By Cliff R
Wow, that title's not arrogant at all. I
probably should have gone with "Trivial Meanderings" or something
along those lines. It would be a tad more realistic.
So, what is this? Well, it's not a
story, since it really doesn't have any plot or developed characters or
anything like that. Of course, none of my so called stories contain any of
those 'necessary ingredients' either, so there you have it, or something.
Basically, for the last while I've found myself jotting down the sick, often
odd, and ever so occasionally interesting, thoughts that pop in to my head. And
now I'm typing them out, too. Why? Blind arrogance? For a change, no. I just
have a lot of time on my hands, and frankly, my hand writing gets so messy at
times that I have trouble reading it myself.
Anyway, here we go. Oh,
I'm gonna start off with some pieces of the ramblings I wrote down while
filling a WHOLE lot of time working security. Get ready for some disjointed
fun!
UPDATE! : Robert
Stack’s whereabouts! While Mr. Stack IS believed to still be alive, his career
is quite the opposite. Of course, there also remains the possibility that the
mysterious fog of suspense and intrigue that always seemed to be floating
eerily behind him on the Unsolved Mysteries set took him to some bizarre spirit
realm. But, what I MEANT to talk about was...for some reason I’ve decided to
intersperse quotes throughout these scrambled scribblings. Some are funny, some
are selected purely for their profound ability to offend. Hell, I think one or
two might even end up being profound...or something else
equally...well...profound. Ahem. Yes, well, that’s all.
Damn this free Mochaspresso!
I'm hard wired beyond belief, and in desperate need of some sort of 12 step
program, because I can't stop drinkin the shit! Maybe I'll go to AA. They deal
with drinking problems...choco-coffee's a drink...
"So, Cliff, tell
the rest of the group why you're here."
"No."
"Cliff, you have
no reason to be afraid to talk...we're all supporting each other, here. You
have nothing to be ashamed of."
"Well, I know
THAT. but the REST of you weepy yahoos are a different story! Say, here's a
suggestion, 'friend', stop after ONE six pack. I think you'll find yourself
waking up in alleyways in a puddle of your own urine a lot less frequently that
way. And you, poor wino guy, get hooked on expensive chardonnay you can't
afford. Hey, you can't buy it, you can't get drunk on it and arrested for
indecent exposure, right?"
"Kill the
infidel!"
At this point, I'd have
to flee to street level and run far away, dodging the beer kegs and whiskey
bottles being tossed towards my retreating form by the drunks in the office a
few floors up.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t break it.” - Charles Oakley, power forward
for the Toronto Raptors.
Hey, a stash of old
Journals! Dug out three crosswords...shit, I need the Sun, these are pathetic.
I feel like an 80 year old spinster here, you know, those old ladies always
doing the crosswords. Got nothing better to do than read the dictionary and
raise my 37 cats, or 'babies', as I'll be calling them. At least 5 will be
named Corduroy. And one each will be named after a member of the royal family,
whose every move I will study.
"Come on Philip,
Fergie, Liz, Andrew, Charles...time for din dins!"
Oh, what a delightful
time these cats and I will have! I'll have to spend half my social security
cheques on their food, which will cut into my ability to purchase afghan rugs
and Agatha Christie novels. But then, there's always Murder She Wrote and
Quincy in syndication, and I'll just avoid hardwood floors! I'll have to choose
which dinnertime news show to watch based entirely on which broadcast team
features an anchorman who "Looks like a nice boy." It will be
positively idyllic! And I can invite vacuum salesmen and door-to-door religious
wackjobs in, and bore them with hours worth of stories about my grandchildren,
along with accompanying albums full of dull, poorly taken photographs. Of
course, I'll only have about 40 minutes worth of actual stories, but my
Alzheimer’s will help me forget what I've told, and the hours will pass right
by! Then I'll name off all my cats for them. Well, up until 22 or so, when I'll
stop, look puzzled, laugh, and say "Oops! Made a mistake!" and START
ALL OVER! Actually, the last 15 or so cats probably won't even HAVE names,
because I'll never actually get to them all.
“It wasn’t like that! And besides, there was a protective barrier of
latex!” - Sam’s ‘defense’ of certain photos featuring him, Barry, and rubber
gloves.
I love having a
skeleton key. No room or office is inaccessible to me! they are all my bitches!
And what stupid bitches they are. Every office contains a desk, the kind the
owner can lock shut. Now, some of these people lock them...and then LEAVE THE
KEY in the DRAWER. OBVIOUSLY, if you're LOCKING it, you have reason to, right?
So, what's the deal? Yeah, that’s good and secure!
Burglar 1 : "Damn...this
one's locked. Pass me the crowbar, Dave, and I'll jimmy it open."
Burglar 2 : "Boss,
what about this key-like object stuck in the lock?"
Burglar 1 : Huh? Dave,
that's WAY too fuckin small to wrench the drawer open with! Now gimme the damn
crowbar!"
“Good judgement comes from experience. Experience comes from bad
judgement.”
-A
line on the show ‘City of Angels’.
I'm thinking of spicing
up my radio replies to the mobile drivers a bit.
"10-4, mobile one,
I got this place clamped up tighter'n the legs on a nun."
"10-4, mobile one,
everything's good here, thanks to your friendly neighborhood Spiderman."
(You know, Spiderman's bit doesn't make a Hell of a lot of sense, does it?
what, does EVERY neighborhood have it's own Spiderman? No. And it doesn't make
a lot of sense in the neighborly sense either, because not a lot of people have
much in common with a guy in a skintight leotard thingy who can cling to walls
and spew webbing from his wrists.)
(Chinese
accent)"10-4, mobile one. Charlie-10 in trees, waiting for USA show big
ugly white face in jungle."
“Don’t confuse the size of your paycheque with the size of your
talent.”
-Marlon Brando, speaking
to Val Kilmer during filming of ‘the Island of Dr. Moreau’.
So, I'm in the big
lunchroom here, sipping my...hmmm, coffee is Joe, let's call hot
chocolate...Stan. Anyway, sippin' my cup o' Stan, when I look over at the food
machines for the first time. You can actually buy Del Monte fruit in a can
outta this thing! Say, whatever happened to the man from Del Monte? Remember
him? Dressed like a tropical Colonel Sanders. Wore the white jacket and pants,
and one of those big, wide brimmed Panama hats. I'm thinkin he died in some
sort of slave uprising. I mean, come ON, 'the man' from Del Monte? You KNOW he
had his own personal clutch of Jamaicans, who he whipped and cursed at as they
picked his pineapples and plotted against him. Or maybe Mr. Noodle killed him
in some sort of convenience food turf war. Hmmm...Mr. Noodle IS in here, too,
and he's on the top shelf, while Del Monte's on the bottom. I guess he whupped
fruit boy's ass good.
And now we arrive at
Chef Boyardee. Now, how exactly did he get a whole pasta franchise named after
him? You KNOW it wasn't from his culinary talents, because he doesn't possess
any. That stuff's pretty nasty. Pasty pasta, gritty meat, thin sauce...wait a
minute...shit, Chef Boyardee IS the pasta! Probably a mob thing. They take the
people who go against them and throw them in a giant pasta maker! And since
Boyardee was the inaugural 'pasta man', then named the whole shebang after his
dead ass.
“Your eyes are where the summer lives, in pools of quiet fire. Come
mess with my sincerity, go down on my desire.” - Liner notes from the Robert
Plant CD, ‘Manic Nirvana’.
Here's something odd
and crazy and only come...uppable...with...(my, wasn’t THAT awkwardly put)
while talking on the phone with Kelly...lamb pirates! they could go anywhere,
using their cute nature and peaceful reputation as keys to any door! Then,
BAMMO, they throw on big pirate hats and eye patches and it's buccaneer time!
"Ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-arrrrrr!"
they would cry as they struck in brutal fashion with their vicious lambchop
attack, seeking revenge over every human being who ever tried to pull the wool
over their eyes. “You ba-a-a-a-a-a-stards!” they’d scream. Of course, they'd
have to be land based pirates. Drop a lamb in the ocean, and they’d soak up
water like some sort of ubersponge. And with that extra weight, they'd be
useful only as anchors, their sunken carcasses terrorizing helpless sea
anemones. So we'll toss em in land boats...Oldsmobiles and the like...and
they'll drive the highways of the world, terrorizing the south lane.
“I’ll say one thing for you, you’ve got guts...which will shortly
become apparent, when you explode.”
-Line from
the movie ‘Black Mask’, spoken by the bad guy, to a cop he has tied to a chair
with a bomb strapped to him.
So, what would happen
if a cannibal ever got lost in the middle of unfamiliar jungle? Chances are he
wouldn't come across too many stupid white scientists whose trust he could
easily gain before devouring them. And I don't think that someone with a taste
for human flesh could just up and start subsisting on deer and berries and chickens...unless
maybe human flesh DOES taste like chicken. Of course, I've never heard of
jungle chickens, so I guess he'd pretty much be shitfucked. So, would he be
forced to eat HIMSELF until he was found? Man, by the time he got back, he'd
lose 10-15 pounds! Of course, he'd likely bleed to death before that, but why
bring rational fact in to this now? It could even form the basis of a new
weight loss system!
"I lost 13 pounds
by eating my own ass, and so can you! Eat yourself to a slimmer, trimmer you!
This system comes complete with a knife and fork, splatterguard sheets,
assorted gouging and cutting instruments, Bounty paper towels...the quicker
picker upper!...and a burial plot in case you bleed out during the diet.
(Disclaimer : not responsible for development of health problems, unsightly
scar tissue, or death. Do not consult with a doctor at all, as he will dissuade
you from trying our system, removing your valuable dollars from our coffers of
veritable blood money.)
Of course, this begs
another question. If you ate your own fatty tissue, would you LOSE weight?
“Way to come out of the uterus!”
-James’
comment to Tim about his birthday.
People often remark on
how happy little infants tend to be. You know what I mean, how they lie back in
their crib or what not, looking up at their surroundings, smiling at those
inevitably looking down at them. And why the Hell not? I'd smile and laugh a
lot, too, if people made ridiculous noises and puckered their faces up every
damn time they were around me! People act and talk like total head cases around
babies, then take it as GOOD when the little bastard laughs at them!? Can you
imagine such an exchange between two ADULTS?
"Bill, coochie
coochie coo, Bill! You widdle cutey toodle, you! Yes you are! Oh, yes you
are!"
"HAHA! you are
SUCH a retard, Bob! HAHAHA!"
"Hey, look
everyone, Bill's laughing again! Yeah, that's right, let's all gather round as
he mocks us! Uh oh...Bill...did we make a little poopy?"
So, babies laugh and
laugh, and of course they should! How could they not feel totally superior to
this gaggle of oddly mutated morons who spend a lot of time making gurgling
noises? Of course, eventually they realize they are the product of the DNA of
two of the aforementioned morons (something they'd learn about in the reference
section of the womb, I suppose), and then begin to cry.
“You’ve got to find the balance between Romeo and a rapist.” - a guy on
Blind Date, talking about how women always find men either too nice, or not
nice enough.
There's nothing quite
like the momentary burst of irrational panic when the supply room you're in
becomes about as light as a crypt. And of course, the first thought bubble over
my tired head is "Oh my GOD, a crazy man with an AXE has turned off the
lights! Did I mention it's a BIG AXE? Really big!" Of course, I soon come
to my senses, realize how ridiculous that thought is, and that he is most
likely armed with a cleaver, or some other type of large knife. Actually, I
realize that the stupid computer controlling the lights turned them off again,
and that I'm being a nancyass shithead. And I then proceed to fumble around in
the dark and trip over things in a manly manner, because I'm a big idiot who
keeps leaving his flashlight back in the board room.
“When you start to doubt yourself the real world will eat you alive.”
-Lyric
from ‘Shine’ by Rollins Band.
Wow, the research lab
continues to be a fun and interesting place to play! Right now, it's floor
continues to be flooded with water, leaking from a broken something-or-other on
a huge machine that appears to have no other real purpose but to leak, and whir
loudly while doing so. That water has poured in to the storage room next door,
which is filled with lots of power boxes and cables and lots and lots of volts
and watts and such things. See, I don't mind electricity when it's powering a
TV so I can watch football. Or when it's powering my fridge, to keep cold the
beer that I'll drink while helpfully screaming at the TV in a blind hope that
the defensive coordinator will hear my 'genius', and put a guy in the game who
is a total nobody, but who once made one whole tackle for me in a football
video game, so now I worship the man. And of course, in the future, I'll have
no problem with electricity powering my wife's 'pleasure-matic', so she can use
that on Sunday, and not interrupt my watching of football, screaming at the
television, and perhaps occasionally jerking off to swimsuit magazines. There
are all GOOD THINGS for power to do. I start to dislike electricity the instant
it's surrounded by a sea of water.
Now, I know scientists
say you're in no REAL danger if you're wearing a shoe with a non-conductive
sole, which I guess I am, because I've been sloshing around in that water, and
I'm not dead. But aren't these scientific 40 year old virgins in lab coats the
same guys whose forefathers said we'd all by flying around in Jetsons cars by
now? And who once claimed that cigarettes were a source of NUTRITION? Thanks,
but I'll stick with my fear of the 'magic light'. Cause I'm tellin ya, right
now, all those watts are sitting there, having a bit meeting. they're plotting
right now, plotting to kill the next person who walks through the water. Why?
Because they're bastards.
And speaking of scientists,
then there's the guys whose sole purpose seems to be debunking the existence of
alien beings. Know what, I think these guys ARE the damn aliens! what better
cover? Slap on a few coats of 'human skin tone', throw on a lab coat and some
taped-up glasses, and a lot of polyester. Then walk out in front of a bunch of
cameras and say that "Science can assure you that there are NO aliens,
CERTAINLY not any on Earth, and MOST DEFINITELY none on camera right now!"
Throw a few uses of the word unequivocally' in to his speech, and all his big
eyed, gray headed friends laugh their asses off while they listen in on by
brain wave, their ship hovering unseen behind the moon.
“If you can’t convince them, confuse them.”
-Harry S.
Truman.
Well, the Research guys
in charge of the 'Leakmaster 3000' called, and we're not allowed to turn the
damn thing off, even if it is reducing their lab to a swimming pool. Seems we
might ruin an important 'experimental run'. What is this experiment, then, a
test to see if the machine will raise the number of onsite electrocutions?
Where am I working again...oh YEAH, early 40's GERMANY! Hey Hans, let's stand a
few more POW's in the big puddle and see what happens to THIS batch! Fuckin'
retards...gee, I dunno, I think the results of your 'experimental run' might be
a little messed up by the fact that THE MACHINE IS OBVIOUSLY BROKEN! Now, quite
your attempts to invent a better martini, stop trying to pick up
girls...because you're engineers and about as likely to have sex as Hillary Clinton
(I can hear the engineers' line now, "Hey baby, wanna come home with an
engineer? Hey...well...fine! But when I'm rich and famous, and I've furthered
this planet's leak technology by about a thousand years, I'll have HUNDREDS of
women better than YOU BEGGIN' for a piece, baby!"), and get your fucking
ass over here! Oh, and when you do, be a dear and go stand in that pool of
water. Why? Oh, just a little experiment...
“Here’s a question...why don’t they make shows about people’s daily
lives you’d be interested in watching? You know, like...sick old man, skinny
little weakling, big fat guy...wouldn’t you watch a show called big fat guy?”
-A line from
the movie ‘The Limey’.
So, I found myself a
radio. Unfortunately, I actually turned on the tunes, and flipped through the
dial. I hear the mystery continues of how the bands with the LEAST to offer
regularly strike it the biggest. I've remedied the situation for myself by
throwing some James Brown in the discman. In other news, Rancid today announced
plans to learn a second chord, and promised that all future CD's will include
one song that's at least mildly comprehensible. then we have Matchbox 20. I
think the 20 signifies the number of cheezass bands who play EXACTLY the same
crap, right down to the pointless lyrics and overbaked acoustic whining. Yet
they're hailed as pioneers. Of course, Puff Daddy already proved that the
quickest way to success is lack of originality. The New Meanies...New as is the
newest incarnation of the same sound we've heard 7 billion times since the
caveman started smacking rocks together because it sounded kinda neat.
(Incidentally, this will form the basis of Puff Daddy's new song, an ode to
Notorious B.I.G.'s tailor, who went bankrupt when that fat bastard died, and thus
stopped paying large sums of money for suits the size of Winnebagos.
"We're all hurt by the loss of Biggy." Puffy will weep at the press
conference.)
At the same time as
this new crap gets thrown around, 50 year olds keep trying to strut their stuff
on stage, while other 50 year olds pay large sums of money to see them in a
giant 'mid life crisis fest', as everyone involved pretends that they're 20
years old, and don't have a mortgage. Wake up! You're all old, all bald, and
all overweight! You last had an original musical idea about 15 years ago! No,
it is NOT normal for a band to require their joints be iced up and their entire
body be rubbed down with liniment following a show! Turn OFF the amps, and take
up league bowling!
Then there's U2, who
subsist totally on copying the latest musical fad, then claiming they started
it, dressing like cheap transvestite rave fanatics, and acting like arrogant
badasses who need answer to no one. Boffo stuff, blokes!
(And so ends the old,
work related 'thoughts'. Now, the new crap. And I've you've actually gotten
this far, and plan to go on, congratulations! You're twisted, too!)
“The only thing that I regret about my career is that I was never able
to sit in the front row and watch myself.” - John Barrymore.
Well, New Year's is
upon us once more. Once more, people have a convenient excuse to drink
themselves in to a stupor. Actually, I don't have a problem with that. I don't
even have a problem with people saying "I'm gonna get wasted." At
least they're honest. But I will never understand people who make it their goal
to "drink until I puke." Truly inspirational, jingle nuts! What's
your goal for next Valentine's Day...to achieve anal violation by an angry
neo-Nazi? Truly shooting for the peaks in life! I mean, really, if drinking for
the sole purpose of making yourself ill is your idea of shooting for the stars,
lower the barrel a little until what passes for your brain is in the
crosshairs, and pull the trigger, oh future rummy. One less person everyone else
will have to support financially. Or at LEAST have the good sense to save
yourself time and money, forget the scotch, and just slug some drain cleaner
from under the sink. Hey, it'll make ya sick...I promise!
Of course, this also is
the time for New Year's resolutions. I have no problem with people planning to
better themselves, but resolutions have quickly become something that lasts
about as long as a prostitute's virginity. Seriously, who surrenders
earlier...people waking up from the post-revelry of Jan. 1st and realizing that
they pledged to lose 20 pounds...or any French general (aside from Napoleon),
when faced with the German army, or, for that matter, a group of menacing
looking housecats. And then there's the moron I saw being interviewed on the street
on the nightly news. When asked what his resolution was, he replied with
"Helping world peace." Yeah, without that arms treaty Syria signed
with ‘Man on the street Bob’, the world was in for a real year of bloodshed!
Thank God Bob the gas station attendant saved us from that war! Hey genius, you
don't run the UN Security Council, and your name ain't Boutros-Boutros Ghali!
Stick to something attainable to a peon such as yourself. Maybe you could
resolve to talk about quitting smoking, or abstain from cheese for a week, or
something. Good luck with that.
“Fear is the dark room where negatives are developed.”
-Something
displayed on a sign out front of a church that caught my eye.
I find myself for some
reason remembering my first sexual experience. A pleasant memory, but not an
experience I would choose to re-live. Why? Guys have NO IDEA what we're doing
that first time. I mean, it may also be true of women, I dunno. For all I know,
they're given a "How-To" pamphlet in fourth grade when the sexes are
still split up for sex ed. Meanwhile, the guys are saddled with the teachings
of the gym teacher, who's about as comfortable with the situation as a skinhead
would be in Harlem.
For years, I wondered
what the deal was with them dividing up the sexes. I mean, what, we're gonna
use our new found knowledge right then and there? "Now class, the...hey!
Get that OUT of Janie, Ramon, and put it BACK in your PANTS!" But really,
if you think back, the reason is pretty obvious. Once, for some reason, I
remember finding myself going down the hall during one of those split classes,
and of course found myself curious to look in on what the dilly was with the
girls' class. They actually seemed to be having a serious and frank discussion!
And there was NONE of the 'productive' and uncontrollable peals of laughter
that were pouring from the room containing the guys' class at the mere mention
of any and all personal body parts. It was like we were a part of some
insidious Beavis and Butthead cloning experiment.
So, now we come to what
passes for actual sex ed for the male...porn. And you know what porn teaches
you for your first taste of actual sex? Absolutely nothing! Nobody in a porno
EVER has to wrestle with a bra strap. No, they seemingly wear Velcro outfits
that fall off at the mere utterance of the word 'cum'. And I can't recall ever
seeing a guy in a porno having to engage in any sort of foreplay. Nope, they
just hop on and pound away like some sexual jackhammer for one screaming orgasm
after another, before finally pulling out and jerking off in the woman's face.
In reality, it's much
trickier. Going down on a woman for the first time is not exactly the simplest
of procedures. The guy's thinking to himself "Shit, it's really
COMPLICATED down here!", then working tentatively, as though worried that
the wrong action might set off a hidden explosive device. And while we're
wondering when the woman is going to start screaming out obscene comments, like
that trackmark laden 'actress' from 'Dirty Doris the Naughty Nursemaid', she's
probably actually fantasizing about spending some quality time with that
massaging showerhead later on.
And yes, the stamina
issue. While Mr. Porn Guy can go for more time than it takes Germans to hand
craft a Porsche, a real first timer's doing well if he actually gets his pants
off before finishing. Well, okay, so it's not THAT bad. We can usually last as
long as it takes to actually SAY the word 'stamina'. And you know, I've never
tried it, but I have a hard time believing that real women are at all
interested in having a guy adorn their chin with a crude 'beard of choad'.
Sure, porn women get a kick out of it...but they also like to shoot heroin, and
to spend all day in a doped out haze while being pumped like a flooded
basement. The bottom line? Porn is about as educationally useful to guys as
proper dental hygiene is to the British.
“Neutralizing an adversary’s forces without battle is absolute
perfection.” - Sun Tzu.
Okay, so writing '00'
for the year just looks lame as all Hell. Welcome to the 'two nads on a string'
decade, as it has been anointed by the great sage who is James. Wow, my first
written word of the millennium! Whoop-de-fuck-de-doo! And for jumping on the
"First of the Millennium" bandwagon, I now have to deliver a self
ass-kicking, as brought to you by Maglite.
What a shock...Y2K was
nothing but Y2CRAP (see : load of)! Although, I haven't checked to see if maybe
my bank balance now comes out to about 5 grand...nope. Fuckin' cheap banks.
Here's a thought that
hit me while I spent two hours just lying in bed, letting thoughts smack me
around like a little bitch. What moronic jackass coined the utterly senseless
line "Slow and steady wins the race!" I mean, I'm pretty damn sure it
wasn't Carl Lewis. No, no, probably the fine work of some ridiculously bloated
slackass whose daily regime consisted of somehow squeezing his "shifting
my fat ass on the couch" exercises between the massive time requirements
known as lunch, dinner, and shitting bricks of saturated fats. Yeah, I know
I've seen plenty of slow Indy cars, Olympic sprinters and ugly people come in
first! Okay, so ugly people can be fast...who cares? I needed another example!
Sure, I coulda used boat racing, but...it's boat racing...who cares?!
“Did you like your dad?”
“My dad was a drunk, a gambler and a
womanizer. I worshipped him.”
-John
Travolta in ‘The General’s Daughter’.
Muchmusic's "Top
Videos of the Century?" Oh boy, finally, those kickass Glenn Miller rock
videos from the 30's can be shown again! And maybe they'll show that Hitler
Youth classic "Song of the Fatherland (The Jews Are Having My
Money)". How frigging retarded! I don’t seem to recall video technology
really coming in to existence until the early 80’s. Just call it "Two decades
of half baked ideas, featuring 13% good content and everyone else ripping the
creative minority off." Century of Videos...from 1980 on! Jesus.
You know, someone
really should tell Ricky Martin that you shouldn't be making dance music if you
can't dance. Hey, I'm no Fred Astaire...more akin to a dancing Fred Flintstone,
really...but the man is doing some sort of "shoot myself in the head"
dance, for fuck's sake! Gotta wonder just how long the record company's gonna
be able to keep his closet door closed, too.
I really don't like
Blink 182, but they DO mock boy bands AND feature porn stars in their videos,
so they earn mild props (speaking of props, good ol' Jim Rome pops up in one of
the vids, too). Fuck, even if you didn't know beforehand who that woman WAS,
AND saw her dressed normally, you'd STILL know what she did for a living. She
just has that...look... that all porn stars have. That face that says "I
suck cock for a living!"
S!Club 7 are, without a
doubt, the devil. Their horrible show has some sort of addictive, mind numbing
quality that keeps drawing me in for more. And come ON! Having viewed the
apocalypse known as their show, it's rather easy to tell that their 'video
voices' sound nothing like their 'speaking voices'. Damn, do the British have
ANY discrimination in their tastes? All that lard's fucked with their reason.
“Any guy can make a baby. It takes a man to take care of one.” - Lakers
power forward A.C. Green.
So, what if more things
in life were like spectator sports? Like, take sex for example. I mean, picture
this...
"Hi everyone, this
is Bob Costas, alongside Joe Morgan, live from 'Bill and Tammy's bedroom'! Joe,
what's going on?"
"Hard core fuck
action, Bob!"
"That's right,
folks! Bill came home loaded on tequila shooters, and actually found his wife
physically appealing through his drunken haze!"
"Well Bob, he's
been going for about...forty five seconds, and...oh...hold it...we have climax,
Bob!"
"Hmmm, another
short game, Joe."
"Well, Bob, I
remember when this kid was in his prime, when he'd just earned his first call
up from the bigs."
"Yes, I believe he
hit from both sides of the plate in those days, didn't he, Joe?"
"Well Bob, he WAS
drunk at that college frat party. Anyway, he had a great power stroke back
then. And he was a real gamer. Now, he doesn't have the legs to play every day,
and he's more of a situational singles hitter. But folks, this guy was
GOOD."
"Probably should
think about hanging up the cleats. Anyway, since we have airtime to fill, Joe,
let's go back to Bill's famous doubleheader in '73 with the Minetti
sisters..."
“If I was on a basketball team, and
my coach punched me in the stomach, I’d look for the first blunt object, and
I’d do some serious damage on that guy.”
-Spoken by
Henry Rollins on Off The Record, referring to Bob Knight’s ‘coaching motivation
techniques’.
Just a quick thought on
feminine hygiene products. Okay, if there's now a Monistat 1, a ONE DAY cure,
then why does the SEVEN day cure continue to sell? I mean, really, what's there
to decide here? "Hmmm...I could feel better tomorrow, or deal with six
more days of gradually ebbing genital itching and burning..." What jackass
is going for the seven day package? What, you're trying to save a few bucks
here or something? Buy cheaper soap! I can think of MUCH better areas to try
and scrimp on spending!
And here's another
thing. Why are so many guys freaked out by making 11th hour tampon purchases
for their girlfriend/wife? I mean, yes, if your mom asked you to go get her
some 'hygienic napkins' that would be decidedly creepy, and you SHOULD run
screaming in to the night. Start down THAT road and pretty soon you're talking
to your dead mom, whose skeletal remains 'live' in the attic of your hotel, while
you repeatedly stab female guests in the shower. But, honestly, if I'm with
some chickie who asks me to go on a maxi run, I'm there! I mean, who else is in
drug stores late at night? Lonely single guys flipping through porno and
blushing when the kinda cute night clerk girl says "Hi!" to them. You
go in a store full of these guys and grab some pads, and you'll be revered as
some sort of god man! Plus, the female employees will be impressed with your
"obvious sweetness". What's WRONG with this? And, hey, if your girl
is sending you on tampon trips, chances are you're getting regular sex, so what
the Hell do YOU have to complain about, anyway, Jimmy?
“Is there gonna be a lot of pressure on you? Do you feel that way?”
“Nah, I’ve already had pressure...I
was married once.” - Dennis Rodman, replying to a reporter, after signing with
the Dallas Mavericks.
So, I found myself
remembering my many observations of the ‘Bingo experience’ when I was lucky
enough to work security at a Bingo Hall a few times. And lemme tell ya, that
was just as exciting as it sounds.
Horse racing may be the
sport of kings, but Bingo is truly the sport (and ever since ESPN2 started
broadcasting Scrabble tourneys, games became sports) of the yokel who doesn’t
possess the drive and willpower to go to a bar, crack open a beer and hurl a
pointy projectile at a circle of cork. The building itself is a veritable smoke
monastery, as everyone bows down to their nic-fit god and puffs away like the
exhaust pipe on one of those monstrous Oldsmobiles from the 60’s. Above every
other noise in the building is the constant whir of the air cleansing system,
practically giving itself a mechanized coronary in an attempt to keep up with
the outpouring of toxins. But truly it is the people of the Bingo hall that
make it the spectacle it is.
First, the women. No
more than eight actually attractive females are allowed inside a Bingo hall at
one time, which is in fact a little known Bingo law. The rest fit in to a
variety of colorful groups. There are of course the aged. Those wrinkled old
biddies who actually consider Bingo a ‘night out’, when not ‘busy’ knotting
useless woolen doilies, or telling one another how everything is “ticketty-boo”
with their respective families (who visit once a year to keep up appearances)
over bridge. These retired women are the ones seemingly hooked on troll dolls.
You know, the little naked freaks with bizarrely monkey-like faces and garishly
colored versions of Don King’s hair. Why anyone would associate good luck with a
midget Don King I have yet to figure out, although I guess he HAS managed to
elude prison about 50 thousand times when brought up on federal fraud charges.
If any of these women ever notices their winnings disappearing, though, I’d
suggest slapping on a pair of latex gloves and cavity searching those insidious
little bastards.
Another popular faction
of ‘Bingo chicks’ is the ‘Farrah Fawcett’ contingent. You know, those 40+ year
old women who once were probably hot, but now look like they’ve spent the past
20 or so years being ridden hard and put away wet by every truck driver, grease
monkey, bass player, and incoherently babbling nomad to pass through the good
ol trailer park. They travel in packs, seem to base how they dress on the
question “Now, what would Daisy Duke wear?”, chain smoke Marlboros (the stubbed
out butts of which are classily adorned with a smear of “Streetwalker Pink”
lipstick), and refer to every male old enough to speak as “sweetie”.
Finally, the fat women.
Now, I’m not just talking a little chunky, here...no, it seems that Bingo halls
are the haven for the hideously obese. These are the girls who squeeze
themselves in to pants two sizes too small, their prodigious belly rolls
spilling overtop from underneath their worn “Warrant 1988” concert t-shirts. A
few of these behemoths can be found in the company of the attractive women
present. Of course, the sheer unattractiveness of these ogres causes ANYONE
who’s with them to look better, which is of course the plan of the seemingly
normal women (though, one would wonder what a normal person would really be
doing at Bingo...) who accompany them (usually ‘boosting their spirits’ with
such catch phrases as “I’m SURE you’ll get some guy drunk enough at last call
TONIGHT that he’ll take you home!” I’m not sure what’s worse...that this is the
best ‘compliment’ that can be thought of for these beasts, or that they seem to
find such phrases reassuring). Margaret Thatcher would be signing modeling
contracts if she was seen only in the company of these fat women. (When they DO
manage to feed some loser enough tequila to intoxicate a battleship crew, and
drag him back to their cave, they’re likely greeted with such morning pillow
talk as “Oh FUCK, not AGAIN!” and “Kill me now!”)
Now, normally, such a collection
of ‘people’ would be banished to a dark cellar and imprisoned there for the
rest of their natural lives. But this is Bingo, and the male of the species
more than shares in this circus sideshow of barely qualifiable humanity.
As with the women, there
ARE actually a few seemingly normal guys here, as well. I actually suspect that
these people are being paid handsomely to sit there and raise the genetic
development level of the Bingo population a few notches with their mere
presence in the room. Either that, or this is what happens to captured
spies...punished to a lifetime of Bingo. Then we have the de-evolving
collection of mostly-simians who, if watched closely, could probably be seen to
shed. These guys have to purchase afro combs to neaten their knuckle hair. Yet,
despite the fact they sprout like rainforests, they seem to hold an acute
interest in wearing seemingly as little clothing as possible. I really don’t
know if I can condone this as safe. First off, the chances of someone getting a
clump of back hair in their coffee, and choking on it, rise almost incalculably
be allowing these grease pigs to expose their rich tracts of body hair.
Secondly, there is the risk of unwanted (I hope) sexual advance at the hands of
an actual ape, mistaking these man monkeys for one of their own, and taking the
whole ‘dog humping your leg’ bit to a whole new, frightening level.
Then we have the mid
life crisis faction. The guys adorned in polyester suits, which last fit when
they LAST wore them in 1973. Sometimes, they substitute a creepy, shimmery
‘fabric’ known as sharkskin. I have no idea just how literal that name might
be. They seem to enjoy opening their shirts halfway down their truly impressive
beer bulges, most of which have been named by their respective owners. These
combed over greaseballs are here to try and score some quick bucks, so they can
head over to some thoroughly ‘classy’ drinking establishment, and try to ply
the 16 year olds using fake ID’s with offers of margaritas and cab fare home
‘afterwards’. I imagine most of these conversations begin something
like...”Hey, remember me? I used to work with your dad? Was over that one time
for a barbecue? Wow, it’s been awhile! I gotta say, you really look good now
that your braces are out. And that plastic Sailor Moon pendant REALLY brings
out the man in me, shall we say?”
Finally, there is the
‘Son of Sleazeball’...the guy wearing parachute pants, and some sort of
purple-and-white checkered shirt, regaling all with the ‘glorious’ tale of when
his band opened for three consecutive shows in Kansas City on Night Ranger’s
farewell tour. “I still play a pretty mean keyboard.”, he says to anyone
showing disinterest as he drags his hand through the moussed-up, teased-out,
poof-crazy patch of curler burn he calls his hair.
Now, simply watching
these various groups of humanity, at their various stages of the evolutionary
cycle, interact with one another is quite rewarding. But the real highlight
would have to be when the local announcer guy (and lemme tell ya, THAT’S one
prestigious position in life! “What do I do? Oh, call out letters and numbers
at a Bingo Hall. A BIG Bingo Hall. That’s right baby, I control the game!” Come
on! These people don’t even have to pick out the balls, they just come shooting
up out of those weird ‘air powered jumble bins’, and the jackass reads em! And
THAT’S even redundant, because they’re displayed on about a million television
monitors throughout the place!) hangs up his mic for a bit, and the Satellite
Bingo experience begins. Now, this really is a treat. All of a sudden, the
monitors black out, and when they come back up, the image of some guy in a suit
who looks like he should be doing magic tricks at kids’ birthday parties
appears alone in front of his own, personal jumble thing. This must certainly
be quite the statement of power in the Bingo world. Anyway, the guy tells
really bad jokes, and explains the complex game that is Bingo, and THEN the
game BEGINS. After he reads off the numbers of the balls and puts them in front
of the cameras (whose zoom lenses make the ball look as though it’s liable to
conquer New York City at any moment), he simply...stands there, and stares
straight at the camera. Apparently blinking is not allowed or something,
because he just gazes at you like some kind of entranced serial murderer or
something. Eventually, someone allegedly wins in a distant city, and everything
goes back to ‘normal’.
“Let’s say that Cliff is a...super-pimp. Now, using my teacher files, I
could help him find girls who, because of their home life or whatever, would be
ideal for him to try and put on the streets. And then, if the police came and
asked about it, I could tell them “Hey, I thought they were for his personal
use!” - My Law 30 teacher, Mr. Peterson, and one of his many classroom examples
that always seemed to involve me.
Well, well, lots of
crap to go on about on this fine eve. Jesus, is Will Smith ever going to write
his own fucking music ever again? Yo, Will 2K, stop rocking the Casbah and give
The Clash their damn song back!
First on the bill
tonight...why do so many women find it necessary to wear an absolutely
appalling amount of makeup? I can’t speak for all guys, but I personally don’t
find clowns to be all that attractive. In fact, they’re more than a little
creepy. Something about fre1aks in frills, fopping about in floppy shoes and
whiteface just gets my hackles up, and sends them screaming from the room.
But seriously, ladies,
those of you who apparently learned makeup application tips at the United
States Marine Corps academy, scrape a few layers of the camou paint OFF! And
the fact that an instrument called an ‘eyebrow pencil’ even EXISTS is downright
pathetic. Guess what?! Human beings are BORN with REAL brows! Yet SOME crazed
maso-bitches actually prefer to yank hair from their head and sketch on a
replacement. Utter brilliance.
Oh, and a quick
shoutout to the construction company fuckwad who was SUPPOSED to meet me for an
interview at the Yellowhead Humpty’s, but never showed up. Cause, hey, that’s
convenient for me and all, sitting there for an hour and a half for nothing.
And DAMN did that place seem foreign! I felt completely out of place, drinking
in that Humpty’s ambience after spending countless hours at Denny’s. I half
expected a half-crazed egg to come charging through the wall, Kool Aid Kool
style, screaming “You have forsaken me!”, and chase me around with a deviously
sharpened whisk.
Speaking of job
interviews, is there a more banal and predictable process on Earth? You tell me
about your crappy job, tell me those horrendous “I’m the potential boss, so you
have no choice but to laugh!” jokes, then ask the same question every other
dull interviewer asks.
“So, what is your
biggest weakness?”
“Biggest
weakness...wow, LOT of ground to cover on THAT one, Bob! Man, where to BEGIN?
Well, I tend to lash out and commit acts of physical violence with NO warning
whatsoever! I have what has become an absolute need to rob my employers
blind...oh, and I hate people, and often suffer psychologically crippling
flashbacks to my nonexistent Vietnam experience!”
Someday...
Saw an ad in the
Classifieds today, advertising a security guard course at a community college
for a THOUSAND DOLLARS! Uhhh...okay...while you’re at it, why not just purchase
that ‘mountaintop villa’ in central Saskatchewan! It isn’t too tough, geniuses!
Gimme a hun and I’ll take about ten minutes to tell you all you need to know.
And for five of them minutes, I’ll be in the can, taking a shit. Let’s
see...don’t let criminal types do bad things...wield a big flashlight...get
ready to eat shit from any and everyone. Whew! THAT was one Hell of a lesson!
For some reason,
thinking of the stupidity that is taking a security job makes me ponder what
goes through the head of any jackass who wakes up one day and decides
“Hmmm...seems like a good day to start dopin’ up!” Now, I’m not talking about
recreational stuff like pot or shrooms here...Hell, you could probably puff an entire
BALE of weed, and the only adverse effect would be a lethargy not matched by an
eight hundred pound shut-in. I’m talkin’ about hard stuff. Like some executive
jackass who “only snorts a few lines a couple times a week.” Oh well, that’s
okay, then! Sort of like if I strapped a bomb to my chest, and ran around
shouting, “Hey, it’s only a couple sticks of dynamite, what’s the big deal?”
REAL genius there, Mr, Morono! I mean, what possibly spurs someone to “Give
that heroin a try!” “Well, I sure like needles in my arm, and dammit, I just
haven’t flown in to a drug-induced sense of madness quite frequently enough for
my taste. And I mean, come on, all of my internal organs are functioning
normally...what is up with THAT?!”
Hmmm...another
Classified ad I saw adamantly declared at the end that the company advertising
for help sported a “Drug free environment.” The fact that they felt they had to
state this makes me wonder if there’s some warehouse somewhere that hires ONLY
hard core junkies. Now THAT would be an interesting work environment!
“Boss, Jim’s loaded up
on PCP and tearing the shit outta the loading dock, again!”
“Woooahhhhh...Phil, did
you know you’re like...a giant CHICKEN, man? Oh, and send Jim over to smash
pallets until he’s cool.”
“WHO STOLE MY
CRAYONS?!?!?!”
Finally...there’s
enough racism in the world without the race card being played when a minority
sports coach is fired. Two examples.
Clem Haskins was the
coach of the University of Minnesota basketball team. Everything seemed fine. Then,
one day, the tutor HE had been paying to write term papers for various
academically struggling students got pissed off at him, and went to the press.
Seems about a THOUSAND such papers were written over the years. (One player,
Voshon Lenard, now in the NBA, was apparently once asked in a History class who
George Washington was. His response “Sounds familiar, can you give me a hint?”)
Several ex-players freely admitted this had happened. The woman had PERSONAL
CHEQUES from Clem Haskins, which was the brilliantly self-incriminating form of
payment he had chosen. Several teachers admitted to allegations that, in
exchange for improved grades, Clem would take them along as guests on road
trips and such. Finally, having been dragged in to one of the worst academic
scandals in NCAA history by the man, the University fired him. And what does he
do? Starts practically screaming “Racism!” from the rooftops. Clem, take your
SIX FIGURE CONTRACT BUYOUT, and tell your load of crap to someone who might
believe you. Hilary Clinton’s gonna be pretty bored in a little while, and hey,
if she’ll believe Bill’s constant bullshit...
In another case, we
have Ray Rhodes. Hired by the Green Bay Packers after a pretty bad run in
Philadelphia, he led his team to an 8-8 record, and was fired. This was the
first time they hadn’t made the playoffs in seven years. Hell, they’d been to
back to back Super Bowls just a few seasons back. They possessed the same level
of locker room unity as a team comprised of half Nazis, and half everyone else.
And as soon as he’s fired, there’s Jesse Jackson screaming charges of racism.
Well, Jesse, Pete Carroll in New England and Chain Gailey in Dallas ALSO got
canned after 8-8 years, and Chan even got his team into the playoffs. Oh, and
they’re white. So I guess it’s up to the Up With Honkies Federation to protest
these ‘unfair’ firings of whitey. Defend our oppressed and mistreated pasty
brethren!
“How can you love if you don’t love yourself?” - Social Distortion,
from the song ‘I Was Wrong’.
Aaaah, the Super Bowl.
Sweetass game! Not even Kurt ‘L’il Jehovah’ Warner and the God Squad’s
collective shoving of their christianity down the audience’s biblehole could
ruin it. (Notice you NEVER hear anyone thanking Allah or Buddah or the basis of
ANY other religion after a game? Why? They’re smart enough to realize that an
omnipotent being PROBABLY has more pressing issues than sitting back with some
Cheetos and watching the fucking game with the holy ghost!) Although, I gotta
say, ABC’s constantly displaying Kurt’s creepy wife, lesbian haircut and all,
on screen nearly did blow the entire experience. I remember when only the good
looking wives with vapid, airhead grins got shown on air. What, did the ugly
wives demand equal airtime? And if so, WHY? I still cannot believe that Dick
Vermeil didn’t cry. The guy wept when he was asked about cutting a THIRD STRING
PLAYER from the ROSTER for fuck’s sake! Anyway, as big a football fan as I am,
a part of me’s glad it’s over, because, for a few months at least, I don’t have
to hear the name Kurt Warner every five goddamn minutes. He’s had one big year!
Let’s see him do it AGAIN before we anoint him as the greatest thing on Earth
since evolution. Oh, sorry Kurt, that probably goes against your
beliefs...perhaps you were one of the religious zealots in Kansas who had
evolution removed from the state education system because it conflicted with
the idea of creationism. (I wish I was making that up...I really, really do.
I’d love to hear Kansans explanations of other things...”Timmy, that tornado
destroyed our home and killed your father because God saw you masturbating.”)
“Childhood’s over the moment you know you’re gonna die.”
“Every man’s got a devil, and you
can’t rest until you find him.”
-A couple from
the bad guy in ‘The Crow’.
I got thinking last
night...Jean Chretien and the Liberals have been running this country for
about...6 or 7 years now. Yet I can’t come up with ONE thing they’ve actually
DONE! Not a thing! Well, I mean, he DID have a path pepper sprayed through
protesters during that International Economic Summit a few years ago. And he
DID cork that one guy in the head when he got too close. (And that really says
something about the security of the Canadian Prime Minister, doesn’t it? That a
freaking protest guy can just walk right up to him! And of course, there’s the
fact that a few years back a guy BROKE IN to the PM’s HOUSE! And it took the
cops five minutes to get there because THEY GOT LOST! Can you imagine some guy
trying that in the US? He’d be hit with about 1000 bullets, a few guided
missiles, and an armoured vehicle before he’d gotten ten paces across the White
House lawn!) But aside from that...nothing! Say what you want about Bill
Clinton, but he has been busy! He bombed Iraq again...he bombed the Serbs...he
slept with a lot of really ugly women...he was almost impeached...he’s been
busy! What is WITH those girls, though? The man’s the most powerful guy on
EARTH and THAT is what he lays down with? Still, he’s been up to stuff! Oh, I
almost forgot his bombing (he really likes those loud, shiny planes, doesn’t
he?) that aspirin factory in Sudan because “he thought it was a terrorist
training base”. (read that as “I got caught with my willy in a fat chick’s
mouth and need to distract the media.”) Jean, DO SOMETHING...preferably other
than speaking amusingly in that funny French accent.
“I kind of like the stuttering thing. It’s like equal opportunity,
right? We’ve got a stuttering newscaster. We’ve got the black, we’ve got the Asian,
we’ve got the woman. I could be a lesbian, folk dancing, black woman stutterer.
In a wheelchair. With gimping rubber legs. I’d have a successful career, let me
tell you.” - Avery Haines, a fired CTV Newsnet anchor who uttered the above at
the end of a taped segment, after she messed up. She assumed it would be edited
out later. It wasn’t, and went on air.
Right, that threw the
wozzle down a few spikes, right governor? Didn’t make much sense, did it? Now,
say that sentence in a British accent...voila! Throws the ol’ pepper in the
pot, next to Mrs. Duncan’s water fetchings, don’t it? The more incomprehensibly
stupid a sentence normally sounds, the more authentic it sounds when spoken
with a British accent. Maybe all that grease and all that tooth decay causes
some sort of brain schism, which leaves the Brits a nation of nonsensical
idiots, understood only by their own kind. Hell, I have my doubts if even
that’s true. I think they all just make up stupid sounding sayings on the spot,
then pretend to understand each other.
“Would you like it heated?”
“Yes, I’d like to eat it!”
-Liam’s
reply to the waitress at Denny’s, after mishearing her question.
I’m really starting to
question the existence of prison rape. Really, outside of North America, you
never hear of such things. Why? Because foreign prison systems don’t NEED anal
rape to be scary! But here, well, our jail system is a cushy joke! Three meals
a day (some prisons have a fucking choice of entree, now), free cable, free
internet, access to all kinds of recreational equipment...yeah, lots of people
learnin’ their lesson there! So, I figure, to prevent a stampede of crimes, and
the resultant overflooding of Cell Block Hilton, prison officials needed
something to scare away those who would commit crimes just to get thrown in to
the ‘Hell hole’ that is prison life. And what scares guys more than the thought
of requiring anal sutures after being forcibly rammed up the ass by another
guy? Not a Hell of a lot! MAYBE...and this is only a MAYBE...use of teeth
during a blow job...but that’s about it. So, they float this little rumour, and
BANG, people decide that MAYBE that job at the car wash wasn’t so bad after
all.
“If rape is inevitable, why not just lay back and enjoy it?” - Bob
Knight, coach of the Indiana University basketball team, showing his obvious
sensitivity.
A few weeks ago, I’m
flipping through the entertainment extravaganza that is late night television.
Really bad syndicated sitcoms, infomercials, movies so bad they didn’t even go direct
to video, but were instead just sold off entirely to TBS...pretty bad. Then I
hit TSN. Now ALL TSN late stuff is pretty unwatchable. Snooker, darts, pro
bowling, real good stuff, lemme tell ya. But this fine eve, it was something
extra special...the America’s Cup. For those who don’t know, that
means...sailboat racing. Now, you might have visions of thirty boats lining up
and racing to a goal. If only. No, they race in heats...one on one. Two whole
boats. And since it’s sailing, and they’re going in the same direction and
dealing with pretty similar wind conditions, the first leader usually wins. A
true thrill. But the highlight of this ‘event’ had to be the commentary.
Apparently this event requires that ESPN2 hire themselves a TACTICAL
COMMENTATOR. How much can this guy have to SAY? Fuck, I could do this damn job!
“They seem to be trailing, Cliff, what should they do here to maybe get back in
to this race?” “Well, Bob, I’d suggest MORE SAILS in to the WIND!” “Anything
else, Cliff?” “Anything else? What the fuck do you MEAN, anything ELSE? They’re
sailboats! Fine...I suppose they could just toss in an outboard motor, that’d
get em the win...now pass me the fucking Slim Jims!”
I’ve been scattering
quotes helter skelter all over this thing, but these are all by the same,
impressively angry individual, so I figured I’d toss em down as a package deal.
Here, in their glory, a few selected Chad-isms...
“Give people more than
they expect and take it back when they are not looking.”
“Remember the three S’s
: Shut up, Shut the fuck up, Shut the fuck up before I smack you upside the
head.”
“Trust in God but carry
a gun.”
“Once a year, insult
someone who you don’t really care if you ever see again.”
“Remember that not
getting what you want is bad. If you can’t get something you want, break it so
no one else can have it either.”
“Judge your success by
what you had to steal or who you had to lie to in order to get it.”
And now for a little
piece I call...things that piss me off! Let’s see what I can come up with off
the top of my head. Sure, there are the obvious ones, like mimes. EVERYONE
hates mimes! How did it even become an occupational possibility if every single
human being loathes them as much as they do?! Gotta be the French. Only a
Frenchman would consider slathering himself in makeup and pretending to be
blowing in the wind to be ‘endearing’. I say stuff em in a REAL fucking box,
leave ‘em in there about a week, then toss the bodies in the Channel.
Here’s an honest
question...how did Rosie O’Donnell get her own show? Let’s see...let’s have a
host shout constantly in her abrasive voice, harass any guest whose views she
does not share, lust frighteningly after someone unattainable and pretend she
can sing. Well, if that’s the prerequisite, then where’s my fuckin deal,
networks, cause I’m ready to fucking roll! If THAT talentless, supposedly funny
fat chunk of uselessness can maintain a program based on her rambling to her
music director for ten minutes about how she just LOVES those thongs, then an hour
of me screaming at stupid people and getting in to fights would have to be a
winner.
This one I really can’t
explain, but I cannot stand cherubs. Those hideously overweight little infants
with wings, flying about and shooting people with arrows? First of all, take
your fat little hands the fuck out of the Parkay, kiddies, your asses are about
ready to explode out of those diapers like a jiggling mass of pasty jello. And
I dunno why, but something about the idea of little kids zipping about ARMED
frightens, rather than charms, me. that’s because little kids are dangerous
enough just running around with those miniature supermarket shopping carts. Who
the Hell came up with those, anyway? Brilliant idea! “Hey, small children have
no sense of direction and like to run at high rates of speed...let’s give em
metallic cages on wheels to run around with!” How the Hell can those damn kids
NOT see the legs of everyone who towers over them, anyway? You’d think that
from their perspective, they’d look like redwood trees, and those are KINDA
hard to miss!
I guess part of the
reason I hate cherubs is their association with Valentine’s Day. Aaaah,
V-Day...named after the Saint who was HUNG BY HIS PEOPLE! Yes, I certainly can
see why on a day of murder, people would suddenly feel an uncontrollable urge
to hand one another chocolate and sappy greeting cards! And nothing says “Night
on the town” like “Hung by the neck”! Why don’t they just show some honesty and
rename the day “Hallmark Makes It’s Shareholders Very Happy Day”. And the
coupled people can continue the Valentine’s tradition of trying to make the
single folks feel left out. Guess what