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 . . .

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.

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

*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 . . .

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.

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

*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.