a. Unless you grew up under a rock in Siberia or, worse, Kansas, you’ve seen the fucking show. Every year they get some humungous, tricked-out fantasy house that’s amazing – has a pool, big aquarium, John Candy stuffed and mounted on the mantle, whatever. But EVERY FUCKING YEAR we gotta spend half the first episode watching these idiots sprinting from room to room shrieking “OHMYGODLOOKITTHISHOUSEITSAMAZING!!!!!!!!!!!!!” no shit, dumbass. So were the first 16 houses. Knock it off and hurry up to the obligatory first-episode hot tub scene so we can find out which chick is the one with the “serious boyfriend” who of course ends up fucking everybody in sight for 5 months – all part, of course, of her “learning to grow and like myself as a person, and learning to live all by myself.” Hahahaha!! I love how there’s always that one chick who decides she’s gonna “take time off” from her bf so that she can prove to herself and everybody else that dammit, she can be independent!! Ahhhmmm, sweetheart…you’re being propped up by MTV for 22 weeks- sleeping til 4pm every day, drinking a ton of free booze and fucking everything in sight while wearing a band aid over your titties in the hot tub. I’m not sure that’s considered “making it on your own” as much as “being a complete, filthy slut.” But hey, what do I know.
b. I also love these “jobs” they give these assholes. My two favorites were the cast of Las Vegas - “hosting” parties, wherein the girls would dress like sluts and get drunk and the boys would grind on said “employees”, and last season in Austin where they have to…fuck, did anyone ever catch what they were supposed to do? Something like photograph a band from SXSW. Hmm. Tough one. Other classics of course include San Diego (“Your job is to learn to ride around in a big boat”) and Paris, where they acted as “travel writers” meaning they went to bars thoughout the city and “wrote reviews” about them. Hmm. Has anybody seen this collection of works published? Yes? No? Does it really matter anyways, when Adam’s dad knows Lionel Richie? Just once I’d like to see where all the kids are sitting together all fired up about finding out what there job is gonna be, and then it’s revealed…ta-da! Slaughterhouse! For the next 4 months you’ll be pulling out pig rectums!! Welcome to the real world, fuckheads!!!! Ironically, of course, there’s always at least one douchebag that has to get fired from these “jobs” because he just cant get his ass out of bed after a night of pounding vodka and crying into his roommates shoulder how much he has grown to love/respect him over the last 4 weeks. Between that and puking, who the fuck’s got time for work? Hall of Fame Award here goes to Montana, who got fired for actually giving wine to children. God bless you, Montana. You’re ugly, you’re stupid, you’re worthless but you have managed to find yourself in the RW HOF for both “Best Reason for Getting Fired” and “Best Phone Conversation”, ie of course the one where she goes out on a date on Valentine’s Day and then pretends to be shocked/chagrined when her boyfriend Vaj screams at her on the phone for 15 minutes merely repeating the word “whore!!!” over and over while she tries to butt in with “but…but I…but…”
c. Enough with the token gay dude. We get it. Yes, you can start out a season of “The Real World” as a homophobe and after 141 nights out at the local bar pounding blue drinks you can be the big man and announce that you’ve decided to respect his gay lifestyle. Great! Shouldn’t we be past this now – wasn’t Pedro, the Babe Ruth of gay Real Worlders, all the way back in 1993 or some such? 13 years later and all I’ll learned from these idiots they send up every year is that gay dudes are incredibly boring, they smile a lot, and they all seem to know tons about girls eating disorders. Great.
2) Is Tom Cruise’s father alive? If he is, don’t you think even he’s tired by now with all the movies TopCat’s done with the ol’ “trying to follow up in his more successful dead dad’s footsteps” routine? Be great to see him in a press conference “No, I’m not dead, and yes, I DO believe he can be an even better gay Scientologist dwarf than his old man ever was – if he’d only stop driving so close to the edge!” It has been a while since he’s done one of those flicks, maybe pops finally wrote him a letter “Knock if off, freak.”
3) I’m starting to notice a lot of game shows are played by people that already have money. It’s always “Hi I’m Roy, I own a string of hardware stores back east…” etc. It’s never “Hi I’m Eddie, they told me there were some cold cuts in the back…” Wouldn’t it be more exciting if only poor people were allowed on these shows? People whose lives could REALLY be changed by small amounts of cash – not these guys who keep going for the million bucks cause fuck it, what do they care if they lose, they already own Tulsa. But saying to a poor person hey, you can go for the million bucks, or walk out right now with $7,000 – well to me that’s drama. And you KNOW if this poor guy goes back home having blown a chance to get some money, any money at all, his family will pound on him till kingdom come. We could even have follow-up visits to the guy’s house a year later, where his family tries to be nice but the resentment drips like it’s from a faucet. “Here, have some rice n beans…oh no, it’s not Rice a Roni…you know, some people just can’t afford the name brands…isn’t that right, Captain Asshole?” (icey glare at our hero, who gulps while pretending not to notice)
4) You ever see a pizza box laying on the ground and think hey…I wonder if there’s a slice in there. Hell, for all you know there’s a whole pie in there. Maybe people leave full pies on the sidewalk and observe to see who looks in – if you’re the one that looks, free pizza! Of course I never do, as I know that the second I decide to start opening up trash in the middle of the street looking for food every girl I’ve ever had a crush on will turn the corner and be staring at me, but it’s really starting to gnaw away at me that I’m walking past all these empty pizza boxes that could be filled with pizzas all this time.
5) One thing I do in restaurants that I really need to stop doing is physically pointing out what I’ve ordered from the menu to the waitress. And of course I always get a cheeseburger anyway, but when the waitress looks at me I always hold up the menu and point to it “yeah, I’ll have the cheeseburger deluxe…with fries…” as if I’m the first person ordering a cheeseburger. And I hear myself reminding the poor woman that “deluxe” means “with fries”, since I’m sure she’s spent most of the day serving people sliced-almond framboise with snow peas and cranberry moo goo gai pan and my order of a cheeseburger with fries is gonna throw the kitchen for a curve. I’m waiting for a waitress to grab the menu and look perplexed “The wha? What the…well. I’ll see if Tony can make this.” I’m such an idiot.
6) Anyone been watching this “I Love Toys” thing on VH1? Apparently the 7 fuckwads they talk to about these things (which also drives me crazy – we gotta listen to the same 7 dipshits over and over about everything –I love the 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s, whatever. Jesus Christ. How did this small group become the experts on every item of pop culture of the last 35 years, and are these the only people VH1 knows? VH1 is so lame no one else will answer their calls?) had every single toy that was released in the last 40 years. “Oh yeah, spirograph…oh wow etch-a-sketch…blah blah blah…” Am I the only kid on the planet whose toy budget every year wasn’t six figures? My brother and I never really had toys, all we really cared about was having a football, basketball and baseball. A day after we got our football I immediately left it next to a heater, so we spent the next ten years playing with a ball that had a huge goiter sticking out of it. And for some reason we built our basketball goal so that instead of ten feet it was eleven feet high. Tis prolly why it was so easy for me to play above the rim on other courts. As for baseball, this lead to our highest levels of creativity. We’d be all excited cause we’d get a new ball ($1.49 from White’s Auto), but inevitably it would end up in the cornfield behind our house never to be seen again. And so we would either wait another week or two before our dad would buy us a ball, or we would raise the money ourselves – sometimes we’d return bottles to the country store down the road for a nickel, or I’d go in the back and shit into a black dude’s mouth for a dollar. Either way. But in those long stretches between real baseballs we found ourselves inventing games, and there is one in particular that I do remember. We had an old shed in the backyard, where the batter would stand about 20 feet away while the other one of us pitched. If he hit one over the shed, home run. Hit the top of the shed, triple, then double/single etc. What did we use for a “ball” you ask? Well, a crushed up Coca Cola can of course. Which became a real treat for the person pitching, of course. As the game would go on the can would get more bashed up and by the end your hands are pretty much shredded to bits, blood everywhere. Looking back that seems weird, but at the time I reckon we thought it was normal. I guess when you grow up miles from anyone else your age and there’s no cable television yet you come up with weird stuff to keep yourselves entertained. But enough about shitting into a black guy’s mouth in the back of the store.
7) "Hey, Bobby come on...it happens to every bear from time to time...hey, you've been stressed out lately, it happens...."
5 comments:
Are you abstaining from anything this lent? Or have you given up the the Faith?
We played "speedball" at the local armory. We'd get that black tape and make a "strike zone." Said strike zone was fuckin' huge. We'd use a 28 inch bat, cos' that's all we had, and the tennis balls that we found behind Boron's rich-ass house. Usually it was a two man game in the armory parking lot. You'd stand 7 or 8 parking spots from the wall and throw as hard as you fuckin' could, whilst appropriating Luis Tiant or Gene Garber's delivery. Out's were balls caught on one bounce (which usually required unscrewing yourself from that Kent Tekulve delivery, and tearing ass backwards to chase down the batted ball. Gopher balls were long drives that landed in the middle of route 322 on passing cars.
I always got rocked. The next week I'd be sore-armed Burt Blyleven with the big, sweeping overhead curve...which hung way too often and ended up on the hood of some passing Buick Riviera on route 322.
Never shat in a black man's mouth, though.
I have given up the Faith. I believe in fried chicken, television and Xamstime.
or, i should say, Xmastime. jeez.
We played a game called "Tenockey." Tennis ball and rackets, hockey nets. It ain't complicated. To add spice, we played in a garage with lots of rusty nails sticky out of the walls (I impaled my hand on one once).
Post a Comment