Who knows what special treat I have for this year's final post? Sigh. I envy you, reader. Sigh
(again.)
1) When young Muslim dudes are told about the 72 virgins in paradise that are waiting for them after they’ve committed suicide, doesn't it occur to them to wonder why EVERY guy hasn't done it? I would think I'd immediately ask the guy that told me about the wondrous heaven that awaits me "Well, why don't you do it, then?" "Nah", he probably says "You go on, get to heaven where there's 72 virgins and no line at the Shoney's buffet waiting for you...I'm cool here in the scorching desert, drinking my own urine waiting for US soldiers to come torture me."
2) Where'd they get the number 72 from? Does anyone know this? And really, is there anything worse than 72 VIRGINS??!? Oh, goody. 72 chicks to not want you to see them naked, to not talk dirty, and will bleed all over your silk Star Wars bedsheets. Great.
3) After you've done each of them once, they're no longer virgins - then what happens? Is that all you get? Therein, when you're deciding whether or not to be a suicide bomber, wouldn't it be a game of calculating whether or not you'd have sex 72 times in your life or not? Or do they become 72 "girlfriends"? I'd break them into little teams, have them do events to entertain me. "Heather? Yeah, she's on the Bears...volleyball champs, and they give great head..."
4) I've noticed that when you go to bars carrying a 15-lb country ham, all of a sudden girls walk right up and talk to you. Interesting.
5) A moment of silence for Jon Spencer, Leo McGarry from The West Wing. I only remember him in one other role, some ref in Forget Paris, but I have no problems imagining that Leo was the role of his lifetime. If he had shown up on CNN as the real Chief of Staff I wouldn't have batted an eye. Leo, we will miss you.
6) My friend and I are compiling a list of hot celebrities that have not slept with him. So far we have Alicia Silverstone, Denise Rich and Heather Thomas. Will keep you posted.
7) Where did the myth about sexy, slutty flight attendants begin? The stereotype is of gorgeous horny babes banging dudes at every layover. I don't fly a lot, but every time I do the attendant is usually, if not a flaming dude, some spinster who weighs in at 400lbs. She's out of breath while showing us what to do in case we crash, and constantly scraping my shoulder with her fat ass every time she squeezes by. What the fuck.
8) If Gina Gershon and Angelina Jolie wanted to get into a fight over who gets to make me a pitcher of iced tea, I probably would not stop them.
9) Because my hands would be wrapped around my penis, flailing away.
10) And by "Gina Gershon and Angelina Jolie", I mean "any women on earth"
11) Ladies: after you've received your change from the cashier, step aside and let the next person do his transaction. Don't stand there in front of the line carefully placing your fucking change in your purse and closing it all up nicely and neatly and then putting on your fucking gloves and scarf while we all stand there staring at you, including the cashier, you stupid fuck. Get your change, step aside to do your fucking banking, bitch!
12) In high school, I used to dream of standing at one end of the hallway between classes, and then barreling through everyone bowling-ball style.
13) Why does Coca-Cola spend $1 billion a year on advertising? Who on the planet is not aware of Coke? Take the one billion and do something useful. I'm stepping over homeless people with AIDS everyday, but at least I can't swing my dick around without hitting a Coke ad. Christ.
14) I have 11 days to learn the robot to fulfill my 2005 New Years Resolution. I might be in trouble.
1) Learn the robot. I mean it this time. Said I’d do it in 2005, didn’t get it done, got scared in 2006 and backed away from it. But guess what? By this time in 2007, I will be poppin n lockin.
2) Go on an actual date with a woman. And by this I don’t mean "show up at a bar, wait for a girl to get shitfaced enough to blow me in the bathroom while I scream about the new gotdammed internet jukeboxes, and lets me cum in her hair." Actually, scratch that….that would abe fucking awesome. Forget the date.
3) Track down the mf who invented pineapple and ham pizza, club him to death with a baby seal.
4) Have a baby seal sausages cookout.
5) Spread the word to every girl I know, see or meet that you know what, yeah, you DO look fat.
6) Make a movie with Ben Stiller, Owen Wilson, Vince Vaughn and Janeane Garafalo, Will Ferrell has a cameo as "bumbling everyman!" Wow!!! THAT’s never been done!!!
7) If I don’t start softening my stool soon, I’m gonna be in serious trouble.
8) Invent a time machine, go back in time to when my grandma was alive. Knowing what I know now, ask her how she could possibly have called what we did "kissing."
9) Invent a toothpaste that tastes like pussy. But not great pussy; I don’t wanna spend all fucking day brushing my dick.
10) Learn Chinese. Seriously, those fuckers are up to something.
11) I was gonna have a something in Chinese here, something like "Kill all blacks", but in the time it would’ve taken me to go online and figure out what the Chinese translation is I have masturbated twice, wondered what people did before we had spreadable butter in tubs, and then combined the two. And by "combined the two" I mean I "made a butter sculpture of Dolly Parton giving head to Denzel Washington while he wrote the lyrics to Rhinestone Cowboy on her titties, and then I beat off to it." So you can see how time got away from me.
12) Learn how to wrap up riffs like #11 so that they’re both succinct and, you know, funny.
13) I’d like to walk into a room and receive a long, loud slow-clap from the crowd. Just once.
14) For having a humungous dick.
15) With Jessica Alba attached to it.
16) Invent a remote control for my tv that has a ringer, so that when it goes from my hand to the back of my couch and up my ass, I can call it on my phone and it will ring, letting me know where it is.
17) Find Mrs. Xmastime so I don’t spend the rest of my life cramming remotes up my ass.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
While down home for Christmas last week I went into town and got my hair cut. Now, if I've had my hair cut 75 times in my life, prolly 72 of them were cut by a man. No funny business, buzz buzz buzz on and off the chair in ten minutes. Tho when I was a kid the wait would be about 3 hours - on Saturday morning my dad would drop my brother and I off at Jimmy the Barber's for our haircuts, loudly proclaiming to Jimmy each time "Jimmy, I want them to have BOY haircuts." I don't know what he was scared of; I never once heard of Jimmy pissing off a father in town by giving a kid a beehive or something. Not once did I hear Jimmy look at a young buck and say "I'm gonna cut your hair like Strawberry Shortcake!" Then my brother and I would sit amongst the dozen or so 50 year old farmers in there, reading Reader's Digest while the old codgers shot the shit about tractors and crops and other shit we had no idea what they were talking about. After about three hours of waiting you'd get waved over to the chair by Jimmy (until I went to college I thought his last name was in fact "Thebarber") who would chop it all off in about 17 seconds, all while getting in what was a clinic on small talk "how you boys been playing ball this year how the team lookin saw your daddy rollin over battery the other day yeah he's a good ol boy which one are you, part or no part whatchu say whatchu say bout it boy" BAM! taking off the shower curtain wrapped round your neck, you're outta the chair. I'd wonder what went on over at some girl named Robin's shop, where all my rich friends got their hair cut. Sorry, styled. I'd picture over at Robin's there's a real-life Pizza Hut buffet set up while girls in pajamas would come over and dance along to J. Geil's "Centerfold", wildly applauding each snip of the scissors and spreading all the 5th grade gossip while dancing the watusi and eating baby egg rolls. Meanwhile I'm sitting for three hours listening to Field & Stream come to life during mudbogging season, each old cuss more ornery than the last re: what pussies the military has become, unlike when they were fighting the Japs outfitted with only some shoestring and the knowledge of the difference between right (us/jesus) and wrong (them/slant-eyed jesus.)
My developmental haircut experiences having been so testosterone-heavy, I followed suit everywhere I moved to afterwards, seeking out the most old-school mf I could find. Culminating with my guy in Brooklyn now - been there since 1960 and is prolly the last standing barrier between myself and my paying double digits for a haircut (shudder to think.) Also, a side note: during my haircut career as a kid, Jimmy the Barber got married maybe 76 times. I'm not even kidding, every other fucking time you'd try to go by his shop there'd be a sign on the door "GONE ON HONEYMOON, BACK NEXT WEEK." And what do you know, the next time you'd be there during lunchtime some new woman would breeze in with a bag lunch for him, give him a big sloppy kiss on the lips and leave him beaming. Man. Cap. Doffed.
Anyways, so I found myself going into town and into the Hair Cuttery or whatever the fuck it is, and next thing you know I'm having my scalp rubbed by some woman. Alright I think, no big deal. I tell her what I want and she's relieved cause it bascially let's her turn her brain off for ten minutes while plowing my cephalic fields. So she gets done quick, I'm almost out of the chair, when she turns to me and asks me something I've never heard anyone ask me before:
"Trim the eyebrows?"
Whhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaattt???!!!!!! I clenched up as if I had dropped the soap in Clay Aiken Shower Camp - trim eyebrows? What the fuck? Now, no one's more of a pussy liberal bleeding heart pansy than me, but trimming my eyebrows, I'm sorry, I'm not fucking ready to go there just yet. She might as well have asked me to run through town screaming "I love my dead gay son!!!" Plus, I didn't know how much extra that would cost - I was already pissed my 6 minute haircut was costing me $12, for all I know trimming eyebrows is another, oh, $34 or some such. What the fuck. So I quickly demured and got out of the chair, paid for my haircut and left. And yes, like clockwork I've spent the last 121 hours obsessing "do my eyebrows NEED trimming? whats wrong with my eyebrows? did I completely miss the boat on the eyebrow thing? I got an eyebrow problem?..." thanks Hair Cuttery girl. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
"...alright alright, let's see, let's see....whoa! Larry, I gotta tell ya, your eyebrows...she did a great job! Fucking awesome, bro!"
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!!!"
I know as a huge fan of his I am biased, but I cannot list anybody above Bruce Springsteen for "Artist of the Decade," but by virtue of the quality of his work and his sheer omnipresence. Since turning 50 ten years ago, he has released THE 9/11 album (The Rising), an acoustic-y shuffling album that lent itself to playing things such as accordions and pump organs along with having THE Iraq War song (Devils & Dust), an album of dust bowl covers that saw him on the road with about 400 other players and looked and felt like a carnival in 1932 (The Seeger Sessions), and the best Big Star/Beach Boys album in 30+ years (Magic.) The only "meh" album being his last one, Working on a Dream; all the others are stunning not only in their quality, but their diversity in taste/sound/concept.
And along the way he played about 2000 shows, stumped tirelessly for Kerry and Obama, played at the most historical inaugaration in 200 years, and you seemingly couldn't enter the rock hall of fame without Bruce giving the speech for you. And he won 913 Grammys. Whatever that means. AND while having a songbook that goes back 35+ years, he has released two songs this decade that are in my Bruce Hall of Fame (The Rising, Girls in their Summer Clothes.) Which I see as pretty amazing.
And I won't even mention when me & Op met him, cause that's just not the kind of shit I talk about. That's private, I just don't do that kinda thing.
Which of THESE did I actually do?
I'd say:
1) HELL yes!
2) No. In my defense, I think I did masturbate while watching Erin Brockovich. Although to be honest I think I'm probably lying, trying to impress you with my bullshit.
3) No.
4) No.
5) Who am I to say? Probably not. I'm not that nice, to be honest.
6) I'm sure, despite my not remotely being in their universe, someone made such a steaming pile as I describe. Or a few.
7) Nope. Fuck you, aging!
8) No. Have softened my stance on what "kissing" is anyways, would prolly just go easy on Grandma now anyways.
9) Regretfully, no. But I'm sexy, not dead. There's still time.
10) No. But they are.
11) Even I have no idea what the fuck I was talking about here. How deep in the heady buzz of sweet, sweet stank WAS I back in those days?
12) Obviously not. Not even close. So.
13) No.
14) No.
15) Oddly enough, yes. Hard to explain.
16) No. I'd be rich by now, and would I really be sitting around talking to you losers?
17) No. I'd be sexually sated by now, and would I really be sitting around jerking off to you losers?
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