Life as we know it is a short and sometimes cruel short story published in the most obscure of publications, but every once in a blue moon someone comes along and writes an entire "Sports Illustrated, Fall Football Preview" with their life.
Sure their have been some recent departures from the world of the living that would qualify for that issue, but I don't really give a shit because I don't own an i-pod or i-pad or i-whatever the fuck the latest innovation happens to be. In the words of that Indian (feathers not dots) character from "Predator," "Everybody gotta die sometime," and yes the king of the creative computer world was a mere mortal like the rest of us. I hope he is getting some sweet S-jobs in compu-heaven, but does anyone realize that the creator of Doritos recently "bit" the big one? I have spent far more money hangin' on his "Cool Ranch" than I ever did getting Steve's kind of Jobs, just sayin' is all.
Hightower from "Police Academy?" Yep he's a goner.
Some junkies died; Winehouse, the guy from Weezer, that pussy Kanicky from "Grease," and Mike not the Starr of Alice In Chains fame. All taking a dirt nap.
Fitness guru Jack Lalanne finally succumbed to sixty plus years of promoting "women's fitness," Jack shoulda got with the times and realized that "women's fitness" is called porno, porn director's live forever Jack, wrong choice.
How about Warren Christopher? No big deal he only held positions of international importance (Secretary of State, Attorney General, Nerd of Power) during three separate presidential administrations, but you know he didn't do anything that effected anyone.
There is only one passing that need be noted here, only one that brings an era to an end, a man who forgot to "lay low" and finally got caught up. Original "OG" Nate Dogg, I'm pouring out a lil' liquor for you homey.
I hope Jobs (not like Job in the B-I-B-L-E, that guy went through some real shit) is living it up in i-heaven with i-god, but everybody does gotta die sometime and I for one would rather die it up with Nate Dogg and old Jack Lalanne than spend another minute with S-Jobs and his legion of Gen-Y Myrmidon in their unending i-nformation hell.
Goodnight and facebook to you.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
The Italian Cafe Across the Street
The Italian Cafe across the street is definitely not my cup of espresso (fucking Italians don't even know the proper vernacular is tea, cup of tea...).
As an Irishman I am predisposed to having a melanin impediment... obviously; that being said why is it then necessary to bring this to my attention?
Is it not obvious that I am relatively aware of my own skin tone and the need to take "precautions" in staving off the burn of the accursed sun? I apologize for being a "ginger" (which by the way is offensive and a wholly unoriginal sentiment, keep watching South Park and learning... assholes) and representing my Irish heritage.
I would also like to apologize for the following sins against the Italians (Mother Mary forgive me for I have... blah, blah, blah... fart): Being in shape, I am very sorry that I am capable of walking all the way across the street in the hot sunshine to spend my wife's hard earned money at your cafe. I know that you had to drive your 1999 Cadillac Boat from your house 100 feet behind the cafe to get here, because you are fucking fat... my bad.
Being attractive, really sorry about this you stupid Dago, It's not my fault that your aquiline nose looks like a Kindergartner molded it from Play-Doh and threw it in your general direction where it accidentally landed on that moon crater you call a face. Thousands of years of "Roman" heritage and this is as far as you people have come? All the make up and hair product on the planet cannot fix what God has done to you (I think he is still mad about that thing you did to his kid... remember, Jesus, you had him whacked-off... not cool).
The fact is I could ask for forgiveness for just about anything, but I would rather let you guys get back to filling your faces with pastas (How do you not realize they all taste the same, they are just different shapes. Do the circles taste like circles and not strings, I don't fucking get it?), shouting at each other while gesticulating wildly about every mundane thing and killing the ozone layer with your hair spray and airbrush eyebrows.
Listen, you are not all in the mafia, there are more names than Vinnie, Joey and Tommy and being Irish kicks ass.
Sure we have Catholicism in common and we enjoy a good argument, but other than that I am far superior to you in every way.
What any of this has to do with my experience in the Italian Cafe this morning, I dunno? I just really wanted to bitch about being singled out for my skin's inability to turn sunlight into bronze (fucking alchemy, I will never be a wizard), but if I'm not mistaken when your skin turns leathery and has lost elasticity shouldn't it be turned into a boot... you know, like your shitty country?
As an Irishman I am predisposed to having a melanin impediment... obviously; that being said why is it then necessary to bring this to my attention?
Is it not obvious that I am relatively aware of my own skin tone and the need to take "precautions" in staving off the burn of the accursed sun? I apologize for being a "ginger" (which by the way is offensive and a wholly unoriginal sentiment, keep watching South Park and learning... assholes) and representing my Irish heritage.
I would also like to apologize for the following sins against the Italians (Mother Mary forgive me for I have... blah, blah, blah... fart): Being in shape, I am very sorry that I am capable of walking all the way across the street in the hot sunshine to spend my wife's hard earned money at your cafe. I know that you had to drive your 1999 Cadillac Boat from your house 100 feet behind the cafe to get here, because you are fucking fat... my bad.
Being attractive, really sorry about this you stupid Dago, It's not my fault that your aquiline nose looks like a Kindergartner molded it from Play-Doh and threw it in your general direction where it accidentally landed on that moon crater you call a face. Thousands of years of "Roman" heritage and this is as far as you people have come? All the make up and hair product on the planet cannot fix what God has done to you (I think he is still mad about that thing you did to his kid... remember, Jesus, you had him whacked-off... not cool).
The fact is I could ask for forgiveness for just about anything, but I would rather let you guys get back to filling your faces with pastas (How do you not realize they all taste the same, they are just different shapes. Do the circles taste like circles and not strings, I don't fucking get it?), shouting at each other while gesticulating wildly about every mundane thing and killing the ozone layer with your hair spray and airbrush eyebrows.
Listen, you are not all in the mafia, there are more names than Vinnie, Joey and Tommy and being Irish kicks ass.
Sure we have Catholicism in common and we enjoy a good argument, but other than that I am far superior to you in every way.
What any of this has to do with my experience in the Italian Cafe this morning, I dunno? I just really wanted to bitch about being singled out for my skin's inability to turn sunlight into bronze (fucking alchemy, I will never be a wizard), but if I'm not mistaken when your skin turns leathery and has lost elasticity shouldn't it be turned into a boot... you know, like your shitty country?
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Lets Go To The Beach
This is my Ultimate Beach Guide 2011 Part Two (Part One comes after because it's better than this one and will have all of the upgrades from the fuck-ups in this one... of which there will be none, so there is no Part One... fuck you.)
Lets get started
1. Find Some Sand, is there water... cool you got a beach. If there isn't any water put some sand in one of those empty beer bottles in your truck and bring it to some water... you just made your own beach.
2. Buy Some Fuckin Beer... you got money? No. Dig up all the change from the floor of your truck, make sure you check the glove box and those Taco Bell wrappers under the seat. Purchase whatever you can with your scroungings. Malt liquor works the best so hopefully you got enough.
3. Make Some Shorts... cut-off denim is the best in water, make sure the pockets hang out so you can catch any fish just in case you need bait. If you don't have a knife in the truck try karate choppin' em, that always works for me.
4. Sunglasses... you gotta have eye protection and instead of losin your Blades tie an old shirt around your head and cut out some eye holes, that'll work,
5. Gotta Have Baby Oil... I keep a lot of baby oil in the truck in case I need to lube up, otherwise 5W-30 or even ten will give you a base. Don't use any of that Dexron shit, it's for your tranny and will turn you red.
6. Flotations... boots float.
7. Umbrella... umbrella's are for pussies so don't use one, if you can't handle the sun for ten hours don't go to the fuckin beach asshole.
8. Where Are The Bathrooms... there ain't no bathrooms at the beach so piss in the fuckin water and you got those old Taco bell wrappers under the seat so you are covered.
9. Whistle... girls at the beach love being whistled at and wanna bang. keep some of that Saran Wrap from your PB and J handy so you can make a condom; never trust beach chicks they will give you VD.
There Is No Ten...
Monday, September 19, 2011
Sunshine State of Mind
Rice Pudding?
Seriously... rice fucking pudding?
Why is this an option as a side dish for my main course?
Why am I the only person in this place excusing himself to use the restroom? I have been here for like three hours and not one of these "geriatric wonders" has left their fucking table... WTF?
Do they not know they have to shit?
Do you think it just kinda happens while they're gumming the steamed fish plate special (Only $2.99 everyday 'til 6:00 PM!) and when they get home to watch "The Price is Right" they bend over to change into their "night slippers" and some falls out of their pant leg and they think the cat shit on the floor again... damn cat!!!
There is much to be said for life experience, but in which life would you wear your toupee backwards? How the fuck would you not know? Do you just glue it on and think "look out ladies here comes Jimmy Stewart" and you don't even notice the sideburns are behind your ears?
Unfortunately I have not yet qualified for the "senior special", I still have teeth, I rarely shit in my own pants and I don't pull U-turns through traffic to head the wrong way during rush hour, but come on Generation Y are you still alive!
This is Florida, a veritable amusement park of Alzheimer's, Parkinson's and Rice Pudding and I suppose when you are so close to that final day trip to Denny's shitting your pants or putting your hairpiece on a bit askew should be praised. In the grand scheme of things you are just going to slip and fall in the tub, breaking your hip and dying because you are so fucking old, but take solace in knowing (and forgetting, then knowing and forgetting all over again) that you are bringing a little extra sunshine to my already really sunny life.
Seriously... rice fucking pudding?
Why is this an option as a side dish for my main course?
Why am I the only person in this place excusing himself to use the restroom? I have been here for like three hours and not one of these "geriatric wonders" has left their fucking table... WTF?
Do they not know they have to shit?
Do you think it just kinda happens while they're gumming the steamed fish plate special (Only $2.99 everyday 'til 6:00 PM!) and when they get home to watch "The Price is Right" they bend over to change into their "night slippers" and some falls out of their pant leg and they think the cat shit on the floor again... damn cat!!!
There is much to be said for life experience, but in which life would you wear your toupee backwards? How the fuck would you not know? Do you just glue it on and think "look out ladies here comes Jimmy Stewart" and you don't even notice the sideburns are behind your ears?
Unfortunately I have not yet qualified for the "senior special", I still have teeth, I rarely shit in my own pants and I don't pull U-turns through traffic to head the wrong way during rush hour, but come on Generation Y are you still alive!
This is Florida, a veritable amusement park of Alzheimer's, Parkinson's and Rice Pudding and I suppose when you are so close to that final day trip to Denny's shitting your pants or putting your hairpiece on a bit askew should be praised. In the grand scheme of things you are just going to slip and fall in the tub, breaking your hip and dying because you are so fucking old, but take solace in knowing (and forgetting, then knowing and forgetting all over again) that you are bringing a little extra sunshine to my already really sunny life.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Grocery Shopping
Been watchin me some "Swamp People" fer bout the last 15 minutes an it been remindin me of my day...
Could blue eyeshadow be any hotter?
Bangs... need em!
Bow legged, pant saggin, cool cig smokin strut wif yo 15 year old boo... awesome!!!
Lettin everyone else in the grocery store know that you will " beat dat skank bitch's ass cause she a straight up ho"... necessary!
Representin yo ghetto on yo neck.... and it is a suburb... yep!
Havin cubic zirconia studs in yo six month old's ear lobes... good parentin!!!!
Usin the N word as if you had some color in yo pale ass... typical.
I love me some South side Pick-N-Save... it's the advantage and a whole lot more of what I was lookin for.
Could blue eyeshadow be any hotter?
Bangs... need em!
Bow legged, pant saggin, cool cig smokin strut wif yo 15 year old boo... awesome!!!
Lettin everyone else in the grocery store know that you will " beat dat skank bitch's ass cause she a straight up ho"... necessary!
Representin yo ghetto on yo neck.... and it is a suburb... yep!
Havin cubic zirconia studs in yo six month old's ear lobes... good parentin!!!!
Usin the N word as if you had some color in yo pale ass... typical.
I love me some South side Pick-N-Save... it's the advantage and a whole lot more of what I was lookin for.
I Will Rapture All Over Your Face
Weather.
Webster's (The best 80's sitcom featuring a black midget and that Greek guy that played pro ball. The chick was terrible though, did you ever see the one where "Web" had the doll that was possessed and he kept finding it in his escape dumbwaiter... scary as hell!) Dictionary defines weather as " The shit that really pisses you off about being stuck inside at work or being stuck outside... at work." Today happens to be the latter rather than the former and frankly I blame all of this nonsense on this past weekends failed attempt to rapture all of the believers. It is May for Christ's sake (after all, that is who I do all of this for; the glory of the lord, obviously) and what business does the wind have rattling my single pane windows at this time of year, it's like the mailman showing up at midnight, isn't it a little late to be delivering my overdue doctor bills and Penthouse magazines buddy... well... isn't it?
It is, so how about you check your schedule (pronounced shedule, I like my c's to be silent) and at least make an attempt to abide by the contract; you know the one where you rain all over me in April and then because you still want to do sex to me you bring me pretty flowers in May thinking that this will solve all of our problems and we will fall back into coital bliss. Wrong! They are just stupid flowers asshole and you have a lot of explaining to do! Never mind your poor timing and ill choice of expression (snow in late April, what's that about?) of care for me. I do know that you are making some sort of attempt; the problem lies herein, I have already prepared my white shoes, v-neck and dungaree shorts (which of course have been rolled up to appear shorter and are tight as hell to accentuate my man bulge) for the upcoming season. Do you have any idea how foolish you are making me look by having to wear my scarf and moon-boots with this ensemble? Well... do you?
Go ahead continue to show up unannounced. Hey it's Tuesday I think I will stop over at Randy's and be 80 degrees, no wait he is at work, sorry.
Hey what are you doing Thursday? You want to go for a bike ride, cool.
I forgot, so I'm going to be a tornado and blow down some hillbilly's houses.
Get your shit together you fucking hippy!
You sucked at rapturing on Saturday, you are months behind on sunshine-bikini-time and I can't ride my bike in this damn wind!
Hey, can you bring Macho Man back? I really want a Slim Jim.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Work Work Work
I have returned!
The past two months have by no means been a sabbatical from the blogosphere, but rather a time of painstaking research and perfection of my other craft... the one that pays the bills. That having been said... lets get on with the awesome.
Work, the scourge of mankind; the draining, exasperating force that bends even the stoutest back. The reaper of youth, thief of time and equalizer of age, the bastard abuser of man. The Irish are prone to delusions of grandeur, fleeting moments of brilliant prose and fanatical loyalty to both family and employer... I am no exception. Many a great Irishman has dashed himself upon the rocks of this unrequited "loyalty" with the hopes of heavenly reward for performing their Catholic duty... I am no Catholic.
Beer (albeit very good beer, in fact a bottle of Pere Jacques 2010 is being consumed as we speak) has been the catalyst of my written dementia and tonight is no different, so lets get back to kicking ass and banging sluts!
Much better... the work demon has been exercised, Osama Bin Laden has been drowned and some other shit also happened, but I missed all of it, because I was at work. How many hours are in a work week? Eighty or so, right? Seriously all of this working has lined my wallet with green paper and plastic cards, but at what cost? My eternal soul... no, because I traded that for a Snickers bar when I was Seven (stupid Cam Knoble that was when Snickers Bars were full sized... idiot.). Peace of mind... wrong, I learned a long time ago that there ain't no rest for the wicked so I ain't felt guilt in years. It all boils down to two things, beer and sleep; I have been missing out on sleep and pounding awesome fucking beers in my man chair!! That being said the time has arrived to finish off this bottle of wonder elixir and join the rest of you in the slumber of decadence.
Good Night.
The past two months have by no means been a sabbatical from the blogosphere, but rather a time of painstaking research and perfection of my other craft... the one that pays the bills. That having been said... lets get on with the awesome.
Work, the scourge of mankind; the draining, exasperating force that bends even the stoutest back. The reaper of youth, thief of time and equalizer of age, the bastard abuser of man. The Irish are prone to delusions of grandeur, fleeting moments of brilliant prose and fanatical loyalty to both family and employer... I am no exception. Many a great Irishman has dashed himself upon the rocks of this unrequited "loyalty" with the hopes of heavenly reward for performing their Catholic duty... I am no Catholic.
Beer (albeit very good beer, in fact a bottle of Pere Jacques 2010 is being consumed as we speak) has been the catalyst of my written dementia and tonight is no different, so lets get back to kicking ass and banging sluts!
Much better... the work demon has been exercised, Osama Bin Laden has been drowned and some other shit also happened, but I missed all of it, because I was at work. How many hours are in a work week? Eighty or so, right? Seriously all of this working has lined my wallet with green paper and plastic cards, but at what cost? My eternal soul... no, because I traded that for a Snickers bar when I was Seven (stupid Cam Knoble that was when Snickers Bars were full sized... idiot.). Peace of mind... wrong, I learned a long time ago that there ain't no rest for the wicked so I ain't felt guilt in years. It all boils down to two things, beer and sleep; I have been missing out on sleep and pounding awesome fucking beers in my man chair!! That being said the time has arrived to finish off this bottle of wonder elixir and join the rest of you in the slumber of decadence.
Good Night.
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