Time Keeps On Slipping…

9 Dec

“And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.”

-Pink Floyd

Hey there, kids. As you no doubt gathered from the title of this post and the quote above, I’m still musing about time. This isn’t for no reason. I’ve been going through a lot of life and family changes recently and reflecting on the nature of my life and life in general. It’s all so ephemeral and brief, isn’t it? I mean, this isn’t new ground. Pondering the briefness of our stay here on planet earth and the desire to leave some kind of legacy behind is all part of the human experience. If you read my most recent post, this one is kind of the companion to that. Another poem from someone who rarely writes poetry. I hope you like it. My next post will be far less melancholy, I promise. Until then, enjoy!

I remember.

I remember when we were young.
When we were invincible
I remember those moments when time stood still
That splashed into the pond of our existence creating enduring ripples on the surface
And summer days that spooled out for an eternity

Time was limitless.

As were possibilities
We could do anything.
Be anything.
Until time dragged us inexorably forward
Slipping away beat after beat after beat
Burying our youth
Drowning our dreams in a sea of unfulfilled potential.


We are still here.
Our hearts beat on.
Our dreams are not yet extinguished.
And if we can salvage them from the depths
Fulfill them
Perhaps we can live forever.

As we always knew we would.

Stay Gold

28 Sep
“Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.”
-Robert Frost

2020 has been one raging asshole of a year. If it were a person, it would be that guy in your office who went vegan and started doing yoga and won’t stop talking about how centered he feels and how amazing his skin is now that he’s off the processed foods. If it were a food, it would be candy corn pizza smothered in Miracle Whip. If it were a song, it would be some unholy mashup of The Devil Went Down to Georgia and We Built This City. And if it were a movie, it would be The Garbage Pail Kids Movie: weird, horrifying, and seemingly without end.

I say all of that to say that 2020 has really had me thinking a lot about life and time, in particular, better times, which would be any year that came before this. Time is a stubborn thing. It marches forward no matter how much we wish it would stop or at least slow down. And no matter how much we look back and wish we could return to an age where shit actually made sense or at least one where we didn’t care, it just keeps going. And we’re all swept up in the current.

The Robert Frost poem that kicks this post off is one of my favorites and one I’ve been thinking about a lot lately…and not just because it was used to great effect in one of my favorite ’80s movies, The Outsiders. Nothing gold can stay — I’m not even 100 percent sure what that means, but it rattles around in my brain like a mantra and makes me feel…something, which is really all you can ask for from art. I don’t think there’s any need to dissect it any further than that.

Aside from dick jokes, I occasionally write poetry, but I rarely share it and I’ve not ever published anything that one might call serious. But today I wrote one. One that I believe condenses my feelings about time and what Nothing Gold Can Stay means to me into a handful of lines. I hope you like it.

Is an ocean
Dip a toe in
Soon up to your ankles
Then your waist
Then pulled fully into its bottomless depths
Gently at first
Then with more ferocity
Until the shore is but a spot on the horizon
Until you can see it no more
Until you can no longer keep your head up
It pulls you under
And you are naught but a memory whispered across its waves.

I’m no Robert Frost, but whether you like my poem or hate it with the white-hot intensity of 1,000 suns, I hope it made you feel something. And maybe I’ll publish some of my others in the future. Until then,

The Eternal Spotlessness of the Drunken Mind

15 Sep

“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”

-Hunter S Thompson

“To alcohol! The cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems.”

-Homer Simpson

Gather round, kids! It’s story time. I realize it’s been a little while since I’ve posted anything. According to my watch it’s been…OVER TWO YEARS??? What the hell, man? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I must have fallen into some kind of Rip Van Winkle sleep between posts. Damn. Things have…changed since the last time we talked, haven’t they? 2020 has been one hell of a couple decades. Remember when the worst we had to deal with was all those pearl clutching prudes freaking out over Shakira and J-Lo’s Super Bowl show? Good times. Hard to believe it’s been 84 years since then.

And this meme has been in use for at least that long.

Well in any event, I’m back with a charming anecdote for you to share around the campfire or whatever.

As you may have guessed from the oh-so-clever title of this post, this one involves booze. NOTE: I am not endorsing mass consumption of alcohol as described in the following story. Even though it’s brought me lots of laughs and good times, I can’t guarantee your experience will be the same. To put it another way, I’m a professional. Don’t try what you’re about to read at home.

Drinking, like smoking, is only for the coolest badasses.

For real though. If you survive, you will wake up feeling really stupid. Not worth it.

Let me set the scene for you: the year was 2005, The iPhone 1 was still two years away. If you wanted to “Netflix and chill,” you had to employ the services of your local postman to deliver you a physical DVD with a movie on it like some kind of cave dwelling troglodyte. And people genuinely liked the music of Fergie for reasons that even today science has not been able to figure out.

I had just started dating a girl, let’s call her Janet, who would become my girlfriend…for a while. One Sunday in early November, I surprised her with tickets to a Baltimore Ravens game for her and her friend, let’s call her Chrissy. Janet had a parking pass that was close to the stadium. What she failed to mention was that stadium was the Orioles stadium, Camden Yards. If you look at a photo, the stadiums appear to be right next to each other. On foot, this is not the case. We walked for what felt like 500 miles and then we walked 500 more until we finally got to the tailgating lot.

Now, here in Baltimore we tailgate for 5 hours before a football game. What do we do for all that time? Glad you asked — we stand around listening to music. And we drink. A lot. Because we only know how to get one kind of drunk: as fuck. And that’s what we proceeded to do. Beers were consumed. Shots were slammed. Karaoke was sung though there was no karaoke equipment anywhere to be found. And no food was consumed because, as any doctor will tell you, food will just interfere with your buzz, you fucking nerd.

And then he will give you a wedgie.

We had a great time and the five hours passed quickly. And now we had a football game to attend. Oh yeah. So once we were good and hammered and game time was upon us, we began our walk to the stadium. From the tailgating lot, the stadium is about 1/4 mile up the street on the left. I was walking behind Janet and Chrissy and decided to cross the street without telling them. Why you ask? Well, alcohol is a hell of a drug. All those beers and liquors had drunkened me. And that’s going to be my go to excuse for the rest of this tale. Anyway, I watched from afar as they fell in with a different group of people. My drunken brain decided that those people were obviously much cooler than me and they decided to hang out with them. Fine. Whatever. Hang out with your new pals. See if I care.

Eventually, I made it to the stadium and got in line at the gate to enter. I looked around and didn’t see Janet or Chrissy. Obviously, they were still with their new friends. Still, I figured I should try to reunite with them. So I called Janet. No answer so I left her a light, jaunty voicemail message. As I got closer to the entrance and they were still nowhere in sight, I continued calling and leaving voicemail messages, each decidedly less light and jaunty and more passive aggressive than the last. It all culminated with a message that went something like, “Look, I know you guys found some friends to hang out with. Whatever. Cool. Might be nice if you at least meet me at the seats since I, you know, got you the tickets and all. I’m going in now bye.” I know, what a dick. Oh, but it gets worse.

Inside the stadium, I had to make my way to my seats, the best in the house — way the fuck up in the upper, upper deck. Now, at the time, there was no escalator on the premises and though I’m sure there had to be an elevator somewhere, fucked if I had any idea where it was. No, for me the only way to get to the upper echelons of the stadium was to climb the stairs ALL the way up. I got myself a Sherpa and a pack mule for the 250 or so flights of mountainous stairs and began my ascent.

Eventually, FINALLY, I got to our seats fully expecting to see Janet and Chrissy seated there with smiles on their faces and beers and hot dogs to share. What I actually saw was some empty-ass seats. Son of a bitch. Where were they?? I decided to try Janet’s phone one last time and left a final, angry voicemail before sliding my phone into my pocket where I felt…something. Something vaguely cardboardish. What the hell? “Oh,” I thought, “That must be the raffle tickets I was coerced into buying earlier from that little league baseball coach.” I pulled out the raffle tickets…

…along with a pair of Ravens tickets.

Janet and Chrissy’s tickets.


Realizing this meant they had no way in, I hiked back down to base camp and headed straight for the exit. As I tried to leave, the usher told me I couldn’t come back in. I nodded and then tried another exit. And then another. I kept trying and each time a different usher told me if I left I couldn’t reenter. Why did I do this? Remember a couple paragraphs ago where I mentioned being drunkened by alcohols? Yeah, that. And I guess I was hoping to find a cool usher who would tell me he’d let me come back in. I never did find him and so I left.

Now outside, I searched the sea of people for Janet and Chrissy’s faces. Nothing. I didn’t know what to do. So I took out my phone and called Janet again. Still no answer and I couldn’t call Chrissy because I didn’t have her number. Damnit! Now what? Wait…I think I heard something on that last call. Sounded like Janet’s cellphone ring. Was she nearby? I called again. Definitely her ring, but where the hell was she? As I walked forward, it got louder. I looked around. I couldn’t see her, but I knew it was her phone. Shit, did she lose it?

I kept calling and following the sound of the ring I approached a storm drain and looked down: the ring was coming from inside the storm drain! Holy shit! How did her phone get in there? And oh my God, is she in there too? Who knew, but probably! No — DEFINITELY! I got down flat on the ground and pulled at the metal grate. It was welded to the street and didn’t budge. I leapt to my feet and implored passersby to please help. Her phone was down there and maybe her too!!  Help me pull up this grate before she gets eaten by Pennywise for Christ’s sake!!! To their credit, they all gave me a wide berth and a look that screamed, “Don’t acknowledge the crazy person.” Out of ideas, I called yet again. The ring was clear as day. Maybe it wasn’t in the storm drain? Maybe it was somewhere near it. I looked down again and it all clicked horribly into place…


Three hours earlier — the tailgate is in full swing. Everyone is drinking, singing, partying, etc. Janet comes over to me and tells me she needs to use the bathroom. Can I hold this?

And she hung her purse around my neck.

The purse that was still around my neck three hours later.

I feel like there is a Memento joke to be made here…or not. All you need to know is that I’m really dumb.

Now, I can hear you saying, “Wait…how did you get past security with a purse around your neck? You’re lying.” Okay, first, rude. Also, this was 2005. Security was pretty lax. And I’m guessing they probably figured it best not to say anything to the drunk man with a purse around his neck. I get that.

I opened the purse and, sure enough, there was her phone. Stuffed to the brim with angry voicemails left by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

I ran to the street. Traffic was thick and I hopped into a cab. The cabbie drove away and asked me where I wanted to go. I confidently shouted, “Right here is fine,” because I realized I had no idea where the hell I was going or why I even got in a cab in the first place. I was in it for maybe eight seconds and traveled about half a block. Brilliant. I walked over to the sidewalk and stood there, drunk and stupid, without a clue what to do next. Suddenly, Janet’s phone rang. This time it wasn’t me calling, but Chrissy. I answered and asked what happened to them. Turns out they had walked to the car and waited for me. Oh. Yeah, that would’ve been the smart thing for me to do as well, but as we’ve established many times, I was very much the opposite of smart.

I walked back to the car and it turns out Janet and Chrissy had an adventure of their own. After we got separated, Janet passed out leaning against a port-a-john and Chrissy got hauled into the medical tent and given fluids. It was pure coincidence that they were able find each other after all that.

We ended up leaving the car on the lot and took a cab to the Paper Moon diner. We didn’t see a second of the game, which is all for the best as the Ravens lost to the Cincinnati Bengals because they were complete ass in 2005.

All in all, not a bad day.

You should eat at Paper Moon. It rules. And it was on Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives. https://www.foodnetwork.com/restaurants/md/baltimore/papermoon-diner-restaurant

Worst. Movie. Ever.

2 Jul

Willard: “You won’t get any dancing here, it’s illegal.”

Ren: “Jump back!”

That ridiculous pair of quotes is from the 1984 film, Footloose. 100% of the one person I surveyed agrees that it is, without hyperbole, the worst movie ever made. “But Mike,” I hear you say. “Each of the Transformers movies is the cinematic equivalent of a flaming bag of dog shit. Are you really saying Footloose is worse than that?” Yes, and I will explain. Before I do, a brief aside: if the title of this post is giving a few of you longtime readers a sense of paranoid deja vu, no, you are not insane. Waaaay back in 2012, in the days before the Mayan apocalypse (the Y2K of this decade), I wrote a 100% factual, completely objective post on the Worst. Song. Ever. This is the companion piece to that. Again, what follows is completely objective fact. No hyperbole!

How many of you have movies that you consider to be a guilty pleasure? Let’s see: one, two, three — all of you. Me too. I’m a cinephile (Hi. Feel free to punch me in the face for that one). I love all kinds of movies. I can have a spirited discussion with you about movies from as far back as the 1920s all the way through today; silents to talkies (I’m like a superfan of talkies); black and white to color to shitty 3D conversions. I can name every single Best Picture Academy Award winner — in order no less — from 1969 through 2017 (and almost all of the others). I can even count among some of my favorite directors fancy pants foreign names like Kurosawa, Truffaut, and Bergman. And yet nearly every movie I love, choose to own, and watch over and over again falls into that guilty pleasure category.

I am particularly fond of so-bad-they’re-good movies. This is a film genre accidentally created by Ed Wood. Ed Wood is, of course, the standard bearer for terrible filmmakers. Maybe you’ve seen such cinematic atrocities as Glen or Glenda, Jail Bait, Bride of the Monster, or more likely, his magnum opus, Plan 9 From Outer Space. His movies are, without exception, objectively terrible. And yet, there is something about them that makes them watchable, loveable even. I love them in spite or because of their awfulness and could never figure out why. Tim Burton’s film about Ed Wood called, uh, Ed Wood does a really good job explaining what it is about him and his films that is so charming. And it won awards. They made a movie about the worst director in film history and won awards. Is that ironic? Someone ask Alanis.

More recently, Tommy Wiseau gifted us with The Room. This movie, my God, this movie. Here, watch some clips:

I mean, do I even need to say anything? It’s just the best and that’s only a handful of scenes! Do yourself a favor and watch this movie. And of course, they also made a movie about the making of it called The Disaster Artist. And it too won awards! Crazy, right?

And there are so many others to love for being bad. So what is it that makes these movies so-bad-they’re-good and other movies, including Footloose, so motherfucking-godawful? Experts in this field have identified four Hallmarks of a so-bad-its-good film:

1. A completely ridiculous plot approached with absolute deadly seriousness.

2. Generally not competently made, but it’s not intentional. See, there’s this whole OTHER genre spawned by the so-bad-they’re-good movies: I call it Hipster Bad. These are the types of intentionally ridiculous movies made by the SyFy network, most famously the Sharknado movies. While these movies can be fun, they don’t transcend into awful greatness. You just can’t force it. These movies are beloved by hipsters who claim an ironic fondness for them. But there’s something missing.

3. They’re charming. You can see the filmmaker’s passion up on the screen. This is particularly true of Ed Wood. In his mind, he never made a bad movie. He believed 100% in what he was doing. You can’t fake passion.

4. Longevity. These movies linger in the public consciousness for years and years.

So how does Footloose hold up when measured against these four hallmarks. Glad you asked, gentle reader.

1. A completely ridiculous plot approached with absolute deadly seriousness. In fairness, Footloose absolutely nails this one. The plot: in a small town, two couples on prom night get into a drunk driving accident and die…INCLUDING THE REVEREND’s SON!!!! The town leaps into action and enacts the only logical solution: rock music and dancing are banned. And everything unbelievably seems to work out just fine…that is until Kevin Bacon moves into town. For you see, Kevin Bacon must dance. And no laws of God or man are going to stop him.

So this is absolutely a point in Footloose’s favor. And I would be remiss if I failed to mention two gloriously atrocious scenes that almost — ALMOST — make the whole endeavor worthwhile.

Scene 1: Early on in the film, Kevin Bacon engages in a game of chicken over a girl. You may remember the really famous and dramatic game of chicken played in Rebel Without a Cause. In that film, James Dean and Corey Allen steal a couple of cars and race them towards a cliff to see who jumps out first. There are real stakes. For example, Corey Allen’s character, Buzz, FUCKING DIES in a fiery car crash after he gets stuck when his jacket hooks on the door handle. This doesn’t happen in Footloose. Instead, Kevin Bacon and Jim Youngs (yeah, I had to really dig for that name) play the game on a local farm. Instead of fast moving cars, they “race” towards each other on the slowest moving vehicles on earth: tractors. It is played up for the utmost suspense, complete with overly dramatic Bonnie Tyler pop song. It even echoes the Rebel scene when Kevin Bacon’s shoelace gets stuck and he can’t jump from the tractor. Only instead of fiery death, this mishap wins him the game. It is a phenomenally awful scene.

Scene 2: Just. Fucking. Watch. This. Shit.

I didn’t link the tractor scene because I didn’t want to detract from this gloriousness. No amount of words can do it justice. If you didn’t watch it, this is the scene where Kevin Bacon (and his stunt double), just absolutely fucking distraught about the illegality of dancing, drives to an abandoned warehouse, angry puffs a cigarette, angry drinks a beer, angry jams a cassette into the stereo, angry cranks the volume, and then angry dances his fucking ass off (and also does some sweet gymnastics) to the most 1980s song ever recorded. Seriously, it is just lousy with synthesizer and goddamn sax. The ripping sax riff is the unsung, cheesy staple of far too many an ’80s song. Thank God it didn’t survive the decade.

These two scenes are transcendently dreadful, but alas, the rest of the movie fails to live up to their unintentionally hilarious greatness.

2. Generally not competently made, but it’s not intentional. Footloose is a major studio film. Money was spent on it. Legitimate actors were hired. A soundtrack album was compiled. The seams aren’t showing. In short, it’s too competent. John Lithgow is in this movie and they don’t allow him to do John Lithgow things. That is a goddamn travesty.

3. Charming. 100% of the person I surveyed also agrees that this is a cold to tepid film at best. It is almost entirely bereft of charm. Kevin Bacon seems to be acting in an entirely different film. It’s like they let him in on the joke, but not anyone else. He was charming and there are genuine moments of cheese and camp, but it just isn’t enough. You may disagree. You may think Chris Penn’s goofy character learning to dance is cute. You may think that Lori Singer’s over the top performance disproves my point. You would be wrong. Sorry. Moving on.

4. Longevity. I would argue that the only reason people remember this film is because of its soundtrack. That album was huge in the mid-’80s. Hell, it even knocked Michael Jackson’s Thriller from #1 on the Billboard charts when it seemed it might stay there forever. But listen to Thriller today. It holds up. It’s still objectively great and it would be just as popular if you released it tomorrow. Listen to Footloose today. Ugh. Every song on that album is embarrassing to the ear. No one is blasting the Footloose soundtrack at a party or in the club. The only people listening to it are those goddamn hipsters from earlier and again, solely for the irony. It is a relic of and forever trapped in 1984. You know, a horror movie about the Footloose soundtrack breaking free from time prison and wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting populace would have been pretty kickass. Instead, we got a remake of the original in 2011. The less said about that the better.

The most vexing thing about this film, the whole reason I wrote this, and the primary reason I consider Footloose to be so bad-bad is that it comes *this* close to so-bad-its-greatness. Had they just leaned into the more ridiculous aspects, made the whole movie like those scenes I discussed earlier, it could have been legendarily bad-great. Instead, it falls into the deadly mehness of mediocrity. For a piece of art, being mediocre is the absolute worst thing you can be. People don’t remember mediocrity; they remember extremes. The whole purpose of art is to create something that lives forever. If you can’t be a success, be a spectacular failure. You will achieve immortality. Just ask Ed Wood. Or your local Highlander.

Thank you for coming on this journey of discovery with me. I hope you’ve now joined the 100% and agree that Footloose is just the fucking worst. Join me next time when I explain why Top Gun is the second worst movie ever made.

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 6)

28 Jun

Finally: the sixth and final part of this series!! Why did it take almost NINE MONTHS to get this final part up? Because…shut up, that’s why. If you missed any of the first five parts of this series, check them out here, here, here, here, aaaaand here. Oh, and I’ll actually have a brand new post up next week! Don’t believe me? Yeah, I get that. But it’s already written so…

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this series. Thanks for continuing to seductively run your eyeballs up and down these posts. It…pleases me. And a new one next week, for realsies! It’s going to awesome. Pinky swear.


“If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” I hate that saying. Aside from being trite and obnoxiously optimistic, wouldn’t life also need to hook you up with sugar and water in order for you to properly make lemonade? Now if life hooks you up with a canister of Country Time lemonish-flavored drink, you can eat that shit dry by the fistful. I’m holding out for life to give me that.

Mmmm, faux lemon.


Do you have ‘LOL’ Tourette’s?


  • An inexplicable need to insert ‘LOL’ at the start and end of every sentence
  • Using ‘LOL’ in place of a comma or other punctuation
  • Using ‘LOL’ as a standalone response to a picture or statement
  • Inserting ‘LOL’ as a stand-in for nervous laughter after sentences because you think others are too stupid to understand they weren’t meant to be interpreted literally
  • Using ‘LOL’ as an ironic counterpoint to a statement with which you actually disagree (e.g. – “Standing in long-ass lines at the DMV is ballstastic…LOL!”)

If you suffer from one or more of theses symptoms, there is a cure: just stop it. Seriously.


I dreamt last night that not being able to dance was illegal. I got pulled over by the cops and they demanded I do the Running Man. I was thrown in prison because I was only able to muster a half-assed Cabbage Patch. But it was cool because my cellmate was a talking cat named Marvin. He hooked me up with a peanut butter sandwich and told me not to worry; he’d teach me how to dance before the Big Prison Dance-Off (apparently there was going to be a Big Prison Dance-Off). I woke up laughing, which isn’t the worst way to start the day.


I’ve always considered myself a rebel with a track record of following the rules and then complaining about how stupid said rules are. To that end, I’m posting this dossier of things you may not know about me per the “rule” explained to me by Facebook. You see by ‘liking’ this post, I apparently swore a blood oath to post something similar about myself. Still, I’m the most rebellious rule-follower you’ll ever meet. Take that, James Dean.

-In the early ‘80s, Oprah Winfrey came to my home and interviewed me for the local news. (Sadly, I’ve never been able to parlay that fact into a wild sex romp with anyone in the greater Baltimore area, much less Angelina Jolie. It’s never even gotten me a date.)

I basically made her everything she is today.

-Around the same time as the Oprah thing, I starred in a commercial for the American Lung Association. Okay, “starred” may be too strong a word. More like I lingered in the foreground and tried not to make eye contact with the camera while former Orioles player and coach, Elrod Hendricks, talked about the ALA. My performance was sublime.

-Even though I’m not a stuntman, I’ve been in more car accidents than Evel Knievel, some of which weren’t even my fault. To date, I’ve walked away from them all with varying degrees of minor-ish injuries. My insurance company offered to lower my premiums if I install a roll cage in my car.

-I’ve seen both a ghost and a UFO. Not at the same time, though; that would just be silly. I don’t talk about either very much because I’m highly allergic to self-righteous smirks.

-It took me 9 years to obtain my undergrad degree. You read that right. I skipped multiple semesters in between bouts of casual attendance before buckling down and graduating summa cum laude. To justify my 9-years of college I’ve often considered changing my first name to “Doctor” & middle name to “Michael” to force people to call me “Doctor Michael Brennan.” I may still do that.


Things for which I am thankful:

-Dudes named Lenny or Gary


-The word, “obsequious” (just a lot of fun to say)

-Circus peanuts for being terrible & making me appreciate awesome stuff more

-That one time I saw local sportscaster Keith Mills stumbling out of The Barn on Harford Rd

-Shiny things

-Velvet underwear (do they even exist? I don’t know, but just thinking about them makes me happy)

-Parachute pants (so grateful to be alive when they were popular)

-Men (and sadly some women) who still proudly rock mullets

-People who don’t take themselves or life too seriously. It’s all so very amusing. Enjoy it.

-Wolverines for just biting the shit out of everything despite being so small

-My friends and family for tolerating me. You guys are pretty great.

-Oh, and patchy, white trash mustaches. Love those.


If I wanted to, could I own a porpoise? I totally have a bathtub and canned tuna so I’m pretty sure I have everything it would ever need. I’d pet and feed him every day and I’d name him Randy. The only obstacle to porpoise ownership is actually obtaining the porpoise. Can you just pluck one from the sea or do you need to have a porpoise guy? I just think – no, I know – my life would be so much better with a porpoise in it. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. You guys are all right.

He’s so friggin’ shiny!


Got mad at 2 people today & thought to myself, “Does that make me bi-furious?” Then I laughed & forgot why I was angry. Swear I’m not high.


All right, help me out here: at the end of The Goonies, Mikey has a small bag filled with precious stones. That’s all he was able to salvage from One-Eyed Willie’s (tee-hee!) ship. What do you suppose the market value of those stones was circa 1985? $100k? $200k? More? Let’s be generous and say the value was a million dollars. The entire neighborhood was being foreclosed on – we’re talking dozens of houses here. So there is no way in hell that wee bag of jewels saved The Goonies’ homes, right? Is that why they never made a Goonies 2? Because all of the kids were living in different towns spread across some depressing state like Iowa or something like that? I can’t be the only one who thinks about this shit.

Not even close to enough to save the whole neighborhood. Sorry, Mikey.


On the way back from lunch I saw a van with 2 large cobra decals covering the back windows. At first I got super excited because, you know, cobras, but then I got really sad. You see, NOTHING I own has snakes of any kind emblazoned upon it, much less cobras. This dude (or perhaps ladydude – take that sexism) is far more awesome than I could ever hope to be. And just like that my life no longer makes sense.

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 5)

2 Oct

So it occurs to me that I did myself a HUGE disservice by calling this series of posts “recycled content.” I mean, technically that’s true, but it’s new material to this blog as it has never been previously posted here. Chances are no one reading it — and it seems that literally NO ONE has been reading it — would be familiar with it. So why did I title it as such? Well, as I’ve said many, many times, I’m a massive fucking idiot. But there’s no turning back now! So read away! And if you haven’t checked out the previous posts in this series, you can do so by clicking here, here, here, and here. One more part to go after this and then I’ll start posting more of my typical shit on a semi-regular basis. Yay!


This movie pisses me off so much.

All right, I’ve been silent about this for over 20 years, but that ends now. So the movie Ghost, you know it: Patrick Swayze (Sam) and Demi Moore (Molly) are this totes adorbs couple, in love in that sickeningly sweet way that kind of makes you hate them a little (Bitter? No, I’m not bitter. Why do you ask?), and who live in a New York City apartment that non-millionaire New Yorkers could never actually afford. Sam gets murdered by the sleazy friend, and reasons-stuff-reasons, he becomes a GHOST (fulfilling the premise of the title) and ends up hanging with the only person who can see him, Whoopi Goldberg (Oda Mae). Oda Mae manages to convince Molly that she can let Sam control her body. Then Oda Mae and Molly totally do it. Sure, WE see Sam and Molly doing the deed, but in the world of this film, it’s really Oda Mae and Molly getting their freak on. Chew on that for a bit.

Okay, more stuff happens and then we get to the part of the movie that fucking kills me every time. Sam completes his mission or whatever through a combination of reasons and stuff and the light of heaven appears to welcome him. Molly can actually see and hear him now. He’s going up to heaven, but first has this incredibly heartfelt exchange with her:

Sam: I love you, Molly. I’ve always loved you.

Molly: Ditto.

Holy fucking God. The love of your life is ascending into heaven and these could very well be the final words you ever utter to him and all you’ve got is fucking “Ditto”? I hear you: “Well, when she gets to heaven, they can talk then.” In the movie she’s like, what, 25? She’s got a good 60+ years left to fuck up and end up in hell. And who even knows if she’s good enough for heaven right now? Maybe she steals from the Salvation Army or blows cigar smoke into babies’ faces – we don’t know. This could be her only chance.

But as Sam moves towards the light, you can almost feel him thinking, “Ditto? She didn’t really just say ditto, right? Better give her another shot.” He does:

Sam: It’s amazing, Molly. The love inside, you take it with you.

Molly: (Stares at him stupidly. Looks like she’s trying to remember if she left the stove on after leaving the house.)

Sam: (clearly tired of this bullshit) See ya.’

Molly: (continues to awkwardly gawk, then finds her voice) See ya.’ Bye.

Sam walks towards the light and looks back over his shoulder as if he can’t quite believe what the fuck just happened. Molly sort of kind of maybe cries a little and watches him go.

What the everloving motherfuck???? You were given this amazing miracle: seeing the love of your life one final time, to hear his voice, to speak to him and you totally and utterly shit the bed. I’d like to think that in some alternate universe a sequel was made that is nothing but two hours of Molly sitting in a chair shaking her head and saying, “Ditto. DITTO?!? What the fuck is wrong with me?!? Stupid! You’re so stupid, Molly!!! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!!!” Suffice to say that scene ruined the entire movie for me.


Tried my hand at some gardening over the weekend – what a mistake. Whereas some people have green thumbs, mine are bedecked in wee, black Grim Reaper cloaks. I swear I saw the plants tremble in fear when I walked by, no doubt hoping that I wouldn’t stop to touch them (the literal kiss of death). When I listen closely at night, I can hear the older plants telling horror stories about me to their seedlings. Apparently, I am legend…botanically speaking.


One of the apps on my phone is grayed out with the word “Waiting…” underneath. I can only assume it’s gained sentience and is biding its time before it murders me in my sleep. The fact that it’s toying with me with such an insidious threat is terrifying. Can anyone recommend a robot exorcist?


Last night I procrastinated by writing this poem about procrastination. I am so meta.


Time to write! Fresh cup of coffee in hand, I click, “New File.”

“I’m going to get so much work done,” I say.

I stare at the blank screen, eyes glaze over as my mind wanders a mile.

I wonder what everyone else is up to today?

Let’s check Facebook and Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest.

I like this. I’ll share that. Hmm, I’ll post a funny comment too.

So much work to do, but so much here to hold my interest.

Hey, I ought to check out the news, just for a moment or two.

On to Drudge and Huffpo, MSN, and even TMZ

Then Cracked, The Onion, and Deadspin – all my favorite media.

Paris Hilton is in trouble again I see.

I wonder what her entry looks like on Wikipedia?

Paris Hilton leads to Paris, France to the Treaty of Versaille to the Battle of Verdun.

Further and further down the internet rabbit hole I fall.

Holy shit! Five hours have elapsed. At this rate, my script will never get done.

And I haven’t yet checked my email at all!

And still the blank screen beckons; seems to call me by name.

I suppose I should return to it now.

But, hey, it’s been years since I watched the video for that Bangles song “Eternal Flame”

Okay, five minutes on YouTube, then back to work I vow…


When I was getting gas today, an older gentleman approached me and said, “even if you’ve wasted every day of your life right up to this moment, you can make all the rest of them mean something starting now.” And I thought, “Wow, what a nice thought!” But then I thought, “Why the hell did he feel the need to share this with me? I must look like a man who has wasted his life. Good call, old man.” So I’ve gotta waste today out of spite, right?


I’m posting this for two reasons:

  1. So you’ll finally know that this song which you’ve heard a million times is called, “Entry of the Gladiators.” I’m sure you suspected all along because you can’t help but picture burly men sword fighting in an arena when you hear it. And…
  2. Because look at that guy. Look at his moustache. Take it all in. He doesn’t mind. Perhaps take a moment to glory in his Eraserhead hair. How did he have time to compose music what with all the sexing that clearly dominated every waking moment of his life? How do you even walk down the street when you generate so much sexual magnetism that men and women alike tackle you and try to crush your pelvis with their happy parts? Obviously, he is my new hero.


When I was leaving work tonight, one of the cleaning women stopped me and said, “You be careful driving home in the snow, Mark. And Happy New Year!” I thanked her, responded in kind, then added: “And when I see Mark, I’ll be sure to pass along your warning and well-wishes.” (See, my name is Mike, not Mark.) She shot me a dirty look and walked away. And I realized that always being Mr. Jokey-Joke means that 99% of people think I’m an asshole. Thank God for the 1% that get me; I do it for you.


Xanadu is the BEST roller disco film ever made. Okay, it’s the only roller disco film ever made. Know why? Because it fucking crushed it. It was so awesome, another film never needed to be made on the subject. It both created and destroyed a film sub-genre. And the soundtrack? Those songs are so metal, they’ll literally climb inside your head and kick your brain in the balls. Okay, maybe not literally, but still.

Though Olivia Newton John’s intense look makes this look like a horror film about telekinesis…


You don’t know the depths of my deepness. I can look at a star for hours – even the sun. I can make clichéd observations on life – “it’s short.” I can watch children at play & wax nostalgic for the good old days. I can cram a copy of Hustler into Plato’s Republic to make you think I read. Hell, I can even wear my sunglasses at night like Corey Hart. Yeah, that’s right. You forgot about Corey Hart – I didn’t. Jealous?

A Song Of Nice and Fire

27 Jul

“Take a look at them. All nice guys. They’ll finish last. Nice guys. Finish last.”

-Leo Durocher

Nice guys finish last. It’s a cliché for a reason, right? Otherwise, why would people say it SO much. Well, this personally has never been my experience. In fact, I believe nice guys only ever finish last in the bedroom…but that’s an entirely different post.

I’m a bona fide nice guy and I’ve never felt it as a hindrance; to the contrary, I feel it’s benefited me greatly in both work and personal relationships. What is my point? Am I bragging about how awesome my life is and how jealous you should totally be of it? Obviously. I mean, duh. However, I do have another purpose in mentioning all of this. See, I recently stumbled across this article about nice guys and the pitfalls of dating them. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend that you do as it’s a really fascinating read. While the lady or ladies writing the piece seem, well, nice enough, I unequivocally disagree with them. So as a nice guy, I took it upon myself to write a respectful response to each of the main points.

  1. There is something truly scary to me about a nice guy.

Spiders are scary. Clowns, ditto. Now you could be the nicest clown or spider the world has ever seen and no one would love you. I totally get and support that. But nice guys? We’re really only scary in the mornings pre-coffee.  I understand that our niceness makes you think we’re somehow more hurtable, but trust me, we’re not made of glass like Sam Jackson in Unbreakable (have you seen that film? It’s from before M. Night Shyamalan totally lost it as a filmmaker so it’s definitely worth your time. Also, a sequel to it is coming soon! And it will involve the characters from the film Split, which I haven’t seen, but I’ve heard good things about. See? Nice guys are also full of useful movie suggestions). We can handle whatever you normals can handle and, dare I say, more (oh, I dare). Look, heartbreak sucks for everybody. Just because we’re nice doesn’t mean we feel it any more or less than anyone else. In short, if things don’t work out, we will be fine.

2. I am terrified that a nice guy will want to settle down right away.

Ugh. If there is one nice guy stereotype I wish to dispel, it’s this one. Believe me, nice guy does not equal OMG-I-want-to-immediately-settle-down-and-be-with-you-forever-because-we-are-so-obviously-soul-mates-and-also-can-I-please-chew-on-your-hair. We like casual too, but sometimes find ourselves designated as BOYFRIEND MATERIAL and shelved by potential partners until they decide they’re ready for us. Kind of unfair. But this, like just about anything else, can be solved with a little thing I like to call, “communication.” If you’re worried that you think we want to have an instant and long lasting relationship, be up front. Tell us that’s not what you’re looking for. If a guy isn’t cool with that, he wasn’t worth dating anyway. Personally, I approach every dating situation the same way: I’m not looking for anything, but I’m up for everything. That way, there’s never any pressure that this has to be THE ONE and things can happen organically.

3. Nice guys are so hard to walk away from.

This one I can’t help you with. We are pretty amazing. If you broke up with two nice guys and it was super hard, you’re probably a good person. You also probably did the right thing. Either they weren’t right for you or you weren’t ready for what they were offering. The fact that it hurt you so bad speaks volumes about you. But don’t let the potential of a little pain steer you away from someone who could potentially give you exactly what you’re looking for. Besides, you always hurt the ones you love. It’s inevitable so roll with it. No one’s life was ever made worse because they had more good people in it. The relationship that doesn’t work out today could lead you to the love of your life tomorrow.

4. Mystery still infatuates me.

I assume you don’t mean this guy:

Although admittedly he still infatuates me.

I’m totally with you on this, but I think you’re conflating nice with boring. Those are two entirely different concepts. Being with a nice guy doesn’t mean you have to settle for a boring guy. Take me for example: I’m incredibly spontaneous. Any random weekend I may decide we should take a road trip to another state, play laser tag, or hell, maybe even go skydiving. I may surprise you with a homemade dinner, flowers, and a rubdown just because it’s Tuesday and Tuesdays are, without fail, awful and soul crushing. My point is that nice doesn’t have to be boring and if it is, you found yourself a boring nice guy and need to move on. I’ve dated boring people who were perfectly decent and, yes, it was difficult to leave, but I was happy when I did. And I didn’t let those experiences turn me off of nice people.

Nice guys, like any other type of guy, are all different. Give us another try; we’d love to get you back on our team. However, I would caution you to look out for the “nice” guy. You know him – he’s resentful and bitter because you’re dating someone sooooooo clearly wrong for you and he would treat you so AMAZING, but you must just LOVE assholes who treat you like garbage because that’s all any woman really wants. Yeah, fuck that guy. He gives the rest of us a bad name.

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 4)

17 Jul

The clip show keeps rolling along! We’re now onto the prequel trilogy. As you know, prequels are always super awesome and far better loved than the originals…

Uh, let’s just move on. Oh, and in case you missed the first three parts, click part 1, part 2, and part 3.


My psychic told me my soulmate died during the Victorian Era. If you thought Ok Cupid was bad, try dating a ghost via Ouija board. Awkward af.


Well, I always kind of liked myself, but I thought maybe I was too good for me, you know? But I just got out of a relationship and figured, “What have I got to lose?” So I asked myself out – nothing serious, just a movie – and I said yes! It was kismet – I have so much in common with myself, it’s almost too good to be true. It’s like, “Wow. I totally get me.” I always know what I’m thinking and I always want to do the same things as me. We’ve had a few arguments (no relationship is perfect after all), but nothing too serious. Guys, I don’t want to jinx this, but I think I might be the one!!! Fingers crossed!


This always struck me as the most misguided PSA ever:

Do robots smoke cigarettes? Assuming they do for some reason, they would have had to have been programmed to do so, right? To what purpose? And how harmful is tobacco smoke to a robot anyway? It doesn’t seem like it would damage their circuitry. And who the hell lit the cigarette for R2? Frankly, this ad raises far more questions than it answers.


I couldn’t sleep last night because I was thinking about erotic cake bakers. I’m obviously a man who would benefit from years of therapy and horse tranquilizers, but there are things I’d like to ask an erotic baker. Things like:

-When you reached the fork in the road that led you to erotic baking, what was the path you opted against? Erotic podiatry? Erotic plumbing? Erotic play-by-play announcer? Some other erotic occupation?

-Aren’t bagels and donuts or really any baked goods with holes already inherently erotic? What about the dong shaped ones like baguettes, eclairs, and breadsticks? Does their mere existence cut into your business or do people really desire genital cakes so much that nothing else will do?

-How detailed are the molds you use? Do you even use molds or just fashion a regular-ass cake into, well, an ass cake?

-Are you aroused by your work? If so, is it because you have a food fetish, a genital shaped food fetish, or just a fondness for things that usually aren’t genital shaped being fashioned into genital shapes?

-Do you make gluten-free erotic cakes so that those who suffer from celiac disease can still enjoy a slice? What about erotic pies?

-Finally, how much do you charge for an erotic cake and may I buy one from you?

For a friend of course.


Things I would do if I were Batman:

-Go to the zoo and high-five all the walruses. Then confiscate all the penguins and tell the zookeepers I have to because they’re minions of The Penguin (but really I’d just take them to the ice rink to hang out and whatever).

-Shut down a water park due to “Joker related shenanigans” and then ride water slides all day. In my cape, of course.

-Cut the line at the bank. I’m Batman – I’ve got a lot of Batmanning to do. I can’t be dicking around all day at the bank like you common folk.

-Accidentally “lose” my Bat pants and just walk around in the top half of my Batman outfit nude from the waist down. I’d still wear the utility belt; I’m not a savage.

-Lose the bat signal. It’s a nice thought, but I’d need to leave the house every five minutes or so and search the skies for a spotlight with a bat shaped hole in it. And what if it’s foggy or raining or, you know, the middle of the day? It’s just…it’s just not the best way to contact Batman in an emergency.

I’d use my powers wisely is what I’m saying.


I ate lunch at Panera yesterday and while I waited for my sandwich, a gentleman with a tray fully loaded with soup, salad, drinks, and a sandwich walked past me. It took every ounce of restraint in my body to not bellow, “Expelliarmus!” and slap the tray out of his hands. The only thing that stopped me was my fear that he might not be a Harry Potter fan. Still, it seems like a missed opportunity.


I know English is a difficult language, but I see these particular word mix-ups all the time and it drives me insane:

-SUPPOSED vs. SUPPOSE. You’re not suppose to fight a walrus for charity, you’re supposed to do it. (I should probably mention I started fighting walruses for charity. They have a slight edge because they basically have knives right there in their stupid faces. They swear they’re not going to use them, but then they so do. Cheating assholes.)

-LOSE vs. LOOSE. You didn’t loose your keys while running from a surprisingly spry one-legged Albanian prostitute you refused to pay, but you did lose them. I guess this one is confusing because you pronounce lose with the scary ghost moan typically reserved for double O words like choose or boost. Think of it like this: loose rhymes with goose. And if you lose your goose, your goose is on the loose. See? Easy.

-WORSE vs. WORST. You didn’t finish last in the Best Orgasm Face competition because your O-face is the worse, you did so because it’s the worst. Seriously. It gets all scrunched up and beet red. It’s appealing to exactly none of God’s creatures. Additionally, after being hospitalized with some sort of painful O-face induced palsy and briefly recovering, you didn’t take a turn for the worst; you took a turn for the worse. If you took a turn for the worst that would mean your stuck O-face caused your death and that’s just silly; that’s only ever happened like two or three times.

-LEAD vs. LED. You weren’t lead to eat lead paint chips by a guy dressed as Stan Lee because he convinced you they contain gamma radiation that will turn you into the Hulk; you were led to do so. This one is tough because ‘lead’ is both a noun meaning that metal that’s really unwise to consume and a verb. The verb is pronounced with a long “e” like in “Squeeeeeeeeeee!!!” and the noun is short like in the sentence, “Ted’s Keds are red.” Just remember, ‘led’ is the past-tense of the verb ‘lead’ and also comes before Zeppelin in the name of a sweet band.

So if you’re guilty of any of these, please punish yourself with a mild electric shock. Oh, and please don’t point out any of the myriad grammatical errors I make constantly (many of them in this very post). I like to hurl stones from my ivory tower; just let me have that.

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 3)

4 Jul

The first trilogy of partially new content is complete! Does that cryptic comment mean a second trilogy is on the way? You’ll have to check in a couple of weeks…but [SPOILER ALERT] yes, that’s exactly what it means.

Check out part 1 and part 2 if for some reason you missed them or, more likely, just want to read them again. I understand. All right, here we go!


Do you think seals clap in the wild or is that something we teach them to do for our own amusement? Like if a seal did like a really sweet flip out of the water and shit, would his seal pals be awed enough to break into spontaneous applause? I imagine as I type this there’s a really cool seal in a leather jacket jumping over a shark as his seal and porpoise chums (Ha, chums. Chum, shark – get it?) slap their fins together so hard it sounds like a 21 gun salute. I know I could use the Google machine to verify this one way or the other, but I’d rather assume they clap whenever they see something awesome and leave it at that.

Did you see that shit???


I watched the “classic,” Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer the other night and came away disturbed by some of the implications of that universe. My main area of concern is with the Island of Misfit Toys. Glossing over the fact that hipsters would LOVE those things (well, as much as hipsters can truly love anything. Hollow bastards) the fact that sentient, flawed toys are banished to their own island is horrifying. Most of them are just your run of the mill toys with factory defects — train with square wheels, cowboy on chicken, spotted elephant, suicidal ragdoll — but then you have the Charlie in the Box. The children of this universe are such raging cockweasels that they will not play with a Charlie in the Box. No, for these hardcore asshats only a Jack in the Box will do. It’s the same toy with a different name – it matters not to these little shits. They’d rather Charlie go fuck himself straight to his own island to let him know how unwanted he is than play with his misnamed ass. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is when you realize the kids in this story, though awful dickheads, are not the ones most worthy of your hate.

It’s Santa.

That’s right. The fat man himself named him Charlie in the Box knowing full well that kids wouldn’t want him. That’s some malicious sociopathy on his part. What a complete and utter bag of dicks. He derives pleasure from inflicting pain and humiliation on his sentient toys, then makes himself out to be the hero by delivering them to kids at the end. No, he’s no sociopath, he’s a full blown psycho. On that note, Merry Christmas, ya’ll!!

In hindsight, the black, soulless eyes should have been a dead giveaway.


I was watching a documentary (at least I’m assuming it was a documentary) called All Dogs Go to Heaven and it got me thinking – really? Because some dogs are assholes. What about Hitler’s dogs? Or that dog who barked at me that one time? They get a free pass into heaven too? I love dogs, but it seems like they should have to earn it like the rest of us, not get a free pass through the pearly gates simply by virtue of being a dog. Before you even ask, no, I’m not high. I could go for some Funyuns though…


How I see the days of the week:

-Sunday – I can never truly enjoy a Sunday because I spend the whole day in a state of existential dread because Monday is coming.

Monday – Monday sucks all the dicks because obviously.

Tuesday – Tuesday is nothing more than Monday in a cheap disguise (think shitty plastic mask & smock Halloween costume from Rite Aid). Fuck you, Tuesday; I know what you are.

Wednesday – Still too far from the weekend. The longest (in a bad way) day of the week.

Thursday – You aren’t Friday. Get the fuck out of here.

Friday – And now I’m too tired from all the other awful days to properly enjoy you.

Saturday – Finally! A day I can truly enjoy…but then again it will be Sunday soon. And then Monday. Fuck me.

To sum up: I am a miserable, curmudgeonly wretch. Come on, Saturday…


Domino’s lets you order what they call pizza with an emoji now. Yay. Is there an emoji with which I can order a kick in the nuts? Because that’s just about as good as a pizza from Domino’s. Let’s be honest: Domino’s pizza is more like “pizza,” right? I mean, it has the elements of pizza — cheese, sauce, crust — but there’s something missing. It’s like they have a demon onsite whose only job is to suck the soul out of, and then rub its ass on, every pizza they make. It’s flat and lifeless like a cartoon representation of a pizza…which actually means ordering with an emoji makes sense after all. And hey — it’s still better than Papa John’s.



William Hanna and Joseph Barbera sit at a large table in front of a mountain of cocaine. They each dip gold straws into it and snort deeply.

WILLIAM: “So Joe, we need 80 more cartoon ideas for the Saturday morning slate. Any thoughts?”

Joe considers, does another massive bump of Peruvian marching powder.

JOE: “Who’s that scary looking fucker with all the gold and the crazy-ass haircut?”

WILLIAM: “Liberace?”

JOE: “No, no. This is a black guy. He was in Rocky 3.”

William does another line.

WILLIAM: “Carl Weathers?”

JOE: “No, goddamn it! Rocky 3!”


JOE: “That’s it! Mr. T. Kids like him, right?”

The mountain of coke gains sentience and speaks to them.

SENTIENT MOUNTAIN OF COCAINE: “Guys, guys, you’re going about this all wrong. Kids are idiots. They’ll like what we tell them to like. So long as it’s colorful, hyperactive, and makes not a single iota of fucking sense, they’ll watch the shit out of it.”

WILLIAM: “He’s right, Joe. Look at all the screeching bullshit we’ve subjected kids to over the years. No matter how stupid or insane it is they watch it and ask for more.”

JOE: “Okay, fuck it. Let’s do a cartoon about Mr. T. So what is he doing?”

William, Joe, and the Sentient Mountain of Cocaine ponder this for several moments.

JOE: “I’ve got it! Gymnastics! Kids like gymnastics, right?”

Sentient Mountain of Cocaine glowers at Joe.

JOE: “I mean, it doesn’t fucking matter. Kids will like it because it makes no sense!”

SENTIENT MOUNTAIN OF COCAINE: “Yes! That’s it! You’re getting it!”

WILLIAM: “Okay, so Mr.T is a gymnastics coach because why the fuck not. And he leads a team of young gymnasts from town to town solving mysteries.”

The Sentient Mountain of Cocaine begins rubbing holes in itself at approximately nipple height.


JOE: “Oooh! And they travel in a van just like Scooby Doo because fuck it I guess.”

The Mountain rubs itself harder.


WILLIAM: “And apropos of nothing, Mr. T has a dog that dresses just like him and also has a Mohawk!”


They do.


Here are just a few things I find less terrifying than motherfucking “Clownfest“:

-Playing snake Russian Roulette. That’s where a buddy and I gather six snakes (one of which is venomous) and take turns letting them bite us until one of us dies.

-Slathering my arm in steak sauce and dipping it into a box of starving, rabid rats.

-Allowing a swarm of tarantulas to prance across my genitals as if said genitals are their own personal Autobahn.

-Taking the Ice Bucket Challenge only with dirty syringes standing in for ice cubes.

-Making out with that one Mob Wife with massive lips (R.I.P.) who looks like she would eat my face off.

-Putting on a seal costume & taking a swim with those uber-intelligent sharks from Deep Blue Sea (all sharks like to bite the shit out of seals).

I could go on, but you get the idea.


Gratitude Challenge: Day 1

[Context: This was one of those random Facebook things that a friend nominated me to do. For five consecutive days I was supposed to post things for which I was grateful. I lasted one day. For me, that’s impressive.]

As an ungrateful and all around curmudgeonly fuck, I was a bit surprised to be nominated for this challenge. Though I question my nomination, I assume this constitutes a legally binding contract and so I will participate. Here goes:

-I am thankful for the guy I saw at the gas station last week sporting a leather vest and a rat tail. Just knowing that guy is out there walking around makes me smile. I’d love to know where he lives so I could anonymously mail him some leather, fingerless gloves. You’re right: he definitely already owns at least a dozen pairs.

-I am thankful for the time I saw a guy at Cancun Cantina in a denim jacket with a cobra patch sewn onto the back. Why was I at Cancun Cantina? Your guess is as good as mine. The more important question is, where the hell does one procure such a fine garment? It was simultaneously the lamest and most awesome thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I plan to tell my grandchildren about it. Or someone’s grandchildren. It doesn’t really matter just so long as some damn kids hear of it.

-I am thankful that my mom was choosy enough to choose Jif for all my peanut butter needs growing up. Where would I be had she opted for that Skippy bullshit? I shudder to think about it.

By the powers vested in me by the Zuckerberg and my participation in this challenge, I nominate two more people. The rules: you MUST participate for 5 days saying what you are thankful for and also nominate two more people on each day. You must also burn a deck of tarot cards while dancing naked to Air Supply songs and– oh, wait. That’s something else. Just the things you’re grateful for and who you nominate, I guess. No need to thank me!

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 2)

17 Jun

The clip show continues! If you missed part 1 of this epic stroll down memory lane with a dash of new content tossed in for good measure, click here. Shall we move on? Let’s.


Wednesday January 14: the day I quit my New Year’s resolutions. “You’re a quitter,” I hear you say. First of all, rude, second, duh, I used the word ‘quit’ right there when describing what I did with my resolutions. You don’t know the whole story though. Let’s say I went through with them, which I no doubt would’ve done because I am a man of perseverance; a man who does not walk away from something because it’s difficult; a man who gets the job done. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same (just promise you won’t ask any family or friends of mine or anyone who knows me or knows of me. Nothing but filthy liars every last one). Once completed, I would be quite nearly perfect (I only use the qualifier ‘nearly’ as a means of false modesty. In a cruelly ironic twist, giving up false modesty was one of my resolutions).  That wouldn’t be fair to anyone. Men would rend their garments and hate me for representing all that they could never be, women would wail inconsolably fearing that I was unattainable, and children would be directionless because I’d set a standard to which they could never aspire. Humanity would grind to a halt. Besides, one perfect man has already walked the earth among us mere mortals. Perhaps you’ve heard of him: long, flowing hair, well-kempt beard, and spoke often and poetically about love. I’m talking of course about Barry Gibb. He’s already done perfection and he’s still alive much as he prophesied in song. Not unlike Highlanders, there can be only one perfect man strutting around the earth at any given time.

What I’m trying to say is that I love you all too much to improve upon my many, many failings. Maybe next year…if Barry allows it.

Perfection personified. Glory unto his name.


Shit I think about: are there any modern mad scientists? If so, are they “mad” in the traditional sense meaning “crazy as fuckall?” Or is it more like, “He’s a mad scientist, yo. All he does all day long is science the shit out of stuff.” In other words, is having “mad science” the same as having “mad skillz?”


Stuff Facebook thinks about me based on the targeted ads in my feed:

-I’m gay, yet also super into mature women. So I guess I’m bi, but only for ladies over the age of 60. It’s so oddly specific and very confusing. Yesterday, I didn’t even know I was into guys. Today, I’m apparently a bisexual ageist. Crazynuts.

-There is a veritable fuck-ton of singles in my general proximity, both male and female, who are just dying to de-pants in front of me if only I’d acknowledge their existence by joining several, shady as fuck dating sites. They are so eager to sex me and they all live in my zip code!! What are the odds? Plus, they all look like models. I don’t know where these people are hiding because a solid 98% of the people in my neighborhood are trolls. Not like internet trolls, but mythical, hideous trolls. They should be living under bridges among the bones of goats unfortunate enough to trip-trap across their paths.

-I have herpes. Like mad herpes. Full body herpes. Just so much herpes. More herpes than you can shake a stick at. You could try, but you’d be standing there holding a non-shaking stick looking like a fool. That’s how much herpes Facebook thinks I have. All the herpes. Considering Facebook thinks I’m living a swinging, bisexual, ageist lifestyle, I guess that was inevitable. Ladies?

-I am incredibly litigious and interested in joining any number of class-action lawsuits even though I have no basis for doing so. Shit, I gotta get paid, right?

So thanks for the laughs, weird Facebook advertising algorithm. Care to try again?


My new horror film premise. Read on…if you dare.

Haunted by his father’s death in a tragic cardigan accident, a rogue entomologist creates a race of massive, basketball-sized MOTHS. When unleashed upon the world, they simply will not stop until they’ve destroyed the entirety of humanity…’s sweaters. Only one man can stop them – REX KILLBUGGINTON. Rex was laughed out of the Lepidopterist Society for his theories on the potential for moth huge-ification. Proven right, Rex has to race against time to construct the world’s biggest mothball or, failing that, like a really big cedar chest. Will he succeed or is mankind doomed to suffer a slight chill on those brisk autumn days…?



Fuck you, ninjas!!

The year: 1985. The film: Gymkata. I’m baffled as to why this film didn’t destroy Back to the Future at the box office and launch star Kurt Thomas into the stratosphere. It is easily the finest film about gymnastics as a martial art ever committed to celluloid. Haven’t seen it? Look at the poster. LOOK AT IT. That’s a dude kicking two ninjas’ faces right the fuck off with the power of gymnastics. Ninjas: the embodiment of stealth and badassery getting their skulls caved in by a gymnast. By the Gymkata. And that’s just the poster! Imagine what glory awaits you, novice viewer, if you possess both a VCR and $2 American (the going rate for a used VHS copy on eBay). I envy you, I truly do, for I can never watch Gymkata again for the first time. That is a pleasure to be enjoyed but once. Savor it. And when you come down from that Gymkata high, come visit me so we can high-five each other and talk about how inane our lives were before.

…before the Gymkata.


Why I’m a moron reason number 6,283

Yesterday, I had an issue with my work laptop and contacted IT for assistance. In order to help me, the IT guy told me he needed to know my computer’s name. I replied, “Kevin.” Understand, I wasn’t trying to make a joke, I really named my work laptop Kevin (Aside — I named my personal laptop, Robopal, because he is a robot and also my pal). He just got this look on his face — the kind of look I imagine all IT people get when, for the briefest second, they think maybe they’re dealing with a person who doesn’t spend his days seeing how hard he can hit himself in the head with a heavy wooden mallet before losing consciousness…and then immediately realize that, no, they’re yet again dealing with Lenny from Of Mice and Men. When he told me he actually needed the net name of my computer, I felt like an idiot. I think that’s because I am in fact an idiot.


Tonight I realized that my full name is an anagram of Rich Mr. Banana Pickle, ENT. This obviously made me very happy…and made me long to be a wealthy, phallically named ear, nose & throat specialist. Someday…


It’s been a long cold winter, ladies and gentlemen, but it’s finally here: jort weather. Jorts are not born, they’re made. So grab your favorite pair of jeans and cut the legs off! Oh, you went too far and now they’re too short? Let me tell you a little secret: JORTS ARE NEVER TOO FUCKING SHORT. No, but they’re, like really short and people can see your pockets? THAT JUST MEANS YOU DID IT RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER. Bare those pockets for all to see. Luxuriate in the freedom, the gentle caress of shredded denim cradling your loins. From this day forward, you will wonder how you ever lived without it.

¡Viva la jort Revolución!

You should be wearing these or nothing at all.


I tried to watch Return of the Jedi for probably the 87th time last night (I have a bit of a Star Wars problem), but something happened. For the first time, I questioned something that I never even thought of before and it broke my brain. The 20th Century Fox fanfare barely ends when we get the John Williams theme and the famous crawl that includes this line:

“Little does Luke know that the GALACTIC EMPIRE has secretly begun construction on a new armored space station even more powerful than the first dreaded Death Star.”

More powerful than the first dreaded Death Star? Was not the first dreaded Death Star in possession of a laser capable of, you know, destroying an entire MOTHERFUCKING planet at the mere pull of a couple levers? What does the new Death Star do that’s more powerful than that? Does its planet-destroying laser blast planets into more satisfyingly small chunks? Is its planet-destroying laser slightly thicker or ribbed for her pleasure or something? Can its planet-destroying laser slap two planets out of existence at once like an angry Moe simultaneously bitch-slapping Larry and Curly*? Does its planet-destroying laser make espresso? If it does anything better than the original, we certainly never see it. From a layman’s perspective, my home planet being destroyed is my home planet being destroyed. I don’t care if it’s with a slightly more powerful weapon than you had before or not and neither should anyone else – we’re all extinct either way. I can’t help but wonder if the whole “more powerful” thing is tantamount to iOS updates: sure you gain a couple of minor bump ups to your planet-destroying laser, but it takes up a ton of memory space and suddenly you can’t get a wifi signal anymore and your GPS is telling you some random volcano on a lava planet in Bantha-fuck Tatooine is a rebel base. I don’t know, man, it just doesn’t seem worth it. And now I’ve ruined Return of the Jedi for myself. Don’t even get me started on Ewoks.

*Author’s Note: This post was written a few months before The Force Awakens gave us a planet-sized Death Star that did, in fact, bitch slap not two, but THREE planets out of existence at once. I’m beginning to think Star Wars needs to let the whole planet-destroying laser go for a while. Maybe try a planet destroying slingshot?  Call me, Disney. I have ideas.




"An endeavored few can bend in order to see the light through the prism." — Vincent E. Sharps


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