So my questions are as follows:
(1) What the HELL kind of Christmas parties do they throw down there in North Carolina? Also, if you get an invite to their New Year's Eve bash, I'd give serious consideration to not going.
(2) "Malicious Castration?" I have to ask: Is there really any other type? As a guy, I would have to say no. (I know you women are out there counting them off on your fingers: "Intentional, deserved, completely necessary, just-for-fun, etc., etc.)
(3) To put it in terms of the holiday -- why was the baby jesus out of his manger in the first place?
(4) She did it with her bare hands. Will I ever again be able to tear the skin off a raw chicken without wincing just a little bit? I think not.
(5) Apparently, it was reported as a domestic disturbance. I would like to know who called this in. "Hello? 911? Yes, this is Rachel Fitzwater and I live across the street from the Dawsons. I can't be 100% sure, but I think I just heard the sound of a scrotum being ripped from someone's body. Yes, I'll hold, thank you."
(6) Why did they feel the need to inform us that "the arrest was the first of its kind in Lillington?" Does that fact really surprise anyone? I would think that if it wasn't the first time, then it *might* be worth a mention.
Slow news day, I guess. Slow blog day too, and that's why you're getting this post -- But really it's just because I couldn't stand looking at Pooping Santa's giant red butthole any longer.
I am not sure why a Santa that poops hard candy makes them think of me, but that's something for their respective psychiatrists to iron out. Pere Noel surprise, indeed.
The first thing that struck me funny was that Santa, in addition to having a freakishly large bung-hole, also prefers to crap directly through his pants.
I wanted to make sure I followed the detailed instructions that were thoughtfully provided on the back of the packaging. I started with Step One:
OK - Remove the head. Put in Candy. Replace head. Seems simple, right? Not so. The head on my Santa does not come off, and is in fact one with the body. To get this particular Santa head off would require a chisel and quite possibly a band saw, and he would never be right again.
That's not to imply that he's in any way "right" when he comes out of the package, but still. Instead of trying to forcibly remove his head, I decided to use the convenient trap door in his back that, oddly, appeared to be designed for this exact purpose. I'm nothing if not versatile.
Unfortunately, the trap door seemed to be glued shut, so I was reduced to shoving the poopsweets up his butt one by one like little candy suppositories. That felt a bit wrong to me, so I eventually pried open his trapdoor with a butter knife. And that's not a euphemism for... well...for anything.
Once I had him loaded up with poop-sweets, I continued on to Step Two. That step seemed to work flawlessly. He shook like a baby's rattle and sounded chock-full of very settled joyful Christmas turdage.
Onward to Step Three.
I gently held the Santa around his body, (I may have even caressed him once or twice when nobody was looking) and pushed downwards, in anticipation of a sweet, sweet, Pere Noel poop. Would it be green? Would it be red? I waited with bated breath.
Nothing happened. No poop-sweet issued forth from the shiny-red oversized butthole of holiday spirit. Something was wrong. Santa was clearly constipated.
I read further down in the instructions, and noticed this bit:
Dammit. My Santa was all jammed up inside with what was apparently an odd-sized poopsweet. Contrary to the manufacturer's hopes, this was, in fact, stop me enjoying this product. So I opened his trapdoor, shook out his candy turd nuggets and tried again.
Success. As you can see from the picture, this time it was obvious he was ready and willing to drop a deuce for my pleasure:
Looking at the ingredients, I can see why he was initially holding back:
I don't know about you, but pretty much the last word I want involved when I'm going to the bathroom is the word "acid." I think that even beats the phrases "shards of glass" and "rusty staples."
There were no further instructions to be had, so I was on my own. The moment of truth was at hand.
I pushed him gently down and... Voila! A green poopsweet ricocheted off the kitchen counter and dropped to the floor, where it bounced under the refrigerator to sleep for all eternity.
Judging by his facial expression, I think he was both happy and relieved when it was all over:
In fact, I think we both were. By the way, if you were wondering, the candy tastes like crap. The green and the red are the same exact flavor. Stupid rip-off pooping Santa. Even so, I have awesome friends.
Next year, I'm filling him with raisinettes.
As I drove past someone's side yard, I saw something odd out of the corner of my eye. My brain registered "Bathtub Virgin" (or "Mary on the half-shell" depending upon what part of the country you're from.) I'm sure you all know what these are, if not from personal experience, then from reading my blog...but something was odd about this one.
I craned my neck behind me, but couldn't make it out. So I did what any of you would do. I said fuck it and went home. No, of course I didn't, because I am not any of you. I turned my car around, parked it in their driveway and got out to look.
I am not privy to the current practices of the Bathtub Virgin Illuminati, but this display caught me by surprise. It seems that when Mary can no longer fulfill her matron-of-god duties, the best of all possible stand-ins is:
Yes. Water fowl. Swans are evidently preferred. And it's always good to have a second swan standing by in case the first one gets called away on important business.
I have no idea. People are strange. They make me laugh.
ps - According to my most recent site-meter search results that lead people here, there are entirely too many people forcing other people to wear butt plugs. Stop it.
The second post is about living in rural America and how there is absolutely no controls on what your mailbox has to look like. You would not believe some of the shit around here that passes for a U.S. Mail receptacle.
The third post is this one, and it's about this particular on-going holiday season. And since that's the one I chose to open with, that's the reason this post isn't going to be funny. It's going to be sad, and maybe a little bit angry, and I'm going to say some stuff in it that I need to get off my chest. It seems to be the thing lately to use your blog as an outlet for something that it's not usually used for; to break out of the mold a bit and change up the format. Maybe it's something in the air, I'm not sure. So this post, while probably not appropriate for a humor blog (as I've come to call it - your opinion may differ) also might be a little hopeful in the end, and help me to sort out a few things. At the very least, maybe it'll help you guys who are reading this who are currently in or have been in a similar situation. Maybe, in some way, it'll help to know that you're not alone, and JV is out here pullin' for ya.
To lay it on the table, I have two people in my life who are currently dying. One I care about deeply, the other, well...not so much. That being said, however, both have impacted my life, and continue to do so. As a result, I'm having a hard time finding humor in things, and I'm afraid I've been phoning in my last month's posts in a (misguided?) effort to inject some levity into my life in spite of everything that's going on.
The weird thing is, I find it actually does help, but I'm not sure I'm doing you any service, since I presume that you come here to be entertained, and if I'm doing my job at all, you get a smile out of whatever it is that I wrote. So --If after this post I continue to be unfunny, well, I apologize in advance.
I was never really sure about this whole blogging thing anyway. People I work with (Special Dark, you bastard) have told me that I'm not as funny in person. While my first reaction was a sincere "eff you" -- I have to say that I actually agree with him (that bastard).
I thought about why that is, and it comes down to one thing: I'm pretty introverted and quiet, and as a result, when I am with a group of people I mostly don't ever say what I'm thinking. At any rate, that's part of my current dilemma. As a bona-fide introvert, I have a tendency to go into hibernation mode when I'm in a funk or under stress, and not want to socialize or be as supportive as I could be under more normal circumstances, which even then takes a lot out of me. I'll get to why that's an issue in a moment.
It's been over five years since my mother died, and the first time around for every holiday was incredibly tough. The first Mother's Day. The first Thanksgiving. The first Christmas. The first time her birthday came and went, and I wasn't able to call her up. My friend shop dungs is going through that now, and I know how difficult and incredibly sad this Christmas will be for him. I wish there was something I could do, but I know that there really isn't. Telling him that it "gets better with time" sounds incredibly trite, even though it's mostly true. The wounds are still too raw for any of that crap advice to have any meaning. It only means something when you discover it for yourself; when you've had the time to get used to the pain, and then begin to heal.
Right now, it's my wife's turn to feel raw inside and mad at life. It's her grandmother who is lying in a nursing home, unresponsive and being fed through a tube in her stomach wall, a result of a stroke almost a month ago. Her father had been battling skin cancer, which last week he found out has spread to his lungs, liver, stomach and adrenal glands. The doctors say he has maybe 6 months. My wife's grandmother is everything to her, and practically raised her. Their bond is one of friendship, mutual respect and an immense love.
Her father means almost nothing to her. He has basically ignored her all his life unless he needed something, and he's the most cold-hearted, self-centered person I've ever met in my life. His dying might not seem like an issue unless you know my wife, who is one of the most caring people I know. It causes her no end of guilt that she feels very little for her own dying father. He's not helping the situation in the slightest, which is typical for him. I didn't think it was possible to dislike someone as much as I have learned to dislike him over the years. He's a taker who has a sense of entitlement that makes me want to smash his face. The only saving grace in this whole debacle is that her grandmother doesn't have to watch her only son die -- If you can call that a grace of any sort.
Therein lies my problem. I feel like I have to be upbeat and supportive for her, yet all I want to do is go into lock-down hibernation mode. I don't want to be funny. I want to sit in my office and write shit like this. I want to forget about the hard choices that I'm sure she and her grandfather are going to have to make. I want to wish myself into next year, and maybe bypass all the heartache that is bearing down on us. Mostly, I want to sit in a corner near the woodstove and lick my wounds like a hurt animal.
But I can't.
I have to be there for my wife and her grandfather, who is one of the nicest, bravest, most inspiring men I've ever known. I'll tell his story some day. In the meantime, all I can do is watch, and offer support where and when I can. I'm not always good at it, I admit. I'm not perfect, and so I sometimes take the easy way out. It's a constant fight between what I feel I should do and what I have the strength to actually do. So hit me with the good mojo, because I'm going to need it. We all are.
The reason I'm writing this now is because I got blindsided in a Toastmaster's meeting today. I'm shitty at public speaking because of that whole "introvert" thing -- so I decided that even though the thought made me physically sick, I was going to join Toastmaster's. It's about nerdy as you'd think it would be, but it does get you speaking in front of a group. For those of you who don't know, at every Toastmaster's meeting there's a thing called "Table Topics" which basically means that they ask a random question on a random subject, and then choose someone to talk about it for 30 seconds. I got picked. The question was, "If you had the chance, and money and power were no object, what would you give to someone you care about as a Christmas present?" Before I even knew what I was saying, I said, "I'd make my wife's dad not have terminal cancer and I'd take away her grandmother's stroke." You could have heard a pin drop. In a room full of people I barely know, I blurted this out for no good reason other than it was what was on my mind.
I thought I was handling things pretty well until that exact moment, when I sat there in stunned silence with tears in my eyes. It was then that I realized that I had to write some of this down, just to get it out and maybe try to make some sense of what I was feeling. Unfortunately for you, I followed through with that, and this gibberish is the result.
I guess if there's a message to this post, it has to be one of hope and healing. Hope that the future holds joys and contentment that you might find it hard to imagine now. Whether you're dealing with loss, impending loss or just plain loneliness, remember this: You can plan for tomorrow, but don't do it at the expense of the present. As crappy as it may have been, take some time out to look at today, and the people you shared it with. Call your friends. E-mail or IM them if you have to. Call your parents, and your grandparents, if you're lucky enough to still have them around. Tell them how thankful you are that they're in your life, even if they're a giant pain in the ass most of the time. Tell them how much they mean to you, and tell them why. Or if that's too hard, just tell them that you love them, because you never know when a conversation you're having with someone you care about will be the last one you ever have. I can't remember the last thing my mother and I talked about before she died, and that still bothers me. Knowing her, I'm sure it was something that made me laugh, which makes it even more difficult.
It can all go away in an instant, and if it does, you don't want regrets. Talk about the good times you've had with the people you love, because those memories may be the only thing that gets you through the bad times.
As my father always tells me, you have to do what you can for the people in your life.
Then he usually adds, "Unless they're an asshole."
Advice to live by, my friends.
I'll be back with something funnier later this week. I promise.
(Like that will be tough, right? Hey I warned you in the subject line. You just never listen.)
The next thing that happened is that I get stuck in line behind a 400lb black kid. Like 6'4". HUGE. Probably somewhere between 18 and 20 years old. The metal detector keeps going off. He takes off his bling. It still goes off. He loses the belt. It goes off again. Finally they shunt him to the side and start wanding him. It appears that he must have a plate in his head. No...not his head. The problem is head-related, however. More specifically, the problem is in his MOUTH. He has a full set of gold teeth. I was witnessing a highly entertaining episode of "Grills Gone Bad." Eventually, they let him go.
When I got home, I did a little research on airport metal detectors and found this little tidbit:
The Metor 300 also incorporates an advanced Random Alarm function, which enables discreet search of non-alarming passengers.
So who knows. Maybe it wasn't his grill after all.
Other than that, I did get to witness someone almost knocking themselves unconscious on the overhead bin. That was fun. Besides the numbnut behind me who kept slamming something down on his tray table and waking me up, and the caffeine-addled, non-stop talking machine with the armor-piercing laugh in the seat across the aisle, the rest of the flight wasn't bad.
When I got on the train to go downtown, at the first stop a black kid in a hoodie sits down in the seat across from me and starts making a noise like, "ARRRRRGHHHH!" and pounding on the seat in front of him every 20 seconds.
He's talking to himself about something that is clearly making him very angry, since between the seat-banging and yelling, every other word in his monologue is the F-word, used in more variations than I thought possible. Finally, he slouched down, pulled his hoodie over his eyes, muttered something about hanging a motherfucking Grand Theft Auto poster in his room, and went to sleep.
Or died. I'm not sure -- I didn't check. Man. How much would it suck if your last words were "motherfucking Grand Theft Auto?"
At the second stop, a older white woman sits behind me and all is well until about 30 seconds after we leave the stop, and she lets loose with a chest-rattling phlegm-filled cough. It wouldn't have been so bad, except that she didn't even make a half-hearted attempt at covering her mouth with her hand. She just let loose. After the 2nd time it happened, I turned to her and said, "Could you stop coughing directly on me?" After that, she covered her mouth -- but only when I was watching her. When she thought I wasn't, she just sprayed the back of my head again. Ignorant people. I really need a driver when I go places.
If I thought the train ride in was bad, the flight home (delayed, of course) was worse. My seat was the second to the last one in the plane, and the whole area smelled like a dirty litterbox. It was pretty brutal. I had a screaming baby across from me, and I was surrounded by people with some sort of affliction. All signs pointed to Tuberculosis. I had my recorder on me, so enjoy.
This is just a 5-second snippet of a one hour flight.
It didn't stop the entire time.
I love day trips. All of the shittiness and none of the fun. How can you beat that?
I took the last one out of the package, and since I'm a whore for any written words put in front of me, I started reading the bag. (I do this. I don't know why. I can't NOT do it. I read cereal boxes, milk cartons, soup labels, toothpaste tubes -- it doesn't matter. If there are words in front of me, I'm reading them, even if I read them a thousand times before.)
At any rate, I get to this bit, and start choking on my food, and not because the roll is dry as dust, which wheat rolls generally are:
In case you can't read it, it says:
"We also care about the environment. Our packaging, which provides our products with a good seal against the elements and staling, is recyclable. When you are ready to dispose of it, it can be recycled where it could end up as a variety of things such as carpeting, insulation, or a toy. If incinerated, it burns cleaner than home heating oil and actually helps all the other waste burn better."
Forget that recycling crap. According to this, these bags are like magic and I'm keeping them. In fact, ever since I saw this, I've been collecting them. I may be on my way to a serious gluten allergy from eating so many rolls, but I already have more than enough bags to cover the hardwood floor in my living room.
They're also not kidding about the insulation bit. I've taken to stuffing them in the arms of my coat and down my pants, and I've never been warmer in my life. I smell a little like stale wheat bread, but it's totally worth it and not that different from how I smelled before.
Just yesterday I wrapped up a half dozen of them to give to my friend's kids as a Christmas presents. I never know what sort of toy to get them, and when you think about it, there's lots of fun things an unsupervised little kid can do with a plastic bag.
If all goes according to plan, by next year at this time I should have enough saved up to heat my house for the winter. I wrote to the company asking them how many BTUs I should expect per bag, but they haven't gotten back to me yet --I told them it wouldn't be until next year, so they're probably just researching it a little so they can give me a more accurate number.
It's melodic, it's exuberant, it's fucking happy, sometimes even when the song is about something sad. A handful of the more current bands I enjoy incorporate a pale measure of this pop sound -- bands like Bowling for Soup, Nine days, Nerf Herder, Silversun Pickups, American HiFi and New Found Glory come to mind.
A perfectly crafted pop song is a thing to behold. It's impossible to listen to true, honest to god, sugary-sweet pop music and not be instantly transported to a better place in your head.
So without further ado, I present Head Automatica, my new favorite fantastic pop band.
It's so over the top it's amazing. You can listen to the whole CD there, and it will start playing when you hit the site if you have a quick connection.
Enjoy. Turn it up and dance around. Play some air guitar power chords. I won't laugh, I promise. Because I'm doing it too, and I can't dance for shit.
I'll be back with something mildly amusing shortly.
*flat discs of vinyl, with a single, spiral groove that runs from the outside edge to the inside spindle. In this groove resides a teeny, tiny group of musicians who play their music while being chased by a gigantic needle of death. You need a microscope to see this. Alcohol helps too.
** If you know of something fantastic that I'm unaware of, please share.
Anyway, we had friends in town and it was only opportunity we were going to have to do the whole tree thing, so we did it. I'm a little concerned, because we got some new lights for the tree this year and after I put them up, I read the side of the box and saw this:
So I'll probably be dead soon -- or at the very least, dead from the waist down -- since I didn't wash my hands and I was snacking throughout the entire process. Luckily, I didn't have to pee during the light stringing, so I avoided direct transfer of lead dust to my man junk.
I like how they don't even say "may expose you to lead." Nope, this shit is guaranteed. No question. You WILL have lead on your hands when you are done handling these things.
So when did stringing a set of lights on a Christmas tree become a life-threatening endeavor? At what point did the coating on the outside of the wires become more dangerous than the electricity on the inside?
I don't know. I think I'm just going back to those big-ass bulbs we had when I was a kid. So what if they actually raised the temperature of the room and got so hot tinsel melted to them? At least if you died in a fire, you'd die with your reproductive organs intact.
A single responsibility.
My wife cooks the turkey. She makes the stuffing. She bakes the pies. She sets the table and cleans up. She's awesome that way.
The one thing she will not do, however, falls to me. That one, holiday-centric task is this:
I must remove the thing-that-must-not-be-named.
I have to reach inside the bird and remove the loose turkey neck from the innards, and -- along with the little packet of turkey guts -- spirit it away before my wife sees it. I have no idea why, but if she is forced to do this deed herself, she will literally gag. I've witnessed this, and it's the funniest thing ever.
So this morning, I will do my part. I will pull the giant penis-neck thing from the pale, cold bird carcass, and I will wrap it in a plastic bag and throw it in the garbage.
First, of course, I must honor the JV Thanksgiving tradition and chase her with it, just once, around the kitchen.
As you've probably surmised, I never get laid on thanksgiving.
Fantastic Google Searches That Somehow Led People to My Site
somebody put shit in my pants - I included this one because once, about ten years ago, I was walking to work downtown and a drunk homeless guy said almost this exact same thing to me.
I'm urinating every five minutes. What's up? - the phrasing on this one made me laugh. As if you walked into your co-worker's cube and asked him, "Hey, whatcha doin? Do you have a sec to go over something?" and he replied with this line.
Can mayonnaise grow hair? - I can totally vouch for this one. Mayonnaise can indeed grow hair. Just leave it in the back of the fridge for about 6 months, and it'll have some hair on it you won't believe.
pictures of christian slater sober - You might as well be searching for "Real Live Unicorn Sightings" or "Video feeds of Jesus preaching" because you will never, ever find a picture of this anywhere. It simply does not exist.
butt bottom offensive - This was one of the lesser-known battles of WWII. It involved a platoon of marines who had nothing to eat or drink for 5 days except Beef n' Bean MREs and some contaminated well water, who were trying to occupy a small patch of enemy territory on a tiny but strategically valuable island in the pacific. I guess it got pretty rough in the end, but they took the hill and captured 36 unconscious Japanese soldiers in the process.
my wife forces me to wear a butt plug and panties - To me, it doesn't sound as if she had to really twist your arm much. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if maybe you asked her to twist your arm. Ditto on the buttplug and panties. My advice: Think up a "safe word" -- one that is still understandable when your leather mask is zipped up, or the ball gag is in place.
questions to ask a new girlfriend - Question number one: Have you ever forced any of your old boyfriends wear a butt plug and panties?
My husband needa bra - your husband needa lose some weight.
clowns and pedophiles - If you are trying to decide which one to get for your daughter's 5th birthday party, be advised that you can usually find a two-fer-one special, but they are rarely if ever advertised as such. If that is not your plan, however, then here's some advice: You probably want to go with the clown. A pedophile might well be remembered for much longer, but trust me -- you're not going to want to foot the bill for all those visits to the shrink when she's older.
stealth nudist - I am pretty sure I saw one of these guys in the public library once. The day I happened to surprise him in the stacks, only about 5 or 6 inches of him was a nudist.
how to get your girlfriend to try the zoophilia - My advice: You need to take her to a really nice place, where you know the zoophilia will be expertly prepared. Order an expensive bottle of red wine and when the waiter comes, order the zoophilia for both of you. Some women don't like when men do that, but most of the time the zoophilia isn't on the menu. So in this case at least, you will look like you know what you're doing. Also, slipping the waiter 20 bucks beforehand will get him to act all impressed and say "The zoophilia is excellent tonight. A very good choice, sir." That's sure to score points with your girlfriend. After that, if she likes it, you can make it a regular thing, like on your anniversary or her birthday.
I'm shedding hair but that doesn't mean i'm balding - Shock. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Acceptance. Get to steppin'.
undescended testicle talking to my girlfriend - I find myself wondering if you've taped any of these alleged conversations, because I am very curious as to what they talk about. I mean, they come from such different backgrounds that I can't imagine that they have much in common. I wouldn't worry about it too much. In time, they'll realized they live in different worlds and the friendship will fade away.
That's all she wrote for now. If anyone could have told me last week I'd be getting 10 hits a day on "flava delicious" and 10 more variations on that general theme, I would have never written about it. Between that and people looking for "nudies" It's taking me a lot longer to sort through my searches to find the good ones.
At the flu clinic, when the woman gave me the shot, I distinctly heard what sounded like air bubbles being injected, so all night I've been sitting here waiting for one to work its way to my heart. So far so good -- I'm still alive and kicking.
After that I went to the PT's office, he was doing his pressing and prodding on my arm, stretching tendons, etc. About ten minutes into it, he stops and says "I'll be right back." A few moments later, he comes in with this black nylon strap thing with buckles on it.
"Is that the harness for my helper monkey?" I asked hopefully.
He didn't laugh. I figured out why pretty quickly because two seconds later, he strapped himself into the thing. I guess they sometimes use a strap around the neck as kind of third hand when they're working on someone. I'm not positive, but I think he added a little excessive force to my therapy after that. My arm still hurts.
Dammit. I was really looking forward to that helper monkey, too.
Have you all seen this new diet supplement that Carmen Electra is prostituting herself for? I am 100% sure that Carmen Electra has never even opened a bottle of this stuff, let alone actually consumed it for any length of time. How stupid do they think people are? Pretty goddamn stupid, apparently.
It's call NV. (get it?) The thing that cracks me up -- other than Carmen and her Electric boobies prancing in the ocean breezes, of course -- is the fact that the ad shows a before and after shot of some woman, and the voice over says "Angeline lost 35lbs with NV, diet and exercise."
I submit that you could pretty much substitute any non-lethal substance in place of "NV" in that sentence, and you'd still be telling the truth.
"Angeline lost 35lbs with deep-fried Hostess fruit pies, diet and exercise."
"Angeline lost 35lbs with sauteed dog crap, diet and exercise."
"Angeline lost 35lbs with Starbucks skim lattes, diet and exercise."
Actually that last one is probably pretty close to the truth, if you want to compare the active ingredients of Starbucks coffee and these pills. The active ingredient in this NV crap is Theobromide, which is an xanthine-derivative of caffeine. So apparently caffeine, combined with diet and exercise, is the hat-trick recipe for weight loss.
So I guess what I'm saying here is that if you have a choice between getting the caffeine part of this equation from (a) a pill that costs almost a buck a piece or (b) a pill that costs 20 cents apiece, or (c) an enjoyable hot beverage that costs anywhere from a $1.50 to $4.50 a cup, my advice would be to just diet and exercise.
I know both of those things suck, but if you're not going to do them, you might as spend your 60 bucks a month on ho-hos. Or even just a single ho, for that matter. If you can get her to take you out for coffee after you're done, then all you have to worry about is the diet part of the equation.
Here's a tip: Skip the danish.
"Cool," I thought. "A horror movie."
Unfortunately, when the picture finally kicked in, it was a horror movie of a completely different sort. I was greeted by a woman with her ankles around her ears, each leg being held back by a masked figure, while a third masked figure was busy doing something between her legs.
Now, I know what you're thinking, and I'm far too cheap to actually pay hard-earned cash for those channels when the internet is right there. Even so, I will put your collective minds at ease by mentioning the fact that they were all wearing scrubs, and the set was actually an operating room.
I must have blacked out for a second, because the next thing I know, I'm watching deleted scenes from Lord of the Rings, and they're showing the alternate footage of the Origin of Gollum:
In this particular deleted scene, it showed how he was plucked from the magical uterus of a fair maiden by the Wizard in Blue, who was never actually in the book. I think that's probably why the scene got cut.
I did learn a couple of things from this, however.
First, I learned that I should never watch the Discovery Health Channel while I'm trying to eat.
Second, I learned why they always use three month-old babies in the movies whenever they need to show a newborn -- It's because they want the audience to go "Awwwwwwwwwwww" and not "AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Yes, for some reason it's news that Flava-Flav is expecting his sevinf child. He's currently dating "Deelishis" -- who was a winner on his show. It's actually his second true love because, according to the article, his dalliance with "Hoopz," last year's winner and one true love, didn't work out.
The funny part is that Deelishis ain't his baby mama. It's actually a different woman that he got pregnant. I'm not sure, but I'm betting she was probably at least a finalist in something somewhere.
On the one hand, I guess he can afford as many kids as he wants, and it has to be pretty cool to have a reality show that provides you with an undending stream of hotties ripe for the plucking, but seriously, the dude wears a fucking wall clock around his neck and has gold teeth. How screwed up are his kids going to be? You know two things about them right off the bat: They won't know how to spell, and they'll always know what time it is.
And Flav, I realize that you date a lot of women -- and I can get behind that wholeheartedly -- but do you really have to knock up every single one? I'm just sayin'.
The thing about it that struck me funny was that on the back they listed all the "multi-surfaces" you can use it on, complete with pictures. They also had a list of specific things you probably should avoid using it on, like your ass, your baby, or your baby's ass, for instance. Oddly enough,there are no pictures of those things. This is what the back looks like:
The usage directions are pretty detailed, but there were a few things I found confusing.
Seriously, is there a male anywhere who doesn't want a higher shine on his wood? I think not. And why they want you to go around the house and unplug everything before you open the envelope is beyond me, but that's what I did because that ominous note scared me a little.
Did you notice the "DO NOT USE" text in bright green? Personally, I don't think that's big enough. And what if a potential consumer can't read? They would have no choice but to go by pictures. That being said, here's what I think the back of it should look like:
Actually, just the thought of someone using lemon Pledge wipes to treat their hemorrhoids made me laugh and gave me an idea. I decided to drop an e-mail to their customer support folks, just to get their opinion on that. Here's what I wrote:
Hi there -
I was hoping you could answer a question for me. I recently purchased some of your Pledge Multi-surface pre-moistened wipes, and I've used them on myself quite a few times in a rather "sensitive" area, since I was out of the pre-moistened wipes that I usually purchase (Tucks). I was wondering if that could be harmful in any way.
It wasn't until recently that I noticed the line on the back that says "do not use for personal hygiene or as a baby wipe." When I saw that, I immediately discontinued my use, even though they seemed to work even better than Tucks Medicated pads, and I really liked the clean, lemony-fresh scent they left behind.
I didn't notice any irritation or redness -- in fact, just the opposite. They must have some anti-chafing properties as well, because I've never felt so "friction-free" back there. Anyway, I'd like to continue using them in this fashion if you can tell me that it's perfectly safe to do so.
Thank you very much,
The next day, I got this reply:
Thank you for your email regarding PLEDGE® Wipes. I'm sorry you thought these products were for personal hygiene. They are really not recommended nor designed for such use.
In answer to your question, since the most common PLEDGE® Wipes products are PLEDGE® Wipes in Lemon and with Orange Oil, I can tell you the ingredients of these particular products are not considered skin irritants. However, if skin contact occurs we recommend washing the area with soap and water.
If you have additional questions related to the safety of this products or another PLEDGE® Wipe product, please call our SCJ Medical Information line at 866-231-5406. They will be happy to address any other concerns you may have.
If we can help in the future, please do not hesitate to contact us again.
Consumer Relationship Center
SC Johnson, A Family Company
Toll Free Number: 1-800-558-5252
Reference Number: 012913843A
That medical info line is looking pretty tempting. Once I think I can keep a straight face while I'm asking questions, I'm totally on it. So if you walk by my desk and you overhear me asking someone on the phone if it's ok if I brush my teeth with Pledge, don't be alarmed.
It's just me gathering much-needed information for you, my faithful readers. When your butthole is lemony-fresh and streak-free, you'll thank me.
Oh yes, you will.
Normally, you would think that the reasons for getting out of the retail music business would have a lot to do with the cost of maintaining a storefront when the warehouse-based internet music stores like Sweetwater are deep-discounting the same gear you're selling for 30% less. You have to get tired of cheap-ass musicians coming in and taking up your valuable time to try something out, and then going home and ordering it from the 'net. You also might think that dealing with musicians would be pretty sketchy business in general, since they're not known for their stellar credit.
Those are all very good reasons for deciding to pack it in. His reason is none of those, however. Actually, it is one I didn't expect.
The postcard said he was getting out because he felt that "God is calling me to start something new."
I'm betting that conversation went something like this:
"Dave's Guitar Shop, this is Dave. Can I help you?"
"Hey, man! This is God. You get those new HHX Sabians in yet? My old Paiste cymbals have been really sucking it lately."
"God! Holy shit! I haven't talked to you since you drunk-dialed me from Vancouver on your last tour. How's it hangin' bro? Yeah, we just got a shipment, but I haven't unboxed it yet. They should be here. Can I get your number and I'll give you call when I know for sure?"
"Well, it's unlisted and I don't usually give it out. I had it in the book for a while, but people kept calling me up and asking for this and asking for that...it was a major pain in the ass so I quit that shit and got a new unlisted one. Anyway, I hope you don't mind, but I'd prefer to just call back."
"No worries. I'll probably know later tonight. We have to do inventory. Not to use your name in vain or anything, but Goddammit, I hate doing inventory."
"Yeah, I hear that one a lot. Hey, wait a sec! I just remembered something. I'm all-knowing! Let me check....hot damn! Yeah, they came in. They're in the second box closest to the loading dock door. Think you could pull them for me?"
"Sure. You coming in to pick them up? Hey, any chance you can send down a quick inventory? It would save me a shitload of time."
"Sorry, man. I only help those who help themselves, remember? Get off your lazy ass! Ha. Actually I was thinking that maybe you could deliver them unto me. It'll give us a chance to catch up. I've been meaning to talk to you about this idea I had, and I guess this is as good a time as any."
"What now? Not Amway again, I hope. I already told you, I'm not buying any of that shit off you."
"No, nothing like that. OK, are you ready for this? I'm putting the band back together. AND I was hoping maybe you could come on the road with us. Hear me out on this. I know how much you miss playing, and well, frankly -- Luke's been a bit of a dick lately, and he's been missing rehearsals. We've been doing some bar gigs to try out some new material, and he can't even play his own solos for My sake. Plus, It doesn't look very professional when he's all raptured up on whatever the hell he's on. I think I'm gonna have to cut him loose. The rest of the guys agree that he needs to be replaced, and your name was the first one that came up."
"Really? Me? Dude, I don't know what to say. I mean, I'm honored and everything, but...I'm not really into that Christian Rock stuff. No offense, but it's always about You. Which is cool if someone else is doing it, but when you guys do it, it comes off like you're a bunch of pompous pricks."
"DO NOT MAKE ME SMITE THEE!!"
"OK, OK! I'm in! E-mail me the mapquest directions, and I'll grab my guitar and be there in the morning. Chill out. Jesus! It was nothing personal. Hey, speaking of that crazy son of yours, is he still doing sound?"
"I'm sorry, man. That was totally un-fucking-called for. It's been a rough night. Yeah, Jesus is still doing sound, you know, still diggin' it. Between you and me, though, the last rehearsal didn't go well at all, and we're looking for you to be the glue. And I know you've probably heard that I've been going through some shit with Mary...anyway, all stories for another time. I'll see you in the morning. It'll be fun."
"Done deal. Want me to bring anything?"
"Nah, just the cymbals. I'll fax over the song list -- and oh, a word of advice -- Avoid I-90 like, well, like the plague. Trust me. You won't be sorry."
"Thanks. OK, I gotta go get some postcards printed. I'll see you around ten or so. Later, G."
"Later, D-man. Keep it real. And hey, there's a box under your desk. I admit I'm no graphic designer, but check out the postcards and let me know what you think."
Oct 16, 11:55 PM (ET)
FORT BRAGG, N.C. (AP) - Kiss rocker Gene Simmons appeared at a North Carolina Army base Monday to promote a new line of cosmetic fragrances. Those buying Kiss Him cologne or Kiss Her perfume for $39 got an autograph or photo taken with Simmons, the flamboyant Kiss bass player famous for wearing black and white makeup and sticking out his long tongue.
The line of people waiting to meet Simmons snaked out the door at the Fort Bragg post exchange where the fragrances are sold. Kiss, one of the top heavy metal acts of the 1970s, also has a coffee shop in Myrtle Beach, S.C., that opened this year. Simmons and other members of the band launched the fragrance products Oct. 1.
Um, perfume and coffee shops? My first thought was that they are not branching out in the direction I'd expect, but then I realized the Kiss Army looks like this now:
So coffee shops, at least, make perfect sense.
I wonder if the perfume smells like old-man sweat and groupie dentures.
The meeting in question was our weekly status meeting, which is usually scheduled for an hour and falls right between breakfast and lunch. In other words, it falls in prime bathroom time. You've just downed a 36 oz. cup of coffee and quite possibly a Mountain Dew, and even though you went to the can before the meeting, you know that by the end of the meeting you're going to be doing the pee-pee dance in your cube, just counting the seconds until the meeting ends. Incidentally, the reason that I can do the pee-pee dance with wanton abandon is because I am not on site, and therefore I dial into the meeting via audio conference from my desk.
Which brings me to the next point. A point that I was, until yesterday's meeting, entirely sure everyone on god's green earth knew. It turns out that this particular person is unaware, and this blog entry will be my attempt to educate him in the serious and seriously annoying error of his ways.
As a general rule, the last thing that shows up on the meeting agenda is something called, for lack of a better term, "Rounds." The purpose of "Rounds" is to give the people at the meeting one last chance to bring up a topic or ask a last-minute question that wasn't covered elsewhere in the meeting.
The thing about "Rounds" that everyone except this person seems to instinctively know is that there is only one possible and accepted response that should be made when your manager is going around the table asking everyone by name if they have anything to add. That response is "Nothing here," or "No, I'm all set" or even something as simple and to the point as "No." All variations on a theme, and all variations expressly designed to avoid the facilitation of further discussion, because as everyone else seems to understand, the object of the meeting is to get the fucking thing over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.
If you have a follow-up question, bring it up later in an e-mail, or a phone call, or god forbid, during another face-to-face meeting. Whatever you do, do not string them all at the end of "Rounds."
When you do this, it makes two things happen. One, it causes the meeting you're in to overlap the next one you're supposed to be attending -- with no time in between to do anything other than drop your pants right where you are and piss in an empty Mountain Dew bottle. Two, it makes the other people at the meeting want to hang you with CAT-5 cable until you are dead.
As I was standing there doing the pee-pee dance and gauging the volume and straw-hole size of a Veryfine juicebox, he asked not ONE, not TWO, but THREE different follow-up questions. When our manager asked him if there was anything else, and he mercifully said "No," I actually muttered "GOOD!" into the phone, not realizing I had done so.
I can't be held responsible for wanting him to die, because at that point, I was blinded by the pee-pain. When I heard the laughter on the other end of the line, I realized I didn't have my phone muted like I had originally thought.
So take my advice, people. And you, my anonymous coworker -- pay close attention.
"Rounds" = "Nothing Here."
Remember that. It will serve you, your co-workers, and my bladder well.
"A stigmatism?" I replied.
"No AN astigmatism," he said.
"Is that fancy doctor talk for can't see shit?" I asked.
Turns out it's fancy doctor talk for why my left eyeball was no longer exactly left-eyeball-shaped. For some reason, it decided that being round was no longer hip and cool, and went all oblong up in that bitch.
Right after that, I was snowboarding and there was a yard sale whereupon I went one way and my board went the other. For those of you who snowboard, you know how difficult actually getting that to happen really is. Since your feet are basically fastened to the board, the only way you can do it is by ripping your foot completely out of the boot. The unfortunate result of this ass over Gortex maneuver was that the ligaments in my left ankle were pulled like taffy. Six weeks wearing a brace followed by some PT and I was almost-but-not-quite-right. I still limp when I first jump out of bed in the morning.
Next, the rotator cuff of my left shoulder decided that it has had quite enough bench pressing thank you very much, and it went on strike in the middle of a work out. I'm not exactly sure how this happened, since my shoulders pretty much work as a pair, and hence should have roughly the same warranty. It's not like my left shoulder is out partying all night without the right one, although I can't confirm that since I'm busy sleeping.
Most recently, my left elbow has been hurting like hell. And I know what you're thinking and that's not the problem, so shut it. I think I originally effed it up moving 5 cords of wood from one spot to another. I accomplished this firewood move by throwing it, a single log at a time, which in retrospect was probably not the most efficient method. I had a few cortisone shots, but it hasn't really helped, other than to tweak my fear of needles.
On the bright side, I can still hear pretty good out of my left ear, and my left hand can still remember how to type. Perhaps I'm done with the left-leaning deterioration for a while -- although I have a sneaking suspicion that my left testicle is hanging a little lower than my right.
I'll have to keep an eye on it --you know, just to make sure it doesn't roll out of my pant leg at an inopportune time.
It's shower gel.
Looks pretty ordinary, doesn't it?
In reality, however, it's not ordinary in the slightest. Here's the actual product description (and I am not making this up):
The olive branch has been a symbol of peace for millennia; our gel has 3% organic olive oil from two sources: an olive grove formerly owned by the Sicilian Mafia and now run as a co-operative by former homeless drug addicts and a Palestinian-Israeli joint venture run by women on land in occupied territories which was being wasted as a result of the conflict.
I'm sure that my laughing out loud wasn't quite the reaction their marketing department was shooting for, but I couldn't help it. It totally sounds like the set up for a joke.
Also, I want to know how a bunch of homeless crack heads and women in Burquas beat up the Mafia. And not just any Mafia, either. The Sicilian Mafia. It seems impossible to me, unless the Israeli part of the "joint venture" consisted entirely of Special Forces teams acting on Mossad intel.
Here's the link, in case you want to pay too much for something and feel 3% good about yourself. I've added it to my amazon wish list, so when I get it, I'll let you know how it smells.
I hope it doesn't smell like homeless guy, because I've already got that scent covered.
Here's one I see all the time, for a dating service called True:
I'm torn on this particular one, because while it's not likely that a cowgirl slut with fake tits would be anything other than naughty, it's certainly within the realm of possibility.
That being said, I think I'm gonna have to play the odds and go with a big Naughty on this one.
On this last trip, we encountered a new low.
In addition to the (sadly expected) assorted plastic cups and bags, my wife found a used condom, just lying there, dejected and deflated, about 15 feet from the fire pit.
For the life of me, I can't understand it. I can't understand why I have to bury piles of human shit and pick up garbage because the people who were there before us are too stupid or lazy to dig a hole or bring a garbage bag. Seriously, how hard is it to bury a condom?
Why don't these people just stay the hell home and drink? Their dorm room or parents' basement has to be more comfortable than sleeping out in the woods in a tent. Why go through the hassle of driving two and a half hours and then canoeing an additional hour in order to act like complete morons in the middle of nowhere?
If anyone reading this right now doesn't understand the concept of "if you carry it in, carry it out," this post is for you. As such, I have a few tips for you, especially if you happen to be one of the people below. Feel free to take them or leave them, but I'd actually just prefer that you die.
Loud Guy across the lake with the Bronx accent who uses the F-word in every single sentence: Just because it's quiet doesn't mean you have to scream at the top of your lungs every five minutes, is all I'm saying. You're there. We get it. You exist. However, let me tell you this -- You are the reason involuntary sterilization exists. I am sorry to say that in this case, the concept has miserably failed the rest of humanity by letting your baboon/hyena parents bring you and your mutant litter-mates to term.
Parents who refuse to let your new baby impact your outdoorsy lifestyle: Face it. Your life has changed. Just because you have an SUV instead of a minivan because you refuse to admit your life is no longer your own, it doesn't mean you don't have a kid. And once you have a kid, you have certain societal responsibilities, like not inflicting your kid on other people, either knowingly or unknowingly. So listen carefully: If you must go camping with your 2 year old, please refrain from leaving full pampers in the fire pit when you go back home. I realize you don't want to burn or bury them, (or god forbid carry them out) but neither do I. In fact, given a choice, I would burn and bury you and your child instead.
Kayakers who have inane conversations with each other while 500 yards apart: Here's a tip for you -- there is no invisible forcefield that keeps you from paddling next to each other and conversing in a normal tone of voice. Don't talk loudly about how you don't see any wildlife. The reason you are not seeing any wildlife is because you don't shut your fucking pie hole for 30 seconds at a stretch. And other people on the lake don't really give a shit if you think that the only way to get a good watertight seal on a flat roof is to put down rubber sheeting first.
People who try to burn things that any brain-damaged drooling idiot would realize will not burn, or should not BE burned: This list includes 14" diameter, 6-foot long logs that were actually intended to be used to sit around the fire. Also on the list - freshly cut pine trees that you just chopped down. Also please add picnic tables, cans, bottles and out-house doors as well. It takes the rangers quite a bit of time to bring materials by boat to a remote campsite and set up a picnic table. Don't burn it.
Chainsaw/generator guy: Just go the fuck home. Now. Someone needs to knock out your single remaining tooth and then pack it into your esophagus with their car. This is not a drive-n-camp at Lake George. This is a remote lake in the middle of nowhere, and some people come here to get away from noise. You are the only tool on the entire lake with an outboard motor, a generator and a chainsaw, and that should tell you something.
I apologize for the rant, but dammit that felt good. Call me a sanctimonious tree hugger, I don't care. I'm really not though. I just have common sense and a little bit of courtesy for my fellow campers.
Anyway, after I buried the condom (that sounds dirty, doesn't it?) we did nothing but read, eat, sleep and relax for two days. It was glorious.
It seems an individual with a "violent personality" (to quote the pilot) was about to open a giant can of whoop-ass on his girlfriend while sitting right in seats 19B and C. I guess he got a little cranky and threatened the stewardess when she told him to keep it down and watch his language. Apparently, he didn't think she'd really call the cops.
Bzzzzt! Wrong answer, Eminem. You don't fuck around on planes, at least not any more.
So someone is sleeping in Cleveland tonight while their girlfriend flies the friendly skies with lots of extra leg room.
I'm home now, and it feels pretty damn good. God, I hate to travel.
I'm sitting here in a hotel room in Cleveland listening to the ocean and seagulls, and now my shirt for tomorrow smells like pee.
"Why does your shirt smell like pee, Johnny?" you may ask.
"Because I just ironed it," I would reply, "and I am fairly sure someone recently pissed in the iron."
I deduce this because the steam emanating from it smells like the bathroom at work, had the bathroom at work been heated to two hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Gotta love these high-class hotels. So if I smell like pee tomorrow, it's not my fault.
Oh yeah -- if you're wondering about the ocean and seagulls, there's some sort of cheesy sound generator that takes the place of the regular old am/fm clock radio. I think it was upgraded along with the flat-screen TV that you can't change the aspect ratio on, so everyone looks short and fat. I gotta tell you though -- It proved to me that Evangeline Lilly would still be hot even if she was 4 feet tall and weighed 170lbs. Anyway, this thing is set to "ocean." Unfortunately, the only way you wouldn't notice the loop point on this piece of shit is if you have short-term memory damage and your melon violently resets itself every 15 seconds.
On the way out here this morning it was so foggy we had to sit on the runway for about 20 minutes waiting for the fog to lift. It was a pain in the ass, but I had the emergency exit seat with nobody sitting next to me, so I got to spread out a bit. The flight itself was fine, but the landing was a little interesting. For some reason, we hit pavement and we were coasting along nicely when the pilot slammed on his brakes and banked hard left. It was the airplane equivalent of driving down the highway in the fast lane and then noticing you were about to miss your exit and instead of just continuing to the next one, you cut across three lanes of traffic and hit the cloverleaf at 85mph. Not sure what that was about, but my nap was over.
I usually take the subway into the office, so I paid my buck seventy-five and sat down on a train that apparently belonged to Mr. T. As we were about to pull out of the station, a large bling-wearing black dude wearing an RTA coat yelled "DOORS CLOSIN!" and the train started moving. A few seconds later, he yelled at some poor white woman who had her bag about 3 inches into the aisle. "MA'AM! MOVE YOUR BAG to either the LUGGAGE RACK or the SEAT NEXT TO YOU. RTA REGULATIONS STATE THAT THE AISLE MUST BE FREE OF OBSTRUCTIONS AT ALL TIMES!" She jumped like she had been tasered in the ass and grabbed her bag off the floor.
At the next stop, a woman with a stroller got on and the stroller was in the aisle. Mr. T immediately sensed a disturbance in the subway force, and popped back out of his hidey hole.
"BREAK DOWN THE STROLLER AND GET IT OUT OF THE AISLE," he yelled in his bestest and loudest authoritative voice. "HOLD THE BABY ON YOUR LAP. THIS IS FOR OUR SAFETY AND THE SAFETY OF YOUR BABY."
I was a split-second away from doing what he said, and it wasn't even my stroller.
This woman, however, was clearly taking no shit from him. She yelled back, "IT'S BROKEN, IT DON'T BREAK DOWN, AND I AIN'T WAKIN' UP MY BABY." Case closed. He wasn't about to get in a fist fight with a 240 lb. angry black woman with cankles the size of my thighs, so he let it go. RTA regulations be damned.
When I de-trained, I stopped at Caribou Coffee (the resident Starbucks clone) to get a quick cup of joe before heading to the office. The guy in front of me illustrated exactly why this place was not, and never would be, any competition for Starbucks.
He walked up to the girl behind the counter and order something called a "Pumpkin Steamer." Maybe it's just me, but if I were in charge of the marketing department at Caribou Coffee I would know better than to open a store in Cleveland and put anything at all on the menu that involved the word "steamer."
And on a final note -- If you think blogging is a waste of time, it's nothing compared to this.
I had to read the article if only to find out if they meant "shots" like bang-bang-bang-you-have-bullet-holes-in-you-now-and-you're-bleeding to-death in-your-Escalade, or "shots" like calling Fiddy a dick in rhyme or something. In this case, it was the latter. But The Game got kicked out of G-Unit, so it stands to reason. G-unit, for god's sake. You can't get kicked out of that and go on to live a life not full of bitterness and anger.
OK, I really have no idea what a "G-unit" is, because I am not a fan of rap, as I'm sure you've heard me say before. But after accidentally reading an article about something called Chingy the other day, (only to find out what, exactly, a "Chingy" was) I have discovered something:
Rappers have officially run out of good names.
I say this with certainty --however, keep in mind that I have absolutely no idea what makes a good or bad rap name, so I could be wrong. But probably not.
I decided I'd do a little research, based upon my limited exposure to the world of famous people who shoot each other for fun, and it seems that certain prefixes have been co-opted by the rapping set.
Lil', for instance. You've got your Lil' Al, Lil' Blacky, Lil' Bobb'e Bling, Lil' Boosie, Lil' C Style, Lil' Cease, Lil' Eazy E, Lil' Fate, Lil' Flip, Lil' Fly, Lil' jon, Lil' Keke, Lil' Kim, Lil' Larry, Lil' Moe, Lil' Rob**, Lil' Romeo, Lil' Ron, Lil' Scrappy, Lil' Sicko, Lil' Troy, Lil' Uno, and Lil' Wayne.
And conversely, to keep the Lil's in line, you have your Bigs. Big Gibb, Biggy Smalls, Big Hutch, Big L, Big Lurch, Big Moe, Big Prodeje, Big City, Big Daddy Kane, Big Gee, Big Gipp, Big Punisher, Big Riqq, Big Scoot, Big Shasta, Big Sty, Big Syke, Big T, Big Tuck, Big Tymers, and Big Yoni.
I wonder if Big Moe could make Lil' Moe do his evil bidding. I think he could.
There are also a buttload of DJs. DJ Cherry Martinez, DJ Clue, DJ Crazy Toones, DJ Cut Chemist, DJ Demp, DJ Dove, DJ EFN, DJ Envy, DJ Green Lantern*, DJ Jams Jay, DJ Kay Slay, DJ Khaled, DJ Maxximus. DJ Paul, DJ Quik, DJ Scratch, DJ Shadow, DJ Spinna, DJ Storm, DJ Strong, DJ Whoo kid, and DJ Yella.
We also have lots of Youngs. Almost no Olds at all, because I don't think gangsta rappers live very long as a general rule. A few Cools. A smattering of J's. Not as many MCs as I expected.
So obviously, individuality is a big part of picking your rap name.
Once I got to this final list, I knew that all the good ones must have been taken:
Hall of Justus
I am pretty sure Equipto and Intellekt have their headquarters in the Hall of Justus, but I could be wrong. And Dolla Willa sounds like something that fought Mothra over Tokyo. Also, I am especially impressed with Hi-C, who apparently picked his rap name while eating a hearty breakfast. I have a feeling it was a toss up between that or Frostid Flaykz.
Oh yeah, and don't forget Z-Ro, who seems to have a problem with low self-esteem, and Droop-E, who I can only hope is shooting for that "bad really means good" thing -- otherwise it's an unfortunate choice, and it's probably not going to get him laid much.
So to sum up, I can't tell you the difference between hip-hop, rap, east-coast, west-coast or gansta, but I do know this:
I'm just a middle-class white boy and I don't understand your complicated rapper ways.
By the way -- I'd appreciate it if alla y'all don't kill me.
*DC comics should sue the bling off this guy.
**Lil' Rob? I expected Lil' Curly, or maybe Lil' Shemp
From the reading material in someone's bathroom, you can tell a lot about them. For instance, here's the contents of our reading bucket:
Cabalas Fall 2006 - This one comes to the house addressed to my wife. What can you tell about her from this? You can tell that she is in the market for a tree stand, some new camo clothing and a bitchin' turkey call. I think she had her eye on that jumbo bottle of deer piss, too -- but the page wasn't folded over so I don't know for sure.
Victoria's Secret - This one comes to the house addressed to me. There are usually three or four different VS catalogs in there. From this you can tell I am in the market for a tall, insanely built, extremely hot model with her own personal wind tunnel who will walk around my house in nothing but her underwear, 24x7. Either that, or I'm in the market for a boy short that won't show any panty-lines through my jeans. Also, if I am ever in need a bra that will completely erase my nipples, they've got me covered.
Women's Health - One of my wife's contributions to the bucket. One thousand ways to use a giant blow-up ball to exercise. How to eat right. How to examine your boobs. How to cook a 5-course meal in under 30 seconds. How to do it while examining your boobs. How to get a tight, round ass in 3 minutes a day. I am amazed by the stuff I learn in my own bathroom. My ass is not yet round and tight, however, so I take what I read with a grain of salt.
Sportsman's Guide - Everything you need to shoot stuff. Actually, everything you need, period. Military surplus, sporting goods overstocks, stained-glass windows, housewares, beer-making kits, you name it. It's the strangest combination of miscellaneous crap you've ever witnessed, and one of my absolute favorites. I've purchased and sent back more shoddy merchandise from this place than from any other. About 3 out of ten times, I get a great deal on something, and it keeps me coming back. I can't resist it. Where else can you get a bull-scrotum candy dish, a pair of full-arm pull-on tattoo sleeves, an electric generator, an inflatable canoe and a complete set of deer antler silverware -- all on the same invoice?
Eating Well Magazine - Not sure about this one. In truth, I've never actually opened it. I'm not saying I don't intend to someday, but come on -- there are three Victoria's Secret catalogs just sitting there.
National Geographic - I don't even know where this one came from. Probably slipped in there by some shady house guest trying to give me some culture on the sly. But...Victoria's Secret.
Writer's Digest - This one is all mine. I will get published one of these days. I realize that I probably need to submit something somewhere for that to happen, however that realization hasn't really helped my writing career in the slightest, because I am nothing if not lazy.
The pattern I noticed? All the catalogs I purchase my wife's gifts from come addressed to me, and vice versa. Perfectly logical, if you think about it.
It still looks like I have a women's underwear fetish, though.
I am all for realism in my candy, but holy crap. This thing would scare the living shit out of a small child.
I half expected to hear crunching bone when I bit into it. It's the first candy I ever had that seemed actively pissed off that I was eating it. The whole time I was chewing, I felt like he was just waiting for a chance to get lodged in my throat and kill me.
How did it taste? I think it was supposed to be grape, but it was kinda bitter and almost devoid of any grape-like flavor, natural or otherwise.
My advice to you -- avoid Lex Luthor's head if at all possible.*
*That sounds pretty gay.
I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that clown wanted to eat me alive.
Why do I mention this? Well, a while back I was looking in the phone book for coal dealers, and it just so happens that there isn't much stuff between "co" and "cl" in our phone book. As a result, I found myself face to face with a page full of clowns.
Seriously, this area must have the shittiest clowns on the face of the earth. The names alone made me hang my head in shame.
I got thinking about what some of these misfits must look like.
No, I don't know why. And no, I also don't know why I spent two hours of my life scanning pictures and mucking around in Photoshop. Hell, I don't even know why I have a blog, other than it's a place to write down the weird things I notice.
Be that as it may, I mocked up a little picture to go with each yellow-page ad. It's what I imagine these clowns must look like -- based solely on their self-appointed clown names.
Without further ado, I present: Twinkles
Twinkles has EVERYTHING to make your event special, as long as your event involves lots of penis, and you consider irreparable damage to your child's psyche special. Also, you do not want to see Twinkles turn around because his thong really leaves nothing to the imagination, including his apparent lifestyle choices.
Next in line: Bon Bon
Bon Bon got her name from, coincidentally enough, her favorite snack. Bon Bon likes corporate events and picnics. Especially picnics. Really, anything with food is good. If you hire her, watch her closely because there are some unsubstantiated reports of small children and dogs going missing at her gigs.
Next on the countdown, a long-distance dedication to: Wizzie. I shit you not.
This is Wizzie.
Wizzie also does gorilla-grams. He would have worn his Gorilla costume for this picture, but unfortunately it was soaked with pee. Wizzie puts on a good show, but make sure you have him do his act outside, since he's not really carpet-friendly.
And where, exactly, do you go to become a certified master balloon artist? I was not aware of that advanced program, and would like to find out more about it. I've been trying to get that CM designation for a long time, although I hear they're not as valuable as they used to be. Lots of paper CMs out there with no real-world balloon experience.
And of course, what self-respecting grange-hall hoedown in Hicksville, USA would be complete without: Skeeter
According to his ad, Skeeter has an "amazing" balancing act. I think this means he can balance a plate of potato salad on one knee and an ashtray on the other. I love the fact that he misuses the quotes.
Skeeter also does magic shows. I am willing to bet that any clown named Skeeter is probably pretty good at making beers disappear.
Almost last, and certainly not least: Yaa-Yaa
I don't know where he got his name, but I think it's probably from the YAAAAAAAAAA! YAAAAAAAAA! screaming noise children make when he "pretends" to bite the head off of Marshmellow. Face paintings are his specialty -- as long as you're ok with the paint looking suspiciously like rabbit blood. I like the misspelling of the rabbit's name. It makes me think the rabbit is stoned all the time, which he would have to be to deal with the stress of working with someone named Yaa-Yaa who he suspects is planning to kill him. I also like how he points out in his ad that the rabbit is "Live" and it gets almost equal billing. It's like sometime in the past he tried pulling a dead, stiff rabbit carcass out of his hat and it didn't go over as well as he thought it would.
Lastly, there are the clowns who can't afford a real advertisement, and just have a listing. Like these two guys:
My guess is these two used to work together and had some sort of falling out involving pies and squirting flowers. Now they're on their own, and neither one is making any serious money.
Keep your eyes peeled. I've heard rumors that there may be a reunion tour in the works. Once they figure out who gets top billing. Mr. Twisty & Nifty Gilifty or Nifty Gilifty & Mr. Twisty. It's a tough call.
With that little backgrounder, I'm here to say that the frog populations in the Adirondacks seem to be doing just fine -- they were all over the place. Tree frogs, bull frogs, leopard frogs, you name it. They were active and healthy and -- I would be remiss if I didn't mention this -- completely out of their little froggy minds.
After we got to the lake and paddled around for a few hours to find a good site, we unloaded the canoe. Since it had been a lengthy canoe ride, I had a definite need to take a leak, and while my wife was unpacking the gear, I wandered away from the campsite to find a grassy knoll. I was just getting ready to water this hapless plant when something from the grass launched directly at me, hitting me in the crotchal area. I almost screamed like a little girl, because if there is an exact moment in time a guy is at his most vulnerable, it's when his weenie is exposed to cool forest air.
I took a hasty step backwards, and any thought of peeing instantly evaporated. I saw this thing hit the ground, and my mind registered "frog" just before it catapulted itself at me again. This time it hit me a little lower, slightly above the left knee, and stuck. It was a light-brown tree frog, a little over 2 inches in length. (I know this because it was exactly half the length of my...compass. Yeah, that's it. My compass.) I plucked it off of my pants, and dropped it in the grass.
Anyway, that was my first experience of weekend crazy frog. That night, after we ate, we started a campfire and commenced with the sacred Opening of the Unbreakable Bottle of Yukon Jack. After about a half hour, my wife heard something rustling next to the fire. She played her flashlight on this rock next to the fire, expecting a mouse or something, but instead there was a big leopard frog just sitting there looking at the fire.
I joked around and told her that frogs were cold-blooded and he was probably just sitting by the fire to warm up. My wife said, "Hurry! Get the camera and take a shot of this." So I got up, went to my backpack and grabbed the camera. I was about half-way back to the fire when my wife yelled, "OH MY GOD, he just JUMPED INTO THE FIRE!"
I thought she was crazy. Frogs, as far as I know, do not voluntarily jump directly into flames.
"He jumped right in, I'm telling you, I heard sizzling," my wife said as I prodded the logs with a stick and sniffed the fire for any hint of chicken. I dismissed her vision as a side effect of the Yukon, and sat back down.
Later on, when the fire wasn't doing so hot, I added some new wood and started fanning the flames trying to get it to catch more quickly. I was hunkered down, fanning for all I was worth, and the fire was blazing along pretty good when something jumped out from under my legs, and leapt directly into the flames. I saw this:
I have no idea what the hell was going on, but fried frog legs were definitely on the menu. Oh yeah, and about a half hour after that, a woodland jumping mouse rebounded off my back, hopped around the campsite for a few seconds and then bolted into the woods.
I have no idea what's in the water up there, but I wouldn't drink it. Hell, I wouldn't even recommend swimming in it. It's a beautiful place though.
Here's a couple pics:
This morning, at about 6:30.
Looking left from our campsite