A Blog Break in Paradise for Dr. Ken

This is a picture of me and one of my closest friends, Sexpot, jumping off swings when we were kids. There are numerous things that are noteworthy here:

1. Sexpot's butt appears to be on backwards.

2. Dr. Ken's shorts are horrible. So are his socks.

3. The shadows look like they're having a killer karate match.

4. Our buddy, Nerf, who took the picture, got it at the very top of our jump! If we did this jump now, all our old-balls bones would pulverize into fine Peruvian powder.

5. Sexpot is getting married in a few days in Costa Rica, and I'm headed there tomorrow to celebrate with him. I found this old picture, blew it up, printed it, wrapped it up for him, and I just know he's going to love it, as this is a legendary picture that we always talk about.

I probably won't be around for a week or so, but I'm sure I'll have some fun stories when I get back. See you around, 7 Readers . . .

5.

Top 10 Worst Things for a Dude To Ask the Help at Victoria's Secret

10) Can you help me into one of these lacey numbers? And if so, can I wear it out?

9) These all look like panties. Where are all the undies?

8) My wife is wicked fat. You think I could squeeze her gut into one of them corsets?

7) Has anyone tried these on before? I only want to buy them if someones tried them on before.

6) Do you have anything hornier and trashier?

5) I've knocked down a few of these, and I don't feel too good. You sure they're edible?

4) I'm looking for something to turn on my mom's new asshole boyfriend.

3) I can't concentrate anymore. Can I use one of those fitting rooms to "take care" of this boner and get back to shopping?

2) Do you think my 7-year-old would like these?

1) I'm positive these right here won't fully contain my nuts.

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*I let Dr. Ken's sister rank these, needing a woman's touch to decide which questions are creepier than others.

When we were at the bar tonight, someone was raving about something called the dolphin hummer, or something, and it tickles the spot on a man during sex somewhere around where the balls meet the peen? We were wondering what the name of this spot is, and some were saying that there is a clear distinction between the two areas, while others were saying they sort of fuse into one another.

So, the consensus is that they are kind of like a joint or a socket. We're going with the Peen Socket.

A while back, I interviewed former UFC fighter and Chicago MMA legend, Shonie "Mr. International" Carter. You can listen to that here. It's pretty damn funny.

These days, he has lost 8 out of his last 10, he still often dons a top hat, and he trains people at my gym. Today, as I walked by, he was working on the mat with a woman lying down, and he was rubbing a big foam roller across her back. Then he mounted her, sitting on her butt to get a better position. When I came back over there to use the bathroom, I saw that he had abandoned the roller, and he was rubbing her shoulders, still sitting on her butt. When I came out of the bathroom, he was rubbing her butt, kneading those cheeks like dough.

Now, I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt here, but as many personal trainers as I've seen over the years, I've never seen one implement the butt rub.

What do you think, Seven Readers? Would you be okay with a butt rub on a gym mat in front of everyone at your athletic club? Would if it was a person of the same sex?

Sit Down "Indian Style" on the Carpet, Seven Readers . . .

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CS'er and MF'er

I had a bad experience being put on hold for too long and jerked around last night trying to get something from an airline, and it occurred to me that I knew the answer: CS'er and MF'er them!

I knew a guy once who said that if you ever want to get people on the phone to see things your way, even when they've been trained to screw you is say those magic two phrases as many times as possible.

Example:

Dr. Ken: Hey, I'm getting a little pissed here.

Operator: Sir, try to remain calm.

Dr. Ken: Yeah, I've been calm. Now I'm MF'ing pissed.

Operator: I understand, but I've told you that we can't refund your . . .

Dr. Ken: Oh, you'll refund my MF'ing money, or you'll put me on with your supervisor, and that CS'er will refund my MF'ing money

Operator: Umm . . . okay, I'll connect you . . .

-----------------------------------

You see? It's just that easy! Now, I'm not saying you should all excessively CS and MF all through out your day. That would just be rude and crazy like a Tourette's guy, but there are those desperate times where those wonderfully offensive phrases will get you what you MF'ing want out of those dirty CS'ers.

Tales From The Hood: Volume 16

Sorry it's been a while, but I think you'll like this hood tale, 7 readers.

So, the dude I'm talking to has like the biggest hands of all time, like a couple of catcher's mitts, and the other gal is a really nice lesbian chick. They were asking if one Caucasian gal who came by who I know from previous gigs was my "shorty," and if I gave her a kiss on the way out. I told Catcher's Mit that it's not like that, but then they got asking if I did have a girlfriend. These two could not fathom that I'm faithfully in a long-distance relationship. I think Nice Lesbian has had some rough times because she urged me to just go ahead and have my fun because she'll probably hurt me. Catcher's Mit thought I should do the same, but for different reasons (he claims to have bedded 4 girls in that office alone).

Being one of the only white guys around, I naturally get compared to the other couple white guys. They asked if my girlfriend is good-looking and wanted to see a picture. Catcher's Mit told me that he saw White Guy #1's GF, and she was "ugly as hell" to the point where White Guy #1 made a face showing Catcher's Mit the picture that was as if to say, "Yeah. She looks like that." I asked what White Guy #2's lady friend looked like, to which Catcher's Mit said, "She's a bad muthafucka!" For those of you who don't know, that's good.

I sincerely did want to show them a picture, but as I cycled through my phone, none of them were appropriate. Either way, I'm sure Catcher's Mit would deem her an equally bad muthafucka. I know to me she's bad as hell.

Have I Offended Someone?

I wrote a piece and submitted it to an online publication (you can read it here) and then I got this comment:

Sorry for being critical, but this piece is NOT good. It's kinda pointless...and if you've allowed THIS, then I sure as hell should be published here. How do I get my prose writing published here?

Then I got this one:

Shallow, seriously offensive and poorly written. I wouldn't post something so negative but this is so offensive.

So, I was pissed and posted a retaliation, but then deleted it because I don't need to defend myself. Screw those people, right? But I was still kind of pissed because I'm sensitive (read "thenthitive").

But then I got this awesome comment by someone named Diane:

Written from the point of view of a 34 yr old guy, noticing the women through the same window every time he wlks past, I find no offense in this at all. I caught the humour. I've had the hardest time reading ANYthing in the past year or so, 'cause nothing holds my interest (used to read 1-2 bks a week- all my life- just for reference), and this kept me reading. So definitely not poorly written. As far as shallow & pointless- do you need to have a "message" knock you upside the head every time you read something..(especially for just a short entertaining piece). The aside about his childhood friend & his little sister was a glimpse into the real life of some kids. WHAT are these people going to say to kids so desperate they're willing to live on the streets? I hardly find that pointless. Subtlety IS an art.

Well, the course of events got me into the offensive mood, so when we had a Man Night at my apartment with Southie, Chellie, Haircut and Dr. Ken something inflametory was bound to occur. We grilled up some steaks, drank a mess of beers, and for some reason collaborated on a highly misogynistic list: "Top 5 Fat Celebrity Women You'd Nail," but that wasn't a title polarizing enough for our tastes, so Southie entitled it, "Top 5 Cow's You'd Plow." Yes, it's really crude, but holy shit did we have some laughs looking up Google images to plead our cases.

Now, keep in mind the rationale behind some of these choices. Haircut is an accountant, so he devised a mathematical equation based on who we each picked for our own top 5's, and then we talked it out. Kirstie Allie, I'm told, gives rim jobs, so that was a plus. She also had a childhood crush factor, which really worked in Topenga's favor too. Monica Lewinksi has what I dubbed, a "famous mouth," which prompted Chellie to Tweet that immediately as well. I also said hail damage (cellulite) is a game changer, which also got tweeted shortly thereafter. Sorry, I know this shit is mean as hell, but anything goes on Man Night. Kelly Clarkson was pretty cute a few years back, but have you seen some candid shots? Holy hell did she ever blow up like the world trade! I was the only guy who had Delta Burke on my list. I was really lobbying for her, but after going through some images, she was just really 80's and yuckier than I remember. Other honorable mentions were Adele, Stiffler's Mom, Faith Evans, Pepa from Salt N' Pepa, Queen Latifah, and Ricki Lake. Chellie kept pointing out to me that "Fattie from 'Grey's'" has a name, but it's just way funnier to call her "Fatty from 'Grey's.'" Shit, I just though of Robin Quivers from "The Howard Stern Show." Always wanted to get on her for some reason.

When I was texting about this list with Big Business, he said that "big girls do sex better." That's a fact that a lot of people already know, but only the Incomparable Big Business could word it so perfectly.

Anyway.

Behold, the all mighty list written on the chalkboard in the kitchen in which we were drinking heavily.

Sometimes science fiction writers like Orwell, Bradburry, and Arthur C. Clarke blow me away with the stuff they predict with the worlds they create - advances in technology and trends in modern society that occur thirty years after they write a story.

I'm rereading "A Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley, and aside from the class systems, test tube babies, genetic engineering, pill popping, and other things he was dead on with, here is a passage predicting something I don't think many envisioned:

And around her waist she wore a silver-mounted green morocco-surrogate cartridge belt, bulging (for Lenina was not a freemartin) with the regulation supply of contraceptives.

Yup. He predicted that Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes and the rest of TLC would wear condom accessories as part of their wardrobe. Bravo, Aldous. That is probably something he threw in there to exaggerate for effect, but yup, modern society is that stupid.

"I Want a Man With a Slow Hand"

I heard that goofy song in the shower today, and what's even stranger is that I had the option to switch the station before getting in. Washing yourself, especially "down there," is an all together different feeling when the Pointer Sisters are outlining how it is they like their love-making. Creepy. Glad no one saw me.



But it got me thinking what this song would be like in today's day, seeing as things in songs are said more obscenely, explicitly, and with crappier grammar. Given those three elements, and let's say it was sung by Rihanna, and I'd say the title to the song in this era would be . . .



"Don't Want No Finger Blaster."

7 Readers, I Ask You . . .

. . . Have you ever seen or heard something so awful? It never occurred to anyone involved with this piece of crap that "ram it" might sound sexual? My favorite guy is the one who steps out of the locker.

Last Night We Played With the Breathalyzer Machine . . .

. . . on the way out of the bar. Here are the results:

Oats: He had been drinking lots of Sam Addams because he had a good review at work. He was trying to take home a female companion, but all he took home were tacos. His score:
.11

Gelfling: She is a very tiny girl with big fake boobs, so it doesn't take a whole lot to get her lit up like a Christmas tree. Her score:
.10

Gung Ho: He loves a good piano bar and was knocking back mixed drinks of various colors and potency. His score:
.09 (To which he said: "So, I could take a piss and drive right now?)

Monique: She would have destroyed all of us because she was swaying around not unlike a guy in Mortal Kombat about to get a brutal fatality, but she did a disappearing act before we could get a score from her.

Shogun: I honestly don't remember his score, but he would have done pretty well. He's that guy that pops up behind you, dropping off more beers than there are people at your table.

Dr. Kenneth Noisewater: Like Oats, I also had a good review at work that resulted in tenure that might be dealt away with anyway, but I really don't need an excuse to celebrate via way too many beers. Oats was feeding me lots and lots of Sammies. I recall dropping off 5 bucks to one of the piano guys to play "Go Cubs Go." My score:
A robust .11

Shogun's Wife: She always gets bombed to the point where she's like a little kid. A harmless lovable drunk. She was the night's winner at the breathalyzer showdown:
.14!

I always hear about people being "twice the legal limit," but none of us achieved that this evening. What are people thinking about getting into a car in that condition?

You Know How I Know I'm Old?

I used to rub one out if I needed to take a nap.

Now I read.

Sorry. That's a weak post, but it was too racy for Facebook.

So, I'm watching this thing about "Star Trek" on TV, and Nichelle Nichols who played Uhura, the Black officer on the original series, was saying how just when she was getting ready to leave the show to return to a career in musical theater, she met Martin Luther King who told her that "Star Trek" was the only show he allowed his kids to stay up to watch. He was shocked when she told him she was going to leave the show, and he urged her to stay, saying that she can't do that because "for the first time we are seen as we should be seen. You don't have a black role. You have an equal role."

Martin Luther King not only died in the name of civil rights, he kept Uhura on "Star Trek," and for that I'm thankful because she was fine as hell.

"Everybody underestimates the kick to the groin."

I'm a big fan of Dutch mixed martial arts fighter, Bas "El Guapo" Rutten, not only because he's a legend in the ring but because he's funny and as hyper as Dr. Ken. If you haven't seen these barroom self-defense videos online, check them out. It's like he's just making this stuff up as he goes along. Ram a receipt holder stick thingy up a guy's rectum? Why not. Knock a guy out and poor hot sauce in his butt? Sure!

Anyone ever fight dirty or see someone do something to make El Guapo proud?

Mustache Envy

Last night I was at the bar with a buddy I've been hanging out with so much that I think he needs a blog nickname . . . We'll call him Oats.

So, Oats and I are drinking entirely too many light beers at the bar on a slow rainy night when suddenely about 12 dudes with mustaches come onto the scene and make the place instantly fun. The music was all 1980's stuff too because the DJ is a friend of mine and knows what's up, so seeing all these mustached dudes getting their groove on to the likes of Huey Lewis was amazing. I don't think I was the only one jealous of how much fun these guys were having based on the way everyone was transfixed on them, but I think I was one of the only ones stricken with a severe case of mustache envy.


You see, I can't grow very good facial hair. It's all splotchy and the space just below my nose inexplicably can grow zero hairs, like someone gave me electrolysis that I didn't know about. Perhaps the facial hair I was most envious of belonged to a fella who looked exactly like Keith Hernandez. I said to one of "Keith's" buddies, "Did you know your friend over there looks exactly like Keith Hernandez?" And he goes, "Keith Hernandez!" just like Newman on "Seinfeld," right on cue. This only deepened the envy. I wanted to be friends with these guys in the worst way.

Sorry about that last awful post. I was still a little buzzed up and pissed when I wrote it in the middle of the night. I'm not sure why I put a link to a Kyuss song at the top of it because that really didn't have anything to do with anything.

I had one of those depressing hangovers from all that cheap white wine. So now I'm having a glass of red wine at midnight (a great hangover cure) and just watched a sad and sort of crappy movie called "Weakness" in which a high school teacher's mom dies, his girlfriend bangs the guy fixing his dead mom's roof*, he cares for his autistic little brother, then he starts nailing a former student, loses his job . . . Okay, so now you don't have to watch it. I only rented it because I like the actor, Bobby Cannavale.

It turns out I'm still angered by cheating. When this big Latin stud was laying pipe in this fictional guy's wife, I was just getting pissed as all hell. Next to anything bad ever happening to any of my nephews, which I'll give you a hint - that was the subject of the last post - cheating enrages me the most. Now this movie has me all scared that LSD is fooling around with some idiot from her high school reunion right now. I know she wouldn't do something like that, but nights like this can do weird things to an already weird guy's brain.

I don't know if I ever told any of you this, but I was married once. I'm also unsure if I ever told you that she and I had differing views on marriage: I thought it was a committed relationship when you go through the whole production of a wedding, and she thought she could screw a Chicago cop like 8 months into the thing. I now know that it was the best thing that ever happened to me, but at the time I was a wreck, losing weight, couldn't sleep - that whole bit. The last one breaking up with me also turned out to be a good thing. They were both the wrong type of chick for me. Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP) was talking to LSD and told her, "Wait, you're not a bitch." My good friend, Big Business, told me after the break up with this last one, "Dr. Ken, you need to get away from this brand of woman." Man, was he right, and I finally found the right brand. LSD is funny as hell, beautiful, kind, and loves the shit out of the good doctor. No more adversarial relationships. That shit gives me stomach aches. Shortens my lifespan.

Well, I don't really have a point to this post. It was just sort of a free writing exercise. Hope you are all well. Good night.

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*The worst part about that is not only did he shag his wife, but he f'd him again by not doing a good job fixing the roof - it still leaked.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_io1dSc2nvA&feature=related

So, I got this call during my Thanksgiving, and it was one of those calls where this asshole that I'm mad at is lucky I didn't have means of getting a hold of him because I was likely to kill him. Everyone who saw me thought I was nuts. I hate that feeling where you want to do something but can't.

Anyway, I don't want to get into specifics, but I drank it off for the most part, but I'm still pissed. Ugh! What a butthole, this guy!!!!!!

Thanksgiving Cleaning

Tomorrow I'm having a Thanksgiving feast here at the frat house apartment that I've been living in way too long. When you have a place like this, a lot of crap accumulates that no one is sure who's it is, and often times it's someones who lived here like 9 tenants ago. Today I was cleaning around the TV stand, and I threw out the following:

1. A boom box that still had an ex-roomy's "Quit Smoking Now" tape in it.

2. I nearly threw out a VCR, but I decided that someone could show up with the 1986 Super Bowl on VHS- and then who would be the wiser?

3. I also kept a VHS of "Boogie Nights," which I already have on DVD, but when it's your favorite movie, it just feels sacrilegious and a slap in the face to Jack Horner to throw it in the trash.

4. A bootleg DVD of "War of the Worlds" with Tom Cruise. A crystal clear version of that thing isn't even worth watching, so how in the hell did that thing make it 5 years lying there?

5. A "Holiday Classics" cassette tape, like you get at a gas station, still in the wrapper!

6. The paperwork insert to a Cardigans disc. While I'm pretty sure which ex roommate's this is, I don't think he'll miss it.

7. I don't have a witty ending to this list. I'm tired. I need to get some sleep. Lots of wine to drink and football to watch tomorrow.

Anyone Remember This One?

"Three Men and One Big 'Ol Slut"

In the film "Three Men and a Baby," the Ted Danson character knocked up the mom of the baby who he and his grown-ass-man roommates would later raise as their own. Then in the really shitty sequel to an already not great movie, "Three Men and a Little Lady," the Tom Selleck character falls in love with the mom and no doubt gives her one of his famous mustache rides.

This leaves only Steve Guttenberg with no carnal knowledge of this chick. Now, if they made a third film where "The Gutes," as I call him, finally gets to tap that, it should be called:

"Three Men and a Big Ol' Slut"

"Three Roommates and a Gaping Vagina"

Or

"The Jewish One Finally Tapped That."

Any write-ins, Seven Readers?

The Best Thing to Say at Your Local Dilly Shop

"Can you point me in the direction of your biggest, blackest, veiniest dildo?"

Zack Attack

I blew dry my hair with a powerful Hilton Hotel blow dryer, not paying much attention to what I was doing due to still being half-drunk from all the box wine I drank at a wedding the night before, and now my hair looks very weird.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but I just told LSD that I look like God damn Zack Morris. Any minute now I'm going to break the fourth wall and start talking to the camera or perhaps into an over-sized prototype mobile phone.

Observe:

Dr. Kenneth Noise water

VS

Dr. Mark Paul Gosselaar

If You're From Chicago, You Might Be Familiar With "The Belmont Transfer."

2.	Belmont Transfer	35 up, 6 down
	1. When a man moves from the front door of a lady having her period (red) to said lady's backdoor porch area (brown) and back again (purple). Based on Chicago's sexy and efficient train system. Similarly named moves are found in Boston and New York. 2. A long-form improv style characterized by moving quickly from one story arc to another and back again. See Chicago improv group "The Belmont Transfer." "Hey, you comin' to see the Belmont Transfer tonight perform at the Playground?" "Sorry bro, I'll be movin' from brown to red with Lacy all night long. It's our anniversary." buy belmont transfer mugs & shirts chicago improv brown red purple move long-form by Beezus Jeezus Apr 10, 2009 share this add a video
3.	Belmont Transfer	9 up, 5 down
	Slang term referring to the switch from vaginal to anal sex, assuming the female participant is 'on the rag.' The Belmont train station in Chicago, IL is where the Red Line meets the Brown Line. I earned my red wings with her, then she insisted we go anal, so I made the Belmont Transfer.

Bait Car

Did you know there is a show called "Bait Car" on TrueTV in which a car is left unlocked and running in various ghettos, and they see who will try to steal it? Then the cops in the van freeze the car up remotely so it can't run anymore and the robber is locked from the inside.

I just hope that they pull those cars up to trailer parks too so that people see that poor white people will steal too.

Check out this guy. He doesn't know that there was a camera in the car busting him crying, so he comes out of the car with his hardcore gangster vibe.

Rehearsals

As you may know, I post some short stories on the blog from time to time, and I think this is my best. I'd like to know what you think, Seven Readers.

Rehearsals

The only thing that got me out of my California King this morning was the excitement of driving into the West Side to buy heroin. I’ve been out of the smack game for quite some time now, but I’m sure the protocol is roughly the same – just find a guy in a long white t-shirt standing around with no other conceivable purpose. I do a number of drugs, and they all serve their own purpose. Heroin seemed to have that life-ruining purpose years ago, but now I need it in a stop-caring-about-stuff capacity because it’s the first day to record the new inevitably shitty record for my band’s all important nobody cares about us anymore period. Some say that it’s not a good idea to start dabbling again with a drug with such chemically addictive capabilities, but I’m not the guy I was five years ago – I can control my shit, so I should be fine, and like I said, it’s the only way I’ll be able to just play and not care that I’m nothing more than the guitar player for another one of Alistair’s “artistic visions.”

When we started Lehmi County Airport, it was the most exciting time of my life – all of our lives. I can honestly say that the moment we knew we could make great songs together, even though we were living together in a dump in Logan Square, those were better times than when we got “the money.” When I met Alistair Radcliff, he was playing and singing a Syd Barrett song in a Potbelly, up in the scaffolding, or whatever, and it was like when you fall for a chick. He was captivating all those nimrods in the joint, waiting for their God damned sour dough, and I actually said out loud, “This motherfucker is going to make me rich.”

The drummer, Lester Clayton, was a black guy I had met a week or two earlier when he came by to install my cable. I had a beat up drum kit in the apartment, and when he was done, he asked if he could play for a second. I said, “Yeah, go nuts,” and he did. Holy crap. I got out my guitar, and we fucked around for hours, rolling doobs, playing, and things just clicked. I think he blew off the rest of his calls for the day, which was probably for the best because when that guy gets going on the pot, he’s incapacitated except for his playing, in which case he’s an animal, really pushing the guys he plays with to new heights.

Just thinking about those days makes me pumped to play, but not with these guys. For the last few years, after the success of “. . . And Sometimes Why,” it has really become like work. And the saddest part is that I don’t even see these guys in between tours and recording. Before “Sometimes,” we would get shit-assed drunk together every few nights, but now these guys have families. That’s really the problem, I think; Allistair has this whole new worldview and writes songs about his fucking kids. Don’t get me wrong, that stuff’s important, but nobody wants to hear songs about it. Tell me a good song about someone’s damn kid, besides “Isn’t She Lovely.” And Les isn’t much fun either these days. Yeah, he’s still banging lots of chicks, something I don’t think he’ll ever stop doing, but I just hate that he doesn’t care what we’re doing musically. An artist like that guy should give a shit, and I think he did at one time, but now he just goes along with whatever the fuck Allistair wants to do.

I’ve been trying to find other musical outlets ever since my role diminished in this band, and I’m pretty pleased with how the first album for my side project metal band, Bruticus, came out. Those guys are fun to play with, but lately it has dawned on me that I shouldn’t have to find other people to play with – I play with the perfect guys, and we’re in a pretty successful band, only I want them how they were before they got so fucking gay. And even more than missing the days when I loved the music we made, I miss hanging out with those guys. Allistair always invites me to his kids’ fricking Christenings or circumcisions, or whatever it is they’re doing, but I’m always too damned hung over to make an appearance, and even if I did, seeing the domesticated, watered-down version of such a talent would just depress the shit out of me.

So, yeah, it’s a perfect day for some good old heroin. Just enough to make me not care and to make the guitar sound better, and not so much where I’m just drooling all over it. Just enough where I don’t care that Allistair, a guy I loved like a brother and respected as far as musicians go more than just about anyone, is now kind of, and I hate to say this, a dork. And just enough where it doesn’t bother me that Les, a guy who at one time was more passionate than any of us about the band, now allows himself to be a tool and goes along with everything Al wants. Fuck it. Maybe so much God damned heroin to the point where I pass out and have an excuse not to record another awful record with those guys ever again.

Okay, I'm still a little drunk, and it's not easy to see clearly that which I'm typing, but I wanted to get some thoughts down on this stupid rag of a blog.

I was posting random crap on Facebook about Randy Rhoads because it's National Metal Day and I love dead rock stars, especially when they're virtuoso types who were so bored from not doing drugs that they got into a single engine plane with their bus driver's plane who they didn't know was a dumbass coke addict and crashed the plane into their tour bus.

Anyway, all the searching around youtubes eventually got me stumbling upon a bunch of Built To Spill clips, probably my favorite band, and that's something I often lose sight of. They're from Boise, Idaho, but holy crap just listen.

When I was horribly depressed around the time I started this blog, I had a "Depressing as Hell" list, and there were a good number of BTS songs on there, and in fact, I think "Else" is still on the blog music player.

But, there is no song that makes me instantly want to cry more than "Carry the Zero." Jesus H. Christ, it's just so sad. There were nights where I just knew I needed to cry and I'd play this one to get it out there. Weird, right?

Okay, the computer is running out of power, so it's time to go to sleep. Treat yourself to something awesomely depressing and beautiful.

"Rick Reuschel, Sit on My Face"

The title of this post is a shirt that my mom said she saw a woman wearing to a Wrigley Field when the hulking giant, Reuschel, was hurling fastballs for Chicago Cubs.

I did a search for "Rick Reuschel, sit on my face," and I'm afraid it yielded no results. I was half-hoping I'd stumble upon the woman's story who donned that shirt because you have to admit it's interesting. I mean, I can see her offering to sit on his face, but to want a big hairy sweaty athlete sitting on your own face . . .

And you got to remember, this was in the 70's or 80's, so her taking the time to print a shirt exhibiting such an uncouth message would have been highly unusual. Hell, I'd like to meet the woman today who had the cojones to put on such a thing.

Was this a woman who was into the arseholes of professional athletes or did she just find it funny?

Did she lose a bet of some kind?

If she had a significant other at the game with her, what did he think about all of this?

These are questions I need answered, Seven Readers. You have any thoughts to ease my mind, as this mystery and Reuschel's big, hairy anus has been haunting me for decades.

Trench

My good buddy, Big Business, referred to a woman's (ahem!) as a "trench." For some reason I thought that was the funniest thing ever because it's just about the least appealing word ever.

So the other day I'm mad at some woman, and in my head I'm cursing her out, and I called her a trench. Yes! A trench!

What I like about this new term is that it hasn't broken on the scene yet, so I think you can still use it on network television all day.

Example:

Doctor: I'm afraid her condition has worsened. We're going to have to operate on her trench.

What do you think, Seven Readers?

More Lessons from The Hood: Wet and Soul Train

As some of you may know, Tuesday is when I work in Chicago's West Side, and I always come away with a funny story or a bit of knowledge; Today I got both.

1. A student asked me if I was dry. I had no idea what he meant by this, and other students informed me that to be dry meant to "not be getting any from any females." So, if your skin is dry, that means you're ashy, and if you couldn't get laid in a morgue, you are dry as hell. Make sense? I didn't tell them that I only get "wet" once a month when I see my out-of-town girlfriend. It didn't seem like something those boys needed to know.

2. Mr. Green, the principal at the school for bad kids, said that one teacher was sending so many kids out of his class and down to the office that it was like the "Soul Train" line of dancers down the hallway. I asked him if he felt like Don Cornelius up in there. Actually, Don Cornelius is a product of Chicago Public Schools. No lie.



3. One girl told me that she doesn't like the drama created from hanging out with girls. So, she said "That's why I like to be hangin' out with niggas." By that she meant males. Something was just funny about her saying that to just about the whitest guy in America.

Me and Del Were Playing "Little Runaway."

Every time I walk to and from the gym, I pass the runaway hotline place, and I can see all the women manning the phones but mostly surfing the net, filing their nails, and bullshitting with one another. After all, who really calls that place? Are the types of kids who run away likely to know such a hotline exists, and if so, are they really going to want to call someone who is there to to talk people into going back home to their shitheel parents?

What's strange is that there is always at least one hot chick in there. If I were a single guy, I might be inclined to go in there with a backpack or maybe a napsack slung over a pole over my shoulder, act all frantic and ready to run away. They might look at me a little funny, seeing as I'm 34-years-old, but I bet they're so hard up for calls that they'd take me seriously. Then they would get all emotional, and there would be a big sex festival for all passerby's to see. It would be awesome . . .

I think I ran away a couple times as a kid, for no reason, really, because I had a great family - still do. I would just go off into the forest behind my house with a bag of chips in case I got hungry. I'd only be there a couple of hours and just go home. Probably when I ran out of chips. But I had a neighbor who once spent the night in a fort that we built out there because he got in a "fight" with his dad. He was kind of like the John Bender from "Breakfast Club" of our block. In fact, I think he still holds the number of detentions record at the local junior high. I wonder what he's doing these days? I should look him up on Facebook. He had a nerdy little sister who sent my other buddy on the block a very naughty letter when they were adults saying all the dirty things she wanted to do to him when they were kids, but I think he was already married when she sent it.



Where was I going with this . . .

Ah, yes. Running away. Don't run away, kids. If you do, give the hotline a call, and if I'm not there sexing all of them, I'm sure they'll give you the sage-like advice you'll need to go back to those shitheel parents of yours.

PS: The second picture has nothing to do with anything, you may notice. I did a search for "forest forts," and that's what came up. That looks like a very romantic way to spend an evening with a special lady friend, or a terrific way to burn your house down. Either way . . .

I Want To Freeze Time . . .

. . . so that I can catch up on things, but if I did that, would I age during the frozen time? Would I end up abusing it to the point where I would age 20 years during a span of time that would only be 5 years to everyone else?

There's just never enough time to get everything done. But when I was high school, all I wanted to do was fast forward until it was over with, and I didn't care about getting anything done.

Well, if I got freezing power, I swear I wouldn't use it to do silly stuff like change two people's hats around, like a punk kid's baseball cap from one guy and swap it with an old Black lady's big church hat. Okay, I can't promise I wouldn't do stuff like that. I'd make a lousy super hero. If I were Freeze Time Guy, and I was in The Justice League, they'd always be looking for me to help thwart the plans of Dr. Doom, or whoever, and I'd be out a-hat-swapping.

Point being, Dr. Kenneth has too much crap going on this week and needs a little R & R if he can't get the superpowers. Yet.

Caption Contest: Day After Halloween Special

I couldn't think of anything to post today, and then I saw this terrific picture that is just begging and pleading for captions. The only problem is that these are real kids that I found on Facebook, and I'm using the pic without permission.

So, don't go looking for these kids and do anything nutty . . . because that will disqualify you from the caption contest.

Samoans, Do the Humpty Hump

A friend-of-a-friend got mugged by three guys a block away from my house fairly early in the evening on a weeknight, which really worried me. I was telling LSD, my girlfriend, and she asked if he was able to identify them. I told her that they were Samoans, but I was just kidding. But, would if they were? I imagine you could outrun some Samoan gentlemen, given their size . . .

LSD then told me that Tongans are also big people, and she's right because I looked it up and 90% of Tongan people are overweight. They share the distinction of the highest overweight and obese population with the neighboring Nauru.

So, if your would-be muggers are a Samoan, a Tongan, and a Nauruan, the best course of action would be to run, feed them, or spark up an argument between them about Tonga's Constitutional Monarchy.

Cheers!

I was driving with my lovely girlfriend, LSD, and the "Cheers" theme came on my iPod. We were both very much caught off guard by the lyric at around 1:20 where he says "and your husband wants to be a girl."

It was a wise move to not use that verse for the show because it could really throw off the viewers, seeing as transvestites and/or transsexuals didn't play a significant role in the story lines of "Cheers;" at least not in any of the episodes I have ever seen.

Also, I think it's funny to sing it like this: "You wanna' go where everyone knows you're gay." That would be a killer sing-a-long at a gay bar, don't you think? "And they're always glad you came" is a lyric that kind of works for that version too . . .

Tank Diesel

I was at a wedding this weekend in this beautiful mansion, and I got wonderfully intoxicated. At one point I was talking to a fun couple, and the guy said that he was trying to talk his wife into naming their son, Tank Diesel. I was such a fan of this name, that we were calling each other by that name all night.

As I was giving the girlfriend, LSD, a piggy-back ride on the way out of the party, I could hear a voice behind me yelling, "Yeah! Take her home, Tank Diesel!"

The Next Podcast Right Here on the Gancer

I saw my good buddy, Crom, tonight, and it's really the first time I talked to him at length since he got a girlfriend. He had been living alone out in the suburbs for a long time, and he'd joke around that his apartment was nothing but stacked up empty pizza boxes and sex robots.

Now his ladyfriend is over all weekend every weekend, and he's banging away like a son of a gun and happier than I've ever seen him.

This got Crom and I thinking about our next podcast. How about the top 10 loneliest moments of singlehood. Look for this to hit the world wide web for 10's of people on this blog very soon.

I Have Nothing To Blog About . . .

. . . so here's a clip of Black Sabbath during the Ozzy years. I just read Ozzy's autobiography, "I Am Ozzy," which made me laugh out loud more than anything I've ever read. I was intermittently setting it down and rolling around my bed laughing, whether it was a story about blowing away chickens with his shotgun or shagging three groupies in one night, each of them coming in to do him and then just "fucking off."

People who only know him as the bumbling old guy shuffling around his mansion stuttering and mumbling to himself on the reality show need to know that the guy was a rock god and a member of one of the most influential rock bands in history, considering Black Sabbath basically invented heavy metal music. Tell me this performance isn't killer . . . .

And even if you don't think so, read the book anyway because it's funnier than hell.

Great Weekend, But I Have One Regret

Until this weekend, I had never been to a wedding with coolers of beer with stickers on top saying which beers were in each one, and you could just reach in and grab them yourself. I'm telling you this because it led to HLP (Heterosexual Life Patner) and myself lining up the tops of them on our table in an attempt to drink every different type of beer, which led to horrible, horrible drunkenness on my part.

Back in our cottage with other guests, while in varying stages of blacking out watching the World Series, I threw a stuffed goose for this great dog that was along for the wedding, she jumped over a couch to get it, knocking red wine all over some poor guy's suit. I don't remember much of this, but apparently I thought this was hilarious and I never so much as apologized.

Now, I know this was stupid on my part, but when there's a stuffed goose and a terrific dog in the room with me, I'm not NOT going to throw the stuffed goose for the terrific dog. Right?

No, it was dumb, and I need to get my boozing under control . . .

A Good Dirty Movie Title

My roommate was watching "Grey's Anatomy," and I was watching for a moment waiting for "The League" to come on. To make good use of my time watching a crap television show, I tried to come up with a porno title for the show, considering the show is written about as well as a porno with just as many senseless sexual encounters, including lesbian action. Here's what I came up with:

"Grey's Downstairs Anatomy"

What do you think? Got any better ones?

Rules for Long Distance Relationships

My girlfriend, LSD, and I came up with some simple rules to long distance dating, and maybe they can help you too.

1. You can't sleep with other people.

2. Well, you can, but only if they're celebrities.

3. But they have to be major celebrities on a list submitted to one another, since LSD has already rubbed elbows with a few stars, making just any celebrity a possibility.

4. Come to think of it, Dr. Ken gets to have twice as many celebrities on his list since he lives nowhere near L.A.

5. No sex with animals either.

6. Unless they're really famous animals. For instance, one of the dogs from the "Kardasians" wouldn't count, but the president's dog is fair game or Bubbles, Michael Jackson's chimp, since, being the king of pop, Michael's chimp is royalty.

7. No peeing on dogs or chimps. That's just too weird.

So long as we follow these simple rules, I think we'll make it.

Very Superstitious Plumbers

I have this friend, I'm going to call him Plumber, and every time he comes out to the bars with me, he gets lucky with the ladies. He's a good looking guy, but I think when I'm out with him I force him to be more social because he can be shy. I'm fearless out there because I have a girlfriend, so what the hell do I care, right?

So, he had gone home with girls 2 straight times when he went out with me going into Saturday's outing. We were having a burger cook off at my place, and then the second we stepped out into the alley to go to the bars, the neighbor girls, who I don't even know, hollered at us to come join them on their garage deck. I thought it was unsafe move on their part, but luckily for them, Plumber and I are not rapists. We mingled with them for a while, one seemed interested in Plumber, he got her number, and she's been blowing him up ever since.

Then at the karaoke spot, we met a number of women. One had a tight dress that looked like tin foil, like a baked potato, but she wasn't very cool. Then another girl thought I was an MMA fighter, I think because she has seen me in the bar with my friend, Gung Ho who trains. I was too drunk to be clever enough to lie. Then there was a pair of girls we were chatting up, and while I ran interference on the not pretty one, at some point Plumber had a barroom make out deal with the pretty one. Boom!

You ever get superstitious about things when you were single?

I know there were certain shirts I was convinced were vagina deterrents, and I'd never wear them out. Some bars I would go to I would see friends having success, but I'd be like a damn leper in the joint. Then other shirts and other bars would be really consistent for me.

Anyone have anything along these lines they'd like to share?

Her Birthday Session

Sara: It's my birthday.

Doctor Fauser: Happy birthday! We're almost done with the session. I'm curious why you didn't mention this before?

S: Probably because I don't like thinking about what a shitty birthday this is.

DF: Yes? And why is that?

S: Well, let's see. The first thing I did when I woke up was cry. Birthdays totally suck, especially because it commemorates the day I was born.

DF: And why is that so bad.

S: Because I wish I was never born.

DF: What do you mean by that?

S: Don't worry. I don't want to kill myself. It's just . . . Life really sucks sometimes. And it's 6:00, and still no one has said happy birthday to me, besides you, but you're my analyst so that doesn't count.

DF: People didn't even say happy birthday on Facebook?

S: (Laughs)

DF: What's so funny?

S: I just don't picture you on Facebook. With pictures tagged of you drinking out of funnels. In one of your nice suits.

DF: Don't look for me on there. You will find no such pictures. I never drink like that with a good suit on.

S: (Laughs again)

DF: But surely someone said happy birthday on Facebook?

S: Yes, but that doesn't count. Nobody cares enough to go beyond that, and those people are hardly friends anyways. And, did you know that I told my friend that this is exactly how my birthday would go? That I'd wake up and cry and no one would give a shit that it's my birthday?

DF: That's what we call a self-fulfill . . .

S: (cutting him off) Self-fulfilling prophecy, I know.

DF: I'm impressed. Do you think you do that often?

S: What's that?

DF: Set the stage for your own disappointment and eventual sadness?

S: Maybe. Probably. What do you think?

DF: I think that's something we'll have to explore next week. Our time is up.

S: Okay. Thanks. See you again next week.

As Sara and Doctor Fauser stand up, she checks her phone.

DF: I'm willing to bet you missed some calls. Or texts?

S: Yeah. A few, actually.

DF: You see!

S: Yeah. See you next week.

Sara smiles, turns away and opens the door.

DF: Yes you will. Oh, and Sara?

S: Yes?

DF: I'm glad you were born.

Long Distance Runner and Long Distance Relationshiper

A few weeks ago I was intent on running from my house to Navy Pier (in Chicago), and it's not enough to just say I'm going to the Pier because I didn't want to leave it vague so that I'd turn around early. So, instead, I said I had to pat the head of one of the statues in there, preferably an R2D2 mailbox, which was no longer there, so I had to opt for a statue of some kids playing "ring around the rosie." I did okay on that run (10 miles or so), but it took me 4 and 1/2 hours to run the marathon and my dad did his in like 3:07 at my age. It took me an hour and a half longer. My dad could have finished his race, popped in "Zombie Land" and watched the whole thing in a Lazy Boy, waiting for me to finish. That is, if time and space allowed such a scenario for our 34-year-old selves to race one another and there were big chairs and televisions at the finish . . .

Later that night, I ordered in sushi by myself and watched a movie, also by myself. It was kind of lonely night for me in a big empty house, missing my girlfriend who is living in L.A. In fact, when the character in the movie, "Zombie Land," as a matter of fact, says how he loves to brush a woman's hair behind her ear, I got insanely jealous; I love that move. Yes, I was jealous of a fictional character merely because he got to touch another fictional person's hair and ear.

So, that's me: A long distance runner and a long distance relationshiper, and I'm finding that I'm not too good at either one. And they're both equally painful.

My FIrst Marathon Highlights.

1. My playlist was killer. Just before the race was going to start, I hit play and heard "The Final Countdown" by Europe. I also entitled the playlist, "Chicago Marathon. You Can Do It," so the little voice in my headphones told me that when I selected that playlist. Sometimes I name lists with swears just to make the guy say them. Anyway, the race took me a little longer than I thought so I had to skip through to a couple songs to hear them twice. Songs heard twice: "Back That Ass Up," "Train in Vain," and "Just Like Heaven" to name a few. Major props to Kyuss for having two full albums on my list. I recommend them to anyone who works out or beats people up.

2. The signs people had were great. I saw one that said "Worst Parade Ever," which I thought was hilarious until I saw two more. However, the third one had the pic of the comic book store guy from "The Simpsons," which was a nice touch. Another said "Don't poop" (in big letters) and then "out" in small letters. Another said, "While you're out, can you pick up some bread and milk? We're all out." Turns out it was a friend of a friend with that sign. Another said "Run, total stranger!" These signs made me laugh, which is huge when you're running. Other signs were inspiring, if even just for 5 seconds.

3. People give you cheers and high fives as well, and it's even better if you have your name on your shirt so they say, "All right, Dr. Ken!" High fives from little kids kept me smiling. One lady had a sign that said "free hugs," and I really considered it. Another guy had a sign that said "free beer for runners," and he was giving out tiny cans of beer. I saw one lady with a sign that said "shortcut to free beer" with an arrow pointing the way everyone was running anyway. I only got a quarter through my free beer at the end of the race. It tasted amazing (Goose Island's 312, a great Chicago beer), but it just wouldn't go down.

4. I had plenty of beer after getting home and taking a nap. The last bar we stopped at had a drunk sweaty Black guy doing Thai Chi for the whole bar, for some reason. He was quite pleased with himself, but I was more impressed with the sweat coverage on his shit, which was thicker than anyone in the race that afternoon.

5. I was running a couple miles with a friend of mine until she stopped to pee at a point I didn't have to, and as we were approaching the gay neighborhood of Chicago, Boys Town, where there were male cheerleaders and all sorts of fun stuff, I said to her, "I can feel the gayness." And she said, "What? You can smell the anus?" I laughed and said, "No, that's not what I said, but I wish I had because it's fricking hilarious . . ."

6. On a serious note, I wore a ribbon with my buddy Gung Ho's mother's name who just died of cancer. I had it on my back, so I would periodically check it it was still there through out the race. She made it the whole way!

7. Was I in pain? Yes. At one point people were handing out Ben Gay type stuff in packets, and I damn near squirted in my mouth before I heard someone yell, "No! Don't eat it!" Wait, it gets dumber. After putting it in my hand, I rubbed it all over my knees and took a pee, touching my wang with the stuff. I'm not going to say it hurt, but it did just feel super weird, and it was all I could think about for a whole mile.

Stream of Ganciness

On today's run, I was thinking these sort of rambling thoughts:

That Dylan McDermott is an asshole because he was mostly naked like 10% of that ghost show and in much better shape than me despite being older than me, and he made me go for a run and do pull-ups and sit-ups. Then again, I'm glad I'm running now because I had that beef sandwich earlier. Which I'm burping up. Shouldn't have gotten the hot peppers.

I know I don't listen to enough new music, but they just don't make albums like "OK Computer" anymore. Hell, Radiohead makes really good music these days, but even they don't make anything anywhere near as good as this nowadays. It's kind of like sports where you can't possibly make your best work past a certain age, that is without performance enhancing drugs. Roger Clemens threw harder at 40 than he did when he was 20. There is no equivalent to that in rock. If Roger Clemens had a rock band, maybe called "Rocket," even if they were good at some point, the stuff he put out in his 40's wouldn't be nearly as good. Sure, you can make quality music in late adulthood, but it just won't have that power, angst, edge, evilness, and sexiness that it did in your youth when you were young and crazy.

Hold that note, Radiohead, I gotta hit pause and hear what this saxophone guy sounds like in this tunnel. Hmmmm. Sounds like he's just tuning up or something. And it smells like piss. I know these guys probably get better acoustics in these tunnels, but why don't they just play in the open air? How can they stand that piss stench? Maybe the stink makes them blow a little hint of the blues into their horn . . .

The best song by the oldest possible guy was "Harvest Moon" by Neil Young. I'll have to look up how old he was when he recorded that one when I get home. Maybe blog about it. Eh, who am I kidding; there's no topic in that.

We Had Nothing Else of Better To Do at the Bar the Other Night . . .

. . . so SO@24, a guy I never met but knew from blogging and IM'ing, and myself recreated the image of the Hall and Oats classic album cover from 1982, "H2O."

It required getting very close to one another and staring extremly gayly into one another's eyes.

Here's the original:

After taking our own picture, seen below, my girlfriend, the lovely and talented Miss LSD, photoshopped it to look as red and stupid as the original. I got the blond hair, he's got the black. Sure, he's half Asian and has no mustache, but it's pretty damn impressive. And gay . . .

It's amazing how he and I and Chardsy, a gal who we had long IM conversations with like 3 years ago, hit it off so well in person and spontaneously did stupid crap like this. This sort of weird stuff keeps me laughing and happy.

I Don't Wanna . . .

. . . run this stupid marathon on Sunday

. . . wait another month to see my G.F.

. . . spend a bunch of money on 3 weddings in 2 months.

. . . go to a Halloween party without a great costume. I've had some good ones, so there's some pressure, but I have NO IDEA what to be.

Have You Ever Had a Fart That Sounds Like a Chewbacca Howl?

I had one of those walking through a nearly empty airport tonight, and it got me wondering if wookies do, in fact, fart, and if so, how bad would wookie flatulence smell?

To Live and Die and Do Stuff in L.A.

These are things I plan on doing in California this weekend:

1. Have sweet, sweet monthly sex with my long-distance girlfriend.

2. Get up early and go for a run along the beach for some last minute training before next week's Chicago Marathon.

3. Go to some sort of museum with the GF. Museums are kind of suck-ass, but when you're with someone fun, they're as fun as anything else.

4. Meet long time blog friends in person for the first time, Laughing Through My Chardonnay and SO@24. A few years back we would have hilarious IM conversations dubbed Eifel Tower Sessions that would either turn into deep probing therapeutic talks or completely off-the-wall disgusting revelations, both of which were equally rewarding. So, it will be good to have a happy hour with them and create "Eiffel Live."

5. Perhaps see one of my oldest friends who has been living there quite some time, and he has a birthday on Saturday. He's been playing in bands for years, and he may even play a show for his b-day, which would be great fun.

6. Go to In-N-Out Burger

7. Then a couple more rounds of the old monthly in-out-in-out with the lady.

8. Fly home Sunday and go back to my cold and lonely life back in Chicago, back to work with very little sleep.

Today's Funny Hood Story, Sept 27, 2011

Every Tuesday I work on the West Side of Chicago where I'm the only white guy for blocks and blocks . . .

Today, my boss in those parts, Mr. Green, wanted to get the attention of a big and ugly kid and said, "Hey, Big Ugly!" What's funny is that Big Ugly walked right over without being the least bit offended that he had just been called big and ugly.

Then Mr. Green started asking him if he played football because of his size, and I said, "Yeah, look at the hands on that fella!" His hands were maybe the biggest things I've ever seen and could have probably held two footballs each with room to spare.

Big Ugly could be very "handy" on The Chicago Bears offensive line this season, and it would be the best nickname since the last time we were really good and "The Fridge" played on the team.

Stop Complaining About Getting Laid Like Crazy, Rivers.

When I was running tonight, Rivers Cuomo from Weezer was singing to me about how tired he is of having sex. Now, I know the point of the song is that he was having meaningless sex with random women and wanted to be in love, but all I could hear is a guy whining about too much sex - and here I am without sex for a month.

My girfriend is in California, and when she was living in Chicago with me, we were hitting it all the time. Now I'm missing her so badly, and I don't think I've missed more than 2 or 3 days of wanking since she left. Seriously, I'm so tired of internet women. I hate these two dimensional, giant breasted women saying filthy things to me while they pretend to like baby batter sprayed in their stupid faces. It's weird, but I really do hate these random internet chicks. I just envision them being loaded up on cocaine and VD, doing it in front of a room full of dudes holding microphones and stuff. What's wrong with those phillies?

I just miss my girlfriend, and not just the sex. I miss her. Yeah, we video chat, but it's just so hard because she's right there . . . but she's not. No, we're not doing any cyber sex. If it happens, it happens, but right now it's just good to see her face every few nights, especially the funny expressions she makes with that face when she tells a goofy story or reacts to something gross and/or off putting that I say.

So, anyway, Rivers, don't talk about how sick of boning you are because I'm hornier than a jack rabbit over here. I'll see her when I fly out to Cali on Friday, and I can't wait! No wanking until Friday. Yeah, I had 3 today, but none for the next five days . . .
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PS: If you're my mom or my sister and you're reading this post, I'm sorry.

You're Entitled To Your Opinion; Your Wrong Opinion

I was just listening to a very funny podcast with Adam Carola and Artie Lange, and Adam was saying how people claim that how funny something is is a matter of opinion, so they can claim "Murphy Brown" was funnier than heyday Simpsons," but they're wrong. He goes on to say that if people can be so called experts on subjective topics such as wine or art, then why can't he be an expert on comedy?


Wow.

I was so glad someone said this because it's always something I've felt, but I've never been able to frame it quite this well. I knew a chick once who said that she never liked "Seinfeld" and she thought "Friends" was funnier. This was before I was dating her, so I was just trying to tell her that she was flat-out wrong. Then we slept together, and somehow I forgot how someone with such atrocious and idiotic tastes could possibly be right for me. In any event, you just want to say to people like that, "No, you're wrong."



Music is the same way. If someone tries to tell me that 3 Doors Down is a better band than Pink Floyd, I'd just say, "Okay, you're welcome to your opinion, but your opinion spells it out very clearly to me that you are a cultural invalid."




Now, music and comedy are things that I think I know enough about, but films are a little different. I know "Boogie Nights" is a much better movie than . . . let's just say any of those crappy Robin Williams movies. That's fact, but if someone said that "Citizen Cane" is better than "3 Amigos," I would like to say that "3 Amigos" is better because I'd much rather watch it, but I'd be pretty sure that I was wrong. I just don't get "Citizen Cane," but I trust the experts when they tell me how good it is. Still, when El Guapo gets that sweater from his band of marauding banditos, it's just funny as hell. I mean, why would he need a sweater in the desert? "It's a sweater!!"



Okay, anyone want to agree, disagree, or hate me for life for any of this?