Hippie Popcorn and Inspirational Asshattery

Ew.

2010-09-29T12:48:00.002-04:00

I understand that sometimes regular old sex in a bed or on a couch or in the back of a Greyhound bus gets boring and people need to branch out to make it interesting again. I know that the thrill of getting caught in a public place or the adrenaline of trying to do it while driving on a winding mountain road can make the experience better. Very few would argue that having a quickie in some place not normally designated for sexual activity is fun and memorable. I know I personally have had some experiences in some places that weren't appropriate and/or legal, and it's great. I'm all about branching out.

Except for some of that crazy fetish shit...I don't get that. Like "Furries." How the fuck does dressing up like a fucking woodchuck and simulating sex with someone dressed like an owl or a skunk or a beaver (not that kind of beaver, dumbasses) help a person get their rocks off? How one could be aroused by imagining themselves being a small woodland creature while sweating profusely inside a mascot costume is perplexing. If you want to fuck a skunk, you fucking freaks, go out into the forest and find one, then have some fun. Mother Nature will let you know how she feels about that. At least you don't have to pay for porn with all of the National Geographic and Discovery and Animal Planet and Rural Farm District TV options there are. Fucking weirdos.

Or that Leather/PVC/Latex shit. What is arousing about squeezing yourself into a non-breathing material that takes an hour to put on and is almost impossible to maneuver in? How is that sexy? How is your chick being so immobile that she can't touch her toes without cutting off circulation to her legs erotic? Personally, I find one of the beauties of sex to be the opportunity to touch and feel the other person, not rub up against someone who feels like they're an electronic device heat-sealed inside one of those packages that are impossible to get open without cutting yourself. If I wanted to fuck PVC, I'd just go find some sprinkler piping and have at it. (Yes, I reused it, get off me. It's mine.)

I could go on questioning some of the more ridiculous "fetishes" ("Ooh, poop on me, please!"), but I won't, because that wasn't original intent of this particular rant. We'll just all agree that those people are fucking psychos with deep-seeded issues that only a bottle of Lunesta or a drunken walk on the outside of a bridge could solve, and move on. This is about a much more disturbing occurrence.

Yesterday, as my daughter was telling me all about her day, she mentions that she was playing in the sandbox at recess. She had a plastic shovel and was digging a hole when she happened upon "...a little sock thingy. I had no idea what it was, but it was squishy." Immediately I asked "You didn't touch it, did you?" She replied that she had only poked at it with the shovel and then buried it again.

What. The. Fuck.

Look fuckers, I don't care if you feel the need to fuck on playgrounds, I think pretty much everyone has tried that one out. But fuck, don't be a disgusting piece of shit and throw your fucking condom in the sandbox. It's not funny, it's just fucking gross. How difficult is it to just carry all of your (thankfully) wasted children and throw them away in the trash can that is 10 fucking feet away? Lazy and stupid, how did you get a chick to agree to fuck you? Were you really fucking in the sandbox itself? Were you trying to make her think she was on a beach or something? Did you spit on her to simulate the spray of a wave crashing nearby? How pleasant was that? Sand all up in her shit making the 30 seconds of "pleasure" you gave her feel like you were wrapped in 40 grit sandpaper...yeah, she's going to be calling you back tomorrow for some more of that. Although maybe sanding is some new fetish I don't know about yet. Whatever. Just stop being a disgusting bastard and leaving the aftermath of your coital adventures anywhere near a spot that kids could happen upon it while they're innocently digging holes to China at recess.

I hate people.

Did Someone Just SPAM My Comments Section?

2010-09-22T13:32:00.002-04:00

What the fuck is this?

Gillion said...

are you getting better now? Pei Pa Koa (Link deleted because FUCK YOU) is one of the few Chinese natural cough remedies that have been scientifically studied. it's something like herb plus honey, and it's sweet, thick and black in color. If you have a cough, look for it! It used to be one of my favourite natural cough remedies.

if your cough persists, seek professional help such as traditional Chinese medicine physicians - I have had very good experiences with them.
September 20, 2010 2:19 AM

Am I getting better? Well, I wasn't sick, but now I'm fucking irritated, so no. Clearly you are just a spamming piece of shit, because if you had actually read the post to which you replied, you might have noticed that nowhere did I mention being sick. Nowhere did I mention any need for any natural fucking cough remedies. Even if I did need a natural cough remedy, I certainly wouldn't be looking for advice on the best ones available from some random fucking asshole on the internet. No, I would ask people who I know and trust or my doctor, I wouldn't count on some unsolicited advice from some fuckwad who has nothing better to do with their day than spam the internet. Fucking loser. Take your natural cough remedy and shove it up your ass.

Who the fuck are these people whose lives are so fucking inconsequential that they just sit around writing code to spam shit? I'm pretty fucking anti-social, but never have I been sitting around thinking "Ha, it might be cool to fuck with people through random chickenshit cyber-attacks. Let me think of some funny Viagra and penis enlargement headlines..."

I realize that at some point during your time in the womb, spammer, that the load of drugs your mom was doing in an effort to kill your unwanted ass quietly started to affect you, but that's still no excuse. Nor is the fact that you annoyed everyone you ever came in contact with enough to the point that they ridiculed you into basement seclusion, where you wasted your days playing various role-playing games where you had the power to smite the people who were socially acceptable and jacking off to binary and html code. No, the fact that you're pretty much a bag of wasted organs does not give you the right to annoy everyone else who doesn't give one fuck about Hoodia or cheap Vicodin prescriptions or having a 14" inch penis that makes women [insert whatever misspelled sound effect word you choose here]. Get a fucking life, you cock-sucking reject.

Stop spamming the important good work I am trying to do here, fuckers. Fuck your ancient Chinese secret bullshit.

Potpourri

2010-09-18T22:22:00.004-04:00

Hey, fuckstain who has been honking your fucking car horn every fucking morning at 8 o'clock the last 4 days: stop that shit you inconsiderate asshole. Just because you're awake and too fucking lazy to walk 15 feet to the front door of whomever it is you are picking up doesn't give you the right to annoy the rest of us who might be trying to sleep after working until the middle of the night. Get your thoughtless, lazy fucking ass out of your ride and walk to the door. You will greatly lessen your chances of someone in the neighborhood going Office Space on your car.

Hey, Dollar General: you're a bunch of fucking liars. First off, almost nothing in your store costs only one dollar. Secondly, how the fuck does a dollar store have shit that costs $4.35? Nothing anywhere costs $4.35. That has to be some sort of typo. Third, aren't "dollar stores" supposed to be cheaper? Almost everything I saw in your store short of the random, poorly made plastic shit that only the Haiti broke fuckers would consider buying (yeah, I said that, save your "aww..." for someone who has a heart) was more expensive than it would be at one of the big box stores or a grocery store. Yeah, whatever, your knock-off Crocs might be cheap, but there should be a bin full of poles or sticks or something next to them so that the rest of us can rap the shit out of someone's knees should they consider buying them. I had never been in a Dollar General before, and I needed one fucking thing. I found it, but only after being let down and then pissed off by your blatant lies. I am not a fan of yours Dollar General.

Hey, old bitch who works the register at Dollar General: I know you probably don't have a lot of education. I know you're probably only working this job because your deadbeat son is stealing from your Social Security. I know that social grace probably isn't one of your skill sets. As long as you can scan that one thing and give me my change, we're good. The scanning went well, good job. But WHAT THE FUCK? Why did you feel that it was OK to cough like you want to eject a lung directly into your hand and then immediately grab my change out of the register? Really? Not even an attempt to wipe that shit on your pants or anything? Holy fuck, excuse yourself and go wash your hands, bitch. I can wait two minutes. Or better yet, go to aisle 3 and get one of those $2.41 bottles of hand sanitizer and pour half of it on your hands and half on my change. Fuck. Who does that? I am not a fan of yours, Dollar General. You either, Freida Flu Bug. Fortunately I am psychotic enough to carry some sanitizer in my car. Sanitizer I bought at a decent price at a better fucking store.

Hey, soccer parents surrounding me at my kid's soccer game today: shut the fuck up. You talk too much, and you talk about stupid shit. We're supposed to be sitting here supporting our kids while they run around in the heat trying to make us proud, you could at least pretend to pay attention. It's one hour. You can peel yourself away from the enthralling world of pedicures or real estate concerns or "Dan's new 5 series" or how cute the Hoffmeier's new puppy is long enough to pretend to care about your kid. You never know when she might do something great and you will have missed it because you were too busy talking about some stupid shit that could have waited 20 minutes. Not only that, but your constant yapping is fucking annoying. Shut. Up. We have about 10 more games. Shut the fuck up at all of them.

Damn, I need a beer.

Isostearawhatwhatwhat?

2010-09-17T17:59:00.002-04:00

Even though this useless blog has "Hippie" in the title, I can assure you that I am not a hippie. Yes, I espouse some of their principles in wanting people to take care of the environment, live more sustainably, and have as much sex as one can have. I do not, however, espouse nor approve of their willingness to go days without bathing and allowing Patchouli oil to serve as their odor blocking methods. It doesn't work, hippies, you still smell like you just swam though a pond full of French onion soup on the hottest Arizona summer day. Only now, you've added the wretched stink of Patchouli. I know you want peace, man, but making those around you angry by fouling up the air worse than any paper mill could isn't a way to achieve that.

No, I must bathe. I must bathe regularly and often. I suffer from what is commonly known as Autodysomophobia. Yeah, it is a word; Google it, bitches. Don't doubt me. I live in constant fear of offending someone with my personal odor. I am ridiculous in this to the point that if I smell something foul, no matter how unlikely it is that I am the culprit, I have to find a way to check ("Hey, maybe I did shit my pants in this room full of babies"). Yes, it is that bad sometimes. Even when I know it is impossible that I am the one who is funking up the joint, I am anxious that I am. It's another of my really fun quirks.

Anyway, as I was taking a shower yesterday, I started reading the back of the bottle of Dial 3D All Day Odor Defense body wash. I have used this same type of body wash for a while, and never before have I read the back because quite frankly, there are only three things I consider when buying soap: Can I afford it, do I like the smell, and will it keep my ass from getting funky? This one meets all three requirements, so I buy it. I don't need to look at the label. But I did. And it was weird.

I don't have the bottle directly in front of me right now, so I will paraphrase a couple of things, but they will be accurate.

The first thing I find is that Dial promises me that they will destroy odor by using "Odor Control Agents" that will attack the germs that cause odor. Well no wonder hippies don't bathe. There is nothing peaceful about that statement at all. That is a unmistakable provocation with intent to slaughter entire colonies of germs...that is terrible. If you're a hippie. For me, I say "Rock on, Dial, kick some fucking ass with reckless abandon and spare no one." War is hell, I want those odor causing germs to suffer like Belial is having a very bad day. I am glad that Dial cares enough about me to be willing to take up this fight, and from now on, any time I lather up, I am going to envision the agents of the Odor Control Brigade and the sacrifices they make so I don't stink like rotten potato water.

The next thing I find is a list of chemical ingredients with names that I couldn't even begin to pronounce, much less know what they mean. Cocamidopropyl Betaine? Isostearamidopropyl Morpholine Lactate? Are these the things that act as my own personal Secret Service, willing to take a bullet for my aroma? If so, cool, but how the fuck do they come up with this shit? I envision some lab dorks sitting around and another lab dork running in with the excitement of a kid who just discovered porn (yes, with the requisite hard-on) saying something like "Hey guys, I was playing around with the Isopromethylwhatthefuckitall and I mixed in some Chlorofluorofuckthisnameislong and it smells like mangoes and Tahitian sand...let's make some soap! And the other lab nerds get excited and all go running to the lab so they can try and make up their own 18 letter chemical.

No, my soap doesn't smell like mangoes, but I needed an example that which you, the reader, could envision and relate to. If I had said "it smells like fresh" you would have had nothing to attach that to. That's bad writing, and I won't do that to the 4 of you who read this. I care.

Not as much as Dial does, because I'm not going to war. But I'm glad they will, because I need someone on my side to battle these damned odor causing germs. Those fuckers are everywhere, and contrary to what the fucking hippies might say, they don't deserve to live.

Dear Neighbor Guy

2010-09-11T11:36:00.003-04:00

Hey man, I know that it's early on a Saturday morning and there aren't many people who might drive by your place. I know that it's your place and your yard and you have the right to feel comfortable there. That's fine. However, please remember that your back yard faces a road that is slightly above the level of your yard, and your chain-link fence doesn't really hide much. That being said, please put some fucking clothes on.

It's early, it's Saturday, and I am taking my tired, grumpy ass to work; the last fucking thing I want to see is your fat ass walking around your back porch in nothing but your boxers. Thank you for further annoying my morning with the visual of you and your massive fucking gut waddling around in your underwear. I'm not sure at what body fat percentage you begin to lose all semblance of body consciousness, but obviously you passed it a long time ago. I guess maybe if I had no hope of ever seeing my penis again without some lifting help and a mirror I might give up, too. But even if you've lost hope, there is no reason that a man who looks like he's carrying quadruplets should ever be outside without a shirt on. There are some of us who still have the hopes of not having to look at tubby bastards in their underwear when we're still waking up. I know that society accepts men going shirtless as o.k., but there is a line where it becomes vulgar, and you have crossed that line.

Please, sir, for the good of the neighborhood, get dressed when you take your ass outside. Be as naked as you want to be inside your house with the blinds closed, but once you step outside...cover that shit. Everyone on the street will thank you.

!!!!!!

2010-09-09T19:06:00.005-04:00

Anyone who has a 1st grade education understands that when writing, the exclamation point is utilized to express excitement, urgency, or to stress the importance of a statement. Like most punctuation, when properly used, it can add greatly to the message the writer wishes to convey to their readers. However, when used improperly, it can make the writer look like a total fucking moron and make anything they've written before completely meaningless.

I'm talking to you, dipfucks who use 19 exclamation points at the end of a sentence because you think it lets everyone know how excited you are or how much you mean whatever the fuck you just said. It doesn't do that at all. No, what it does when you type out some shit like "OMG!!!! That's so awesome that he's not banging your sister!!!!!" is make you look like a hyperactive cheerleader who just chased an amphetamine cocktail with a 32 ounce Monster. No one could read a comment like that and not hear it in a voice that would make Fran Drescher say "Fuck, that's annoying." No one takes the shit you type out seriously if you present it in a manner that reminds the readers of every annoying bitch they've ever wanted to kick in the throat.

Don't think that because I used the cheerleader analogy that I am ignoring you, guys. I know this isn't exclusive to women, there are plenty of guys out there who abuse the exclamation point. And yes, douchebags, you also sound like hyperactive cheerleaders. The really gay ones who tend to be prettier than the female cheerleaders. You may as well just type everything with a lisp so we can mock you more. And don't you dare try that shit if you're pretending to know something about something manly like football or building a deck or punching a bear in the face the last time your plane crashed in the Alaskan wilderness. I don't want to see shit like "Did you see that kick-off return!!!!!!!", because if I did see the kick off return, any excitement I had over its awesomeness is now gone because I am focused on figuring out ways to crawl through the internet so I can break your overzealous fucking fingers.

I am mostly referencing people who post on message boards, chat rooms, blogs, and facebook (although I am only going off of second information for anything regarding facebook because my boycott lives on...), because hopefully, anywhere else that people could type out things for people to read would be overseen by some sort of editor who would quell the exclamation point diarrhea in a heartbeat. As anyone who posts on any of the above knows, there are these neat little guys called emoticons (or "smilies"). Emoticons serve as a quick visual replacement for words, usually to demonstrate something like laughing or being angry or stirring a pot. Much like the exclamation point, the emoticon is abused far too often. We get it, numbnuts, you thought it was funny. We do not need to see 15 fucking laughing smiley face guys. Or a smiley face guy magnified to the point that it's just a pixelated yellow blob of shit annoying everybody who sees it. Your over-sized laughter is about as welcomed as the fucker who laughs loud enough at a dumb joke for people 3 counties away to wonder what the fuck is going on.

Stop overdoing the expressive bullshit. If this hits close to home...if one of my 4 or 5 remaining active followers feels like I may have touched a nerve...think about your tendencies. Reflect and ask yourself, am I one of those who is too inept at expressing myself properly that I have to kill the shift + 1 keys? If you are, it's not too late to change. It's never too late to be a less annoying fuck.

She Went That Way, Officer...

2010-08-12T18:01:00.003-04:00

...the chick whose tits mugged my eyes at Target. I wasn't trying to look at them, I had no intent of checking them out. But she shoved those massive cans into a shirt that she shouldn't ever wear, certainly never to work, and they just jumped out from behind the red partition where I was innocently looking at candy bars and iTunes gift cards and just slapped the shit out of my line of sight. It was traumatic. One minute I'm thinking about Pretty Woman (don't ask me why), the next I'm having my field of vision invaded by some unruly thug jugs.

Right now, all of the chicks (all 3 of you) are thinking "What an ass" and all the dudes (there might be 1 left) are thinking "What are you bitching about, retard?" Well guys, note the part I said about the shirt she shouldn't be wearing. It wasn't just that her shirt was too low cut, it was that it was about 3 sizes too small. And not the good kind of too small where the compression reveals fabulous abs, but the bad kind of too small where a little bit of the large belly hangs out underneath, further subjecting your eyes to things no one should see. If you have to try and figure out a garter system to keep your shirt from riding on the high side of your gut, perhaps a new, larger shirt is in order. Doesn't Target have a dress code? I know they all wear red and khaki, is there nothing in they manual that stipulates that provocative and/or offensive dress is not allowed? If there is, this chick is clearly in violation, write her ass up and get that bitch an XXL sweatshirt. Because I, as a customer, do not enjoy my eyes being abused by employees poor choice in basic clothing.

What I do enjoy, however, is this Aussie-style chewy candy that I picked up there. Holy fuck, it's like Twizzlers took performance enhancing drugs. The party that is going on in my mouth right now is going to wake the neighbors, and I don't give a fuck. Call the police, bitches, I'll bribe them with this chewy candy and they'll take your asses to jail for being too stupid to join in the fun. I don't even give a fuck that it's 130 calories for 4 pieces, I'm glutting on these bitches and probably won't stop until this bag is empty or I go blind from hyperglycemia. Yeah, they're that good. Get some, you'll thank me.

Aaannnd...last but not least...hey type-cast British gay guy at the pretentious furniture store next to my doctor's office...I don't give a fuck that the TV stand I was looking at was hand assembled and made from certified sustainable mango wood from Bora Bora, it's not worth $3000. No amount of flowery prose and/or telling me how exquisite it will look in my living room will make me think otherwise. Shit, if that thing was made out of old growth Redwood that took endangered Mongolian beavers 10 years to cut down and assembled by mouth by amputee war vets, it still wouldn't be worth $3000. It's a fucking TV stand. It is going to do nothing in its lifetime but hold a TV, a DVD player, and occasionally a beer. Hardly $3000 worth of work. I appreciate your passion for furniture and your dapper attire, but you will not be selling me a $3000 TV stand. Ever. Because if I had $3000, I'd be buying 1500 bags of Aussie-style chewy candy. That shit is...uh...the shit. You can run tell that, Homeboys.

Stereotypes and Bad Music.

2010-08-11T17:38:00.001-04:00

No matter how hard you try to be open-minded and accepting of people, making every effort to judge each person by their personality and actions, sometimes a group of people gathers and completely proves every single stereotype about the group in which they fall.

Last night, it was the Rednecks and Hillbillies. There's a slight difference in the two if you didn't know, mostly that the Hillbillies have an even more unintelligible accent and fewer teeth. But, they generally fall under the same category, and they were out en masse last night. (I'm going to throw in things like "en masse" to ensure that if any of the people from last night stumble upon my blog, they won't have a clue what I'm talking about.) The reason? Justin Moore. Your very basic, generic, cookie cutter country musician bringing to you such fine, original works of musical genius like "I Could Kick Your Ass," "Small Town, USA," and "Good Ole American Way." There was also a timeless classic that stated "She looks sexy on my tractor." And some other song that he "wrote in the back of a pick-up truck." Wow, Justin, good job covering all of the country bases. Speaking of covering, he had covers for sure. About 15 of them. Bad Company, The Allman Brothers, Kansas, John Anderson ("Seminole Wind"), and George Jones to name a few. Of course, as is protocol with any country show, he covered "Family Tradition" by Hank Williams, Jr. I don't know what it is about that stupid fucking song that makes it the fucking Redneck Anthem, but dammit I hate hearing that fucking song. Hate. If it wasn't my job to stop people from rushing the stage, I might rush the stage and throat punch the next person that covers that goddamn song. Hate.

Mostly because 1000 drunk fucking necktards start singing along. And not just singing along, but dudes swaying and putting their arms around each other in some retarded, homo-erotic bonding ritual. Yeah, hillbilly trying to read through this, I called you a homo. Good catch. Are you going to kick my ass? I know you can do it, the song said so. Or maybe you can't, since you can barely fucking stand up after slamming 8 Bud Lights in the first 9 minutes you were in the club. And tell me you don't love it when Jimmy Jack puts his arm around you while you sing along to generic country shit. Better go kick a gay guy's ass real quick so no one will think you're queer.

There were 1000 people at the show, and probably 895 pairs of jeans. Or jeans shorts. Or jeans overalls. Or some sort of denim product that covers ass. The rest were chicks wearing halter dresses and cowboy boots. Every dude that wasn't wearing a plaid shirt with pearlized buttons was wearing an Affliction shirt. Every chick that wasn't wearing a halter dress and cowboy boots was wearing a plaid shirt with pearlized buttons. It's like Wrangler parked a semi outside the club and was issuing everyone the Redneck uniform of the day. A ton of cowboy hats, a ton of baseball caps, and a ton of dip can circles on the backside of jeans. It was like Beverly Hillbillies and the Dukes of Hazzard had an evil love child and that child exploded all over the inside of the club.

Worse than the awful music that sounded just like every other awful country musician to ever butcher sound waves and the abhorrent (look it up, Redneck) fashion sense rampant among these people were the actual people. Loud, obnoxious, rude, and arrogant. And I'd be shocked if the average IQ in the room was over 100. I heard some things said that couldn't have been English. I had discussions with guys trying to explain something to them that were about as productive as me trying to explain to a whale why he shouldn't shit in the ocean. At least if I had been talking to a whale I could think "Damn, whales are pretty fucking cool." Talking to these guys it was more "Damn, this guy smells like beer, Copenhagen, and inbreeding." It was a test of patience, to be certain.

There were a few cuties there, but more than anything, there were a whole lot of "just missed" chicks. The type of chick who isn't really that great looking, but a long dry spell and a six pack might make them a little better. There were some straight ugly bitches, the type of ugly that no amount of make-up can cover and no amount of cleavage can make up for. Then there were the select few chicks who were so damned ugly that you know their moms were banging two cousins at the exact same time because eyes don't normally come that close together. And they were all just as drunk as the dudes. The puke on your cowboy boots is sexy, Daisy.

Fuck, it was awful. It was every stereotype about Rednecks/Hillbillies that you've ever heard personified. Yes, I heard "Git 'er done!" yelled out. Yes, there were chicks dippin' and spittin'. Yes, there was a jealous boyfriend on the cell phone in the bathroom asking his girl if she was "going to get off on every guy in the place because they smiled at [her]." Wait, no, "gonna git awf on every gah in the place 'cuz they smah-led at [her]." No, I am not anxious to work another country show.

"She look sexy on my tractor." What the fuck? Are you sure it's the chick you're looking at dumbfuck or the tractor? Is this some sort of machine porn fetish song or some shit? Fuck...the song is so goddamned dumb I don't even know how...fuck it. Stop trying, Matt. Just stop.

Proofread, Bitches.

2010-08-07T15:30:00.004-04:00

I will preface today's rant by saying that I know people make mistakes, myself included. But, some things are just so fucking stupid that mistake or no, the people involved deserve to be called on it. If what provoked me to this rant hadn't occurred well after business hours, I might have stopped in and given whoever was running the joint some good advice like "Dictionary.com, Motherfucker" or "You just made everyone with a second grade education who has driven past your sign dumber, you retarded bastard." What can I say, sometimes I like to be helpful. What provoked this little rant, you ask?

As I was driving home from a shift at the club, I passed an oil change business that has a large sign with bright red LED screen on which they put messages for the general public to read as they drive by. The message that night: "WE SALE TIRES." Really? Really SpeedyLube or QuickyLube or LeftHandLubeJob or whatever your silly oil change related name is...really? "We. Sale. Tires." O.K., I know we live in the South, and I know that "sale" is probably how your hickbilly ass pronounces the word "sell," (maybe a random "r" thrown in for good measure like you do in "warsh") but the word is spelled s-e-l-l. You don't "sale" tires, dumbfuck, you "sell" them.

Am I being hypercritical? I don't think so. I don't think it's too much to expect an adult to not make a stupid fucking mistake that most marginally functional 2nd graders wouldn't make, especially when it's going to be put on a bright red fucking sign that will be seen by thousands of people on one of the busiest roads in the city. Or for any of the 10 other adults working at the shop to look at the sign and think "Hey, that don't sound ra-at." (say it just like it's spelled, that's how they say it down here.) I know it's not generally a business that employs members of MENSA or even people who just barely missed being invited to join the National Honor Society, but Jesus, people, this is basic shit. Not being able to type out a three word statement without fucking it up as if you've only spoken English for a few days is inexcusable, mostly because it's just fucking lazy. I know pride is a bitch, but next time, just ask ol' Jimmy Jack how the sign looks. Maybe he's heard enough on them learnin' shows that his kids watch on TV to be able to point out any dumbass mistakes. Or maybe just ask him to bring one of his kids to proofread that shit.

The worst part is that if I were to drive around for a day and really look, I could probably find 50 more examples that are as dumb or dumber than the one above. I don't expect everyone to speak with perfect grammar or to never overlook a misplaced comma when writing, but I do expect people who are going to put shit out that the masses will see to take a few extra seconds to ensure that it's correct. It's not that hard. Really. The business owner will be happier, the manager will be happier, and judgmental pricks who blog about human stupidity will be happier. Mostly. Maybe not, though, because then what would they blog about? Don't worry, they'll find something. Proofread it, bitches.

Man Girdles?

2010-08-04T07:38:00.002-04:00

As I was sitting in my chair early yesterday morning, wasting a few more minutes of my life on the internet before passing out, I also had the TV on. At one point, I hear "How would you like to get these same incredible results without dieting, without exercising, without pills, instantly? That's right, instantly!" I look up to see what fascinating new diet fad bullshit product they're hawking, and I'm totally fucking blown away by what I see. Not the good kind of blown away where you think "Damn, that's amazing" or "Why didn't I think of that?" No, this was the kind of blown away where you want to weep for mankind and build a shelter and prepare for the imminent doom that surely is coming because people are so fucking dumb to have invented such a stupid fucking product.

If you don't know what I'm talking about yet, Google "SlimTs." Go to the official site. Watch the embedded video of the commercial. Be amazed at the levels to which dumbfucks will stoop in an effort to not look like the fat fucking tub of goo they are. Then find yourself thinking "Holy shit, Matt is right, this is one of the most ridiculous fucking things I have ever seen. Mankind is doomed."

What bothers me slightly more than some fatass sitting in his basement trying to think of a way to make corsetry for men that won't show under a tucked-in t-shirt is the fact that somewhere there is someone picking up the phone to spend $19.95 plus shipping and handling to buy one of these stupid fucking things. Somewhere, some dude who can't stop himself from atrophying on the couch while he chases handfuls of deep-fried pig fat with a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew is thinking "Hell yeah, if I get that, I can eat whatever I want and still look like Edward Norton, Jr. in American History X! I'm gonna call as soon as I get done waiting for this chest cramp to go away."

To any dumbfuck who might be considering buying one of these things...don't. This idea is stupid. I know, I know, it's been going on for centuries with women: corsets, girdles, "spanks," (and other forms of false advertisement like padded/push-up bras...if you're advertising C cups, that shit better be there when you get naked, bitch...), and I think those are stupid, too. If you're a fat fuck, shoving your fat into some sort of compression gear does not make you thin. It won't even really make you look thin, because you will still have fat elsewhere (if your fat is only in your gut, put the bottle down and give AA a call, Drunktard). It doesn't make you look slimmer, it makes you look like some douchebag sucking in his gut to try to impress a chick. And, if somehow, you manage to fool that chick into believing you're not a complete tool and she goes home with you, how is she going to react when she tries to run her fingers down your stomach only to feel the ribs of your SlimT? Is she going to think that's hot? No. She's going to think it's fucking stupid and hopefully kick you in the balls for being so lazy in your vanity. Is she going to love it when you take off your shirt and the 6 pack she was expecting to see is actually 3 gallons of Jell-O? Probably not. And again, a swift kick to the testicles is in order.

If you want to lose two pant sizes or look slimmer, it's really fucking easy...stop shoveling so much food in your mouth and get the fuck up and do some exercise. Really. That simple. Not fucking rocket science, not some miracle of modern technology, not the brain child of some third-rate inventor who is just re-marketing some bullshit that has been mangling the bodies of women for centuries to appeal to men. Or, since you're lazy and don't like effort, and the only reason you'd wear the man girdle is to pick up chicks, you could take that $19.95, add a nickle and go get a blow job from some cheap hooker. Then it doesn't matter what the fuck you look like. You can let that gut hang out with pride and eat your pork rinds while being pleasured. Just don't get crumbs in her hair, she has to look good for the next guy.

Aww Yeah.

2010-08-01T09:50:00.004-04:00

Guess who's back, bitches? I know, I know, you've had to spend almost four months finding ways to entertain yourself during the 2 minutes a day you had been spending reading my shit and scratching your head. You've had to read shit about oil spills (a conspiracy, it's not real, it's all done in a studio with a green screen.), dams breaking in China (Yeah, "Made in China" isn't so appealing anymore, is it American companies?), some American dude whacking people in Panama ("State the nature of your visit, please."), more lost jobs (that is, in fact, change), and Chelsea Clinton's fucking wedding (isn't she just an ugly bitch?). Why does anyone care about her wedding? Because she once was a teenager in the White House? Big fucking deal, she didn't do shit other than embarrass America by looking goofy around all the other foreign dignitary children gathered for whatever "we care about the little people, too" bullshit meetings their parents attended. I don't give a shit what kind of dress she wore, it didn't hide her face, so it sucked.

I'm sorry that I've been an absent blogger and put you through that. I'm sorry you've had to miss out on the random shit I think about and my prolific use of words that would get me fined by the FCC if they ever went out over the airwaves. Thankfully, the FCC doesn't control a fucking thing about the internet, so suck it, FCC. Fuckers.

Anyway, I had some shit go on and some things to work out in my very complicated brain, but I'm back. No, I won't tell you what they were. Fuck you, that's private. Nosy bitches. Sorry. You're probably clapping or dancing in your seat or thanking whatever deity you pray to. You should. The Hippie Popcorn is back, and with the help of some medication and a renewed outlook on life, I may actually keep this up for a week or two.

I don't think you should bet the house on that statement, unless you're looking to lose it. But, I'll do my best to give you people 2 minutes of entertainment whenever I can. Heh, that's what I told her, too. (Fuck, that was lame, Matt. Why would you write that? You should edit it out. No, you're just rusty and you need something to build on. Leave it there. Dumbass) Anyway, it's good to be back, I'll be looking for shit to be pissed off about.

Bitches.

Littering Fucktards

2010-04-15T12:37:00.004-04:00

OK, you lazy, inconsiderate fucking pieces of shit who seem to think the world is your own personal garbage can...fuck you. It's not. I know, I know, when you're driving down the Parkway and you finish eating your greasy artery-fuck burger it's impossible to consider just putting the empty wrapper on your passenger seat until you get to a proper trash receptacle. Yeah, I know those little ashtray thingies in the console are made for change, not for cigarette butts. Plus, ash in the car is a pain. It's much better to throw a still lit cigarette onto the side of the road...I mean, it's not like there is any grass or bushes or trees that could burn as a result of your careless fucking stupidity or anything. I know, I'm being judgmental because I am one of those pretentious douchebags who takes the 8 seconds and makes the minute physical effort it takes to put a fucking empty wrapper in a trash can, what an asshole I am.

Are you really that fucking lazy and dumb? Do you just throw trash on the floor of your house because walking to the garbage can in the kitchen is too much of a hassle? It's really not that hard, you retarded shitbags. There are trash cans all over the fucking place, just keep the shit in your car until you get to one. It really is that fucking simple.

Put your fucking trash in a trash can, you stupid fuckmonkeys. It's so easy to do, even you in your obvious mentally challenged state could figure it out. I'm not saying you have to go green or become a hippie and hug porcupines or make love to badgers (100 cool points to anyone who can name the song I referenced there...well...maybe nerd points would be more appropriate, because if you know the song without Googling, you're a nerd) or anything like that, but dammit, have a little consideration for the good of the environment. Or at least the aesthetic of the environment. I know, it's a lot to expect someone of you lacking mental acuity to comprehend thinking beyond the safety of your vehicle or the ignorance of your house or the pressing issue of what off-ramp is going to have a Wendy's, but try it. It's really easy and you may even find that not being a complete fucking waste of skin is enjoyable.

Worst. Show. Ever.

2010-04-14T17:20:00.002-04:00

I have seen a lot of bad shows. I have worked too many shows that I wished were over 3 minutes after they started. I have endured small club misery for the sake of watching friends' bands play. Hell, I sat in garages when I was a teenager and listened to friends destroy garage rock. Never have I witnessed an absolute clusterfuck of musical suck like I witnessed last night. I hope I never witness anything like it again.

Let me begin by saying that I am not a huge fan of George Clinton or P-Funk. I know a few of their songs from back in the day, and they're kinda fun. I thought the show would just be an entertaining night of silly 70's groove songs. Well, there were a lot of sounds being made on stage that could potentially have been 70's groove songs...but what was actually happening was a butchering of music that would have anyone who ever played a recorder as a child turning in their graves.

First off, P-Funk is apparently some conglomeration of a bunch of crackfucks George Clinton knows and wants to have up on stage, whether they have any talent or not. Not that they would know they were untalented, as baked as those people were, I doubt they even knew what planet they were on, much less that they were supposed to be putting on a musical show. If you've ever seen the Family Guy where Peter and Lois get high and enter the talent contest and sing that song about God doing the fattest chick you know and they thought they were awesome but in reality, they sucked ass...you can imagine what last night was like.

At one point in time, I counted 19 people on stage. 19. Unless you are a highly skilled orchestra, there is never any need for 19 people on stage. Especially when only 4 of them were playing instruments. The four who were playing instruments apparently have never spent a day practicing together, because at no point in time did they seem to be playing the same song at the same time. The other 15 people who were back-up singers (and I use the word 'singer' very loosely, what those people were doing was more akin to cats mating in a garbage can full of broken glass or something) or dancers or people there to catch George if he stroked out or whatever were a mish-mash of cracked out Halloween failure. It was like a Goodwill store from 1974 exploded all over the stage and left no survivors. Most appalling...the heavy-set black chick with the big ol' ghetto booty wearing hot pants. Oh no, big mama, your ass should never have been anywhere near that rack in the store. Perhaps you didn't see Lane Bryant across the way, but you should maybe go over there. Please.

Other ridiculous things I saw in the crowd last night included the 60 year old black chick wearing silver tights; the 300 pound chick wearing a denim top that barely covered her ample chest...and nothing else; the young chick wearing a very small, very tight tube dress...which might not have been as bad if she had any sort of ass or tits that weren't saggy A-cups; and way too many fucking douchebag guys wearing Cat in the Hat type lids and/or feather fucking boas. This isn't a drag show, dumbfuck, leave mom's feather boa at home. You just look like a moron. No, nevermind, just get up on stage with the rest of the fucking freaks and bark like a dog or make noises like a fucking seagull or whatever the fuck those "singers" were doing. You'd fit right in. Here's your crack pipe.

It was atrocious. At no point did any of the music sound at all cohesive. Never did the "singers" ever find the right tune, key, pitch or zip code of anything resembling musical talent. And the worst part is, they played until one of the managers turned on the house lights (which is the international music venue symbol for 'get the fuck out of the building you douchefucks') and turned down the volume on the stage mics at 1am. Unreal. Never have I so badly wanted a show to be over. Never have I hoped for a stage collapse or random indoor lightning strike or simultaneous crack-induced coma like I did last night. I'm not usually terribly critical of shows I work, even if I don't enjoy them, but this was the pinnacle of suck.

Oh, and my concern about George's age? Well, anyone at any age can probably stand on stage and mumble a few things into the mic and point at everybody else on stage while they destroy the reputation of what you spent the last 40 years of your life building. He didn't do much, certainly didn't sing every song, and unfortunately, didn't realize that the people he had on stage were the worst excuse for musicians to ever annoy a room full of people.

Fuck, it was awful.

Old Musicians.

2010-04-13T10:35:00.002-04:00

Tonight I get the pleasure of working the George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic show. Not that I'm upset, I like some of their stuff. You know, the stuff they put out 35 fucking years ago? Some of it is classic, timeless, and always fun to listen to. That's the beauty of music, once created, if done well enough, it can live on forever and inspire people for generations to come. Good music lives forever. Unfortunately, so does bad music, but I digress.

Artists do not live forever. No. They get old and then they die. It's the circle of life and shit. Sadly, many artists feel the need to continue to tour until the day they die. Not that they lose their talent, but they definitely lose the ability to do things like move around on stage or perform for more than 20 minutes without taking a break or control their bladder. For some reason, watching people who created music that has influenced and inspired and filled people's lives hobble and wheeze around the stage for a few minutes isn't that appealing to me. I worked George Thorogood recently, and while he was more mobile than David Allen Coe, it was still pretty sad to see someone trying so desperately to keep a grasp on the things that (somehow...I'll not get into my feelings about these artists here) made them famous 30-40 years ago. It's like watching that athlete who once was great flail around several different teams when they've lost 6 steps at the end of their career. Just hang it up.

I can imagine that if you build your life a certain way, giving it up would be hard. Many people have an impossible time accepting retirement after working their entire lives. Many people have a hard time accepting that they can't do at 65 what they did at 35. The human psyche is a bitch. But, it's a little different when some dude who pushed paper from a desk for 40 years has a hard time sitting on his couch watching daytime TV. That dude isn't standing up on stage in front of people who paid money to watch him fill out TPS reports, hoping he can get 6 done in a show when in reality, he can only do 2. Old musicians seem to be content to sacrifice their dignity and forfeit the chance to just let their music be their legacy for the sake of holding on to the good old days. Or to pay bills, because they've wasted their money on hookers and booze and blow.

While I can understand the difficulty in just letting it all go, I still think it's sad. People don't really want to watch old musicians spinning in circles in their Hoveround on stage. People want to listen to the beat of the drums, not the sound of a hemodialysis machine keeping kidneys alive on stage. No one wants to see their musical heroes taking shots of Metamucil in between songs. Or, no one should. But, the shows still sell, so apparently, some people do.

I'm not saying that the show tonight won't be enjoyable, hearing the music will be fun...but watching a bunch of old dudes hobble around the stage might not be. Unless one of them falls and breaks a hip, then I'll be laughing my ass off.

Shut up, people falling down is funny. You'd laugh too.

Yeah, I Know.

2010-04-13T09:42:00.002-04:00

I suck. I know this. I have not blogged in about 10 years or so, and people are getting angry. I've been getting threatening hate e-mails letting me know that if I don't blog I will be unceremoniously mocked, which in the cyber-world is akin to getting your kneecaps badly bruised by some thug who lacks enough strength to break them. Annoying, but not debilitating.

The truth is, Bitches, you've chosen to follow the blog of a very temperamental writer. I am a scatter-brained perfectionist, which is a combination that makes life interesting for anyone around me (and borderline psychotic for myself). I create best when I'm inspired by something (most often anger at someone or something I deem completely stupid), but even then, if I am not happy with the product of my inspiration, I refuse to share it with anyone. As a result, I have about 4 drafts from times that I have started blogging about something in the last few weeks, but didn't like them enough to actually hit "Publish Post." It's certainly not that I've had any lack of the ridiculous in my life, it's just that I haven't been satisfied enough with my musings about the ridiculous to share.

I know, that's not fair to my Bitches. You should know by now that life isn't fair, so get the fu...wait...no...I shouldn't lash out at the people who have made me the blogging celebrity I am today. It's not your fault I suck. I should just shut the fuck up and rant about something so you junkies can slip back into that euphoric state of bliss where nothing else matters but the pleasure coursing through your veins as you read my creative uses of swear words and insulting adjectives. It's the least I could do, right? I mean after all, without my Bitches, I'd be nothing but a guy with a blog nobody reads. That just doesn't sound like a life I want to lead.

I apologize, Bitches, for slacking. I'll stop being such an unreliable dealer.

Rubberneckers and Traffic Lights.

2010-04-07T14:30:00.005-04:00

Yeah, dumbass, we all see it. It's an accident. There are a lot of flashing lights and emergency vehicles and a car that has been hit by another car and a bumper lying in the street. That sucks for those people. Their day is ruined. Please do not annoy my day, motherfucker, by slowing down to 10 mph so your nosy ass can look at busted taillights. It's on the other side of the road, there is no need for you to impede everyone who is traveling on this side of the road because you need to witness someone else's bad day. Just keep fucking driving, preferably somewhere near the posted speed limit. The traffic engineering in this city is bad enough, we don't need your stupid ass further clogging the roadways because you hope to see some blood. But, you won't see blood because it's a fucking fender-bender, you moron. Drive.

Expounding on the traffic engineering issue, here's an open comment to the city of Asheville and Buncombe County: Your traffic engineering skills suck balls. You fuckers are the Detroit Lions of traffic engineering. Except instead of drafting Wide Receivers with every pick of the draft for the past 10 years, you've "solved" every potential traffic problem by putting up another fucking traffic light. Here's a news flash, dumbasses: putting up more traffic lights doesn't fix traffic congestion. Especially if you make no effort whatsoever to synchronize any of the lights. Having a fucking traffic light every 200 yards, none of which are in any way synchronized to each other makes the problem worse. It seems like a simple enough concept for this undereducated bastard to comprehend, how is it that you geniuses who somehow have earned the title of...whatever the fuck they call you retards...can't figure it out?

I understand that you are fighting some unfortunate realities of this being a mountainous area, and I also know that the lack of zoning regulations in this county makes life tough (yeah, no zoning laws, fucking brilliant, right? It's normal to have a bank next to an industrial concrete plant next to a house next to a school, isn't it?). Someone throws up a business in some random spot and then complains that their customers can't make a left turn into their poorly placed establishment, so what are you to do? My idea? Tell them to regret choosing such a stupid fucking place to put a business and accept their fate. Clearly, my idea and your ideas are different. Your solution seems to be "just put up another light." Dumbfucks. The idea could potentially work, if you were to use a technique many other cities mastered about 50 years ago called synchronization.

It's pretty simple, you put all of the lights on staggered timers so that traffic can be allowed to flow at a fairly consistent pace throughout the entire maze of lights. Wow. That's it. It's so fucking simple that I can't even come up with any way to further mock your inability to figure it out. Yeah, you're so dumb that I can't even insult you. Congratulations. In that way, you are nothing like the Lions, because one can never stop making fun of them.

I suppose I could clean up the language in this and maybe actually send it to someone who could make a difference, but like most Americans, I'd rather just bitch about something I don't like. Making a difference and trying to bring about change is a lot of work, and quite honestly, I hate work. Apparently, so do the fucksticks who work in the traffic engineering department.

No, You Can't.

2010-04-01T16:11:00.006-04:00

Happy April Fool's Day, Bitches. I was going to come up with some sort of elaborate post hoax to lay down on everybody, but nothing good came to mind in the 30 seconds I devoted to the idea before I poured a bowl of cereal this morning, so I scrapped the whole plan. I'm lazy like that. It's better this way; far less brainpower needed on my part, far less "What the fuck is this dumbass talking about now?" on your part. Go ahead, thank me.

Hey, douchebag who is 20 pounds overweight and considers carrying a case of soda a workout...no, you can't get rock hard abs in 30 minutes or 10 minutes or 45 seconds with the help of the electro-shock testicle slings invented by a guy who once fought Chuck Norris in a movie or whatever the latest stupid fucking claim made by people getting rich off of the lazy are making today. That guy in the paid advertisement inside Men's Health or Men's Journal or GQ or Maxim or whatever magazine you read while you're getting your hair cut...he's a fitness model. His entire job is to make his body look like that. And, the airbrush artist helps him out a little. That guy spends hours a day in the gym and eats a strict diet that does not include that 64 ounce Coke and the bag of Doritos. He didn't get those abs with any 8 minute program. That actor on the screen with perfectly toned abs that your girlfriend wants to tickle with her vagina...he has also spent hours a day in a gym with a personal trainer and has a personal chef cooking meals for him that aid in the formation of those panty-moistening abs. He did not get those abs with any silly anti-gravitational abgasm 5000 space chair thingy. He worked his ass off. If you want those abs, you're going to have to as well. Stop buying into all of the stupid shit those people are telling you and just do the work, mainly so I don't have to be inundated with 4,000 pics of too-tanned dudes with their shirts of every time I open anything remotely health related.

Hey, yo fat girl. Yeah I called you fat, look at me, I'm skinny...er...where was I going before I got distracted by the sounds laid down by the Underground? Oh yeah...fat girl, no you can't lose 50 pounds by taking that pill. Unless that pill is meth, it's not going to magically reduce your weight while you go on eating the same 5,000 calorie diet. If it is meth, have fun being skinny, the attention you get from having sores all over your yellow skin, no teeth, and stringy hair that may or may not fall out in clumps if the wind blows is far better than being called fat. No, those magic diet pills that have no medicinal qualities whatsoever aren't going to make you thin, no matter how herbal the name sounds or how many washed up Jazzercise instructors endorse them. Those supermodels...well...forget the supermodels, their secrets are eating disorders, and Bulimia is probably worse for you than some stupid pill. Those chicks on the aerobics video you picked up at Barnes and Noble who don't make spandex seem like the worst invention in the history of mankind...they work their asses off to stay fit. They aren't taking the latest green tea supplement proven effective in a "clinical trial" that was conducted in some guy's basement in New Jersey. Those ladies put in a lot of effort, a lot of time, and pay a lot of attention to their diets. They don't just expect some magical cure for laziness. You shouldn't either.

Like it or not, being "in shape" takes a lot of work, a lot of time, and attention to what you shovel in your mouth. Magic tricks don't work. Stop trying them. Stop giving these fuckers your money. Seriously. I'm tired of all of the stupid fucking ads and commercials and infomercials. I don't want to see John Basedow's stupid fucking haircut and freakish physique anymore; I don't want to see that old fucker hanging upside down in that stupid fucking contraption he has; and I don't want to see Tony Little's ridiculous fucking spiral permed mullet flying around while he yells at people on that stupid fucking Gazelle thing. The Ab Circle commercial could probably stay, because watching chicks on that thing is kinda hot...wait...I mean, no, that has to go too. The only thing you lazy bastards are accomplishing is fattening the wallets of these douchebags who are all too happy to let you. Stop chasing the solution from the comfort of your recliner, get up and do something.

Yes, I am just mad because I am not making loads of dollars off of lazy people. As soon as I can figure out a way to mass-market the idea that reading my blog will make you have rock hard abs...my tune will change. Is that wrong?

(The answer is "no.")

Blog Losers.

2010-03-31T19:58:00.003-04:00

I hate people who don't update their blog on a regular basis. I mean, why the fuck are you going to go through all of the effort to sign up for an account if you're not going to make the effort to continue the endeavor? You obvioulsy seem to think that the stupid shit in your head is important enough for the masses to read, Mr. Blogger Guy, why keep that brilliance from us for weeks at a time? You lure people in with promises of comedic ranting and humorous observations, then you disappear. Well fuck you, you non-blog-updating piece of shit. You suck. I hope your "Last updated 10 days ago" blog becomes an example of everything that is wrong with the idea of people thinking that others give a shit what they think.

Fucking loser.

Seriously, people start following you and expecting certain things from you and you just let them down? How dare you, you selfish fuck. Don't think about your followers...oh no, it's all about you and you living your life and not updating people on every mundane thing that pisses you off, isn't it? Prick. I hope you've enjoyed whatever it is you've been doing the last few weeks that you haven't been updating your blog, because everyone else has really enjoyed clicking the links to your page only to be disappointed again. That was sarcasm, if you didn't catch it, fucker.

Update that shit, you non-blogging bastard. Don't welcome the responsibility of entertaining a minute fraction of the internet if you can't carry the load.

It's Raining, Call the Fucking Game.

2010-03-21T18:39:00.002-04:00

OK, I can understand professional soccer players having to nut up and play in the rain. It's their job. It's a multi-gajillion dollar global enterprise. Some of them get paid ass-tons of money. Sack up and play in the rain. My nine year old daughter is not a professional, and this is a county league that is nothing more than formative soccer at best. None of her teammates are professionals (as evidenced by the excess of "swings and misses" at routine kicks). There is no fucking reason that any of us should be standing anywhere near a fucking soccer field on a rainy Sunday afternoon. None.

Why this game was played is mind-boggling. It was fucking raining. Not just a drizzle, but full-on non-stop rain. It had been raining since mid-morning. The rain wasn't a surprise. It didn't just happen to start falling halfway through the game. That might have been o.k. But when we show up and the rain is already falling and it's cold and puddles have already started forming near the goals...call the fucking game. It's not really that important. The universe will somehow continue to survive another week if you don't get this 9 year old girls soccer game completed. Everybody was fucking miserable, especially the girls. The parents who weren't hiding in their cars in the parking lot (fucking pussies) had umbrellas, so we were able to stay somewhat dry. The poor girls were stuck running around in the rain chasing a ball while probably wanting to be anywhere else but playing soccer while (to paraphrase my daughter) "feeling like [they] took a shower in [their] clothes."

I don't know what dumbshit was responsible for making these poor girls play soccer in the cold rain of mid-March, but fuck you, whoever you are. Next time, call the game. Or I will find out who you are and deliver the fuck you in person...in the form of throwing you in a river along with a soccer ball. Have fun playing, dickhead.

However, I will take a moment to be a proud dad and brag that tat2brat received the Sportsmanship Award for the game because she played her best and not once did she whine about being subjected to waterboard soccer.

Drive-Thru Etiquette

2010-03-18T09:20:00.005-04:00

As I have mentioned before, I am fairly strict with what I eat. Because I am, I almost never eat fast food. I try to plan my days and my meals in a manner that I can easily limit my need to utilize the near-instant food convenience of these purveyors of artery clogging crap. In the very rare case that I find myself needing to grab something quickly to stop the hunger pangs from annoying me, Chick-fil-A is my choice. This morning was one of those rare occasions. A late shift last night at the club and an early morning shift today at my "real job" made me have to choose between breakfast at home or the beauty of the "snooze" option on the alarm. I chose snooze.

On my way to work, I stopped at the Chick-fil-A that is on the way (hey, that rhymes) and went to the drive-thru. The drive-thru has been a staple of fast food joints for what, 40 years now? Long enough to be considered a very simple concept. They've done their best to further streamline the process by providing two menus to look at; one at the ordering point, one prior to the ordering point so that presumably, you'll know what the fuck you want when you get to the ordering point. A place like Chick-fil-A, where they pretty much only serve various forms of chicken shouldn't be a place that ordering in the drive-thru is difficult. However, the bitch in front of me today has either never utilized a drive-thru, never eaten at a Chick-fil-A, or is just dumb enough that the state should reconsider her having a license to drive a vehicle.

First off, dumb bitch: You should be somewhere within 10 feet of the speaker box in which you speak to make your order. The acoustics on those things are shit to begin with, you throwing in the debilitating factor of distance just makes the process more difficult. Your car is fairly new, so I know you have power steering, you could have easily made that difficult gradual left turn and found yourself in the same zip code as the speaker.

Second, dumb bitch: It's Chick-fil-A. They serve chicken. Just decide if you want your overgrown chicken nugget on a bun or a bagel and order. You shouldn't need to study the menu for 4 minutes.

Third, dumb bitch: The time which you wait behind the two cars in front of you while they get their food is the opportune time to get your method of payment ready. Waiting until you pull up to the window to count the change from your center console is not appropriate. They tell you when you complete your order how much you owe...maybe if you had been somewhere near the speaker box, you would have heard that.

Fourth, dumb bitch: Once they hand you your food, immediately drive forward. If you want to check your food because Quentin Tarantino says "they fuck you in the drive-thru," that's fine. Just do it 15 feet in front of the delivery window so the rest of us can get our food and move on with our days. My order is simple (I decided on the chicken), I have my money ready, and it should only take me about 8 seconds at the delivery window to complete the transaction. Why it has taken you over a minute to move forward is perplexing and pretty fucking irritating after all of the other ways you've fucked up a very simple process in front of me this morning.

Seriously, the drive-thru is not as difficult as this woman made it, but it did remind me of one of the reasons I choose not to frequent fast food joints. I will now go another 3-4 months before going back to Chick-fil-A, at which point I am certain someone else will find a way to amaze me with their inability to conquer simple tasks.

For the record, I got the chicken, egg, and cheese sandwich on a sunflower wheat bagel. It was pretty fucking good, quite honestly. It is also probably the sandwich that most says "Fuck you, chickens." A deep fried chicken breast and an egg? "Damn right, chicken I'm going to kill you and your baby and eat you both at the same time because I am one deranged motherfucking human. If they could make this bagel out of your feathers, feet and beak, I might even enjoy it more. Fuck you, chickens."

Next time, I need to avoid the snooze.

Happy St. Green Beer Guy Day

2010-03-17T12:07:00.005-04:00

Welcome to another holiday that has been bastardized into little more than a reason for people to drink way too much and wear completely fucking ridiculous holiday themed garb. Most people couldn't even begin to explain St. Patrick's relevance to Ireland, all they know is that it's a chance to get really fucking drunk drinking beer that is dyed green (yeah, just like the beer they drink in Ireland...only not at all like it) and act like an idiot while wearing stupid fucking leprechaun hats or dumb-ass headbands with foam shamrocks bouncing around on springs. (For the record, St. Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland, a missionary who grew Christianity in Ireland but did NOT drive snakes from the country or invent Lucky Charms or Irish Spring or whatever else folklore says he did. Being that he was a man of God, I'm sure he would love how the holiday bearing his name is celebrated today...)

So, if you go out tonight, be prepared to deal with a bunch of morons who probably couldn't find Ireland on a map getting fucked up and pinching you if you aren't wearing green. Just like St. Patrick himself would have. "No green? God hates that you don't wear green! Allow me to pinch your forearm as a symbol of God's wrath, you non-green wearing heathen!" I don't know where the tradition of pinching someone who isn't wearing green started, but I hope the fucker who started it is being subjected to an eternity of Purple Nurples and steel-toed boot kicks to the balls in Hell. Dumb bastard.

I don't have any problem with people celebrating something, and it's easy to understand how St. Patrick warrants a holiday in Ireland. Of course, it's only been the last 20 years or so that the holiday has morphed into the debauchery-riddled drunk-fest that it is now at the hands of people who likely couldn't tell you the capital of Ireland or anything else about the country other than Guinness (which isn't green) is brewed there. It just strikes me as silly that people seem to need to find a reason to go out and get fucked up. Or make everything green. Or buy stupid trinkets from Hallmark or WalMart or whatever other fucking store has a litany of stupid holiday themed shit. Yeah, the shamrock banner that reads "Erin Go Bragh" really does show your allegiance to Ireland, black lady from Detroit in accounting. Excellent job. Your Gaelic brethren appreciate you and your $3.99 banner of pride.

I need to branch off a little here, and address a very real problem in American society (and I assume other societies, but can't speak for them)...holiday related clothing. I don't know when it became acceptable for older women to wear sweaters with Christmas wreaths or Easter eggs (yeah, just wait for the Easter blog...) or shamrocks or pre-slaughter turkeys or whatever other dumb fucking holiday related symbol upon them, but stop. Stop it, middle-class white bitches. Stop wearing those stupid fucking holiday sweaters. We all know what time of year it is, and I can promise you that 99.999% of us don't give a fuck that you're brimming with holiday spirit. That .001% who does? Other dumb bitches wearing stupid fucking holiday sweaters. They're not cute, they're not stylish, and they certainly don't put people in a cheery, festive fucking mood. They make people want to kick you dead in the poorly fashioned reindeer antlers that adorn the sweater across your chest.

Even worse, holiday socks. Why are these worse? Because nobody can see the stupid fucking things unless they are shown, and every dumb bitch who wears them feels the need to show everyone. "Hee-hee, Did you see my spooky Jack O' Lantern Halloween socks?" No bitch, because I don't give a fuck what socks you are wearing. Those aren't spooky, they're fucking retarded. You have pumpkins on your feet. That shit might be cute on a baby or something, but you are a grown fucking woman (most likely overweight, because for whatever reason, fat bitches seem to like to do silly shit like this...I don't know why...but pay attention...you'll see that I'm right), you do not need to wear those dumb-ass socks. I don't need to see those dumb-ass socks. Put your fucking Crocs back on and leave me the hell alone. I am not amused by your cheery fucking hosiery.

Whatever. Go out tonight and drink your green beer while you wear your green shirt and your stupid fucking head wear that screams "Look at the drunk bastard who has no problem looking like a complete fucking idiot in public!" Then, tomorrow, when you're hungover and feeling like you have a thousand Leprechauns jack-hammering green clover marshmallows out of your skull and you can't remember why your fingers are dyed green, you can start planning your outfit for Big Bird's Birthday (3/20) or Chocolate Covered Raisin Day (3/24) or Something on a Stick Day (3/28) (I'm surprised this holiday doesn't coincide with Gay Pride Week...yep...totally went there...) or whatever the next "holiday" is that will justify your gluttonous binge drinking and ridiculously poor clothing choices.

And, I double-dog dare you to pinch me, motherfuckers.

Being Sick Sucks Ass

2010-03-15T13:10:00.007-04:00

I had almost made it through the entire winter without getting sick. Almost. It caught me today, and I feel like shit. I'm stuffed up and lethargic and having hot flashes like some menopausal woman (but no random crying fits...whew). I can't taste anything, but I am hungry as fuck. Seems pointless to eat if I can't enjoy the taste, but my stomach keep getting pissed off if I'm not cramming food in my word hole. This sucks.

I took some liquid Tylenol Cold shit, holy fuck that stuff is awful. "Refreshing Mint Flavor" my ass, Tylenol, that shit tastes worse than...well...pretty much anything I've ever tasted in my life. And I've eaten in the Middle East. I imagine that if you could somehow bottle baboon ass funk with a hint of rotting fish it would taste better than this medicine. Clearly there are no medicinal properties in the stuff, the scheme is simply to make it taste so fucking horrible that the body says "Fuck it, I'll get well right now, just don't throw any more of that God-forsaken mint-flavored liquid shit down your throat." Good job, Tylenol, finding something that pierces any cold symptoms that negate the ability to taste and sucker punches the taste buds. I can't taste this snack mix I'm throwing down by the handfuls, but I can still taste the sewer in a bottle I choked down 4 hours ago.

I suppose it is wise to not make that shit taste good, people would get addicted. If that shit tasted like chocolate chip cookies, I'd be chasing breakfast with it every morning.

I was supposed to do my long training run today, but I will not. I am sitting my fat ass in this chair and doing nothing until I have to go to the club to work the Rodrigo y Gabriela show tonight. I am excited for this show, it should be incredible. If you've never heard of them, look them up. No, I will not link you to them, I'm sick. I don't have that kind of energy. Find it yourself, this isn't a full service blog. It's worth the effort, they are exceptionally talented guitarists. If you like the guitar, you will like this duo. If you like attractive Latinas with fingers that move faster than the eye can comprehend, you'll at least like half of this duo.

So yeah, I'm going to have to work the show while feeling like shit, which sucks. I may get one of those white masks that most of Asia was wearing during the SARS outbreak just to scare people at the door. "Can I see your I.D., please...the mask? Oh, I have Swine Flu. Don't worry about it. Enjoy the show." I bet I could get people to behave inside with that method..."You want me to breathe on you, Motherfucker? That's what I thought."

Shit. It's time to take more of the piss in a bottle. Let me tell you how excited I am about that. You know that feeling you get when you're stranded in the wilderness and you have to pull an abcessed tooth with some make-shift pliers you fashioned out of tree limbs? Me neither, but I imagine that feeling would inspire more enthusiasm than does the thought of swallowing 2 more tablespoons of that liquid Tylenol taste bud rape. Fuck you, Tylenol.

Roller Derby.

2010-03-13T22:46:00.003-05:00

If you like watching a bunch of marginally attractive chicks with creative names and a few not even close to potentially attractive chicks (also with creative names) skating in an oval and knocking the shit out of each other, roller derby is for you. If you like watching chicks fall on their asses on a regular basis, roller derby is for you. I like those things, so I enjoy going to watch the local roller derby team.

I'm not overly fond of the asinine prices the bitches at the Civic Center charge for concessions, but that's typical for those types of places, so I just don't bother buying anything while I'm there and that problem is solved.

The problem that obviously hasn't been solved since last season is the completely fucking awful announcers during the event. If you've ever been to a roller derby, you know that they have a couple of announcers pretty much narrating the action, explaining some of the rules and such. Ideally, the announcers would be witty, funny, and enhance your roller derby experience. The announcers at this particular event were not witty, not even in the same neighborhood as funny, and did not enhance the experience. If anything, they made it harder to enjoy, because wishing they would shut the fuck up took away from the amusement of watching any one of the fat chicks on the Kentucky team trying to remain upright.

Speaking of this, I feel as though I need to provide a little bit of unsolicited, completely amateur advice to the opposing team:

1.) Roller derby is an athletic event. I understand that there are some blocker positions that are probably better filled with heftier chicks, but you might want to stock your line-up with a few athletic chicks. It is impressive that the bigger girls can maintain balance and stop that momentum without falling down or needing a runaway truck ramp, but maybe just get a few toned, fit chicks onto your roster. Might help you score some points in the next match.

2.) Roller derby is an athletic event that takes place on roller skates. It's in the name, so it's not like it's a surprise. Perhaps you should ensure that all of your chicks can actually skate. Especially if you are going to put them in the scoring "Jammer" position. That's clearly the position that requires the most skating skill, you should probably keep Happy Gilmore on the bench until she can keep from eating shit on a straightaway when no one is around her. Or maybe one who can generate enough momentum to actually keep moving without having to use one of the other chicks to sling her around. Roller derby should be a fast-paced event, your Jammer shouldn't be struggling to maintain forward motion.

I know, I'm just some dude who may not understand the intricacies of roller derby, but judging by the fact that you were down by 100 points at halftime, I may be onto something.

I digress. Back to the dumb fucking announcers. The jokes were lame. The attempts at pop-culture references were feeble. The only entertainment that could be taken from any of the lame-ass shit they were saying was mocking them. The "like a rhinoceros in a tree" joke wouldn't be funny to you bitches at this point, but in the moment, that shit was funny, because of the mock value. Trust me. But, as funny as it was, it still didn't overwhelm the utter stupidity of the announcers who had the microphones. Fucking microphones, amplifying the completely unfunny bullshit of a couple of droning motherfuckers. I hate you, microphones.

Kinda like internet blogs, amplifying the completely unfunny bullshit of rambling motherfuckers...hmm...

Anyway, go check out some roller derby if you get a chance. Watching people fall is always funny, so even if you have to endure two dumbasses and a microphone, you can still have some fun.

It's Called a Bra, Bitch.

2010-03-10T17:13:00.003-05:00

Hey bitch coming through the door at the club last night, I know you know they exist. You are a woman in her late 20's, and I don't give a fuck how hippie you think you are, you have to have heard of those wonderful items called brassieres. They have them in all sizes, even the 46GG you probably need, you fat, disgusting fucking hippie. Part of me is curious as to how you got so fat on your earth friendly, sustainable vegan diet anyway, but I cannot ask you anything because I am distracted by the fact that your gigantic tits are almost tripping you. I am disgusted by the fact that you not only decided that your gargantuan knockers needed to be free to sweep the ground, but you decided that you needed to wear a very low-cut, flowing hippie dress so everyone could gag a little more by seeing the skin on your chest stretched like a fucking over-filled Hefty trash bag. Nothing wimpy about your chest skin, that's for damned sure.

What the fuck, you dirty fucking hippie bitch? I know that you subscribe to the anti-establishment mantra, and that bras are simply a way for The Man to oppress the breasts, but come on. Even in your marijuana and patchouli induced funky stupor, you have to acknowledge the fact that your knockers are far to big to just "hang out." How can that be comfortable? How can your back take it? Do you have to do something similar to a pitcher's wind-up to get some inertia going to turn around? I can't imagine those things just move (or stop) on command, do you have a warning system in place to let people know when you're about to swings those wrecking balls around? How do you get out of bed? Do you sling one over the side and let gravity roll you out? Fuck, so many disturbing, disgusting questions that should never have to be asked.

Seriously, get a bra, bitch. Even Betty Friedan or Helen Gurley Brown or fuck, even Germaine Greer (the leader of the bra-burning movement, for my less feminism knowledgeable followers...you're welcome) would say "Bitch, control those fucking puppies." Ms. Greer would probably take you to WalMart herself and buy you a bra, because even she understood that going braless as a rule was not a good idea. Especially for a chick with jugs as big as yours. You tripping over your tits while walking up a flight of stairs does nothing for equality or world peace or Tibet or saving fucking Brazilian Mergansers or whatever noble battles you fight via bumper stickers on the back of your piece of shit VW bus that barely passes emissions testing. Put them away.

Look, I know you think that every living creature is beautiful (you are seriously fucking misguided) and that everyone has the right to be free and blah blah fuckity blah, but in your case, bitch, you need to take a look in the mirror and understand that some things are a socially accepted rule for a reason. No one wants to see your big, fat, venous fucking udders banging your knees. And don't say "well they just shouldn't look," because you know that's impossible. Some things are so fucking freakish that you just can't help but look. God knows I didn't want to look. I had no desire to see all that you showed me last night. But I couldn't look away. I was just in awe at the nerve you obviously have to walk out the door in some sort of poorly chosen fight against gravity and physics and physiology and common decency. I was also amazed at your Lumbar strength, because it was incredible that you were upright.

It's called a bra, bitch, and for the love of God or Mother Earth or Vishnu or Cernunnos or whoever the fuck you believe in, please buy one. Then wear it. Any time you go out in public. Any time. Never ever walk out of your commune without it on again. Inside your fucking hippie haven of circus freaks, you do whatever the fuck you want. Out here in the real world, put the girls in a sling. Please. Society begs you. Our eyes beg you. Even the fucking Mergansers beg you. Yes, ducks that are on the verge of extinction want you to control your mammoth fucking mammaries, bitch. Do it for the fucking ducks, hippie.

About Damned Time

2010-03-08T21:46:00.003-05:00

Thank you, Mother Nature, for finally taking off the bitch slippers and giving us some good weather. The last three days have been damned near perfect, and I appreciate that. I got to run outside today in shorts and a short sleeved shirt...awesome. I got to take the dog for a nice walk in the woods without freezing my ass off. Such a beautiful day.

But, then I got to thinking. People don't read this shitty, randomly updated blog to listen to me be happy about shit. None of the readers want to read me praising good weather and having had a good day outside. It's a bit of a conundrum, made even worse by the fact that nothing silly or stupid or retarded has happened to me in the past few days. While I know I should blog, I can't just bring some paragraphs of happy to this wasteland of cycnicism and anger.

That being said, Mother Nature, don't do anything stupid. I like this gentler you, I like not freezing my ass off every time I open the front door. Other people will take care of the stupid shit I need to blog about, you just go on not being a wicked cunthole. I work at the club tomorrow night, surely something will happen then. I'm good. Mother Nature, just keep doing what you've done the last few days.

All the other retarded, annoying fucking shitstains around me need to step up the stupid. Do some shit for me to blog about, anonymous dillweeds. Not you, bathroom masturbator guy, I've had enough of you. But come on, I live in a melting pot of unintelligible hillbilly and pseudo-hippie and pretentious yuppie fucks...there has to be someone that can give me material out there. I know, I could always do the watching TV thing I said I would do last week, but I still haven't been able to bring myself to tune in to one of those shows. It looks like I may not have a choice anymore.

OK, I'm off to find something stupid on TV. I'm sure I'll have no shortage of choices. I hope to bring you something better than a few paragraphs of me complaining that I have nothing to blog about tomorrow. But, I must say, making an entry on not having anything to enter...that's skill, bitches. A useless, pointless, completely fucking stupid skill. Kinda like that thing I can do with my toe...

What. The. Fuck.

2010-03-05T10:24:00.003-05:00

As previously mentioned in the estrogen-powered lesbian gaze of death post, I work part time at a music venue. It is a wonderful gig, I get paid to listen to live performances and check out hot chicks in the club and sometimes ruin someone's night. I have a lot of fun most of the time, and my love of music has been greatly increased by this job.

I've been doing this for a year now, and I have seen a lot of interesting shit. Every show has a unique mix of people; sociologists and/or aliens watching from above could spend years dissecting the behavior of people who come to the club. What I saw last night would make the aliens say "Fuck it, we'll find another planet with intelligent life somewhere else." Of course aliens say "fuck." It's a universally perfect word.

One of the job requirements of a door person is to randomly check the bathroom for anyone doing drugs, sneaking in liquor (retarded NC liquor laws don't allow the club to serve anything but beer and wine), washing the X marks they get for being under 21 off their hands, or anything else that would be considered unacceptable behavior. It's very common to find several people doing any of the above at any show. However, what is uncommon is to walk into the bathroom and find some black dude standing in a stall, door open, facing outward, with his dick in his hand, stroking that thing with reckless abandon.

Perhaps I should repeat that as the beginning to a new paragraph so you can grasp what really happened. I walked into the bathroom and caught some guy spanking his monkey. I was at a loss for words. The only thing I could get out was "What the fuck are you doing?" His reply? "Sorry." Sorry. All that motherfucker could say was "Sorry." I suppose if I really cared, I could have grilled him about why the fuck he was greasing his wheel in our bathroom, which might have been an interesting story, but I didn't care. All I cared about was getting that masturbating bastard out of the club.

Of course it was funny as hell, and once I told the guys at the door why I was kicking that guy out, it became the entertainment of the night. Tales of it happening spread through the club staff faster than herpes through a prostitute orgy. I walked backstage and somehow the guy working back there had already heard. Naturally, when I walked back there, he acted like he was having a stroke (and I don't mean his left side was limp and he was drooling on himself).

I understand that people have fetishes. I understand that some people like to dress in PVC and asphyxiate themselves with a bungee cord while a morbidly obese chick spanks them with a cheese log. Some people like to wear diapers and act like a baby. Some people have foot fetishes and like to lick toes and drink vodka from ladies' pumps (which is fucking disgusting, you fucked up foot fetish freaks. Feet are nasty.) Apparently, this guy is an exhibitionist. Or, he is a black guy who likes to come to southern rock shows and choke his chicken while watching rednecks take a piss at the urinals. Maybe flannel and trucker hats turn him on (he would have had a blast at the lesbian festival show, but none of that flannel would have been in the mens room...). Whatever the fuck it is, I was not prepared to see some dude fapping vigorously when I went to work last night. If his fetish is shocking people...he definitely got his.

Looking back on it now, I'm a little upset that the best I could come up with in the moment was "What the fuck are you doing?" I'm normally pretty witty, but I just didn't have anything quick and funny come to mind (no pun intended). However, even now, I can't think of anything else to say. What does one say when they walk in on a black guy with his jimmy in his hand? Other than "What the fuck?"

I had to do some mind-cleansing exercises last night, but even after taking a mental train to my Happy Place, that image keeps popping into my head. I am scarred. I may need therapy. Or, if I see that guy in the club again, I just need to kick him in the chest. Once for scarring my mind, once more for making me doubt the skills of my wit. Fuck you, you disturbed, cock-stroking motherfucker.

Happy Place...I'm coming. (Again, no pun intended.)

Your Kidney Stones Do Not Impress Me.

2010-03-03T12:17:00.004-05:00

Apparently, somewhere, sometime way back in the beginning of human interaction, someone decided that telling another person every little physical ailment they had was appropriate conversation. Over time, people have perfected the art of boring other people with inane tales of kidney stones or gall stones or sciatica or diarrhea or achy penis or whatever. In my time on this planet, I have perfected the art of not giving a fuck. I do not care about your trivial personal ailments. At all.

I can understand some things are fairly big and traumatic and become a major part of someone's life and the life of those around them. Cancer? Yeah that's a big deal, so I can understand conversing about it. Your arm got ripped off by a bear? Yeah, that's an interesting story. I want to hear that shit. "Your friend" somehow got a light bulb stuck in his ass? Fuck yeah, I need to hear that story. But, you feel like you're pissing a flaming bowling ball because you have stones? Your Carpal Tunnel is acting up again because you spent 7 hours surfing porn on the internet last night? I don't give a fuck. Really. Don't tell me about that shit, I don't want to hear it. Just like I don't care about your kids and the cutesy bullshit thing they did last week at Chuck E. Cheese, I don't care about your stones. Or your Carpal Tunnel. Or your achy penis.

What is even more torturous than someone just randomly telling me about their most recent hernia is when I'm near two people who seem to think that these topics are appropriate conversation. It makes me cringe when one person asks the other "How's it going?" and the other goes into a lengthy description of their kidney stones; which then invites the other person to talk about their uncle and his kidney stones; which then turns into a one-upping contest of mundane medical bullshit that is usually exaggerated for effect. "Well, my grandpa once had a tapeworm the that measured 63 feet long and craved buttermilk..." It's never an intelligent conversation, and it's usually riddled with one of them butchering any number of medical terms that may or may not be accurate and/or related to the ailment being discussed and one or more completely stupid Wives' Tale. "My Granny says the only way to get rid of a malignantated tapeworm is to set your ass hairs on fire and the smoke chases it out." I was subjected to similar conversation recently, and that shit made me want to choke bitches like Wayne Brady. I ended up leaving the room because I was very close to losing my mind and crushing their feelings to the point that kidney stones felt like a massage with a happy ending.

In hindsight, maybe I should have. Then they would have had something else to discuss with their friends, family, and random strangers in line at the grocery store. "My sternum hurts because Matt kicked me in the chest because I wouldn't shut the fuck up about my fucking kidney stones. My Granny says the only way to fix a perforatiated sternum is to mix some bleach, Vicks Vap-o-rub, and whiskey with a turnip green and pink Play-doh and rub it on your lower back. I don't how it works, but it does."

Fucking dumbasses. I think from now on, I'm just going to bitch about a headache caused by an annoying sound in my ears every time someone wants to tell me about their random ailments. Or just kick them in the chest and get it over with.

Playing Roulette and Fucking Pop Culture

2010-02-27T07:54:00.005-05:00

Allow me to begin today's entry by expressing my sympathies to our runnersworld.com friend Steph. Because Mother Nature is continuing to be a nasty fucking bitchface and brewed up another Snowpocalypse or Snowmaggedon or Chersnowbyl or The Snowlocaust or whatever witty politicians will be calling this storm, Steph didn't get to go to Florida to run Gasparilla. (I'm sure that Pat Robertson will insist that this storm is God punishing New Jersey for Snooki, but that's not important right now.) She will probably be drunk all weekend, and I don't think she even reads my blog, so she won't see this; but I figured that since she was really upset about the whole thing I would show an ounce of humanity and not mock her for missing yet another race. I'm a good friend like that.

Now that I'm done being what I would call nice, I will move on. Thanks to comedian Daniel Tosh and a repeat of his Tosh.0 show on Comedy Central, I was introduced last night to chatroulette.com. The premise of chatroulette is that you log in with your webcam on, and the system randomly connects you to another person with their webcam on. You can click "next" at any time to run away from whatever you see, so there is a safety. The potential for abject hilarity is there, so I decided to check it out.

I was quite disappointed. In my 40 minutes or so of experimenting, I was subjected to 1 fat, hairy, naked male torso (Really, fat fucking man-sweater? This is how you get your jollies on a Friday night?); 1 dude wearing a black wife-beater and nothing else (Nice, you fucking whack-job. The wife-beater really accentuates your lack of arm definition and completely distracts from your lack of penis size...); 4 individual, random guys sitting with their faces about 2 inches from the camera (Hey guys, it's called soap, and you can use it on your faces); 1 person who had the webcam pointed above their head so only the crown of their head and the dead flowers on a shelf behind them were visible (Psst...you can adjust the angle...); 1 group of 4 dudes sitting on a bed (fully clothed, but still...a little fucking lame, guys, that you're sitting on your friend's bed scanning chatroulette on a Friday night); 2 young chicks who made some weird screaming/cattle dying sound when their camera turned on (Yeah, I know I'm ugly, but lowing like you're cattle and the bolt gun didn't do it's job? That kinda hurts); and 3 young, somewhat attractive chicks who quickly clicked "next" when they saw me (take that, ego). At no point did I actually get a chance to interact with any of these people, and I assume that it was because they were just looking for the same random craziness I was or I wasn't naked enough. My search for something hilarious fell quite short.

I also spent a lot of time waiting for the system to find a random stranger to connect with, which was annoying, considering that it said there were 20,000 people online. There had to have been plenty of random fucking goofball strangers for the system to connect me with. I was let down by what could be a very funny site. I think I may get drunk and try again the next time I have a free night. Maybe I'll take the reverse angle and be the freak...I could paint my face to look like a clown and wear a dress or something to inspire reactions...maybe I went about this search for comedy all wrong. Maybe I need to be the comedy, and just document what happens. Stay tuned, this might be an idea.

Anyway, I got to thinking about the whole chatroulette thing and realized that I am not quite as in touch with pop culture as I might need to be for this blog to be truly EPIC. Yeah, I made a Snooki reference, but I've never watched that dumb fucking show. You would think I would love watching people make complete asses of themselves on television, but I don't. It actually pisses me off. I don't like stupid people, I certainly don't enjoy watching them further dumb down society by broadcasting their idiocy for the world to see.

However, I think I may need to start tuning in more to those types of shows. It would be solely for the sake of comedic blog writing material, of course. I don't want to be that grumpy old blog guy, standing on my e-porch, yelling at the cyberkids to get the fuck off my server just because I'm out of touch with the world outside of my Ben Gay and microwaveable chicken pot pie scented bubble. So, with an admittedly begrudging spirit, I will do my best to watch some horrible reality TV in the next few weeks. You will either (eether, which is the proper way to pronounce that word, if you didn't know) see some brilliant fucking assessments of these shows or you will see the beginning of my descent into complete fucking anti-social madness because I just can't take it anymore that dumbfucks like that are getting rich off of their stupidity. Either way, it should be entertaining for you bitches to read.

Check out chatroulette.com for yourself. Perhaps you will have better luck than I did. If you see bottomless wife-beater guy, maybe don't click "next" too fast. Say hi. See if his personality is bigger than that silly little vienna sausage looking thing he calls a shlong.

Sweet Chili Shut the Fuck Up

2010-02-24T09:56:00.008-05:00

In a revisiting of a previously ranted upon theme, I am going to discuss another fast food commercial that pisses me off more each time I see it. The commercial of choice today is a McDonald's commercial; one in which some douchecake walks into a McDonald's where a bunch of people dressed in various Winter Olympic sports uniforms sit around feasting in the processed, greasy, pseudo-food that is McDonald's cuisine. The voice-over is stating that McDonald's wants to give the fat-asses sitting on their couches a taste of the Olympics, and then proceeds to introduce some sweet chili dipping sauce for McNuggets.

What the fuck? How the fuck is sweet chili dipping sauce at all relevant to the motherfucking Winter Olympics? How is sweet chili dipping sauce supposed to make anyone anywhere think about Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Skiing, Luge, Hockey, or those stupid fucking wastes of air-time and human energy that are curling ice dancing? Yeah, McDonald's, when I think of an event where elite athletes from countries full of thousands of years of culture gather together to compete in ridiculously difficult tests of their athletic abilities, I think of sweet fucking chili dipping sauce. I am going to drive my fat ass to McDonald's right now so I can get in touch with the Olympics by dipping my deep-fried chunks of what may or may not be ground up chicken sphincter in sweet fucking chili dipping sauce. Thank you for making me feel like I'm in the heart of Vancouver, McDonald's.

The commercial then goes on to say at the end that you don't have to be an Olympic athlete, "...but you can eat like one." Really? Really, McDonald's? I know you have a gajillion dollars that you've invested in sponsoring the Olympics and advertising and finding ways to lie to the general public so they don't find out that you're Satan's slightly more evil twin brother, but this is too much. Olympic athletes eat at McDonald's? Yeah, these elite athletes who spend most of their days training without oxygen running up hills while carrying boulders in the fucking Himalayas so they can dominate their respective sports eat McDonald's. Nothing helps an athlete maintain peak physical condition like a box of greasy deep-fried shit and a side of greasier deep-fried shit; all washed down with a 600 ounce Coca-Cola. It's not like these streamlined, physically perfect athletes need to eat anything specific to maintain their athletic edge, they're all just cramming Big Macs down their necks any chance they get.

No, I do not think that none of the athletes ever indulge in fast food. I'm sure that when one trains as hard and as religiously as they do, they are allowed a few moments of culinary indiscretion and they probably eat some fries. But, what pisses me off is McDonald's implication that their food is quality enough that Olympic athletes eat it on a regular basis. Or that these athletes are gorging on Chicken McNuggets (dipped in sweet chili dipping sauce, of course) while preparing to compete in the games. It is not, and they are not. Of course, anyone with any semblance of intelligence would know this, but these companies wouldn't make these commercials if they didn't have evidence that the stupid shit they say affects someone. Somewhere, there is some fat fucker who plays golf twice a year who will see this commercial and think "I'm an athlete, too, I should eat at McDonald's because that's where Olympians eat!" That fat, stupid piece of shit should do the world a favor and get hit by a bus on his way to the golden arches. Maybe if all the dumb fucking morons who buy into the stupid shit commercials say were to be eliminated, those of us who don't live our lives with our heads up our asses when we're not cramming food in our mouths could stop being subjected to these stupid fucking commercials.

Fuck you, McDonald's. Fuck you for dropping an exorbidant amount of money in an effort to further fool the ignorant general public into thinking that your food isn't shitty heart-attack death in uniformly cut meat by-product patties or nuggets. Or that you don't only make these commercials so you can continue make 500% profit off of the cheap shit you buy from corporate run farms. Fuck you for continuing to be a great big player in the "What's Wrong With Society?" game.

Suck it, McDonald's. Go ahead and slather some sweet chili dipping sauce on it if you need to.

I Quit. Again.

2010-02-23T17:47:00.002-05:00

The past few days, tat2brat has been complaining about a pain (that I won't discuss in detail because HIPPA laws prevent me from doing so). The wife decided to take her in to the pediatrician today. The short diagnosis: tat2brat is going into puberty. Seriously. Let me repeat that shit for effect: tat2brat is going into motherfucking puberty. According to the doctor, we can expect her to start developing breasts in the next 6 months or so, and she will probably start her period within the next year or two.

FUCK. THIS. BULLSHIT.

I thought it was bad when she was discussing Miranda Cosgrove's dating choices, but now there is physical evidence and a guy with about 100 years of college telling us that puberty is on it's way. I'm not ready for this. How the fuck can she be starting puberty at 9? I thought for sure we had a few years left for us to ignore the warning signs and live in denial that our kid is growing up and the teenage years are coming.

I'm not ready. At all. I mean, I could kill some pimply faced teenaged shitface fucker trying to date my daughter tomorrow and not even lose any sleep over it, so I'm ready for that part. I'm not ready for the emotional trauma that is dealing with a pre-teen and teenaged girl. I'm not ready for the wild fucking mood swings where she goes from loving and cheerful and fun one minute to a demon-possessed fucking terror hell-bent on fighting and scaring the shit out of the devil the next. I'm not ready for the emotional breakdowns over ridiculous girly shit. And, even though "disappearing" some young punk would be easy, I'm not ready to have to explain myself when every boy who tries to talk to her goes missing.

I'm pretty shocked that this is happening so early, and I'm ready to pack up and take a 9 year sabbatical. I don't want to play this game anymore. The rules are changing, and it's not fun. The deck is clearly stacked against me, and the dealer is an angry motherfucker who is going to enjoy watching me squirm in my seat while I lose over and over again.

However, I am not taking it as hard as tat2wife is. She's a wreck. All crying and mopey and shit (and, this may shock some of you, but I am notoriously bad at comforting anyone. I fail at finding anything remotely right to say in times like these...). She's truly shocked by this happening so soon, and she is lamenting the fact that her little girl isn't going to be her little girl much longer. The days of peaceful fun and happiness are about to be replaced with epic battles of hormone and estrogen powered will, anger, and "fuck you." They already have those days when they butt heads like pissed off rams over anything and everything, it's only going to get worse; because that's what mothers and daughters do, I'm told. I am certainly not ready to be a part of any of that fun. (When I say "fun," I'm being as sarcastic as I possibly can, I imagine this whole thing being about as enjoyable as having an IV put in my penis by a blind epileptic.)

So fuck me, this whole parenthood thing is about to get harder. I've sucked at the easy shit, I can't imagine how badly I'm going to fail this little test. And why wasn't I given any fucking study guide or anything? This shit is unfair. Can I drop out and get a GED or something?

Withdrawals.

2010-02-20T16:45:00.004-05:00

I know all 16 of you who follow me are going through them right now. "He hasn't posted anything in a week! Why? Where is he? Did he OD on thin mints? Why doesn't he love us enough to give us a fix?!" Well, settle down, bitches, Daddy is back.

It has actually been a pretty disappointing week as far as things to muse upon, and I even made a couple trips to WalMart. Shit, I can almost always find something mock in the groups of people at WalMart...but this week everyone was reasonably normal. Which is OK, I guess, but it sucks if you're trying to entertain people with comedic rants based on observations. Even worse than people around me not being completely fucking retarded, no one has really pissed me off this week. This has to be some sort of record. No, it's not that I'm feeling Zen after gorging on thin mints. If anything, I should be even more on edge now because I got a fix, but haven't had any since. Those little bitches haven't been out there again. Bitches. Where are my cookies?

I have been watching a little of the Olympics, and I must say...it doesn't really seem like other countries are trying all that much anymore. The US is pretty handily leading the medal count so far, which didn't used to be the case in the Winter Olympics. It used to be that countries like Germany, Sweden, France, and Russia (South Korea has the same number of medals as Russia....what the fuck, Big Red?) would dominate the games, and the US would get a few Bronzes here and there, maybe a lucky silver in figure skating or something, and one or two random golds. Now, it just seems as though the other countries have decided to say "fuck the Olympics" and not even try.

Yeah, Canada is completely owning Curling. They're the Curling powerhouse. Great job, Canada. Way to dominate in a sport than people love to mock, eh? Seriously? Curling? Canada, you should be ashamed. It's cold 9 months out of the year in your country, you should own these games. In every sport, not just the bastard child pseudo-sport of fucking Curling. Disappointing, Canada.

(Just because: You would think Mexico would have a great curling team, but I guess all of their most talented broom handlers are working for hotels in the US. Yeah, I went there. Horribly inappropriate joke? Check.)

The Germans are pretty easily owning the Luge and Skeleton, which just goes to show that fine German engineering isn't reserved solely for their automobiles. They can make their people more aerodynamic, which is pretty fucking awesome, really. Farfegnugen indeed, Germany. Yeah, Germany has a few other medals in some of the other sports, but they just don't have that "Fuck you" attitude that they once did in the Olympics. The Fuhrer would be pissed, Germany.

Russia. Dear God, Russia, what the hell has happened to you? I know, you're going to throw out those excuses of internal collapse, losing various states to independence, and complete economic ruin, but I'm not really buying it. There has to be some talented athletes left, and even though you're not forcing them to start training 18 hours a day to be figure skaters when they start crawling doesn't mean you guys should suck this badly at the Winter Olympics. Like Canada, it's always fucking frigid in your country, you should dominate anything that has to do with ice and snow. Or at least be competitive. Step it up, Russia. The world wants to hate you again.

The other thing I've been noticing is that figure skating has gotten even more gay. It's always been a pretty gay sport, even back in the day when the skaters couldn't openly admit they were gay. It is obviously a very difficult sport, and requires a shitload of talent. I absolutely respect the athleticism. But fuck, figure skating, do you have to be all about pageantry and glittery costumes and guys who are more feminine than any female athlete at the Olympics? I know that the premise of the sport is grace and fluidity and shit, but I'm sure the dudes could be graceful and fluid while dressed in something that doesn't look like it was recently used by a Vegas showgirl. In fact, I would be more impressed by figure skating if those dudes wore cargo pants and a Foster's T-shirt when they were doing that shit. Triple Lutz while wearing board shorts? That would be impressive. Your costume that looks like the glitter fairy had diarrhea all over you? Not impressive. Just once I'd like to see some dude get on the ice in a Ghillie Suit. THAT would talent.

I won't even address ice dancing, because I'm trying hard to forget that I ever watched 20 seconds of that shit.

Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T09:06:00.002-05:00

Meh, it's Valentine's Day, which is nowhere near as exciting as the fact that I got my first box of thin mints yesterday. Thank you, khaki clad dealers of cookie death for braving the cold so I could get my fix.

I would write more about that sweet cookie euphoria, but I'm just going to revel in my gluttonous state of hyperglycemia for today.

Mother Nature, Revisited

2010-02-13T13:52:00.002-05:00

Alright, Mother Nature. I don't know what it's going to take. I know, I've called you some terrible things. I've said some mean and hurtful things about you. I can see now that such an approach is only making you angrier and more intent to unleash some sort of cold, windy, snowy, icy, bitch-fit of rage upon me and everyone within 800 miles of me. So I'm going to try to ask nicely this time. Pretty please, with sugar on top (or gumdrops or cookies or dried prunes or whatever the fuck your old ass likes on top), stop this madness. Stop with the snow storms. Stop with the 25 mph winds making 20 degrees feel like 0. Just stop. Winter was fun for a little bit, but you have to be getting bored. So just dig deep, find whatever trace of nice old lady you can find in that dark pit of despair you call a heart, and stop. Your winter tantrum needs to be over. Seriously.

Actually, you don't even need to stop. Just take that shit to British Columbia so those fools in the Olympics can actually have some snow to ski on. Why would you feel the need to dump 68 gajillion tons of snow on every state east of the Mississippi but not any on the place where they're holding the Winter Olympics? They want the snow. They beg for it, and when they don't get it, they create the shit. I think this just proves my point that you are acting like a vindictive cu...wait...no...I'm being nice. You're just not being very nice, and everyone would appreciate you changing your attitude a little. Pretty please, with that nasty, cheap hard candy that every old lady has sitting in a bowl on her table on top; stop.

Speaking of the Olympics...Canada. Oh, Canada. Seriously? What the fuck was up with that opening ceremony last night? I tuned in just as the US team was walking in, so anything that happened before that which might have been cool, I missed. What I saw after that had me thinking I was watching a bad version of a failed Vegas show producer's LSD-inspired dream.

The tribal stuff? Not awful, and although you could have left Global Warming out of it, the iceberg breaking apart effect was pretty cool.

The Orcas? Not bad, except that the blowholes moved along their backs as they swam, making it a little cheesy.

The terrible Peter Pan wannabe guy who looked like a poorly drawn anime character? What did that have to do with anything other than some rich guy's kid wanting to be in the opening ceremonies? Dad donated a few hundred grand and his goofy ass looking kid gets to fly around for a few minutes. Neat.

The crazy tatted up guys with Mohawks doing fucking clogging or tap-dancing or river dancing or whatever the fuck they were doing? What the hell, Canada? What was that bullshit? If I wanted to watch some tatted up douchebags dance around like fucking morons, I'd go to any club near any college campus on any weekend night. I certainly wouldn't watch the Winter fucking Olympics in hopes of seeing such retarded behavior.

The Rocky Mountain sequence? Yeah, the part where you hung some sheets from the ceiling...impressive. My daughter has built equally impressive tributes to the Canadian Rockies in her room, but hers have pink and purple stripes and weren't boring a bunch of athletes and the 68 people still too lazy to reach for the TV remote to change the channel.

And, my personal favorite...the big fat dude with the beard that couldn't quite seem to make it up to his jawline from his neck who sounded like a bad tourism board presentation and stood and proclaimed that "We are the True North!" in a manner that would make any American redneck who believes the South will rise again head for the bunker to prepare for the next invasion...brilliant. You realized that by that point, most people had tuned out and this guy's rambling about Canadian ownership of "The North" would go unnoticed. Well, I saw it, and I'm telling Greenland, Finland, Sweden, Russia, and all of those other countries who are just as "North" as you are what you said. They're going to want to kick your ass, Canada. You'd better be ready, and you better have something better with which to defend yourself than that that faulty torch tower thing. Yeah, I saw that too.

I will say this, Canada...thank you a million times for not involving those fucking bastard children of yours called Nickleback in any of the opening ceremonies. I would have forever lost any respect I might have for you as a friendly neighbor had you had those talentless fuckholes doing anything on my TV. You don't want to lose my respect, Canada. Just ask that bit...er...Mother Nature.

Guys, Only 2 Shopping Days Left!

2010-02-12T08:09:00.003-05:00

That's right, guys, you only have 2 more days to find that perfect gift of overpriced chocolate, ridiculously overpriced flowers, or "you're a fucking idiot for paying this" overpriced jewelry to prove to that special lady in your life that you do in fact love her. It's time to make some grand gesture in the middle of February to make up for the rest of the year when you take her for granted. I mean, it's not like you could really do anything for her the other 364 days of the year to prove your love, you definitely need to blow your money on a "romantic" dinner at a high priced restaurant that doesn't have wings and the game on TV above your table.

Valentine's Day in its current, Americanized, mass-produced, commercialized "you're a bad person if you don't spend $60 on chocolate covered strawberries for your girlfriend" bullshit incarnation is fucking stupid. The fact that so many people buy into it and cause themselves needless stress, debt, and totally fucking pointless fights with their significant other is equally fucking stupid. Just because Kay Jewelers tells you that the only way to show her that you care is to drop $700 on some necklace doesn't mean it's true. In fact, if you do buy that necklace, it means that you are dumb motherfucker for not knowing better.

What I really don't like about the current state of the holiday is the unrealistic expectations and feelings of obligation that commercialization has created. (I feel the same about Christmas, but you'll have to wait until December to get that rant...yeah...like I'll really still be doing this in December...HA.) A gift loses its meaning if it is given out of obligation. A gift should be a sincere token of your appreciation for someone, it should not be something bought in hopes that it is good enough to keep the receiver from being mad at you for either not getting them something or not getting them the right something. A gift given out of obligation is little more than a shallow token of unoriginality and forced recognition. A gift given out of obligation is worthless (even if it does get you a blow job; because next year, that blow job will be more expensive).

However, this feeling of obligation wouldn't exist without the expectation. It's not inherently wrong for someone to want a gift on a day that normally dictates people exchange gifts. What is wrong, however, is for a person to expect something and then be upset if they don't get what they think is "good enough." If you are basing your love and happiness on your partner's ability to drop $100 for roses and a stupid fucking stuffed red bear with some cheesy "I WUV U" bullshit embroidered across its fluffy belly, you are doomed. You will never be happy in love, because you are defining it in the wrong manner.

Loving someone is knowing who they are, what they like, and what will make them happy enough to want to know who you are, what you like, and what will make you happy every single day of the year; not just on a random day in February when Hallmark tells you that you have to pour out your soul to your lover in the form of a $2.95 piece of paperboard that 62,000 other unoriginal bastards will be giving to their lovers that day. If you know your significant other well enough, you should be able to give them enough small gifts (and "gifts" can be defined in myriad ways) throughout the year that Valentine's Day is little more than another day on which to tell them you love them. It should not be a day to break the bank on some trinket in hopes of proving your love is good enough to not get yelled at because FTD told you that you should. If your significant other is shallow enough to be angry at you if you don't get them the exact right thing...run the fuck away. You will never be good enough. (No, guys, don't get your chick Madden 10 if she's never picked up an XBOX controller, there is something to be said for not being a total fucking moron when it comes to giving gifts.)

I'm not saying that giving your significant other something or taking them out to dinner on Valentine's Day is wrong. Just don't buy into the commercialization and mass-production of it all. Be original. Know your partner well enough to come up with something that isn't just another crappy piece of pink shit that any douchebag in a rush tomorrow night could pick up at the grocery store. Then, if they're mad at you because you didn't buy them diamond earrings, you know that it's time for you to kick them to the curb, because they just don't get it. Just don't be surprised if they kick you to the curb if you don't know them well enough to know that they aren't interested in the first 19 seasons of Survivor on DVD.

PSA: Too Much Estrogen is Dangerous.

2010-02-10T16:23:00.004-05:00

Here's a little setting that may excite some of the male readers in my little group of followers: A room with about 900 people, 800 of them women, many of them drinking heavily and dancing and kissing each other...

...Sounds pretty nice, right guys? WRONG. It was bad. Very, very bad. And I am thankful to be alive today to tell this tale of warning to any man who might have to attend a Brandi Carlisle concert in the future.

Before I go on, this is not a critique of the performances by Amy Ray (of Indigo Girls fame), who was the opener, or Ms. Carlisle. Both ladies are very talented musicians and Ms. Carlisle has an amazing voice. She and her backing band did a very solid, rocking cover of Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" during the encore that was the highlight of the night as far as I am concerned. But, as I said, I am not writing a critique of their part in last night.

No, this is a tale of what may have been my most dangerous night ever at a concert. "But Matt, it's a bunch of chicks, how could that have been dangerous?" Of the 800 women in the club last night, probably 786 of them were lesbians. Not the lipstick types from all of those late-night Cinemax shows, but the scary dude-ish kind. Before I go any further, I do need to state that I do not harbor any animosity towards the gay community, I don't give a fuck who anyone sleeps with. I'm all about personal choice and freedom and doing what you need to do to enjoy your life. But, this is a comedic blog, so I will now commence to negate my precursor by making some very broad generalizations in the name of getting a laugh or two.

There were a lot of angry eyes on me and my fellow men last night. Not that we ourselves had done anything to deserve the seething Amazonian stares of hatred, but, because we carry the Y chromosome, we were the enemy. There was a lot of anger and estrogen in the air last night. So much so that I actually started to hate myself for being a man. But, before I could act upon the rage I felt towards my gender, I started to cry uncontrollably at the beautiful melodies being made by the guy on the cello. Then I got angry again, but didn't know what to do with these feelings, so I just lashed out at someone for no reason and spent the next 30 minutes apologizing to them. It was a roller coaster night.

I did take notice that there is a distinct difference between a largely gay female crowd and a largely gay male crowd. No, the screams and cheers are all the same pitch in either crowd, so it's not that. The men are dressed better, of course, there is much less flannel, far fewer chain wallets and a lot more shiny shit in the gay male crowd. But that's not it, either. No, the biggest difference is the attitude. The gay male crowd is hyper and flashy and giggly and they grab everyone's asses like it's a handshake and it's just pretty chaotic; as if the Skittles rainbow exploded all over the Teletubbies and the sugar rush made them dance to YMCA for 5 hours straight. But the lesbian crowd? Far more somber. A lot of angry looking bitches in that crowd. Uh, I mean, some very unhappy looking women (I don't want to get caught calling them "bitches," some of those bitc...er...women could easily kick my ass). As I said, there was some drinking and some dancing and some making out, but it was just a very different vibe. Granted, Neither Amy Ray nor Brandi Carlisle really brings the type of music that would incite an orgy of lesbian bumping, grinding, and "HEY GIRLFRIEND," but did they all have to look so mean and angry? I was really a little afraid for my safety at some points.

Maybe it's just because I have a penis and felt that the anger was directed at me that I noticed the mood of the room, but it was also noticed by other guys who were there, so I don't think I imagined it. I was never directly attacked, wasn't shanked when I had to move through a crowd, didn't get jumped outside the women's restroom when I walked by, and some of them were just downright friendly (which I'm still not convinced wasn't a ploy to lure me into feeling comfortable before shanking me...). But, I know some were plotting. I could feel it. All of those eyes...

So guys, take note. If your girl asks you to accompany her to a Brandi Carlisle show, politely decline. Tell her you need to drink beer and watch sports and scratch yourself for 6 hours to make quota for the month or you need to help change the oil in your neighbor's FA-18 or something manly to avoid going to that show. You don't want to be there. It's not safe, it's not fun, and you will feel the need to kill something afterward to make up for whatever manhood you lost during the show. Just don't kill one of the lesbians, because they have a posse, and those bitc...er...women will hunt your ass down and sacrifice you to Martina Navratalova before you even have the chance to scream like a little girl. Which you wouldn't do, of course, because you're a man.

(It's OK, scream, those bitches are scary.)

Ugly People and Loud Talkers at the DMV.

2010-02-09T15:06:00.008-05:00

Holy shit. If you want to feel better about yourself; your life, your looks, your ability to form a semi-coherent sentence...go to the DMV. Yeah, it's annoying as fuck to have to stand in line for 35 minutes to conduct 14 seconds worth of business, but dammit if my self-esteem didn't get a huge boost by being there today. There are some ugly motherfuckers in this world, and a large portion of them were at the DMV today. Oh, shut up, like you people don't look at ugly people and thank them for being so fucking repulsive that it makes you look better. Don't act like I'm being mean. Ugly people are just ugly. They know they're unattractive, and if they don't, then they're delusional and ugly. Bad combo. Anyway, it really was amazing that in a room full of about 30 people, I was the only one who didn't look like I had suffered my face being repeatedy bashed into the trunk of the ugly tree. I'm not some great looking guy or anything, but damn, I felt like fucking Adonis standing in there.

Then, some of the goofy looking monkey-trolls started talking to each other. Now, I live in the south, so I expect to hear things like "Y'uns", a little bit of poor grammar, and words that should be one syllable being drawn out into three or four; but damn, these fools were borderline unintelligible. Not that I was trying to listen in on their conversation, but when they're talking loud enough for people 3 buildings over to hear them, it's hard not to.

Which brings me to a habit that annoys the living fuck out of me every fucking time I have to deal with it: Loud talkers. Hey, dumbshit, that guy you're talking to? He's standing 2 feet away from you. There is no need to talk to him as if he is across the fucking state. I'm guessing that you could use your inside voice and he would be able to hear it, and if he can't, then fuck him, MiracleEar is just a call away. There is no reason to yell, ever. Those of us within earshot do not give a fuck that your boy Tim is a good worker and he's been making good progress towards getting a full time job. We don't care that you're working two days a weeks stocking shelves somewhere. And we certainly don't care, dumb bitch with the stringy hair, that you failed the part of the test where you're supposed to keep your mouth shut. Yeah, we know you failed that part because your illiterate ass hasn't stopped butchering the english language since we walked in. Shut the fuck up and stand in line. This is the DMV, not some social group where any of us might want to pretend to give a fuck about you. We don't. We don't want to hear your conversation.

Although, I will say that I smiled and almost laughed when the 80 year old dude she was boring with her life story (I know he was 80 because he told her. Twice.) said something about having to "mimiograph" his inspection form. HAHA, "mimiograph?" I don't think anyone has used a mimiograph machine in 25 years, much less actually said "mimiograph." I can't wait until I'm old enough to use obsolete terms when refering to shit that all the young people around me have probably never experienced and rock overalls like they're the most fashionable thing going.

I digress. Loud talkers, tone it down. Please. Your point is not more valid because you say it louder. Your humor is not wittier because you tell your joke loud enough for deaf children in India to hear it. That's especially pointless, because they wouldn't get the joke anyway. Seriously, be quiet. Especially if you're talking to me. I'm standing right in front of you, and my hearing works just fine. I hate small talk and probably don't even want to be interacting with you, I certainly don't want you yelling the stupid shit with which you are boring me. Stop fucking shouting.

I never thought I would see a day where I was thankful for having to go to the DMV. But, I can approach the rest of this day with the solid assurance that I am neither the ugliest nor dumbest person on the planet. Thank you, DMV.

Fuck You, Cable Guy...and Congrats, New Orleans.

2010-02-08T22:57:00.003-05:00

Unlike a majority of the working populace, I don’t normally hate Mondays. Monday is the first of my two days off. Because I work late at night most of the time on Sunday, and because we home school (A rant about the horrific quality of public schools at a later date), the family stays up late and we all sleep in on Monday morning. Typically, Mondays are nice and quiet and relaxing around here.

Today is not typical. I didn’t sleep well at all, and just as I was actually getting some solid sleep, I was awakened by the beautiful serenade of the neighbor’s rat terrier losing her fucking mind. I love these neighbors. They are the same age as the wife and I; they have a daughter almost the same age as ours and they are best friends; they are laid back and we often just hang out and chill. We take turns watching each other’s kid as needed. We walk each other’s dogs as needed. They help out the wife when I’m not around. Seriously, I couldn’t ask for better neighbors. Except that they have this annoying abomination of a dog who yappy barks like a maniac at anything, everything, and probably a lot of shit that doesn’t exist. She’s like the old homeless lady downtown yelling about the second-coming of Christ and the evils of cheeseburgers at people that only she can see. Yeah, we get it Daffy, there is evil outside your door and all 12 pounds of you is going to protect your house by annoying it into submission with your bark. Way to go, dog.

The drilling starts at about 8:03. Well, I say “drilling,” but it sounds more like someone has rigged a jackhammer with a jet engine and is trying to break apart granite, directly outside my front door. Fuck. This is obviously the evil that Daffy is going bat-shit crazy over, it is very real. It doesn’t excuse the fact that her bark is like 6,000 jagged fingernails on a chalkboard at 8 o’clock in the morning, but at least I know she’s not drunk and imagining shit. I decide to move to the couch, turn on some SportsCenter to drown out the mayhem outside, and hopefully, fall back asleep. I then find out that the source of all of the outside chaos is directly related to cable television. My cable is dead (which means my internet is also dead, so you’ll not really get this in a timely manner). I take the dogs out and find some dude has the community cable box completely disassembled. Ah yes, they warned us that the upgrade was coming, but I didn’t expect it would be first thing on a Monday. Usually, the only time the cable company does anything is between the hours of 1 and 4 three weeks from Wednesday. Way to be motivated this week, cable fuckers. Fuck you and whatever the fuck you're doing to the cable box. My cable experience had better be infinitely better after all of this nonsense. Fuckers.

So, here I am. I’m tired, I’m annoyed, and I have no access to instantly gratifying, mindless entertainment to distract me from feeling shit about stuff. And, as usual, my daughter feels the need to narrate her every move and tell me every thought she’s having the minute she wakes up. I love my kid, but damn, does she really need to talk non-stop from the time she opens her eyes? Daddy needs to be left alone right now. Seriously. Stop talking. Fuck this Monday.

Of course, my Monday morning probably pales in comparison to the massive hangover that likely has half the city of New Orleans calling in sick this morning. There are a bunch of people in New Orleans promising God that they will never drink again as they are hunched over the toilet throwing up the poor choices they made in the revelry following last night’s Super Bowl victory by the Saints. I’m not a Saints fan, but it was cool to see them finally win something after professionally sucking the rest of the NFL’s ass for the past 43 years. It’s also pretty cool that the poor souls who are stuck living in that shithole of a city finally have something to brag about beyond being the murder capital of America and the place where thousands of women drunkenly sacrifice their dignity for worthless plastic beads every March. Don’t get me wrong, I like titties, and if some chick wants to show them to me and 1,000 other strangers on a street after pounding a couple of Hurricanes, I won’t stop her; but I hope she doesn’t expect me to think highly of her for doing so. If as a city, all you have to brag about is “Chicks come here to get drunk and flash their titties” or “People come here to get shot,” you need something else. Now, after 43 years of abject suck, the Saints have given the city something else. Drink up, New Orleans. Enjoy it. Next week, life will be back to its normal level of suck and you’ll be back to wishing you lived somewhere else.

Dollar Store Stupidity and Merging.

2010-02-04T16:28:00.002-05:00

While out running a few errands before work this afternoon, I drove past some poor chick who was wearing a Statue of Liberty costume and holding a sign advertising Dollar Palace or Dollar Kingdom or Dollar Shithouse or whatever stupid fucking dollar store inhabits that particular strip mall. She was standing outside, in a stupid fucking Statue of Liberty costume, in 35 degree weather, amongst the 2 foot deep files of snow that had recently been plowed from the road. What the fuck, Dollar Shithole? Is this method really supposed to get me to slam on my brakes, turn into the parking lot, and drop in to spend $6 on worthless crap?

Let me let you know, Dollar Shitstain, it doesn't work. If anything, it makes me mad at you for having business practices that allow for some poor minimum wage employee to be forced to stand outside in a ridiculous fucking costume on an overcast day with near-freezing temperatures. I certainly won't shop at your store if that's what you put your employees through, you ruthless bastards. I understand that as a dollar store, your advertising budget is likely limited. But making employees freeze their asses off while they suffer the humiliation of standing on the side of the road being ridiculed and having half-empty Burger King cups thrown at them by high school punks? Bad form, Dollar Shitface. I don't ever shop at any dollar store because I am content to spend an extra few bucks on window cleaner, but I certainly will never step foot into your den of employee degradation. Let that poor girl come inside, give her a cup of dollar hot chocolate, and maybe assume that your lighted sign on the strip mall marquee will draw in those people desperately seeking a place to buy shit for a dollar.

So, I continued driving, quite irritated by the whole statue of lame advertising failure episode, and then I get to the on-ramp for the highway to go home. Since I got my driver's license on the day after I turned 16 (fuck you, Labor Day), one driving habit that others have has driven me absolutely insane every single time I have seen it happen. I am not normally prone to road rage, but people who don't understand the concept of entering a highway/freeway and merging with traffic set me off every single time.

First off, you non-merging piece of shit drivers, the on-ramp is made as long as possible for a reason. That reason is to allow drivers the chance to get up to the speed of traffic on the highway. You see, when cars are going 60-65-70 miles per hour on a highway, a car (like yours) entering the highway at 35 mph really fucks a lot of things up. Your fear of the accelerator and inability to comprehend the very simple concept of merging could potentially cause an accident, and will certainly cause road rage in others. It's a fairly simple concept, but obviously you dumbasses don't get it. Speed the fuck up. Simple enough?

Second, you stupid fuckers, the Yield sign at the bottom of the on-ramp IS NOT A STOP SIGN. It is a yield sign. It clearly says "YIELD" in big red letters. That simply means that you are not to cut off a car in the right lane when you get on the highway. It does not mean stop your fucking car at the bottom of the ramp. It especially does not mean stop if you don't see any cars on the highway anywhere near the on-ramp. Just keep fucking going and get on the fucking highway you dumb bastards. This line of cars behind you is expecting you to get on the highway without stopping, so you stopping for no reason whatsoever really fucks a lot of things up. Your inability to read and understand the basic premise of the word "yield" could potentially cause an accident, and will certainly cause road rage in others. It's a really simple concept, but obviously you dumbasses don't get it. Keep fucking moving. Simple enough?

I don't think I'm expecting you non-merging dumbasses to understand any sort of abstract theories of physics or anything by thinking you should know how to merge into traffic at an acceptable speed. Or that you should know the meaning of "yield." But, apparently, it is rocket science; and you stupid assholes are trying to build a spaceship out of balsa wood and thumbtacks. Until you grasp the simplest concepts of driving, get off the road, you dumb fuckholes.

It's Called the Express Lane.

2010-02-03T16:58:00.004-05:00

The sign clearly says "Express Lane - 12 Items or Less." Hey, crazy white chick wearing a turban, I see that you only have 7 items, and in that respect, you are following the spirit of the Express Lane. However, crazy white chick wearing a turban, you counting out the $4.57 you are short in change is not at all in the spirit of the Express Lane. In fact, your change counting ways go against everything the Express Lane stands for. You see, crazy white chick wearing a turban, the idea behind the Express Lane is that it's a line designed specifically for those of us who don't want to spend all afternoon waiting to check out when all we want to buy is one scrumptious GreenLife chocolate chip cookie. You get in the line with less than 12 items, you have your method of payment ready, and everyone who wants to quickly get out of the store is happy. When you spend 4 minutes digging change from the bottom of your purse, then counting it out and trying to do math in your head to figure out how much more you need, you are absolutely fucking up the flow of the Express Lane.

Now, I can be patient for a little bit. I've been broke before, so I know what it's like to have to scrounge up some change for food. I can smile and pretend that I'm not picturing the chick in line behind me delivering a perfect roundhouse kick to the side of your head. I can give you a half-assed smile when you look and say "Sorry" to the 6 or 7 people who have mistakenly stepped into the Express Lane thinking that it would indeed be express. I can even refrain from making sarcastic comments about your penny counting fucking the express right out of Express Lane. What I will not tolerate, crazy white chick wearing a turban, is you running out to your car real quick to look for another dollar when you find that you are a dollar short. So here, here is a fucking dollar. It is worth it to me to spend this dollar on getting you the fuck out of my way.

Oh, really? You want to say something like "This guy is in a hurry" when I give the dollar to the cashier? Yes, I am in a fucking hurry, you crazy white bitch wearing a turban, that is exactly why I brought my ass to the Express Lane. If I wanted to stand around and watch people count change, I'd hang out at the bank or at WalMart when the Senior Center brings all of the old fuckers in for shopping day. I am not interested in watching you spend any more time counting change. That is not why I am here. I am here to pay for this delicious fucking cookie and get the hell out so I can get to work on time. Just say "thank you," bitch, get your shit and move the fuck on. No need for any commentary about my being in a hurry, just go. I didn't comment on your goofy ass turban that couldn't look more awkward on anyone anywhere than it does on your pasty white noggin, so shut the fuck up about me being in a hurry when I'm standing directly under the fucking Express Lane sign. No. You do not need to go to your car to find a dollar to pay me back; like I said, it is worth it to me to spend this dollar on your dumb ass. I don't need your nickle and 93 pennies in return. This was a random act of "get the fuck out of my way" based kindness, now go away; or this bitch behind me is going to Chuck Norris that turban off your fucking head.

No.

2010-02-02T20:02:00.003-05:00

Warning, this entry is about my kid. It's not some bragging bullshit update about her executing cold fusion in the kitchen or anything, but it is about my kid.

This evening, as I was making dinner (some kick-ass Italian pork chops that Christina over at "She Runs, She Eats" would be proud of...), my daughter was on the phone with her best friend. Why they need to speak on the phone, I don't quite understand, since we live right next door to her family, and they spend more time together than most sisters do, but whatever. My kid is a wandering phone-talker, meaning she doesn't sit still while on the phone. 30 seconds on the couch, 30 seconds in her room, 30 seconds wandering aimlessly...if we didn't have doors she would likely wander the neighborhood while on the phone. As I'm cooking, here are two snippets I hear from her conversation:

"...I don't have any problem with him being shorter than her, it's not that big a deal since he's so cute..."

And:

"...That way I don't have to be mad at him for dating Miranda Cosgrove..."

I just kinda laugh it off and attend to my killer pork chop dinner. Then she comes out of her room and says "L--- and I are SO MAD, you know that shaggy haired James that we both like? He's dating Miranda Freakin' Cosgrove!" Because I'm a good dad, I make a face as if I'm about to cry and say "NO! That is TERRIBLE!" Her response was something along the lines of "You don't even care, so don't bother talking to me about it." I affirm for her that I don't care at all and life goes on.

Then I think about it. FUCK, my kid is a pre-teen and acting all girly about some douchebag TV kid, which can only mean that soon, she will be a real teen acting all girly about real douchebag kids.

No.

I am not ready for this. I am not at all ready to start dealing with this shit. When she was a cute little baby just being cute and shit, being a dad was the greatest thing ever. Now that she is on the verge of making my life miserable for the next 10-12 years (I'm not so dumb as to think it will stop when I kick her ass out at 18), I am not so enthused about being a dad. I hate drama, I hate dealing with it in any way, and I know that I am about to have to deal with it in Biblical proportions. It's like I'm watching the tsunami coming, but know that running is as useless as standing still. I am fucked.

Not surprisingly, my proposal to my wife that I check out and do my own thing for the next 9-10 years was immediately shot down without consideration, so it looks like I'm stuck. Which really sucks, because I am not at all interested in playing this game. Yeah, I know, good influence, strong role model, blah blah blah, but at this point, I'm not convinced that demonstrating a "turn and run like a panicking bitch when you're outmatched" approach is a bad thing. This isn't Sparta, I don't have shit to prove. I mean really, is it that bad to recognize when you don't stand a chance and just cut your losses? Pride has killed a lot of motherfuckers throughout history.

So I stand on this precipice of teenaged girl stress-fuck insanity, and I am mortified. I don't remember this mentioned when I signed for this parenthood thing. And if it was mentioned, maybe I thought I would trade this model in for a newer one long before it became an issue or something. I was obviously misled on that being an option. I really should read fine print.

So there it is. Shaggy haired James is dating Miranda freakin' Cosgrove and my life is fucked. The worst part of it is that I don't like hangovers enough to drink my way through this whole timeframe, and being sober during it all sounds positively horrific. No, the worst part of it is that she's only 9 fucking years old. This tsunami is going to get infinitely larger before it hits the beach, and I just get to stand there and watch my impending demise. When I think about it like that, the hangovers sound like something I could get used to.

Fuck you, shaggy haired James.

Mother Nature, Part III

2010-01-31T07:27:00.002-05:00

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.

Mother Nature...

2010-01-30T07:57:00.002-05:00

...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?

Mother Nature is a Bitch

2010-01-29T09:34:00.004-05:00

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.

Apologies and More Rambling.

2010-01-27T20:00:00.005-05:00

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.

Cold Mountain Winter Ale Makes You Drunk.

2010-01-27T00:56:00.003-05:00

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!

Fuck Owls.

2010-01-25T10:41:00.006-05:00

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.

A 10k and Flabby Bellies

2010-01-24T17:56:00.004-05:00

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.

It's Crack Time.

2010-01-21T12:00:00.004-05:00

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?"

No Witty Title Today.

2010-01-20T16:35:00.006-05:00

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.

French Fries and 5 am Rage.

2010-01-18T10:46:00.006-05:00

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.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

2010-01-17T09:04:00.003-05:00

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.

Running and On-Line Dating Douchebags.

2010-01-15T19:03:00.005-05:00

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.

Facebook is Out of Control.

2010-01-14T16:03:00.002-05:00

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.

Thursday Granola and Van Halen

2010-01-14T10:10:00.005-05:00

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.

Taco Bell Can Suck It

2010-01-12T00:08:00.000-05:00

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.

You're in the Jungle, Baby, You're Gonna Die!

2010-01-11T11:31:00.001-05:00

...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.