Long time no post, I know. Been busy with school, work, travelling, (insert shitty excuse here.) Regardless, all of this business with Paris Hilton going to jail has had me thinking a lot about the justice system and how celebrities do seem to get a break simply by virtue of being famous. I think that Paris' pending incarceration is quite possibly one of the most important events that this nation has ever witnessed. Finally someone was willing to say "No more!" to the endless amounts of pandering by our legal system to the elite of the entertainment industry. Paris got a DUI, got her license suspended, and then proceeded to thumb her nose at the ruling by getting behind the wheel of a car anyway, as though the original punishment were some kind of joke. Now she gets to spend a little time in the slammer, just like any other shlub in her position would have to. This makes me happier than a pig in shit.
Unfortunately, there are actually people out there that are "fans" of Paris Hilton. If you asked me what she has ever done to warrant the admiration of anyone I'd probably just stare blankly at you while imagining a cartoon of a gorilla playing a turtle like drum, so I'm not quite sure who these asshats might be. Someone let out a filthy, spoiled whore battle cry and they banded together to form their own little fellowship of brain dead cunts. Well Paris' pals have drafted an open letter to the governor of California (Arnold "weightlifting is as satisfying as coming" Schwarzenegger) hoping to have Paris pardoned. You can see the letter in its entirety here, but I thought it'd be funny to take this opportunity to actually dissect what they're asking for. Never in my life did I think that people would be this passionate about exonerating someone as truly inconsequential as Paris Hilton, but here's the proof:
Let me first begin by saying that I grew up as a child enjoying all of your wonderful films. You really are the truly great action hero for our time. You are doing a great job in the great state of California.
Great opening. It would've been greater if you could've used the word "great" a greater number of times. Great job otherwise, though.
Paris Whitney Hilton is 26 year old American celebrity and socialite. She is an heiress to a share of the Hilton Hotel fortune, as well as to the real estate fortune of her father Richard Hilton. She provides hope for young people all over the U.S. and the world. She provides beauty and excitement to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives.
Nice middle name, bitch. I had no idea, but it seems as though she's inheriting two fortunes that she has absolutely no claim to aside from the fact that she won the 6 billion to 1 long shot of being a Hilton. That makes her twice as worthy of being idolized by young tramps the world over. And if your only source of hope and excitement is Paris Hilton, you should carefully consider where you're at in life, then immediately shove an icepick into one of your tear ducts.
In addition to her work as an actress, she has achieved some recognition as a model, celebrity spokesperson, singer, and writer.
So she has an opposable thumb and can hold a microphone? She's still not a singer. She has an album out, you say? Well so do humpback whales, and Whalesong has probably sold more copies than Paris (clever album title, by the way.)
We, the American public who support Paris, are shocked, dismayed and appalled by how Paris has been the person to be used as an example that Drunk Driving is wrong. I do not support drunk driving or condone a person being spared from DUI charges. Paris should have been sober. But she shouldn't go to jail, either.
She's not going to jail for her DUI, retards. For the DUI she got probation and her driver's license was suspended. She's going to jail because she violated that probation and drove on a suspended license. I know you want to believe that she's being unfairly and maliciously targeted, but you're all morons. She seemed to think that the judge was kidding about his original ruling. Now, for being an elitist, snooty, think-I'm-above-the-law whore she gets to see what it's like to face the legal system as any other "ordinary" citizen would. Cry me a fucking river.
Singer/actress Brandy Norwood’s California Highway accident, although no proof of DUI was evidenced in her accident, resulted in the death of a young wife and mother in California, yet Brandy walks free as of today. . .
What the fuck? Brandy walks free precisely because it was an accident. She wasn't under the influence of any drugs or alcohol at all. This comparison is quite possibly the most desperate grasping at straws I've ever seen. Plus, Brandy hasn't been a real celebrity since "Moesha" got cancelled.
She is sincere, apologetic, and full of regret for her actions as she explained tearfully to the Judge handling her case in court yesterday. She is distraught and understandably afraid to enter the prison system.
No, she's not sorry. She's understandably upset because she has to go to jail, but the only reason she seems sorry at all is because she never expected to have to face these consequences in the first place. It's like the bratty little kid that gets spanked for doing what they're not supposed to. They'll start apologizing to high heaven once they know they're about to get their ass mashed into ground beef.
I urge you to think about the welfare of this young woman who will be placed into a facility with murderers, rapists, people who have committed assault, battery, larceny, etc.
Rapists? In a female prison? You broads are imaginative, I'll grant you that. And by the way, that "etc." that you so nonchalantly gloss over includes people who have violated their probation and disobeyed direct instructions from a judge. Paris will almost certainly be in isolation all 45 days, so don't worry about her getting roughed up by a 320 lb. car thief named Shaniqua. The worst that'll happen is she'll end up the center of a gang bang with the guards in the shower room, and even that's something she'll probably welcome as a little taste of home.
. . .if the late Former President Gerald Ford could find it in his heart to pardon the late Former President Richard Nixon after his mistake(s), we as compassionate human beings can undeniably support Paris Hilton being pardoned for her honest mistake as well.
*crickets* Ummm, seriously. . . *crickets*
So there it is. No matter how many times they see of Paris Hilton crashing her car in a parking lot and fleeing the scene, or Paris Hilton almost running over a photographer, or Paris Hilton getting caught driving under the influence, she deserves more chances. Why? "Because she's just so cute and famous" seems to be reason enough. The moral of the story is to teach your kids that the secret to success in America is to simply inherit a shit-ton of money that you did nothing to earn, then let Shannon Doherty's ex-husband bust a nut on your chin with a video camera in your face. Apparently that makes you into some kind of icon.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
The 10 Best Pump-Up Songs of the '80s
The 1980s were a strange time. Remembered mostly for big hair, bad clothes and some of the cheesiest music man has ever produced, there is one gem of '80s culture that has fallen by the wayside in the 21st century. With audiences demanding more realism and grit in their action movies, it seems there's no room anymore for a hot montage with a really bitchin' song that makes you yearn to get out there and show the world that you're all about two things: kickin' ass and takin' names.
Pioneers like Stan Bush, John Farnham and Kenny Loggins were masters of taking pure adrenaline, filtering it through an electric guitar, and extracting an unknown byproduct that somehow caused testicles to increase in size by at least four times. If you're upset with the state of cinema in this day and age, you need look no further for the reason than the lack of sick sports/training montages featuring mind-blowing rock with lyrics about winning, fighting, and generally being 100% man. This list hopes to outline once and for all who reigns supreme amongst these oft-missed relics of film history.
#10 - "Highway to the Danger Zone" by Kenny Loggins (from Top Gun)
What better way to open such a prestigious countdown than with the monster anthem that itself opened up what is arguably the best movie of the '80s. The only way to get any more hardcore than flying fighter jets into "The Danger Zone" would be if you were somehow born with two penises. And your callsign was "Double Dick." And you had a threesome with Kelly McGillis and Meg Ryan while blowing MIGs out of the sky over the Indian Ocean. Since that's a pretty unlikely scenario, we'll just concede that before Tom Cruise went batshit insane he and Val Kilmer were showing the world what it truly means to feel the need for speed.
#9 - "Thunder in Your Heart" by John Farnham (from Rad)
John Farnham makes his first stop on the countdown with the tune that accompanied the final showdown between "Cru" Jones and the unstoppable Bart Taylor (played by real-life BMX winner and fantastic male specimen Bart Conner.) As Cru tries to overcome a disheartening, early-race crash, badass Bart decides to pull a "tortoise/hare" move and waits for his rival to catch up. If he'd known that Farnham's insanely rocking beats were coursing through Cru's veins he would have just taken his victory and gone home. Instead, Cru makes that final push, proving that "every move is like lightning." And in the end, his triumph allows him to experience "the power you feel when you get your taste of the glory." Seriously, you can't make these lyrics up unless you were born a pure winner.
#8 - "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor (from Rocky III)
The most controversial placement on the list, many would argue that Survivor's classic is the hands-down, number one pump-up song. The reason it loses points on this countdown is because, despite it's legendary status and top-notch quality, it has become a bit cliche. Still, just hearing this song begin to ramp up makes every guy within earshot immediately fall into a trance wherein they dream of shaving their head into a nappy mohawk, strapping on 30 lbs. of gold chains and doing pull-ups while grappling with their feelings about the pitiful fools they seem to encounter on a daily basis. Predictions? Rock. . . and pain.
#7 - "Winner Takes it All" by Sammy Hagar (from Over the Top)
Stallone. A beat-up semi-truck. Arm wrestling. An epic battle to reclaim the love of your estranged son. I know what you're thinking: Classic Tolkien, right? "Over the Top" is a bit more contemporary, but no less thrilling an adventure than any Hobbit has ever encountered. The only thing that could possibly improve this masterpiece would be Sammy Hagar destroying your eardrums with a blazing track about about how to avoid being a loser! There's not been a greater song written to accompany guzzling motor oil and munching on lit cigars. That's right, John Grizzly, I'm lookin' at you.
#6 - "Push it to the Limit" by Paul Engemann (from Scarface)
Engemann's strong work for the infamous "getting richer" montage in "Scarface" has been the inspiration for many montages to follow, most notably Trey Parker's "Montage" parody from "South Park" and "Team America: World Police." It's also holds the current record for most overused phrases in a single string of lyrics with "Hit the wheel and double the stakes, throttle wide open like a bat out of hell and you crash the gates." I don't know about you, but that makes me want to bury my face in coke then fuck like a stoned monkey until a South American drug lord's goon blasts my sister with a shotgun. Or maybe just start a savings account somewhere so that I can have a comfortable retirement. Either way, welcome to the limit, bitches.
#5 - "Fight to Survive" by Stan Bush (from Bloodsport)
Stan Bush is a legend of pump-up music. He brought us the power of "You've Got the Touch" for "Transformers: The Movie," and even lent his mastery of the ass-kicking anthem to "Kickboxer" with "Never Surrender." But before Van-Damme was "Nuk Soo Cow," he was Frank Dux, and he literally had to fight to survive. Just one of Chong Li's pecs would have been more than most men could handle, and he proved it by crippling Ogre from "Revenge of the Nerds." But if you thought for a second you could keep a lid on the fury of a Belgian guy playing an American guy trained to inflict unadulterated pain on his opponents by a Japanese guy (while blind nonetheless,) then you've obviously never seen Van-Damme score not one, or even two vicious spinning jump kicks, but very often three or four consecutive foot-bombs on route to ending Chong Li's bad sportsmanship. Did I mention he does the splits and punches a sumo wrestler in the balls? That's because I shouldn't even have to.
#4 - "Playing With the Boys" by Kenny Loggins (from Top Gun)
No, I'm not gay. Why does everyone keep asking me that?
#3 - "You're the Best" by Joe Esposito (from The Karate Kid)
This was probably the first pump-up song that anyone ever heard as a youngster. You got that hot feeling in your loins and you weren't sure why. Now you know it's because your instincts wanted you to get out there and thump skulls no matter what that little Miyagi bitch was preaching. "The Karate Kid" was a lot like "Bloodsport," only without the blood. Or the sport. One thing I can tell you for certain, though, is that Billy Zabka could beat up Bruce Lee. There, I said it.
#2 - "Break the Ice" by John Farnham (from Rad)
So close to the number one spot, "Break the Ice" is John Farnham's ultimate achievement in pump-up music. It's among the most inspirational of songs that has ever or will ever exist. It paints a picture of perseverence in its purest form and really gets you stoked to succeed, no matter the task. I wish I could have found the clip from the opening of "Rad" or been able to embed the audio, but you'll just have to trust me that this song will change your life. Go and download it, illegally if necessary. Don't be a pussy.
#1 - "Heart's On Fire" by John Cafferty (from Rocky IV)
The '80s, while producing unbearably righteous pump-up songs, were also marred by tensions between nuclear super powers. It was U.S.A. vs. U.S.S.R. It was Us vs. Them. It was Capitalism vs. Communism. And to symbolize all of that turmoil, we got Rocky vs. Drago. In a shocking twist early in the film, Ivan Drago slays an age-old symbol of the American Dream, the great Apollo Creed (who dies wearing his famous red, white and blue trunks.) There were so many questions: How to stand against such power? How to face the Goliath and reclaim the pride of an entire nation? Luckily, Rocky Balboa had the answer. Simply put, he shut Adrian up and took his training back to the old school. While the big Russian was getting injected with steroids and pounding away on high-tech machines, the Italian Stallion was chopping down trees, lifting carts full of people and nets full of stones, and running up entire mountains. And what kept him going? John Cafferty's perfect pump-up song. If this song doesn't make you want to sprint out to a quarry and deadlift boulders, you'd better reach between your legs and make sure God didn't pluck you from that oven before your balls finished cooking. "Heart's On Fire" makes men into men. It puts hair on your chest just so it can burn it off again with its sheer awesomeness. It is the ultimate '80s pump-up song.
Pioneers like Stan Bush, John Farnham and Kenny Loggins were masters of taking pure adrenaline, filtering it through an electric guitar, and extracting an unknown byproduct that somehow caused testicles to increase in size by at least four times. If you're upset with the state of cinema in this day and age, you need look no further for the reason than the lack of sick sports/training montages featuring mind-blowing rock with lyrics about winning, fighting, and generally being 100% man. This list hopes to outline once and for all who reigns supreme amongst these oft-missed relics of film history.
#10 - "Highway to the Danger Zone" by Kenny Loggins (from Top Gun)
What better way to open such a prestigious countdown than with the monster anthem that itself opened up what is arguably the best movie of the '80s. The only way to get any more hardcore than flying fighter jets into "The Danger Zone" would be if you were somehow born with two penises. And your callsign was "Double Dick." And you had a threesome with Kelly McGillis and Meg Ryan while blowing MIGs out of the sky over the Indian Ocean. Since that's a pretty unlikely scenario, we'll just concede that before Tom Cruise went batshit insane he and Val Kilmer were showing the world what it truly means to feel the need for speed.
#9 - "Thunder in Your Heart" by John Farnham (from Rad)
John Farnham makes his first stop on the countdown with the tune that accompanied the final showdown between "Cru" Jones and the unstoppable Bart Taylor (played by real-life BMX winner and fantastic male specimen Bart Conner.) As Cru tries to overcome a disheartening, early-race crash, badass Bart decides to pull a "tortoise/hare" move and waits for his rival to catch up. If he'd known that Farnham's insanely rocking beats were coursing through Cru's veins he would have just taken his victory and gone home. Instead, Cru makes that final push, proving that "every move is like lightning." And in the end, his triumph allows him to experience "the power you feel when you get your taste of the glory." Seriously, you can't make these lyrics up unless you were born a pure winner.
#8 - "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor (from Rocky III)
The most controversial placement on the list, many would argue that Survivor's classic is the hands-down, number one pump-up song. The reason it loses points on this countdown is because, despite it's legendary status and top-notch quality, it has become a bit cliche. Still, just hearing this song begin to ramp up makes every guy within earshot immediately fall into a trance wherein they dream of shaving their head into a nappy mohawk, strapping on 30 lbs. of gold chains and doing pull-ups while grappling with their feelings about the pitiful fools they seem to encounter on a daily basis. Predictions? Rock. . . and pain.
#7 - "Winner Takes it All" by Sammy Hagar (from Over the Top)
Stallone. A beat-up semi-truck. Arm wrestling. An epic battle to reclaim the love of your estranged son. I know what you're thinking: Classic Tolkien, right? "Over the Top" is a bit more contemporary, but no less thrilling an adventure than any Hobbit has ever encountered. The only thing that could possibly improve this masterpiece would be Sammy Hagar destroying your eardrums with a blazing track about about how to avoid being a loser! There's not been a greater song written to accompany guzzling motor oil and munching on lit cigars. That's right, John Grizzly, I'm lookin' at you.
#6 - "Push it to the Limit" by Paul Engemann (from Scarface)
Engemann's strong work for the infamous "getting richer" montage in "Scarface" has been the inspiration for many montages to follow, most notably Trey Parker's "Montage" parody from "South Park" and "Team America: World Police." It's also holds the current record for most overused phrases in a single string of lyrics with "Hit the wheel and double the stakes, throttle wide open like a bat out of hell and you crash the gates." I don't know about you, but that makes me want to bury my face in coke then fuck like a stoned monkey until a South American drug lord's goon blasts my sister with a shotgun. Or maybe just start a savings account somewhere so that I can have a comfortable retirement. Either way, welcome to the limit, bitches.
#5 - "Fight to Survive" by Stan Bush (from Bloodsport)
Stan Bush is a legend of pump-up music. He brought us the power of "You've Got the Touch" for "Transformers: The Movie," and even lent his mastery of the ass-kicking anthem to "Kickboxer" with "Never Surrender." But before Van-Damme was "Nuk Soo Cow," he was Frank Dux, and he literally had to fight to survive. Just one of Chong Li's pecs would have been more than most men could handle, and he proved it by crippling Ogre from "Revenge of the Nerds." But if you thought for a second you could keep a lid on the fury of a Belgian guy playing an American guy trained to inflict unadulterated pain on his opponents by a Japanese guy (while blind nonetheless,) then you've obviously never seen Van-Damme score not one, or even two vicious spinning jump kicks, but very often three or four consecutive foot-bombs on route to ending Chong Li's bad sportsmanship. Did I mention he does the splits and punches a sumo wrestler in the balls? That's because I shouldn't even have to.
#4 - "Playing With the Boys" by Kenny Loggins (from Top Gun)
No, I'm not gay. Why does everyone keep asking me that?
#3 - "You're the Best" by Joe Esposito (from The Karate Kid)
This was probably the first pump-up song that anyone ever heard as a youngster. You got that hot feeling in your loins and you weren't sure why. Now you know it's because your instincts wanted you to get out there and thump skulls no matter what that little Miyagi bitch was preaching. "The Karate Kid" was a lot like "Bloodsport," only without the blood. Or the sport. One thing I can tell you for certain, though, is that Billy Zabka could beat up Bruce Lee. There, I said it.
#2 - "Break the Ice" by John Farnham (from Rad)
So close to the number one spot, "Break the Ice" is John Farnham's ultimate achievement in pump-up music. It's among the most inspirational of songs that has ever or will ever exist. It paints a picture of perseverence in its purest form and really gets you stoked to succeed, no matter the task. I wish I could have found the clip from the opening of "Rad" or been able to embed the audio, but you'll just have to trust me that this song will change your life. Go and download it, illegally if necessary. Don't be a pussy.
#1 - "Heart's On Fire" by John Cafferty (from Rocky IV)
The '80s, while producing unbearably righteous pump-up songs, were also marred by tensions between nuclear super powers. It was U.S.A. vs. U.S.S.R. It was Us vs. Them. It was Capitalism vs. Communism. And to symbolize all of that turmoil, we got Rocky vs. Drago. In a shocking twist early in the film, Ivan Drago slays an age-old symbol of the American Dream, the great Apollo Creed (who dies wearing his famous red, white and blue trunks.) There were so many questions: How to stand against such power? How to face the Goliath and reclaim the pride of an entire nation? Luckily, Rocky Balboa had the answer. Simply put, he shut Adrian up and took his training back to the old school. While the big Russian was getting injected with steroids and pounding away on high-tech machines, the Italian Stallion was chopping down trees, lifting carts full of people and nets full of stones, and running up entire mountains. And what kept him going? John Cafferty's perfect pump-up song. If this song doesn't make you want to sprint out to a quarry and deadlift boulders, you'd better reach between your legs and make sure God didn't pluck you from that oven before your balls finished cooking. "Heart's On Fire" makes men into men. It puts hair on your chest just so it can burn it off again with its sheer awesomeness. It is the ultimate '80s pump-up song.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Explain "Aqua Teen Hunger Force"
I can't seem to grasp what's so "genius" about this show, and I think that I might be the only person in the world under the age of 35 that's lost. I've watched a few episodes now and I still cannot see the appeal. Granted, it's got some chuckle moments and some "what the fuck?" moments, but the fact that it's being hailed as brilliant by every damn person I talk to is just mind-boggling.
I stumbled onto an episode the other day and wanted to give it one more chance. I mean, if literally everyone thinks it's genius then it must just be something I'm missing, right? Nope. The shake and their disgusting neighbor were arguing over a mail-order bride and there was some other nonsense between the fries and the meat. 12 minutes later with the credits rolling I was shocked at how unfunny it was.
Think about it for a second. It's a box of french fries, a big milk shake, and a mobile ball of ground beef that live together as roommates and have random shit happen to them. Hilarity ensues (supposedly.) I understand that being different and carving out a niche are important, but there comes a time when you have to tell someone with a dumb idea that their idea might actually be dumb. Just because you haven't seen anything like it before doesn't make it some sensational, inspiring, artistic vision. You know what else I've never seen before? A show about an elephant, a deck of playing cards and an old boxing heavy bag who live in a frat house and have wacky adventures, while coming to terms with the fact that they all have AIDS!!! There's an original show, with a twist nonetheless. And don't forget the ensuing hilarity. Give me money now.
Content aside, I think the real reason that I can't stand this show is that its fan base is the most shameless group of posers I've ever seen. 80% seem to be under the impression that if you didn't get the joke, it must have been so brilliant that you'd better pretend it was funny or people will think you're dumb. Here's some shocking news for all of you: you're not smart just because you laugh at "Aqua Teen Hunger Force." I'm not saying the fans are dumb, I'm just saying that that this show, seemingly more than any other, creates this herd mentality wherein you're just not "with it" if you don't think that a selfish milk shake and a chunk of meat that can turn itself into an igloo are the most outrageously funny things on television. (My show would feature a narcissistic lamprey with a secret history of molestation. Hilarity ensues!) I know you want to be hip and rebellious, but laughing at something that might not be funny does not a rebel make.
But what do I know? The show is wildly popular and even has a feature length movie coming out. I guess it proves that the real key to success in life isn't working hard. If "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" has taught me anything it's that if I just want piles and piles of dough and millions of adoring fans, all I have to do is get baked out of my gourd and make up a crudely animated 15 minute series about whatever is sitting on my coffee table. The Pitch: A remote control, a Motor Trend magazine and a cup full of discarded sunflower seed shells try to fit in as the zany new orderlies at a local hospital emergency room. Needless to say, hilarity ensues. . .
I stumbled onto an episode the other day and wanted to give it one more chance. I mean, if literally everyone thinks it's genius then it must just be something I'm missing, right? Nope. The shake and their disgusting neighbor were arguing over a mail-order bride and there was some other nonsense between the fries and the meat. 12 minutes later with the credits rolling I was shocked at how unfunny it was.
Think about it for a second. It's a box of french fries, a big milk shake, and a mobile ball of ground beef that live together as roommates and have random shit happen to them. Hilarity ensues (supposedly.) I understand that being different and carving out a niche are important, but there comes a time when you have to tell someone with a dumb idea that their idea might actually be dumb. Just because you haven't seen anything like it before doesn't make it some sensational, inspiring, artistic vision. You know what else I've never seen before? A show about an elephant, a deck of playing cards and an old boxing heavy bag who live in a frat house and have wacky adventures, while coming to terms with the fact that they all have AIDS!!! There's an original show, with a twist nonetheless. And don't forget the ensuing hilarity. Give me money now.
Content aside, I think the real reason that I can't stand this show is that its fan base is the most shameless group of posers I've ever seen. 80% seem to be under the impression that if you didn't get the joke, it must have been so brilliant that you'd better pretend it was funny or people will think you're dumb. Here's some shocking news for all of you: you're not smart just because you laugh at "Aqua Teen Hunger Force." I'm not saying the fans are dumb, I'm just saying that that this show, seemingly more than any other, creates this herd mentality wherein you're just not "with it" if you don't think that a selfish milk shake and a chunk of meat that can turn itself into an igloo are the most outrageously funny things on television. (My show would feature a narcissistic lamprey with a secret history of molestation. Hilarity ensues!) I know you want to be hip and rebellious, but laughing at something that might not be funny does not a rebel make.
But what do I know? The show is wildly popular and even has a feature length movie coming out. I guess it proves that the real key to success in life isn't working hard. If "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" has taught me anything it's that if I just want piles and piles of dough and millions of adoring fans, all I have to do is get baked out of my gourd and make up a crudely animated 15 minute series about whatever is sitting on my coffee table. The Pitch: A remote control, a Motor Trend magazine and a cup full of discarded sunflower seed shells try to fit in as the zany new orderlies at a local hospital emergency room. Needless to say, hilarity ensues. . .
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
"It's poop again!"
It's no longer simply a funny line from "Billy Madison." The new house came fully equipped with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a cute little garage, and a river of human shit flowing through the backyard.
The news that feces is piling up on your back porch is never what you want to hear when you just came home from your combined 11 hour day of work and school. Nevertheless, as soon as I opened the front door the other day I got three horrified versions of that disgusting revelation. Jonalyn (being the lady of the house) wasn't quite as vulgar as her penis-toting counterparts, but the message was clear in all cases: Our dung is not where it's supposed to be. Instead of calmly working its way through the pipe that runs underneath our rear lawn, it made a sharp detour at the patio and erupted out of a small drain just outside our sliding glass door. There were bits of stool and T.P. everywhere.
Turns out this house we're renting uses a sewer main that's so old there are fucking cave paintings on it. The pipe just collapsed like paper, causing all of our crap to get backed up after hitting a subterranean dam of solid earth. Now we have a level 3 bio hazard where our herb garden was supposed to go. Cool, huh? At least it gives me a good excuse to get one of those wicked radiation suits without having to admit to people that I'm really preparing for the near future when the dead rise and begin to feast on the living. The Zombiepocalypse is nigh. . .
It's really not as bad as you would think once you've gotten over the disgust of having a pile of human waste in lieu of a pretty birdbath. We had a plumber come out and set us up temporarily so that we don't have to make dookie in the shed, and after the landlord plops down $2,700 bucks we should have a fresh sewer main that's fit enough even for the shit of kings. Until then, no ping-pong unless you want to fish the ball out of the big brown puddle.
The news that feces is piling up on your back porch is never what you want to hear when you just came home from your combined 11 hour day of work and school. Nevertheless, as soon as I opened the front door the other day I got three horrified versions of that disgusting revelation. Jonalyn (being the lady of the house) wasn't quite as vulgar as her penis-toting counterparts, but the message was clear in all cases: Our dung is not where it's supposed to be. Instead of calmly working its way through the pipe that runs underneath our rear lawn, it made a sharp detour at the patio and erupted out of a small drain just outside our sliding glass door. There were bits of stool and T.P. everywhere.
Turns out this house we're renting uses a sewer main that's so old there are fucking cave paintings on it. The pipe just collapsed like paper, causing all of our crap to get backed up after hitting a subterranean dam of solid earth. Now we have a level 3 bio hazard where our herb garden was supposed to go. Cool, huh? At least it gives me a good excuse to get one of those wicked radiation suits without having to admit to people that I'm really preparing for the near future when the dead rise and begin to feast on the living. The Zombiepocalypse is nigh. . .
It's really not as bad as you would think once you've gotten over the disgust of having a pile of human waste in lieu of a pretty birdbath. We had a plumber come out and set us up temporarily so that we don't have to make dookie in the shed, and after the landlord plops down $2,700 bucks we should have a fresh sewer main that's fit enough even for the shit of kings. Until then, no ping-pong unless you want to fish the ball out of the big brown puddle.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
The Moving Process
I'm finally getting my latest move squared away. I'm leaving the comfort of living with a clean, quiet, nice-smelling girl to live with another girl, her boyfriend and my best friend David (of whom the latter two seem to be suffering from perpetual irritable bowel syndrome.) The new place is in east Sacramento on 60th St. within walking distance of my two most frequented bars and two of my preferred eateries.
Why would I ever want to give up my simple life in Renee's condo for rowdy nights and stinky living rooms? Because it's cheaper. When you cram four people into a three-bedroom house the savings on rent alone are enormous, not to mention splitting cable, Internet and utilities four ways. I'll miss living with Renee and those two bastard cats who thought my box spring was their personal playground, but I've gotta make rational decisions about my finances. Cutting almost $250 from my monthly nut is nothing to sneeze at. The only hard part has been the actual physical act of moving all of my shit.
Heavy lifting has never really been a hobby of mine. Whenever I have to lug a box full of crap or a T.V., I get so annoyed that I almost start thinking slavery might have practical uses in the modern era. Call me old-fashioned, but there just never seems to be a shackled, shirtless negro when you really need one (unless you live in San Francisco, in which case you've probably had to tell a bare-chested black guy wearing chains to get off your stoop on more than one occasion.) Maybe that's just me being lazy.
Then there's that period of limbo between the time when your stuff is all at the new house but it's just in boxes or big piles that you have to sort out. Fuck that! If it were my destiny to be an interior designer I would have been given better fashion sense and a love of receiving anal sex. I don't want to have to worry if my feng shui is proper or if my bed should be placed such that I can enjoy the splendor of morning's first light as it slowly creeps in through my venetian blinds. I guess this time I'm not looking for a slave specifically, but a faggy Chinaman that can shimmy a bookshelf without my assistance would probably come in pretty handy.
It's all coming together, though. Another couple of days and it'll feel like my new home officially. We've already got the ping pong table out back and the poker table on order. All we need now is an official housewarming bash so that I can get wasted and throw up in my new roommate's hamper. Be it ever so humble. . .
Why would I ever want to give up my simple life in Renee's condo for rowdy nights and stinky living rooms? Because it's cheaper. When you cram four people into a three-bedroom house the savings on rent alone are enormous, not to mention splitting cable, Internet and utilities four ways. I'll miss living with Renee and those two bastard cats who thought my box spring was their personal playground, but I've gotta make rational decisions about my finances. Cutting almost $250 from my monthly nut is nothing to sneeze at. The only hard part has been the actual physical act of moving all of my shit.
Heavy lifting has never really been a hobby of mine. Whenever I have to lug a box full of crap or a T.V., I get so annoyed that I almost start thinking slavery might have practical uses in the modern era. Call me old-fashioned, but there just never seems to be a shackled, shirtless negro when you really need one (unless you live in San Francisco, in which case you've probably had to tell a bare-chested black guy wearing chains to get off your stoop on more than one occasion.) Maybe that's just me being lazy.
Then there's that period of limbo between the time when your stuff is all at the new house but it's just in boxes or big piles that you have to sort out. Fuck that! If it were my destiny to be an interior designer I would have been given better fashion sense and a love of receiving anal sex. I don't want to have to worry if my feng shui is proper or if my bed should be placed such that I can enjoy the splendor of morning's first light as it slowly creeps in through my venetian blinds. I guess this time I'm not looking for a slave specifically, but a faggy Chinaman that can shimmy a bookshelf without my assistance would probably come in pretty handy.
It's all coming together, though. Another couple of days and it'll feel like my new home officially. We've already got the ping pong table out back and the poker table on order. All we need now is an official housewarming bash so that I can get wasted and throw up in my new roommate's hamper. Be it ever so humble. . .
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
People I Hate
Everyone hates someone. I don't care if you're the most caring person on the planet, there's someone that you can't stand to be around.
For example, I hate the people who say "cool beans" every time they hear any kind of news.
"Here's your paycheck."
"Cool beans!."
"You left your coffee in the break room."
"Cool beans."
"I just backed over your daughter."
"Cool beans?"
This idiocy also applies to variations on this theme, such as "cool bananas" and "coolio." These assholes need to realize that what they're saying is complete nonsense and that their reflexive use of the phrase indicates severe head trauma in their past.
I also hate people who claim to like Journey now that they've seen Peter and Quagmire sing "Don't Stop Believing" on Family Guy. Here's the scoop, chief: you don't really like Journey. You don't even know the lyrics past "born and raised in south Detroit." You're 19 years old, meaning any nostalgia you have for '80s music in general is 90% imaginary. Why don't you just straighten out your intentionally frayed American Eagle cap and put on your expensive looking Bose headphones so that you can privately enjoy Hinder or Blue October or whatever other shitty bands are getting paid to warble about how depressed and angst-filled their lead singer is. Lips of an Angel my ass. . . And P.S., this goes double for anyone who thinks they're being hip by playing "Ring of Fire" or "Boy Named Sue" on a jukebox since the movie "Walk the Line" came out. You don't like Johnny Cash. You think you do because Joaquin Phoenix is such a dreamboat, but the truth is you hope it's a total pantie-peeler if those chicks at the corner table see that you know the opening lines to "Folsom Prison Blues." If I ever "hear that train a-comin'" I hope you're tied to the fucking tracks.
Finally, I definitely hate people who give you way more medical information about themselves than is necessary. Do you really have pre-printed handouts on the proper procedure to follow if you start having a seizure? Guess what, sugar tits, if you're having a seizure my first thought is gonna be how much distance I need from you to avoid getting any froth spattered on me. After that I'll see if there's a phone around that I don't have to strain too much to reach and I may end up calling for help. Other than that, I guess you'd better be a bit more diligent with your meds, huh? I also don't need you telling me about the six brain surgeries you've had, or the sexual abuse you endured as a child. It's my first day at this office and I'm not a fucking therapist. I don't even know how to turn on my computer yet but I'm already certain that you're the creepiest bitch I've ever met.
For example, I hate the people who say "cool beans" every time they hear any kind of news.
"Here's your paycheck."
"Cool beans!."
"You left your coffee in the break room."
"Cool beans."
"I just backed over your daughter."
"Cool beans?"
This idiocy also applies to variations on this theme, such as "cool bananas" and "coolio." These assholes need to realize that what they're saying is complete nonsense and that their reflexive use of the phrase indicates severe head trauma in their past.
I also hate people who claim to like Journey now that they've seen Peter and Quagmire sing "Don't Stop Believing" on Family Guy. Here's the scoop, chief: you don't really like Journey. You don't even know the lyrics past "born and raised in south Detroit." You're 19 years old, meaning any nostalgia you have for '80s music in general is 90% imaginary. Why don't you just straighten out your intentionally frayed American Eagle cap and put on your expensive looking Bose headphones so that you can privately enjoy Hinder or Blue October or whatever other shitty bands are getting paid to warble about how depressed and angst-filled their lead singer is. Lips of an Angel my ass. . . And P.S., this goes double for anyone who thinks they're being hip by playing "Ring of Fire" or "Boy Named Sue" on a jukebox since the movie "Walk the Line" came out. You don't like Johnny Cash. You think you do because Joaquin Phoenix is such a dreamboat, but the truth is you hope it's a total pantie-peeler if those chicks at the corner table see that you know the opening lines to "Folsom Prison Blues." If I ever "hear that train a-comin'" I hope you're tied to the fucking tracks.
Finally, I definitely hate people who give you way more medical information about themselves than is necessary. Do you really have pre-printed handouts on the proper procedure to follow if you start having a seizure? Guess what, sugar tits, if you're having a seizure my first thought is gonna be how much distance I need from you to avoid getting any froth spattered on me. After that I'll see if there's a phone around that I don't have to strain too much to reach and I may end up calling for help. Other than that, I guess you'd better be a bit more diligent with your meds, huh? I also don't need you telling me about the six brain surgeries you've had, or the sexual abuse you endured as a child. It's my first day at this office and I'm not a fucking therapist. I don't even know how to turn on my computer yet but I'm already certain that you're the creepiest bitch I've ever met.
Monday, February 19, 2007
The Alpha. . .
Introductions should always come first. Before you can begin to appreciate me or my experiences, it helps to know who I am and where I'm coming from, right? As you wish. . .
My name's Todd and I live in northern California, USA. I'm a journalism student working full-time as a bill collector for a subscription software company. I'm currently single and "looking" but having a hard time "finding" because most girls seem to have an aversion to giants with poor self-esteem and acne scars. Also, the cat that I live with just sprayed in the dryer so I constantly smell like I just fucked a cluster of horny mackerel tabbys.
I've decided to expand my blogging to beyond just a MySpace page for a couple of reasons. Reason the first: I'd like more people to start reading what I'm writing. That's a very scary notion for someone like me who attempts to avoid attention at all costs, but I'm taking baby steps into becoming a more well-adjusted person. I wish me luck.
Reason number two: I can have advertising on my blog that can earn me a passive income. This in turn gives me motivation to generate useful, entertaining content in the hopes that I can get some of you to click me into a new car. Seriously, it's the American Dream to be able to sit on your duff and just have money come rolling in, so if you find yourself with five seconds to kill then please click on an ad. I'm not asking you to buy anything. It's more like I'm panhandling. You can be more comfortable knowing that I won't buy booze with the money (at first) and I'm not a filthy criminal like most homeless people. I'm just lazy.
What you'll get here is not anything revolutionary. I'm just a regular dude for the most part. What I'm offering are my observations and opinions about whatever retarded stuff is happening around me, whether it's public record or just in my personal life. Maybe you'll like it. Maybe you'll despise me. Maybe you'll click on an ad or four. I'm not a mind-reader.
My name's Todd and I live in northern California, USA. I'm a journalism student working full-time as a bill collector for a subscription software company. I'm currently single and "looking" but having a hard time "finding" because most girls seem to have an aversion to giants with poor self-esteem and acne scars. Also, the cat that I live with just sprayed in the dryer so I constantly smell like I just fucked a cluster of horny mackerel tabbys.
I've decided to expand my blogging to beyond just a MySpace page for a couple of reasons. Reason the first: I'd like more people to start reading what I'm writing. That's a very scary notion for someone like me who attempts to avoid attention at all costs, but I'm taking baby steps into becoming a more well-adjusted person. I wish me luck.
Reason number two: I can have advertising on my blog that can earn me a passive income. This in turn gives me motivation to generate useful, entertaining content in the hopes that I can get some of you to click me into a new car. Seriously, it's the American Dream to be able to sit on your duff and just have money come rolling in, so if you find yourself with five seconds to kill then please click on an ad. I'm not asking you to buy anything. It's more like I'm panhandling. You can be more comfortable knowing that I won't buy booze with the money (at first) and I'm not a filthy criminal like most homeless people. I'm just lazy.
What you'll get here is not anything revolutionary. I'm just a regular dude for the most part. What I'm offering are my observations and opinions about whatever retarded stuff is happening around me, whether it's public record or just in my personal life. Maybe you'll like it. Maybe you'll despise me. Maybe you'll click on an ad or four. I'm not a mind-reader.
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