Taco Bell. It's bad enough that you caught me at a point where I hadn't DVR'd the program I was watching so I could skip through the commercials, but then you have to go and insult every person who has enough of an IQ to not shit themselves when the doorbell rings. What fucking genius in your ad department thought it would be a good idea to portray Taco Bell customers as the biggest douchebags on the planet? What executive listened to the pitch and thought "Yeah, pissing off anyone who sees this commercial will sell more 89 cent burritos! Run with it!" Are you people so awash in cash that you can just waste money on making one of the dumbest fucking commercials in the history of television? Must be nice. Tell you what, eat the cost of that commercial and just give me the burrito for free. It would be more effective than that abject waste of 30 seconds of everyone's lives. No one...NO ONE will see that commercial and run to Taco Bell. Instead, they will all approach their keyboards and write rants about your shitty marketing.
I hate commercials in general, but every now and then, a commercial comes along that is so unfuckingbelievably dumb it makes me want boycott anything that could potentially be related to a company. "Sorry Grandma, you once made tacos for dinner, and that makes me think of Taco Bell, so I can't talk to you right now. Well that, and I'm still pissed about that soccer game from a few years back. You understand, principles and whatnot."
Fucking Taco Bell.
I won't lie, though, their cinnamon crisp thingies are kinda good when you're really drunk.
Because I get to vent about things like the latest stupid fucking Taco Bell commercial. If I don't vent here, I might just wind up walking into the nearest Taco Bell and punching whatever dumbass kid is behind the counter. "You can thank your corporate advertising office for that shiner, Taco Punk!" The commercial in question features some douchebag walking into a Taco Bell and asking the girl behind the counter (who is about 100 times hotter than any chick I've ever seen working at any fast food joint, so much for any believability...) if some other chick is working because he feels more comfortable dealing with her. The chick being requested comes up (also hotter than any greasy burrito slinger I've ever seen) and the douchebag commences to ask her for an 89 cent burrito like she cut him a deal or some stupid shit as if no one knows that Taco Bell burritos are 89 fucking cents everywhere on the planet. Kids in Borneo who have never even seen a TV know they can scrounge up a dollar and get a burrito.
Anyway, fuck you, Taco Bell. It's bad enough that you caught me at a point where I hadn't DVR'd the program I was watching so I could skip through the commercials, but then you have to go and insult every person who has enough of an IQ to not shit themselves when the doorbell rings. What fucking genius in your ad department thought it would be a good idea to portray Taco Bell customers as the biggest douchebags on the planet? What executive listened to the pitch and thought "Yeah, pissing off anyone who sees this commercial will sell more 89 cent burritos! Run with it!" Are you people so awash in cash that you can just waste money on making one of the dumbest fucking commercials in the history of television? Must be nice. Tell you what, eat the cost of that commercial and just give me the burrito for free. It would be more effective than that abject waste of 30 seconds of everyone's lives. No one...NO ONE will see that commercial and run to Taco Bell. Instead, they will all approach their keyboards and write rants about your shitty marketing.
I hate commercials in general, but every now and then, a commercial comes along that is so unfuckingbelievably dumb it makes me want boycott anything that could potentially be related to a company. "Sorry Grandma, you once made tacos for dinner, and that makes me think of Taco Bell, so I can't talk to you right now. Well that, and I'm still pissed about that soccer game from a few years back. You understand, principles and whatnot."
Fucking Taco Bell.
I won't lie, though, their cinnamon crisp thingies are kinda good when you're really drunk.
Monday, January 11, 2010
You're in the Jungle, Baby, You're Gonna Die!
...Die of crazy excitement overload, that is. That's right bitches, I have a blog. I know you're all saying "Aww, shit!" and tempted to dance while doing that stupid "nn-cha nn-cha nn-cha" thing that people do when they act like they're listening to techno. Feel free, an occasion as momentous as this deserves humiliating celebration.
You're probably wanting to ask "Matt, what will you blog about?" Well, my little bitches, I will blog about anything and everything I damn well please. I certainly don't have the desire, motivation, or mental ability to keep my blog relevant to anything, so this will be a potpourri of whatever ridiculous shit pops into my head at any given moment. An open window to the fetid abyss that is my mind, if you will. That's right, I used "fetid." Look it up if you have to.
You're probably also wanting to ask "Matt, what the hell is 'hippie popcorn'?" For those of you who haven't heard the news, hippie popcorn is the greatest microwave popcorn in the history of popcorn. The popcorn is EarthFare stores' own brand of organic popcorn, and it is stellar. This popcorn obviously comes from a farm where a magician of a farmer holds each seed to the sky for God to kiss before planting, then lovingly raises the corn as if each stalk was his only child. Upon harvesting, the kernels are placed into bags suitable for microwave popping, obviously coated with some kind of organic super butter. Upon popping, your senses are molested by the aroma of popcorn perfection, and any other popcorn within a 10 mile radius feels shame. Then you taste it, and you know that if there is popcorn in Heaven, it is brought to you by EarthFare. Contrary to the word "hippie" being associated with this popcorn, it does not subscribe to a code of non-violence, tie-dye, and peace sign stickers; this popcorn will kick your popcorn's ass. And then laugh at it.
Now, you're probably wanting to ask "Matt, did you really just spend an entire paragraph raving about popcorn?" Yes I did, and I'll do it again if I want to, because this is MY blog, bitches. And you will read it because you won't be able to not.
Anyway, welcome to the next chapter of some retard with a laptop and wireless internet spewing forth random observations and inane rants/raves simply because he has an outlet and 3 people who like his crappy writing style. You're going to love it here. Unless you are easily offended by foul language, anger, insensitivity, and complete mockery of anything or anyone. If you are, this might not be the place for you. Good riddance, Cupcake.
To the rest of you, welcome to my little corner of the internet. Bitches.
You're probably wanting to ask "Matt, what will you blog about?" Well, my little bitches, I will blog about anything and everything I damn well please. I certainly don't have the desire, motivation, or mental ability to keep my blog relevant to anything, so this will be a potpourri of whatever ridiculous shit pops into my head at any given moment. An open window to the fetid abyss that is my mind, if you will. That's right, I used "fetid." Look it up if you have to.
You're probably also wanting to ask "Matt, what the hell is 'hippie popcorn'?" For those of you who haven't heard the news, hippie popcorn is the greatest microwave popcorn in the history of popcorn. The popcorn is EarthFare stores' own brand of organic popcorn, and it is stellar. This popcorn obviously comes from a farm where a magician of a farmer holds each seed to the sky for God to kiss before planting, then lovingly raises the corn as if each stalk was his only child. Upon harvesting, the kernels are placed into bags suitable for microwave popping, obviously coated with some kind of organic super butter. Upon popping, your senses are molested by the aroma of popcorn perfection, and any other popcorn within a 10 mile radius feels shame. Then you taste it, and you know that if there is popcorn in Heaven, it is brought to you by EarthFare. Contrary to the word "hippie" being associated with this popcorn, it does not subscribe to a code of non-violence, tie-dye, and peace sign stickers; this popcorn will kick your popcorn's ass. And then laugh at it.
Now, you're probably wanting to ask "Matt, did you really just spend an entire paragraph raving about popcorn?" Yes I did, and I'll do it again if I want to, because this is MY blog, bitches. And you will read it because you won't be able to not.
Anyway, welcome to the next chapter of some retard with a laptop and wireless internet spewing forth random observations and inane rants/raves simply because he has an outlet and 3 people who like his crappy writing style. You're going to love it here. Unless you are easily offended by foul language, anger, insensitivity, and complete mockery of anything or anyone. If you are, this might not be the place for you. Good riddance, Cupcake.
To the rest of you, welcome to my little corner of the internet. Bitches.
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