put on your red shoes and dance the blues

My first fave Bowie song was “Modern Love.” I used to have a one speaker boombox and I would push play, record and pause while listening to the radio, un-pausing at the end of each song hoping to catch the first, chunky guitar part. You know if you know what I’m talking about. It took several tries but I finally got it. So if anyone made you a mix tape with this method, they were goddamned serious. Borderline stalker. Anyway, I still did not know who the fuck Ziggy was. Ironically, another song I also got on a mix that year was “Major Tom(coming home).” Yep-same frickin’ year. 1983. Bowie managed to get on the cover of Time magazine, looking very adult, blonde, tan and handsome. A rather tame intro, considering the man himself. Had he not decided to dip his thin, white toes into the mainstream(see what I did there?), I may not have discovered him for several years. That’s the amazing thing about Bowie-had you not fallen for him in real time, there was plenty to look back and forward to-even in death! Apparently, he arranged to release music posthumously, just because he’s a bad motherfucker.

Now, I do not know this bad motherfucker, yet I’ve found myself crying several times since he up and split. In fact, it’s been the first death of a stranger that has affected me in such a way. I’m so not the asshole who is gonna enlighten us as to why this phenomenon is occurring to millions of others as well but I can guess as to why it’s happening to me. It all starts with that mixed tape.

Music is what our feels sound like. Simple and true. Cue boring cliches: it’s the soundtrack to our frickin’ lives! Sure, that’s part of it. Plus he’s been singing in my head since before I had pubes, even. Yes, he serenaded my hairless peaches, inviting them to put on their red shoes and dance the blues. In doing so, so I began to dance with my imagination-that super magical roller skating rink where everyone get’s to make out with unicorns! Or Ziggy Stardust! Or whoever the fuck!

He was also a “weirdo.”  When you’re a kid and people call you a “weirdo,” it’s shockingly not cause for celebration. In fact it’s an alienating bummer. Bowie was the loud and proud King of the Weirdos, providing a beacon of light on the peak of Weirdo Mountain for all to plant their freak flags, his long, skinny arms offering snuggles after the journey. He made being weird accessible, and then suddenly not so weird after all.

To me, one of his greatest gifts is his death. I’m not trying to be cryptic here, so pull your collective panties from yer cracks and relax. First of all, that fucker was on a creative ROLL.  He co-wrote a play-a frickin’ play!?!-based on a movie he starred in from the 70’s featuring some of his best work along with new material. Oh yeah-and then produced one of his most challenging/rewarding albums ever. Black star is without words. I’m not even gonna try to pin down this sinewy, pitch-black jazzy noir drum freak show that rewards like a new language with repeat listens. The other thing? He died. He didn’t kill himself, or OD, or drink himself to death in some awful hole. I don’t know about you but I still struggle while listening to Elliot Smith or Nirvana or Sparklehorse, etc. There is no stigma attached to Bowie-except of course the stigma of being a total fucking badass. Since his passing I’ve been able to go back and listen to full records of his that I hadn’t before. I had no idea that “Young Americans” was amazing all the way through. “Heroes”-fucking forget about it! “Low”-holy goddamn shit! A true mind-fuck of a back catalogue eagerly awaits that will inspire and blow your tit’s off. Did I mention the movie “The Hunger?” A movie that’s both beautiful and fucking scary, provides whackin’ material and an introduction to “Bauhaus?” I mean, that’s essentially Bowie, right? Created art that was both beautiful and fucking scary, provided whackin’ material and introduced the unfamiliar? To quote Bowie himself, “ain’t that just like me?

For myself, the scariest question is “who is going to replace him?” I realize that is completely unfair, as he was the individual’s individual, but who even comes close? The sad fact is that over the next 20 years, we’re going to lose a lot of important people in the music world. That’s right-you won’t always have Barry Manilow to kick around. We live in a blink and you’ll miss it culture of rehashed garbage that doesn’t frequently foster long term relationships with artists. For the most part. I know I’m sounding a bit like some old fuckface, reeling in the years proclaiming how “everything sucks now” but in some ways “everything sucks now.” Some of that is of course by design. After the big bang of modern music-yeah, yeah it’s a blanket statement-the big stars inspired other stars who inspired new genres thats inspired new genres, etc, etc, ad nauseam. The saying goes “there is nothing new under the sun.” Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Waylon Jennings, Michel Jackson, Kurt Cobain, Lemmy, etc, etc, ad nauseam. Bummer. This is becoming a huge bummer. I’m also getting totally off track. You know what? Let’s leave this to a real music pundit who is far better off at tackling that horseshit of a pickle than I am.

There’s a starman waiting in the sky
He’d like to come and meet us
But he thinks he’d blow our minds
There’s a starman waiting in the sky
He’s told us not to blow it
‘Cause he knows it’s all worthwhile
He told me
Let the children lose it
Let the children use it
Let all the children boogie

Ahhh-that’s much better. Thanks, David Bowie. Thanks for everything.
Sincerely,
      a weirdo
P.S. I love you shit-tons
david-bowie

shart at the devil

“Here I am, the one that you love, asking for another day” -Air Supply

I’ve tried to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with this blog. I’ve also applied that same thought process to my overall existence and the definitive conclusion is I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, period. If I had a name tag it would read “Hello, my name is ‘I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.'” It would go on my tombstone had I not decided to by shot over Lake Superior via giant slingshot, wrapped in dynamite while “The wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” is playing. However, that came to me whilst balls deep in my Gordon Lightfoot phase(we’ve all been down that road, right?). I could always change my mind.

I struggled with a sloppy explanation as to why I haven’t barfed into the bottomless pit of the internet as of late. The shit was lame-real cripple. Here is an excerpt:

I know what you’re thinking-“how about some new content, you dirty dick licker?” And you’d be right-you’d be right the fuck on the monkey nuts. “So-you’ve got you’re fancy ass new site and filling it with the same old horseshit you’ve already written? You’re lazier than an old man’s sack in the Arizona sun.”

Well kids, I’m gonna lay some real shit on you. Daddy is depressed. Boom-there it is. “Who farted?” you may be asking. Well, it’s me. I totally farted. Yes, the bitter, lingering fart of depression, toasted by anxiety and absent mindedly abandoned with the all-forgetting power of ADD. “Who farted?” I ask. Who farted, indeed.

Here is how it works. I’m visited by the the California bro that is depression around 2 am. “Hey bro-if I was as hella funny as you, I would slayla the vajayla, like, all dayla. I’d be working the labe like a speed bag with someone holding a bucket for me to spit in. There wouldn’t be a dry pair of panties in the house, son. This shit is wasted on an idiot like you.”

See? I told you I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but you know what? I’ve decided to embrace this non-understanding understanding like a child with a stuffed animal.

So from hear on out I’m going to attempt to barf into the bottomless pit of the internet on a weekly basis which means non-sequiturs will abound and things will alternately get weird, dark, or just plain stupid.

Does anyone ask, “who cut the cheese” or “who beefed” anymore? We all need to start trying to. Our humanity is at stake.

 

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White Privelage 101

I had a painting job in my early 20’s with a small company that remodeled hotel rooms. The hotel would put us up and feed us and the company paid the travel expenses. My first job was in Boston, which lasted a couple of months. I saw the Hanson brothers from the movie “Slapshot” at a bar on St. Patricks day. No shit.

The next place I went to work was Cape Cod during the off season. If I had to describe Cape Cod during the off season using only 4 words it would be “sucks cocks in hell.” It’s also whiter than New England clam chowder. Hell, it is New England clam chowder and I was up to my balls in it. Or, “balls deep,” as the kids say.

The day I’m going to meet my co-workers, my boss informs me the 2 dudes I’d be working with were brothers. As we go into their hotel room, I offer my hand saying “you two must be the brothers.” At the same time I see that they are also black, which my boss neglected to tell me. So yeah, I’ve now introduced myself with a hearty handshake to the “brothers.” The only way I could have looked like a bigger asshole would have been to hold out my hand and ask for some skin along with a “what’s up, blood?”

Eventually we became good friends and would laugh remembering that awkward introduction. It was also the first time I was called “nigga” on a regular basis, usually after me saying something stupid. For example: “Pass me that screwdriver, hot dog breath.” Which was responded to thusly: “What’d you call me? Hot dog breath?! Goddamn, nigga-you crazier than a motherfucker!” The other thing about this is the fact that most white people are burning inside with hot coals for a black person to call them “nigga.” It’s the coolest term of endearment ever, and of course we have no business saying it. As a side note-the next time Obama needs Boehner to say yes to a bill, all he needs to ask at the end is “so, Boehner-are you my nigga?” He can’t say no to that-no white person can! Then Boehner could quote Pulp Fiction and respond, “Shit, negro-that’s all you had to say!” and a door would open up above the white house to the 5th dimension and we could all finally be as one.

Anyways, I’d become close to these guys and we’d go out drinking in Cape Cod-where everyday is a Memorial Day white sale-and get a lot of looks from people. Now, I’d dyed my hair blue while living in Nebraska in 1987, so I was used to looks. Along with ridicule and even sometimes beat up. However, this was the first time it was a race thing and there was a certain uneasiness to it below the surface.

One Sunday after we’d been shopping in a mall, the police drove up to us as we were walking in the parking lot. “You two fit the description of two males who just robbed a grocery store.” They were then both put in the backseats of two separate cop cars for questioning. They didn’t even look at me and when they finally did, it was to flippantly ask if I was “with them.” I protested, explaining to the police that we had been shopping together, and together the entire time. I grew angry as nothing I said seemed to matter, to the point when I was told if I didn’t calm down I’d be in the back of a cop car as well. They finally let us go. As we walked away I was livid, going over the details ad naseum until I was finally interrupted. “Nigga-this shit happens to us all the time.” To them, it was no big deal. You know why? CUZ THIS SHIT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME. And worse. Way worse.

It was an awful realization, but one I could never have as a white person in my comfortable white world. I grew up in a white neighborhood and went to a white school. The black experience was completely off of my radar. However, ignorance via circumstance is no longer an excuse. If you are a white person, read the book “White like Me.” Follow the Root and Colorlines on Facebook. And for the love of shit, stop listening to Iggy Azalea-seriously, that’s a deal breaker. Also, stop accusing people of using the race card. That one is even more embarrassing than Iggy. Also, watch this:

know bon scott, know ac/dc. no bon scott, no ac/dc.

Whenever I hear the ridiculous proposition of “Beatles or Stones?” my instinctual response is, “That’s easy. It’s AC/DC, you lethargic bag of excrement.” And when I think of AC/DC, I think of “Highway to Hell.” And then I hear it in my head. And then I excuse myself from whatever arbitrary social engagement that I’ve just realized pales in comparison with the visceral thrill of engaging this record-even if several super models are fighting over my cock with their toothless mouths(which totally never happens)and get home and throw that motherfucker on the turntable and play it. LOUD. The snarling siren of Bon Scott boils my heathen blood, pumping it into my skull with each perfectly timed snare shot from Phil Rudd.  The sweet, trading licks of incestuous riffage from the brothers Young, pummeling and abusing while I beg for more like a battered spouse. The thunderous bass from Cliff Williams kicking my balls up into my abdomen. I wanna shove beer bottles into my eye sockets and drive a stolen car off a cliff, blood pouring from my eardrums and laughing hysterically the whole time knowing this ain’t gonna end well. Just like everything else in this world.
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The first time I saw just the cover of this seminal record as a young heathen, or “tweathen,” I was mesmerized by the intimidating lot snearing at me, flaunting the fact that they were up to no good and goddamned if I didn’t want to join them. The sound they created could put hair on a 3rd graders chest, filling his balls with jizz and mind with dangerous ideas. And that is what is sorely missing from the present day landscape of rock and/or roll: the element of danger. I want a band to scare me out of my whitebread, comfortable existence to follow through with some devil intuition that’s gnawing away on my stomach like a starved ulcer. I wanna feel it in my gut, baby. Oh sure, the image of some contemporary rock star in tight, skinny jeans, ironic facial hair and distressed “vintage” jacket is awfully scary, but for all the wrong reasons. Bon Scott would beat their perfect, bleached teeth into powder with his hard cock and set their coiffed, bed head hair on fire with one glance from his maniacal eyes, lighting a cigarette off their unoriginal ideas land-fill of a head, without the courtesy of pissing the blaze out.

 

2012-7-9-acdc_1979-533x349

 

Now here is where I’m gonna lose some of you, especially if you’re daft enough to think “Back in Black” is their first record. To my ears, Brian Johnson’s voice sounds like the last fart beaten from a dying horse in comparison to Bon’s. Now I realize the position Brian Johnson was put in and I’m not envious of the mammoth set of moose knuckles he was hopeless to fill, but he was also the flagship that sunk their good name into irony and self-parody. The cannons going off on “For Those About to Rock”? The album “Ballbeaker”? The song “Cover You in Oil”? Sure, it’s all done in knuckle draggin’, dick swingin’ fun, but Bon was more tongue and cheek, a dirtbag street poet. When he snarled about the holy trinity of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll, he’d make you nervous cuz the motherfucker meant it. Now, I’m in no way condemning them for continuing on after his death. I get it. “Back in Black” is a great tribute to the man. I just don’t wanna listen to it. I will, however, listen the shit out of “Highway to Hell.” And now I can hear it in my head. And now I’m gonna throw that motherfucker on the turntable and play it. LOUD.

 

See you in hell.

 

 

The PT Cruiser effect and some random crap

What’s the PT Cruiser effect? Well, grab a seat for your ass meat and I’ll lay it on you. The first time I glimpsed the sadness that is the PT Cruiser, she’d crept into my periphery, remaining on the fringe with the awful knowledge of someone who knows they’ve done something they shouldn’t-like exist. My first impulse was aesthetic. It reminded me of the older, 1940’s cars that I’d rarely seen in person and more likely in a ZZ Top video. “That’s kinda cool,” I thought with my ignorant brain. At this point the PT had come into full view, ready for her centerfold and hoping to fulfill someones sad, depleted whacking material. Its then that I realized, “oh shit-this car is totally lame.” The sting of her betrayal was a knife in my balls. She knew the whole time that she was just gonna fuck me. And not in the good way. That’s when I concluded that I’d been the victim of the PT Cruiser effect.

The Reverend Jim Jones of the PT Cruiser effect.

Now, I’d sooner have my balls set on fire and stomped out by a Clydesdale than be seen behind the wheel of a PT Cruiser, but fate would have it another way. My dear, sweet mother whom I adore, was manipulated by the conniving, self-aware whore that is the PT Cruiser and was unable to awake from her (probably)smelly spell. She too was a victim of the PT Cruiser effect, but unfortunately only the rapture could bring her out of her slumber.

I went home to visit my mother for Christmas, as a good son does. “You can borrow my new car while you’re home,” she exclaimed, tossing the keys towards me in slow motion. I smiled as I held my hands to catch the keys-still in slow motion-as she burst out in tears of joy, “It’s a PT Cruiser!” I swallowed hard, forcing the vomit back down my throat as my smile turned into a twisted grimace. “By the sweat of Satan’s balls, I cast thee out, demon!”

The only good PT is a dead PT.

So, I totally didn’t say that. After all, this woman pushed a heathen from her vagina into an unsuspecting world and I must respect our little pact. Instead, I had to drive a PT Cruiser around town like a total asshole. Get this-I drove to my friends work and asked if I could see her and waited in the lobby. All of the dignity was drained from my balls as I heard someone say, “Hey Anna, your friend is here to see you-it’s some guy in a PT Cruiser.” Yep-that happened.

Dude! You know how much action this back seat has seen? None.

Now, the PT Cruiser effect can come in different forms, from distressed logo’s on t shirts to effects laden movies with Tom Cruise, which is the dreaded PT Tom Cruiser effect. Really, it’s anytime you second guess yourself in your choices. However, someday we’ll all be dead and burning in eternal hellfire, gnashing our teeth behind the wheel of a PT Cruiser so fuck it.

“Yes they deserved to die and I hope they burn in hell!!”

As far as some random crap, let’s see…..oh-if you’re a girl and you’re sweaty you should say “my tit’s are sweating balls.”

Also, change the lyrics to the Michael Jackson song to “I’m trying to shave my balls in the mirror.”

And one more time, “balls.”

viewing under the influence: a series*

I’m not one for drinking alone-however, if you’ve got The Bandit or Philo Bedoe around, you’re never alone. So yes, you should drink tons of beer while watching movies and feel nothing but elation. For instance, this one time I was having a beer on the couch and glanced up at the TV to see that a movie was playing-it’s really that simple!

Myself, I tend to stick with 70’s cinema because suspension of belief is usually required and the soundtracks are amazing. Why the 70’s, you ask?

1. Burt Reynolds is probably in it.

2. A bar fight is totally gonna break out.

3. An animal will be fed beers.

4. Awkward racial slurs. Even ones that weren’t as obvious, like referring to Asians as “Oriental”.

5. Muscle cars that will make your mangina soaking wet.

6. Classic swearing, ie. “Balls!”

7. Drinking and driving? Oh, shit yeah!

8. The now defunct Palomino Club.

9. Another bar fight.

You’re in luck, as I’ve been considerate enough to watch a shit-ton of these movie while drinking beer like I just found out that I’ve lost my parents in a horrible car crash. I’m also including a beer rating which will help gauge how many beers you’ll need to watch the movie. The idea isn’t how many you’ll need for the movie to be awesome, it’s how many beers you’ll drink BECAUSE the movie is so awesome. Our series begins with…….

Hooper

Lets begin by knocking it out of the park. This is pretty much the pinnacle of drinking and viewing. You get Burt Reynolds, a bar fight, a horse that chugs coors, drinking and driving, the usage of “balls” as an exclamation, a sweet theme song about the life of a hollywood stuntman, and a fucking rocket car. Yes-a fucking rocket car!

Highlights include a pre-Dukes of Hazard Roscoe P. Coltrane as Hooper’s pill providing side kick, a pre-what the fuck happened to your face Jan Michael Vincent as the up and coming “kid” stuntman, a pea-smuggling Sally Field(if that’s what you’re into-no judgements), a doctor smoking in a hospital, and most importantly, a fucking rocket car.

The Palimino club? Yep-with a bar fight in the beer garden involving a young(but still quite ugly)Terry Bradshaw. Oh shit-is that Robert fucking Klein?! That motherfucker’s in it too?! Yes, that motherfucker is in it too, playing a smarmy director who rocks a sweet snowmobile onesie on set. Mad with power, he pushes Hooper and the kid into more dangerous and deadly stunts, all in the  name of his “art.” Of course Hooper has the last laugh, handing Klein’s dick to him on a plastic picnic plate right after breaking the forth wall with his classic, mustachioed smirk. Of course.

Beer rating: all of them. It’s just that good. Yes, you will mos def drink all of your beers.

“Who’s got two thumbs, a Hooper tattoo, and love’s the movie “Hooper”?
Maybe this guy. I can’t see if he has thumbs.

* Yes, I admit this is some lazy-ass horseshit but I can’t blow your tits off every time. Also, you should watch “Every Which Way But Loose” as a homework assignment and drink a good sixer or two. We’ll talk about that soon.

 

the laddie reckons himself a poet

I’m attempting this post thru a foggy haze of NyQuil and the common cold, my head a congested slurpy machine. It’s 6 days into the new year and I’ve been pinned to the couch like a dead butterfly for most of them, the ridiculous irony being that my good friend was here for 3 of them to visit and showed up with the same affliction. I have no idea what’s behind that serendipity doo dah, but I was happy to have someone else in the trenches of the ‘nam, turning my living room into a triage infirmary. We also both shared the heavy crack pipe that is “Sons of Anarchy,” along with some cult classics from the 80’s such as:

 

…and some random documentaries such as:

 

 

…both of which I highly recommend.
Fret not, dear reader, as the drama and triumph that was theBurt Reynolds Auction will soon be detailed on this horseshit blog but for now let’s talk about “The Process.” There is an innumerable amount of failure when its comes to risk, especially in creative endeavors. Also, attempting art when you’re shit-housed. So with that in mind I’m going to share with you one such attempt. Quick back story-a dear friend of mine passed on into the ether last year who truly was the most realest motherfucker of all real motherfuckers, fucking up my head and heart in ways I hadn’t imagined. Well played, dickhead universe. Well played indeed. I wrote this “poem” one night in an alcohol fueled nebula which culminated in a supernova of bad spelling and grammar. I was drunk and angry, howling at the moon for my ethereal loss. It comes across as the frantic rantings of an insane person but there’s also some beauty-it’s some raw shit, motherfucker. Enjoy and remember-keep failing. It’s the only way we get any better. And fuck F. Scott Fitzgerald in his dead-ass butt. I may be misquoting him, but we all have a second act. Plus I just wanted to say “dead-ass butt.”

I want you to asked the dj to play I was made for loving you by kiss and welt have a couples only slow skate in my heart and we’ll hug and laugh and fart and shit and piss all over because we’re horribly flawed individuals living in an insane world that wants us to fail and will take pics of it and instagram and hashtag our failures and maybe make is celebrities for a day and turn us into royalty only for us to fall and be celebrated again as failures and mske everyone feel better because they never took s chance and settled for a slow and inebevitable tug job into ncomplacency. Then tell me not to pull the trigger even though in my head it’s a sleeping bag under the stars with a sandwich made by my mom so I can taste the love. Man I wanna pull the trigger.pull open my skull Nd dump whiskey all over it and it’ll short circuit and I’ll be the old guy who drank too much and died instead of the old guy who die

 

 

“Now, gettin’ to Texarkana and back in 28 hours, that’s no problem.” -the bandit

So I started this post last week on the eve before my pilgrimage…

“East bound and down”

I’m about to embark on a voyage-nay, a quest into the black, shit-filled he(f)art of darkness that is Las Vegas. The last time I slow danced with fate in this desert disco of debauchery, the foul gods of diarrhea rewarded my performance by swiftly filling my Farah slacks with unruly amounts of soft serve. I, uh, that is to say-I shit myself in the motherfucking desert. You can read all about that ridiculousness here.

So why would I return? Why, indeed. Well, how about because Burt Reynolds is auctioning off what appears to be a lifetime payload of celebrity booty at the Palms hotel December 11th and 12th? That’s right, my sweet, sweet bitches! Yours truly will be there, if only to get pics of some mustachioed whackin’ material. And probably some trouble.

This will not be the first time I’m exposed to the saccharine nectar of all things Burt. I was able to visit the Burt Reynolds and Friends museum in Juno Beach, Florida a decade ago but that yarn shall be unraveled a little further down the path, cowboy.

Burt claims that he’s not a total broke-ass. He’s more or less downsizing so there’s no need for me to feel like a fiendish ghoul drooling over his golden flakes of shaken memorabilia dandruff. “Quite frankly, I am sick of so many pictures of myself in my own home,” he recently told Entertainment Tonight, which is where I get all of my news.*

I realize as I re-read this dilettante post that I’m reading the words of a fool. A naive child, blissfully unaware of the bloody mary and buffet breathe I would inhale(and exhale)as I once again made the odyssey into the mouth of madness. You know, fuckin’ Las Vegas. Despair not, as I managed to rise from the ashes like the Phoenix emblazoned on the hood of THE Pontiac Tran Am, a chariot only worthy of the man whose name I shudder to speak. You know, fuckin’ Burt Reynolds. I am now a man. Well, sort of. More of a jerk, but a jerk who’s seen a thing or three.

I ask for your patience as I sweat and bleed out the words to articulate what I witnessed and ingested. I’m guessing this shit is gonna be a three parter, Jimmy Carter. Dare I say a trilogy? YES! A trilogy it shall be! Until then, I leave you with this:

“if only to get pics of some mustachioed whackin’ material”

 




*I used the courier font to make it look all typewritery ‘n shit.  Like this. Balls. Pretty cool, eh? It’s looks like I’m some sort of bullshit writer.


P.S. reynolds

this blog ain’t gonna suck itself

So for those of you who return or stumble upon this here blog and wonder “papa-where have all the beautiful stories of poo poo and pee pee gone? Please papa, I’m so terrified and alone,” I truly am sorry. Forgive me, my sons and daughters, as I occasionally lack in the grace that is social. Also, sit on a dick and fart it to climax, for I am not my brother’s monkey. See what I mean?
Heres the thing: You know when you do something creative and it beats your expectations which in turn scares you into thinking you couldn’t possibly best it? Then you realize that you’re also a lazy bag of shit and have the grammar skills of a third grader? Then you take a perfect, no splash olympic gold medal swan dive into the rabbits hole? Then you buy a pair of flip flops and think to yourself “well fuck it-I’m wearing fuckin’ flip flops?!”

So in the interest of lowering the bar along with my expectation, I’m gonna pick this blog up by it’s sweaty balls and wring ’em out over your lips until they crack and split like hot dogs on a grill.

Speaking of which, a funny thing to say when you’re really sweaty is “if my buttcrack was a movie theatre it’d be showing ‘a river runs through it.'” Or “if I emptied a box of potato flakes into my underwear I could give you 5 pounds of mashed potatos AND gravy.”

When you fart, you should say “Reynolds” cuz sometimes your farts sound like “Burt.” You know, “buurrr-r-r-rrrrrttt.” Then get your friends to say it too and if you’re lucky, someone will text you “Reynolds” at 3 in the morning and you’ll know exactly what happened. This has occured several times for myself. I am lucky.

Change the lyrics to “Ain’t Nobody” by Chaka Khan to “ain’t no grandma-like my grandma-made my grandpa-dinner every night.” This will just make you feel good. So will this:

This is how you sell records, dickholes.
Also, you should sing “tastes so good-c’mon baby make it taste so good-sometimes food don’t taste like it should-you make it taste so good” and refer to yourself as “John Cougar Stretchy Pants.”

When someone disagrees with you, say “thats not the cake I’m trying to bake.” Or, “how’d you like a big, sweaty dick in your mouth?”

That second one is awful, but it illustrates where this blog is headed. I actually have no idea what I’m doing at all. Yes, my sons and daughters, Papa too is terrified and alone.

beer and loathing in treasure island casino part 2: the cycle of life. and a lot of piss

We stumbled into the casino like drunken seniors on the last day of high school. I was immediately hypnotized by all of the flickering lights, grinning in wonderment like a simpleton taking his first shower. Oh, how I enjoy anything shiny and a lot of. I also have ADHD so go figure. The other thing I noticed was the army of old people plugging change into machines, moaning and spending their kid’s inheritance, waiting for death like defiant, bored teenagers. I myself look forward to getting old (if that happens) and wearing jeans and t-shirts that say ridiculous things like “I’m vegan AND racist” and recounting to whomever how I “once ate so much pussy, I had to unbuckle my belt and take a nap in a lazy boy.” I’ll be the old man who farts as loud as he can in public, grinning and shaking my head at you as you turn to see who could possibly be so rude.

I’m not much of a gambler, but I was called by the sweet siren of the slots, flickering lights and all. I slid one quarter into the beast, pulled down it’s arm, watched as it’s eyes rolled back into the same color and shape and finally cry out as I pulled $100 from it’s belly on the first try. Yes. I magically turned 25 cents into 100 fucking dollars. Which of course meant that I was going to magically turn that into beer and whiskey.

We found our way to the auditorium which was surprisingly small with cafeteria style seating. I ordered us a round of whiskey and beer and continued to do so til the $100 was gone. Shortly after Bobcat had begun, 2 things of significance occurred, the first being some asshole under the influence decided to heckle him, and the second being holy shit I had to piss. I will concede that I have a bladder the size of a squirrel’s and once I tap the seal, it’s on. Although drinking a beer every 15 minutes also creates some pressure that’s not ordinarily present. Now, being lazy, drunk and a dude-and by dude I mean having a wiener which allows dudes to piss pretty much anywhere quite easily-I decided to piss in my empty glass under the table. This system proved infallible, and as I filled each empty glass, so did the hatred in my heart for the heckler.

As Bobcat performed, batting down each annoying interruption (arbitrary questions such as, “where is your wife, Bobcat?”or just yelling out nonsense-anything to distract the show because “Daddy made poo-poo owie” or whatever reason he needed attention in a public forum) by the asshole seated in front of us, I decided I would do some batting of my own. The plan was simple: after the show, Brian would walk up to the heckler with a full glass of my urine and I would “accidentally” bump into him, soaking him with the seeds of piss he’d sown. However, our muscle control and coordination were sorely weakened by the copious amounts of ingested alcohol, and I basically fell into Brian who basically fell into…the dudes girlfriend. Her shirt was completely drenched-even her hair would not escape the yellow rain of revenge. So we chose the only reasonable option we had-we ran.

We grabbed a case of beer from off-sale, as we clearly hadn’t had enough to drink, and hopped into the barf-filled flaming van, laughing hysterically onto the freeway like a pack of hyenas.

“A good hearted woman in love with a good timin’ man.”

As we pulled into the alley behind our house, an object appeared before us, laying there like a sacrificial lamb. It was a sofa, caught like a deer in the headlights, left to fend for itself in the cold, cruel world by some heartless home departers. As harsh as it seems, sometimes the only humane referendum is to put an animal down and in this instance, it was the only choice we had. I glanced over at Heath and saw something I hadn’t seen before-it was the eye of the tiger. The tears come quick to us both, as the realization washed over us. I offered my hand and as he took it, turned his attention to the ghastly task at hand and floored it.

By the time we hit the couch, we were going a good 50 mph, and I can honestly say, my brothers and sisters, it never knew what hit it. The front end went up and over the beast, launching us skyward as if we were it’s chariot to heaven. I could hear the narration of Waylon Jennings in my head, wondering “how the good ol’ boys were gonna get out of this one” as the van came slamming down on the concrete. What was left of the carcass had become trapped between the front and rear axle and a shower of foam and sparks danced in the air-a dazzling and bittersweet display of the cycle of life. As the back end rolled over what little was left, we held each other and took solace in the knowledge that the sofa was in a better place.

And then we all totally blacked out.