This was performed last Tuesday. Full disclosure; I have a single one-liner that was lifted from a Doug Stanhope performance. I don't consider this joke theft because of the context of the bit. The interaction with the co-worker I described really did take place and just had to tell that story on stage.
Hopefully, Stanhope understands this. I really don't want that guy coming after me.
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Space Pussy! Plus;What it's like to fuck Mitt Romney.
Again, crowd response was better than it sounds in the video. There were something like fifteen people in the whole bar that night.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Fuck Sorry
As many of you may have heard, a couple days ago a goddamn, shithead stand-up comedian had the balls to go out and do a fucking stand-up comedy...THING involving the horrific shooting spree that happened at the premiere of The Dark Night Rises at a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado on July 20. Here's that comedian now.
Yeah, I know! Too soon, right?
Jon Stewart made those remarks a scant three days after the tragedy in Colorado.
And he wasn't the only offender. Thirty minutes after Jon Stewart made his remarks another stand-up comic got on TV and did the same fucking thing.
Right, Stephen Colbert also used the Colorado shooting in his act. What a dick, right? How dare he?
I realize that Stewart and Colbert were NOT mocking the shooting itself or the victims. No one made a joke about people who don't know how to duck. No one made a joke about how, when it comes to jokes, comic book fans are "easy targets." Stewart and Colbert were just mentioning the shooting so they could analyze, deconstruct and reveal the laughable failing of American media and our political system. But still, they did it in a comedy setting. Again, too soon, right? How dare they use that horrific incident to make people laugh. Three days is way to soon to do jokes about a tragedy of this magnitude.
I will admit that I find it odd that no one (not just "no ONE," but no giant mass of internet trolls or lifeless TMZ wannbe reporters) came out to wag their giant, throbbing rage induced hard-ons at Jon Stewart and Stephen Colberts' twitter profiles and demand that Comedy Central fire them immediately, have them hanged at dawn and see their hearts served on a plate to the hungry lynch mob.
Odd indeed considering that a few days after the Stewart\Colbert airing, Dane Cook got on stage at the Laugh Factory and said...
And then the internet went insane.
Now, again, Dane Cook isn't making fun of the deaths of innocent human beings. He's making fun of the movie itself and he's making fun the saying "just shoot me," which is a saying people throw around when they're bored like it's candy on Halloween.
But the weird thing for me is that people are really, really pissed at Dane Cook and no one said a word about Stephen Colbert or Jon Stewart.
Why?
I mean, Dane Cook's joke was weak and obvious and lacking the flare and grace that Stewart and Colbert exhibited in their performances, sure, (I mean, seriously Dane, if your punch line is the name of a shitty sitcom, isn't that your first clue that you're phoning it in?) but was it really offensive to the degree that people should attack him online, forcing him to apologize?
No. Fuck off, no. Here's why.
I'm a comedian. Before I was a comedian I worked in a hospital as a nursing assistant four about seven years (4 1/2 in a hospital for the criminally insane and 3 1/2 in general medicine). I've seen people die. I haven't just seen people die, I've felt people die. Some of them died under my hands, literally.
I know what it feels like when a man's ribs break under my hands while I'm performing CPR chest compressions continuously until my arms and shoulder are so tired that I think my arms are just going to fall off.
And then I watched the doctor call time of death and realized it was for all nothing. I tried so hard to save that guy. Me and all the nurses and doctors and specialists. We tried so hard and now he's gone.
If you don't know what that feels like, allow me to clue you in.
It fucking sucks.
But that was the job and we did it every night. I did it for seven years. A lot of people do it for life.
Do you know how we got through it without going absolutely bug- fuck crazy?
We made jokes.
Here's a few we made about people who died under our care;
"Hey, were you really just giving that old man mouth-to-mouth or did you slip him the tongue?"
"Thank God, Ms. Henderson passed away. Now I don't have to strangle the bitch."
There was on diabetic who had lost both legs. After he died a nurse made the joke, "Now he'll never play third base."
We didn't wait a week out of respect for the dead to tell these jokes after some one passed. Hell, some of us didn't bother with seven seconds. In the hospital, we riffed on what we thought was funny as it popped into our heads in real time. Fuck what the rest of the world may think.
Bare in mind, these were just jokes. In the hospital I worked at, people who did a shit job taking care of their patients got ratted out by their coworkers. Any one caught physically harming their coworkers (which happened) got a punching in the head from their coworkers (which, I'm glad to say, also happened). Because at the end of the day we were there to make the world a little less shitty for people who were having a shitty day. We had no absolutely no tolerance for people who made things worse for patients.
But those among us who were still dedicated to caring for and helping the sick, well...the good guys among us, we still had our jokes.
Because it still sucks to deal with other peoples' shitty day on a regular basis and all we had were each other and you can't just not talk about it, and you can't just spend your whole night talking about how bad it sucks.
So you make jokes.
Are those jokes fucked up?
Yes!
Are we, as people who work in the medical profession, a bunch of sick motherfuckers for mocking the passing of the sick and elderly?
Yeah, obviously, you have to be to want a job dealing with human suffering, but you know what....
It's not a mental sickness that lets us make light of human suffering. It's not a failing on our part. It's not that we lack sensitivity. It's a mental wellness that drives that type of humor. Without that we could never do our jobs. This ability to laugh at the tragic and the horrible is what will see us through to the other side of the motherfucking apocalypse. Those of you who are angry at Dane Cook obviously do not possess this skill.
Comedians are the guys who are trying to teach that skill to everyone. If you work in medicine you're exposed to death all the time. And you have to see the funny in it or you'll go nuts. If you're a regular human and you just watch the news, you're still exposed to death all the time, but you only feel it when the media tells you to.
As did National Celebrity Examiner and apparent moron (moron for no reason other than that I disagree with her), Jodi Jill said;
"While it hardly seems fathomable that someone would so quickly reflect on a massacre like the situation in Colorado, it goes to show that contemporary comedians find human tragedy a place to discover a laugh. In the case of Dane Cook, it seems his apology falls short and his original words still hit home."
Nah, fuck it. She's just a moron.
What you need to remember is that on the day you die, you don't want your mom and dad crying at your funeral. You would much prefer them laughing and enjoying their lives. Just as the dead would now love to see you enjoying yours.
You need guys like Dane Cook and Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart and Daniel Tosh and Bill Hicks and George Carlin and countless others to take horrible shit in the world and turn it into something you can find joy in. You NEED those guys. Their job is to take all the horrible in the universe and give you another way of looking at it. Because if you only look at the Aurora, CO shooting the way the news gives it to you then the only story you're getting is, "Hey, bad shit happened. Now buy Coke, eat at McDonalds and vote like we tell you. You're FREE!!!!"
Horseshit.
We need guys and gals who can take the worst things in the universe and put a spin on them that's not directed by a pre-existing political narrative presented by the six or seven companies that control all of what we get to hear in America.
They show us what's ridiculous in our collective thinking and by doing so, they show us how we can think differently.
And that's why I think it's bullshit that Dane Cook felt the need to apologize for what he said at the Laugh Factory.
Fuck sorry.
| The Daily Show with Jon Stewart | Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c | |||
| Aurora Shootings & Gun Control | ||||
| ||||
| The Colbert Report | Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c | |||
| Partisan Speculation Over Colorado Shooter | ||||
| ||||
I realize that Stewart and Colbert were NOT mocking the shooting itself or the victims. No one made a joke about people who don't know how to duck. No one made a joke about how, when it comes to jokes, comic book fans are "easy targets." Stewart and Colbert were just mentioning the shooting so they could analyze, deconstruct and reveal the laughable failing of American media and our political system. But still, they did it in a comedy setting. Again, too soon, right? How dare they use that horrific incident to make people laugh. Three days is way to soon to do jokes about a tragedy of this magnitude.
I will admit that I find it odd that no one (not just "no ONE," but no giant mass of internet trolls or lifeless TMZ wannbe reporters) came out to wag their giant, throbbing rage induced hard-ons at Jon Stewart and Stephen Colberts' twitter profiles and demand that Comedy Central fire them immediately, have them hanged at dawn and see their hearts served on a plate to the hungry lynch mob.
Odd indeed considering that a few days after the Stewart\Colbert airing, Dane Cook got on stage at the Laugh Factory and said...
“So I heard that the guy came into the theater about 25 minutes into the movie,” said Cook. “And I don’t know if you’ve seen the movie, but the movie is pretty much a piece of crap. Yea, spoiler alert...I know that if none of that [the shooting] would have happened, pretty sure that somebody in that theater, about 25 minutes in, realizing it was a piece of crap, was probably like ‘ugh f**king shoot me."
And then the internet went insane.
Now, again, Dane Cook isn't making fun of the deaths of innocent human beings. He's making fun of the movie itself and he's making fun the saying "just shoot me," which is a saying people throw around when they're bored like it's candy on Halloween.
But the weird thing for me is that people are really, really pissed at Dane Cook and no one said a word about Stephen Colbert or Jon Stewart.
Why?
I mean, Dane Cook's joke was weak and obvious and lacking the flare and grace that Stewart and Colbert exhibited in their performances, sure, (I mean, seriously Dane, if your punch line is the name of a shitty sitcom, isn't that your first clue that you're phoning it in?) but was it really offensive to the degree that people should attack him online, forcing him to apologize?
No. Fuck off, no. Here's why.
I'm a comedian. Before I was a comedian I worked in a hospital as a nursing assistant four about seven years (4 1/2 in a hospital for the criminally insane and 3 1/2 in general medicine). I've seen people die. I haven't just seen people die, I've felt people die. Some of them died under my hands, literally.
I know what it feels like when a man's ribs break under my hands while I'm performing CPR chest compressions continuously until my arms and shoulder are so tired that I think my arms are just going to fall off.
And then I watched the doctor call time of death and realized it was for all nothing. I tried so hard to save that guy. Me and all the nurses and doctors and specialists. We tried so hard and now he's gone.
If you don't know what that feels like, allow me to clue you in.
It fucking sucks.
But that was the job and we did it every night. I did it for seven years. A lot of people do it for life.
Do you know how we got through it without going absolutely bug- fuck crazy?
We made jokes.
Here's a few we made about people who died under our care;
"Hey, were you really just giving that old man mouth-to-mouth or did you slip him the tongue?"
"Thank God, Ms. Henderson passed away. Now I don't have to strangle the bitch."
There was on diabetic who had lost both legs. After he died a nurse made the joke, "Now he'll never play third base."
We didn't wait a week out of respect for the dead to tell these jokes after some one passed. Hell, some of us didn't bother with seven seconds. In the hospital, we riffed on what we thought was funny as it popped into our heads in real time. Fuck what the rest of the world may think.
Bare in mind, these were just jokes. In the hospital I worked at, people who did a shit job taking care of their patients got ratted out by their coworkers. Any one caught physically harming their coworkers (which happened) got a punching in the head from their coworkers (which, I'm glad to say, also happened). Because at the end of the day we were there to make the world a little less shitty for people who were having a shitty day. We had no absolutely no tolerance for people who made things worse for patients.
But those among us who were still dedicated to caring for and helping the sick, well...the good guys among us, we still had our jokes.
Because it still sucks to deal with other peoples' shitty day on a regular basis and all we had were each other and you can't just not talk about it, and you can't just spend your whole night talking about how bad it sucks.
So you make jokes.
Are those jokes fucked up?
Yes!
Are we, as people who work in the medical profession, a bunch of sick motherfuckers for mocking the passing of the sick and elderly?
Yeah, obviously, you have to be to want a job dealing with human suffering, but you know what....
It's not a mental sickness that lets us make light of human suffering. It's not a failing on our part. It's not that we lack sensitivity. It's a mental wellness that drives that type of humor. Without that we could never do our jobs. This ability to laugh at the tragic and the horrible is what will see us through to the other side of the motherfucking apocalypse. Those of you who are angry at Dane Cook obviously do not possess this skill.
Comedians are the guys who are trying to teach that skill to everyone. If you work in medicine you're exposed to death all the time. And you have to see the funny in it or you'll go nuts. If you're a regular human and you just watch the news, you're still exposed to death all the time, but you only feel it when the media tells you to.
As did National Celebrity Examiner and apparent moron (moron for no reason other than that I disagree with her), Jodi Jill said;
"While it hardly seems fathomable that someone would so quickly reflect on a massacre like the situation in Colorado, it goes to show that contemporary comedians find human tragedy a place to discover a laugh. In the case of Dane Cook, it seems his apology falls short and his original words still hit home."
Nah, fuck it. She's just a moron.
What you need to remember is that on the day you die, you don't want your mom and dad crying at your funeral. You would much prefer them laughing and enjoying their lives. Just as the dead would now love to see you enjoying yours.
You need guys like Dane Cook and Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart and Daniel Tosh and Bill Hicks and George Carlin and countless others to take horrible shit in the world and turn it into something you can find joy in. You NEED those guys. Their job is to take all the horrible in the universe and give you another way of looking at it. Because if you only look at the Aurora, CO shooting the way the news gives it to you then the only story you're getting is, "Hey, bad shit happened. Now buy Coke, eat at McDonalds and vote like we tell you. You're FREE!!!!"
Horseshit.
We need guys and gals who can take the worst things in the universe and put a spin on them that's not directed by a pre-existing political narrative presented by the six or seven companies that control all of what we get to hear in America.
They show us what's ridiculous in our collective thinking and by doing so, they show us how we can think differently.
And that's why I think it's bullshit that Dane Cook felt the need to apologize for what he said at the Laugh Factory.
Fuck sorry.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Why People Are Shitheads Part A Billion
So I saw this thing online about a “dogsickle”. Did you guys see this? Basically, a dogsickle is when you take all of your dogs favorite toys and you freeze them in a block of ice and make the dog like and chew his way into the ice block to get his toys back.
This is supposed to be a good thing to do for your pet because it hydrates them during this insane heat, but look at that picture above. You can tell what the dog's thinking is, “Oh, you unbeilevable DICK!”
And he would too because that’s a shitty thing to do to your best friend unless you’re just a complete sadist.
That’s like something you’d do to some one you were dating who cheated on you.
“Hey, honey, hope you had fun fucking my best friend without a condom on my birthday. On an unrelated note, I’m moving out. Please go fuck yourself and get cancer. Oh, and by the way, your makeup bag, your cell phone, your ipod, your favorite dildo and the teddy bear your dad bought you right before he died are now in the back yard encased in carbonite, Han Solo style. The only way you can get them out is by licking the cube until it melts. You might want to hurry because it’s trash day.”
Yeah, that’s the only time you do that to anyone. You sure as shit don’t do that to your dog. Your dog is your best friend in the world. Your dog is always going to be on your side. The only time you’d do that to you dog is if you’re just a sadistic sociopath.
"Here poochy, I put everything you love in a place where you can’t reach it just so you can get some hydration."
"Fuck you, asshole. Why not leave out a bowl of water. I’m a fucking dog. I know how to drink when I’m thirsty. I don’t care how hot it is."
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Never Miss Out On a Good Time Because of a Little Self-Respect
For me the funniest bit was when I said the first time I masturbated was May 15th at 3AM. Some one in the audience went, "Seriously?" At the time I thought she reacted to the fact that I knew the exact time and date(which I really don't).
Watching the video, I now realize she said, "seriously" because I forgot to say May 15th of what year! She probably thought I meant last May 15th. I'll either have to correct that or use it.
I hope no one judges this set on crowd response. There were maybe ten people in the bar at the time of my performance. Once upon a time, performing for a crowd that size would have made me more nervous than playing to a crowd of fifty or a hundred people.
Lately, I've been feeling the honey badger-like apathy toward getting laughs. A lot of people don't laugh at my material. A LOT! Some boo, some cringe, some scowl.
No one looks bored. No one ignores.
I'll take that.
Oh, and speaking of honey badgers. You remember when I did that set about a friend of mine who was suffering from breast cancer. Of course, you don't. No one saw that. Well, here it is again.
I would just like to say that my friend, who has been nicknamed the Honey Badger ('cause, in case you hadn't heard, the Honey Badger just don't give a FUUUUUUCK!), is no longer a breast cancer victim, but a breast cancer SURVIVOR.
She had her surgery this past Monday and is now cancer free. Two hours after her surgery she woke from her drugged-out, post-op haze just long enough to flash a crowd of friends and family a doofy two thumbs up and a big shit eating grin before passing out again.
I know people say this all the time, but after the last seven months of hell that girl has been through, watching her smile like that at that exact moment...well, you really, really just had to be there.
Thank you for getting through this, HB. The world is so much more interesting with you in it.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Why You Can't Have Babies In Porn Shops
This was one of the most satisfying sets I've done in a while. There's a perverse kind of glee in heckling the audience.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
The Pornstar Rant
Haven't been able to post for a while due to computer issues. That doesn't mean I haven't been doing stuff and stuff.
I've done the pornstar rant once before. You can't see it but this time, when I asked a random guy in the audience to stand up and mimic going down on three guys at once...he did it. It reminded me of something I read in an interview between Paul Provenza and Colin Quinn. The difference between making a comedy TV show or film and doing comedy in front of a live audience is the same as the difference between playing Call of Duty and actually being in a war. More later.
I've done the pornstar rant once before. You can't see it but this time, when I asked a random guy in the audience to stand up and mimic going down on three guys at once...he did it. It reminded me of something I read in an interview between Paul Provenza and Colin Quinn. The difference between making a comedy TV show or film and doing comedy in front of a live audience is the same as the difference between playing Call of Duty and actually being in a war. More later.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
I'm Pretty Sure This One Pissed Off Some One
Oh, well. Bring it, trolls.
You ever hear some one say that they don't like it when comedians laugh at thier own jokes. I used to hate that too. But now I get it. When you're in the crowd you still think of yourself as an individual watching another individual up on stage doing thier act.
But when you're on stage you don't see a bunch of individuals, you see a CROWD. And a crowd is a big, scary animal. A massive beast that can either love you or eat you alive. And it's your job to make that beast love you. When things go well, when you've made that beast your friend, you can feel the crowd's laughter washing over you. Laughter is contagious.
When a comic laughs on stage, he isn't laughing because he thinks he's so fucking clever. He's laughing along side his new friend, the audience.
As a comic, I thank you for that.
SIDE NOTE: I was particularly nervous about doing this set for a couple of reasons. One of those reasons being that this was the first time I ever went so far as to use the word "faggot" on stage. It also happened to be the first night my gay younger brother came to the show. It's great that I can watch that video and actually pick out his distinct laugh on the audio.
As always this shit happens at The As Yet Unnamed Comedy Show every Tuesday at 10pm at the luxurious Eastside Tavern in Columbia, Missouri. If you're in the area come out. Free show, cheap drinks and many slutty comedians such as myself.
If you're not in the area go check out Bill Donald's youtube channel where you can watch more stuff by me and all the other comics I work with.
You ever hear some one say that they don't like it when comedians laugh at thier own jokes. I used to hate that too. But now I get it. When you're in the crowd you still think of yourself as an individual watching another individual up on stage doing thier act.
But when you're on stage you don't see a bunch of individuals, you see a CROWD. And a crowd is a big, scary animal. A massive beast that can either love you or eat you alive. And it's your job to make that beast love you. When things go well, when you've made that beast your friend, you can feel the crowd's laughter washing over you. Laughter is contagious.
When a comic laughs on stage, he isn't laughing because he thinks he's so fucking clever. He's laughing along side his new friend, the audience.
As a comic, I thank you for that.
SIDE NOTE: I was particularly nervous about doing this set for a couple of reasons. One of those reasons being that this was the first time I ever went so far as to use the word "faggot" on stage. It also happened to be the first night my gay younger brother came to the show. It's great that I can watch that video and actually pick out his distinct laugh on the audio.
As always this shit happens at The As Yet Unnamed Comedy Show every Tuesday at 10pm at the luxurious Eastside Tavern in Columbia, Missouri. If you're in the area come out. Free show, cheap drinks and many slutty comedians such as myself.
If you're not in the area go check out Bill Donald's youtube channel where you can watch more stuff by me and all the other comics I work with.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
New Segment Titled "Here's How Big Of A Piece of Shit I Am."
This may not be my best work, but I'm proud of it anyway.
This, on the other hand, may have been my finest hour. Or finest five minutes. Whatever.
If you like what you see here and you're in the area come out to Eastside Tavern in Columbia, MO. It's technically an open mic night, but with the regular comics we have it's more like a fucking SHOW. So get your ass out there. Free show. Cheap drinks. Solid comics.
And if you're not in the area go check out Bill Donald's Youtube page and see some of the other comics I work with.
Or don't. See if I care.
This, on the other hand, may have been my finest hour. Or finest five minutes. Whatever.
If you like what you see here and you're in the area come out to Eastside Tavern in Columbia, MO. It's technically an open mic night, but with the regular comics we have it's more like a fucking SHOW. So get your ass out there. Free show. Cheap drinks. Solid comics.
And if you're not in the area go check out Bill Donald's Youtube page and see some of the other comics I work with.
Or don't. See if I care.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Where I've Been Lately...
There's something about being on stage that you don't get from composing the written word. Instant gratification.
Also, it gave me a chance to do this for a friend.
Don't worry. I'll get back to writing eventually. In the mean time, MORE DICK JOKES.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Occupy Wall Street; Some Thoughts About
Here's some thoughts.
I watch the news. A lot. I've never been one of these "ignorance is bliss" types, although I've been jealous of those types for pretty much most of my life. I mine the news for information and ideas that I can use in my creative pursuits on a regular basis. This practice usually makes me depressed, cynical and pissy as a trailer park mom on child support payment day.
But I keep watching. The fucking news. Hoping and hoping that something will come along, that something will happen that is going to turn the country, if not the world, into the direction of progressive thought or at least something we can all agree on as common sense.
That day has come.
These Occupy Wall Street Protestors have earned my love in a way no blowjob ever could.
They may not have a leader. They may not have a centralized, cohesive, articulated or even well thought-out message, but, in the end, fuck you. They don't need one. This is not an organization we are dealing with. This is not a political party we are dealing with. This is not your fucking khakis!!!
This started just a couple weeks ago with twenty hippies in a park refusing to go home and now it's people screaming "FACSIST!" in cops faces.
I hear people on the news trying to compare them (or in some cases distance them) from the Tea Party movement.
The truth is this is the movement that ate the Tea Party. Or at least they ate the part of the Tea Party that mattered. The Tea Party got started by some right wing think tank with a good PR team that could mobilize people who were pissed off. At the end of the day those people were run, led and organized by Republicans.
the Occupation on the other hand is just chaos. It's everyone. It started with a few people with a broad, undefined message and now it's grown into God knows how many thousand or million people with a broad, undefined message.
And the part about their message being broad and undefined seems to be the cornerstone of the right wings criticism of them.
"Oh, typical liberal," they say. "You whine about a problem, but you don't propose any solution."
Which is obviously a bullshit counter argument. I mean, seriously, do you only complain about problems you have a solution to? Do you go see a doctor only when you know your diagnosis? Do you only take your car to the mechanic when you know what parts need to be replaced? No. Of course not. A person can be smart enough to notice a tumor without being dumb for not knowing how to deal with it.
And the tumor in this country right now comes down to a break down in equality.
Economic equality.
And when I use the words "economic equality" I don't mean what you probably think I mean.
Most people think that when I say "economic equality" I'm griping that some other guy has a lot of money and I don't. This is not the case.
Under the constitution of this great nation everyone is created equal. Remember that, because I'm going to get back to it in a second.
I make in the range of 25k per year. I'm comfortable with that being a single guy who doesn't own a car and lives in a shitty apartment. I'm also comfortable with the idea that other people make millions of dollars a year and live in massive fuck-off awesome mansions. Massive fuck-off awesome mansions sound nice, but I don't want to do what those people had to do to get to be millionares so I'm happy with my 30K a year job and modest apartment. Happiness is the key here. Me and the millionare are both free to persue that.
The problem originates at the point where the millionare gets to; lobby harder than I can, because he has more money; gets to advertise his political viewpoint further and wider because he has more money; gets to purchase campaigns (which is what the Citizens United ruling under the Supreme Court allowed them to do) simply becaucse he has more money; gets to say that the law does not appy to him because he has more money.
This is the state we live in. One voice no longer equals one vote. One voice equals a sound bite if that voice is lucky and in the right place and time when a camera is around and again only if that voice says what the network owners want to be heard.
A dollar, on the other hand, that equals a vote these days.
And that's a problem.
We don't hate the rich. Hugh Heffner is still cool. Let him keep his mansion. He earned it.
We hate the rich who exercise control. The ones whose desicions affect the rest of us, but avoid the consequences of those desicions. We hate those rich who tell us what we can and can't have regardless of the fact that we are equals to them under the constitution. We hate the rich assume a level of control that should be beyond the average citizen.
I've been telling my republican friends for years that capitalism should not be a game of survival of the fittest but instead a system where everyone thrives and only the most ambitious get to have the mega wealth. They all say, "Sorry, it's a game. There's winners and losers and the losers go hungry."
Ok, shithead. You wanted survival of the fittest. You got it. Welcome to the jungle. The rich are on the menu.
I watch the news. A lot. I've never been one of these "ignorance is bliss" types, although I've been jealous of those types for pretty much most of my life. I mine the news for information and ideas that I can use in my creative pursuits on a regular basis. This practice usually makes me depressed, cynical and pissy as a trailer park mom on child support payment day.
But I keep watching. The fucking news. Hoping and hoping that something will come along, that something will happen that is going to turn the country, if not the world, into the direction of progressive thought or at least something we can all agree on as common sense.
That day has come.
These Occupy Wall Street Protestors have earned my love in a way no blowjob ever could.
They may not have a leader. They may not have a centralized, cohesive, articulated or even well thought-out message, but, in the end, fuck you. They don't need one. This is not an organization we are dealing with. This is not a political party we are dealing with. This is not your fucking khakis!!!
This started just a couple weeks ago with twenty hippies in a park refusing to go home and now it's people screaming "FACSIST!" in cops faces.
I hear people on the news trying to compare them (or in some cases distance them) from the Tea Party movement.
The truth is this is the movement that ate the Tea Party. Or at least they ate the part of the Tea Party that mattered. The Tea Party got started by some right wing think tank with a good PR team that could mobilize people who were pissed off. At the end of the day those people were run, led and organized by Republicans.
the Occupation on the other hand is just chaos. It's everyone. It started with a few people with a broad, undefined message and now it's grown into God knows how many thousand or million people with a broad, undefined message.
And the part about their message being broad and undefined seems to be the cornerstone of the right wings criticism of them.
"Oh, typical liberal," they say. "You whine about a problem, but you don't propose any solution."
Which is obviously a bullshit counter argument. I mean, seriously, do you only complain about problems you have a solution to? Do you go see a doctor only when you know your diagnosis? Do you only take your car to the mechanic when you know what parts need to be replaced? No. Of course not. A person can be smart enough to notice a tumor without being dumb for not knowing how to deal with it.
And the tumor in this country right now comes down to a break down in equality.
Economic equality.
And when I use the words "economic equality" I don't mean what you probably think I mean.
Most people think that when I say "economic equality" I'm griping that some other guy has a lot of money and I don't. This is not the case.
Under the constitution of this great nation everyone is created equal. Remember that, because I'm going to get back to it in a second.
I make in the range of 25k per year. I'm comfortable with that being a single guy who doesn't own a car and lives in a shitty apartment. I'm also comfortable with the idea that other people make millions of dollars a year and live in massive fuck-off awesome mansions. Massive fuck-off awesome mansions sound nice, but I don't want to do what those people had to do to get to be millionares so I'm happy with my 30K a year job and modest apartment. Happiness is the key here. Me and the millionare are both free to persue that.
The problem originates at the point where the millionare gets to; lobby harder than I can, because he has more money; gets to advertise his political viewpoint further and wider because he has more money; gets to purchase campaigns (which is what the Citizens United ruling under the Supreme Court allowed them to do) simply becaucse he has more money; gets to say that the law does not appy to him because he has more money.
This is the state we live in. One voice no longer equals one vote. One voice equals a sound bite if that voice is lucky and in the right place and time when a camera is around and again only if that voice says what the network owners want to be heard.
A dollar, on the other hand, that equals a vote these days.
And that's a problem.
We don't hate the rich. Hugh Heffner is still cool. Let him keep his mansion. He earned it.
We hate the rich who exercise control. The ones whose desicions affect the rest of us, but avoid the consequences of those desicions. We hate those rich who tell us what we can and can't have regardless of the fact that we are equals to them under the constitution. We hate the rich assume a level of control that should be beyond the average citizen.
I've been telling my republican friends for years that capitalism should not be a game of survival of the fittest but instead a system where everyone thrives and only the most ambitious get to have the mega wealth. They all say, "Sorry, it's a game. There's winners and losers and the losers go hungry."
Ok, shithead. You wanted survival of the fittest. You got it. Welcome to the jungle. The rich are on the menu.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Link Love
Here are two reasons why I keep Warrenellis.com as my home page.
One; Anyone else here a Garth Ennis fan? If so, prepare to orgasm. If you're not a fan of Garth Ennis you need to get to work on that. Ennis is the genius comic book writer known for Preacher, The Boys, Crossed, Hitman, and defining runs on Hellblazer and The Punisher. I'll always love him as the guy who wrote that one book where the cannibal made a pair of underwear out of some guys face and wore them so that his balls hung out the mouth. Hmm...yeah, that was in Crossed.
Now Garth brings us this.
One; Anyone else here a Garth Ennis fan? If so, prepare to orgasm. If you're not a fan of Garth Ennis you need to get to work on that. Ennis is the genius comic book writer known for Preacher, The Boys, Crossed, Hitman, and defining runs on Hellblazer and The Punisher. I'll always love him as the guy who wrote that one book where the cannibal made a pair of underwear out of some guys face and wore them so that his balls hung out the mouth. Hmm...yeah, that was in Crossed.
Now Garth brings us this.
Note the words "written and directed by Garth Ennis"? Garth made a movie! A ZOMBIE MOVIE! If that's not enough awesome to leave you giggling with anticipation for hours then you are wrong, my friend.
STITCHED is set to premiere at the San Diego Comic Con July 21, but you can already order a your copy of the DVD. Full details here.
Moving on. Also found on Warren's site is this little bit of casual shenanigans. I'm not going into detail on this other than to say that it is an actual letter dated December, 1998 written by one of every one's heroes and it contains the line, "You are a computer salesman - I am fucking JAMES BOND." Just go read it.
Also, I've been listening to Michelle Bachmann's inane cerebral palsy-esq face noise ever since some suit somewhere decided that there wasn't enough Palin in the world. Like most right thinking people, I tend to laugh uncontrollably and throw feces at her whenever she opens her mouth. This is awkward for me since I usually see her on TV, but that's another story. I was only just able to keep my steaming monkey turds to myself when I saw this bit on Jimmy Kimmel Live. I give you the Michelle Bachmann Story of American History complete with more Jabba the Hutt than they gave you in high school.
And finally, just because you need to see it again, technically this is a Bruno Mars video, but in my heart it's a Leonard Nimoy video because he is most definitely the coolest fucking thing about this song.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
I don't know if anyone has heard me openly scream my massive love for Jon Stewart and all the people who work at the Daily Show. But here is an example of Jon and staff burning a new asshole in the forehead of hypocrisy.
Laugh all you want. But be pissed. Jon makes his money from comedy. But comedy comes from truth. And the truth is we deserve better...from everything. Shit. It's a capitalist nation. that means we're paying for it. why can't we demand better?
Thursday, June 2, 2011
White Power Milk: How the Internet is Fucking With Me.
I watched a Louis C.K. bit one time (on "Hilarious," oddly enough.) where he defined the word "hilarious" as something that is so funny it breaks your mind. I don't know if the following is all that funny, but the cracks in my brain creak when I think about it. Naturally, my first inclination was to share it with you. You're welcome.
Here is the link to something called White Power Milk. Keep reading, I'm going full circle on this one.
I'm going to explain White Power Milk to you not just to explain it to you, but also to get it straight in my own head while I still remember that I am a living sentient organism on a very fucked up little rock hurtling around an indifferent sun and not a cartoon character in a disturbing 4chan video who only ever shows up in a leash and leather mask. Okay, here goes.
Basically, you give the nice people at White Power Milk a lot of money ($100 for an ounce and a half or $130 for two ounces). Then you choose from a line up of "milk purifiers." A milk purifier, before you ask, is, in this case, defined as a rich, pretty girl from an affluent family who are (and we want to emphasize this because the WPM website does) WHITE!!! The girl of your choice will then be led, or carried on a bed of rose pedals and newly minted hundred dollar bill by a parade of castrated attendants one imagines, into the spa area where she disrobes and is bathed and oiled by a fellow hot, young, rich, WHITE girl. During this phase of the operation your designated purifier will pay special attention to mouth rinsing for reasons which will soon become...
No, lets just stop and think about the process up until now. Two hot girls bathing each other. That's all we really need to think about. If you are a mentally well adjusted human being you can stop reading right there and go about your day, completely whole as a person right?
No? Need to hear more? Alright, fucko, you asked for it.
After the bathing and the nakedness, the girl you chose from line-up of pictures that look like they came from a book of "before" photos a heroin rehab clinic keeps around for advertising purposes will go into a small room, take a swig of organic milk, gargle for 10-15 seconds and then spit into a container about the size of a shot glass. With that done the owner of the website mails you the tiny bottle of organic milk purified by rich WHITE girl backwash.
All that costs a hundred bucks. Pleasure doing business, dipshit, who's next?
Yeah, I know what you're thinking because I was thinking it too. There's no way that's real. White Power Milk cannot be a real thing. Then a quick glance at the site's FAQ section assured me that "Fuck you, yes! It's a real thing."
Really? REALLY??? This? Is a thing?
This guy is selling organic milk (in very, very tiny amounts) to stupid rich fucks under the notion that the mouths of rich, pretty, WHITE girls has some magical cleansing effect on an already, pretty much benign substance. One assumes that because all the girls are rich, pretty, WHITE college students that normal vectors for orally transmitted diseases are immediately stunted by how rich, pretty and WHITE these girls are. Because, you know, pretty WHITE girls in their early twenties who go to really expensive universities never catch those nasty peasant diseases, right? Right?
The only thing more ridiculous that this is a thing is that it's totally not a thing. Except for the part where it's actually a thing. Stay with me.
A quick google search turns up this article by Alex Miller, a blogger who is, apparently, far less research lazy than I am. He points out that the website is run by a guy named Nate Hill a performance artist responsible for...some other stuff I probably don't care about. The girls in the photos are members of some hipster band that doesn't realize the rest of us are happy 1986 is over.
Then there is the Terms & Conditions page of whitepowermilk.com. There we find some giveaways that this isn't a thing.
Stuff like; "Buyer understands that if the specific woman selected to gargle milk is unavailable for any reason at the time of order, a replacement from this website will be selected on the buyer's behalf."
And, " Buyer understands that a portion of the information on this website has been fictionalized. Keep out of reach of children and pets. Exact ingredients’ lists of products are known only to the product manufacturer. All sales are final."
My favorite line after the bit about certain information being fictionalized is this one; "White Power Milk is not sold or intended for human consumption."
To paraphrase the Terms & Conditions page in my own words, "Hi, I'm about to rip you off. But you're not going to sue me for ripping you off because I'm telling you that I'm ripping you off up front. But you're still going to give me money because I'm doing it in an artful, clever way. You're basically paying me for being really, really clever. Being clever is worth something, right? Especially since you are so very, very not clever."
Alright, so the whole thing is an art project. Nate Hill is doing what satirists have always done. Putting something stupid into the world to show the world how stupid it really is. I suppose, the point of this is something about capitalism and the objectification of women and racism is obviously going to be in the mixed bag of subtext somewhere.
IRRELEVANT TANGENT GO!
There's probably also a lesson about how my penis makes me a bad boy for finding all those girls and their mouths attractive. Because whether it's a conservative christian dipshit with a "God Hates Fags" sign on the side of the road or a liberal performance art dipshit with a clever website, domination always begins at the genital level. Anyone who says you're wrong for liking what you like is an obvious sociopath hellbent on ruling the world. As long as you aren't raping or harassing or hurting anyone (without their permission, of course. Some of you are kinkier than others) and as long as you aren't having sex with any kids, feel free to ignore any asshole who wants you on his particular anti-sex guilt trip. You're welcome.
IRRELEVANT TANGENT STOP!
So, what's the problem here? I mean, we've established that this White Power Milk thing isn't a thing. It's just one of those easily dismissible arty things that only pretentious douche bags would even pay attention to in the first place as a sad attempt to appear smart, right? Sanity is restored. Situation normal, all fucked up, right?
Wrong! You see, we haven't gotten to the really fucked up part. We haven't gotten to the part that widened the ever deepening fissures in my already crumbling psyche.
You see, even though White Power Milk is a translucent hoax\artfully constructed middle finger to society, they are still selling the milk.
I repeat. The milk, that's probably not milk, that was gargled by girls, who most likely never gargled it or did anything other than show up for the photo shoot that one time, is still on sale and two ounces of it will cost you more than I made waiting tables at the restaurant for eight hours on Friday night. And this art project designed to show how capitalism objectifies women by creating a fake service that provides a fraudulent product is actually collecting a very real paycheck for having objectified those women who didn't gargle the milk.
You see how I'm dizzy right now.
If you're a satirist and you create a bit of irony that eats itself; job well done. If you're going to sit there and eat your own irony as would a mental patient gleefully licking the feces off his own fingers like ice cream...well, I guess, job well done, asshole.
Here is the link to something called White Power Milk. Keep reading, I'm going full circle on this one.
I'm going to explain White Power Milk to you not just to explain it to you, but also to get it straight in my own head while I still remember that I am a living sentient organism on a very fucked up little rock hurtling around an indifferent sun and not a cartoon character in a disturbing 4chan video who only ever shows up in a leash and leather mask. Okay, here goes.
Basically, you give the nice people at White Power Milk a lot of money ($100 for an ounce and a half or $130 for two ounces). Then you choose from a line up of "milk purifiers." A milk purifier, before you ask, is, in this case, defined as a rich, pretty girl from an affluent family who are (and we want to emphasize this because the WPM website does) WHITE!!! The girl of your choice will then be led, or carried on a bed of rose pedals and newly minted hundred dollar bill by a parade of castrated attendants one imagines, into the spa area where she disrobes and is bathed and oiled by a fellow hot, young, rich, WHITE girl. During this phase of the operation your designated purifier will pay special attention to mouth rinsing for reasons which will soon become...
No, lets just stop and think about the process up until now. Two hot girls bathing each other. That's all we really need to think about. If you are a mentally well adjusted human being you can stop reading right there and go about your day, completely whole as a person right?
No? Need to hear more? Alright, fucko, you asked for it.
After the bathing and the nakedness, the girl you chose from line-up of pictures that look like they came from a book of "before" photos a heroin rehab clinic keeps around for advertising purposes will go into a small room, take a swig of organic milk, gargle for 10-15 seconds and then spit into a container about the size of a shot glass. With that done the owner of the website mails you the tiny bottle of organic milk purified by rich WHITE girl backwash.
All that costs a hundred bucks. Pleasure doing business, dipshit, who's next?
Yeah, I know what you're thinking because I was thinking it too. There's no way that's real. White Power Milk cannot be a real thing. Then a quick glance at the site's FAQ section assured me that "Fuck you, yes! It's a real thing."
Really? REALLY??? This? Is a thing?
This guy is selling organic milk (in very, very tiny amounts) to stupid rich fucks under the notion that the mouths of rich, pretty, WHITE girls has some magical cleansing effect on an already, pretty much benign substance. One assumes that because all the girls are rich, pretty, WHITE college students that normal vectors for orally transmitted diseases are immediately stunted by how rich, pretty and WHITE these girls are. Because, you know, pretty WHITE girls in their early twenties who go to really expensive universities never catch those nasty peasant diseases, right? Right?
The only thing more ridiculous that this is a thing is that it's totally not a thing. Except for the part where it's actually a thing. Stay with me.
A quick google search turns up this article by Alex Miller, a blogger who is, apparently, far less research lazy than I am. He points out that the website is run by a guy named Nate Hill a performance artist responsible for...some other stuff I probably don't care about. The girls in the photos are members of some hipster band that doesn't realize the rest of us are happy 1986 is over.
Then there is the Terms & Conditions page of whitepowermilk.com. There we find some giveaways that this isn't a thing.
Stuff like; "Buyer understands that if the specific woman selected to gargle milk is unavailable for any reason at the time of order, a replacement from this website will be selected on the buyer's behalf."
And, " Buyer understands that a portion of the information on this website has been fictionalized. Keep out of reach of children and pets. Exact ingredients’ lists of products are known only to the product manufacturer. All sales are final."
My favorite line after the bit about certain information being fictionalized is this one; "White Power Milk is not sold or intended for human consumption."
To paraphrase the Terms & Conditions page in my own words, "Hi, I'm about to rip you off. But you're not going to sue me for ripping you off because I'm telling you that I'm ripping you off up front. But you're still going to give me money because I'm doing it in an artful, clever way. You're basically paying me for being really, really clever. Being clever is worth something, right? Especially since you are so very, very not clever."
Alright, so the whole thing is an art project. Nate Hill is doing what satirists have always done. Putting something stupid into the world to show the world how stupid it really is. I suppose, the point of this is something about capitalism and the objectification of women and racism is obviously going to be in the mixed bag of subtext somewhere.
IRRELEVANT TANGENT GO!
There's probably also a lesson about how my penis makes me a bad boy for finding all those girls and their mouths attractive. Because whether it's a conservative christian dipshit with a "God Hates Fags" sign on the side of the road or a liberal performance art dipshit with a clever website, domination always begins at the genital level. Anyone who says you're wrong for liking what you like is an obvious sociopath hellbent on ruling the world. As long as you aren't raping or harassing or hurting anyone (without their permission, of course. Some of you are kinkier than others) and as long as you aren't having sex with any kids, feel free to ignore any asshole who wants you on his particular anti-sex guilt trip. You're welcome.
IRRELEVANT TANGENT STOP!
So, what's the problem here? I mean, we've established that this White Power Milk thing isn't a thing. It's just one of those easily dismissible arty things that only pretentious douche bags would even pay attention to in the first place as a sad attempt to appear smart, right? Sanity is restored. Situation normal, all fucked up, right?
Wrong! You see, we haven't gotten to the really fucked up part. We haven't gotten to the part that widened the ever deepening fissures in my already crumbling psyche.
You see, even though White Power Milk is a translucent hoax\artfully constructed middle finger to society, they are still selling the milk.
I repeat. The milk, that's probably not milk, that was gargled by girls, who most likely never gargled it or did anything other than show up for the photo shoot that one time, is still on sale and two ounces of it will cost you more than I made waiting tables at the restaurant for eight hours on Friday night. And this art project designed to show how capitalism objectifies women by creating a fake service that provides a fraudulent product is actually collecting a very real paycheck for having objectified those women who didn't gargle the milk.
You see how I'm dizzy right now.
If you're a satirist and you create a bit of irony that eats itself; job well done. If you're going to sit there and eat your own irony as would a mental patient gleefully licking the feces off his own fingers like ice cream...well, I guess, job well done, asshole.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Super What...
In a couple of hours millions of Americans will plop down on couches that are already moaning under the weight of McDonald's saturated asses to enjoy this great nations most popular annual televised excuse for drinking.
Many of these people will be watching the Super Bowl, not out of appreciation for the sport, but because they get a mild giggle from the fucking commercials, which half of my graduating video production class could have easily bested in cleverness if not production value and still given change from a twenty. (Although, I have to admit that the trail for Cowboys & Aliens is somewhat boner inspiring. Probably more so than the finished film will be.)
Still, the rest of these fans, the ones not tuning in for the commercials, the ones who aren't watching the Super Bowl because it offers a chance to get a bunch of people over for an organized keg stand tournament, those people are tuning in because they like to watch...
Many of these people will be watching the Super Bowl, not out of appreciation for the sport, but because they get a mild giggle from the fucking commercials, which half of my graduating video production class could have easily bested in cleverness if not production value and still given change from a twenty. (Although, I have to admit that the trail for Cowboys & Aliens is somewhat boner inspiring. Probably more so than the finished film will be.)
Still, the rest of these fans, the ones not tuning in for the commercials, the ones who aren't watching the Super Bowl because it offers a chance to get a bunch of people over for an organized keg stand tournament, those people are tuning in because they like to watch...
I would just like to take a moment to remind these people; Ahem! FOOTBALL IS STILL NOT A MAN'S SPORT, DICKHEAD!
Allow me to clarify.
Football -- A grown up frat boy, whose body mass is thirty percent steroids, wearing a helmet and three inches of plastic armor while making six figures a year to play the game suddenly has to sit out a few games because he broke a pinkie in a freak hand job accident.
Then there's...
Rugby -- A chain-smoking ex-convict who grew up in a house made of corrugated tin next to toxic waste drainage ditch runs out on to a field with nothing to protect his bones but a heart filled with murder and a bad Cosby sweater. He and a bunch of other like minded individuals proceed to beat the hell out of each other over who gets the ball until one of them gets half their face headbutted off. The player who gets half his face headbutted off then has three minutes to collect the broken bits of cheek bone and staple them back onto his skull in a horrific mask that would make the average Batman villain vomit blood. That player then goes back onto the field to get a piece of the "bloody bastard" who headbutted him in the first place. All players are paid in beer and the tears of fallen enemies in accordance with ancient Klingon rules of Warfare.
So in summation, fuck this shit. I'm going back to bed.Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Andre the Dildo
I haven't really been giving this blog the kind of love and attention that it deserves.
Sorry, fans. I've let you down. I've got a few rants in the pipe that need polishing, but it might be next week before those get polished enough to be posted.
So, to tide you over until then, I'm going to share with you a piece of something I've been working on.
The following is an excerpt from my doomed to fail vampire novel (yes, I'm writing a vampire novel. Shut up.)
The chapter you're about to read comes from the middle of the book, but I think it stands on its own enough for you to pick up the plot and it brings the funny.
Enjoy.
Here’s the back story on Andre the Dildo.
He’s a human dildo. Enough said.
Oh, what? You want the long version. Fair enough, you bought the book and all.
Andre the Dildo is the world’s one and only vampire hunter. And yes, he’s serious about that. He’s got the business cards and everything. Never mind the fact that Lizzard is the one and only human being who’s ever been publicly outted as having a nutritional dependency on human blood and an allergy to sunlight so severe that he will actually burst into flames. Never mind that Lizzard has never taken blood from a human without consent or killed anyone. Never mind that he’s the only one the general public knows of with that condition and that apart from having an unlisted number he’s not really in hiding from anyone. There’s actually a lunatic out there who claims it’s his profession to “hunt” people with Lizzard’s condition.
Needless to say, Lizzard hates this guy’s guts. The harassment he’s suffered from Andre the Dildo hasn’t been as whole hearted as the that he’s suffered from some of the radical Christian groups out there, but it has definitely been annoying. Andre’s idea of hunting Lizzard apparently includes posting gay sex ads online including Lizzard’s real phone number, going through his trash and occasionally trying to murder him in public. Once Andre tried to stab him with a wooden stake, but between the fact that the stake was a number two pencil and Andre was too nervous to give a proper stabbing, the pencil just broke against Lizzard’s chest. That time Lizzard got rid of the scared-shitless little wonk by telling him to fuck off. The other time Andre tried to kill him was on the subway when Andre tried to wrestle Lizzard’s hood and day shirt off him to expose him to sunlight. This actually frightened Lizzard to the point that he broke Andre’s arm in two places and then, inexplicably felt bad about it afterwards. Bad enough that he declined to press charges, but not bad enough to stop him from filing a restraining order against the turd.
Truth be told, Lizzard hated the living shit out of Andre the Dildo long before he came down with his condition.
Andre the Dildo earned his nickname simply enough. Despite the fact that he held no more personality, intelligence, basic social skills, physical attractiveness or physical hygiene than the piece of dead plastic that shared his moniker, a staggering number of women and a men enjoyed having him inside them.
Any and every habit one might consider a hindrance in the pursuit of nubile, young posterior of either gender was demonstrated by Andre the Dildo on a fairly regular basis. And yet, more people slept with Andre in a given week than some professional basketball players experience throughout the course of their careers. The most aggravating detail about Andre was that most of the people who fucked him didn’t seem to know why they’d done it. None of them ever agreed to ever having liked the man, even a little, before or during and sure as fuck not after the act itself. Not a single one of them that Lizzard had spoken to could give a credible reason as to why they had dropped trou for the Dildo nor could they point to a single thing they enjoyed about the their session with him.
Missy once confessed to having gone to bed with Andre. Once Lizzard stopped choking on his own tongue he allowed her to fill him in on the gory detail.
“He was constantly sweating,” Missy told Lizzard. “And that big hairy belly kept rubbing up against me. It was like fucking a walrus. Oh, and he drooled. At first I thought it was sweat until later when I had the lights on and I saw actual goddamn saliva leaking out of that stupid stroke victim looking face that he gets when he’s horny. After that I insisted on being on top. Oh, and the kicker, once we were past the foreplay stage he started sticking his thumb in me. Over and over. At this point I’m good and warmed up and just ready to just get it over with. I kept yelling at him to fuck me already. And he screams like a little kid, `Dumb cunt! I fucking am fucking you!’ So, I reach over and turn on the lamp and, sure enough, that was his cock the whole time. Seriously, I have no idea why I did that.”
“So why did you?” Lizzard asked.
“I don’t know,” She replied with a shrug. “I was horny. He was there and he had the balls to go for it.”
“Yeah, but there had to be other guys around that night. Why him?”
“I don’t know. I…” she paused. Her eyes got wide. “…I really…don’t…know.”
Although Lizzard has never heard a reason why anyone would go to bed with Andre, he’s heard more than enough reasons not to go to bed with Andre. These reasons include but are not limited to the following; the aforementioned lack of hygiene, nose picking, verbal abuse of friends and strangers with a Tourette’s-like suddenness (Once when asked if he wanted carnitas in his burrito he once screamed at a girl working the counter at a Mexican restaurant that, “I don’t fucking speak Del Taco, bitch!”), being a bit of a racist, an affinity with, and obsession for, role playing games of every kind, and a tendency to walk around believing himself a vampire hunter\paranormal consultant.
The delusional reckoning behind that last one alone should be enough of a built in cock-block to ensure a mobile three mile “abstinence only” radius around Andre the Dildo, but no. Every day claims a new victim who wanders into the Dildo’s space and is sorry they did. Lizzard has a theory that Andre generates a force field like Omega Red in the X-Men comics. But instead of sucking life out of his victims, Andre’s force field takes away reasoning, discretion and self-respect. He imagines that when Andre tries to get in some one’s pants their internal dialogue goes something like;
“Holy shit, Andre the Dildo is trying to fuck me. Do I really wanna fuck Andre the Dildo?
“I don’t know. Do we really have a reason to live anyway?
“Good point. Tell the bartender we need shots and condoms.”
Naturally, Lizzard has always hated Andre the Dildo even before Andre started “hunting” him. How a human being of such objectionable caliber could walk ass-backward into so much free tail was a vexing thing for Lizzard, who experienced a number sexual exploits that could be described as inconsistent during a good year. Every time he encountered Andre his mind flashed, not on the countless man hours of dedicated harassment and scorn he’d suffered from this man, but on “the incident” that he and his friends had tacitly agreed to dub “that one time at Clappers.”
Ok, so, this one time at Clappers, Lizzard and a few of the guys from the Pub are hanging out having a few beers when three drunk girls walk in. One of the girls, inebriated beyond any semblance of consent or reasoning, falls three steps into the door skinning her knee. Her friends pick her up and set her on a bar stool gingerly, like they’re trying to balance a wobbly stack of coffee cups on a fence post in high wind. They order their drunk friend an ice water and then go off to do whatever they went off to do.
The second the more sober members of the trio depart Andre the Dildo appears, seemingly from nowhere, and takes a seat next to the equilibrium challenged female.
“Jesus, I didn’t even know he was here,” Sheriff said. “He’s like a creepy, molester ninja.”
Andre and the drunk girl were a good distance away, so Lizzard and friends couldn’t hear what the two talked about. But they were able to observe Andre, obviously as drunk as the girl he was talking to, wave his arms and pound his fist on the bar as whatever conversation they were having got heated.
“I’ll bet twenty it’s got something to do with unrealistic depiction of trolls in a certain Buffy episode,” Missy put out there.
About ten minutes into their conversation “the incident” occurred. The incident would haunt all who witnessed it forever. Missy, who by that time had actually experienced the Dildo in all his glory, would be the most traumatized by the event and soon after left Clappers to go home, hide under the covers and softly weep while reciting a personal vow to, from that day forth, always use her vagina for good and never for evil.
Andre, in the midst of an apparently passionate bit of monologue, stops, looks sick, puffs his cheeks like he’s got a bad cough, then proceeds to lean forward and vomit directly into his own half-full pint glass of Budweiser.
Pay attention. That’s not the incident. The incident comes after.
Once the last chunky bit have finished coming up Andre goes back to talking to the girl like nothing happened. The girl for her part continues to nod and grin politely. She doesn’t seem to notice that anything just happened. A couple more minutes into this conversation the unthinkable happens. Andre lifts his glass to his lips…
…and drinks.
Not just a sip, either. He takes a serious pull on his puke filled beer and continues his one sided rant.
No, don’t stop reading there. We’re just getting to the good part. The incident that scarred the corneas of all present comes next.
Andre keeps drinking his beer as he talks the ear off this sweet, pretty girl who has quite obviously drank herself down to the mental equivalent of a half bright cabbage. At one moment her eyes come into focus and she glares at Andre with a fierce intensity and Lizzard thinks to himself that this is it. She’s sobered up a little and now she’s going to go find her friends and say it’s time to go home alone and sans douche-bag. Instead the even more unthinkable happens.
The girl reaches over, grabs the back of Andre’s head and pulls him into a kiss so deep and hard that her tongue must be looking to taste his spleen.
Then the two walk out of the bar hand-in-hand.
“I’m confused,” Sheriff said. “Some one explain to me how that just happened.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Missy said.
“I can’t tell you how much I hate that guy,” Lizzard said.
That’s Andre the Dildo.
Sorry, fans. I've let you down. I've got a few rants in the pipe that need polishing, but it might be next week before those get polished enough to be posted.
So, to tide you over until then, I'm going to share with you a piece of something I've been working on.
The following is an excerpt from my doomed to fail vampire novel (yes, I'm writing a vampire novel. Shut up.)
The chapter you're about to read comes from the middle of the book, but I think it stands on its own enough for you to pick up the plot and it brings the funny.
Enjoy.
***
Here’s the back story on Andre the Dildo.
He’s a human dildo. Enough said.
Oh, what? You want the long version. Fair enough, you bought the book and all.
Andre the Dildo is the world’s one and only vampire hunter. And yes, he’s serious about that. He’s got the business cards and everything. Never mind the fact that Lizzard is the one and only human being who’s ever been publicly outted as having a nutritional dependency on human blood and an allergy to sunlight so severe that he will actually burst into flames. Never mind that Lizzard has never taken blood from a human without consent or killed anyone. Never mind that he’s the only one the general public knows of with that condition and that apart from having an unlisted number he’s not really in hiding from anyone. There’s actually a lunatic out there who claims it’s his profession to “hunt” people with Lizzard’s condition.
Needless to say, Lizzard hates this guy’s guts. The harassment he’s suffered from Andre the Dildo hasn’t been as whole hearted as the that he’s suffered from some of the radical Christian groups out there, but it has definitely been annoying. Andre’s idea of hunting Lizzard apparently includes posting gay sex ads online including Lizzard’s real phone number, going through his trash and occasionally trying to murder him in public. Once Andre tried to stab him with a wooden stake, but between the fact that the stake was a number two pencil and Andre was too nervous to give a proper stabbing, the pencil just broke against Lizzard’s chest. That time Lizzard got rid of the scared-shitless little wonk by telling him to fuck off. The other time Andre tried to kill him was on the subway when Andre tried to wrestle Lizzard’s hood and day shirt off him to expose him to sunlight. This actually frightened Lizzard to the point that he broke Andre’s arm in two places and then, inexplicably felt bad about it afterwards. Bad enough that he declined to press charges, but not bad enough to stop him from filing a restraining order against the turd.
Truth be told, Lizzard hated the living shit out of Andre the Dildo long before he came down with his condition.
Andre the Dildo earned his nickname simply enough. Despite the fact that he held no more personality, intelligence, basic social skills, physical attractiveness or physical hygiene than the piece of dead plastic that shared his moniker, a staggering number of women and a men enjoyed having him inside them.
Any and every habit one might consider a hindrance in the pursuit of nubile, young posterior of either gender was demonstrated by Andre the Dildo on a fairly regular basis. And yet, more people slept with Andre in a given week than some professional basketball players experience throughout the course of their careers. The most aggravating detail about Andre was that most of the people who fucked him didn’t seem to know why they’d done it. None of them ever agreed to ever having liked the man, even a little, before or during and sure as fuck not after the act itself. Not a single one of them that Lizzard had spoken to could give a credible reason as to why they had dropped trou for the Dildo nor could they point to a single thing they enjoyed about the their session with him.
Missy once confessed to having gone to bed with Andre. Once Lizzard stopped choking on his own tongue he allowed her to fill him in on the gory detail.
“He was constantly sweating,” Missy told Lizzard. “And that big hairy belly kept rubbing up against me. It was like fucking a walrus. Oh, and he drooled. At first I thought it was sweat until later when I had the lights on and I saw actual goddamn saliva leaking out of that stupid stroke victim looking face that he gets when he’s horny. After that I insisted on being on top. Oh, and the kicker, once we were past the foreplay stage he started sticking his thumb in me. Over and over. At this point I’m good and warmed up and just ready to just get it over with. I kept yelling at him to fuck me already. And he screams like a little kid, `Dumb cunt! I fucking am fucking you!’ So, I reach over and turn on the lamp and, sure enough, that was his cock the whole time. Seriously, I have no idea why I did that.”
“So why did you?” Lizzard asked.
“I don’t know,” She replied with a shrug. “I was horny. He was there and he had the balls to go for it.”
“Yeah, but there had to be other guys around that night. Why him?”
“I don’t know. I…” she paused. Her eyes got wide. “…I really…don’t…know.”
Although Lizzard has never heard a reason why anyone would go to bed with Andre, he’s heard more than enough reasons not to go to bed with Andre. These reasons include but are not limited to the following; the aforementioned lack of hygiene, nose picking, verbal abuse of friends and strangers with a Tourette’s-like suddenness (Once when asked if he wanted carnitas in his burrito he once screamed at a girl working the counter at a Mexican restaurant that, “I don’t fucking speak Del Taco, bitch!”), being a bit of a racist, an affinity with, and obsession for, role playing games of every kind, and a tendency to walk around believing himself a vampire hunter\paranormal consultant.
The delusional reckoning behind that last one alone should be enough of a built in cock-block to ensure a mobile three mile “abstinence only” radius around Andre the Dildo, but no. Every day claims a new victim who wanders into the Dildo’s space and is sorry they did. Lizzard has a theory that Andre generates a force field like Omega Red in the X-Men comics. But instead of sucking life out of his victims, Andre’s force field takes away reasoning, discretion and self-respect. He imagines that when Andre tries to get in some one’s pants their internal dialogue goes something like;
“Holy shit, Andre the Dildo is trying to fuck me. Do I really wanna fuck Andre the Dildo?
“I don’t know. Do we really have a reason to live anyway?
“Good point. Tell the bartender we need shots and condoms.”
Naturally, Lizzard has always hated Andre the Dildo even before Andre started “hunting” him. How a human being of such objectionable caliber could walk ass-backward into so much free tail was a vexing thing for Lizzard, who experienced a number sexual exploits that could be described as inconsistent during a good year. Every time he encountered Andre his mind flashed, not on the countless man hours of dedicated harassment and scorn he’d suffered from this man, but on “the incident” that he and his friends had tacitly agreed to dub “that one time at Clappers.”
Ok, so, this one time at Clappers, Lizzard and a few of the guys from the Pub are hanging out having a few beers when three drunk girls walk in. One of the girls, inebriated beyond any semblance of consent or reasoning, falls three steps into the door skinning her knee. Her friends pick her up and set her on a bar stool gingerly, like they’re trying to balance a wobbly stack of coffee cups on a fence post in high wind. They order their drunk friend an ice water and then go off to do whatever they went off to do.
The second the more sober members of the trio depart Andre the Dildo appears, seemingly from nowhere, and takes a seat next to the equilibrium challenged female.
“Jesus, I didn’t even know he was here,” Sheriff said. “He’s like a creepy, molester ninja.”
Andre and the drunk girl were a good distance away, so Lizzard and friends couldn’t hear what the two talked about. But they were able to observe Andre, obviously as drunk as the girl he was talking to, wave his arms and pound his fist on the bar as whatever conversation they were having got heated.
“I’ll bet twenty it’s got something to do with unrealistic depiction of trolls in a certain Buffy episode,” Missy put out there.
About ten minutes into their conversation “the incident” occurred. The incident would haunt all who witnessed it forever. Missy, who by that time had actually experienced the Dildo in all his glory, would be the most traumatized by the event and soon after left Clappers to go home, hide under the covers and softly weep while reciting a personal vow to, from that day forth, always use her vagina for good and never for evil.
Andre, in the midst of an apparently passionate bit of monologue, stops, looks sick, puffs his cheeks like he’s got a bad cough, then proceeds to lean forward and vomit directly into his own half-full pint glass of Budweiser.
Pay attention. That’s not the incident. The incident comes after.
Once the last chunky bit have finished coming up Andre goes back to talking to the girl like nothing happened. The girl for her part continues to nod and grin politely. She doesn’t seem to notice that anything just happened. A couple more minutes into this conversation the unthinkable happens. Andre lifts his glass to his lips…
…and drinks.
Not just a sip, either. He takes a serious pull on his puke filled beer and continues his one sided rant.
No, don’t stop reading there. We’re just getting to the good part. The incident that scarred the corneas of all present comes next.
Andre keeps drinking his beer as he talks the ear off this sweet, pretty girl who has quite obviously drank herself down to the mental equivalent of a half bright cabbage. At one moment her eyes come into focus and she glares at Andre with a fierce intensity and Lizzard thinks to himself that this is it. She’s sobered up a little and now she’s going to go find her friends and say it’s time to go home alone and sans douche-bag. Instead the even more unthinkable happens.
The girl reaches over, grabs the back of Andre’s head and pulls him into a kiss so deep and hard that her tongue must be looking to taste his spleen.
Then the two walk out of the bar hand-in-hand.
“I’m confused,” Sheriff said. “Some one explain to me how that just happened.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Missy said.
“I can’t tell you how much I hate that guy,” Lizzard said.
That’s Andre the Dildo.
Monday, November 1, 2010
FARTS
I think I frightened some people by laughing at this video in public. It's from an article by David Wong about how the world is so supremely fucked by stupid people that all you can really do is try and squeeze a laugh out of watching it burn. The only sad part of the article is the subtle realization that those stupid people we're talking about, yeah, they're us.
Monday, October 11, 2010
I heart whiskey. I heart whiskey all over whiskey's face.
So...me and a buddy are at a bar swilling whiskey with our beers and, like a couple kids asking for five more minutes to sleep before going to school, we decide to beg the bartender for one more shot even though it's well past the cut off point and the bartender announces, much to our manly pride, that even if she could serve us we have already drank all the Jameson in the establishment.
Last thing I remember I'm berating the owner of the bar for his failure to appease the needs of his Irish-American patrons and outlining the possible downfalls of his clearly racist behavior while using a Marine Corps issue K-Bar fighting knife as a visual aid.
I get the impression that my point of argument is taken with begrudging respect just before I black out.
I regain consciousness three days later to find myself with a bloodstained sheriff's badge pinned through my nipple while I'm urinating into the upturned vagina of a Kappa Kappa Ki sorority girl with a tattoo on the small of her back that read, "This Too Shall Pass." Meanwhile, I'm thinking to myself that I understood why there was a goat in the hotel room, but who was the sick bastard who nailed all the gerbils to the wall?
Ahhh! If only I could be as young as I was.
As young as I was earlier this afternoon.
Last thing I remember I'm berating the owner of the bar for his failure to appease the needs of his Irish-American patrons and outlining the possible downfalls of his clearly racist behavior while using a Marine Corps issue K-Bar fighting knife as a visual aid.
I get the impression that my point of argument is taken with begrudging respect just before I black out.
I regain consciousness three days later to find myself with a bloodstained sheriff's badge pinned through my nipple while I'm urinating into the upturned vagina of a Kappa Kappa Ki sorority girl with a tattoo on the small of her back that read, "This Too Shall Pass." Meanwhile, I'm thinking to myself that I understood why there was a goat in the hotel room, but who was the sick bastard who nailed all the gerbils to the wall?
Ahhh! If only I could be as young as I was.
As young as I was earlier this afternoon.
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