Terrible Blog Topics Jotted Down at the Bar the Other Night . . .

. . . in no particular order

1. My buddy Night Train was wondering why we have v-necks for better boob viewing when there are clearly two boobs to be seen.  Hence, why not w-neck shirts?  Be looking for that at Banana Republic very soon.

2. My other buddy Southie was talking about the plain-Jane-looking girl on 90210 that worked at the school paper with Brandon, the one that was really like 35-years-old when they started filming, and I thought for sure I heard Southie say "rape through it."  He didn't, but then we said rape through it 19 times through out the evening.  No, rape isn't funny, but the phrase was cracking us up because, well, we know each other well enough to know none of us are rapists.

"Ooh!  I know the phrase for that!"

 3. Well, if you're still reading and not crafting your angry comment lambasting me for the last topic, let me know what you think about the next one: Why is it that Matt or Matthew is such a common name, yet so few Black people are named it?  The Chicago Bears have Matt Forte, but then we were stumped.  Little help?

"You were expecting maybe LaShawn?"

4. We were all agreed that Beyonce is a super crappy choice for the Super Bowl Halftime Show, and there should be more rock bands doing it.  My prediction right here at the Gancer is that it will be the reunited 3/4 of Led Zeppelin playing it next year.  Them or Huey Lewis and the News (fingers crossed).

"Let me know when it is, once again, hip to be square."

 5. How come no one at the bar is skilled in the art of reading lips, but when we see Tom Belichick, coach of the New England Patriots, say "fucking bullshit," we all know exactly what he said?  Everyone knows how to read potty mouth lips!  I guess the lesson here is that if you're worried about someone far away reading your lips but you want to let someone know what you think of them who is in earshot, do so with unconventional disgusting phrases like "purple headed yogurt slinger" or "hatchet wound." 

Today's Inner Monologue During the Race

Don't worry, Dr. Ken, that's just pain leaving the body.  Wait, the pain is still here for sure.  The phrase is "pain is weakness leaving the body."  That makes more sense because the pain is here for sure, as is the weakness.  This just must be plain old pain.

Polar Playlist

I'm running a half marathon tomorrow in freezing Chicago weather in what is called the Polar Dash, and here is my playlist.

1. "The Final Countdown" by Europe: This song leads off every official race that I do.  Cheesy, yes, but it's good to have some rituals to calm your nerves.

2. "Nola" by Down, whole album.  I was a metal head in high school, and back then I could never admit that this album from the southern hard rock side project of Phil from Pantera is better than almost all of Pantera's stuff - but it is.

3. 6 fun songs, one of which somehow is "Wild World" by Cat Stevens.  I suppose for dynamics?

4. "Welcome To Sky Valley" by Kyuss.  One of the heaviest, most amazing records ever.  Work out with this on your headphones and maybe try to lift a car.  Not my fault if you break your back.  

5. 6 more fun songs, I think one by Too Short.

"Aenima" by Tool, whole album.  It is aptly named because it is such an intense and incredible piece of music that you feel like your insides are flushed out along with all the crummy music in your head all week long, like that new diamond crap song by Rhianna.

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Hope you enjoyed the music.  Any of you want to share stuff from your workout playlists or cleaning the bathroom mix, or whatever the fuck?

Take a Look at This Video About Drunk Monkeys

I don't know what you learned, but I learned these things . . .

1. This had better be the cheapest resort in the world because I could never relax in a place where at any given moment a hoard of monkeys would come to raid my Piña coladas.  

2. The rate of monkeys that prefer not to drink, drink in moderation, and drink to excess parallels that of humans.  Wow!  The excess drinkers are 5%.   I guess that is why I only like around 5% of people and monkeys that I meet.

3. The alcoholic leaders in the monkey communities are no less respected.  I suppose I can see this.  There are a lot of powerful people out there who are functional alcoholics, and how hard is it to "function" in the monkey world?  Sleep, eat, steal booze, make baby monkeys.  Pretty great life, actually, especially when you are on a resort and shit-faced all day.

A Solid Trip

LSD* gave me a surprise birthday gift of tickets to a basketball game at the University of Illinois, so we took a train from Chicago to Champaign, Illinois yesterday.  The ride there was fine, the game was super because the Illini won, but then the trip home was a little interesting.  There was an older Black woman with her two grandsons sitting by us, and these two rapscallions ran up and down the aisles making noise for the duration of the journey.  When they were sitting down, they watched a loud movie on a computer with constant laser noises.  What was crazy is that there was another family with a couple of kids in the back of the train car who were actually more poorly behaved than the little fellas by us.   At one point one boy from each faction of boys had a high speed collision with one another in the aisle.  It was bound to happen.

The two kids by us were pretty cute, actually, and one was named Darnell.  I know his name because I heard grandma say it a lot when he was acting up.  She also made a lot of empty threats such as "Darnell, I wish you would get out of your seat again," and then she would do nothing when Darnell would stand up to go for another run.  One conductor gave them tickets as keepsakes so Darnell hugged him.  These little guys were really excited to be on a train, and they talked loudly the entire trip.   Whenever Darnell ran out of things to say, he would sing "Solid" by Ashford and Simpson.  I must really love kids because even though I was trying to sleep, I would laugh every single time he would launch into this 80's soul jam.



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*My girlfriend

Fantasy Points VS Hit Points

I was at the gym the other day, and in my section of lockers they were airing a show where guys talk about the value of different NFL players in fantasy football.  Do we need grown men on television talking about this stuff?  Yes, a lot of people do play in fantasy leagues, but can't these analysts talk about the implications for these athletes in terms of reality?

Why don't we just have Dungeons & Dragons analysts on ESPN?  After all, is there really that big a difference in ridiculousness and nerdiness between these two statements?

You can't expect to compete in a fantasy league without two number one receivers, a quarterback who will get 20 every week, and a running back who is good for a touchdown just about every game.

VS

You are dreaming if you are thinking you can just waltz into a dungeon to slay a dragon without a strong fighter, or better yet, a barbarian, and then you're going to need a cleric to heal up your party's hitpoints.

LSD and I are getting ready for New Years, and she says . . .

LSD: Okay.  Poop and a shower, and we go."

Doctor Kenneth Noisewater: Let it rip, babe.

LSD: You're so supportive.

(As she goes across the hall into the bathroom)

DKN: Anything for you.  You want me to hold your hand?

LSD: No (I hear through the closed door).

I felt rather uninspired for gift ideas this year, but one that I did get right is a trip for me and my father to go to the Baseball Hall of Fame in July.  My dad is getting up there in years, and he has never been to see The Hall, despite being the most knowledgeable baseball historian I know.  As a kid, I remember seeing him spending hours leafing through the Baseball Encyclopedia, making notes in his illegible handwriting about things he happened to know about various players and their seasons, such as Babe Ruth's worst season due to health complications he had due to a hot dog eating contest.  If you ask him any question you can think of, such as any big name player's lifetime average, he can rattle it off immediately.

He and I have 4 days in Cooperstown, N.Y., and we're staying in a cozy little bed and breakfast in the "penthouse suite," which is the ideal room because we can spread out, and multiple beds are good because my dad is on a slightly different sleep schedule than me (he goes to bed at 8pm and gets up around 4AM). 

Even if some family members got gift cards and the like from me this time around, I was really proud of this gift, and I felt like the best son ever when I saw how excited he was about it.

Everyone else have a good holiday?  Anyone want to share a good gift they got or gave away?

Baby, It's Cold in Those Undies

This morning I agreed to run up and down a bunch of hills at the Arboretum, a place where people walk around and look at trees, I guess.  I thought it would be a good idea to run some hills to get ready for the Oakland Marathon, of all places.  Maybe some bullet dodging training should be in order as well.  I have lots of bad ideas.

A couple miles in and I was regretting this decision.  The good news was that slowly the hangover was fading.  The bad news is that as that dissipated, I started to freeze my dick off.  That isn't meant simply as an uncouth figure of speech.  No, I was quite literally freezing my dick off.  I have got in a lot of trouble spending nights trying to get that part of me into some warm (sometimes wet) places over the years, but this was a far more dire situation. 

When that part of your body gets really, really cold, it's hard to concentrate on much of anything else but getting your privates warmed up, but I did think of this: The last time I was shopping for jogging clothes, I didn't buy the running tights to keep my bottom half warm because they were all overpriced, which is strange because the tops in the same material are like a third of the price.  However, when you find yourself in an Arboretum in bitter cold temperatures and in danger of contracting hypothermia of the penis, money is no object.  I will now pay anything they want to protect my little man from the elements.  I swear (looks down to his wang) I will never put you in a spot like that ever again. 

We survived, me and him.  Thanks for reading over the years, everyone.  I know there are a few too many dick jokes and the like around here, but I really do value those of you who have come by over the years to share in my idiotic journey.  Happy holidays, everyone. 

I did a post a while back about Every Block, and here is another one that illustrates just as well how snooty the citizens can be in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago. 

Here is what the lady took the time to complain about:
  -------------------------------
Man pees in Jonquil Park

by Jeannie Wrightwood Mom

My husband was at Jonquil Park today around 3pm with our 10 month old son. A black male in his mid 40's entered the gated area and in front of my husband and son peed. He was wearing black pants, a black jacket, a bright orange hat and carrying two backpacks one of them camouflage. My husband just scooped up our son and got him out of there. The guy was gone then and he did not call the police. I told him he should have. Makes me sick. My son loves to crawl around the park :(
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Some responses were in supportive of her, most actually, but this guy is my brand of smart ass:

2 hrs ago

jdaviped Lakeview resident since 07/2010

What a shame. I understand the local rats have been refraining from relieving themselves in that park, knowing that children crawl around on the ground. If the rats catch wind that a human urinated in there -- and believe me, it's a matter of when, not if -- you can kiss the previously-pristine ground good-bye.

I Need a Little Help With Some Research

When you are standing at a bar, not sitting, but bellied up to the bar, how annoyed are you when there is no foot rest put one foot upon?  Three out of three men were extremely pissed off on Saturday night when the hipster bar we were at didn't have the God damn bar step.  Another guy couldn't believe he had to ask the staff to turn off the flipping Fred Estaire movie and put the Chicago Bulls game on, but that is another story.  One of the three actually said that his back will probably be hurting the next day for not having that all important-step to lean into and make everything okay.

How do you not have on of those things, for crying out loud?

 Thanks so much for leaving your thoughts on this matter in the comments.  With your help, I can make this an epic research project, maybe even get it published if I can get extensive research with 9 or 10 bloggers/drinkers polled.

I Want To Make a Confession . . .

. . . But do mind the asterisks as you read.

I'm using someone.*  I just keep going over there, doing my thing** with her, and then I sort of use her for her awesome apartment.  She has better cable than me, and it's always neater than my place.***  Don't get me wrong, I like her and all, but deep down, I know she's not the one.****

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*Using a bunch of free passes at super fancy gym with no intention of joining. 
**Usually swimming.  I miss swimming.  I was really good when I was a mean backstroker in the 8-years-old and under division.
***I love taking a steam, taking a dip in the hot tub, I like the water with the cucumbers soaking in it, it has like 4 levels, a quarter mile indoor track, two pools . . .
****The place is like $100 a month. 

I remember one of the first women I dated after my divorce was an artist from Los Angeles.  She was just getting out of something too, so we weren't too serious, we just drank gin and tonics, watched old movies in my bedroom and did the nasty.  One night she said that there was something I should know, and my heart dropped because I figured she was going to drop an H Bomb* on me.  Nope.  She just thought I should know that not too long ago she was addicted to crystal meth.  Oh, that's all?  What did I care?  She was an artist, for Christ's sakes.  They all did that for a while, right?  Let's just get back to the movies, gin, and boning.  Those were simpler times . . . 

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*H Bomb: When someone you are sleeping with tells you they have the herpes. 

Reverend/Dr. Kenneth's Speech

DISCLAIMER: If you are reading this and are a guest at the wedding where I'm the reverend on Saturday, stop reading at once.  Don't be that guy.  Come on! 

So, keep in mind that this is a wedding with zero religious implications and it's at a bar, so it's a little unconventional.  Anyway, here is what I got.  Please respond with any thoughts, comments, or criticisms:

"Yeah!  You all ready for a wedding or what!?  Let’s do this!

(now in a very calm voice) Yeah, in case you didn’t know, we’re gathered here today to join Nic Van Horn and Sarah Fergusen in the holiest of holy matrimony.  I’m Dr. Ken, for those that don’t know me.  These two lovely people asked me to be their reverend, and I was truly honored, and If anyone doubts my reverendship, I’ll have you know that I labored on the internet clicking and clacking away for over five minutes to get a professional-ish looking certificate with my name on it to make it official.  And I bought this tie (motions to bolo tie with the cross broach) - So I’m the guy. 

I met Nic on Craig’s list.  The reverend has met a lot of interesting people on Craig’s List.  People into all kinds of interesting things, but Nic was a prospective roommate at the now legendary 5 bedroom Chicago house of our extended, latent fratboy period, the place known simply as: 1522.  When he walked in the door for his interview, we all knew he was the guy.  Laid back, funny, likes sports, and likes to have a beer or two.  In fact, over drinks is how he got his nickname.  Not Nicky-Bear.  Only one person calls him that (motions toward bride), well, maybe 70 or 80 people will call him that now that I’ve let that cat out of the bag, but Ryan dubbed him “Nicky Woo-Woo.”  Why?  Well every now and then when Nic is partying, he will let out a (holds mic over to Nic, who lets out a WOO in the vain of Ric Flair)

And it was at a party, a redneck party, at 1522 where he courted a young Sarah.  He in a pair of very revealing cut off jean shorts, and she in . . . just regular clothes.   Going redneck comes more naturally to Michiganders than it does to those from Mass, it seems.  In any event, I recall Nic settling in at the back porch table, and Sarah arrived shortly thereafter.  The two hit it off instantly, and gradually they weren’t talking to . . . anyone else . . . but each other.  It got to a point where the good reverend thought it best to excuse himself, and it looked as if others thought the same.  Soon it was just the two of them on that back porch and they were conversing at a closer-and-closer distance which could only mean one thing . . . they were gonna’ smooch!  And smooch they did!

And they really haven’t stopped.  Only a matter of weeks ago, my lady and I were out with them at the Liars Club - you’ll all be going there later tonight, by the way.  It’s the best bar in Chicago, and the reverend will be having his ashes spread on that dance floor when it’s his time to join Baby Jesus in Heaven- So we’re at the Liars Club, and Nic and Sarah appear to be trying to swallow one another’s faces off.  We smiled at them and said something to the effect of, “Holy mackerel!,” to which the irreverent Nic Van Horn responded, “What?  Come on!  Have you seen her?”  I love this guy.  Honest to God I do. 

And Sarah is awesome too.  Whenever I come out, she smiles all night like she’s so happy to see me, and I feel really good about myself.  If she makes me feel like that, I can’t even imagine how happy she makes Nic. 

These two are very much in love, and that is plain to see.  You just have to love these two, and the two of them together are even better.  They send out nothing but good vibes and all smiles, and they just seem so natural and happy with one another.  Take it from a guy in love: There really is no better thing in the world than being in love, and these two are a perfect example of that.; the kind of love certainly worth celebrating. 

So, let’s get to the part where they profess their undying love to one another for all of us to hear with their own words, reading their own vows, which I think is just a baller-ass move at a wedding.  None of that scripted crap – just from the heart, what’s in here (motions to heart).  

Sarah, you’re up first. 

(Brief organic on Sarah’s speech)

And now, Nic, it is your turn. 

(Brief organic on Nic’s speech)

Okay, we did the vows, so now let’s go to the part where I say this: Nic, do you swear to be the world’s best husband known to man to Sarah for the rest of your days.  

Sarah, do you swear to love this guy with all you got all day, every day until the end of time?

Then, by the power vested in me from Reverend.com, or whatever, I now pronounce you man and wife.  You may now smooch the bride!"

I'm watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas," and it's clear Charlie, with his self-proclaimed inability to be happy, has untreated childhood depression. And it doesn't help that he has absentee parents who are never around and his friends shit on everything he has ever tried to do, always reminding him of what a loser he is. Plus he is a bald 7-year-old, so maybe he has cancer too? I can't watch this depressing tale any longer . . .

Post Thanksgiving Work Outs

Anyone else having trouble getting back into good workout habits?  Get a look at this video.  I like that 2 different idiots yell for their moms to help them out, and then I like the big fat guy squatting so much that hew spews vomit in the middle of it and then passes out right into his puke.  Also, I have always been scared of losing my footing on a treadmill, and after this video, I'm even more scared.

Hit Me Up!

I haven't posted in a while, but here is the thing, I usually wait until I get at least one comment before going to the next one.  Eventually, I had to face the facts that no one cared to comment on Kerry King in Japan or platonic man love.  Now, you would think that would deter me from the topics that yielded zero results, but along comes another man-love post.  Just read the parenthesis if you care to know what in the heck we are talking about in these texts:

Doctor Ken: I am thumping you 16 to 7. (That is a fantasy football score.  I am so rarely winning so thought I would live it up until Sunday).  How is the in-law Thanksgiving?  Buffalo dip? (His wife makes this unbelievable buffalo dip and when she brings it, the container is practically licked clean and nothing else is even close to being done).

HLP: Just got under way: Forgot to make the dip.  How was Thanksgiving/Roadhouse? (I was texting him on Thanksgiving how I was flipping between football and Roadhouse and how I never felt like such a man)

Doctor Ken: That was going swimmingly until my dad demanded football only.  And right before the throat rip! (In "Roadhouse," Swayze, portraying a bad ass bouncer,  rips out the throat of an unruly bar patron.)

Doctor Ken (again): "Who is Mike Jones!"  That just came on.  Great disc.  So many vodka Redbulls back then, like we were subject of some diabolical science experiment. (Back when we were roommates we would listen to a lot of Built To Spill before going out.  There was one disc by this brilliant Idaho band that we got an early leak of where to keep it from being a full on bootleg before the release, the bootleggers would throw in some rapper named Mike Jones pipe in with boisterous "Who is Mike Jones?" every few minutes, usually right at an epic part.  This was annoying for the first few listens, but now he and I actually prefer it that way.)

HLP: "Hit me up!  281 . . ."  That vodka Redbull period took years off of my life expectancy.  (Mike Jones would often leave his phone number in his songs for fans to hit him up, as it were, as you can observe below.)



Doctor Ken: Hahaha.  Yes.  Our hearts are even more pissed off than our livers. (This is when people first started ordering drinks with alcohol and energy drinks, and we thought, because they made us feel so good, that we should just drink them all night.  We only figured out later that you should just have one, maybe two, through out the course of the night when you start to get sleepy.  When you knock those back all night, when you come home, your whole body is super tired except for your heart which has serious palpitations all night long). 

That concludes this texting conversation.  Hope you enjoyed it.  Hey, readers, do you have a friend who makes you laugh out loud consistently when you get a text?

Kerry King Went and Knocked Up Our Moms

Southie and I were watching professional football at the bar today, and we had one of those days where we kept finishing each others sentences.  At one point I was planning on making the exact same joke as him, but I was taking a sip of beer so he got it off first.  We decided that we must be related, so some awesome dude like Kerry King from Slayer must have knocked up our moms.  He would have been in his early teens before rock stardom, but I think he may have gotten it done, like maybe he was sent to boarding schools in Boston and Chicago when he was getting in too much trouble growing up in L.A.

Here is our dad with the guitar player from Megadeth in a name that tune competition in Japan.  And why does Marty Friedman speak perfect Japanese? 

Sushi for One Is Like . . . The Wind

I was wore out after a long work day, and all I wanted to do was park the car, get something to eat, and pass out.  I didn't want to wait for something to be delivered, so I went to the sushi place across the street from my apartment and got a table for one.  That is fine with me.  I don't care that there are a few couples in there, a couple of ladies together drinking wine, and then a table of newly 21-year-olds talking about buying beer.  That's fine.  I'm a grown-ass man and can eat by myself.

Then suddenly, when moments ago I didn't even take notice what songs were playing, I hear the first few notes of "She's Like the Wind" by Patrick Swayze, and now it feels really awkward being alone.  What a terrible, awful, melodramatic song, and with no one to laugh at it with, it just made me feel pathetic there alone, swirling my wasabi and soy in a lonely pattern.



Then it got worse.  They played "Picture" by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow, a song that my long distance girlfriend, who is right now a long distance away, have sang a bunch of times in numerous karaoke bars all across Chicago.  I know it's kind of a corny song, but it's also a pretty good one; and when it means something to you, the lyrics are suddenly profound.  Like the two in the song, I wanted to call her up to tell her I love her and to come back home.  I had to settle up the bill and get the hell out of there before I started crying into my sushi, blaming it on the ginger.

We had all summer together, and when she is done with these last 3 quarters of school, we'll be back together for good, but it is just hard on nights like this.  I just need other strategies besides Kid Rock's drink her away formula . . . .



How about you guys?  You ever been in a long-distance relationship and/or had a bad dinner for one experience?

A special place in hell for the turd who shot and killed Dimebag Darrell. If you're crazy, go get some help, and if you're a crazy with a gun, shoot yourself before you decide to shoot anyone else.

Another Damn Bar Tale?

Last night after watching the Chicago Bears lose in terrible touchdown-less fashion, Oates, HLP, Cliff, and myself went to another bar for a few nightcaps.  We started getting friendly with some girls who were in there, and I remember putting on one girls' sweatshirt that was really snug on me and had glitter.  I like that feeling of tight clothes clinging tightly to me, like I'm getting a prolonged hug, so I just left it on for an hour or so like a total jackass.

For some reason, perhaps because a Michael Jackson song came on, another chick in there said she could do the moonwalk perfectly.  I expressed my doubt that she could, so we agreed that if it was good, I would buy her a drink.  She took her shoes off and did a pretty crappy, white moonwalk for a few of us to see.  I told her I was not that impressed because when Michael did it, it was faster and it looked like he was levitating, and when he did it for the first time at the Grammy's, we all lost our minds.  So, she yelled at me, said I was just some idiot in a girls' sweatshirt, and I'm pretty sure she called me a fag.  So, I just laughed my ass off at how angry she got over a stupid moonwalk, and that just made her more mad.

It should have looked a hell of a lot more like this:

 

Jandles?

I was signing onto my email and saw a news story on yahoo news: "Jean Shoes Ugliest Ever?"  I couldn't pass up clicking over there to see if they are, in fact, the ugliest ever, and you know what?  I kind of love them.  First off, they're called jean-flops, which is spectacular.  Also, you can put stuff in the little pockets, like peanut butter cups or Chinese throwing stars, so they're way more functional than your standard flip-flop.  They're great accessories that would go well with just about any type of clothing, such as Zubaz or those sweatpants that look like jeans.  I would say they would complete the Canadian Tuxedo (denim pants and denim shirt) but that would just be overkill and too downright obnoxious, even for me.

Watch out!  Flopping to a store near you. 

What do you think, folks?  Are the jean-flops ugly or totally rugged and rad?

Old Crushes, Facebook, and How Roger Aged into His Face

I remember when I was in the 8th grade and in Washington D.C. for a class trip, I was obsessed with a girl from my class.  She had long, flowing hair and blah, blah, blah, but what I really remember best about her was her perfect ripe ass that I would follow around during walking tours like a dumb greyhound chasing the fake rabbit.  You can ask just about any guy, even when he is 79-years-old, and he can tell you the first girl to develop big breasts.  I remember her too, for sure, but the girl with the first grown-ass woman ass is what stands out for me.

She ended up going to a different high school than me, so I never really saw her since the 8th grade.  Well, I just saw her on Facebook, and let's just say I should have left her as a memory on that class trip.  She has had a couple of kids, and I know a lot of women who have families and still look good.  It's not her body that is the problem, it's as if her facial features are too big for her face and vying for position, like a young Roger Waters of Pink Floyd, who is now a good looking older guy, somehow.  Looking at this woman, I actually said out loud, "This is the chick I wanted to bone at all costs?"

Yikes.  That's rough!

He really aged into that face nicely.

Let's see that phrase again in bigger font and centered because it really is funny to see and say out loud, maybe even a good title for an album or skin flick:

Bone at all Costs

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Anyone else have a disappointing encounterr with an old crush that they would like to share in the comments?

Grand Dragon Terry

Yesterday while I was at the bar watching American football, my friends with smart phones (mine is dumb) knew the very moment when Terry Bradshaw said that the black Miami running back, Reggie Bush, looked like he was chasing a bucket of chicken.  Terry claims that it was a running joke about his white co-host Jimmy Johnson who loves fried chicken.  The problem is, nobody knows that inside joke, so Terry comes off like a hillbilly racist.

Terry is an idiot.  He isn't funny and he has no tact.  How can you not know that when you make a fried chicken reference about a black guy, you're going to piss people off?  The good news is that his idiocy gave us a lot of laughs at the bar.  And I was laughing through all 3 waitresses that I went through.  Yes.  I closed out 3 tabs - that's how much football and beer I consumed.  Don't think I had any fried chicken, but maybe I did. Long day.

A Not at All Gay Sushi Night

Bobby Choo-Choo texted me last night and said he had a Groupon for Sushi at a place near both our apartments that expired that very night, so he asked if I wanted to go with him.  We picked up a bottle of wine and a couple of Japanese beers and walked over.

When we came in, the place was packed full of coupon procrastinators, so we took the one table left.  The Chicago Bulls game was on, so the hostess asked if both of us wanted to sit on the side facing the television.  We both thought that would look . . . funny, so Choo-Choo conceded that spot to me since he is more of a Boston fan and not big on the NBA.

Looking over the menu, the option that made the most sense was to get a "boat" of various sushi for a set and very reasonable price.  Of the three boats, of course the "Love Boat" was the best option.  When we ordered, Choo-choo asked in his thick Asian/Boston accent, "The Love Boat isn't 'hawt-shaped, is it?"

Behold!  The Gayflower

Turns out it was shaped like a regular old big boat, like the Mayflower, and it was full of delicious sushi.  Conversation included Brazilian Ju-Jitsu, an upcoming bachelor party we are attending, 1980's thrash metal, and nothing at all gay.  I swear.

Do any of you men have much experience dining with other men or know two men who do?

"Children of the Corn," a Movie Review 28 Years Too Late.

When my girlfriend, LSD, and I were looking through free movies to watch on Amazon Prime, for some reason, perhaps because it's the Halloween season, we both decided about the 1984 Steven King horror film, "Children of the Corn."  What's funny is that the only people I know who gave me a review of this movie were my sister and my neighbor, and they both did so 28 years ago when they were stupid-ass kids.  Naturally, they both loved it!

The film actually starts in pretty kick ass fashion.  A bunch of devil/corn worshiping kids slice the throats and poison the coffee of all the adults in a town, and somehow without the rest of the world knowing, they totally take it over.  Their means of keeping this quiet is to switch a few highway signs around and just murder the crap out of any motorists who have the misfortune of taking a wrong turn through their fair city.

Such is the piss-poor luck of Linda Hamilton from "Terminator" and her husband in the movie, the guy with the long hair from "30 Something" and "Side Out," or if you prefer, the-guy-with-the-bicycle from "Singles."  They run up against Malachi, the red-headed murderous ginger, and Isaac, the fruity thespian, Napoleon complex baddy.  They're kind of like the Darth Vader and Emperor of the "Corn."

My lady and I had to start skipping through the movie because it was just so darned crappy.  I should have listened to adults before investing any time in this one and should not have listened to 1980's suburban 9-year-olds.

Whiskers, Sandblast, Henley, and the Yolk

Pop Quiz: Those are all terms in what genre?

If you said nicknames of players on the '78 Yankees, great guess, but no.  If you guessed highly perverted sex acts, you might be right, but I am sure that they are fashion terms.  I learned this a couple of weeks ago when Oates, Bobby Choo-Choo, and myself were spinning records and sipping beers at my place after a long night of sipping loudmouth soups.  Choo-Choo was commenting, and not at all in a gay way, how put together Oates is with the way he dresses and grooms himself.  As a matter of fact, Choo-Choo was looking for Oates to be his fashion guru of sorts.

I was more just laughing at the odd shift in conversation from sports and women and things to fashion advice, but Choo-Choo was really hitting up Oates for every bit of fashion advice he could get.  For example, Choo-Choo commented how the lines on Oats' jeans that  go from the crotch out to the end of the thigh not just when he sits down but even when he was standing.  "Oh, you mean the whiskers?" our fashion guru asked.  Then he asked what that fading effect is, the discoloration, and it turns out that is the sandblast.  Then it was asked if one should ever wear a t-shirt under your button up, and Oates responded with an emphatic "no way."  His tanned chest is always exposed, but he did say that what you can do when it is cold is wear a Henley underneath which can be buttoned down so that it doesn't show.  When he pulled his shirt back to tell us about Henley, Choo-Choo and I lost our shit because the only Henley we know about is Don Henley who sang Eagles songs from behind his drum kit.

However, we laughed the hardest when he told us what the taint of the jeans is called.  What you call the grundle, gooch, or scranus of the denim.

It is called the yolk.

Glad that Oates, one of my finest constituents, could educate you today.  Now, some classic Don Henley as sung by two guys I'm sure that you know:

I'm Like Paul "Curly Joe" McCartney

I just woke up from a dream in which I was pressured to come up with a new writing project on the spot, and believe it or not, I think it's actually a decent idea.  I had to flush all the thoughts onto paper to see if it is any good or even makes sense.  There were a lot of kinks to work out, but what I have come up with, I think, is a pretty decent treatment.

This reminds me of when Paul McCartney wrote "Yesterday," one of the most widely covered and respected Beatles songs, in a dream.  When he woke up, he wasn't sure if what he had was original or if it was something he heard somewhere else, so he hummed it to a number of people, none of which had ever heard it before.  So, he decided that he was pretty sure he wrote it.

The only thing is that what he did was write an amazingly beautiful, classic song, and what I wrote is a treatment for a one act play I will never get off the ground, but still, Paul and I, whether he knows about it or not, shared a moment together.  I kind of feel like the 5th Beatle, or more like the 5th of the "Three Stooges."  Maybe Curly Joe.



Curly Joe is on the right, and you can clearly see that he was the least funny replacement of the immortal actual Curly. 

But These Are Jorts . . .

I was over at my mom and dad's place today because my dad has some tests for his heart tomorrow and I'm worried about him.  He likes to have me around to enjoy his awesome cooking and to have someone else to yell at the television with during sporting events.  My mom was there too because she is married to my dad, and she told me that she recently ordered a rug from JC Penny's, and what arrived was not a rug.  The paperwork attached said that it was a rug, but it was in fact a pair of jean shorts, or jorts, if you will.  Now, I suppose jorts could be used as a rug if they were for a really, really fat guy with a 70 inch waist, but the shape is not ideal, what with the legs and all.

We pay people like JC Penny's to know the difference between rugs and jorts, and that's what really bothers me about this.  Rugs go on the floor to fill space and look pretty.  Jorts are worn by people with zero fashion sense or quirky gay men who wear them cut really short with fringes hanging down and maybe a construction hat.  They're totally different, and the people at JC Penny's, as they are in the industry, should be able to discern between those differences. 

Still, it's a God damned funny thing to get in the mail.  

Questions Like These Are Why They Didn't Invite Dr. Ken to the Town Forum Debate

The last time I was at the dentist, the massage therapist wasn't on duty.  That's the whole reason I go to that dentist.  Can you crack down on some bullshit like that?

Can you make a line at the Starbucks for people who don't want fancy drinks with 9 specifications?  Those people suck, right?

Can we get back to the 1980's where a white guy could so easily adopt a Black kid with a growth defect like Webster and Arnold?

Are any of you worried that with the increase in Guitar Hero, that rock bands in 20 years will only be able to play songs that play an entire fret and not individual notes?

What are you going to do to improve implant titty technology?  They still look like bowling balls behind stretched skin and feel like rubber.  

Are either of you going to have a deadbeat, shit heal, drunk-ass brother to make fun of like Billy Carter?

Searching Through My Phone for Topics

It has been too long since I have posted, so I'm looking through the notepad function on my crappy flip phone to see what I jotted down that I thought would be funny.  It probably isn't at all funny, but the fact that I jotted down something that makes no sense will hopefully be interesting onto itself.

Let's see . . .

Better name for a man's genitals, you make the call:

The greatest hits is more like the genitals' accomplishments

Or does this only work for Black beans and franks?

Tonight Southie Said of His Unborn Son . . .

He can be a naked Greco-Roman wrestler.

He can be on the coed cross dressing team.

Just don't let him ever be a soccer player.

The Hulkster Sex Tape

I heard that Hulk Hogan has a sex tape out in which he does it with a girl while his friend, Bubba the Love Sponge, videotaped it in the closet.

I'm fascinated with sex tapes.  They crack me up.  I think I have seen just about every one that has ever come out from Pamela Anderson, to Kim Kardashian, to Paris Hilton.  However, those women are all hot and the dudes in the videos were in good shape too.  The Hulkster tape is more akin to the Gene Simmons tape, and what I want to know is which one is grosser. 

Gene was doing it missionary with his gut hanging down, and he couldn't get a very impressive erection going.  Also, "I Want To Know What Love Is" by Foreigner could be heard in the background, and the girl didn't even bother taking her flip flops off as her legs stuck straight up in the air.  Also, he leaves his shirt on and his pants around his ankles, maybe thinking that any extra efforts would provide time to lose that lackluster boner.  Damn it!  That guy used to be a sexual demon! (Here it is if you want to see it.  This is a porno link, so don't get mad it you don't like porno.)

While Hulk may have trouble topping Gene in being revolting to the senses, Hulk may beat him in being morally gross.  Gene was in an open marriage, so Shannon Tweed, Skinimax film star, was okay with that.  The Hulk's wife was not okay with him doing that, and the girl he was shagging was obviously not okay with it being filmed because his boy was hiding in the closet.  Now, I have some really close friends, but I would never want to film them doing it!  Gross!  Also, it's just wrong to videotape someone banging without telling them.  I knew a guy once who was going to video himself and a chick he was doing at the time.  He had it set up in his closet where there would be no way anyone would notice.  He even showed me how it would look with him just jumping around on the bed, and it would have worked out just right.  I really wish I had told him what a flipping scumbag move that would have been, but he thought better of it on his own.

But Hulk Hogan did not.

What a dissapointment to all those little Hulkamaniacs out there . . . .

I play volleyball in the summer with some cats, and this year our commissioner spliced together some video.  My team fared just so-so, but I guess I had a killer diving dig at 1:52 as documented in this video (I'm the guy in the over-sized yellow shorts)



I guess that's not as interesting to you if it's not you diving around.  So, I guess watch Black Dynamite.  Even if you don't like that, there's titties for no reason.

Wanna Get Away?

In those "Wanna get away?" ads for Southwest, you never see a man in a freshly pressed suit taking a turbulent dump in a cramped airplane bathroom. 

What you don't want to do when you're picking up some wine at the store is go for the jumbo bottle where there are like three bottles worth in one.  It seems to make a lot of sense: easier to carry than three bottles, a better price than three bottles.  The down side is you end up knocking down loads of it, and it barely looks like you made a dent.  So, with so much to spare, you gladly pour yourself another until you're where I'm at - too buzzed up to want to leave the house, which is actually good from a saving money standpoint.

I figured since I'm pleasantly buzzed with nowhere to go or a willingness to go there, this would be a good time to tell you all a story.

I was working out to the Insanity DVD, mummy-kicking and sweating buckets, when a morbidly obese Latino kid who looked to be around 11-years-old struck up a conversation with me.  "Is that how you got skinny?" he asked.  I told him not specifically, but that I do like people telling me what to do or I get lazy.  Undeterred by the fact that I was looking straight at the screen (never directly at him) and doing flipping burpies, or whatever, he then asked if I could tell him what exercises to do.  He tried to do what I was doing, but I got the feeling that he was self-conscious about the way his body looked when jumping up and down, which I get.  He looks like a young man who never works out, so there was no need to force him out of his comfort zone when getting any kind of work out of him is probably a success.

So when I would get breaks in the action on the DVD, I would hurry up and give him things to do, like riding the eliptical for a mile or so, and doing a set of curls, bench press, and push-downs.  I gave him realistic reps to shoot for, enough to challenge him, but not so much where he was going to either puke or get so incredibly sore he would never come back.  After a few cycles of those activities, he seemed quite pleased with himself, and he was pushing himself surprisingly hard.

He wanted to switch discs on my workout to play the dancing game on the xbox, but I told him that as long as he stayed active for the remaining 37 minutes of the TV workout, I would set it up and dance away with him.  And he actually did steadily work out for the duration.  At one point he smiled and pointed out how much he was sweating.  Then our sweaty asses did "Promiscuous" on the dance game together.  It was funny because in the top corner it shows your own body above the dancer to show where you are in relation to the sensor, and his body was absolutely huge.  However, that didn't matter because this young man was putting me to shame, racking up perfect scores on the majority of his moves while I was thrilled with a "good" of my own.



He was ready to work out again tomorrow, but I told him I have to fly out to L.A. right after work and Monday was no good, but I could meet him at the same time and place on Tuesday.

This whole episode could be my repents for my negative feelings I have had for overweight people over the years (like the previous post, for instance).  Here is a kid who may have the odds stacked against him: maybe a poor home life, nothing but junk food ever in the house, childhood depression, being the victim of constant teasing.  And here he is looking to push himself to "get skinny," taking the initiative to ask for help.

Well, I hope I can help this fella, and not to make myself feel less guilty or like a decent person, but because he seems like a really sweet kid who seems to already feel a little better about himself. 

Wendy

Wendy, the one the popular fast food restaurant is named after, is now the lead spokesman in the ads.  Before her it was Dave, her father.  The thing is, Dave was always overweight and eventually died of a liver cancer, which I think would be bad for business.  After all, the liver is not a fan of breaking down processed fatty foods.  However, along comes Wendy, no longer the thin girl with braids that you see a picture of on your Frosty, and now she is quite heavy as well. 

"It's my damn company, and I'll eat every last one of these over-sized fries!"

 I would say that with the kind of money she has, she should be on a strict work out regimen to show those customers that you can pick a lot of healthy options at Wendy's, but I can't blame her.  If I were Wendy, I would be out partying all night, show up at 7AM to a local Wendy's and  demand free bacon double cheeseburgers.  If they said there was only breakfast, I'd say, "Muthafucka, I'm Wendy!  Why don't you take a look at those cartons you shovel fries into all day long through out the course of you pathetic existence.  That's right.  That was me as a scrawny kid.  Now I'm a grown-ass BBW, so take your ass back there and fry me up my Big Bacon Classic!  Wendy loves her some Wendy's!"

Does she stick wires in those to make them do that?

 A friend and I were talking about this situation at the bar tonight, and then one of us said how maybe she would be a BBW a man could get it done with, but it might require a brown bag.  Maybe a couple Wendy's bags.  With french fry grease stains.  On each of your heads.  In case someones falls off.  But that's just a mean thing to say.

I like the shorts on that guy in the background

 So, what do you think, readers?  Should she drop some pounds for better press, or do you like to see someone who looks like they like to eat promoting those types of places? 

So my nephews are crazy . . .

. . . And I think I encourage them because I'm an overgrown doofus.  2 of the goofier ones were pulling their eyes down with their fingers and looking down with their eyeballs so that their eyes were completely white.  The youngest one said, "I can see my guts," as if he can look down into his own body and see his internal organs.  That's how goofy the little son of a gun is.  Those are terrific kids right there.
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I just edited this from when I called him a son of a bitch, which would be calling my sister a bitch.  Son of a gun is way better in this sense . . .