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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.

*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?

*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.

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 1)

5 Jun

“They’ll never stop The Simpsons!
Have no fears, we’ve got stories for years, like,
Marge becomes a robot!
Maybe Moe gets a cell phone,
Has Bart ever owned a bear, or,
How ’bout a crazy wedding?
Where something happens, and do do do do do do.
Sorry for the clip show!”

-The Simpsons, Gump Roast

Ah, the clip show: the most hated of all sitcom tropes. And why? Because they slap a couple of minutes of new footage together making you think you’re in for a fun new adventure, but no — OH no. Because then the, “Remember that one time?” bullshit starts and suddenly, you’re watching clips of episodes you already saw. It’s even worse than it sounds. Inevitably, the premise for reminiscing is wafer fucking thin and characters flashback to shit they weren’t even a part of. Hell, Saved By the Bell did a clip show where the characters flashed back to other characters’ DREAM SEQUENCES. The following clip isn’t related to that, but it never isn’t hilarious:

Fuck a clip show is I suppose the salient point to take away from the preceding paragraph….which brings me to this post, well, series of posts. This is the blog equivalent of a clip show as most of this material was previously presented on Facebook. That said, I have like eight Facebook friends and at least five of them are Russian spambots trying to get all my personal info by promising to enlarge my penis with cutting edge drugs, and then have sex with said penis after they’ve properly huge-ified it.

It’s just a matter of time is what I’m saying.

And for my Facebook friends that aren’t spam, I’m assuming they don’t read my posts anyway so this will be new to them if they break down and decide to read it. So basically, it’s going to be like a clip show filled with clips from shows no one has seen. Fuck it, I’m just going to call it new material. This will help you hate me less and enjoy it more. Sound good? Let’s get to it!


If you needed additional confirmation that I’m a complete idiot, here’s an unedited conversation I had earlier with a female coworker. Enjoy!

Me: I’m supposed to go play trivia tonight. What are you up to?

Her: Not much. I need to stop and pick up some titty glitter on the way home.

Me: That’s awesome. Where do you even get something like that, the stripper warehouse?

Her: What? No! The grocery store!

Me: The grocery store? What aisle?

Her: With the cat food!

Me: Well that doesn’t even make any sense.

Her: Of course it does! Wait, what do you think I said?

Me: Uh, you tell me.


Me: Oh! God I’m dumb. I thought you said, “titty glitter.”

Her: (stares at me blinking for a few seconds, then laughs uncontrollably for several minutes at my stupidity) If you find out where you can buy that, let me know.

Me: I swear I’ve seen it before…

Her: “Titty glitter (laughs again, pats me on the head).” Stay pretty.

Me: (turns redder than the devil’s dick) I need a drink.

On the plus side, I may have invented a new product.


Every time I asked Siri to call someone today, she dialed the wrong number. I got angry and told her to fuck off, to which she replied, “That’s not nice.” I apologized and she told me it was okay. It was then that I realized this is the healthiest and most honest relationship I have in my life. Don’t change, Siri.


Pet peeve of the day: the phrase, “peel and eat shrimp.” When I eat steamed shrimp, there’s an expectation that I will have to remove an annoying shell (and those weird little shrimp feet) as part of the process, unless I’m 6 and my mom is peeling them for me. Nothing is lost by dropping the “peel and eat” qualifier and simply calling them, “shrimp.” More vexing, there are no peel and eat bananas, peel and eat oranges, peel and eat crabs, or peel and eat 7-11 burritos. Generally, when something we wish to eat has a peel that is tough, bitter, hard, or plastic, we remove it prior to eating. Can we please stop the madness?


A coworker was explaining her morning routine to me yesterday and why she always comes in late. I was good until she said, “I brushed all of my teeth,” then she totally lost me. What an odd thing to say. If she had said, “I brushed my teeth,” I’m still on board; continue this fascinating tale. But she threw in that damn “all” and I got fixated on it. Are there people who only brush a few teeth at a time? If you’re really running late do you just hit the top row, maybe the canines? I mean, if she had a gold tooth or something that required some kind of extra attention, you know, a good buffing or something to make it sparkle, I’d get why you might skip brushing that one if in a rush. That’s a goddamn chore. But no gold, just regular-ass teeth in her face. I wanted to say, “Yeah, I brushed all of my teeth this morning too except for my back left molar. That asshole knows what he did.” Instead, I sat there thinking these idiotic thoughts that I’m sharing with you now and then laughed when she finished her story. Not for nothing – she laughed too; I’m not a psycho who just randomly laughs when people are talking. Anyway, I have no idea what she said and I really hope she doesn’t read this.


Don’t grieve for yesterday, it’s over. Don’t wait for tomorrow, it never comes. Do something amazing today. Like, I don’t know, go out and get turnt on cough syrup or something. Maybe wear goggles and a snorkel to work and sincerely ask people to start calling you Jacques Cousteau. Slather yourself in marshmallow fluff and reenact the final 2 minutes of Ghostbusters. Use your imagination.


This is easily the most terrifying thing I’ve ever read: 107 MILLION SPIDERS. 107 million. Motherfucking spiders. Just hanging out together. In Baltimore. Did you know spiders formed gangs? I didn’t. I thought they were loners, rebels who occasionally wore 8-armed leather jackets while raising hell in the insect kingdom. But I guess they can hunt in packs and form dens like tiny, but somehow far more frightening, goddamn wolves or whatever. This is something I didn’t need to know. The only thing that could make this worse is if an army of clowns plucked handfuls of spiders from the nest and hurled them at passersby.


Can we please stop throwing around the phrase, “to die for,” as a descriptor for foods that taste super good? Because unless you’re willing to actually lay down your life for that plate of chili fries you’re just a liar. A dirty fucking liar.


Due to more stringent truth in advertising laws, ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter’ is changing its name to ‘I Can Totally Believe It’s Not Butter Because Whereas Actual Butter Is Delicious, This Shit Tastes Like Melted Crayons, Plastic, And Ass.’


After we watched a news segment on Twitter, I had the following conversation with my mom:

Mom: So what is Twitter, is it email?

Me: What? No, it’s not email.

Mom: Well then what is it?

Me: I don’t know if I can explain Twitter to you. It’s a social network.

Mom: But what is it? I’ve never seen a Twitter. How do you do one?

Me: You…you don’t ‘do a Twitter.’ You go to the site, compose a tweet, and send it.

Mom: To who?

Me: I don’t know, everyone? I have followers.

Mom: People follow you? Do you know these people?

Me: A couple of them.

Mom: Only a couple? Is your name on it?

Me: Yes.

Mom: So just ANYBODY can see your Twitter? People you don’t even know? Is that safe?

Me: I…what?

Mom: How do you even know who to send it to?

Me: Because it’s like email, mom. It’s exactly like email.

Mom: Seems stupid to me.

Me: It kind of is.

This is the abridged version. The actual conversation went on for about 10 minutes and also touched on Facebook and Instagram. Nothing was resolved.


Maybe it’s just me, but I think the creepiest couplet from any children’s song has got to be, “He sees you when you’re sleeping; he knows when you’re awake.” That’s disturbing, right? As a kid, I used to imagine Santa standing over me, his face ruddy with the wintry chill or, more likely, cheap booze, mere inches from my own as he listens to me breathe and watches me sleep while cutting himself with a dull knife. He hopes I’ll wake up so he can absorb my life force and leave a soulless, desiccated husk where I used to be. I never got much sleep on Christmas Eve is what I’m saying, all thanks to that terrifying song.


Ferrari is now sending me targeted ads on Facebook. Fucking Ferrari. Would I like to own a Ferrari? Hell yeah, but I’m not Magnum P.I.; I’m just poor white trash from Gardenville. The only Ferrari I can afford is those foldable Ferrari sunglasses they used to sell on the Ocean City boardwalk for $5 with the massive lenses that made you look like some sort of futuristic insect with vision problems. And even that’s kind of a splurge. I guess what I’m saying is I don’t have $100k+ in disposable income to spend on a car I’d be terrified to drive because you just know some totes jell hater would key it the second I parked it somewhere. Now I’m both mad at imaginary people for keying my fictional Ferrari and sad that I’m not Magnum P.I. Thanks for making me feel bad about myself, Ferrari


Coffee is good, commercials are not. Sometimes these two concepts team up and really do some damage. Case in point: Folgers coffee commercials. You’ve seen them: someone wakes up early in the morning and brews a heaping pot of Folgers and someone sleeping smells it and wakes up with an orgasmic smile on his/her face as if beautiful angels had gently nudged them from slumber. They drink from their coffee mugs while gripping them with two hands – just like no one you’ve ever known or want to know – then you’re hit with the slogan: “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.” I hate waking up in the morning with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, so it’s hard for me to find the silver lining that I might call “the best part.” Coffee is more of a necessity for me than it is a luxury. Drinking it in the morning greatly reduces the likelihood of me engaging in knife fights with coworkers. But if you fill my cup with Folgers, rest assured we’re going to have issues. Folgers tastes like hot sewage. It is the coffee of auto repair shops, of hospital waiting rooms, and of nursing and funeral homes. If you’re drinking Folgers you are in a miserable place and all but guaranteed to be dealing with annoyance at best and, quite possibly, death. Ultimately, calling Folgers “the best part of waking up” is like saying “the best part of torture is having your balls electrocuted.” So there you go, Folgers, I’ve devised a new, honest slogan for you – “Folgers: the coffee equivalent of genital electrocution.”



4 Things I Learned at the GNR Concert

4 Jul


“’Cause yesterday’s got nothin’ for me

Old pictures that I’ll always see

Time just fades the pages

In my book of memories”

-“Yesterdays,” Guns N’ Fucking Roses

In case you’ve been living under a rock, Guns N’ Roses’ original lineup reunited (well, mostly…Steven Adler and Izzy Stradlin aren’t onboard) and started touring again after a 23 year breakup. Dubbed the “Not In This Lifetime” tour (based on what Axl Rose had previously said about the possibility of ever reuniting with Slash), they’ve only played a few dates so far. They kicked off the tour in Detroit, then hit FedEx Field in Landover, MD, which is where I saw them last week. Let me tell you something: they rocked my balls off. Like completely. I went in with balls and left with none. I think it happened during Slash ripping through The Godfather theme or maybe it was Axl screeching through Nightrain that did it. Doesn’t matter — they’re gone and it was totally worth it. And I learned a few things, like…

4. Sometimes You Can Go Home Again.

Generally speaking, when people say “you can’t go home again” they mean that the awesome things you remember from your youth will totally suck just like the biggest set of swinging, unwashed donkey balls when you experience them again once you’re older. That’s how I interpret it anyway. For just about everything – movies, video games, toys, music, Jean-Claude Van Damme (okay, not him; if anything his awesomeness ages like the finest bottle of wine…which he then dragon kicks into oblivion) – this holds true. So how would a reformed band that used to rule the world fair 23 years after breaking up? The answer: balls-fucking-tastic. They rocked the shit out of FedEx Field (and my balls; see above) for over two and a half hours. It was high-energy and pure fan service (you can check out the setlist here if you don’t believe me). Oh, and they showed up on time! And Axl seemed genuinely happy to be there! And his voice sounded awesome! I have no idea how he’s still belting it out at his age, but it was quite a thing to behold. Slash and Duff were amazing and the three newer members of the band tore it up as well.

The band had a bit of a reputation for starting ridiculously late or ending ridiculously early (and hating each other, but not anymore!). So maybe I could go home again in this case because my expectations were actually quite low going in.

3. Not Nearly Enough People Have Seen PCU.

I’d be willing to bet a bunch of you (the really cool ones with the most attractive genitals) know exactly where I’m going with this:

If you couldn’t spare 9 seconds to watch that clip (I get it, you’re totes busy), it’s a classic scene with Jeremy Piven and Jon Favreau. Favreau is going to a concert and Piven notices the shirt he’s wearing, then utters this all-time quote: “What is this? You’re gonna wear this to the show? You’re gonna wear the shirt of the band you’re gonna go see? Don’t be that guy.” I saw hundreds of people in GN’R. Shirts. Possibly thousands. Most weren’t even wearing some beat up joint that they were using to wax the car until the band reunited. No. Most people were wearing shit they bought ONSITE. That means they wore something else to the event, dropped $45 on a shiny, new tee, and changed into it so that the rest of us knew they were there to support the band. Thanks for that. That’s the kind of mentality used by five-year-olds the world over when they get a new pair of shoes that they just have to wear out of the store. Guys, you wear the concert tee AFTER the show so that people are forced to ask you about it and then learn that, “Yeah, I went to the GNR show. What of it?” Your friends will be properly awed and SO jealous, which is the whole point of going to events like this in the first place.

I’m not even going to get into the raging cock weasels who showed up dressed as Axl or Slash because the savage beatings I assume they received were probably punishment enough.

BTW, if you haven’t seen PCU, read this article. It lays out why it’s still relevant 21 years (now 22. Wait…that can’t be right. Wasn’t it just 1996 a few months ago? I am so fucking sick of Time Wizards making years last for only days now. It’s also possible that I’m old as fuck. Unrelated, I wish all these damn kids would get off my goddamn lawn. Motherless bastards) and why you need to watch it…you know, after you’re finished reading and sharing this post with every living being you know.

2. Without Hyperbole, I Can Say Cell Phones Will Be the Death of Humanity.

Take pictures, I don’t mind. Recording every second of everything you do? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY DO YOU DO THIS??? You know you’re never going to watch it again. Be honest. The only reason you’re recording it is so you can inspire Instagram/FaceBook/Twitter envy from your followers.

“Look at me! I’m out doing cool shit! Aren’t you jel? You’re totes fucking jel, right? Please validate me! I’m cool, right? I matter. I do matter? Oh sweet Jesus, what is the point of it all? Every breath we take brings us simply one breath closer to the always looming specter of death!! Life is but a grand farce.”

I’ve been to multiple fireworks nights at Camden Yards and saw that many people, rather than watching and enjoying said fireworks, recorded that shit on their phones. They recorded fireworks. On their phones. To ostensibly watch later.

Motherfucking fireworks.

Instead of watching them filtered through a tiny-ass screen maybe, you know, just fucking look up! Ever watched fireworks on TV? Pointless bullshit. They’re kind of meant to be experienced in person with the naked eye.

Pro tip: life is happening all around you — experience that shit! You don’t need to record it on a four inch screen so you can later show your relatives and distant acquaintances what a fucking whirlwind of an amazing life you lead. And you don’t need to record every waking second of your existence. You’re not a journalist nor a documentarian, so stop it.

1. Other People Are Just the Absolute Fucking Worst

For as much as I enjoyed the concert, this is the biggest takeaway from it: I cannot stand to be in the presence of other people. I mentioned the cellphones in the previous entry. Just about every single human in front of me recorded the show for long periods of time. This meant I had to try to see the band around extended arms and tiny screens shining light into my face. It was beyond obnoxious.

The eight-foot tall gentleman directly in front of me was apparently part snake as he shimmied from side to side from the opening bars of “It’s So Easy” to the closing chords of “Paradise City.” He blocked my view to the right, then the left. Right, left, right, left, ri…STAND FUCKING STILL AND BOB YOUR HEAD UP AND DOWN LIKE A NORMAL FUCKING PERSON, YOU SLITHERING ASSHOLE!! I paid extra for field seats only to spend most of the concert standing in the aisle in attempt to see.

Add to that people bumping into to me for the duration of the show and the ridiculous traffic trying to get out of there and I have to wonder why I ever go out in public at all. Good time, though.

Spider, Man

28 Jan

“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly; Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.”

-Mary Howitt

“You gotta be fucking kidding.”

-Palmer (to MacReady after Norris’s detached head sprouted eyes & spider legs and scurried away in The Thing)

This was not a blog post I was expecting to write, but something happened recently that turned my world upside down. It was so traumatizing that I feel the only way I can cope with the horror I experienced is to share the tale with you, Gentle Reader.  It seems like it happened only yesterday…possibly because it did in fact happen yesterday.

Spiders (from the Latin, AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! KILL-ITKILL-IT!!!!) and I have a rather tenuous relationship.  It all started when I was a wee lad of 7. I was outside at twilight catching fireflies and possibly breakdancing and solving a Rubik’s Cube while singing Pac-Man Fever (it was so the goddamn ‘80s).

The '80s was basically this all the time. Those were simpler days.

The ’80s were basically this all day every day. They were simpler times.

As the day’s last light slowly faded and twilight became dusk, I saw a large spider descending from a tree on a gossamer thread. As I was in my firefly nabbing reverie and coming down from a pretty decent Coke high (That’s Coke, not coke. Although you’d be forgiven for making that mistake. I mean, sure I was 7, but it was the ’80s), I thought to myself, “You know what? I think I’ll grab the fuck outta that spider.”

You see where this is going. Spiders bite shit. That is the one and only thing that they do. Well, that and look and act terrifying.



So why did I grab it? I have no idea. Spider-Man has always been my favorite superhero, so maybe I was thinking super powers?

Naturally, the spider bit my hand and I dropped the black-hearted son of a bitch in an instant. Did it imbue me with any super powers you ask? Hell yeah it did! It gave me the power to scream super loud, secrete saline solution from my eyes, and bolt into the house calling for my mother. Apparently, only radioactive spiders dole out the awesome super powers.

On that day I declared a vendetta against all spiders. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best reason for a vendetta. It’s not like a spider killed my best friend in a knife fight, but it still pissed me off.

See, spiders are assholes. They lurk in the darkness waiting for unsuspecting prey to stumble into their invisible asshole trap. Then they stab it with devil teeth and turn it into the equivalent of the worst Jamba Juice smoothie ever…well, other than wheat grass. That’s just liquid evil.

Pictured: Devil juice

Pictured: concentrated Beelzebub

And have you ever wandered into a spider web? It’s a fucking nightmare. The threads melt right into your skin; you can’t get it off of you. I freak right the fuck out whenever I do. One minute I’m walking through air, the next, some horrible cotton candy-like fuckery is upon me and suddenly the world is ending. My brain immediately starts screaming, “What about the spider??? I don’t see the spider! He might’ve been in the web! He could be walking on my body or nesting in my hair!! STOP DROP AND ROLL!! STOP DROP AND ROLL!!!”

Spiders are seriously creepy and they like to hide. In things, it turns out. And that brings us (finally) to yesterday.

I’m a pretty oblivious motherfucker in my day to day life, but I’m truly unaware of my surroundings in the morning. Mornings and I don’t get along. I need about a gallon of coffee before me and Morning can even be in the same room.

The alarm sounded. Enraged, I stumbled out of bed, took a shower, and dressed for work.

I then sat on the bed, miserable, needing only to put on my shoes before I could leave the house. I put the left on with no issues, but as I eased my foot into the right shoe, something was…off. There was something in there up by the toe. Something soft.

It was the damndest thing. My mind didn’t know how to process it so it broke and I became two people. I had the following conversation in my head in the span of about 1/8,000th of a second. (I’ve helpfully labeled my two selves, Me and Brain. I have no idea who is who.)

Me: The fuck am I stepping on?

Brain: I don’t know, sock lint? Fuck it, jam your foot in there.

Me: I don’t know, man. Feels a lot bigger than sock lint. Even if that’s all it is, I need to shake it out or it’s going to drive me insane as the day wears on.

Brain: Okay, so it’s bigger than sock lint. It’s probably a cotton ball or some such bullshit. Jam your foot in there.

Me: Cotton ball? Even more reason for me to remove my foot and…holy shit – did it just move??

Brain: Are you fucking stupid? Cotton isn’t sentient or motile. Jam your fucking foot in there now!

Me: Fuck you, Brain, it did move! Evacuate the foot now!!

Brain: Fine you big baby. You’ll see: it’s a cotton ball.

I yanked my foot out of the shoe, turned it over and shook it as hard as I could. It hit the floor with an audible *PLOP*: a massive wolf spider. It looked like a racquetball with legs. You could’ve put a small saddle on its back and had a guinea pig ride it. (Can guinea pigs be trained to ride spiders like rodeo cowboys? Because that would be awesome.)  My eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Every ray of light in the universe felt like it was flooding my skull. I used all of my new superhuman eyesight to stare in abject horror at the beast. It was blacker than a crude oil spill in Dracula’s asshole at midnight and hairier than Ron Jeremy’s back and the Wolf Man’s ass cheeks combined.

Dark and fuzzy are the pertinent descriptors to take from this.

Dark and fuzzy are the pertinent descriptors to take from this.

My mind fused itself into a single consciousness once more as if it knew it was going to need full power for all the screaming. And so I screamed. And I screamed. Then for a change of pace, I screamed some more. I cursed at the spider, called him a dickhole, and demanded that he return to Satan’s ass from whence he was shat. These were hurtful things. If the spider’s self-esteem was damaged by my tirade, he didn’t show it. He just sat there and took it. What a seriously cool motherfucker. If John Shaft was a spider, this spider would give him wedgies for being such a dork.

Shit. Is my audience too young to get a Shaft reference? Do I even have an audience? Well just in case I do have an audience and they’re in that precious under-65 demographic, you kids just go ahead and picture someone really cool. Who do you guys think is cool, Neil Diamond? It’s Neil Diamond, right? Okay, so this was the Neil Diamond of spiders. Better? Moving on.

You're welcome, ladies.

You’re welcome, ladies.

I almost felt bad about raising my shoe and slamming it down upon his back with the force of a car hitting a brick wall at 300 MPH. Cool spider didn’t survive; my shoe was all right though.

I know what you unwashed hippies out there are thinking: “Why couldn’t you catch and release him, man. What’d he ever do to you? You think it’s cool committing hate crimes on Mother Nature like that, you fucking fascist?” To you I only say this: it touched my foot, man. What would you have done? Somehow I went to work, shattered. I don’t know that I’ll ever be right again. And sorry for calling some of you unwashed hippies. I’m just all out of sorts.

Prior to this, here was the list of the top three things that scared the living shit out of me in order of scariest to least scary:

  1. Mean ghosts (‘cause some ghosts are actually pretty chill and nice)
  2. Tall things (buildings from which I can plummet to my death, mainly)
  3. Motherfucking clowns (because obviously)

The updated list (as of yesterday morning):

  1. Shoes stuffed with spiders
  2. Mean ghosts
  3. Tall things

Shoes brimming with spiders shot right to the top of the charts. I don’t even think Thriller hit number one that fast. I didn’t think it would ever be possible to knock clowns off the charts, but here we are. And then there’s this bit of nightmare fuel:

This is a clown spider. Somewhere, a sadistic God is laughing manically.

This is a clown spider. Somewhere, a sadistic God is laughing manically.

There are no words. Fuck spiders, man. Just fuck them.

The Drunk Knight Rises

28 Oct

“With great power comes great responsibility. This is my gift, my curse.”

-Peter Parker

“My advice to you is to start drinking heavily.”

-Bluto Blutarsky

See? I told you it would only be a week and I got it posted in five days! Can’t believe you doubted me like that. I won’t even dick around on the intro. If you didn’t read parts one or two, well you’ll probably be confused. Of course, you could read this part first and then work your way back like Memento. Damn it. The story is probably better that way. Oh well. Let’s just finish this bitch.

An Unfortunate Incident, a Hero Rises From the Ashes

Now that I was good and tight, I was ready to interact with the partygoers. I approached (well, staggered over to) my coworker, Kyle. Kyle was (and remains) a HUGE professional wrestling fan. He liked (and still likes) to reenact fake moves as performed by his favorite wrestlers (Your Ric Flairs, your Hulk Hogans, your Doink the Clowns). Now Kyle was five years older than me (probably still is) which would mean he was…20 at the time? 25? Shit, can we get those Sucks at Math ribbons made up already? However old he was I believed (and still do) that he was too old to be a fan of professional wrestling. I stopped watching at 10 when I found out that shit was rigged.

On second thought, looks pretty real to me.

On second thought, maybe it’s TOO real.

I slurred something at him, God only knows what, and we began to fake rassle. What does that entail, you ask? Basically, you just kind of fake slap and punch each other. Yes, it is that stupid. In the course of these fake maneuvers where we weren’t making actual contact with each other, a fake shove got away from Kyle and he ever so gently kissed my chest with his palm.

Now at my level of inebriation that gentle push was tantamount to getting dragon kicked in the sternum by Bruce fucking Lee. My body responded in kind as I went flying right into the grill. I took it out and landed flat on my back on the concrete patio. Hot meats that had been searing only precious seconds ago rained down on my face and chest like grisly hail from an abattoir. I sat up, dazed. Literally everyone at the party was gaping at me. I offered a weak, drunken laugh then suddenly cold water was splashing all over my body. I looked for the source and saw my coworker, Zoe, dousing me with a hose. “The fuck…?” I managed to mumble and then I saw the smoke. The white-hot coals from the grill had landed on my ankle and smoldered there. This is either the most or the least ironic thing that has ever happened in recorded history: I had lied to gain entry to the party and now my pants were quite literally on fire. And here I thought that phrase was just a hackneyed children’s rhyme.

Too on the nose?

Too on the nose?

Once I was completely extinguished, people began to ask me if I was all right. Like most drunks, I was totally fine with nary a scratch on me. I stood up, soaked from head to toe and the laughter began. A better, more sober man may have decided perhaps it was time to leave as dignity had already hightailed it out of there hours ago. Not this guy. I brushed off my near immolation and stuck around for a while. Eventually Ben insisted we needed to go and he drove me home in my mom’s car. I guess he walked home? I have no idea. So concerned was I for his wellbeing that I never even thought to ask.

The Aftermath

After a night spent getting intimately acquainted with the family toilet, telling it all my secrets, sharing a meal with it, I awoke on the floor of the bathroom to a pair of very pissed off parents and a large railroad spike in my brain. How did that get there? Sure I couldn’t see it, but I sure as fuck could feel it. It felt like my entire body was packed with fiberglass insulation and my throat was drier than Anne Coulter’s lady business. Good God! I have never felt such thirst in my life. Needed a drink. My parents followed me into the kitchen and reminded me as I drank the coldest, most refreshing bottle of Canada Dry ginger ale I’ve ever had in my life that I was due at work in 30 minutes. I laughed, each chuckle setting off a throbbing sonic boom in my head. Surely they were joking. They were not. Going to work severely hungover was phase one of my looming punishment. Well played, parental units. Well played indeed.

I protested, but at 17 my parents still held dominion over me. I dragged my ass into work, my only goal for the day to remain vertical or at least slanted, but upright. As soon as I arrived, I noticed people smirking at me and whispering when I walked by. Apparently, word had gotten out. You’d think a group of coworkers would be able to keep the story of an inebriated high schooler drunkenly setting himself on fire to themselves, but nope. People continued looking at me and giggling behind their hands. It really threw off my grocery bagging game. Eventually my manager (Julius? Yeah, let’s call him Julius) approached me. A smug smile firmly planted on his face, he clapped me on the shoulder. “Heard you went to Liam’s party last night.” I felt my face flush redder than a baboon’s fiery butthole. “Yeah.” His smile widened. “Have a good time?” A small crowd of grinning cashiers had surrounded us. “Um, it was okay. Hey, I think it’s my break time.” At this point, I thought for sure I was getting fired. His grip on my shoulder tightened. “So you’re like some kind of superhero. I mean, you don’t have the best superpower, but lighting yourself on fire with charcoal briquettes without getting hurt is kind of impressive. You just need a name. How about…Grillman?” Grillman. Seriously dude, you couldn’t call me something cool like THE PHOENIX? I mean, I did rise from the ashes, goddamnit. But no, fucking Grillman: the name I would never be able to live down. The cashiers laughed and quickly spread the word that I was no longer Mike or Michael or even Baron Von Sexmuffin (Alas, no one has ever called me Baron Von Sexmuffin. *SIGH*).

Thousands of dollars wasted on tee shirts.

Even with thousands of dollars invested in tee shirts.

I was to be known henceforth as Grillman. By 10:30 that Sunday morning, everyone was referring to me as such. By late afternoon, people who weren’t even scheduled to work that day were coming in and asking me about the night before and my groovy new nickname. I went from mortified, to irritated, to eventually just bending over and taking it. There are worse nicknames, right? Still, man – THE PHOENIX. How badass would that have been? It wasn’t to be. To this day people still call me Grillman. And whenever they call me that in front of someone I’ve never met before I have to tell the fucking story again like some white trash version of the Ancient Mariner. Fuck. There was one perk though: from that day forward, I got invited to ALL the parties. Even the really sweet ones held at the bowling alley. Jealous? Fuck yeah, you are.

A Hero’s Legacy

I swore an oath that day on Neptune’s violently salty ballsack to never make an ass of myself in public again, an oath I was able to keep for nearly five consecutive days. Now I simply accept the fact that making an ass out of myself is a big part of who I am. However, I choose my spots carefully. I’m never going to pull a Will Ferrell in Old School and be the only guy streaking through the quad. [Quick aside: though I appreciate Mr. Ferrell’s dedication to getting bare-ass naked for that scene, I’ve always found a man dressed in a half-shirt, knee high black socks, and nothing else to be an underrated hilarious image. I don’t know why more comedies don’t show that to us. You listening, Hollywood? Get on that shit.]

And there you have it. A fateful mixture of cheap vodka, a wrestling superfan, and hot coals – an ordinary man becomes a superman.  It was my radioactive spider bite, my gamma bomb, my sex with a sentient dolphin (or whatever the fuck Aquaman’s origin story is). I didn’t ask for this power, but now I am forever cursed to prowl the fringes of society. And so I lurk in the shadows. Watching. Until I am needed. Until I am called upon.

To paraphrase one Commissioner James Gordon:

“Because he’s the lush Baltimore deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So we’ll mock him. Because he can take it. Because he’s not our drunkard. He’s a silent boozer, a watchful barfly. A Drunk Knight.”




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


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