2008 New Years Holiday, Moving to NYC
1/2/2008
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Blago
The life expectancy for an African American male is 70 years. And that's if he's born TODAY. So I'm wondering why Blago has chosen to appoint a 71 year-old black man who ALREADY HAS HIS GRAVE ALL SET TO MOVE INTO to succeed Obama. Anybody else see this as odd? Is this some tactic he thinks will get him off the hook - going ahead and choosing Obama's successor before he gets the boot is like in the NFL when a team hurriedly tries to get off another play so the previous one can't be reviewed, so public interest in getting rid of him wanes and eventually disappears? And banking that the odds are high that Burris will die soon, therein letting Blaggo pick who he REALLY can get to pony up big bucks for it wants, that time unobstructed and under the radar? Hmm.
Of course, that's all wild conjecture. But stranger things have been thought of. No?
"For the last fucking time - no, I did NOT write Cujo!!!"
Of course, that's all wild conjecture. But stranger things have been thought of. No?
"For the last fucking time - no, I did NOT write Cujo!!!"
Xmastime 2008 Memories (November Episode)
November's Interview: COUNT JACKULA
11/8/2008
Here's Count Jackula working his minions up into a lather before a nighttime cruising, looking for blood.
The Count loads up on carbs before all that blood-sucking. "Causing famine and destruction is a quick energy thing," he explains.
XMAS: Count, thanks so much for sitting down with me today.
COUNT JACKULA: Gooot EEEEEEVAHn- (starts choking on cookie, regains composure) ah jeez-
XMAS: ohmygod, are you okay?
COUNT JACKULA: WHO THE F*&%%$#! put raisins in my cookie??!?!
XMAS: you know, you seem a tad young to be a Count
COUNT JACKULA: yeah? well you seem...is that a sandwich?
XMAS: wha?
COUNT JACKULA: in your pocket...did I see a sandwich in your pocket?
XMAS: why would I have a sandwich in my pocket?
COUNT JACKULA: you've never heard of hot pockets? hiyoooooooo!!! hey, I keed, I keed!....but seriously, I'm an undead beast that should be feared.
XMAS: obviously
COUNT JACKULA: hey, did you know Brazillian vampires are thought to have furry feet?
XMAS: no, I didn't know that
COUNT JACKULA: not my kind of Brazillian, know what I mean Xmas? hahahaha! hey relax, I keed, I keed, relax...lighten up!
XMAS: I'm trying to, I just-
COUNT JACKULA: I mean what am I doing here, desperately clawing at the top of my coffin with my thickened, elongated fingernails? Hey, is this thing on? Hahahahaa!...but seriously, I can possess the malevolent spirit of any corpse I want, so if I was you I'd be pretty frightened.
XMAS: Hmm.
COUNT JACKULA: And I can squat 450lbs.
XMAS: what's a myth about...your kind...that bothers you?
COUNT JACKULA: The "we're scared of garlic" nonsense. I, for one, love garlic - a nice chicken adobo, with some soy sauce and maybe sliced almonds, who doesn't love that? You know what DOES scare me?
XMAS: What?
COUNT JACKULA: People who put garlic in mashed potatoes. Ugh
XMAS: Yes!
COUNT JACKULA: And also vrykolakas, which just by the sound of it should be scaring the hell out of you right now.
XMAS: It is. I guess it's time for me to go now.
COUNT JACKULA: Oh too bad, I was going to show you how I turn into a bat.
XMAS: Really??
COUNT JACKULA: No. What am I, on Jack Benny here? But before you leave if you could reach up into the freezer for me, I've got a case of taquitos that've been burning a hole in my mind for the last hour.
XMAS: Count, it's been a pleasure. Thank you.
COUNT JACKULA: That's VON taquito! TWO taquito! THR- (choking on red velvet cupcake) ah, godd^&^!%$!%$!it!!!
The Count with his undead, evil blood-sucking crew. Hmm. Frightening. Nyuk nyuk nyuk, indeed.
The Count: "I need a new gang..you call these dudes porphyriac? Maybe if we were making cupcakes for kittens instead of sucking the life out of the living..."
When the conversation turns from increasing the size of their undead army by inhabiting corpses and sucking blood of hapless victims to how much Lil Bat likes his new boots, The Count knows it's time to call it a night and wonders if Palace Fried Chicken is still open.
11/8/2008
Here's Count Jackula working his minions up into a lather before a nighttime cruising, looking for blood.
The Count loads up on carbs before all that blood-sucking. "Causing famine and destruction is a quick energy thing," he explains.
XMAS: Count, thanks so much for sitting down with me today.
COUNT JACKULA: Gooot EEEEEEVAHn- (starts choking on cookie, regains composure) ah jeez-
XMAS: ohmygod, are you okay?
COUNT JACKULA: WHO THE F*&%%$#! put raisins in my cookie??!?!
XMAS: you know, you seem a tad young to be a Count
COUNT JACKULA: yeah? well you seem...is that a sandwich?
XMAS: wha?
COUNT JACKULA: in your pocket...did I see a sandwich in your pocket?
XMAS: why would I have a sandwich in my pocket?
COUNT JACKULA: you've never heard of hot pockets? hiyoooooooo!!! hey, I keed, I keed!....but seriously, I'm an undead beast that should be feared.
XMAS: obviously
COUNT JACKULA: hey, did you know Brazillian vampires are thought to have furry feet?
XMAS: no, I didn't know that
COUNT JACKULA: not my kind of Brazillian, know what I mean Xmas? hahahaha! hey relax, I keed, I keed, relax...lighten up!
XMAS: I'm trying to, I just-
COUNT JACKULA: I mean what am I doing here, desperately clawing at the top of my coffin with my thickened, elongated fingernails? Hey, is this thing on? Hahahahaa!...but seriously, I can possess the malevolent spirit of any corpse I want, so if I was you I'd be pretty frightened.
XMAS: Hmm.
COUNT JACKULA: And I can squat 450lbs.
XMAS: what's a myth about...your kind...that bothers you?
COUNT JACKULA: The "we're scared of garlic" nonsense. I, for one, love garlic - a nice chicken adobo, with some soy sauce and maybe sliced almonds, who doesn't love that? You know what DOES scare me?
XMAS: What?
COUNT JACKULA: People who put garlic in mashed potatoes. Ugh
XMAS: Yes!
COUNT JACKULA: And also vrykolakas, which just by the sound of it should be scaring the hell out of you right now.
XMAS: It is. I guess it's time for me to go now.
COUNT JACKULA: Oh too bad, I was going to show you how I turn into a bat.
XMAS: Really??
COUNT JACKULA: No. What am I, on Jack Benny here? But before you leave if you could reach up into the freezer for me, I've got a case of taquitos that've been burning a hole in my mind for the last hour.
XMAS: Count, it's been a pleasure. Thank you.
COUNT JACKULA: That's VON taquito! TWO taquito! THR- (choking on red velvet cupcake) ah, godd^&^!%$!%$!it!!!
The Count with his undead, evil blood-sucking crew. Hmm. Frightening. Nyuk nyuk nyuk, indeed.
The Count: "I need a new gang..you call these dudes porphyriac? Maybe if we were making cupcakes for kittens instead of sucking the life out of the living..."
When the conversation turns from increasing the size of their undead army by inhabiting corpses and sucking blood of hapless victims to how much Lil Bat likes his new boots, The Count knows it's time to call it a night and wonders if Palace Fried Chicken is still open.
Xmastime 2008 Memories (October Episode)
The Price of Racism
10/2/2008
"Look around at this town."
Mukluks Tip: Andrew Sullivan.
10/2/2008
"Look around at this town."
Mukluks Tip: Andrew Sullivan.
Xmastime 2008 Memories (September Episode)
My Funniest Line of the Day
9/10/2008
Was walking into my building tonite and found myself behind some girl who was in front of me, fumbling with her keys, having a lil trouble opening the door. I stood patiently behind her, quietly waiting.
HER: Geez, I'm so sorry, I'm having a little trouble with the key, I'm so sorry.
ME: That's okay...I don't really live here anyway.
HIYOOOOOOOOO! Sigh. Proud of myself for that one.
9/10/2008
Was walking into my building tonite and found myself behind some girl who was in front of me, fumbling with her keys, having a lil trouble opening the door. I stood patiently behind her, quietly waiting.
HER: Geez, I'm so sorry, I'm having a little trouble with the key, I'm so sorry.
ME: That's okay...I don't really live here anyway.
HIYOOOOOOOOO! Sigh. Proud of myself for that one.
Xmastime 2008 Memories (August Episode)
Obama Veep
8/21/2008
Obama has chosen a running mate, but he's holding out on telling us.
I've got my own idea about whom he's chosen.
"Hey listen, if I'm going to be the first black president ever, let's be honest...I'm gonna need someone who can catch bullets."
8/21/2008
Obama has chosen a running mate, but he's holding out on telling us.
In an interview in Chester, Va., the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee said he's made up his mind, but he would not say whether he's informed that person yet. "I won't comment on anything else until I introduce our running mate to the world," he said. "That's all you're going to get out of me."
I've got my own idea about whom he's chosen.
"Hey listen, if I'm going to be the first black president ever, let's be honest...I'm gonna need someone who can catch bullets."
Xmastime 2008 Memories (July Episode)
Theodore's Lost Reel
7/10/2008
NAME: Theodore ("If you call me 'Theo' I will do some dancing on your face")
OCCUPATION: Ultra-conservative right-wing stuffed bear
LIKES: Tucker Carlson, George W. Bush, tax cuts, explaining to left-wing dimwits why gays shouldn't marry
DISLIKES: left-wing dimwits, gays, taxes, Al Franken, basketball
QUOTE: "For the last time - I'm not racist. I'm just pro-white, goddammit."
Some of you Xmas fans from the beginning may remember Theodore, the ultra-conservative right-wing stuffed bear. We haven't heard from him in quite a while; but now something from his past has created quite a stir over at The Smoking Gun. For years now some of us close to Theodore have had to hear him rant and rage against the New York Yankees for not hiring him to be a broadcaster, despite an "amazing" audition tape he sent in years and years ago. The legend of this tape had grown over the years; by now we had been led to believe (by, of course, Theodore himself) that this tape was the single greatest recorded moment ever, it was Cosell times Michaels, and the only reason the Yankees didn't hire him was that they were intimidated by 1) such amazing work 2) such amazing work having been done by, of all things, an ultra-conservative right-wing stuffed bear.
Of course, nobody else had actually seen this tape...until now. Found in an attic in Larchmont, CT, it has been passed around online now and, much to Theodore's embarrassment, it's beyond obvious why he wasn't hired:
He was terrible.
Enjoy. But hey, Theodore, welcome back!! (old Theodore memory HERE.)
7/10/2008
NAME: Theodore ("If you call me 'Theo' I will do some dancing on your face")
OCCUPATION: Ultra-conservative right-wing stuffed bear
LIKES: Tucker Carlson, George W. Bush, tax cuts, explaining to left-wing dimwits why gays shouldn't marry
DISLIKES: left-wing dimwits, gays, taxes, Al Franken, basketball
QUOTE: "For the last time - I'm not racist. I'm just pro-white, goddammit."
Some of you Xmas fans from the beginning may remember Theodore, the ultra-conservative right-wing stuffed bear. We haven't heard from him in quite a while; but now something from his past has created quite a stir over at The Smoking Gun. For years now some of us close to Theodore have had to hear him rant and rage against the New York Yankees for not hiring him to be a broadcaster, despite an "amazing" audition tape he sent in years and years ago. The legend of this tape had grown over the years; by now we had been led to believe (by, of course, Theodore himself) that this tape was the single greatest recorded moment ever, it was Cosell times Michaels, and the only reason the Yankees didn't hire him was that they were intimidated by 1) such amazing work 2) such amazing work having been done by, of all things, an ultra-conservative right-wing stuffed bear.
Of course, nobody else had actually seen this tape...until now. Found in an attic in Larchmont, CT, it has been passed around online now and, much to Theodore's embarrassment, it's beyond obvious why he wasn't hired:
He was terrible.
Enjoy. But hey, Theodore, welcome back!! (old Theodore memory HERE.)
Xmastime 2008 Memories (June Episode)
GPS Voices
6/4/2008
Some of my friends have those GPS map gizmos in their cars, and only recently I’ve realized you can choose the voice you want to have giving you directions as you drive. You can have British-y sounding older dude calmly guiding you, or 40-ish schoolmarm voice navigating for you. Wouldn’t it be great if you could buy more customized voices for your ride? You’re paying for the shit, why not? Such as, if you’re a dude you might go with:
WOMAN’S VOICE: “turn right in 0.4 miles…onto Grant Avenue…mmmmmm baby, you’re really driving me hard today, aren’t you? God, I’m so horny…ooooh, turn right here…jesus, you’re just SO big…mmmmm”
MAN’S VOICE: “turn right in 0.4 miles…onto Grant Avenue…goddam dude, you’re making GREAT time!...seriously, again, going with that higher octane was a great fucking decision…alright, turn right here…Arby’s up ahead, you’re making such great time we can drive thru no problem…”
Or if you’re a woman, you might choose one of these:
WOMAN’S VOICE: “turn right in 0.4 miles…onto Grant Avenue…jesus, look at that cow 2 cars over! You’re SO much skinnier than her!!...oooh, turn right here… oh, PLEASE, look at yellow Hyundai bitch...yeah, THOSE are real...”
MAN’S VOICE: “turn right in 0.4 miles…onto Grant Avenue…does your mother know you took her car? Oh, this IS Karen! Sorry, you just look so young with that haircut…oooh, turn right here…I’d mention there’s an Arby’s up ahead, but I know you’ll just order some tiny salad and lemon water, which is silly cause you need some meat on those bones…I wish you’d get the 5 roast beefs for $5 deal; hell, you’d be doing me a favor, practically…”
ps - was gonna do one for black drivers, a la "dang dude relax, it's only a job interview, we'll get there when we get there dawg..." but today of all days doesn't feel like the right day to be a racist, so.
6/4/2008
Some of my friends have those GPS map gizmos in their cars, and only recently I’ve realized you can choose the voice you want to have giving you directions as you drive. You can have British-y sounding older dude calmly guiding you, or 40-ish schoolmarm voice navigating for you. Wouldn’t it be great if you could buy more customized voices for your ride? You’re paying for the shit, why not? Such as, if you’re a dude you might go with:
WOMAN’S VOICE: “turn right in 0.4 miles…onto Grant Avenue…mmmmmm baby, you’re really driving me hard today, aren’t you? God, I’m so horny…ooooh, turn right here…jesus, you’re just SO big…mmmmm”
MAN’S VOICE: “turn right in 0.4 miles…onto Grant Avenue…goddam dude, you’re making GREAT time!...seriously, again, going with that higher octane was a great fucking decision…alright, turn right here…Arby’s up ahead, you’re making such great time we can drive thru no problem…”
Or if you’re a woman, you might choose one of these:
WOMAN’S VOICE: “turn right in 0.4 miles…onto Grant Avenue…jesus, look at that cow 2 cars over! You’re SO much skinnier than her!!...oooh, turn right here… oh, PLEASE, look at yellow Hyundai bitch...yeah, THOSE are real...”
MAN’S VOICE: “turn right in 0.4 miles…onto Grant Avenue…does your mother know you took her car? Oh, this IS Karen! Sorry, you just look so young with that haircut…oooh, turn right here…I’d mention there’s an Arby’s up ahead, but I know you’ll just order some tiny salad and lemon water, which is silly cause you need some meat on those bones…I wish you’d get the 5 roast beefs for $5 deal; hell, you’d be doing me a favor, practically…”
ps - was gonna do one for black drivers, a la "dang dude relax, it's only a job interview, we'll get there when we get there dawg..." but today of all days doesn't feel like the right day to be a racist, so.
Xmastime 2008 Memories (May Episode)
Shower Porn
5/7/2008
I been staring at this in my shower for weeks now.
Anyone else horny?
5/7/2008
I been staring at this in my shower for weeks now.
Anyone else horny?
Xmastime 2008 Memories (April Episode)
Softball Sunday: Never Drinking Again
4/21/2008
Step 1: loudly announce to Nest-full of kickball players I'm gonna kick all their asses.
Step 2: explain why.
Step 3: try to remember who I was talking to.
Step 4: remember, restate my intentions.
Step 5: get talked down by some chick.
Step 6: after a container, remember I'm supposed to be kicking everybody's ass.
Step 7: realize I need to run home to get more money so I can drink more. Put ass kickings on pause.
Step 8: get money. on way back, get distracted at the Charleston by pizza.
Step 9: remember I'm supposed to be mauling a group of mfs, head back to Nest.
Step 10: guzzle 3 more containers, try to remember who I had called out
Step 11: decide to call everybody out, get up.
Step 12: got talked down by some chick.
sigh. another Sunday. Christ.
4/21/2008
Step 1: loudly announce to Nest-full of kickball players I'm gonna kick all their asses.
Step 2: explain why.
Step 3: try to remember who I was talking to.
Step 4: remember, restate my intentions.
Step 5: get talked down by some chick.
Step 6: after a container, remember I'm supposed to be kicking everybody's ass.
Step 7: realize I need to run home to get more money so I can drink more. Put ass kickings on pause.
Step 8: get money. on way back, get distracted at the Charleston by pizza.
Step 9: remember I'm supposed to be mauling a group of mfs, head back to Nest.
Step 10: guzzle 3 more containers, try to remember who I had called out
Step 11: decide to call everybody out, get up.
Step 12: got talked down by some chick.
sigh. another Sunday. Christ.
Xmastime 2008 Memories (March Episode)
Xmastime Does a Children's Book.
3/19/2008
Goodnight moon.
Goodnight dresser.
Goodnight couch.
Goodnight 2/3 empty 40oz Bud bottle.
Goodnight pile of empties in corner growing fur.
Goodnight 8 year-old copy of "Penthouse Variations."
Goodnight 1/3 empty 40oz Bud bottle.
Goodnight jizz rag (Buster)
Goodnight small pile of broken glass on floor.
Goodnight "Hardcastle and McCormick" screenplay (rough draft.)
Goodnight rats.
Goodnight rats' friends.
Goodnight 4 year-old copy of "Penthouse Variations."
Goodnight moon.
3/19/2008
Goodnight moon.Goodnight dresser.
Goodnight couch.
Goodnight 2/3 empty 40oz Bud bottle.
Goodnight pile of empties in corner growing fur.
Goodnight 8 year-old copy of "Penthouse Variations."
Goodnight 1/3 empty 40oz Bud bottle.
Goodnight jizz rag (Buster)
Goodnight small pile of broken glass on floor.
Goodnight "Hardcastle and McCormick" screenplay (rough draft.)
Goodnight rats.
Goodnight rats' friends.
Goodnight 4 year-old copy of "Penthouse Variations."
Goodnight moon.
Xmastime 2008 Memories (February Episode)
Rock of Love II
2/25/2008
How come Bret Michaels can come up with all those "will you stay and rock my world?"
speeches every week, but still can't write a song since "Every Rose Has a Thorn"?
Gee. Wonder what he's playing.
2/25/2008
How come Bret Michaels can come up with all those "will you stay and rock my world?"
speeches every week, but still can't write a song since "Every Rose Has a Thorn"?
Gee. Wonder what he's playing.
Xmastime 2008 Memories (January Episode)
Subway Dreams
1/29/2008
The next thing on my to-do list is to show up at subway platforms and stare in the wrong direction for the train. Ever see anyone do this? Doesn't it drive you bananas? At any given moment there's 10 or 15 people staring intensely down the tracks into the tunnel; I'm gonna stare right back in their direction, looking annoyed "where the fuck is this train??!!!" One, they'll start getting pissed cause it's some dude looking in their face. Then they start thinking doesn't this dude know which way the fucking train comes? Then they're really pissed and think doesn't this dude see that everybody else is staring in the other direction??!! And me, staring, shaking my head "where the fuck is this train?" just as their heads fucking explode into a thousand pieces.
1/29/2008
The next thing on my to-do list is to show up at subway platforms and stare in the wrong direction for the train. Ever see anyone do this? Doesn't it drive you bananas? At any given moment there's 10 or 15 people staring intensely down the tracks into the tunnel; I'm gonna stare right back in their direction, looking annoyed "where the fuck is this train??!!!" One, they'll start getting pissed cause it's some dude looking in their face. Then they start thinking doesn't this dude know which way the fucking train comes? Then they're really pissed and think doesn't this dude see that everybody else is staring in the other direction??!! And me, staring, shaking my head "where the fuck is this train?" just as their heads fucking explode into a thousand pieces.
Father Xmastime
It also occurred to me over the weekend that there's no reason I shouldn't become a priest. For one, then odds of me ever having sex again are slim to none, so what else is there to not being a priest? I suck at making money, but wouldn't hafta worry about it as a priest, as my room and board would be taken care of for the rest of my life. I lead a fairly spartan life as it is now, so it won't be such a huge change for me. So I might have to give up Prell shampoo, bfd. Also, at least once a week I'd have a trapped audience who would hafta sit through my "riffs" and stories. Sure I don't believe any of the stuff, but I figure if Ryan Seacrest can date women I can spread fairy tales every Sunday. And vestment robes can be slimming!!!
Haircut II
I just noticed my last post of 2007 was about my history of haircuts. Which is interesting....well, not really, but "which is interesting" is a verbal placeholder, like "no, you're not fat" or "well, not really, but "which is interesting" is a verbal placeholder, like "no, you're not fat"."
ANYways...it occurred to me over Christmas, while I was getting a haircut from a woman - what the FUCK have I been thinking re: my policy of only getting my hair cut by grizzled old dudes? When it comes to sex I somehow let go of this policy, why can't I do the same with my precious coif? For fuck's sake...this chick wasn't even hot, but for only $12 she was running her fingers through my absurdly beautiful locks while rubbing her tits up against me, making my foot-long electric razor almost shoot shaving cream. Anybody getting these shaving innuendos? What the fuck have I been thinking? What the fuck, am I gunning for a Congressional Medal awarding me for being the last man on Earth to get a haircut for $8? Enough's enough.
Is there a place that gives haircuts by Hooters girls? Or topless, even? How much would you pay for that - you gotta get your hair cut anyways, why not by some smoking hot big-tittied chick who's tonguing your ear? Camon. Like Kurt Cobain, a no-brainer.
ANYways...it occurred to me over Christmas, while I was getting a haircut from a woman - what the FUCK have I been thinking re: my policy of only getting my hair cut by grizzled old dudes? When it comes to sex I somehow let go of this policy, why can't I do the same with my precious coif? For fuck's sake...this chick wasn't even hot, but for only $12 she was running her fingers through my absurdly beautiful locks while rubbing her tits up against me, making my foot-long electric razor almost shoot shaving cream. Anybody getting these shaving innuendos? What the fuck have I been thinking? What the fuck, am I gunning for a Congressional Medal awarding me for being the last man on Earth to get a haircut for $8? Enough's enough.
Is there a place that gives haircuts by Hooters girls? Or topless, even? How much would you pay for that - you gotta get your hair cut anyways, why not by some smoking hot big-tittied chick who's tonguing your ear? Camon. Like Kurt Cobain, a no-brainer.
Oh, British Noel!
Some of you know that this year I allowed myself to become a bit of an Angliophile, fueled mostly by my falling in love with Gordon Ramsay (see HERE and HERE for two examples.) So how refreshingly odd was it to end the year with a group of British people? There were about a dozen at the wedding I was at last weekend, and as they were in town for almost a week and spent most of their days hanging around the bride's house, I came to learn a few things about our friends to the east. Or west, if you wanna go through Indiana.
First of all, they all looked like they were straight out of central casting from 1970's BBC - the uncles who look like they're in the middle of a drinking session at that pub in An American Werewolf in London and only say things that are hysterically funny, and an aunt anchored in the kitchen who doesn't smile while shooting both deadpan insults and wildly funny shit barely above her own breath across the room, all while baking rack after rack of cookies and boiling water almost constantly. She was my favorite, everything she said cracked me up while making me think "oh, come on...she's a little TOO dead on, no???!!" I kept expecting her to introduce me to Kitty Kelley while declaring war on France.
One thing I also realized is that even though I'm 36 years old I don't think I had ever actually MET British people. No matter how much I'd heard it on tv etc, those accents up close are something, right? I found myself thinking "hey guys, it's just me, you can stop acting." Right? As if whenever I was out of the room they lapsed into gnawing on Big League Chew while weeping over Dale Earnhardt, then "Bald Eagle's approaching the room - let's DO this, guys!" as I walked back in. And then when one of the kids started piping up, I was really thrown for a loop; my first thought was "wow, how'd she learn that so young? awesome!" as if she was Rich Little doing Paul McCartney, some parlor trick meant to be rolled out for weddings and bar mitzvahs. It was a weird thing - I think I'd be less surprised if all of a sudden a dog started talking to me as I was when a child started speaking with a British accent in front of me. Awesome.
Also, British people know every word to every verse to every Christmas Carol ever written. Like any American I'd MAYBE make it through a first verse, add some zeal to the chorus so everyone thinks I knew the song, then mumble the rest. Not the Brits - they'd go on and on through verses I didn't know exist. All the lords a-leaping, all seven verses of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Rudolph annoying LC on The Hills, they knew them all. Fascinating.
I gotta be honest, having British people hanging around during Christmas really adds something, some weird cheerful cozy Dickensian thing that's hard to describe. Although, I guess I just did (NAILED it!) There must be some way to rent them out for a few days, just have them walking in and out of the room as you're decorating the tree, right? Is there a service for this? Or....am I about the make a BILLION farthings?!??!?!!
First of all, they all looked like they were straight out of central casting from 1970's BBC - the uncles who look like they're in the middle of a drinking session at that pub in An American Werewolf in London and only say things that are hysterically funny, and an aunt anchored in the kitchen who doesn't smile while shooting both deadpan insults and wildly funny shit barely above her own breath across the room, all while baking rack after rack of cookies and boiling water almost constantly. She was my favorite, everything she said cracked me up while making me think "oh, come on...she's a little TOO dead on, no???!!" I kept expecting her to introduce me to Kitty Kelley while declaring war on France.
One thing I also realized is that even though I'm 36 years old I don't think I had ever actually MET British people. No matter how much I'd heard it on tv etc, those accents up close are something, right? I found myself thinking "hey guys, it's just me, you can stop acting." Right? As if whenever I was out of the room they lapsed into gnawing on Big League Chew while weeping over Dale Earnhardt, then "Bald Eagle's approaching the room - let's DO this, guys!" as I walked back in. And then when one of the kids started piping up, I was really thrown for a loop; my first thought was "wow, how'd she learn that so young? awesome!" as if she was Rich Little doing Paul McCartney, some parlor trick meant to be rolled out for weddings and bar mitzvahs. It was a weird thing - I think I'd be less surprised if all of a sudden a dog started talking to me as I was when a child started speaking with a British accent in front of me. Awesome.
Also, British people know every word to every verse to every Christmas Carol ever written. Like any American I'd MAYBE make it through a first verse, add some zeal to the chorus so everyone thinks I knew the song, then mumble the rest. Not the Brits - they'd go on and on through verses I didn't know exist. All the lords a-leaping, all seven verses of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Rudolph annoying LC on The Hills, they knew them all. Fascinating.
I gotta be honest, having British people hanging around during Christmas really adds something, some weird cheerful cozy Dickensian thing that's hard to describe. Although, I guess I just did (NAILED it!) There must be some way to rent them out for a few days, just have them walking in and out of the room as you're decorating the tree, right? Is there a service for this? Or....am I about the make a BILLION farthings?!??!?!!
Tone Deafness + Stupidity = the New GOP?
So some dipshit named Mitch McConnell is threatening to block Obama's economic stimulus plan. My instinct here tells me that he's grandstanding a la the dude ten years ago who quit Congress in an indignant huff over Clinton's sexual transgressions, then found out nobody gave two shits whether he quit or not. McConnell will shake his fist that he is looking out "for the people!!" But if he thinks this is the way to do it, he's a fucking idiot.
First of all, how tone-deaf can he be not to realize that even though it took us eight years to catch on cause we're idiots, the key word "the people" are looking for in DC is accountability. So the way to "look after them" is to demand accountability re: the carrying out of the stimulus plan, not some childish "oh, let's go over this with our reading glasses on, I'll spell out the big words for you" bullshit.
The fact is, none of "the people" is gonna bother reading the shit, much less break it down and understand it. People have lives to live, regardless of grandstanding politicians. But by now, after paying attention the last few months, we can at least get a feel for these things, and we can tell from jump street that McConnell had no problem pushing through a plan to give hundreds of billions of dollars to rich people who had lost money playing Russian roulette with other people's money, but apparently will try to block a plan whose key words are things like "jobs" "jobs" and "jobs." In other words, nobody should give a shit what McConnell is saying. "The people" know that after all these absurd bailouts for the rich, here's a plan that may actually help them, and want the shit to go through. And ring-a-ding-ding for McConnell pretending to give a shit about "fraud and waste," but if while providing up to 3 million jobs around the country Maine gets $1 million for studying whether fish would masturbate if they had access to my old Heather Thomas poster and hands, nobody cares. Pass the shit, get moving. Any minute wasted over some dude huffing and puffing against the bill for political theater is another minute added to the Bush administration.
First of all, how tone-deaf can he be not to realize that even though it took us eight years to catch on cause we're idiots, the key word "the people" are looking for in DC is accountability. So the way to "look after them" is to demand accountability re: the carrying out of the stimulus plan, not some childish "oh, let's go over this with our reading glasses on, I'll spell out the big words for you" bullshit.
The fact is, none of "the people" is gonna bother reading the shit, much less break it down and understand it. People have lives to live, regardless of grandstanding politicians. But by now, after paying attention the last few months, we can at least get a feel for these things, and we can tell from jump street that McConnell had no problem pushing through a plan to give hundreds of billions of dollars to rich people who had lost money playing Russian roulette with other people's money, but apparently will try to block a plan whose key words are things like "jobs" "jobs" and "jobs." In other words, nobody should give a shit what McConnell is saying. "The people" know that after all these absurd bailouts for the rich, here's a plan that may actually help them, and want the shit to go through. And ring-a-ding-ding for McConnell pretending to give a shit about "fraud and waste," but if while providing up to 3 million jobs around the country Maine gets $1 million for studying whether fish would masturbate if they had access to my old Heather Thomas poster and hands, nobody cares. Pass the shit, get moving. Any minute wasted over some dude huffing and puffing against the bill for political theater is another minute added to the Bush administration.
Corporate Bathroom
The bathroom on the floor of the office I work has a security code you hafta know and enter to open the door. Which is funny, cause once the door is pushed open it automatically swings open and then stays that way for about 45 seconds. There's been times when I've walked in, pissed, and then walked out before the door had shut itself. It's Star Wars/CIA/Mission Impossible-based security technology is very effective...unless, you know, anybody in the world actually uses the bathroom, after which a snail that just ate a warm milk and turkey Blizzard from Dairy Queen would have time to walk in after you. Yes, I'm sure any master criminal that has slipped into the building wishing to mug me while I curl some pipe will be completely baffled and give up in the hallway. Hmm.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Two Dumbshit Condi Quotes
While defending her boyfriend:
Perhaps what she meant by this quote is that CONDOLEEZA RICE is in much better shape than at the beginning of Bush's presidency. Let's face it - as not only a former Secretary of State but as a former Secretary of State who is also a black woman, she will be raking in money hand over fist between speeches and books, not to mention she can pop up on tv anytime she wants. Whether she spends that time defending Bush or turning on him and producing juicy tell-alls, certainly she is laughing all the way to the bank about all this.
"I think this is in much better shape than we found it," said Rice.It's hard to imagine anybody offering a real case that Bush et al have left the Middle East, or America, or probably even the White House bowling lanes in better shape than they found it. This is the gang, after all, who did the economic equivalent of being handed a Peter Luger's steak and turning it into a used McRib in a urinal. And I say that with all due respect to the McRib.
Perhaps what she meant by this quote is that CONDOLEEZA RICE is in much better shape than at the beginning of Bush's presidency. Let's face it - as not only a former Secretary of State but as a former Secretary of State who is also a black woman, she will be raking in money hand over fist between speeches and books, not to mention she can pop up on tv anytime she wants. Whether she spends that time defending Bush or turning on him and producing juicy tell-alls, certainly she is laughing all the way to the bank about all this.
"Good historians are still writing books about George Washington."I suppose she means that 200 years from now, historians will be wrestling with whether or not Bush was a great president or not. Except that's not why people still write about George Washington. While certainly anyone who digs can find flaws in his own presidency, we're still reading and writing about Washington because of the uniqueness of his being the first president. He is an extremely interesting historical figure who crescendoed at the very birth of our nation - both on the battlefield and in government. Nobody's writing books about Washington grappling with whether or not he was a good president and great leader; it's fairly well-agreed upon that he was. To claim any comparison between the two other than their first names is fairly laughable.
Reporters, Bush, and Memories
Laura Bush says hubby isn't the worst president ever.
Now, obviously you can't really expect a wife to say her husband was the worst ever, whether or not she believes it. But her comment would dictate that she believes there is at least one president worse than Bush. If she's gonna come out and say that she "KNOWS" he's not the worst, shouldn't she have to name who she "KNOWS" is? Shouldn't the follow-up question have been "Really? Who is the worst then?"
Which reminds me. All the year-end wrap-ups news bits have reminded me of what I originally thought when the infamous Katie Couric/Sarah Palin moment was aired.
I wasn't shocked that Palin came off as an idiot. But I was shocked that in today's journalistic world of letting interview subjects off the hook without really answering cause instead of actually listening you're simply reading the next question in your notecards over in your head, Couric actually kept after her for an answer. Which is what this reporter should've done with Mrs. Bush.
"I know it's not"
Now, obviously you can't really expect a wife to say her husband was the worst ever, whether or not she believes it. But her comment would dictate that she believes there is at least one president worse than Bush. If she's gonna come out and say that she "KNOWS" he's not the worst, shouldn't she have to name who she "KNOWS" is? Shouldn't the follow-up question have been "Really? Who is the worst then?"
Which reminds me. All the year-end wrap-ups news bits have reminded me of what I originally thought when the infamous Katie Couric/Sarah Palin moment was aired.
Couric: And when it comes to establishing your worldview, I was curious, what newspapers and magazines did you regularly read before you were tapped for this to stay informed and to understand the world?
Palin: I've read most of them, again with a great appreciation for the press, for the media.
Couric: What, specifically?
Palin: Um, all of them, any of them that have been in front of me all these years.
Couric: Can you name a few?
I wasn't shocked that Palin came off as an idiot. But I was shocked that in today's journalistic world of letting interview subjects off the hook without really answering cause instead of actually listening you're simply reading the next question in your notecards over in your head, Couric actually kept after her for an answer. Which is what this reporter should've done with Mrs. Bush.
An Amalgamation of 3 Different Conversations I Had with People This Weekend In Virginia
"Obama still scares the shit out of me, but at least he's choosing smart people around him."
"Well. Isn't that what smart people do?"
"He knows he's not smart enough, and needs help."
"Really?"
"That's right."
"Wouldn't that make him smart?"
"What?"
"Thinking he's not smart enough. Wouldn't someone hafta be smart to recognize that in the first place?"
"No. He knows he's in over his head."
"Well. He did go to Harvard."
"Thanks to af-"
(all together) "affirmative action, right, right." (me, bemused smile)
"Well. Isn't that what smart people do?"
"He knows he's not smart enough, and needs help."
"Really?"
"That's right."
"Wouldn't that make him smart?"
"What?"
"Thinking he's not smart enough. Wouldn't someone hafta be smart to recognize that in the first place?"
"No. He knows he's in over his head."
"Well. He did go to Harvard."
"Thanks to af-"
(all together) "affirmative action, right, right." (me, bemused smile)
PADDY MAC!!!!...
...seriously, I'm starting to hate this kid... ;)
yes, i get it - you'll go to a better school than me!!
yes, i get it - you'll go to a better school than me!!
Monday, December 29, 2008
No Big Whoop...
...just a coupla good lookin dudes, being cool ;)
ps - new Mrs. Xmastime #1 all the way on left. Note to self: find way to make husband disappear.
ps - new Mrs. Xmastime #1 all the way on left. Note to self: find way to make husband disappear.
I'm Starting too Think I'm Gonna Miss Him
This article at Think Progress pretty much sums up the Bush Administration, in that "so unbelievable it's almost comical, were it not actually true and was costing us lives and money." I mean, who could script shit such as this?
I'll be honest: as much of a fuckup as I've thought Bush to be all these years, I did give him enough credit to think I'd be able to make it to Jan 20, 2009 without being able to reference Weekend at Bernies in accordance with his handling of a major government agency, but god bless him, he once again steps up to the plate and knocks one out of the park for us. Fucking awesome.
THE BUSH RULES
1) Recklessly deregulate agency as much as possible.
2) Make sure agency is working for the absurdly rich corporate mofos, by way of
3) Inserting incompetent Bush crony as the head - in this case, a guy who does at meetings what causes most on-the-job accidents throughout the workplace. Irony, you had me at "hello."
4) Make sure that it costs tax-payers billions of dollars a year ($108B/year!!!!!) while being the "fiscally conservative" party. Hmm.
Seriously - if the Bush Administration did not exist, would you be able to invent it? I say no way. Nobody's that imaginative. That's why I'm recommending that after his presidency is mercifully over, Bush is put in charge of all television. I'm serious - I'm starting to think he's the only person on Earth who could come up with shit that would finally put to bed both reality tv and the "goofy husband/hot wife" and "sexy, hot friends" sitcoms glut of crap. Just have someone sit down with him every few weeks for ideas. Just ask him questions about situations.
ASKER: So...your best friend has left you in charge of his goldfish while he's away. But the goldfish dies. What do you do? (correct answer: buy replica of goldfish, try to pass off to friend as his, hilarity ensues.)
BUSH: Hmm. Well, let's see...I guess I'd (insert 10-minute narrative, none of which is based in anything remotely resembling what a normal human would think of, both stunningly comical and tragic in it's "are you shitting me?"-ness.)
ASKER: REEEally???!!....oh, wow...yep, got it...and then what?...oh, god, yes...
Symbolical of the agency’s shortcomings under Bush, Edwin G. Foulke Jr., a former Bush fundraiser appointed to head OSHA in 2006, “acquired a reputation inside the Labor Department as a man who literally fell asleep on the job.
His top aides said they rustled papers, wore attention-getting garb, pounded the table for emphasis or gently kicked his leg, all to keep him awake. But, if these tactics failed, sometimes they just continued talking as if he were awake.
I'll be honest: as much of a fuckup as I've thought Bush to be all these years, I did give him enough credit to think I'd be able to make it to Jan 20, 2009 without being able to reference Weekend at Bernies in accordance with his handling of a major government agency, but god bless him, he once again steps up to the plate and knocks one out of the park for us. Fucking awesome.
THE BUSH RULES
1) Recklessly deregulate agency as much as possible.
2) Make sure agency is working for the absurdly rich corporate mofos, by way of
3) Inserting incompetent Bush crony as the head - in this case, a guy who does at meetings what causes most on-the-job accidents throughout the workplace. Irony, you had me at "hello."
4) Make sure that it costs tax-payers billions of dollars a year ($108B/year!!!!!) while being the "fiscally conservative" party. Hmm.
Seriously - if the Bush Administration did not exist, would you be able to invent it? I say no way. Nobody's that imaginative. That's why I'm recommending that after his presidency is mercifully over, Bush is put in charge of all television. I'm serious - I'm starting to think he's the only person on Earth who could come up with shit that would finally put to bed both reality tv and the "goofy husband/hot wife" and "sexy, hot friends" sitcoms glut of crap. Just have someone sit down with him every few weeks for ideas. Just ask him questions about situations.
ASKER: So...your best friend has left you in charge of his goldfish while he's away. But the goldfish dies. What do you do? (correct answer: buy replica of goldfish, try to pass off to friend as his, hilarity ensues.)
BUSH: Hmm. Well, let's see...I guess I'd (insert 10-minute narrative, none of which is based in anything remotely resembling what a normal human would think of, both stunningly comical and tragic in it's "are you shitting me?"-ness.)
ASKER: REEEally???!!....oh, wow...yep, got it...and then what?...oh, god, yes...
He Really IS Amazing!!
I see that once again Bush is clearing brush in Crawford while the world goes tits up. First in the weeks up to 9-11 and then Katrina, and now he won't come back from vacation as violence in the Middle East explodes. This one is particularly puzzling - after rolling the dice and pretty much basing the entire legacy of his presidency on peace in the Middle East (God told him, of course), he can't be bothered to come out of his romper room to get back to The White House and try to do something about it now? REEeeeeeeeally? I must say, I'm mildly amused at his sheer "fuck that, I'm on vacation" stance here. I mean, what can you say? Bravo!
And now I will do the revisionist's work (as mentioned below) for them: can't these idiots connect the dots between shit-tastrophe's happening around the world whenever Bush is on vacation and try to claim that "seeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, whenever he's not on duty, everything goes to shit!!!? He MUST be amazing at the job!"? Worth a try, no? They've made more ridiculous claims than that. Probably today, even.
And now I will do the revisionist's work (as mentioned below) for them: can't these idiots connect the dots between shit-tastrophe's happening around the world whenever Bush is on vacation and try to claim that "seeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, whenever he's not on duty, everything goes to shit!!!? He MUST be amazing at the job!"? Worth a try, no? They've made more ridiculous claims than that. Probably today, even.
It All Comes Down to Costanza
I don't really care about this story other than it gives me an excuse to post one of my favorite George scenes. Viva Costanza!
Hmm.
The other day I won $15 on a scratch ticket. Today I walked out of my loft and found a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Obviously now I am looking up at the sky for a grand piano laced with vegetables and Aerosmith albums to land on my head.
Honesty Is the Best Policy, Sometimes Just Cause It's Fucking Easier
As a young man with a paradoxic working relationship with both industry and awesome laziness, I often found myself caught in a web of lies I had strewn to get out of work that in the end would've taken about a tenth of the time and effort than the lying ever did. My piece de resistance of course found HERE.
Which is what I think of nowadays, when you can't turn on the tv without Cheney/Rice/Rove et al killing themselves going from show to show, desperately trying to revise the history of Bush's presidency. I don't understand who they think they're going to fool into completely erasing their brains clean of any memory of the past eight years and think "gee, Bush was awesome!!" Their standard "Bush will be remembered favorably in 50 years" nonsense is about as credible as someone saying that in 100 years, Bin Laden will be praised for his role in 9-11. As in you can expel any amount of bullshit from your mouth that cannot be proven within your own lifetime. You know, when the one thing you can parade around that was "positive" about Bush's presidency is that there has not been an attack on our soil since 9-11 when said idea does not erase the fact that Bush is the only president who has had a terrorist attack on our soil, maybe you need to try to find something else to trumpet. Especially since what if something happens before noon on January 20? Then oh shit, your one caveat, gone!!
But back to my original point...all the lying, all the bullshit, all the cover-ups, all the over-reaching just for the sake of over-reaching, all the work put in to cover up the cover-ups - at some point everybody, including Bush himself, is gonna say "oh, for fuck's sake, it woulda just been easier to do the fucking right thing from time to time!" After the last eight years, what have they gained? Money? Power? They already had all that. Bush et al could've had a nice little run, fueled by proper handling of the surplus he was handed in 2001 along with the added presidential glory of handling 9-11 correctly. But he decided to go completely batshit, work twice as hard doing so many things exactly wrong, and now he and his people are going to have to spend every minute the rest of their lives desperately trying to convince everybody he wasn't the worst president ever. Good luck.
ps - before you send in your comments, yes I know there are plenty of things that you somehow know about that I don't re: tough choices that nobody wants to make while making the sausage, if you will. I thank you in advance for pointing out that the role of the president isn't to frolic with puppies and eat ice cream sundaes. Thanks!
pps - yes, I know it's all Clinton's fault anyway. Thanks!
Which is what I think of nowadays, when you can't turn on the tv without Cheney/Rice/Rove et al killing themselves going from show to show, desperately trying to revise the history of Bush's presidency. I don't understand who they think they're going to fool into completely erasing their brains clean of any memory of the past eight years and think "gee, Bush was awesome!!" Their standard "Bush will be remembered favorably in 50 years" nonsense is about as credible as someone saying that in 100 years, Bin Laden will be praised for his role in 9-11. As in you can expel any amount of bullshit from your mouth that cannot be proven within your own lifetime. You know, when the one thing you can parade around that was "positive" about Bush's presidency is that there has not been an attack on our soil since 9-11 when said idea does not erase the fact that Bush is the only president who has had a terrorist attack on our soil, maybe you need to try to find something else to trumpet. Especially since what if something happens before noon on January 20? Then oh shit, your one caveat, gone!!
But back to my original point...all the lying, all the bullshit, all the cover-ups, all the over-reaching just for the sake of over-reaching, all the work put in to cover up the cover-ups - at some point everybody, including Bush himself, is gonna say "oh, for fuck's sake, it woulda just been easier to do the fucking right thing from time to time!" After the last eight years, what have they gained? Money? Power? They already had all that. Bush et al could've had a nice little run, fueled by proper handling of the surplus he was handed in 2001 along with the added presidential glory of handling 9-11 correctly. But he decided to go completely batshit, work twice as hard doing so many things exactly wrong, and now he and his people are going to have to spend every minute the rest of their lives desperately trying to convince everybody he wasn't the worst president ever. Good luck.
ps - before you send in your comments, yes I know there are plenty of things that you somehow know about that I don't re: tough choices that nobody wants to make while making the sausage, if you will. I thank you in advance for pointing out that the role of the president isn't to frolic with puppies and eat ice cream sundaes. Thanks!
pps - yes, I know it's all Clinton's fault anyway. Thanks!
Wow. What a Fucking Shocker.
Study: Premarital abstinence pledges are ineffective.
Hey, at least promising Daddy you're not going to let a boy put his pee-pee into your treasure meadow isn't creepy, right? Hmm.
Sluts.
Hey, at least promising Daddy you're not going to let a boy put his pee-pee into your treasure meadow isn't creepy, right? Hmm.
Sluts.
Wedding Ideas, Part II
Another thing that needs to change about weddings is the rehearsals. How worthless are these things? Like car alarms, or women, right? It's basically 30 minutes of laughing followed immediately by "does anybody know what the hell we're supposed to do?" In other words, exactly like sex.
But what's funny is that for such a pomp-and-circumstance occasion, the people that run things never seem to give a shit. You're led to believe that if you make a misstep you'll completely ruin two peoples' (at least) lives, yet after running you through things, the coordinator always just shrugs "don't worry about it, you'll figure it out." I guess I don't like the wishy washiness - either fucking drill us like we're the Arlington Color Guard, or just tell us to show up and do whatever the fuck we want. For fuck's sake, there's more order and decisiveness in ordering a cheesesteak from Pat's than a wedding.
ps - a side note, to my earlier post: I remember every Pat's cheesesteak I've ever eaten (and am more likely to get choked up thinking about them.)
But what's funny is that for such a pomp-and-circumstance occasion, the people that run things never seem to give a shit. You're led to believe that if you make a misstep you'll completely ruin two peoples' (at least) lives, yet after running you through things, the coordinator always just shrugs "don't worry about it, you'll figure it out." I guess I don't like the wishy washiness - either fucking drill us like we're the Arlington Color Guard, or just tell us to show up and do whatever the fuck we want. For fuck's sake, there's more order and decisiveness in ordering a cheesesteak from Pat's than a wedding.
ps - a side note, to my earlier post: I remember every Pat's cheesesteak I've ever eaten (and am more likely to get choked up thinking about them.)
Wedding Ideas, Part I
The price per person for the reception I was at was just under $200. Which seems fairly standard for most of the weddings I've been to through the years. Which seems ridiculous, cause 99% of the time the food is kinda blah, standard roast beef/vegetables whatever. Not "bad" per se, but forgettable. I've never come away from a wedding blathering about the food. And if right now you're thinking "of course not, your mind was on the beautiful union of souls in love", you don't fucking know me. I still spend a few minutes of the day fantasizing about travel plazas I've ravaged while riding the bus, so if I don't mention food at a wedding, odds are it was incredibly unremarkable. Which seems standard for wedding receptions.
Isn't there some way to remedy this - when you RSVP to a wedding invite, instead of simply checking off "chicken" or "fish", can't there be a special arrangement wherein you can opt for an alternative up to, say, $10? Anything within reason, that is...the hosts would save a shitload of money, and I'd get to eat McNuggets and enjoy myself instead of pretending to eat spinach inside a piece of chicken. Seems fairly simple. Am I...in the midst of changing the very sacrament of marriage?
Isn't there some way to remedy this - when you RSVP to a wedding invite, instead of simply checking off "chicken" or "fish", can't there be a special arrangement wherein you can opt for an alternative up to, say, $10? Anything within reason, that is...the hosts would save a shitload of money, and I'd get to eat McNuggets and enjoy myself instead of pretending to eat spinach inside a piece of chicken. Seems fairly simple. Am I...in the midst of changing the very sacrament of marriage?
Wedding Reception by the Numbers
Number of hours from start of wedding til my best man toast (ie could start drinking): 7
Number of times before speech I was advised to "say something nice about the bride" and "don't work blue"; as if it was assumed I'd recite my thesis on "Why Do Squirrels Fist?" before drop-kicking the mic into the bride's throat: 2,188
Number of big laughs from crowd during speech: 8
Number of big "awwwwwwwww"s from crowd during speech: 2
Number of my ex-girlfriends I referenced: 1
Number of my ex-girlfriends I referenced who was present: 1
Number of Bridesmaids I'd marry today if they'd have me: 3
Number of Bridesmaids I'll prolly ever speak to again: 0
Number of times I pretended to have a gout flare-up to get out of dancing: 4
Number of times I remarked "boy, this place, looks like we're on the Titanic": 6
Number of times I followed up with "I'm the king of the world": 2
Number of bridesmaids I told looked like Kate Winslet: 1
Number of bridesmaids that were flattered by this: 0
Number of bridesmaids I told looked like Kate Winslet and, upon getting nowhere with this, added that she also looked like Kim Kardashian: 1
Number of bridesmaids that were flattered by this: 0
Percentage of speech during which I debated whether or not to pretend to get choked up, melting the ladies' hearts throughout the room and greasing the skids for some post-reception "tenderness": 100
Number of times I choked up: 0
Post-reception tenderness: 0
Number of times before speech I was advised to "say something nice about the bride" and "don't work blue"; as if it was assumed I'd recite my thesis on "Why Do Squirrels Fist?" before drop-kicking the mic into the bride's throat: 2,188
Number of big laughs from crowd during speech: 8
Number of big "awwwwwwwww"s from crowd during speech: 2
Number of my ex-girlfriends I referenced: 1
Number of my ex-girlfriends I referenced who was present: 1
Number of Bridesmaids I'd marry today if they'd have me: 3
Number of Bridesmaids I'll prolly ever speak to again: 0
Number of times I pretended to have a gout flare-up to get out of dancing: 4
Number of times I remarked "boy, this place, looks like we're on the Titanic": 6
Number of times I followed up with "I'm the king of the world": 2
Number of bridesmaids I told looked like Kate Winslet: 1
Number of bridesmaids that were flattered by this: 0
Number of bridesmaids I told looked like Kate Winslet and, upon getting nowhere with this, added that she also looked like Kim Kardashian: 1
Number of bridesmaids that were flattered by this: 0
Percentage of speech during which I debated whether or not to pretend to get choked up, melting the ladies' hearts throughout the room and greasing the skids for some post-reception "tenderness": 100
Number of times I choked up: 0
Post-reception tenderness: 0
Flying
Ten days ago I shared a nightmare 4-hour delay at JFK with the Short Bus, and while most of the details have slipped away to the sands of time due to 1) Christmas 2) a wedding 3) I'm old, one thing I remember is I noticed there's no fucking clock on airplanes. Why is this? Most of us use our cell phones as our clocks nowadays, but despite the fact that I have to punch about 24 buttons to text a 1 or 0 on my phone it somehow is capable of taking over the plane's electronics and driving us into the ocean so we all have to turn them off, rendering them unusable even as clocks. Why is there no clock up front, where we all can see it? Why do they not want us to know how close or far we are from landing, what do they think we're gonna do? I understand casinos wanting you to lose track of time, but I"m on a plane...where the fuck am I going?
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Diet Coke Nutbags
For the last few weeks I've had a default bodega I pop in to buy 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke when I'm in need. And the same thing happens every time: I pay, the bottles sit there on the counter for about 15 seconds before the guy finally asks "oh, would you like a bag for those?"
What the fuck - am I high? Is this something I've completely missed; people walking down the sidewalk with 2-liter bottles a-swinging, happy as larks? I really hafta fucking ask for bags here?
Grrrrrrrr.
What the fuck - am I high? Is this something I've completely missed; people walking down the sidewalk with 2-liter bottles a-swinging, happy as larks? I really hafta fucking ask for bags here?
Grrrrrrrr.
Merry Sistatime!!!
How is it possible to not love Sistatime!!!!? She's picking me up at the airport tomorrow, and she actually just asked me
Dying. As if I might say oh, I dunno, was thinking about hanging round loitering in the toilets for a while, is that cool?
Hahahaahah here's to SISTATIME!!! :)
Will you be ready to get on the road to leesburg straight from there?
Dying. As if I might say oh, I dunno, was thinking about hanging round loitering in the toilets for a while, is that cool?
Hahahaahah here's to SISTATIME!!! :)
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Greatest Hits, Track 9
There's been a show on ESPN for a week called The Greatest Game Ever Played. About the 1958 NFL Championship Game. Mostly, this reminded me of THE REAL Greatest Game Ever played!!!!:
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Sunday, March 23, 2008
The Greatest Game I Ever Played In (March Madness Edition)
I don’t know if anything before or since has ever been as exciting as those days back in high school when my friends and I would get the keys to the gym and gun the rock for hours and hours. During Christmas break, or on a snow day (funny – school would be canceled, but we would somehow make it to the school to play ball. hmmm. A mystery), my brother would make the call to our athletic director and I would hover around, waiting for my brother’s nod while on the phone for the go-ahead. I would hyperventilate throughout the ensuing phone calls to our friends telling us to meet there in half an hour. It was like opening up our own private Disneyland: flip the switch and hear the hum of the lights starting up, slowly turning brighter by the minute. Didn’t matter, we’d start shooting while it was still dark. After about 5 minutes the gym was fully lit and it was all ours. Not gym class, not practice, not a game where it belonged not even to us but the whole town. OURS. We’d spend the first 20 minutes sprinting around like retarded colts, laughing and shooting and fucking with each other. Kinda like any class we had in high school, now that I think about it. I guess the scientific word for this is “frolicking”, although there was no meadow involved. Eventually we’d beak up into 3 on 3 (half court) or 4 on 4 (full court.) This being the mid-80’s we were all in love with Bird, so the goal was to drain a 20-footer and then make an amazing no-look pass (usually off someone’s head.)
I was a gunner. A shooter; if I get the ball and you’re on my team, get your ass back on defense cause you ain’t getting the ball back (unless of course I saw an opening for an “oooooooooh!” Bird-esque pass.) My disinterest in playing defense was such that even in three on three I’d somehow insist on playing zone. If forced to play man, I’d teach my teammates a lesson in the first few minutes by letting my man blow by me for an easy layup, during which I’d yell at a teammate “switch!” and collapse on the ground in laughter. And hell, thinking of the group we’d play with during these games, I was definitely in the top 2 or 3 athletic-wise, I certainly could’ve dominated on defense. But why waste my energy on defense???!!
Anyway. Our games would become fierce, four-hour marathons that got quieter by the hour as we got more serious and checks from trash-talking got cashed. I remember one time I was on fire, hitting everything I threw up and laughing, talking shit, and my brother decided he was gonna dedicate the whole game to not only shutting me down, but seeing to it that I literally didn’t touch the ball the whole game. Which I laughed at, of course. But after about three minutes, I wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t on me like white on rice, he was on me like white on rice glued on by ugly on your mama. Or sumpin like that. Now, as I said, I was a shooter, a gunner, I needed the ball. I ran and ran and ran to get open, but my brother would not allow it. After 5 minutes I tried begging, after 10 minutes I tried cheating, after 15 minutes I tried violence. By 20 minutes I was trying cash. For naught. Miserable!!!!
I also remember one time my brother had attempted a court-long pass that got away and hit one of the big lights hanging from the ceiling. I can still see it slooooooooooooowly descending to the floor like Apollo 13 into the ocean before it broke into a thousand pieces. We were like oh shit, Mr. Jones was gonna KILL us and we’d never get to have the keys to the gym again. Jones was known to generations of students at the school for pretty much having the worst temper in the world; his blowups in Sociology class were the stuff of legend, so you can imagine how much he’d lose his shit over something like this. So we go to his house to give him the gym key and we tell him oh by the way we broke a light. We brace ourselves for about 50 minutes of screaming, but after a minute we look up and his face had turned ashen. Finally he speaks “well, thank god you guys got outta there right afterwards. Those things are loaded to the gills with mercury. Whew.” Of course we didn’t tell him we broke it about 3 minutes upon walking into the gym and had played on for about 5 hours. Mercury, eh?…so THAT’S why I made out with that guy at Macadoos in ’94!! Shew! Thank god. Makes sense now. Fucking mercury, DAMN you!!!!
My brother and I were never really allowed to be on the same team, both because we hated each other’s guts at any moment and were by far the two best players there. Certainly the only two who played on the high school team. But we had a blast playing with everyoine, running free up and down for hours, hitting “big” shots, making “incredible” passes, yada yada. I miss it.
One day (it was during Christmas break of ’86-87, I distinctly remember being a freshman) while playing there was a BANG BANG BANG! on the door…which had never happened before. Our game was halted and somebody went to the door to open it for what must’ve been a wayward janitor and in walked five black guys. Who proceeded to rob us at gunpoint. HIYYYYYOOOOOOOOOO! I’m kidding. Obviously, it was five wayward janitors BOOOYAH!!! YESSSSSSSS!!!!!!! No, it was five guys from the basketball team that had somehow found out we were in the gym. Of course, one might ask why my friends and I were given the keys to the gym and not the guys from the basketball team, but these aren’t things that I in particular thought of 20 years ago at the age of 14. Though it is a reason I will be fairly shocked if Obama wins. These were not, however, just 5 guys – they were, what do you know, the varsity team's starting five; including 3 who would be all-district - one of whom would be recruited by Virginia Union a year later. Of course this being the size school it was, everybody knew each other; my brother being on the team and me being on the junior varsity at the time meant we were a lot closer to the black guys than the other guys in the gym were. But still, nobody was a stranger to nobody. After high-fives/goofing around, it was decided we’d play best outta three games, black v. white. This was a time and place you could do such things without it showing up on YouTube and being labeled a racist forever. Again, we were all friends to one degree or another anyways, it seemed the natural and somehow funny thing to do at the time. So let me give you the rosters of each team:
THE WHITE GUYS:
Brothatime! 10th grade. Backup guard on varsity; would start the next year at the point for district championship team (tho would finish career captaining senior squad to 0-21 year.)
Xmastime: 9th grade. Scrawny, less than 160lbs. Tall, could board, worshipped Jeff Lamp and, as stated, could shoot the lights out (or go stone cold.)
Brian: 10th grade. math-lete. Short pudgy and slow, but would drive you crazy playing a game of H-O-R-S-E cause he’d beat you somehow using geometry and hitting inane half-court shots. But in a game of one-on-one against Sistatime!, I’d bet the farm on her every time and twice on Sunday. Brian was name-dropped on Xmastime before, and to get an idea of what a basketball player he was, here's what I wrote about him:
Travis: 10th grade. Great athlete, really good football/baseball player. But no, NONE, ZERO sense of basketball. A good bruiser to have under the boards. Tho once he got a rebound you’d hafta go take the ball from him.
Duane: 10th grade. A complete ramshackle mess of bones. Could not catch the ball with a tuna net. Again, tuff under the boards, knew his role was to throw elbows. But if you threw the ball to him he’d somehow look like Bill the Cat getting a Louisville Slugger to the gut; it would sound like the ball hit a pile of broomsticks and come rolling back to you (if you were lucky.)
THE BLACK GUYS:
Alfred: 11th grade. starting varsity shooting guard, would be the Region A Player of the Year the next season, averaging 25/game and getting an offer to play at Virginia Union. Could dunk in traffic, beyond unstoppable.
Timmy: 12th grade. starting varsity point guard. Wasn’t a scorer, but a real leader. Consummate point guard.
William: 11th grade. 2-time All-District center. Was about 6’6” with arms that reached up to about 17 feet. Coulda scored 40/game but had broken a leg as a kid and it never healed right so he was always slow. Unstoppable once he got the ball down low.
Keith: 11th grade. 2-year starter. Silky smooth small forward. Would disappear for a spell, then throw down a bone-rattling dunk before draining a three in your face.
Marvin: 12th grade. Runner-up for District Player of the Year that season. Must’ve set the record for dunks in a game that year. Tho I can still close my eyes and watch a few years before when he had shot the ball into the wrong basket for the other team. Christ. Not the brightest light in the tree, but could play like a mf.
So obviously we were, as they say, up against it. We pretty much knew we were gonna get CRUSHED, but what the fuck, it was more exciting than playing against each other. Games are to 15, gotta win by two, 2 games outta 3 wins. So the first game starts and everyone’s kinda clowning around, but before the black guys have really started paying attention I’ve caught RIDICULOUS fire and we’re up about 10-1 and go on to win the first game. An upset, to say the least. Well now the black guys are pissed and get serious the next game and fucking bury us; I mean it must’ve been like 15-1. It was definitely a “hope you enjoyed the first game motherfuckers, cause this is how it’s gonna be from now on” showcase.
So we start the third and deciding game, and you could hear a fucking pin drop in that gym. Nothing but Cons squeaking and sweat hitting the floor; the shit was serious. Every dribble was important, every pass was important, you’d let your heart explode if it meant tipping the ball away on defense to a teammate. There was no more laughing, no more yucks, just fucking ball. We clawed and clawed but after a while we were down 13-6. Two more points they win, we’re done. Surprise. I was busy cursing myself for not having done shit since my run during the first game, when it happened again: I caught fire. Left corner, right corner, top of the key, wherever; I drained everything. From the hip, from the shoulder, with one, two three hands in my face I knew every thing I launched was good as it kissed the fingertip of my middle finger goodbye. 13-7. 13-8. 13-9. 14-9. 14-10. Here we come, here we come. 14-11. At this point my brother, whose normal job was to shut me down on the court or to spend the ride home reminding me how awful a basketball player I was, gave the order: get the fucking ball to Xmastime. Top of the key, Alfred flying by me, 14-12. Outlet to me, pullup from the side, 14-13. So deep in the corner I end up falling on the bleachers, 14-14. This is the most pressure any of us had ever felt anywhere at that age, much less on the basketball court. You had one team made up not only of varsity starters, but black and facing the humiliation of losing not only to a team that wasn’t even made up of basketball players, but a bunch of white guys for fuck’s sake. Then you had a team of white guys that had fought too hard up to that point, who could smell the possibility of a greater upset than any of them had ever been a part of, a team playing with house money that had found themselves in the surprising position of not only pulling this off, but being upset if they didn't.
Fake jumper with a rocker step around Keith, I lay it in, now we’re up 15-14 - shut them down this one possession and score and we win. Soaked shirts dyed onto our skin, eyes bugging and shouting orders to each other. Alfred bring the ball up, slowing things down with a “you gotta be shitting me fellas, let’s end this” look to his team. I’m walking backwards at half-court, Brian trots by me to pick up Alfred. Now I hafta be honest: even at this point, there’s no way I thought we’d win. No way, no how, not gonna happen. They’ve dicked around long enough, they’re not gonna actually let themselves lose. Not today, not to us. We had a nice run, see you at the Dairy Queen.
And yet. That which made us weak (players that couldn’t actually ball) came into play at just the right moment. Alfred was bringing up the ball and looking ahead to everybody, seeing where guys were setting up a whole half-court in front of him. I don’t remember why I was just kinda standing there at half-court; I should’ve been back on defense but I was kinda moseying. I looked at Alfred and I looked at Brian, I looked at Brian and I looked at Alfred. And I saw that Alfred, who played against the best players in the whole region every week, knew that Brian was “on him” and didn’t really pay much attention to him. Hell, I wouldn’t have either. Meanwhile Brian was going after him, eyes locked on the ball while Alfred kinda mentally dismissed him. But for some reason I broke for Alfred, and as Alfred was looking down the court past Brian and ahead to what would surely be the game-tying basket, Brian somehow got a hand on the ball and flicked it away. Right into my waiting hands.
I don’t remember a lot of things I should. If I met you tonight, I prolly won’t remember your name. I don’t remember things people say, or things I’m supposed to do. But I remember every step I took once I got that ball. I remember, head down, dribbling past the half-court line. I remember seeing the metal plate thing that the volleyball poles go into. Top of the key I can see the shoe polish, free throw line all purple and dusty; I can see it. But more important than that - I can still hear Alfred breathing down my neck. Chasing me. Right behind me, closing in with every step and all I can think of is all the times I’ve seen him pin someone’s shit on the rack, players much greater than myself. I go in for the layup, stick my ass out a bit for a prayer of hope of blocking him out a bit, and let go. Closing my eyes and waiting for the *smack* sound of Alfred slapping the ball against the wall 10 feet away. Don’t worry, I remember thinking in slow-time, we get the ball back, maybe I can get off another jumper to win it.
But the sound didn’t come. I laid the ball up, Alfred came crashing down upon me and we both collapsed on each other underneath the basket, limbs and sweat as one. I looked up. There the ball was, slowly caressing itself down the net like an orange in a Christmas stocking. We had won. We had fucking won.
Both our hearts about to explode with exhaustion, Alfred and I lay there saying nothing. Finally he turned and looked at me. “Best 3 outta 5?” We both laughed as we helped each other up; we both knew that they’d win 100 out of the next 100. After that it was high fives/man-hugs all around. As furious as we all were to win during the game, the black guys in some weird way weren’t angry they had lost; I remember how bemused they were by the whole thing. Kinda shaking their shoulders like “ah well.” I wouldn’t say they were happy for us, but whenever I see the Russian team watching the Americans celebrate after their Olympic upset in 1980 I think of this game. The greatest game I ever played in.
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Sunday, March 23, 2008
The Greatest Game I Ever Played In (March Madness Edition)
I don’t know if anything before or since has ever been as exciting as those days back in high school when my friends and I would get the keys to the gym and gun the rock for hours and hours. During Christmas break, or on a snow day (funny – school would be canceled, but we would somehow make it to the school to play ball. hmmm. A mystery), my brother would make the call to our athletic director and I would hover around, waiting for my brother’s nod while on the phone for the go-ahead. I would hyperventilate throughout the ensuing phone calls to our friends telling us to meet there in half an hour. It was like opening up our own private Disneyland: flip the switch and hear the hum of the lights starting up, slowly turning brighter by the minute. Didn’t matter, we’d start shooting while it was still dark. After about 5 minutes the gym was fully lit and it was all ours. Not gym class, not practice, not a game where it belonged not even to us but the whole town. OURS. We’d spend the first 20 minutes sprinting around like retarded colts, laughing and shooting and fucking with each other. Kinda like any class we had in high school, now that I think about it. I guess the scientific word for this is “frolicking”, although there was no meadow involved. Eventually we’d beak up into 3 on 3 (half court) or 4 on 4 (full court.) This being the mid-80’s we were all in love with Bird, so the goal was to drain a 20-footer and then make an amazing no-look pass (usually off someone’s head.)
I was a gunner. A shooter; if I get the ball and you’re on my team, get your ass back on defense cause you ain’t getting the ball back (unless of course I saw an opening for an “oooooooooh!” Bird-esque pass.) My disinterest in playing defense was such that even in three on three I’d somehow insist on playing zone. If forced to play man, I’d teach my teammates a lesson in the first few minutes by letting my man blow by me for an easy layup, during which I’d yell at a teammate “switch!” and collapse on the ground in laughter. And hell, thinking of the group we’d play with during these games, I was definitely in the top 2 or 3 athletic-wise, I certainly could’ve dominated on defense. But why waste my energy on defense???!!
Anyway. Our games would become fierce, four-hour marathons that got quieter by the hour as we got more serious and checks from trash-talking got cashed. I remember one time I was on fire, hitting everything I threw up and laughing, talking shit, and my brother decided he was gonna dedicate the whole game to not only shutting me down, but seeing to it that I literally didn’t touch the ball the whole game. Which I laughed at, of course. But after about three minutes, I wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t on me like white on rice, he was on me like white on rice glued on by ugly on your mama. Or sumpin like that. Now, as I said, I was a shooter, a gunner, I needed the ball. I ran and ran and ran to get open, but my brother would not allow it. After 5 minutes I tried begging, after 10 minutes I tried cheating, after 15 minutes I tried violence. By 20 minutes I was trying cash. For naught. Miserable!!!!
I also remember one time my brother had attempted a court-long pass that got away and hit one of the big lights hanging from the ceiling. I can still see it slooooooooooooowly descending to the floor like Apollo 13 into the ocean before it broke into a thousand pieces. We were like oh shit, Mr. Jones was gonna KILL us and we’d never get to have the keys to the gym again. Jones was known to generations of students at the school for pretty much having the worst temper in the world; his blowups in Sociology class were the stuff of legend, so you can imagine how much he’d lose his shit over something like this. So we go to his house to give him the gym key and we tell him oh by the way we broke a light. We brace ourselves for about 50 minutes of screaming, but after a minute we look up and his face had turned ashen. Finally he speaks “well, thank god you guys got outta there right afterwards. Those things are loaded to the gills with mercury. Whew.” Of course we didn’t tell him we broke it about 3 minutes upon walking into the gym and had played on for about 5 hours. Mercury, eh?…so THAT’S why I made out with that guy at Macadoos in ’94!! Shew! Thank god. Makes sense now. Fucking mercury, DAMN you!!!!
My brother and I were never really allowed to be on the same team, both because we hated each other’s guts at any moment and were by far the two best players there. Certainly the only two who played on the high school team. But we had a blast playing with everyoine, running free up and down for hours, hitting “big” shots, making “incredible” passes, yada yada. I miss it.
One day (it was during Christmas break of ’86-87, I distinctly remember being a freshman) while playing there was a BANG BANG BANG! on the door…which had never happened before. Our game was halted and somebody went to the door to open it for what must’ve been a wayward janitor and in walked five black guys. Who proceeded to rob us at gunpoint. HIYYYYYOOOOOOOOOO! I’m kidding. Obviously, it was five wayward janitors BOOOYAH!!! YESSSSSSSS!!!!!!! No, it was five guys from the basketball team that had somehow found out we were in the gym. Of course, one might ask why my friends and I were given the keys to the gym and not the guys from the basketball team, but these aren’t things that I in particular thought of 20 years ago at the age of 14. Though it is a reason I will be fairly shocked if Obama wins. These were not, however, just 5 guys – they were, what do you know, the varsity team's starting five; including 3 who would be all-district - one of whom would be recruited by Virginia Union a year later. Of course this being the size school it was, everybody knew each other; my brother being on the team and me being on the junior varsity at the time meant we were a lot closer to the black guys than the other guys in the gym were. But still, nobody was a stranger to nobody. After high-fives/goofing around, it was decided we’d play best outta three games, black v. white. This was a time and place you could do such things without it showing up on YouTube and being labeled a racist forever. Again, we were all friends to one degree or another anyways, it seemed the natural and somehow funny thing to do at the time. So let me give you the rosters of each team:
THE WHITE GUYS:
Brothatime! 10th grade. Backup guard on varsity; would start the next year at the point for district championship team (tho would finish career captaining senior squad to 0-21 year.)
Xmastime: 9th grade. Scrawny, less than 160lbs. Tall, could board, worshipped Jeff Lamp and, as stated, could shoot the lights out (or go stone cold.)
Brian: 10th grade. math-lete. Short pudgy and slow, but would drive you crazy playing a game of H-O-R-S-E cause he’d beat you somehow using geometry and hitting inane half-court shots. But in a game of one-on-one against Sistatime!, I’d bet the farm on her every time and twice on Sunday. Brian was name-dropped on Xmastime before, and to get an idea of what a basketball player he was, here's what I wrote about him:
We had a guy in our trig class Brian, who was a math whiz. Every time there was a test or a quiz Brian would be the first to turn his in, and we’d all take a break and watch Coach grading Brian’s paper at his desk. He’d get out his answer key and start checking Brian’s answers. You could see him going down the page with each problem: number one, check, number two, check, number three…now his head would go from Brian’s paper to his answer key, then back to Brian’s paper, then he’d take his eraser out, change the answer he had in his answer key to whatever answer Brian had, and move on. Unreal.Pretty intimidating, right?
Travis: 10th grade. Great athlete, really good football/baseball player. But no, NONE, ZERO sense of basketball. A good bruiser to have under the boards. Tho once he got a rebound you’d hafta go take the ball from him.
Duane: 10th grade. A complete ramshackle mess of bones. Could not catch the ball with a tuna net. Again, tuff under the boards, knew his role was to throw elbows. But if you threw the ball to him he’d somehow look like Bill the Cat getting a Louisville Slugger to the gut; it would sound like the ball hit a pile of broomsticks and come rolling back to you (if you were lucky.)
THE BLACK GUYS:
Alfred: 11th grade. starting varsity shooting guard, would be the Region A Player of the Year the next season, averaging 25/game and getting an offer to play at Virginia Union. Could dunk in traffic, beyond unstoppable.
Timmy: 12th grade. starting varsity point guard. Wasn’t a scorer, but a real leader. Consummate point guard.
William: 11th grade. 2-time All-District center. Was about 6’6” with arms that reached up to about 17 feet. Coulda scored 40/game but had broken a leg as a kid and it never healed right so he was always slow. Unstoppable once he got the ball down low.
Keith: 11th grade. 2-year starter. Silky smooth small forward. Would disappear for a spell, then throw down a bone-rattling dunk before draining a three in your face.
Marvin: 12th grade. Runner-up for District Player of the Year that season. Must’ve set the record for dunks in a game that year. Tho I can still close my eyes and watch a few years before when he had shot the ball into the wrong basket for the other team. Christ. Not the brightest light in the tree, but could play like a mf.
So obviously we were, as they say, up against it. We pretty much knew we were gonna get CRUSHED, but what the fuck, it was more exciting than playing against each other. Games are to 15, gotta win by two, 2 games outta 3 wins. So the first game starts and everyone’s kinda clowning around, but before the black guys have really started paying attention I’ve caught RIDICULOUS fire and we’re up about 10-1 and go on to win the first game. An upset, to say the least. Well now the black guys are pissed and get serious the next game and fucking bury us; I mean it must’ve been like 15-1. It was definitely a “hope you enjoyed the first game motherfuckers, cause this is how it’s gonna be from now on” showcase.
So we start the third and deciding game, and you could hear a fucking pin drop in that gym. Nothing but Cons squeaking and sweat hitting the floor; the shit was serious. Every dribble was important, every pass was important, you’d let your heart explode if it meant tipping the ball away on defense to a teammate. There was no more laughing, no more yucks, just fucking ball. We clawed and clawed but after a while we were down 13-6. Two more points they win, we’re done. Surprise. I was busy cursing myself for not having done shit since my run during the first game, when it happened again: I caught fire. Left corner, right corner, top of the key, wherever; I drained everything. From the hip, from the shoulder, with one, two three hands in my face I knew every thing I launched was good as it kissed the fingertip of my middle finger goodbye. 13-7. 13-8. 13-9. 14-9. 14-10. Here we come, here we come. 14-11. At this point my brother, whose normal job was to shut me down on the court or to spend the ride home reminding me how awful a basketball player I was, gave the order: get the fucking ball to Xmastime. Top of the key, Alfred flying by me, 14-12. Outlet to me, pullup from the side, 14-13. So deep in the corner I end up falling on the bleachers, 14-14. This is the most pressure any of us had ever felt anywhere at that age, much less on the basketball court. You had one team made up not only of varsity starters, but black and facing the humiliation of losing not only to a team that wasn’t even made up of basketball players, but a bunch of white guys for fuck’s sake. Then you had a team of white guys that had fought too hard up to that point, who could smell the possibility of a greater upset than any of them had ever been a part of, a team playing with house money that had found themselves in the surprising position of not only pulling this off, but being upset if they didn't.
Fake jumper with a rocker step around Keith, I lay it in, now we’re up 15-14 - shut them down this one possession and score and we win. Soaked shirts dyed onto our skin, eyes bugging and shouting orders to each other. Alfred bring the ball up, slowing things down with a “you gotta be shitting me fellas, let’s end this” look to his team. I’m walking backwards at half-court, Brian trots by me to pick up Alfred. Now I hafta be honest: even at this point, there’s no way I thought we’d win. No way, no how, not gonna happen. They’ve dicked around long enough, they’re not gonna actually let themselves lose. Not today, not to us. We had a nice run, see you at the Dairy Queen.
And yet. That which made us weak (players that couldn’t actually ball) came into play at just the right moment. Alfred was bringing up the ball and looking ahead to everybody, seeing where guys were setting up a whole half-court in front of him. I don’t remember why I was just kinda standing there at half-court; I should’ve been back on defense but I was kinda moseying. I looked at Alfred and I looked at Brian, I looked at Brian and I looked at Alfred. And I saw that Alfred, who played against the best players in the whole region every week, knew that Brian was “on him” and didn’t really pay much attention to him. Hell, I wouldn’t have either. Meanwhile Brian was going after him, eyes locked on the ball while Alfred kinda mentally dismissed him. But for some reason I broke for Alfred, and as Alfred was looking down the court past Brian and ahead to what would surely be the game-tying basket, Brian somehow got a hand on the ball and flicked it away. Right into my waiting hands.
I don’t remember a lot of things I should. If I met you tonight, I prolly won’t remember your name. I don’t remember things people say, or things I’m supposed to do. But I remember every step I took once I got that ball. I remember, head down, dribbling past the half-court line. I remember seeing the metal plate thing that the volleyball poles go into. Top of the key I can see the shoe polish, free throw line all purple and dusty; I can see it. But more important than that - I can still hear Alfred breathing down my neck. Chasing me. Right behind me, closing in with every step and all I can think of is all the times I’ve seen him pin someone’s shit on the rack, players much greater than myself. I go in for the layup, stick my ass out a bit for a prayer of hope of blocking him out a bit, and let go. Closing my eyes and waiting for the *smack* sound of Alfred slapping the ball against the wall 10 feet away. Don’t worry, I remember thinking in slow-time, we get the ball back, maybe I can get off another jumper to win it.
But the sound didn’t come. I laid the ball up, Alfred came crashing down upon me and we both collapsed on each other underneath the basket, limbs and sweat as one. I looked up. There the ball was, slowly caressing itself down the net like an orange in a Christmas stocking. We had won. We had fucking won.
Both our hearts about to explode with exhaustion, Alfred and I lay there saying nothing. Finally he turned and looked at me. “Best 3 outta 5?” We both laughed as we helped each other up; we both knew that they’d win 100 out of the next 100. After that it was high fives/man-hugs all around. As furious as we all were to win during the game, the black guys in some weird way weren’t angry they had lost; I remember how bemused they were by the whole thing. Kinda shaking their shoulders like “ah well.” I wouldn’t say they were happy for us, but whenever I see the Russian team watching the Americans celebrate after their Olympic upset in 1980 I think of this game. The greatest game I ever played in.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Hmm. A Mystery.
For some reason I stumbled onto this story. High school football star, pulled over by a cop, shoots himself while cop is in cop car running license check. Okay, I thought. Whack, but must've been some reason he offed himself. Stranger things have happened.
The report within this article:
Now, what's interesting to me is that the writer of this article picks the last paragraph out of this to talk about as being "perplexing":
Really? Actually, the part of the above quote that is "perplexing" to me is the statement that somehow, "It's not clear why 17-year-old Billey Joe Johnson was stopped"...really? How is that possible? Wouldn't that be a fairly clear-cut, by the book thing that is fairly easy to answer? As in, "Hey, why did you stop this kid?" How is there no record of that?
So nobody seems to know WHY this kid was stopped, cause gee, I guess that's just something that cops don't keep track of. And yet nobody here has any trouble making the leap to the possibility of Johnson attempting to pull a gun on the cop. Ain't that something.
The report within this article:
It's not clear why 17-year-old Billey Joe Johnson was stopped in Lucedale, but authorities say the junior tailback shot himself with a shotgun after the deputy walked back to the patrol car to run a license check.
"The deputy was sitting in his patrol vehicle ... when he heard a gunshot and saw the victim laying on the ground by the driver's side door of the vehicle that Johnson was driving. A shotgun was lying on the victim," according to a statement from the George County Sheriff's Department.
Authorities would not immediately say whether they believed the shooting was a suicide or an accident.
Now, what's interesting to me is that the writer of this article picks the last paragraph out of this to talk about as being "perplexing":
The last portion of that quote is particularly perplexing, because it is hard to believe that Johnson would have attempted to pull a shotgun on police officers
Really? Actually, the part of the above quote that is "perplexing" to me is the statement that somehow, "It's not clear why 17-year-old Billey Joe Johnson was stopped"...really? How is that possible? Wouldn't that be a fairly clear-cut, by the book thing that is fairly easy to answer? As in, "Hey, why did you stop this kid?" How is there no record of that?
So nobody seems to know WHY this kid was stopped, cause gee, I guess that's just something that cops don't keep track of. And yet nobody here has any trouble making the leap to the possibility of Johnson attempting to pull a gun on the cop. Ain't that something.
Lies Lies Lies
Living almost 1000 miles away from them when I was growing up, I rarely saw my grandparents - in particular my grandfathers, who both died when I was 12. But of the times we did hang out with my mother's father, one thing I remember is he'd always tell us that we were related to whomever was on the screen, or even remotely came up that was famous. "Oh, him? Radar from MASH? Yeah, you're related to him." "Rabbit Marinville, Hall of Fame second basemen? Yeah yeah, we're related to him." He never even bothered to follow up with some backstory to convince us, he'd just say "yup, we're related" and we'd believe him. It never occurred to us to ask a follow-up question, or research it. He'd just throw it out there.
I wrote many times on this blog during the election about the new direction straight-up lying had taken over the last few years, peaking with some of McCain/Palin's whoppers and now coming up again with the "revising" of the Bush legacy. It used to be that someone would lie, but would do so in a confusing fashion to us, wherein we kinda THOUGHT so and so was lying, but couldn't really prove it. This bit here by Condi Rice is just the latest in the flat-out, if-you-took-a-few-minutes-to-look-it-up-you'd-KNOW-it's-a-lie-and-you'd-know-SHE-knew-it-was a-lie-but-she-says-it-anyway kind of lie. And there's no semantic gymnastics going on,she just flat-out says "oh, no American money was lost to corruption."
Now, obviously it took the ThinkProgress peeps about 12 seconds to compile evidence to the contrary. Do you not think Rice KNEW such quickly-gained evidence was available? Of course she did. And that's the point: it doesn't matter.
If you like Rice and the administration, then that's the answer you wanna hear, and that's that. If you don't like Rice et al, you'll call "bullshit." And if you have about 10 seconds, you can read the refuting data. So what impetus is there for Rice NOT to lie? Out of 100 people reading, 45 will say "damn right!", 45 will say "bullshit", and 10 are still reading it. No one I know from the right would call bullshit, and no one I know from the left would say hey, maybe she's right. No matter how crazy you lie about this kind of thing, nothing changes one way or the other. It's not as if the media is gonna nail you on a lie - and even if they THINK they're being tough, basically they're just replaying the scene of you saying "no American money was lost to corruption" over and over to viewers ad nauseum, which is what Condi Rice would want in the first place. As I said back in September,
Tough for me to sell Palin out that way, as she's my aunt. :(
I wrote many times on this blog during the election about the new direction straight-up lying had taken over the last few years, peaking with some of McCain/Palin's whoppers and now coming up again with the "revising" of the Bush legacy. It used to be that someone would lie, but would do so in a confusing fashion to us, wherein we kinda THOUGHT so and so was lying, but couldn't really prove it. This bit here by Condi Rice is just the latest in the flat-out, if-you-took-a-few-minutes-to-look-it-up-you'd-KNOW-it's-a-lie-and-you'd-know-SHE-knew-it-was a-lie-but-she-says-it-anyway kind of lie. And there's no semantic gymnastics going on,she just flat-out says "oh, no American money was lost to corruption."
Now, obviously it took the ThinkProgress peeps about 12 seconds to compile evidence to the contrary. Do you not think Rice KNEW such quickly-gained evidence was available? Of course she did. And that's the point: it doesn't matter.
If you like Rice and the administration, then that's the answer you wanna hear, and that's that. If you don't like Rice et al, you'll call "bullshit." And if you have about 10 seconds, you can read the refuting data. So what impetus is there for Rice NOT to lie? Out of 100 people reading, 45 will say "damn right!", 45 will say "bullshit", and 10 are still reading it. No one I know from the right would call bullshit, and no one I know from the left would say hey, maybe she's right. No matter how crazy you lie about this kind of thing, nothing changes one way or the other. It's not as if the media is gonna nail you on a lie - and even if they THINK they're being tough, basically they're just replaying the scene of you saying "no American money was lost to corruption" over and over to viewers ad nauseum, which is what Condi Rice would want in the first place. As I said back in September,
Obviously the blatant, barely-pretending-to-hide-it lying by McCain is out of control. And, because the American voters are so fucking stupid, the shit works. My question is, why stop with the lies he's already propagated thus far? Why doesn't McCain go all the way - why not tell us that if we vote for him, he'll give us $100,000 each? Why not tell us that if they win, Palin will come blow in your ear for 20 minutes? Sound ridiculous? Actually, not really. Not anymore.
Tough for me to sell Palin out that way, as she's my aunt. :(
Caroline Kennedy
My first instinct upon hearing she may be interested in replacing Hillary is one of excitement, as I am an unapologetic sucker for the Kennedys. But the fact is, we cannot allow this to happen - letting her become a Senator basically just cause she's a Kennedy and we all feel sorry for her/get excited by her celebre (that should be with an accent aigu over the e), wouldn't that just give more free reign to the rest of the Bushes to swarm the White House? Is this really the direction I hope for, one which leads to a country ruled on sheer logic/reasoning/quality/experience etc? Would letting Joey from Friends become a Senator be next?
But as I'm typing this, I realize that I dunno..of the 100 current Senators, I have zero idea of what "experience" about 98 of them had coming into the Senate. No idea. And yet I've never raised an objection their seats in the Senate.
Hell, for all I know she's more qualified than Hillary was when she was elected.
So I can see both sides right now. Tho I am weary not only of celebrity choices for such a position, but of such ABSURDLY EASILY POUNCED-ON lightning-rods of potential charges of nepotism/bs etc etc. So we'll see.
But as I'm typing this, I realize that I dunno..of the 100 current Senators, I have zero idea of what "experience" about 98 of them had coming into the Senate. No idea. And yet I've never raised an objection their seats in the Senate.
Hell, for all I know she's more qualified than Hillary was when she was elected.
So I can see both sides right now. Tho I am weary not only of celebrity choices for such a position, but of such ABSURDLY EASILY POUNCED-ON lightning-rods of potential charges of nepotism/bs etc etc. So we'll see.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Fat Dreams
I had a dream last night in which my dad was trying to kill me with a butter knife. A butter knife! Wtf. And is that some weird dyslexic kind of Oedipal thing, the father trying to kill the son?
Hold on...Oedipal...oedipal, sounds like edible...butter knife...
oh for fuck' sake, I get it, I'll lose the fucking weight. Grrrr.
Course, it never dawned on me to wonder why my dad was trying to kill me.
Hold on...Oedipal...oedipal, sounds like edible...butter knife...
oh for fuck' sake, I get it, I'll lose the fucking weight. Grrrr.
Course, it never dawned on me to wonder why my dad was trying to kill me.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Curb Your Jewish Gayness
Anytime I see a scene on tv with a Jewish Seder going on, I realize I could never be Jewish for the same reason I could never be gay: total revulsion at what I'd have to put in my mouth.
John Wilkes Boot
I'm not surprised some dude threw a shoe at Bush today. But I am surprised he was able to throw a SECOND shoe. That's a rather sleepy security detail, no? I guess I always imagined that at the drop of a hat of any semblance of trouble, the secret service would swarm like locusts, with walls of steel coming outta the floor in front of the president. But in this case, they're like "...oh look, a show being hurled at the president...I should think about changing shampoos...maybe something fruity...hey, another shoe..."
If I'm on the fence re: wondering if I should go into the presidential assassination field, this video certainly gives me confidence and tips me over to the "YES" side. Well, if we didn't suck at assassinations so much these days.
And I know the shoe thrower was just an angry journalist and not a real assassin, but wouldn't it be funny if he was? Graduates from the Assassination Academy (AA), and the best he can do is shoes? Reminds me of something I wrote last year in a post about KISS:
If I'm on the fence re: wondering if I should go into the presidential assassination field, this video certainly gives me confidence and tips me over to the "YES" side. Well, if we didn't suck at assassinations so much these days.
And I know the shoe thrower was just an angry journalist and not a real assassin, but wouldn't it be funny if he was? Graduates from the Assassination Academy (AA), and the best he can do is shoes? Reminds me of something I wrote last year in a post about KISS:
And how much must it have sucked to be Peter Criss and walk in the day the band decides on who’s gonna be what character, and it’s like oh, great…I’m a kitten. Thanks, guys. Demon Spawn, Rock Star, Rocker Space Child, and Nermal. What the fuck. This reminds me of a few weeks after 9/11 when that bus outside of Nashville was attacked by a terrorist and a few people got killed. How’d that guy feel on Terrorist Academy Graduation Day when their assignments were given?
“Wow!! I’m gonna fly a huge jet into the World Trade Center! YES!”
“Me too!! Fuckin awesome! (high five)”
“I got the Pentagon! This is awesome!! What about you, Assid?”
“What the…Greyhound Bus?...where the fuck is Nashville? A bus??!! Oh, MAN! This is total bullshit!!!!!!”
Just Noticed: Steelers Episode
Ben Rothesberger's face somehow looks like an amalgamation of all the male characters' faces in All the Real Girls.
More K-Rod
I see that Peter Abraham of my Yankees blog slice agrees with me re: K-Rod being a fucking idiot.
No new baseball news today. But Francisco Rodriguez proved what a good fit he’ll be with the Mets by declaring they’re the team to beat. Just what the cockiest team in the game needed, another cocky player. I’m sure the Phillies will be thrilled to see K-Rod point to sky and scream every time he gets three easy outs in a 7-4 game. Mariano Rivera should hold a deportment school for closers.
The Mets probably lose five games a year because the other teams in their division can’t stand them.
Strange Radio
The other day a friend of mine told me that in Milwaukee, every Tuesday night on a local radio station they play an episode of Seinfeld. Which I thought was about the strangest thing I had ever heard of.
A Conversation I Actually Had with Myself This Morning
"Can _________ somehow tell when I'm thinking about her? Hmm. Well, if that was so, wouldn't I be able to tell if someone was thinking about me? Lemme see...(long pause, sitting quietly)...no, I guess not."
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Mets are Such Fucking Idiots
HAHAHAHA!! Well, just like I said a few days ago, here comes K-Rod - and he sure didn't waste any time opening his fucking mouth. Welcome to the Mets, you stupid fucking douchebag - looks like you'll fit right in!!!
Memory Lane
I got a wedding to go to in 2 weeks, and my high school girlfriend will be in attendance. Thinking about this took me on a stroll down memory lane, and I came upon a collection of some of our old photos we took together.
Damn. I miss you so much, baby.
Damn. I miss you so much, baby.
top three
search terms that got you to me:
squirrels jerking each other off
eastern promises fight scene, does this make me gay?
alone at kam sing
squirrels jerking each other off
eastern promises fight scene, does this make me gay?
alone at kam sing
TomKat
Watching him on that Oprah special last night, I was reminded that I really like Tom Cruise. I guess I find myself rooting for him cause he's such an easy punching bag, too. Yeah, his religion shit is whack, but he does seem sincerely nice. He seems like the rare type of person who, upon seeing you trip and fall on the sidewalk, would actually stop to see if you were okay. He's done enuff movies I like to offset the ones that are awful.
I don't think we could be buddies, as he seems too serious/intense. Although, it's that seriousness that ironically makes him a great audience - catch him on a late night show where the guest next to him is a comedian, dude laughs his ass off. He laughs in a way that looks like he's genuinely surprised and caught off guard by someone's hilarity. I dig that.
No, I don't have a crush on him (EEEEEEEEasy, Denzel!!), but he seems like too nice a guy to take the celebrity tabloid beatings he always does.
ps - as many times as I've seen it, now is the first time I've noticed I'll Be You is in Jerry Maguire.
I don't think we could be buddies, as he seems too serious/intense. Although, it's that seriousness that ironically makes him a great audience - catch him on a late night show where the guest next to him is a comedian, dude laughs his ass off. He laughs in a way that looks like he's genuinely surprised and caught off guard by someone's hilarity. I dig that.
No, I don't have a crush on him (EEEEEEEEasy, Denzel!!), but he seems like too nice a guy to take the celebrity tabloid beatings he always does.
ps - as many times as I've seen it, now is the first time I've noticed I'll Be You is in Jerry Maguire.
The King
How is it even remotely possible that Chuck Berry's only #1 hit was My Ding A Ling? That's like a poll being taken wherein the sexiest part of Pam Anderson in 1998 was her feet. I mean, gotdam.
My Ding-A-Ling (Live, Single Edit) - Chuck Berry
My Ding-A-Ling (Live, Single Edit) - Chuck Berry
Friday, December 12, 2008
NCAA Jackasses
One of the more absurdly hypocritical arguments given throughout the years for there not being a playoff in college football has always been "well, the players would miss too much class!" Cause yeah, that's what football players are really doing - going to class. Hmm. Hey, date rape does not take a vacation, people!!
The standard answer to this argument has always been "But Div II & III college football has playoffs - those kids have a playoff tournament of games and still manage to go to classes." The standard reply from the NCAA has always been to mumble while chewing on an apple, then pretending to get a phone call.
But as I'm watching the end of the JMU/Montana semifinal on tv, it dawned on me that the argument on the side of the NCAA is even MORE absurd than I had even thought before. Players in D-I schools can't have a playoff cause of their precious classes. Yet D-II & D-II can. Which to me is ironic, since which group of kids do you think actually might need to go to class? The D-II/D-III kids have almost ZERO chance of going to the NFL, so they might actually need to pay attention in Biology 301. Some dude from Florida, what does he care - he's a stud in a stud program who's every move on the field over four years has been recorded and sent to the NFL scouts.
You know what's fun? Spending years shaking your head at the dumbness/hypocrisy of an argument, then realizing it's even MORE dumb/hypocritical than you had even dreamed! Wow.
The standard answer to this argument has always been "But Div II & III college football has playoffs - those kids have a playoff tournament of games and still manage to go to classes." The standard reply from the NCAA has always been to mumble while chewing on an apple, then pretending to get a phone call.
But as I'm watching the end of the JMU/Montana semifinal on tv, it dawned on me that the argument on the side of the NCAA is even MORE absurd than I had even thought before. Players in D-I schools can't have a playoff cause of their precious classes. Yet D-II & D-II can. Which to me is ironic, since which group of kids do you think actually might need to go to class? The D-II/D-III kids have almost ZERO chance of going to the NFL, so they might actually need to pay attention in Biology 301. Some dude from Florida, what does he care - he's a stud in a stud program who's every move on the field over four years has been recorded and sent to the NFL scouts.
You know what's fun? Spending years shaking your head at the dumbness/hypocrisy of an argument, then realizing it's even MORE dumb/hypocritical than you had even dreamed! Wow.
Colin Powell Finally Waking Up. Gee, Thanks.
You'll forgive me if I don't pop a hammy springing up to applaud Colin Powell for finally getting chatty re: the Republican party has sucked for a while now. Even going back to when he came out for Obama, it had been FOUR YEARS since he left the Bush Administration, and he never said a fucking word in those four years til now, this late in the game. Hmm.
I know I'm being hard on Powell, if only cause I'm bracing myself for the inevitable slew of dudes in the adminstration who either cheerled or stood by mute on the inside of the Bush White House who will be cashing in with their "Bush was wrong, what a jerk!!" tell-all bestsellers, as I previously bitched about HERE:
I know I'm being hard on Powell, if only cause I'm bracing myself for the inevitable slew of dudes in the adminstration who either cheerled or stood by mute on the inside of the Bush White House who will be cashing in with their "Bush was wrong, what a jerk!!" tell-all bestsellers, as I previously bitched about HERE:
A few weeks ago I was bitching to someone about this, and now it's started to happen: the first in what will be a long series of tell all/please forgive me! books from the Bush Administration. How Bob McNamara of Scotty McClellan to be the first to get things started! In the next decades as the ones who pulled the trigger(s) reflect with guilt at what they've done (or, more likely, wanna make a ton of more money while clearing their names), we Americans will be sprinting to Barnes & Noble to throw more money at these people and allow ourselves to do that which is the most American thing to do: forgive somebody simply because they're famous enough to be able to write about their sins. Of course my instinct is that the founding fathers of this war should not be allowed to profit off their wrongdoings (haven't they already made enough from them?) But instead of course we'll have mothers of dead soldiers buying the paperbacks at airports and weeping "oh wow, poor Dick Cheney, he's so sorry! he's an amazing American!!" etc etc. Talk show circuit, some crocodile tears on Larry King and we'll all be barking and clapping like seals as we revise history in our own minds. This practice from this Administration will become the Celebrity Rehab of it's day. You can fucking book it.
Happy Birthday
One time when I was a kid I overheard my mother ask my dad what "que sera sera" meant. To which he replied "you know, que sera sera, whatever whatever...you know, so what so what."
:)
:)
Sometimes I Sing it as Girls in Their Southern Clothes
A few days ago, and I don't even remember where so for all you know I'm just makin shit up, I came across a mention of Bruce's Magic album, and the writer blithly referred to Girls in Their Summer Clothes as some sort of fun, light, summertime romp. What the fuck??!?! Did this jackass even listen to the goddam song? Or just see the word "summer" in the title and go "okay, that's one sentence I can use." Grrr. Fucking nonsense...this is one of the most poignant, wistful, heart-breaking slices I've been hit with in a while. Made my all-time BFS Top 10, for chrissake.
So whoever that mf was, you out there: fucking pay attention this time. Douche.
So whoever that mf was, you out there: fucking pay attention this time. Douche.
Here We Go
I like how the GOP is using the Auto Company bailout as an opportunity to further bash unions. Cause yeah, it's the WORKERS that put the industry in the position it's in now; certainly it's not the fault of some mfs in charge who made wrong decision after wrong decision while bringing home millions of dollars for themselves. I guess the working class and lower classes haven't been bullied enough over the last 75 years, forced by fears of job loss into total capitulation by management. Every step, forfeiting more and more power, until they've reached this point....asked to take more cuts for themselves to bailing out more rich motherfuckers, adding even more to the great disparity between the average working American and the absurdly rich. You know, I'll let Republicans blame the auto industry failure on the workers when they blame the Iraq War on the troops.
A better example of course is Wal-Mart, probably the most famous anti-union company in the country. Wal-Mart workers are the Beatles of the hapless fucked; in exchange for total submission and lower wages, they get to watch their owners taking up 3 out of the top 6 spots on the Richest Americans list every year.
"Hey guys, what's up??? Having a good time? Isn't working here AWESOME!!!???"
"Damn right is is, assholes - so quit your fucking commie union-planning buillshit meeting and get the fuck back to work!!!!"
A better example of course is Wal-Mart, probably the most famous anti-union company in the country. Wal-Mart workers are the Beatles of the hapless fucked; in exchange for total submission and lower wages, they get to watch their owners taking up 3 out of the top 6 spots on the Richest Americans list every year.
"Hey guys, what's up??? Having a good time? Isn't working here AWESOME!!!???"
"Damn right is is, assholes - so quit your fucking commie union-planning buillshit meeting and get the fuck back to work!!!!"
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