Great Time for a Caption Contest

I saw this picture on Facebook, and it's just dying for a caption. "What's going on here?" is the caption used on FB, so you can't use that one - even if it's just about the funniest possible one.

James Douglas, no more lurking. I'm specifically thinking you could get a win here . . .

Great Big Fat Person

There's nothing sexier than when your man leans in really close and slowly asks you the following: "Oh wait, was she a great big fat person?"

Updates Nobody Gives a Good God Damn About

I'm sick and barely left my bed today, and I'm reading two books I got at the dollar store, one of which sucks.

I miss my long distance girlfriend, the lovely Miss LSD, but I'm happy she's going to see Neal Brennan and Bill Burr per my recommendation, 5 blocks from her house for 5 bucks.

The word of the day is pederast, as in, "He had to go door-to-door to tell everyone he was a pederast."

It turns out the NFL Prowbowl is really stupid. It's like they don't hit each other, and you're almost a dick if you try to break a tackle. Why not just make the thing two-hand touch or have them hang sweat socks off their belts and play flag? Piss poor. What's worse is that this year they're letting the players tweet during the game. Wait, one more dumb thing is that the two best teams don't represent players because they play in a real game next week called "The Super Bowl."

So like NFL players like Ocho Cinco, I am pretty active on Twitter lately. I guess it's just that I like people to immediately tell me I'm funny, and blogger doesn't allow for that nearly as well, except for Sybil Law who comments immediately, and I'm grateful for that. Don't worry, Seven Readers, I'll always be a blogger, whether people read or not.

Remember when you were a kid and a Big Mac was like the biggest thing on earth? I remember the day I finished one was the day I became a man. Now I think I could knock down three if I had to, so what's that make me?

Drunken Tales Number . . . Somewhere in the Teens

I was out last night with Oats and his buddy Chest, and on our way home after last call, we passed Oats' usual bar that was still packed when it should have been closed. We had to investigate. Turns out everyone in there had tuxedos and evening gowns (do people still say that outside of Ms America?) on, and the bar was still liberally pouring drinks. One very gay man was telling Chest and myself that everyone in there came from an Opera event, and he proceeded to tell us how much everyone in the room made, whether we cared to know or not. "That guy gets 2 grand a night, he makes 3 . . ." I asked who in there made the most, and he motioned to a really heavy woman, who was hilariously bending over at the time, and he told me that she gets 7 grand a performance. I said, "So, I guess that's because it's not over until the fat lady sings, right?" He didn't find it all that funny, but Chest did, so it was worth saying as far as I'm concerned.


Then we were talking to a young lady who manages one of the singers in the room she motioned to who looks like Venessa Williams, who I guess is on the billboards for the Opera house. Manager chick was one of those gals who's snotty and elitist but doesn't even realize it, and it's not even in a mean way, so you can't really hate her. She said that she grew up in the Chicago burbs but was quick to point out that this is the first time she has been back because now she's a New Yorker - one of those people who thinks New York is like an island, like Kurt Russel in "Escape from New York," and everyone living anywhere else must be some kind of mouth breather just drooling on himself and watching "Hee Haw." I told her which burb I grew up in, and she said, "Oh, that's way out there." I politely pointed out that it's the same distance from Chicago only west instead of north. She only knew the North Shore suburbs where all the rich people live, so she kind of had that snooty mentality before becoming such a big deal New Yorker. I just feel bad for her parents who want to see her, but she won't come back home unless she absolutely has to because Vanessa Billboard has a performance that weekend. When she asked what I did for a living, I didn't want to tell her my real job because I didn't like her, and when I don't like people, I lie to them. So, I let her know that Chest and I were "consultants." This seemed to interest her, but I just shifted the conversation back to how much the see donkey* in the corner makes a night.

Anyway, I have to get going because I have awesome seats for UFC in my hometown of Chicago, a city that I love like I love my family and my girlfriend and beer. Toodles.
-------------------------------------------
*This is a term that Oats uses for fat women. It's mean and doesn't make much sense because donkeys don't swim and aren't always fat, but tell me it's not funny to say? I give it a week until Shife starts saying it, driving his wife nuts.

Mugs in the News

Believe it or not, there is so much crime in my hometown of Chicago that there is a section on Chicagotribune.com with that very title. Here at The Gancer, I'd like to help stop crime by assuming other crimes that these guys have done based solely on their faces and make fun of people who are innocent until proven guilty. But let's face it - they probably did it.

Suspect #1

This fella is charged with attempted murder, but because he looks so much like Thom York, I'm going to say that he's also guilty of a couple years of brilliance followed by years-of-years of aimless moaning and groaning like a sick cat over drum machines and tape loops.





Suspect #2

This ruffian is charged with aiding in child molestation, aiding in child exploitation, aiding in voyeurism, aiding in theft, and possession of child pornography. Now, to aid in voyeurism, is that like holding a ladder while another guy peeps in a window? We're also charging him with playing second fiddle too much to a real pervert.




Suspect #3

This idiot stands charged of aggravated battery, resisting a police officer, and battery with intent to provoke or insult. Now, when you batter someone, throw a brick at their head, don't just provoke and insult. Just like grade school: No name-calling, young man! In addition, with that horribly dumb smile of his in the mug shot, The Gancer is formerly charging him with smiling entirely too eagerly and creepily for your mug shot. I think he may have been the lead pervert with the overly helpful assistance of Suspect #2.

If you have any suspects you'd like me to make assumptions about and make fun of, send them to thegancer@yahoo.com. With your emails and my assumptions, together we can stop crime.

Response To What the Fuck Facts

Sorry about the language, but that's a twitter account that I follow that tweets out really weird facts all day long. I like to respond to them, for some reason, and here's what I have said to the fine folks at "WTF Facts" so far.

WTF Facts: Men with a certain rare medical condition can breastfeed babies.
Dr. Ken: That "medical condition" is called man boobies.

WTF Facts: In an average day, a four year old child will ask 437 questions!
Dr. Ken: And they will say "Mom" 899 times trying to get your attention. Annoying!

WTF Facts: More people have cell phones than access to a decent toilet.
Dr. Ken: That's just crazy, right? I love texting from my "decent" toilet.

WTF Facts: Women fart just as much in a day as men.
Dr. Ken: More people have cell phones than access to a decent toilet.

WTF Facts: Facebook was directly related to 1/3 of divorces (Don't quote this stat. Couldn't find the original).
Dr. Ken: Twitter needs to step

WTF Facts: 42% of couples have sex in front of a pet (another guessed stat because I couldn't find the original)
Dr. Ken: Hell no. My iguana judges me.

WTF Facts: Two dogs survived the sinking of the Titanic.
Dr. Ken: Does this turn into a joke about how those two formed the pedigree for Chuck Norris' dogs?

Another Lyric Analysis: "Mama Said Knock You Out" by L.L. Cool J.

And with the local DBT news, LL Cool J with a triumphant comeback
[mumbling]
but tonight . . .

I looked up the acronym DBT, and the most common ones are Drive By Truckers and Department of Biotechnology, neither one likely to have been covering L.L.'s comeback in their publication.

Don't call it a comeback
I been here for years
Rockin my peers and puttin suckas in fear
Makin the tears rain down like a MON-soon
Listen to the bass go BOOM
Explosion, overpowerin'
Over the competition, I'm towerin'
Wreckin shop, when I drop these lyrics that'll make you call the cops
Don't you dare stare, you betta move
Don't ever compare
Me to the rest that'll all get sliced and diced
Competition's payin the price

[Chorus:]

I'm gonna knock you out (HUUUH!!!)
Mama said knock you out (HUUUH!!!)
[REPEAT 4X]

Don't u call this a regular jam
I'm gonna rock this land
I'm gonna take this itty bitty world by storm
And I'm just gettin warm
Just like Muhummad Ali they called him Cassius

I never got this. Did they call L.L. Cassius? It seems like he could have named hundreds of other ways he could be compared to Ali that would have made more sense, but since he rhymed it perfectly with "bash this," we'll let it slide.

Watch me bash this beat like a skull
Cuz u know I had beef wit
Why do u riff with me, the maniac psycho
And when I pull out my jammy get ready cuz it might go
BLAAAAW, how ya like me now?
The river will not allow
U to get with, Mr. Smith, dont riff
Listen to my gear shift
I'm blastin, outlastin
Kinda like Shaft, so u could say I'm shaftin
Old English filled my mind
And I came up with a funky rhyme

I just love that Old English triggered his brain to write rap lyrics because all it makes me to is go pee and throw up, maybe pour out liquor for dead homies, like Optimus Prime.

C'mon man

Shadow boxin' when I heard you on the radio (HUUUH!!!)
I just don't know
What made you forget that I was raw?
But now I got a new tour
I'm goin insane, startin' the hurricane, releasin' pain
Lettin' you know that you can't gain, I maintain
Unless ya say my name
Rippin', killin'
Diggin' and drillin' a hole
Pass the Ol' Gold

I always thought this was "past the old goal," like surpassing a goal, but maybe he means he wants someone to pass him the "ol' gold," as in his big assed gold chain. Either way, rippin', diggin', and drillin' a hole sounds really painful and gross, like maybe he wanted to rape Kool Mo Dee's butt, who I heard this song was about.

Shotgun blasts are heard
When I rip and kill, at WILL
The man of the hour, tower of power, I'll devour
I'm gonna tie you up and let you understand

Okay, now I'm sure he wants to rape somebody.

that I'm not your average man
when I got a jammy in my hand
DAAAAAM!!!!! Oooooohh!!
Listen to the way I slaaaaay, your crew
Damage (UHH) damage (UHH) damage (UHH) damage
Destruction, terror, and mayhem
Pass me a sissy so suckas I'll slay him
Farmers (What!!!) Farmers (What!!!)

Why's he getting all these farmers amped up like this, and is he getting them to bomb a town in the name of his personal rap beef? That sounds unfair to these poor farmers who are just trying to earn an honest living off the land. Fight your own battles, L!

I'm ready (we're ready!!!)
I think I'm gonna bomb a town (get down!!)
Don't u neva', eva', pull my lever
Cuz I explode
And my nine is easy to load
I gotta thank God
Cuz he gave me the strength to rock
HARD!! knock you out, mama said knock you out

He seems against people pulling his lever in that last verse, whereas I'm okay with a lever pull every now and again, especially when Old English is filling my mind. Peace, Seven Readers. And farmers . . .

It's a Punjabi-Jammy-Jamm!

I figured out at an Indian wedding in Costa Rica that Punjabi music is fun as all hell; you simply can't not be having fun with a room full of people dancing around to the stuff. Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP) and myself are dying to get our hands on some Punjabi discs. Can you imagine working out to a song like the one below? You'd feel like an all-powerful Genie! (Be sure to click off the music player to the right before playing the video)

Just look at the cat in this video. I dig how he decides to just have like five versions of himself, and each version is even more enthusiastic about this Punjabi groove than the one before him. Together, forget about it. The dude crashes down to earth in a comet, multiplies, and starts dominating and flinging around fireballs. I'm not sure of the significance of the spinning fans, but he no doubt worked up a sweat with all that rocking. At 3:10, he puts his hands into a huddle with a few other guys like the starting five of a basketball team, as if to say, "What time is it?!? . . . Punjabi Time!"

I'm going to have a Punjabi Jammy Jam at my apartment this summer. You're all invited for samosas and dancing like crazy-asses, and this guy is landing in my backyard in the form of a comet right around midnight.

Sly? Is That You?

("Yo! What'l it be, pizon?")

I had a dream last night that Sylvester Stallone was working at the pizza by the slice place on the corner by my house. I remember kind of feeling bad for him; the fact that he had to work there.

I love how in dreams we don't questions things like this, like how in the hell could Sly go broke overnight and move to Chicago to dole out slices of pizza. It made perfect sense last night.

Crom and Cliff are coming over in a little while for a Podcast where we'll be watching the Star Wars Christmas special from 1978. George Lucas wasn't too happy with how it came out, saying, "If I had the time and a sledgehammer, I would track down every copy of that show and smash it."

Well, you didn't find my copy, George, and I'm going to make fun of it tonight while sipping some cheap, shitty wine with my buddies.

Expect this thing to be posted in a week or so, Seven Readers.

Another Boozing Summary

Last night I had to go downtown for my good friend Oats' birthday party. The thing about downtown versus the North Side is that the people are prettier overall, dressed up nicer and probably more successful, but once everyone is drunk, they're just like drunks anywhere else - Albuquerque, Hamburg, Tatooine, it doesn't matter. Folks were still falling into me, spilling stuff, bumping into lamps, and I'm always cool with that because I've likely been "that guy" twice as many times as them.

Without a doubt, the drunkest human in there was someone I met named Kate. She came up to me and ripped my pearl snap shirt open, then she and a friend howled like "Girls Gone Wild," and then she walked away. Later, we had a more civilized encounter, and she was telling me how she was pretty sure her friend liked me. I said, "But Kate, weren't you the one trying to strip me naked a minute ago?" She also had a strange habit of taking pictures of people she doesn't know, which is probably fun at the time but confusing the next day when she scans through her handy work.

It turns out Kate, like your humble narrator, is in a long-distance relationship, with her fella living in Boston. She said she's pretty sure that we could be friends, but I don't think that will work out because we didn't exchange information. Plus I need another drinking buddy like I need to squat naked on an upright football.

I had this dream where I was moving into a new apartment, and Brock Lesnar was going to be my new roommate. The realtor was showing him around, and when she introduced him to me, he didn't know who I was, which I thought was weird because I was his last roommate too, evidently. I remember shaking his hand, and what was incredibly realistic is that his hand engulfed mine completely, which it about would.

Midway through this realtor showing us around, it dawned on me that there is no way in hell I could afford this place unless Brock was paying 95% of the rent.

Then I woke up.

Spell Check Is Smarter Than You Think

Today I was spell checking a document, and the word "sippy," as in sippy cup, came up as an unknown word. The word suggested instead was "nippy," as in nippy cup?

Actually, that kind of makes sense since the baby is getting used to something that's kind of like the . . .

You see!

Spell Check is Smarter Than You Think.

Forever Lazy and Forever Behind the Times Here at The Gancer

Yes, I'm probably the last blogger on earth to see this commercial for pajamas geared towards weirdos who want to be lazy infants. This video . . . it fascinates me. Allow me to tell you, oh seven readers, chronologically, just how Forever Lazy pajamas are so warm, fuzzy, and creepy.



0:01: Have you ever seen people struggle so much to operate something I had thought mankind had perfected thousands of years ago: the blanket? That last woman looks like she's about to snap, the poor thing.

0:40: This guy has evidently decided to "party it up with friends" by calling over his buddies to watch the ballgame in their fuzzy jammies. Do you get the feeling that he insisted these kids slip into the Forever Lazies he had "just lying around," and then asked them to join him for a celebratory "cuddle fest" after the local team won the televised sporting event? I mean, I would cut the Forever Lazy commercial-maker-people some credit and say it was a harmless afternoon of a father and his sons, but they're the ones who painted the picture of some grown-ass-man "partying it up" with his prepubescent "friends"

0:41: Are they suggesting that it's easier to get close to animals when you, like them, have a full body coat of fur? Okay, I guess I can see that. I don't take issue with this. Next . . .

0:58: Now, I don't get how they're billing these get-ups as the best way to get lazy as hell, but then they're saying it's good to wear them when cramming for an exam. I'm concerned this young man will doze off to sleep into his Western Civ book and hibernate through the whole semester like a big, lazy pink bear. Slip some jeans on, sir, and . . . Wait! Is that his asshole roommate, also wearing pink Forever Lazy, loudly and quite rudely shooting Nazi's in the face in "Call of Duty" with his feet up while his poor roommate is trying to study for his midterm? More importantly, do these boys have no fear of being made fun of unmercilessly for cavorting around together in their dorm room in their matching pajama onesies?

1:00: Now, when they say that going to a ballgame in a big group, all wearing Forever Lazies, will make them the talk of the next tailgate, do they mean that they will be talked of in a favorable way, because I have my doubts about that.

1:15: And this takes us to the coup de gras - how to go pee and poop in one of these contraptions. There are zippers both in front and on back, of course. Am I to believe that these folks going to the ballgame are to sit their furry asses down on a toilet seat, sucking up all those germs and crabs onto their furry pelts? Yuck. Count me out for that post-game "cuddle fest."

1:20 to Rest of Stupid Commercial: If you order now, as if wearing one of these things doesn't sound quite lazy enough, you also get a neck pillow. And if you don't think that you feel nearly enough like a baby, you can also get something you probably haven't worn since you were an infant: Footies!

If you and your friends order a bunch of these and attend a ballgame in them, I'd like you to send your videos to thegancer@yahoo.com. And please don't send any videos of you doing your number one and two's through the flaps or any furry love making, also utilizing the flaps, as that's not something I'm into. Yet . . .

Club Fred

At the wedding in Costa Rica I was talking about in the last post, I got to know the photographer pretty well. He was telling me how he was staying at Club Fred, which sounds like a fancy resort, right? Nope. When you're staying there, you're just living with some dude named Fred.

I guess Fred told the photographer guy, "Yeah, so if you take some beers out of the fridge, just replace them, okay?" Also, when Fred's guest asked how he should get to town to buy groceries and things, Fred, watching the television with his feet up, just tosses him the car keys over his shoulder and and says, "Here, take my car. Just put some gas in it. Cool?"

Sounds like a lovely home away from home, no?

The Costa Rican Go Go House

Sorry about the long blogging absence, Seven Readers, but I was getting settled back in after my trip to beautiful Costa Rica. Myself, LSD (Law School Dropout), and two other couples stayed in a house, formerly owned by one of the Go Go's, right in the jungle and just off the beach, and we had the craziest caretaker-lady ever, which is what I want to tell you about.


She was waiting on the front porch when we got there for what she told us was 5 hours, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. She was a pleasant enough looking woman if not a little weathered and haggard, but it was nice that she went right in for hugs, even rubbing HLP's (Heterosexual Life Partner) wife's pregnant belly immediately upon meeting her.

She then began her tour of the place, which was extensive and intense, bordering on meth-infused, complete with far too in depth instructions of which light switches did what. She went on to make the bold claim that we were guaranteed to see monkeys, sloths, and pumas right outside the place. She also said that you could go down by the river/waterfall and see shrimps at night, that is if we packed our infrared goggles. I'm afraid we did not have the foresight for that.

Not only did this woman say we'd see fun animals, but there was a guestbook full of entries of people saying how many critters they saw. We saw no animals we couldn't have seen variations of in Chicago. One time while on a hike, a monkey tried to pee on HLP, but he barely got a good look at him. Other friends of ours saw a sloth while zip lining, but we missed that one too. Some other friends of ours said they were having breakfast outside by their hotel, and a bunch of howler monkeys could be seen and heard just going bananas and ape-shit all over the damn place. We searched high and low for fun animals, and these monkeys were just coming over to their damn breakfast nook to perform. Totally unfair.


The tenants in the guestbook said that "Sammy the Sloth" came to visit them every morning, and more than one entry spoke of the monkeys that showed them their babies, like they were dangling them over a balcony like Michael Jackson or hoisting them up like Simba in Lion King. What animal waves their babies out for a bigger species to eat? Pretty selfish, like, "Eat this little fucker and let us go. Cool?"


One night I thought for sure I heard monkeys, so I put on my slippers, went outside, and frantically circled the whole veranda . . . nothing. LSD said I was beginning to slip into Monkey Madness. I was. She also said that the guestbook and the caretaker made it sound like the monkeys would want to be our friends, but they didn't. The little pricks. Caretaker-lady said that when you look outside in the morning, you'd see anywhere from 5 to 100 monkeys. What? 5 sounds perfect to me, but 100 sounds more like a hostile takeover like in "Planet of the Apes."


HLP thought of the perfect entry for us in the infamous guestbook, and it was as follows:

We didn't see a God damned thing.
-Chicago, 2011.

I really do hate all those monkey-seeing jerks . . .