Being a dickless dick on the internet(s)

As I age I find that I’m somehow developing a conscience yet am still an immature prick. This has led me to the occasional but unavoidable uncomfortable act of contrition. Since I spout off on this blog all about other people’s shortcomings and overall lameness I figure I had better be willing to own up to my own or else I’ll just be another hypocritical, loudmothed dickhead on the internet. As you will soon find out that’s exactly what I was last week but I hope to not be again. Prepare thy flogging devices all you ruffians for I’m about to bend over and I implore you to take mercy on my tired old ass. 1-2-3, here we go with my own personal tale of shitheaded weenieness and a public apology to the parties involved.

The other day I was in a foul mood comprised of fatigue, malaise and the repeated soul bashing from Chinchilla brained work people when I saw that another blog had borrowed a stupid anecdote I had posted here about Mayor Williams being a lame jokester, (see the post about people threatening people on the internet.) I coulda and shoulda just let it pass in the breeze but I decided to be funny, which is never a good idea for me when I am in a horrific mood, and post a comment on the other blog about them cribbing my stupid ramble.

The guy that write this blog and I have chatted on IM, talked about getting beers, he even helped do some technical stuff on this blog which was certainly cool of him to do. Seeing as how this should be somebody that I try not to be a dick to since he has been cool to me I posted a pissy comment about not getting credited for a joke about Target anyway. Asshole move #1. He unnecessarily mea culpa’d and linked to my stupid joke which I hope served the righteous purpose of making me look like a whiny freak.

Later on that day I was perusing another blog that I profess to hate and ignore but still read every day, blog #2 for this post's purposes. I have asked the guy that writes the blog to leave me out of it (I was subject matter for awhile, not in the most glowing of ways I can assure you) and he agreed to let us go in separate directions.

Now I was already a dick as you have seen and will see again but that doesn’t change the fact that I think blogger #2 is a fantastic pussy and should be gut-punched at every available opportunity by the transvestites I’m absolutely certain he pays to touch his ding-a-ling. He’s an anonymous little shit that talks a bunch of trash on people that really can’t defend themselves against what he has to say so you get three camps of people; the smart and/or lucky ones who either don’t care or don’t know that his blog exists, the sycophantic cocksuckers who kiss his ass all day so they don’t get shit-talked by him, and the worst group which I have found myself in which is people that profess to hate his blog but read it and occasionally have a total lapse of spine and brain function and post some bullshit comment on it thus supporting that which we attest to despise.

That is just lame.

Anyway, blogger #1 is friends with blogger #2 and posted a comment on blogger #2’s site the same day of the stupid Target joke occurence. I had already been an asshole once and wasn’t in any better of a mood so I posted an anonymous and shitty comment in reply to #1’s comment on #2’s page (I hope you can follow this because it’s getting tough even for me), talking shit about #1. Asshole move by me part duex.

Why the fuck would I do that? I have no idea as it’s a total double-edge sword of pussiness. Not only do I anonymously shit-talk a guy that has been nothing but cool to me but I do it on a site that I am supposed to be almost religiously opposed to? I wish I could claim temporary insanity or at least being drunk but what it really was consisted of a lack of character, a mean streak and the supposed security of hiding on the internet. I could just sit back and pretend it never happened and deny it all day long if confronted about it but what good would that do me? I would still know that I had been an asshole and now I would be a cowardly fart on top of that. That’s really not what I want to be, on this blog or in real life so I am here to fess up to being nothing but a small-time prick and I apologize to both blogger #1 for general fuckedness and as much as it pains me to blogger #2 for asking him to leave me out of his bullshit and then jumping in it with both feet when I didn’t have to own up to it by putting my name behind my words.

I’ll leave it up to the two or you to comment on this if you want but won’t post your blog addresses directly, that’s up to you. You know who you are I’m sure. I take full and total responsibility for being a shit so at least I’m a step up on the President of the United States. Hopefully my karma is back in balance and we can move on to talking about what fucking assholes everybody else out there are. That’s a lot more fun than this contrition shit!!!!

Later.

Cock the vote

Hope everyone's voting on Tuesday.

Whether you want to vote for Kerry or Bush is up to you but exercise your right regardless. My vote is going pointedly for Kerry because I think Bush is a cackling, glassy-eyed, moronic, dog-molesting idiot but we all have our own opinions and I respect yours as long as it's the same as mine. I have friends on both sides of the fence and we all think each other are totally stupid and insane.....why do I have to have such stupid and insane friends when I'm so smart and well grounded?

I was reading a Washington Post chat today with Peggy Noonan (of the Bush campaign) and Donna Brazile (from Kerry) and put my head down on the table and started bashing it slowly over and over again after reading this exchange. Noonan's response pretty much encapsulates why I have a seething vomitous revulsion towards her boss and his jackals. We're talking about the Presidency and she breaks out 10 year old Rob Schneider impersonations?

Ms. Noonan & Ms. Brazile -
Thanks to both of you for participating in these chats. They've been very informative, and more than a little fun. My question, for both of you - Why do you believe your candidate will win on Tuesday?

Donna Brazile: I believe Kerry will carry the 20 states and District of Columbia Gore carried in 2000, plus Ohio, Arkansas and Nevada. New Hampshire looks good too. Donna

Peggy Noonan: Bush. Boooosh. Bombastic Bushkin. The English Patient. El Bushbo. Have I been clear?

Seriously Peggy, go apply some makeup with a chainsaw until you can not be such an arrogant little puffin. Y'know I'm all for a little fun but Jesus Christ, (he's a friend of your boss', you might know him..... blue eyed white guy from the middle east with a beard and robes....has trouble holding loose change in the palms of his hands...his picture is all over the place), can you at least be a little respectful of the small percentage of people who care enough to ask for your worthless opinion on this race? I hope Barbara Bush mistakes you for a burglar at the ranch and hits you over the head with a rubber ball gag and kneecaps you with her "Read My Hips" 14 inch strap-on. You totally deserve it.

For blog material I'm almost wishing that I get "challenged" at the poll on Tuesday by one of the Republicans "Electorate Watchdogs." I have a witty remark all loaded and ready to fire -

Watchdawg - "Excuse me sir, can I see proof of your voter registration?"
Me - "Sorry, I left it at the abortion clinic when me and my life partner went by there to play fungo with some third trimester fetuses after we got finished shooting heroin and screwing each other behind the elementary school. You'll have to go watchdog someone else I guess. Can I have a hug or a lingering tongue-kiss you fabulous brute?"

That would be sweet.

I hope to be in a lighter mood next week but it's not looking good as the polls read right now. I know one thing, I'll be hungover as hell on Wednesday...good, bad or otherwise. If you want to meet at the local bar and watch the election with some really stupid and worthless idiots drop me a line!

How about that, not one single curse word in this whole post. For me that's really fucking impressive!

Republican Porn

This disturbed even me but once I started rolling it took on a life of it's own.

Scene - Living quarters in the Vice President's undisclosed location.

(Pan in)

Dick Cheney, nude, sits pensively on a couch hands all a-twitter watching Neil Cavuto on Fox News. He starts slowly picking at his bellybutton, absent-mindedly at first and then with greater interest rubbing slow deliberate circles around it. Laying his head back on the sofa he starts to caress his gray-hair tufted old man nipples and moans gloriously.

DC - "Tell it like it is Neil.....tell it like it is sweetheart....."

At the click of a doorknob he suddenly bolts upright at 1/4 attention in the nethers.

DC - (gruffly) "Who's there? I left orders not to be interrupted"

Voice off camera - "Ah, but who really gives the orders around here?"

Enter Barbara Bush in a leather corset, holding a five gallon can of peaches (in syrup) and a hairbrush.

BB – “Have you been a good Dick or a bad Dick….Dick?

DC – “Barbara….my God…have you truly left Ashcroft…..for me?”

BB – “Don’t be silly Dickie, you know that Long John and I are shall we say, joined at the hip. It’s the God thing, it makes his a wild animal in the sack when I call him a homosexual….he rails me half to death because he’s scared of going to Hell the silly twit !!! (evil cackle)

BB - This visit is strictly business darling. You look too keyed up on your campaign stops. You’re scaring the swing voters and homosexuals more than they’re scared of Osama you tense little muffin and as sad as it is we need them so I can stay in power. I think you need a little………..relaxation. And who knows how to relax you better than I do, hmmmmmm?”

DC – “Momma….baby has dirty pant, baby has dirty pants.”

BB – “Oh silly boy stop your sniveling. Come to momma and have a snack.”

BB raises can of peaches and with both hands bashes DC over the head with it, splattering peaches syrup, hair and blood everywhere.

DC – “AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGH!!!!! Momma hurts Dickie!!!!!”

BB – “Tell momma who’s in charge….tell momma who’s in charge you bad thing you.”

DC – “AAAAAAAAGGGHHH!!!! Momma is Momma is. No more hitting, baby wants to play pistols and holsters!!”

BB – “Not before you start being a nice boy!!!! Now are you going to make frowny faces when you talk anymore? Are you going to be a sweet boy that looks like he has happy things in his trousers from now on?”

DC – “Yes momma…..can we play…”

BB whacks DC in the groin with the hairbrush

DC – “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”

BB – “Now you listen to me!!! I did not go through five sex-change operations and a lifetime being stuck with dickless George Sr. and our witless offspring to have you fuck this up for me. I am one step away from global domination and I will be damned if you and that fruity, male-cheerleading son of mine are going to ruin it. LSITEN TO ME…I want you to go out there tomorrow and win this goddam election because I’m too tired to steal it again and I’ll be damned if I’m going to owe that bitch Katherine Harris any more favors!!! How many Guantanamo detainess have to “go missing” before she finally gets her itch scratched anyway? Now do you HEAR ME LITLLE DICKIE?!??!?!”

DC - “yes momma. Can baby play calf and udders now?”

BB – “Yes darling, just hook up the pulley so I can get my breast out of here and we can play for just a bit.”

DC - “Send in the corps of engineers with a block and tackle and a gallon of Wesson Oil. The first mother has…ummmm….. a wardrobe malfunction that needs attending to.”

DC nuzzles BB’s ample bosom. BB strokes his bald head peacefully then rears a leg back and knees him in the groin.

DC – “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Why momma why?”

BB – “Oh I’m sorry dear…….for a moment there I saw you as an imminent threat”

BB and DC – “BWAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!”

BB – “Come here Mister Vice President…….”

(Pan out to enormously fleshy white bodies embraced on the floor in a glistening sheen of peach juice)

I need a Beer and a Cigarette

I'm reliving the old days today. Not the imaginary old days like every other revisionist punk rocker wannabe ex-metalhead delusional bastard on the planet with a Minor Threat 7 inches bought three weeks ago off eBay but my REAL old days. In the tune spinner today have spun the Dogs D'Amour, the London Quireboys, Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction, Circus of Power, Rock City Angels, Lords of the New Church and spinning right now as I type the mighty, flighty, junked out, made up, Motley Crue murdered, saxaphone tootling, Les Paul slinging Hanoi Rocks.

I love this band, they rocked ass. Before you even start giving me crap all you holier-than-thou truly-Queensryche loving but proclaiming to love the Kings of Leon or Franz Ferdinand or some such shit you can kiss my gold lame'd ass ass and go whack off to your Y&T records you mullet loving shithead guitar nerd George Lynch drool covered manwiches.

Nothing like a pre-emptive hysteria strike!

(BREAKING NEWS - Tony Williams in a news conference announcing that Target is coming to town jokes "I'm happy to say that Target, or as some as you call it TAR-ZHAY is coming to town." He then stammered, chuckled uncomfortably, stammered again and continued. Bowtie Willy and Bush should do a stand-up tour of weirdo comedy together. Now back to regular programming.)

Hanoi Rocks was more of a good, gnarly, dirty, spazzed out good time American rock and roll band than anybody west of the Mississippi from 1980 until GnR came around and they were from fucking Finland!!! Imagine how bad ass they would have been if they were born in Detroit. I guess that's easy, they would have been the Stooges with make-up and a boa strung jauntily around the neck. I'm gonna do this Dead by Xmas song at my next acoustic show just to prove how, well I don't know what I'll prove, but the song kicks ass and makes me happy.

I'll be dead by x-mas now anyway
Tell me will you remember me that day
When you've found a new one who's better than I ever was
I'll be dead by x-mas now anyway
Please give all my things away
They'll make great x-mas presents for you
And for all my friends

YEAH!!! Take that all you sentimental poofters crying about your mean parents. That's some cool shit right up in there I dare say. Anyway whether you have good taste and like Hanoi or not do yourself a favor and dig back into your record collection and listen to the stuff that you really love, not the stuff that you think you SHOULD love. It will make you happy.

It's good for you, it's like soup, it's like.....nothing bad. - Mother Love Bone

I leave you with some of the greatest rock lyrics ever written. Sure they're stupid and sexist and mysoginist but what do you expect from a guy named Zodiac Mindwarp?

Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah
Well I Love Tv And I Love T. Rex
I Can See Through Your Skirt I've Got X-Ray Spex
I Came From The Sky Like A 747
I'm The Bad Boy Baby I Fell Out Of Heaven
Sex Fuhrer Baby I'm A Love Dictator
Blitzkrieg Romance I'm A Cool Dominator

P-R-I-M-E Prime Mover Baby
You're M-I-N-E I'm The Groover

Well I'm Christ In Shades
I'm A Napalm God
Your Lipstick Flickers Round My Lightning Rod
You Fever Pitch Bitch You Love To Tease
Well I'm A Hot Dog Daddy Up On Your Knees

Sex Fuhrer Baby I'm A Love Dictator
Blitzkrieg Romance I'm A Living Detonator

P-R-I-M-E Prime Mover Baby
You're M-I-N-E I'm The Groover
Yeah

Can't type anymore, too busy rocking.

Something REALLY SCARY this way comes

First off here’s my take on Ashlee Simpson. She’s about as real as a fucking cartoon and I’m truly sorry to say that cartoons aren’t real. If they were I would my spend time blowing up assholes with sticks of dynamite and dropping anvils on the lady that lets her dog crap on my lawn. Sadly it’s not to be but if for some reason you think that cartoons are real the bad news is that you’re an imbecile. On the flip-side the good news is that you probably lead a pretty blissful existence and look up in the sky for birds and planes and all manner of aliens which sounds like fun as long as a bird doesn’t shit in your mouth.. For all you non-imbecilic citizens out there though getting upset about Ashlee doing what she does is about as dumb as being bummed that you can’t yell “Flame On” and fly around shooting fireballs like the Human Torch.

Although that would be tremendously cool.

On to better things; there is this message board that I kinda lurk on that is full of punk rock dudes threatening to kick each other’s asses all day. They talk about other shit like how gay every band that they aren’t in is and how they want to bang chicks and how cool their tattoos are and such but an inordinate amount of typing is done about who is going to fuck who up and so forth and what not. If that board were real life it would be bloody knuckles and broken bodies throughout the punk rock universe with emo kids in tight pants getting more than their share of the rain of pain falling ’pon their plains.

I read that shit and recall that great old Eddie Murphy routine about fighting homosexuals and think that although these emo guys might wear women’s pants and silly belts and be stultifying earnest about their broken hearts they are indeed still guys and could conceivably fuck up all you oh so tough and angry McKaye disciples. OK, probably not but in a crazy kooky world where the Sox came back from 0-3 to beat the Yankees and Ric Ocasek gets to bang Paulina Porzikova anything can happen, right?

Now, I have admittedly gotten my ass kicked in real-time and real-life when engaged in fisticuffs and I left that part of my life behind a LONG time ago because it hurts getting punched, it hurts a lot. Like, "holy shit I think I’m going to start crying in the middle of this bar", kind of hurts. Real fights with fists are pretty rare though, most “fights” between doodes don’t really involve punching at all but a whole lot of yelling and stepping backwards and screaming “COME ON BITCH, YOU GO FIRST, NO YOU GO FIRST, NO YOU GO FIRST YOU PUSSY, WHAT’D YOU SAY BITCH, I’LL FUCK YOU UP,!!” while both parties silently pray for a bouncer to come break it up before they have to actually try to throw a silly-putty armed girl punch and look like the ineffectual loud-mouthed penises that they really are. I have been in a lot of those.

Still, even wrestling around on the ground and pulling each other’s hair (which is what almost always happens if no bouncer is around and there is no recourse but physical entanglement) can be dangerous and used to be approached with a modicum of restraint involving a lot of staring and low-talking amongst your friends. Actually telling some guy you were going to kick his ass meant you might actually have to try and kick his ass and about 99.999999% of us have no idea in the world how to even begin attempting to do that.

But nowadays things are different. With the advent of the internet(s) every doode out there has nuts that swing like wrecking balls and the fuck-you-up skills of Steven Seagal and Batman in their back pockets with some room to spare. You don’t agree with somebody about a certain movie and it’s “I’ll fucking fuck you up motherfucker. I’ll pummel you around the block then shove you up my ass and shit you out on a plate and feed it to my dog who will then re-shit you into the grass where I will step on you with my steel-toed boots and smear you all over the place.”

WOW!!!!

I would love to see the computer virus come around that somehow outs everybody on the internet. All of a sudden ‘DoomSlayer666’ is revealed as Freddy from Quality Control and here’s the address and phone number where you can contact him about his threats to sodomize your mother with the exhaust system from an 82’ Caprice Classic station wagon. I think that style of judgment day should be scarier than the time-tested ‘Here comes Jesus, you better watch out!’ for the majority of the population. For if we are to be judged on our actions and not our hearts then should we really go to hell for sitting around typing and masturbating all day? We don’t really do shit, all we do is talk shit like I am right now.

Does anybody really follow through on threats to fight and fuck each other up on the internet(s)? If so, please comment with the story. Also, I’ll give no prize because I’m cheap and lazy to the person who comments with the most imaginative web-based ridiculous threat of physical violence. It can be directed at me or Clunky or whoever, just be interesting.

One more thing, if you don’t like this post I’ll fucking shove a rusty swing-set down your throat and bend your skinny ass in half and let my crew take turns playing ring-a-round the fucking Rosie on your moms and your grandmoms and then I’ll knock your teeth out and use them to polish my nails to a fine sheen so they look good when I rip your still beating heart out of your chest and eat it on a bagel with a side of I fucked you the fuck up beeyotch and then your girlfriend will want to have sex with me and I’ll let her…right after I fuck you up all over again!

Goddamit I miss Phil's ass

When trying to think of what to write today Phil suggested, "tell them how much you miss my ass." So here you go world...........

I MISS PHIL'S ASS AS MUCH AS JOHN ASHCROFT CHERISHES YOUR CIVIL LIBERITES AND CLUNKY NEEDS TO HIT AN AB-ROLLER AND TURN HIS AMP DOWN!!

Take that for what it's worth. I feel like I need to go to take a shower.

I don't need no education

I got a phone call the other day from a sorta more than casual but not close acquaintance (we’ll call him Testy) when I was running on about no sleep and had a zillion things on my mind. Approximate transcript follows:

Ring………………….
Me – Hello
Testy – Hey dude….it’s Testy
Me - …………………….
Testy – Testy, you know man, I’m friends with Fuknutz and used to play bass for Vapid Deception.
Me – Oh…hi
Testy – Hey man…I’m looking for a job. I know you didn’t go to college and that you have a good job….
Me – How do you know I didn’t go to college?
Testy – Fuknutz told me…all about you dropping out and shit and how you fell into this good job by being lucky.
Me – hmmmmmm
Testy – So anyway man, I was hoping you could help me out. I said fuck it to college too man, fuck that shit. I mean what are they going to teach me that I don’t already know, right? You know what I mean. HAHA!! So anyway, I need a job because working at this pet store totally sucks.
Me - ………………………
Testy – You there man?
Me – Oh yeah, I’m here.
Testy – Well?
Me – Well what?
Testy – Can you help me get a job?
Me – Doing what?
Testy – I don’t give a fuck man…anything that pays a shitload more than working at this pet store that’s for fucking sure. It might be weird to actually work FOR you if you know what I mean but I guess we could try it, as long as you don’t boss me around and shit. HAHA!
Me – Do you even know what I do?
Testy – Dude, Fuknutz told me that you were the man, you dropped out of school to be a musician and got a fat job just partying or some shit and that’s what I need man….
Me – A fat job or to party?
Testy – YES!!!!
Me –I really don’t know what Fuknutz is talking about and I think it’s kinda fucking lame for you to ring me up about a job when you don’t even know what it is that you want or worse what you can or cannot do. I mean, am I supposed to call someone and say “Hey I know this guy…can you give him a gig as a surgeon?”
Testy – I never said I wanted to be a surgeon man, I just want a job that fucking pays me good money. Why are you being a dick about it?
Me – How am I being a dick? I barely even know you.
Testy –Whatever man, Fuknutz said you were a cock but I said I thought you were cool. Guess I was wrong man.
Me- OK, wait a second. Here’s how I got lucky and fell into my fat job. You already dropped out of college …
Testy – I didn’t even GO at all MAN!!!!
Me - ……….ok, so go get a job moving furniture, do that for about eight years. Work your way up the ranks until you are running the company. Just at that point quit to take a probationary job for less money at a huge corporation doing something that you have no idea from your ass in a hole in the ground as to how to do and do it with no training. Work 15 hours a day to avoid getting fired……that’s how I lucked into my job man. Oh yeah, and you have to cut your hair off.
Testy – WHAT? Dude, why should I have to cut my hair off for a job? Can I at least talk to the dude about it?
Me – What dude?
Testy – The dude that you’re going to call for me about the job?!?!?!?!
Me – I really gotta go.
Testy – You want to call me back?
Me – No.

Click

An hour later Fuknutz calls me and asks why I was such a dick to Testy. I tell Fuknutz to lose my phone number, that I have more important shit to deal with than him and his loser fucking buddy and who the hell is he to tell people what I do or don’t do and how I ended up doing it.

Fuknutz – Man, I remember when you used to be cool?
Me – Oh yeah, when was that?
Fuknutz – Before you cut your hair off.
Me – You didn’t even know me then.
Fuknutz – Well I heard that you used to be cool. Guess that was then and this is now. Later asshole!!!!

Click.

Me - ………………………….(befuddled)

Why do I have these things happen? Is it because of some terrible karmic injustice that I perpetrated in a previous life? Was I perhaps a cruel despotic monarch that was unkind to his shitheads peasants and I am now doomed to be tormented by their spirits for all eternity? Another possibly of course is that I primarily hang out in public places that are filled with nothing but idiots. I don’t know...it's probably either that of the cruel monarch thing.

So Testy if you’re reading this, (which I doubt since illiteracy is one thing I am sure you have in abundance), I’m sorry if back in the day I made fun of you and tarred your bare ass and then kicked you around my feudal palace while me and my fair maidens were holding court and getting ready to have an orgy. It was really nothing personal, just part of the job description.

You: Work until your hands bleed and you die a horrific pre-natural death

Me: Take advantage of you and your others until you are of no further labor value then dress you up like a monkey and humiliate you until I light you on fire and throw you off a rampart.

Seriously, check out CareerBuilder, I’m sure there’s something on there for you. Search "under – useless fucking shitheads that want to get paid huge bank, preferably not in a pet store".

Sigh……………………..

Update from the bar

I do have to make this quick as I gots Poppa-ing duties to attend to soon but I had a bunch of folks ask for more bar profiles and figured I would bang some out. I stepped out to the local bar last night after practice to have a beer and shoot the shit with Marc. Thursday is karaoke night so we were in for a whole new cast of characters aside from the usual poltroons and idiots. On top of being stupid alcoholics this gang had delusions of talent and social capability. It was just as pathetic as you are probably imagining and possibly quite a bit worse.

Regulars in attendance last night - Boob, Jack, Danny

Newcomers (rated by diseased livers for loathsomeness)

Jolly - Mid 50's wearing a bright red sweater vest that somehow managed to contain a really fantastic belly, it was like he was nine months pregnant with a bouncing bottle of rotgut gin. While he was sporting a horrific set of gin blossoms and looking about ready to stroke out Jolly was...well...jolly! Hence the nickname. He sang some old show tune and sounded just like a fat, old ass drunk singing an obscure show tune. The crowd would have preferred "Oo Oo That Smell" but they were pretty supportive of Jolly regardless. Jolly was harmless and amusing so he rates a lovable 1 diseased liver out of 5.

Charlie Tuna - Could not have been more drunk, pretty typical idiotic redneck that wants to be the center of attention in the bar. After doing a bizarre version of "What a Wonderful World" by lowering his voice and making it scratchy to the point that he sounded like he was singing through one of those voice modulators they give people who have had their voice boxes cut out he started yelling "SATCHMO....SATCHMO!!!!!", to no one specific bor or bro-ette, it was a communal "SATCHMO!" I guess. For the rest of the night he would offer Randy Jackson style commentary on the rest of the singers including "You sing as beautiful as you look", and ""Holy shit dude, that shit made me fucking cry!". 3 DL's out of 5...he was not truly hateful just stupid and annoying.

The Passion of the Marlboro Man - Sporting a cowboy hat he sang a woeful song that I assume was called "If I were Jesus". I will google to see if I can find the lyrics. Sounded like shit and the fact that he was singing Christian music in the crucible of loser hell while hitting on a lazy-eyed bar whore makes him worthy of fiery death while being sodomized by the fat bass player from the Goo Goo Dolls. 5 DL's out of 5. Update post googlage....it's a Toby Keith song. For this TPOTMM gets a whole new scale and rates 10 DL's and a multi-orifice drilling by a rabid bull moose with elephantisis of the cock. Supporting evidence is copied below:

If I Was Jesus, I'd have some real long hair
A robe and some sandals, is exactly what I'd wear
I'd be the guy at the party, turnin' water to wine
Yeah me and my disciples, we'd have a real good time.

Ooh and I'd lay my life down for you (woooooh)
And I show you who's the boss (woooooh)
I'd forgive you and adore you
While I was hangin' on your cross

If I Was Jesus. I’d have some friends that were poor
I'd run around with the wrong crowd, man I'd never be bored
Then I'd heal me a blind man
Get myself crucified
By politicians and preachers
Who got somethin' to hide.

If I Was Jesus
I'd come back from the dead
And I'd walk on some water
Just to mess with your head
I know your dark little secrets
I'd look you right in the face
And I'd tell you I love you
With Amazing Grace. Ooh....

I assume our President thinks this song is totally rad. But back to the profiles......

Henry Roid - Huge jawed, ripped up t-shirt, big huge veiny muscles where I don't even rate fat cells Henry was preening throughout the bar. He seems to be an inveterate ball juggler and made a good show of fondling himself while singing yet another Toby Keith song. When he finished singing Charlie Tuna stood up and yelled "I DO love this bar....AND YOU MAN!!!!" 5 DL's out of 5 and the moose fucking for invoking Toby Keith.

Benji the Race Car - Benji was wearing a Chevrolet ball cap, had a cheesy mustache, a mullet and best of all a pleather jacket with a black and white checkered flag pattern around the shoulders. Benji was tremendously pathetic looking but obviously thought he was a total badass. He swung his shoulders to and fro so wildly when walking that he looked like a real-life weeble. Benji was hitting unsuccessfully on one of the most heinous bar hags I have ever seen and as his rap went from atrocious to grotesque he compenstated by talking louder and louder and louder. I was hoping Benji would somehow shoulder swing himself into an exposed electrical wire and be electrocuted to a painful and smoldering demise. Benji gets 5 DL's for delusional badassedness and wearing a racecar jacket.

Cowboy - The saddest man on earth. Sitting at the bar with his arms crossed, alone and pathetic. He sighed more than Popeye. I'll give him 4 out of 5 just because I'm pretty sure death would be doing him a favor by coming around to say howdy.

That's all I have time for, sorry for the lameness. Next week I'll be back in regular rotation.

Oh yeah, if you like the Yankees I'm totally laughing at you. Ha Ha.

What I made that's better than anything

Seriously...how cute is that?

Not much of a post today as I have a lot of stuff going on with burping and so forth. Here's a picture of the wee child for those that know me or for those that just like cute babies. If you don't fall into either category keep on moving...nothing to see here. She's tiny and loud and amazing to just sit and look it. I'm totally inspired but to do what I'm not sure. I'm exhausted but energized. All in all I'm very happy.

Whee!

Have a nice weekend

I'm gonna be out increasing the world's population for a few days so the tip-tapping on the keyboard will be limited. But hey, let's hear it for me for having sex at least one time that I can verify through DNA evidence!

I'll get back to it as soon as I get the diaper thing straightened out I promise. I will leave with a letter to the POTUS and a few quick thoughts.

Dear Mr. President,

Hey partner, you kinda came on a bit dopey again last night. If sexual orientation is a choice when did you make yours? Did you wake up one day and think,

"Well Dubya, what's it gonna be.....wiener or a lady's dirty place...hee hee...hmmm....well the wiener is strangely enticing. Hey daddy, I have a big decision to make...should I want to have sex with men or women....what's that..just do what you did and have sex with a woman that looks like a man?!?! WOW! My daddy is a straight up FUH-REEK!!! Well I suppose I should lean towards women...I can take care of that wiener thing by being a male cheerleader in college and loving on my momma....she looks like Dick Butkus in a house dress for Christ's sake.....OK.....WOMEN FOR ME....I think!!!! Hey mom can I get one of your special hugs? My brain hurts again!!!!"

Is this really something that you don't have a concrete opinion about? It must be excellent to have a mind free of thought, insight, conscience, rationale or a single firing synapse and have all that warm gooey space just wide open for praying. Your bleating, cackling shitheaded performance last night was so retarded I was waiting for you to muss up your hair and start singing songs about your mean parents.

I hope you get a festering concertina wire hemmhoroid in the shape of the cross and it burns your asshole bloody and raw for the next 19 days until the country has the decent fucking sense to fire your fucking idiotic ass and send you back to Barbara's oil-soaked, ragged out linebacker tit where you belong. And you're supposed to wear different colr ties you stupid fuck.

Sincerely,

A concerned citizen

Hmmmm....what else?

I don't have all that much for you today kids, my brain is otherwise occupied with the big events in my life going down in the next 24 hours. It's special. I hope all you people out there that are amazing and wonderful find things in your life that make you feel the way you are because you deserve them.

For the rest of you go eat an ass-sandwich and think about not being a fucking dick all the time.

Hey Clunky…turn it the fuck down.

I had all sorts of great stuff to write about today. I was going to be pithy yet witty, edgy but kind. I was going to toss prose like the Nature Boy Ric Flair tossed the lesser Andersen brothers out of the ring on the Saturday mornings of my youth. But no, no instead I have a ballpeen hammer against a tin shed style headache and am nothing but grumpy due to a pot-bellied skintight t-shirt wearing Jiffy Lube attendant with purple hair named Clunky. I would make up a good name for him but when a guy self professes to a name like that, why bother?

Clunky is the bass player for a Baltimore band called Voodoo Blue. I know this and lots of other neat and totally fierce things from traveling to their website today and spitting on it, I mean browsing it. There are a lot of things that I could make observations about but I’m going to focus on one thing and this does not apply only to Voodoo Blue but to about 99% of the other bands on the planet. Please listen closely as I’m sure your muddled brains are foggy from the cool ass ringing in your ears…..ok…….ready?

TURN YOUR FUCKING AMPS DOWN YOU DUMBASS FUCKING MORONS.

I was sitting out on the deck of this bar last night after practice, having a beer and a chuckle or two or four with Philito. As the chill took hold in the air we went inside where we saw some lovely people that we liked and were very happy to see. We had drinks, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun. We were half-watching the Yankees and bopping to the music. All was well.....and then the dogs of hell were unleashed upon our sonic karma.

Some doodes were dooding it up onstage rocking out the warm-up spots for the big headliners, Clunky and the Crew de Voodoo Blue. The crew were heavy on the doode stares, you know what I mean, those hard eyes boring into the vacant souls of those of us who can’t understand that Joel and Benji speak the truth and that they totally identify like so much with Che Guevera and Marilyn Manson and who are we to laugh at them for wearing fishnet shirts and pink hoop earrings anyway?!?!? They totally give non-crew members mean looks to show the depth of their hardness…..but also the tears of the little plumbers inside them that just want to be held. “I’m a living scar…..boohoo.” Well I got news for the crew, it’s a cold cruel world out there so when you dress like a fucking clown at a bar in Fairfax and the local yokels that are begging for a glimmer of hope that they might be slightly less fucked than somebody else set their sights right on you for expressing your right to piss off your dad with eyeliner go stare at somebody that gives a shit like your therapist or your Grandma and leave me the fuck out of it.

The crew was rocking the now-standard uniform of chunky haircuts, t-shirts that don’t fit, jean jackets…whatever, who the fuck cares. They still look like hicks no matter how many bullet belts and tight black pleather pant ensembles they put together. All I’ll say in wardrobe advice is that they might want to think twice about playing barefoot when playing in a bar because I know for a concrete fact that they were rocking some Bon Jovi style bare tootsied Bad Medicine on a stage where I have personally deposited some lungers in the past. Worse, I once witnessed Evil Ed of the Blue Line Tattoo (more on him in a future entry) yank it out and piss all over in protest of the death of rock and roll in the exact same spot where Clunky was merrily a-prancing. So if you’re Clunky or one of the Crew you might want to get your feet looked at, I’m pretty sure you’re rocking bacteria as hard as you rock your swell haircuts.

But back to the noise…..

I have been playing in bands for a long time. A long time and goddamit I have the Grecian Formula requirements to prove it. Of all the things I have learned over the years the single most important is to wear a latex happy sack on your nethers at all times, especially when you are South of the Georgia state line. Coming in a close second however is that heavy volume is not your friend unless you suck so bad you have to cover up your ineptitude with tidal waves of pain bringing crap. These motherfuckers last night were moving more air in a space the size of my Grandma’s root cellar than Springsteen did at the MCI Center the night before. It was ridiculous. You couldn’t hear anything discernible so what we got was a wall of ambient hell to go along with Clunky clunking away, his Ibanez bass clattering like the iron-collars on a pack of demon dogs braying the greatest hits from Satan’s Shit-town record collection, (by Ronco, for a limited time only).

They started bringing the noise and I started calling for my tab. It was loud to the point of I couldn’t help but laugh that they would not just stop right away and call FEMA for first responder ear exams. Clunky was working the crap out of an Ampeg amp that was sufficient for a Guns n’ Roses show in 1991 at places like RFK Stadium, not a bar the size of Jimmy McDoolittle’s House of Snacks and Suds. I took me approximately three minutes to pay out and get out and I have had a fucking headache ever since. Lest you think I’m a pussy, and maybe I am, I wasn’t the only one that left pronto and to the quick. There was plenty of company outside freezing their asses off to avoid the jackhammer to the skull that was taking place inside. The sad thing is I have no idea if CADC (Clunk and Da Crew) were even really competent as musicians or songwriters as it was impossible to hear the songs over the tidal wave of noise. However I am pretty confident that Carson Kressley would dig their punk rock fashion sensibilities so at least they have that going for them.

I went to their website this morning and amongst all the Street Team Punk Rock Savagery I saw that these doodes have played some big shows for places like HFS’ and the like. Why? Well I guess the thinking is that if Good Charlotte is good for the Goose the Gander would probably like some crappy music of his own to hold dear.

Despite my advice I’m sure these rude boys will keep turning it up and be millionaires soon and I can see Clunky and his off-road vehicle collection on Cribs. I’m guessing that he will start fucking Ashlee Simpson and then God will try to close out his cosmic joke on me when their son takes my daughter to the prom and blows out her eardrums blasting his dad’s newly remastered version of their first big hit, “Mean Parents Make Me Frown.” That’s the kind of painful heart-wrenching shit that I just KNOW is going to happen and if you don’t believe me well I’ll stare at you so hard that it will make both of us cry!!!

Travels with Russell Part 2 - Where oxen are cleverer than us!

When last I gabbed Russell and I had met up with a gang of big fat stupid hair-metal ogres who wanted to grab some booze and have a hotel party. We on the other hand wanted to take advantage of their available cash, lose them, and go find some Whitesnake video chick look-a-likes and throw down with the bros in Sweet F.A. We loaded the fleshy giggling beasts of burden into the K-Car and headed to a gas station that was burning neon Bud signs. In we stormed like the Huns, (if the Huns had been skinny, loudmouthed, long-haired wieners from Virginia), grabbing cases of the brew and smokes and other assorted necessities. I recall that we even went for the TasteeKakes….obviously we were living high on someone else’s bankroll.

We got to the counter and Cleetus the gas man drawled out “i stopped sellin’ alkeehawl two minutes ago. Y’allz gotta put dat back in thuh kewler.” Well my good man I think not!!! In a flash of Reagen-esque diplomacy we told Cleetus that we had a K-Car full of chicks and that if he hooked us up we would have him over to the party when he got off his shift. "Mr. Cleetus....RING UP THIS BEER and toss in some beef jerky to boot and pleasures of the flesh by the tonnage await you by dawn!"

Cleetus was kind apprehensive but when I gave him that Motel 6 room key (remember, where we spent the first night) that I had never turned in well his eyes lit up at the thought of laying biblical hands on the giggling large-haired fishnet-clad hamhocks on display before him. Beer in hand Russell gave Cleetus the bro-shake and off we went. Time to execute Phase 2 of Operation Dumbo Drop.

This is where the plan went sour. George Peppard said he loved it when a plan came together and we would have as well, unfortunately we did not have the smarts, the cool black van or Mister T. to help us out. We had to rely solely on our wits to succeed so obviously we were totally fucked.

As so often happens when you party with idiots that can’t hold their liquor one of the herd started whining that she was sick and wanted to go home. Now we wanted to get rid of them, that was for sure, but we needed to do it en masse. The last thing we wanted was a cling-on going with us to the Bro bar…one cling-on can kill the advances of a squad of righteous silicon-topped lovelies and we could simply not have that noose around our necks. All the while we were driving lazily around and Russell and I were shot-gunning beers (he was driving) to drown out the drawly idiotic mewlings from the party girls.

We decided in hushed coversation covered by the pounding of Ozzy flying high again in the background that the only reasonable course of action to deal with the sick individual and keep the booze was to pawn off all of them on Inky (back at the motel) and sneak out back to the Bro bar. We got back to the motel and I went up to the room while Russell tried to get the key out of the ignition (apparently stuck). Inky woke up and was all pissed until he saw female flesh (by the tonnage) come in and then he was Inky Hearty Time to PARTY!!! A bit of time passed with no Russell and worse, the sick lady (term applied loosely) had two new companions in illness and they PASSED OUT IN FRONT OF THE DOOR!! Our only escape route was compromised. We could step over them but the quick sneak back to the car was a no-go. Things were looking bad for the B-Team.

Russell finally walked in with a curious look on his face, grabbed the ice bucket and filled it with water and back out he went. He performed this ritual a few more times and when I asked what he was doing he just shrugged and grumbled at me. It would not be until later that I learned that the key was not stuck at all but that the shotgunning of beers, gazillion shots back at the bar, smell of hairspray from our companions and overall bad health had caused my guardo camino, my road guard, to puke ALL over the inside of the K-Car. Our illustrious plans were totally ruined, our night had come to an end. An end consisting of large drunk women passed out and snoring Ricin breath in the beds, (one canoodling with a very happy Inky), warm beer getting warmer, a pukey K-Car and me and Russell sleeping on the floor. No bros, no hot slutty strippers…truly Memphis was the devil’s town.

I awoke the next morning in a dark room and the hogs were gone. I have no idea where they went or how they got there. Russell and I went to the Waffle House on the other side of the parking lot and left Inky to clean up the puke in the car. It made sense, he had to drive it to Denver and we told him that it was his porky Chiquita that had gotten sick in it in the first place. This wasn’t the first time we lied to Inky nor would it be the last. There was still a long way to Denver and an even longer way back. We pondered our failure over greasy eggs, coffee and cigarettes. Surely redemption was at hand around the bend. We had the will, we had the guts and god fucking dammit we had the hair.

Next stop....Arkansas.

me and inky in better times.....sob

Please allow me to interrupt myself

Totally bizarre and wonderful evening last night and as it’s gonna be my grand hurrah of traipsing about for awhile I guess that’s appropriate. The better half trundled me out the door with a heartfelt wish of “don’t do anything too retarded” and a kiss good-bye and off I zipped out to the old stomping and living grounds in Arlington to meet up with bosom chum and drinking partner Jamie. After getting by a 3-lane closed six car accident and miraculously finding a sweet parking spot on the street I sashayed into one of my preferred spots on the face of the planet, the Galaxy Hut (if you’ve never been I would encourage you to go and get shitfacingly happy there but only if you’re not a horrid douche because if you are everyone there will hate you including me).

Anyhoo, I’m drinking away with Jamie and his new roommate Josh (cool Josh he is) and some lady that was sitting next to us who seemed to think Jamie was kinda stupid because of something conversationally related to either his understanding or lack of understanding of cartography….it was hard to follow as I was pretty well on the way to lit-land at that point.

A band started playing who were kinda cool in the indie-rock, “not being tight and having crappy amps is part of our appeal” kind of way. There was something charming about them and I will say their bass player was VERY good, He’s in another band called the Hurricane Lamps that I have heard of but never seen but will know make a concerted effort to do so based on his playing. I was a bass player for a long time and get really geeked by seeing bassists that just get it, talented but not overwhelming and fully of the understanding that solos are intended for guitarists and discreet activities like masturbation. I have no idea what that is supposed to mean but the word masturbation always makes me laugh….sue me. Then go masturbate.

So we’re drinking and listening and drinking and my uncle walks into the bar. You know in movies where the kid has the black sheep uncle that drinks and is a loser but has a heart of gold and imparts insight into the whole meaning of family at the end of the film and everyone hugs to the Simple Minds song playing in the background? Well this ain’t that uncle. He’s a good guy, a great guy actually, but not the going out to a bar in Arlington by himself on a Saturday night kind of guy. More of a “hit the sack early so I can get to filling up those pesky birdfeeders before the birds wake up” kind of guy. Needless to say I was a tad perplexed to see him in this setting and for a brief moment wondered if Josh or the cartographer had slipped me a roofie.

I grabbed me uncle and we headed outside where he told me that he was trying to find my cousin (his kid) and so on and so forth because they needed to talk about some crap right away. It was very surreal, talking to my uncle outside of a bar half-drunk on a Saturday night in a very pleasant conversational way just like we do at my mom’s house during holiday dinners. I walked around with him a bit and after failing to locate the cuz sent him home with the promise that I would keep my antennae up and make sure everybody was hale and hearty.

So back to the bar I went in a total state of brain flummox and tried to explain all of this to Jamie when the headlining band started up and totally took my mind off everything else. The band, the Alice Despard Group, is fronted by one Alice Despard (hence the clever band name) who happens to own the Galaxy Hut and is one of the coolest most gracious people you could ever hope to meet. I have one of her CD’s but had never seen her live before. She was awesome, truly a great performer, singer, writer, whatever…the whole thing. Everything that I love about the Galaxy Hut, the quirkiness, the coolness, the warmth was embodied in the songs she was playing. I wish that I could take the gaggle of shitty musicians from shitty bands that I constantly subject myself to and make them sit Romper Room circle style and watch this band. In a small space with no stage they rocked not by overwhelming volume or stupid gimmickry but simply by being a tight, talented and really just plain old great 3 piece rock and roll band. If nothing else happened last night seeing Alice and her band would have made it a total wonderful successful outing but by the grace of God and stars and garters and beavers and kittens there was even more to come!

Sidenote - I did run into the cuz and made sure all was well (which it is) but we didn’t talk long because Alice was playing and I can talk to his dumb-ass anytime I want since we’re family and he can’t ignore me or I won’t give him shit for Christmas.

After Alice’s band was done playing and my hands ached from clapping we paid the tab and wandered up the street to Iota where a band called the Twinemen were playing. The Twinemen have the sax player and drummer from Morphine along with a bass player and a woman that sings and plays guitar. I was never a big (or little) Morphine fan so wasn’t really going in with any expectation. I did note on entering Iota that they had really cool t-shirts and I made a note to get one if I liked the band…guess what. I’m wearing it right now!

Seeing two bands in one night in cool, small settings that completely and totally kick my ass in the loveliest of ways is pretty fucking rare but it happened last night. The Twinemen were GODDAMN FUCKING EXCELLENT AND GO BUY THEIR SHIT RIGHT THIS GODDAMN MINUTE!!!! Laid back but not boring, danceable (of course no one dances in this town unless you’re a shit-head cover band playing Blink-182 and other such deserving of painful fiery death nonsense), but not overly funky they had me hooked the second I started listening to them. The singer had an excellent voice and was playing one of the most beautiful Telecasters I have ever seen. Again like Alice (I think you knooooooowwwww), nothing flashy just talented performers playing great songs and connecting with the crowd in a way that only live music can. The whole band hung out after the set and I made sure to tell them how awesomely awesome I thought they were and we’re now totally best friends for life, at least until they get the restraining order.

Seeing as how I couldn’t drink anymore and make it home without getting pummeled at an “Operation StrikeForce” checkpoint I headed home. I love hanging out with Jamie and all but sitting in a bar drinking cranberry juice just isn’t my thing. I go to bars to drink. If I want to chit-chat over tea I’ll move to England and join Parliament. So I wandered the streets back to my sweet parking space with my Twinemen t-shirt and head full of good happy thoughts and pondered how sad it is that moronic Pro Tooled shitheads like Hoobastank and Evanesence are millionaires while the Twinemen and Alice Despard are playing in bars. Selfishly I love that I can see such amazing musicians in settings like that but really if there were a loving and merciful God Hoobastank would be filling my drive-thru order, Evansesence would be doing the Goth hour on Cable Access where they belong and Alice and the Twinemen would be telling George Bush to go fuck himself in the ass with an embryonic stem cell along with Springsteen and the Dixie Chicks for $1,000.00 a ticket on Monday night. I would be a lot taller and have killer abs as well. Thanks a lot mean God, you’re a real fucker.

So here’s to you all you excellent people out there that make me happy. I thank you for you wonderfulness.

The Travels with Russell Part 2 that I promised is coming. Please be patient and feel free to paint a picture or masturbate or something to take the edge off the waiting.

Masturbate.

Ha Ha.

I blew it

The day got away today and I didn't have time to relay the Travels with Russell day 2 Moronapalooza from sotted recesses of the brain to shaky fingers to you. I will do my best to get it up tomorrow...and to write the blog.

Ba-bump.

Me, Russell and two other desperate shiteheads at Kidner Transport worldwide HQ. See if you can guess who is who. 

Steinbeck had Charley, I had Russell. Travels Part 1

My friend Russell and I have had many, many really stupid and moronic adventures together. They’re the kind that upon retelling most people think are terribly exaggerated when in truth the lack of exaggeration is what makes them great. Russell lives in a land far away now and makes movies and stuff (here’s his movie company) and we can only get together now about once a year to do dumb fucking shit that should be worthy of incarceration.

I did get arrested on a night out with at hair-metal bar non-pariel Zaxx (now Jaxx) and got a solid head thumping against the trunk of a squad car for my troubles and big mouth. That is another story though….. the following tale, in the spirit of the Presidential campaign, involves barnstorming across America.

Russell and I worked for many years at a small moving company in Arlington, VA. called Kidner Transport brilliantly named after the owner, one John Craig Kidner. (R.I.P.) John was sort of like a modern day pirate in that he liked money, pillaging, motorcycles, women, beating up assholes and general naughtiness but had a strong disdain for things like paying taxes and cops. He was an excellent role model for stupid idiots like us who wanted to be bad asses but didn’t know how.

Kidner Transport had no business really being in the transport business from a business model, legal, equipment or aptitude standpoint but none of that was much of a factor in our sales strategy. If John could hoodwink someone into writing a check we would move anything, anywhere, under any circumstance. I moved everything from airplanes to bricks to coffins to the chrome plated dildo that served as a paperweight on the bedside table of the President of the Bartender’s Academy. That one was a tad over the top….

Anyway John had me and Russell set to move some poor trusting family’s stuff to Denver. They needed their Reliant K-Car transported as well but instead of putting it on a car trailer as we were contracted for John just decided to have another employee, we’ll call him Inky, drive it out there. Inky was a fledgling tattoo artist who practiced each and every day on himself. He was questionably literate and unquestionably goofy to the point of over-the-top nuttiness. The fact that he did not have a driver’s license was quietly overlooked by all parties involved and off we headed West in our two vehicle convoy. First stop…Memphis Tennessee.

We hit Memphis after 18 hours on the road. Amazingly the truck was a brand new International Harvester and brand new trucks go slow while the engines break in, really slow. We passed the time by chain-smoking, listening to bad heavy metal and popping ephedrine tablets by the handful with Mountain Dew chasers. We would take short breaks when the old heart rhythm would get so speedy that breathing became too difficult to smoke cigarettes. Say what you will, it got us down the road.

Upon hitting the exit for Memphis the truck broke down at the bottom of the ramp and we were very upset for there was heavy drinking to be done and the fact that we had a stuck truck was biting into that precious activity. Russell and I had Inky take the car and call a tow service while we waited and passed the time blaming each other for our bad luck and intolerable levels of sobriety. Finally the wrecker came and we hopped in with Inky and went to the Motel 6 up the street.

As I stated earlier Inky didn’t have a license or other I.D. so we left him at the motel (which we would have done anyway if he had I.D. but this way we didn’t have to feel guilty) and went out to a bar where a band called Sweet F.A. was jamming. Metal Edge magazine said Sweet F.A. was fucking awesome and who were we to argue with Metal Edge?!?! I’ll skip over the getting to the bar and meeting the band because that’s just the same old you do so many shots you throw up on your pants kind of stuff that I can rehash in a hundred other stories.

After closing the bar and careening down the sidewalk most of the way back to the Motel 6 we passed out in our respective Flotsams and Jetsams. I woke up the next morning and called Kidner to tell him the truck was broken. Per usual when receiving this kind of news he threatened to kill me and said horrid things about my mother before hanging up on me and calling the mechanic. JK rang back a bit later to say we were stuck in Memphis for two days and there was no way he was footing the bill for us to stay in a fancy place like the Motel 6 and what kind of high-falooting assholes did we think we were anyway and he had called the front desk to have us tossed out. We packed up our meager totes and headed to the K-Car to find more suitable lodgings for assholes like us, luckily plenty of places like that exist in the seedy underbelly of dirty cities like Memphis.

It was later on this night that the real idiocy took off like a roman candle shoved up the bum of a masochistic serial arsonsist with a rump fetish. We headed back to the bar (sans Inky again) to continue bro-ing it up with Sweet F.A. who were in for a two-night stand. Of course we were primed to meet some ladies of questionable character and upbringing and meet them we did. About nine of them each one more bacon-guzzlingly round figured than the next. We would have certainly told them to beat it had we had morals, standards or the available funds to buy the booze and breakfast that they were cackling about going to procure. As we did not have said funds, and certainly not the morals, we charmed them to the best of our abilities until closing and then it was “to the K-CAR you horrific pigs…we have your money to spend and the hours are getting late!!!” You see the strategy was to get them to buy a bunch of booze, feed us and then ditch them so we could go meet the righteous stiletto-heeled, slim-calved rock Goddesses that were surely waiting for two studs of our caliber right around the corner at the after-hours BYOB bar where the Sweet F.A. dudes were heading. We had a plan, we had a car, we were drunk and we were ready to rock. What could possibly go wrong? That is a story for tomorrow and tomorrow the story shall come.


Rock out.

I really am something

This blog thing is great, I just start posting stupid shit on a website for a week or two and here comes a bunch of random emails that proclaim I am either the funniest, smartest and CUTEST blogger in blogtown (you got that right all you “I hate this guy” hairy beanbag touchers…..and I even think it came from a real WOMAN) or the most egotistical jerkoff blowhard on the planet.

Guess what…you’re all correct.

So seeing as this site is all about me me me feel free to write me and tell me what you think of me or leave comments so other people can see what you have to say about me.

On a subject other than me, (really…who gives a shit but opining is my game and bread and butter), as much as it pains ME (that’s better) to admit it I think Cheney pretty much recreated the Drago vs. Apollo Creed confrontation last night on the Senator from North Cackalackee. I still hope the good guys will win but the evil facist steroid injecting dark side did some pretty good ass whupping last night. Who cares that Cheney is full of shit and all the news sites are saying he’s basically full of shit…they’re all full of shit!!

Oh well, we’ll still have Friday to watch Jr. hang himself on the noose of his own waddling turkey neck. Hopefully Kerry is running up a mountain side and lifting Theresa and Elizabeth Edwards in a donkey cart while listening to inspirational songs by Survivor to get ready.

But enough about those assholes…..let’s get back to me.

How am I doing so far?

You're my bro right up until I hate your fucking guts

I have been in lots of bands but up until the band I’m in now I never had to deal very much with the line-up change. Mostly my bands would spontaneously combust into absolute destruction right about the time we had spent every cent we ever earned on pictures and t-shirts.

Once I was in a band that broke up when the drummer pinned me up against a wall by my neck immediately following a show and kicked my ass before choking me into submission, When he was done throttling me he went toe to toe with the singer and wound up brawling behind the bar breaking innumerable bottles of watered down liquor. The cops came but after taking one look at us Johnny Law decided we were way too pathetic to sully their jail and left us to die under our own devices. We would have headed home but our guitarist, who had earlier departed in a huff and hail of drunken dust with our friend Rob, took the keys to the van with him.

It was Easter Sunday, we were stranded in Diehl Maryland after beating up or getting beaten up by each other, and we couldn’t unlock the doors to the mini-van. The only reason we got home is because Rob (R.I.P.) who wasn’t even in the band wouldn’t listen to the impassioned pleas of “fuck those assholes, throw the keys out the window and let them die!” from our guitarist and came back to save us, (or at the very least unlock the doors so we could drive home and live to totally hate each others guts another day).

Welcome to the brotherhood of Rock and Roll motherfuckers.

That story is not the norm though. Most bands go through a pretty predictable series of stages before they deconstruct leaving crappy demo tapes, unverifiable stories of awesomeness at out of town shows and petty but unmistakably inferno like grudges in their wake.

Stage 1 – the hook-up:
You can see it in bars everywhere, dudes in bands that are brand new to each other slow dancing in wonderment at the sheer rockitude of each other. Surely there was more at work than simple fate to bring this illustrious line-up of totally aligned and perfectly matched rock and roll behemoths together. They are infatuated, they are arms around each other slamming brews and gazing at the awesomeness of the ass they are going to kick. There are big plans and everyone is on the same page at all times. This stage involves more time sitting in a booth at Denny’s discussing the magnitude of the shit soon to come than actually practicing. This stage generally lasts about two weeks.

Stage 2 – the tittie twist:
Once the newly formed and awesomely aligned band of brothers plugs in instruments and puts sticks to drumheads there comes the first chink in the armor of fantasticness. The chink formation (what a name for a terrible cover band) almost always involves the principal songwriter who by nature is a completely self-absorbed windbag that wants everyone in the band to be able to perceive exactly how the song sounds in their head and execute it precisely that way the first time through and every time thereafter. This is the role I play in my band. When the songwriter starts getting their titties in a twist about the way the songs sound as opposed to the way they were intended (the most awesome of all ways) the tittie twisted at this stage keeps pretty cool and doesn’t say much because after all this band of brothers is going to be together for a long-ass time and the songs will work themselves out. The songwriter puts aside his personal ego for the good of the band. This stage usually lasts about one half of a nano-second.

Stage 3 – the coalition build:
Inevitably certain members of the brotherhood gravitate towards one another whether by locale, mutual friends, social alignment or degrees of alcoholism. This is where the cracks in the mantle of the band really form. Generally speaking the songwriter finds an ally in the band to further his agenda of being the total dictator and overlord of the brotherhood. There are lots of “you know we’re really on the same page” and “you know I love (insert name of band member not sitting there) but sometimes his take on the songs weirds me out…” and other weasely little shit to further his agenda. The company (statiscally it's bound to be the bass player) agrees because he is a sycophant and the songwriter is buying the pitchers. Thus the coalition is born. The band is now a month old.

Stage 4 – the cold chill:
As the coalition strengthens over hours of IM and repetitive phone calls between members the minor musical disconnects between the leader of the coalition and the non-coalition members strengthen and grow. While love is still professed personally there are “serious” things to talk about and lots of “I don’t want to be a dick about it but” veiled threats thrown around. This translates into a chill in the air at band practice where the non-coalition members who have no idea what the fuck is going on behind their backs start to get the cold shoulder from the leader and blank stares from the coalition underlings. At the end of practice the coalition leader packs up as quickly as possible and leaves with his army in tow. The non-coalition members stay behind and start their brains churning…what is going on…could this be happening…..what did I do…..can I bum a cigarette? The band is four months old and well on the way to firey destruction.

Stage 5- the beginning of the end:
At this point the band is playing shows that are not going as planned in the Stage 1 booth make-out sessions. While of course the lack of a crowd is endemic to the shitty scene and has nothing to do with the balls out wonderfulness of the band or their shitty promotional efforts something is clearly wrong. To maximize the potential the cancer must be excised. This means getting rid of the best musician in the band that is not in the coalition. And here boys and girls is where the real shit gets going. Musical differences are now translated into personal ones. Playing too loud becomes your girlfriend is a meddling bitch and you don’t take this shit seriously enough and you look fat in that ridiculous t-shirt and I can see your nipples popping out in the band picture you goddam prick I can’t believe that YOU are fucking up MY band….errrr….I mean our band. In a blaze of non-coalition inspired sanity the victim usually makes a stand and says “fuck you” and leaves. Thus the coalition has triumphed and the songwriter reigns supreme. Now all that’s left to do is replace the dearly departed with another sycophantic suck-up and glory is assured. The band is seven months old and on the old rusty ventilator.

Stage 6 – all fear the apocalypse and going back to want ads on Craigslist:
To replace the missing link the only guy that the songwriter knew that could play the missing instrument is plugged in without talking to the rest of the coalition. It is an unbreakable rule of the universe that the new guy will not be anywhere near as good as the dearly departed and will be a mope. The coalition is frustrated, after all the shake-up practices have been cancelled for months, the songwriter hasn’t written a song since Stage 2 and the only gigs they can get are at a pizza shop on a Tuesday. The coalition starts to fracture and the songwriter clings to the new mope in a desperate bid for power. The angry coalition members shout and stomp that they don’t care if the old guy had big fat fried egg nipples HE WAS OUR BRO…..WHY DID WE KICK OUT OUR FAT NIPPLED BRO YOU EGOTISTICAL FUCKER?!?!?! At this point hastily called band meetings are arranged and everyone agrees to get their shit together and right the ship. The band is ten months old and pennies are being shined to place upon its eyes.

Stage 7 – the box of t-shirts in the closet, endgame:
After the band meetings the non-coalition members have found innumerable reasons to cancel practice or not be available for gigs. The boxes of 8x10 promo pictures in the corner of the practice room with Fatty mcFried Egg Nips’ glowering sweet face stares up at them like the telltale heart when they finally convene for a halfhearted jam. The band decides to take a break. They hastily say “I’ll call you” and that is the end of the band save for the volcanic hatred for each other that is about to be unleashed whenever sadistic friends offer to talk about it with them. While they were all way too weenieish to talk shit to each other directly the band members now go on a P.R. junket of vitriol against each other. They hate one another except for when they end up in the same room and give each other the bro hug. Then they go back to calling each other fuck-ups and losers.

The band was 12 months old from conception to death and never really did shit but the band members will talk about how huge they were for the next decade…..even though all the other guys were total retards. That’s the great thing about bands, there are so many out there and always have been that it’s almost impossible to verify the lies that ex-band members tell about their past greatness. It’s great how quickly playing to mom and dad on a Tuesday night at Fred’s Pizza Lounge morphs into a Saturday night rock blowout in front of a sold out crowd of bisexual strippers. Thank god there’s not Swift Boat Veterans for Local Band Bullshit out there, we wouldn’t have anything left to talk about at Denny’s with our new and totally awesome bandmates!

So long Poland, thanks for the laughs!!!!

First Spain, then the Philpines and now Poland. My GOD it's like we're going to fight this war all by ourselves!!! I bet Junior is telling Jesus right now that he should smite those pollocks but good!! Ungrateful bastards fucking up our awesome coalition....well....who needs them?

BRING BACK THE DRAFT!!!!

(just let me check to make sure I'm not still eligible first)

Rest your head you dick, for you have found a home

It was so beautiful outside yesterday that I spent all of it in the local yokels bar up the street getting pole-axed drunk and yelling at the stupid Redskins. This bar is the place that new bars try to be when they work hard at evoking the down-home locals spot, you know where everybody knows your name, elbow up on the bar kind of shit. The problem is that you don’t really want these freaks knowing your name let alone where you live. They are a scary group of wastrels, vagabonds, bikers and pipe-fitters and were it not for my burning desire to stay close to home I would avoid them like the plague. I guess it says something about me that I am a regular in this world of carnival trash rejects and ignorant hammerheads but thanks to my overwhelming ego-mania I don’t really let it get to me.


Yesterday I drank with the following lunatics amongst many others -


Jim the retired CIA officer – Jim lives a few blocks away from me. He is retired from the CIA and has a fugly ass wife that is a dead-shot with a 44 Magnum. They have a Boxer dog that responds to “disarm” and “maim” commands in Gaelic. The “kill” command is a secret word that Jim and deadshot made up and “he won’t even whisper it aloud.” Jim is blind in one eye, has odd sores on his arms and yesterday announced that he “hates Latinos and thinks Koreans are like ticks on a dog.” I told Jim he was an idiot and he actually seemed to take that pretty well. Jim always drinks Budweiser drafts with a shot of Jack Daniels poured in and wound up his afternoon by stumbling out of the bar and getting into an altercation with Popeye the drunk over a cab. The bartenders all hate Jim. Jim sucks.


Jack the Cheerleader - Jack is a greasy maniac, not the “party till you puke” (though he does) style maniac but the “this guy really scares me and I wish he would evaporate” style maniac. Jack has a brother who died under mysterious circumstances that he rants about whenever he is seriously drunk which is all the time. Jack went to Stuart High School and loves to yell “Raider Pride!!!!” whenever he sees me even though I did not go there. The bartenders all hate Jack. Jack sucks slightly less than Jim.


Boob the reader – Boob seemingly lives at the bar. He brings stupid John Grisham books with him and chain smokes GPC cigarettes and drinks Bud Light all day. Boob is the self appointed “king of the remote control” and always turns on dumb shit when the rest of the bar would rather watch Cops or football. The bartenders like Boob because he spends all his Social Security and disability money on them. Boob took an instant dislike to me from day one and the feeling was mutual. I can’t really say that Boob sucks as much as Jack or Jim being that he is pretty harmless. Still, I loathe him and wish he was dead.


Toenails the bartender – Toenails is a bisexual freak that is in love with her girlfriend Mary who is the heavy metal drummer for a local metal cover band. She once told my friend Marc about her green fungus encrusted toenails while he was eating a cheesesteak, (hence the Toenails moniker). She takes frequent breaks from working behind the bar to go out back and get high which has caused some admonishment from the boss but nothing too serious. Toenails has a daughter that lives with her and the metal maniac and I have actually found myself praying for the welfare of that poor little destined to be a stripper waif. I think Toenails wants to have sex with Marc so she constantly insults him. Physically she looks like a big fat carp with an acne problem and big hair. Despite her faults she is nice to me and even if she wasn’t she gives me lots of free beer so overall I am a Toenails fan.


Popeye the drunk – Popeye is a harmless little old man that looks like a tiny wrinkled up version of Anthony Quinn. He is drinking himself to death and doing a pretty good job of it. Popeye rarely talks but he does sigh a lot. I actually sort of like Popeye even though we have only exchanged about five words in untold hours of barstool neighboring. The fact that Jim fucked with Popeye underscores what a festering idiotic cockpunch that Jim is. Popeye deserves better but seems OK with what he’s got.


Bobby the Owner – Bobby is a Pakistani guy that is the ringleader/prison warden of the goofs and freaks that frequent his bar. He bears a striking resemblance to the Great Gazoo from old Flinstones cartoons. Bobby is a really cool guy and for putting up with the lunacy that he does from the amazing array of shitheads that darken the door of his establishment he deserves a humanitarian award or a free pass to empty a few magazines from an automatic rifle into his patronage. Bobby rules, big ups to Bobby.


Danny the father – Danny sucks. Danny should be thrown in a wood chipper, have his chips thrown into a Port-A-John and have the Port-A-John sent in a rocket ship to burn up on the face of the sun. He is a toothless, greasy, illiterate fuckfaced shitdick idiot that has unfounded opinions about everything on the planet and feels it is his holy birthright to make you hear each and every one of them. If Danny could type he would be an excellent blogger. He is in the bar ALL the time making a fucking jerk out of himself and immortalizing himself as one of the Top 10 most hated people out of all the people I have hated in my life (which is a lot…I know you find that surprising). Danny has his kids one weekend a month and brings them to the bar so they can sit in a booth being miserable while their dad annoys the fucking shit out of everyone else. Danny sucks worse than Jim and I am cooking up a plan to tell Jack that Danny was responsible for the death of his brother so they can either kill each other or end up in prison where they belong and leave me and Popeye to quietly poison ourselves in peace.


Billy the bartender – Billy and I went to high school together. He has been married and divorced three times since we graduated. Billy still talks about how awesome high school was despite my constant reminding that I thought it was the most atrocious and soul crushing time of my life. Billy gives me horrific amounts of free alcohol and for that I respect him immensely.


The hot chicks – There has never been a hot chick in the bar and there never will be. It is a home for the lost, the stupid, the ugly and the broken; not the hot and cuddly. No wonder my wife doesn’t really mind me hanging out there.


More profiles as I get inspired to write them. For those of you who have joined me at the bar I encourage you to join in with your comments. We can discuss them later at the bar.

Democracy Tommy Lee Style

Let me state for the record that I can't stand Bush and think he is a duplicitous little piece of semi-idiotic and fully theologically fucked up piece of shit. Kerry could have stood up and professed undying gay man love for Joseph Stalin and I doubt it would have swayed my vote.

But still...

It's patently ridiculous to me that our President seems so aggravated at having to participate marginally in the electoral process. You would think he could put as much energy into preparing for the debate as he does reading scripture while sitting on the can in the morning but all he did was remind me of me in high school when I tried to B.S. my way through an oral book report for a book I never read.

“I KNOW IT WAS BIN LADEN THAT ATTACKED US!!! I WAS TOO COMBING MY HAIR!!! THAT’S NOT MY DEAD HOOKER…JEB MUST HAVE LEFT IT THERE!! I’M TELLING MOM!!!!”

It’s fucking ridiculous, I was waiting for him to look at his watch like his Anton LeVay motherfucking old man famously did during a debate until I remembered that Cheney tells time for Bush Jr. and his keepers don’t want him to get distracted by having unevenly weighted arms so he doesn’t get to wear a watch. He might forget to keep breathing.

I got particularly incensed when Bush in a moment of total floundering and stuttering and full on octane powered hem-haw vapidity pulled out that stupid fucking "I have climbed the mountain" pandering bullshit. It offends me because it smacks of "when I don't have anything else to say I'm going to remind you that Jesus really does like me more than the other guy so vote for me or go to Hell… as in real Hell it’s hot as a goddam motherfucker down here.” If I want Jesus for President I'll write him in, let me have that small comfort ok? Thanks. You dick.

The same type of thing aggravates the shit out of me about Kerry when his whole campaign has been "at least I'm not Bush". That's the argument for 21 year old roundheads at the Galaxy Hut and hyperventilating idiots on the internet like me to make, not the next Commander in Chief. Tell me why you should have the job you “this should be so easy to win but somehow I make it ridiculously hard” zombie motherfucker.

Jesus, how can you not beat Bush even by accident? How many more heads need to get sawed off before you get the message across that you can figure out a better plan? It’s like telling an employer that unlike the heroin addict working in the mailroom you only have an OxyContin and coke problem so he should go ahead and make the switch and wondering why you haven’t gotten a call back.

Don’t just meander around and tell the Security Mom’s they should be excited because your wang’s not as limp as the other cock in the contest. Shout it that out your dick is hard as a piece of Adamantium Rebar, you’re swinging it in front of you and you’re going to start ringing doorbells with it so America better get ready to swing from the ceiling and have four years of Pam and Tommy style Democracy up in here. WE WANT BETTER you douche, not just not as fucking bad. Make the electorate you’d love to fuck want to FUCK YOU TOO (to paraphrase Eazy-E).

Gross, I just talked about Kerry’s dick. Have you seen where he puts that thing? Anyway…

So like a lot of you I mostly sat back and chortled at the inane faces that Bush made. They’re the kind of faces that if some kid made them when you were picking sides for a game of Marco Polo you would pass up on him because he’s obviously too stupid to understand the concept of the game. From a comedic angle the split-screens were hilarious. The look of total bafflement on Bush's face when Kerry referenced Kennedy and DeGaulle should be the grail test for all Bush impersonators to pass.

Despite all of his policy retardation, criminality, and general fuckedness I still have fears that Bush will win. When it comes to things in life coming about that are really going to irritate the dogshit out of me they are usually right on time, maybe I ran over the head of the Illuminati’s mistress or something when I was drunk one night and now they have it in for me, I don’t know. Whatever, if I’m going to hate it you can damn well bet it’s scheduled for a prime time slot.

At least there is intrinsic proof out there that if Bush does win I can say "don't say you weren't warned that you're gonna get 48 more months of the same ramrod crammed up your banghole" to everybody that votes for him so I have that going for me. I told you so’s make dark times so much sweeter and amusing......at least until some fucker in a ski-mask with an agenda saws your head off on his way to drop nerve agents in the water cooler at your kid's soccer game.